I am finishing revisions today.   I hope.  They are due in my editor’s office at nine on Tuesday morning. There’s still a lot to do.

Three weeks ago, I was running late in finishing the manuscript. Very late.

For those who are not writers, deadline is our hell. It’s certainly judgement Day. Every writer has those. The day the book is due. The day that is the absolutely last day you can still submit it and fulfill that nasty little clause in your contract. The day your career hangs in the balance.

But the book wasn’t working.

There are two kinds of writers. The plotters and the fly-by-the seat-of-the-pants crowd. I am of the latter persuasion.

I do not say that proudly.

The sad fact is I am one of the latter because I am lazy. The plotter spends hours upon hours plotting out their characters, conflict and plot. It is labor intensive on the front side.

Our crowd – the left side (or is it the right) of the brain group – goes in another direction. We figure that if we develop strong enough characters they will take over and do all the work. We are the optimists. Our characters are going to save us from ourselves.

I am here to tell you it doesn’t always happen. A funny thing happened on my march to this judgment day. A bit player tried to upstage my hero. He wasn’t even in the synopsis (which never bears any resemblance to the final product anyway). He was a device. A prop to make a point. However, he became intensely disgruntled with that role and shouldered his way into a secondary role.

Not to be content with that promotion, he persisted. Then everything fell apart. The hero was not a happy camper. He rebelled. He stopped telling his story.

I had a hero wanna be, a resentful hero and a heroine bemused by the whole mess. No one was doing what they were supposed to be doing.

Time marched on. Unfortunately the story did not. I tried bribery. I will give that wanna-be a book of his own. He knew I was lying, though. I had already decided my next historical project was to be a western series, and my nemesis was a broken down private detective.

Several days before judgment day, the stalemate continued. Nearly fifty pages to go, and I had no ending. Too late to join the plotting crowd. Try that, and I would have to write a whole new book.

Probably no one knows panic like a writer does at deadline time. It paralyzes.

So there I was at three-thirty in the morning with two days to go before the absolute last deadline. Staring at a blank screen. Remembering all those movies about writers when they sit there and crumple pages in their hand and throw them into the waste basket until the entire floor is littered. I wanted to throw the computer into that basket. Fortunately, it’s too heavy.

Okay. I admit it. I finally surrendered. I’ll give him a book of his own. As long as he stops outshining my hero and leads me back into the path of creativity again. No, I will not wait until I finish the western series. He can be next. I swear. (Fingers crossed).

The keys on the computer started to work again. Frantically. The hero shoves the interloper aside in his rush to save the heroine, but all is well, and the heroine saves them both.

Sleep didn’t exist for two days, but it was delivered on the second deadline after several all night sessions.

Do you all know what happens in all night sessions?

Characters change their names. Their hair color changes. An important plot twist isn’t answered. Surprisingly, the editor really liked the book.   She thought there were a few problems with the hurriedly written last chapter, and after reading it, I agreed. Unfortunately those changes required others, and in reading the complete manuscript, I saw lots and lots of problems, and not just those involved in the ending. There’s a quick turnaround time, thus more marathon days and nights.

Each time I finish a book, I swear to join the plotters. They do not have to cope with rebellion. They have matters under control. I am thinking this on my way to bed last night, having had six hours sleep in the past fifty hours.

My wanna-be, though is already banging on my brain. Give me my head, he says. And, sigh, I suppose I shall.

It is now three a.m. I hope you were not expecting much.

It’s so great to be blogging here.  Thanks to the lovely founding ladies for inviting me.  What a great website.  I’m so happy to be here where others share my love of western historical romances and, in my case more specifically, Americana romance.

Webster’s Dictionary defines Americana as ‘of or to relating to America; its possessions or original territory, things typical of America.  American culture.’

All the wonderful articles on this site about America’s west and all the western historicals I have read have transported me back to that time and place in America’s history where mail arrived by stagecoach, the family vehicle was drawn by a horse and the coasts were being connected by the newfangled railways.  These bygone days are our past culture and treasured heritage.

I love writing Americana romances because it is the more personal side of the great, wild West.  It is the home and hearth moments that Americans were living. I think of the Americana as the heart of western romance.  It is without the exciting outward adventure of a cattle drive or the drama of hunting down an outlaw or the danger of a wagon train, but it is not without its own peril.  Carving out a livelihood on the harsh western plains, building a life piece by piece, step by step and opening one’s self to the risks of love and the rewards is exciting and perilous in its own way.  To me, the moments where love is first discovered and tested and found true is the real journey of the Americana romance. 

As a writer, I like nothing more than closing my eyes while at my keyboard and seeing not just the past western landscape untouched by pollution and telephone lines and suburban sprawl, but hearing the tick of the Regulator clock above the mantle, seeing the colorful patchwork quilt hung over the back of the horsehair sofa and smelling the fresh-split kindling in the bin beside the stove. 

This is where I write my stories from, the sun-splashed parlor of a small log house, the corner kitchen where a bowl of bread dough is rising near the window and family gathers at the round oak table after a hard day’s work.  Forty-seven books later, I can still see the little log cabin of my first story, Last Chance Bride, tucked in the forests of Montana’s mountain country with its picture view of the Rockies and a hand braided rag rug on the puncheon floor in front of the gray stone hearth.  I can still feel the memory of Libby’s and Jacob’s love.  I like to write about home, not just the house where a family dwells, but the place where their hearts and their love reside. 

In both my Bluebonnet County series and my Rocky Mountain series for Harlequin Historical, each story was an answer to this love.  My Angel Falls stories for Love Inspired Historical are no different.  These stories are the moments of these people’s lives, of their sadness and joys, their personal pain and quiet triumphs that when strung together make a good, decent and honorable life. 

Last weekend I drove across the state to visit my parents, my brother, his wife and their new daughter.  When I hit the freeway exit that wound around a hillside and ambled through tiny one-street towns and lush mountain valleys verdant with trees and fields, it was like stepping back in time.  I could feel the years peel away with every mile as each familiar landmark brought back a memory.  I recalled floating the river with my brother on a hot summer day, riding bikes down a certain narrow country road and being chased by a bull, and the year the river flooded our valley and most of the town and we went to the grocery store in a row boat.

When I pulled into my parent’s driveway, time peeled back farther still.  Not just my years, but the century.  Cattle dotted deep green pastures.  Ducks honked as they rose from a still meadow lake.  A horse lifted his head from grazing to see who was disturbing his quiet.  Take away the paved roads, the power poles, the mail box and erase the trail of jet exhaust from the crystal blue sky, and there was the past where settlers cleared the hillside with an ax and planted their crops by hand. 

Maybe that’s why I love writing stories set over a century ago about normal everyday people who did not change the world or even the community around them, but who rose to the challenges of their lives.  Who struggled to make a living, to do the right thing and to open their hearts to the challenge of love.  Times may have changed but people at heart have not.  So much has changed from the American West we write and read about, but the important things in life has not.  Love has not.  It is still the greatest gift and the most precious. 

Miss Jillian Hart will be on our doorstep bright and early tomorrow morning! The Fillies have swept, mopped and dusted the place until it’s spic-and-span. We’re so happy for another chance to entertain.

Miss Hart will be promoting and talking about her work. Do you know that she’s in the anthology “Western Weddings” with our own Charlene Sands? Yep, she is. That says Miss Hart is a top-notch author.

Drop by tomorrow and sit a spell. You might even win something. Now that’d be wonderful. Also, if you haven’t entered our Stetson and Spurs Contest, you need to do that. Just find the contest on the left side of the screen and put your name in. We have some dandy prizes that are going to one lucky person!

Recently in a Redbook article, women were asked what made them feel desirable, then the same question was asked of their smitten men. Their answers may surprise you. Mind you, these are men ALREADY in love with their mates.  

According to Redbook:

“When a man is in love, what he finds really attractive is the feeling that he’s seeing you for who you truly are,” explains REDBOOK Love Network expert Scott Haltzman, M.D., author of The Secrets of Happily Married Women. “To a guy, the makeup, the sexy outfit, it’s all a mask. He wants the woman behind the mask. Openness, vulnerability, an air of contentment — those things are what really turns him on.”

Do you believe that?   It seemed a bit hard to swallow, but as I read on I realized that what made women feel sexy, wasn’t really what the men found sexy about them.

Case in point, take the woman learning how to belly dance.  She feels sexy when she makes those sensual moves. She feels really in touch with her body.  But when asked, her husband found her most sexy when she could hold her own in a political debate.  Her political views are not popular yet she defends her ideas and stands her ground.  Her intelligence and her passion for the subject really turns him on. 

Go figure?

Another woman married for 15 years feels close to her mate when they reconnect as a couple.  They take walks on the beach, read together and feel the closeness of their bond, which she states is powerful.  That’s when she feels most desirable.   Her husband finds her most desirable when he watches her speak to friends in a large group, telling a story and drawing them in with her passion and warm inviting smile. Her sweetness and generosity is quite an elixir. 

Another married woman finds herself most sexy when she dons black stilettos, wears low-cut blouses and colors her lips with shiny red gloss.  Add candlelight to the scenario and she’s a happy camper.  But ironically, her husband likes her natural beauty.  He finds her most attractive when she’s vegged out on the sofa watching television and totally relaxed.  Often, he grabs his camera and takes a shot, because she looks so inviting and beautiful.

I’m one too, who is amazed that my husband doesn’t like seeing me in sexy clothes. He’d rather I wear no make-up, loving my brown eyes and natural skin tones.  But the one thing that he really likes (pardon my being forthright here) is when I put on this pale pink plain cotton ancient nightie that I’ve worn nearly to shreds.  He claims it’s the sexiest piece of clothing I own.  Honestly, I was ready to toss it out.

Gee, I’ve been writing romance a long time. I’ve been married forever and I never realized that it’s not the stilettos and red lipstick that turn a man on once they’ve fallen in love. 

Do you think women harbor misconceptions about what their men find sexy in them?  

And what makes you feel good about yourself?  

If you could pick one couple who despict a true married couple, who would they be? 

Would you like to order a copy of Western Weddings?  Click here:

Western Weddings: Rocky Mountain Bride\Shotgun Vows\Springville Wife (Harlequin Historical)

Well, the Fillies have been up to their old tricks…trying to make things easier on our visitors here in Wildflower Junction. We always work hard to put all the western romances we can find in our danged special Larkspur Library.

And to make it even EASIER, we’ve linked eligible bookcovers directly to AMAZON. It’s called one-stop shopping and all for your convenience!

All you have to do is click on the blue title above the covers and it’ll shoot you right over to Amazon. And if the book you’re looking for isn’t in our library, just click on any of the blue titles, get to Amazon, find the book, movie or merchandise you want and go ahead and buy it. Now, ain’t that easy?

We have our caps set on making things as uncomplicated as possible. You’ll thank us, I’m sure. You all have a good day now and come back to see us often!

Just came in from pulling a few weeds in my yard.  It’s been a cool, damp spring here, and my flowers are coming into bloom.   With deadlines pressing, the time would have been better spent at the computer.  But something in me craves that hands-in-the-earth feeling.  Besides,  I’ve come up with a good excuse–it’s genetic.

The once-remote mountain valley where I grew up was settled by Danish immigrants in the late 1800s.   They arrived to sagebrush flats with gravelly gray soil that had to be tilled, fertilized and irrigated before anything would grow.  Winters were long and cold, summers brief and blistering, with never enough rain.  The corn, wheat and root vegetables they planted had to be coaxed out of the ground with backbreaking labor.  Still, women planted flowers.  Precious seeds, starts and bulbs, carried in wagons, were passed from neighbor to neighbor, from mother to daughter.  Before long the little town was in bloom.

My grandmother, whose parents were among those early settlers, had a beautiful yard.   Her flowers were likely descendants of those lovingly guarded little sprigs.  I loved their names—baby’s breath, sweet peas, snowball bushes, bridal wreath, irises and peonies.  Grandma taught me how to make dancing girls out of hollyhock flowers using the petals as skirts.  (We didn’t have hollyhocks at our house because my dad maintained that people planted them to hide the outhouse.)  But my favorite flowers of all were the climbing yellow roses that covered Grandpa’s old garage.  Tough and prickly, with a heavenly fragrance, they grew all over town. 

Years later, after I’d moved to a gentler climate with better soil, I dug up a small shoot from those roses and planted it in my yard.  Accustomed to harsher conditions, the little bush became a wild, thorny monster that couldn’t be cut back fast enough.  I left it behind for the new owners when I moved—next time I drove by they’d taken it out.

My mother was a gardener, too.  Six years ago, when she was diagnosed with terminal cancer, someone asked her what she planned to do in her remaining weeks.  “I’m going home and plant my flowers,” was her reply.  Those flowers were just coming into bloom when Mom passed away.

Last month I visited my California daughter.  She proudly showed me the space behind her condo that she’d turned into a tiny oasis with bamboo and lavender and hibiscus.  The gardening gene is alive and well. 

So far I have just one granddaughter, the offspring of a son who doesn’t know a dahlia from a dandelion.  She’s only two, but her mother has mentioned that she likes to help plant flowers.  There’s hope.

Are you a gardener?  Do you have a favorite flower, or one that reminds you of something special?  I’d love to hear.

Hello Darlings, here we are again. I’m as pleased as a frog in a rain puddle to announce that Miss Jillian Hart will be with us come Saturday.

The dear woman is quite an inspiration to everyone she meets. She’s a prolific author who writes for Harlequin Love Inspired and she’ll be chatting up a storm about a variety of subjects.

The Fillies invite all of you to join us in welcoming Miss Hart to our  bustling little town. We’ll have more fun than the law allows! 

Whatcha Gonna Do With a Cowboy?

 Chris Amundson, the editor of Nebraska Life, spoke at a Nebraska Press Women’s conference I attended and I loved listening to Chris talk about the great things to be found in Nebraska.

However it was a little distracting to have this picture blown up into a poster right behind his back. It was the cover for an article they did on small town rodeo.

Here’s a link to a lot more great rodeo pictures.

http://www.nebraskalife.com/SmallTownRodeos1.asp

It hits close for me because we have a rodeo in the next town down the road called the Hoot Gibson Memorial Rodeo in Tekamah, Nebraska. And we’ve got neighbors who are big time into rodeo, entering and competing when the rodeo is in the area, although they don’t follow the circuit.

So today I’m including a little history, a quick look at events and some great, great pictures all about rodeo.

 Fun Fact: Rodeo is the official state sport of Wyoming and Texas, and the iconic silhouette image of a Bucking Horse and Rider is a federal and state registered trademark of the State of Wyoming.

 Rodeo Quote: I can remember sittin’ in a cafe when I first started in rodeo, and waitin’ until somebody got done so I could finish what they left.
Chris LeDoux(1948-2005) Real  life cowboy and Country western singer of Whatcha Gonna Do With a Cowboy among many great hits.

Main Rodeo Events

Barrel Racing

Barrel racing is an exclusively women’s sport. In a barrel race, horse and rider gallop around a cloverleaf pattern of barrels, making agile turns without knocking the barrels over. Look at that picture on the left. Really notice how low the horse is, almost on it’s side.

Bulldogging

A calf is roped around the neck by a lariat, the horse stops and sets back on the rope while the cowboy dismounts, runs to the calf, throws it to the ground and ties three feet together. (If the horse throws the calf, the cowboy must lose time waiting for the calf to get back to its feet so that the cowboy can do the work. The job of the horse is to hold the calf steady on the rope) This activity is still practiced on modern working ranches for branding, medical treatment, and so on.

 In spite of popular myth, most modern “broncs” are not in fact wild horses, but are more commonly spoiled riding horses or horses bred specifically as bucking stock. Rough stock events also use well-trained riding horses ridden by “pick up men” (or women), of whom there are usually at least two, tasked with assisting fallen riders and helping successful riders get safely off the bucking animal.

Bronc riding

There are two divisions in rodeo, bareback bronc riding, where the rider is only allowed to hang onto a bucking horse with a type of surcingle called a “rigging,” and saddle bronc riding, where the rider is allowed a specialized western saddle without a horn (for safety) and may hang onto a heavy lead rope, called a bronc rein, which is attached to a halter on the horse.

Bull riding

An event where the cowboys ride full-grown bulls instead of horses. Although skills and equipment similar to those needed for bareback bronc riding are required, the event differs considerably from horse riding competition due to the danger involved. Because bulls are unpredictable and may attack a fallen rider, Rodeo clowns, now known as Bullfighters, work during bull riding competition to help prevent injury to competitors. 

Some interesting rodeo facts: Rodeo stresses its western folk hero image and its being a genuinely American creation. But in fact it grew out of the practices of Spanish ranchers and their Mexican ranch hands (vaqueros), a mixture of cattle wrangling and bull fighting that dates back to the sixteenth-century conquistadors. But you know…what does American mean if not a melting pot from all over the world?

 There would probably be no steer wrestling at all in American rodeo were it not for a black cowboy from Texas named Bill Pickettwho devised his own unique method of bulldogging steers. He jumped from his horse to a steer’s back, bit its upper lip, and threw it to the ground by grabbing its horns. He performed at local central Texas fairs and rodeos and was discovered by an agent, who signed him on a tour of the West with his brothers. He received sensational national publicity with his bulldogging exhibition at the 1904 Cheyenne Frontier Days. This brought him a contract with the famous 101 Ranch in Oklahoma and its traveling Wild West exhibitions, where he spent many years performing in the United States and abroad. I’ve seen bull riding competitions and it’s a mean sport. I don’t care for it. But the crowd goes wild.

 I remember a few years ago some company was selling ‘Great Rodeo Moments’ on TV and they’d run these awful clips, over and over, of riders getting gored by a bull or trampled by a horse. I went and looked at YouTube but honestly the clips there are pretty hard to watch. So I’m not sending you there. Go at your own risk.

Some Great Rodeo Movies—it seems like they always have them riding the bulls.

8 Seconds-starring Luke Perry

Electric Horseman – starring Robert Redford

Pure Country – Starring George Strait

My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys – Starring Scott Glenn.

 If you want to see some more really cool rodeo photos by Erik Stenbakken who took the picture at the top of this that I’m calling Mud Soaked Cowboy go here: http://www.stenbakken.com/ Click on Portfolios and then Rodeos. Very talented guy.

Any rodeo fans here today?

Seriously, have you ever been to the rodeo?

Have you got a favorite rodeo movie or rodeo cowboy I didn’t mention? What’s a cowboy got in him that makes him climb on that bull? There are cowgirls out there, too, and they’re pretty tough. Let’s hear rodeo memories, opinions or just tell me Whatcha Gonna Do With a Cowboy……

I’m popping in on a Tuesday this week! Huge thanks to Karen Kay for covering for me on Friday–I was in home-stretch mania of turning in the proposal for my third BRIDE book.  Developing the heroine for this story has submerged me in the history of the “orphan trains”.  I first read about the orphan trains in a romance novel and was so moved by the images I had to do some research to find out if such a thing really existed. It certainly did. 

In the 1800′s the Industrial Revolution and massive immigrations led to overpopulation in large cities like New York, Philadelphia and Boston. Illness and factory accidents claimed the lives of many parents leaving children to fend for themselves. During this time is was estimated that 30,000 homeless, orphaned and abandoned children were living on the polluted streets of New York. The Children’s Aid Society organized the first orphan train out of New York to Michigan in 1854. Forty-six children between the ages of ten and twelve were successfully placed. What became known as the Orphan Train Movement began in New York City in 1856, founded by the Children’s Aid Society and New York Foundling Hospital, and ran until 1930. In 1867 the westward campaign to move homeless and displaced children out to the expanding west began and continued for seventy-five years.  It is estimated that between 150,000 and 200,000 “orphans” boarded the trains and were relocated to new homes across the Midwest, as well as Canada and Mexico.

Who were these children?  Not all were true orphans. Many of these train riders had a single parent and due to the death of a spouse, had no means to take care of them. Others came from families too large for parents to afford all their children and some were given up to the trains for adoption. Others were simply given up at birth by unwed couples, single mothers and prostitutes.

While there were many, many families happy to welcome a child into their home, there were also expanding farms in need of cheap/free labor. Families interested in the orphans showed up to look them over when they were placed on display in local train stations, and placements were frequently made with little or no investigation or oversight. I’ve read many journals of orphan train riders, some happy, some tragic. Some children went to loving homes while others were far less fortunate. Because of the lack of documentation kept in the early days (children boarding trains with no documentation at all and simply delivered along the line) separated siblings had no way to later find their brothers and sisters, or to trace any family history. As this adoption process developed the recording process improved and ”Adoption Agents” were incorporated to follow up with children and make sure the children were placed in healthy homes.

Here is some information I found on the Orphan Train Riders website:

How they did it…

The Children’s Aid Society:

 Agents would plan a route, send flyers to towns along the way, and arrange for a “screening committee” in towns where the children might get new homes.

The towns where they stopped, naturally, had to be along a railroad line. The screening committee (mostly men) was usually made up of a town doctor, clergyman, newspaper editor, store owner and / or teacher.

The committee was asked to select possible parents for the children and approve or disapprove on the day the children arrived. They were to help the agent(s) in the placements.

When the children arrived, a contract was signed between the Children’s Aid Society and the adults taking the child. This is how the contract read:

Terms on Which Boys are Placed in Homes

Applications must be endorsed by the Local Committee.

Boys under 15 years of age, if not legally, adopted, must be retained as members of the family and sent to school according to the Educational Laws of the State, until they are 18 years old. Suitable provision must then be made for their future.

Boys between 15 years of age must be retained as members of the family and sent to school during the winter months until they are 17 years old, when a mutual arrangement may be made.

Boys over 16 years of age must be retained as members of the family for one year, after which a mutual arrangement may be made.

Parties taking boys agree to write to the Society at least once a year, or to have the boys do so.

Removals of boys proving unsatisfactory can be arranged through the Local Committee or an Agent of the Society, the party agreeing to retain the boy a reasonable length of time after notifying the Society of the desired change.

If for any reason, the child had to be removed from the household, the Children’s Aid Society did it at their own expense…….. it cost the new family nothing.

The New York Foundling Hospital

Priests in towns along the railroad routes were notified that the Foundling had children in need of homes. The priest would make an announcement to his congregation and ask for volunteers to take the children. At that point, adults could sign up for a child, specifying hair color and the color of eyes they preferred. Of course, specifying a boy or girl was respected.

The Priest would notify the Foundling that they could take a specific number of children with blond hair and blue eyes; brown hair and brown eyes; black hair and blue eyes; or a certain darkness of skin. One such request was for a boy with red hair because the farmer had 5 red haired daughters and no sons. He was not only delivered the requested red haired boy, but the boy later inherited the family farm.

The Foundling selected the requested children believing if a family got a child that “fit in” everyone would be better served.

An “Indenture” form was used to place the children. It was a legal document that gave the Foundling legal recourse without going to court, should the placement not be satisfactory and the child had to be removed.

Often called an early form of adoption, it was not adoption as we know it today, because with adoption a child is legally a parent’s natural child. Indentured children that were not legally adopted were ineligible to inherit unless the adults left a will specifying the indentured child was to be given an inheritance.  

These young orphan train riders were an integrated part of railroad and western history and development–another element that shaped the west.

Another very interesting side note: The Children’s Aid Society is still functioning today.

I want to say a public thanks to our own Linda Broday. This weekend, she and the Red River Romance writers invited me to speak at their group, then bought me lunch and came out in force for my booksigning for THE LONER.

What made this trip so much fun–in addition to the company–was that it allowed me the opportunity to go home again to Wichita Falls, Texas, the town where I grew up. It had been quite a while since I’d been back. I have no family there anymore and except for ocassional road trips for the BEST CATFISH IN THE WORLD at Bill’s just across the Red River, I rarely make the trip.

( I know it doesn’t look like much, but my oh my, the food is yummo.)

I arrived in town early, so I spent awhile driving around the old neighborhood and old haunts. They’re building on to Fain Elementary. The pool has a new clubhouse and it can’t possibly be as much fun without the high dive. Kemp Library is still a lovely old building, but it isn’t the library anymore–which is why I ended up arriving late for my speech. How dare they move the library!!! I LOVED that library. It’s where I found the synonym book that helped me win the contest in fourth grade not to mention where I learned to love to read and look where that took me! And what’s with the overpass on Kell? And finally, hey, you on Alamo Drive. Paint my Mom and Dad’s house!!! It looks terrible.

It was truly a lovely trip down memory lane.

I consider myself lucky to have grown up in a relatively small town in Texas. It was a safe, friendly place where you were free enough to get into enough trouble to make life interesting, but not too much trouble to make life…troublesome. Those years provided the foundation not only for who I am today, but also for the stories I’ve written since leaving. I loved living there, but like so many others, I couldn’t wait to leave. I went away to college and never moved back.

But you know what? I can still go home. Thanks, Linda, for reminding me of that.

How about the rest of you P&P readers? Do you go home again?