In “Away in the Manager” for our anthology “A Texas Christmas”, my grumpy, blacksmith hero Randall Humphrey who wants to be left alone and celebrate Christmas in the only way he knows how – in solitude, is faced being snowed in with a beautiful woman and two little tykes. And, Christmas is only a couple of days away.

But, how could they have Christmas without a tree? Caught in a raging blizzard a real tree was out of the question; but it didn’t take long for the little twins, Damon and Addie Claire, patterned after my own granddaughter, Addison Claire, to remind him that he’d said, as a blacksmith, he could make anything. So, Rand was pressed into action to create something to please the children.

With the twins, and of course the feisty, mother hen Sarah melting his heart, Rand set about crafting a tree.  That became a challenge for me as a writer, but I knew if he could make nails, hinges, cooking utensils, and pot hooks, surely he’d be ingenious enough to create a Christmas tree.

I did some research and low-and-behold I figured out how he could make one in a cone shape. Crude, but he thought it’d make the children happy.  He was so wrong.  While they liked it, there was no way to add the ornaments which consisted of round cookies tied with red ribbon fixed up by Sarah.  The little darlings wanted more … gingerbread men, angels, and bears, because they thought that was what the gruffly clad blacksmith looked like to them.  Rand could manage the star, but he had no idea how to make the other ornaments they requested.  It didn’t take him long to decide if he fashioned some cookie cutters then Sarah could design the rest of the ornaments out of cookie dough.  That worked, but he still hadn’t figured out how to attach them to the tree he had designed.

While playing in the hayloft with a homeless kitten who had taken up residence at the blacksmith’s shop, the twins come down with some barbed wire that had been stored there.  That gave me … I mean Rand… an idea.  Why not fashion a tree out of the cone shape he’d already done and add barbed wire?  But would it work?

That’s when real life came into the picture.  Fellow Filly, Linda Broday, also one of my co-authors, found a story in her local newspaper about a Christmas tree constructed from barbed wire taken from the famous XIT Ranch here in the Panhandle.  There was my answer, oops, I meant Rand’s answer!

Sallie Sinclair of Shallowater, Texas, had fashioned a Western Christmas Tree out of Brinkerhoff barbed wire from the 1800’s and decorated it with miniature boots and saddle bags, along with regulation-size sheriffs’ badges made from five-peso coins, she’d worked on over a period of time.  Because the Brinkerhoff wire could not be cut from the post, a single strand was removed from one post, rolled loosely, and unfastened from the next post down the fence line.  It was some of the original wire that the XIT had used in fencing the gigantic ranch property that had been granted to its owners when they offered to build Texas’ Capitol building in Austin as a trade for land.

Of interest, as Ms. Sinclair and her friends built the tree, the wire could only be cut to length by scoring the metal, then flexing it until it broke. I’m sure there was plenty of pricked fingers and blood, during the process.

In my story, Rand would have likely used the King of Barbed Wire, Joseph Glidden’s simple wire locked into place by twisted barbs onto a double-strand wire. His invention made the fencing more effective not only because he perfected a method for locking the barbs in place, but also because he developed the machinery to mass-produce the wire.

Back to my story, while the twins where thrilled with the tree, there was still one thing missing … a star!  That ended up being one of the easier challenges for the blacksmith, as he used his failed attempts at making cookie cutters to sculpt a cone shape where he added wings; thus, providing an angel.

At last the tree was perfect, and they shared a very Merry Christmas … and something else special.  But, you’ll have to read the book to see what else happened around the best Christmas tree in the world.

After forty-three years of Christmases with my husband, we’ve had our share of absolutely beautifully, perfect trees and some not so perfect.  One I particularly remember was special but about as ugly as they come.

We have friends who have a ranch that extends down into the bowels of the Palo Duro Canyon, so years ago we decided to cut our own tree.  It was fun, but trust me a tree from the Palo Duro compared to those grown and cut specifically for tree lots are very different.  I laugh when I think back to the pictures, and wish I could find one to add to this post, because we actually had to use duck tape to hold on some of the branches.  But, you know, kinda like Rand, Sarah, and the children, it didn’t matter because it was the most perfect tree in the world because we shared it as a family.

I’d love to hear your favorite Christmas tree story.  So, come on and share.

To one commenter, I am giving away your choice of either an autographed softback or  hardback copy of

“A Texas Christmas”.

While on vacation recently, my husband and I spent a morning visiting the Arizona Cowboy Shooters Association in action. Every second Saturday, enthusiasts of period weapons, dedicated to preserving and promoting the sport of Cowboy Action Shooting gather together to talk history, weapons and shooting.

The Single Action Shooting Society–SASS–is for folks who “…share a common interest in preserving the history of the Old West and competitive shooting.”  [SASS website, www.sassnet.com.] There are clubs all in all fifty states, andCanada,New Zealand, Europe,Australia andSouth Africa, too.

Personally, spending a Saturday or two a month enjoying the sport of shooting sounds like a lot of fun. And every club member we met agreed. The day consists of target shooting with revolvers, a shotgun, and a lever-action rifle.

“Cowboy Action Shooting is a multi-faceted shooting sport in which contestants compete with firearms typical of those used in the taming of the Old West: single action revolvers, pistol caliber lever action rifles, and old time shotguns.” [www.sassnet.com]

Every member of the ACSA carried reproduction or original period firearms. There were Colt Peacemakers,Winchester1873s, Model No. 3 “Russians” (pictured to the left), Model 1873 repeating rifles, 1866 “Yellow Boys”… You name it, someone was probably carrying it.

We saw 1897 pump-action and 1887 lever-action shotguns–that one “Terminator” fans would recognize–and lots of double-barreled or side-by-side Coach guns.

There were stations set up on the range, with different targets, arrangements and distances. At one station, participants emptied both revolvers at steel gunslinger- shaped targets, or “steels,” then switched to their rifles and pinged off nine shots at five dinner-plate sized targets from 10 yards away. At the next station, the targets were 25 yards away. And at another, knocking down one “steel” tossed a clay target into the air. Bonus points were awarded for shattering it. There’s also a long-range rifle competition, but we didn’t get up early enough to observe that.

Another fun aspect of the sport is that every participant got to be someone else for a day. “One of the unique aspects of SASS approved Cowboy Action Shooting™ is the requirement placed on costuming. Each participant is required to adopt a shooting alias appropriate to a character or profession of the late 19th century, a Hollywoodwestern star, or an appropriate character from fiction. Their costume is then developed accordingly. Many event participants gain more enjoyment from the costuming aspect of our sport than from the shooting competition, itself. Regardless of a SASS member’s individual area of interest, SASS events provide regular opportunities for fellowship and fun with like-minded folks and families.” [www.sassnet.com]

For sheer fun while shooting, you’d be hard pressed to beat Cowboy Action Shooting. Unless it was mounted cowboy action shooting–but that’s for another post.

Thanksgiving is always the time we think of home.  Last week a man in his 70’s said to me, “I remember the house I grew up in, every room, every drawer, every smell.  In my mind I can still go there even though the house was torn down over 50 years ago.”

I thought about what he said and I realized I can remember my childhood home the same way.  Once, years ago I was walking through a second hand store and I saw a chair just like my grandmother had.  When I sat down I ran my fingers over the grooves in the handle and remembered when my fingers fit down in the carved wood.  From there I remembered my grandmother and what her life must have been like when she homesteaded and lived in a dugout.

I like to think that kind of memory isn’t just regular memory, but a kind of loving memory.  Sometimes it isn’t just the things we remember, but the way we felt.  Maybe it’s just a smell or home cooking or a feeling you always get when you hug that certain someone, but the memory is imprinted on your heart, not your mind.

When I began the Harmony Series I wanted to write about people who would settle into the reader’s heart like old friends.  I wanted to create a town, not that I’ve ever been to, but a place that’s always been in my mind.  A place where people care about one another.  I think I took pieces of my world and pieces of my dreams.  A writer’s mind is a patchwork quilt held together of what life is and what they dream life to be.

So this holiday season take the time to look at all the blessings you have, not just today but through the years.  Walk through your childhood home.  Have a seat in grandma’s chair.  Open a few drawers of memories.

Always remember:  Thanksgiving is an active verb, not a noun.

I would love to hear your early memory blessings.

The winner of the drawing will receive a copy of my first national bestseller THE TENDER TEXAN, always a favorite book of mine.

Happy Holidays,

Jodi Thomas

www.JodiThomas.com

I’ve never been a brave person.  In kindergarten I was afraid to go down the slippery slide.  Wild carnival rides make me sick, and, although I live near world-class snow resorts, I’m too chicken to ski. 

So what on earth possessed me to try a sky dive?  After passing a milestone birthday, maybe I wanted to spit in the eye of old age.  Or maybe I just need to prove something to myself–and it was on my mental bucket list.  Whatever the reason, I went on line, found the perfect place and booked a tandem jump for the morning of October 13.

Sky Dive Zion is located in Southern Utah’s spectacular red rock country.  It’s a small operation, one plane, one pilot, one great instructor named Rick, and an excellent safety record.   Driving to the site, I was jittery.  It didn’t help to know that a double skydiving fatality had occurred days earlier in nearby Mesquite, Nevada—with a woman close to my age.  But my hero, who’d come along to give me courage, assured me that I could do this.

The weather was gorgeous, the sky a clear, bright blue.  Three of us were jumping that morning—a cute young couple and me, all first-timers.  Rick, who’d made nearly 8,000 jumps, spent an hour instructing us.  We signed legal releases, watched a video, drilled getting in and out of the plane and practiced the “arch” position, which would be used in free fall (free fall—the very words gave me shivers).

I watched  the youngsters make  perfect jumps, touching down on the nice, crunchy pea gravel that served as a landing strip.  Then it was my turn.  Harnessed in, we drilled again, sitting on the floor of the plane, sliding forward climbing out the door and crouching on the tiny metal platform above the wheel.  “Like cannonballing off the high dive,” Rick said.  It was easy on the ground.  But at 11,000 feet…?

On my harness was a red knob—the handle of the rip cord that would open our parachute.  On the way down, at 5,000 feet, I was to pull it.  If I didn’t pull it by 4,000 feet, Rick would do it for me.  Good to know.  I was to learn how good.

The little Cessna roared skyward.  The view was breathtaking—red cliffs and flats, lakes like clear turquoise jewels.  Rick tightened my harness as the altimeter climbed to 11,000 feet.  The door popped open, wind roaring past, the ground so far away it looked like a map.  No time to be scared.  I had to do this.  I climbed out onto the platform and hunkered down, giving Rick room to climb out behind me.

“Go!” he shouted.  We came off in a back flip.  As we tumbled over, I glimpsed the tail of the plane.  I arched, with Rick above me—surprisingly easy.  Free fall is…unimaginable.  With the ground so far away, you don’t have the sensation of falling.  It’s more like floating, with a 120 mph wind blasting up at you.  I’d expected to be terrified.  Instead I was stunned.  Rick nudged me and pointed to something.  My mind was blank.  Only when the chute popped open, yanking me upright, did I remember the rip cord.  I hadn’t pulled it.

What a rush!  I was yelling, “OMG!  OMG!”   Rick was laughing at me.  The ride down was the best–floating in the sky above the desert, feeling safe and relieved.  We practiced the landing position, legs up, feet flexed, hands ready to pull down on the parachute straps.  I could see the gravel strip.  The landing would be easy, I thought.  Then Murphy’s Law raised its ugly head.  At the last second, we lost our tail wind and came in short.  I smacked down butt first on the hard-packed dirt and skidded to a stop with Rick behind me. 

The first words out of my mouth were, “I’m OK!”  And I was.  I limped away with a twisted knee and a few bruises, but I was grinning like a fool.

Should I do it again?  Given my age and my injury-prone body, probably not.

WOULD I do it again?  Oh, yeah…in a heartbeat!

Do you have a bucket list?  What’s the scariest thing you’ve ever done?

I remember the cold and blustery day when I closed my eyes and said a little prayer that He would give me the strength to get through the task at hand.

It was extremely hard to sort through my Aunt Bobbie’s possessions following her death, particularly since it was more like sorting through two generation’s keepsakes. My family has never been very good at throwing out our “stuff,” so there was a mixture of both Aunt Bobbie’s precious memories mingled with those of my grandmother. Thank goodness we are packrats, or I wouldn’t have this story to share with you.

I found “the letter” in the family Bible. You know the one that everyone has … gold leaf nearly worn off and the binding so fragile that it’s held together with masking tape. Ours has silver duct tape, too. The book protects an assortment of obituaries, wedding and birth announcements, and other newspaper clippings wedged between the pages. I picked up Granny’s handwritten recipe for Louisiana Pecan Pie. It sounds like a strange place to keep a recipe but not if you had known my Aunt Bobbie.

Although I’d thumbed through the family Bible many times as I grew up, I’d never noticed “the letter.” After keeping it secure for all those years, did my aunt move it to the one place she was sure I’d find it? I don’t know. But, I do know with Aunt Bobbie, everything had a reason.

The three pages are as yellowed with age as the memories inked on them. It’s written in a precise yet manly flourish with a black fountain pen scripted on light weight “air mail” stationery.

As I slowly unfolded the fragile pages, an odd sensation of calmness and serenity settle around me. I demanded that my emotions take a back seat and allow me privacy to read the letter, thus getting to know my Uncle Vick, Aunt Bobbie’s brother.

July 29, 1944

Dearest Bobbie,

I wish it were possible to talk to you and tell you what I have to say.

I’m telling you so you can tell Mom. I don’t know how she will take it and I don’t want her to be alone when she gets the news. I want you to see that she doesn’t worry about me because there is no cause for it. I am in good condition now but I was wounded worse than I let you know.

I am perfectly content and quite happy. The only thing I regret is having to leave the Marine Corps. My days in the service are few but I am happy that my discharge is honorable.

I landed on the Island of Saipan with the assault wave. I made it almost through the campaign but my luck ran out and I got in front of a Jap Machine gun. I took four bullets in my left leg and one in my left arm. My arm is completely healed but I wasn’t so lucky with the leg. This is what I’ve been trying to say. To save my life they had to remove my left leg. In other words I only have one leg. Don’t feel sorry for me and don’t worry.

Today thanks to science a man doesn’t have to worry because they have artificial legs that a man can walk on just as normal as ever. He can dance, work, walk, run and do most anything else any other man can do. I don’t feel badly at all. I take it as just something that had to happen and I thank God I am alive.

I’ll be in the states soon. I will be in California for some time. After the leg is healed it takes a long time to get the stump tough enough for the leg to be attached. But I think I will get to come home for a while. Possibly in about three months. It won’t be the home coming I wanted but we are going to have lots of fun aren’t we? We can paint any town just as red as anyone else.

I haven’t told Naomi (his wife) yet and I don’t want Mom to tell her. That is my job. How I do it is something I haven’t figured out as yet.

Don’t write anymore until you hear from me again. Tell Mom the same thing. I expect to have a new address and it takes mail too long to catch up with me.

Keep Mom from worrying about me. Keep your chin up and we’ll all be happy.

I have to close now. I’ll be thinking of you and loving you,

Always, your Bud,
Vick

PS: Tell Dad first. Maybe he can help. I’ll tell more next time. Love always, Vick

Through blurry eyes and swallowing a lump in my throat much too big to go down, I read the letter twice before returning the yellowed pages to its resting place. The most appropriate place I knew to stow the treasure … our family Bible.

The letter had been written sixty years ago, in a faraway country, by a Marine fighting for our democracy.

Today I forced myself to reread the letter, as I prepared to share his story. I thought about the hundred of thousands of other servicemen that sent home similar letters.

In reflection, I didn’t get to know Uncle Vick while he was alive. His pictures show a handsome man, full of life and laughter. The family storytellers told of how he survived that horrid day lying amongst a pile of fallen American heroes and praying to God. I wonder if he prayed for survival or for a quick death? Only God knows.

I’m sorry that I missed the opportunity to really get to know him, but in 1952 God called him home earlier than the family planned. Uncle Vick was laid to rest at the age of 33 in the National Cemetery in Fresno, California.

In the six decades since Uncle Vick poured out his heart and soul and his fears and love to his sister, my aunt, we’ve seen the end to World War II, the Korean conflict,Vietnam, Desert Storm, September 11th, and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.

For centuries our servicemen have given their limbs and their lives so fellow countryman can enjoy democracy and have the opportunity to “… paint any town just as red as anyone else.”

I’m thankful, Aunt Bobbie, for leaving your brother’s letter in a place where you knew I’d find it.

Because God answered the prayers of Victor C. Johnson, U.S.M.C., on that dreadful day on the Island of Saipan, I now know my uncle – a man of courage and convictions, a heroic, honorable Marine who did not look back in regret for an instant after losing a limb for his country, a husband, brother, and son with compassion and tremendous love for his family and country.

Prologue

On a special spring day in San Antonio while watching my grandchildren play, my cell phone rang.  On the other end of the line a woman asked if I was Phyliss Pannier Miranda, and I said yes.  She asked if I had an aunt named Bobbie and if my mother’s name was Ruth.  I confirmed.  Then she asked if I had an Uncle Vick… I paused and slowly answered, “Yes”.  She then said, “Hello, I’m your cousin Vicky.” … my Uncle Vick’s daughter.

Vicki and I hadn’t seen one another since we were small and her family moved to California. While doing family genealogy she had come across my information.  To my surprise, she had not seen the above story on my web-site and I talked her through finding it.  I listened as she said over and over,  “That’s my daddy!”   I’m thrilled to say we’ve forged a bond and are real family now … all because of her daddy’s letter saved in the family Bible.

is Hilltop Farmwife!  Please contact me at charlenesands@hotmail.com with your snail mail address.

I’ll send you an autographed copy of  The Cowboy’s Pride!!

Thanks to all who stopped by today to blog with me about Country Music!!

I love country music.  The songs always tell a good story.  They move me to emotion and I can always understand the words (meaning I truly can sing along). Wait, maybe that’s not a good thing after all – I can’t carry a tune.  But I love to get into the foot-stomping rhythm, clap my hands and feel the beat.    Whether I laugh or cry … or just get to thinking, I sing along envisioning the scenes playing out in my head.   I love how some songs have a patriotic tone, like the one from my favorite duo, Brooks and Dunn. This song really depicts what’s good about America – the land of opportunity (except for the prison part

Sun coming up over New York City
School bus driver in a traffic jam
Starin’ at the faces in her rearview mirror
Looking at the promise of the Promised Land

One kid dreams of fame and fortune
One kid helps pay the rent
One could end up going to prison
One just might be president

Only in America
Dreaming in red, white and blue
Only in America
Where we dream as big as we want to
We all get a chance
Everybody gets to dance
Only in America

Lyrics can be fun and crazy and when I think of funny, I think of Brad Paisley.  His lyrics make me laugh.  He’s cute and he knows how to push humor buttons like no one else.   Here’s Brad Paisley’s rant about going overboard with political correctness:

You’re not supposed to say the word “cancer” in a song.
And tellin’ folks Jesus is the answer can rub ‘em wrong.
It ain’t hip to sing about tractors, trucks, little towns, and mama, yeah that might be true.
But this is country music and we do

Do you like to drink a cold one on the weekend and get a little loud
Do you wanna say I’m sorry or I love you but you don’t know how?
Do you wish somebody had the nerve to tell that stupid boss of yours
to shove it next time he yells at you?
Well this is country music and we do

So turn it on, turn it up, and sing a long
This is real; this is your life in a song
Yeah this is country music.

There are ballads of love gone wrong, love gone bad and love that never happened.  They touch my heart, sear into my soul and some are so sad, honestly, I’d rather not hear them at all. Like Tim McGraw’s, Don’t Take the Girl.  I think it was one of his earliest big, big hits, but honestly, I’d rather hear ballads filled with hope, like Tim McGraw’s, Live Like You Were Dying or Brooks and Dunn’s, Believe.

Then there are the songs about falling in love!  So many stories, so many would-be plots.  Take a look at this week’s Top Ten List and tell me there aren’t at least a hundred ideas floating in your head, just from the titles!

Here’s the Top Country Songs:

Blake Shelton–God Gave Me You 

Eli Young Band–Crazy Girl 

George Strait–Here for a Good Time 

Miranda Lambert–Baggage Claim 

Taylor Swift–Sparks Fly                                                                     

Brantley Gilbert–Country Must Be Country Wide  

Keith Urban–Long Hot Summer 

Rodney Atkins–Take a Road Back 

Lady Antebellum–We Owned the Night

Jason Aldean–Tattoos on This Town 

 Do you like country music?  What types of songs move you and who is your favorite artist? What is your favorite song?

Did you watch the CMA AWARDS? Who was your favorite from the show?

Since my hero, Clayton Worth is an ex-country superstar, it’s only fitting that I give away a copy of THE COWBOY’S PRIDE today. Post a comment and let’s share country music!!

4 STARS **** ROMANTIC TIMES BOOK REVIEWS! "Readers are going root for this perfectly charming couple to put their marriage back on track with a little help from a tiny angel."

Read an Excerpt at:

AMAZON

EHARLEQUIN

CHECK OUT ALL MY BOOKS AND ENTER “THE COWBOY’S PRIDE” CONTEST  for Bling and Gift Cards at  www.charlenesands.com

I started setting books in my fictional town of Larch Valley a while ago – in fact, it was the first book I did with my current editor after my first editor at Harlequin got promoted. I wrote the end of it with a cast on my arm, a glass of wine at my elbow and a husband gone to Hawaii in the middle of a brutally cold January. The book was called The Rancher’s Runaway Princess.

Despite the adjustments that happened during the writing of that book, I went on to write a duet set there – One Dance With the Cowboy and Her Lone Cowboy. I loved bringing back characters from the first book and introducing a few new ones. One character I loved writing – even though his role was small – was Clay Gregory. Even with his walk-on role he was a big ol’ sexy cowboy and I knew I wanted to write his story.

But I couldn’t find him the right heroine. I had a few proposals but none of them really flew. I wrote three more books for the Romance line before I finally figured it out. The woman he was supposed to be with was Megan Briggs – his best friend’s little sister.

It was fantastic going back to Larch Valley. Each time I do, past characters show up and a few new ones get introduced. Megan had been mentioned in One Dance With The Cowboy but never on screen; now she’s front and centre after disappearing for cancer treatment. I wrote the opening of this book something like four times (which is not unusual, this happens in nearly every book until I hit upon the right time and place to really start it). In the end, what worked was Meg trying desperately to get her life back to normal. She’s shoveling you know what. And in struts Clay with his boots and heavy jacket and all around sexiness.

It was both difficult and easy to write Meg’s character. Easy because as a cancer survivor, there’s automatically some internal conflict and a lot of emotion built in. Difficult because I feel a great responsibility for getting it RIGHT – all the hopes and dreams and worries and fears that Meg still has.

It really came down to one particular scene for me. One that I thought my editor might read and that she might tell me was too risky. But she never breathed a word about taking it out, and I was thrilled. I cried buckets writing it!

Romantic Times gave it  four stars, but what I really liked was the quote that went with it: Great characters bring life to this beautifully written story that explores trust, friendship and hope.

Trust, friendship, and hope. Yes, that just about nails it.

I’m giving a copy away today to one commenter! And please – don’t forget to do your self exam or get a mammogram if you’re over 40.

Others have as many characters in their heads as you & therefore don’t consider you a lunatic

Be a learner. If you ever think you know it all, there’s a problem. Be willing to take instruction. If you’re saving or printing how-to articles and pouring over them, you’re on the right track. Take every class available. In social situations with authors, be a good listener. You will often learn as much at lunch as you will in a workshop.

Be willing to write badly.  Be willing to make mistakes.  Even the NYT best sellers started at the same point you’re at. Get the words on the page and then fix them–or do it better the next time.

Be a friend and an encouragement to others. I’m a firm believer that what goes around comes around. Choose your friends and critique partners wisely. Surround yourself with positive, encouraging people who lift you up.

Set goals and mark them out in your datebook. Share them and ask a friend to hold you accountable.

Believe in yourself. People might tell you your goal is impossible to achieve. Others might criticize your genre or your dogged determination. Someone along the way will likely hurt your feelings. So believe in yourself, even if you’re the only one who does.

How many of you have a book inside, but have never taken the first steps?

How many are just learning the ropes?

Anyone have sound advice to add?

What are your Desert Isle Keepers? Which stories stayed with you long after you closed the cover?  Do you have comfort reads?  And the last question for writers, which books made you say, “I want to do that!” 

Here’s my list in no particular order….

1.  Christy by Catherine Marshall.  I was twelve when I read this story of a young woman going to the Appalachian mountains to be a teacher. In the town of Cutter Gap, Christy Huddleston experiences life in a whole new way, and she learns to see and love people for who they are.  Her friendship with Fairlight Spencer is both glorious and heartbreaking. The story is fiction, but it’s based on the life of Catherine’s mother. It’s also considered the book that gave birth to the Inspirational market, and the Christy Awards are named after it.

2. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte.  Love this story!  The movies first brought it to life for me, namely the Hallmark movie with George C. Scott and Susannah York. A romance writer was born the night I saw the made-for-TV movie. Later I read the book for a Women’s Fiction class at UCLA. Forget symbolism and literary stuf, this is a story of redemption, transformation and romance. My favorite film version is the one with Timothy Dalton as Rochester.

3. The Black Stallion Series by Walter Farley. Alec Ramsey was my first crush.  I read this series over and over, mentally riding in the races and taking on whatever challenges came Alex’s way.  They fed my child’s imagination in a big way.

4. The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing.  We’re getting off the beaten path with this one.  I read it as a college freshman at the recommendation of a teaching assistant. In short, it’s about a woman trying to make sense of a chaotic world.  The title is derived from structure of the book.  It’s made up of narrative, four “notebook “sections–each a different color and about a different part of the main character’s life–and finally a Golden notebook.  I’m now light years away from the content of the book, but it made me want to write.

5.  Hawaii by James Michener. I read this in middle school, around the time I read Christy. I thought the beginning was a bit dull, but I plowed through and discovered the joy of historical fiction. Does anyone else miss the days of long books? Some of my favorites by Michener are Centennial, The Source, Space and Chesapeake.

6. Captains and the Kings by Taylor Caldwell. I read this shortly after my first son was born. What a wonderful mix of history and drama!  In the coming years, I read every Taylor Caldwell book in the Thousand Oaks, California library.  

7. The Outsider by Penelope Williamson. I will never forget reading this book for the first time. It’s a mix of violence and faith, love and hate, guilt and forgiveness. I finished it at 3 a.m., blinked away the tears and thought, “I want to do this . . . I want to write books like this one.”  That’s a lofty goal and I don’t think I’ve met the challenge, but I intend to keep trying.  No one uses language like Penelope Williamson.  This book doesn’t just tell the story, it sings every word.

So those are my favorites.  What about you?  What’s on your keeper shelf?  I don’t think any of us could pick just one.

P.S. My current release is available now at Amazon  . . . Marrying the Major . . . Check it out along with the other titles in the “Women of Swan’s Nest” series!