tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21580638642700936292024-02-06T21:49:29.625-08:00Connie Chastain, Southern WriterConniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.comBlogger101125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-80247286672541589022022-09-03T20:57:00.001-07:002022-09-03T21:09:08.139-07:00Soldiering On<p> It has been fifteen months since my husband's co-workers found him face down on the print shop floor, not breathing and with no pulse. His boss started CPR and kept it up until the paramedics arrived. Tommy was in the MICU at Baptist Hospital for three weeks with a tube down his throat and hooked up to a wall of machines. That is called "life support" but I don't think he was alive. The machines kept some of his organs functioning but not the ones he needed to recover -- brain and heart. <br /><br />So I have been a widow for a year and three months. At first, the grief was just unbearable. Frankly, I don't know how I survived it, except for the mercy of God and Tommy's friend, Lisa. He was her best friend and his passing and his absence left a big hole in her life, too.<br /><br />Many people were praying for me and Tommy through his sickness and afterward. People told me eventually my life would return to some semblance of normal, though you never completely get over it. <br /><br />I lost my older sister to Covid three months later. My parents have been gone since the early 2000s. Tommy and I had no children, so no grandchildren. His family is in north Louisiana and mine is ... gone. My nephews -- my sister's three boys -- are keeping in touch with me; they live across the bay in the next county. The oldest has been a great help to me, making Tommy's truck accessible to me, installing a running board step and a hand hold inside and doing other things for me. Tommy had life insurance on the truck loan so I let my car go and the F150 is my paid-for transportation now. <br /><br /> I have learned to pay bills and keep myself and our cats fed (yes, they're still ours, Tommy's and mine). I have made it through the last 15 months with some sanity because I cannot let myself think of him. Memories flit in and out of my head, and sometimes I dream about him but I cannot purposely sit and remember. If I do that, I fear I will lose my sanity. <br /><br />And the music -- no way. I cannot listen to his music -- the Eagles, especially. I cannot listen to our music. It doesn't even have to be his or ours to crumple me -- popular rock and roll was the soundtrack of our life together. <i>Sweet Melissa, Two Tickets to Paradise </i>-- these and others have reduced me to blubbering, and they weren't even our special songs. I don't know if I will ever be able to listen to <i>Desperado</i>... </p><p>There is so much more I could say here, but I really don't want to.</p><p>At first I didn't think I would ever feel like writing again, But the urge has been coming back lately so I've reacquainted myself with my website and blog. I'm reading up on promotion and marketing (I never did any of that, which likely explains why I've made enough royalties to buy a Happy Meal). I want to try something different; not just family stories and romantic suspense, but science fiction, intrigue, mysteries... We'll see how it goes. <br /></p>Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-53850796891842464882020-11-29T20:32:00.003-08:002020-11-29T20:34:40.209-08:00An Excerpt From Wesley's Women<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDnNmsDtORef8jMBa7QBwChy7rHy9ilDjl1VaM4sIg1FH1E-ByyhhgDbu_sw7EgWB2OWnn_gnbUhyxqQXQJdVZV7txVcJGfEYbuwm146cFZL5KDyBRzBF5o7wEM4ISCNRF8PDpjwkA0Zw/s2048/WW.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDnNmsDtORef8jMBa7QBwChy7rHy9ilDjl1VaM4sIg1FH1E-ByyhhgDbu_sw7EgWB2OWnn_gnbUhyxqQXQJdVZV7txVcJGfEYbuwm146cFZL5KDyBRzBF5o7wEM4ISCNRF8PDpjwkA0Zw/s320/WW.jpg" /></a></div><p><br />...Abby knocked timidly on his door and called to him. <br /><br />"Come in."<br /><br />Everything was a blur after that -- the discharge, the farewell to his father and step-mother, retrieving the plastic bag that held his belongings from the closet. <br /><br />She didn't become clearheaded again until they were in her SUV rolling out of the hospital parking lot on the way to his apartment. <br /><br />He was as handsome as ever, and more dear to her than he had ever been, but he was different. The experience had changed him. He seemed folded in on himself, tucked inside a protective shell. It pained her and it worried her. But it would have been unrealistic to expect him to bounce back from his ordeal just because he was going home. <br /><br />"Um," she said as they inched their way through the traffic. "When I was out earlier, I was going to stop by the supermarket and pick up up a few groceries for you, but I wanted to get back to the hospital. If you like, we can stop on the way and get you a few things."<br /><br />"All right."<br /><br />He replied to her questions or comments readily enough, but he said nothing of his own accord. He had always been a man of few words, but this was heartbreaking. <br /><br />She had no idea what he was going through, what his thoughts and feelings were, but she knew he did not need a flow of chatter from her, so she curbed her words, as well. <br /><br />In his tiny kitchen, they put the groceries away together.<br /><br />"Wesley, are you hungry? Would you like me to make you a sandwich or something?"<br /><br />"Yeah, I'm a little hungry. I can make a sandwich, though."<br /><br />"But I want to."<br /><br />"Okay."<br /><br />"I think I'll have one, too."<br /><br />"Okay."<br /><br />They sat on the tall stools at the breakfast bar and Abby scarfed down half her sandwich before she realized Wesley hadn't taken a single bite.<br /><br />She wanted to ask if he was all right, if there was something wrong with the sandwich, if there was something else he wanted, something she could do for him -- but a small voice inside told her to zip it. He needed love, all the love she could give, but he also needed space. So she took another bite and ate in silence. <br /><br />She looked up once to see him gazing at her with an odd expression and her brows rose. His face crumpled and he tried unsuccessfully to stifle an explosive sob, then wiped tears from his eyes and brought himself back under control.<br /><br />"Aw, hey, c'mon," she said softly. "It can't be that bad. Some ham, some Swiss, a little mayo, but if you'd rather have Miracle Whip--" <br /><br />There was another, smaller explosion, half sob, half laughter. "Could you come over here please?"<br /><br />She slid off the stool and walked the single pace to him and he took her in a tight embrace. She circled her arms around him as he buried his face in her shoulder. He shook and he cried, really cried, deep, wracking sobs that used up his breath, and he had to pause to inhale deeply and the sobs would begin again. Tears soaked her shirt. <br /><br />"My poor Wesley," she murmured, "so hurt, so broken. But it will be all right I promise you. The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Weeping may remain for a night, but joy comes in the morning."<br /><br />Gradually his sobbing slowed and tears stopped, and his breathing normalized. He straightened and looked at her, straight into her eyes. <br /><br />"It's not a very manly thing to cry on your woman's shoulder."<br /><br />"That's one of the things shoulders were made for. Women's. Men's. If men weren't supposed to cry, God wouldn't have given them tear ducts. Oh, Wesley, my dear, wonderful man, I can't begin to fathom what you've been through. It oppresses my spirit just trying to think about it. But to me, crying seems like a totally understandable response."<br /><br />He shook his head, not in negation but amazement. "Nothing I do shocks you, nothing I say makes you shudder or cringe. I can't understand you but ... I love you." He swallowed hard and took in a shaky breath. "Thank you for saving my life."<br /><br />She pulled him close and kissed him. His answering kiss matched hers. One eager kiss followed the other and soon eagerness turned to passion. Abby deeply regretted that she had to bring this under control. <br /><br />"Maybe someday," she said, soft and low, against his mouth. "But not now, not yet." <br /><br />She let go of him and stepped back to see him gazing at her with a sultry look of desire.<br /><br />"It must be morning," he said, his voice laced with the longing that burned in his eyes. <br /><br />She nodded understanding and assent. They dared not embrace and kiss again and temp passion, but for now, joy was more than enough. <br /><br />After a few moments, Abby pointed to his sandwich and said, "Um, are you gonna eat that, because I'm still a little hungry--"<br /><br />He laughed, then, a genuine, deep, old-Wesley laugh that stretched his sunshine grin across his face and scrunched his eyes to slits. "Let's half it." </p><p></p><p>===========<br /><br /><i>Wesley's Women is a work in progress. Publication tentatively set for first quarter 2021.</i><br /> <br /><br /></p><p></p>Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-33646151099587406612019-12-02T00:59:00.004-08:002019-12-17T12:53:37.149-08:00RIP, FlipperI had to say goodbye to my sweet boy, Flipper, in November. He was
FIV positive and his little body could no longer withstand infections.
Plus, due to the FIV, which is incurable, he had long-standing stomatitis (infection and inflammation of the mouth), one of the most
painful conditions a cat can experience.<br />
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He was
probably only about eight years old. He had been with us five years. He
just showed up one day, and took up with us. He would get into fights
when he was outside, the skin behind his ears would be sliced open. <br />
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Once, he disappeared for a week, and I was beside myself. When he finally came home, I brought him inside and never let him out again, although he longed to go out and wander. Every so often, he would escape and be gone 24 to 48 hours, but he never again stayed out for a week.<br />
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I took him to the vet to be neutered, and that was when we found out he tested positive for FIV.
He probably got it from the fighting. Some time later, we found out he had stomatitis, which gradually worsened with time. I would take him to the vet every few months for steroid and antibiotic shots. But those gradually become less effective, and have to be given more often. <br />
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The last ones he got lasted two weeks, infection in his mouth returned, eating was too painful for him and he stopped. He lost weight down to six pounds (he had weighed about 11 pounds at one point in our time together) and that was when we took him in to be euthanized. The vet recommended it based on Flipper's quality of life, or lack thereof. He would never get better, nothing could be done to temporarily relieve his pain. He would be in increasing pain as long as he lived.<br />
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We were with him, petting and touching him, when the vet gave him the injection that stopped his heart.<br />
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It is wrenching to lose a pet. But it is also wrenching to see a pet suffer. And with stomatitis, they suffer.<br />
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He was such a good cat, sweet-tempered. Not as cuddly as I would have liked, but never mean, he never bit, never clawed. And the times he deigned to sleep with me, it was a joy to hear him purr beside me. <br />
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Goodbye sweet boy. I'm glad your pain has stopped.<br />
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I was noodling around online recently when I found a marvelous photo of a gray
tabby with a clipped ear, a bad eye, and a noble, stoic expression. A
street cat, for sure, possibly (but not necessarily) feral. I decided
his story needed to be told. So now "My Cat, Farrell" is on my list of
WIPs. Not sure when I can get to it, or what the overall story will be
about, but my hero or heroine will have similar experiences with Farrell
that I had with Flipper.<br />
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Here's a working cover.</div>
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Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-54241354054961766122019-09-23T01:39:00.000-07:002019-09-23T01:42:05.434-07:00Changes in the worksI am in the process of republishing my novels with new covers, blurbs and other changes. The first, Southern Man, is scheduled for publication in October 2019.<br />
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Here's a look at the new covers. They are basically ready, though may require some tweaking.<br />
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LEGACY OF FORTITUDE </div>
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Wesley's Women and Neo-Confederate will become Single Title books. </div>
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And the Life and Love in Dixie Romantic Suspense titles will get rather drastically changed covers, <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKxNcUpUxEUVEFldW4SJEjYAdxQkGtriA4HJkK9Lbu06Fhwks_8w4U8IEBgbC6f6-Oy4yJ9lCuEa0kvRN0L9qkQkcgUYDZqMm-zGbKsFe2gIBdgK0po18TlydLvOdqHm0dW9_wRHkkhY4/s1600/LLD+covers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="339" data-original-width="458" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKxNcUpUxEUVEFldW4SJEjYAdxQkGtriA4HJkK9Lbu06Fhwks_8w4U8IEBgbC6f6-Oy4yJ9lCuEa0kvRN0L9qkQkcgUYDZqMm-zGbKsFe2gIBdgK0po18TlydLvOdqHm0dW9_wRHkkhY4/s400/LLD+covers.jpg" width="400" /> </a></div>
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All of this is in preparation for learning promotion and marketing so I can sell more books. So far, with no promotion at all, I've made enough in royalties to buy a Happy Meal.</div>
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Wish me luck, folks!</div>
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I'm also completely redesigning my website and hope to go live with it in the next week. You can see the header above, in blog-size. Veddy Southern coastal, don't you think? </div>
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<br />Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-32706289484421813592019-06-20T18:24:00.003-07:002019-06-20T18:26:50.984-07:00Completed video trailer for Wesley's WomenUploaded to YouTube minutes ago. <br />
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The book is on schedule for release later in the summer. <br />
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<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/aWZSfAy4swo" width="460"></iframe>
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Check back often for updates on publishing new titles, book promotions and give-aways, newsletter info and more. </div>
Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-63439837264383527762019-05-27T01:14:00.002-07:002019-06-20T18:21:37.865-07:00Getting back in the Video Editing SwingThis is a mockup of a video trailer for my WIP, <i>Wesley's Women</i>. It's a mockup because I'm still looking for images for the final cut. I'll use many that are in the mockup, though. <br />
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Also I will use other music. The music on the mockup are free cuts from Jewel Beat. They are about 15 seconds long and I just string them together on the video edit screen's timeline. <br />
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My editing softeware is old and not supported by the manufacturer anymore. Nevertheless, it is quite capable, with number of fancy transitions -- checkerboards, blinds, page peels and such. I don't particularly enjoy seeing those in videos, so I don't use them in mine. I prefer straight cuts or dissolves.<br />
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The video below is quite rough. There are missing fades and such I intended to go back and remedy, but the program crashed and I'm probably going to have to reinstall it and deal with some other problems. involving third party codecs, about which I know nothing. I don't even know what a codec is. Many Internet searches lie ahead for me. <br />
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But it IS a rough so ... it's rough. You can still get an idea about what the finished trailer will be like -- and hopefully, what my novel is about.<br />
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<i>Wesley's Women</i> is about 1/3 to 1/2 finished. The video depicts events from the first half of the book. So, there's still quite a bit of writing to do.<br />
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I have already posted an image of the cover on the blog -- scroll back to see it. Once this video is completed, I think I will go back and make video trailers for <i>Storm Surge</i> and<i> Little Sister. </i>Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-9479723275156073682019-05-12T17:26:00.001-07:002019-05-12T18:11:43.404-07:00A New DirectionIn the ten years since if first uploaded <i>Southern Man </i>to Amazon.com, I have sold enough books, of all my titles, to buy a Happy Meal. Well, it's not quite that dismal, but it's pretty bad. The problem is not my writing -- far more badly written fiction gets published and sells ... the problem is that I cannot stand to do marketing and promotion. And it just HAS to be done.<br />
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As P.T. Barnum said....<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Without promotion, something terrible happens. <br />Nothing."</span></center>
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So I am I'm learning how to promote my titles. I have made a Facebook author page. I have completely redesigned my author website, and it is ready to upload when I find a new webhost. I am learning about "reader magnets" and newsletters. I am going to republish some of my older books, and re-cover and re-blurb all of them.<br />
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There are other aspects of promotion and marketing I will have to learn, but this is a start. We will see how it goes.<br />
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Here are two of the re-designed covers, for my romantic suspense titles.
All I did was add people to the cover, but the folks in my writers
groups think this change makes them look more like romances. <br />
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Meanwhile, I'm working on Book Four of the Legacy of Fortitude series... It is turning out to be a real heart-tugger.<br />
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And waiting out there in the future, the Walravens.... </div>
<br />Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-19659321693120702122018-11-09T17:03:00.002-08:002019-06-12T13:30:07.672-07:00A Historical Trilogy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've never considered writing historical fiction. There was just too much to research. But I'm warming to my Walraven Trilogy. <br />
<br />
I've written three scenes for the early part of Oliver's Journal. I have to Google with almost every sentence I write, but it's coming along..... Oliver, btw, is seventeen, the oldest child of the family.<br />
<br />
<center>
<span style="font-size: large;">Oliver's Journal<br />by Connie Chastain
<br />
<br />
Prologue</span></center>
<br />
March 20, 1709<br />
Reeds Ferry, North Carolina<br />
<br />
My name is Oliver Walraven. I have of recent days appointed myself the scribe of my family. This appointment was occasioned by a momentous change in our lives and, it is hoped, our fortunes.<br />
<br />
To-day is the eve of our departure from our familiar and comfortable home in Reeds Ferry. Our destination is New France -- not the settled and civilized portions of Quebec, but the wilds bordering the upper coast of the Gulf of Mexico, along the shores of Mobile Bay, where a parcel of land measuring above 1,000 acres, and virtually nothing else, awaits us.<br />
<br />
The distance between us and our new home is above 600 miles and will take many weeks to traverse. Our party comprises my father, Jesper Walraven, and my mother, Olivia, for whom I am named; my two younger brothers, Caleb and Daniel, and little sister Abigail. I must not leave out Caesar, our faithful hound, who is as much a part of the family as any of us human pups.<br />
<br />
Our transportation comprises two wagons canopied with canvas, and three others, smaller but with tall sides and covered with tarpaulins. Each wagon is pulled by two oxen, some of which we plan to retain in our new home, and some we hope to trade or sell. All of the wagons are tightly packed with our possessions, including my mother's prized porcelain dinnerware and pewter, her a spinning wheel and a few pieces of small furniture. Unfortunately, the wagons were not of sufficient size or quantity to contain everything, and we had to sell or give away many items.<br />
<br />
In the last wagon are wooden crates for what livestock we can bring -- two goats, two sheep, a small heifer, a recently farrowed sow and her still-nursing brood. Our single cow, Ruby, two mules and a Pa's fine mare, Nollie, will be tethered to the last wagon and walk the distance.<br />
<br />
When the idea first came to me to become the chronicler of my family's events and adventures, I had intended to keep my personal opinions and expressions out of the narrative, but I realize that is impossible. I am a part of this family and what happens will bear upon me as much as anyone else.<br />
<br />
We are all, myself included, of two minds regarding this fateful upheaval, this new beginning for our future. We are eager for untrodden land and a new life; but it is sobering to leave behind home, neighbors, and church. However, Pa is the son of a full-blooded Dutchman, and he claims to have inherited his independent spirit from grandfather. I don't know if such can be passed as a hereditary trait, or a learned one, because all of us children also prize independence.<br />
<br />
That is what gives this event such appeal. Here in Reeds Ferry, a few hours ride from Albemarle, life is becoming regulated. Like other towns and hamlets in the eastern colonies, it is gradually filling with people, and when that happens, everyone must practice to accommodate others. The population of La Mobile, which is reported to be twenty or so miles across the delta to the west of our land numbers a few hundred.. The Indians are far more numerous, but we have been assured by the governor's land agent that they stay in their places and do not come around La Mobile except on trade days.<br />
<br />
The land agent, a Mr. Bondurant, has written to us that the area is unspoiled and beautiful. Some 30 miles south of our acreage, the seashore comprises a beach of sand so brilliantly white it is said to cause temporary blindness. The vegetation ranges from densely shaded forests to grasslands suitable for grazing animals, marsh grasses, wild flowers and beautiful flowering trees and shrubs.<br />
<br />
Our parcel -- ours by a grant from His Excellency, Governor Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne de Bienville to my father -- is located adjacent to the delta where several rivers and tributaries stream into Mobile Bay. We are told that it is bordered on the South by a sizable inlet in the upper shore called Oklanoka Bay, on the West by the narrow Arnon River, a tributary of the Tensaw River, which it joins just before flowing into the bay, on the East by an old Indian trail with no name, and on the North by a slight ridge.<br />
<br />
I must admit that I am eager to see it and to take possession. Everyone in the family has worked hard to leave behind a rental home and hireling status, and become independent land owners ready to civilize a wilderness.<br />
<br />
I pray that the Deity will bless our efforts, watch over us during our journey and keep us safe. There are many perils facing overland travelers, even on roads that are becoming established, such as those we will travel -- Indians, bandits, wild animals, inclement weather, sickness. But our grandfather made his journey across a vast ocean to a new land, to independence, utterly alone and his blood flows in our veins.<br />
<br />
<center>
========<br />April 3, 1709<br />Deer Head Tavern and Trading Post</center>
<br />
It has been a fortnight since we left on our journey to a new life. I had hoped, indeed, had planned, to write in my journal much more frequently, but there has been no time. At the end of each day, the beasts traveling with us have to be fed and watered, a fire made, supper prepared, consumed, and cleaned up after, and the wagons secured for the night. <br />
<br />
After Mama, Abigail and Daniel climb into the lead wagon with Caesar and fall into exhausted sleep, Pa, Caleb and I begin our night watches. Our watches are about two and a half hours long. While one is on watch, the other two sleep. There might be time during this interlude to write, but there is little light. The camp fire and pine-knot torches are barely adequate for sight. And then there is the matter of my reluctance to set my precious ink on the uneven ground and risk losing it in a spill.<br />
<br />
But tonight, we are indoors. I am seated at a table with a fine lamp next to me. My journal with its beautifully bound pages lies open before me. When I will find these conditions again I do not know.<br />
<br />
The proprietor, a Mr. Comstock, and his Cherokee wife, gave us a hearty welcome. They rarely see travelers and confessed that they may have chosen an inadvantageous location for their enterprise.<br />
<br />
I nevertheless am grateful the tavern is here, and that we found it. The journey thus far has been grueling but successful, except for the loss of a piglet we found dead three days ago. We could not ascertain why it died and were worried for the rest of the brood, although they all seem healthy.<br />
<br />
Every few days, when we come across a stream, we stop just long enough to fill the water barrels and to fish and hunt. We have had fresh meat -- rabbit and squirrel -- and fish for about half the journey thus far. It appears that our other food stores -- a mountain of potatoes and sweet potatoes, sacks of dried beans and more that we brought with us -- will get us through the journey, as long as we continue to have good hunting and fishing.<br />
<br />
The only thing I really miss is bread -- biscuits, butter and honey, and cornbread with beans. We have everything necessary to make them, except time.<br />
<br />
We've had a few scares. A mountain lion investigated our encampment a week ago while we were eating supper. Pa and I grabbed our muskets while Daniel held onto Caesar and clamped a hand around his muzzle, but the beast apparently lost interest and wandered off. Caleb almost stepped on a timber rattlesnake several days ago. He froze. He later said he was willing himself to move and grab a hatchet from the wagon, but the rattler slithered away before he could act. He was shaken and it took a while for him to collect himself and tell us about the encounter.<br />
<br />
We are following a rough map drawn for us by a traveler, a self-described explorer, who stopped in Reeds Ferry on his way back to Virginia, after a journey through the wilderness and several years sojurn along the Mississippi River. He was the source of tales and information that held our rapt attention for days when we first decided to migrate.<br />
<br />
The roads we are traveling widely skirt the eastern edge of the Appalachian Mountains. This is the Piedmont, where we encounter many obstructions and rough terrain. It is hard on the wagons. We inspect the wheels, axles, suspension and such at every stop, but as long as we traverse this rough land, it is just a matter of time before one of them breaks down. Thus, although it will add days to our journey, Pa has decided to eschew the map and angle southeastward, toward the Atlantic coast, where he hopes we will find smoother terrain.<br />
<br />
The roads through this wilderness follow Indian trails, which themselves follow animal trails that have been millennia in the making. They lead to hunting grounds, grazing places, streams and watering holes. I do not know what sort of roads we will find on the coastal plain.<br />
<br />
We have encountered very few savages, although I suspect they are often hidden just out of sight and are watching us. We packed a small supply of objects for trade, should we have need of them but thus far, have not had a face-to-face encounter. Those we have seen in the distance did not attempt to molest us. They inspected our wagons and muskets from their position several yards away. Presumably, finding us no threat, they did not attempt to hinder out travel. Pa hopes that we will encounter a village or group of Indians farther South who can advise us when to turn back to the west, toward the Gulf of Mexico.<br />
<br />
Pa prays each night at the campfire, holding his well-worn Holy Bible in his hands even though it is too dark to read scripture. We hear their comforting message, anyway, as Pa has many passages committed to memory. I am certain his entreaties to the Lord God of Hosts for protection is the reason we have suffered no calamities.<br />
<br />
<center>
========<br />
May 15, 1709<br />Somewhere in British Territory</center>
<br />
Some days ago, we altered direction from the southeast to the southwest. We remain in the mid-region of the coastal plain, which is hilly and covered with thick vegetation. The Indian trails we are following are sometimes barely wide enough for our wagons to traverse, small though they be. <br />
<br />
A few times, however, we have come across open land with few or no trees, which seem to be the result of great fires. Some apparently occurred long ago, others more recently, judging by the stages of returning life, the thickness of grassy areas, shrubs and scrub, and saplings. We pause at these places and let the livestock graze for a while.<br />
<br />
It is wondrous to see the tenacity of life that the Creator bestowed upon the earth.<br />
<br />
We are all fatigued beyond expression, and that has slowed our progress, a circumstance that troubles us. But Papa says we must continue slow and steady, and not try to hurry and wear ourselves out, for there will be prodigious amounts of work to do from the moment we arrive -- land to clear, fences and shelter to build for the stock and a domicile for ourselves, a garden to plant, even though it will be mid-summer when we arrive, and rain catchers for drinking water, until a proper cistern can be constructed. It is possible we can dig a well this purpose, but both Papa and I suspect brackish water intrusion if the well is located too close to the shore; but it can't be so far away that fetching water will be laborious and time consuming.<br />
<br />
As soon as these initial endeavors permit, we will construct a raft for sculling to LaMobile for trading, and for fishing in the nearby rivers.<br />
<br />
So many nights on the journey, Papa and I have talked of these things, of the life that awaits us.<br />
<br />
The mention of rivers reminds me to note that this land of everlasting forests is also the land where rivers abound. We have been most fortunate in locating shallows that we can fjord, as the land hereabouts is uninhabited and ferries are unneeded.<br />
<br />
Mama is looking forward to finding out what wild things grow on the Gulf Coast useful for food or medicine. She was an enthusiastic and near expert forager back home, and has even done a smattering on the journey, flavoring rabbit stew with pungent and tasty wild onions. She also harvested a small amount of gensing for her medicine box.<br />
<br />
I'm glad she found it, in case it is needed, though I hope it won't be. Abigail has us all a touch worried. She's tired, as we all are, but peaked, too, almost like she's fevered, though her skin feels normal to the touch. She's been listless for several days. We have insisted that she ride in the wagon, although she says the ride is too bumpy, and she wants to walk with the rest of us. Daily, we bring her to the attention of Our Heavenly Father. Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-11808395103472748072018-09-21T00:26:00.003-07:002019-06-12T13:39:32.014-07:00Tentative prologue......for the middle book in a historical trilogy I'm writing....<br />
<center>
<br />========<br /><br /> After the Stars Fell<br /><br />Prologue</center>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Valhalla Farm</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Near Mobile, Alabama</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
November 13, 1833</div>
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At the back of the farmhouse, in a room he pretentiously called the library, Morgan Walraven waited for the notes in his journal to dry. He wasn't going to write any more tonight, so he gently swished his quill pen in a small bowl of water and laid it aside to dry.<br />
<br />
Several feet away, stretched out on a braided rug near the fireplace, a yellow feist named Jupiter -- Morgan's faithful friend since his teenage years -- was deep in sleep.<br />
<br />
It was so still and quiet, he almost jumped when the clock on the mantle chimed the first of twelve strikes, marking a cold November midnight, like so many others. Nevertheless, tonight there was a ripple of anticipation in the air.<br />
<br />
It was always that way on the day -- or night -- that babies came.<br />
<br />
None of the babies that had come to Valhalla in the past were his -- they were siblings or nieces or nephews -- but that little surge of anticipation accompanied them all.<br />
<br />
This time, though, it was his baby and the ripple was supercharged.<br />
<br />
He grew still, straining to hear any sound coming from upstairs. Tedious silence settled over him. He slid his chair back from the desk -- plain but sturdy items, built by his grandfather -- took the base of the lamp in hand and stepped to the settee next to the fireplace, where low flames crackled softly.<br />
<br />
His current book sat on a nearby table. <i>Robinson Crusoe</i> by Daniel Defoe. He had read it before, once as a boy, and once as a young adult. He put the lamp on the table, sat down and got comfortable, and reached for the book.<br />
<br />
Tales of the sea and faraway places appealed to him. It seemed that he had inherited the sometimes bewildering conflict that had confronted other Walraven men -- a devotion to the land and to what grew and lived there, but also a fascination with the sea, an allure that drew them as the moon draws the tides, whether they could indulge it or not.<br />
<br />
It didn't help that he lived no more than a stone's throw from the upper edge of the brackish estuary of Mobile Bay, which emptied into the Gulf of Mexico, which itself opened onto the Atlantic Ocean ... and the entire world. In daylight, from the house, he had a distant but clear view of a strip of sawgrass marsh and sparkling blue water beyond.<br />
<br />
But his world had already been decided. His destiny was the land, the forests, the fertile fields of Valhalla Farm.<br />
<br />
He had not read half a page before the text blurred and disappeared and his breathing grew deep and regular -- until something, some noise awakened him. He was surprised to see that an hour had passed. His grogginess left him in an instant when he remembered why he was not in bed and he sat up, listening intently for the sound of Opalee, the midwife, calling to him.<br />
<br />
Instead, he heard urgent knocking at the door to the back veranda. Jupiter raised his head and his ears pricked as the soft but frantic voice of Isaac, the farm's foreman, quavered, "Mast' Morgan! Please, come quick! The end of the world comin'!<br />
<br />
Morgan strode to the door and opened it to see the terrified faces of Isaac and young Wiley as they motioned him outside.<br />
<br />
"The sky falling!" Wiley shrieked, clutching the porch rail and pointing upward. "The stars, they comin' down like rain!"<br />
<br />
"It's the tribilation!" Isaac said.<br />
<br />
"Y'all quiet down," Morgan said sotto voce. "You'll wake everybody."<br />
<br />
He stifled a smile at the silly thought of leaving his family in the arms of Morpheus through the Second Coming. Glancing to the side, he saw Jupiter lay his head back down and fall into instant slumber. How bad could it be if Jupe was sleeping through it?<br />
<br />
But as he stepped through the doorway, levity deserted him. The frosty air that wrapped around him didn't register because his attention was caught by something else -- the eerie, almost other-worldly glow that illuminated the countryside, giving him a brief chill unrelated to the temperature.<br />
<br />
He walked across the veranda, steadied himself against the bannister rail, and leaned forward to look up beyond the edge of the roof. Evergreen live oaks blocked out the sky but through gaps in the foliage, he could see pinpricks of light. Moving.<br />
<br />
"See Mast'?" Wiley had lowered his voice but his tone was as urgent as before.<br />
<br />
"Come with me," Morgan murmured. "Let's go out front. We can see better there."<br />
<br />
He led the two frightened servants inside, calling softly, "Wiley, shut the door." They hurried down the hallway to the front door, which Morgan swung wide. The trio scurried down the steps to the yard.<br />
<br />
The trees here grew along the sides of the lawn, leaving the sky open above it. What Morgan saw when he looked up took his breath away.<br />
<br />
Meteors, hundreds of them -- no, thousands of them -- lighting up the countryside far more brightly than a full moon, and falling to earth just as Wiley had said, constantly, like rain. But not like rain, either, since few actually reach the earth. And they were completely silent.<br />
<br />
Morgan stared upward, transfixed by sheer awe and a fragment of delight -- both tempered with a sizeable measure of the same fear that rattled Isaac and Wiley.<br />
<br />
"Mast', please, you gotta do something!" Wiley pleaded. "Maybe you pray and the Lawd, he hear you and stop this!"<br />
<br />
"Y'all think, now. It's not the tribulation -- no earthquakes, the moon hasn't turned to blood, none of the other signs are happening. Of course I'll pray, but it will stop on its own, anyway. The Leonid meteors occur this time every year."<br />
<br />
"Nawsuh!" Isaac said adamantly. "I ain't never seen nothing like this."<br />
<br />
"Yes, it isn't usually this grand -- not usually this many of them. Well ... never this many of them, so something uncommon is going on. But not the end of the world. Regardless of how many we see, there's no need to worry. They burn up before they reach earth. That's why they're so bright. They're on fire."<br />
<br />
"Oh, Lawd!" Wiley wailed. "They ain't stars! They fire! Please, Mast' Morgan, please pray for the Lawd to save us!"<br />
<br />
"All right, but calm down. How is everybody in the reserve?"<br />
<br />
"Skeered," Wiley said.<br />
<br />
"And Milly," Isaac added, "she in ... she in the travail. She skeered the child will die." Distress threaded Isaac's tone; Milly was his wife.<br />
<br />
"I forgot about y'all's baby coming." Morgan's forehead buckled with mild chagrin. "I've had another baby on my mind tonight. Here, let's kneel and pray."<br />
<br />
He dropped to one knee, his hands on the shoulders of the trembling servants, who knelt with him.<br />
<br />
"Heavenly Father, please protect us from this spectacular display of the power and beauty of nature thou hast created. Remove from us the spirit of fear, and keep us in thy holy protection, that we may serve thee all our days. We especially pray thy blessings on the little bairns who are on their way to us, and for their mothers and fathers. In the name of thy son Jesus, amen."<br />
<br />
"Amen," echoed the two servants, who were calmer now but still unwilling to look upward.<br />
<br />
The prayer had calmed Morgan, too. He stood and said, "You go on back and tell everyone its not the end of the world, and tomorrow will arrive like always. Tell them I told you this happens every year -- it's just never been this intense -- and tell them we prayed and the Lord will watch over us all, especially Milly and her little one."<br />
<br />
"Yessuh," Isaac said dubiously. He and Wiley loped across the lawn and around the corner of the house, disappearing in the shadows.<br />
<br />
Morgan resumed his riveting contemplation of the heavens. At that moment he heard the faint sound of a baby's cry coming through the open door. The wondrous phenomenon unfolding above him was instantly forgotten as he streaked up the steps and inside the foyer, and fairly flew up the staircase.<br />
<br />
The baby's lusty cries grew louder.<br />
<br />
Morgan paused at the door to the bedroom he and Julia shared, met by an object that was surely unmovable.<br />
<br />
"You can see them in a little while," Opalee said. "Not right now."<br />
<br />
"Is she all right? Is the baby all right?" He tried to look past her but could see only his sister-in-law, Eliza, smoothing the bed covers.<br />
<br />
"They fine." Opalee side-stepped to block his view. "We'll get 'em both fixed up for you to see but it'll take a few minutes. You wait."<br />
<br />
"Livvy, since you're here, who's with Milly?"<br />
<br />
"Betsy taking care of Milly."<br />
<br />
"Betsy? She's just a kid."<br />
<br />
"She know what she doing. Now you g'wan outta here."<br />
<br />
Too keyed up to sit, he ignored the deacon's bench in the upstairs hallway and paced the floor, wondering how long Opalee's <i>little while</i> would last, until he heard her say, "You can come now, Mast' Morgan."<br />
<br />
Entering the room lit with a golden glow from a single lamp, he met Eliza headed for the door, carrying a basket full of clothing and rags. He caught a glimpse of bloodstains, which jolted him, but it dissipated with Eliza's happy visage beaming at him. "Congratulations, Morgan. You have a son!"<br />
<br />
"A son...."<br />
<br />
Julia was reclining on a mound of pillows, looking wan but serene, staring down at the face of the baby in her arms.<br />
<br />
At Morgan's approach, she looked up and her peaked face was transformed by a radiant smile. "Oh, look at him, Morgan! Isn't he beautiful?"<br />
<br />
Morgan bent to gently stroke the baby's cheek with a forefinger. Dressed in a white batiste gown with delicate tatting around the sleeves, bald, red-faced and scowling, the baby nevertheless was indeed beautiful.<br />
<br />
"Yes, he is. And so are you." He kissed her forehead, straightened to look at his son and basked in this moment of joy. "Born as the stars are falling. His life will be charmed."<br />
<br />
Julia gave him a quizzical look.<br />
<br />
He stroked her hair back from her forehead and said, "I'll tell you later. You get some sleep now."<br />
<br />
She nodded before resting her head against the pillows and closing her eyes. Opalee tiptoed to the bed to take the baby from his mother's arms and lay him in his cradle.<br />
<br />
As Morgan walked back toward the doorway, he heard other doors opening and urgent whispers in the hallway. Judging by the occasional word that reached him, the spectacular display in the heavens had become so bright, it had awakened his sister and brothers. He stepped into the hall and said, "Y'all go outside and look. You don't get the full effect looking through the windows."<br />
<br />
They stared at him, Rachel in mild alarm, Carson and Noah disheveled and bleary-eyed with sleep.<br />
<br />
"The full effect of what?" said Rachel. "What's that strange light outside?"<br />
<br />
"Falling stars, thousands of them." He shook his head and held up a hand. "No, it's not the tribulation, just a meteors raining down out of the sky. A magnificent sight and maybe a charm, a good omen --" he gave a little laugh "-- on the night of my son's birth!"<br />
<br />
"Son? The little one has come?" Rachel cried. "Oh, Morgan, how wonderful!" She wheeled around and reached toward him. He returned her quick embrace.<br />
<br />
"Y'all go on outside," he repeated. "The babe's asleep. You can see him when he wakes. But we don't know if we will ever again see such a spectacular display in the heavens. Not until the end of time."<br />
<br />
The mention of thousands of meteors had knocked the drowsiness off his brothers' faces. They trooped downstairs with Rachel to see this wonder in the sky.<br />
<br />
Nobody saw Opalee lurking in the bedroom doorway, or heard her low-voiced, "Charm? Or curse?"<br />
<br />
She clasped her hands before her breast and raised her face, eyes closed, and silently beseeched the Deity to protect the little one from whatever evil the stars might portend. "All his days, amen and amen," she ended in whisper.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright © 2018 by Connie Chastain. All rights reserved. </span></i></div>
Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-15811067133870769672014-09-02T17:06:00.002-07:002014-09-02T17:49:02.524-07:00Another Wonderful Review of Southern ManMany thanks to J. Steven Svoboda of the National Coalition for Men for this fantastic review of <i>Southern Man.</i> I can't tell you how pleased I am with his comments and insights. I'm not sure when and where the review will be posted, whether the organization's main website or Transitions, which is a print publication for NCFM members only. However, when a link appears, will post it here and on social media.<br />
<br />
Meantime, read the review here:<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
________ </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';"><b>Southern Man:
Legacy of Fortitude, A Southern Heroes Novel. </b>By Connie Chastain. Pensacola,
Florida: Great Southern Publishing, 2009. 334 pages. No price given on book
but amazon lists for $12.95. </span><a href="http://www.conniechastain.com/"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">www.conniechastain.com</span></a><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">, <a href="http://www.brasstownbooks.com/">www.brasstownbooks.com</a>. <b>Review by J.
Steven Svoboda.</b></span></i></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">Author,
self-proclaimed devotee of the South and preacher’s daughter Connie Chastain has
written a novel that greatly broadened my horizons and for which I owe her a
substantial debt. Her novel tells the compelling saga of hardworking family man
Troy Stevenson and his adoring, supportive wife Patty.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">Chastain throws
in passing references to misandry, trusting the reader who may be unaware of the
meaning of that word to look it up, wisely avoiding a political digression to
explain it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">The author
describes a world relatively unfamiliar to me. I have only spent a few weeks in
the South in my life though I have been very favorably impressed by the
welcoming people there and the down-to-earth, unpretentious feeling I have
gotten when I have visited. While my mother was a housewife for a while until
she took a job when I was about twelve years old, I frankly do not know many
women who have chosen to build their lives around nurturing a family and around
supporting their wage-earner husbands rather than around their own
careers.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">The book grew on
me tremendously as I continued to read the extremely engaging story. Chastain
has a knack for convincingly, non-judgmentally immersing us in the lives of a
very diverse set of characters. Complications ensue when a young woman, Brooke
Emerson, becomes obsessed with Troy and, determined to take him to her bed,
begins stalking him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">Brooke’s plot to
ensnare Troy goes so far as to encompass a wrongful sexual harassment accusation
when he rejects her advances. Due to some very provident actions, Troy is
eventually able to clear his name. <i>Southern Man </i>brought me face to face
with some philosophies quite different from those familiar to me—characters who
use Christian scripture as a guide in their daily lives, in some cases going so
far as not to engage in premarital sex.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">It is refreshing
to read an author who unapologetically, unostentatiously yet convincingly paints
a world in which men are accepted as different from women (as indeed they are),
and the differences are celebrated. Troy and his wife Patty are full equals yet
have different roles. And they love each other fiercely and with a commitment
and devotion that many married people might well envy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">The family
reunion that occurs on pages 226-228 is downright moving and sweet. What a
wonderful book. And a true page-turner as well. I couldn’t put it down. Don’t
miss it!</span></div>
</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
________ </div>
<br />
J. Steven Svoboda is the senior board member of and Public Relations Director for the National Coalition For Men, the world’s oldest and largest non-profit devoted to educating the world about the harm done to men and boys by gender discrimination. Steven is NCFM’s book reviewer and his articles are available through the group's bi-monthly newsletter Transitions.<br />
<br />
Read <a href="http://ncfm.org/advisor-board/j-steven-svoboda-esq/">his entire bio here.</a>Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-73682186374746264782014-08-08T23:28:00.002-07:002014-08-08T23:36:16.284-07:00Great Review of Southern Man<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwWHGeV0ulAzYOxURvf4UMNMQ8kKoIBo1QGdq5IL-NHxMCnDTb5gcnfsXummBWC6DKwBo05_tsmXDmHsurpbfH_3sBKRCnkmr2BcIy5dHwoO9ePW8tRyYF_ItQkVCJxcONLfl8ogMtt20/s1600/Surrender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwWHGeV0ulAzYOxURvf4UMNMQ8kKoIBo1QGdq5IL-NHxMCnDTb5gcnfsXummBWC6DKwBo05_tsmXDmHsurpbfH_3sBKRCnkmr2BcIy5dHwoO9ePW8tRyYF_ItQkVCJxcONLfl8ogMtt20/s1600/Surrender.jpg" /></a></div>
I'm absolutely blown away by Hope Denney's review of <i>Southern Man</i>, published at her review site, <a href="http://orchardrestwritersloft.wordpress.com/">Orchard Rest Writer's Loft</a>. <br />
<br />
Ms. Denney is a Southern writer as well as a great reviewer of Southern fiction, having published her first novel, <i>Surrender at Orchard Rest</i>, in February. Her affinity, both writing and reviewing, is for 19th century Southern Gothic novels, so I am especially pleased that she chose to review my late 20th Century historical.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHGsdSv_6BKyMChc7FlNVptYzuV4aQdJROy5_08m-U-Tbx-cE7QE0OvKyHNRdxKSRRFEhznbEx5eQB-ZqBjtk_KiGLKo2AE60ICEWxLtdoPhY3ehrkdR2kyUMndrK2CRDglD22q_yfWHA/s1600/NewOfficeFront_3.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHGsdSv_6BKyMChc7FlNVptYzuV4aQdJROy5_08m-U-Tbx-cE7QE0OvKyHNRdxKSRRFEhznbEx5eQB-ZqBjtk_KiGLKo2AE60ICEWxLtdoPhY3ehrkdR2kyUMndrK2CRDglD22q_yfWHA/s1600/NewOfficeFront_3.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a>The entire review made my day, but here are a few snippets that I especially appreciate. <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Ms. Chastain excels at penning a smoothly flowing, polished prose that is years ahead of first novel status.</i><br />
<br />
<i> Despite this novel having a large cast of characters once you add in the cast of Troy’s workplace, I got to know each character well. They were powerfully and beautifully sketched. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Ms. Chastain sketches a Christian but passionate marriage with all the prowess of an armchair psychologist</i><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU3fJp0YQ0kKjzbtjL6rkCWKuGOvreqtbzEtvBSyfSufg4Onnhyc7-rBFdY3Bsz2ijYpftANKFdUCuLHMEqF59cxpDGayCya_gilk6Tf5ZGMoAirh3LiYDU0xVCD0N2mf2_EI3khq4jls/s1600/WalravenManor_2in.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU3fJp0YQ0kKjzbtjL6rkCWKuGOvreqtbzEtvBSyfSufg4Onnhyc7-rBFdY3Bsz2ijYpftANKFdUCuLHMEqF59cxpDGayCya_gilk6Tf5ZGMoAirh3LiYDU0xVCD0N2mf2_EI3khq4jls/s1600/WalravenManor_2in.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Working Cover</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i>Troy Stevenson is a well-crafted Southern hero that I believe encompasses the contemporary Southern man ... much better than any that I have read of late. </i></blockquote>
In addition to giving my novel a fantastic review, Ms. Denney has inspired me to take the closest WIP I have to Southern Gothic -- <i>Walraven Manor</i>
-- off the back burner, and get cracking on it again. To help
reacquaint me with the genre, I have her debut novel in my Kindle for PC
and some other titles she has reviewed. <br />
<br />
You can read her reviews here: <a href="http://orchardrestwritersloft.wordpress.com/">Orchard Rest Writer's Loft</a>. Her novel is available at Amazon.com, here: <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Surrender-Orchard-Rest-Hope-Denney-ebook/dp/B00IAFXF90/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1407563432&sr=1-1&keywords=surrender+at+orchard+rest">Surrender at Orchard Rest.</a></i><br />
<br />
Many thanks, Ms. Denney.<i><br /></i>Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-88032059187994774792014-05-28T23:48:00.001-07:002014-05-28T23:48:20.094-07:00Online Romance Festival<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGPYDmaYz_E11gKD0qt1eXN6YuBsLG_6LD99k0D8BGoWyfzKm6mfnXDhqpU1zLkx4p8i3_bwDOUaTGG0fI8FL5eKqcUcr6SzNjsk6V-8rMU-wC6VUDfTAFMocqVYgj3IqeuuvnJNqvP4M/s1600/48317.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGPYDmaYz_E11gKD0qt1eXN6YuBsLG_6LD99k0D8BGoWyfzKm6mfnXDhqpU1zLkx4p8i3_bwDOUaTGG0fI8FL5eKqcUcr6SzNjsk6V-8rMU-wC6VUDfTAFMocqVYgj3IqeuuvnJNqvP4M/s1600/48317.jpg" height="100" width="400" /></a></div>
Looks like fun!Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-37815661891597813502014-03-23T07:35:00.001-07:002014-03-23T07:44:45.739-07:00It Was Twenty Years Ago Today<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaH1TJPvSDqhQ7cRNPm_s2FaLk-wBNoLUYnrqU5jazHqeRgbSAdEYNKT4VWvZDF7gRI8wcXCrDP6aqrXt30Jv9VK6HYQNmRO1yNSzC0PktK1hISDqZcQ4SFZ0Xgeaa9g47JXNWURJduI0/s1600/Invite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaH1TJPvSDqhQ7cRNPm_s2FaLk-wBNoLUYnrqU5jazHqeRgbSAdEYNKT4VWvZDF7gRI8wcXCrDP6aqrXt30Jv9VK6HYQNmRO1yNSzC0PktK1hISDqZcQ4SFZ0Xgeaa9g47JXNWURJduI0/s1600/Invite.jpg" /></a></div>
I had a very enjoyable time yesterday at Joe Scarborough's 20-Year Reunion for his campaign volunteers. Although after the campaign, several of us maintained contact the years he was in Congress -- especially we who worked in his district office -- there were folks there I had not seen since his first campaign, when he was a 30-year-old unknown with no political experience taking on Earl Hutto, a 16-year incumbent. <br />
<br />
Had to look at name tags to recognize a few people...heck, ain't none of us getting any younger. Had some laughs. Chatted with Joe's mom, shared memories of her husband, George, who passed away several years ago. There were others no longer with us that brought home the passage of time. <br />
<br />
I got a big hug, three pecks on the cheeks and some nice words of welcome and remembrance from the former member of Congress and talk-TV host. I gave him an autographed copy of Southern Man. Noted the slight graying at Joe's temples. Very distinguished looking, though in many ways, he still looks so much like that thirty-year-old who was inspired -- goaded? -- to run for Congress by the election of Bill Clinton, and the leftward lurch of the country afterward. <br />
<br />
I left the Congressional office in 1998; worked for Joe at The Florida Sun for a while after that, and helped prepare the Congressional office for the incoming member, Jeff Miller, after Joe resigned. But basically, my interest in national politics ended with the Clinton impeachment hearings. If memory serves, I didn't vote in any presidential elections after that, until my vote for Mitt Romney in 2012, which wasn't so much a vote for the Republican candidate as it was a vote against the Democrat incumbent. My main reason for voting for Romney was my belief that he would be immensely better for the economy than Barack Obama. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGkeK1AhbNLMMJFmkXssoJZCwztLxQxXhGkvUWjHSrBwP6xEhlhy5kwNVUCZh0xgv1dkV6IRYB77w_DVemNkVTQGB24W3WjqAiM53rNV4dQACbYXdDh-OWfuZRVPwZpkrbUWr_47ssYKA/s1600/MeAndJoe.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGkeK1AhbNLMMJFmkXssoJZCwztLxQxXhGkvUWjHSrBwP6xEhlhy5kwNVUCZh0xgv1dkV6IRYB77w_DVemNkVTQGB24W3WjqAiM53rNV4dQACbYXdDh-OWfuZRVPwZpkrbUWr_47ssYKA/s1600/MeAndJoe.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Joe, Back in the Day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Joe reminisced about the accomplishments of the 104th Gingrich-led Republicans in DC, and how the GOP has changed since then, giving rise to the Tea Party. But he says the country is strong and it will survive eight years of Barack Obama. I'm not so sure. It would be interesting to know his perspective, and why he thinks that. From where I sit, the USA is not only weak and growing weaker all the time -- it's culture, politics, religion and nearly every other aspect of its existence are practically unrecognizable. <br />
<br />
Still, it was nice to see folks, and remember when we were younger, had boundless energy and genuine hope for the country. <br />
<br />
And now, back to defending Dixie and writing books.Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-21909593631933210372014-01-30T13:55:00.005-08:002018-11-30T22:17:47.266-08:00Video Trailer for Love in Smallfoot AlleyIt's getting there. I've added some slow, Ken Burns-style pans and
zooms. The models for Leslie, the PI, and the older brother have
changed. They were chosen long ago, but the PI was depicted with papers
but no computer, and as he relies heavily on the computer, I wanted one
in the trailer.<br /><br />
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/K0BWpbfzTLk" width="420"></iframe>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiER8BKWWOAtZLlIcKz8uR8SEisYw96ZAm41-FG1CqPQMoTRuXvxwnD7BcjapAP_2GwlW2K4BjfJBKnIJeusk46P8t4vrFsVDiUxRN9VzOZUG2PNOWOolgPlxnjSSODLwzKFhM_KPBqheQ/s1600/Originals.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiER8BKWWOAtZLlIcKz8uR8SEisYw96ZAm41-FG1CqPQMoTRuXvxwnD7BcjapAP_2GwlW2K4BjfJBKnIJeusk46P8t4vrFsVDiUxRN9VzOZUG2PNOWOolgPlxnjSSODLwzKFhM_KPBqheQ/s1600/Originals.jpg" /></a> <br />
<br />
Thanks to Tin Eye, I found him on a microstock site in a number of poses, including the one in this mockup. I found the older brother on my hard drive -- I had purchased the pic some time ago, never used it, and forgot about it. And Leslie -- this is the original Leslie model I chose when I started writing the story.
<br />
<br />
I originally found her on iStockphoto and downloaded a comp with the
idea of using her in a video trailer if I ever finished the book (which
was in doubt when I started writing, as the story was basically a lark,
and I wasn't real serious about writing it).<br />
<br />
When I
recently went to iStockphoto to see how much the price had increased
(they've priced themselves out of my price range, mostly), the photo ID
on my original comp download turned up a "not found". So, I did a Tin
Eye reverse image search, which not only found her at iStock, but also
at several other microstock sites -- including 123RF, where I have a
bunch of credits. She was not only there -- she was there in several
poses -- and affordable!<br />
<br />
When I started the story, the male lead was named Julian Walraven (a
surname in my genealogy) but I wanted to save that for another story, so
I renamed him Chris Dupree (he has some Cajun forebears, and is named
after a South Louisiana Cajun I used to work with). His appearance was
inspired by the actor Ryan Carnes, as he appeared in SyFy's <i>The Phantom. </i>I haven't watched TV much since The X Files went off the air, but I saw a
promo for The Phantom, and decided to watch it. During the mini-series,
hubs filled me in on the Phantom backstory and said SyFy had really
buggered it up (apparently fans of The Phantom were really pissed at the
liberties taken in this production), but I enjoyed it and I thought
Carnes was a cutie -- and a not-bad actor. I had never heard of him, so I
Googled him and discovered he was a teen soap star; he's straight but
portrays homosexuals in some of his movies. How unfortunate that he
didn't choose to promote virtue and decency in his corner of the popular
culture...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0vqmApBUH0DRqB_g9PrDXKj5x2mcGMI8-oUyVrjz7R4LMTemUgw6Fv6YZs4Bz0PXJTV_Mz7AehXedkTIBKWzXGECytus43Q5dkhg5XDKmqQOiH4cpxcf0HCNPBm2SDU-1hDwwFz1qvEo/s1600/carnes.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0vqmApBUH0DRqB_g9PrDXKj5x2mcGMI8-oUyVrjz7R4LMTemUgw6Fv6YZs4Bz0PXJTV_Mz7AehXedkTIBKWzXGECytus43Q5dkhg5XDKmqQOiH4cpxcf0HCNPBm2SDU-1hDwwFz1qvEo/s1600/carnes.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The inspiration for Chris Dupree's appearance</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In any case, as cute as he is, I of course would not be able to use his likeness
in a video trailer, so I was delighted to find this model. With a little
help from my photo-editor, he makes a very credible Chris.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDhfdBIhpHA0_fvJFpoUpY6DwkJlgd5wg24UxJtKMokylkf-6OKOJRh2Ou5FCsEfmoNv0yGCRbOWocJxamuzK0vR7sU8BYJ1PvOTakMCS64Bk4jbZP7Vuk7dbhoke6cWYD7sv5FK6x9RQ/s1600/ChrisAndKit.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDhfdBIhpHA0_fvJFpoUpY6DwkJlgd5wg24UxJtKMokylkf-6OKOJRh2Ou5FCsEfmoNv0yGCRbOWocJxamuzK0vR7sU8BYJ1PvOTakMCS64Bk4jbZP7Vuk7dbhoke6cWYD7sv5FK6x9RQ/s1600/ChrisAndKit.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Left, stock photo model; right, Ryan Carnes in <i>The Phantom.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Here are some of the video mockup frames, and images used to composite them:<br />
<h3>
The storm clouds --</h3>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuOHd1Q8AA-2W84DhvSuVOv4Mj4DcJGL4BCivdaTo1W-Bj0lYMIyIYdp5lvHlZ9cMwnt2nFmGwc4vxz8ovQ7u6-6LiEnT0fiS-DCPEkdSDev1mkbf-Z9rNrz9TW2KHyDJPqVljIFRNm-M/s1600/light1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From Dreamstime Free</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<h3>
The cryptids --</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIYt11FBqvTLJFWObL6QlL0SPaSnP6x4oMpuNdy-DlV51__cgk_4TEQ_xfuwXV-eWuZRRysw32KmLfq_YV5UDwv12GV-hAP1gqhaeRe5gpMaKyRmO5O-SN-3BJHi1UKpphFtiP8zyErAo/s1600/RedEyesFrame.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIYt11FBqvTLJFWObL6QlL0SPaSnP6x4oMpuNdy-DlV51__cgk_4TEQ_xfuwXV-eWuZRRysw32KmLfq_YV5UDwv12GV-hAP1gqhaeRe5gpMaKyRmO5O-SN-3BJHi1UKpphFtiP8zyErAo/s1600/RedEyesFrame.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Images from Morguefile, Pixabay and/or the public domain</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<h3>
The crash -- </h3>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAySDu4PFKjloAZjrIo3fUcfqDW7nWAEqnioif0SnR_7GiUHTWGOQAcJ3f9LrmrLpKQ-ZggzRgdZt1tcDWNPoxUcDWdbt_rR51ejr3fb12ryO_Ip6tPq6FA4iEvHQlncdaUeqiETzFm_o/s1600/ditch.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAySDu4PFKjloAZjrIo3fUcfqDW7nWAEqnioif0SnR_7GiUHTWGOQAcJ3f9LrmrLpKQ-ZggzRgdZt1tcDWNPoxUcDWdbt_rR51ejr3fb12ryO_Ip6tPq6FA4iEvHQlncdaUeqiETzFm_o/s1600/ditch.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Images from Morguefile, Pixabay and/or freebies</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<h3>
The Rescuer
</h3>
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg75whzM151-ZiUUmaPDRzi1lXRC0vWwlve6C1zfmonNGtZMGfiFPaWrjXdyb9Q1bAFJpg8MSmm_vM8PlYEht_c6VWbOqSn5JCoRejzOoO4MqUSGjWNGzLhK3brcCVqN7kZQ0Fq-M3BjEU/s1600/rescuer.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg75whzM151-ZiUUmaPDRzi1lXRC0vWwlve6C1zfmonNGtZMGfiFPaWrjXdyb9Q1bAFJpg8MSmm_vM8PlYEht_c6VWbOqSn5JCoRejzOoO4MqUSGjWNGzLhK3brcCVqN7kZQ0Fq-M3BjEU/s1600/rescuer.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijCQH4_P9R9x6bwwwCCXjB6NW-8Dq38ZkPAdcLGEcwVz2h80quzJsQkWx0X5MNWv-VqbZBBKVEU0AbVDPE6htCwqo1egcPheqX_FNw3pxjP9kIU5AgNHBz4GacxaS0kYkg0NfANjPd_QE/s1600/AACover_2in.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijCQH4_P9R9x6bwwwCCXjB6NW-8Dq38ZkPAdcLGEcwVz2h80quzJsQkWx0X5MNWv-VqbZBBKVEU0AbVDPE6htCwqo1egcPheqX_FNw3pxjP9kIU5AgNHBz4GacxaS0kYkg0NfANjPd_QE/s1600/AACover_2in.jpg" /></a></div>
These pics are all stock images except the duster and the truck. There are pics of men in dusters on the stock sites I use, but none are posed like I need them to be. If I can't find one by the time I'm ready to do the actual video, I'll contact the manufacturer of this duster and see if can use it (ditto the truck). I have emailed the company that makes the duster I used on the <a href="http://www.conniechastain.com/TL/CatCover3_5in.jpg">Catamount</a> cover mockup, but have not heard back from them. Hope I have better luck with this one. With some commercial interests, you just never know. (I contacted Rawlings to seek permission to use an image of one of their catcher's helmets on the cover of Alex Austin, and they not only permitted it, but sent me a beautiful, print-resolution image to use.)<br />
<br />
<h3>
Creating Chris</h3>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2YJelyoJPqyw04_RRaU2VfhRXbmaN795Mg8iwBg-DZFHyLcyvRLdDkPsY2MCFv8yWQAZSU3pZTgY6pqqguOhulDp-9SOCPK5o_btQCxAkpgwcVGc9SF7h7wQBK7AR-3lKdPBRQ5hMIhk/s1600/creatingChris1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2YJelyoJPqyw04_RRaU2VfhRXbmaN795Mg8iwBg-DZFHyLcyvRLdDkPsY2MCFv8yWQAZSU3pZTgY6pqqguOhulDp-9SOCPK5o_btQCxAkpgwcVGc9SF7h7wQBK7AR-3lKdPBRQ5hMIhk/s1600/creatingChris1.jpg" /></a></div>
I shortened and widened his face and mouth and added fullness to his hair above his ears. Also saturated his hair to be more yellow-blond rather than platinum blond, but it looks almost red, and needs to be desaturated a little. Chris is twenty-seven. (I've had critics tell me that he looks twelve....)<br />
<br />
Chris, as Leslie sees him:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
He entered the main room, opened up the armoire, which was filled with an impressive array of electronics, and trundled out a computer workstation. In silence, he pulled up a chair and sat down but as he powered up the computer he suggested, somewhat offhand, that she sit nearby. <br />
<br />
She lowered herself onto straightback chair he pulled up next to his and took the opportunity to study him. <br />
<br />
He was not overly tall, probably an inch or two under six feet, but he was rangy, his muscles strong and hard but graceful and elongated. His neck, adorned with a gold chain that disappeared beneath his shirt, rose from wide, square shoulders. <br />
<br />
His slender face was remarkably handsome. A bow-shaped upper lip was complemented by a barely prominent lower one, and he worked them slightly as he set about his task. Beneath thick, gullwing eyebrows, his gray-blue eyes took on a darker blue, depending on the lighting around him. A beautiful frame for his face, his his hair spiked outward from a symmetrical hairline with exquisite temporal points. <br />
<br />
<i>What happened to 'possible serial killer,' girl? </i><br />
<br />
It was all she could do to pull her eyes away from him and focus on the computer screen. </blockquote>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfA6QdC_udbyy4wvvaze-a5gDWSq8HNY0LjhfPX0j_nQGGbQ5FmkiyXMbmH6c6q1i2G8Pb00Tl_ss3d9JwTvrXIPPudpp4ohfaj7CaliOjR4JPf1yrl0JUBth35Izc30yqyq9PMIe7C08/s1600/creatingChris2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfA6QdC_udbyy4wvvaze-a5gDWSq8HNY0LjhfPX0j_nQGGbQ5FmkiyXMbmH6c6q1i2G8Pb00Tl_ss3d9JwTvrXIPPudpp4ohfaj7CaliOjR4JPf1yrl0JUBth35Izc30yqyq9PMIe7C08/s1600/creatingChris2.jpg" /></a></div>
<h3>
Leslie</h3>
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</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/K0BWpbfzTLk" width="560"></iframe>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
These are a few of several shos of thsi model at 123RF</div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiewnWvKwInz6FzXlDbtO3gHxBzfijuOwWlGwnT7N6bKB357XDsN4cV57IpSr59zDngmMmElrESepDo_W3ekjtBdGJJpJZBfljEcqnfCURuh1SzGD7RbNwnIZau8wE7wb5Tw2ypPSbcT-g/s1600/LeslieModel.jpg" /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Unfortunately, there are none of this woman in profile, so I had to use a similar looking model, but I think she'll do:</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4UMLHCzJevfSBNdJK-cGHPNdeMye6OLLWE2BihMEz_ZgUFFa7w10LXwHXyeWlETwseqBpbIhZiyKwwWfp3wNOQKEQrZaWqGWKPY9JPrCr_RzFKJ4B2gKsNVdKCpdLhp0xmze00cEVowg/s1600/Other+Leslie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4UMLHCzJevfSBNdJK-cGHPNdeMye6OLLWE2BihMEz_ZgUFFa7w10LXwHXyeWlETwseqBpbIhZiyKwwWfp3wNOQKEQrZaWqGWKPY9JPrCr_RzFKJ4B2gKsNVdKCpdLhp0xmze00cEVowg/s1600/Other+Leslie.jpg" /></a></div>
A frame in the video --</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQBAtoerqf_1ZWYGlzZa0lnDTGvZCezBlCKX1GvETlGdkn315KujUdYAxairSoyEIs1TqpunbHGc1TIEp1xXBIr-0x1Jh9EyQELP6mhw6aKNWkF_t2k8gMRe-JcXBEbKF7f9L2PiZDCGY/s1600/TheLook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQBAtoerqf_1ZWYGlzZa0lnDTGvZCezBlCKX1GvETlGdkn315KujUdYAxairSoyEIs1TqpunbHGc1TIEp1xXBIr-0x1Jh9EyQELP6mhw6aKNWkF_t2k8gMRe-JcXBEbKF7f9L2PiZDCGY/s1600/TheLook.jpg" /></a></div>
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Let's wrap up with a couple of promos from The Phantom miniseries. My favorite part -- "I'm not wearing that." Dorkiest part (did Carnes feel like an idiot saying this line?) -- "They call me the Phantom."</div>
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<center>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/6K-QIjfaiiU" width="420"></iframe></center>
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<center>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/U2CkoaHRQPQ" width="420"></iframe></center>
Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-32348471051690163162013-06-15T06:33:00.002-07:002014-03-23T22:59:28.488-07:00Verona Vignettes -- An Online Snippet Collection <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeM1aAESMaPZW1UWFMtAUqiZCYBf9vNYUcGiIEmQ1k0fm1jz1bzZbXw80vLudvg7rPD1qNb3ydaFRlqwFf-ejGqzgUCtdQNRCc2Px3DuA0qbEiBi4tvayosyfn5gQWmeP88J26II0TA9c/s1600/VeronaCover_4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeM1aAESMaPZW1UWFMtAUqiZCYBf9vNYUcGiIEmQ1k0fm1jz1bzZbXw80vLudvg7rPD1qNb3ydaFRlqwFf-ejGqzgUCtdQNRCc2Px3DuA0qbEiBi4tvayosyfn5gQWmeP88J26II0TA9c/s320/VeronaCover_4.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
This is a collection of scenes and snippets from my Georgia Series that didn't make it into the novels for one reason or another. Some of them are actually new scenarios that are written specifically for this collection. I have no plans to make this collection into a book or e-book. I'm posting them online, mostly at Facebook, simply for my friends to enjoy.<br />
<br />
This is the first one I posted at Facebook. Despite its being a rough draft, I got some very nice comments on it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Child of God</span></div>
<br />
Clad in a white baptismal robe, twelve-year-old Shelby Kincaid stood at the top of the steps leading down into the water and listened to the soft singing of the choir and congregation coming through the arched opening of the baptistry.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>I am resolved no longer to linger,</i><br />
<i>Charmed by the world’s delight,</i><br />
<i>Things that are higher, things that are nobler,</i><br />
<i>These have allured my sight.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I am resolved to go to the Savior,</i><br />
<i>Leaving my sin and strife;</i><br />
<i>He is the true One, He is the just One,</i><br />
<i>He hath the words of life.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I am resolved to enter the kingdom</i><br />
<i>Leaving the paths of sin;</i><br />
<i>Friends may oppose me, foes may beset me,</i><br />
<i>Still will I enter in.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I am resolved, and who will go with me?</i><br />
<i>Come, friends, without delay,</i><br />
<i>Taught by the Bible, led by the Spirit,</i><br />
<i>We’ll walk the heav’nly way.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I will hasten to Him,</i><br />
<i>Hasten so glad and free;</i><br />
<i>Jesus, greatest, highest,</i><br />
<i>I will come to Thee.</i></blockquote>
When the singing ended, Shelby carefully took the steps down into the baptistry, holding onto a slanted rail along the back wall. He felt the warm water slowly envelop him. It was supposed to represent the grave -- death and burial -- subjects that were normally macabre, occasions that were usually the cause of sorrow and mourning. Today, though, the symbolism of the ritual he was about to undergo took the morbidity out of such terms. Baptism represented the death and burial not of a person, but of a life of sin, and resurrection to a new life in Christ.<br />
<br />
When he reached the bottom step, he put his hand in the outstretched hand of Pastor Jordan, who was standing in the water waiting for him. Together they walked to the middle of the baptistry and the pastor turned to stand perpendicular to Shelby, whose eyes were fastened solemnly on the pastor's face.<br />
<br />
"Shelby, you have been raised by Christian parents in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. Now, at twelve years of age -- the same age as Our Lord when He reasoned with the elders in the Temple -- you have reached the age of accountability. You have acknowledged the need of salvation from the consequences of sin in your earthly life, and the Lord has worked repentance in your heart. Shelby, do you believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God, that He came to earth as a human being, died for our sins on the cross of Calvary, and was raised so that we might have eternal life?"<br />
<br />
Shelby was still gazing intently and solemnly at the pastor, and concentrating on every word. "Yes, sir, I believe."<br />
<br />
"Then upon the spoken confession of the faith in your heart, I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit."<br />
<br />
The pastor put his left hand on Shelby's upper back, between his shoulders. In his other, he held a folded handkerchief, and he poised his hand several inches from Shelby's face. He said softly, "Do you remember what to do?"<br />
<br />
Shelby nodded. He took the pastor's forearm in both his hands and inhaled deeply. The pastor pressed the handkerchief against Shelby's nose and mouth and tilted him back into the water until he was completely submerged. Immediately, he lifted Shelby upright, and removed the handkerchief from Shelby's face.<br />
<br />
The new babe in Christ blinked rapidly and wiped the water dripping into his eyes. He looked up at the pastor again and smiled broadly, the solemnity giving way to gladness. The pastor smiled back and then bowed his head. Shelby and the congregation followed suit.<br />
<br />
"Our Father in Heaven," Pastor Jordan began, "we come to Thy throne now to thank Thee for the power of the gospel of Christ to save. We know there is rejoicing in Heaven over one sinner who repents, and we believe there is rejoicing in Heaven at this moment over this, Thy child, Shelby Kincaid, who has come to Thee today. Keep him always in Thy care, Father, and may his life be joyously spent in Thy service. In the name of Thy Son and Our Savior, Jesus...Amen."<br />
<br />
The singing began again as Shelby and Pastor Jordan made their way up the steps and into the changing rooms adjacent to the baptistry. Even back here, Shelby could faintly hear the music.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Trying to walk in the steps of the Savior,</i><br />
<i>Trying to follow our Savior and King;</i><br />
<i>Shaping our lives by His blessèd example,</i><br />
<i>Happy, how happy, the songs that we bring.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Pressing more closely to Him Who is leading,</i><br />
<i>When we are tempted to turn from the way;</i><br />
<i>Trusting the arm that is strong to defend us,</i><br />
<i>Happy, how happy, our praises each day.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Walking in footsteps of gentle forbearance,</i><br />
<i>Footsteps of faithfulness, mercy, and love,</i><br />
<i>Looking to Him for the grace freely promised,</i><br />
<i>Happy, how happy, our journey above.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Trying to walk in the steps of the Savior,</i><br />
<i>Upward, still upward, we follow our Guide;</i><br />
<i>When we shall see Him, the King in His beauty,</i><br />
<i>Happy, how happy, our place at His side.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>How beautiful to walk in the steps of the Savior,</i><br />
<i>Stepping in the light, stepping in the light,</i><br />
<i>How beautiful to walk in the steps of the Savior,</i><br />
<i>Led in paths of light.</i></blockquote>
He had chosen the hymns for his baptism, which was both a joyful and solemn occasion. The hymns he chose weren't usually used for baptisms. He had selected them partly because he had always liked them, even when he was so small the words had no meaning for him, and partly because they captured the power, the joy and the comfort that characterized his personal religious beliefs. Shelby had never been a gloom-and-doom believer.<br />
<br />
There was a knock on the door of the changing room, and he heard his father's voice. "Shelby?"<br />
<br />
"Be out in a second."<br />
<br />
He hurriedly peeled off the wet baptismal robe, dried off, dressed quickly and spent a few moments toweling his hair. He left the robe and towels hanging on wall pegs as he'd been instructed and then stepped to the door. Except for his wet hair, he looked exactly as he did when he went in to change no more than fifteen minutes before. In fact, he was quite changed, although all the ways he was changed would take years to gradually manifest themselves as both he and his faith matured.<br />
<br />
In a larger room that opened both to the sanctuary and to the outdoors, Kurt was waiting. He went to Shelby and gave him an emotional embrace. "You've made your mother and I very happy today, son."<br />
<br />
There were many other hugs, handshakes and backslaps when services were over and Kurt Kincaid and his son stepped back into the sanctuary. The family gradually made their way to the exit where they would go to their car and drive to a restaurant for a special meal with Shelby. Just before exiting, Shelby caught the eye of his two best friends across the auditorium and they both gave him a discreet thumbs-up. They would get together to talk about Shelby's experience later.<br />
<br />
========== <br />
<i>I Am Resolved – Palmer Hartsough – Copyright: Public Domain</i><br />
<i>Stepping in the Light – Eliza E. Hewitt – Copyright: Public Domain</i><br />
<br />Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-77000172100615528912013-05-12T12:09:00.004-07:002013-05-12T12:12:00.256-07:00Want to Read Sweet Southern Boys -- for Free?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-eH4Lxqf_ZkYzMkw6SfisAT66fPrlAjiFIu8w9VbX-GPyY5hwK4JxNR5DjtMfZCGxbLieNS85UsqJaNCZR4RVV7RAOkbtafT5JGEK0jEvKaWbJ26jTw0y0UBJ6CNzFU5HNntcuLHSbmw/s1600/FreeSSBEbook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-eH4Lxqf_ZkYzMkw6SfisAT66fPrlAjiFIu8w9VbX-GPyY5hwK4JxNR5DjtMfZCGxbLieNS85UsqJaNCZR4RVV7RAOkbtafT5JGEK0jEvKaWbJ26jTw0y0UBJ6CNzFU5HNntcuLHSbmw/s1600/FreeSSBEbook.jpg" /></a> </div>
For your code to download the e-book for free, in whatever format you wish, message me via Facebook messenger, or email me between now and Saturday, 5/18 at c_l_chastain@yahoo.com<br />
<br />
Sweet Southern Boys page at Smashwords:<br />
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/209754Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-7684253060126545212013-04-29T02:16:00.000-07:002013-05-03T10:10:45.985-07:00Well Pleased With His Appearance<i>Steamboat Gothic</i> opens with a description of the protagonist, Clyde Batchelor, four paragraphs long, but it is woven into the beginnings of the story so it isn't cumbersome, IMO. Oddly enough, despite the number of times I've read this novel, and despite my affinity for this character, I don't know what he looks like. At least, I don't know what his face looks like. It is never described.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGBjtXluAQ6K3ksOlgXx17nQ_Gjxsi1pOX0_Xd1rab9dVsoX-7C2Y28P0ScZ6Arnbv2H5KiHQ_TaxpYQ8eVrYfkK5673E-qB-UlBTQgU8MK3eV-Qw48I90IZ9tb4W7ZVozRnYw6uiXUps/s1600/Pleiades.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGBjtXluAQ6K3ksOlgXx17nQ_Gjxsi1pOX0_Xd1rab9dVsoX-7C2Y28P0ScZ6Arnbv2H5KiHQ_TaxpYQ8eVrYfkK5673E-qB-UlBTQgU8MK3eV-Qw48I90IZ9tb4W7ZVozRnYw6uiXUps/s1600/Pleiades.jpg" /></a>
Keyes pretty much describes everything else about him, though, and the reader -- at least, this one -- sees his face peripherally. It's like the Pleiades -- when you looked at the sky or stars beside them, they shine brightly and you can see them in your extremely near peripheral vision. But look right at them, they dim and fade to near nothing.
<br />
<br />
And so it is with Clyde Batchelor's face. I've attempted to find a stock photo model, or even a fashion model or actor, who looks like him, but so far, no luck. <br />
<br />
I've also attempted to find pictures of the type of clothing that's described in these paragraphs, but the only "congress boots" has come up on Google searches. If you know anything about post-bellum men's fashion, please weigh in. And if you can link to pictures, so much the better.<br />
<br />
The first four paragraphs of <i>Steamboat Gothic:</i><br />
<center>
__________________________ </center>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: center;">
PROLOGUE</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
1869</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
PURCHASE PRICE</div>
<br />
The day was warm for March, and the stranger, who had been walking for nearly half an hour along the river road, took a fine embroidered handkerchief from the tail pocket of his burgundy-colored frock coat and mopped his face with it. Then he flicked the handkerchief lightly over his tight-fitting mouse-gray trousers and his shining congress boots. He had no mind to reach his destination dripping with sweat or powdered with dust.<br />
<br />
He had been reasonably well pleased with his appearance when he had surveyed this, before starting out, in the blurred mirror of his room at the dirty little hostelry with the pretentious name of Grand Hotel Pierre Chanet. To be sure, he had fiddled for some moments with the long bow of his black silk tie before it suited him; but there had been no doubt whatever that the plain gold studs gave the finishing touch of refinement to the starched shirt bosom which the large -- and undeniably flawed -- diamonds, worn for so long, had failed to impart. Lucy had never made any comment on those flawed diamonds, or on the still larger -- and still more imperfect -- one which had formerly adorned the third finger of his left hand. But he had caught her glancing at them several times, and he had noticed the change in her expression when he substituted the gold studs and heavy gold ring whose seal duplicated the one on the charm which dangled from the chain spanning the figured waistcoat.<br />
<br />
Well, it had taken him time to learn how to dress like a gentleman, but by slow degrees he had done it; and he could be thankful -- and was -- that he possessed the natural attributes of a fine person to set of his good clothes. If his stomach had not still been as flat as a sixteen-year-old boy's, he could have ill afforded to call attention to it by that gold chain. The mouse-gray trousers could be worn to good advantage only if they fitted closely over narrow hips and the burgundy broadcloth would have lost its effect if it had not been cut to fit wide shoulders. In addition to the advantages which his figure gave him, his fresh color belied the belief that a man must live an active outdoor life in order to have an appearance of ruddy health, and that no amount of care would have given his reddish-blond hair its burnished look if it had not been abundant and glossy to start with.<br />
<br />
He had run a small ivory comb along its low side parting and the wavy locks above his temples before the final adjustmen of a shining gray beaver "stovepipe" and, the last thing before leaving his hotel room, had passed his hand over his cheek and chin below his sideburns. It was less than an hour since he had shaved with a fine Swedish razor, but still he wanted to be sure ... And though the surface was smooth enough to suit him, he had frowned a little at the sight of his hand, as he saw this reflected in the mirror before which he was still standing. It was blunt-fingered, and the back of it was haired with down, the same color as the locks he had just combed with such care. But it was softer and whiter than the hand of vigorous man ought to be. It detracted from the fresh ruddiness of his face. He must do something about his hands. Perhaps riding about a plantation would help, getting out into the sun, handling the reins ... Well, the thing to do now was to reach his destination as soon as possible and find out what the prospects were.
<br />
<br />
<center>
<span font-size:="" style="font-family: Georgia,<span style=;" x-small=""><i>(Excerpt reproduced in accordance with the fair-use requirements of <br />
</i></span><span font-size:="" style="font-family: Georgia,<span style=;" x-small=""><i><span font-size:="" style="font-family: Georgia,<span style=;" x-small=""><i>the </i></span>U.S. Copyright office. <a href="http://www.copyright.gov/fls/fl102.html)">http://www.copyright.gov/fls/fl102.html)</a></i></span></center>
</blockquote>
__________________________<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>Image credits: The Pleiades, image by NASA and in the public domain. </i></span></span>
Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-24918618965948860002013-04-27T03:48:00.001-07:002013-04-28T08:58:52.845-07:00Clyde Batchelor -- The Definitive Romance Hero<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieLAJW_94N5LWhtS2rNziNKWYH1prMQWGUGFWSYQEEyyQ8O2AT2qt-Ev7RqibBjEv6A7APVzVL7wlvoVSCSwhtrGkHPKgqJUct6E1mgURd9NvnO-a7cQ8PV2KlfTM5LHYMEHDK8d4TFaE/s1600/steamboatgothic_3in.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieLAJW_94N5LWhtS2rNziNKWYH1prMQWGUGFWSYQEEyyQ8O2AT2qt-Ev7RqibBjEv6A7APVzVL7wlvoVSCSwhtrGkHPKgqJUct6E1mgURd9NvnO-a7cQ8PV2KlfTM5LHYMEHDK8d4TFaE/s400/steamboatgothic_3in.jpg" width="234" /></a>At least, <i><b>I</b></i> think so....<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieLAJW_94N5LWhtS2rNziNKWYH1prMQWGUGFWSYQEEyyQ8O2AT2qt-Ev7RqibBjEv6A7APVzVL7wlvoVSCSwhtrGkHPKgqJUct6E1mgURd9NvnO-a7cQ8PV2KlfTM5LHYMEHDK8d4TFaE/s1600/steamboatgothic_3in.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Some time in the early to mid 1970s, I borrowed a book from the library in Monroe, Louisiana entitled <i>Steamboat Gothic</i>, by Frances Parkinson Keyes. My parents had moved to Louisiana from Montgomery, Alabama, and I followed them when school let out for summer. I borrowed several books, fiction and nonfiction, to learn about their new state. <br />
<br />
I read several other of Keyes' Louisiana novels -- <i>Dinner at Antoine's, Crescent Carnival, The River Road, </i>perhaps one or two others, and I enjoyed them all, despite Keyes' propensities for including everything in her stories but the kitchen sink. In fact, that was part of the reason why I read them -- their vivid and arresting portrayal of French (i.e., south) Louisiana culture in which the stories of her fascinating characters were embedded -- a land in the South but like no other part of Dixie, the exotic locale of Creoles and Cajuns and their servants -- which makes them very, very un-PC today.<br />
<br />
But <i>Steamboat Gothic</i> proved to be the most memorable. I bought a paperback version with this cover, and read it at least a couple more times in the next few years, but at some point in the mid to late 1980s, I lost my copy. I
never forgot the story, though, and through the years, longed to read
it again.<br />
<br />
A few days ago, I received a used copy purchased from Amazon.com. It's been most interesting, reading the story again from a writer's viewpoint. I have known since my earliest attempts to write that my style was highly influenced by two authors -- Rex Stout and Frances Parkinson Keyes. Sounds rather odd when you realize that Stout wrote spare, fast-moving and short detective novels starring the famous Nero Wolfe and his equally famous "official gnat," Archie Goodwin -- novels set mostly in New York City that took place over a period of days or weeks -- while Keyes wrote ponderous romantic and cultural dramas that sometimes covered years, decades, generations or, in the case of <i>Steamboat Gothic</i>, the better part of a century. <br />
<br />
Over an indeterminate time period in the near-distant future, I'm going to blog about <i>Steamboat Gothic</i> and its author from a variety of approaches<i><b> (SPOILER ALERT!),</b></i> not the least of which is what makes Clyde Batchelor the most magnetic, admirable and unforgettable romance hero I've ever read.<br />
<br />
<br />
Stay tuned!<br />
<br />
<center>
<img src="http://www.sanfranciscoplantation.org/images/clip_image001.jpg" /><br />
The great house at San Francisco Plantation in Garyville, Louisiana,
<br />
the inspiration for "Cindy Lou Plantation" in <i>Steamboat Gothic.</i></center>
Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-84766830647688874962013-03-27T14:46:00.003-07:002013-04-05T12:54:17.186-07:00More on Alex Austin's story...<span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>Tagline:</b></i> <i><span style="font-family: Palatino Linotype;"><span style="font-family: Palatino Linotype;">Can a sweet, shy woman
change a minor league catcher's notions about predatory females? </span></span></i></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: Palatino Linotype;"><span style="font-family: Palatino Linotype;"> Cover Blurb: </span></span></i></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Minor
league catcher Alex Austin has avoided romantic relationships since
high school, disillusioned by the predatory and shallow nature of the
women he encountered in college. Growing up, he had anticipated
adulthood centered on a loving marriage relationship like his parents shared, but since
graduation, he's is relieved that the hectic pace of
minor league baseball provides him a convenient excuse for avoiding
women.<br />
<br />
Kate Simmons is the opposite of the shallow, predatory
creature Alex assumes most women to be. When they meet at a Silver
Mullets charity event, Alex is curious and interested. But sweet, shy
Kate has her own reason for steering clear of men, much deeper than the
painful high school experience she blames for her shyness.<br />
<br />
The
genuine friendship that springs up between them both masks and enables an intense romantic attraction. Will caring and love break
through, or will their personal barriers deny them a future together?</blockquote>
Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-65084850853253675872013-03-03T22:13:00.001-08:002013-03-30T16:06:44.339-07:00I Actually Wrote Something Last NightWhen you're not a born writer, it's sometimes tough to make yourself write. Remember, I belong to the P.J. O'Rourke School of Writing (so that makes it even tougher):<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Writing is agony. I hate it. Let's put it this way. When I'm writing, I spend a lot of time thinking, 'My, doesn't the top of the fridge look dirty'. It takes for ever.... I like thinking about writing. I like having written. But actually sitting down and doing it…"</i><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>P. J. O'Rourke</i><br />
<i>to Christopher Bray</i><br />
<i>The Telegraph, 2005</i></div>
</blockquote>
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I have several projects started, but I've decided to concentrate on fnishing something, not starting... I've decided to work on Little Sister and Dumb Jock -- The Alex Austin Story. </div>
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Nevertheless, I got a scene written for Little Sister. It's rough-draft stuff right now, but hopefully, it's polish-able and can actually be used in the novel:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>
At eight-thirty, Harry Talton skidded into the computer lab in the Morrisette Building and skimmed the room. Between eight and nine in the morning, the cubicles began to fill up and remained occupied until about four p.m. Only about half were unoccupied.and breathed a sigh of relief.<br />
<br />
"Hey, Harry!" A fellow who'd entered a step or two behind him called a greeting. Harry turned and gave him an absent nod. The kid looked familiar, but his name didn't come readily to mind.<br />
<br />
"Hey, what's up? How was break?"<br />
<br />
The kid grinned. "'Bout killed me to have to come back. Say, how're you making out with that little blond Baptist?"<br />
<br />
Harry shook his head in pretended perplexity.<br />
<br />
"You know," the kid said. "Town girl. Ann something."<br />
<br />
Harry allowed recognition to dawn on his face. "Oh, you mean Ainsley." He shrugged. "She's just somebody I tutored briefly."<br />
<br />
Another grin, this one knowing. "Yeah, right. Tutored her in the arts of love? Or tutored yourself in the art of getting put off?"<br />
<br />
Harry didn't dignify that with a reply, and strode to a cubicle in the last row. He liked his privacy online, even if his surfing was usually benign. He logged on and following established routine, typed the URL to his favorite anti-racism usenet group and skimmed the entries.<br />
<br />
The kid's description of his nonexistent relationship with Ainsley Kincaid was closer to reality than he wanted to admit. It was extremely frustrating. She was not his type -- a straightlaced Southern Baptist churchgoer, daughter of missionaries in Central America, political and cultural conservative, a perfect fit for this cultural backwater. <br />
<br />
Harry was from Ohio. He had enrolled in Verona State specifically for the purpose of learning first hand about rightwingers, especially the Southern contingent, in order to circumvent their ideology. His first few months in south Georgia had been an eye-opener in more ways that one. Political conservatism, he'd learned, was directly related to the pervasiveness of religion, which brought home to him what he'd heard from other progressives, but had not witnessed until now -- that socialism's primary barrier was religion, with the traditional family a close second. <br />
<br />
But the other eye-opener -- actually a jaw-dropping revelation -- was that these people were <i>happy.</i> Oh, there were a few dissident and misfits, but not enough to change the tenor of the general population. These Southerners found fulfillment for their lives in beliefs and activities Harry sneered at, and eschewed those things Harry considered essential.<br />
<br />
It was also a problem that he hadn't expected to be so attracted to a little Southern Baptist girl. It had taken great effort for all of last semester to make a dent in her distinterest -- partly because he had to appear as if he weren't making such an effort at all. Most of their dates had been casual -- going for sodas at McDonalds or the student center after a tutoring session. Just before break, she'd finally accepted a couple of actual dates for pizza and a movie.<br />
<br />
Since returning to school three weeks earlier, they had dated once, and he was playing not-really-interested. In truth, he was growing mildly obsessed with her, and it was never far from his mind how he might break through her defenses.<br />
<br />
His thoughts of Ainsley were interrupted by a usenet discussion of -- Unbelievable! A cross burning over the weekend? In this day and age? He speed-read the thread. In Pensacola, not four hours to the south west from where he sat. Unbelievable.<br />
<br />
That was the only item of real interest until he reached a discussion about a notice from the Southern Social Justice Group in Biloxi, Mississippi. They would begin taking applications in March for a very limited number of summer internships as well as for several volunteers to help upgrade their files and filing system. <br />
<br />
Harry was lost in thought for a minute. He'd passed through the Mississippi Coast a couple of times, on trips to New Orleans. The beach and ocean, the old houses shaded with gnarled oak trees that overlooked the Gulf, the casinos -- the mental visuals filled him with a surprising wanderlust. <br />
<br />
He set an internal calendar for March, but he would start immediately to see about securing a couple of those intenrships for himself and Ainsley. It wouldn't do to drop the suggestion on her all at once. He'd have to build up to it gradually. But the idea of spending summer on the Mississippi seacoast with her -- the possibilities -- was too great to resist.<br />
<br />
He started to go find her. She would be in Hobie's class in the Crenshaw Complex and would get out about the time it would take him to get there. But he thought better of it immediately. Couldn't look like he purposely tracked her down to tell her about the possibility of a summer in Mississippi together. It would be better to casually run into her in the student center at lunch, and mention it offhand.</blockquote>
<br />Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-14988653680998872362013-03-03T22:11:00.002-08:002013-04-29T02:49:34.390-07:00More Southern Heroes Novels In the Works<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I've decided to work on this novel (or novella) along with Little Sister rather than Walraven Manor -- because it's almost baseball season!<i><br /><br /> Dumb Jock -- The Alex Austin Story</i> is a novella that I had to put on the back burner over the winter. The tagline<i> -- </i><i><i> Can a sweet, shy woman change a minor league catcher's notions about predatory females?</i> </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Brooks D Simpson might be interested in this, since he has shown an inordinate amount of interest in my novels -- critiquing them on his blog, though he hasn't read them. And last summer, for some reason, he actually downloaded the first working cover for <i>Dumb Jock, </i>though it was pretty awful -- hastily made of comp images, just so I'd have "inspiration" for writing. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Though I know nothing about baseball to speak of, I've learned a lot online, and it has been very helpful to follow the Twitter feeds of several major and minor league players. Some of them are totally focused on baseball and rarely tweet about anything else. But others post about nearly anything and their personalities really come through. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">One of my favorite Tweeters is Bryan Peterson ("peteypipes")<b>,</b> an outfielder for the Miami Marlins<b>, </b>who had to have been a class clown in high school. A few choice tweets from Bryan -- "Gonna try and fit in as many rightch'onder's as I can in some sentences tomorrow" ... "Have i told you how much I love breakfast burritos" ... "Nobody really goes to red lobster do they?" But he can be inspirational, too: "We fear what we do see, when we should be hoping for what we don't see. <s>#</s>romans" <b>...</b> "Why worry, when your foundation is the Creator." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Thanks, Bryan, for helping to make baseball players real for me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />Alex Austin, like all my heroes, is a Southern
man, and a Christian. As of now, he is from Tennessee (like Troy
Stevenson) but that may change as the writing progresses.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><cenber><i>Little Sister</i> is the third book in the Georgia Series. The tagline -- <i><b>A college student interning at a social watchdog organization discovers information that could jeopardize herself and her family.</b></i> This is Ainsley Kincaid's story, and was actually the first book in the Georgia Series. Actually, when I started this story in 2006 or so, there was no series. It became one because<i> Little Sister </i>inspired a prequel <i>(Sweet Southern Boys)</i> which inspired its own prequel <i>(Southern Man). </i></cenber></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><cenber>I don't know whether the final cover will look like this one or an earlier one (there have been several different designs). One of the opening scenes follows the cover -- </cenber></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-V3qGF_IgPG5RBemM4IvyYgpq5iekGe5oHnuxAYj1-lpIUZUg6HooPTmJvYjw5_4YxbgcUdiLcUWAHo8dtjqqR-7-4jvS_1KBHKtFOStHeq-qjWBuIyhKj7a-QPE9DSdSRYa4U1HZ1RA/s1600/NewCover2wallpaper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-V3qGF_IgPG5RBemM4IvyYgpq5iekGe5oHnuxAYj1-lpIUZUg6HooPTmJvYjw5_4YxbgcUdiLcUWAHo8dtjqqR-7-4jvS_1KBHKtFOStHeq-qjWBuIyhKj7a-QPE9DSdSRYa4U1HZ1RA/s1600/NewCover2wallpaper.jpg" /> </a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">On the last Monday in January, three weeks into the new semester, Ainsley Kincaid reached her limit in history class. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Professor Douglas Hobie, his thin face set with drooping eyes and framed with fly-away hair, put Ainsley in mind of the character actor Vincent Schiavelli. He delivered his lectures in a nasal monotone that lulled some students to near stupor. But it wasn't his delivery that bothered Ainsley; it was the content.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">She took it as long as she could. Her patience ran out when he said, "Of course, the entire South is still racist, but there are pockets of racism that are immeasurably worse than the status quo, and this university is surrounded by one of them. Verona, Georgia."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Fury flashed through Ainsley head to toe and she slammed her history book closed with a loud <i>pow</i> that echoed through the classroom like a small explosion. Her classmates turned startled expressions toward her as Hobie's lecture ceased mid-word and he stared at her, open-mouthed. Total silence descended upon the class. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Her face hard and her hands trembling, Ainsley scooped up her books and purse. Without speaking a syllable, without so much as a glance toward anyone, she flounced out of the room. </span></blockquote>
<i><b><span style="font-family: Palatino Linotype;">____________________________________</span></b></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Palatino Linotype;">Images: iStockphoto, Dreamstime.com</span><b><span style="font-family: Palatino Linotype;"><br /></span></b></i>
Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-9027745603369192652013-03-03T21:50:00.000-08:002013-03-03T21:50:45.752-08:00Aw, How Sweet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmPB4fptx3wwJPzvEOtz5QqI6G1uoRTryh2q-qkxeZBC4jC3_szFW33WTstJgOie-R5VdRZUjtH2KQHjzR0_8jSgWqAgEKYNA7sAEtxWze_1BMtiFFiEUMS8poteWyW7x1ER0LzcO9yfPR/s1600/TroyInLove.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmPB4fptx3wwJPzvEOtz5QqI6G1uoRTryh2q-qkxeZBC4jC3_szFW33WTstJgOie-R5VdRZUjtH2KQHjzR0_8jSgWqAgEKYNA7sAEtxWze_1BMtiFFiEUMS8poteWyW7x1ER0LzcO9yfPR/s1600/TroyInLove.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-65432810537489677612013-03-03T21:47:00.002-08:002013-03-03T21:48:06.469-08:00The Wisdom of Patty Stevenson<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghLDaZN8igtUZYWqr6vXHyPNEbqHWtuqf8lbx_U5x6SqgTo1jkYqYVZa_5XKZX9jxcjdnnUGmxz2bZ4Pr6ZrUZTz2I1Nqw_ot33_6zLB_dY8fjEcKj2wL0GsY5Kh96_KQ5ooQgGNZXqJUR/s1600/PattyQuote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghLDaZN8igtUZYWqr6vXHyPNEbqHWtuqf8lbx_U5x6SqgTo1jkYqYVZa_5XKZX9jxcjdnnUGmxz2bZ4Pr6ZrUZTz2I1Nqw_ot33_6zLB_dY8fjEcKj2wL0GsY5Kh96_KQ5ooQgGNZXqJUR/s1600/PattyQuote.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-41475428164899331872013-03-03T21:34:00.003-08:002013-03-03T21:34:42.270-08:00Sweet Southern Boys Video TrailerFinally finished and up at YouTube:<br />
<br />
<center>
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="290" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/K48fJuoKyFU" width="450"></iframe>
</center>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
____________________</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Prologue</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Verona, Georgia <br />
January 14, 1994</div>
<br />
The vehicle streaked westward on a dirt road through sparse woodlands, kicking up dust in its wake. Behind the wheel, Randy Stevenson, soon to turn eighteen, monitored the road ahead. Tall and broad shouldered, he was a gracefully muscled athlete. Shaggy black hair framed his face – a sensitive, enigmatic face that captivated girls at Verona High School. <br />
<br />
Only people who knew him well – and the two boys with him knew him as well as anyone – would know how agitated he was behind his stony expression. His nostrils flared to accommodate his rapid, shallow respiration. His hands were not trembling only because they held the steering wheel in a tight grip.<br />
<br />
A crescent moon hung in the sky ahead, glowing through a hazy cloud cover. It was eight o'clock. The temperature hovered around forty degrees and the three boys wore lightweight jackets over their jeans and shirts. <br />
<br />
Randy's eyes darted to the rear view mirror. In the distance, a dusk-to-dawn light cast a circular glow in the darkness and shone down on the riverside cabin the boys had departed moments before. The cabin and the half dozen vehicles parked around it disappeared as trees closed in behind the car. <br />
<br />
The two-year-old white Sable belonged to Randy's mother and the music playing softly on the radio was one of her oldies stations. On the drive to the cabin earlier, the trio had been in such high spirits, yakking and laughing nonstop, they hadn't noticed the radio was on. <br />
<br />
Now it annoyed Randy. He turned it off and broke the ensuing silence. "John Mark?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah," answered a subdued voice from the shadowy back seat. "I'm okay." <br />
<br />
"Shelby." Randy glanced to his right. The dashboard lights dimly outlined his friend slumped against the door, his head tilted back, wedged between the door and the headrest, and his blonde moptop falling away from his face. His eyes were fixed on the headliner.<br />
<br />
"I'll be arright," Shelby muttered. <br />
<br />
The road emerged from the woods into a scrubby flatland and Randy eased up on the gas pedal. An intersection with a county blacktop road lay just ahead. <br />
<br />
Randy braked at the stop sign and made a left turn toward town. They'd traveled no more than a few yards when Shelby lurched upright and growled, "Pull over!" <br />
<br />
The Sable slowed and bounced as its tires hit the weedy, rutted shoulder. Shelby opened the door and hung his upper body out, retching, before the vehicle came to a complete stop.<br />
<br />
In the dome light's glow, Randy caught John Mark's gaze in the rear view mirror. <br />
<br />
John Mark tilted his head toward their friend. "We need to take him to the emergency room." <br />
<br />
"No," Shelby said. He leaned out the door a few moments after his heaving stopped, spit a couple of times, and raised up, breathing heavily between parted lips. He wiped his eyes, glanced at Randy and half turned to look behind him. "No. I'm fine." <br />
<br />
John Mark returned Shelby's glare. "Don't be stupid. If that really was LSD she gave you--" <br />
<br />
"I didn't swallow any," Shelby insisted. "I rinsed my mouth out four, five times before we left. Besides, I ain't sure LSD makes you puke. Bein' kissed by Tiffany Bratcher is what made me puke." <br />
<br />
Randy gave him a quick appraisal. "You done?" <br />
<br />
"Yeah." Shelby shut the door and murmured, "Let's go." <br />
<br />
Conversation was sparse on the twenty-minute drive to Verona. It was still early on a Friday night and the cinemas, restaurants and convenience stores were doing a brisk business. <br />
<br />
"Guess it's time to call it a night," Randy said as the Sable rolled down busy Chilton Avenue, a brightly lighted commercial thoroughfare. <br />
<br />
"No, I don't want to go home," Shelby said. He looked much better, sitting upright, his hands clasped around an upraised knee, but his blue-gray eyes were restless, troubled. "I feel like us sticking together a while." <br />
<br />
"Me, too," said John Mark. <br />
<br />
Randy nodded. "All right. Where to?" <br />
<br />
A momentary silence fell as they considered their options. <br />
<br />
"My house," John Mark said. "Let's stay there tonight." <br />
<br />
"I thought your folks went to Tennessee," Shelby said. <br />
<br />
"They did. But they won't care. I'll call their motel and let them know and y'all can call your folks and tell them where you'll be." <br />
<br />
"Works for me," Shelby said. <br />
<br />
The light turned green and Randy accelerated, his eyes flitting to Shelby. "I don't like it. What if you have some kinda delayed reaction to that drug?" <br />
<br />
"If it even was a drug," Shelby replied. "You know what liars Wes and Tiffany are. I don't feel anything from it. Y'all just keep an eye on me and if I start acting weird, take me to the emergency room."<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
A lone observer, standing still and silent in the shadows of the cabin's rustic porch, watched the Sable streak away from the riverside party, its red taillights, clouded by the following dust, finally disappearing into the woods. <br />
<br />
The faint smell of beer and cigarette smoke had followed him outside. Muffled conversation and laughter reached him through the cabin walls, overlying the thumping rhythm and lower frequencies of recorded music. <br />
<br />
After a few moments, he ambled down the steps into the yard, his longish russet hair glinting in the glow of the security light. He followed a path down a slope to a boardwalk edging the inky Oostachula River. <br />
<br />
He found a wooden bench, sat down, and pulled a flip-top cigarette box and butane lighter from his jacket pocket. The only cigarette in the box--thin, filterless and slightly crumpled--had not been made in any tobacco factory. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. <br />
<br />
His three rivals had said nothing to him when they departed; just filed past him with stony faces. But he knew from long experience that they were shaken--by now, he was an expert at shaking them up--and a corner of his mouth slanted upward. <br />
<br />
Eight years had passed since his first run-in with these three crackers, fisticuffs that had got him detention at school and a talking-to at home. But his father's lecture had ended with a priceless observation: <br />
<br />
"...there are other ways to fight, son." <br />
<br />
Indeed, there were.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
____________________</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2158063864270093629.post-44662269768426108412013-03-03T21:32:00.002-08:002013-03-03T21:32:36.658-08:00Writing RelayI'm attempting to write two books simultaneously. Rather, I'm
doing the preliminary work on both so that if I get stuck working on one -- writer's block, muses on strike, whatever -- I can set it aside and work on the other.<br />
<br />
<i>Little Sister</i> is the third book in the Georgia Series (following <i>Southern
Man</i> and <i>Sweet Southern Boys</i>). <i>Walraven Manor </i>is a stand-alone story
(at least, thus far).<br />
<br />
Here are the covers:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix4XhMb6-0j3LglbZmc18VvGPb25_JkZcjAuIuxjJn6rDec6RTF9ewK_FGXJTB7ek7-lMLTU0ZJWugIMrQrkiVOaZsRlNAqg6sZwR3ZQjRke4wfYq79JgesGb_LxuWZYIQZrkjEtidQhP6/s1600/TwoCovers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix4XhMb6-0j3LglbZmc18VvGPb25_JkZcjAuIuxjJn6rDec6RTF9ewK_FGXJTB7ek7-lMLTU0ZJWugIMrQrkiVOaZsRlNAqg6sZwR3ZQjRke4wfYq79JgesGb_LxuWZYIQZrkjEtidQhP6/s1600/TwoCovers.jpg" /></a></div>
And here are the taglines: <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><i><u>Little Sister </u>-- A college student interning at a social watchdog organization
discovers information that could jeopardize her life and her family.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i><u>Walraven Manor</u> -- A Midwestern woman who believes she is a reincarnated
slave relocates to Alabama seeking a man who she believes is the reincarnation of her
master. </i></b></blockquote>
I've chosen four possible songs to serve as inspirational background
music as I write. I know that Rushen's Almost Home is definitely
in. The other three are very close runners up. They're at YouTube.
Have a listen....<br />
<br />
<center>
Almost Home ~ Patrice Rushen<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/joqmamM_WBQ" width="420"></iframe>
<br /><br />
On the Move ~ Count Basic<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/lse4oBzPXwU" width="420"></iframe>
<br /><br />
Off the Hook ~ Roger Smith<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/hmO7MXC5uMg" width="420"></iframe>
<br /><br />
Bahia Funk ~ Lee Ritenour<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/P7ZsbE9Tixc" width="420"></iframe>
</center>
<br />
Enjoy the music, folks!Conniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08696918266055510131noreply@blogger.com0