Art and the Writing Life

The Art of Putting Gas in the Mower

2010-12-03T05:33:00.000-08:00

Stephen Covey, a life teacher, coach, writer and a really cool guy, has been a positvie example for me for years. I've read his first book, 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, several times, and as a writer, I can particularly see the relevance of habit 7, Sharpen the Saw.

What Covey asks is that we examine our hectic lives and make sure we are making time for renewal, learning, reading and exercise of the mind, body and spirit. When I was teaching the Covey concepts, I found that most people had trouble with this habit. Covey likens it to being "so busy mowing the lawn you forget to put gas in the mower."

In the writing community, we see this a lot. Writers who are so busy blogging, tweeting, Facebooking, networking and pounding out their 1,000 words per day--no matter how they tally it--that they forget to "put gas in the mower."

I try to incorporate different forms of art into my life in hopes it will nurture my creative writing. The Writer's Brush by Donald Friedman examines how writers practice the visual arts. It's an amazing book, and if you admire the writing of Vonnegut, Kipling, Bronte and the like, I predict you'll be spellbound by their visual art. Imagine developing your entire creative potential-- pumping gas into your creative engine-- by drawing, painting or sculpting.

What perspective would you gain about your story? About your writing? About your life?

The Art of Words

2010-12-01T05:04:00.000-08:00

I've been reading two genres that I'm learning I love. One is poetry and the other is philosophy.

I got a copy of Why I Wake Early by Mary Oliver, a book of poetry that starts with a poem about the sun. I mean, I read this poem and my whole insides just started dancing around having a party. What a celebration! The book was worth the price for that poem alone, and I got it on my Kindle, so I can take it with me to read again in again while standing in long lines or sitting in waiting rooms.

I'm listening to a book on the philosophy of Confucius. Here's one precept of his ideals: to be a noble or right person, you have to overcome your natural tendency to be self-serving. I don't know about you, but I can be as self-serving as the next guy. Matter of fact, I would venture to say my self-serving quotient is way off the scale. Honestly, I don't think I'm alone in this. But Confucius says that you have to work hard to find the humanity in yourself and other people. Treating people with respect, interacting with that human part of them, is of utmost importance, and that means treating people with good manners--whether you feel like it or not.

Good manners are words.

Poetry is composed of words--very carefully chosen words, because poets are limited in the amount of space to create an image.

I'm going back through my WIP and starting with my verbs, double-checking my word choices, making sure I'm using the most precise words I can.

And with the hectic pace of the season, family issues, writing time and demands coming from five different directions, I'm also double-checking the words that are coming out of my mouth.

The Art of Perspective

2010-11-23T13:18:00.001-08:00

I'm reading James Lee Burke, one of my favorite authors, right now. I'm into the last twenty-five percent (according to my Kindle) of The Glass Rainbow, and Dave Robicheaux, Burke's series character and probably his alter ego, is having visions of his death. He's looking back after "nearly eight decades" of life and regretting the people he'll be leaving behind and the life he never lived.

I like Burke's approach to writing. His quote:

You write it a day at a time and let God be the measure of its worth; you let the score take care of itself; and most important, you never lose faith in your vision.

That's me. Or how I try to be with my writing.

Not that I have a regret-less life. I have plenty of those little buggers that live in dreams, sometimes in my nightmares, or that are written in my books. But by putting words on pages, writing my stories, I'm leading the life I want to lead.

This week, I'm giving thanks for that.

The Art of Patience

2010-11-17T17:20:00.000-08:00

In the November issue of Writer's Digest, Ken Follett, a master craftsman of a writer, passes along a tidbit for revision: go backwards.

After you finish the second or third or thirtieth draft, whenever you think you have your masterpiece finished, start from the last chapter and write a one sentence summary of what happens in that chapter. After you complete the process, finishing with Chapter One, look back at your summaries and read them for building reader expectations. Because by going backwards, you're seeing what you've built up for reader expectations and you'll also see if you fulfilled them. In other words: Did you set your reader up for one thing and then get diverted on a rabbit trail? Or did you set your reader up for something and then deliver?

I tried it with my current work and he's right. I had to go back and do some revision. I got lost on numerous rabbit trails for several chapters in a row.

Joyce Moore, a fellow Five Star author, has written a beautiful book about a beautiful art form: tapestry.

When I look at a tapestry, and remind myself of the incredible art work inherent in those ancient creations, I remind myself of the thousands of hours, and the miniscule steps it took to create that masterpiece.

I have to remind myself that patience is a segment of the creating process.

Just as the great tapestries were created one painstaking stitch at a time, our work as writers is created one word, sometimes one punctuation mark at a time. Sometimes going from back to front.

Jazz and the Meandering Mind

2010-11-01T10:11:00.000-07:00

This John Coltrane video of After the Rain is pretty awesome. There are a number of places online you can listen to parts of Coltrane's music, including itunes, but youtube was the only place I found that you could hear the entire tune without having to give out your email address. So close your eyes and let your mind drift with this master of jazz. (I have no idea why the filmmaker included a close-up of a belly button. Maybe he/she was under the influence of adult beverages. Maybe too-tight jeans. Maybe a seven-year-old hijacked the camera. It won't matter to you because if you close your eyes, you'll be into your head anyway.)

After the Rain is mellow and meandering. Actually, you might want to click the link on his name and read about him while you listen. Or you might just want to write. Read this link about why Coltrane is a jazz great.

I played the violin for years, so I know a little about music, but not about harmonic progressions, multi-tonic systems, reharmonization and his legacy, "Coltrane changes". All I know is that I'd like to write like Coltrane sounds: effortless, graceful, fitting.

And I've been thinking about how he created this music and, most relevant to writers (and other artists), why. I haven't read his entire biography, but I'll bet my favorite ink pen that his creativity did not come from a desire to publish and sell his music. Like all great artists, his creativity came from his heart, mind and gut. He created his ground-breaking music not for the market, but because it pleased him.

In the September issue of Writer's Digest, Wade Rouse writes about FEAR. Only he uses the word as an acronym to mean Free Every Artistic Response. Rouse says that when you do this, your true voice will be unleashed.

Be the Coltrane of writing. Or painting. Or cooking. Or dog grooming.

Create it because you like it.

Alone

2010-10-31T06:00:00.000-07:00

Are you a writer? Do you feel alone?

I've read a number of writing craft books, and in many of them, when the authors write about the profile of authors, they state that one overriding characteristic is the feeling of being alone. Natalie Goldberg in Writing Down the Bones talks about it, as does Anne Lamont in Bird by Bird.

It helps me, to know that I'm not alone in feeling alone.

And there are times when writing is the only thing that can chip away at that stone in the middle of my chest. Or as Lamont says, writing for some of us is the only way to keep the animal in the cage from crashing through the bars.

Writing doesn't make me less alone, it just helps to make it a little easier to bear.

I love the Nighthawks painting by Edward Hopper. It speaks to me of aloneness. And notice that in the painting, there's no door that leads in or out. The customers and the waiter are permanently captured. The painting looks lonely to me. But I like the comforting warm yellow in the interior.

FEEDING THE MUSE

2010-08-24T12:15:00.000-07:00

On any given day online, there are hundreds of posts, tweets and blogs about the art of marketing your writing. And it seems to me they all reach one conclusion: No one knows what, or evenif,anything works.

So if all the hours of promotion has questionable results, what's a writer to do? I beleive that the only thing we can do is to capitalize on the core of success: writing a wonderful story. If that's correct, then the building of a writer's creativity becomes critical.

And yes, I believe creativity can be nurtured and grown.

Below are my suggestions. Some I've tried, some are still on my writer's bucket list.

* Take one session of acting classes a year. It'll teach you the basics of that art and give you insight into your own character portrayal.

* Take one session of visual art classes a year, ie painting, drawing, sculpting etc. Concentrate on the act of creating and how it transfers to writing.
* If you can afford it, pay a counselor or therapist for a series of six sessions, once a month for six months. Your goal is to get help in accessing your buried uniqueness that is uninfluenced by media and curltural expectations.
* Pledge to yourself to have a weekly art date, time alone to experience something new and different. (This is from Julia Cameron) Use your insights for writing.
* One week a year, do your own writer's retreat. Not a conference with networking and seminars. And not a week long getaway where you finish up that novel that's on a tight deadline. Those are different. What I mean is to retreat from the world and renew. Go to someplace where you are ALONE and you actually use the time to let your mind to explore and foster your creativity. (Did you know there are monasteries that offer this for a very reasonable price? Search online to find one in your area.)
* Learn to meditate and practice it daily. Yoga teaches meditation techniques. Transcendental meditation is good. That quiet time is like letting the well fill from a silent, underground stream.

Who knows what masterpiece will emerge?

Four Letter Words

2010-07-27T09:40:00.001-07:00

It's hard. Writing is hard any time, under any conditions. Not as hard as handling a jackhammer in 110 degree city heat, mind you. And not as hard as chasing toddlers around the house after working all day. And not as hard as dealing with a boss who's dumber than a bag of hammers. But it's still pretty hard.

You know what in the English language is the dirtiest four-letter word? Hope.

Because we always have that hope, don't we, as writers? Hope that our project will outshine all the other work out there. Hope that we'll outshine our past projects. Hope that a big success may come our way because it's got to happen to someone, doesn't it? I mean, look at all those TV series and movies. They all started with the thing we do: a story.

But my post isn't about Hope. It's about the single basic building block of writers: words.

I just finished one of the best writing books I've read since Donald Maass--and if you've followed my posts, you know I'm a BIG fan of the Man. This book is The Writer's Portable Mentor, A Guide to Art, Craft, and the Writing Life by Priscilla Long.

A lot of stuff in that book. Good stuff. Hard stuff.

Like doing Lexicon Practice.

Long teaches that collecting words should be a regular, definite and specific habit for writers. She suggests buying a blank book--something with nice paper, something you want to keep for a while. Put two words per page, half a page each. Now this is not a typical vocabulary list full of words you learned for your high school English class. These are words that you find irresistable. Words that are, as Long says, juicy and hot. When you run across a word you like, put it in your Lexicon and later, when you make time, look it up and write down the definition and the root.

Put down words you know and like. Don't order your list. When you come across a word you like, add it to your Lexicon. Long suggests using concrete words, words that can be sensed. These are the words that make your writing "click" with a reader. Either nouns or verbs.

Words I have in my Lexicon so far: spindle, carroty, fissure, crawlspace, pockmark, felled, muck.

Nothing glamorous here. No movies or TV series.

Hard work.

Good work.

See all those four-letter words?

PS- I just found a new resource for building your writer's workable vocabulary: Wordcatcher: An Odyssey into the World of Weird and Wonderful Words.

Short on Time, Long on Revision

2010-07-08T13:42:00.000-07:00

When it's time to revise your draft, do you start at the beginning of your piece over and over again? Do you spend hours revising paragraphs, and then like Dali's clock on the left here, realize your writing time is gone? Do you read what you've written, and with a general idea that it doesn't "read well", start shuffling sentences, words, ideas and story flow?

That would be me.

Here are a few ideas that have helped give direction to my revisions after the first draft is totally finished.

From Donald Maass' book, The Fire in Fiction, Chapter Three, Scenes that Can't be Cut:

*First, determine if the scene has a point. In other words, make sure it's not a candidate for cutting entirely. Once you know the point of the scene, then Maass suggests that the task of the author is to draw the purpose out. He cautions writers that changing the words on the page won't help. If a scene is not working, it may be because the scene needs to be "re-seen". (I'm so witty, oh so witty.) Maass states: "Scene revision is, to me, less a matter of expression and more a way of seeing."

*Once you've determined the scene needs to be in the story, Maass suggests to begin by asking: What change is taking place and when exactly in the scene does the change occur? Ask yourself how the point-of-view character is changed. Maass says what we should be looking for here are the turning points .

*When the turning points have been identified, the scene suddenly becomes easier to see. I read Maass' suggestion and tried it in my own stumbling work-in-progress: he was right. It was like adjusting the focusing wheel on a pair of binoculars to finally bring the image to clarity. From then on, Maass states, "Everything else on the page either contributes to, or leads readers away from, those changes." All of your wonderful writing, your descriptions, characterization, transitions and choice of diction are either expendable--or tools that help "enact the scene's main purpose."

Several people commented after my last post, also based on The Fire in Fiction, that they bought the book! Building a writer's reference library is always a great idea, in my opinion. I have over a hundred books on writing craft; this is one of my favorites. Next time, I'll blog about revision ideas from another excellent craft book, The Writer's Portable Mentor by Priscilla Long.

Don't let your writing time melt away!

The Opening or Making the Dark Protagonist Lighter

2010-06-15T09:06:00.000-07:00

In his workshop at the Backspace Conference in New York in May, Donald Maass spoke about developing three types of protagonists: the ordinary person who finds himself/herself embroiled in what will be your mind-bending plot, the true hero or heroine with heroic qualities, and the dark protagonist.

We've all been each of the three types of characters in our own life stories, at one time or another. And the dark protagonist, that character who has a stained past, who is pursued by unnamed internal demons, the character who is on the run from an evil pursuer, makes for a fascinating character--and, from the writer's perspective, a character fun to create!

In the thousands of manuscripts he reads, dark protagonists are plentiful, says Maass. And they can work well for a story, but he cautions against turning the reader off within the opening paragraphs. Maass says that many times the flaws of this type of protagonist are fatal, and readers will find little appeal in investing hours of their time in following a character writhing in suffering and pain throughout a story.

So if your protagonist is a dark character, what can you as the writer do to make that character appealing to a reader without losing that magnetic draw?

The trick, says Maass, is to somehow make that character highly likable, or at least admirable.

In Fire in Fiction, Maass talks about how Joseph Finder, in his business thriller Company Man, gives his flawed protagonist Nick Conover the redeeming characteristic of a man trying to keep his kids happy after the death of their mother a year earlier--and he establishes this very quickly in the story. (Read this great interview with Finder by fellow Backspace member and author, Lauren Baratz-Logsted.)

What else can humanize a dark character to a reader? Maass gave several suggestions, and many more in Fire in Fiction. A character can be deeply flawed--but self-deprecating at the same time. Maass asks: "Who hasn't kicked themselves?" And a flawed character who has the self awareness to judge himself harshly can earn a reader's respect.

A flawed character--a loser, a hopeless down-and-out wanderer--can still love. And if that love is demonstrated quickly in the story, the reader will identify with the character.

Maass asked those of us in the workshop who were writing about a dark protagonist to sit quietly for a moment and think about our character. He then asked us: What is the one thing the character would wish to change about themselves, if they had the power to do so?

And the hard part: now think of a way to demonstrate that desire, that wish for change, within the first five pages of the manuscript.

And remember, Maass reminded us, every scene in your story must impact and/or transform that character.

The Opening or Making the Average Joe Unaverage

2010-06-13T06:23:00.000-07:00

In my last blog, I wrote about the valuable experience of attending a writer's conference. My experience with Backspace was exceptional, and even as a published author, I learned and re-learned so many writiting principles. One of the highlights of the conference was a mini-workshop by the master teacher of fiction writing, Donald Maass.

Maass talked about the opening of a novel, how it must be exceptionally crafted, maximizing the writer's skills. He started out by asking how many of us were writing about "average people caught in extraordinary circumstances." Quite a few hands went up, including my own. He explained that was one of the three types of protagonists. (The other two types are the heroic character and the dark character. I'll talk about Maass' insights for those characters in the following posts.)

Maass started the lecture by asking us to think of one person in our lives we admired. We were asked to write the name down in our notes. (One thing Maass insists upon: if you're going to learn the techniques of being an excellent writer, you have to write. No thinking of the answer and "keeping it in your head"!)

After all the pens and pencils had stopped scratching, Maass asked us to choose one characteristic of that person that we admired. The person I chose for the exercise was my mother, a vital, interested, and vibrant woman who continues to live each day to the fullest. And the characteristic I most admire about her is her compassion.

Next, Maass asked us to write down two incidents or actions that illustrate this characteristic. I thought about my mother's compassion, her special empathy for children, and I realized (My gasp of insight was audible!) that my male protagonist had the same strength. I jotted down two of the thousands of times I'd seen my mother display her empathy. (An added benefit to the workshop: wonderful memories of my mother bubbled to the surface!)

Then, Maass asked us to show our chosen characteristic for our main character within the first five pages of our manuscript. Maass explained that the connection between reader and main character is the most important connection of your work. A reader won't survive "four minutes, let alone four hundred pages with a miserable excuse for a human being or even a plain old average Joe."

Even though I've written my current beginning countless times, I went back and did it again.

Maass' ideas are from his book Fire in Fiction. I felt so privileged to be able to advance my craft through an in-person workshop by a master of fiction.

Why You Should Save Your Pennies for a Conference

2010-06-08T17:38:00.001-07:00

I know, writer's conferences are expensive. Not just the conference itself, but the transportation to get there, lodging, food and of course, the irresistable shopping expeditions on the side. But if you're a writer looking to renew and re-inspire your writing, if you're looking to hone your craft, if you're hoping to make contact with agents, editors or published writers who might act as references, the writer's conference is the place to be.

Last week, I had the honor of participating in two panels at the Backspace Writer's Conference in the Big Apple. During the three day conference, over twenty-five agents attended. That's a lot of agents in one place, and they were all looking to help authors develop stories the agents could sell!

There were writers--multi-published writers. Writers who have been in the business for decades, like Gayle Lynds . And writers who have garnered a boatload of professional praise, like Hank Phillippi Ryan. (The picture is of me and Gayle Lynds connecting at the book signing.)

And agents didn't just wander around looking superior with wine glasses in their hands (although wine glasses were never far from view!). They offered their valuable time in workshops where authors could present two pages of their manuscript for agents' critiques--all anonymously!

Those sessions were the stars of the show! Here's some of what authors learned:

* In what part of the opening did A.E.G.O. (Agents eyes glaze over). For some, it was after the first paragraph. Great! Those writers knew it was back to the keyboard. For others, after their two pages were read, an agent would scream, "Whose is that? Send me that manuscript, tomorrow!"

What a thrill for those authors!

More of what writers learned about querying an agent:

*Don't be cutesy, ever, in a query letter. No adorable fonts. No watermarks with your name in elegant script. No flowers around the border. This is a business letter. Keep it that way.

*Avoid telling agents your book is funny, interesting, amazing, suspenseful, soulful, powerful, chilling, bittersweet or sure to be the next best seller. Use exact descriptions to tell them about your story. Study how successful queries are written. (And there are enough resources available for several posts on that topic!)

*Don't overwrite. Don't try to impress with using obscure vocabulary words and over-abundant descriptions. Take out unnecessary character movements, dialogue and physical description. Grab your reader with a story that won't let go!

A conference can get a writer that valuable one-on-one time with an agent or an editor. An extra expense?Yes. Priceless? Absolutely!

The Book Chick

2010-05-21T06:28:00.001-07:00

I'm very pleased to provide the link to Jonita's review at The Book Chick of A Corner of Universe. If you're a woman who is facing complicated issues like divorce or separation, step-children, or children of your own who are adjusting to a new family structure, you might want to read how my character deals with her own challenging situation.

2010-03-14T12:18:00.000-07:00

INTERVIEW WITH REBBIE MACINTYRE FOR A CORNER OF UNIVERSE:

Your first book is set in Depression era Colorado and your new book is in current day Chicago. Why did you make the decision to write something contemporary rather than historical?

For my second book, my former agent suggested I make one of two choices: either continue the Depression-era story by writing a sequel, or challenge myself to write in a contemporary voice and setting. As I started roughing out a story for the second book, I thought about the most important aspect of my life: my extended and blended family. The main character in A CORNER OF UNIVERSE is coping with the recent death of her mother, the aging of her father, a late-in-life pregnancy, the career demands of her husband and a stepson who suddenly comes on the scene. I think most women today face similar challenges either through themselves, their children or grandchildren.

What do you think your readers will get from A CORNER OF UNIVERSE? What does the title mean?

I hope readers will get first and foremost a good read that combines suspense and family drama. The book has been called a page-turner by booksellers and librarians, and I hope readers will agree. I also hope readers, who I believe will be mostly women, will come away with a sense that they are not alone in facing the daunting challenges of their modern lives.

The title refers to the fictional street corner of the main character’s home in Chicago: a corner of Universe and Stargazer.

You stated in the acknowledgment section of your book that a concentration camp survivor was the seed for this story. How did that happen?

PBS ran a program a few years ago where they interviewed concentration camp survivors. All of them, of course, are elderly now and have unforgettable stories of their experiences. One was a woman who despite her terrible years in a concentration camp was absolutely bubbling with happiness and life. The interviewer asked her how she moved beyond her experience, how she recovered her zest for living. The old woman arced her hand through the air and said, “Forgive. Forgive everyone for everything.”

Most authors talk about a “seed” for a story, something they’ve picked up that simply must be written about. That interview stuck with me for months. I loved what she said and I used that woman as a basis for an important character in A CORNER OF UNIVERSE.

How do you approach your writing? Do you outline or just sit down and start typing?

Ideas for stories are everywhere, and most writers learn to pay attention to their internal “clicks” when they come across them. When I’m forming a new story, ready to write a new book, I first write about the overall story: what it’s about, the journey of the character, some incidents I want to happen. I usually write out a first draft, very rough, in about six to eight weeks. Then the real work, and the real fun, begins! I re-write the story, filling in the holes, changing things that won’t work. It’s rewarding, challenging, frustrating and maddening. But when about a year later the book is finished, there is nothing in the world that can match the sense of accomplishment.

What is the most rewarding aspect of getting a publishing contract for your second book?

The most rewarding aspect of getting a contract is my growth in my confidence as a writer. I feel like I could tackle just about anything I put my mind to—when it comes to fiction writing, that is!

Has the digital revolution touched you as an author? What do you think of electronic readers like Kindle and the Nook?

That’s one big question, not only for a writer, but publishers and agents as well. For decades, publishing has plugged along with the same snail-pace it started with in the early 1900s. The digital revolution has turned the industry on its head, much like it did with the music industry. I think digital is here to stay, but I don’t believe books printed on paper will go the way of concrete tablets! I think e-readers will offer options for readers and will be especially valuable to those who like to read several news publications daily. There will be many books sold on e-readers, and as an author, I want to position my own work to be a part of that. But I think twenty or fifty years from now, people who love to read will still curl up with a good book and turn paper pages!

What’s next for you?

I’m working on another contemporary story, a suspense novel involving a dispirited jazz musician who tries to reunite his young student with her mother who she thought was dead. When he collides with a man who hunts people for sport, a woman doctor who is both elegant and cruel, and a mother with less than motherly love, he begins to question whether his student is virtuous or vile.

2010-03-03T13:56:00.000-08:00

If you're like my heroine in A Corner of Universe, you may be facing challenges with parenting step-children. Check out stepfamilies.com for information and support you can use.

A CORNER OF UNIVERSE

2010-02-23T19:07:00.000-08:00

My new book, a women's suspense story, is officially released! See my website for the book's profile and follow me on Facebook for upcoming contests, appearances and give-aways!

Chapter One

2009-05-20T13:22:00.000-07:00

A knock rattled her screen door, demanding and impatient, and she gritted her teeth in irritation. She wanted to be left alone, to bake her bread in peace. She could ignore the summons, tiptoe back to her bedroom and wait for the intruder to leave, but again the fist on the doorframe; a fist, she was certain, that would keep pounding.

Trini Bates wiped her floured hands on a tea towel, crossed the kitchen and pulled open the heavy oak door. Through the black mesh of the screen, she surveyed the trio on her porch: the sheriff, his deputy and her brother Parnell, his mouth rabbit-twitching like it always did when he’d been caught.

This was trouble.

“Morning, Mrs. Bates,” Sheriff George Mallis said. He touched the brim of his hat with a finger.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about Merle Woodson’s disappearance.”

She nodded.

“I’m taking your brother into the office for questioning. He wanted to talk to you first, and just to show that I’m being fair, I agreed.”

She slumped against the doorjamb, crossed her arms and studied her raggedy brother.

“What now?” she asked.

“I ain’t seen him, Trini. Not since before he left.” Parn Shannon bounced as he spoke, and shifted his gaze to the sheriff. “I told you that last week.”

“Well, you can tell me again, only this time at the office,” Mallis said. “I’ve got my own theory about Woodson’s disappearance.”

“Trini,” the deputy said, “we’re following every lead we can think of. And I’ve been thinking.”

He flicked his eyes to the sheriff. “You could dowse for us. Dowse to find Woodson.”

Aiming into the flowerbed tangled with the shriveled leaves of bachelor buttons left after the first frost, Mallis leaned over the porch railing, snorted and spat.

Hinges squealed when she pushed open the screen door, and Trini stepped into the cold morning air. Her brother stood before her, twitching with nervous energy. She resisted the urge to soothe the new scrape on his forehead; he was no longer her motherless little brother but a twenty-five-year-old man who’d immersed himself into man-sized trouble.

“When was the last time you saw Woodson?” she asked.

“I swear, Trini,” Parn said. “I haven’t seen him for three weeks. Maybe more.”

A laugh shot from Mallis. “I don’t believe that. They’re bootlegging partners. And according to Woodson’s daughter, your brother was the last person to see him before he left for Denver.”

He pushed his hat back on his head, and Trini suppressed a shudder: Even though the sheriff had the posture and bearing of a man who’d barely crossed into his forties, deep creases smothered every inch of his face, as if his skin had once been tightly wadded like a piece of parchment then applied over his bones.

“Parn,” Trini said, “you’re bootlegging again? You promised me you wouldn’t. Months ago.”

“We didn’t mean for it to get that big,” Parn said. His jiggling stilled, and he scuffed a toe of his boot on the floorboards. “I was just going to make enough money to get out to Oregon. And I would have, too, if Woodson hadn’t gone away.”

Mallis jabbed Parn’s arm. “Well, too bad for you that he did ‘go away,’ as you put it.” He turned to Trini. “Fact is, ten days ago Merle Woodson disappeared. He told his daughter he was heading to Denver with your brother and he’d be back that night. He never showed up, never called. I’ve had bulletins out all over the state, to the police up in Denver and even Montana. He’s gone.”

“I told him, Trini.” Parn gnawed on a ragged cuticle. “Merle never told me he was going to Denver.”

Mallis continued. “And another thing: everyone Everyone in town saw him and your brother fighting at the Plainsman café Café several weeks ago. As far as I’m concerned, that makes Parn Shannon a suspicious person.”

“A suspicious person for what?” she asked.

“A suspicious person I want to question.” Black eyes stayed flat under the folds of eyelids.

Trini took a moment to catch her breath and let her gaze drift across the prairie and to the distant Rocky Mountains jutting into a crystalline sky. The November wind bit her face and tugged a dark curl from its place. She tucked it behind her ear then turned her face to keep it there.

“Sheriff, doesn’t it seem likely that Merle Woodson doesn’t want to be found?”

“Not according to the daughter. She says he’d never done anything like this before. And he left things undone, things he promised his daughter he’d do the next day when he came home. She thinks he’s dead.” Mallis crossed his arms. “And if Woodson’s dead, and Parn here was the last one to see him alive, well then, that makes him a suspect, doesn’t it?”

Suspect. Her stomach knotted. She didn’t trust George Mallis. He was an interim sheriff who had the reputation of being corrupt. His arrogant stance, plus the brittle face, gave him the appearance of nonchalant cruelty; someone who’d kick a dog aside to make room on the sidewalk.

“Sheriff, I don’t think you should jump to any conclusions. Woodson’s car could have gone over a cliff. Or he could have decided to drive up to Canada or down to Mexico or anywhere in between. I’m sure with a little thought and thorough investigation—”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, missy. I reckon I know more about investigation than you ever would.”

Trini examined his expression, trying to read him, but failed. Impossible to make sense of the rocklike visage. And the black eyes buried deep in the sockets; she’d have to quarry to read those eyes.

She glanced at his deputy. She wondered what Roy Eastman thought of his boss, but his Stetson sat low on his brow, shading the nuances of his expression. He stood with arms crossed over his chest, studying Mallis. How could he tolerate the sheriff? She answered her own question in an instant: It was 1932. The country was in the middle of a Depression. Most people did whatever was necessary to hold a job. But surely Roy didn’t think Parn could be connected to Woodson’s disappearance; Roy and her late husband had been friends. Although . . . come to think of it, she hadn’t seen Roy since the funeral eight months ago. She briefly wondered why. In these last dark months, it would have been nice to have a friend of Jim’s to talk to.

Roy tipped his hat up with a finger and looked at her with frank gray eyes. “As I said, I’ve been thinking.” He glanced at Mallis then back to her. “I’ve seen you dowse for water, and Jim told me you could find about anything you put your mind to. Do you think you could dowse for Woodson? Give us an idea of where to look?”

Parn sputtered and lurched forward. “You could do it, Trin. I’ve seen you dowse for lost stuff all the time. That lost kitten when we were little, and Mom’s necklace, right after she died. I seen you do it on the map when—”

“I don’t believe that,” Mallis said. He darted his eyes to his deputy, and the chaw of tobacco shifted from one cheek to the other. “I know folks claim you can find water, but finding bodies is different.” He turned and spat again.

She looked at the brown glob, then back to the eyes. Mallis’s attitude didn’t surprise her. Many people refused to acknowledge her dowser’s talent, even when they saw water drawn from the exact place she’d indicated— and at the depth she’d said it would be. And she’d found people before, as well as lost valuables, but only for her immediate family. She had no use for skeptics, and right now she’d like to turn around, go back into her kitchen and plunge her hands into the bread dough. She’d like to brew herself a cup of tea. She’d like to be left alone.

“Trini,” Roy said, “if you could find Woodson or his body, pinpoint a location, we could contact the authorities and go from there. If he’s alive, then we can all go home. If he’s dead, well, we’d start an investigation.”

He was right. And if Woodson was dead, he more than likely was lying in a remote mountain pass in his wrecked car. Or at the bottom of the Denver sewer, a gangster’s bullet in his head. Wherever he was, after she dowsed, the entire ugly event would be over for Parn.

She examined her brother who wiggled in front of her, his eyes darting like a trapped hare, his cuticle torn and bleeding, and made her decision.

“I’ll come to your office. I assume you have local maps?”

Roy nodded.

“I’ll drive myself and meet you there.”

Mallis stared at his deputy a moment, but kept silent.

They turned and clattered down the wooden stoop, Parn stumbling across the grass as the sheriff led him by his elbow.

She closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head. A small headache pressed into her temples. Untying her apron strings at the small of her back, she entered the kitchen, pulled the apron over her head and hung it on the hook by the stove. The bread would be cool by the time she got home, ready to take to the Plainsman Café for sale. After that, maybe she could still salvage some of the day.

She walked through the parlor to her bedroom, the same bedroom she’d shared with her husband for twelve years. She opened the drawer to her bureau and reached inside, feeling under socks and chemises, then removed a length of cotton twine wound around a quartz rock about two inches long and as thick as her little finger. Her mother’s dowsing crystal. The piece rested in her palm for a moment, and she savored its comfort, its history. She walked back to the kitchen, grabbed her coat from the rack and pushed her arms through the sleeves. The crystal she placed in her pocket. Closing the door behind her, she headed to her truck.

She hoped she’d be back in a few hours, her wayward brother in tow.

Library Requests

2009-04-29T06:43:00.000-07:00

Please, if you can't buy a copy of Cast the First Stone, request it from your local library. Your librarian, a frontline defender of freedom, will traverse the cyber universe to get it for you.

Virtual Sit-down with Pop Syndicate

2009-04-15T04:22:00.001-07:00

Be sure to see my interview with host Angela Wilson on Pop Syndicate.

In Praise of Book Clubs

2009-04-07T06:21:00.001-07:00

I belong to two book clubs, and if I could, I'd belong to two dozen. I love to read books. I love to write books. And I love to talk to others who love books.

I've found that my book groups do more than talk about books. We also learn about ourselves: our beliefs and values; our experiences and viewpoints.

And something more than that. We share important moments of intersecting growth. Starting from one central point--the selected book of the month--we invariably draw hugely different understandings about what the book means and its relationship to our own lives. A good book will lead the reader to personalize at least some of its content, and in book club, we ask questions of ourselves and each other that would not be asked in any other venue: what each of us would do to survive in a concentration camp; a women's prison in the civil war; the plague in an English village; the murder of our dear friend.

Our discussions also tend to veer from the immediate topic into the past, present and future. Someone usually has a childhood adventure she shares. Or we will find ourselves in rousing discussions about current events like gay marriage, the death penalty or media influence. Sometimes a book will bring up topics for the future, usually with the introduction of: "Someday I want to. . ." And for the writer side of me, the group buzzes through a virtual smorgasbord of writing ideas: a heartbreaking family situation; a friend of a friend who died and came back; the odor of a serpentine alleyway in Florence.

The few hours each month I have in my book clubs are "now" moments and are some of my favorite moments of my month. The discussions are lively, intelligent and piercing in their personal relativity. Undefined feelings I've been carrying around for days finally find a place to be expressed, and the issues of my life, whatever they may be at the moment, are at least for a few hours, put aside.

Chapter One

2009-04-07T05:31:00.000-07:00

This was trouble.

“Morning, Mrs. Bates,” Sheriff George Mallis said. He touched the brim of his hat with a finger.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about Merle Woodson’s disappearance.”

She nodded.

“I’m taking your brother into the office for questioning. He wanted to talk to you first, and just to show that I’m being fair, I agreed.”

She slumped against the doorjamb, crossed her arms and studied her raggedy brother.

“What now?” she asked.

“I ain’t seen him, Trini. Not since before he left.” Parn Shannon bounced as he spoke, and shifted his gaze to the sheriff. “I told you that last week.”

“Well, you can tell me again, only this time at the office,” Mallis said. “I’ve got my own theory about Woodson’s disappearance.”

“Trini,” the deputy said, “we’re following every lead we can think of. And I’ve been thinking.” He flicked his eyes to the sheriff. “You could dowse for us. Dowse to find Woodson.”

Aiming into the flowerbed tangled with the shriveled leaves of bachelor buttons left after the first frost, Mallis leaned over the porch railing, snorted and spat.

“When was the last time you saw Woodson?” she asked.

“I swear, Trini,” Parn said. “I haven’t seen him for three weeks. Maybe more.”

A laugh shot from Mallis. “I don’t believe that. They’re bootlegging partners. And according to Woodson’s daughter, your brother was the last person to see him before he left for Denver.”

“Parn,” Trini said, “you’re bootlegging again? You promised me you wouldn’t. Months ago.”

“I told him, Trini.” Parn gnawed on a ragged cuticle. “Merle never told me he was going to Denver.”

Mallis continued. “And another thing: Everyone in town saw him and your brother fighting at the Plainsman café Café several weeks ago. As far as I’m concerned, that makes Parn Shannon a suspicious person.”

“A suspicious person for what?” she asked.

“A suspicious person I want to question.” Black eyes stayed flat under the folds of eyelids.

“Sheriff, doesn’t it seem likely that Merle Woodson doesn’t want to be found?”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, missy. I reckon I know more about investigation than you ever would.”

How could he tolerate the sheriff? She answered her own question in an instant: It was 1932. The country was in the middle of a Depression. Most people did whatever was necessary to hold a job. But surely Roy didn’t think Parn could be connected to Woodson’s disappearance; Roy and her late husband had been friends. Although . . . come to think of it, she hadn’t seen Roy since the funeral eight months ago. She briefly wondered why. In these last dark months, it would have been nice to have a friend of Jim’s to talk to.

She examined her brother who wiggled in front of her, his eyes darting like a trapped hare, his cuticle torn and bleeding, and made her decision.

“I’ll come to your office. I assume you have local maps?”

Roy nodded.

“I’ll drive myself and meet you there.”

Mallis stared at his deputy a moment, but kept silent.

They turned and clattered down the wooden stoop, Parn stumbling across the grass as the sheriff led him by his elbow.

She hoped she’d be back in a few hours, her wayward brother in tow.

Trini's wine

2009-04-05T18:35:00.000-07:00

In Cast the First Stone, my heroine tastes wine for the first time. With her late husband, she'd tasted moonshine--an illicit thrill with an illegal substance--but now Roy, the deputy in my story who Trini finds pretty exciting, offers her a taste of bordeaux. The story is set in 1932, and so it's just at the end of Prohibition; alcohol is a a big no-no, but the ever-resourceful Roy has a stock of wine that he purchased in France when he fought in the war--that would be World War One. She describes wine as "something between food and drink". I like that, and the label in this post is from the wine I pictured Trini and Roy sharing. Now, in 2009, it sells for over $600.00 a bottle. 1918 must have been a pretty good year.

Modern day dowsers

2009-04-02T18:41:00.000-07:00

There are organizations of dowers in Canada, Germany, New South Wales, Britain, Sweden and of course the U.S. In the U.S., the preeminent dowsing organization is the American Society of Dowsers. Their web address is www.dowsers.org.

A lot of information is on the site about how dowsing is used, but my favorite is the ASD’s sponsorship of Water for Humanity. The committee was established by the ASD to provide funding for the development of wells and water recovery in areas of critical need all over the world. Steve Herbert is very active in the project. He served as a volunteer in the Peace Crops as an Agro-forestry Agent in Senegal, West Africa, and as a side project, dowsed for water all over that country. He’s also independently done similar dowser training and water resource development in Nicaragua, Guatemala and Ecuador.

He tells an interesting story how he dowsed one well site for a village neighboring the one in which he lived with a host family. On New Year’s Day of 1994, an Islamic ceremony was performed to bless the site, then a circle was scribed around the stake he had placed to mark his spot. He then hired five men who worked for seven months to finish the well. For the first several feet, the digging was relatively easy through sand and clay. Once into limestone, the men had to work, taking turns, to break up the rock by hand with hammer and chisel. Steve had predicted the water would be encountered at 26 meters (about 80 feet). At that point, the men lowered Steve down on the end of a rope to make an inspection. He found only a tiny puddle in the middle. However, just one meter further, a worker broke away a rock and the water came gushing in!

Love those Readers!

2009-03-20T09:32:00.000-07:00

What a great investment Authorbuzz has been! Not only in terms of getting the word out about Cast the First Stone--many hits on the links that featured my title--but even more rewarding was my first contact with potential readers.

The premise of Cast the First Stone has at its heart my Depression era Hispanic heroine, Trinidad Bates, who vows to save her brother from a murder conviction by using the ancient art of dowsing. Dowsers, or diviners, are traditionally known for finding water, but a talented dowser can locate much more. By using a map and a crystal pendulum, Trini locates a murder victim; unfortunately, her discovery throws her brother in the path of a vindictive sheriff.

A number of readers wrote about their own family legends of dowsing, much like mine. One woman wrote that she grew up on a "dirt farm" where the main crop was dirt! Once, she tried dowsing for water with a forked willow stick, but no luck.

I know how she feels. If our family legend is true, and if my ancestor was indeed a dowser, the talent did not pass to me. I'll stick to writing.

Kirkus Review for Cast the First Stone

2009-03-06T05:38:00.000-08:00

A feisty young Mexican-American widow fights corruption and finds love in this debut mystery set in Depression-era Colorado.

Trinidad Bates lost her husband eight months ago, but she still has her home and garden, her baking business and her remarkable skills as a dowser. When corrupt sheriff George Mallis locks up her brother Parn for killing his bootlegging partner Merle, Trini takes handsome Deputy Roy Eastman up on his suggestion that she use her dowsing skills to locate the body. It turns up exactly where she predicts, but this new evidence only drags Parn in deeper. To spring her brother, Trini digs into the town's dirty secrets, uncovering shady land dealings. Parn needs her, but so do Merle's children—and so does Roy, in a very different way. Coyote County sees more death and destruction as the wide-open prairie turns from a blessing to a menace when its riches tempt men to murder and a blizzard closes in. All that can save Trini is her grit and the love of her newly created family.

Cozy yet refreshing, with a distinctive, homey sense of place.

A Review from Armchair

2009-02-28T13:21:00.000-08:00

If you haven't visited Armchair.com, please do so. The site provides reviews, recommendations and ancillary information about published books. It's divided into easy-to-use sections so that you can locate a book according to genre, release date, authors or recommendations. Interviews with authors and other publishing professionals can give the reader insight into the world of the printed word. It's a valuable site, one that provides encouragement and support for the reader and writer.

The review for Cast the First Stone was just posted. The link below will lead you there, but here's the reviewer's opinion:

"You will love Trini Bates, her resolute strength, her love and her talent."

Thank you, Armchair!

http://reviews.armchairinterviews.com/reviews/cast-the-first-stone

The Seed of the Story

2009-02-22T15:33:00.000-08:00

I got the idea of using a dowser for my heroine from my mother. Born and raised on a farm near Dodge City, Kansas, my mother told the story about how her grandfather claimed to be able to find water with a divining rod. The story provided everyone in the family with a couple of good giggles from time to time, but beyond that, no one took it seriously.

Mom gave me a book called Pioneer Women, a collection of letters from women who settled Kansas in the 1800s. In one letter, a woman wrote to a relative that she and her husband had purchased land but were worried about finding a place to sink a well. They hired a dowser from the next county, and a site for a well was located.

That was all the spark I needed to begin Cast the First Stone.

Reading the Classics

2009-02-14T07:09:00.000-08:00

I vowed this year to read or re-read classics. Starting with Treasure Island now and I'll go on to some Chekhov stories. I like the Francine Prose book, Reading Like a Writer. She has a reading list at the back that's very good. Also, Jane Smiley's book, Thirteen Ways of Looking at the Novel has a great list. Smiley read 100 books in a year and wrote her critique of each, plus she gives wonderful guidelines for novelists in her book.

When I grow up, I want to be like her.

2009-02-09T05:09:00.000-08:00

Kirkus Review for Cast the First Stone

2009-02-07T05:29:00.001-08:00

I'm so pleased that Kirkus reviewed Cast the First Stone, my upcoming mystery from Five Star. Here it is:

More Water for Humanity

2009-02-01T17:32:00.000-08:00

Steve Herbert, one of the committee members of Water for Humanity, tells the story of how he dowsed one well site for a village neighboring the one in which he lived with a host family.

On New Year's Day of 1994, an Islamic ceremony was performed by a marabout to bless the site, then a circle was scribed around the stake he had placed to mark his spot. He hired five men who worked for seven months to finish the well. For the firs several feet, the digging was relatively easy through sand and clay. Once into limestone, the men had to work, taking turns, to break up the rock by hand with hammer and chisel. Steve had predicted the water would be encountered at 26 meters (about 80 feet). At that point, the men lowered Steve down on the end of a rope to make an inspection. He found only a tiny puddle in the middle. However, just one meter further, the worker broke away a rock and water came gushing in!

Water for Humanity

2009-01-22T10:17:00.000-08:00

Steve Herbert is a man with whom I've corresponded regarding dowsing. My first book, Cast the First Stone, is set in Depression era Colorado and is about a young Hispanic widow who tries to save her brother from a murder conviction by using the ancient art of dowsing. In looking for ways to promote my book, I went to American Society of Dowsers and discovered a wonderful project called Water for Humanity. Steve is one of the members of the committee. I'll write more about his work in another post.

Please go to Water for Humanity to read about this worthy endeavor.

Twittering Away

2009-01-03T12:30:00.000-08:00

I joined Twitter. Now I'll tell you right now that I don't do the social net thing. No Facebook. No Myspace. Just the blog and my site. When I came across Twitter, (and I can't even remember now how that happened) I wondered what could possibly be the point of "twittering" about things like going to the bank, a computer crash at work or sitting through the kids' soccer practice. On first impression, "twittering" equated with "frittering"-- as in frittering away my very valuable time.

My very demanding muse does not like it when I "fritter".

I signed up anyway, and within 24 hours, to my wondrous eyes did appear eleven followers. There were actually eleven people in this world who had never met me, never even knew I wandered the planet, and they were interested in my twitterings.

Now that I've been with Twitter a few weeks, I can see some contacts starting to develop. There are readers at Twitter. People who are interested in historical mysteries and dowsing and all the stuff that are hooks for my title. If you get a chance, Twitter at me.

I'm at www.twitter.com/rebbiewriter.

CAST THE FIRST STONE

2008-12-08T08:28:00.000-08:00

My first book will be released March 19, 2009 by Five Star/Cengage/Gale publishers. Five Star publishes primarily for the library market, so I intend to target libraries for my marketing, specifically in the areas that pertain to me or the story.

Cast the First Stone is the story of a young widow in Depression-era Colorado who has the remarkable gift of being a dowser. Most people know about dowsers from stories of their ancestors. Dowsers were used to find water, and the common image of a dowser is a person holding a forked stick with both hands and allowing the single branch of the Y to point outward. Supposedly when water is located, the stick will bend and tremble and plunge downward to the spot. In my research, I learned that there is no mistaking the pull from the dowsers "rod". And a good dowser is reputed to find not only the source of underground water, but also the depth of that source. You can imagine how valuable that would have been in the days before geologists could test and drill for water availability.

I've tried to dowse, but even though my great-grandfather was supposed to have had the talent, I don't. The inspiration for Cast the First Stone came from stories of my family who lived on the flat vacant plains of western Kansas. When I read an account of how a family in the area hired a dowser to come in and find water for their well, and the dowsing was successful, I became fascinated. It must be incredible to feel that power surge through your hands. After doing some research on the validity of the phenomenon, I was hooked and Cast the First Stone was born.

My website

2008-12-02T13:36:00.000-08:00

Please visit my website at www.rebbiemacintyre.com.

In Praise of Book Clubs

2008-11-20T12:17:00.000-08:00

I belong to two book clubs, and if I could, I'd belong to two dozen. I love to read books. I love to write books. And I love to talk to others who love books.

I've found that my book groups do more than talk about books. We also learn about ourselves: our beliefs and values; our experiences and viewpoints.

My next book coming: A Corner of Universe

2008-11-05T18:33:00.000-08:00

After caring for her mother until her death, forty-one year old Zoe Sterling finally has it all: a prominent physician husband, her first baby on the way, a vintage Chicago home. Zoe has even planned a dream vacation to Bermuda—a second honeymoon that she hopes will inspire her ambitious husband, Cal, to focus more of his attention on her rather than his burgeoning career. But two days before they’re to leave, Cal’s grown son from a former girlfriend saunters into their lives. Seeing the delight on her husband’s face, Zoe sacrifices the trip and opens her home on Universe Street to Seth Pruitt.

Handsome and spoiled, Seth plunges headlong into the Chicago club scene, but Zoe is preoccupied with the state of her marriage. Cal has accepted a long-term position in Africa to establish medical clinics and will leave soon for a survey trip. The night before he leaves, Seth wrecks his car; the repairs will take at least two weeks. Cal assures Zoe that Seth will be good company for her while he’s gone.

Nineteen-year-old Neva Reckart lives next door with her mother, and Zoe pities the misfit’s lonely and friendless life. One morning when Neva visits, Seth struts into her desperate radar. Seth treats her with casual disrespect, and Neva’s attempts to win him become increasingly outrageous. Zoe pleads with Seth not to toy with the mentally unstable girl, but Seth laughs off her concerns. As Cal becomes more distant during their phone calls, his associate, beautiful Melissa Delany, assumes a more prominent role in Cal’s job and Zoe’s marriage splinters. When Seth’s attitude toward Zoe shifts to aggressive defiance, Zoe is forced into a situation that will jeopardize everything she holds dear, including the life of her unborn child.

The Flume

2008-09-30T12:52:00.000-07:00

When you climb into a hollowed-out "log" in Busch Gardens--actually a tough plastic tube with seating and seat belts for about six people--you're hurtled along a roller coaster track, twisting and jerking over the tiny people below you. Finally, after several minutes of white-knuckled screams, you plunge into a cool lake.

That moment is the thrill. You knew it was coming all along, knew you'd be soaked, but the thick water stops the momentum of the log and for a few moments, you drift under hanging palm fronds and brilliant frangipani. The only sounds are the gurgling water, the laughing sighs of your flume-mates and the hum of the machinery which pulls you along the sunken track. The pseudo-fear is over. You relax, close your eyes, enjoy floating for a few moments.

I've finished a book, and this is where I am. The last few months have had me roaring along the rails of my story, frantically pounding the keyboard, seeing the shining light that marked the the end of my long, sometimes frightening, journey. My writing flume has rushed into the dark liquid quiet of creativity at rest. I'll float now, close my eyes, rest my head back and let the waters of new ideas slosh through my mind. It's a stark change in momentum and energy, one that is a shock to my system, at first, but one that I'll make myself savor for a while.

Ode to Teachers

2008-09-18T09:38:00.000-07:00

There's a saying directed to aspiring writers: keep writing. True words, but I would add another bit of advice: keep learning. Because if you're writing the same drivel, still not getting what you want with it, it may be an indication you need some learning to go along with all that pen scratching and keyboard pounding.

With a good teacher, my writing unfurls and soars. I can take my ideas from little tiny icky larvae to some stuff I really love. The visions and feelings I have rattling around inside me get defined, and I can begin to see the image I want for my story through the smoke of my thoughts.

I love taking online writing courses. My most recent course is being taught by Laura Baker and Robin Perini, Discovering Story Magic, and is offered by writersonlineclasses.com. Laura and Robin are tremendous teachers and the title of the course should be "Turning the mush in your head to coherent thought." Each of the six books I've written, three of which are presentable, have taken me over a year to write. With this method, I feel like I'll be able to cut my time by several months. I've taken many wonderful courses from fabulous teachers like Robin and Laura. I'll blog about others, like Margie Lawson and Mary Buckham, in future posts.

Lucky's Point

2008-08-25T17:26:00.001-07:00

Lucky's Point, my recently completed novel, is set in a fictional county in the Trinity-Shasta area of northern California on Trinity Lake. Lucky's Point is the name of a fictional resort on the lake which in my book is the largest privately owned resort in North America.

The Trinity-Shasta region is an incredibly wild area, one of the most beautiful in the world, in my opinion. It's the home to some of the oldest living things on earth, redwoods and sequoias, and an active volcano, Mount Shasta. I've visited the area often, and if I had my way, would live there. I loved doing the research on the area, and one of the best books I found was one called Stepping Westward by Sallie Tisdale. I also read several books about Sasquatch, Bigfoot hunters and folklore of the forest. The secondary character of my book, Isaiah Masten, is a member of the Native American Hupa tribe, so I also enjoyed my research about the Hupa tribe.

Lucky's Point is about Tedi Prentice, a school psychologist who after counseling a teenage rape victim, suffers from her recurring childhood nightmares. When I began the book, I knew I wanted to set it in the Trinity area. I knew I wanted a mystical feel, but not a mystical book. I knew I wanted to include the folklore of the Bigfoot, or Sasquatch.

During writers' conferences, there always seems to be a workshop about creativity, and in one such session, an editor suggested that authors should write about a "what if" event and weave it into a story. So my "what if" was born when I asked myself, "What if someone very reputable claimed to have captured a real Sasquatch?"

Lucky's Point is a murder mystery, and also, I think, a woman's book. One thing I really love about it is that it integrates characters of diverse ethnic backgrounds, religious backgrounds, and even geographical backgrounds. I loved writing about the play between east and west, that in my opinion, is a very substantial part of our culture and how we view each other as Americans. And since I'm basically a westerner (born and raised in Kansas) who has lived most of my life in the east (Florida, which for anyone who is not aware, is very eastern in culture) I felt like I could bring those contrasts into my characters.

Now, all I have to do is get a publishing contract, then you can enjoy Lucky's Point.

What's in a name?

2008-07-29T17:48:00.000-07:00

Remember when you were in grade school and on the first day of class, the teacher would call roll and mispronounce names? Then remember when everyone in the class craned around in his or her seat and gaped at the student whose name had been bungled, as if the poor kid was personally responsible for the difficult name?

I was one of those kids. Almost every first day of school I suffered through the open-mouthed, slow blinking stares of my fellow classmates.

According to a friend of mine who is Jewish, my name is pronounced like the Jewish word "Rebbe" meaning teacher or mentor. Both "Rebbe" and my name, Rebbie, rhyme with Debbie. But on that first day of school, sometimes even through the first week, I was called by everything but my name. "Ruby" was popular. Sometimes "Ree-bee". A lot of times "Reddy". And other times, simply a quick mumble and a flick of the hand toward the direction of my seat where I waited red-faced for the teacher to acknowledge me.

Now days, the most common mistake is, of course, Reba McIntyre. For a few brief moments, before someone realizes his or her mistake, I'm the object of delighted gasps. But in the next instant, my flash of fame fizzles and, once again, I become simply a woman with a confusing name.

My birth certificate reads, Rebecca, but my dad didn't want to call me Rebecca or Becky. According to him, I had a will of my own-- headstrong is what he called me--and he took to calling me his little rebel. That eventually became Rebbie.

Twyla Tharp has a great book out for creative people called The Creative Habit. In one chapter, she talks about the importance of a name for creativity. I had started writing under Rebecca, but after reading her book, I went to the name that has been my own: Rebbie.

It was my special gift from my dad, and it has the added benefit of being unusual. For another Rebbie, copy and paste the Youtube link below.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l7MidxMUcJg

My book, CAST THE FIRST STONE

2008-07-21T06:04:00.000-07:00

Cast the First Stone is the story of Trinidad Bates, a young widow in Depression-era Colorado who saves her brother from a murder conviction by using her talent as a dowser.

Using a divining rod or a crystal pendulum, dowser Trini Bates can locate the unseen: underground water, buried minerals, lost valuables.
Some claim she’s a wonder worker.
Others say she’s a liar, a cheat, a fake.
Trini is neither saint nor charlatan. Recently widowed, she only wants to be left alone to grieve. However, when her brother’s bootlegging partner disappears, Trini is summoned from her seclusion to dowse for his whereabouts. She finds his body at the bottom of a Colorado canyon, but she’s devastated when the sheriff charges Parn—the brother she raised after their mother’s death--with murder.
Trini admits her brother is wild and reckless, but he’s not a murderer.
And if he’s innocent, then who is guilty?
Trini’s investigation plunges her into the bloody Prohibition world of moonshine and machine guns. She discovers Sheriff George Mallis hides a secret. Before he wore a sheriff’s badge, he spearheaded the largest illegal liquor trade in Colorado—a trade that cost him the lives of his sons. Mallis blames Parn for their deaths, and Trini is terrified he will wreak his vengeance on an innocent man.
Mallis isolates his prisoner in jail. Her only link to Parn is through the chief deputy—a man willing to risk his job for Trini’s affection, a complication that rocks her fragile emotional balance. Trini bonds with the murder victim’s children, and with their help, unearths disturbing truths about her brother’s life. When her dowsing fails to find a friend’s missing daughter, Trini realizes her doubts about Parn’s innocence have sabotaged her ability. Even when the children are threatened and someone tries to kill her, her precious gift lies dormant. Somehow, Trini must reclaim her power if she’s to save the children, her brother and finally, her own life.

To learn more about dowsing, see the following at Youtube.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HYwn0c-euYE&NR=1

The Road Less Traveled

2007-02-28T05:49:00.000-08:00

There has been a lot of posting recently about how an author markets herself/himself, and they've all reached one conclusion: Very little works.

So if all the promotion in the world is to little or no avail, then what's a writer to do? I beleive that the only thing we can do is to capitalize on the core of success: writing a wonderful story. A writer with an agent has probably got the craft thing down. That's a general statement, but by and large, I think it's true. Then, the expansion of a writer's unique creativity becomes critical.
My suggestion is to create an internet pressence, certainly, including a website and blog, but beyond that spend your time and money on defining your individuality and creativity. For instance:
* Take one session of acting classes a year. You'll be surprised how learning the basics of that art can give insight to your own creative work.
* Take one session of visual art classes a year, ie painting, drawing, sculpting etc. Concentrate on the act of creating and how it transfers to writing.
* If you can afford it, pay a counselor or therapist for a series of six sessions, once a month for six months. Your goal is to get help in accessing your buried uniqueness that is uninfluenced by media and curltural expectations.
* Pledge to yourself to have a weekly art date ALONE to experience something new and different. (This is from Julia Cameron) Use your insights for writing.
* One week a year, retreat. Not a conference with networking and seminars. And not a week long getaway where you finish up that novel that's on a tight deadline. Those are different. What I mean is that a writer needs to retreat from the world and renew. Go to someplace (a monestary?) where you are ALONE and you actually use the time to let your mind to explore and foster your creativity.
* Learn to meditate and practice it daily. Yoga teaches meditation techniques. Transcendental meditation is good. Or you can learn meditation yourself, although that's the most difficult way to do it, in my opinion.
All of the above should be done in addition to the nearly daily reading and writing that are needed for a writer to get and keep her/his craft.
An author can put a gob of time and money into traveling and signings. Admirable, but not cost effective. In my opinion, it's better using the time, energy and money on enhancing creativity.

"Sometimes I Don't Agree with Myself"

2007-02-07T07:22:00.000-08:00

I read in our local newspaper that when Rudy Guilliani flew down here to the tropics to hobnob with the rich and ultra-rich in Sarasota, (where, believe me, they grow as abundant as palmetto bushes) one of the society reporters asked him something about his stance on controversial issues. His comment: "Sometimes I don't agree with myself."

Now, thinks I, that is one damn genius statement.

Because there are a bunch of times when I don't agree with myself. Case in point: Flyboy is the name I'll give to my hubby because, God help me, last time around I married a pilot. He can get under my skin deeper than a needle. There are times when I scream to myself that I've had it with him. I'm done. Take him, or me, away. Forever. But, with a timing that must be inherent in fighter pilots, he'll do something sweet: buy me a special kitchen knife (because, as my family will testify, I have this thing about cutting myself whenever I get to within a couple of inches of a sharp blade); come home with a couple of bags of dark chocolate kisses (which cause me to swoon with joy);buy an expensive bottle of single malt scotch that I love. (Which could lead into a non-stop babble about the joys of combining chocolate and scotch, but I'll save that for another post.)

All my feelings about what a louse he is evaporate into the mesophere and I'm left with the feeling that I'm really only a scatterbrained seventeen year old after all.

Sometimes I don't agree with myself either, Rudy.