fiction, new from the book

new from the book: Chapter 2; October 30, 1857

read Chapter 1: Late October, 1857 here

William thought about turning back the whole ride over to Brockwayville. He thought it, dithered and pondered, but did not once turn the reins. Ambition pushed him forward. Pride, too. Without him, their little endeavor would be as cold in the ground as Black Hen. William puffed out his chest at that.

He deflated quickly, looked around to be sure no one saw. No one thinks highly of a man too proud of himself. Only twenty-one and nothing to be prideful about, anyway. William had enough sense to be able to laugh at his own self. Want to get it outta the way before she does, if I even catch a glimpse, he thought.

Uncle Junior at the livery stables gave him a beauty that morning. The kind of horse a man felt like taking when he went a-courtin’. Guess he was, in a couple of ways. William admired the horse with the sunlight rising through the trees. Some trees, anyway. Fewer than there used to be, said mama. Fewer than there were before he went Cincinnati last winter. Lord, but he saw some women there. His mind drifted pleasurably. William hauled up short, reminding himself of his vow.

No more women. Less liquor. No more trouble. I went to Cincy. I had as fine a time a poor man could have in a city, and kept Mama from hearin’ most of it. There’s something to be proud about. William threw out the kind of fine laugh he’s known for, startling the horse. She settled right back down, though, and only gave him sort of a look.

“I know, girl,” he said, patting the mare’s neck. “Penelope’s the only female fer me. Human, at least, anymore. I promised.” He’d come back from the only debauchery a man who’s been helping support his family could. The boys been determined to be men for their mama since they’s born. Cincinnati sure was fun, though. Playing around, learning, burning with ambition.

He’d come back to Brookville, spotted Penelope Clarke, and promised her he’d not feel another woman’s breasts, nor any of the other fun bits, ‘less they were hers. Well, excluding patients. And, well, he’d not precisely made that promise to Penelope, out loud, in person, or any other way. “Wouldn’t do to discuss delicate things with a delicate lady.” William said that last bit aloud.

The horse snorted. “That’s last of the flies, I suspect,” said William to her. Reassuring the mare.

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fiction, new from the book

new from the book: Chapter 1; late October, 1857

new opening, new tone, better story. still looking for a title.
warning: racially charged language, swearing

Henry swung in a wide arc over the creek, whooping and hollering. He left go and fell through the water to land directly on his ass. He came up sputtering, like the water was deep enough to drown, which it was, but it was not precisely deep enough that he’d gone under.

“Damnation, that water’s cold.” He raised his voice to be sure it carried to the boys waiting on the bank, making a fuss of splashing and wringing out his shirttails. No one bit. They knew he’d take the bet before they made it, and he knew he’d wrestle any one of them. No one suggests Henry wouldn’t grab that timber pulley rope and jump the crick without expecting him in the air ‘fore they’re done.

All of them had tempers, as anyone would tell you all the North Fork boys had. Barely did Charlie need to roll his eyes towards John before Henry jumped him. John couldn’t challenge both to shoot a running rabbit before they were arguing over whose shot killed it.

Most everyone thereabouts had a temper or some gumption or something that made them come to the hills and ridges and hollows of Western Pennsylvania. Sure, people started settling Brookville at the turn of the century. Henry’s momma had come with her daddy near as soon as anybody else, but even fifty or so years later with the trees coming down and more than a handful of doctors or barbers and lawyers and newspapers in the town proper, it was on the frontier of the East.

They sent their share of lumber and game down the North Fork and the Redbank to the Allegheny at the junction of the three rivers in Pittsburgh, and made men rich. Or they came for the land, and some said there was maybe coal in the hills, too. No matter why or how, people came from all over America and tried to have a life and family.

Eyes down on the rocks, Henry reached out a hand for a friendly pull up the bank or his gun, didn’t much matter which. “You fellers had best not’ve run off with my boots.” He grabbed air.

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musings on art, new from the book

finally ready – editing the book

about a year ago, I completed the first draft of a still untitled novel. It felt like I’d be ready to edit in a couple weeks and have things ready to be shown off impossibly soon. It’s been over a year, and the grammatical edits of that shaky draft are half-finished, buried in the depths of my desk.

The sun is metaphorically shining, though. I’ve been working on the “When Sheets Attack!” series, and sadly anticipating the end of some of my favorite television. That television was one of the things that nudged me along the path of a novel based on the history of my little town. I’m ready for re-writes now. Plotting will be changed. Facts will hew more closely to the historical ones, and focus has shifted. The fascination lies far less with the autopsy than the reverberations though the lives of the men involved. It is time the text reflected that.

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musings, musings on creating

a week on: how do I get published?

Tomorrow makes it one week since I finished the first draft of the book. {see the first few pages here.} I ran off to take care of exciting personal, non-writing related things this past weekend, and am now ready to settle in and give what I’ve written a good once over.

I’ve a list of things I know need working {each character needs a proper voice, as things turned out remarkably talky, some characters need a bit more development, the setting could be more fully fleshed out, etc.}, and I’m sure I’ll find a million more big and little things to fix. All of that, I know I can do.

Where I have no road map is on how I get published. It is all well and good to be able to say “I’ve finished the first draft of my first novel,” but no publisher in her right mind is going to just hand me some money and offer to publish…or even just offer to publish and pay me if copies are sold. I could self-publish, but right now I have already taken enough time off work to write this thing. I do not want to sink my own money in just yet.

And, so, I research. I beg information from anyone I know who has any contacts that might know how to go about getting published. I Google. I blog, hoping some editor person will like what she reads. I do what I can, and what I can right now is get stuck in on some edits and ask for help.

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fiction, new from the book

first draft complete: a teaser

I feel like exclamation points. Lots and lots and lots of exclamation points. Instead of using them, there are pedicures and champagne, and the first pages of the first draft of the tentatively titled “The Worst Laid Plans,” a novel loosely based on a true story of grave robbing doctors in rural Western Pennsylvania in 1857.

“Before God, I am exceeding weary.”
Augustus Bell swallowed his whiskey and slid the glass down the bar.
“Are we about to argue the relative demerits of patients before and after the prescription again?” he asked the man who had spoken. “If so, I require another drink.”

Swinging the door securely closed behind him, the new arrival nodded his confirmation to the bartender. Downing his first quickly as his companion sipped, he signaled for another and sighed.

“The Widow Barnett arrived this afternoon, interrupting an appointment, demanding to know why half the town’s doctors appeared hungover yesterday.”
Bell shifted his eyes, searching for listeners.
“Do you think she suspects?”
“That we’re all raving drunkards and desperately looking for excitement? Absolutely.”
“No,” Bell said, “Do you think she suspects?”
“That only a few of the town’s unmarried doctors are behaving as appropriately as expected while squiring young ladies? Absolutely again.”
“Heichhold, you test my patience. Do you think she knows we have performed sustained physical labor in the previous thirty-six hours?”

Heichhold gave his chin a nod to thank the bartender for prompt service and used the opportunity to make his own scan for eavesdroppers.

“Harriet was delightfully robust in manner this afternoon.”
“You vex me. And, do not allow anyone to hear you call her Harriet. You are on thin enough ice with your ingratiating manners and constant demands for a dance.”

“Don’t be on about dancing again, fellows.”

William McKnight sidled up to the bar, somehow drifting through the cold wind without the slamming door that had followed the entry of all previous patrons.

Nick was ready with a whiskey poured, wondering like all the others how the town had come to this. He had never seen such grim faces, nor heard the whispers so loud. The various townsfolk shared the gossip they traded like currency all through the afternoon.

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fiction, new from the book

new from the book #13

the end is near. celebratory champagne is calling my name.

“Simmons felt as though he’d been startled out of his boots. ‘Not so loud, Heichhold,’ he hissed. ‘In any case, what are you doing at a temperance lecture?’
‘Simply passing through, thought you looked as though you could use a drink.’
An elderly lady who looked as though she well knew the taste of lemons glared. ‘I am sorry ma’am,’ Heichhold said, ‘but my friend here has stolen my girl, and I am desperate to get her back. You see, she’s a Methodist and has nothing to do with liquor, while he carries on like a sailor six nights a week.’
At this, the old lady began to smile. Heichhold was sure he had won her over. ‘I knew your Aunt Minerva, young Augustus Pierce. Take your stories to the kind of a lady who will believe them and leave good people alone.'”

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fiction, new from the book

new from the book #12

over halfway done with the rough first draft with this chapter. hooray.

“Willie waited until he tiptoed up the stairs to his own little room before he lit a candle. In the dim light, he winced as he sat on his bed. Whatever it was in his pocket had cut his leg. He pulled it out. The tiny sharp knife had a funny angled edge on a long handle, intricately carved. Near the join of blade and handle there was a monogram. Willie squinted and tried to make letters out of the fancy script and vines. JGS.”

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