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Lo’s Writing Blog

Prologue 

Lightning split the night sky over Shuyle, and thunder reverberated through the energy-charged air. Lord Arbon sulked in his overstuffed chair in front of a roaring fire, savoring his foul mood instead of his food. Archidus was his younger brother—and his sworn enemy. One by one, Archidus’ Keepers had picked off Arbon’s Sniffers, rogue elves who had defected to Shuyle. Unfortunately, he had a limited supply of them at his disposal, since most elves were loyal to his brother’s pitiful cause.

On the old world, in roughly the last two hundred years, Lord Arbon had lost three Sniffers to the Keepers’ deadly blades. The most recent had left him seething. Balcombe had nearly taken a Keeper, when the Guardian stooped so low as to stab him in the back. Obviously, the Guardian had help, and Arbon suspected the Protector had come out of hiding. The counter bearing the name Protector had vanished for nearly 150 years, but all the signs indicated it had an active Keeper. Arbon tore off another chunk of venison with his teeth and mumbled, “Vengeance will be mine, brother.”

The magic flowing through Arbon’s veins endowed him with unusually long life, and he thought back over the last several centuries. As it had a thousand times before, the flashback of his mother’s death tormented him. A dozen soldiers and some priest, claiming to be an instrument in God’s holy work, had galloped into the town square and captured her. But the priest had been on the devil’s errand that day. Within minutes, they burned her at the stake for practicing witchcraft. Like the other witches at the market, she would have fled had she not been searching for her son. Arbon slammed his fist on the table. Why had he chosen that day to sneak off? His father had told him to stay with his mother. At the sound of her screams and the plume of black smoke, Arbon had run back and watched from behind the wagon of a peddler.

His father, heartbroken and lonely, had turned to the arms of another woman. That woman gave his father a second son—Archidus. Their father favored him, perhaps because the small boy was a seer and had the right answer to every question. But for whatever reason, their father’s eyes twinkled around Archidus, yet when he looked at his elder son, the man hid his scorn behind a false smile. Although the words never crossed his father’s lips, Arbon knew he was to blame for his mother’s death, and darkness soon filled his soul.

As the oldest and most experienced of the Keepers, Arbon should have been voted Master Keeper. But at the dawn of the new world, his conniving younger brother had used his influence to sway the others and had stolen the prestigious title. Thinking of it now brought Arbon’s blood to a boil faster than a blast of energy from an angry elf.

Archidus’ fondness for the human race was a disgrace to everything magical, and their father had displayed the same foolishness. The energy expended to create a new world would’ve been put to better use destroying humankind. If Arbon had his way, in the future every human would bend his knee in deference, or pay the price.

He caressed the gold counters dangling beneath his lavish robes—Propulsion and Creation were his. He needed five more, but his efforts to obtain them had been fruitless for many years. Following the death of Creation’s Keeper, the other Keepers had entrusted their counters to humans to prevent Arbon from obtaining the devices. He had thought it a fool’s decision at the time—humans were measly creatures, after all. But the sheer number of them on the old world had made locating a Keeper challenging. Not to mention, Arbon’s magical abilities and those of his Sniffers were compromised when they traveled to the old world.

Arbon drank his wine in great gulps, hoping to douse the hot wrath welling inside him, then slammed the empty goblet on the table as a knock sounded. “Enter,” he commanded.

His closest ally, Legard, swept into the room, pausing to bow. “Milord, I’ve found it.” The Sniffer’s face was flushed, his cloak dirty and tattered from his travels. 

Arbon smiled. “Yes? Do tell.”

Legard turned to close the door behind him. “I’ve located the perfect time portal—a chance to entrap two Keepers, perhaps kill a third if fortune smiles on us.”

Arbon stood and pulled out a chair for the Sniffer before pouring a generous portion of wine into an ornate goblet. “Ahh, Legard, my most loyal friend, your news is cause to celebrate! Come, sit, enjoy food and wine and tell me more.”

Three goblets of wine later, as Legard prepared to return to his quarters, Arbon said, “We must tell no one. Archidus cannot learn of our plan. Safely lock your thoughts against his prying eyes. Recruit two more Sniffers and tell them only what you must. The less they know, the better our chance for success.”

 Legard bowed respectfully. “As you wish, milord.”

Archidus could decipher the intentions of others, and Arbon did not doubt his brother would be looking. But Arbon was confident this secret—like so many others in the past—would remain hidden. For both he and Legard were well acquainted with the art of deception.

There is much to be grateful for at this special season. Family, friends, home & hearth. It was ten years ago today that my father was diagnosed with a terminal brain tumor. That one emergency room visit on the day after Christmas sent our family down an unforeseen path. The road was difficult and often laced with tears, but through it all we learned to fully appreciate the gift of family. It is our relationships with each other that make us happy, not the things we surround ourselves with. There is nothing like the smirk on my brother’s face when he is about to tease me, or the sweet feel of my niece’s head resting on my shoulder, her tiny body cuddled next to mine. Before my dad died he asked us to get together often and to work together. Knowing my dad, the working together request made sense, but I did pause to contemplate this. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that although playing together is fun and one way we can renew our acquaintance, the best way to build a relationship with someone is to work with them.

This morning I went with my daughter, my sister, and two brothers-law for a jog through a winter wonderland. Three inches of snow blanketed the road and fluffy flakes swirled through the grey sky. The snow clung to my eyelashes, then melted, trickling down my face. The beauty of nature is awe-inspiring. But the warmth of a nice home and the fire flickering in the fireplace in front of me were never more welcomed.

I’m looking forward to the next year, mostly because it will bring the release of my second book, The Keeper’s Quest. Toward the end of January it should be available on Amazon and then make its debut in stores shortly thereafter. The opportunity to share my books with all of you is a miracle, an incredible opportunity, and a blessing for which I will be forever grateful.

May the new year bring you all happiness, joy, and many great books to read!

This blog hop is like a game of tag. One author posts and tags three to five other authors who link back to their website the next week and tag three to five new authors. If you follow the blog hop long enough, you’re bound to find some books you’ll love! Maybe you’ll even discover a book that ends up being the next big thing.

I was tagged by A.L. Sowards. You can learn more about Sowards and her book Espionage from her website (www.alsowards.com), facebook page (http://facebook.com/alsowards) or through twitter (@ALSowards). Espionage is available for purchase in most LDS bookstores and on Amazon.

This blog hop includes ten questions to help you learn more about an author’s current work in progress, so here’s a little info about my current project:

1: What is the working title of your book?

The Keeper’s Quest a sequel to my YA speculative fiction novel, The Keeper’s Calling (I just can’t resist . . . here is a taste of book 2)

A tragic death ~ A fatal trap ~ A quest to rescue the one he loves 

“I woke to the flash of counter coordinates and a rush of adrenalin—then it hit me—I was a pawn in someone’s game of chess and I’d just been moved. Master Archidus required my services. I was a Keeper—the Protector, to be specific. I hadn’t wanted this, but neither would I shun my duties. The other Keeper’s life wasn’t the only one at stake.” –Chase Harper

After a turbulent start to his senior year, Chase expects life will return to normal now that Ellie Williams is back. But when a Sniffer’s trap leads him on a journey spanning two worlds, he soon realizes things aren’t always what they seem.

2: Where did the idea come from for the book?

The idea stems from my fascination with time travel and history. I’ve always dreamed of visiting times past, seeing what the world looked like, how people dressed, talked and viewed their society. My series, The Keeper’s Saga, explores that through the eyes of modern-day teenager Chase Harper as he finds himself in 1818 digging the Erie Canal, 1939 during Hitler’s Nazi Regime, and at a New Year’s Eve ball in the war-torn Union of 1863.

3: What genre does your book fall under?

YA speculative fiction with some fantasy elements

4: Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

Liam Hemsworth as Chase Harper

Channing Tatum as Garrick

And while I’m at it, I might as well have Taylor Swift take the female lead as Ellie, then I’d have a power-packed cast.

Sam Worthington as Captain Marcus Landseer

5: What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

“I woke to the flash of counter coordinates and a rush of adrenalin—then it hit me—I was a pawn in someone’s game of chess and I’d just been moved.”

6: Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

The Keeper’s Quest will be published by Walnut Springs Press. They are currently working on it and are planning on releasing the book in January of 2013. Follow https://www.facebook.com/TheKeepersSaga for status updates.

7: How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

Roughly 3 months. I began in May while on a trip with my husband to Hawaii and finished in August.

8: What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

I’ve had people tell me that The Keeper’s Quest has more of a “Lord of the Rings” feel.

9: Who or What inspired you to write this book?

My sister Sandra. Although many of my beta readers asked about a sequel to The Keeper’s Calling after they finished reading it, I distinctly remember Sandra being one of the first when she emailed me the comment, “This story just begs for a sequel.” After that I seriously asked myself, “What would happen next? What could happen next?”

10: What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

If you haven’t read The Keeper’s Calling, check out the first chapter posted on my publisher’s website here.

The Keeper’s Calling is on sale at Amazon. Would it make a good Christmas present for someone you know? I’ve had kids ages 10 and up love it! Click here to see it on Amazon.com.

Here is a list of authors who will be joining the hop for week 22 on November 21^st. I hope you’ll visit their blogs next week and learn more about their books. Maybe one of them will become your new favorite author!

Laura Johnston, my amazing sister and I expect she will soon be a published author as well! Laura maintains a fabulous writer’s blog and is known for her regular visiting-author posts and book giveaways. Visit her blog at http://www.lojwriting.blogspot.com/

Karen Hoover, an award winning young adult fantasy author as well as a fabulous editor and writing coach. You can learn more about Karen’s books, The Wolf Child Saga, at http://www.karen-hoover.blogspot.com and her author services are provided through Tin Bird Publications at www.tinbirdpublications.com

J. Lloyd Morgan, author of the I-couldn’t-put-down novel, The Hidden Sun. If you have a Kindle, the ebook version is a fabulous value at $2.99 The Hidden Sun on  Amazon. Visit Jason at http://www.jlloydmorgan.com or http://jlloydmorgan.blogspot.com/

The Keeper’s Calling Prologue

June 2, 1863

The old man knew this was the end. He wouldn’t talk. He had vowed not to give them what they wanted. Sweat drenched his entire body. They’d left his back shredded from the lash of a whip. Each open wound made more painful by the sting of salty sweat.

The butt of a rifle rattled his head and he opened his eyes. Blood dripped from the five stumps that used to be his fingers. They’d ruined his right hand, brutally severing each finger one by one. He expected them to move to his left hand next and prayed for the end to come quickly. He welcomed it—the peace of a quiet slumber in the grave. No more running. No more hiding. No more fighting. At somewhere over 80 years old he increasingly felt his age. It was impossible to know for certain how long he’d lived, but he knew his time was short. If fortune smiled on him, he would bleed to death before they did more.

***

The Mexican don stepped closer, frustrated. An ordinary man would have broken by now. “Where is it old man? I grow tired of these games. You can’t possibly escape. Tell me where you’ve hidden it and I’ll be merciful.”

The old man moaned. “Never! You’ll go back to that snake you’re working for with nothing.”

A sinister laugh escaped the don’s throat. “We’ll see about that.” He looked at Juan and the two brothers who worked for him, addressing the eldest. “Miguel, bandage up his hand and keep him alive. We’re going after the girl. Perhaps then he can be motivated to talk.”

At the mention of the girl the old man flew into a rage. With a surge of unnatural strength, he broke free. He ploughed through his captors and lunged for the don, burying the splintered end of a branch in the Mexican’s heart.

Miguel drew his sword and drove it through the old man’s back. Glancing down at the bloodstained tip protruding from his chest, the old man smiled as he crumpled to his knees, toppling onto the lifeless body of his tormentor.

Ortiz climbed to his feet and dusted off his sombrero. “Balcombe ain’t gonna like this.”

Miguel wiped the blood from his sword. “He doesn’t have to know. Hide the old man in the trees. The three of us will finish this business ourselves.”

Juan, the youngest of the men, threw up his hands and backed toward his horse. He was nursing a bad wound sustained in the initial capture of the old man. “Not me. I’m out.”

A half smile played at the corner of the Miguel’s mouth as he contemplated splitting the promised gold two ways instead of four. How hard could it be to get a girl to cooperate?

They loaded the don’s body onto his horse. Juan grabbed the reins of the don’s horse and limped to his own. Without looking back, he mounted up and rode away, leaving the two brothers to clean up the mess.

***

Miles away, the dust swirled around the spinning wheels of the overland stage coach. It wouldn’t be more than a few hours longer until Ellen Elizabeth Williams was home. Fortunately, the journey had been relatively uneventful. The stage sunk in the mud once, forcing all the passengers to get out and push. But, at least there were no hold-ups. It could have been worse. She frowned as she shifted positions, certain her backside had suffered permanent bruising from bouncing up and down on the uncomfortable bench. Thankfully, there was another female passenger on board and the two women had enjoyed each other’s company immensely.

The rocking cadence of the horses pulling the stage coach over the rutted dirt road lulled her into reminiscing on the life events which had shaped her past. At eighteen, she still preferred to be addressed by the nickname Ellie which had been given her by her father. For the past four years she had attended the Girls’ High School in Boston. Her great-aunt Lydia was widowed before ever having children of her own. Hence, when her grandfather suggested a proper education, the prospect of taking in Ellie had delighted the older woman.

During her time in Boston, Ellie had missed her grandfather’s two room cabin out west in the Utah territory. The amount of time it took to travel that distance prevented her from visiting home each summer, as some of the other girls did. Fortunately, her grandfather wasn’t as restricted in his travel methods as she was. He frequently visited her Aunt’s modest home in Boston, and they had often enjoyed supper together on Sunday evenings. She and Aunt Lydia didn’t mention these visits to anyone.

Ellie’s father had married at the age of thirty eight while her mother was only twenty three. Her mother’s family disapproved of the union due to their vast age difference. Two years later, after a hard childbirth, Ellie’s mother died of pneumonia. Her mother’s family became bitter at the loss of their daughter and blamed Ellie’s father George for her death. They shunned their new little granddaughter, wanting nothing to do with her. Heartbroken at the loss of his wife and the harsh treatment from his in-laws, George poured all his love and attention into his little daughter. Fate dealt her cruel hand when at a mere eight years of age, Ellie’s father became ill and passed away, leaving her an orphan.

Amyot Williams, her grandfather, had been a frequent visitor and was loved by Ellie. He promptly took custody of the young girl and moved her out west with him. She thrived in his frontier environment. He had been one of the earliest white settlers in Timpoweap, which is Paiute for “Rock Canyon.” Evidently, during the time she had been gone to school, the area was re-named Hurricane (pronounced Her-ah-kun). On one of his visits to Boston her grandfather relayed the story.

A group of Mormon surveyors had come through the area at the same time as a strong whirlwind which ripped the top off their buggy. They henceforth called the place Hurricane Hill and the name had stuck. Recently, there had been an influx of settlers to that region, all of whom now referred to the area as Hurricane. Grandfather Williams’ cabin was located a few miles west of Hurricane Hill, nestled near the Virgin River.

There Ellie learned all the necessary frontier survival skills. She became a confident rider, and was able to shoot and skin a rabbit as well as any boy raised out west, although it certainly wasn’t something she enjoyed doing. When her grandfather insisted she get a proper education befitting of a lady, the prospect of an adventure thrilled Ellie. Ellie quickly grew to love the hustle and bustle of city life. She would walk down the streets and peer in the shop windows, dreaming about wearing this dress or that fashionable new hat. Once she turned sixteen, she was allowed to attend the various parties, balls, and social events Boston was famous for.

Ellie was slightly taller than average, with honey blond hair, full of natural curl that glistened in the sunlight. In the past year she had many beaus vying for her attention. Although they were all nice, only one had caught her interest. Reveries of him filled her mind even now.

Walt Griffith was a doctor’s son and attending medical school himself. He was tall and strikingly handsome with his almost black hair and dark brown eyes. They had seen each other regularly since he’d asked her to dance at the Christmas ball. They attended rallies together in support of the Union troops, who were fighting the Southern states over the issue of slavery. She was deeply moved by some of the experiences she had heard from Ellen and William Craft, runaway slaves, who now resided in Boston and often made speeches in support of abolitionism.

Walt was anxious to finish his medical training and join the Union army as a doctor. He looked forward to putting his skills to use on the battlefield saving soldiers. In a way this war seemed a waste to Ellie. So many young men had lost their lives already and the Civil War still raged across the country. Why couldn’t they come to a reasonable agreement without all the loss of life? Would it be worth it?

She fingered the smooth paper folded neatly in her pocket—a telegram from her grandfather, urging her to ‘make all haste back home.’What could he mean? Was he ill? Or did it have to do with something else altogether—his secret?

Looking out the window, she noticed it wouldn’t be long now. They were on the outskirts of town with the sun still high in the sky. Soon she could ask him herself. Hopefully her grandfather received word the stage was coming in a day early or it would be a long walk to the cabin. Actually, too long a walk for today.

The coach jostled to a stop in St. George and the drivers unloaded the baggage. Being limited by the stage company to twenty five pounds of luggage, she had only brought a small satchel with a few dresses and personal effects. If she chose not to go back, she’d have Aunt Lydia ship the rest of her things in the trunk later. The trip had been long and tiring. Before leaving Boston, she’d heard an announcement regarding a transcontinental railroad. That would be a marvelous day indeed, when a person could board the train in Boston and continue west by rail as far as they’d like to go.

“Thanks folks,” nodded the driver as each of his passengers stepped down from the coach and gathered their belongings.

Ellie took her bag from him. “Thank you.”

“G’day, miss.”

Although late in the afternoon, the air was stifling. Ellie seated herself on the bench in front of the post office and waited. She would find someone to stay with in town if her grandfather didn’t arrive soon. People came and went from the mercantile across the street. Ellie smiled as she watched mothers work to keep their children in line, while toting their packages. She marveled at how the town had changed in the past four years.

Finally, Ellie gathered up her bag, deciding to ask the Harris family if she could spend the night. Their daughter Julia had been a good friend when she was younger. Ellie often ran down to Julia’s to play when her grandfather had come to town for supplies. As she stepped into the road, a wagon pulled in front of the mercantile.

“Why is that Miss Ellie, all grown up and back from Boston?” the man yelled.

“It certainly is Mr. Johnson. And, how are you and your family?” Ellie said.

Her grandfather’s nearest neighbor, jumped down from his wagon.

“Why, we’re just fine, ‘cept I broke a hoe, and the missus wants them weeds out of her garden yesterday. So, here I am, runnin’ to town to fetch me a new hoe. Actually, I got a whole list of supplies to pick up for Millie. She’s expectin’ a baby come end of summer or she’d have come along. I reckon she wasn’t too keen on gettin’ jostled by a wagon ride. Your grandfather pickin’ you up, or you need a ride?”

“I’d be much obliged, if you don’t mind? And congratulations. That’s wonderful news about Millie expecting.”

“Thanks. I’ll be a minute in the mercantile and then I can take you home.”

The sun hung low in the western sky by the time Mr. Johnson’s horse trotted along the rutted frontier road. Ellie welcomed the cool of the coming evening. In the distance the rocky, mountain formations beckoned to her. It had been too long since she’d ridden in the canyon. Perhaps tomorrow Grandfather would want to go, she thought.

Every spring, when she was a young girl, he took her up the canyon to the cave. It was their secret place. On the third year, when she was eleven, he had made Ellie lead the way. It took a couple of tries but she eventually found it. Every year after that, she had proudly led him straight to their cave.

“You can drop me off here. I’ll walk the rest of the way. It’ll do me good to stretch my legs after sitting all day,” Ellie said as they reached the drive leading to her grandfather’s cabin.

Mr. Johnson pulled back on the traces. “Say hello to your grandfather for me.”

Ellie hopped down from his wagon and grabbed her satchel. “I will. Thank you for the ride.”

Her excitement at surprising her grandfather quickly vanished. Nothing but disappointment and a dark cabin met her at the end of the drive. He was nowhere to be found. She walked through their small barn yard hoping to find him feeding the animals, but the horses neighed for attention and the chickens flocked underfoot. The old milk cow seemed extra full, but she shrugged it off. After being gone four years, maybe she’d forgotten how full an udder got.

In the dwindling twilight, she tossed grain to the chickens, spread hay for the other animals, and then pulled out the milk stool. She rested her cheek against the warm flank of the mild-mannered cow. Her hands easily fell into the old milking routine—squeeze pull, squeeze pull. She closed her eyes and relished the pinging sound of fresh milk hitting the metal pail.

The sound of the animals munching their hay soothed her. After the milking, she pumped water into their trough. She splashed tepid water on her face and neck as bats darted through the darkening sky. Breathing deeply the clean desert air, a contented smile played across her face and a sigh escaped her lips. An owl flew overhead and started up a chorus as it balanced on top of a nearby tree. While she relished being home, a sick feeling settled in her stomach. Where was her grandfather?

Perhaps he had been out hunting today. He was notorious for coming home late from hunting trips. Undoubtedly, he’d be home soon, Ellie thought, deciding not to worry about him yet. She pushed open the door to the quiet cabin and set her satchel on the floor. She lit a candle and poured a cup of milk for her supper. The rest of the milk she took out to the cellar.

After surveying the meager stock of supplies, she decided to bake and churn butter tomorrow. Taking the last quarter loaf of bread, she returned to the cabin and locked the door. Sitting alone at the table, she ate the bread soaked in fresh milk and drizzled with honey.

Grandfather had given her the back room of the cabin, while he slept on a bed in the main room. Weariness overcame her, and she chose her grandfather’s bed. When he came home, she’d wake up to see him. As soon as her head hit the pillow, she slipped into a deep and dreamless slumber.

Her mind, heavy with sleep, didn’t register the significance of the beating of horses’ hooves coming up the drive. It wasn’t until someone banged on the door that she pulled herself back to reality. As she sat up, the sound of splitting wood echoed through the cabin. The blade of an ax cracked the door. By the sputtering candle light, she watched in horror as the ax splintered the wooden planks.

Scrambling off the bed, she darted through her room to the back window. Ripping away the muslin that acted as a screen to keep the mosquitoes out, she climbed through the small space. A slur of Spanish yelling followed her out the window.

She ran to the barn, grabbed a bridle, and slid it on the brown and white calico horse. There was no time for a saddle. The intruders would soon discover her. Wedging an elbow against his withers, Ellie jumped on the horse’s back and swung her leg over. Yanking her skirt to her knees, she straddled the horse. A swift kick sent the gate flying open, and she galloped out of the barn yard.

The Mexicans darted outside and followed. The tall, lanky assailant swung a rope above his head as his galloping horse closed the gap. The lariat flew through the moonlit sky and settled firmly around her torso, sending a jolt of panic through her. She sat back and called, “Whoa!”

Pulling firmly on the horse’s mouth, she brought him sliding to a stop. As she scrambled to free herself from the rope, the man jerked on the rope, pulling her backward over the horse’s tail. As she landed flat on her back, her horse jumped forward and trotted down the drive.

The man stood over her. “Where you runnin’ off to senorita?” While he studied her, he coiled his rope. Ellie gasped as she tried to catch her breath. “We’re gonna have a little fun the two of us.”

“Ortiz, tie her hands and let’s get out of here. There’s no time to waste,” ordered the shorter man.

With the gate open, the cow, the sheep, and the other horse meandered past, following after the calico. They sniffed the parched ground looking for any stray weeds or blades of grass not scorched by the desert sun. Despite her struggling, Ellie’s hands were tied behind her back and she was seated on their extra horse. The Mexicans’ horses trotted down the drive and turned toward the canyon. Something wasn’t right. These men hadn’t taken the horses. They hadn’t searched the cabin for valuables. Obviously they weren’t common thieves. A shudder went down her spine. This was more than simply a random attack. She realized she would be getting her ride up the canyon much sooner than expected. Only this wasn’t quite how she’d imagined it.

For those within my circle of friends the waves got a little rough recently. I board horses, and four weeks ago, one of the older horses on our property had a severe episode of colic, resulting in a displaced bowel. The owner of this horse was out of town at the time. So when the vet recommended IV fluids for 24 hours, the overtime duty fell on me. Thankfully, since changing IV bags and keeping a colicky horse under control while you administer these IV fluids is a two-man job, I had help from the owner’s extended family. For only the third time in my life I pulled an all-nighter. The first being the birth of one of my daughters and the second being a ‘pack an elk out of the mountains’ trip with my husband.

In the middle of the night, when things didn’t look too promising, I dropped to my knees and said a quick prayer that we could keep this horse alive at least until the owner returned, if not a full recovery. Upon receiving my phone call earlier that evening, the owner had immediately left Idaho where they were vacationing and were driving all night to get back to their horse.

When the soft light of dawn lit the horizon and I heard their diesel truck pull into my driveway. I said a silent pray of thanks that her horse had survived the night and if nothing else, she would at least have the chance to say goodbye. Although I was dead tired I don’t know that I’ve ever felt better. There is nothing more gratify than stepping in and serving someone else when it is something they desperately want but can’t do for themselves. That horse went on to surprise us all by making a full recovery.

Not 6 days passed before another elderly horse on our property choked. His teeth had finally worn so thin he couldn’t chew his hay and a wad of it had lodged in his throat. I stood in as the vet-tech, holding the tube as the vet pumped fluids down his throat and cleared the blockage. He was on medicine for the next week and is currently on a ‘no hay’ diet.

Before his course of treatment was finished my young paint mare named Fancy started staggering. She looked like a drunkard. Unlike Toby Keith, I don’t give ‘beer to my horses,’ so I knew I had a problem. After a series of blood tests we determined she had eaten something toxic—maple leaves by the look of it. Leaves off the red maple tree can be fatal to horses. Leaves from the sugar maple or silver leaf maple can also make them sick. During a major windstorm (gusting east/northeast winds) a few days earlier, sugar maple leaves had blown into the pasture where my horse lived. In a normal year with Oregon’s typical southwesterly winds those leaves never would have come into her pasture.

They say bad things come in threes, so I was hoping the tempo out at the barn would return to normal. But Mother Nature is a busy lady, and last night we were pummeled with heavy rains. My son, a couple of my horse boarders and I worked the late shift shoveling mud and digging ditches to reroute the water down the hillside and away from the barn. Soaked through and splattered with mud, a hot shower had never felt better than it did last night at eight o’clock.

My dad always said something like, “If you don’t suffer a little bit, you won’t remember it.”

I’m thankful for all these little struggles that help me recognize and appreciate the blessings of a normal eight-to-five kind of day.

The theme of the PNWA conference centered on character development. As I listened, I realized that it is our love for the characters that keeps us turning the pages and makes us feel invested in the outcome of the story. It is the desire to have those beloved characters back in our life, if only for a few days, that has us anxiously awaiting a sequel. For a reader to really care you need to show your character’s change. Take your readers through the obstacles, hurdles, and opportunities, along with your protagonist, to show that change. 

A strong novel will take your character through different levels. 

Level 1 ~ Self: Protagonist only thinks of himself

Level 2 ~ Another: Protagonist begins to think of someone else or something else

Level 3 ~ Group: Protagonist expands his/her circle of caring and concern

Level 4 ~ Community: Not every character will get to these higher levels (It is the ‘Pay it Forward’ concept), but if your character can it will make for a more compelling story.

Level 5 ~ Mankind: Protagonist begins to consider what will be best for the greater good or for all mankind, i.e. Mother Theresa, Martin Luther King, or Ghandi

Hint: Don’t stop the flow of your novel to give a biography or snapshot. You don’t need to tell about each character as they come in. Weave it into the story by getting the character to speak or act. Include tidbits of movement where you can describe the character. Get them to move or talk in a way that will give the reader a clear picture of them. Or, show them through the eyes of another character.

Show don’t Tell: As I mentioned in my last blog post. This is a good rule, but impossible to do 100% of the time. Some telling has to be done, but there should be a lot of showing and the showing should be fantastic.

We want to write extraordinary characters, but we also want them to be real. No one wants to read about ordinary people doing ordinary things. Discuss your character’s strengths: empathy, morals, leadership.  Put obstacles in front of your character that show his strengths. Show them as just a little better than everyone else. Make them a tiny bit smarter, i.e. they are the detective that sees that one clue that everyone else missed.  Another great strength is forgiveness & self-sacrifice, but you won’t see it very often. 

We aren’t talking about Superman here, so we need to talk about their weakness, or rather their flaw or vulnerability. Another way to look at it is their inner conflict. What makes our character vulnerable? What is inside of them that makes them so? (Addiction, greed) When you give them their flaw make them sympathetic and maybe empathetic, but not pathetic. We don’t want them so flawed that our readers dislike our characters. There needs to be something endearing for a reader to grasp onto to. Character will be sympathetic if they recognize their weakness and are trying to change.

Difference between sympathetic and empathetic: Sympathetic you feel sorry for them. Empathetic you feel the same thing, you have experienced the same thing.

Give your character self-regard. Does your character care about themselves and the situation they are in. Books are written in peaks and valleys. Don’t forget the scenes where the character pauses to think about what has happened and/or what will happen. 

Additional things to think about:

What is your character’s physical appearance? Would the reader be able to identify my character if they were in a police line-up? Use movement or some unique observation to distinguish your character. Use their appearance to tell us something about them as well as giving us a physical description.  How does your character dress? Use that to tell us something about them. Starched shirt Armani suit? Or looks like he just got out of bed. Our characters should have a certain style.

We don’t have control over much in this business, but we do have control over the writing. Don’t throw any opportunity away. Make your writing as good as it can be!

Characterize your character through physical behavior. i.e. He turned sideways to get through the door. (we now know this character has a wide girth)

He ducked to get in the car and folded his legs like an accordion. (we know this character is unusually tall, or perhaps the car unusually small)

She stepped in the room and twirled around, saying, “How do you like my dress?” (we know she is vivacious and confident)

Similes and metaphors when done well can be a writer’s best friend. But overdone, they can be suicide. They must be original and well-placed.

Dialogue: How does your character talk and what makes them unique? You want your reader to be able to identify who is speaking without all the dialogue tags. Not everyone sounds the same and your dialogue should reflect this.

Quick Review of Definitions ~ Dialect vs. Diction:

Dialect is how a person pronounces something. With this, remember if you can’t write it like Mark Twain, be careful. Don’t overdo it with dialect. Put a little in and then have them talk normally. Just like a spice, adding a little dialect here or there will go a long way. Your reader will be able to fill it in after that.

Diction is the way characters say something, their grammar, their choice of words and the way they express their feelings.

Ask yourself, “How does your character see the world?” Then have your dialogue reflect that view.

Robert Dugoni is a New York Times Best-selling author of legal thrillers and a fabulous presenter. He regularly teaches the the PNWA conference and I always look forward to his classes. 

Showing has action at its core. Analyze the Meaningful vs. Mundane ~Tell the boring stuff: setup, dull but necessary actions, filler dialogue. Then show the interesting stuff. Use showing and telling to contrast between the meaningful and the mundane. If you showed everything, nothing would stand out.

Writing over the Gap ~ The story you’ve shown | gap | The story of the reader’s experience

The writer will fill in the gap, feel things, and come to conclusions based on their experiences. Don’t give your reader the conclusion or the explanations. Give them the imagery to come to the right conclusions. Don’t write on the reader’s side of the line. For a reader to be engaged in a story they must have things to figure out.

Visible vs. Invisible ~ What is visible and what is not seen but inferred by how the visible things are manifested. Invisible things are what is inside, friendship, socioeconomic status, type of person, these things are on the reader’s side of the gap and shouldn’t be told. A reader’s conclusion/inference is more believable to them than something the author tells them. Remember, we are our own most credible source. Seeing it for ourselves is the most reliable evidence. Let your readers see your story for themselves.

Why show?

• Because showing is more vivid and interesting
• Inferences are where the fun is
• Information density is incredibly high

Why tell?

• What’s happening isn’t meaningful
• To maintain pacing

Give visible details as seen through the characters eyes and then let the reader come to an opinion about it.

When to show?

• You want the reader to feel something
• You need the reader to infer something
• To call attention to something

When to tell?

• At scene breaks, to jump in time
• To summarize mundane but necessary events

Remember, the event doesn’t cause the emotional impact. It is the reader’s reaction to what they saw and their inference of the event that makes the impact.

What to show?

• Show what’s meaningful
• Show what helps the reader’s over the gap
• Show the visible manifestations of the invisible.

What to tell?

• Everything else (never tell us what you really want us to know) Show it! Make the words matter.

How to show?

• Figure out your invisible facts
• Find moments where they come into play
• Determine the visible consequences
• Write them down

Surprise the reader: Look for unexpected metaphors/similes “I shook the sledgehammer on the end of his arm and tried to smile.” Use words in an unexpected context.

Telling vs. Fancy Telling vs. Showing ~ Fancy telling is still telling. Write down the actions of your characters.

Beware of info dumps & backstory. Learn to weave them into the action.

Dialogue tags can be tells, i.e. “says accusingly.” Use strong showing verbs instead of adverbs to tell the manner of action. See http://amwriting.org/archives/10062

Streamline your dialogue. Skip the A & D of a dialogue sequence and focus on the B & C. This means you don’t need to write out all the niceties of introduction and the pleasantries of easing out of the conversation, such as “Hello. How are you?” or “Thanks. Tell your wife hello for me.” We say these things all the time, but they don’t need to be in our writing for every conversation.

Find the right spot to jump into each conversation.

Beware of exclamation marks in your narrative. They don’t work. It is like begging the reader to feel something.

Inner monologue can be a great way to show the characters thoughts instead of narrating them.

Thank you, Jason, for a great presentation. You can visit Jason Black, the Book Doctor, at his website: www.PlotToPunctuation.com

My next 2 blog posts will feature my notes from Robert Dugoni and Donald Maass, who both spoke at the Pacific Northwest Writers Association Conference held in Seattle July 19-21, 2012. What a fabulous conference, full of many opportunities to improve your writing and pitch to agents and editors. I loved being able to sit on the “Author” side of the table at the mass book signing event Friday night! Two years ago I was pitching to agents and praying for a chance to get published. I am so grateful Walnut Springs Press took a chance on me. I am thankful for all you wonderful readers out there who have embraced The Keeper’s Calling and have let Chase and Ellie touch your lives as they did mine.

PNWA Conference

I don’t remember who this woman was or what she had done, but her words have come back to me time and time again, motivating me to always try to be the best I can. Remembering what she said has given me the courage to try new things and to face possible failure. If we let the fear of failure stop us from trying, we will never succeed. Often, it is what we learn from our failures that gives us the experience and knowledge to finally succeed. I am reminded of Thomas Edison, who despite hundreds of failed attempts while inventing the electric light bulb, persevered until he achieved his goal. I don’t doubt he evaluated each failed attempt and made calculated adjustments until he found the recipe for success. In your quest for success, remember to always reach for the stars and set your sights high. Who knows, you just might come down with a handful or stardust!

This book signing schedule feels like stardust in the palm of my hand. When I set foot in that first Costco store and asked to talk with the manager, I had no idea what kind of response I’d get. For all I knew, I could be barking up an empty tree. At that moment in time, seeing my book on the Costco shelves felt as far away as the stars.

Each store listed represents an initial visit to introduce myself to the manager, follow-up visits and phone calls, many emails between Costco headquarters, my distributor and myself, and of course the all important answer “Yes” from both the manager and Costco corporate. I feel extremely blessed to have this opportunity to share my book with so many people, and I hope to see some of you there!

(All location addresses listed below)
July 11, Wednesday: Hillsboro, Oregon Costco 11a.m. – 4p.m.

July 17, Tuesday: Aloha, Oregon Costco 11a.m. – 4p.m.

July 25, Wednesday, Lehi, Utah Costco 11a.m. – 6p.m.

July 26, Thursday, Orem, Utah Costco 11a.m. – 6p.m.

July 27, Friday, Lehi, Utah Costco 11a.m. – 6p.m.

July 28, Saturday, Orem, Utah Costco 11a.m. – 6p.m.

Come see me if you can!

Hillsboro Costco
1255 NE 48th Ave
Hillsboro, OR 97124

Aloha Costco
15901 SW Jenkins Road
Aloha, OR 97006

Lehi Costco
198 North 1200 East
Lehi, UT 84043

Orem Costco
648 East 800 South
Orem, UT 84097

www.lojwriting.blogspot.com

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Laura is a talented writer with a wealth of information for the writing enthusiast. She has compiled a list of the best writing contests, agent and editor information, as well as a multitude of writing tips. Plus, she is downright fun to read! Come check it out, you won’t be disappointed.