Welcome to Wyoming: Part Two -- One Eyed Willie

DISCLAIMER

If you are sensitive to animals and don't agree with hunting, look away--baby--look away.

And now for the rest of you...I present part two:

After I'd gotten over the initial shock of moving to Wyoming, it was time for my husband to break me into life as a hunter's wife.   

(That's not me, btw)

Now, don't get me wrong, my idea of shooting something is stacking glass bottles out in a field and picking them off one by one.  My husband's idea is, well...a lot different than that.  Hunters, as I've learned, like to kill real live animals--an antelope, an elk, a bear, whatever.  But, that's not all!  After the "thrill of the kill" they actually pose for photos with the dead animal. In said photos, the hunter always has a smile plastered across his or her face (mostly his face), like it's the best day of their lives, but the animal, they're dead, so they're not smiling!

After we were married for a short time it became apparent to me just how passionate he was about hunting and that I hadn't really been on any of those fun little adventures with him.  The reason why is obvious--the only thing I've ever killed are the people in my books.  But, for him, hunting is more than a lifestyle, it's a passion, so I felt compelled to go along and learn what it was all about.

So when he told me he had an antelope tag, I decided it was time to be the supportive wife I knew I could be.  We drove out to a nice little field that had tons of antelope (which my smallest small calls "cantaloupe") and we turned onto the dirt road to find the perfect one.  They all looked exactly the same to me through the binoculars, but my husband has special vision; he's kinda like the male version of the Bionic Woman.  And he can tell the difference.

So we're out on this dirt road and the antelope are up one side of a mountain in a field away from the road.  There are signs posted saying not to venture off the dirt road, but from what my husband says, "that don't matter".  Hmm.  We veer off the road and drive the truck over all kinds of shrubs and rocks, and the weeds are scratching the side of his truck, but he doesn't seem to notice.  There's an antelope he's got his eye on, and he's honed in. 

When he gets close enough, he leaps out of the truck and starts running and then points his rifle and shoots.  It's about this time when I decide I want to be there for moral and spousal support, but I don't think I want to see the animal get shot. 

Too late.

He shoots--and he almost scores, and the poor antelope goes limping up the hill.  My husband takes off and I'm left in the truck on top of a hill, and after a minute or two he's so far away he looks like one of those green plastic GI Joe toys.  Another shot sounds in the distance and then my cell phone rings and he tells me to drive the truck over to where he's at.  Well, I don't know where he's at because I can't see him.  AND, I'm off-roading at this point, so I have no idea how I am going to drive his truck back off the mountain in my cute little tank top and flip flops and get to where he's at with no actual road to drive on. 

I consider myself a girlie-girl, but in that moment, I was proud to turn over a new leaf.  I felt like an ice road trucker out there on my own, and eventually I got to him, and the antelope.

He says, "Do you wanna get out and see it?"

I say, "Uh, no.  That's okay."

He says, "I needed to kill it, babe.  It only had one eye, so it would have just been killed anyway."  He said this like he was doing the antelope a favor by sparing it from certain death that would have befallen it had it been challenged to another duel.  But a bigger part of me felt bad, and I started thinking about how crazy it is that when we were put on this earth, that's what life was like--before all the grocery stores and all that.  In the beginning, men hunted for their food.  It was right, and it was natural.  So why do I feel so uncomfortable about it?  Maybe it's because we're pampered nowadays with stores, and we don't ever have to see how anything is done or what cows and chickens go through before they are packaged and sold on grocery store shelves.  If you're wondering what I mean, rent the movie Food, Inc.  'Nuff said.

For now, I'm still not any closer to killing an animal myself, and I doubt I ever will be.  But it's part of the rough and rugged lifestyle in Wyoming, so I guess I'd better get used to it.

Rest in peace, one-eyed Willie.  

It's Time for the Valentine Blog Hop!

Welcome Valentine Hoppers to the Book Lovin' Babes Blog Hop!

I am offering two prizes.  See below for details... 

Prize #1: One autographed copy of either Black Diamond Death or Sinnerman (your choice)
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Prize #2: A surprise gift from Cupid! 
(And believe me when I say...it's worth entering!)

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Here's how to WIN...
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Just for stopping by my blog and "blog hopping", you are eligible for one entry in prize #1. All you need to do is EMAIL ME with your name.

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To be eligible for prize #2, purchase a copy of Sinnerman (which is priced at .99 this month or FREE if you are on Amazon Prime) and then EMAIL ME the answer to the following question:

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In Sinnerman, Chapter 47, First Page, Who is Maddie going to dinner with?

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WANT TO EARN EXTRA ENTRIES???

1. Sign up for my blog (five entries for a free book)

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2. Purchase Black Diamond Death on Kindle
(FIVE entries, both contests)
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3. Purchase Sinnerman on Kindle
(FIVE entries, both contests)

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***Just don't forget to email me and let me know you did***

***And don't forget to return back to the BLOG HOP once you're done here and keep on hoppin! I will announce the winners on my blog on February 15th.

And be sure to check the VALENTINE BLOG HOP on February 20th to see the winner of the grand prize, a $75 Amazon Gift Card!

GOOD LUCK TO EVERYONE!!!

Indie Chicks Series with my Guest Dani Amore

Please welcome Dani Amore to my blog today.  She's one of the amazing authors in the Indie Chicks anthology.  She is incredibly talented and writes in the same genre that I do, and she's GOOD -- if you haven't checked her books out, you should.  For now, enjoy getting to know her a little more with her story below...

WRITING FROM A FLOUR SACK

by

Dani Amore

Fact:  I was born on a bathroom floor.  Literally.  My arrival into this world was followed seconds later by an unceremonious drop onto the cold tile of St. John’s Hospital in Detroit, Michigan.

You see, I was the fifth out of six children.  My mother knew my delivery would be fast, but the nurse at the hospital insisted she go to the bathroom before the doctor arrived. 

Later, after the drama and I was pronounced healthy, my mother told the doctor that the nurse should have listened to her, that she had warned the nurse that the baby (me) was going to arrive any second.  That, having already delivered four children, she knew her body pretty well. 

The doctor said, “Five kids, huh?  Maybe you should tell your husband to keep it in his pants.” 

True story. 

*** 

Both of my parents were born in Italy.  They emigrated to the U.S. in the 1950s.  My father always said the biggest difference between Italy and America at that time was that you could work your ass off in Italy and have nothing to show for it.  If you worked hard in America, you could eventually become wealthy.  He started a construction company and worked 6 days a week, from dawn to dusk.  Eventually, he was successful. 

My mother raised six children.   

She is a strong woman.

Both she and my father share a love of aphorisms. 

The one I remember most?  “A well-made flour sack stands on its own.” 

It was almost like a mantra with her. 

At a key point in my writing life, that phrase came in handy. 

*** 

So there I am.  I’ve got a full-time job in advertising.  I’m writing about products that suck, working for people I can’t stand, and with two good friends, drinking every night after work.  At a little bar not far from the office.  I’m averaging about five or six drinks a night.  Every weeknight.  More on the weekends. 

But on those weekend mornings, I’m writing fiction.  Just short stories that I try to picture in The Paris Review. 

Everything gets rejected with remarkable efficiency. 

One night, probably half in the bag, I come across THE DAY OF THE JACKAL on television.  The original movie is pretty campy and the remake with Bruce Willis is a pure load of crap.  But the book.  The novel by Frederick Forsyth is one of my all-time favorites. 

The scene on television is the best part of the movie:  It’s where the Jackal is sighting in his rifle.  He paints a little face on a small melon, then blows it apart from 500 yards away. 

There’s no epiphany.  I go to bed.  But as I toss and turn, vodka fumes in a cloud around my pillow, I think about the narrative structure of the story.  I’ve read the book several times.  Even have a collector’s edition.  The chase.  The tension.  The violence.

When I wake up the next morning, I make an especially strong pot of coffee.  I push aside my short literary fiction, and start a new story. 

It’s about a hitman and a female escort. 

Later that day, during some interminable meeting where everyone is throwing out insidious phrases like “let’s get on the same page,” and “think outside the box,” I realized what I was doing. 

I was writing to please others, instead of focusing on the kind of stories and books I like. 

Crime fiction.  Thrillers.  Suspense.

I had forgotten one of my mother’s cardinal rules. 

A well-made flour sack stands on its own. 

***

I know it sounds melodramatic.  But the truth is, everything changed after that night.  I still despised the advertising industry, but I no longer let it bother me so much.  I begged off going to the bar with my friends, instead choosing to work out and then get some writing done in the evenings. 

Eventually, I finished several crime novels.  Even landed a big New York literary agent. 

But a funny thing happened.  My agent, and publishers, seemed to have endless debates about how to market me.  Should I be a hardboiled crime novelist?  A thriller writer?  A traditional mystery author? 

There were suggestions to change this book and change that one.  Then change it back.  Then change it to something else. 

But now I had learned.  I was smarter. 

I told them thanks, but no thanks. 

It was time to stand up and be the writer I wanted to be.

So I became an indie author. 

And when my first book became a Top 10 Mystery on Amazon, I knew I had made the right decision. 

Never underestimate the power of an Italian mother armed with an aphorism. 

Dani’s Books on Amazon: 

Death By Sarcasm 

Dead Wood

The Killing League 

To Find A Mountain 

To learn more about Dani, visit her at http://www.daniamore.com

This is one story from Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. To read all of the stories, buy your copy today.

Indie Chicks Series with my Guest Anne R. Allen

Please welcome Anne R. Allen to my blog today.  Anne is a women's fiction author and one of the fabulous chicks featured in the Indie Chicks anthology. 

Here's her story...

A KINKY ADVENTURE IN ANGLOPHILIA

By Anne R. Allen 

When I started writing funny women’s fiction fifteen years ago, if anybody had given me a realistic idea of my chances for publication, I’d have chosen a less stressful hobby, like do-it-yourself brain surgery, professional frog herding, or maybe staging an all-Ayatollah drag revue in downtown Tehran. 

As a California actress with years of experience of cattle-drive auditions, greenroom catfights and vitriolic reviewers, I thought I had built up enough soul-calluses to go the distance. But nothing had prepared me for the glacial waiting periods; the bogus, indifferent and/or suddenly-out-of-business agents; and the heartbreaking, close-but-no-cigar reads from big-time editors—all the rejection horrors that make the American publishing industry the impenetrable fortress it has become. 

But some of us are too writing-crazed to stop ourselves. I was then, as now, sick in love with the English language. 

I had three novels completed. A fourth had run as a serial in a California entertainment weekly. One of my stories had been short-listed for an international prize, and a play had been produced to good reviews. I was bringing in a few bucks—mostly with short pieces for local magazines and freelance editing. 

But meantime, my savings had evaporated along with my abandoned acting career; my boyfriend had ridden his Harley into the Big Sur sunset; my agent was hammering me to write formula romance; and I was contemplating a move to one of the less fashionable neighborhoods of the rust belt.  

Even acceptances turned into rejections: a UK zine that had accepted one of my stories folded. But when the editor sent the bad news, he mentioned he’d taken a job with a small UK book publisher—and did I have any novels?

I sent him one my agent had rejected as “too over the top.” Within weeks, I was offered a contract by my new editor—a former BBC comedy writer—for FOOD OF LOVE. Included was an invitation to come over the pond to do some promotion.

So I rented out my beach house, packed my bags and bought a ticket to Gainsborough, Lincolnshire, where my new publishers had recently moved into a 19th century former textile mill on the banks of the river Trent—the river George Eliot fictionalized as “the Floss.”

George Eliot. I was going to be working and living only a few hundred yards from the ruins of the house where she wrote her classic novel about the 19th century folk who lived and died by the power of Lincolnshire’s great tidal river. Maybe some of that greatness would rub off on me.

At the age of… well, I’m not telling…I was about to have the adventure of my life. 

I knew the company published mostly erotica, but was branching into mainstream and literary fiction. They had already published the first novel of a distinguished poet, and a famous Chicago newspaper columnist was in residence, awaiting the launch of his new book.  

But when I arrived, I found the great Chicagoan had left in a mysterious fit of pique, the “erotica” was seriously hard core kink, and the old building on the Trent was more of the William Blake Dark Satanic variety than George Elliot’s bucolic “Mill on the Floss.” 

Some of my fears subsided when I was greeted by a friendly group of unwashed, fiercely intellectual young men who presented me with generous quantities of warm beer, cold meat pies and galleys to proof. After a beer or two, I found myself almost comprehending their northern accents.

I held it together until I saw my new digs: a grimy futon and an old metal desk, hidden behind stacks of book pallets in the corner of an unheated warehouse, about a half a block from the nearest loo. My only modern convenience was an ancient radio abandoned by a long-ago factory girl.

I have to admit to admit to some tears of despair. 

Until, from the radio, Big Ben chimed six o’clock.

That’s six pm, GMT.

Greenwich Mean Time. The words hit me with all the sonorous power of Big Ben itself. I had arrived at the mean, the middle, the center that still holds—no matter what rough beasts might slouch through the cultural deserts of the former empire. This was where my language, my instrument, was born.

I clutched my galley-proof to my heart. I might still be a rejected nobody in the land of my birth—but I’d landed on the home planet: England. And there, I was a published novelist. Just like George Eliot. 

Three years later, I returned to California, older, fatter (the English may not have the best food, but their BEER is another story) and a lot wiser. That Chicagoan’s fit of pique turned out to be more than justified. The company was swamped in debt. They never managed to get me US distribution. Shortly before my second book THE BEST REVENGE was to launch, the managing partner withdrew his capital, sailed away and mysteriously disappeared off his yacht—his body never found. The company sputtered and died. 

And I was back in the slush pile again.  

But I had a great plot for my next novel.  

Unfortunately, nobody wanted it. I was now tainted with the “published-to-low-sales-numbers label and my chances were even worse than before. 

So I wrote two more novels. Nobody wanted them either. 

Then I started a blog. I figured I could at least let other writers benefit from my mistakes. My blog followers grew. And grew. The blog won some awards. My Alexa and Klout ratings got better and better. Finally, publishers started approaching ME. (There’s a moral for writers here—social networking works.)

And finally, six years later, another publisher, Popcorn Press, fell in love with FOOD OF LOVE and sent me a contract. Soon after, they contracted to publish THE BEST REVENGE, too. 

And this September, a brand new indie ebook publisher called Mark Williams International Digital Publishing asked if I had anything else ready to publish.  

Just happen to have a few unpubbed titles handy, said I. 

He liked them. 

So in October and November of 2011, those three new comic mysteries will appear as ebooks: THE GATSBY GAME, GHOSTWRITERS IN THE SKY, and SHERWOOD, LTD (that’s the novel inspired by my English adventures.) Popcorn Press will publish paper versions in 2012. THE BEST REVENGE debuted as an ebook in December, with the paper book to follow in February. 

A fifteen-year journey finally seems to be paying off. 

Did I make some mistakes? Oh yeah—a full set of them. But would I wish away my English adventures?

Not a chance.

*******

This is one story from Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. To read all of the stories, buy your copy today.

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Links:

Blog http://annerallen.blogspot.com 

Twitter @annerallen 

Authorpages:  At Amazon.com , at amazon.co.uk , on Facebook 

SHERWOOD, LTD

(Romantic comedy/mystery: MWiDP) A penniless socialite becomes a 21^st century Maid Marian, but is “Robin” planning to kill her?  Buy at amazon.co.uk , amazon.com, or Barnes and Noble

THE BEST REVENGE

(Romantic comedy/mystery: Popcorn Press) A suddenly-broke 1980s celebutante runs off to California with nothing but her Delorean and her designer furs, looking for her long-lost gay best friend—and finds herself accused of murder. Buy at amazon.co.uk or amazon.com and in paper at Popcorn Press or in paper at Amazon.com.

Indie Chicks Series with my Guest Sarah Woodbury

Sarah Woodbury is the author of several fiction novels, including her Last Pendragon Saga.  If you haven't gotten to know her books already, you should.   

 

She is also one of the authors in the Indie Chicks Anthology.  Here's her story:

Turning Medieval by Sarah Woodbury 

Sometimes it’s easy to pinpoint those moments in your life where everything is suddenly changed.  When you look across the room and say to yourself, I’m going to marry him.  Or stare down at those two pink lines on the pregnancy test, when you’re only twenty-two and been married for a month and a half and are living on only $800 a month because you’re both still in school and my God how is this going to work? 

And sometimes it’s a bit harder to remember. 

Until I was eleven, my parents tell me they thought I was going to be a ‘hippy’.  I wandered through the trees, swamp, and fields of our 2 ½ acre lot, making up poetry and songs and singing them to myself.  I’m not sure what happened by the time I’d turned twelve, whether family pressures or the realities of school changed me, but it was like I put all that creativity and whimsicalness into a box on a high shelf in my mind.  By the time I was in my late-teens, I routinely told people: ‘I haven’t a creative bone in my body.’  It makes me sad to think of all those years where I thought the creative side of me didn’t exist. 

When I was in my twenties and a full-time mother of two, my husband and I took our family to a picnic with his graduate school department.  I was pleased at how friendly and accepting everyone seemed.

And then one of the other graduate students turned to me out of the blue and said, ‘do you really think you can jump back into a job after staying home with your kids for five or ten years?’

I remember staring at him, not knowing what to say.  It wasn’t that I hadn’t thought about it, but that it didn’t matter—it couldn’t matter—because I had this job to do and the consequences of staying home with my kids were something I’d just have to face when the time came.

Fast forward ten years and it was clear that this friend had been right in his incredulity.  I was earning $15/hr. as a contract anthropologist, trying to supplement our income while at the same time holding down the fort at home.  I remember the day it became clear that this wasn’t working.  I was simultaneously folding laundry, cooking dinner, and slogging through a report I didn’t want to write, trying to get it all in before the baby (number four, by now) woke up.  I put my head down, right there on the dryer, and cried.

It was time to seek another path.  Time to follow my heart and do what I’d wanted to do for a long time, but hadn’t had the courage, or the belief in myself to make it happen.

At the age of thirty-seven, I started my first novel, just to see if I could.  I wrote it in six weeks and it was bad in a way that all first books are bad.  It was about elves and magic stones and will never see the light of day.  But it taught me, I can do this!

My husband told me, ‘give it five years,’ and in the five years that followed, I experienced rejection along my newfound path.  A lot of it.  Over seventy agents, and then dozens and dozens of editors (once I found an agent), read my books and passed them over.  Again and again.

Meanwhile, I just wrote.  A whole series.  Then more books, for a total of eight, seven of which I published in 2011.

And I’m happy to report that, even though I still think of myself as staid, my extended family apparently has already decided that those years where I showed little creativity were just a phase.  The other day, my husband told me of several conversations he had, either with them or overheard, in which it became clear they thought I was so alternative and creative—so far off the map—that I didn’t even remember there was a map. 

I’m almost more pleased about that than anything else.  Almost.  Through writing, I’ve found a community of other writers, support and friendship from people I hadn’t known existed a few years ago, and best of all, thousands of readers have found my books in the last year.  Here’s to thousands more in the years to come . . .

***

This is one story from Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. To read all of the stories, buy your copy today.

Links: 

My web page:  http://www.sarahwoodbury.com/

My Twitter code is:  http://twitter.com/#!/SarahWoodbury

On Facebook:   https://www.facebook.com/sarahwoodburybooks

Links to my books:  Amazon and Amazon UK
Smashwords  BarnesandNoble  Apple

Whispers of Murder -- Published!

It's a blend of nervousness and excitement when a novel goes live, but I'm pretty excited to release Whispers of Murder, my Romantic Suspense Novella. 

Whispers of Murder

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WHISPERS OF MURDER DESCRIPTION:

It was Isabelle Donnelly's wedding day, a moment in time that should have been the happiest in her life...until it ended in murder.

Three women, three motives to kill:

--A jealous sister

--A company CFO

--A newfound friend

But which one is plotting against her? Which one wants her dead?

Think you know who did it? Think again.

Welcome to Wyoming: Part One -- If It Flies, It Dies

Four years ago I lived in Park City. 

I loved it there.  I've never been a fan of cold weather, but the gorgeous mountains kinda offset that for me.  And the summers, talk about...mmm...mmm...good.  There was also something exciting about living in a town that people flocked to for vacation--everyone always seemed to be in a such a good mood.  

When I married my husband a few years ago, he didn't want to live in Park City, or any city for that matter, and that was really hard for me at first.  He'd grown up in the wide open spaces of Wyoming, so in that respect, I could see how Park City wasn't very inviting. 

So we moved to Wyoming.  A place I had never lived before.  A place where the hunters go.  A place where people eat things like buffalo burgers, elk, antelope, deer, rabbit...you name it.  If it's wild, they eat it.  Really.

When we dated, my husband said, "I'm a hunter."

But I heard, "I love animals."

And not, "See that deer out yonder...scoot back a little in your seat so's I can kill it."

Not only that, but my daughter (from a previous marriage) and future tree hugger and animal activist, upon hearing my new husband was a hunter, got a hold of a couple of his hunting magazines and shredded them to bits with her bare hands.  She then hid the bits in her backpack to dispose of the evidence of her crime.  She hadn't planned on that course of action.  In fact, when she picked the magazines up off the couch she thought she was going to see pretty pictures of Peter Cottontail.  Imagine her shock when she found pages full of the dearly departed.  Bloody, no less.

I didn't grow up around hunting.  I'd never even dated anyone that hunted.  So, when we crossed the Wyoming State Line, I swear the sign said, "Welcome to Wyoming.  If you don't have a hunting license, get out."

The sign actually said this:

But my problem was, after the shredding of the magazine incident, my husband explained the "hunting lifestyle" to me.  So, all I saw was this:

And this:

As much as I was happy to be with him, I wondered if the hunting side of things would be a hard adjustment.  It didn't take long to find out...