...about Deep in the Valley


YAY! It’s done! Finished!

I say that tongue-in-cheek, because nothing I write is ever actually finished. Any time I read something I’ve written, I’m like a mother scrutinizing an adult child, forever looking for signs of improvement, forehead creased, tut-tutting over this word or that which I now think could have been replaced by one better chosen.

But, after working on this novel since I started writing it in the spring of 2007, I finally called a halt, said, “Enough’s enough!” and packed it off to be published.

So...how “done” is it? I have to say, I’m satisfied. I’m bound up in the characters’ lives, their hard times and happiness touch my heart...and they are alive. (Yeah, yeah, I know. They are fiction, figments of my imagination, but they will always be “alive” to me.)

And, as soon as Deep in the Valley goes live on Amazon.com, Barnesandnoble.com and Smashwords.com, I’ll be announcing its arrival like a proud parent.

...about a sample of Tugger's Down.


Today's sample is from my novel Tugger's Down (ISBN 978-1450527934)
This is a small excerpt from Chapter Fourteen. (To read the first three chapters, click here.)

Regina answered the doorbell and received a box from a young woman who rushed back to the FedEx delivery van. She carried it to the kitchen and used a steak knife to slit the cardboard. And pulled a package from the box. It was wrapped in ecru silk, tied with a black ribbon. She untied the ribbon, pulled the folds of silk loose and uncovered a packet of papers, hand-stitched together on one side to form a booklet. The diary.

A small sheaf of loose papers lay on the diary. She recognized the top sheet of paper—her mother’s stationery, embossed with her initials, SAF: Sylvia Adams Farnsworth. And she recognized her mother’s careful, measured handwriting. Proper. Understated, with a minimum of flourishes. She checked the clock. The bus would deliver the children from school in three hours. She had time to examine the diary before she had to start preparing dinner.

She got a coke from the refrigerator, carried the diary and the papers to the family room. She sat on the end of the sofa by the floor lamp, took a sip of the canned drink and set it aside. She decided to start with her mother’s note. She read:

“Dear Regina, In accordance with eleven generations of family tradition, I am delivering this diary into your care, as you are the eldest daughter of an eldest daughter. This diary was penned by our ancestor, Prudence Cromwell, in 1692. I’m sure you are quite aware of the significance of that date.”

Regina frowned. 1692. The date meant nothing to her. Maybe she could find something about it online. She laid the diary and papers on the coffee table and went to the computer in the alcove. She turned on the computer, opened a browser window and typed “1692” into the search box. And was presented with a page of results. The first link listed was “Salem Witch Trials 1692.” And the next was a Salem link. And the next.

The witch trials? That can’t be what she means.

She continued clicking through pages of results. And found link after link to sites about the horrendous time from Salem’s past. She clicked a link at random and spent the next hour reading about the happenings in Salem, Massachusetts in 1692.

Although the website debunked the idea of witches and gave reasonable explanations for the events in Salem, it listed information about the trials and the people involved. Another website chronicled the bizarre behavior of some young girls who swooned, had fits and thrashed around. It offered reasonable medical explanations for such occurrences.

But reading those descriptions, visualizing what must have happened in Salem, set a tight band around Regina’s head and brought a dull pain to the base of Regina’s skull. She was overwhelmed by a sense of déjà vu, although she couldn’t understand why.

It’s all nonsense. Knowing how Mother feels about anything to do with the spirit realm, she couldn’t be referring to this.

She switched off the computer and returned to the letters. By the time the children arrived home from school, she’d finished reading Mother’s letter to her, and Grandma Tessie’s letter to Mother, and six other letters from eldest daughters to their daughters.

But she returned to Grandma Tessie’s letter from time to time, a deep sadness draping itself over her, bringing her close to tears.

She hadn’t been close to Grandma Tessie, and she regretted that. And she wondered why, wondered if her grandmother’s obsession with occult matters had played a part.

She had to have been a lonely old woman. Mother wasn’t close to her. And she made sure Ollie and I didn’t get close to her either.

A thought occurred to Regina. What if her loneliness had led Grandma Tessie to commit suicide? What if she, Mother and the rest of the family had been partly to blame.

Regina recalled the morning she got the call, when Mother’s hushed voice announced in a detached tone that Grandma Tessie had been found dead at her beach cabin. Dead. Of a self-inflicted gunshot.

No. It couldn’t have been anything we did or didn’t do. Surely.

And yet…

She shook off her melancholy and continued reading with self-control and determination. Three letters were left to read when the children arrived, and she had to set them aside. She rewrapped the packet, tied the black ribbon around it and carried it to her bedroom. She put the silk-shrouded bundle of papers into the bottom drawer of her dresser where she kept her sweaters. And as she arranged the sweaters to conceal it, she chided herself. But an odd disquiet settled over her as she closed the drawer.

...about a sample of Scribbles.

Do dreams come true? Meg MacAllister hopes they don't....

Because in Meg's dreams, she kills. Or worries that she does....

Johnny Peyton doesn't believe her fears have basis in reality. At first.

Does she? Or doesn't she? And does she really want to know?

The sample excerpt of Scribbles has been removed.

...about another sample.


Today's sample is from my novel ...and night falls. (ISBN 978-1441484307)
This is a small excerpt from Chapter Four. (To read the first three chapters, click here.)


“As far as I’m concerned,” A.J. said, “I think we ought to pack up and go home. I know I couldn’t enjoy myself now.”

Tatum took a deep drag from her cigarette and released the smoke in a long sigh. “Me, neither. Having a dead guy by my camping spot sort of takes the fun out of it. Know what I mean?”

Shelley leaned against the side of her car, her back to them. An idea swam in the murky depths of unrecognized knowledge, below her awareness. It kept her on edge, tension building, drawing the muscles of her shoulders tighter. When she became conscious of its presence, she still didn’t know what the thought contained. She looked across the water of the bay, where a sail boat tacked against the breeze, probably headed home.

The sun moved below the distant horizon and night fell, the darkness slipping across the water toward them, faint gleams and glows resting for brief moments upon the expanse of the bay, then disappearing when the wind scuffed the smooth surface. The darkness below the water’s glassy veneer appeared bottomless. Shelley shuddered, and in that moment, the thought broke through into her consciousness.

That shirt on the body. Hadn’t she seen one like it before? She’d only gotten a brief look, but now, it seemed as though she’d seen it before. No. That couldn’t be. It only felt that way because the vision of the body lying behind the brush kept traveling through her thoughts, she kept seeing that awful sight. Yes. That had to be it. It wasn’t—couldn’t be—familiar. And yet….

She glanced over her shoulder at the van. The Sheriff’s Office Crime Scene Van. Crime. The word echoed through her mind. A chill of awareness rose up within her thoughts. Yes. She had seen a shirt like that one. Farrell Gilbert often wore one like it.

Shelley’s breaths came in rapid succession. Should she tell the deputy she knew someone who wore a shirt that looked like that one? No. How could she explain it? And if—she pushed the thought away but it returned—if it was Farrell’s shirt...she almost gasped as a cold wave of dread washed over her.

She turned slightly toward the van. She looked at the sheriff’s insignia on the side, and the words, “Crime Scene.” She swallowed hard. No. It couldn’t be true. Farrell had not been a crime victim.

But he’d disappeared. She argued with herself, gradually losing the debate. It was too horrible to contemplate that someone she knew, someone she worked with, may have fallen victim to crime. But there it was, floating in her thoughts like a dead fish in an aquarium, foul and repulsive. She shook her head. The shirt...Farrell’s disappearance...nothing but a coincidence. She crossed her arms, lowered her chin to her chest. A coincidence. It had to be.

...about Sample Sunday


The sample of High on a Mountain has been removed. To read a sample of the novel, visit the Amazon page and click "Look Inside."

http://www.amazon.com/High-on-a-Mountain-ebook/dp/B0042X9ACA/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1323772289&sr=1-1

...about spring.


Finally! At times over the past few months, it seemed as if spring would never arrive. But at last, here it is, accompanied by brilliant blue skies, greening vegetation, warmer temps and the occasional thunderstorm. As glad as I am to welcome spring, it’s not my favorite season. That place in my seasonal esteem is claimed by autumn. But this year, spring is especially welcome.

Why? Because the winter just past coincided with a chilling aspect in my personal life: my husband had open heart surgery in December. It was a stressful, worrisome time...but prayer and reliance on God carried me through it.

And now, with his increasing recovery and reclaiming his strength, not only is the weather delightful--beautiful and warm--but so is the outlook for my husband’s health.

Praise God! He is so wonderful!

photo via stockxchange copyright Nick Pye

...about remembering...


On Saturday, November 13, I was privileged to attend a memorial service for the Confederate soldier ancestor of a friend. Private Seaborn J. Cobb was honored by a military service conducted by Simpson Mounted Rangers UDC Chapter #2685, Milton, Florida, assisted by a re-enactment unit from Alabama.

Friends and family were in attendance at the solemn ceremony, including Pvt. Cobb’s two young great-great-great-great grandsons who were part of the re-enactment group. At the end of the ceremony, one of the two boys played taps for his great-great-great-great grandfather.


Especially moving was the Libations Ceremony. Each re-enactor knelt at the foot of Pvt. Cobb’s grave, took a sip from his canteen, then poured a bit of water at the foot of the grave, signifying the sharing of water with a fallen comrade.

Along with the playing of taps, the ceremony was concluded with a three-volley, twenty-one gun salute, fired from the muskets of the re-enactors, along with the firing of a cannon after each volley. Then the assembled group sang “Dixie.”

Private Seaborn J. Cobb, we remember....

...about another book signing.

Our local Barnes & Noble Booksellers store hosted a Local Author Reception/book signing on Saturday, October 30th.

Quite a few authors participated, and so we had scheduled times...mine, along with several other authors, was from 1 to 2:30 pm. I usually team up with a writer friend for signings, but this was the first time I'd met most of the other authors who shared the assigned time.

We had a great time getting acquainted and I learned some interesting things. I just wish I’d had a pile of money so I could have bought a book from each author...there were some very interesting-looking books available.

And now, my focus is changing from the books I’ve already written to the book that is waiting in the shadows, waiting for me to write it.

Tomorrow, NaNoWriMo begins. I have a title tentatively picked out, a character name, and some writing music (Theme from Route 66, can you believe). So, I’m forgetting about the books and characters I’m already acquainted with and turning my attention to....possibilities....

Photos by Connie Ward copyright 2010

...about awards.


I’m so happy to announce that my book trailer for ...and night falls won the REC Best Author Made Book Video for July 2010 on the New Covey Trailer Awards! Yay!

If you'd like to take a look at it, here it is:

...about Southern hospitality.

Southern hospitality is legendary. And when hubby and I went to Munford recently for my book signings and his high school reunion, we enjoyed the wonderful Southern hospitality at the home of Penny and Calvin Edmondson, hubby’s sister and her husband.

The Edmondsons live on a beautiful wooded lake. The porch built across the back of their house overlooks the lake, and on a summer morning, when the sun’s golden rays come slanting over the hills, there’s no lovelier or more peaceful sight.

As enjoyable as the surroundings are, though, it was the fellowship which made our visit special. Penny and Calvin always make guests feel at home, make them feel welcome and comfortable. It was a relaxing time, chatting over morning coffee or discussing the day’s events in the evening. A weekend at the Edmondsons' was like a mini-vacation.

Thanks, Penny and Calvin!

Image via Dreamstime free images