FIRE EYES REVISITED! EVERYTHING OLD IS NEW AGAIN!

Three years ago this month, my debut western historical romance, FIRE EYES, was

published by The Wild Rose Press. I was thrilled! Finally, my dream had come true, with the help of a wonderful editor and publishing company. When I got my first box of books, I sat and gazed at the covers—just like any first time author would. My husband teased me about “rubbing off the paint”—but I was so proud of them, and justifiably so. A lot of very hard work had gone into that story, not just from my perspective, but also from many other people. My editor at The Wild Rose Press, Helen Andrew, was wonderful. She really explained in detail why certain things couldn’t stand and had to go or be changed. But part of what ‘had to go’ was important to the story, in my mind. Still, there were company guidelines to be followed, and neither of us could do anything about that. So we worked together to find a way to take out the parts that made it more “western” than “romance” and still came out with a fine story.

However, this spring, I asked for my rights back for FIRE EYES and got them, and submitted the story to another small publisher who has an imprint for westerns and western romances, Western Trail Blazer. I was able to re-edit the book and add in much of what I’d had to take out or rewrite in the first version, and it was released yesterday with a brand new Jimmy Thomas cowboy cover and lots of renewed interest. The e-book version is available now at Amazon, Lulu, Monkeybars and many other e-book retailers, and will become available soon at Barnes and Noble, Sony and Apple. Here are the links for Smashwords and Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Fire-Eyes-ebook/dp/B0083JYET8 http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/162817 The print version will become available within the next week or 10 days, and again, I’m very happy about breathing new life into this wonderful story. Once I am able to order my print copies, I’m sure I’ll sit on the floor and ‘rub the paint off’ again. And I’ll be grateful that I’ve had two chances to get FIRE EYES out there—another thrill, a second time around!

THE HEROINE'S BACKSTORY--HOW MUCH DO I TELL?

What has made our heroine into the person she became for the purposes of our story? What occurrences in her life have shaped her personality? And how do we decide on the balance between what we, as the writer know about our heroine vs. what the reader needs to know?

Obviously, we don’t have room to tell the reader all that we, the writer must know about her. Nor would the reader be as enthralled with that deluge of information as we are. It’s not necessary for the reader to know every single thing—yet, as writers, one of the hardest parts of creating believable characters is giving them a past, and knowing how much of that history we need to go into.

In my novel, Fire Eyes, one thing we learn about the heroine, Jessica, is that she married young. She thought she was marrying for love, but as it turned out, she grew to understand that she was not in love with Billy, nor he with her—at least, not in the way she had always dreamed of. This is a huge issue with her after Billy dies. She tells Kaed, “The next time I marry, it will be for love.” This shows how much it means to her, because her existence as a single mother is not easy, and the threat of Fallon is still there.

There are many reasons for her to hold onto that dream so tenaciously, but I didn’t have room to talk about in the novel. Her life before Billy was not easy, and marrying Billy was just the ‘icing on the cake.’ But rather than me tell you about Jessica, how about letting her describe her background to you?

My name was Jessica Lea Beckley. That was before I married Billy Monroe, when I was only seventeen. I thought I was in love with Billy. He was handsome in his own way. I was glad when he started courting me, because he was the only boy my father seemed to like. Once he started coming around, it seemed like word got out we were ‘a couple’—and the other boys quit coming by.

That suited Pa just fine though. I was the only girl in a family of boys—four older brothers and one younger. My ma died when Mitch was born, and somehow, Pa always seemed to blame him for it. I had to come between them many, many times. Pa was always heavy-handed. Mitch was determined to prove to Pa that he was worthy. He ran off when he was sixteen. Said he wanted to be a marshal. We never heard from him again. I missed Mitch more than my other brothers. He was always special to me. But Mitch is dead now, killed by Andrew Fallon’s men.

They killed my husband, Billy, too. I did what I could to save him, but he was just hurt too bad. Most of what I did was just making him comfortable as he slipped away. It took him two long days. Even though I didn’t love him, I was sorry for not being able to save him. Something really sad was this. Billy never wanted to be touched—he wanted to do all the touching—what little of it there was between us. How I would yearn for him to just hold me sometimes! But it wasn’t in him. Still, just before he died, he opened his eyes a little and said, “Jessica, would you please just hold my hand awhile?” Even then, I knew I couldn’t touch him the way I wanted to—just pull him close and hold him. I took his hand in mine, and he smiled. It wasn’t long after that, he passed.

Somebody had to bury him, and there was no one but me to do it. Me, two months gone with our baby. But I lost it, too, when I buried Billy. Nearly died myself, from bleeding, but my good friend Rita, and her husband, Wayne, took me in and cared for me.

In an odd twist of fate, after Rita had her baby girl, she was bitten by a copperhead a few weeks later. Wayne waited too long to come for help, and Rita passed. If Wayne had come sooner, I might have saved her. I think he knew it, too. Not long after that, he asked me to marry him. It made sense, me with no husband, him with no wife and trying to care for little Lexi. But I didn’t love him, and he didn’t love me. I had to keep true to my promise I made myself, to only marry for love. A few days later, he showed up at my door with the baby, asking me to take her. I felt sorry for Wayne, but I was glad to see him go. Gladder, still, that he left me precious Lexi.

It was good to leave home. Sometimes I think my pa just wanted me there to cook and clean. I wanted my independence, and maybe I saw Billy as my ticket out of there. I’ve never been back, even though it’s less than a day’s ride from here. Pa was a hard man to deal with, and I was glad to see my older brothers marry and leave, one by one, too.

I’ve always felt bad about not saving Rita and Billy. I’m a healer. Had to learn that, being raised as I was with all those boys. They were always getting hurt somehow. I believe things happen for a reason, though. If I hadn’t gone through those hard years of growing up where I did, I wouldn’t have been able to save Kaed Turner when Standing Bear dumped him on my porch. He was hurt worse than Billy, but he had more to live for. I wasn’t enough for Billy, but to Kaed, I was everything.

Remember when I said that I wouldn’t marry again except for love? Kaed’s the best man I’ve ever known. When I look at him, I see love in his eyes—for me—every time. But more than just the love, I see understanding. And that’s just as important, I’ve learned, because, love can be many things to many people. Kaedon Turner knows my soul as well as my heart. We’ve both suffered loss and despair. But now, we have each other. And when he says, “It’ll come out all right,” I know it’s true.

And now, you know what I knew when I created Jessica Monroe Turner. A lot goes into making up a heroine's personality--a lot that the writer must know about her. This knowledge makes the heroine a well-rounded person to the reader, although you, as the writer, might not be able to include everything. Still, snippets of conversation and insights will provide for a deeper look into the heroine's character. What about your heroines? How did you manage to convey their backstory to the reader?

THE "WHAT-IF" GAME--IDEAS AND WHAT WE DO WITH THEM

Have you ever been asked, "Where do you get your ideas?" Ever thought
about that question?

Where do your ideas for writing fiction come from, and what makes them
worthy of the time, effort, and creative energy we expend to bring that
idea to full fruition--to craft a well-written story from it?

One source of story ideas is from real-life experience. Whether we are
retelling a chapter of our own life, or something that happened to
someone else, we must have come to the conclusion that that idea was
worthwhile and that others would be interested in it, as well.

I want to talk a little bit about why we have to be careful when we
glean ideas from actual happenings. For many years, I taught a series
of classes on "writing your life story." You can't imagine how popular
those classes have remained, especially with the older generation. The
idea that one's life is unique or different suddenly takes on new
meaning when others say, "You should write that down!" It comes to
mean, "Your life has been fantastic!" It may well have been fantastic
but when you stop to think about it, many, many people have had unusual,
one-of-a-kind experiences at one time or another. What would make a
person believe that their life story would be the one people would rush
to Barnes and Noble to pluck from the shelves and lay down a twenty
dollar bill to buy?

Many times, we as writers can draw from our life experiences as a bank
of ideas for our fiction, but to write our own life story in full
would generally prove to be a project that might prove to be a
disappointing failure in the end.

Characters we've met in our lives also give us ideas for the characters
we create. Although we might not think of our sourpuss Aunt Betty as
a "character" in real life, once we begin to write the fictional story
we've been plotting, we might see one of the secondary characters begin
to take on attributes of Aunt Betty--someone we haven't been around for
the past five years. People we've met casually, or known in a family
context, can firmly insert themselves into our stories--much to our surprise.

Books, poetry or movies that might have influenced our thinking during our
lives also can have an impact on our ideas. I once read a book based
on a song that was popular in the early 1970s about a young woman who
was in love with a sea captain.

Other forms of mass media can also add to our treasure trove of ideas.
Articles we've read in magazines or newspapers spark ideas. True
stories that are fictionalized have become one of the most popular genres
ever created. Truman Capote's best seller "In Cold Blood" was the book that
was the catalyst and set the standard for this type of fictionalized
reality.

Historical events from the past can also provide us with ideas that can
either stay fairly true to history or take a wide turn around the actual
events. Alternate history is a new up-and-coming genre that encompasses all types
of fiction writing, from science fiction to historicals,
including certain genres of romance, mainstream, and political fiction.

Now that we've talked a bit about where some of our ideas might come from,
we need to look at how we know whether an idea is "story-worthy" or not.
Have you ever started writing on a manuscript that you loved the idea
for, but suddenly the plot fizzles? Maybe you get to a certain point
and don't know where to go next. Does that mean your idea is no good?
Or does it mean you are just in need of some brainstorming to re-direct
your plot, punch it up, and keep the middle from "sagging"?

Someone once said, you can wash garbage, but it's still garbage. Learning
what is garbage and what is salvageable is the most important thing you need
to know. If you begin with an idea that you love, chances are, there'll
be someone else out there who'll love it, too! Your readers! If you
have an idea that's "sort of" good, the question is, will you care enough,
as a writer, to see it through to the end?

Of course, everyone who has ever written anything for pleasure has had
self-doubt. Remember Miss Smith's third grade class? If the assignment
was to write an essay, or a short story, you didn't dare let that smirk
of anticipation cross your face. What would your friends think of you
if they knew you were looking forward to actually writing a paper? While
everyone else wrote a paragraph, you couldn't help yourself: you wrote
two whole pages! And the secret was out. Self-doubt set in the very moment one of your
classmates asked, "Gosh, why'd you write so much?"

So, you see, self-doubt has been instilled in us since we were in Miss
Smith's class. It will never leave us. We have to practice introducing
ourselves in the bathroom mirror: "Hi. I'm (insert your name here.) I'm
a writer."

One of the best idea-getters is the "what-if" game (one of my favorites.)
What if there was a man and he had a beautiful daughter. What if
he fell in love with a woman who had two daughters of her own. What if
they married. But, what if the woman wasn't what the man had believed
her to be? What if she hated his daughter and was jealous of her?
CINDERELLA!!!

I love this game because it leads to all sorts of possibilities. Our
stories can take flight in directions we never imagined, becoming a
joyous surprise even to ourselves, the authors!

Though we must battle our self-doubt on two fronts (a, will the story idea be interesting and good and b, will I be able to write it, finish it, bring it to
fruition through publication) reminding ourselves every day that we are
professional writers and that our ideas are worthy is one way to combat
that doubt. I'm not a fan of critique groups normally, but finding
other writers who are supportive through other venues is a great
confidence booster.

Something to think about: The greatest "what-if"? What if I wasn't a
writer? My story would never be written!

I’m so glad that my first published novel, FIRE EYES, was made possible by a combination of my imagination and a wonderful editor who had the patience of Job with me. That novel has led to all kinds of amazing “what-ifs” and fantastic possibilities in my writing career! I'd love to hear from you about your "what ifs" and what they've meant to you--in life or in your writing.

I’ll leave you with an excerpt from FIRE EYES.

THE SET UP:
After US Marshal Kaed Turner has been brought to her, wounded and beaten, Jessica Monroe nurses him back to health only to have him leave her in pursuit of the gang that has terrorized the Arkansas/Indian Territory border since the Civil War ended. When his fellow marshals show up hot on the trail of Andrew Fallon's gang, Kaed leaves with them to track down Fallon and save the hostages the gang has kidnapped. Jessica is left alone with her thoughts, and the greatest "what if" of all--wondering if he will make it back to her again.

FROM FIRE EYES:

The night had seemed unending, the hours slipping by in a cool shower of rain. The misty air that followed was chilly, and Jessica, wide awake, had risen around midnight to build up the fire.

A restless uneasiness surrounded her, and she was unable to quell it. She put two logs on the dying fire, sparking it back to life, then pulled the rocking chair over to sit in front of the hearth, hoping the heat would soak into her stiff limbs. Would she ever be warm again?

Sleeping alone was quite different now than it had been before Kaedon Turner had come into her life. She missed the intricate tangling of their bodies, the soft silk of her skin entwined with the rough warmth of his as they made love, and later, when they fell asleep, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, pain-free at last, and the way he pulled her close to him, even as he slept.

She watched the leaping flames, mesmerized, not really seeing them as she remembered the crisp feel of Kaed’s dark hair beneath her fingers, the almost boyish glint in his eyes as he teased her, the easy smile, and the secure feeling of safety that he wrapped about her and Lexi like a cloak, protecting them.

Jessica pushed her hair away from her face as another thought forced its way into her consciousness. She was late. A week late. She sighed, thinking of her conversation with Kaed before he’d left. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, seeing the flames outlined against the inside of her eyelids.

Maybe it didn’t mean anything. It was probably just the worry, the stress she’d been going through. She’d been late for her monthly before. But she found herself wishing, hoping, that this was the real thing.

Foolish. Anything could happen. He might be killed out there, and then how would she ever survive? A woman alone with two babies and no man. She shuddered, thinking of the way the Choctaw brave had looked at her, his dark eyes keen with lust. She had no desire to wed him, or anyone, other than Kaed Turner.

Yet, if she were carrying Kaed’s baby, what could she do? Return to Fort Smith with the marshals? Surely, they’d come to tell her if Kaed… She would not think of that. She stood, unable to make peace with her restless thoughts. Worst of all was the ambiguous feeling she knew Kaed harbored toward having a family. Would it always be so with him, even after they had children together?

Slowly, she crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. The side where Kaed slept. Her hand went to the pillow and she caressed the spot where his head had lain. She imagined the way he looked at her when he had first opened his eyes, when he’d been barely able to slit them open at all.

He wasn’t ready yet. Shouldn’t be out there riding with the others. Didn’t he realize how badly he’d been hurt? Jessica shook her head helplessly. She couldn’t have stopped him. Stubborn, stubborn man.

But oh, how she loved him! Damnable stubbornness and all. Now, all she could do was continue to love him, to wait for him, and to hope he would accept the family life they’d create together.She wanted that life. Much as she had dreaded it with Billy, she anticipated it with Kaed. She stared at the pillow with unseeing eyes. As tired as she was, she knew she would not sleep if she lay down. Her heart was full of unanswered questions, her mind coiled tightly, unable to relax.

HEY FROM OKLAHOMA! IT'S GOOD TO MEET YOU!

Hi everyone! I'm Cheryl Pierson, and I just want to introduce myself today here at SnSD. I won’t bore you with too many details–just want to tell you a little about me and I’d love to hear about you all, too.

I was born in Duncan, Oklahoma, in 1957. I had two “way older” sisters (10 and 12 when I came along) and I was a Tomboy–with a capital “T” for sure! Although I loved Barbie, I’d much rather have been playing cowboys and Indians–probably why I chose to write western historicals.

I finally got to go to a rodeo when I was about 9 with my cousin, and Larry Mahan was there! I was in love. After that, I wanted to be a barrel racer, thinking that would be a great way to get those handsome cowboys to notice me when I was older…of course, that was a huge pipe dream since my family was NOT into rodeoing at all. But my first “serious” little story I wrote in elementary school had a guy in it named “Larry” and girl named “Cherry” (original, huh?)

My dad was an oilfield hand–a chemical engineer, on call 24/7 for as long as I can remember. Mom was the “June Cleaver” type, and both of them were appalled when I told them I wanted to write books for a living. As they predicted, that dream had to be placed on hold for many years–enough time for me to marry and raise my two kids–with a myriad of “real jobs” (as others called them) in between.

But I was writing all the time, every spare minute I got. I started out with an idea for a western romance, and the more I wrote, the bigger the story became, until I had a 1000 page manuscript! Of course, it’s still unsold (go figure!) but it’s the book of my heart–so I'm hoping it'll happen one day! That was what I needed to “get me going.” Ideas flowed, and so did the words.

Although that first “tome” is still as yet unpublished, the third book I wrote, FIRE EYES, was published in May 2009, and went on to become an EPIC Award finalist. The Wild Rose Press also published two of my western short stories, and my first contemporary romantic suspense, SWEET DANGER, was released on October 1, 2010.

The fourth book I wrote, TIME PLAINS DRIFTER, was published through another smaller press. After a few short months, we parted ways, and TIME PLAINS DRIFTER is homeless again. My daughter designed my cover for this book so it’s very special to me. It also garnered me the award of Honorable Mention for Best New Paranormal Author in PNR’s PEARL Awards this past year.

GABRIEL’S LAW, another western historical, was the third place recipient this past year in the historical category in the San Antonio Romance Authors’ Merritt Contest. The judge for that final round asked for the full manuscript.

Over the last year, it has been my pleasure to have had several short stories published through VICTORY TALES PRESS, a wonderful company owned by Rebecca Vickery. My stories have been featured in A SUMMER COLLECTION, A HALLOWEEN COLLECTION, three of the four Christmas collections, and most recently, A VALENTINE COLLECTION. I have several more stories slated to appear in VTP anthologies in 2011.

I live in Oklahoma City with my “transplanted” (from West Virginia) husband, Gary, who plans to make good on his threat to retire this fall. My daughter, Jessica, is 24 and works at an actors’ casting agency here. My son, Casey, is 21 and a physics engineering major in college (and believe me, those math and science genes did not come from me!) Along with my business partner, I teach writing classes for all ages, and have done lots of work with the Indian Education Program for one of the major school systems here in OK City.

Thank you all so much for your warm welcome and your generous friendships. I am thrilled to be here!

I’ll leave you with an excerpt from one of my short stories, A NIGHT FOR MIRACLES.

When a wounded drifter and three children appear at her doorstep, widow Angela Bentley can’t turn them away. Nick Dalton has a dangerous reputation, but is it truly deserved, or is it just talk? Will love find two lonely people on this, A NIGHT FOR MIRACLES?

FROM “A NIGHT FOR MIRACLES”:

Angela placed the whiskey-damp cloth against the jagged wound. The man flinched, but held himself hard against the pain. Finally, he opened his eyes. She looked into his sun-bronzed face, his deep blue gaze burning with a startling, compelling intensity as he watched her. He moistened his lips, reminding Angela that she should give him a drink. She laid the cloth in a bowl and turned to pour the water into the cup she’d brought.

He spoke first. “What…what’s your name?” His voice was raspy with pain, but held an underlying tone of gentleness. As if he were apologizing for putting her to this trouble, she thought. The sound of it comforted her. She didn’t know why, and she didn’t want to think about it. He’d be leaving soon.

“Angela.” She lifted his head and gently pressed the metal cup to his lips. “Angela Bentley.”

He took two deep swallows of the water. “Angel,” he said, as she drew the cup away and set it on the nightstand. “It fits.”

She looked down, unsure of the compliment and suddenly nervous. She walked to the low oak chest to retrieve the bandaging and dishpan. “And you are…”

“Nick Dalton, ma’am.” His eyes slid shut as she whirled to face him. A cynical smile touched his lips. “I see…you’ve heard of me.”

A killer. A gunfighter. A ruthless mercenary. What was he doing with these children? She’d heard of him, all right, bits and pieces, whispers at the back fence. Gossip, mainly. And the stories consisted of such variation there was no telling what was true and what wasn’t.

She’d heard. She just hadn’t expected him to be so handsome. Hadn’t expected to see kindness in his eyes. Hadn’t expected to have him show up on her doorstep carrying a piece of lead in him, and with three children in tow. She forced herself to respond through stiff lips. “Heard of you? Who hasn’t?”

He met her challenging stare. “I mean you no harm.”

She remained silent, and he closed his eyes once more. His hands rested on the edge of the sheet, and Angela noticed the traces of blood on his left thumb and index finger. He’d tried to stem the blood flow from his right side as he rode. “I’m only human, it seems, after all,” he muttered huskily. “Not a legend tonight. Just a man.”

He was too badly injured to be a threat, and somehow, looking into his face, she found herself trusting him despite his fearsome reputation. She kept her expression blank and approached the bed with the dishpan and the bandaging tucked beneath her arm. She fought off the wave of compassion that threatened to engulf her. It was too dangerous. When she spoke, her tone was curt. “A soldier of fortune, from what I hear.”

He gave a faint smile. “Things aren’t always what they seem, Miss Bentley.”