Bell Bridge Books

UNDERSTANDING

by Elizabeth Sinclair

When I was a kid, all three of my brothers served in the US Navy, two during WWII and one in the Korean War.  I can recall my mother being worried and anxiously checking the mail box for letters from them.  But, at my youthful age of about five, I don’t think I ever really understood her fear and how very deep it went.

A few years ago, I discovered an organization called Adopt a US Soldier.  I decided it was something I’d like to do to support the guys and gals putting their lives on the line for my freedom.  A few days after I signed up, I got the name and email address of “my” soldier.

Rich was a member of the National Guard from Michigan and was stationed at a detainee prison in Afghanistan outside Kabul.  He wasn’t married (divorced, I think, although he never said), but he had a granddaughter.  He talked about getting home to see her in almost all his emails.  We corresponded daily for several months and then Christmas rolled around.  I took great joy in gathering things to send him—flea collars to combat the constant annoyance of the sand fleas, dry drink mix, wet wipes, books that might interest him, a couple of phone cards, disposable cameras, socks, cookies, hard candy, suntan lotion– all of which was packed in a big box and padded with popped popcorn.

Needless to say, he was thrilled with my gift and made sure to share it among his fellow soldiers. He said the two biggest hits were the flea collars and, oddly enough, the popcorn.

A few months later, I got an email from him, and he told me he was coming home. The emails I got from him after that were filled with the joy at the prospect of seeing his granddaughter, holding her and playing with her.

Then, suddenly, there was silence, and I got a vivid taste of what my mother suffered through every time she found the mail box empty.  To make matters worse, the TV news began talking about a prison break in Afghanistan. Since there are many prisons and I had no idea which of them Rich had been stationed at, I didn’t know if he’d been involved in what was described as an explosion followed by intense gunfire.  Rich may have not been my blood son, but I’d begun to think of him as such, and the worry that something had happened to him was unbelievable.

I watched the news every day, waiting for something that would give me a clue about his whereabouts.  I emailed asking him if he was okay.  But I got no replies.  I didn’t know who his family was, so I couldn’t contact them for news. The worry intensified.

Then, on Mother’s Day, I opened my email to find a bunch of virtual violets from him and profuse apology for not letting me know that he’d been sent home early.  The relief was indescribable.  He was safe and finally able to hold his precious granddaughter.

Now, I understand my mother’s anxiety and fear.  Rich still emails me, as does his fiancé Amy. I still think of him as my second son.

If you’d like to adopt a soldier, go to www.adoptaussoldier.org  and while you’re on the Internet, sign up to donate to the Wounded Warriors Project at www.woundedwarriorsproject.org  and help those who have come home, but not as whole as they left.

God bless every man and woman fighting in foreign lands, keep them safe and bring them home very soon Barcara, Afghanistan to their families.

When the Grass is Redder, Whiter and Bluer

By C. Hope Clark

          My husband and I visited family in Germany several years ago. Since we’re history buffs, we boarded a charter to cross Germany and France, to spend time at Normandy, to walk in the footsteps of World War II soldiers and attempt to understand the intense meaning of that period of June 1944.

The compilation of tourists – of Germans, French, British, Americans and other nationalities I could not recognize, humbled me. I felt foreign, which to most Americans is an abnormal sensation. With thoughts of the proverbial Ugly American in my head, I kept quiet, observing, in awe of folks much more traveled than I.

My introspection allowed me to reach a deeper perspective as we bussed through towns, stopping here and there to savor authentic flavor of eateries and shops. Ignorant of languages other than my own, I learned to ask some questions, but more often copied the person in front of me when it came down to what to eat and how to make change.

We observed an original German coastal battery with its original cannons still in place. We visited sites at Utah Beach, Omaha Beach, including Pointe du Hoc, Verville-sur-Mer, and the American Cemetery. We toured the Memorial at Caen; the Airborne Troops museum at Ste Mère Eglise; the Normandy Museum in Bayeux. So many churches. So much history, giving me such an earnest respect for history so much older than my country’s short life.

Many streets had French names, then secondary names taken from fallen US soldiers, on the same corner signs. My heart caught in my chest. Several tiny French villages still honored American soldiers through homemade museums, filled with memorabilia and dated souvenirs the Smithsonian would adore. The locals recognized Americans in our group, still thankful after all these years for what soldiers older than my father did for their relatives older than theirs.

Only the coldest of hearts shed no tear at the American Cemetery where parallel rows of white crosses overlooked Omaha Beach. I cried for young men who never returned to home soil, home sweethearts, home mothers. But I caught myself feeling ashamed. It took me traveling across the ocean, listening to a German tour guide, to truly understand the sacrifice of my country and its people. . . for me, for my family then, now, and tomorrow.

Somehow, seeing my country’s advances in the world, in aid of others, protecting all I love, from an entirely different perspective, gave me intense pride I never expected. It took me traveling thousands of miles to see that the grass is redder, whiter and bluer once it isn’t growing directly under my feet.

Let us truly appreciate who we are and how far we’ve come in such a short time . . . without having to be reminded by a resident from another country. God bless America.

BIO

C. Hope Clark is author of Lowcountry Bribe, Bell Bridge Books, Feb 2012. She is also editor of FundsforWriters.com and her weekly newsletters reach 44,000 readers. Most of her family is affiliated with military or civilian government service, and are true patriots. www.chopeclark.com / www.fundsforwriters.com

Old-Fashioned Flag Waving

Kathleen Eagle

I love all kinds of music.  Can’t play an instrument, can’t carry a tune, but I move to music.  When I stand for the Star-Spangled Banner, I sing.  I don’t care how flat I am.  And when I hear a bugler play Taps, I tear up automatically.   And nothing moves me more than the heart-throbbing tempo of a  John Philip Sousa march.

My Dad

On December 7, 1941 my father was out enjoying his 15^th birthday by playing football  in the streets with his friends when his mother called him in. He was irritated that she interrupted when, after all, it was HIS birthday, and he should be able to play the way he wanted to. But you didn’t say no to his mother when she gave an order.

She had the radio on, and she sat the kids down and said, “We need to hear this.” Strange for his mother, because she usually only allowed music or plays on the radio.

There he sat when FDR announced that our country had been attacked by the Japanese at Pearl Harbor.

My father was stunned, as I’m certain the rest of our country was at that moment.

The next day he tried to sign on to the military, but they wouldn’t allow him in, as he had to admit he’d just turned 15.

He spent two years frustrated, wanting so much to be part of the cause. Finally, at 17, they took him in. I’m still not sure if he lied about his age or not, but they took him. He was so determined to fight for his country.

He joined the Navy, and spent two years on one of those BIG ships. Destroyer, maybe?

He and his fellow vets still alive get together every year to remember. This might not seem like it has anything to do with Independence Day, but actually, it does.

My father, my siblings and I are direct descendants of two Mayflower  travelers. Miles Standish and John Alden, both. They obviously weren’t involved in American Independence themselves, but their descendants were.  And the descendants of those were, like my dad who fought to keep America strong in WWII.

I have a very proud heritage of men and women who cherish this country and its independence. Happy 4^th, everyone!

Trish Jensen

The Forever Kind of Love

By Vickie L. King

My grandparents have all passed on.  Now and then something will come up that makes me think of them, and a flash of a memory will skirt the edge of my mind, until I pull it up.

My grandfather on my mom’s side, or papaw as I called him, was a coal miner in West Virginia.  I can still hear the rattle of his tin lunch pail, see the unlit light on the front of his hard hat and the black soot ground into his gray coveralls that no matter how many times my mamaw scrubbed them, they just wouldn’t come clean.

The two of them were as different in every way as any married couple could be.  He was a soft spoken man, didn’t lean toward arguing and was hard to anger.  Well, there was this one time, my mom told me, when Mamaw was in the hospital, and Papaw had to get the kids ready to visit her.  He started the bathwater for my uncle, told him to take a bath and get ready.  My uncle didn’t want to, and after my papaw left the room, my uncle sat on the side of the tub, until it overflowed and the water ran down the stairs.  Papaw was angry that day.

Mamaw, on the other hand, ruled the roost.  In that household, her word was gospel.  She loved to laugh, and if I’m honest, she loved a good slice of gossip, too.  She was a Methodist through and through, and while Papaw went to church with her, he didn’t claim a specific faith, but he believed. I have to admit, I learned my first swear word from her, and I got a swat with the fly-swatter for saying it. When my daughter was young, she learned that same swear word from my mamaw, too.  Talk about tradition.

In looks, Papaw was tall and thin.  Mamaw was average height and plump, that just meant there was more to love.  How they were different didn’t matter.  The things they were alike in were the important ones.  They loved their children and their grandchildren, and they loved each other until the end.  The end was when that coal soot finally caught up with him. He died on my birthday.  I was nine years old.

Theirs was a forever kind of love.  Even from a child’s viewpoint, I saw it.  When I write, I like to create stories about that kind of love, the kind that lasts forever, the kind where the differences don’t matter—the kind of love that others remember, even if the person remembering is a child.

“My name is Cheryl, and I am a writer.”
I sometimes wonder how that happened. I always knew I wanted to write—when I was a junior in high school, I ditched the physics class, which everyone seemed to think I should take, for the Typing I class, which everyone seemed to think I should not take. But I knew even then that I’d need the typing thing for the writing thing, and so I was determined to get it.

One of the things I didn’t know I needed was a “well.”  I had a well, of course—all writers do. It’s the place where the good, the bad, the ugly and the interesting things we experience and observe and learn during our lifetime are tucked away for later use. I consciously started mine when I was eleven—after a school field trip to the site of the Confederate Prison in Salisbury. I stood looking at the unmarked graves and I knew two things:  a) I wanted to write about this and b) I didn’t know how. Or what. Or when.  So I began collecting tidbits of information and shoving them down the well. I didn’t make notes; I absorbed them, kept them, remembered them from time to time, until the day finally came when I needed them. A lot of those tidbits became THE PRISONER and THE BRIDE FAIR.

The same is true of PROMISE ME A RAINBOW. Much of the “texture” (as I like to think of it) came directly from “the well,” things like cedar Christmas trees, and hot chocolate topped with vanilla ice cream, and Blue Willow mugs and the Blue Willow legend, and what it’s like to ride a city bus when you’re a little kid, and what it’s like to work with pregnant teenagers, and what a joy it is to be able to tell a woman who believed she couldn’t conceive that she’s finally, finally pregnant.

Things from the “well” are what make a story live and breathe. There are all kinds of things floating around down there. Some I shouldn’t use. Some, I’ll never use. Some, I only think I’ll never use. One thing I’ve learned over lo, these many writing years, is that you never know when something you’ve saved is going to take hold.

In case you might be wondering what other kinds of things are in the well, here are a few:

My family’s claim to fame:

My Uncle Joe once punched Gene Autry in the nose, and no, it wasn’t in a movie.

My family’s claim to shame:

My great aunt (who shall be nameless) was excommunicated from her church because TPTB ordered her to quit smoking forthwith, and she said no. (I imagine she said a lot more than that, but I wasn’t allowed to know that part.)

My claim to fame:

The late actor, Sidney Blackmer (ROSEMARY’S BABY), was my patient several times, both when I was a student nurse and later when I worked for a medical practice. He would sweep into the doctors’ office wearing what looked like an opera cape, and a fedora with a turned down brim. He always carried a cane, and he was escorted by his off-leash Dobermans—and believe me, those Dobies went anywhere they wanted to.

My first crush:

Roy Rogers. I’m still not over him.

My first job:

A candy-striper at the local hospital. I was paid with credit at the hospital sandwich shop, enough for a grilled cheese sandwich and a Coke. And I was happy to get it. (What? I like grilled cheese sandwiches and Coke.)

My experience with happenstance:

When I was three, the head of the children’s department in the Belk-Harry department store gave me a little red piano, a prop from one of the display cases—because she could see I loved it, and she was that kind of person. When I was twenty-three and a night nurse, I was taking care of a violent stroke patient, a woman no one else wanted to take care of.  I saw a man standing just outside the doorway. I asked if he was family. He said no, but he’d known her a long time, and he could hardly bear to see her like that. She was, he said, the head of the children’s department at Belk-Harry’s for many years, and she was one of the kindest women he’d ever known. Me, too, I suddenly realized.

And with that, I’m going to stop. I’m sure I intended to make a seriously profound point of some kind when I started this blog, only now I don’t know what it was—which of course, is something else I’ll just have to put in the well—in the forgetful section.

‘Til next time…

Cheryl Reavis

Making A Small Book Big
By Deborah Smith

Scarlett O’ Hara was perfect for her time.

No, not the Civil War era. For 1930’s America—the Depression, the nouveau riche landscape of bootleggers and business barons lording it over an impoverished citizenry, a time when books and movies regularly celebrated strong women who ran their own businesses and stood toe-to-toe with men, giving a guy plenty of What-For.

Scarlett battled her way through war and poverty, doing whatever it took to build a secure future for herself and her family. And yet, like most Depression-era Americans,  she longed for Tara –  the good old days of some mythical Real America, where everything was much simpler and “righter,” where Ashley Wilkes embodied the perfect man and Rhett Butler was a hot-rod roadster kept in the garage for a wild drive every Saturday night.

GONE WITH THE WIND is one of many examples of blockbuster novels that are analyzed by creative writing teacher and novelist James W. Hall in his intriguing book: HIT LIT: CRACKING THE CODE OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY’S BIGGEST BESTSELLERS.  I got my copy today (Kindle version for ye old PC, my new fave reading method) after seeing a fascinating Salon article about the book online. (Links are below.)

There’s too much meat on the HIT LIT’s bones for me to boil it all down effectively in this shorty post, but what intrigues me the most is this: Hall’s conclusion that most of our biggest bestsellers are about social struggles: to put it simply, David vs. Goliath. Class, race, gender, poor vs. rich. The downtrodden battling the Man. Hall uses TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD as the classic example of a “small” story (set in a deceptively simple place and time; built around a small-town drama) that resonated with huge social issues.

Hall also talks about “unique and creative mash-ups of traditional genres” as a key attribute of blockbuster novels.  There’s the obvious cases of genre-hybrids, such as TWILIGHT’s perfect blending of vampires with the romance genre, but also the merging of current social and political themes with a traditional  genre plot. Thus: GONE WITH THE WIND is a historical dress-up set in 1930’s America;  THE GODFATHER is a rags-to-riches family saga of Greek-tragedy proportions, that just happens to be about the Mob; JAWS (the movie but also the book that inspired it) is a Man vs. God/Nature story disguised as a simple thriller about a big, hungry fish.

When I read Hall’s theories, I had a lightbulb moment. The lightbulb was solar-powered,  eco-friendly, regulated out the wazoo by a bewildering clump of laws, and imported from a foreign country where workers are paid less for a week’s wages than the average American spends on a latte at Starbucks.

THE HUNGER GAMES.

Here’s what we’ve got in that great book (the latest inductee to the Blockbuster Hall of Fame): Romance Genre. Also: Thriller Genre.  Poor vs. rich. Little people vs. the Man.

Okay, that’s the obvious bones of the beast, but there’s lots more: many 21st century Americans believe something similar to the totalitarian world of the book is headed our way: they fear we’ll become a nation of absolute, centralized, Big Government control, in which the average citizen has lost ALL rights. No local governments, no local representatives; only The Capitol and its potentates will have power.

THE HUNGER GAMES couldn’t be better timed for this point in our history—our politics, entertainment and public discussions are saturated with the fear that our rights are fading and that our government is out of control. (Warning, Will Robinson, warning! I am not subscribing to a particular political ideology, I promise you; I’m talking about general trends.)

Blockbuster mash-ups go beyond the use of current events as an audience hook. Blockbusters operate on a higher/broader level, serving up the goods on universal struggles, speaking to readers across lines of age, gender, race and culture.  War, plague, poverty, greed, fear of the unknown, the lust for power, the search for faith – think big!

Okay, but how can you fit fifty pounds of timeless human angst into the quarter-pound plot of the average genre novel? Here are a few ways:

Think of your characters as archetypes. Small story – Jake Smith is hunting the men who kidnapped his wife. Big story – Jake Smith is a forgotten veteran of the Gulf War who is hunting the oil conglomerate that kidnapped his wife because she’s the daughter of a Saudi prince. Archetype story – A wounded warrior battles the evil king to save the princess.

1. Emotions are weightless, so stuff even the great big fat ones into your little bitty plot! The deepest love, the most terrifying fear, the rawest courage, the greediest desire for power. Yum! Small story: Susan Williams wants to keep her parents’ bakery out of bankruptcy. Big story – Susan Williams is all that stands between her parent’s blue collar neighborhood and a takeover by Mega-Corrupt International Bank. Archetype story – the peasant will give her life if need be as she leads a revolt against the empire.
2. Dress a classic story in new threads. This is not cheating, this is using the basic elements of all great stories shared by all storytellers everywhere, from Beowulf to Star Wars. The ruler whose ruthless ways not only destroy his/her enemies, but everyone he/she loves. The star-crossed lovers torn apart by differences in race, class, religion and “other.” The courageous street kid who rises to power and wealth via bravery, self-sacrifice and unshakable honor (or via masterful lying, cheating and stealing.) The noble virgin who defeats the corrupt whore by virtue of sheer virtue-ness (“virgin” meaning a woman or man of elevated and selfless ideals, and “whore” referring to the opposite).
3. Read Debra Dixon’s GOALS, MOTIVATIONS and CONFLICTS. (Available at fine online bookstores everywhere!) Yes, she’s my co-partner in Bell Bridge Books and my bestest sister-of-the-heart friend in the whole world, and yes, I am expected to plug her how-to book at every opportunity, but truly, she teaches writers about archetypes and classic storytelling in a very clear, easy-to-understand, and highly implementable way.

But yes, it must be admitted: Regardless of our efforts to analyze and create spellbinding, rock-the-planet stories, there will always be the universe’s whimsy: Luck, timing, fate, destiny and who-knows-what-all will always play a part in writing a book that catches readers’ attention, whether by “readers” we mean twenty ladies in your mom’s book club or 200 million peeps lining up for the next Potter/Hobbit/Twilight/Hunger Games installment.

But try writing Big, anyway. After all, what could be more classic than a lowly little writer bravely flinging a wordy rock at the head of the bug-eyed Goliath-Monster named Success?

A Writer’s Thought Process
By Eve Gaddy

During my morning ritual, drinking a cup of coffee and playing that ridiculously addicting online game, Mahjong Connect, while checking email, I tried to think of a blog topic.  I thought about the writing process and where we get ideas.  I remembered a conversation I had with my husband the other day as we were driving.

“Why does meth make people’s teeth fall out?”

Bob gave me the look that either means, writers are really weird or, you are really weird, I never know which.  “I suppose it has more to do with the gums and lack of blood supply to the gums than teeth.”  He then went into a more detailed explanation to which I paid no attention because I’d already moved on.

“You’re wondering why I asked you that, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”  Another mystified glance at me.  “I guess there’s some sort of logic to it.”  He sounded extremely doubtful.

“I’ve told you before, it’s a logical process.  You just can’t follow it.”  We’ve been married thirty-six years.  You’d think he’d understand by now.  “Would you like me to explain to you how I got there?”

“Okay.”  He didn’t sound at all sure but he knew he had no choice.  He was going to hear the explanation whether he wanted to or not.

“I saw the Tae Kwon Do sign on that building we passed.  I remembered how I took Chris (our son) there when we first came to town.  I have a friend who has recently gotten her black belt and it sounded like fun but I didn’t like that guy here much, so I guess I won’t do that.  Then I remembered a friend of mine had a nephew who had a brown belt but she said she was never sure how he got it because he was a wimp.  Then I remembered she’d said that a dentist had offered to fix his mouth because he’d kicked a meth habit but had terrible meth mouth.  Which led me to wonder why people’s teeth fall out from meth.”

“I always thought you just came up with this stuff out of the blue.”

“Of course not.  There’s always a convoluted logic to it.”  Always is a slight exaggeration but he doesn’t need to know that.

A few days later I was telling my daughter, Diana, this story and she said that she arrived at things that same way.  Doesn’t everyone?

“No.  I think it might be just women because my non-writer female friends don’t have much trouble following me.  Of course, I haven’t actually asked any male writers I know.”

“I agree,” she said.  “I think it’s women.  Of course, your logic is always a little more off the wall than mine, but it’s still similar.”

Off the wall?  Me?

“Which reminds me.  Why don’t you ever hear about women inventors?  Why are they always men?  If women think outside the box, you’d think there would be more of them.  Maybe there are and nobody talks about them.”

I probably won’t use what I learned about meth mouth in a book, although I write romantic suspense so you never can tell.  But a woman inventor sounds interesting.  In fact, I read something recently about Hedy Lamarr, a famous actress who invented the basics of WiFi during World War II.  Hmm.  More research coming up.

The Merry Month of May

Deborah Grace Staley, Author of the Angel Ridge Series

www.deborahgracestaley.com

My publishing journey with Bell Bridge Books began five years ago, in the fifth month of the year, and this year, in September, will see the publication of my fifth novel in the Angel Ridge Series. Finding a home with this publisher was a miracle for me, and I love remembering how it all came about.

My road to publication was not easy. Rather, it was long and filled with many disappointments. I wrote four novels, targeting a major publisher of series romance novels. Choosing this path meant about twelve years of writing novels, submitting and waiting for a response. In my case, the response was typically, “Close, but not quite what we’re looking for.” Out of utter frustration, I decided to take a break and reassess by writing something just for me.  Having recently moved into a circa 1867 farmhouse, the history of the home and the area had inspired me to create a small town on the Tennessee River in East Tennessee called Angel Ridge. The first story I wrote, Only You, was an 80-page short story. After sharing the story, my critique group encouraged me to expand it into something longer. Armed with a 180-page novella, I queried some publishers who all told me it was nice, but too short to publish as a stand-alone work.

Frustrated, but at the same time excited about the concept I’d created, I decided to go the non-traditional route and pitched to a new, non-traditional print on demand publishing house. They read Only You and made me an offer contingent on adding 100 pages to make the work novel length. I gladly accepted and adding the length was no problem at all. In fact, I’d call the process completely natural and right. My first novel finally in hand, I wrote and saw the second book in the series published, A Home for Christmas. That’s when things stalled and the excitement burned away, leaving an unworkable situation. The new publishing venture was not working out because there was not an effective way to market and distribute the books. Disillusioned, I decided that I would not write the rest of the series with this publisher. After putting out some queries, it seemed clear that no one would be interested in reissuing books that hand previously been published. I should write something else. The problem with that was that Angel Ridge would not leave me alone. It screamed for life in my head.

Through this entire journey, I had been able to work part-time, which gave me plenty of time to write. However, after my husband lost his job, I found that I had to go back to work full-time. So, I found a job and gave up on my dream of being a writer. I dropped out of my writer’s group and critique group and distanced myself from anything and anyone that reminded me of writing. Being near all of that only served to remind me of my unfulfilled dreams. These were difficult years during which my life began to fall apart.

After five years had passed, a friend suggested that I take advantage of free counseling available to me through work. Willing to do anything to feel better, I went to see a therapist. At my first appointment, the counselor had me telling her about myself. The subject of the books I’d published came up, but I moved on to other topics. She, however, kept steering me back to the subject of the books. I finally told her flatly that I didn’t want to talk about that, and besides, it was no longer a part of my life. At this point, she had something to tell me that I found quite startling. First, she said I was in a deep depression, which I denied. I grew up around family members with depression. I knew depression. I was not depressed . . . was I? The counselor then ticked off the markers of depression. I had them all.

While reeling from this realization, she then told me that if I wanted to get better, I would have to write again. I began to weep. Not just cry, but weep. The tears I’d held back for so long flowed from the wound I’d created in myself by not writing. Still, I told the counselor that I couldn’t write again. I could not put myself through wanting and hoping to publish only to see the dream be dashed over and over again. Despite my obvious pain, she restated that if I wanted to get better, I had to write again.

I went away promising to give it some thought and made an appointment to meet with the counselor again the next week. I cried all the way home. Hours later, to distract myself and hopefully stop crying, I opened my email. There, I found a message from the woman who had been my editor on my first Angel Ridge novels. I hadn’t heard from her in ages, but she had written to tell me that Belle Books was starting a new line, Bell Bridge books, and that they were looking for southern set novels. They were particularly interested in books that were part of a series. She strongly recommended that I query one of the Debs, i.e. Debra Dixon and Deborah Smith.

Okay, well, as it happened, I knew both of the Debs. I had met both Dixon and Smith through my local RWA chapter. I had in fact submitted the novella form of Only You to them previously, but the story had gotten a rejection. Still, could this be a sign from God that I needed to get back to writing or would this be a way to prove I had no business writing? Angry at this point, I had one of those conversations with God. I said, “Okay, God. I hear you. First the counselor and now this. Fine. I’ll send an email, they’ll say they aren’t interested, again, and I’ll then say, ‘See? I was right’.”

So, I wrote out an email and sent it off to Deb Dixon. I chose this Deb because she knew me better. The other Deb probably didn’t even remember me since our only previous interaction had been my scheduling her as a featured speaker at a conference years before. I got a response from DD right away. She said, something like, “Hey, yeah. Sounds good, but Deb Smith is doing all the editing. Send her a email and see what she thinks.” So, I did. I got a response right away. She did indeed remember me, and thought the books sounded good. She didn’t seem to mind that they’d been published before. I mean, honestly, only tens of people had read them after all! She asked me to send the first book to her as an attachment to an email, which I did that evening.

At this point, I’m still speaking to God as a rebellious child might. I’m thinking, she’ll read the book, say this is nice, but not what we’re looking for, and then I will go back to the counselor next week and happily say, “See? I told you I was not meant to write.”

Two days later, I got an email from Deb S. She said simply, “This looks good. Send me the other one.”

Which I did.

The NEXT DAY, she sent me an email making me an offer to reissue the two previously published books and for me to write one more. A three-book deal! If you’re following, it had been Tuesday I’d seen the therapist, and this was Saturday. I believe, at that point, God came right down into my living room and said, “See, you are a writer. I knew it all along, and really, so did you.”

Since then, my life has changed so much that I don’t even recognize it. I know that sounds corny, but it’s true. In five years, I’ve written five Angel Ridge novels, I went back to school and got an MFA in Creative Writing, that first book I wrote, after having not written in five years, won the HOLT Medallion for Single Title/Mainstream Fiction, the fifth book is coming out in September, and I’m excited about developing a new series set in the Southern Appalachian Mountains. Oh, and I now write full-time. I feel so blessed and happy to be able to do what I always dreamed of doing—writing books.

To celebrate, I’m sharing all this love and appreciation with readers who have embraced Angel Ridge. Beginning in May, I will give away an autographed copy of each of the five Angel Ridge novels in order. The last will be the Fifth Angel Ridge novel, to be given away in September. And one lucky grand prize winner will receive a Kindle! All readers have to do to enter is “Like” my fan page on Facebook. To be entered to win more than once, simply tell a friend, and then the friend and the person who got them to like the Fan Page are both entered. Here’s the link: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Deborah-Grace-Staley/195201377182584

I want to thank my editor, Deborah Smith, for being my own personal angel who made my publishing dreams come true. And I want to encourage anyone out there who has a dream that hasn’t yet come true, to never ever give up!

The Development of a Character–a Peek Inside One Writer’s Head
By Parker Blue

I don’t often remember where character ideas come from, but in the case of Fang in my Demon Underground series, I remember very well.  You see, my main character, Val Shapiro, had just been kicked out of the house by her parents and, since she’s part demon, she didn’t have any friends.  I wanted to give her someone to pal around with who would understand the problems she faced, and since I love furry critters of the canine variety, I decided she needed a dog to befriend her.  But not just any dog.  I wanted her to have a special one she could talk to.  One she could hold a conversation with–one who could talk back.

So, I created Fang.  And boy, does he talk back!  But what most people don’t know is that Fang was originally written as a vampire.  Yep, a vampire mutt.  That’s because I needed a reason for this dog to be telepathic, and since Val slays evil bloodsuckers, vampires came to mind.  Vampires live long lives, right?  And maybe an immortal pooch would learn enough over the centuries to be able to communicate with humans.  Seemed kinda logical, anyway.

That’s how he got his name.  Fang for…well, his fangs.  I thought the idea was hilarious, but for some reason, people didn’t find the idea of cute puppies sucking blood appealing or amusing.  And then there was the problem of him not being able to go out in the sunshine without turning into a crispy critter.  Might be a tad difficult to work into daytime scenes.  And Val killed vampires–how could I justify her friendship with one?

So, I rethought it and figured if Val was part demon, why couldn’t the dog be, too?  It would give them something in common.  Since I remembered hearing about these creatures called hellhounds, I decided that, in the world I created, hellhounds are very intelligent and telepathic.  So Fang morphed from being a vampire dog to part demon hellhound.  That worked much better, and gave him reason to hunt vampires alongside her.

Of course, if he was only part hellhound, that meant he was also part dog.  And since I happened to have a terrier/poodle mix living with me that I could use as a model for the dog part, he became part hellhound, part terrier mix, and all snark.  The snark…well, that comes from me.  You could say Fang is my inner smart ass.

I’ve had a lot of fun with Fang.  He disdains dog food, loves pizza, is embarrassed by his shedding, and rides on the back of Val’s motorcycle in a special sheepskin-lined leather seat, wearing goggles to keep the wind out of his eyes. He says things we all think but are too well-mannered or well-trained to actually say.  But most of all, he’s Val’s sidekick and best friend.

He’s become a fan favorite, so I decided to give him a girlfriend in the second book.  That meant I had to create another part hellhound pooch, ’cause I didn’t want to stick him with just any dumb bitch, y’know.  I wasn’t sure what kind of dog would appeal to him, but BelleBooks Office Manager, Pam Ireland, was a Fang fan, and mentioned her Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, Diva.  An excellent match!  So, Princess, Fang’s girlfriend, showed up on the page and ended up being as self-centered as her name.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.  The only problem is, now Princess is pregnant with Fang’s offspring.  Let’s see, combine the two and you get…what?  A whole litter of smart-aleck, self-centered puppies?  What was I thinking?

Parker Blue is the author of the Demon Underground series in which Fang plays the role of the faithful sidekick. Book 4 of the series, Make Me, came out in April 2012.  For more information, visit Parker’s website at http://parkerblue.net .