Bell Bridge Books

Insane and Deranged
By Sparkle Abbey

When life gives you lemons make…lemonade? Lemon tarts? Lemon drop martinis? Yeah, that’s the ticket!

When the two of us started writing together on the Pampered Pets Mystery Series, we knew that we had many things in common. Things like the importance of family, the value of faith, and a wicked sense of the absurdity of life.

That last one is where the insane and deranged part comes in. As soon as we sold the series, it seemed that life conspired to make things…well, challenging.

You know what we’re talking about. You have your normal life of work, shuffling around the kids and grandkids, paying the bills and running to the grocery store. But add in a few curve balls and that’s become our new “normal.”

We’ve had:

New bosses, new jobs, more responsibilities

Graduations

Remodeling a dance studio

A dissertation… in England

Death of our fourteen-year-old family dog (who was blind, diabetic, and had doggie Alzheimer’s)

A wedding—mother-of-the-bride and all the drama that entails

Multiple trips to the hospital with a family friend

Unexpected out-of-town company–two weeks before the book is due.

Baby granddaughter’s kidney surgery (twice)

Family dance recitals

A death in the writing family

Planning a funeral

Disposing of drugs and handgun (That was a Thelma and Louise moment)

One heck of a huge estate sale

A parent in the hospital (twice)

Book launches

Unhelpful-unpaid interns (husbands)

Radio interviews

Newspaper interviews

Book signings

Book talks

Conferences

Canceled vacations

Holidays, birthdays and anniversaries

And deadlines.

Our lives are wonderful and full…and insane and deranged. Wonder what the next twelve months will bring?

Care to join us for a lemon drop martini?

What’s going on in your life?

MEANT TO BE
By Judith Arnold

Some books are meant to be.

More than once between the day I typed “the end” and this moment, I believed Goodbye to All That was not one of those meant-to-be books.

Goodbye to All That is about Ruth Bendel, a woman who loves her family but is tired of taking care of them and wants only to take care of herself. She finds an apartment, lands a job, and leaves her baffled husband and three adult children to fend for themselves. I loved the Bendels and all their crises: Who will iron husband Richard’s shirts? Who will baby-sit son Doug’s rambunctious twins when he takes his wife to the Caribbean for a romantic vacation? How can daughter Melissa contemplate having a child now that she herself is the child of a broken home? Why does everyone lean on daughter Jill to make things right? Why has Doug’s wife suddenly decided to change her hairstyle? Why has Melissa’s boyfriend suddenly lost track of her G-spot? Why does Jill’s twelve-year-old daughter suddenly think her runaway grandmother is cool?

I wrote the Bendels’ story and sent it to my agent. A few days later, she called me and said, “I couldn’t get past page forty. Sorry.” She and I parted ways. And I, conceding that I had no objectivity about the project, decided Goodbye to All That wasn’t meant to be.

At a writers’ conference a few months later, I described Goodbye to All That to a friend, who said, “Oh, my God, I love this story.” She literally dragged me across the room and introduced me to an agent, insisting that he would love the story, too. I pitched it to him, he asked to see the manuscript, and a couple of months later I had a new agent.

A new agent who loved my book but got sidetracked by some movie projects and didn’t manage to sell it.

Not meant to be, I figured.

The agent’s associate loved the story, too. She phoned me and asked if she could represent it while her colleague was busy doing film deals. Sure, I said. She didn’t sell it, either.

I severed my ties with that agency, concluding…yes. This book was not meant to be.

I was wrong.

For some time, the folks at Bell Bridge Books had been asking me to submit to them. In fact, I’d requested that the agents who loved Goodbye to All That send it to Bell Bridge Books, but they didn’t want to deal with a publisher they’d never worked with before. Now that I was agentless, I could send the manuscript wherever I wanted. Off to Bell Bridge Books it went.

And lo and behold, I discovered that Goodbye to All That was meant to be, after all.

Thanks to Bell Bridge Books, readers can get to know the Bendel family, laugh and groan over their tribulations and cheer them on as they figure out who they are and what they truly want. All the loving, doting mothers who would lie down and die for their families can read about Ruth’s declaration of independence and fantasize about getting an apartment of their own, too. All the husbands and children can contemplate their wives and mothers and wonder, what would I do if she said goodbye?

Goodbye to All That was meant to be. And now, at last, here it is.

Setting as Character
By Trish Milburn

I was thrilled recently when Bell Bridge Books released White Witch, the first in my Coven series. It’s a book that I have loved since I typed the first word and is set in a place that has a lot of natural beauty, the mountains of North Carolina. It’s also a setting with which I’m familiar, so it was easy to infuse it with the sights, sounds and smells of the mountains.

I like to make setting a living, breathing part of my books, a character in and of itself. I tend to write about places that really interest me, ones that have captured my imagination in some way. For Elly: Cowgirl Bride from Harlequin American, it was rural Wyoming, ranch country. I loved bringing in the things I’d seen and experienced when I visited that area a few years ago. There are the soaring mountains, the long miles of emptiness, and the classic western tourist town of Cody with its western décor shops and the Buffalo Bill Historical Center.

For the next two books in the Coven series, Bane and Magick, I was facing writing about a place I hadn’t been – Salem, Massachusetts. So last July, I made a trip to Salem so that I could see it firsthand. I spent a day walking all over town, visiting the tourist attractions, poking around the shops, exploring the parks and the harbor, and taking photos. So when I sat down to write those books, I wasn’t picturing Salem as two-dimensional photographs and maps. It was alive, colorful, full of sounds and scents in my memory. I think the books will be better for that first-hand experience.

But site research isn’t always possible. For Winter Longing, my second young adult novel written as Tricia Mills, it was more of a challenge since it was set in Alaska and I’d never been there and couldn’t make a trip there as easily as I did Salem. But that’s what research is for, and with things like blogs by people who live there, GoogleEarth, and a friend who’d lived in the area (and whose brain I could pick), it was fun to create a fictional town set in the midst of a real area. I have long been fascinated by Alaska, and as a reader myself I love books set there. One of my favorite mystery series is the Kate Shugak series by Dana Stabenow. I’ve probably learned as much about life in Alaska from these books as I have any other source.

My other published novels are all set in places I’ve been – the Gulf Coast of Florida, the mountains of Northeast Tennessee and Colorado. The Teagues of Texas trilogy that Harlequin American is currently in the middle of releasing is set in the Hill Country of Texas. It was fun to create my own town that took its inspiration from several towns in the Hill Country, Fredericksburg, Gruene and Marble Falls among them. My best friend lives in San Antonio, so I’ve been to the Hill Country three times, gathering great material for these books.

Now, I’m curious. Does a book’s setting matter to you? What are some examples of ones that have really come alive for you?

Have you ever wondered what your pet was thinking? The heroine of my middle grade/ YA series—Heather Tildy—has a beagle named Roquefort who’d like to set us all straight about her life.

It’s Not Easy Being Me

Thanks to Charles Schultz and his Peanuts comic strip, we beagles have a lot to live up to. People adopt us, bring us into their homes and expect us to be a clone of Snoopy, who for some reason most of us tri-colored beagles never understood, pretended he was a World War I flying ace. Snoopy also supposedly decorated his own doghouse with Christmas lights without an opposable thumb. But there’s no way that’s possible. It had to be some sort of slight of . . . .

Sniff. Sniff. Food. Smells like meat. Ham. Honey Ham. It’s coming from the . . . kitchen. No. Den. Where is it? Where is it? Must beg for meat. It’s a sandwich. Please? Please? Teenage girl with too much makeup, please, oh, please, give me one tiny morsel of your sandwich. I am starving. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. My cute little speckled tummy is empty. Please, oh, please! Gaze into my sad brown eyes, wet with tears, and give me just a little, teeny-weeny scrap of your food. . . .

Heavy whining sigh. Sorry you had to see me beg. Even sorrier the girl wouldn’t give me anything. There’s another one who will, but—I look to the left, then to the right—she’s not here. She gets in trouble for being generous with her meals.

Where were we? Oh, yeah. We were discussing how hard it is to be me, especially when teenage girls who are a little too fond of their makeup brush won’t share their sandwiches OR rub my cute speckled belly.

That reminds me. All of my people expect me to be happy with hard, dry kibble the size and texture of rocks. They give me a measly cup twice a day because someone told them I was overweight. I think it was that man at that place where I don’t like to go, where they stick things in me and squeeze my glands all because I scooted across the carpet and left a streak of something behind. Would you want to chow down on something that tastes like the cardboard box the birthday cake comes in while your people are eating zesty spaghetti and meatballs, succulent teriyaki chicken, or a sandwich thick with honey-glazed ham? Don’t even get me started on their blatant bacon-eating in front of me.

And another thing. . . .Hey, I’m doing pretty good with keeping on track. Obviously, my owner was wrong when he said I had doggie attention deficit . . . something.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. I want to set the record straight. Contrary to my family’s claims, I don’t steal their food. I merely take advantage of unattended meals and snacks. Was it really my fault they left the cheese and crackers on the coffee table when the lightning took out the electricity? No one told me I wasn’t allowed to eat food left behind in the dark. And was it really my fault that Grandma MacCormack set the crab-stuffed mushrooms on the counter where I could reach them before her book club arrived? I don’t think so. I’m a beagle. I have hunting skills, and I will use them. Oh, and here’s something else. My interest in the culinary arts does have its advantages for my people. I lick floors and remove all crumbs.

The only thing harder than being tortured with food is constantly having to be “on.”  My job, apparently, besides protecting the entire two-story house with basement and three-quarters-of-an-acre yard from birds, squirrels, possums, people with hats and the neighbors’ cats, is to appear to be happy as much as possible. They love it when I jump for joy when I see them after a long absence—or a short one—unless my claws dig into their skin, while I happily greet them. They squeal with delight when I prance over to them with my squeaky rubber pork chop in my muzzle. They adore that toss and fetch game. It may be the only exercise the mommy gets. My ultimate crowd pleaser is the crazy, high-speed run through the entire house. I have to admit I kind of enjoy it—especially the way the wind whistles past my floppy ears, but it takes a lot out of me and I’d better have a bowl of wa—.

Hey! There’s something gray and furry on the deck. Squirrel! Squirrel! Let me at it. Maybe if I scratch on the window I can tunnel my way through the glass. It doesn’t work. How am I supposed to get that squirrel? Don’t you see it invading my domain? The door! The door! Someone let me out! Someone let me out! It’s my deck! It’s my deck!

Roquefort is Maureen Hardegree’s homage to Chloe, the beagle beloved by her brother and sisters, who is now chasing squirrels in doggie heaven. You can see more of Roquefort in the Ghost Handler series. Books One and Two, Haint Misbehavin’ and Hainted Love, are currently available. Say It Haint So, Book Three, will release in July of this year.

What’s in a Name?
By Bo Sebastian

Everyday we call each other by name. We make up names for special people, odd people, fun people. We also call things names. Everything in our lives has an identity. In fact, when it doesn’t have an identity, it automatically needs an identity or a function, especially if it’s going to play an important part of our lives.

The first thing that happens when you meet a person. You reach out your hand and introduce yourself. My name is Bo Sebastian. Your name is? Then the name is filed in your long- or short-term memory (mine is mostly short-term), and everything is copacetic once again.

What would happen if nothing had a name? If everything in your life just was? Or better yet, if when you saw a chair, it was something brand new. You didn’t even know it was something you could sit on. What would life be like if everything you saw was completely new?

Your brain would be overwhelmed, is what would happen. The truth is, that most of what happens in our day, happens in the background of our brain. We focus in on one thing, but the rest is already filed and logged in, so there is no need to wrestle with what doesn’t matter in our minds.

But this kind of living leads to complacency, I’m finding. WE don’t need to bring everything into the foreground. But we miss so much when most of life is stuck in the back of our brains.

So, let’s shake things up a bit. Instead of driving home the same route every day, let’s take a different road every day. Look at the different houses and scenery (carefully, without causing an accident, of course). Or, better yet, take a walk in a different direction every day.

Do an open eyed meditation in each of the rooms in your home. Discover what is in the rooms that may be bringing bad energy to it, like Feng Shui. One time I was in my living room teaching a vocal lesson, and I noticed that there was a dead flower under my couch. How long had it been there? I don’t know. Obviously, my cleaning lady hadn’t been using the magic wand on the vacuum cleaner. Of course, I don’t want dead anything in my home. That’s just bad mojo all around. lol

Eckhart Tolle, the author of “A New Earth” suggests that when you discover that you are floating off in your head and becoming less aware of your surroundings, just scrunch up your toes in your shoes. Feel your shoes on your toes, and your toes on your shoes. Then feel how the material of your pants or skirt feel on your legs, and vice versa. This will bring you into the present.

You can always use conscious breathing to draw you back to conscious NOW. Count a five or six breath in and a five or six count breath out. This kind of breathing not only gets you into the now, it also can reduce your blood pressure by 15-20 points in 3-4 minutes. In a stressful situation, this can be a life saver.

So, what’s in a name, you ask? Nothing and everything.

Nothing if you have no awareness of it. And everything in the world, if you take the time to focus on life.

Danica Patrick and Taylor Swift—Really?

How do these two women make it into one blog post you might ask? Opposite in looks, opposite in careers, yet similar in so many ways.

First they are both household names. Danica, maybe not in every household, but I’d bet most people at least know the name if they don’t know who she is or what she does.

Then there’s the breakthrough factor. I mean, isn’t that what we all want when writing our novels? The breakthrough factor?

Taylor has managed to keep it clean and keep it hot—all while staying true to who she is. What I admire about T. Swift is the fact that she writes all her songs and music. You know you’re hearing her truth when you listen to Swift.

And Danica? Not many females have broken into the racing world, and none have done it like Danica. I’ve started calling The Speed Channel the Danica Channel. J Her talent and tenacity are amazing.

Breaking out isn’t easy. I don’t think either one of these ladies would tell you anything different. I think they would tell you it’s hard work. It doesn’t happen in a day, or even a year. And I know Swift is still so young, but she started this when she was barely a teen, so yes, she’s been at it awhile.

Breaking out involves learning every aspect of craft. It involves finding your voice and staying true to it despite the nay-sayers. It involves drying those tears after a rejection and putting those fingers back on the keyboard.

How about mentoring those around you? How about finding your own mentor? Yes, both aspects are crucial in this writing journey. Both keep you grounded when you start doubting everything you’ve ever done in this crazy career.

This writing journey is filled with the same obstacles that people like Taylor and Danica face. As writers our talent and tenacity have to shine. Our ability to stay true to who we are is what will keep the readers turning page after page.  Our willingness to show the world what we are passionate about will change lives and inspire others.

Our breakout might mean someone else’s breakthrough.

Are there people who inspire you to breakout?

I’m a little crabby these days. Yeah, I know, Labrador Retrievers are famous for being nice. But, I ask you, how nice are you when you’re on a diet? That’s right. Marilee’s hubby (and my former best friend) decided my waistline had disappeared. News flash: I DON’T NEED A WAISTLINE! MY FUR FITS JUST FINE!

So anyway, he has this plastic glass with a black line about three inches from the top. He measures my food and I don’t get one single morsel above that black line. Now doesn’t that sound a little anal to you? In the meantime, I have to scarf up the crumbs underneath the table. So undignified for a dog of my noble lineage. Things are looking up, however. I heard the two of them talking the other day. Marilee said, “I think Mauli’s waistline is coming back.” He said, “Yep, the diet’s working.”

Hold it! My keen doggy senses just picked up the sound of a reduced-fat Cheez-It hitting the floor. Gotta run..

BACK AGAIN:

Well, she did it. Against all odds, Marilee found a street named after her book, Moonstone. Oh, wait. Maybe the street was there first. Doesn’t matter, though. Here’s the real story behind the pictures, as told in first person. (Or, is it first dog?)

I was there at the photo shoot, observing it all through the open car window. Since Marilee was holding the book and posing next to the sign, and I don’t have thumbs, the Mister was drafted as chief photographer. He was not a happy camper. The star of the shoot kept giving him unsolicited advice such as, “Be sure you get the street sign.” “Can you see the title of the book?” “Use telephoto . . . please.” When smoke started streaming out of his ears, she finally gave the poor guy a break.

But, don’t think that’s the end of the story. After reviewing the pictures on her computer, Marilee decided a second photo shoot was necessary.

Is a third in the works? I sincerely hope not.

Thank God I don’t have thumbs.

Do I smell peanut butter?

Mauli the Muse, signing off…

The Five Catch-22s of Publishing
By Bill Allen 

If you are a reader, not an author, or you are new to the world of writing, there are some rules of the game of which you may not be aware. In case you weren’t around during (or more likely don’t remember) the 60s and 70s, a catch-22 is a no-win situation involving circular logic. If you have dreams of being an author, catch 22s are something you must learn to embrace.

Anyone who decides to be an author will soon face The First Catch-22 of Publishing: The Need for Unobtainable Experience. No surprise here. It’s a problem shared by those trying to land their first job in any field. Just be prepared. When you send out your premier novel, publishers and agents are going to want to know what else you have published and how successful those projects were.

Uncertain how to handle this crisis, you will no doubt seek out help, during which time you will surely stumble upon The Second Catch-22 of Publishing: The Mystifying Publisher/Agent Relationship. More and more publishers won’t read submissions unless they are presented by a literary agent, but most agents won’t accept a client who has no publishing credentials. Tough break.

Now, I know what a few of you are thinking, “I’ve already been published. I’m safe from the evil Catch-22s of Publishing.” Not so fast. No matter what level of expertise you have achieved, you will always have to deal with The Third Catch-22 of Publishing: the dreaded “Bring Me Something Different” Dilemma. To fully understand this issue, you have to identify with the poor agents and editors who spend their days in a thankless job where they must wade through a ton of (let’s be honest) not-so-good manuscripts, hoping to find one that stands out from the crowd. They’ve seen the same old stories hundreds, maybe thousands of times…this week, and if they have to read another They Just Might SCREAM!

These hapless souls long for something unique–something that makes their eyes pop wide and their mouths drop open and forces them to shout, “I found it!  I finally found something DIFFERENT.” It’s these rare, cherished moments that give them a sense of accomplishment. They can stand proud, knowing all their hours of hard work truly do make a difference, at least up until the moment the marketing department shoots down the project, claiming “Too much risk. We’ve never done anything like this before.”  So sad.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention The Fourth Catch-22 of Publishing: The Tootsie Effect. While you’re out on the web figuring out where you can download Catch-22, you might want to also look for Tootsie, the 1982 comedy starring  Dustin Hoffman and Jessica Lange. Go ahead, I’ll wait while you review the film.

Okay, remember the scene where Michael (Dustin Hoffman), dressed as a woman (Tootsie), has a heart-to-heart with the beautiful Julie (Jessica Lange)? Julie is tired of men approaching her with lame pick-up lines and tells Tootsie/Michael (in no uncertain terms) the line that she wishes men would use on her. Later in the film, Michael, dressed as Michael, runs into Julie and uses her own pick-up line on her, word-for-word, to which he is rewarded with a drink in his face.

Now, I have never had a publisher throw a drink in my face, although once one did drip tarter sauce on my shoe, but I do know that if you give these people exactly what they ask for, just like Jessica Lange, they won’t be happy. It’s not their fault. They are wonderful people who truly mean well. But it all goes back to their having to read so many “not-so-good” manuscripts, and how they’re tired of seeing authors make the same mistakes over and over again. So tired that they create for themselves a set of rigid rules authors must follow. Problem is, prose that never breaks the rules will come across flat and lifeless. You can’t hope to grab their attention this way (see The Third Catch-22 of Publishing).

So what do you do? The only thing you can. Listen to the publishers and agents. Learn their rules. Know why they exist. Respect them. Honor them. Revere them. Now stop worrying. Write what you love the way you love to write it. If you do, your voice will shine through, and no one is going to notice a few rules getting bent, or even annihilated. If you write a good story someone will recognize your work for what it is and want to publish it. Then you’ll have nothing left to worry about…except, of course, for The Fifth Catch-22 of Publishing: “We all love your voice, now let’s turn this over to our line editor for a ‘light’ edit…”

My spy Maddie  sees a pack of slave catcher’s hounds menacing a little boy in the forest. One of the dogs, I call him Bog, sees her.

A Hound’s Tale

We was all howling high like we’d lost our young to the hunter’s snare when the master started in beating us with his stick that has the head of a rattler and the red eyes of the devil himself. It ain’t the pain as I am used to that. My back is rutted with scars like the Ballston Road in winter. It don’t even bleed easy anymore, not like the master’s new hound he calls General Lee. Now that hound is green and don’t yet know the ways of the master and sure don’t know the pain if you don’t track right or stop to lap water out of the spring.  He’ll learn surely, but I am old and pretty near soon I’ll be a pile of bones in the hen house. The master shoots the ones like me that is wore out and laughs so his fat self sets his stomach to bobbeling and his eyes bug clear out of his face. Now when I was young and I could grab hold of a Negro’s leg without tearing it clean off, the master would throw me down a hunk of  pork belly. Instead of a kick, I’d get me a pat or two. Hard, mind you, but not as bad as all that.

See, when the pack comes on a running slave, you ain’t supposed to maul them so’s they can’t do no work. Those hounds that do are punished straightaway.

It was night, see, with hardly a smirk of a moon in the sky, but we was on a scent. “Haw! Dogs, Git!” The master yelled, his rot gut voice sounding loud, his stick glancing off the heads of most all of us. “Bog, you old bone bag, he shouts to me, keep moving!” I wanted to tear his throat out then and there for all the beatings and for the time he drowned my mate’s young in the well just for fun. As they were suckling, mind you.

When I spied the white girl trying to coax the little Negro we’d treed, I was in the lead as I can run when I force my legs to the task. Something about her young hand reaching toward the child, her face all fixed and kindly in the shaft of moonlight, the way his little body shook like he had the Saint Vitus and the plain fact that she saw me and didn’t run, made me stop dead. This ain’t a brag but I still see real good even at a distance. ‘Let them go,’ said a voice in me, like God or something was stamping through my head.

She grabbed up that child and handed him off to a big Negro man dressed pretty fine. They was moving fast toward a carriage when –  “Haw! Haw!” The master was closing in as was the pack. So I turned tail and started off howling into the brush with all them dogs and my fat master behind me, his poke nose rifle raised up. “Lost the damn scent! Some hound gonna pay!” He was mad as a rutting boar.

The sight of those three escaping was, well, I had the taste of salt coming out of my eyes and running down my nose and a feeling in me like, hell, I don’t know.

If this is to be my last night on earth, I want to remember the taste of swamp mud, steaming chicken innards, and the face of that young girl in the night. Ain’t no one gonna rescue me like that, surely.

So I whisper to the pack that we should fix to kill the master, tear him to shreds for all the wrongs he’s done us. “Don’t talk crazy, Bog,” they say. They are flat cowards, all.

I think I did a good thing back there in the trees. That is one slave child who won’t get the lash.  If I see tomorrow, I’ll ponder that. If I see tomorrow.

Yellow Journalism, Purple Prose and the Joys of Research
By Cindi Myers

I’ll admit, I’m a history geek. Set me in front of a microfiche machine with reels of film of old newspapers and I will happily spend hours squinting at the fine print and giggling over ads for corsets and quack remedies, while reading first-hand accounts of news of the day.

The newspapers of the 19th century were a different breed than the papers of today. Forget objective journalism. The papers of those days proudly wore their political sympathies on their pages and had no qualms about fostering one agenda or another. Readers sided with papers the way we choose up sports teams today, subscribing to the papers who championed their own views about the issues of the day.

And then there’s the prose style. Forget the Five W’s. In the days before television and movies, readers turned to newspapers for entertainment as well as news, and writers pulled out all the stops to deliver.  In researching The Woman Who Loved Jesse James, I came upon numerous examples of this purple prose, a few examples of which I’ll share with you today.

From the September 5, 1874, Lexington Caucasion, under the headline “Missouri’s Gay Bandits”: “In all the history of medieval knight-errantry and modern brigandage, there is nothing that equals the wild romance of the past few years’ career of Arthur McCoy, Frank and Jesse James and the Younger boys. Their desperate deeds during the war were sufficient to have stocked a score of ordinary novels, with facts that outstrip the strung-out flights of fantasy. Their fierce hand-to-hand encounters… their long and reckless scouts and forays, and their riotous jollity… all combined to form a chapter without a parallel in the annals of America…”

From the October 17, 1874 Lexington Caucasian: ” All the annals of romantic crime furnish no parallel to the exploits of Missouri’s bold rovers. Since Ishmael hung out his shingle, thirty-seven centuries ago, in the deserts of Edom, as a dashing, untamable boss brigand, they have been unsurpassed. They’ve laid Aladdin in the shade, and snuffed out all his marvel-hatching lamps. They’ve eclipsed the wildest wonders of the Arabian Nights, and rendered commonplace the most incredible achievements of the Cid. They’ve made the tales of the Crusaders and the Buccaneers stale nursery croonings. Achilles and Hector, Barabbas, Rob Roy, Dick Tarpin and Sixteen-String Jack dwindle to ordinary marauders beside them…”

Finally, I want to share this excerpt from the June 9, 1874 St. Louis Dispatch, a passage that definitely caught this romance writer’s attention. The headline is “The Celebrated Jesse W. James Taken at Last. His Captor a Woman, Young, Accomplished, and Beautiful.” “Through good and evil report, and not withstanding the lies that had been told upon me and the crimes laid at my door, her devotion to me has never wavered for a moment. You can say that both of us married for love, and that there cannot be any sort of doubt about our marriage being a happy one.”

Sigh. How could I not want to write a book about a love story like that?

Cindi Myers is the author of The Woman Who Loved Jesse James, available now from Bell Bridge Books.