Bell Bridge Books

Walking the Story

By the time my debut historical novel, Keowee Valley, was published, I’d walked, hiked, trail run, swum, paddled, and climbed countless miles of rocks, roads, flatland and mountain trails, lakes and rivers in the foothills and mountains of Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, and Tennessee. Some of this, I’d done as a child, because my family were outdoorsy types. Most, however, I’d done on my own: both as a camp counselor and backpacking guide in my teens and 20s, and on adventures with like-minded friends well into my 30s, the age I am now. Always, and until her death in 2015, I was joined by my faithful trail partner: my dog, Scout.

I go (and went) to the woods—and the forest, the lake, the mountaintop, the river—to “live deliberately,” much the same as Thoreau did in the mid-1800s (minus the wood-chopping). The “woods” bring me back to myself; there is no place I feel more authentic.

The heart of my historical novel, Keowee Valley, takes place in the woods—in the forests of the Southern Appalachians. In fact, nearly every scene in the wilderness sections of the novel occur in real spots: scenery in which I’ve hiked, rivers I’ve paddled (and fallen into), trails I’ve traversed, in all kinds of weather. It is a land I know intimately. I know it as well as the pages of my own heart.

Every time I write a story, place—or setting, as some like to call it—plays a vital role, as important as any character. Maybe it’s the Southern writer in me? Southern writers are such, of course, because of their place. Mostly, I think, it’s because I can’t separate from the land, and neither can my characters. After all, in Keowee Valley, Quinn falls head over heels in love with the dangerous, gorgeous, and wild Cherokee backcountry long before she ever lays eyes on the equally dangerous (and gorgeous, and wild) Jack Wolf.

Bio:

Katherine Scott Crawford is a novelist, newspaper columnist, college English teacher, hiker and mom who lives in the mountains of Western North Carolina. Her parenting and outdoor life column appears weekly in The Greenville News (South Carolina), and is often picked up by other newspapers across the country. She holds far too many degrees in English and writing, chases her children frequently through the Pisgah National Forest, and is currently at work (when she’s actually sitting down) on her next historical novel.

Pick up Keowee Valley by Katherine Scott Crawford today for just $1.99!

“A glorious debut from a gifted author.” – Adriana Trigiani, bestselling author of Big Stone Gap and The Shoemaker’s Wife

“Keowee Valley is a terrific first novel by Katherine Scott Crawford–a name that should be remembered. She has a lovely prose style, a great sense of both humor and history, and she tells about a time in South Carolina that I never even imagined.” –Pat Conroy, bestselling author of The Prince of Tides and South of Broad.

On the edge of the wilderness, her adventure began.

She journeyed into the wilderness to find a kidnapped relative. She stayed to build a new life filled with adventure, danger, and passion.
Spring, 1768. The Southern frontier is a treacherous wilderness inhabited by the powerful Cherokee people. In Charlestown, South Carolina, twenty-five-year-old Quincy MacFadden receives news from beyond the grave: her cousin, a man she’d believed long dead, is alive–held captive by the Shawnee Indians. Unmarried, bookish, and plagued by visions of the future, Quinn is a woman out of place . . . and this is the opportunity for which she’s been longing.
Determined to save two lives, her cousin’s and her own, Quinn travels the rugged Cherokee Path into the South Carolina Blue Ridge. But in order to rescue her cousin, Quinn must trust an enigmatic half-Cherokee tracker whose loyalties may lie elsewhere. As translator to the British army, Jack Wolf walks a perilous line between a King he hates and a homeland he loves.
When Jack is ordered to negotiate for Indian loyalty in the Revolution to come, the pair must decide: obey the Crown, or commit treason . . .

From Jeanne Stein

I want to thank Belle Books for featuring Blood Drive in this month’s promotion. I thought one way to promote it was to show you a few of my favorite moments in writing the Anna Strong novels.

The first picture is my writing space. I love seeing where other authors work their magic. I hope you enjoy this peek into where I spend much of my time.

Next, Blood Drive has been translated into three languages. Here’s the Norwegian cover.

The Anna Strong stories are set in Mission Beach, California. If you are familiar with the area, you will recognize many of the locations I use in the books.

While I’ve been on several National Best Seller lists, The only Anna Strong title that has yet to make the NYT list was the story, Blood Debt, in the anthology HEXED.

It was a thrill to see my name on that NYT list, even if only for a week!

Hexed  by Ilona Andrews, Yasmine Galenorn, Allyson James, Jeanne C. Stein

So there it is…a glimpse into the life of a writer. It’s one of the hardest jobs I’ve ever had, but without a doubt, also one of the best. Please feel free to contact me at Jeanne@jeannestein.com. I love hearing from readers.

Pick up BLOOD DRIVE for just $1.99 through the 15th!

WRITING

By Phyllis Schieber

The documentary “Man on Wire,” is a breathtaking film about Philippe Petit, the twenty-four-year old French self-trained wire walker who pulled off the “artistic crime of the century” in 1974 when he walked and danced on a wire suspended between the two towers of the World Trade Center. For forty-five minutes, Petit performed a high-wire act without a safety net or a harness, mesmerizing the crowd that had gathered on the sidewalk 110 stories below. While I was fascinated by Petit’s skill and the daring feat that continues to amaze, I was perhaps even more taken with his attitude and response to the hordes of reporters who asked the same question over and over: “Why did you do it?” Petit’s frustration is almost as exquisite as his exploit. He responds, “Here I do something magnificent and beautiful and people ask why. There is no why.” And such is the response of that rare individual: a true artist, the person who creates and performs for the sake of art.

I am no Philippe Petit. I know why I write, but I understand what he means when he says, “There is no why.”  If someone were to ask me why I write, I would have to say, “Because I have no choice.” In the years between the sales of my books, I continued to write, and I would have continued even if my agent was unable to sell my work. I write because I am a writer. I write because it is the way I make sense of the world. And I write because whatever I see or hear or experience has the potential to be translated into narrative. I notice the way a woman holds her bread at the edge of her husband’s plate, so his beans will not spill over. I record the subtlest exchange of looks between friends when someone else at the table mentions a name. I am aware of how a mother and daughter resemble each other as they shop together in a department store. When I attend a dinner for a friend and the hostess tells the story of how her previous home burned down, I am eager to leave and jot down the details because it is likely I will want to use not only the story, but the narrator’s wonderful tone and good humor as she tell about the unfortunate event. I will be sure to make mention of her crisp blue eyes and her throaty laughter. Often when I ask someone if he or she noticed something that was so apparent to me, I get a quizzical look. Always, however, I am the one who is perplexed. How is it possible that such an unusual expression, or such a surprisingly harsh tone or such an unexpected movement could go unnoticed when it is as plain as anything to me? I am always listening, always looking and always writing in my head.

One of the most important lessons I have learned as a writer is that I am not unique. I remember once many years ago, I had a meltdown and phoned my writing teacher of many years, the late Hayes Jacobs. I wailed, “I’ll never be successful. I don’t have any talent. I’m wasting my time in your seminar. There’s no point.” He listened without interruption. When I was done, he said, “You too, eh?” I laughed, but I felt better immediately. Apparently, all writers anguish at one time or another. The life of a writer is a solitary and often frustrating. Still, I celebrate that it is my daunting destiny to recreate my perceptions, and then put them in a form that makes sense to others. Sometimes I struggle, and sometimes the words seem to dance onto the page. When the words dance, a rare occurrence, I worry that it is too easy. There seems to be a happy medium. Writing is always a consequence of extremes. Mostly, however, I feel blessed that I am able to string words together in a way that has an impact on others. The ability to make someone laugh or cry, or even both, is a thrill that little else surpasses.

Perhaps it is because I began to read early and never stopped that it feels as though what happens in books makes much more sense than what happens in real life. Books are simply a written record of the writer’s truth, and I have the wonderful job of delivering that truth to my readers. When a story begins to take shape in my consciousness, I always worry if it is a story worth telling. Is it original? Is it interesting enough? Once I move past that stage and allow myself to be swept along by the characters and their needs, I settle down to the real work of making the story come to life. I am in charge now, but not really. The story is in charge. I am merely its voice. I almost never grow tired of being a writer. There is always something that inspires me, or evokes a memory, or sparks an emotion. I sometimes have this image of myself holding a huge magnet, watching as all my thoughts and dreams come twirling at top speed, drawn to the magnet, eager to be captured and finally uncovered.

I am always on the lookout for a new story, an anecdote that can be turned into a novel, a few lines in the newspaper that catch my attention, or the way a couple holds hands on the train, staring wordlessly ahead. Something must have just happened. I study them surreptitiously for the duration of the ride, wondering, imagining, and planning. It is the beginning of chapter. There really is no why.

“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