B is for Buffalo

I remember hunting with my grandfather for deer, just the two of us trekking through the forest. His quiet voice pointed out places deer might bed down for the night or a broken bit of brush that said a deer passed this way. We settled down amidst clouds of mosquitoes to wait. 

When two deer made their way down the hill, chomping on berries and grasses all the way, I was surprised by how big they were and how much noise they made as the crashed through the bushes. Some of those experiences, which include helping to skin out a deer on my grandfather's back porch, help me to understand the thrill of the buffalo hunt and the gritty reality of making pemmican.

Paul Kane: Assiniboine Hunting Buffalo (1851-1856)
Source: Wikipedia

In 1846, Canadian painter Paul Kane traveled west as a guest of Sir George Simpson, Governor of the Hudson's Bay Company. Later, when he returned to Toronto, he turned his field sketches into paintings. Kane also kept a rather wonderful and detailed travel journal, later published as Wanderings of an Artist Among the Indians of North America. I have a treasured library-remaindered copy.

My heroine of Rivers of Stone, Cat McDonnell, meets up with Paul Kane at Norway House -- and travels west with him, a few months after Kane participated in a buffalo hunt led by Red River Métis.

All the Red River families -- men, women, children, and dogs -- participated in the annual buffalo hunt, once in the spring and again in the fall. In Kane's time, about 500 of the famous Red River carts, well-loaded with wood, followed the hunters on horseback to the hunt site on the Prairies. The carts were needed to carry tons of buffalo meat home, and the women (and children) dried the meat and made pemmican. The dogs ate the leftovers.

Buffalo Skulls, 1870 Wikipedia

The hunt itself must have been thrilling, no matter how disgusted I am by the later near extinction of buffalo by wholesale slaughter by hunters who came from the east by train. The natives and the Métis used nearly every part of the buffalo. 

Once a major herd was discovered, those on horseback (Kane among them), loaded their guns, put extra ammunition in their mouths, and galloped into the midst of the herd of some 4,000. These great beasts, confused and alarmed, ran in every direction. The shooting started, with the hunters reloading their guns while at a gallop.  For the next hour, the hunters continue firing, hoping not to hit each other. Kane reports that about 500 buffalo were killed. He was in the midst of the hunt -- actually dismounting to make a sketch! When the hunt was over, Kane returned to camp with the others, carrying with him the tongues of those buffalo he had killed to show his prowess as a hunter.  Immediately, fires were built, the buffalo roasted, and the feast began. 

Kane also describes how pemmican is made: First the buffalo meat is dried and then pounded between two rocks "until the fibres separate". Then, about 50 pounds of this buffalo meat is mixed while hot with a nearly like amount of fat, and sewn in a buffalo bag. I can't imagine the messy process of making pemmican, but I do know its importance to the fur brigade travelers who faced starvation on the long trail from York Factory to Fort Vancouver.

More about the buffalo hunt can be found at the Louis Riel Institute and in Chapter 6 of Kane's Wanderings of an Artist Among the Indians of North America. 

Check out what others have written for the A to Z Blogging Challenge HERE. We've just gotten started. It's not too late if you want to jump right in.

A is for Assiniboine

My novel began on a vacation trip to Fort Vancouver, reconstructed to capture a sense of the fur trade era, mid 19th Century. A sign at the edge of a field surprised me; it simply stated, "Once Scotsmen, Native Americans, Hawaiians, and Métis worked these fields."  I was fascinated by this mix of nationalities.

Three years later, I'm finishing the first final edits on the rough draft of my third novel, Rivers of Stone, set in the 1840s, to tell the story of Catriona Brody MacDonnell, who crossed Canada from York Factory in Upper Manitoba to Fort Vancouver in the State of Washington with a fur trade brigade in search of her husband. The twist, based partly on historic fact: She was disguised as a boy.

One of my goals in telling this story is to fairly represent the close ties between the fur traders, the Métis, and native peoples, in Canada, called aborigines. I constantly wonder if I have achieved this. For Cat, in her journey, meets and is helped by many native peoples -- the Cree, the Blackfeet, the Iroquois, the Salish, and the Assiniboine.

But I am outside native culture. My understandings come from reading. I have known only one Assiniboine, a poet who shall remain nameless because he is no longer with us. He taught me much in one afternoon.

We had just finished a poetry reading pretty well attended as such events go, and I went to congratulate him. I hovered on the edge of the group surrounding him, until he spoke, inviting me to the inner circle. "You didn't see me telling you to come closer?" he asked later. He explained that he had nodded his head and that such gestures are a second language. For those who know.

Today is the first day of the A-to-Z Blogging Challenge. Nearly 1,000 bloggers are jumping in with daily posts. Some are organized around a theme. In past years, I've written poetry, each day anew. This year, my posts will reflect the process of writing my story, random thoughts, and perhaps, like today, an occasional poem, this one to remember my friend.

A Poem of Healing

The birds scatter across the clouds as the sun
rises in the east, pink and winter-warm, a healing song.
It is good this morning to the east.

The birds wheel and turn south. It is winter.
The clouds are gray, but they are not stormy.
It is good this morning to the south.

The clouds are shadowed pink to the west
with paths of blue between the massed white,
a surprising strong blue for winter, my friend,
a good sight to the west where the ocean lies.

And to the north, more birds make their morning journey.
I see not dark clouds, but light, pale gray clouds;
the ground is green with winter rain,
and the sheep have much to eat.
Winter is here in this still morning, a time of healing.

All is good from where I am as far as I can see.
The birds fly, and they are beautiful.
The clouds cover our mother earth,
and she is beautiful.
I can see the earth whole in all directions.

We humans go north and south, east and west.
We heal ourselves, my friend, by being
in all directions and in one place, connected.

First thoughts of spring

First thoughts of spring:
A mountain bluebird
perches on a wintry limb
and sings 
bulbs into flowers: 
Hearts ease!

Mountain Bluebird
Elaine R. Wilson on Wikipedia

March 21: Theme Reveal A-to-Z Challenge

Despite all that possibly could go awry, and despite an unusual amount of dithering, much like a dog circling to find the best place to nap, I have decided on a theme for this year's A-to-Z Blogging Challenge.

Since 2012, I've written poetry for the month of April, finding that happy balance between the A-to-Z Challenge and a way to celebrate April as National Poetry Month. But this year . . . 

After three years of research (including a summer trip to Canada), writing and revising, I'm close to finishing the first real draft for Rivers of Stone, a historical novel set in mid-19th Century Canada, and the third book about the McDonnell clan. 

Book 1, Standing Stones, introduces the McDonnell family and their home in the Orkney Islands, northern Scotland, during the time of the Clearances. 

Book 2, Years of Stone, Australia, tells the story of Mac McDonnell and Deidre Scott as Mac struggles to survive in Van Diemen's Land, a prison colony, now present day Tasmania.

THE BLURB for Rivers of Stone: When her parents are evicted from the family farm in the Orkney Islands and sent to the colonies as indentured servants, Catriona Brody McDonnell decides to follow her heart and her new husband to Canada, with one twist: She'll join the Hudson's Bay Company disguised as a boy. 

York Factory, 1853 (Wikipedia)

Once they land at York Factory, and Dougal joins the fur brigade traveling west, can Catriona survive in this new land, essentially alone? How will she find her way to Fort Vancouver?

For the month of April, my blog will explore issues tied to my story, its characters, history, and the writing process. I hope you will join me -- and the other bloggers taking on the A-to-Z Blogging Challenge -- starting April 1. 

A little about birds and creativity . . .

Sometimes we are inspired by others to persevere. 

So today, I'd like to highlight the creative works of Sandy Brown Jensen, who continues a marvelous journey as a video storyteller, mixing photography and poetry. She calls it digital dreaming. Sandy also participates in an awesomely challenging challenge: Create Daily!

Yesterday, Sandy and her sister, Cheryl Renee Long, taught their first online journaling class called The Mysterious Night Vision Field Journal. In this class, participants play with colorful pencils and black paper to spur creativity. I could not join the class . . . this time . . . but the idea is entrancing! See some of Sandy's work HERE on her blog for her own Night Vision Journal.

Inspired by Sandy, here's my own poem today, translated to video format. Consider visiting what others have written for Poets on the Page as well.

IWSG March check-in

The first Wednesday of each month, writers participating in the Insecure Writers Support Group check in. We may share our current writing worries or write something that may motivate other writers. It's Friday night, not Wednesday, but I'm still checking in, for I have a question.

What happens when family emergencies take precedence over all else? I'm not talking about the everyday challenges we all face. I'm talking about that phone call in the middle of the night, that trip to the hospital, the juggling of doctor visits and tests, the waiting for results, and watching those you love in pain when you can't really do anything to change what is.

Does that mean we stop writing? That we miss deadlines? 

The process of writing may stall, but if writing is an essential part of our nature, then we will return to write again -- stories or poems, longer works, or even blog entries. 

We can find encouragement from other writers. For example, Chris Kincaid titles one of her blogs Writing What I Can When I Can, a working philosophy that suggests a calm acceptance of the reality that every day we may not meet our goals. That events, often outside our control, do happen and affect what we may achieve. That maybe all of life is a balancing act, where our faith in ourselves, our intentions and efforts do make a difference. 

Additional encouragement comes from A Round of Words in 80 Days with its motto: "The writing challenge that knows you have a life."

So where does that leave me just now? Checking in for IWSG a few days late and gathering my courage to persevere. May your writing go well. Why not drop by the Insecure Writers Study Group to see what other writers are doing?

Resting place at Aransas National Park, Texas (February 2016)

POP #5: For Valentine's Day

I know this anonymous face rather too well,
the thickening neck, the frown line between
pale eyebrows, pale eyes behind glasses,
now pale hair gone to gray.
I’ve been invisible since the 3rd grade.
About the only aspect of this face I like
is the smile that lifts the corners of my mouth
when you call my name.

This week's Poets on the Page prompt is to write a love poem -- the twist comes when the challenge is to write a love poem about yourself. I'm not all that daring, but it was fun as the poem turned to something unexpected.

Maybe all the chocolate is gone, maybe orchids have a sympathetic aura we know nothing about, maybe birds flock together solely to survive the wind, maybe yesterday was Valentine's Day. 

Orchids at Botannical Garden,
Corpus Christi (Feb 2016)

Poem: "Winter Texans"

I don’t belong in this place so far from snow,
the palm trees and calm waters outside
an absolute lie about winter or spring, for that matter.
The gulls, loons, and an occasional pelican 

wheel overhead. A few flap down 

to the waters of this canal.
I shiver, caught up in some bone memory of cold.
The days of this respite pass too quickly;
I remain caught by half-remembered routine.
And when we return north, it will be
as if we had never lived by the Gulf
in the warm February sun,
as if we never saw the mermaid 
nor swam in the sea.

This week's poem is a rather melancholy entry for Valentine's Day. 

Don't you prefer e. e. cummings? 

love is more thicker than forget
more thinner than recall
more seldom than a wave is wet
more frequent than to fail

Read the rest of his poem at Poetry Foundation HERE.  

Happy Valentine's Day!

A few White Pelicans in courting plummage
taking in the sun
Corpus Christi, February 2016

IWSG February check-in: Beginnings and endings

We've moved far from snow, down the Gulf coast to Corpus Christi, trading freezing slush for balmy skies and palm trees. So begins February. Beginnings in a new home for the month. And an ending of winter.

What does it mean when all I have with me that's connected to my writing is a small laptop with limited memory? And a rough draft awaiting those hopefully final much-labored-over edits? Nothing has really changed. Each day I will find those precious hours before others awake to keep working.

Maybe I will start something new this month.

Maybe I will finish a chunk of those final edits.

I only hold this constant: each day I will set aside some time to write.

Tomorrow we'll go out on some kind of a skimmer boat to see the birds. Egrets, great blue herons, osprey, brown pelicans, a few spoonbills. Maybe I'll bring home a new story idea. For now, I will cherish each day. Watch the wind buffet the palms and the black-headed gulls fly low over the canal on Padre Island.

This first Wednesday of the month, for the Insecure Writer's Support Group, we're supposed to check in, to report what challenges we're facing and to encourage others in the group.

Check out what other IWSG writers are doing HERE.  Persevere. Write those good words that make up your unique stories. Make it a good month!

Giveaway starts Jan 25 for Standing Stones' NEW Audiobook

To celebrate my just released audiobook through Amazon for Standing Stones, here's a giveaway!

Between January 25 and January 31, you can enter to win a free download code for the audiobook version of Standing Stones by completing the form below. 

Winners will be selected by Rafflecopter at random. Once I receive the winning names, I'll send full instructions and that download code so you can receive your audiobook!

Darryl Kurylo, an extraordinary voice actor, did an outstanding job of narrating my story, adopting a variety of voices to bring the characters of 19th Century Scotland to life. 

You can listen to a five minutes sample of the audiobook for Standing Stones, available on Amazon 

Thank YOU for following along my writing journey. I wish you many happy hours of writing, reading, and/or listening!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

POP #3: Of tango and lost poems

Perhaps today's post began when a friend told me of her love of tango, and I remembered a visit to San Telmo, a small neighborhood in Buenos Aires back in 2009, a blissful Sunday afternoon filled with music and tango dancers in the streets.

I had forgotten the poem entirely but remembered the music, the dancing, and the photographs -- and so found this lost poem.

Sunday in San Telmo

She sketches a circle

with the tip of her shoe,
an invitation.
He nods his head,
accepts with a bow.
He presses a button 
on a boom box.

The tinny music of tango
fills the air
to the delight of passersby 
from the neighborhood
and tourists who have come
to San Telmo in Buenos Aires
to see in these dancers
those moments 
we now remember from our youth.

She arches her back;

he twirls her around,

their steps pause

and repeat,

their knees and ankles brush,

an intricate embrace

of precision and passion;

her head thrown back,

the music, the music revolves

a rondo,

and we are lost again

in the moment.

This week’s Poets on the Page prompt, posted on Monday, challenged us to look at a poem that we had abandoned in some way, revise it, and then share it. 

I thought about the poems I had written last year, not remembering even how many or what I might ‘do’ with them. Maybe someday I would put them into a little chapbook, or build them around family history,  a poetry memoir. So I collected them, rewrote some, organized them, and now have a working draft of 46 poems.

This once, this year,
these poems are not lost;
paired with photographs,
organized into a round of seasons,
these little troubadours
shine of this past year’s musings
and sing of light.

Stop by to read what other writers have posted for this week's Poets on the Page.

Or just maybe, watch the tango dancers!

Poets on the Page #2: Into the Woods

Into the woods we go, an April walk
past towering pines along a ridge trail,
peopled by spring grasses and flowering
yellow Arrowleaf Balsamroot,
its leaves, roots, and stems once infused
into a steaming tea to ward off colds or fever
by the Blackfoot, Salish and Cheyenne.

We stroll under late spring sun along this meandering trail;
the woods quiet, these hills innocent of snow,
all memories of winter crunching under our feet,
the sweet smell of pines and mossy,
volcanic boulders around us
unaffected by the round of seasons.
For this moment, we listen
for the chatter of chickadees,
that signal we have negotiated winter
once again.

Dishman Hills, April 2015 (Camp)

Monday’s Poets on the Page poetry prompt: To write a poem that explores walking into senses and memory. Drop by the Poets on the Page blog to read what others have written – and join in! 

It snowed today, reminding me of a walk in nearby Dishman Hills last spring, far from winter snow and today's flurries.

Book Review: Death Goes to the County Fair

How do readers show appreciation to writers -- especially indie writers? One of the best ways is to write a review.  

January begins with cold weather and after tromping around in the snow, I wanted nothing more than to cuddle up next to the fireplace with a nice cozy read.

Annette Drake's novella, Death Goes to the County Fair (An Ogallala Mystery), has been on my to-read pile for a little while.

This cozy mystery begins with a runaway house fire as Joni, a newly hired reporter/photographer for the Ogallala Gazette, is sent out to photo the scene.

Joni, just out of college and not quite sure she fits into this small town, carries out her assignments with enthusiasm, even when misspelling the mayor’s name or taking a picture of the largest pig at the county fair. But she finds herself caught between small town intrigues and her rising curiosity over a murder – discovered right at the biggest income producer for Ogallala – the county fair. 

Heartfelt characters combined with a realistic small town feel and a neatly twisted plot lead to an entertaining 4.5 star read.

Annette Drake, a former Spokane writer now relocated to the west coast, has long been active in supporting other writers. 

This story, her fifth book but first mystery, was inspired by her own experience as a journalist just out of college -- and embarking on her first job.

She writes engagingly of the mix between fiction and personal experience that led her to write Death Goes to the County Fair on her website HERE.  

Why not check out Annette's books? Available on Amazon and at your favorite bookstore, on request.

IWSG, a Snippet of a WIPpet, and Doubt

Last week, my quilting buddies and I were headed down to lunch in an elevator, when one asked, "Beth, when will that book you're working on be done?" Another chimed in and said, "And will it have a happy ending this time?"

I guess I'm well past that visceral flash of self-doubt that seems to emerge from time to time:  How-do-I-say-I'm-a-writer. But new doubts seem to flicker awake without me even trying. These last several months, my recurring doubt has been:  Will-I-ever-finish-this-story!

I'm a pantser with plodder tendancies who writes historical fiction. What that means is I have a germ of an idea, begin reading research, write every day but in no order, build outlines as I go, and continue research and writing until I reach that happy point where I have enough words. Then begins the editing -- mostly a 2-3 year stretch of digging into the story to make it stronger.

Right now, I'm rereading scenes for continuity and transitions and to catch doubled words (common in my first drafts), the usual work on editing that surfaces when my overall strategy is rather like that of a flea, not always good when writing historical fiction. But past the surface, I'm asking what kinds of story structure issues affect this section? What are the deepest concerns Cat (my heroine disguised as a boy who's traveling across Canada in 1840)  has at this point in this story?  

For example at the editing level, I could have known when they switched from York boats to canoes. But who wants to worry about which conveyance when Cat gets lost in the woods? It would be silly NOT to worry about it now. Thank goodness for search & replace, the intuitive writer’s friend. 

Which brings me back to the elevator and my friends. For I had no real answer for them, no exact date. I only know this: One day, this story will be finished and another will beckon. That is part of my identity as a writer, my promise to myself -- and to my readers. 

WIPpet Wednesday: Some of you may know that every Wednesday (or most Wednesdays), some writers post a snippet from their work-in-progress (WIP). Here's mine, based on the date this way: 12 sentences for the two sixes in the 6th of January and 2016.

I'm celebrating a new character that emerged this week. Finally, a Métis wife. I had missed her and she's a bit shadowy in the story, but suddenly, the brigade had just started paddling upstream, and there she was, Mary, mixing bear grease up to repel mosquitos. 

----------

"Take some of this," called Thurston. He held out a handful of thick salve.

“What is it?”

“Bear grease from Mary. It will keep the mosquitos off. Rub it everywhere you can.”

Cat took a handful. The salve stunk to high heaven. "Thanks, I guess."

Thurston smeared his face, beard, neck, and hairy arms liberally. "By St. Anne, you don't want the mosquitoes biting your ass all day."

“Maybe the smell will scare them off,” said Cat. 

----------

And so the writing goes, sometimes slowly, with uncertain starts and stops, and sometimes many words on the page. The process of writing is unique to each of us, and we each will face doubt as we write. 

May 2016 be the year your writing sings!

Check out what other WIPpet Wednesday writers have posted HERE.

Read what other writers in the Insecure Writers Support Group are thinking about this month HERE.

 

2016: First poem . . . "Open"

This year, let me open
like a flower, petals uncurling,
like a dream of the sea, endless water,
like an unfolding of days,
each complete to itself,
infinite in the rising and setting
of the same sun,
the same me,
the same you
through these days of winter
into the promise of spring. 

Horsetail Falls,
Columbia Gorge in Winter
by Doug Beghtel 

Poets on the Page: 2016 begins with a new online writing community for poets. Poets on the Page offers a weekly poetry prompt each Monday. Why not read what others have written and jump right in with a poem of your own?

This week's prompt: Write for ten minutes asking yourself this question - What if you stop trying to be who you aren't, let everything that isn't you drop away, and embrace the real you? Word Prompts: direct, frank, candid, open.

Visit Poets on the Page blog for more information!

A Snippet for WIPpet: Farewell to York Factory

This morning, three-foot icicles dangle outside my office window, about a foot of snow on the ground, and temperatures in the 20s promise a quiet day. I found an amazing article online by Eric W. Morse on Fur Trade Routes in Canada/Then and Now that includes notes from Sir John Franklin's journey up the Hayes River in 1819. 

So many details of Cat's journey downstream were simply wrong. I'd left out the first portages and the first waterfalls. Luckily I knew about the mosquitoes, so many, Franklin reports, that they were unable to shoot snow geese for dinner for they couldn't see through the clouds of mosquitoes. I've camped a time or two and swiped bees off my food, but imagine being out in the wilderness without Deet to ward off mosquitoes. I know. Toxic chemicals. But I'd rather not hear that nasty whine and barely can imagine "clouds" of mosquitoes. 

Except once when we traveled to Inuvik near the Arctic Circle and took a side trip to a small town just because its name was intriguing. We literally ran from the car to the tourist information center to escape that summer cloud of mosquitoes. Seriously. No camping. One night in a hotel and then back to White Horse.

Today's snippet for WIPpet Wednesday picks up the start of Cat's journey west from York Factory in Manitoba in the 1840s. Based somehow on the date, I give you five paragraphs for the 5 in 2015.

Cat sloshed over the muddy beach, waded into the Hayes River, and scrambled into one of the three boats, her legs dripping wet. She sat close to one of the mail packets in the middle of the 40-foot boat, well out of the way of the six oarsmen. Charles Alcorn nodded at her. “Heard you were coming, Cat.” Two ministers she didn’t know at all were bundled heavily with blankets over their coats, sitting behind Charles. Just off the ship from London, they swatted at the ever present mosquitoes and talked only to each other in low voices, as if they weren’t quite awake.

Back on shore, a group of men gathered around Mr. Mactavish and Mr. Hargrave to consult on last minute instructions. Then, three voyageurs carried Mr. John Rowand, a bear of a man, short but weighing over 300 pounds, out to one of the waiting boats. Once hefted into the York boat, he sat alone in the center, morose and nearly buried in blankets. Muchk had told Cat the Blackfoot called Rowand Iron Shirt, but he was also known as One Pound One. Some said for the way he walked with a decided limp; others for his temper. “Watch your way west,” Muchk had said. “He has a loud bark, but he has daughters.”

Mr. Hargrave and Mr. Mactavish stood with a few of the Cree to watch their departure. Cat looked for Muchk, but he was not there. She waved at Samuels as with a cheer, the York boats, heavily laden, launched into the Hayes River, turning south to the Nelson River and Norway House.

Samuels had shown Cat a map of the trip, his fingers tracing the route from York Factory, south some 200 miles on the Hayes River. Samuels tapped his finger at the Painted Stone Portage. "Ye'll have a bit of a walk here to get over to the Echimamish River, but it's easy going down the Nelson River to Norway House after that."

Cat didn’t really care about where the boats would go. She was finally leaving York Factory. She did not look back at the few who stood on the bluff above the river near York Factory. She shivered as she glanced at the burial ground south of the whitewashed buildings. I won’t think of it. May the child be at peace in this cold place, and may I never return.

York Factory 1853 (Wikipedia)

Check out what other writers have posted this morning for WIPpet Wednesday. Thank you, Emily Witt, for hosting! May 2016 bring you good reading, good friends, and happy endings.

A Snippet for WIPpet and we're on the Columbia . . .

The snow is falling heavily outside my window this morning, and I'm alternating between writing and quilting. 

With the writing, I fall into my story, lost in the research, and imagine what happens next. With quilting, I get up and move from sewing machine to ironing board and back again. I read somewhere that we're not supposed to hunch over the keyboard for hours. My reality? Since straining my hamstring, I can't sit still so long. 

But, both occupations are equally entrancing. 

QUILTING: I'm working on the borders for a wall hanging of two leaping salmon, finished sashiko style (a traditional Japanese form). When I checked Kitty Pippen's Quilting with Japanese Fabrics to make sure the background grid was positioned properly, I spotted one of her wall hangings. She'd used a Japanese fabric to frame to sashiko. Immediately I dove into my Japanese fabric stash to find the perfect quarter. Making progress!

Sashiko project posted on my story corkboard

WRITING: Each Wednesday, we writers participating in WIPpet are to post a snippet somehow related to the date from our current WIP (work in progress). Here are 15 sentences to honor the last of 2015. 

Context: The fur brigade has edged closer to Fort Vancouver on the Columbia River. It's November, 1846, and Cat, disguised as a boy, still travels undiscovered as an assistant to artist Paul Kane. Close to her goal, she yet hopes she'll find Dougal at Fort Vancouver.

For the first time in a long while, Cat and Kane rode in the same canoe, seated in the center, the oarsmen paddling hard, and the river calm ahead of them. The two were silent for a time.

Kane straightened his back and stretched. “If we’re lucky, we won’t see much more rough water.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” said Cat.

“What if you don’t find your brother? Have you made any plans?” asked Kane.

“Don’t want to think about it. I’ll find him.” Cat hunched under her blanket.

“But if you don’t?”

“I’ll think about it if I can’t find him.” Cat sat forward, away from Kane. She didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Ahead of the boat, an westerly wind pushed rain clouds their direction.

Winter along the Columbia River
Source: http://www.wunderground.com/wximage/Olbetsy/1880

Why not visit those other authors who, despite the holiday rush, have posted a snippet from their writing for WIPpet Wednesday?

Or, consider joining in. One of the advantages of posting work that's fresh off that keyboard is you can peer more closely at that first draft and share a bit of your story.

A WIPpet and a Rapid . . .

White-water rafting down the Snake and Salmon Rivers made a thrilling summer excursion for me several years back. These are the kinds of experiences we may treasure and, as writers, later mine for that telling detail.

Today is WIPpet Wednesday, that day a few writers commit to posting an excerpt from their current WIP (work in progress). The snippet needs to relate to the date in some way. In this case, 12 sentences for the month of December.

Context: In Rivers of Stone, Catriona, disguised as a boy, travels with the fur brigade in 1846, to rejoin Dougal, her husband. This week, we catch up with them just north of Revelstoke, when they pass the Dalles des Morts (death rapids).  

Just ahead, a great sucking hole opened up in the river, white swirling, circling waves at the edge and deep green in the wide center. Mesmerized, Cat leaned toward the hole. She could see almost all the way to the bottom, an immense hole that could swallow the canoe, their packs, and everyone aboard. For a few tense minutes, their canoe wavered, the men paddled wildly, and the canoe skirted the very edge of the whirlpool.

The men shouted in relief as they scooted past the pull of the whirlpool.

“Whoopee! If she caught us in that, we wouldn’t pop out ‘til spring,” said Pierre.

Cat’s eyes glassed over. Her heartbeat slowed. No wonder Dougal wanted me to stay in York. She clenched the pouch that yet hung from her neck. I’m still alive.

While our guide on that summer excursion told us that boats had been pulled down into the whirlpool and hadn't come up until spring, what I remember most was staring straight down into the center hole of the whirlpool and feeling the boat shiver at its edge.

Here's a photo of this stretch of the river from Frances Hunter's post on Lewis & Clark's voyage through this specific stretch of the Columbia:

Dalles Des Morts (Frances Hunter)

Inspired by Kate Schwengel and now hosted by Emily Witt, why not check out what other WIPpet writers have posted HERE.

Jane Eyre, Luccia Gray, and Flash Poetry

One happy result of participating in online writing communities is meeting other writers. This week, I've been reading posts by others for the IWSG (Insecure Writers Support Group) and found a lovely blog by Luccia Gray.

Inspired by Charlotte Bronte's classic, Luccia Gray is writing a series of novels set twenty years after Jane Eyre ends. Her first book, All Hallow's at Eyre Hall, invites the reader into Jane's world, just as her husband, Rochester, lies on his deathbed. As so many others who were enchanted and changed by reading Bronte, I'm looking forward to reading Gray's book.

Luccia's blog links to other writing challenges, and so I discovered Three Line Thursday, a weekly prompt with photograph and rather exacting guidelines for flash poetry. Three lines. Ten words each line. 

I was one day late, but last week's photograph was so compelling, here's my poem:

Image by Julie Jensen

We walked here on the boardwalk so many years ago.
Now, caught between memories of yesterday and the years ahead,
I’d rather return to when seagulls wheeled under bright sun.

---

I'm not used to writing a strict ten word line which seems to throw the rhythm off, but this exercise was fun and brought back memories of walking with my husband along the boardwalk in Atlantic City, long before the casinos made their presence known.

Otherwise, the writing goes well, and poor Catriona is still making that winter crossing of the Rockies. Here, the snow has melted, and the coming holidays promise time with family and friends -- and a little quiet. May you have a good December, the last month of 2015.

You can read Luccia Gray's poem HERE. 

IWSG: The Challenge

Some days are so hectic, it's hard to keep a sense of balance. What is it that impels writers to make a commitment to writing a story?  I almost don't remember why I began. I only know that this day and tomorrow I will keep trying to put down those words in hopes of creating a compelling story.

These last two weeks have been more than usually hectic with a windstorm that took out power for nearly 200,000 people. For some, power was restored within 36 hours. Others waited a week. That storm tumbled trees into streets and houses. The final count, nearly 800 trees down city wide, and then it snowed. This week felt like Stephen King's quote came to life: "Build empathy for your characters and then torture them." 

And then the relatives arrived for Thanksgiving. Of course, we were more than thankful this year for the restoration of power. I wasn't fully aware of how much I depend on electricity to power my writing.

And so for IWSG (Insecure Writers Study Group), as I begin to reflect on how all this 'real life' affects my writing, to recognize my insecurities that come every day, and how slowly my writing seems to progress, all I can say is don't worry about word count. Just write that one word or one paragraph or one section at a time. 

I'm deep in revision. Some days I question if my characters reveal enough of their true nature through their actions and speech. Other times, I wonder if the history that shapes the story can be reduced to a telling image or anecdote. This week, an entirely new character emerged mid-story, but as I read over what is on the page, I fall in love with the story all over.

Read what others have written for IWSG HERE and leave a comment or two as a way of saying 'thank you' to all those writers who do somehow persevere.  And may December bring only warmth and good memories.

WIPpet and Crossing the Rockies

Right now I'm working on those scenes that take Cat further west in her crossing of the Rockies in mid November. Sometimes it feels a bit incongruous to be warm and inside while writing these scenes.

Although I've hiked around Jasper and Banff in the summers, sometimes it's hard to visualize what Cat and Kane experienced as they plough through heavy snows on snowshoes. 

My fallback is to read everything I can find and to stare at old paintings and photographs to bring the reality of winter alive.

Winter Hikers in Canada w/Snowshoes (Source)

Today's also WIPpet Wednesday, the day we share a snippet from our work in progress (wip), somehow based on the date (25 minus 11 = 14 sentences).

To set the scene: Catriona, disguised as a boy, travels with a Hudson's Bay Company brigade across Canada to Fort Vancouver. It's 1842. The small party of 7 has made it through the Athabasca Pass. Along the way, I've learned how to make snowshoes from pine boughs and how to build an emergency tent out of a blanket. Here, Cat has her first crossing of the Wood River:

After a short conference, two of the strongest men made a chair of their hands for Mary Lane to sit upon. Cat watched as they carefully carried her across the Wood River, holding her aloft when the water ran shoulder deep. Then it was Cat’s turn. Though she was one of the smallest, she was not carried. Cat gasped as the ice-choked water reached her chest and lifted her. She grabbed the hands of the man next to her. Each man in the chain supported the next as they crossed to avoid being swept away.

“I’m glad that’s behind us,” said Cat as she pressed the icy water from her leggings and jacket.

“Dinna be so fast to celebrate. We have a few more crossings ahead.” Thurston pointed at the snake-shaped river ahead of them, its swift current breaking into little white waves in the center with ice chunks clumped along the bank. Pine trees heavily laden with snow grew near to the river’s edge except where avalanches had wiped the hills clean. The men slid and stumbled along steep banks of icy gravel. 

Before the afternoon, they crossed the Wood River another thirty-six times.

Again, to peek into the process I use, here's a photo of a sternwheel steamship I found online that was once used to take tourists on the Wood River to see the white water. Dated 1902, the photo inspired some of my description. And it wasn't winter!

The S. S. Revelstoke near Revelstoke, 1902
(Klopp Family Project)

Check out what other writers have posted from their current projects by hopping HERE.

Celebrating Veteran's Day with a free e-book

This Veteran's Day we seek to honor those who have served our Country. 

Over the 200 years of our country's history, countless numbers of men have enlisted or been drafted. 

In the Vietnam War alone, over 9 million served between 1964 and 1975. Many thousands died; others came home wounded or irrevocably changed by their experiences.

The generation of men who fought during the Vietnam War are now in their 70s. Many of their stories are untold.

I remember the headlines and the peace marches in San Francisco in the late 1960's and early 1970's. But I was somewhat insulated from the Vietnam War. No one I knew had been drafted into the Army. I was working full-time at a conservative bank while carrying 8-10 credits a term at night school. Buried in the library and writing that next assignment, I ignored events around me until May 4,1970. Kent State shocked me. The Ohio National Guard shot into a crowd of anti-war protestors, killing four and wounding another nine students.

Then I met Allen. He was footloose, ready to travel south to Mexico to study at the Instituto in San Miguel de Allende and to write his novel, based on his experiences in Vietnam. We fell in love, married eventually, had a daughter, and Allen set his book aside. That was 40 years ago.

Allen's 70th birthday was this past August. Our daughter came to me and said, "Mom, we should publish Dad's book. People need to read it." And so we have. 

REACHING presents one man's interpretation of what happened. 

Out of respect for all who have served, the Kindle version of REACHING is available as a FREE DOWNLOAD on Amazon from November 10 through November 12. 

Allen's website is at http://allendorfman.blogspot.com/

Link to REACHING on Amazon

Winter Crossings

This month's project to use NaNoWriMo to finish the draft of Rivers of Stone has meant some rethinking of the overall structure of the story and the emotional journey of my key characters. 

I've been intrigued by this process and am just now working on that winter crossing of the Rocky Mountains. Surprisingly, as I'm writing about Cat's journey from York Factory in Upper Manitoba to Fort Vancouver along the Columbia in Washington State, the story happens to be set just about now, early November. 

In the section I'm working on, it's 1846, and Cat, disguised as a young, male clerk, travels with a fur brigade over the Athabasca Pass to Boat Encampment. 

Once they've successfully reached Boat Encampment, that place where the Wood River meets the Columbia, they must have felt a tremendous sense of relief, as they were greeted by the men from Fort Vancouver, hot fires, and finally enough food to eat. 

Boat Encampment. View from Fred Laing Ridge of the confluence of the Canoe (from upper left), Wood (from upper right), and Columbia (centre right) rivers in 1947 (Rey Marr, 1947 Whyte Museum of the Canadian Rockies) and in 2010 (Source: CW-201007-11-042). 

Paul Kane painted a quick sketch of the campgrounds at Boat Encampment on September 22, 1847:

'Boat Encampment' by Canadian artist Paul Kane. Painted while travelling with a HBCo fur brigade - Sept 22, 1847, Kane with canoe brigade up the Columbia River and arrived on October 10 at Boat Encampment. [near Rockies on Alberta/BC border] They waited until horse trek from Jasper arrived. Then they switched, the horse team taking over the canoes. They managed to bring all 56 horses safely and without loss to Jasper's House [Alberta]. Pinterest by RobinBodnaruk.

But a nasty, nearly 1,200 mile journey down the Columbia River awaits them, past the long series of rapids at what is now The Dalles and the notorious Big Eddy, a massive whirlpool that claimed many lives in that time when the river was the primary (and most efficient) mode of transport. Perhaps the brigade was inured to further challenges. 

But I still remember skirting a massive whirlpool when white water river-rafting on the Snake and Salmon Rivers. Our boat, just a little larger than a canoe, came within a few feet of the whirlpool, close enough for me to stare into the deep green swirling center. Our guide said if we got caught in the whirlpool, our bodies would not come up until spring. 

I do cherish that experience on these two rivers, for I learned to read the river -- which sections required portage and which V-shaped waves predicted safe journey ahead.

Yesterday, it snowed here in Spokane, just a light sprinkling to remind us that winter closes in. But in the mountains north of here, the real snow begins. I'm happy to bring Cat down out of the mountains and closer to her journey's end.

IWSG: November Challenges

The Insecure Writers Study Group invites writers to post their thoughts about writing challenges/insecurities the first Wednesday of the month. Here are  mine:

Challenge: NaNoWriMo. Every writer dreads the words: writers' block. When this happens, we may find ourselves stuck for days or weeks or months for an annoyingly long list of reasons. Because real life does happen outside our imaginations, and we cope the best we can. Sometimes that translates into fewer words on the page than we want. Enter NaNoWriMo to the rescue!

I do appreciate NaNo very much because my efforts to meet the goal of writing 1,600 words each day -- even crappy words -- pushes me into new territory. I mean this quite literally. Generally, I'm a recursive writer, going over scenes instead of moving forward. 

My current wip is close to that editing stage, but I discovered in the read through up to NaNo several problems in the main character's story arc which led to a major restructuring of the plot. And that led to missing chunks -- scenes, characters, plot points. All those tidy 3x5 cards on my corkboard came down. New cards went up, and I'm writing those 1,600 words a day . . . so far.

Challenge: Marketing. The other challenge I'm confronting is the dragon known as marketing. I have mapped out steps to take, but like many other writers, I'd rather be writing! Encouraged by what other indie writers have done, I've set up a GoodReads giveaway, scheduled three free days on Amazon through KDP, and sent out my first e-mailed newsletter this year. See links below. 

If it were only for myself, I wouldn't feel so inadequate. But over the summer, I editing and formatted my dear husband's (DH) Vietnam war novel for launch during Veteran's Day week. The book is not an easy read, but tells a story that I really believe needs to be out there. 

Challenge: Being an active part of a writing community sometimes seems like one commitment too many. Setting measurable goals and then assessing my performance is never easy. 

But in the process of setting those goals, something happens. I make progress. I gain insights about the writing and marketing process, and, hopefully, my comments help other writers.  

So I will continue my commitment to online groups like the Insecure Writers Support Group, A Round of Words in 80 Days, NaNoWriMo, and WIPpet Wednesday -- and face-to-face groups, like Spokane Authors. 

If any of these groups are new to you, why not check them out?

Now back to the writing. For WIPpet Wednesday, here's an excerpt from Rivers of Stone, based on today's date: November 11 = 11 + 4 (for today's date) = 15 + 2 (for my second post for IWSG):   In Rivers of Stone, my heroine, Cat, disguised as a boy, crosses the Rockies with a fur brigade in the winter of 1846:

After a short conference, two of the strongest men made a chair of their hands for Mary Lane to sit upon. Cat watched as they carefully carried her across the Wood River, holding her aloft when the water ran waist deep. Then it was Cat’s turn. Though she was one of the smallest, she was not carried. Cat gasped as the ice-choked water reached her chest. She grabbed the hand of the man next to her. One by one, each man held hands to support each other as they crossed.  

“I’m glad that’s behind us,” said Cat as each man pulled the next onto the bank.

“Dinna be so fast to celebrate. We have a few more crossings ahead.” Thurston pointed at the snake-shaped river ahead of them. Before breakfast, they crossed the Wood River another thirty-six times. 

“We’ll halt here for breakfast,” shouted Lane. “Rum to warm us, a bit of food to lighten our load, and then we’ve got the swamp.” He waved at the open, marshy area that opened ahead of them. “’Tis about three miles. That should be easy,” Lane said, “after all we’ve done.” 

Athabasca River near Jasper, Wikipedia

As the picture suggests, I'm with my characters on a winter crossing of the Rockies. Make it a good week!

OTHER LINKS:

Allen's website for REACHING: A Vietnam War Novel and links to the GoodReads Giveaway (November 4-15).  NOTE: Reaching (Kindle format) will be offered as a freebie November 10-11-12 to honor Veteran's Day.

Links to my GoodReads Giveaway for Years of Stone (paperback) (November 4-12), and my first newsletter of the year through MailChimp.