H is for Letitia Hargrave of York Factory

Why do people marry? Looking back to the 19th Century's fur trade era, many marriages (sometimes called liaisons) were made in the fashion of the country. Fur traders contracted with Native wives, honoring their wives and large families. Sometimes, like today, the marriage was a shambles, and the wife and children were abandoned. 

In the earliest days of the Hudson's Bay Company, such marriages were discouraged. But the benefits of having complex family relationships -- not only for companionship at isolated posts -- but connections to power brokers, the cousin of my cousin, were highly valued in the competitive fur trade. 

Around the 1840s, those Company officers and gentlemen began to import European wives, women with little experience of the wilderness that would surround them. 

Letitia Hargrave was an exception, for her uncle and three brothers were active in the fur trade. In 1837, She met James Hargrave, Chief Factor of York Factory, when he came to Scotland on a home visit. Their courtship was by mail. On his return, they married in 1840 and traveled to the hub of Hudson's Bay Company operations in Canada.

When Letitia Hargrave arrived at York Factory after nearly 3-1/2 months on the sailing vessel, Prince Rupert, she broke down in tears. Some think this may have been due to the isolation and wilderness at York Factory, but I found an article that suggests the rigors of the voyage led her to cry out of sheer joy the voyage had ended! 

I cannot imagine spending nearly 3 months being seasick on a rolling ship through storms and ice, and sharing a small cabin with three other women and several unnamed servants.  

George Back, watercolour, “An Iceberg, a Ship and Some Walrus near the Entrance of Hudson Strait,” dated c. 1840. Source: N. Jean Hall, Doing Canadian History.

York Factory was to be her home. She brought her maid and a piano. And she wrote letters to her family back home. Long, gossipy letters that captured the reality of living at York Factory that today offer a unique resource for understanding what life was like. In April 1841, her first child caused a sensation in the small community. In December 1842, she lost her second son. 

Truly, I don't know how I feel about Letitia. I admire her tenacity and deplore her strict social codes that ostracized some. Her insights about the people who were a part of York Factory are invaluable and help me answer what it must have been like to have lived then. Of course, most likely, I would have been one of the maids.

For further reading: Dictionary of Canadian Biography, article on sea travel, "Opportunities in Transit: HBC Ships as Sites of Social Process," and Norma J. Hall's encyclopedic resources on Doing Canadian History.  Letitia Hargrave's letters are available online through the Champlain Library (individual pages) HERE.

Writing historical fiction relies on research. Sometimes I get sidetracked by fascinating stories. This month, for the April 2016 A to Z Blogging Challenge, I'm writing a bit on the history behind my novel, Rivers of Stone (forthcoming 2016). The novel began when I discovered Hawaiian workers at Fort Vancouver in Washington and then read of a young girl who disguised herself as a man to work for the Hudson's Bay Company in the 19th Century.

Check out more than 1,800 CONTRIBUTORS for the A2Z Challenge HERE.

G is for Gambling -- 1840's Style

My daddy was a gambler back in the 1940's. He could fan a deck of cards and hold a few back without anyone knowing -- most of the time. He loved betting on the horses and took my sister and I once to the Santa Anita Racetrack. They lost their go-to money by the end of the second race. I came home with $20 because, as he put it, "I bet like a school teacher."

My daddy would have fit right into the outposts of the Hudson's Bay Company back in the 1840's. For leisure, everyone -- the fur traders, the voyageurs, the clerks, the Métis, and Native peoples -- liked to bet on the horses, on who would win a fight, or who would come in first in a canoe race or a foot race. Maybe because of all that testosterone and not quite enough women to go around. But that's a different issue.

I found a neat description of the traditional stick game played by Native peoples, also known as the 'bone game' or bloodless war game across the United States and Canada. 

Two teams, each with a leader, play a guessing game about the 'bones' (about 50 sticks marked with differing numbers of lines). The team holding the bones tries to distract the other side by making a racket with drums, traditional songs, or rattles. The opposing team tries to guess the exact number of lines. At stake? Furs, food, robes, bows and arrows, and any other item of value. 

Tsimishian Bag with 65 Inlaid Gambling Sticks, 19th century
Source: Wikipedia

Some research hints at the sacred nature of the stick game, but outsiders are not always privy to hidden meanings.

I was fascinated to learn that Lacrosse originated as a native game played by teams. This painting by George Caitlin (who later was so influential on Paul Kane's journey west) shows such a Lacrosse game in full play.

"Ball-play of the Choctaw — ball up" by George Catlin, circa 1846–1850 (Source Wikipedia)

Priests and missionaries considered such gambling sinful. But, truly, this is the tip of the iceberg as far as gambling goes. Imagine playing cards all day and all night on a cold winter night with little to keep warm -- except a beaver-lined jacket called a capote or wrapped in a Hudson's Bay blanket, and fueled by rum or brandy. 

I'm having fun talking about the research behind my historical novel, Rivers of Stone (currently at the editing stage), set largely in 1840's Canada. Why not check out what others are posting in this month-long A to Z Blogging Challenge.

F is for Forts of Hudson's Bay Company

Imagine you are a day laborer at a remote Hudson's Bay Company fort, an outpost in the wilderness during the fur trading era, far removed from any city luxuries of the time. 

C. W. Jeffreys, "The Descent of the Fraser River" (1808)
Source: Wikipedia

It's 1846, and around the bend comes a flotilla of canoes and boats at full paddle, the men singing loudly in French, the ribbons on their hats flying. They bring mail, those trade goods you ordered six months ago, visitors, perhaps a priest or missionary, and news of the outside world.

When we lived in Oregon, we visited Fort Vancouver fairly often, in the summers now, a living history museum that lovingly recreates what once was reality for many, complete with Chief Factor's house, outbuildings, the palisades enclosing the fort, period gardens, and the Village nearby, home to a motley crew of French, Scots, Sandwich Islanders, Chinook and Cree. 

Last summer, we traveled to Canada to visit Calgary, Banff and Jasper, and the highlight, Fort Edmonton. Canadian artist Paul Kane painted this romantic version of Fort Edmonton, perched on that glorious hill. But what an oasis in the wilderness, Fort Edmonton must have seemed, especially for those who visited Chief Factor John Rowand who built the Great House there, dubbed Rowand's Folly for its sheer size.

Paul Kane: Fort Edmonton on high ground
above the North Saskatchewan River, (Wikipedia)

I've dreamed of setting foot at far-flung York Factory, that outpost on Hudson's Bay itself, a land of nine months of winter and three months of mud and mosquitos. Did I mention polar bears? York Factory, today largely abandoned, is accessible by small airplane and guided tour. I've visited York Factory many times in my imagination, aided by internet resources, books, and the chatty, gossipy letters of Letitia Hargrave, wife of the Chief Factor there in the 1840s, so many years ago.

All these are folded into my current work-in-progress, Rivers of Stone, that tells the story of one woman's trek across Canada in the 1840s.

Meanwhile, check out what others are posting in this month-long A to Z Blogging Challenge. 

Deep in Revision? A Pantser? Try this!

Some folks do write without an outline. We're called 'pantsers' because we write from the seat of our pants. 

True, I feel guilty about being a pantser now and then. My DH thinks in a very structured manner; our discussions often require recognizing contributions from both logical and intuitive thinking. Perhaps how he thinks is finally starting to influence me -- either that or I've been influenced by reading posts about how organizing and outlining can improve writing productivity, which is one of my ongoing goals.

Picasso, "Boy with a Pipe"
1905, Rose Period (Wikipedia)

I've made a commitment to finish my current wip, Rivers of Stone, this year, and my draft is truly messy. One section of the draft was so messy, I despaired of ever finishing. 

What could I lose if I tried outlining? 

So, here's the process I used on one section of the draft, offered in the hopes it may help you, gentle reader.

STEP ONE: Reread the entire section you're working on. Set it aside overnight. The next morning, draft a messy working outline (without looking at the entire section) that describes briefly those scenes that MUST go into this section. Then, add scenes from your rough, rough section draft to your list of scenes. 

STEP TWO: Organize your list of scenes into chapter order (what needs to come first?). Keep the list simply worded, a variation of who, what, and where. Avoid adding why.

STEP 3: Revise descriptions into a chapter summary on the list (so you can always understand the ‘big’ picture – how A leads to B, how all the scenes fit together, and where key events support the overall story structure and character arcs.

STEP 4: Now use COPY and PASTE to reorganize the rough section draft so that the order of chapters now matches your  summary list.

STEP 5: If you are truly anal, copy chapter summaries from the summary list into each chapter in the rough, rough section draft. OK, I did this.

If you are a pantser, you can now write whichever scene appeals to your imagination. Or you can begin 'logically' at the beginning of this section to keep those threads together. Persevere.

NOTE: Before I begin editing, I copy the entire section draft (with the chapter summary list and new chapter headings) into a RESEARCH file, so that I have a backup. I now can easily delete any research notes, photos, and unwanted scenes from the actual draft I'm working on. 

Some people do this kind of organizing before they begin to write. Kudos to you if you write like this. What I learned from this process? The revision moves ahead with much less stress because I know where each scene belongs and how it affects my character development and story line.

Now you have it. My contribution to the April posts for the Insecure Writers Study Group, a great online community of writers started by Alex J. Cavanaugh. Check out their helpful resources and posts the first Wednesday of each month. Consider joining. May your own writing go well!   

E is for Excerpt

Today, E is for an excerpt from my current wip. I'm taking a bit of a break writing about the history surrounding my story, Rivers of Stone, about Catriona's continent wide search for her husband, Dougal. 

Set in the 1840s, Cat, disguised as a boy, has just traveled west with Canadian artist Paul Kane to Fort Vancouver where she hopes to find Dougal. 

The excerpt below is also part of Wednesday's WIPpet (a snippet from a work in progress, somehow based on the date) and is 10 paragraphs (April = 4 + today's date = 6). Key to this snippet is the fact that Cat remains disguised as a boy.


"I didn't recognize you," said Colin, peering at Cat in the dim light of the Company store.

"I'm not surprised. It's been a long time, almost three years." Cat straightened her shoulders.

Colin was taller than she remembered, with a ruddy face, new lines around his eyes, and a full beard. He no longer was scrawny, and his hands were work-scarred. A knife protruded from the red woven Metis belt wrapped tightly around his waist.

Colin squinted in the dim light of the trading post. "I see you still dress as . . ."

"Yes. No need to mention that."

"How did you come here?" asked Colin.

"I came out from York with the brigade." She searched for a welcome, but she couldn't read his face. "Paul Kane, a painter, hired me to be his assistant. He's with the Chief Factor just now.”

At Colin's nod, she continued. "We got in this morning."

"You look like you’ve been on the road. Yer pants are ready to fall apart. Does he know about you?"

"No, and I plan to keep it that way." Cat stared for a moment. She hadn’t expected to find her brother-in-law at Fort Vancouver. “Do you know where Dougal is? Is he well?”

And so revision continues. I'll be back tomorrow with a post on Fort Vancouver  for the A to Z Blogging Challenge. Meanwhile, the plot thickens.  Consider stopping by either of these challenges (links above) to see what other writers are up to.

Fort Vancouver, 1846 (Wikipedia)

D is for Dalles des Mortes

Maybe twenty summers back, I went whitewater river rafting, a three day trip down the Salmon and Snake Rivers. 

The roughly eighteen of us, plus three guides, loaded up with safety equipment, piled into those puffy little 3-man rubber boats, and were handed oars. We launched on the river, a large, flat supply boat behind us. Of course, we hit white water. We rowed furiously, shouted, and laughed. At night, we feasted, and, after telling stories around the campfire and watching the stars, we slept in tents. Allen and I talked in low voices. Would we survive another day?

I didn't consciously remember that trip when I began writing Rivers of Stone three years ago until I started reading about the approximate 4,000 miles the fur brigades traveled from York Factory in Upper Manitoba to Fort Vancouver on the Columbia River. By boat, canoe, horse, and snowshoe. Depending on the river, sometimes against the current. 

Paul Kane about 1850 (Wikipedia)

In 1846, Paul Kane, the Canadian artist, traveled with the west-bound fur brigade. After the long journey across the Canadian plains, stopping at Fort Edmonton, and crossing the Rockies, his party met with a contingent from Fort Vancouver at Boat Encampment. 

On November 16, they brushed snow off their boats to finish the last 1,200 miles. 

That day, they safely passed a stretch of the Columbia River nicknamed the Dalles de Mortes -- French for Falls of Death. On November 24, further down the Columbia at Grand Rapid, they lost a canoe, but no lives. Such deaths were fairly common, marked with a rough cross made of tree limbs. By December 8, they passed the most dangerous stretch of the Columbia and exchanged snow for rain as they neared Fort Vancouver.

Fort Vancouver with View of Mount Hood, 1855
Source: Wikipedia 

I was only on the Snake and Salmon Rivers for three days in the summer time. I remember paddling as hard as I could as our little rubber raft raced toward a solid wall of rock. Once, our raft overturned. I remember the taste of the water, the shock and relief as we were rescued.

I cannot imagine what it would have been like to travel across Canada and down through Washington Territory to Fort Vancouver, such a long journey, for over three months, safely past the Dalles des Mortes, only one among many such falls along the wild rivers the fur brigade traversed.

Read more about Kane's journey in his book, Paul Kane's Wanderings of an Artist or Diane Eaton and Sheila Urbanek's Paul Kane's Great Nor-West, or Isaac Cowie's classic, The Company of
Adventurers. 

Stop by the Blogging A to Z April Challenge to explore what others have written!

C is for Christmas and Class

Well, I certainly didn't expect to revisit Christmas this soon, but my intrepid gang of voyageurs arrived at Fort Vancouver on December 8, 1846, after a harrowing trip over the Rocky Mountains by foot and snowshoe in sometimes waist-deep snow. 

Paul Kane reports being thrilled to sleep in a bed once again. Despite the rain, the rest of the party must have been very grateful for food, drink, shelter, and companions as they settled in at Fort Vancouver. I lived several decades in Oregon and yet remember our first winter there when the incessant rain led us to feel we might drown.

Fort Vancouver 1845 (Wikipedia)

Fort Vancouver in 1846 was the center to the Hudson's Bay Company's Columbia Department. More than a fur trading center, Fort Vancouver shipped furs, lumber, agricultural products (including salted salmon), and other trade goods to ports as far flung as San Francisco, Sitka, Honolulu, and England.

Fort Vancouver also reflected sharp class distinctions between officers and gentlemen, craftsmen, voyageurs, and unskilled workers who were called 'servants'. Most were Metis, a mix of European, native, and Hawaiian heritages. They worked a 6-day week, and, to the chagrin of the Fort's priests and pastors, often preferred to work or garden on Sundays.  The 'servants' also received a weekly allotment of food, somewhere between 20-60 pounds of dried or salted salmon and a bushel of potatoes or 10 pounds of biscuit (1). No wonder they were motivated to cultivate their own gardens!

Each day began with a work bell rung at dawn. The bell rang again at 8 am for breakfast, at 1 pm for dinner, and at 6 pm to mark the end of the day. Holidays like Christmas represented a remarkable break in routine. Starting several days before Christmas until well after New Year's, all could expect extra rations of food and drink, for the 'servants' in 1845 called "rum and eatables," while the officers and gentlemen drank wine and ate roast beef and plum pudding (2). 

During the holidays, the officers and gentlemen dressed in their best to call on friends, play cards, attend balls, and card parties.  Even the visiting ship H.M.S. Modeste was decorated from stern to topsail with garlands of greens and the site of dancing, well lubricated with toasts. Servants celebrated with horse races, gambling, and their own parties. 

When the holidays ended after New Year's, life returned to normal. Long days. Hard work. Sharp divides between social classes. But I have a hunch folks then were pretty much as they are now -- and that's where the storytelling fills in the gaps.

Gentlemen's Dining Room at Fort Vancouver (Camp 2015)

Read what others are writing for the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge.

Read more at (1) Barb Kubik's paper on The Village, (2)  
Greg Shine's National Park Essay on Christmas at Fort Vancouver, Parts 1-2, or (3) Dr. Edward and Alice Beechert's 8-part study on History and Culture of Hawaiians in the PNW.

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!

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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!