tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21659517524735332902024-03-13T12:02:06.066-06:00Lauren Gregory: The Long Way HomeI'm on a journey, to those hidden spots at the end of a dirt road, lurking behind a screen of trees. Sometimes my stops are fun and lighthearted. Other times, I'll find something more intimate, an old oak to sit under while I watch the clouds. Once in a while, I'll come face to face with a scene that scares the hell out of me and leaves me breathless, trembling, reaching for a hand to hold. Join me. I'd like some company.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-36429752580537665582016-11-24T11:30:00.001-07:002016-11-24T11:30:26.439-07:00Thanksgiving Memories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'm a bit sad today, my favorite holiday, though I am thankful for the people in my life, family and friends I cherish. Due to the impending move, we aren't having dinner this year. No turkey or pie, no family get-together. No hum of conversation over the clinking of glasses. Today, I have only memories and thoughts of the future.<br />
<br />My son is twelve now, taller than I (and I ain't short!) His voice has begun to crack. And those broad shoulders and large hands are still growing.<span class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><br />
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<br />So today, despite my melancholy, I smile as I pack dishes instead of serving on them. My grandfather and brother are far away, but my son's hugs will carry me through until next year.<br />
<br />I wish all of you a Happy Thanksgiving and much love and laughter among family and friends. But if you're among those who aren't able to gather around the table with loved ones today, I hope you have happy memories and much to be thankful for.<br /><br /><a href="http://authorlaurengregory.blogspot.com/2014/08/generations.html">http://authorlaurengregory.blogspot.com/2014/08/generations.html</a><br /><br /></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-79986605769601267442016-10-18T10:00:00.000-06:002016-10-18T10:00:13.781-06:00American Misogyny: Not Just Trumped Up Charges <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My latest guest post is up on One Year of Letters, where I talk about why misogyny hasn't been "exposed." Give it a read. <br />
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<a href="https://oneyearofletters.com/2016/10/17/american-misogyny-not-just-trumped-up-charges-lauren-gregory-10172016/" target="_blank"><img alt="https://oneyearofletters.com/2016/10/17/american-misogyny-not-just-trumped-up-charges-lauren-gregory-10172016/" border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7FIGIEhpPhg/WAWbyJd2ISI/AAAAAAAAAvA/YRvOCwFmP6IcdU9ycphhSlcWuXPXGDDJgCLcB/s400/Misogynyimage.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://oneyearofletters.com/2016/10/17/american-misogyny-not-just-trumped-up-charges-lauren-gregory-10172016/">https://oneyearofletters.com/2016/10/17/american-misogyny-not-just-trumped-up-charges-lauren-gregory-10172016/</a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-51115926438475259302016-10-16T10:25:00.003-06:002016-10-16T10:25:49.790-06:00When Doves Fly won an award!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm tickled pink to report <a href="https://www.amazon.com/When-Doves-Fly-Lauren-Gregory-ebook/dp/B015YUHB84" target="_blank">When Doves Fly</a> won an Honorable Mention in the genre category in Writer's Digest Self-Published book awards!<br />
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"Honorable Mention?" you say, with your mouth pulled askew and a feigned look of appreciation.<br />
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Yes, yes, I know. Honorable mention usually means:<br />
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But in this case, it really is an honor. This competition attracts thousands of applicants and only awards a few top places and honorable mentions. So it's actually kind of a big deal.</div>
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And I'm especially proud that my debut was considered high quality by the folks at Writer's Digest, who know a thing or two about books.</div>
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Thank you, Writer's Digest, for recognizing my work.</div>
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I'll be off celebrating. By painting the bathroom. (I'm weird, I know.)</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-29504477421870212692016-02-19T16:55:00.000-07:002016-02-19T20:05:38.891-07:00Writing for Free: The New Pyramid Scheme<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There's a storm brewin'--it's been brewing for a while, but maybe it's getting close to a boil, thanks to the tone-deaf benevolents at HuffPo. Since I sort of have a stake in the game, (I've never written for HuffPo...or anyone but myself, as far as blogging, but I'm a writer who'd like to make a living with it) I felt a need to add my spice to the pot.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yJqrLvtgsfw/Vsefk0nu0QI/AAAAAAAAAsc/cdV1EucQ5mU/s1600/10488133_10203860570088048_6028434552228886278_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yJqrLvtgsfw/Vsefk0nu0QI/AAAAAAAAAsc/cdV1EucQ5mU/s320/10488133_10203860570088048_6028434552228886278_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of <a href="http://weknowmemes.com/2012/04/there-be-a-shit-storm-a-brewin/">http://weknowmemes.com/2012/04/there-be-a-shit-storm-a-brewin/</a></td></tr>
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For anyone who hasn't heard, HuffPo doesn't pay their content creators. They expect anyone who writes for them or allows them to essentially appropriate the writer's content to do it for the millionaire-making wage of "FREE", while HuffPo makes hundreds of millions off of it. It's a great deal...for everyone but the writers. Recently, a big wig at the esteemed organization declared he was "<strong>PROUD" </strong>that they exploit their writers, 'cause, ya know, you can't trust anyone who actually gets paid for their services.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From Chuck Wendig's appropriately vulgar post<br />
<a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2016/02/18/scream-it-until-their-ears-bleed-pay-the-fucking-writers/">http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2016/02/18/scream-it-until-their-ears-bleed-pay-the-fucking-writers/</a></td></tr>
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That makes some of us writers...a bit peeved. So, there have been several pieces about it. I think most writers, and even those who aren't writers, can understand why a multi-billion dollar company that supposedly supports wage improvements and entrepreneurship but doesn't pay workers is a problem. But many still fall into the trap of making excuses for it and think that finding a way to eke a couple dollars out of it is a great thing--instead of actually condemning it. They are like abused spouses who don't realize they're in an abusive relationship.<br />
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On <a href="https://warriorwriters.wordpress.com/2016/02/19/shame-on-you-aolhuffington-no-more-literary-booty-calls/" target="_blank">Kristen Lamb's great post</a>, someone described how they'd worked with (or "partnered") a site who hosted blogs, which then let HuffPo and others reblog. The pay for that privilege was a $100 donation to the non-profit of the writer's choice, and of course the ever-popular exposure. This person sort of bragged about how they'd found a neat way to trick the behemoth into paying them.<br />
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So...I had to voice my opinion on that:<br />
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"I have to point out, first, YOU did not get paid to write. You were given money to give away. Which, I assume, still didn’t pay your mortgage or phone bill or even get you a meal deal at Taco Bell, in and of itself. And I assume it wasn’t a benevolent choice you were given–'You can choose to get a paycheck or give the money to charity.' <br />
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While I’m all for charity and mentoring–I do as much of it as I can–*that* kind of set up still plays into the idea that the WRITER doesn’t need to get paid. It still perpetuates the screw-the-creator paradigm. It says, 'Hey, we’re not going to actually compensate YOU for your work, but we’ll throw some chump change out in your name to salve the gash we opened in your backside when we bent you over. ‘Cause, well, it makes us look good when we charity.' I’m not saying your acceptance of the deal was wrong; I’m saying them presenting that deal was the same ol’ bullshit. It was a way for them to get (their rocks) off cheap."<br />
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Writers deserve to be paid for producing stuff that earns money for someone else. Real money. In their own bank account. Not with exposure. Not with free stuff. Not with charitable donations. <br />
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We shouldn’t have to devise creative schemes to be paid for our services, to get an actual paycheck. We aren't tricking them. Really, it's the opposite. This–the HuffPo ridiculousness, the “we’ll donate in your name” scams, the literary booty calls (as Kristen calls it, which I love)–is the pyramid scheme of the literary world. It looks shiny and new, and they promise it'll transform your life, because it’s (trumpets blaring)…<br />
DIGITAL CONTENT…FREE for EVERYONE, AND it will make EVERYONE RICH! (cue infomercial oohs and ahhs.)<br />
But it ain’t (read: shouldn’t be) free, and it’s still the same carnival bait-and-switch. It's only making those who ride the peons into the ground rich.<br />
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Seen another way, they’re the ultimate vanity publisher.<br />
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We writers are paying THEM to get used. We pay with our time, skill, and dignity, and all we get in return is supposed exposure and validation.<br />
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We’re the prostitute groveling on the curb, and–this is fucking rich–we actually THANK THE JOHN for beating us up and stiffing us and handing him a twenty, after he tells us he’ll etch our name on the bathroom wall at Denny’s. And when he shows up next Friday night, we’ll hop in the car again, grateful to have a good way to kill a few hours.<br />
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What we do is important. We present ideas and stories in a coherent way to inform, educate, and entertain. That isn't as easy as some people think it is, and not everyone can do it well. Quality writing is hard work. Our work comes from years of education (whether formal or self) and requires time, skill, and knowledge. It is a craft–one of the most important and valuable ones in the world. When we allow others to use our assets and services for profit without compensating us appropriately, we cheapen that craft and ourselves. We have to stop thinking squeezing a few pennies–or NONE–from the machine is a good deal. We have to stop accepting our own devaluation and exploitation as the status quo. We have to demand payment. They'll never buy the cow when they can get the milk for free.<br />
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#BoycottHuffPo and others who make bank from the toil of the lowly writers.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-47640087306435437822016-02-05T14:41:00.001-07:002016-02-08T11:41:55.519-07:00When Readers Return<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LOjpIpV6-0A/VrUEtPVCWqI/AAAAAAAAAsI/5aJ9jKfZTq0/s1600/Returns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LOjpIpV6-0A/VrUEtPVCWqI/AAAAAAAAAsI/5aJ9jKfZTq0/s200/Returns.jpg" width="200" /></a>I'm up to my eyeballs this week and had to delay the planned marketing post. But I came across an angry post about Amazon's return policy and the issue of "serial returners" (those who buy, read, and return so they get a free read.) A tiny comment sprouted from my fingers and grew.<br />
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My take on returns is similar to <a href="http://comicsalliance.com/neil-gaiman-piracy-lending-books/" target="_blank">Neil Gaiman's views on piracy</a> (in fact, he helped my view on these subjects evolve.)<br />
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I'm an author. Obviously, I don't support piracy or serial-returners, but perspective is everything.<br />
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First, we can't assume all returners have read the entire book. We can't assume every return is a scammer. Amazon doesn't tell us if they read one page or 300 for sales. Literature, like all art, is wonderfully, woefully subjective. They may have read half and decided it was awful. Maybe a scene they hated ruined the whole book for them. Maybe, just maybe, the book sucks on an objective level for one reason or another. Yeah that hurts, but it happens. And if an author has a <em>high percentage</em> of returns, something ain't right. It's not normal. Perhaps they need to offer samples so readers have a sense of what they're getting. Perhaps they've targeted the wrong audience or misrepresented the work. Or perhaps the list price is too high for the quantity or quality of work. $2.99 for a book under 20 pages? I'd be ticked. Lots of errors, either in the writing or formatting? It's like going out for breakfast and getting a plate of burnt eggs and raw bacon. I'd send it back. It's possible some are abusing the return system, but a <em>high percentage</em> of returns is a huge sign the author needs to take a look at their work and their business model because something they're doing isn't working.<br />
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Is it ethical to return it at after a full or even half read? Probably not. Amazon does punish those they find abusing the system. However, returns are within Amazon's policies, and their policy of easy, universal returns is part of what's made them so powerful. If they refused to allow returns, they wouldn't be who they are and we (indie authors) wouldn't exist as we do now. That policy is a huge part of their--and our--success.<br />
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The ability to return makes the process less risky for readers. Indie authors had better appreciate that, because an unknown indie is a huge risk for a reader. There are a lot of crappy (subjectively <em>and </em>objectively) books out there, and a heck of a lot of them are indies. Indie publishing has opened the world of authorship to people who never would have published a word, and overall, that's a great thing. It's also lowered the bar for what's acceptable to publish. It's the bane of those of us who work extra hard to produce quality because it's often hard for readers to distinguish good from bad before they buy. We have to accept that we must give readers incentives to try us and reduce the risk, and allowing returns is a way to do that.<br />
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Also, the fact is that it gains fans. There will be some who like it and go to find more of my books, and they may buy those or recommend them to friends who buy. These are people who may not have heard of me otherwise, or wouldn't have realized they like my work without getting deep into it. I'm willing to accept some marginal "losses" (but as mentioned, it's not a loss if they wouldn't/couldn't buy it outright) if it gains fans.<br />
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I fully believe I should be paid for my work, even if it's just a small amount (okay, it's always a small amount.) I want people to value my work enough to pay for it, and most of my readers do. I appreciate that beyond words. I'm not for a second saying I want to give license to those who try to rip authors off. As authors, we often struggle to get paid. It's frustrating when people don't value our work, but while I dislike piracy or serial returns due to the sneaky nature of it, I think we have to keep it in perspective.<br />
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I believe in the power of literature and that people <em>need</em> to read. It's imperative for society. But billions (yes, billions) of people can't afford to buy ALLTHEBOOKS or don't have access to them. Not everyone can afford ten books a week or a even a KU subscription, and not everyone has a library down the street. People have loaned books to their friends for centuries, and that's the purpose of libraries--people understood that few can afford to buy or have access to tons of books, but they wanted people to READ. So if I accept Aunt Gertrude loaning my book to her friend from church and I support libraries--which is essentially <em>free books</em>--how can I get up in arms about a few people essentially borrowing a book? It's really the same thing. They borrowed it. Just because it shows up on my sales report doesn't change the nature of what happened. Would I be that mad if I saw how many times Gertie loaned my book to her friends or how many times it was checked out of the library? Nah. I'd appreciate the fact that people are reading. I'd be pretty happy that Gertie bought it in the first place and liked it enough to recommend it. And I'd accept that one or two of those friends hated it, rolled their eyes when they returned it to her, and thought she has awful taste in books...and might have asked for their money back if they'd paid for it.<br />
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The world isn't perfect. I think I should get paid millions for what I do. I think everyone should love my work. And I think all the ice cream and chocolate should be free. But that ain't reality. The reality is there are benefits and downsides to everything. Return policies have them, too. But allowing returns is overall far more beneficial--or companies the world over wouldn't do it. It allows customers to try something without risk. The vast majority keep it if you've done a good job, a tiny fraction return it due to dissatisfaction (whether objective or subjective,) and an even tinier fraction abuse the system. Amazon punishes the "abusers." It's the cost of doing business, and a small price to pay in the big scheme of things. We need to keep it in perspective.<br />
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<a href="http://amzn.to/1Vtd7ZF" target="_blank">When Doves Fly</a> is just $2.99--pick up the ebook. If you do, I hope you love it. (Please don't return it.)<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>Image courtesy of </strong> </span><a href="http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images/view_photog.php?photogid=8925"><span style="font-size: x-small;">lekkyjustdoit</span></a><strong><span style="font-size: x-small;"> at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</span></strong></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-86522296697697144572016-01-25T17:04:00.001-07:002016-01-29T19:31:01.790-07:00Marketing a Debut Novel Pt 3: Life & Death of a Salesman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Kindle Countdown Deal & Promotion Sites</strong></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://authorlaurengregory.blogspot.com/2016/01/marketing-debut-novel-part-2-into-jungle_18.html"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "calibri";">Last
week</span></a><span style="font-family: "calibri";">, I talked about deciding which platforms to publish on and why I enrolled
in KDP Select. Another reason I wanted to try Select was the promotional tools
it offers exclusively to Select authors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">A sale is a great way to tempt readers into trying a new
author. It’s a tricky proposition, though. Finding the right price point,
timing, and promoting the sale are pieces of a puzzle which is missing the
picture on the front of the box—and a four year old likely fed some of the
pieces to the dog. Corner pieces. %*#&$! It’s a lot of trial and error.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">KDP Select offers three promotional tools: Free Days, Kindle
Countdown Deal, and Ads. <br />
(I’ll address Ads next week, because they’re a whole other can of worms.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Free days can be useful, because everyone likes free stuff,
right? However, they’re not particularly useful for debut authors. For an
author with a series or backlist, offering one book for free can entice readers
to try it and then buy other books. But debut authors got nothin’. We’re
standing there with our one pitiful book, saying, “Sorry, still working on the
next one.” The reader
probably won’t remember us by the time the next book comes out. We gave away our work for little to nothing in return. So I don’t
recommend using free days unless you can point readers to another book they’ll
pay for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Kindle Countdown Deal, on the other hand, can be a great
tool for debuts. A discount means less risk for readers with a new author, but
you still get some royalties. And, if your regular price is 2.99+, a Deal still
nets 70% royalties, instead of 35% (you only get 35% if you just drop the
regular price under 2.99.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">You can only use it once during a 90 day Select enrollment. It can
run from 1 to 7 days and have up to three price increments. Amazon shows the
regular price so readers know it’s on sale and a countdown clock, which can
create a sense of urgency. So it might look like this:<br />
Regular Price: $2.99, 3 day sale<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Day One: 99 cents and the clock shows 1 day, 12 hours until
price increases to 1.99.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Day Two: 1.99 and the clock shows 1 d, 12 h until sale ends
and price goes back to 2.99.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I tried a 7 day Deal the weekend after Thanksgiving, with
hopes of catching some of the Black Friday/Cyber Weekend frenzy. It goes
without saying my goal was a big bump during the sale. But I also hoped for residual
sales over the holiday season, in part due to an expected increase in ranking (bestseller
list) and better visibility.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I set up the sale, created ads on various outlets, and
scheduled listings with several promotion sites in advance. In addition to my
advertising of the sale, Amazon lists Deals in their own search category and
promotes them—unfortunately, they don’t offer any analytics for sales that come
from that specific page/promotion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">In the weeks leading up to the sale, I averaged a little
over 1 sale/day and a little over 1 “sale”/day for KU (based on number of pages
read, where the equivalent of one book read actually nets higher royalties than
1 regular sale for my price point and pages.) So I was at about 2.5 books per
day. My ranking was hovering between #20k and 100k in overall Kindle sales and
around #300-5000 in my genre categories (which isn’t bad, especially since my
genres aren’t obscure ones.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I used 2 increments, with the initial price at 99 cents and
an increase to 1.99 halfway through the sale. Here’s what happened:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The sale worked well, but not fantastic. I got a great bump
in sales and ranking, but not quite as high as I expected. During the sale, I
netted 232 sales. The KU benefit was more residual, since it’s based on when
they read, not when they download. In the month after the sale, I ended up with
no increase in sales over the previous month, but a slight increase in KU reads
(1.2 books per day to 1.7). My ranking increased significantly, up to #1200 in
Kindle sales and #12, 19, and 62 in each genre category. But I didn’t break the
top 100 overall or top ten in genre, as I’d hoped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I suspect timing was the issue. Because the sale ran over
Black Friday/Cyber Monday, while Amazon put almost ALL books on sale, I was
competing against other books on sale. It simply couldn’t compete against the big
names that were also on sale and getting bumps in ranking. I’d failed to
consider that competition. So when I do another Deal, I’ll try to schedule it
for a quieter period when competition won’t be as strong. (Another tip is to
not do a sale during a big event, like the Super Bowl, as people are occupied
elsewhere and not shopping.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">As for the promotion sites I used, I booked promotions 2-3
weeks ahead of time.<br />
Paid: <a href="http://www.booksbutterfly.com/order/" target="_blank">Books Butterfly</a>, <a href="http://ereadernewstoday.com/authors-promote-your-kindle-books-here/" target="_blank">Ereader News</a>, <a href="http://booktastik.com/advertise-on-booktastik/" target="_blank">Booktastik</a>, <a href="http://bettybookfreak.com/authors/" target="_blank">BettyBookFreak</a><br />
Free: <a href="http://www.ebooklister.net/page.php?p=2" target="_blank">eBookLister</a>, <a href="https://choosybookworm.com/newsletter-and-website-feature/" target="_blank">Choosy Bookworm</a>, and <a href="http://www.thefussylibrarian.com/for-authors/" target="_blank">Fussy Librarian</a>.<br />
<br />
The only site that seemed to drive significant sales was Books Butterfly—it is expensive
($50* and up), but it did pay for itself. They guarantee a certain number
of sales and offer a pro-rated refund if you don’t hit that threshold (there are restrictions on this, though--read the fine print.) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> They also offer special analytics that are helpful. For me, they were well worth the investment.<br />*UPDATE: I went back to schedule a new promo with Books Butterfly and found, to my disappointment, they have raised their prices while lowering the number of guaranteed sales. I'm more luke-warm in my enthusiasm now. The ROI is much more iffy at their new prices, because unless the sales nearly triple their guarantee, the promo won't pay for itself. It's entirely possible for the sales to do that--overall mine were at least double--but it's a very thin line . There's also still the ranking benefit to consider, which is worth a lot if it hits the right level. But...where'd I leave my waders?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Ereader News is also expensive ($35 and up), but I saw little
or no sales I could attribute to it. I wouldn’t use them again. Booktastik and
Betty were inexpensive ($8-10); if they drove any sales, it was a small amount,
but since they’re cheap, I might use them again. EBookLister had no appreciable
impact, but since it’s free, no harm no foul. Again, any of the sites’
effectiveness may have been limited due to the timing of the sale, but I think
that’s minimal. Some promotional sites do better in different genres, I believe, so do your research.</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">
[Choosy Bookworm and Fussy Librarian didn’t have available slots during the sale,
so CB didn’t run one, and FL ran it after the sale. FL had no impact when it
did run. If you choose to use them, you’ll need to schedule well in advance (ie
at least a month.)]<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The overall ROI was around 60%, which is a very good ROI in
absolute terms. That doesn’t include time invested, however, and I spent a lot
of time on the sale, creating graphics and posting for the promotion on social
media. And while I loved the sales, missing the goal for ranking and exposure
was disappointing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I think a more effective use of the Deal is shorter length and
few increments (3-4 days, one increment) and better timing. I intend to use the
Deal again shortly, and hope for even better results. We’ll see….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Next week, I’ll discuss a Goodreads Giveaway and the
pay-per-click ad options on Goodreads, Amazon, and Facebook. Keep the waders
handy and order an extra truckload of wine.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-60809640981246050202016-01-18T18:51:00.000-07:002016-01-25T21:25:03.593-07:00Marketing a Debut Novel, Part 2: Into the Jungle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><strong><a href="http://authorlaurengregory.blogspot.com/2016/01/marketing-debut-novel-bring-wine-waders.html">Part 1 is here</a></strong></span><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><strong>Which Jungle?</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the biggest decisions a debut author will make is which digital platforms to publish on. It seems simple—ALL THE CHANNELS—but there are some wrinkles to iron out. With myriad options, it’s easy to get lost. Most of us know we'll want to publish with Amazon (KDP), but what about the other outlets like Barnes & Noble or Kobo?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ScbJT1bepLk/Vp2TdPnNfAI/AAAAAAAAAps/qD44rYSiES0/s1600/ID-100137379.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ScbJT1bepLk/Vp2TdPnNfAI/AAAAAAAAAps/qD44rYSiES0/s400/ID-100137379.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Rather than publishing individually on the smaller single-site publishers like Nook or Apple, it’s much easier to use an aggregator like Smashwords, Lulu, or IngramSpark that distributes to most of those. However, easy is relative, and none are user-friendly, in my opinion, so order a case of wine before you even turn on the computer. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Genre is a big consideration, because some do better with some outlets like Kobo or Apple—depends on your audience and where they shop. But for most authors, more than 90% of sales will come from Amazon. <strong>Conventional wisdom says the best strategy is to publish to KDP for Amazon, then if you want to add other sites, use one of the aggregators to distribute everywhere else.</strong> But hold on. You have a decision to make first and may not need the other platforms right away, at least for ebook.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>KDP Select</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The decision is about KDP’s optional program, KDP Select. It allows readers to loan books within the program for free through the Kindle Lending Library (KOLL), or download through Kindle Unlimited (KU) for a low monthly subscription, but you still get paid—with a catch. You must subscribe for 90 days (opt in at any time and no limits on how often,) and the ebook must be exclusive to KDP during that time. It cannot be available at any other retailer (just the ebook, not print.) So you have to put all your eggs in one basket. But you're saved from dealing with the other platforms, and that's a relief, trust me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Author payment for KDP Select has been controversial (and there are some very harebrained conspiracy theories about it … something about aliens and anal probes.) They recently changed the pay schedule; it used to be a flat fee per download, now it is based on a per-page-read schedule (number of pages is standardized to account for different font size, etc,) and the money comes from a monthly fund from which all authors draw. So far, it’s worked out to an average of around $ .005-6 per page. This was implemented to combat a sneaky trend of authors flooding Select with 20 page books and getting the same payout as a 400 page book. This means shorter works like short stories or novellas won’t earn as much as a novel—which is perfectly reasonable, in my opinion—and likely won’t benefit from the program as much. It also means a book people don’t read all the way through will suffer. My answer to the critics: Write longer, better books. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">However, like many, I was quite skeptical of Select. My book debuted just after the payment overhaul, with the rumblings of mutiny at a fever pitch. After I investigated the critics’ claims and found them exaggerated or blatantly untrue, I took the leap.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><strong>Here’s why:</strong><br />There are over 2.5 million books published every year now, around 500k of them in the U.S. Readers have a lot of choices, but limited money. When we look at reader habits, we have to recognize various levels of budget and willingness to try new authors--and recognize that those two things are directly related. We also need to get paid. Select is a way to straddle that divide. We still get paid and may gain a fan for future works, while the reader can take a chance at a lower cost, without feeling burned if they don’t like the book.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The next issue to consider is payout. As I said, shorter works suffer a bit in Select. The longer a book is (to a point,) the more reasonable the payout. Mine is 87k words. At the average payout over the last few months—$ .005—<strong>I earn around $2.60 if they read the whole thing</strong>. With my book priced at $2.99, that’s a higher royalty than if they bought it. Until and unless the payout rate changes a lot, I’m way ahead there. I’ll likely bump my price up in the next few months. Even if I price at $4.99 (the highest I’d go even once the second book is out,) I’m still losing less than a dollar on the sale…or not losing anything.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There are a lot of KOLL/KU readers, and they’re often the ones most likely to give an unknown a chance because their budget within Select is unlimited—so they’re less likely to buy at retail. They probably won’t stumble on my book and buy it for $2.99 when there are tens of thousands of books they can choose from in Select. So I’m <strong>gaining readers and royalties</strong> I wouldn’t otherwise have.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Finally, the biggest concern a lot of folks—and I—had about Select is the exclusivity. We’re aghast at the idea of cutting off other channels and “losing so many sales.” As I pointed out earlier, genre and audience are a big factor here, but the majority of debut authors won’t have a lot of sales on the other channels. A generous estimate is around 90 to 10 in favor of Amazon vs all other sites combined.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In a little less than 90 days in KU, I had over 45,000 pages read, equating to about 87 books. That’s 1/5th of the sales I had in that period. If we compare numbers, I <em>might</em> have lost around 35 sales from other channels (but that’s likely a huge overestimation,) while gaining 87—at a higher royalty rate than any platform—from Select. <strong>Select had probably triple the sales</strong> I might have had on other outlets. I’ll take those numbers any day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Obviously, your mileage may vary. But Select has been great for me, and I believe it’s worth a try for most. If it doesn't work, you can quit in 90 days and put the book on the other platforms and see how it plays out, <em>after</em> getting a boost from Select.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In my next post, I’ll cover the <strong>Kindle Countdown Deal</strong> and the <strong>promotion sites</strong> I used during the sale. While the Countdown Deal is only available for those enrolled in Select, promo sites can be valuable for any sale, so there’ll be something for everyone. Rest up and stock up on liquor. The swamp gets worse from here.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://authorlaurengregory.blogspot.com/2016/01/marketing-debut-novel-pt-3-life-death.html">Part 3: Kindle Countdown Deals & Promo Sites</a></span><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">Image courtesy of </span></strong><a href="http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images/view_photog.php?photogid=3946"><span style="font-size: x-small;">mapichai</span></a><strong><span style="font-size: x-small;"> at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</span></strong></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-13553259591546396822016-01-10T18:00:00.000-07:002016-01-20T16:41:31.947-07:00Marketing a Debut Novel: Bring Wine, Waders, and an Iron Will<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The launch
of <a href="http://amzn.to/1Vtd7ZF" target="_blank">When Doves Fly</a>, my debut Historical Fiction/Western, has been a whirlwind, and I’m still a bit dizzy. I discovered
that authors, especially indie authors, are no longer just writers. We must
wear many hats to ensure success, and my most recent chapeau is that of Book
Marketer Extraordinaire. I’m certainly no expert, but I have gained some
knowledge, and I’ll explain the different options I've tried and detail my experiences
(and mistakes) through a series of posts. I hope it sheds light on the process and makes it a
little less overwhelming for those learning how to pimp their wares.</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W2ZNCIn6gSY/VpGTLZJv4qI/AAAAAAAAApY/92SgxeI452g/s1600/dreamstimelarge_40607825.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W2ZNCIn6gSY/VpGTLZJv4qI/AAAAAAAAApY/92SgxeI452g/s400/dreamstimelarge_40607825.jpg" width="275" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I immersed
myself in research about how to sell books. It’s involved a great deal of time,
frustration, and strong cocktails. The first thing I learned is there’s little
reliable information available for newbie authors. Few authors are willing to
let others in on what’s worked for them—or if they are, they write a ten page
book, charge $10 for it, and proceed to tell you that you need to invest in a
sandwich board and a bell. Take any advice you glean from some random “bestselling”
author who “sold” eight million books in a day with a huge block of salt
(chances are their rank lasted for 5 minutes on Amazon in an obscure subgenre that
contains 5 books, and the "sales" were free downloads.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Much of the advice
bandied about is contradictory; use Facebook, Facebook sucks; offer a giveaway,
giveaways don’t work; make your book free, free books are bad. There’s also a
lot of downright false information and a good number of people advocating
unethical practices contrary to various platforms’ rules,
either due to ignorance or lack of integrity. Familiarize yourself with the
guidelines for each platform and follow them. Don’t take shortcuts or shoot yourself in the foot
by breaking the rules—it’s not worth it. Wading through all of this is
exhausting, and it often feels like you’re no further ahead than when you
started. But if you educate yourself, you’ll be in a position to take advantage
of opportunity.<br />
<br />
The second thing I learned is that there’s no magic bullet or formula that will
work for every author or book. We must tailor our approaches to genre,
audience, platform, budget, time, moon phases, and planetary alignment. A debut
author with no backlist will need a different approach than an author with ten
books. Marketing plans need to be individualized and flexible. I adapted
strategies to meet my needs, and you should do the same. My novel is a debut
that straddles genres, and it’s not in a “hot” genre, so I’ve had to find ways
around those hurdles. A YA author will typically have more options and need to
use different platforms, or an obscure genre will need to target much tighter
and be able to focus resources rather than spreading them around. You’ll need
to analyze your genre and audience to find the best ways to reach them. Your
readers’ habits will determine which strategies work best for your book. So
your first task is to figure out who your readers are, where they hang out and
look for books, their spending habits, and their underwear sizes. Some of the
answers may surprise you.<br />
<br />
Then, decide your goal before implementing your marketing plan. Some marketing will
focus on long term results, and some is more about short term. One strategy
might gain exposure, while another will produce sales. Some tools require more
time or money, or both; figure out which resources you have and focus on the
methods that utilize those.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">In the three
months since the launch, I’ve worked on both exposure and sales, and found methods
that work and ones that don’t. In short, Amazon ads produced the most sales;
Goodreads ads and a giveaway produced good exposure and some reviews. Book bloggers, especially a team of reviewers, are excellent advocates, but finding the right ones is tricky. Enrollment
in KindleUnlimited was a good decision; the Kindle Countdown deal, while not as
successful as I hoped, did give a good bump in sales. Some promotion sites I
used during the Countdown deal had a good ROI (Return On Investment,) some did
not. Facebook ads were a miserable failure—but I concede that for certain
genres, with a lot of work, they could be successful. However, I don’t
believe they offer a good ROI overall. Of course, all of these require a strong presence on social media, and it goes without saying that your success will depend a lot on the quality of your book, cover, and blurb.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Stay tuned
over the next month for the nitty gritty and feel free to ask questions.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><a href="http://authorlaurengregory.blogspot.com/2016/01/marketing-debut-novel-part-2-into-jungle_18.html">ON TO PART 2</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br />Find Lauren's book on Amazon:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">US </span></span></div>
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<a href="http://amzn.to/1Vtd7ZF"><span style="font-family: inherit;">http://amzn.to/1Vtd7ZF</span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">UK</span></div>
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<a href="http://amzn.to/1VrD0E0"><span style="font-family: inherit;">http://amzn.to/1VrD0E0</span></a></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-50339683132869125932015-11-26T00:00:00.000-07:002015-11-26T00:00:05.542-07:00What to do While You Wait for that Other Bird<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4R8W7EmxOFE/VlYASxZbfvI/AAAAAAAAAok/1pzCAe4aJoI/s1600/FrontCoverWDFborder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4R8W7EmxOFE/VlYASxZbfvI/AAAAAAAAAok/1pzCAe4aJoI/s400/FrontCoverWDFborder.jpg" width="280" /></a><br />
Great news! When Doves Fly will be on a Kindle Countdown Deal starting on Turkey Day. So while the bird cooks--the other bird!--or during those long drives over the river and through the woods to Grandma's house, you can read a book reviewers are calling "gritty, complex storytelling" and both "timeless and fresh." Works on planes, trains, automobiles, wagons, and even horses.<br />
<br />
<br />
Amazon:<br />
<a href="http://amzn.to/1Vtd7ZF">http://amzn.to/1Vtd7ZF</a><br />
Amazon UK<br /><a href="http://amzn.to/1hMaMX6">http://amzn.to/1hMaMX6</a><br />
Print<br /><a href="http://amzn.to/1Lr7B3p">http://amzn.to/1Lr7B3p</a><br /><a href="https://www.createspace.com/5754093">https://www.createspace.com/5754093</a><br />
<br />
To request a signed print copy, use the contact form here:<br />
<a href="http://www.authorlaurengregory.com/Contact.html">http://www.authorlaurengregory.com/Contact.html</a><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria;"></span><br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;"></span> </div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;"></span> </div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">Excerpt from When Doves Fly by Lauren Gregory</span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">Two horses occupied the pen, and both looked used
up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">The livery operator, even harder used than his
horses, eyed Lily with an arched brow. He wore chaps molded to his legs and a
cowboy hat with holes. Tanned rifts covered his face and shifted in strange
patterns as he talked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“Where ya headed?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“<st1:city><st1:place>Cheyenne</st1:place></st1:city>,”
she lied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“Where’s yer men folk?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“I’ll be making this trip alone.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“Missy, that’s a long ride. Oughtta at least wait
for a party goin’ out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">Lily set her jaw. “I’ll worry about that. How much
for that one?” She pointed to the less-swaybacked roan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“That’s Charlie. Let you have him for $50.00. Can
you even heft a saddle on yer own?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">Her lips pursed, and she walked to a rack loaded
with saddles. Struggling, she lifted one over her head. “Satisfied?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">The horseman shrugged. “All right. But ain’t no
way you can make it all the way to <st1:city><st1:place>Cheyenne</st1:place></st1:city>
on yer lonesome. Bandits roamin’ all over now, even if the ride don’t kill ya.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“Will you sell me the horse or not?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">He opened a packet from his vest and stuffed a
plug of tobacco in his cheek. “I reckon.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“Do you have any mules?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“For what?” His eyes narrowed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">She tossed him a withering look. “A pack mule, of
course.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">His gaze wandered. “Nope. No mules.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">Lily followed his glance and walked to the corner
of the building. Several mules munched hay at a paddock trough. She rounded on
the man. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“Just what are those? Pigs?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“Bad enough if I sell you the horse, but that’ll
only getcha in so much trouble. I ain’t sendin’ you out on the trail with <i>two</i>
animals you can’t handle.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“Then I’ll have to find someone who wants to make
money. Thank you and good day.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">He stuck his leg out, blocking her attempt at a
huffing exit. “Listen, missy. You don’t look as if you been doin’ much trail
ridin’. I’ll allow you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">might</i> handle
the horse on yer own, mostly ‘cause he’s too old and tired to do much but eat.
But a jack’s a different animal, and tryin’ to lead one while you ride ain’t
easy, even for trail men with some miles under their belts. What do you need to
pack, anyhow?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">Lily pressed her lips together to stop their
trembling. She wanted to tell him to mind his business but lifted her chin.
“Goods.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“Er … you can buy goods in <st1:city><st1:place>Cheyenne</st1:place></st1:city>,
reckon? It’s a bonafide city these days. Stores and everything.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“<st1:city><st1:place>Cheyenne</st1:place></st1:city>
isn’t my final destination. Will you sell me a mule, or are you going to spend
all day asking questions?” Her nails dug into her palms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">He looked her up and down. “I can’t do it. Take my
advice: don’t try it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">She fumed but changed her tack and offered a sweet
smile. “What if I take a hired man? Can I, please, have a mule then?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“Do I look that brainless?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“No, truly, I promise. You’re right; I shouldn’t
do it on my own. I’ll hire someone. Do you know where I can find a reliable
hand?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">The horseman considered her and wagged a finger.
“I’ll give ya the address. And I’ll check up on it, too.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">She paid him $95.00 for the horse, mule, and a
saddle. As he saddled the horse, he looked at her skirt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“You know how to ride a western?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">She didn’t meet his gaze. “Of course.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">When he finished, she led the animals away, with
no intention of hiring anyone.</span></div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;"></span> </div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.3pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-33616049610949375722015-11-08T10:20:00.000-07:002015-11-08T10:20:38.730-07:00Tampons and Dildos: Facebook Censorship<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I got a bit miffed today, and I think this needs as wide a reach as possible, so it deserves its own post.<br />
<br />
Facebook apparently considers tampons to be "sex toys" and refuses to allow Alaurra Weaver at <a href="http://www.mommybloggerforhire.com/badassmotherblogger">www.mommybloggerforhire.com/badassmotherblogger</a> to promote her work because she talks about *gasp* menstruation.<br /><br />In my work as a historical fiction author, one of the hardest and most maddening research tasks is trying to find information on women's health. It has always been, and STILL is, such a taboo topic that we don't dare speak of it. The lack of information on key aspects of the lives of half the world's population is outrageous.<br />
<br />
The ridiculousness of sexism and outlandish prudery of some definitions of obscenity are a couple of the very few things that truly offend me. The attitude that female bodily functions are obscene or pornographic is one of the reasons that women the world over are kept locked in a metaphorical (and sometimes all-too-real) back shed to shield the world from their impure existence. <br />
<br />
Without menstruation, not a one of us would be here. Without women struggling to deal with the daily realities of sexism, misogyny, and body-shaming throughout history, none of the small-minded who wish to label women as unclean would exist.<br />
<br />
Fuck you, and the tampon you rode in on, Facebook.<br />
<br /><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7N2sakwZMKo/Vj-DAMXaXyI/AAAAAAAAAoQ/cpKV0PFI0to/s1600/FUFB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7N2sakwZMKo/Vj-DAMXaXyI/AAAAAAAAAoQ/cpKV0PFI0to/s320/FUFB.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<strong>Please help spread some great history articles and support a woman writer.</strong><br />
<br />
Part 1: <a href="http://www.mommybloggerforhire.com/badassmotherblogger/2015/10/21/a-history-of-menstrual-hygiene-from-free-bleeding-to-flow-tracking-apps">www.mommybloggerforhire.com/badassmotherblogger/2015/10/21/a-history-of-menstrual-hygiene-from-free-bleeding-to-flow-tracking-apps</a><br />
<br />
Part 2: <a href="http://www.mommybloggerforhire.com/badassmotherblogger/on-the-rag-menstrual-products-from-ancient-greece-to-the-Americas">http://www.mommybloggerforhire.com/badassmotherblogger/on-the-rag-menstrual-products-from-ancient-greece-to-the-Americas</a><br />
<br />
The Buzzfeed Article: <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/alauraweaver/does-facebook-really-think-tampons-are-sex-toys-1ylb2">http://www.buzzfeed.com/alauraweaver/does-facebook-really-think-tampons-are-sex-toys-1ylb2</a><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Image courtesy of stockimages at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-57011640687054477152015-10-26T18:33:00.000-06:002015-11-29T11:38:48.892-07:00Liar, Liar<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The flashing lights sprayed blue and red bruises around our
living room. I huddled behind the couch in my nightgown. A man and woman in
crisp blue uniforms hefted a black bag onto a stretcher, pushed levers, and
lifted the bed like Mom did with her ironing board. Blood smeared the lady’s
name tag, but I’d seen it when she came in. It said Glenda. The name of the
good witch. The good witch come to clean up after the bad.<br />
<br />
Two men in regular clothes stood in the kitchen doorway writing in little
notebooks. One pointed to a dark stain on the recliner. His mouth moved, but I couldn’t
hear what he said. The hoarse cackle still filled my head and drowned out
everything.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
A lady rushed in and scanned the room. She spotted me. Her
jaw dropped before she caught herself and closed it. She started
toward me, crouching down and holding out a hand while whispering hushing
sounds—like when you’re trying to catch a scared animal. That’s how they always
treated me. Like a scared, stupid animal.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She knelt and said some stuff I still couldn’t hear. Her
hand took mine, and she tried to pull me up. My legs wouldn’t work. I tipped
over. She wasn’t a big lady, but she scooped me up and carried me out to a car,
still shushing.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I don’t remember much of the ride or being brought into the
police station. They sat me in a gray little room with a table and a paper cup of
apple juice. I felt a little better. Nothing could hide there.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
One of the regular-clothes men came in and pulled a chair
closer. He sat and bent down to catch my eye. The cackle had faded.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
His voice was deep and soft. “Your name is Lizzie, right?”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I nodded.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Can you tell me what happened, Lizzie?”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I swallowed. “The bad witch came again.” </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
His face turned mad, and he shook his head. “Lizzie, we don’t
have time for games. You need to tell us what happened.”</div>
<br />
“It’s <i>not</i> a game. She…she came <em>again</em> a-a-and killed
my mom.”<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The muscle in his jaw tensed. “Fine. I’ll play along. Who is
the witch? How’d she kill her?”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I-I don’t know who she is. She just comes…when I get mad.
She has long talons on her hands. She,” I sniffled back a sob, “she stuck them
in my mom’s neck.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
He sat back and sighed. “Lizzie, we know you did it. You’ll be
in less trouble if you just tell the truth and explain what happened.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Like it had before, my chest tightened as if someone gave me
a big bear hug. I closed my eyes and tried to will it away, but my skin flushed
hot. I told myself she wouldn’t come now—there was no way she could get in
without everyone seeing. She only came when she couldn’t get caught.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Even the witch blames it all on me. After she killed Mom, I
asked her why. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The witch cackled. “You wished she would die, didn’t you?” </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I had…but I didn’t mean it. I couldn’t help being angry when
Mom accused me of lying about what happened when Mrs. Jackson, my teacher,
died. Mom said I had to quit making stuff up so they could catch the real
killer. I told her I wasn’t making it up. Being mad just happens. I can’t help
it.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The regular-clothes man slammed a hand on the table and made
me jump.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Listen, I have a lot of work to do. If you
aren’t going to tell the truth, you’ll just go straight to jail.”<br />
<br />
I wanted to yell but kept my voice quiet. “I’m not lying. Don’t call me a liar.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Don’t lie, and I won’t have to.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
My throat closed up. The anger went from calm to boiling. I
shook my head and told it to go away…but it never listened anymore. Just like
the witch.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-57GhlF0jDN0/Vi7FSB-xYsI/AAAAAAAAAnY/SU8xoaIN8l0/s1600/Witch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-57GhlF0jDN0/Vi7FSB-xYsI/AAAAAAAAAnY/SU8xoaIN8l0/s320/Witch.jpg" width="213" /></a>The last thing I remember is her head rising behind the man,
her hair covered in moss and green slime, wrinkled hands coming up, talons
curling in toward his neck, slicing through the skin. The cackle had returned.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Now I sit in a cold room made of cushioned walls. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I shudder and scrunch
my shoulders up over my ears as best I can with the jacket on, but the noise
comes from inside me, and I can’t shut it out. How she makes me hear it when
she’s not even around puzzles me—but then again, all of it does.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Dried blood covers my face and hair, and little pieces flake
off when I move. I don’t know how so much blood got on me. I wasn’t close
enough. Another puzzle.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
More regular-clothes men had come into the little gray room. I huddled in the
corner. The original regular-clothes man sprawled on the floor, a pool of red-black spreading under him. They had pointed
guns at me and yelled and ran around acting crazy. A lady put a white jacket on
me that wraps my arms around my back, and they led me down a bunch of hallways until
we got to this room.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It’s not fair. They all keep calling me a liar.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The door opens, and a man in a white uniform starts in.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Damn, I forgot the sedative.” He turns back, tells two men
in white doctor coats he’ll return in a minute, and rushes off.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The white coats stand just outside the cushion room in a
bare, gray hallway.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
One of the white-coat men says to the other, “It’s a severe
psychosis. She seems to really believe someone else is doing it. But all the
evidence points to her.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Well,” the other says, “some kids are just great liars.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The anger swells up faster every time. Now, it comes in an
instant.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The thing with moss and green slime appears behind
the white-coat men in the hallway. She slinks toward them.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I try to yell, to warn them, but only a hoarse cackle comes
out.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
.<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">Image courtesy of Victor Habbick at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</span></strong></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-22142579655570357032015-10-18T23:48:00.001-06:002016-03-13T13:11:54.706-06:00I'm Goin' Away<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: left;">
*trigger warning--child sexual abuse<br />
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I reckoned Daddy would be mad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I sat in the bathroom on the edge of the tub, lookin’ at the
shiny door handle. The little ridge in the middle pointed sideways. That made
me feel funny, weak-like and soggy. My fingers itched to turn it back upright.
I just stared and kept my hands in my lap. The old house creaked while it
settled, and I thought how thankful I’d be not to hear those sounds no more. I
reckoned there was a heap of things I’d be thankful to miss.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We lived on Apple Lane, and our creaky house set down by the
tracks. That was silly, ‘cause there weren’t no apple trees on our street, only
peaches. I lay in bed at night, listenin’ to the trains. They’d scream afore
they got to the crossin’. They’d chug and clang past the house, rattlin’ the
wavy glass in the window frames. It took them forever to get by, car after car
filled with black dusty coal. Teacher said coal turns into diamonds, but I
didn’t believe her. I never found no diamonds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I hated them trains. Their screams reminded me of the orange
cat Daddy caught shittin’ under the porch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Cats is about as handy as a woman. All they’s good at is
naggin’ and shittin’ and fuckin’,” he said. Daddy had lots of ideas ‘bout
women.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He took its tail and swung it round and round, laughin’ at
the way its hair puffed up. It screamed, the sound windin’ up and fadin’ out.
Just like them trains. Acourse, they wasn’t that much alike, specially not when
the cat stopped sudden-like against the tree. The bones are still out back,
behind Daddy’s old Ford. They turned white and then gray, and I checked every
week to make sure they was still there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After that, I always pictured that cat wailin’ and swingin’
when the trains screamed. It gave me goose pimples, and I had to shut my hands
over my ears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I sat in the bathroom, another creak killed the quiet,
and I closed my eyes. Mayhap the wind was comin’ up. I held my breath, so’s I
could hear the wind, but it wasn’t howlin’. I opened my eyes and checked the
door handle again. It still pointed sideways. I reached out and tried to turn
it, real gentle-like. Smooth, cold, slippery. It wouldn’t turn. Down on the
floor, the strip of light under the door stayed solid, no shadows breakin’ it
up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Creak. I shut my hands over my ears, closed my eyes again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We wasn’t allowed to lock doors. I don’t mean the front
door—that one we locked, acourse. But unless you wanted Daddy to tell you to
fetch a switch, and make your butt burn and throb and turn red, you sure didn’t
lock no other doors. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Daddy said, “Locked doors mean you don’t trust folks. I
reckon you ought trust your family.” He talked ‘bout family a lot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So we left ‘em open. That’s how Sugarman got in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At night, after the train screamed, the door swung open real
slow. I lay in bed with my ears shut but my eyes open, tryin’ to see who it
was. I couldn’t see nothin’ but dark, just like I had my eyes closed. Then a
weight come down, makin’ the mattress sag so’s I’d start slidin’ to the edge.
Sugarman’s hands caught me, holdin’ me round my belly. I tried to lock my legs
together and stayed real still. Acourse, that didn’t help none. Sugarman was
real strong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Gimme some sugar,” he said. He always wanted sugar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">His breath covered me, sour and sweet, like when the peaches
fell off the tree in the backyard and rotted into the black dirt. I hated that
smell almost as much as I hated them trains. When the wind was just right, it
came in my window with the screamin’ of the trains, so thick I could almost see
it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sugarman put his slick lips on my mouth. I tried my best to
keep my lips shut, but he squeezed my cheeks hard. It made my teeth dig into
‘em, and I had to open. His fat tongue filled my mouth, and it tasted even
worse than the peaches smelled. I wished my mind would go away. I wanted to
shut my ears and my eyes and everything else. I didn’t want to taste that
tongue, or feel the draft on my legs when he pushed my nightdress up. If my
mind could’ve gone away, it wouldn’t have mattered what Sugarman did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mama died a year ago. She stayed in bed for months afore she
went. She said she had the cancer. It made her get real skinny. I wanted to sit
with her but hated lookin’ at her, so I scrunched my eyes into little slits so
only a strip of light come through my eyelashes. She was just a pale blur
against the blue flowered sheets. It reminded me of the time we went on a
picnic, and she chased me through the field until we fell down and lay on the
blossoms, laughin’ in the sun ‘til we couldn’t breathe. But she wasn’t laughin’
in her bed. She hadn’t laughed in a real long time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’m gonna die, Punkin,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What’s that like, Mama? What happens when you die?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Your mind just goes away, like sleepin’, but you don’t wake
up. It makes the pain go away.” She smiled, a blurry, tired smile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I wanted to know more but was scared to ask. I hoped the
goin’ away was like when I turned the TV off and the light shrunk to a bright
dot and winked out. Or maybe like water swirlin’ down a drain, without the
creepy gurgle sound. I hoped it wasn’t a slow thing, like the peaches rottin’
in the yard, wrinkled and crawlin’ with bugs. Anything but that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She went to sleep after that, and I reckon her mind went
away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I thought a heap about makin’ my mind go away once Sugarman
started comin’ in. I knew how to make it go away, ‘cause I saw ‘em do the hogs
and chickens. They screamed, too, but without the fadin’. Their screams turned
to hissin’ gurgles. I wondered if they had pain and if it went away. They
didn’t have much mind, but I reckoned it went away just the same.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I'd took the butcher knife out the shed and went to the
bathroom with it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I'd locked the door and sat lookin’ at the knife for a
spell. My reflection stared back at me. I didn’t like that—it made a big lump
in my throat—so I stopped lookin’ and left the blade in my lap. Instead, I
watched the door handle, listenin’ and waitin’, with the cold porcelain sendin’
chills deep into my bones. I thought about Daddy and everything looked red of a
sudden. It got me awful riled up. I reckoned it was Daddy’s fault that Sugarman
got in. If Daddy woulda let me lock the door, Sugarman wouldn’t have come, and
I wouldn’t need to make my mind go away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The strip of light under the door grew brighter as the sun
fell. It was gettin’ to be time. Time’s a funny thing, too. It goes faster just
when a body wants it to slow down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I breathed deep, tryin’ to make my heart quit thumpin’. It
sounded funny with my ears shut, like the wind got in my head while a horse
thundered in my chest. I took my hands off my ears and picked up the knife. It
was heavier and more real, like it might come alive. My fingers held it real
tight as I slid down to the floor and waited.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When the front door slammed, I took the knife to my neck,
just like they did with the hogs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Everything turned red for real.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Daddy called my name. Footsteps rumbled down the hall. The
strip of light under the door broke up and disappeared like when the sun goes
behind clouds. The door handle jiggled. I dropped the knife.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Why’s this damn door locked? You in there, Punkin?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The red squirted and dripped. Daddy banged on the wood, but
it sounded far-off, a rumble in my bones more than my ears. In between the
poundin’, a train screamed. I wished my mind would go away afore Daddy got in.
He hit the door harder, and it flew open. His eyes opened big, as if he seen a
ghost.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No more Sugarman, Daddy.” My voice sounded funny and made
me want to laugh. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But when Daddy leaned
over me, I smelled Sugarman’s breath. My laugh came out a whistlin’ scream,
like the trains, windin’ up and fadin’ away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*This piece is not intended to endorse or condone suicide. It was written as a cathartic, therapeutic piece of fiction. If you need someone to listen, please contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-Talk (8255) or visit <a href="http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/">www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Image courtesy of </span><a href="http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images/view_photog.php?photogid=1750"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Sura Nualpradid</span></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"> at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-34338844538053123762015-10-06T22:06:00.001-06:002015-10-19T00:33:45.138-06:00Women Writers Coming Out<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This is such an awesome post that I simply have to share. I want all women writers (and more than a few men) to read it, because I think it's the number one hurdle for us. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://warriorwriters.wordpress.com/2015/10/06/good-girls-dont-become-best-sellers-channeling-your-inner-bad-girl-to-reach-your-dreams/#comment-224756">https://warriorwriters.wordpress.com/2015/10/06/good-girls-dont-become-best-sellers-channeling-your-inner-bad-girl-to-reach-your-dreams/#comment-224756</a><br />
<br />
I wrote something relating to this a few weeks ago, regarding my own path to writing a novel, the fear, doubt, and lack of confidence I struggled with for years (and still battle,) and the way girls/women are trained not believe in our own value and skill. I've had to unlearn a lot of that to find my own bad girl. She's coming out. ;)<br />
<br />
<a href="http://authorlaurengregory.blogspot.com/2015/09/learning-to-write.html">http://authorlaurengregory.blogspot.com/2015/09/learning-to-write.html</a><br />
<br />
Women writers must learn to see their own worth outside of wife/mom/family/friend roles and speak up. We owe that to ourselves (and our families,) and we deserve that voice.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-1026320036622690452015-10-04T08:00:00.000-06:002015-10-04T08:00:00.954-06:00I Got Mine--Screw You<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_5610a8e2940cf6914619325">
All. the. books. Always. For everyone. <br />
<br />
That's the purpose of a free exchange of ideas, and it's the ideal upon which libraries are based. Allowing any person to limit that exchange is ALWAYS dangerous and backwards. <br />
<br />
Slate offered an article this week that claims Banned Books Weeks is a "crock" because there's no such thing as banned books anymore. (<a href="http://www.donotlink.com/framed?785241" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.donotlink.com/framed?785241</a>)<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
<br />
"It's not as bad as it used to be." <br />
<br />
As if that's a good stopping point in any fight against bad things. <br />
<br />
There ARE still banned books, and many attempts to ban them, and we must continue the fight to keep all books available to those who want to read them. That's especially true for libraries because they often serve those who could not otherwise access them. <br />
<br />
It's a shame Slate writer Ruth Graham doesn't recognize or appreciate that. <br />
<br />
It's a sign of being out of touch with the reality that not everyone has digital access and brick-and-mortar stores are disappearing. Many cannot afford to buy a book, and many cannot drive to the next town. And they certainly shouldn't have to just because self-righteous people want to impose their values and beliefs on everyone.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5dgy4HjFGhQ/VhCq3gpgC7I/AAAAAAAAAls/vYMCThmOM4g/s1600/BBW.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5dgy4HjFGhQ/VhCq3gpgC7I/AAAAAAAAAls/vYMCThmOM4g/s320/BBW.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /><br /><br />
It's a sign of elitism. It's a sign of complacency despite glaring evidence that unless we maintain vigilance against censorship, it will gain ground--because there are still people who WANT books banned, even if they're the extremist minority. It's a sign of the gross tendency for people who have a right or privilege to ignore those who don't and not be willing to fight for them. "I got mine--screw you."<br />
<a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/bannedbooksweek?source=feed_text&story_id=1607951556135634"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl"></span></a><br />
<span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl">#</span><span class="_58cm">BannedBooksWeek</span> is a thing because it needs to be. Because even one banned book is too many. Because, sadly, it's one fight that will never be "over."<br />
<br />
</div>
</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-45693766219575756582015-10-03T12:39:00.000-06:002016-01-26T12:13:06.085-07:00The Caskets -- When Doves Fly Excerpt<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: left;">
In case you missed it, here's one of my favorite scenes from When Doves Fly, my debut #histfic novel set in a Colorado gold rush town in the 1870s. <br />
<br />
If you want more, it's available on Amazon in ebook and print!</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
* * * * *</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText-FirstParagraph" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";">The caskets lay side by side. <st1:city><st1:place>Charlotte</st1:place></st1:city>
stood in the parlor doorway, a doll dangling from one hand. She had tried to
make herself enter, but her feet wouldn’t move. The black crepe over the
windows rippled like ghostly shadows. A glimpse of pallid skin peeked from each
coffin.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";"><i>What if they wake?</i> Maggie, their cook, said
people sometimes came back to life to claw their way out of their caskets. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";"><st1:city><st1:place>Charlotte</st1:place></st1:city>
wanted to touch them, to check for life, but a vague fear stopped her. She
stayed rooted, cold bare toes on the threshold, eyes fixed on the open boxes,
waiting for the children to move. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "cambria";">If only Mother would come down. Then I could go
in. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";"><st1:city><st1:place>Charlotte</st1:place></st1:city>
had tried to rouse her mother, but her parents’ door remained locked, and no
one answered. Only weak cries had come from the room in the two days since
Peter and Cecilia died.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";">Mother had fallen sick, too, but the cholera kept
her bedridden for just a day. She’d devoted the next two days to nursing Peter
and Cecilia—<st1:city><st1:place>Charlotte</st1:place></st1:city> had felt
fine. In her delirium, Mother blamed herself for taking the children to the
fair, but <st1:city><st1:place>Charlotte</st1:place></st1:city> had been the
one who pestered until she agreed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";"><i>If I hadn’t, Peter and Sissy wouldn’t be in
caskets. </i>Once a middle child, now an only. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";">After they died, Mother locked her door, and <st1:city><st1:place>Charlotte</st1:place></st1:city>
hadn’t seen her since. Maggie had arranged the wake and the coming funeral but
went home sick—was it only the day before?—after assuring Charlotte that Papa
would return home from his business trip any time. <st1:city><st1:place>Charlotte</st1:place></st1:city>
waited all night, but Papa hadn’t come.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";">Something moved in Peter’s coffin. <st1:city><st1:place>Charlotte</st1:place></st1:city>’s
eyes widened, and she squeezed Dolly’s arm. A fly drifted from the casket and
landed again. She relaxed and released her breath. And waited.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";">The back door banged open. <st1:city><st1:place>Charlotte</st1:place></st1:city>
didn’t move—she couldn’t. Her limbs had turned to stone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";">“Eliza!” Papa’s voice rang in the silence.
“Maggie?” Footsteps clattered on the wood floor until he reached the hall rug.
“<st1:city><st1:place>Charlotte</st1:place></st1:city>! Where’s your mother?
Why are the drapes …?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";">His hand fell on her shoulder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";">She tried to speak, but her cracked lips only
trembled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";">A sick moan came from him, and he pushed past her
into the room with the caskets and flies. He bent over the bodies and groaned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";">“No, no, no,” he chanted. “Peter … Sissy … not
both ….”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";">Tears stung <st1:city><st1:place>Charlotte</st1:place></st1:city>’s
eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";">Papa whirled on her. “Where is your mother?” More
a roar than a question.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";">Her body shook. <i>Why is he angry with me?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";">He ran past her and thundered up the stairs.
Banging on a door. “Eliza … Eliza!” More heavy footsteps, and he jerked <st1:city><st1:place>Charlotte</st1:place></st1:city>
by the arm. “Is your mother sick? Where is Maggie? Or Cooper?” He bent, eyes
wild, and shook her until her teeth chattered. “<st1:city><st1:place>Charlotte</st1:place></st1:city>,
answer me!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";">Sound came from her mouth, but no words.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";">Shoving her aside, he raced upstairs. Yelling and
rattling the door as <st1:city><st1:place>Charlotte</st1:place></st1:city>
collapsed in the parlor doorway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";">“Papa?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";">The hall remained quiet. She fell asleep crying,
clutching Dolly close.</span></div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";"></span> </div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria";"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_BcoD0AIaPg/VhAfkLIwBuI/AAAAAAAAAlY/jx72YtI3XfE/s1600/FrontCoverWDFborder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_BcoD0AIaPg/VhAfkLIwBuI/AAAAAAAAAlY/jx72YtI3XfE/s640/FrontCoverWDFborder.jpg" width="449" /></a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-6147586788627900862015-09-30T08:00:00.000-06:002015-10-05T15:22:58.356-06:00New Book Release!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I may or may not have peed my pants today. But I will be changing them, rest assured.<br />
<br />
One year, ten months, fourteen days. It doesn't sound like that long, but it's taken a lifetime to reach this milestone. This is what I always wanted. Now I've got it.<br />
<br />
On Amazon<br />
<a href="http://amzn.to/1jwZ7NC">http://amzn.to/1jwZ7NC</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JL1Mx4xWGo8/Vgt_g2K8YVI/AAAAAAAAAlA/3_RThQ8TbIE/s1600/WDFLilyAdAdventure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JL1Mx4xWGo8/Vgt_g2K8YVI/AAAAAAAAAlA/3_RThQ8TbIE/s400/WDFLilyAdAdventure.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-2691687437891156292015-09-27T10:00:00.000-06:002015-09-27T10:00:05.322-06:00Sneak Peek at When Doves Fly<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
An excerpt from Chapter One of When Doves Fly, a new historical fiction novel set in 1870s Colorado, coming September 30, 2015:<br /><br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText-FirstParagraph" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">Lily Wright departed the train
before the other passengers, gripping her carpet bag tight, eager to disappear.
The bell clanged their arrival as the train rumbled to a stop, and voices rose
over the hiss of steam engines as travelers greeted family and friends. Lily
had no one to greet, yet every face resembled her husband’s and filled her with
cold dread. Throwing peeks over her shoulder, she dodged and weaved until she
found the station agent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“Where’s the nearest hotel and stagecoach, sir?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“Welcome to <st1:city><st1:place>Denver</st1:place></st1:city>,
miss.” He jerked his thumb to the east, beyond the depot. “Plenty hotels within
a few blocks, they can get you to a coach.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">She nodded and proceeded inside. People,
suitcases, and trunks littered the station. She ducked her head and wound
around them. Hair prickled on her neck. Convinced eyes had followed her, she
turned, but no one seemed interested. Her heart pounded faster as she skirted
the ticket line and burst through the doors to the street. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">Wagons lumbered past in the waning evening light.
A river of people flowed around her—men in work clothes or suits and bowlers,
women in walking dresses with pert bustles—while she stood in front of the
depot and searched building signs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">She wanted a smaller place, inexpensive and
inconspicuous. She’d thought she would feel safe once she reached <st1:city><st1:place>Denver</st1:place></st1:city>,
but her anxiety had grown stronger with every mile as the train chugged across
the prairie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">Lily negotiated the wide, muddy road with a stream
of pedestrians toward a cross-street lined with tall brick and clapboard
buildings. When the group reached the other side and went their separate ways, she
started up the narrower street, scanning the buildings and stopping at each
corner to survey the side roads. After several blocks, a squat, wooden
structure with a large sign on the roof drew her attention: The Broadwell
House. Her pace picked up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">The noise and chaos fell behind as the traffic and
crowds thinned. The buildings cast long shadows over the road, and the mountain
sunset blared bright color on the facing side. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">Her apprehension dimmed outside the crush of
people, and exhaustion weighed her shoulders down. The hotel beckoned. Her hand
ached, and she shifted the small suitcase to her other hand as she passed an
alley.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">An arm shot from the narrow void between buildings
and snatched the bag from her fingers. She gasped, but shock throttled a scream
in her throat. She swung toward the breach but caught only a glimpse of a
darker shadow darting away. Her feet moved a few yards into the alley, but the
gloom stopped her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Wait, what if I catch up with him? Who knows
what he might do. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">She spun and darted into the road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“Thief! Help!”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">The street had emptied. The nearest figure, a
block away, kept moving in the opposite direction. She opened her mouth to
shout again but closed it with a snap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Heavens, what am I thinking? I can’t get
involved with the law here. But my bag ….<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">She turned back to the alley, but nothing moved,
the shadow gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“No!” </span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">She stomped her foot and flapped her arms. <i>The
bag. Everything. The money! This cannot be happening.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">Paralyzed by frustration, Lily couldn’t fathom
what to do next. The sun dropped below the skyline. Fear overcame shock. When
full dark hit, the street would only present more danger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">She scuttled toward the Broadwell House, where she
walked to the clerk’s desk and pulled a purse from her skirt pocket.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“One night, please.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">The clerk flicked her eyes up from a newspaper.
“$3.00. No visitors.” She returned her attention to her paper.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">Lily dug the money from her purse. The remaining paltry
bills and coins worsened the roiling in her stomach. She tucked the pouch back
in her pocket and laid three gold coins in the woman’s outstretched hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">“Up the stairs, on the left.” The clerk slid a key
across the desk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">Relieved the woman hadn’t indicated a guest log,
Lily snagged the key and hurried to the second floor. She let herself in,
slammed the door, and turned the lock. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">Minimal furniture filled the modest, tidy room.
She bypassed a table with an oil lamp and matches and fell onto the bed.
Burying her face in the pillow, she sobbed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;"><i>I can’t stay here. He’ll find me here, I just
know it. I have to make it to a more remote place. But what will I do when I
get there? I can’t start a store with no money. </i>She pummeled the mattress. <i>It’s
not fair. All I want is freedom to do as I wish, independence with no one
deciding where I can go or how I must live, the chance to be my own. Is that so
much to ask?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;">Dark settled, but she didn’t drift off for hours.</span></div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;"></span> </div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;"></span> </div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;"></span> </div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QKY9r1r5m10/VgdxCbIYNzI/AAAAAAAAAks/DJvQWO4PA-k/s1600/WDFWingssmsharp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="154" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QKY9r1r5m10/VgdxCbIYNzI/AAAAAAAAAks/DJvQWO4PA-k/s320/WDFWingssmsharp.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">© 2015 Lauren Gregory All Rights Reserved.</span></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-77577431767443512952015-09-23T14:03:00.000-06:002015-09-23T14:03:01.860-06:00It's Here! Cover & Release Date<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
First, the good news. The cover for When Doves Fly is ready, and I'm in love.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Next, the great news. The release date is set for September 30, 2015 for the ebook.<br />
<br />
The long road leads to some amazing places.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S7LDkwT2KFY/VgMBGdREZqI/AAAAAAAAAkE/hKv1rQbkQr4/s1600/WDFFinalCover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="285" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S7LDkwT2KFY/VgMBGdREZqI/AAAAAAAAAkE/hKv1rQbkQr4/s400/WDFFinalCover.jpg" title="When Doves Fly Book Cover" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">When Doves Fly Book Cover
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">© 2015 Lauren Gregory All rights reserved.</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-773571625083790442015-09-02T13:43:00.000-06:002017-03-12T10:44:51.451-06:00Learning to Write<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
At eleven, I won a district-wide writing competition. First
place out of 1,800 sixth graders. I still have the piece. I don't recall the
process or feeling of writing it, but I remember the
feeling of winning. I felt smart. I felt significant. I felt listened to.<br />
<br />
In
those days, I sought approval from adults because I didn't get it from peers,
and the adults had listened. That flaw of approval-seeking, and others, led down some unfortunate paths. My fears stole that sense of
significance while I sought approval in ways that didn't succeed from people
who didn't matter. My teens and early twenties
taught me harsh truths and suffocating falsehoods.<br />
<br />
I learned drawing attention meant drawing criticism and
scorn. I learned there's always someone waiting to drag you down. I learned to
fade into the background to avoid disapproval.
<br />
<br />
I learned smart women weren't nearly as worthy as fun, pretty, friendly women (let alone men)--and that the former is mutually exclusive from the latter. I learned you could only
be one thing, and that as a woman, smart would always lose. I learned smart women are challenged and belittled, and outspoken women are bitch and overbearing. I learned to shut
up.<br />
<br />
I learned to only present the good stuff. If it wasn't
perfect, it wasn't good enough. And in that case, well, what was the use in
trying? I'd never be perfect. I'd never be smart <em>enough</em> or pretty <em>enough</em> or good
<em>enough</em> to matter. I learned to quit trying.
<br />
<br />
I decided I had no imagination, no creativity, nothing important to say, so anything I wrote would be stupid, vapid crap. I told myself I wasn't "inspired." I wasn't deep or insightful or funny. What if I offended someone? What if "they" didn't approve? I didn't want to be wrong. I didn't want people to pull back the curtain and see an imposter. If I made up a story, if I created something, it would be all my fault if it sucked.<br />
<br />
After my son was born, I decided to accept another truth. I'd
failed to learn all of the things I wanted to teach him: confidence, using his
strengths, always being willing to try, accepting failure, to never stop
learning, and above all, to never let anyone else decide who he should be or silence him. <br />
<br />
Hypocrisy.
<br />
<br />
At 39, I woke on a cold November morning, sat at my desk, and started writing. It wasn't perfect—good grief, the suck reigned supreme—but I wrote for sixteen hours. Why? It wasn't some supernatural, angels-singing moment of inspiration or a lightning bolt best-story-ever idea. It wasn't the story.
<br />
<br />
I no longer wanted to fade into the background. I was sick of letting the fear win. I refused to be quiet about things that excite me, scare me, and anger me any longer, and it didn't matter if anyone approved. I wanted to smash those falsehoods I'd learned.<br />
<br />
I have excuses, like everyone. I'm a full-time single mom, and I work two jobs and homeschool my son. I have a house to maintain and family obligations. Health issues abound. Chronic pain cripples me, and painkillers make me stupid but don't alleviate the pain. Just after I finished the first draft, I endured emergency surgery that almost killed me and required months of recuperation. Those things slowed me down, but I kept learning and writing.<br />
<br />
I studied art and craft, worked hard, and finished the manuscript. I learned to write well, not just spit out thoughts. I learned grammar and punctuation, those technical rules many disdain. I learned how to write with emotion and clarity. After remembering that I had a voice, I worked on learning how to use it.<br />
<br />
Why—how—did I write a novel? I decided. That's all. No magical breakthrough, just a decision to use my voice and speak my mind, imperfections and all. That decision—which I still have to make every time I write—is exciting and terrifying. It took years of fighting fears and searching for confidence to make that first decision, to learn new truths and refuse to accept falsehoods.<br />
<br />
Learning to write, both art and craft, is about learning how to connect with strangers. It's learning style and mechanics to create clarity and meaning without losing the story. It's learning to accept criticism along with approval, being willing to have our ideas challenged, and reveling in the fact that the learning is never finished. It's learning to use our voice, and it's never easy.<br />
<br />
We all have fears and hopes, and we all need someone we can relate to, who has those same fears and hopes. No matter who you are or where you've been, someone out there can relate. If you tell a story with a message--no matter how simple or trite or crazy that message may seem to you when the demons of doubt rise in the dark hours--and tell it well, it will speak to someone. It won't connect with everyone, and not everyone will approve. But that's okay. It probably won't change the world, but maybe it will change one person, and <strong>it will change you</strong>. It will give you a voice.<br />
<br />
At 39, I learned I have something to say and someone out there needs to hear it. When will you learn it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Uqh3CUsMfww/VedbltSvEBI/AAAAAAAAAjY/QrMrsfwZO7I/s1600/havent-written.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Uqh3CUsMfww/VedbltSvEBI/AAAAAAAAAjY/QrMrsfwZO7I/s400/havent-written.jpg" width="336" /></a></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-40770899991962669362015-07-24T06:05:00.000-06:002015-07-24T06:05:06.663-06:00In Pieces<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
With every word, he strips away another piece of me. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I need to move on,” he says.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Why? What did I do wrong?” I hate the pathetic desperation
in my voice.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
One more bit flutters to floor, lying among the scattered
pieces of dignity and self-respect. Each speck will wither and die like the blackened
rose petals around the vase on the coffee table. He bought those two weeks ago.
Did he know then?</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I told you, it’s nothing you did. It’s me.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Christ, don’t use a line on me. At least be honest. You owe
me that much.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I’m being honest.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
He edges toward the door, bag in hand. He’s been trying to
leave for three hours. The five o’clock shadow at <st1:time hour="12" minute="0">noon</st1:time>
makes his face haggard, and those blue eyes that bring me to my knees shift
from me to the door. He’s desperate, too—desperate to escape.</div>
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“Fuck you. Go ahead, leave.” I turn my back to him.</div>
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“Don’t act like that. You know it isn’t working.”</div>
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“No, I don’t. I gave you everything. You just want a new
piece of ass.”</div>
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Not true, but I’ll say anything now. Anything to prolong the
shallow last gasps. </div>
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“There’s no one else.” A tired sigh. The door knob squeaks.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”</div>
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Another piece ripped off, baring the ugliest parts of me. </div>
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“The hell you didn’t. You never gave a shit about me.”</div>
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No response. I turn around, and he’s gone.</div>
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At least now I can cry.</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image courtesy of Victor Habbick at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-80526138158306615782015-06-15T20:24:00.000-06:002015-06-15T22:29:55.591-06:00The Fire Inside<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Forsaken at forty, I've lost my autonomy. I still have my mind, talents, skills. It's my body that betrays me. All those years I prided myself on strength and hard work, on doing what needed done whether it taxed my limits or not - now I pay for those years by living with a cruel master.<span class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><br />
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Fire rules my life. It decides when I rise and fall. It dictates whether I conquer the day or endure it. It determines how I behave and think and feel.<br />
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A mist dampens the blaze, a brief reprieve. But the relief demands a price to bankrupt my soul, stealing the only value I have left: words.<br />
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The inferno advances, fingers of pain streaking across the landscape with a pitiless roar. My escape cut off, I can only hide and whisper a plea for a little more time, a little more time before it strikes the inevitable crippling blow, a little more time to work and play and love.<br />
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How long can I hold the fire at bay?<br />
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Not long enough. Never long enough.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rgecSlEhIgk/VX-l0RVav_I/AAAAAAAAAig/aO24RdtxH24/s1600/FireInside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rgecSlEhIgk/VX-l0RVav_I/AAAAAAAAAig/aO24RdtxH24/s400/FireInside.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Image courtesy of twobee at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</span></strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-79029231036321575262015-06-01T11:42:00.000-06:002015-06-01T11:42:32.101-06:00Women in Mining Camps, Part 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Part 2 of my post on Women in Mining Camps, the seminal (light) research from about ten years ago that inspired my upcoming novel, When Doves Fly. <br />
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(Yes, it's been longer than a week since <a href="http://authorlaurengregory.blogspot.com/2015/04/women-in-mining-camps.html">Part 1</a>. My apologies, I ran into a band of outlaws who kidnapped me and forced me to finish editing a manuscript. P.S. The writing is a rough ride.)<br />
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Westward expansion, and the rise of industry and
increased need for steel and minerals, meant mining towns grew in number
and often consisted of the first "civilization" in a remote area. As
the East grew more urbanized, the West remained a savage and isolated
place. "Cornish immigrants
James and Mary Bennett were among the first settlers in Mineral Point
[Wisconsin] in the late 1830s, and Mary begged her husband to take her away
from that 'hardly discovered wilderness,' where 'Indians and wild animals were
numerous,' and back to civilization in England. <sup>1 </sup>Many women who followed their husbands to the mining towns had recently
immigrated and had little or no experience in an undeveloped, wild land, coming
from <st1:place>Europe</st1:place> where even the remote areas had long since
been explored and mining was well-established. "As John Rowe
observed, 'In Cornwall it was the miner who was old before he was thirty-five;
on the early American mining frontier, it was his wife.' <sup>2</sup>
These difficulties came on top of the inherent risks involved in mining that
left many miners injured or dead and their wives without income.<sup>3</sup>
These women didn't all stay home, but whether married, single, or widowed, history rarely recognized the woman's
occupation. Most census records did not record a woman's
occupation, even if single, unless it was unusual, so we often
don't know how many women worked as servants, milliners, or proprietors of
stores or parlors.<sup>4</sup> However,
simply from population records, we can infer that women were as influential and
indispensable in the mining towns as elsewhere. In <st1:place><st1:city>St.
Clair</st1:city>, <st1:state>Pennsylvania</st1:state></st1:place>, a
well-established mining town, in 1850 there were only a little over 100 more men
than women and more than 700 children in a population of over 2,000. <sup>5</sup>
Thus, these women formed the backbone of the community, maintaining their
families and providing support for the miners. However, changing times and
cultural attitudes brought change to the mining towns as in the rest of <st1:country-region><st1:place>America</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JVyssex2f4I/VSwssbh521I/AAAAAAAAAgU/ziG0BkQmMqI/s1600/WomenMiningCampsed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JVyssex2f4I/VSwssbh521I/AAAAAAAAAgU/ziG0BkQmMqI/s400/WomenMiningCampsed.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Group of mine workers...and one woman. c. 1895-1905</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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By the mid-1800s, with westward expansion at its
height and new mineral and metal resources discovered farther west,
women experienced new-found freedoms. They were encouraged to work
outside the home to help their families before marriage and often found themselves
widowed and forced to provide financial support, particularly in an industry
such as mining. Many women left the mining camps and returned to their families
once widowed, but some stayed and developed their own businesses to
support themselves and their families until remarrying or moving on. <sup>6</sup>
The need for women in budding mining camps was sorely felt. New mining camps had a great demand for single women, particularly in areas of rapid
expansion such as <st1:state><st1:place>California</st1:place></st1:state>
during the 1849 gold rush. "…In the West, a woman could make money and
have the boldness to call the money her own. Women who had never worked in
their lives discovered that the drudgery of work was sweetened by the freedom
to earn and save money in their own names." <sup>7</sup> In
the wild, uncivilized areas where mines sprang up quickly and few men
(the men being occupied with mining, which paid much more) could provide such
services as waiting tables in hotels or saloons, women found new occupations
available. The positions were socially unacceptable for women in the East, but they opened to women in the West out of necessity. Strict social rules followed in
the East were set aside for women in these "social" setting positions,
where men had previously ruled, such as the requirement that a
woman be introduced to a man before speaking to him. <sup>8 </sup> </div>
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Along with the need for women in service sectors,
the men needed companionship. It wasn't until the latter 1800s that
mining towns, and the country as a whole, saw the development of
brothels on a large scale, and usually only once a town was well-established.<sup>9</sup>
Most often, women operated them (if not owned them) and "at
late hours provided 'nice young men' with drinks and the social services of a
small bevy of female boarders." <sup>10</sup>
In the East, these establishments were less tolerated and the operators were
fined or jailed if discovered.<sup>11</sup>
But in the west, they thrived and often remained legal until well into the 1900s. </div>
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Unmarried women had other options, though,
particularly in the West. In the chaotic mid-1800s, various industries and areas saw many boom and bust times, forcing single men
to seek new opportunities, often in mining towns. The areas they abandoned had a shortage of marriageable men, and unattached women
frequently followed the migration to developing areas to find husbands and
employment. <sup>12</sup>
"John McCracken wrote to his sister telling of one such incident. 'I
heard not long since of the arrival of an old Lady and her five daughters. They
came in a wagon and seemed quite happy to think there were such chances to get
well married' (Levy 175)." <sup>13</sup>
Women would even advertise themselves for marriage, finding that with the
abundance of men they could raise their expectations and demand a higher
quality of mate. In one "advertisement from a Maryville newspaper of
1849…[a woman gives] self-qualifications for marriage and what she expects in
return from the man: 'an old man need not apply, nor any who have not a little
more education than she has, and a great deal more gold, for there must be
$20,000 settled on her before she will bind herself to perform all the above'
(Levy 176)." <sup>14</sup>
In the mining camps, many men avoided the few prostitutes due to
fear of disease or simple unavailability. As towns grew,
"businessmen" opened more brothels and saw a new avenue for profit
in mail-order bride services. They already had sources for women to supply to their
brothels, so the "supply chain" of immigrant women was already in
place. <sup>15</sup></div>
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Once they arrived in these often lawless,
uncivilized western mining camps, women asserted their influence,
utilized their skills, and developed new ones. "Many craved the amenities of
civilization; they longed for social interaction and sought networks of family
and friends for emotional support." <sup>16</sup>
In newly formed mining towns, the few women
were lonely and despaired of the conditions in which they lived. They attempted
to create homes with canvas tents and dirt floors. Supplies were often slow in
arriving, if they arrived at all, and they made do with whatever they found.
Louise Clappe wrote her sister from <st1:state><st1:place>California</st1:place></st1:state>
in 1851, "…Everybody ought to go to the mines, just to see how little it
takes to make people comfortable in the world." <sup>17</sup>
Out of this turmoil, women created social connections. While operating their
boarding houses, laundry services, and stores, and being mothers and wives, women
organized. They developed social organizations and helped to found churches,
libraries, schools, and other civic institutions. They created communities in
the wilderness. They insisted on social functions to help ease their
homesickness while they adjusted to new climates, new cultures, and new
occupations. "The <st1:place><i>Alta California</i></st1:place> periodical
commented upon the positive influence of women in bringing order to chaotic new
towns: 'Woman to society is like a cement to the building stone. The society
here has no such a cement; its elements float to and fro upon the excited,
turbulent, hurried life of <st1:state><st1:place>California</st1:place></st1:state>
immigrants, or rather, we should say, goldhunters' (quoted in Levy 174)." <sup>18</sup></div>
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Perhaps the most neglected aspect of women's
contributions in mining towns, and to some the most surprising, is that of women miners. Although a very small number, especially until the
latter half of the 1800s, some women worked alongside men in the coal
and lead mine operations. <sup>19</sup>
They endured the same vile working conditions as the men in the deep shafts and
dangerous quarries with toxic fumes and the constant risk of explosions and
cave-ins. Later, a number of women aided their husbands or
worked gold and silver claims alone in the West. Just as on the farms, they
shouldered the burden of hard labor when necessary to support their families.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HLe2WQRyweo/VWwAQjL4tzI/AAAAAAAAAh8/0SHmF-nTvSE/s1600/WomanMiner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="245" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HLe2WQRyweo/VWwAQjL4tzI/AAAAAAAAAh8/0SHmF-nTvSE/s400/WomanMiner.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three men and a woman</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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These examples show women in
mining communities in the 19<sup>th</sup> century were vital to the operation
not only of the mines, but the growth and development of the community and
civic function of the town. They contributed in those capacities in addition to the customary role of wife
and mother they continued to perform for their families in harsh
conditions. In crude log cabins, and without food or supplies, they managed to
create homes that provided for the miner's comfort and daily necessities. And
they provided services and labor for the many businesses needed to maintain the
mining towns. They were essential to their communities, both in founding them
and maintaining them.</div>
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<div style="mso-element: footnote-list;">
<br />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<br />
<br />
<div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">1. William
E. Van Vugt, </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Britain</span></i></st1:place></st1:country-region><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">
to </span></i><st1:country-region><st1:place><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">America</span></i></st1:place></st1:country-region><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">,
Mid-Nineteenth-Century Immigrants to the </span></i><st1:country-region><st1:place><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">United
States</span></i></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: x-small;"> (Chicago: University of Illinois
Press, 1999), 126.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn2" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">2. Ibid.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn3" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">3. Ibid.,
95.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn4" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">4. </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Anthony F. C. Wallace, <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">St. Clair: A </span></i><st1:place><st1:placename><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Nineteenth-Century</span></i></st1:placename><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i><st1:placename><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Coal</span></i></st1:placename><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i><st1:placetype><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Town</span></i></st1:placetype></st1:place><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">'s Experience with a Disaster-Prone Industry </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., 1987), </span>131.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn5" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">5. Ibid.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn6" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">6. Suzanne
Hilton, </span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Miners, Merchants and Maids</span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> (New York: Twenty-First Century
Books, 1995), 69.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn7" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">7. Ibid.,
62.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn8" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">8. Ibid.,
71.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn9" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">9. Wallace,
</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">St. Clair</span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">, 166.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn10" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">10. Ibid.,
167.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn11" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">11. Ibid.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn12" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">12. Van
Vugt, </span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">British to </span></i><st1:country-region><st1:place><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">America</span></i></st1:place></st1:country-region><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">,</span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">
90.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">13."Here Comes the Bride", </span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Women's Work in the Long 19</span><sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">
Century, </span></i></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn13" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(http://www.kennesaw.edu/hss/wwork/Settlement/bride_cc.htm)</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn14" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">14. Ibid.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn15" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">15. Ibid.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn16" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">16. Philip
J. Deloria, Patricia Nelson Limerick, Jack N. Rakove and David Burner, </span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">This
Land: A History of the </span></i><st1:country-region><st1:place><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">United States</span></i></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: x-small;">
(</span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="font-size: x-small;">New York</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="font-size: x-small;">: </span><st1:place><span style="font-size: x-small;">Brandywine</span></st1:place><span style="font-size: x-small;">
Press, 2003), 263.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn17" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">17. Hilton,
</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Miners</span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">, 19.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn18" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">
18. "Here Comes the Bride", </span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Women's Work.</span></i></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn19" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">19. </span><st1:place><st1:city><span style="font-size: x-small;">Van
Vugt</span></st1:city><span style="font-size: x-small;">, </span><st1:country-region><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Britain</span></i></st1:country-region></st1:place><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">
to </span></i><st1:country-region><st1:place><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">America</span></i></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: x-small;">,
126.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Images courtesy of Library of Congress - </span><a href="http://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/hhh.mi0086.photos.088820p/"><span style="color: #cc3300; font-size: x-small;">http://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/hhh.mi0086.photos.088820p/</span></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"> & http://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/ppmsc.01705/</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-72583124559966461282015-04-13T15:02:00.000-06:002015-04-13T15:11:34.476-06:00Women in Mining Camps<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I thought I'd share the seminal research that sparked my interest in women in mining camps, and ultimately inspired my upcoming novel, When Doves Fly. Women often have no voice in history, having been immersed in the maintenance of their families, stifled by discrimination, and denied a lasting outlet for their thoughts and ideas. One of my goals in my writing is to give them a voice and acknowledge their impact.<br />
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This will be a two-part post, so check back next week for the second part.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JVyssex2f4I/VSwssbh521I/AAAAAAAAAgQ/k9NOvsyNstM/s1600/WomenMiningCampsed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JVyssex2f4I/VSwssbh521I/AAAAAAAAAgQ/k9NOvsyNstM/s1600/WomenMiningCampsed.jpg" height="301" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Group of mine workers...and one woman. c. 1895-1905</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
History studies consistently neglected women until
relatively recently. While interest in women’s roles and their contributions to
every aspect of society, culture, politics, medicine, and economic development
has surged, huge gaps of knowledge and understanding still trouble us. When we
read about mining towns, from early mining in <st1:state><st1:place>Pennsylvania</st1:place></st1:state>
and <st1:state><st1:place>Virginia</st1:place></st1:state> to the <st1:state><st1:place>California</st1:place></st1:state>
gold rush period and later to established mining operations throughout the <st1:country-region><st1:place>United
States</st1:place></st1:country-region>, we find a vision of rough, dirty men
engaged in dangerous manual labor. Women remain mostly absent from this
picture. When offered a glimpse, we see only the stray barmaid or prostitute in
the tavern or saloon. It is difficult to comprehend women’s impact on mining
communities in the 19<sup>th</sup> century. Mining camps needed women and offered
women a drastically different life and opportunities unavailable elsewhere. The
women in these areas encountered hardships, prospects, and lifestyles unseen by
women in urban areas. Ultimately, they changed how women were viewed and changed
their communities in sometimes subtle but inescapable ways.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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The earliest mining communities in the eastern <st1:country-region><st1:place>United
States</st1:place></st1:country-region> were established in the beginning of
the 19<sup>th</sup> century.<sup>1</sup> At this time, areas east of the <st1:place>Mississippi
River</st1:place> remained largely unexplored. Throngs of immigrants flowed
into eastern <st1:state><st1:place>Pennsylvania</st1:place></st1:state>, <st1:state><st1:place>Virginia</st1:place></st1:state>,
<st1:state><st1:place>Ohio</st1:place></st1:state>, and <st1:state><st1:place>Kentucky</st1:place></st1:state>
to find land and fresh opportunities. Businessmen in <st1:place><st1:city>Philadelphia</st1:city>,
<st1:state>New York</st1:state></st1:place>, and <st1:city><st1:place>Boston</st1:place></st1:city>
searched for new sources of revenue. Industrialization swept the country. Additional
resources were needed to fuel these changes, and the discovery of anthracite
(coal) in the <st1:place>Allegheny Mountains</st1:place> provided one of the
richest foundations for this growth. By the 1820s, farmland and uninhabited areas
sprouted small mining camps as investors and landowners realized the enormous
potential of the reserves <i>under</i> the soil.<sup>2</sup><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Men established these camps, and initially, all of
the workers and supporting labor were men. During the period of speculation for
a mine, small operations employed a dozen or two hands, and women stayed home
in the urban areas or on the farms.<sup>3</sup>
Once a large vein was discovered, and the mine proved profitable, more men arrived,
and practically overnight a community sprang up. A town could go from one
hundred inhabitants to thousands in a few years.<sup>4</sup> Owners and investors encouraged and even
financed the growth, because population development around the mining district brought
even more profit. In 1835, a mine investor planned a community in <st1:state><st1:place>Pennsylvania</st1:place></st1:state>
and envisioned "'a first Town within the <st1:place><st1:placename>Coal</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Range</st1:placetype></st1:place>, and in the midst of a great
mining district.' In addition to the profits from royalties on coal, the
development of the Westwood Tract would bring additional financial benefits
from the sale of town lots, mill seats, and timber and an extensive 'home
trade' could be expected…"<sup>5</sup><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Further, development of the communities, which
required women and families, could benefit the operation of the mine itself.
"'Nothing can equal the neatness and Comfort of these snug dwellings…the
wife keeps all in order at home, every child at 7 or 8 years gets to work among
the Coal or in the Neighboring Manufactories…Saturday Night collects all the
wages and all the family together…'"<sup>6</sup>
In this instance, we see women in the communities illustrated as they were
elsewhere at the time: as the wife of the working man, keeping a comfortable
and respectable family life at home. With these eastern mines, the mining
company planned orderly communities, and often, even before the mining
operation was fully constructed, a town grew nearby to provide necessary
services. As quickly as they could build housing, the families of the miners,
artisans, and craftsmen moved in, providing a "family life" for workers.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Even in relatively large communities, the lack of single
women resulted in large numbers of working single men who needed services
normally performed by a wife. Laundering, cooking, gardening, sewing, and many
other services were performed by married women who operated (but rarely owned)
boarding houses or worked from home. They moved frequently, following their men
to new operations. They had to assimilate in communities often hostile to
immigrants. They provided the comforts of a home without many of the supplies
and amenities available in urban areas. </div>
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By the middle of the 19<sup>th</sup> century, with mining
communities expanding in the East, textile mills sprang up near sources of
industrialization. While the men worked in the mines, some women began working
outside the home in several fields, often related to clothing.<sup>7</sup> Women and children, with their smaller
frames and hands, could often perform tasks in cramped spaces or work
which required dexterity many men lacked. The mills required long hours in
harsh conditions--and the female workers often still had to run the house when
they arrived home. Some of these women were integral to the start of the Labor Movement. Many of these industries, and the women workers they
relied on, provided the capital for costly mineral exploration and made
mining possible.</div>
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The women in these early, Eastern mining towns were
essential to the mine's operation, as they performed the menial
household work and supplied necessary services. They allowed both married
and single men to pull treasure from the ground without worrying about the
time-consuming daily tasks of living. This dictated a hard life for the women,
even more so as <st1:country-region><st1:place><st1:country-region><st1:place>America</st1:place></st1:country-region></st1:place></st1:country-region>
moved westward.</div>
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</div>
<div style="mso-element: footnote-list;">
<br />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<br />
<div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">1. Anthony
F. C. Wallace, </span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">St. Clair: A </span></i><st1:place><st1:placename><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Nineteenth-Century</span></i></st1:placename><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">
</span></i><st1:placename><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Coal</span></i></st1:placename><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i><st1:placetype><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Town</span></i></st1:placetype></st1:place><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">'s
Experience with a Disaster-Prone Industry </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.,
1987), 3. </span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn2" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">2. Ibid.,
2.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn3" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">3. Ibid.,
70.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn4" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">4. Ibid.,
96.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn5" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">5. Ibid.,
78.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn6" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">6. Ibid.,
79.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn7" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">7. Doris
Weatherford, </span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Foreign and Female: Immigrant Women in </span></i><st1:country-region><st1:place><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">America</span></i></st1:place></st1:country-region><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">,
1840-1930</span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> (New York: Facts on File, Inc., 1995), 205-206.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> Image courtesy of Library of Congress - </span><a href="http://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/hhh.mi0086.photos.088820p/"><span style="font-size: x-small;">http://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/hhh.mi0086.photos.088820p/</span></a><br />
<br />
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-55280791320471374052015-04-07T08:57:00.001-06:002015-04-07T08:57:09.423-06:00A Storm Coming<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Insidious fingers reach inside, through the layers of flesh,
seeking delicate filaments. Claws of heat and ice, tipped with needles, burrow
and tunnel until they find their mark. They tease, light, gentle—oh so
gentle—as they explore the innermost reaches of my soul. The fingers whisper of
a storm coming, like a breeze that ruffles flower petals on a lazy, muggy
afternoon while dark clouds swell on the horizon.</div>
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<o:p> </o:p><br />
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I brace myself for the storm. Cover the flowers, close the
windows, and retreat to the deepest, darkest corner in search of shelter. I
hide and wait for it to pass.<br />
<o:p> </o:p><br />
Will it spare me this time? Might the frenzy pass me by?
When I emerge, will I find my world intact?<br />
<o:p> </o:p><br />
Not this time. The wind and whispers grow louder, into a
howl of thunderous glee, a scream of fury. The tender exploration turns savage
when the fingers find a rift in my defenses. Talons rip through tissue and
slake their bloodlust. Like lightning striking a tree, the fingers seek the
heart and set it afire, burning and charring until nothing remains but a
blackened, wispy skeleton.<br />
<o:p> </o:p><br />
The storm rages, the beast ravages. Nothing could survive
the tempest. Yet I must, I do. Until the fingers whisper again.<br />
<br />
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<br />
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<strong><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image courtesy of prozac1 at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</span></strong></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2165951752473533290.post-79627164748041239242015-03-16T10:28:00.003-06:002015-04-30T12:29:25.021-06:00A Battered Dove<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
Lily knelt on the floor, scrubbing muddy tracks from the rough
boards with a stiff brush, and counted the different doves who'd shopped during the week. A knock
on the window made her drop the brush and fumble in the folds of fabric at her
hip. She found the smooth grip of the gun and lifted her gaze.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Jessie’s face peered in the window between cupped hands,
looking toward the back of the store.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Lily let out a gust of air and released the small pistol.
She pushed herself up, wincing at her <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>stiff back and aching knees.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
She unlocked the door and smiled, but the girl’s face
brought a grimace. “Good morning, Jessie.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
The battered dove gave a small smile. “Mornin’, Miss
Wright.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Dark yellows, browns, and a tinge of maroon tainted half of
Jessie’s face. The swelling had abated, but puffy skin still distended the left
side, and the eyelid sagged without muscle control.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Lily tried not to stare at the drooping eye and opened the
door wider. “Come in, come in. I’m glad you came.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Jessie limped in. Her body bent to one side in a swaying
shuffle, like a wilted flower.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“Do you want to come in back and sit? I’ll make some coffee ….”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“No, ma’am. Don’t want to put you out. I just came by to
thank you for helpin’ me the other night.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
She waved a hand. “It was nothing. I only put some salve on
it. Please, sit down. Really, it’s no bother at all.” She walked toward the
back.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Jessie followed after a moment. In the back room, she let
out a soft grunt as she eased into the chair at the table.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“How is everything? You look better.” Lily set the kettle on
the stove before pulling two tin cups from a shelf over the washbasin. She left
them on the table and sat on a second chair she’d found discarded in the alley.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“I’m still kickin’. My side still hurts quite a lot, but I
can get around.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Lily pointed her chin at the place where Jessie held her
hand against her ribs. “I expect they may be broken. Did you see a doctor?”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Jessie snorted. “That chiseler stole my stash. I ain’t got
no money to pay a doc. Them parlor girls get their doc paid for, but I ain’t no
parlor girl.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“I see. Well, I imagine it will heal too, if you take it
easy.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
She shrugged and tucked a strand of drab hair behind her ear.
“Ain’t much work layin’ on my back.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Heat crept into Lily’s cheeks, and she jumped up to check
the kettle. “Have you looked around recently? For a parlor, I mean.” She focused
on the coffee to hide her discomfort. “They’re opening a new one every other
day, it seems. Maybe you could find a spot in one. They’re … safer. From what I
hear, at least.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“They don’t want a beat up girl like me. You think the
fellas get it up lookin’ at this?” She swept her hand around her face. “Ain’t
had but one job since I got worked over, and he took it from the backside.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Lily’s eyes flew open, and her hands froze in the middle of pouring
the coarse ground beans into the pot. No one had ever spoken of sex so openly
or crudely to her. Her mouth worked to form a response, but embarrassment left
her speechless. The silence grew heavy as she finished the coffee.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
She turned to the table and caught Jessie smoothing a smirk
from her face. Lily frowned and lowered her head, annoyed—and a touch hurt. The
girl had nerve laughing at her after she’d taken her in and fixed her up, even
if it was only a quick bit of salve. Lily poured the coffee and sat, still
silent.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Jessie chuckled. “I’m sorry. Just wondered what you’d say. I
didn’t mean nothin’ by it.” She tilted her head and caught Lily’s eye. “You
don’t make much sense, you know. Only ladies I’ve ever heard bein’ nice to us
girls for no reason are the nuns down mountain at the charity hospital. You
ain’t a nun. So I can’t figure ….” She leaned forward to cradle the warm cup in
her hands and watched Lily with a question in her eyes.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Lily chewed her lip, unsure how to respond without giving
too much away. “I just don’t see any reason you girls should be treated so
poorly. I’ve learned you girls are mostly just doing what you have to do to get
along. It’s not my place to judge you or anyone else. I’ve … made my share of
mistakes, I suppose. It hurt when I was judged for them.” She met Jessie’s gaze,
and let one corner of her mouth pull back with mild amusement. “And honestly,
it’s not entirely without reason. There are a lot of you, and I need the business.
If I can help a little along the way, even better.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Jessie lifted a brow. “I guess I could see that.” She took a
sip of coffee from the side of her mouth, avoiding the scab on her cut lip.
“I’d gamble there’s more to it, but I’ll take that.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Lily averted her eyes and wiped the table. Was she that
transparent? She gave Jessie a strained smile and shrugged. “That’s really all
there is. I’m just trying to get the store going.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
An uneasy silence fell between them. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Lily took a drink and studied Jessie over the rim of the
cup. She wanted to ask what she wondered about all of the doves. “What are your
plans? For the future? What do you really want?”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Jessie licked the cracked skin of her lip and gazed at the
floor. Her face held no spark of hope or joy. Her voice went flat. “Used to
think I could find a fella and have a farm, a family, a place of our own. Don’t
guess that’ll happen now. I guess I ain’t got no plan. I expect I’ll just keep
on.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Lily thought she knew what Jessie left unspoken; she didn’t
expect to live long enough to need plans.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“Maybe that will still happen,” Lily said, giving Jessie’s
hand a tentative squeeze.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Jessie offered a weary smile, but it seemed an automatic
response, like a puppeteer pulling on strings. “I better get goin’. Thanks for
the coffee.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
-- Excerpt from my manuscript, When Doves Fly.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*Dove, short for soiled dove, was a euphemism for prostitute.</span><br />
<br />
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4