Author Josie Malone: A Woman’s Place, and the Color of Horses.

Hi Everyone!  

My friend Josie Malone has a paranormal mainstream western romance soon to be released by Book Stand.  She is my guest blogger today, so she can tell you all about it–and what she has to say about the color of horses.  Here is the link to  Josie’s  website, so you can learn more about this real life cowgirl and the books she writes.    Happy trails, Naomi

Josie says:

Thanks for the invite.  A Woman’s Place will be out April 3^rd and it was a fun book to write since it was a spin-off of the first book I did for BookStrand, A Man’s World.  In that historical western romance, Trace Burdette masqueraded as a man, fooling everyone but new neighbor, ruggedly handsome Zebadiah Prescott. With their love on the line, they had to deal with the past and the outlaw who killed her grandfather and stalked her. By the time that A Woman’s Place begins, Trace and Zeb have been married for just over six months when renegades rob the bank she owns in the town of Junction City.

So, our hero, Rad Morgan, the marshal of Junction City sets off to capture the miscreants. Along the way, he meets his match, and Iraqi War veteran/homicide detective Beth Chambers takes no prisoners. She’ll fit right into 1888 Washington Territory. Of course, I had to figure out how to get a woman from 2012 to the Old West and why she was even there, but that was part of the adventure and the paranormal elements kept escalating.  Much to Rad’s initial dismay, Beth and Trace become fast friends.

This week has been a busy one, between all of the family responsibilities, working the farm, substitute teaching and doing copy edits on A Woman’s Place. I received the book cover and was thrilled that the heroine matched what I had written. However, her Arabian stallion was a very light gray, almost white, not the steel gray that I had in mind when I did the book. So, during copy edits, I spent a lot of time fixing Tigger’s color so he matched the horse on the cover. I know I’m fussy but over the years, I’ve seen quite a few books where the models looked nothing like the hero or heroine the writer created. I like to be able to see the characters so I want them to match the text.

Of course, tying the cover and the book together all started for me when I sold my first young adult novel twenty-plus years ago. It was a story about a girl dealing with her father’s Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. In the story, she hugged her dad a lot so when the editor suggested that as a cover idea, I was all for it. Imagine my shock when my author copies arrived and the girl looked more like a woman than a thirteen-year-old and the “dad” she hugged might have been ten years older than she was.  While I tried to deal with that, the middle-grade kids who were buying the book pointed out the engagement ring on the third finger of her left hand.

While I worked on the copy-edits for A Woman’s Place, I thought about the way I teach colors of horses to the kids who come to camp. Gray is considered one of the most common colors. A gray horse can be dark or light gray. They often start out almost black and slowly lighten over the years. The difference between a true black horse and a gray is that the black won’t have any white hairs mixed into the coat. A dark gray will have those white hairs and may be called a “blue-roan.” The best way to tell if the horse is gray or white is to look at the nose, around the ears, the lower legs and the forelock, mane and tail. If there are any gray hairs mixed in, the horse is gray.

And that was Tigger, Beth’s horse.  Now, he’s almost a white Arabian – which works because everybody knows the hero or in this case the heroine rides a white horse as she heads off to save the day!

A Woman’s Place BLURB:

Trailing a serial killer, Homicide Detective Beth Chambers is thrust into 1888 Washington Territory where she encounters injured Rad Morgan, a ruggedly handsome marshal who believes A Woman’s Place is behind her man. Now, Beth must save Rad’s life, apprehend the killer, and prove herself capable as a law officer.

Former soldier and survivor of Andersonville Prison Camp, Marshal Rad Morgan faces his toughest challenge in Beth Chambers, a determined woman from the future who’s never learned “her place.”  But when he is shot and left for dead, he must put himself in Beth’s hands if they both want to survive.

Can these two headstrong people put their pride aside and work together to find the deadly killer and stop him before he destroys this world and their future?  As they fight for justice, love helps them discover A Woman’s Place is what and where she chooses to make it.

Unique New York!

Open mouth.  Insert foot.  Things happen.  At least that’s what happens to me.  At 85, my mother’s sister Loena suffers from heart trouble and Quilter’s Thumb, but she never complains.  She uses a cane on good days, a walker or wheelchair the rest of the time.  Aunt Loena lives in Detroit, but was always too busy taking care of everyone else to travel.  A couple years ago, with my Michigan sister Lee, my aunt flew to Seattle to come see us.

She was frail and tired easily.  Once, when we couldn’t hear her snoring, I tiptoed in to see if she was still breathing.  But we laughed often and loudly; I felt my mother’s presence so strongly I wanted to pour Mom a cup of coffee too.  The visit went so well I asked my aunt where she’d like to go next.  I figured Holland, Michigan, perhaps, to see the tulips.  But no.  Aunt Loena said, “Your mother and I were planning a trip to New York, to see the Statue of Liberty and lots of Broadway musicals.  That was before she got sick.”

“I’ll take you!” I blurted.  Then I felt sick.  I’ve always suffered from Foot in Mouth disease.  My other chronic illness was Newyorkaphobia.  In my mind NYC was big, bad, dangerous.  AND expensive.  I had the money, but it was tucked away for a trip to England, a place I really did want to see. But a promise is a promise.

I researched airfare, hotels, even how to hail a cab.  We picked up travel companions right and left, like Dorothy on her way to Emerald City.  I ordered show tickets, mailed maps and instructions to them all.  My daughter Bea and I flew into JFK.  My sister Con flew from Alaska to her daughter Jane’s, and they trained in from Boston.  Lee and Aunt Loena flew into Newark from Detroit.  We all arrived within twenty minutes of each other at the Casablanca Hotel, half a block from Times Square!

I chose the hotel for its proximity to theaters and its uniqueness–the breakfast room is called Rick’s, after Humphrey Bogart’s character in Casablanca.  Six women crammed themselves into a suite meant for four, but the staff didn’t seem to mind.  Everyone was helpful; they even provided a wheelchair.  At  Casablanca’s Happy Hour, we had fruit, cookies, wine and cheese.

Jane, Constance, Bea, Lee, and Aunt Loena at a Very Happy Hour.

Then it was time to go to our first Broadway musical, Billy Elliot.  Jane had made other plans, so five of us stood outside the hotel while I hailed a cab.  It pulled over to the curb and we all crowded in.

“Only four, please.”  The driver had an accent, and was clearly from somewhere in Africa.

“The theater is just a few blocks,” I said, “but my auntie can’t walk.”

“I cannot take more than four passengers.”

“We don’t mind Cozy.”

“No, no, no.  I mean I get into big trouble for carrying more than four passengers.”

“Oh, we don’t want to get you in trouble.  It’s not far.  My sisters can walk, and we’ll meet them there.”

Lee and Con got out and started walking. He put his hand to his forehead and sighed.  “Call them back.”

“Really?”  I hollered for my sisters, and soon we were all back in the cab, with Bea ducked down out of sight.

Our driver was Daniel, a doctor from Togo, who was making better money driving a cab in NYC than in the medical profession in Togo.  We asked about his family, and whether he missed his home.  “It’s best for the children,” he said. He was curious about our lives too.  As we talked, my fears dropped away.

Fool’s luck must have sent Mr. Adenje to us on our first evening in New York.  I knew we were in good hands, even before he refused any money for the ride, even the twenty dollar tip I tried to give him.  Where does THAT ever happen?  Certainly not in Seattle!  This couldn’t be the ugly city that so terrified me!  At first I thought Mr Adenje was an angel in disguise; I have come to think of him as the spirit of New York.

The whole time we were there we never met an unkind person.  Everyone had a story to tell, like Fergus, the driver who gave Aunt Loena her first buggy ride.  He told us he gained fifteen pounds in one week when his mother came from Ireland to visit and meet her first grandchild.

Fergus, Bea, and Aunt Loena.

At a hot dog stand in Central Park, the elderly gent ahead of us insisted on treating.  Aunt Loena was convinced he was Scottish, despite his yarmulke and Yiddish accent.  “In any case,” I told her, “you’ve still got what it takes!”   My aunt laughed and pshawed, but still she blushed like a young girl.

Central Park is an oasis in a concrete jungle.

The next night, by the time Aunt Loena could shuffle out of the theater, where we saw Phantom of the Opera, the cabs were all gone.  But a man in a rickshaw pedaled up; another ‘first’ for my aunt.  She and I sat with Bea on my lap, as Rene from El Salvador wove through late-night traffic, cutting off stretch limousines, jumping potholes like a Latin Evil Knievel, and cutting through dark alleys.  He hadn’t been home for six years, and had a daughter he had never seen.  He said he liked working the late night shift, because the days could be so very hot.  While we talked with Rene, Aunt Loena smiled and waved to strangers on the street, and they all smiled and waved back.

Bea and Auntie Lee on our city bus tour.

Ghosts of New York’s past can still be seen.

And then there is the Natural History Museum.  Very Educational.

 Since then I have returned to the Big Apple of my own free will.   I brought my husband, my kids, and an open heart.

I am learning to let go of my fears.  There are so many places I still want to see, too many stories out in that wide world I have yet to hear.  I hope I never get too old to enjoy them, or too afraid to try.  After all, I’ve already seen how high an old lady can kick up her heels while keeping a sturdy grip on her walker.

All images and words copyright 2012 Naomi Baltuck

For more great photos of New York, check out “I Love New York” in writer Kourteny Heintz’s Journal!

Broken Mirrors, Dark Secrets, and the 7×7 Link Award

My daughter Beatrice has nominated me for a 7×7 Award.  Her blog, Adventures for the Faint of Heart, is funny, fresh, an inspiration to writers, and especially young writers, as you will see when you read her tagline.  I’m a big fan of hers, and I’m not just saying that because I’m her mother.  Thank you, Bea, for the nomination, kind words, and especially for the  original illustration.

To accept the nomination, after thanking the person who gave it to you, you must tell something about yourself no one else knows.  So here you go…

Since 7×7 is the theme, I’ll tell you I’m one of seven children, that it took seven years to write and sell my first novel, The Keeper of the Crystal Spring, and seven more to complete my newest novel, Real Troopers.  Bea says I must have broken a couple of mirrors in my wild and wicked youth.

Next, you have to choose seven of your posts that fit the criteria below. When the doctor asks me how much it hurts on a scale of one to ten, I say, “How should I know?”   This decision was so subjective, and once again I ask, “How should I know?”   Please feel free to decide which is which for yourselves.

Most Beautiful Piece: Editing Monet’s Garden—It’s Monet’s Garden, what else can I say?

Most Helpful: The Secret Object I Keep Hidden in My Underwear Drawer—Because.

Most Popular Piece: Befriend the Ides of March—Party time!

Most Controversial Piece: The ‘S’ Word—You know what I’m talking about.

Most Surprisingly Successful Piece: The Real Thing—And the moral is, see for yourself.

Most Underrated Piece: Remembering Fort Detroit–Social studies.

Most Pride-worthy Piece: Survival Stories—Proud of my sister the artist, proud of the people of Ptigliano, and proud of some pretty good storytelling.

Now, it is my privilege to nominate seven other worthy blogs…

The Urge to Wander–An exceptionally classy travel blog with great photos, history, and stories.

She Kept a Parrot–Lovely photos, and thoughtful personal stories.

Annika Ruohonen Photography–Stunning photos of Finland, and gentle observations of life.

The Obamacrat–A passionate blogger with a strong sense of justice and a good heart.

Talinorfali–Musings every day of the year from my  first follower.  Thanks for the warm welcome!

Musing by Moonlight–Intelligent and varied, and because I like it.

Crossroads-Cathryn Wellner–Two sixtysomethings’ journey, and also funny animal videos!

Editing Monet’s Garden

Last May, while traveling in France, my sister and I went to Giverny to visit Monet’s Garden.  The line to enter was horrendous, and once we got past the ticket booth, we became part of the swarm of tourists overrunning his house and garden.  We must have heard a dozen different languages spoken, people from all over the globe had come to see for themselves the inspiration for Monet’s most famous paintings.

It was eye candy, a stunning profusion of color!   But instead of the rare and exotic flora I expected, all the flowers were, well, your regular garden variety.  Irises, roses, tulips, pansies, alyssum, forget-me-nots…nothing I don’t grow in my own garden.  Yet they were artfully arranged by height, texture, and color to maximize the effect.  And after all, they were in Monet’s Garden.

I wanted to capture at least the illusion of solitude and serenity, and to photograph the garden as I thought it must have been back in Monet’s day.  I waited for lulls in tourist traffic to get my shots.  But while waiting, I watched hoards of humanity shuffling by, and I caught glimpses of peoples’ lives that I found as moving as anything I saw in those historic gardens. Mothers and children, old couples holding hands, a little boy with eyes only for the baby chicks, an awkward teenaged boy who had eyes only for the teenaged chicks, and a family with four generations of women all sharing a park bench.

While we writers strive to capture a mood or feeling or effect, we should also observe the stories happening all around us.

The first  is like a very pretty still life, or a posed portrait of Mother Nature.  The other is a vibrant, sometimes messy picture of the world, brimming with humanity, and all the joy and heartbreak that life and love have to offer.

There is beauty in it all.

All images and words © NaomiBaltuck

Click here for more interpretations of The Weekly Travel Theme: Plants.

Click here for more interpretations of The Weekly Photo Challenge: Vibrant

Harrison Ford and The Wildlife Report

In 1981, at the theater debut of Raiders of the Lost Ark, I whispered to my boyfriend Thom, “Honey, if I couldn’t have you, I’d have Indiana Jones.”

A few years ago, my sister Constance and I spent a week in Jackson Hole, WY, where Harrison Ford has a ranch.  I gave a goodbye kiss to my kids and Thom, my husband of twenty-some years.  “Dang!” I said.  “I forgot to get my hair cut.”

“Why bother?” asked Thom.

“I want to look my best, in case we run into Harrison Ford,” I joked.

From Grand Teton National Park I called in the daily Wildlife Report.  “We saw a moose at Willow Flats, a bear, skunk roadkill, and a doe with triplets.”   Next day it was a coyote, an osprey with a fish, and a bison that peed in public.  The folks at home were very impressed.

One rainy day, after having lunch in town, we walked down the street.  I picked at that last stubborn bit of tuna between my teeth, and noted my reflection in a shop window.  My wet hair was looking pretty scraggly.  “Stimudent?” I asked Con.

She didn’t answer–I turned and followed her gaze–she was staring at the back of a man in tan cargo pants and a matching jacket.  “That’s Harrison Ford.”

“Good one,” I said.  ” But that guy’s too short.”

“Honest!” said Con.

I’d only glimpsed the guy’s back on a crowded sidewalk.  It could be.   “Swear.  On our mother’s grave.”

She wasn’t lying.

“Oh, my God!” I cried.  “They will never believe this back home!  I need proof!  Photo-documentation!”

I drew my camera and followed, elbowing small children and little old ladies out of my way, but I couldn’t catch up.  He jaywalked through traffic and I saw only the back of his head as he went into a ski shop.  My face pressed discreetly against the glass, I saw him walk to the back wall, and the display of…no, not whips, knives or even hats.  Stuff sacks.

He still had his back to me.  I had to know.  I entered the store, but panicked, and went straight to the rack of sunglasses on the front counter.  A clerk  hurried over to help.  But there was no help for me; I had just stalked a man who might or might not be Harrison Ford through the streets of Jackson.  I bolted for the door.   As I escaped, the man glanced over his shoulder.

It was Him.  That night the Wildlife Report included a Big Game Hunt and Worthy Prey.

©2015 Naomi Baltuck

Click here for more interpretations of The Weekly Travel Theme: Entertainment.

 

Lucky Ducks and Bright Spots

 

Thanksgiving is in the air.  No, not the spicy fragrance of pumpkin pie.  ‘Tis heartier fare I speak of, more refreshing than a double shot of espresso to a caffeine addict marooned on a desert isle.  I’m talking about Bright Spots.

My mother, widowed with seven children, taught me to recognize them, from a distance, in passing, and in disguise.

It’s like bird watching. Flashy red cardinals and blue jays naturally draw the eye, and you can’t miss the shiny green pate of a male Mallard.  But look among the mottled brown feathers of a female Mallard, and you can see the lucky lady sports a striking patch of iridescent blue feathers on each wing that would make a peacock proud.

Each night when I tucked my kids in, we looked back on the day and counted our blessings.  I had proof this lesson ‘took’ when I took my daughter Bea to England.  We spent our first day at Anne Boleyn’s childhood home, Hever Castle, and our first night in ‘Heaver Hell.’  Bea got sick all over her bed.  When I put her in mine so I could clean up hers, she barfed on my bed too.  In the wee hours of the morning, after the 10^th upheaval, Bea flashed me a weak smile and said, “At least now I can brag that I’m into the double digits.”   That’s what I call looking at the bright side!

Bea at Bodiam Castle, feeling MUCH better!

All words and images ©2016Naomi Baltuck

Click here for more interpretations of The Weekly Travel Theme.

 

Befriend the Ides of March

Last year for Valentine’s Day, guests came to our house dressed as as history’s greatest lovers.  My husband and I were Harold Godwinson and his handfast wife, Edith SwanNeck.  Our daughter Bea came as Petrarch, Father of Humanism and victim of unrequited love.  The guest list also included Sonny and Cher, Marge and Homer Simpson, Clark Kent and Lois Lane, The Little Red-headed Girl, and Narcissa, to name a few.

This year, the day of our Valentine’s Day party fell upon February 12^th, so we decided–what the heck!  We would celebrate the birthday of Abraham Lincoln, our favorite president.  In the costume room we found top hats, stovepipe hats and a couple of wigs, which we cut into strips for beards.  Decorating was easy; everything with a face, like the bust of Diana the moon goddess and our storyteller dolls, sported a beard and top hat.  Lincoln Logs were the centerpiece, and we put 203 candles on the birthday cake (just kidding! We used numerals 2-0-3).   We had rolls of Lincoln pennies for pitching or playing poker, a big portrait of Abe to play Pin the Wart on the President, and all the fixings to build pretzel log cabins.  We never got to half that stuff, but we did get to hear a seven-year-old guest (Go, Sylvia!) read a moving excerpt from the Gettysburg Address.

This month, I’m booked for St. Patrick’s Day, but am planning ahead to next year, for my Ides of March party.  If you’ve read Shakespeare, you know a soothsayer forewarned Julius Caesar about his assassination on March 15th, telling him to “Beware the Ides of March.”  So we will have to commemorate the event, of course, with a toga party, B.Y.O.B. (bring your own bed sheet).  We’ll eat Roman fare, and I am fortunate enough to have musician and storytelling friends who will tell stories (Roman myths) and sing for their supper.  I might even rent a temple for the day.  (It’s been known to happen.)

The calendar is full of odd and interesting holidays. International Talk Like A Pirate Day, Fruitcake Toss Day, Pi Day (on 3/14, of course).  And one of these years I will celebrate National Barbie Day–come as you aren’t.  Guests could dress each other up as Zombie Barbie, Office Slut Barbie, Star Trek Nerd Ken or maybe Trailer Trash Ken.

I try to do in my writing what I do with my parties—people them with quirky characters, and create an interesting backdrop.  In The Keeper of the Crystal Spring, a historical novel co-written with my sister, the village of Enmore Green is populated with affable eccentrics like Edwin MoonCatcher, Agilbert PigWife, and Thurgood GiantKiller.

For deliciously quirky characters, read Jonathan Safran Foer.  He deftly uses humor to tell serious stories, as in Everything is Illuminated and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.  I also highly recommend the movies based on those novels.

And next October, go to someone else’s Halloween party, but the following week try hosting your own All Saint’s Day Bash.  In your writing and in your life, if you have a choice, try taking the road less traveled.  Befriend, rather than beware The Ides of March.

All words and images copyright Naomi Baltuck.

Click here for more interpretations of Cee’s Odd Ball Photo Challenge.

 

The Real Thing

Last weekend my sister and I happened into Langley, an artsy little town on Whidbey Island.  Tourists scurried about like cockroaches at a crumbfest, only in broad daylight.  A cheesy salesman draped with gold chains leaned over the counter of a jewelry store, talking too loudly.

“A bit over the top,” I thought.  And then, “This guy can’t be for real.”

Well, he wasn’t.  He turned out to be a suspect in an organized murder mystery, with town folk playing the suspects and tourists racing around town in search of clues, for which privilege they paid a lot of money.

I prefer self-directed treasure hunts, only I call it ‘research.’   I’ve always loved travel, but it was in England, searching for the perfect setting for The Keeper of the Crystal Spring, that I truly felt the thrill of the hunt.  Research lent a sense of purpose as I absorbed all I could of the Norman Conquest and life in Anglo-Saxon times.  At the Weald and Downland Museum, I learned the mechanics of charcoal burning, and which stone originated where throughout England, details I put to good use.  At a Dorset heritage breed farm I learned how shepherds were buried clutching a tuft of wool, so when they got to Heaven St. Peter would understand and forgive their long absences from church.  Of course our shepherd was buried with a tuft of wool in his hand!

My family has accompanied me to many destinations chosen for research purposes, others for pure pleasure.  But what do ancient streets of Pompeii, a grassy square in Prague, a dusty trail in Walnut Canyon, AZ, and the Hanseatic Old Town of Bergen, Norway hold in common?

As my kids and I took in the smells, colors, and unique histories of those places, each inspired group brainstorming that resulted in a rough outline of a novel.  Some were merely exercises in creativity, a fun way to internalize information. Others were keepers, and took their place in our Writer’s Egg Chain, where they will gestate until we are ready to return to Prague in search of more hidden story gems to lend light, color, meaning, and authenticity to our embryonic novel.

But your search needn’t involve expensive travel.  In fact, I just finished a manuscript and am ready to crack open the next egg on the chain.  It’s set in the funky Fremont neighborhood of Seattle, only minutes away.  Bea, co-author on this project, and I will explore Fremont’s streets, shops, dives, parks, events and hotspots—like the Fremont Troll, the nude Solstice Parade, and Theo’s chocolate factory.  I am sure that some of them will find a place and help breathe life into our story.

We won’t sign up in advance or pay to participate, and there’ll be no checklist of items to collect.  This treasure hunt will be of our own invention.  We aren’t even quite sure what we are looking for, but we’ll recognize it when we see it.  And when we do, I promise it will be the real thing.

Are there things you look for when you are doing your research?  Have you had an experience researching a project that you would like to share?

See what Bea’s blog post says about research and “Writing what you know.”