I would like to announce that hell has now completely frozen over. How do I know this to be true? Because this past week I took delivery of another new cell phone. This one is an iPhone, or, more specifically, the iPhone 4S.
The one good thing about this new phone, as opposed to the last new phone, the BlackBerry which it replaces, is that as far as I can see there are only 5 buttons: on/off, volume up, volume down, mute – and the little indentation button that you press to return to the menu on the “touch screen”.
The bad thing about this phone isn’t really about the phone, it’s about me. I have to learn a whole new “doo-hickey” that’s different from any other “doo-hickey” I’ve ever owned.
Did I ever happen to mention to y’all that I am kicking at the gate of 60 and that my first computer was an abacas?
Not to be too immodest, but I am proud of my accomplishments and my attitude, specifically that I am willing to at least try new things. My daughter likes to chide me that I don’t do well with change, but I think she’s wrong. As I said, I’m closing in on 60 years of age, and yet I earn my living on the Internet, do all my banking online, and have been taking on new pieces of technology as the need has arisen.
Yes, it takes me a bit longer than someone half my age to learn a new piece of equipment. But I do, eventually, learn it.
More or less.
Just before we left for our trip to Texas, I bought myself a new digital camera—something my son has told me, for a long time, that I’ve needed. This will likely be the last one I buy, not because I think I’m too old to ever get another new one. No, it’s because it appears that digital cameras are going to become passé. With all the things they can put into these new cell phones, most people already use them as cameras—and also as alarm clocks.
I have to tell you that I’ve used my last two cell phones as alarm clocks, and taking a time-limited nap has never been easier.
Mr. Ashbury was quite taken with my new camera. Or perhaps I should more properly say, the camera was quite taken by him. Once again, (as he had in Anaheim with the old one that is outdated), he absconded with my camera to the point that I didn’t get to use it for more than a moment or two—and I had to ask for it first.
In case you think I should solve this problem by getting him his own picture taking device, let me assure you I did! I gave him a new video camera for Christmas last year, a camera that takes videos or still pictures and that he loves.
Yes, Mr. Ashbury was walking around in Texas with a camera in each hand, and I do believe his biggest dilemma was which one to use at any given moment.
I can only be grateful that so far he has shown no desire to put his hands on my iPhone.
As with my previous new phone, I was able to install FaceBook and twitter all by myself. My daughter grabbed my iPhone first, of course, and made sure to install a game app on it, which she seems to feel ranks as a necessary installation. This was when she came over to “teach” me how to use the phone.
My second daughter came over the next day, also to show me how to use this new phone. One piece of vital information she gave me was concerning the black hole of data-suck. Rest assured, I know how to turn off the data, so that my various and varied “apps” only work when wifi is available.
If I need something otherwise, I can turn it on, use it, then turn it off.
Beyond that, I’ve had demonstrated for me many of the nifty functions this phone has to offer—said instructions being offered, of course, at the speed of light.
I’ve danced to this particular tune before. I smiled, and I nodded and I thanked the girls for helping me.
And I resolved that in a week or two, when I am familiar enough with this new piece of technology, and the girls are no longer paying attention, I’m going to do what any rational person would do.
I’m going to take myself to the nearest Apple Store and ask for help.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
This past week I’ve been a little frustrated in my goal to keep my butt in the chair, and my fingers on the keyboard, and write. Life keeps interfering with my attempts to return to normal and it’s starting to really stress me out.
Before the trips we undertook at the end of July and in mid August, I was on a roll, writing wise. I was able to stick to a pretty good daily routine, and produce words at a very satisfying rate.
When I say this to people who are not writers, they’d don’t quite get it. How can they? Now, it isn’t that I think that, as a writer, I’m any better than anyone else. I don’t, and I’m certainly not; however, I am different.
My non-writing family and friend will say, well, just sit down and do it! And they have a point, to a degree. But in reality it is a bit more complicated than that.
Facebook is resplendent with funny little cartoons and posts about writers and their peculiar proclivities. I can tell you that most of those “stereotypes” – the ones that say we writers are somewhat neurotic, annoyingly myopic (focus-wise) and daydreaming hermits – these all apply to me.
I’m happiest when I’m at home, at my keyboard, working on my current “work in progress”. That is never more true than when am able to I slip into the “zone” and become as one with my characters.
What that means is that as I write, my mind becomes filled with the characters and their journey, and if I’ve done my homework right, and if I’m lucky, in a sense I become my characters: so that, as I “live” the plot I’m creating, my words – the characters’ words – are theirs, and not mine.
And you thought authors were sane!
On my latest edit, my wonderful editor had a comment that I really want to have framed. To paraphrase, with each new installment of my series that I create, my characters’ interaction becomes richer, the banter becomes livelier, and the heart of the town I’ve imagined really shines through.
This is what I love about my job. Readers read to escape for a little while. It’s like grown-up recess, isn’t it? You pick up a book, and for a little bit of time you leave your own reality behind, and live in someone else’s world. While you’re reading your mind and heart and soul get a break from the stress, from the handling and the living. That part of you breathes.
It’s all of that and more, being an author.
You’ll hear us talking about things like character arcs and plot points, and you might think that writing is for the most part an exercise in logic and elements combined to tell a story and again, you’d be partly right.
Everyone’s process is different, and every one of us who writes approaches what we do with a completely different mind-set—although there are levels where we can connect to each other with near-perfect synchronicity.
When I’m working on a novel, I don’t get very far if I don’t know the heart of these character’s story. What past events in their lives do they need to overcome? What lessons do they have to learn now? How are they like you and me, but different, and what can we do together—my characters and I—that will somehow touch you, our readers?
Some of those things I really don’t know when I begin my first draft. They are the lampposts of discovery I make as I embark on the journey of writing each individual story.
And more often than not, where I end up when I’m finished is not where I’d thought I would be when I started out.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Before the trips we undertook at the end of July and in mid August, I was on a roll, writing wise. I was able to stick to a pretty good daily routine, and produce words at a very satisfying rate.
When I say this to people who are not writers, they’d don’t quite get it. How can they? Now, it isn’t that I think that, as a writer, I’m any better than anyone else. I don’t, and I’m certainly not; however, I am different.
My non-writing family and friend will say, well, just sit down and do it! And they have a point, to a degree. But in reality it is a bit more complicated than that.
Facebook is resplendent with funny little cartoons and posts about writers and their peculiar proclivities. I can tell you that most of those “stereotypes” – the ones that say we writers are somewhat neurotic, annoyingly myopic (focus-wise) and daydreaming hermits – these all apply to me.
I’m happiest when I’m at home, at my keyboard, working on my current “work in progress”. That is never more true than when am able to I slip into the “zone” and become as one with my characters.
What that means is that as I write, my mind becomes filled with the characters and their journey, and if I’ve done my homework right, and if I’m lucky, in a sense I become my characters: so that, as I “live” the plot I’m creating, my words – the characters’ words – are theirs, and not mine.
And you thought authors were sane!
On my latest edit, my wonderful editor had a comment that I really want to have framed. To paraphrase, with each new installment of my series that I create, my characters’ interaction becomes richer, the banter becomes livelier, and the heart of the town I’ve imagined really shines through.
This is what I love about my job. Readers read to escape for a little while. It’s like grown-up recess, isn’t it? You pick up a book, and for a little bit of time you leave your own reality behind, and live in someone else’s world. While you’re reading your mind and heart and soul get a break from the stress, from the handling and the living. That part of you breathes.
It’s all of that and more, being an author.
You’ll hear us talking about things like character arcs and plot points, and you might think that writing is for the most part an exercise in logic and elements combined to tell a story and again, you’d be partly right.
Everyone’s process is different, and every one of us who writes approaches what we do with a completely different mind-set—although there are levels where we can connect to each other with near-perfect synchronicity.
When I’m working on a novel, I don’t get very far if I don’t know the heart of these character’s story. What past events in their lives do they need to overcome? What lessons do they have to learn now? How are they like you and me, but different, and what can we do together—my characters and I—that will somehow touch you, our readers?
Some of those things I really don’t know when I begin my first draft. They are the lampposts of discovery I make as I embark on the journey of writing each individual story.
And more often than not, where I end up when I’m finished is not where I’d thought I would be when I started out.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
I can still recall the incident, oh so many years ago. I was a newlywed, visiting my mother, and telling her about some matter that, in hindsight, I’m sure was quite trivial. I said to her [or perhaps whined would be a better verb] “it’s just not fair!”
I remember this day in particular because of Mother’s response to that proclamation. She got this horrified look on her face, and immediately demanded, “Who the hell ever told you life was fair? If life was fair, your father would still be alive!”
I remember that her vehemence surprised me. Her attitude wasn’t one I possessed at the tender age of 18. At that age I believed life should be fair and would be fair if only I could figure out how to make it happen.
Times change, of course and thankfully, we mature. After more than a half century of living, one thing that has been proven to me over and over again is this: not only is life unfair, it is sometimes unfair to an appalling degree.
I’ve had that reality demonstrated to me again just this past weekend.
This past Saturday I drove for two and a half hours to visit my friend—the one I reconnected with just a couple of years ago. I wish I could say the occasion for this visit was to enjoy a fun, social time, but it was not.
I went, because her husband was dying from a brain tumor. He was at home, had refused any further treatment, and so she stayed at home with him, taking care of him because, as she said, “I promised him that I would”.
This will be the second time my friend has suffered the loss of a husband. She said to me, “At least this time I know, and I can say all the things I didn’t get to say last time.”
Her first husband died suddenly in his early forties.
My friend and her current husband are good people. They have family and friends, and they are loved by all who know them. They’ve never sought to do harm to another human being, and have offered their help to whomever, whenever they could—even reaching out to those who have wronged them.
Life really is not fair.
When I arrived at her home Saturday, she had friends there, and a nurse’s aide, as well. She needed to get out for a bit—aside from the fact that she had to run a couple of errands, she just needed a break.
I took her to lunch, and we spent time simply being in each other’s company. We reminisced about what it was like being kids in the 1960s, and since we’d known each other’s mothers, we looked back on them from the perspective of being mothers and grandmothers ourselves.
My friend is suffering of course, because, though she’s never been one to wax sentimental, her husband—this man who only a few short weeks before had been a vital, laughing, loving man—is the love of her life. She calls him her best friend, and her soul mate.
He’d been a best friend and a bulwark to her first, this man who’d also been a friend of her first husband’s which was how they met. He had been there for her children, too, as they’d grieved the loss of their father. Friendship eventually gave way to deeper, more intimate feelings. He has been good for her. He challenged her on so many different levels, expanding her horizons. He got her to do things she never thought she’d ever do.
At forty-something years old my friend learned how to ride motorcycle!
We returned from lunch, and she spent time getting her husband settled in the hospital bed that had arrived while we were out. He sleeps, mostly, but she said, he knows her when she’s there. He talks, but just the odd word here and there. After she made him as comfortable as possible in that bed Saturday, he said, “safe”.
She told me that when she held his hand the night before—which would have been Friday night—he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers.
I had no words to give her, but she didn’t need my words. She just needed my hugs and my presence, both of which I was grateful to give her.
I’ve often wondered why some people seem to get such a super-sized helping of crap in their lives. That is a mystery for which I simply have no answer.
My friend’s husband passed away Monday afternoon.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
I remember this day in particular because of Mother’s response to that proclamation. She got this horrified look on her face, and immediately demanded, “Who the hell ever told you life was fair? If life was fair, your father would still be alive!”
I remember that her vehemence surprised me. Her attitude wasn’t one I possessed at the tender age of 18. At that age I believed life should be fair and would be fair if only I could figure out how to make it happen.
Times change, of course and thankfully, we mature. After more than a half century of living, one thing that has been proven to me over and over again is this: not only is life unfair, it is sometimes unfair to an appalling degree.
I’ve had that reality demonstrated to me again just this past weekend.
This past Saturday I drove for two and a half hours to visit my friend—the one I reconnected with just a couple of years ago. I wish I could say the occasion for this visit was to enjoy a fun, social time, but it was not.
I went, because her husband was dying from a brain tumor. He was at home, had refused any further treatment, and so she stayed at home with him, taking care of him because, as she said, “I promised him that I would”.
This will be the second time my friend has suffered the loss of a husband. She said to me, “At least this time I know, and I can say all the things I didn’t get to say last time.”
Her first husband died suddenly in his early forties.
My friend and her current husband are good people. They have family and friends, and they are loved by all who know them. They’ve never sought to do harm to another human being, and have offered their help to whomever, whenever they could—even reaching out to those who have wronged them.
Life really is not fair.
When I arrived at her home Saturday, she had friends there, and a nurse’s aide, as well. She needed to get out for a bit—aside from the fact that she had to run a couple of errands, she just needed a break.
I took her to lunch, and we spent time simply being in each other’s company. We reminisced about what it was like being kids in the 1960s, and since we’d known each other’s mothers, we looked back on them from the perspective of being mothers and grandmothers ourselves.
My friend is suffering of course, because, though she’s never been one to wax sentimental, her husband—this man who only a few short weeks before had been a vital, laughing, loving man—is the love of her life. She calls him her best friend, and her soul mate.
He’d been a best friend and a bulwark to her first, this man who’d also been a friend of her first husband’s which was how they met. He had been there for her children, too, as they’d grieved the loss of their father. Friendship eventually gave way to deeper, more intimate feelings. He has been good for her. He challenged her on so many different levels, expanding her horizons. He got her to do things she never thought she’d ever do.
At forty-something years old my friend learned how to ride motorcycle!
We returned from lunch, and she spent time getting her husband settled in the hospital bed that had arrived while we were out. He sleeps, mostly, but she said, he knows her when she’s there. He talks, but just the odd word here and there. After she made him as comfortable as possible in that bed Saturday, he said, “safe”.
She told me that when she held his hand the night before—which would have been Friday night—he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers.
I had no words to give her, but she didn’t need my words. She just needed my hugs and my presence, both of which I was grateful to give her.
I’ve often wondered why some people seem to get such a super-sized helping of crap in their lives. That is a mystery for which I simply have no answer.
My friend’s husband passed away Monday afternoon.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Writing is a solitary profession. We who are authors each have our own writer’s “cave”, and spend the lion’s share of our days with our butts in our chairs, and our fingers on our keyboards.
Whatever the individual writing process may be, in essence we all do the same thing: we strive to write stories that we hope and pray that someone, somewhere, someday will read.
Every once in a while, we leave our caves and venture forth into the greater world, where we partake of meetings, conferences, and conventions.
This past week, I ventured forth to Dallas, to attend my publisher’s inaugural convention, “TRC2012”.
This was something I’d heard Ms. Hilton say she wanted to accomplish—holding an annual convention—several years ago. I knew the event would happen when the time was right, for my publisher is tremendously savvy when it comes to all things business.
And yet that is not her greatest talent as a publisher.
Her greatest talent is building relationships with her authors. She treats each of us as if we are someone special. If you send her an e-mail, as often as not she’ll pick up the phone and call you to address whatever questions or concerns you may have.
She cares about her authors as unique, and creative people.
She’s also acquired a staff of highly qualified, dedicated women and men who, like her, treat the authors with utmost professionalism and respect. This past weekend I got to meet some of them as they worked tirelessly to make TRC2012 a success.
From me to them, go my deepest thanks for all of their hard work.
I am so blessed to be a part of the Siren-Bookstrand family—and I mean that from the bottom of my heart.
There was something for everyone in this inaugural conference. Authors got together in a fast-track retreat to discuss with our publisher and the president of the company issues that mattered to us—what’s hot and what’s not, and the state of this every-fluid industry we’re all in.
There were workshops and panels where readers were welcomed and sat side by side with the authors they love. What a joy it was for me to meet so many who’ve read my work!
We, as writers, were treated to a panel of avid readers, eager to answer our questions including that very hard to answer subject: “what makes you pick up one book as opposed to another?”
One of the panelists said that to them, we were rock stars. To her, and all the others, I would say, that to us, you’re the validation of all that we aspire to do. You allow us to say to ourselves, “it’s true: someone really reads my work and loves it.” This is the nectar and the manna that we, as authors, hunger for.
Thank you, readers, for feeding us so well.
The convention featured a book fair, and every author had people come to his or her table to meet, greet, receive swag and get autographs. Free books abounded. There were prizes, as well, and man, was that a busy, happy afternoon!
I was personally astounded by how many readers came to this fair.
There are a few things in this life that nourish me, replenish my energy and motivate me to write; but the top two are spending time with readers, and spending time with fellow authors.
I met face-to-face, for the first time, many of my sister-sirens with whom I’ve communicated on line. These women were already my friends, but those friendships now have faces, and smiles.
And I also re-connected with some authors who are very dear to my heart: Lara Santiago (affectionately known as The First Author, because well, she was), Heather Rainier, Peyton Elizabeth, and Corrine Davies.
Heather and I have been collaborating, since our two series’ “towns” are just down the road a piece from each other. It’s the most fun I’ve had writing, ever.
I was honored to be asked, along with Lara Santiago, to be the M. C. for the awards ceremony, and humbled to receive two awards myself.
My beloved was with me every moment throughout the convention, and I know it’s an experience he’s looking forward to repeating next year.
All things considered, I am Blessed and Highly Favored.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Whatever the individual writing process may be, in essence we all do the same thing: we strive to write stories that we hope and pray that someone, somewhere, someday will read.
Every once in a while, we leave our caves and venture forth into the greater world, where we partake of meetings, conferences, and conventions.
This past week, I ventured forth to Dallas, to attend my publisher’s inaugural convention, “TRC2012”.
This was something I’d heard Ms. Hilton say she wanted to accomplish—holding an annual convention—several years ago. I knew the event would happen when the time was right, for my publisher is tremendously savvy when it comes to all things business.
And yet that is not her greatest talent as a publisher.
Her greatest talent is building relationships with her authors. She treats each of us as if we are someone special. If you send her an e-mail, as often as not she’ll pick up the phone and call you to address whatever questions or concerns you may have.
She cares about her authors as unique, and creative people.
She’s also acquired a staff of highly qualified, dedicated women and men who, like her, treat the authors with utmost professionalism and respect. This past weekend I got to meet some of them as they worked tirelessly to make TRC2012 a success.
From me to them, go my deepest thanks for all of their hard work.
I am so blessed to be a part of the Siren-Bookstrand family—and I mean that from the bottom of my heart.
There was something for everyone in this inaugural conference. Authors got together in a fast-track retreat to discuss with our publisher and the president of the company issues that mattered to us—what’s hot and what’s not, and the state of this every-fluid industry we’re all in.
There were workshops and panels where readers were welcomed and sat side by side with the authors they love. What a joy it was for me to meet so many who’ve read my work!
We, as writers, were treated to a panel of avid readers, eager to answer our questions including that very hard to answer subject: “what makes you pick up one book as opposed to another?”
One of the panelists said that to them, we were rock stars. To her, and all the others, I would say, that to us, you’re the validation of all that we aspire to do. You allow us to say to ourselves, “it’s true: someone really reads my work and loves it.” This is the nectar and the manna that we, as authors, hunger for.
Thank you, readers, for feeding us so well.
The convention featured a book fair, and every author had people come to his or her table to meet, greet, receive swag and get autographs. Free books abounded. There were prizes, as well, and man, was that a busy, happy afternoon!
I was personally astounded by how many readers came to this fair.
There are a few things in this life that nourish me, replenish my energy and motivate me to write; but the top two are spending time with readers, and spending time with fellow authors.
I met face-to-face, for the first time, many of my sister-sirens with whom I’ve communicated on line. These women were already my friends, but those friendships now have faces, and smiles.
And I also re-connected with some authors who are very dear to my heart: Lara Santiago (affectionately known as The First Author, because well, she was), Heather Rainier, Peyton Elizabeth, and Corrine Davies.
Heather and I have been collaborating, since our two series’ “towns” are just down the road a piece from each other. It’s the most fun I’ve had writing, ever.
I was honored to be asked, along with Lara Santiago, to be the M. C. for the awards ceremony, and humbled to receive two awards myself.
My beloved was with me every moment throughout the convention, and I know it’s an experience he’s looking forward to repeating next year.
All things considered, I am Blessed and Highly Favored.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
My beloved and I arrived in Texas last Sunday, eager to get to know a little of this state. We rented a car—something we’ve actually never done before when traveling—and headed out, destination Waco.
For those of you who may have been following my career over the last couple of years, you’ll understand immediately why we headed here, first.
My only two historical novels, written under the penname of Cara Covington, were set in Waco, and westward, into the Texas Hill Country. I wanted to see this city I’d researched.
I wanted to look out and up at the Texas night sky, and breathe in the Texas air. I wanted to feel the intensity of the Texas sun on my skin [and boy, did we ever luck out there].
I wanted to learn firsthand just a little bit about the spirit that is Texas. People are people everywhere, and we all have many things in common. But sometimes there is a regional spirit that binds folks to a location, that binds them heart and mind, body and soul to each other as well.
In my opinion, Texas is one such place. There is a sense of determination here, of pride and an independent spirit that says, “We can do what we need to do to take care of our own.”
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that same doggedness isn’t in existence elsewhere in this country or on this planet. I’m just saying it seems to be front and center in the souls of the people of this state.
It’s the main reason I’ve set my series here in Texas.
We spent a couple of hours at the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum. Our inner “history buffs” were thrilled with the wealth of information there. If you ever come to Waco, that museum is a must-visit spot.
For me, the Rangers exemplify what I think of as the spirit of Texas. They had to volunteer for duty, supply their own horses and badges and guns—and they did so, serving proudly, accepting payment in the form of land, when they were paid at all. Many of them worked as surveyors to get by, and the two vocations went hand in hand.
As well as touching and getting close to that which is real and which I have studied, I also wanted to see if I could find that which I have only imagined.
So yesterday we set out, my beloved and I in our rental car, in search of Lusty, Texas.
In my contemporary series based on the historical, I always hedge about where Lusty is, exactly. My characters say, “it’s about an hour or so west of Waco”. Not completely an arbitrary choice, that. After all, my original characters in the historical stories had some connection to that city.
One of them had been a Texas Ranger there, circa 1880.
I do the best I can, when researching a novel, to try and make things at the very least plausible. In looking at the maps available to me, I decided that just outside of Gatesville, Texas, seemed like a pretty good choice for my imaginary town. There were a few small communities between Gatesville and Goldthwaite, but nothing solid—nothing that could ever be mistaken for this completely fictional town which I had created with my mind and described with my words.
I write what I write with no apologies, but that doesn’t mean I’m not sensitive to the fact that some people may react to my work in an unfavorable manner. I seek only to entertain, with no thought of offending anyone.
If someone is offended by my words, they don’t have to read them. For my part, I wouldn’t want anyone thinking “my town” was really “their town”.
Lusty, after all, isn’t Peyton Place.
So we drove, and watched our miles. We’d both decided when the time was right, we’d turn left off the highway. It just always seemed to me the Lusty had to be more left than right.
We found a road, and turned left, and traveled for a spell. Before long, we came upon a bit of flat land in amongst the hills that looked to be just right for an airfield. Then there was another twist in the road, and another few minutes, and… there it was.
Lusty, Texas.
It’s not a very big town, really, a couple of miles square all told, with rolling fields, plenty of trees, and space to spare. And it has a heart as big, and as welcoming, as the state surrounding it.
Just exactly where and how I imagined it would be.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
For those of you who may have been following my career over the last couple of years, you’ll understand immediately why we headed here, first.
My only two historical novels, written under the penname of Cara Covington, were set in Waco, and westward, into the Texas Hill Country. I wanted to see this city I’d researched.
I wanted to look out and up at the Texas night sky, and breathe in the Texas air. I wanted to feel the intensity of the Texas sun on my skin [and boy, did we ever luck out there].
I wanted to learn firsthand just a little bit about the spirit that is Texas. People are people everywhere, and we all have many things in common. But sometimes there is a regional spirit that binds folks to a location, that binds them heart and mind, body and soul to each other as well.
In my opinion, Texas is one such place. There is a sense of determination here, of pride and an independent spirit that says, “We can do what we need to do to take care of our own.”
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that same doggedness isn’t in existence elsewhere in this country or on this planet. I’m just saying it seems to be front and center in the souls of the people of this state.
It’s the main reason I’ve set my series here in Texas.
We spent a couple of hours at the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum. Our inner “history buffs” were thrilled with the wealth of information there. If you ever come to Waco, that museum is a must-visit spot.
For me, the Rangers exemplify what I think of as the spirit of Texas. They had to volunteer for duty, supply their own horses and badges and guns—and they did so, serving proudly, accepting payment in the form of land, when they were paid at all. Many of them worked as surveyors to get by, and the two vocations went hand in hand.
As well as touching and getting close to that which is real and which I have studied, I also wanted to see if I could find that which I have only imagined.
So yesterday we set out, my beloved and I in our rental car, in search of Lusty, Texas.
In my contemporary series based on the historical, I always hedge about where Lusty is, exactly. My characters say, “it’s about an hour or so west of Waco”. Not completely an arbitrary choice, that. After all, my original characters in the historical stories had some connection to that city.
One of them had been a Texas Ranger there, circa 1880.
I do the best I can, when researching a novel, to try and make things at the very least plausible. In looking at the maps available to me, I decided that just outside of Gatesville, Texas, seemed like a pretty good choice for my imaginary town. There were a few small communities between Gatesville and Goldthwaite, but nothing solid—nothing that could ever be mistaken for this completely fictional town which I had created with my mind and described with my words.
I write what I write with no apologies, but that doesn’t mean I’m not sensitive to the fact that some people may react to my work in an unfavorable manner. I seek only to entertain, with no thought of offending anyone.
If someone is offended by my words, they don’t have to read them. For my part, I wouldn’t want anyone thinking “my town” was really “their town”.
Lusty, after all, isn’t Peyton Place.
So we drove, and watched our miles. We’d both decided when the time was right, we’d turn left off the highway. It just always seemed to me the Lusty had to be more left than right.
We found a road, and turned left, and traveled for a spell. Before long, we came upon a bit of flat land in amongst the hills that looked to be just right for an airfield. Then there was another twist in the road, and another few minutes, and… there it was.
Lusty, Texas.
It’s not a very big town, really, a couple of miles square all told, with rolling fields, plenty of trees, and space to spare. And it has a heart as big, and as welcoming, as the state surrounding it.
Just exactly where and how I imagined it would be.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Hands are really pretty handy, aren’t they?
That’s a basic truth that I’ve had brought home to me anew this past week, as I recover from having carpel tunnel surgery on my right hand last Tuesday.
I am, by the way, right handed.
I find it a delicious bit of irony that the doctor told me that I must not do much with my hand at all until I get the stitches out (later today). I’m allowed to wiggle my fingers—almost identical to the way I move them when I am using a key board—and after the second day, I was able to drive—but that’s about it.
You’d think I would rejoice being told I could write, but do nothing else. Guess I’m just never happy no matter what.
I cannot get my stitches wet, and I cannot lift anything or put any pressure whatsoever on my right hand. I have to sleep with it elevated on a pillow, and I must avoid letting my hand hang down.
Fortunately, our second daughter is a nurse, and she has been kind enough to come by and change the dressing for me. When she has my stitches uncovered, she makes all kinds of “hmmm” sounds.
I’m not sure if there’s a problem or she’s just taking the opportunity to tease me. I am a notoriously easy mark, and my family, to a one—even the ones we’ve acquired—merciless teases.
The worst part of this entire situation isn’t the pain. It’s the forced inactivity.
Friends, it has truly been sheer hell for me, not being able to do anything. I’m such a creature of habit. I have my little routines—my boundaries—and I am happiest when I am plodding away within them.
Every morning I get up, turn on my computer, put the dishes in to soak, and scan my house making mental note of what jobs have to be done. I check my e-mail, then move on to my work in progress, and every thirty minutes or so get up and do other things. I call it multi-tasking.
This is the first time that I’ve been “laid up”, yet basically felt well enough to not be. The last time I was forced by medical circumstances to be idle was as a result of my triple by-pass surgery, 10 years ago. Back then I felt sick, and being inactive didn’t cause me stress.
I told my daughter a few days ago that my house was so “out of order” that it felt as if my skin was crawling. Her response was the same as her father’s had been. She took a moment, looked around, and declared that everything “looked fine”.
I have made a note to see to it they both get their eyes tested at the earliest opportunity.
Having just come home from California a week ago this past Sunday—and leaving for Texas this coming Sunday—I suppose one could say I didn’t exactly plan the timing of this procedure very well.
My beloved pointed out that there likely would never have been a perfect time for me to be “out of commission”. I suppose he’s right. I tend to be a bit of a perfectionist. And I really am used to being busy all day long.
When I hit my bed at night, I’m usually completely exhausted.
I can’t even really write for too long at a time in one go. I keep having to stop and rest my hand.
I know a few people who basically do nothing all day, every day. They sit and read, or watch television. They live in what I call Chaos, and don’t seem to mind it one bit.
How does anyone do that? The inactivity, the inability to tidy and cook and clean, is driving me crazy and believe me, it’s a short trip.
My beloved, in the mean time, has had to pitch in. He’s had to do the dishes every day, vacuum, and tidy where I cannot. By Sunday I was able to fold the laundry but I couldn’t really hang anything up or put it all away.
He knows how bad I feel that he’s had to do “my job”—suffice it to say that we’re both of an age that he isn’t used to doing any housework at all. And I suppose it’s not all negative, this situation I find myself in.
Mr. Ashbury has a newly refreshed appreciation for how much I actually do around the house. Or, as he so eloquently put it, “your life sucks”.
I know he means that in a kind, and loving way.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
That’s a basic truth that I’ve had brought home to me anew this past week, as I recover from having carpel tunnel surgery on my right hand last Tuesday.
I am, by the way, right handed.
I find it a delicious bit of irony that the doctor told me that I must not do much with my hand at all until I get the stitches out (later today). I’m allowed to wiggle my fingers—almost identical to the way I move them when I am using a key board—and after the second day, I was able to drive—but that’s about it.
You’d think I would rejoice being told I could write, but do nothing else. Guess I’m just never happy no matter what.
I cannot get my stitches wet, and I cannot lift anything or put any pressure whatsoever on my right hand. I have to sleep with it elevated on a pillow, and I must avoid letting my hand hang down.
Fortunately, our second daughter is a nurse, and she has been kind enough to come by and change the dressing for me. When she has my stitches uncovered, she makes all kinds of “hmmm” sounds.
I’m not sure if there’s a problem or she’s just taking the opportunity to tease me. I am a notoriously easy mark, and my family, to a one—even the ones we’ve acquired—merciless teases.
The worst part of this entire situation isn’t the pain. It’s the forced inactivity.
Friends, it has truly been sheer hell for me, not being able to do anything. I’m such a creature of habit. I have my little routines—my boundaries—and I am happiest when I am plodding away within them.
Every morning I get up, turn on my computer, put the dishes in to soak, and scan my house making mental note of what jobs have to be done. I check my e-mail, then move on to my work in progress, and every thirty minutes or so get up and do other things. I call it multi-tasking.
This is the first time that I’ve been “laid up”, yet basically felt well enough to not be. The last time I was forced by medical circumstances to be idle was as a result of my triple by-pass surgery, 10 years ago. Back then I felt sick, and being inactive didn’t cause me stress.
I told my daughter a few days ago that my house was so “out of order” that it felt as if my skin was crawling. Her response was the same as her father’s had been. She took a moment, looked around, and declared that everything “looked fine”.
I have made a note to see to it they both get their eyes tested at the earliest opportunity.
Having just come home from California a week ago this past Sunday—and leaving for Texas this coming Sunday—I suppose one could say I didn’t exactly plan the timing of this procedure very well.
My beloved pointed out that there likely would never have been a perfect time for me to be “out of commission”. I suppose he’s right. I tend to be a bit of a perfectionist. And I really am used to being busy all day long.
When I hit my bed at night, I’m usually completely exhausted.
I can’t even really write for too long at a time in one go. I keep having to stop and rest my hand.
I know a few people who basically do nothing all day, every day. They sit and read, or watch television. They live in what I call Chaos, and don’t seem to mind it one bit.
How does anyone do that? The inactivity, the inability to tidy and cook and clean, is driving me crazy and believe me, it’s a short trip.
My beloved, in the mean time, has had to pitch in. He’s had to do the dishes every day, vacuum, and tidy where I cannot. By Sunday I was able to fold the laundry but I couldn’t really hang anything up or put it all away.
He knows how bad I feel that he’s had to do “my job”—suffice it to say that we’re both of an age that he isn’t used to doing any housework at all. And I suppose it’s not all negative, this situation I find myself in.
Mr. Ashbury has a newly refreshed appreciation for how much I actually do around the house. Or, as he so eloquently put it, “your life sucks”.
I know he means that in a kind, and loving way.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
The writer’s lot is an interesting one, and nothing could make me happier. It’s not interesting all the time, of course. As with any other job, there is a modicum of tedium involved, and that’s really okay. But for the most part I find this life I now lead—this career—fascinating.
I’m constantly surprised by the blend of writing, editing, and promotion that’s required in order to be a professional writer today. Sometimes promotion is something as simple as posting a few excerpts on a Yahoo! Groups list. And sometimes it involves travel.
You think I’m going to talk about that conference I was at last week, don’t you? The one that was just three short blocks away from Disneyland.
Well, I’m not.
Instead I’m going to tell you about a brand new conference, one being held by my wonderful publisher, Siren-Bookstrand. TRC – The Romance Convention—will have its inaugural session the week after next, August 17th and 18th, in Dallas, Texas.
The first day will be devoted to the authors who have their books published with Siren-Bookstrand. There will be panels and workshops all geared to the author, to provide the extra tools, and resources and inspiration we need as we craft our stories to give our readers the best in romance fiction.
There is nothing more refreshing for me, as a writer, than to spend time with other writers. There is a chemistry that happens when we gather together that you don’t find anyplace else.
You see, basically, all writers are solitary creatures, working in their individual caves, with just the characters in their heads for company.
I had to grin last week as I was privileged to sit in on a session at the RWA conference with a very famous romance author. One thing she said that particularly resonated with me: “writing doesn’t make you neurotic; you’re neurotic to begin with.”
Because that is so, no one understands an author quite as well as another author.
The second day of this conference, being held at the Sheraton Dallas Hotel on North Olive Street, features a book fair that is open, free of charge, to the public. If you’re in the area, come by and say hello to us. There will be prizes and freebies, and a chance to meet some of your favorite authors. You see, as well as spending time with fellow authors, we writers love to meet our readers.
After all, we write our novels so that someone—you—will read them.
This has been a year of increased travel for my husband and me, especially after last year when we didn’t attend a single conference. But we’re both able to travel now, and so we’re making the most of it.
I’m excited to be going back to Texas. Any chance I get to spend time with my phenomenal publisher, I consider to be a golden opportunity. As well, I’ll be meeting some of my fellow Siren-Bookstrand authors for the first time, authors whose work I’ve read and enjoyed.
I’m also looking forward to spending time with my colleagues Sophie Oak, Kris Cook, and Heather Rainier, all of whom I met for the first time t his past spring, in Chicago. These three very successful writers, Texans all, will be acting as hosts to the rest of us during this convention.
Heather Rainier and I have been collaborating on a fun project. We’re “crossing” our series. She’s the author of the very popular “Divine Creek Ranch” books, and I of course, under my other pen name, ‘Cara Covington’, am the author of the “Lusty, Texas” series—book 9 of which comes out on the 13th of August.
Heather and I are having a blast working together, and I can say without exaggeration, that our readers are excited about our upcoming novels—and so are we!
Honestly, I have the best job in the world!
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
I’m constantly surprised by the blend of writing, editing, and promotion that’s required in order to be a professional writer today. Sometimes promotion is something as simple as posting a few excerpts on a Yahoo! Groups list. And sometimes it involves travel.
You think I’m going to talk about that conference I was at last week, don’t you? The one that was just three short blocks away from Disneyland.
Well, I’m not.
Instead I’m going to tell you about a brand new conference, one being held by my wonderful publisher, Siren-Bookstrand. TRC – The Romance Convention—will have its inaugural session the week after next, August 17th and 18th, in Dallas, Texas.
The first day will be devoted to the authors who have their books published with Siren-Bookstrand. There will be panels and workshops all geared to the author, to provide the extra tools, and resources and inspiration we need as we craft our stories to give our readers the best in romance fiction.
There is nothing more refreshing for me, as a writer, than to spend time with other writers. There is a chemistry that happens when we gather together that you don’t find anyplace else.
You see, basically, all writers are solitary creatures, working in their individual caves, with just the characters in their heads for company.
I had to grin last week as I was privileged to sit in on a session at the RWA conference with a very famous romance author. One thing she said that particularly resonated with me: “writing doesn’t make you neurotic; you’re neurotic to begin with.”
Because that is so, no one understands an author quite as well as another author.
The second day of this conference, being held at the Sheraton Dallas Hotel on North Olive Street, features a book fair that is open, free of charge, to the public. If you’re in the area, come by and say hello to us. There will be prizes and freebies, and a chance to meet some of your favorite authors. You see, as well as spending time with fellow authors, we writers love to meet our readers.
After all, we write our novels so that someone—you—will read them.
This has been a year of increased travel for my husband and me, especially after last year when we didn’t attend a single conference. But we’re both able to travel now, and so we’re making the most of it.
I’m excited to be going back to Texas. Any chance I get to spend time with my phenomenal publisher, I consider to be a golden opportunity. As well, I’ll be meeting some of my fellow Siren-Bookstrand authors for the first time, authors whose work I’ve read and enjoyed.
I’m also looking forward to spending time with my colleagues Sophie Oak, Kris Cook, and Heather Rainier, all of whom I met for the first time t his past spring, in Chicago. These three very successful writers, Texans all, will be acting as hosts to the rest of us during this convention.
Heather Rainier and I have been collaborating on a fun project. We’re “crossing” our series. She’s the author of the very popular “Divine Creek Ranch” books, and I of course, under my other pen name, ‘Cara Covington’, am the author of the “Lusty, Texas” series—book 9 of which comes out on the 13th of August.
Heather and I are having a blast working together, and I can say without exaggeration, that our readers are excited about our upcoming novels—and so are we!
Honestly, I have the best job in the world!
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
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