Emilie Richards's Blog, page 95

Sunday Inspiration: A Boy Who Turned $20 Into A Priceless Gift

I enjoy watching Steve Hartman’s moving stories on the CBS News every Friday. They always bring tears to my eyes. This story brought a waterfall.

An 8 year-old boy performed one small act of kindness and reminded many of us of what is best about humanity.

Myles Eckhert was visiting Cracker Barrel outside of Toledo, Ohio, for dinner when he picked up a $20 bill in the parking lot. Instead of spending it on himself or his family, he gave it to Lt. Col. Frank Daily, who had walked in just after him. Myles wrapped the $20 in a note that read, “Dear Soldier — my dad was a soldier. He’s in heaven now. I found this 20 dollars in the parking lot when we got here. We like to pay it forward in my family. It’s your lucky day! Thank you for your service. Myles Eckert, a gold star kid.”

You can see the rest of the story here, but have some Kleenex ready. And be prepared to be inspired.

Photo by CBS

Fiction Friday: Sarah’s Story Continues

Today’s Fiction Friday is the conclusion of the first letter that Sarah Miller writes to the man she loves, Amasa Stone, in 1853 about the event that’s happened on the Miller farm in rural Shenandoah County, Virginia.

This excerpt comes from my novel Endless Chain, the second of the Shenandoah Album novels, and Sarah’s letters continue through the book.  I think you’ll enjoy this peek into pre-Civil War life in a county that had a fair number of residents who disapproved of slavery when that kind of thinking was extremely unpopular.

The first half of this letter debuted last week. The cover on this post is the mass market paperback version.  Last week I showed the newer trade paper version.

***

This evening a storm swept through the valley like few I have seen before. Our sunny day was followed by a sudden rain and hailstones larger than a fist. I had just put supper on the table, but we quickly abandoned it. Jeremiah went out to the barn to be certain all was well with Betty Gray his plow horse and her new foal. Lightning shattered the sky and struck the chestnut tree behind the spring house. The sound was something I never hope to hear again.

I was frightened. I can tell you this because you have seen me when lightning flashes and know I am not the bravest of souls. I was terrified for Jeremiah, and I am ashamed to say I was afraid for myself, as well. I ran to the porch to peer into the storm to search for him, hoping he was safe. By then the skies were dark, and the ground looked as it does after the first snow of winter. As I watched, the hail began to melt under the relentless pounding of the rain.

I had left a quilt on the porch to air, and as I bundled it into my arms to bring inside I thought I saw movement near the house. I peered over the railing, wondering if Jeremiah had not gone to the barn after all. There was nothing to be seen until lightning split the sky once more. Only then did I spy a figure on the ground some feet to the side of our porch. A woman lay there, completely still, water washing around her as it ran off our roof. She lay, as if on an island as the rain made twin creeks around her.

I confess I screamed. No one could hear me, of course. The storm was still raging, and as rain battered the ground, thunder roared at regular intervals. I was afraid to go out in it, but even more afraid to leave her to the storm’s mercy. Inside I pulled my shawl from it’s peg, covered my head and ran to help.

By now I know you are wondering why I take so long to tell this story? I fear it is because I do not know how. I do not know what to tell and what to leave out. All of it seems immense to me, you see. The body, the rain, my own fright. The storm was powerful, but what transpired was more.

When I reached the woman I knew immediately what I had found. She is darker-skinned than I, Amasa, with soft rippling hair, like that of the enslaved people I have seen on my few trips to Winchester or to the neighboring farms that imprison them. I could see little but this, but knew what it meant. This was not a neighbor who had lost her way, but a woman escaping bondage.

I tried to revive her, but with no success. I tried to lift her in my arms, but again, could not. The storm had not abated. I feared for both of us. We were fodder for lightning bolts. Perhaps this is what made me strong? I managed to squeeze my arms between hers and lift her high enough to drag her toward the porch.

Jeremiah found us at the bottom of the steps. He knows how storms frighten me, and he had returned as quickly as he could. (As you can see he is not completely lost to his own sorrow.) He took one look and lifted her in his arms and carried her up the steps and into the house.

She is tucked safely into my bed tonight, and I sit beside it writing you by candlelight. She has wakened only once. I told her she was safe and we would not betray her. That seemed to satisfy her. I asked her name and she whispered, “Dorie. Dorie Beaumont” Then she fell asleep again.

I close now as my candle flickers and dies. I will write again when there is more to tell. Pray for us, my beloved.

Yours alone,

Sarah Miller

***

The Shenandoah Album novels, with interconnected stories, number five: Wedding Ring, Endless Chain, Lover’s Knot, Touching Stars, and Sister’s Choice, each named after a traditional quilt or quilt block.  I hope to add more in the future, but the first three were reissued last year and are easily available at online bookstores.  I hope the next two will be reissued in the future.

The Write Way: An Author’s Control Over Content and Production

Years ago, when I started my writing career, I signed contracts for a number of romance novels. None of those early contracts discussed e-books because e-books were in the future.

When asked my publisher graciously agreed I had the right to publish these books as e-books myself, and so far I’ve re-edited, revised and put up five. But they have not given me the rights to publish those books in other ways. Until they do, those reissued novels will remain e-books only.

It’s important to understand that sometimes when your favorite author isn’t doing everything the way you wish he/she would, that they may be bound by contracts to do things another way.

Last week I talked about covers, and how much control an author has over what appears there.  Today I’m talking about control over content–what’s inside the book–and publication–how the book is produced and marketed.

So what does an author control?

Content: 

Authors choose ideas they want to pursue. Publishers choose what books they want to publish, and they choose, most often, by numbers sold and sold quickly. A series that doesn’t meet their expectations may be cancelled, or an entire genre will fall out of favor.
Authors submit the best ideas and manuscripts that they can. Publishers have the right to ask for changes even before a book is written. 
Authors turn in their cleanest manuscript. Editors edit it, at which time they can ask for everything from a total rewrite to a few minor changes.

Publication: 

Most of the time publishers want the rights to publish a book in all possible formats: hardcover, softcover and digitally (ebooks) as well as foreign language, the film rights, the audio rights etc. These rights are all negotiable, but clout makes all the difference.
Within reason (depending on contract) publishers can choose the date to publish a novel according to who else they are publishing and the best/worst times to market a book.
Publishers can and do choose which books and authors to promote, and how many copies they print and distribute.
Authors can publicize their books by doing signings, newsletters and social media.

This is just the tip of the publishing iceberg, but I know you get the point. In order to make a book available to readers, an author has to sign away many rights and hope that the publisher publishes their novels well and in great enough numbers that they can be found by readers.

Technology has now made it possible for authors to publish their own books, controlling every step themselves, and many are doing just that. As you can imagine, this is an earthquake in the publishing universe.

Is it always a good thing to be in complete control? No. Publishers not only print and distribute books, they safeguard the process every step of the way, from creating covers they believe will sell a story, to making certain the content is fresh, well-written and well-edited.  They also have access to huge distribution channels that independent authors may not be able to tap.

Are publishers always right? No. Are they always fair? No. But as times change and the publishing process changes with it, publishers must adapt, as well. I believe, in the long run, after more changes are in place, we’ll see more and better books in the future, both from independent authors and from traditional publishers.

What do you think about the changes in the way books are marketed to you? Do you own an e-reader? Do you refuse to buy one? Do you mourn the loss of Borders and many smaller independent bookstores? Please comment and let us know.

Sunday Inspiration: Mend A Broken Heart

Broken hearts are all too common in life: broken hearts over a failed relationship, a lost job, a personal failure, a defeated dream, illness, the death of a loved one.

Sadness and anguish are a natural part of life, but most of us are woefully ignorant of how to overcome a broken heart, how to learn from our defeats, and how to achieve happiness in the face of failure.

I recently came across this excellent blog that is helpful — and inspirational — to me, and I hope will be for you.

Take a few moments to read it and see if it works for you: mending a broken heart.

And if you do not have a broken heart now, be sure to save it, just in case.

How have you mended a broken heart?

Image: Broken Heart Grunge by Nicolas Raymond at Flickr

Fiction Friday: Sarah’s Letters from Endless Chain

This week I answered a question you might have asked yourself about writers. Do we ever re-read our work once it’s been published?

On Tuesday and Wednesday I re-read my novel Endless Chain, published in 2005 and reissued in trade paperback last year. The reason why is a secret, but what I found in the pages isn’t. I liked this book. A lot. I liked the characters and the story and the history behind it. And as I was reading it, the story within the story jumped out at me.

Writing a story within a story became something of a trademark for me, and after the first time my publisher insisted–for a long time–that I continue that mix of past and present. The Shenandoah Album novels were the last novels where I did this because times and tastes changed, but I always liked this particular story, told by letters from a woman to the man she loves in 1853.

Sarah and Dorie’s story is an Underground Railroad story, a short one, and I’ve decided to excerpt it here for you in the next weeks, beginning today. I hope you enjoy this peek at life in the Shenandoah Valley before the Civil War through the letters of Sarah Miller to Amasa Stone about a woman named Dorie Beaumont. Even if you’ve read the book, I hope you’ll enjoy the story as it stands alone here.

***

May 18, 1853

My dearest Amasa,

How far away you are and how unlikely you will receive this letter before the events I recount are long past. Such it always will be, now that you have gone home to Lynchburg to assist your father. I picture you every day at his forge, although I have never seen you thus. In my loneliness imagination is my worst enemy, for sometimes I also picture myself beside you, bringing water to ease your thirst or wipe your brow. I know this can not be, that there is no room for me there. But still, the thought will not fly away.

I hope your father improves, though I fear the worst. Daily I pray that he will be delivered from his illness, but I also pray that if death is his deliverance, you will find a way to return to me. I would live in the poorest mountain cabin with you, dear Amasa, even though I know you will never allow it. I would share the humble room over your father’s shop, as well, although I know that this, too, can never be.

I study my Holy Bible each night, looking for a sign for our future. Last night, in James I found this verse: “God is opposed to the proud but gives grace to the humble.” You are a humble man, yet I wonder if it is not pride that stands in the way of taking me as your bride? I have never asked for more than you can give. Yet too well I understand your desire to care for and protect me as well as Jeremiah does in our family home. Nightly I struggle for patience and the acceptance of God’s will.

I do find solace here. Jeremiah needs me, I know. The man you remember, a man overflowing with wit, piety and affection, has not yet returned to us. He is silent still. Days pass and the only words I hear my brother utter are prayers before meals. His tone is mocking, as if he is daring our Lord to strike him dead, even as he prays outwardly for grace. At night from my room above the stairs I hear him pacing. Sleep is a rare thing indeed for either of us.

Rachel has been dead nearly a year, and the children two weeks longer. I visit their graves and lay fresh flowers on them when I can. Jeremiah never goes to the cemetery, and I have seen him turn his head to avoid gazing in that direction. The fever that took his family still steals the breath from my chest when I think how suddenly they were gone and Jeremiah was left behind. Would that I only knew how to help my brother feel joy again.

But I promised you news, and there is news. We are no longer alone here. You must not tell anyone of this, Amasa, but, of course, I know you will not. So I will confess to you is what has transpired.

***

The end of this letter debuts next Fiction Friday, then more of the story. Let me know if you’re enjoying a chance to revisit this section of Endless Chain.  And stay tuned for Shenandoah Album news.

The Write Way: How Much Control Does an Author Have Over Covers?

Recently I received several emails in response to my last newsletter complaining that my newly reissued romance, The Unmasking, was only available as an e-book and wasn’t in paper–unless a reader can find the original paperback, which is almost a collector’s item.

While I sympathize, and wish I could magically produce books in all formats, this seems like an excellent time to talk about what authors can and can’t do.  We write the books, but quite frankly, if we sign a contract with a publisher there are many parts of the process over which we have no control. When we sign, we give them many rights to do as they see fit. 

Today’s blog is about covers.  Next Tuesday I’ll talk about control over content and production, including new choices now available to authors.

The graphic above is a collage of the two covers to grace The Unmasking. The one of the left is the original, one of my favorite traditional romance covers. Both models actually looked like the characters in my book, and a great deal of attention was paid to making the “feel” of the cover fit the story. Plus the hero of this book was well, gorgeous.  This never hurts.

The cover on the right is the new cover, which I also love. I want to distinguish my older romances from my newer women’s fiction books by using a single graphic with a small heart that says “Classic”, which we did here and on my Tales of the Pacific books.  The Unmasking has been a lucky book for covers.  I’ve had a few that were so bad I hated to admit the books were mine.

So how much control does an author have over what appears on a cover?

We may or may not have the right to give input into the way our story will be portrayed or the general cover style.
We may or may not have the right to refuse a cover we despise
We may or may not be allowed to rewrite cover copy, or give suggestions
We may or may not have a right to approve a title or even, sometimes, the author’s name that will appear on the cover. Some publishers require pen names, although this is less and less common.

What do I mean by “may or may not?” These decisions are usually spelled out in the publishing contract. A writer with “clout” will have more say in his/her cover than a new writer or a midlist author with little support at the publishing house.

And what about me? I’m glad to say I am always asked for input, and my contract says I have the right to refuse a cover and a title. I am always consulted about copy and frequently rewrite it. Finally I have always written as Emilie Richards, which is the honest-to-goodness-name-I-was-born-with.

How much difference does a cover make? Let’s not pretend otherwise. It’s huge!

Have you ever picked up a book just because you loved the cover? Have you ever passed up a wonderful book at first because you disliked the cover?Any favorites? Anything you don’t like to see?

I’m interested in your thoughts, so please feel free to comment. My opinion counts, but let’s face it, yours counts most of all.

Sunday Inspiration: An Irish Blessing

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May the road rise to meet you,

May the wind be always at your back,

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

The rains fall soft upon your fields and,

Until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

To celebrate St. Patrick's Day I'm sharing a favorite Irish Blessing and a photo of me in Ireland a number of years ago.

As someone who has a significant amount of Irish blood flowing through my veins, I appreciate blessings in our lives no matter where they come from.

May we bless the world every day with our love.

Fiction Friday: Madame Celestin Concludes

History dates construction of the house by slave labor to 1805 to 1809. Oscar Chopin bought it in 1879 and, years later, moved his wife and their six children to the plantation. Sadly the house was destroyed by fire in 2008. Photo courtesy of Cane River National Heritage Area

Today I’m featuring  part two of a story by Kate Chopin.  You’ll find the first part in last week’s Fiction Friday.

As I was living in Louisiana and researching my two novels Iron Lace and Rising Tides, I read almost everything by Kate Chopin, as well as Lafcadio Hearn’s Chita, and many nonfiction works by author Harnett Kane.

All three authors influenced the way I saw Louisiana culture at the turn of the 20th century and before. I was first introduced to the hurricane that’s portrayed in Iron Lace by Harnett Kane’s The Bayous of Louisiana. Chita, which explores the aftermath of an earlier hurricane and the way it affects two families is a classic I highly recommend.

In an interesting aside, after my reading love affair with Kane was complete, my husband, then the minister of a New Orleans church, got a call from Mr. Kane’s sister. Mr. Kane had just died, and my husband was asked to do a memorial service for the family. I was glad that somebody with a personal connection to his work and its importance could do this. I still cherish a signed copy of one of his books that I discovered at a book sale.

Here’s the conclusion of the story. I hope you’ve enjoyed it.

***

“Well, Madame Célestin! And the bishop!” Lawyer Paxton was standing there holding to a couple of the shaky pickets. She had not seen him. “Oh, it ‘s you, Judge?” and she hastened towards him with an empressement that could not but have been flattering.

“Yes, I saw Monseigneur,” she began. The lawyer had already gathered from her expressive countenance that she had not wavered in her determination. “Ah, he ‘s a eloquent man. It ‘s not a mo’ eloquent man in Natchitoches parish. I was fo’ced to cry, the way he talked to me about my troubles; how he undastan’s them, an’ feels for me. It would move even you, Judge, to hear how he talk’ about that step I want to take; its danga, its temptation. How it is the duty of a Catholic to stan’ everything till the las’ extreme. An’ that life of retirement an’ self-denial I would have to lead, – he tole me all that.”

“But he hasn’t turned you from your resolve, I see,” laughed the lawyer complacently.

“For that, no,” she returned emphatically. “The bishop don’t know w’at it is to be married to a man like Célestin, an’ have to endu’ that conduc’ like I have to endu’ it. The Pope himse’f can’t make me stan’ that any longer, if you say I got the right in the law to sen’ Célestin sailing.”

A noticeable change had come over lawyer Paxton. He discarded his work-day coat and began to wear his Sunday one to the office. He grew solicitous as to the shine of his boots, his collar, and the set of his tie. He brushed and trimmed his whiskers with a care that had not before been apparent. Then he fell into a stupid habit of dreaming as he walked the streets of the old town. It would be very good to take unto himself a wife, he dreamed. And he could dream of no other than pretty Madame Célestin filling that sweet and sacred office as she filled his thoughts, now. Old Natchitoches would not hold them comfortably, perhaps; but the world was surely wide enough to live in, outside of Natchitoches town.

His heart beat in a strangely irregular manner as he neared Madame Célestin’s house one morning, and discovered her behind the rosebushes, as usual plying her broom. She had finished the gallery and steps and was sweeping the little brick walk along the edge of the violet border.

“Good-morning, Madame Célestin.”

“Ah, it ‘s you, Judge? Good-morning.” He waited. She seemed to be doing the same. Then she ventured, with some hesitancy, “You know, Judge, about that divo’ce. I been thinking, – I reckon you betta neva mine about that divo’ce.” She was making deep rings in the palm of her gloved hand with the end of the broom-handle, and looking at them critically. Her face seemed to the lawyer to be unusually rosy; but maybe it was only the reflection of the pink bow at the throat. “Yes, I reckon you need n’ mine. You see, Judge, Célestin came home las’ night. An’ he ‘s promise me on his word an’ honor he ‘s going to turn ova a new leaf.”

***While this story is now in public domain I found it here, at the Academic Affairs Library, UNC-CH, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hil

The Pleasures of Grandchildren

I am spending this week with my beloved grandson, son and daughter-in-law, who came to visit this weekend.  Liam, at two, is a reminder of all life’s miracles, and we have had so much fun together.  Love sitting with his wonderful parents discussing their lives and all the things we can’t cover in telephone calls.  Just so darned special.

So you will forgive me, I know, if I have nothing important to say today except enjoy everything you can about your life and suck up the smallest details.  These are the things that send warmth into our days, aren’t they?

Meantime, today the zoo, tomorrow the beach.  Tonight catfish and barbecue out by the Myakka River, tomorrow eating my homemade shrimp jamabalaya on the patio looking over the state park behind our house.  I am so thankful.

Do you have special memories with family?  I hope you do.

Sunday Inspiration: Paddling Florida

You’ll want to read about this inspiring young man, Justin Riney, who paddle-boarded 2500 miles around Florida to help raise funds for water conservation.

Along the way Justin organized cleanups of waterways and took some incredible photos — there’s a link in the article. Justin “stepped off the ledge,” took a chance and decided to make a difference in the world.  It can be done, and he proved it.

Can you imagine exploring Florida on a paddle-board? In this article he talks about his close encounter with alligators. Also his future plans. I’m so impressed with him, and I think that you will be, too.

Check out the story here…

Photo: Everglades Sunday by Joe Parks on Flickr.com