Nancy Farmer's Blog, page 2
August 9, 2013
MOVIE OPTION
This is a quick note to tell everyone that I have a movie option for The House of the Scorpion. This is how an option works: A company pays for the right to market the book to a film company. If they are successful, the film company takes over and raises money, picks a director, screen writer and actors. It's a very complicated process involving many people, as you can see by looking at the credits at the end of a movie. Most of the time the option fails.
My book, The Ear, the Eye and the Arm, failed because no one believed that people would watch a movie about African children. I had the same trouble when I sold the book. A very highly placed editor in New York turned it down because she didn't think white kids would read about African kids. And she was convinced that African American children didn't read books. Nuts to her.
The chances for a House of the Scorpion movie seem very good to me. First, because the company really understands the book, and second because they made a beautiful presentation. The contract was far better than I expected, too. Keep your fingers crossed. It's about time Hollywood did something beside rerun old comic books and 1960's TV shows.
My book, The Ear, the Eye and the Arm, failed because no one believed that people would watch a movie about African children. I had the same trouble when I sold the book. A very highly placed editor in New York turned it down because she didn't think white kids would read about African kids. And she was convinced that African American children didn't read books. Nuts to her.
The chances for a House of the Scorpion movie seem very good to me. First, because the company really understands the book, and second because they made a beautiful presentation. The contract was far better than I expected, too. Keep your fingers crossed. It's about time Hollywood did something beside rerun old comic books and 1960's TV shows.
August 4, 2013
MORALITY
This morning a small, thin man came to the door asking for food. He spoke only Spanish. He was dressed in the drab brown clothes of a Mexican laborer. I know what I am supposed to do in these circumstances. The border is being overrun with drug mules and criminals. Armed guards camp out in our hills to protect the drug dealers. They radio back and forth the identity of cars passing through their territory. There aren't many cars. We are a remote and sparsely populated community. Some of these men are extremely dangerous and murders don't always make the news.
But this man was not dangerous. He was alone. He had probably missed his ride to Tucson and had been abandoned by his "coyote". There are a lot of people moving across the border now because the weather is perfect and amnesty beckons. I gave him a package of flour tortillas and a bag of shredded cheese, and Harold called the Border Patrol. They came like a shot and caught the man outside our front gate. Harold went out and told them the man had not stolen the food. We had given it to him. They said he had already told them that and he could eat it at the patrol station.
This is a situation that nobody has found a solution for. I believe in a strong border. I know that among the decent, ordinary workers there are MS-13 gang members, the most vicious gangsters out there. They have been caught near here. There are people working for the Sinaloa cartel. There are men who have crossed and recrossed the border many times, committing rape and murder. This doesn't get into the U.S. newspapers, but you can find it by going to borderlandbeat.com that covers the Mexican papers.
I know I have to report undocumented aliens, or whatever they are called now. The name keeps changing. But it isn't easy when you believe the person is innocent. This man probably paid a "coyote" a lot of money to come here and now he's lost it. Or perhaps not. I understand that the Border Patrol isn't sending people back until the amnesty battle in Congress is over. At any rate, I made the choice to enforce the law. Without law and order, societies break down. I know this, but I still feel terrible.
But this man was not dangerous. He was alone. He had probably missed his ride to Tucson and had been abandoned by his "coyote". There are a lot of people moving across the border now because the weather is perfect and amnesty beckons. I gave him a package of flour tortillas and a bag of shredded cheese, and Harold called the Border Patrol. They came like a shot and caught the man outside our front gate. Harold went out and told them the man had not stolen the food. We had given it to him. They said he had already told them that and he could eat it at the patrol station.
This is a situation that nobody has found a solution for. I believe in a strong border. I know that among the decent, ordinary workers there are MS-13 gang members, the most vicious gangsters out there. They have been caught near here. There are people working for the Sinaloa cartel. There are men who have crossed and recrossed the border many times, committing rape and murder. This doesn't get into the U.S. newspapers, but you can find it by going to borderlandbeat.com that covers the Mexican papers.
I know I have to report undocumented aliens, or whatever they are called now. The name keeps changing. But it isn't easy when you believe the person is innocent. This man probably paid a "coyote" a lot of money to come here and now he's lost it. Or perhaps not. I understand that the Border Patrol isn't sending people back until the amnesty battle in Congress is over. At any rate, I made the choice to enforce the law. Without law and order, societies break down. I know this, but I still feel terrible.
MORALITY
This morning a small, thin man came to the door asking for food. He spoke only Spanish. He was dressed in the drab brown clothes of a Mexican laborer. I know what I am supposed to do in these circumstances. The border is being overrun with drug mules and criminals. Armed guards camp out in our hills to protect the drug dealers. They radio back and forth the identity of cars passing through their territory. There aren't many cars. We are a remote and sparsely populated community. Some of these men are extremely dangerous and murders don't always make the news.
But this man was not dangerous. He was alone. He had probably missed his ride to Tucson and had been abandoned by his "coyote". There are a lot of people moving across the border now because the weather is perfect and amnesty beckons. I gave him a package of flour tortillas and a bag of shredded cheese, and Harold called the Border Patrol. They came like a shot and caught the man outside our front gate. Harold went out and told them the man had not stolen the food. We had given it to him. They said he had already told them that and he could eat it at the patrol station.
This is a situation that nobody has found a solution for. I believe in a strong border. I know that among the decent, ordinary workers there are MS-13 gang members, the most vicious gangsters out there. They have been caught near here. There are people working for the Sinaloa cartel. There are men who have crossed and recrossed the border many times, committing rape and murder. This doesn't get into the U.S. newspapers, but you can find it by going to borderlandbeat.com that covers the Mexican papers.
I know I have to report undocumented aliens, or whatever they are called now. The name keeps changing. But it isn't easy when you believe the person is innocent. This man probably paid a "coyote" a lot of money to come here and now he's lost it. Or perhaps not. I understand that the Border Patrol isn't sending people back until the amnesty battle in Congress is over. At any rate, I made the choice to enforce the law. Without law and order, societies break down. I know this, but I still feel terrible.
But this man was not dangerous. He was alone. He had probably missed his ride to Tucson and had been abandoned by his "coyote". There are a lot of people moving across the border now because the weather is perfect and amnesty beckons. I gave him a package of flour tortillas and a bag of shredded cheese, and Harold called the Border Patrol. They came like a shot and caught the man outside our front gate. Harold went out and told them the man had not stolen the food. We had given it to him. They said he had already told them that and he could eat it at the patrol station.
This is a situation that nobody has found a solution for. I believe in a strong border. I know that among the decent, ordinary workers there are MS-13 gang members, the most vicious gangsters out there. They have been caught near here. There are people working for the Sinaloa cartel. There are men who have crossed and recrossed the border many times, committing rape and murder. This doesn't get into the U.S. newspapers, but you can find it by going to borderlandbeat.com that covers the Mexican papers.
I know I have to report undocumented aliens, or whatever they are called now. The name keeps changing. But it isn't easy when you believe the person is innocent. This man probably paid a "coyote" a lot of money to come here and now he's lost it. Or perhaps not. I understand that the Border Patrol isn't sending people back until the amnesty battle in Congress is over. At any rate, I made the choice to enforce the law. Without law and order, societies break down. I know this, but I still feel terrible.
July 31, 2013
Walkabout
WALKABOUT
07/31/20130 Comments
We're back from our walkabout. It included visits to a couple of casinos, to stay at the hotel, not gamble. I hadn't been in one since I was a kid, but they're just as depressing. Many of the gamblers were overweight, handicapped and old. I remember as a child watching elderly women working slot machines for hours, using up the income they inherited from a dead husband. It's a kind of hypnosis. Indians run casinos all over the U.S. (I'm sorry, but I'm not buying into the term Native American. It makes them sound like some kind of animal species.) But what about the Indians in Nevada, the only state with legal gambling? They must feel really cheated. Anywhere else they could have been making money, but in Nevada they have to compete with the Mob.
We wandered up the California coast and discovered that many beaches cost $8 to visit. Everything in California was more expensive than Arizona. We looked for hidden trails down to the water that didn't cost anything. One of the best was Moonstone Beach near Arcata. It's the perfect place to take children. A sandbar keeps the waves away and the water next to shore is only two or three feet deep. It's like a giant swimming pool. Kids and dogs were going nuts.
On the way home we visited one of my favorite places, Mono Lake. It looks like something from another planet, weird rock formations, odd colors, a lake so salty that no fish live in it, but it is loaded with brine shrimp. These are fed on by Cuchabee Flies, also known as Alkali Flies. The rim of the lake (a recent volcanic cone) is lined with mats of these creatures. They fly up in a swarm when you get near. When I was a child there were many more flies and I remember running around the lake with friends, screaming and whooping through the clouds of flies. Okay, that might not be most people's idea of a good time, but I found them magical. Even better were the hordes of seagulls. They ran through the swarms with their mouths open, swallowing for all they were worth. Our camera battery had run down and we lost the recharger, so I had to depend on the internet for pictures.
I'm doing research for a new novel called Far Enough based partly on my childhood. One of the characters is a Cocopah Indian. They live along the Colorado River and almost nothing is written about them. I found only one good book printed in 1940. It is so rare I had to borrow a copy from an archive and scan the pages. And this neglect is a pity because the Cocopahs were a very interesting culture. There is one place in Arizona where you might find a rare, out-of-print book. It's a gamble. The owner of the bookstore sells whatever he can find from estates or old houses. We decided to visit him. He is known as the Naked Bookseller and he lives in Quartzite, Arizona. He's a nudist, except that he sensibly wears dark glasses and a hat to protect himself from the sun. The day we visited the temperature was 105 degrees in the shade. The bookstore was dark, almost like a cave, and there was no air conditioning, not even a fan. I practically fainted in there, but the Naked Bookseller (also known as Paul Winer) was perfectly comfortable. He was, not surprisingly, tanned a deep brown and in amazing shape for a 70-year-old. I suspect no one had been in all day because he really wanted to talk. I found an old book on the Quechan tribes of the Colorado River, including the Cocopah, and bought it. I found pictures of Paul on the internet, but no way can I get away with putting one up here.
Alas, you'll have to go to my blog for the pictures.
07/31/20130 Comments
We're back from our walkabout. It included visits to a couple of casinos, to stay at the hotel, not gamble. I hadn't been in one since I was a kid, but they're just as depressing. Many of the gamblers were overweight, handicapped and old. I remember as a child watching elderly women working slot machines for hours, using up the income they inherited from a dead husband. It's a kind of hypnosis. Indians run casinos all over the U.S. (I'm sorry, but I'm not buying into the term Native American. It makes them sound like some kind of animal species.) But what about the Indians in Nevada, the only state with legal gambling? They must feel really cheated. Anywhere else they could have been making money, but in Nevada they have to compete with the Mob.
We wandered up the California coast and discovered that many beaches cost $8 to visit. Everything in California was more expensive than Arizona. We looked for hidden trails down to the water that didn't cost anything. One of the best was Moonstone Beach near Arcata. It's the perfect place to take children. A sandbar keeps the waves away and the water next to shore is only two or three feet deep. It's like a giant swimming pool. Kids and dogs were going nuts.
On the way home we visited one of my favorite places, Mono Lake. It looks like something from another planet, weird rock formations, odd colors, a lake so salty that no fish live in it, but it is loaded with brine shrimp. These are fed on by Cuchabee Flies, also known as Alkali Flies. The rim of the lake (a recent volcanic cone) is lined with mats of these creatures. They fly up in a swarm when you get near. When I was a child there were many more flies and I remember running around the lake with friends, screaming and whooping through the clouds of flies. Okay, that might not be most people's idea of a good time, but I found them magical. Even better were the hordes of seagulls. They ran through the swarms with their mouths open, swallowing for all they were worth. Our camera battery had run down and we lost the recharger, so I had to depend on the internet for pictures.
I'm doing research for a new novel called Far Enough based partly on my childhood. One of the characters is a Cocopah Indian. They live along the Colorado River and almost nothing is written about them. I found only one good book printed in 1940. It is so rare I had to borrow a copy from an archive and scan the pages. And this neglect is a pity because the Cocopahs were a very interesting culture. There is one place in Arizona where you might find a rare, out-of-print book. It's a gamble. The owner of the bookstore sells whatever he can find from estates or old houses. We decided to visit him. He is known as the Naked Bookseller and he lives in Quartzite, Arizona. He's a nudist, except that he sensibly wears dark glasses and a hat to protect himself from the sun. The day we visited the temperature was 105 degrees in the shade. The bookstore was dark, almost like a cave, and there was no air conditioning, not even a fan. I practically fainted in there, but the Naked Bookseller (also known as Paul Winer) was perfectly comfortable. He was, not surprisingly, tanned a deep brown and in amazing shape for a 70-year-old. I suspect no one had been in all day because he really wanted to talk. I found an old book on the Quechan tribes of the Colorado River, including the Cocopah, and bought it. I found pictures of Paul on the internet, but no way can I get away with putting one up here.
Alas, you'll have to go to my blog for the pictures.
WALKABOUT
We're back from our walkabout. It included visits to a couple of casinos, to stay at the hotel, not gamble. I hadn't been in one since I was a kid, but they're just as depressing. Many of the gamblers were overweight, handicapped and old. I remember as a child watching elderly women working slot machines for hours, using up the income they inherited from a dead husband. It's a kind of hypnosis. Indians run casinos all over the U.S. (I'm sorry, but I'm not buying into the term Native American. It makes them sound like some kind of animal species.) But what about the Indians in Nevada, the only state with legal gambling? They must feel really cheated. Anywhere else they could have been making money, but in Nevada they have to compete with the Mob.
We wandered up the California coast and discovered that many beaches cost $8 to visit. Everything in California was more expensive than Arizona. We looked for hidden trails down to the water that didn't cost anything. One of the best was Moonstone Beach near Arcata. It's the perfect place to take children. A sandbar keeps the waves away and the water next to shore is only two or three feet deep. It's like a giant swimming pool. Kids and dogs were going nuts.
On the way home we visited one of my favorite places, Mono Lake. It looks like something from another planet, weird rock formations, odd colors, a lake so salty that no fish live in it, but it is loaded with brine shrimp. These are fed on by Cuchabee Flies, also known as Alkali Flies. The rim of the lake (a recent volcanic cone) is lined with mats of these creatures. They fly up in a swarm when you get near. When I was a child there were many more flies and I remember running around the lake with friends, screaming and whooping through the clouds of flies. Okay, that might not be most people's idea of a good time, but I found them magical. Even better were the hordes of seagulls. They ran through the swarms with their mouths open, swallowing for all they were worth. Our camera battery had run down and we lost the recharger, so I had to depend on the internet for pictures.
I'm doing research for a new novel called Far Enough based partly on my childhood. One of the characters is a Cocopah Indian. They live along the Colorado River and almost nothing is written about them. I found only one good book printed in 1940. It is so rare I had to borrow a copy from an archive and scan the pages. And this neglect is a pity because the Cocopahs were a very interesting culture. There is one place in Arizona where you might find a rare, out-of-print book. It's a gamble. The owner of the bookstore sells whatever he can find from estates or old houses. We decided to visit him. He is known as the Naked Bookseller and he lives in Quartzite, Arizona. He's a nudist, except that he sensibly wears dark glasses and a hat to protect himself from the sun. The day we visited the temperature was 105 degrees in the shade. The bookstore was dark, almost like a cave, and there was no air conditioning, not even a fan. I practically fainted in there, but the Naked Bookseller (also known as Paul Winer) was perfectly comfortable. He was, not surprisingly, tanned a deep brown and in amazing shape for a 70-year-old. I suspect no one had been in all day because he really wanted to talk. I found an old book on the Quechan tribes of the Colorado River, including the Cocopah, and bought it. I found pictures of Paul on the internet, but no way can I get away with putting one up here.
MONO LAKE 
A MAT OF CUCHABEE FLIES 
SEA GULL HAVING LUNCH
We wandered up the California coast and discovered that many beaches cost $8 to visit. Everything in California was more expensive than Arizona. We looked for hidden trails down to the water that didn't cost anything. One of the best was Moonstone Beach near Arcata. It's the perfect place to take children. A sandbar keeps the waves away and the water next to shore is only two or three feet deep. It's like a giant swimming pool. Kids and dogs were going nuts.
On the way home we visited one of my favorite places, Mono Lake. It looks like something from another planet, weird rock formations, odd colors, a lake so salty that no fish live in it, but it is loaded with brine shrimp. These are fed on by Cuchabee Flies, also known as Alkali Flies. The rim of the lake (a recent volcanic cone) is lined with mats of these creatures. They fly up in a swarm when you get near. When I was a child there were many more flies and I remember running around the lake with friends, screaming and whooping through the clouds of flies. Okay, that might not be most people's idea of a good time, but I found them magical. Even better were the hordes of seagulls. They ran through the swarms with their mouths open, swallowing for all they were worth. Our camera battery had run down and we lost the recharger, so I had to depend on the internet for pictures.
I'm doing research for a new novel called Far Enough based partly on my childhood. One of the characters is a Cocopah Indian. They live along the Colorado River and almost nothing is written about them. I found only one good book printed in 1940. It is so rare I had to borrow a copy from an archive and scan the pages. And this neglect is a pity because the Cocopahs were a very interesting culture. There is one place in Arizona where you might find a rare, out-of-print book. It's a gamble. The owner of the bookstore sells whatever he can find from estates or old houses. We decided to visit him. He is known as the Naked Bookseller and he lives in Quartzite, Arizona. He's a nudist, except that he sensibly wears dark glasses and a hat to protect himself from the sun. The day we visited the temperature was 105 degrees in the shade. The bookstore was dark, almost like a cave, and there was no air conditioning, not even a fan. I practically fainted in there, but the Naked Bookseller (also known as Paul Winer) was perfectly comfortable. He was, not surprisingly, tanned a deep brown and in amazing shape for a 70-year-old. I suspect no one had been in all day because he really wanted to talk. I found an old book on the Quechan tribes of the Colorado River, including the Cocopah, and bought it. I found pictures of Paul on the internet, but no way can I get away with putting one up here.
MONO LAKE A MAT OF CUCHABEE FLIES SEA GULL HAVING LUNCH
June 26, 2013
FREE EBOOK AGAIN
June 26, 2013
FREE EBOOK AGAIN!!!!
For a short time the ebook of A New Year's Tale will be free. I don't know when (or whether) I will do this again. We are going on walkabout next week. "Walkabout" is an Australian word for wandering without any schedule or destination, my favorite kind of vacation. When you book hotels or campsites you are put on a SCHEDULE and can't take advantage of a perfectly beautiful discovery because you have to move on. Harold worries that we won't find a place to stay at the last minute, but that's why God created sleeping bags. You have all kinds of adventures. Once I camped out on a lovely beach to wake up after the tide came in and I was floating away. Enjoy the ebook.
FREE EBOOK AGAIN!!!!
For a short time the ebook of A New Year's Tale will be free. I don't know when (or whether) I will do this again. We are going on walkabout next week. "Walkabout" is an Australian word for wandering without any schedule or destination, my favorite kind of vacation. When you book hotels or campsites you are put on a SCHEDULE and can't take advantage of a perfectly beautiful discovery because you have to move on. Harold worries that we won't find a place to stay at the last minute, but that's why God created sleeping bags. You have all kinds of adventures. Once I camped out on a lovely beach to wake up after the tide came in and I was floating away. Enjoy the ebook.
FREE EBOOK AGAIN
FREE EBOOK AGAIN!!!!
For a short time the ebook of A New Year's Tale will be free. I don't know when (or whether) I will do this again. We are going on walkabout next week. "Walkabout" is an Australian word for wandering without any schedule or destination, my favorite kind of vacation. When you book hotels or campsites you are put on a SCHEDULE and can't take advantage of a perfectly beautiful discovery because you have to move on. Harold worries that we won't find a place to stay at the last minute, but that's why God created sleeping bags. You have all kinds of adventures. Once I camped out on a lovely beach to wake up after the tide came in and I was floating away. Enjoy the ebook.
For a short time the ebook of A New Year's Tale will be free. I don't know when (or whether) I will do this again. We are going on walkabout next week. "Walkabout" is an Australian word for wandering without any schedule or destination, my favorite kind of vacation. When you book hotels or campsites you are put on a SCHEDULE and can't take advantage of a perfectly beautiful discovery because you have to move on. Harold worries that we won't find a place to stay at the last minute, but that's why God created sleeping bags. You have all kinds of adventures. Once I camped out on a lovely beach to wake up after the tide came in and I was floating away. Enjoy the ebook.
June 15, 2013
MORE FREE STUFF
A New Year's Tale, my adult novel, is free for download today, June 15, 2013. This is for the ebook only. The paperback edition has been priced as low as I am allowed by CreateSpace. Enjoy.
To answer Angel Garcia (my, you ARE busy): I am considering a separate topic on my website about writing. I trained myself from scratch in Central Africa -- no MFA, no writing courses, no support group. I had an old manual typewriter and ribbons that were so dried out you could hardly read the print. I had yellowish paper that degraded into dust after a couple of years. And yet I succeeded. I probably won't do this new topic until after we come back from walkabout -- August, probably. Harold and I wander for a month in places with no cell phone coverage, no internet connection, TV or radio.
As for whether I have Native American blood, everyone whose family has been in the U.S. since 1620 (or before) has Native American blood. The question is how much? All four of my grandparents supplied it, but were vague about how it came about. People used to lie about such things. What I do know is that my brother and I don't look Indian at all, but our mother did and our sister does. One story I was able to track down was about my father's mother. Her grandfather was from an English Catholic family that fled to Portugal during the battles between Catholics and Protestant. He was the third son, which meant that instead of inheriting or going into the army, he was shipped off to a monastery. He escaped and fled to England, where he was promptly sent back by relatives. The next time he escaped he changed his name, signed onto a ship going to America and went out into the wilds to live with the Iroquois. He had two Iroquois wives and it is from there that the family tree descended.
What was my mother's father doing on a reservation? There's an interesting story to that, too. He was herding sheep in Northern Utah when he came down with Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever from a tick bite. This is often fatal and in those days there were no antibiotics. Grandpa was so weak he could only crawl. He saw a fire in the distance and managed to reach a camp full of cattlemen. Cattlemen and sheepmen fought bitterly in those days, and they told him to crawl on. They weren't going to help him. After a while Grandpa saw another, smaller fire and found a group of Ute Indians. They had a shaman with them, who mixed up a perfectly vile medicine. The Indians had to hold Grandpa down and pry open his jaws to get him to drink it. But it worked! They cared for him until he was better. Later, he took the job of running the trading post on the White Rocks Reservation. The previous merchant had been killed during the last war the Utes ever had. This was known as the Meeker Massacre, and Meeker was killed by a woman called Old Sugar who drove a stake through his head. Grandpa, however, got along fine and learned to speak Ute.
To answer Angel Garcia (my, you ARE busy): I am considering a separate topic on my website about writing. I trained myself from scratch in Central Africa -- no MFA, no writing courses, no support group. I had an old manual typewriter and ribbons that were so dried out you could hardly read the print. I had yellowish paper that degraded into dust after a couple of years. And yet I succeeded. I probably won't do this new topic until after we come back from walkabout -- August, probably. Harold and I wander for a month in places with no cell phone coverage, no internet connection, TV or radio.
As for whether I have Native American blood, everyone whose family has been in the U.S. since 1620 (or before) has Native American blood. The question is how much? All four of my grandparents supplied it, but were vague about how it came about. People used to lie about such things. What I do know is that my brother and I don't look Indian at all, but our mother did and our sister does. One story I was able to track down was about my father's mother. Her grandfather was from an English Catholic family that fled to Portugal during the battles between Catholics and Protestant. He was the third son, which meant that instead of inheriting or going into the army, he was shipped off to a monastery. He escaped and fled to England, where he was promptly sent back by relatives. The next time he escaped he changed his name, signed onto a ship going to America and went out into the wilds to live with the Iroquois. He had two Iroquois wives and it is from there that the family tree descended.
What was my mother's father doing on a reservation? There's an interesting story to that, too. He was herding sheep in Northern Utah when he came down with Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever from a tick bite. This is often fatal and in those days there were no antibiotics. Grandpa was so weak he could only crawl. He saw a fire in the distance and managed to reach a camp full of cattlemen. Cattlemen and sheepmen fought bitterly in those days, and they told him to crawl on. They weren't going to help him. After a while Grandpa saw another, smaller fire and found a group of Ute Indians. They had a shaman with them, who mixed up a perfectly vile medicine. The Indians had to hold Grandpa down and pry open his jaws to get him to drink it. But it worked! They cared for him until he was better. Later, he took the job of running the trading post on the White Rocks Reservation. The previous merchant had been killed during the last war the Utes ever had. This was known as the Meeker Massacre, and Meeker was killed by a woman called Old Sugar who drove a stake through his head. Grandpa, however, got along fine and learned to speak Ute.
FREE STUFF AGAIN
A New Year's Tale, my adult novel, is free for download today, June 15, 2013. This is for the ebook only. The paperback edition has been priced as low as I am allowed by CreateSpace. Enjoy.
To answer Angel Garcia (my, you ARE busy): I am considering a separate topic on my website about writing. I trained myself from scratch in Central Africa -- no MFA, no writing courses, no support group. I had an old manual typewriter and ribbons that were so dried out you could hardly read the print. I had yellowish paper that degraded into dust after a couple of years. And yet I succeeded. I probably won't do this new topic until after we come back from walkabout -- August, probably. Harold and I wander for a month in places with no cell phone coverage, no internet connection, TV or radio.
As for whether I have Native American blood, everyone whose family has been in the U.S. since 1620 (or before) has Native American blood. The question is how much? All four of my grandparents supplied it, but were vague about how it came about. People used to lie about such things. What I do know is that my brother and I don't look Indian at all, but our mother did and our sister does. One story I was able to track down was about my father's mother. Her grandfather was from an English Catholic family that fled to Portugal during the battles between Catholics and Protestant. He was the third son, which meant that instead of inheriting or going into the army, he was shipped off to a monastery. He escaped and fled to England, where he was promptly sent back by relatives. The next time he escaped he changed his name, signed onto a ship going to America and went out into the wilds to live with the Iroquois. He had two Iroquois wives and it is from there that the family tree descended.
What was my mother's father doing on a reservation? There's an interesting story to that, too. He was herding sheep in Northern Utah when he came down with Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever from a tick bite. This is often fatal and in those days there were no antibiotics. Grandpa was so weak he could only crawl. He saw a fire in the distance and managed to reach a camp full of cattlemen. Cattlemen and sheepmen fought bitterly in those days, and they told him to crawl on. They weren't going to help him. After a while Grandpa saw another, smaller fire and found a group of Ute Indians. They had a shaman with them, who mixed up a perfectly vile medicine. The Indians had to hold Grandpa down and pry open his jaws to get him to drink it. But it worked! They cared for him until he was better. Later, he took the job of running the trading post on the White Rocks Reservation. The previous merchant had been killed during the last war the Utes ever had. This was known as the Meeker Massacre, and Meeker was killed by a woman called Old Sugar who drove a stake through his head. Grandpa, however, got along fine and learned to speak Ute.
To answer Angel Garcia (my, you ARE busy): I am considering a separate topic on my website about writing. I trained myself from scratch in Central Africa -- no MFA, no writing courses, no support group. I had an old manual typewriter and ribbons that were so dried out you could hardly read the print. I had yellowish paper that degraded into dust after a couple of years. And yet I succeeded. I probably won't do this new topic until after we come back from walkabout -- August, probably. Harold and I wander for a month in places with no cell phone coverage, no internet connection, TV or radio.
As for whether I have Native American blood, everyone whose family has been in the U.S. since 1620 (or before) has Native American blood. The question is how much? All four of my grandparents supplied it, but were vague about how it came about. People used to lie about such things. What I do know is that my brother and I don't look Indian at all, but our mother did and our sister does. One story I was able to track down was about my father's mother. Her grandfather was from an English Catholic family that fled to Portugal during the battles between Catholics and Protestant. He was the third son, which meant that instead of inheriting or going into the army, he was shipped off to a monastery. He escaped and fled to England, where he was promptly sent back by relatives. The next time he escaped he changed his name, signed onto a ship going to America and went out into the wilds to live with the Iroquois. He had two Iroquois wives and it is from there that the family tree descended.
What was my mother's father doing on a reservation? There's an interesting story to that, too. He was herding sheep in Northern Utah when he came down with Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever from a tick bite. This is often fatal and in those days there were no antibiotics. Grandpa was so weak he could only crawl. He saw a fire in the distance and managed to reach a camp full of cattlemen. Cattlemen and sheepmen fought bitterly in those days, and they told him to crawl on. They weren't going to help him. After a while Grandpa saw another, smaller fire and found a group of Ute Indians. They had a shaman with them, who mixed up a perfectly vile medicine. The Indians had to hold Grandpa down and pry open his jaws to get him to drink it. But it worked! They cared for him until he was better. Later, he took the job of running the trading post on the White Rocks Reservation. The previous merchant had been killed during the last war the Utes ever had. This was known as the Meeker Massacre, and Meeker was killed by a woman called Old Sugar who drove a stake through his head. Grandpa, however, got along fine and learned to speak Ute.
June 8, 2013
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FREE EBOOK TODAY: 6-8-13
My new adult novel, A New Year's Tale, is free to download today. This refers to the ebook only. Enjoy.
On a personal note, here is a photograph of myself as a small child on the Ute reservation in Whiterocks, Utah, where my mother grew up. I never knew this picture existed. I had entirely forgotten about the woman sitting next to me until I saw it. Her name was Nellie Yannawits (my brother says her name was Yannawoods, but I can't find it anywhere) and she was a friend of my grandmother. I followed her around and Nellie was kind enough to put up with me. She once made me a straw doll with a corn husk dress and corn silk hair. I loved it, but didn't realize that corn silk spoils rapidly. The next day the hair had turned black and I was devastated, so Nellie glued on more hair from a silk weed plant. Once she led me to a wild crab apple tree loaded with fruit. She allowed me to eat as much as I wanted (17 apples) and of course I was sick later. I guess she figured I would have to learn the hard way when to stop. In this picture Nellie looks about ninety, but she was probably sixty. She had led a hard life. I look about five, but was probably seven. I was extremely small for my age.
Alas, Goodreads folk will have to go to my website to see the picture.
My new adult novel, A New Year's Tale, is free to download today. This refers to the ebook only. Enjoy.
On a personal note, here is a photograph of myself as a small child on the Ute reservation in Whiterocks, Utah, where my mother grew up. I never knew this picture existed. I had entirely forgotten about the woman sitting next to me until I saw it. Her name was Nellie Yannawits (my brother says her name was Yannawoods, but I can't find it anywhere) and she was a friend of my grandmother. I followed her around and Nellie was kind enough to put up with me. She once made me a straw doll with a corn husk dress and corn silk hair. I loved it, but didn't realize that corn silk spoils rapidly. The next day the hair had turned black and I was devastated, so Nellie glued on more hair from a silk weed plant. Once she led me to a wild crab apple tree loaded with fruit. She allowed me to eat as much as I wanted (17 apples) and of course I was sick later. I guess she figured I would have to learn the hard way when to stop. In this picture Nellie looks about ninety, but she was probably sixty. She had led a hard life. I look about five, but was probably seven. I was extremely small for my age.
Alas, Goodreads folk will have to go to my website to see the picture.
