Nancy Dane's Blog

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Thanks so much!

      I recently read a historical fiction about the American Revolution.  The author was a fairly good writer in all aspects but one.  Although she got the big historical picture correct concerning battles and historical figures, she did not do her research well enough on the every day life style of the times.  Case in point, her heroine caught fireflies, put them into a glass canning jar, and watched them light up her room at night.

As I read this, the writer lost creditability with me.  Let me pause to state that I may be guilty of exactly the same type of blunder in my writing. (If you catch anything like this let me know so I won’t repeat the error!)  It is a dangerous pitfall for all writers of historical fiction. Granted, most readers will read right over the jar-firefly incident without notice. I happened to catch it instantly, probably because research for my Civil War series included the history of the canning jar.  I didn’t want my characters canning in Mason jars unless they were actually in use at the time.  In case you are interested in a  bit of trivia, here is what I learned:

In 1795 Napoleon Bonaparte offered money to anyone who discovered a new way to preserve food for his troops. In 1810, hoping for the reward, a man named Nicolas Appert invented a process that sealed food inside a jar through a system of heating and cooling with wax and wire lid, but the lid proved unreliable, and the jar was not the clear glass we know today.

In 1812 Thomas Kensett began a sealed canning factory in New York, originally using a type of glass jars but later the factory was converted to use of tin cans. In 1858 the Mason Jar made it’s first appearance, named for John Mason, the inventor of the patent for a glass jar sealed with a threaded zinc cap.  Although it was invented before the Civil War, it doesn’t seem to have been widely used for home canning in the South until after the war.

 

      Since I’m almost finished writing my latest novel, I’ll soon have to make that most difficult of decisions, what to name it.  You may think that comes easy to an author.  Not to me.  I have struggled with picking a suitable title for each and every one of my books.  The key word here is suitable.  Oh, I can come up with countless ideas, and just as quickly have to discard them as I run them past my faithful advisors (usually my husband first, after that assorted members of my family and then friends).  If hubby lets out a big groan I immediately scratch the title. And that happens all too frequently.
      I didn’t have this much trouble naming my children.  There I tended to pick old-fashioned, tried and true names, mostly from the Bible.  That hasn’t worked so well for novel titles.  While trying to name this book, I skimmed through a few chapters of the Good Book, but nothing suitable jumped out.
     I took another close look at the storyline and thought awhile longer. If I didn’t have to consider my reading public, I’d have a neat name already; The Widow and the Bachelor.  Has a nice ring, doesn’t it?  But hold on…what manly American male would buy it?  Of course, my sales to females might actually increase.  This title might intrigue the avid romance reader. Then again the story is not (and I repeat NOT) a bodice ripper so the title might be a bit misleading.
     This book has nothing to do with the Civil War, so the titles I considered using on the last series are null and void.  It is set in the reconstruction era, a time when the city of Clarksville was known as Bloody Clarksville.  Now there’s a title for you.  But what self-respecting female would buy it?  Reconstruction was a lawless time, which is why I’m naming the accompanying history book Tarnished Justice.  The novel has its share of violence, and yet that certainly does not define it. I don’t want a title that leaves that impression, so The Hanging of Sid Wallace is definitely out; besides he’s not really a main character, just part of the storyline so…Back to the drawing board.
     My working title is now simply Bill Tanner.  I like it.  Simple and easy to remember.  However, this is equally the story of a widow named Abigail Anderson.  Guess I could call it Bill Tanner and Abigail Anderson.  Then again maybe not.  Ugh!
     I’ll keep hoping for divine inspiration, and in the mean time I’ll just call it a darn good book.  Hope to have it finished and in your hands soon.  Oh yes, and sporting the perfect title.

 

My husband’s favorite Christmas dessert is no-bake fruitcake.  It could be because I don’t really care for this goodie myself that I forgot to pick up the supplies until today, two days before Christmas.  Whatever the reason, oh boy, did I ever pay dearly for my oversight! 

First of all there were no boxes of graham cracker crumbs on the grocery shelf, so I hunted down and finally found a helpful employee.  She checked the computer and said there were some boxes in the storeroom and she would gladly get them.  I thanked her profusely. Twenty minutes later I decided she had definitely taken a smoke/potty break.  I would have given up and moved on, but I needed those crumbs!  Finally she returned with said boxes. I certainly was glad to move on so people would stop glaring at me for blocking the busy, crowded baking supplies aisle. 

Now where had they moved the large jars of marshmallow cream?  You mean these tiny jars were all they had left???  Ok, I could deal with that.  I’d just buy several.  Then it was on to find the candied fruit, nuts, white raisins, sweetened condensed milk and dates. 

On my quest to find candied fruit, four Wal-Mart employees sent me to four different locations as far across the store as possible from the last place I looked (one even sent me from the seasonal section to the Pharmacy!)  I do think they were having a good laugh on their radios at my expense, but how can I prove this? Anyway, in reality the candied fruit was sold out and had been for some time.  Never fear I got on the phone and started calling other stores.  Found green cherries at Kroger but who wants just green candied cherries in a fruitcake?  No! I decided to hold out.  All of the other markets I called or stopped at on the way home had none.  Although I had forgotten the white raisins, so at least I picked them up at one of these stores. 

Still no candied fruit.  Ok, I’m a good improviser.  I’ll just make my own candied fruit!  A while back I had picked and frozen some cherries, and there was canned pineapple in the pantry, so I headed home, unloaded the groceries, and started putting the cake together.  After digging to the bottom of the chest freezer, I finally found the cherries.  Since I had already put the pineapple and sugar onto boil, why not just dump the cherries in too?  They are all going into the cake together, right?  So I dumped, and just at that moment I saw some stems clinging to the cherries and I thought, “What in the world?”  Only then did I realize this bag of cherries had not been pitted.  What!  Who in the world would freeze cherries without pitting them first???  Apparently me.  I must have been busy that day.

Now I had a boiling sticky mess, but I couldn’t just dump it out and start over because that was my last bag of cherries.  Ugh!  I let the mess cool, picked out every single cherry, and then pitted each one.  Had to add more sugar because a lot of it was now on my hands and stuck to the pits. I cooked the cherries and pineapple all together again.  Did you know it takes lots of sugar and a couple of hours of boiling to make candied fruit?  How could I have ever griped at the price of those little tubs in the store.  Too cheap, too cheap!

Oh yeah, remember the green candied cherries no one wants exclusively in a fruitcake?  Well, a wise woman changes her mind.  My cherries are now a funky shade of green (or is that gray?) I stirred them into the crumbs anyway and added the other good stuff.  Wait…I looked again in every sack.  Then in my best Charlie Brown voice I yelled at the top of my lungs, “GOOD GRIEF! I can’t believe there are no candied dates in any of my grocery sacks!!!.

Recently I went walking down Memory Lane, sort of
thinking what I might include in a children’s book if I decided to write one
based on my family’s life.  We’ve had
some adventures worthy of a novel while living on our mountaintop farm!  I still laugh each time I think of the story
I’m about to share. I hope you get a chuckle, too.

Ours was a working, farm, the kind
where our kids had to get up at 5:00 AM, while it was still black outside, to
milk cows and feed calves before boarding the school bus at 7:00 A.M. for the
long ride to a small school in the valley. 
Our four kids took turns milking, two going to the barn at a time.  This particular time was Joe’s and Sharon’s
turn.  Joe was in fifth grade, and
Sharon was in eighth and old enough to start primping.  This created problems, because Joe’s morning
timetable time included sleeping as late as possible and crawling out of bed to
hurry to the barn and then back to the house for breakfast with only seconds to
spare for a quick teeth brushing, whereas Sharon, in her opinion, needed at
least an hour to get presentable.

The problem was intensified because
Sharon, a natural-born fraidy-cat, was terrified to go outside in the dark
alone.  As you can imagine this was a
constant bone of contention and usually ended with either Ma or Pa pulling Joe
out of bed by the ear (figuratively speaking) and handing him a milk bucket.

This morning was no exception,
except that Sharon grew impatient and finally, grabbing a milk bucket and a
headlight, she headed to the barn alone. We had electricity at the barn but the
long path was pitch dark, so the kids wore battery-powered headlights like coon
hunters or miners. 

I was busy frying ham and eggs so
Pa had the honor of urging son from his warm bed and shoving him out the door
after sister, who had now been gone for several minutes.  In a short while, much to our surprise, both
kids came barreling back into the house with empty buckets and faces as white
as ghosts.  At first they were too out
of breath to speak, but finally came excited gestures and the words, “Panther…barn
yard…big pine tree.” My husband grabbed a shotgun and ran out the
door.  While he was gone, I heard the
rest of the story.

Sharon had arrived at the barnyard
gate and was opening it when she heard a hiss coming from the big pine tree
just beyond the gate.  She looked
up.  There in the pool of light created
by her headlamp, on a limb high above her head, was a big, black panther.

Joe had started down the path just
as the panther gave a loud, blood-curdling scream.  He thought it was his sister. 
With heart in throat, he began running and yelling, becoming even more
terrified when she didn’t answer.  When
he got to the gate, she was still frozen, staring at the panther, and the
panther was still staring at her.  Joe
yanked her arm and they flew back to the house.  The panther, thank God, did not give chase.

Before long my husband returned.  He had not gotten a glimpse of the big cat.

He put the gun away, while telling
the kids next time this happened, one of them needed to keep shining the light
in the panther’s eyes so it wouldn’t run off while the other one slipped back
to the house to get him so he could go shoot it.

Quick as a flash, Sharon, her eyes
as big as saucers, said, “Daddy, may I please be the one that comes to get
you?”

She is all grown up now, and a beautiful, caring
sort of person, but I have a feeling she would still want to be the one…

Yes, there were panthers in
Arkansas thirty years ago.  I saw one
myself.  There may still be a few.  We have lots of wildlife in our woods,
including plenty of bears.  I recently saw
one on our farm. Hey, next time I might share one of our true-story bear
adventures.  We’ve had several of those!

    

                                          My desk covered with source documents

     Never say never.  I learned that lesson well from my mother, or at least I thought I had.  She impressed me with the seriousness of this by relating her experience.  Years ago, the day she had all her teeth pulled in preparation for dentures, she confidently told her dentist, “They say you should never say never, but I will never have another tooth pulled!”   A few weeks later, he reminded her of that rash proclamation when he was once again pulling one of her teeth.  It had been impacted, and this time, in the process of trying to remove it, he accidentally broke her jaw. (For you dental-phobics, let me assure you this was many, many years ago!)

     I have awesome teeth and have never even had a cavity, so I suppose overconfidence prompted me to say that ominous phrase to my husband a few years ago, “I will never…”  I was referring to something I decided I would never write, the Sid Wallace story.  Sid was a young man, a character in our local history, who was either a vile, cold-blooded villain or a noble avenger of wrongs. Take your pick.  There are about equal paper trails and stories to support either. I came across his story, again and again, in books, in modern day newspaper articles, and even one college term paper.  And I’ve been told differing versions numerous times.  It was a story that definitely did not need retelling.  Right? 

     By now I’m sure you’ve figured it out.  Yes, I am writing about Sid Wallace. He is not the main character in the novel I’m currently writing, but his story will be intertwined.  If you’re the curious sort, I’m sure you’re wondering why.  SOURCE DOCUMENTS.  Yep, they were my downfall.  While researching a totally unrelated subject, I found source documents with pertinent facts which were known in Sid’s time but had been lost in the intervening years, at least they never appeared in any of the articles or books I read, and they contradicted many things now alleged to be true.

     I am neither superstitious nor given to whimsy, but I could almost hear Sid’s voice crying out from the grave (or maybe it was his mother) begging that these facts come to light.  It won’t right what I believe was a horrific injustice, but¾to coin another old maxim¾better late than never.

     Lest you suspect that I’m leaning way overboard on the side of nonsensical romance, let me assure you that I am skeptical of tales that turn alleged villains into heroes.  I had assumed Sid was guilty, an interesting character with a story that lent itself to reinventing him as a knight in shining armor when he was probably anything but!  And I’m still not claiming he was heroic.  I am claiming he did not get a fair shake, so I’m compiling all the source documents and writing the novel based on them. The project is still months from completion, but when the novel and the supporting history book are finished, you, dear reader, can make up your own mind.  Until then I leave you with one final caution, “Never, no never, say never!”

 

The article below first appeared on Mark Mingle’s blog (my marketing representative) on my publisher’s website in May of 2010.  Although much water has gone under the bridge since then, the marketing tips I shared remain totally pertinent.  I hope this will give fellow authors a few new idea as well as encouragement!

 

“Below are Nancy's terrific thoughts regarding author sales and her successful venture to become one of Tate Publishing's best-selling authors. It didn't come easy, and it was not done overnight. But Nancy has found her audience and is one of the hardest working authors I know. And best of all¾she is having a blast selling books!”

 

Great Writer¾Few Sales? What Works for Me

In the four years I’ve been published, I’ve learned some valuable and sometimes hard lessons. Most of all I’ve learned that success is spelled h-a-r-d w-o-r-k. There’s just no getting around it. I don’t care how excellent the book¾if you aren’t willing to get out and promote, you are doomed to fail. There may be exceptions to this, but I haven’t seen any.

I often tease that my books sell well because I’m more used-car salesman than anything. Only slightly a joke! A good sales campaign is imperative for success. A few keys for reaching that goal:

1. Find your audience and target them. (I write Civil War historical fiction, so I go to Civil War events, reenactments, etc.) At events, I talk to people and engage them in conversation as they pass by. If not, that is exactly what they will do¾pass you by!

2. Accept public speaking engagements. (Even if you are petrified, go ahead. You’ll either die of fright or get better at it!) J

3. Write more than one book. Several titles give credibility to an author and make a table display more impressive.

4. Watch for and then walk through every door of opportunity. For example, I now do professional development seminars for teachers. As a result, my books are being used as curriculum in Arkansas Public schools.

5. Develop a website (for ideas check out mine at www.nancydane.com ) and have business cards with the web address. Also I’ve sold books to old high school chums because of my 'Nancy Dane' Facebook page. Send me a friend invitation!

6. Let me say it again¾you can’t sit home and write and expect the books to sell themselves. Get out there and promote. Ultimately, the motto for success is lots of h-a-r-d w-o-r-k. The resulting sales are worth it. I now enjoy the thrill of great fan mail and readers clamoring for Book Three in my 'Tattered Glory' series.

End of article

If you haven’t joined me on Facebook here is a link to my fanpage.  If you click the like button you will automatically be entered into future drawings for free autographed novels.  www.facebook.com/nancydanebooks  

 

 

 

 

 

     Other than people writing to tell me they love my books, the number one email I receive is someone asking how to find a publisher and/or how I became a success.  (Hmmm…nice to know I’m a success.  Some days I’m not so sure.)

     So you want to be a writer, or you’ve already written something and you’re looking for a publisher. I can’t help you much with this; just give you a few tips.  There are a lot of scams, so if you are considering going with a publisher that charges fees, do your homework.  Contact an author who has used them.  I recently had an email from a girl in Texas about to pay twelve thousand dollars to a print-on-demand company that had agreed to give her a contract.  Oh, really?  I’ll just bet they agreed!  Guess they didn’t mention that she could easily find one offering the same service for thousands less.

     I am not opposed to self-publishing.  I self-publish my documentary Tattered Glory.   I didn’t even use a company, just put the manuscript together on CD and had them done at a local copy store using heavy paper stock and laminated covers.  Might be an option to consider if you are doing a non-fiction.

     Of course a novel is different.  I am blessed to have a publishing contract for those. Seven years ago, I sent my first manuscript off to several places and got nice, encouraging rejections (a rejection by any other name is still a rejection) so I know how you feel if you have gotten a few! 

     The publisher I’m with has some authors they don’t charge, and I’m blessed to be one of them.  I think the going rate for the others is about $4,000 per book.  I’m very pleased with the service I receive EXCEPT for one minor detail.

     That leads me to a topic I could go on and on about.  I started to say, I wish someone had told me early on about this aspect of being a writer, but perhaps ignorance is bliss.  I might never have pursued this career, and even with all the negatives, I’m still glad I did.  If you don’t want the cold, hard facts stop reading this blog now and go merrily on your way to fame and fortune!  If however you want the unvarnished truth as I’ve experienced it, here it is:

     Writing the book and finding a publisher is the easy part.  Then comes the real work.  No publisher will do this for you.  It is one word that sounds easy if you say it real fast.  MARKETING. Already you’re arguing, “But my research shows this publisher has an excellent marketing package”.  And that may very well be true, however, the key that opens that package is you, the author.  If you doubt me, pick any successful author and see how many days a year they spend on the road promoting.  By the way, if you think all you have to do is show up at a bookstore, wearing a pleasant smile and people who never heard of you will flock to your table and beg you to sign a book…sorry, ain’t gonna happen.  But more on this on my next blog.  Hope you’ll check back next month. 

 

     My eldest daughter goes all out decorating for Christmas.  Her house always looks like a Christmas magazine photo shoot.  See what I mean?

 

 

      This year is no exception.  A few days ago we were having a conversation and she dropped tiredly into a chair and said, “Why do I do it?  Go to all this work for Christmas?’  To which my husband replied, “You’re making memories.”

     Now that resonated with me, and apparently with her too, for much to my amazement, when we entered her house last evening, along with her usual “Martha Stewart” décor, in the butler’s pantry stood a Charlie Brown Christmas Tree.  On it attached with paper clips were family Christmas photos from years past.  She was just getting started, but already had enough photos that her Dad and I spent half an hour looking and remembering.  It is in no way gorgeous like her other tree, or like her trees from years past, but let me tell you, we spent far more time looking at it than we have at any other.

 

 

     My suggestion, this Christmas take the effort to make some memories with your family.  It doesn’t have to cost a thing. One of my children’s favorite memories is when they were tiny I would bundle them up on Christmas Eve night and their Dad would take them outside to check the sky for Santa and the reindeers.  Even though they knew it was all pretend, they loved it!  (We never taught our children to believe in Santa or any of the make-believe things like Tooth Fairy, for we wanted them to know we would never lie to them about anything.  Nonetheless we always had fun pretending and it never lessened their joy on Christmas morning.)

     Another thing we ALWAYS did on Christmas Eve was to gather in the Living Room around the coffee table in front of the fireplace.  Then by candlelight my husband would read the account in Luke of the birth of the Christ Child.  I am happy to say we still do this and so do our four children in their homes.  I am so glad the tradition is still alive for my twelve grandchildren.  Although none of the grands are married yet, I have a feeling when they do and I visit in their homes on Christmas Eve, I will hear Luke’s account of the Greatest Story Ever Told.
 
MERRY CHRISTMAS to all!

 

For my first blog, I decided to give a sneak preview of a project I'm doing for the Arkansas Newspaper Foundation for the Newspapers In Education program.  It is a ten chapter serial, written for middle school children, that will appear in newspapers in the spring of 2013.  I Hope you enjoy!

Sarah Campbell

 

The Tale of A Civil War Orphan

 

Chapter One  A Dreadful Day

 

     Hens scratched the dirt, singing the song that contented chickens sing¾at least it seemed like a song to Sarah.  They came flapping and clucking when they saw her with a bucket on her arm.  She scattered a few handfuls of shelled corn and then tossed another in Henrietta’s direction.  Henrietta was her favorite.  The dark red hen was getting old and slow in the flurry to snatch feed, and yet she still lay a brown, double-yoked egg every day, and she never pecked Sarah’s hand as some hens did when she reached under the plump, feathery bodies to gather the eggs.

     When a bantam rooster, a rainbow of colors, ran in Henrietta’s direction, Sarah shooed him away.  “Get Caesar!  You’re being a hog!  You had plenty right over¾”

     “Sarah, hurry up.”  The call drifted across the dusty yard covered with short dead grass and into the chicken pen.

     She answered her mother’s call.  “I’ll be right there, Ma.”  But she stayed long enough to once again chase Caesar away.

     “I can’t let you out today,” she told the chickens, “We’re going to town and Ma’s afraid with us gone something will get after you.”  She exited the gate and lowered the wire latch over the post.  Then she ran into the barn to hang the bucket on a peg, but stopped long enough to watch Pa squirt a long stream of warm milk from the cow’s udder into the mouth of the big gray cat seated alongside the milking stool.  Some milk splashed over the cat’s face but most landed on the rosy-pink tongue. 

     Sarah laughed. “Pa, you hit her mouth every time.”

     He grinned.  “I’ve had plenty of practice.”  Before resuming milking, he said, “We both better hurry or your ma will leave without us.”

     “Oh, Pa!”  The very idea of Ma going all the way to Fort Smith without them made her smile. 

     She stooped to give the cat a quick pat on the head and then she ran toward the small frame house to get dressed in her best calico, along with matching pink hair ribbons for each black braid, and freshly shined high-topped boots with a dozen buttons up the sides.      
     Instead Ma stopped her on the porch. Sarah’s eyebrows drew together to see Ma holding Pa’s shotgun. 

     “Come with me, Sarah.  We’re going to the barn to take Pa his gun.”

      Sarah’s eyes grew round as an owl’s.  “Why?”

      Ma walked quickly as she explained.  “Out the back window just now I saw some men riding across the field and I think they’re up to no good.”  Abruptly she stopped and cocked her head toward the sound of pounding hooves.  “Samuel!  Come quick!” she yelled before shoving Sarah toward the woods.  “Run!” she urged, “Hide in the bushes and don’t come out until I call!”

      Sarah would never dream of disobeying Ma or Pa, nonetheless, as she bolted for the edge of the brushy thicket near the chicken house, she paused once to glance back.  Her blood turned to ice as she saw Pa running headlong from the barn.  Men charged around the house, guns firing.  Ma had raised Pa’s shotgun and managed to fire into the oncoming tide.  One man tumbled from the saddle.  The others swept forward.  Sarah froze.  A man leveled a pistol at Ma and fired.  Pa leaped to drag the shooter from his horse, but the pistol turned toward Pa.   

     The scream in Sarah’s throat never found it’s way out.  Instead she fell to her knees and crawled the last few feet into the brush.  Her skirt caught on a limb and ripped.  As the bushes closed around her, she sat, shaking uncontrollably.  Drawing into a tight ball, she hugged knees to her chest. She wanted to shut her eyes, to hide from the horror in the yard, but they stayed wide open, peeking from the leafy hideaway as men dismounted, picked up Pa’s shotgun and then stripped off Pa’s boots and everything of value from both bodies lying on the ground.  Sarah bit her lip to keep from crying out as they yanked the pretty locket from Ma’s neck.  It had been a wedding present from Pa and she wore it always. 

     The gang plundered house, barn, and outbuildings, filling packs and throwing them across the wide rumps of horses.  While some men led the cow from the barn along with Pa’s fine team of large brown mules, others chased and captured the squawking chickens.  A skinny man with curly hair exited the chicken coop with Henrietta dangling upside down and limp in his hands.  A moan escaped Sarah’s clenched teeth. 

      The man stopped.  His eyes raked the yard, the woods, and her hiding place. Heart pounding, Sarah held her breath.  After a few moments, he went on.  The men mounted and rode away as fast as they had come.

Sarah wasn’t sure how long she stayed huddled on the ground.    Finally, she crawled from the bushes.  Even then she sat on the ground and cried.

     That is where Mr. Thomas, the nearest neighbor found her.  He climbed down from his wagon.  First he went to Pa and then he stood over Ma.

      “Murderin’ varmints!” he muttered before turning to Sarah.  “I see they never kilt you,” he said.  He scratched his chin and studied the ground for a minute.  “Come on, gal.  Reckon I’ll take you to the Fort.  They can take care of you. I ain’t hardly got enough to feed my own.”

Still in a daze, Sarah found herself on a jolting wagon seat, heading for Fort Smith.  But it was far from the joyful trip she had looked forward to for weeks.