Thanks so much! I should say that the book is far from done, though. It is in progress. It is a sort of psycho/crime novel. I don't have an editor or anything else. I have looked on the internet trying to find proper submission formats and all, but who knows what you can trust on the internet? I have taken some writing and technical writing courses, but nothing really in line with professional writing. I think (hope) I am a fairly decent writer naturally. Language and literature has always sort of been my forte.

Sounds interesting. Of course, step one is to finish your novel. Most professional writers go by an outline as I have learned. I did not do this. I just began writing and oftentimes I would move a chapter from one location to another so that the story would read better. You will benefit from the writing classes that you took. Every little bit of writing knowledge you have gained throughout your life will help you more than you realize. Just don't get discouraged. Several writers I know were rejected multiple times before someone accepted their work. I am told that Spielberg was rejected more than 75 times before he finally got his first novel accepted. I did not have the patience for that kind of thing. I was told that a biography like I wrote was very hard to sell. In order to write a successful biography you must write about either a very famous person or a very infamous person. I had one editor tell me if I would re-write my Midkiff book as a novel it would sell. I wasn't willing to do that. However, when I began my Lillie book I tried hard to write it as a novel and the Prologue to the book is that effort. It was not comfortable for me to write that way, so I switched back to the kind of writing that appealed to me. I wanted the family members to know that I was writing facts and not fiction. Like you, writing has always been something I have done. I began with poetry and short stories as a child. I never considered myself a writer, I just wrote because I enjoyed it. Now I wish I had developed the God given talent by taking classes that would have increased my ability. I put out some feelers for you this morning, and I will get back to you with the advice I receive.

Hi! How are you? Since you are a successful author, I have a question for you. I am writing a novel, and I was hoping you could maybe give me some advice as far as how to go about successfully submitting it to a publisher, and maybe some tips for actually getting it purchased.

Congratulations on your novel, I hope it is successful. Let me suggest several things to do. You may have already done several of them, but I will include them in the list just for your reference. Give me a day or two to get an organized paper together and I will get back to you. There are several writing groups that I belong to that may have better suggestions than I would have because they went through the "submitting" to publishers route that I did not use in my publishing. I self-published my books because they were not novels and did not have the prospective reader base that a novel would have. What did you write about? Is it western writing? Military? The subject matter of your novel will have a lot to do with how you proceed. Do you already have an editor? Have you taken journalism classes that would help you know how to write professionally? I did not do this and frankly did not know at all what I was doing. I benefited greatly from having an excellent editor who knew what she was doing.

I sincerely hope I can help you!!!

I have written two books on my husband John's family. They progressed pretty well and I did not have too much of a problem with writer's block. Now I am trying to write about my family and I cannot believe how hard this has been for me. I suppose the closer you are to a subject, the harder it is to describe. I knew my Roberts and Alsabrook relatives pretty well, but the Davis/McKean family tree was a mystery to me until I was grown. Perhaps I should start with those I knew the least so I can write objectively.

IN GOD'S EYES by Candace Carteen, Portland, Oregon

By the time I was ten, I was totally ashamed of my father. All my friends called him names: Quasi-Moto, hunchback, monster, little Frankenstein, the crooked little man with the crooked little cane. At first it hurt when they called him those things, but soon I found myself agreeing with them. He was ugly, and I knew it! My father was born with something called parastremmatic dwarfism. The disease made him stop growing when he was about thirteen and caused his body to twist and turn into a grotesque shape. It wasn't too bad when he was a kid. I saw pictures of him when he was about my age. He was a little short but quite good-looking. Even when he met my mother and married her when he was nineteen, he still looked pretty normal. He was still short and walked with a slight limp, but he was able to do just about anything. Mother said, 'He even used to be a great dancer.' Soon after my birth, things started getting worse. Another genetic disorder took over, and his left foot started turning out, almost backward. His head and neck shifted over to the right; his neck became rigid and he had to look over his left shoulder a bit. His right arm curled in and up, and his index finger almost touched his elbow. His spine warped to look something like a big, old roller coaster and it caused his torso to lie sideways instead of straight up and down like a normal person. His walk became low, awkward, and deliberate. He had to almost drag his left foot as he used his deformed right arm to balance his gait. I hated to be seen with him. Everyone stared. They seemed to pity me. I knew he must have done something really bad to have God hate him that much. By the time I was seventeen, I was blaming all my problems on my father. I didn't have the right boyfriends because of him. I didn't drive the right car because of him. I wasn't pretty enough because of him. I didn't have the right jobs because of him. I wasn't happy because of him. Anything that was wrong with me, or my life, was because of him. If my father had been good-looking like Jane's father, or successful like Paul's father, or worldly like Terry's father, I would be perfect! I knew that for sure. The night of my senior prom came, and Father had to place one more nail in my coffin; he had volunteered to be one of the chaperons at the dance. My heart just sank when he told me. I stormed into my room, slammed the door, threw myself on the bed, and cried. 'Three more weeks and I'll be out of here!' I screamed into my pillow. 'Three more weeks and I will have graduated and be moving away to college.' I sat up and took a deep breath. 'God, please make my father go away and leave me alone. He keeps sticking his big nose in everything I do. Just make him disappear, so that I can have a good time at the dance.'I got dressed, my date picked me up, and we went to the prom. Father followed in his car behind us. When we arrived, Father seemed to vanish into the pink chiffon drapes that hung everywhere in the auditorium. I thanked God that He had heard my prayer. At least now I could have some fun. Midway through the dance, Father came out from behind the drapes and decided to embarrass me again. He started dancing with my girlfriends. One by one, he took their hand and led them to the dance floor. He then clumsily moved them in circles as the band played. Now I tried to vanish into the drapes. After Jane had danced with him, she headed my way. Oh, no! I thought. She's going to tell me he stomped on her foot or something. 'Grace,' she called, 'you have the greatest father.' My face fell. 'What?'She smiled at me and grabbed my shoulders. 'Your father's just the best. He's funny, kind, and always finds the time to be where you need him. I wish my father was more like that.' For one of the first times in my life, I couldn't talk. Her words confused me. 'What do you mean?' I asked her. Jane looked at me really strangely. 'What do you mean, what do I mean? Your father's wonderful. I remember when we were kids, and I'd sleep over at your house. He'd always come into your room, sit down in the chair between the twin beds, and read us a book. I'm not sure my father can even read,' she sighed, and then smiled. 'Thanks for sharing him.' Then, Jane ran off to dance with her boyfriend. I stood there in silence.A few minutes later, Paul came to stand beside me. 'He's sure having a lot of fun.''What? Who? Who is having a lot of fun?' I asked. 'Your father. He's having a ball.''Yeah. I guess.' I didn't know what else to say. 'You know, he's always been there,' Paul said. 'I remember when you and I were on the mixed-doubles soccer team. He tried out as the coach, but he couldn't run up and down the field, remember? So they picked Jackie's father instead. That didn't stop him. He showed up for every game and did whatever needed to be done. He was the team's biggest fan. I think he's the reason we won so many games. Without him, it just would have been Jackie's father running up and down the field yelling at us. Your father made it fun. I wish my father had been able to show up to at least one of our games. He was always too busy.' Paul's girlfriend came out of the restroom, and he went to her side, leaving me once again speechless. My boyfriend came back with two glasses of punch and handed me one. 'Well, what do you think of my father?' I asked out of the blue. Terry looked surprised. 'I like him. I always have.' 'Then why did you call him names when we were kids?''I don't know. Because he was different, and I was a dumb kid.' 'When did you stop calling him names?' I asked, trying to search my own memory.Terry didn't even have to think about the answer. 'The day he sat down with me outside by the pool and held me while I cried about my mother and father's divorce. No one else would let me talk about it. I was hurting inside, and he could feel it. He cried with me that day. I thought you knew.' I looked at Terry and a tear rolled down my cheek as long-forgotten memories started cascading into my consciousness.When I was three, my puppy got killed by another dog, and my father was there to hold me and teach me what happens when the pets we love die. When I was five, my father took me to my first day of school. I was so scared. So was he. We cried and held each other that first day. The next day he became teacher's helper. When I was eight, I just couldn't do math. Father sat down with me night after night, and we worked on math problems until math became easy for me. When I was ten, my father bought me a brand-new bike. When it was stolen, because I didn't lock it up like I was taught to do, my father gave me jobs to do around the house so I could make enough money to purchase another one. When I was thirteen and my first love broke up with me, my father was there to yell at, to blame, and to cry with. When I was fifteen and I got to be in the honor society, my father was there to see me get the accolade. Now, when I was seventeen, he put up with me no matter how nasty I became or how high my hormones raged. As I looked at my father dancing gaily with my friends, a big toothy grin on his face, I suddenly saw him differently. The handicaps weren't his, they were mine! I had spent a great deal of my life hating the man who loved me. I had hated the exterior that I saw, and I had ignored the interior that contained his God-given heart. I suddenly felt very ashamed. I asked Terry to take me home, too overcome with feelings to remain. On graduation day, at my Christian high school, my name was called, and I stood behind the podium as the valedictorian of my class. As I looked out over the people in the audience, my gaze rested on my father in the front row sitting next to my mother. He sat there, in his one and only, specially made suit, holding my mother's hand and smiling. Overcome with emotions, my prepared speech was to become a landmark in my life.'Today I stand here as an honor student, able to graduate with a 4.0 average. Yes, I was in the honor society for three years and was elected class president for the last two years. I led our school to championship in the debate club, and yes, I even won a full scholarship to Kenton State University so that I can continue to study physics and someday become a college professor. 'What I'm here to tell you today, fellow graduates, is that I didn't do it alone. God was there, and I had a whole bunch of friends, teachers, and counselors who helped. Up until three weeks ago, I thought they were the only ones I would be thanking this evening. If I had thanked just them, I would have been leaving out the most important person in my life. My father.' I looked down at my father and at the look of complete shock that covered his face.I stepped out from behind the podium and motioned for my father to join me onstage. He made his way slowly, awkwardly, and deliberately. He had to drag his left foot up the stairs as he used his deformed right arm to balance his gait. As he stood next to me at the podium, I took his small, crippled hand in mine and held it tight. 'Sometimes we only see the silhouette of the people around us,' I said. 'For years I was as shallow as the silhouettes I saw. For almost my entire life, I saw my father as someone to make fun of, someone to blame, and someone to be ashamed of. He wasn't perfect, like the fathers my friends had. 'Well, fellow graduates, what I found out three weeks ago is that while I was envying my friends' fathers, my friends were envying mine. That realization hit me hard and made me look at who I was and what I had become. I was brought up to pray to God and hold high principles for others and myself. What I've done most of my life is read between the lines of the Good Book so I could justify my hatred.' Then, I turned to look my father in the face. 'Father, I owe you a big apology. I based my love for you on what I saw and not what I felt. I forgot to look at the one part of you that meant the most, the big, big heart God gave you. As I move out of high school and into life, I want you to know I could not have had a better father. You were always there for me, and no matter how badly I hurt you, you still showed up. Thank you!' I took off my mortar board and placed it on his head, moving the tassel just so.'You are the reason I am standing here today. You deserve this honor, not me.' And as the audience applauded and cried with us, I felt God's light shining down upon me as I embraced my father more warmly than I ever had before, tears unashamedly falling down both our faces. For the first time, I saw my father through God's eyes, and I felt honored to be seen with him.

From the book: God Allows U Turns: True Stories of Hope and Healing by Allison Bottke(Editor), Cheryll Hutchings

Normally I do not read fiction. However I received "The Shack" as a gift and found it intriguing. I keep thinking about what I read and wondering how I feel about it. I still haven't decided whether it was a good read or only a way to pass time. If you have read it, let me know what you think.

Western writer Mike Cox (The Texas Rangers: Wearing the Cinco Peso) has been visiting and we had an enjoyable joint book signing at the Haley Library and Western Heritage Center here in Midland yesterday. A very good turnout and successful signing for both of us occurred. Mike, in addition to being a very talented writer, is a gifted speaker and kept the audience enthralled with his stories prior to the signing.

The Texas frontier in the early twentieth century was a "rootin,'tootin" place with rough, tough cowboys heading for the round-up. Their stories filled the pages of many books, from stuffy histories to steamy paperback novels. And let's not forget the television programs and movies. But some important chapters and scenes are missing from these stories. To a large extent, women are not there.... http://www.storycirclebookreviews.org/reviews/pioneer.shtml