Birthing a Book (Part 3)

dontravis.com blog post #278

In the last two posts, we gave birth to our literary baby, began raising it (sometimes a him and sometimes a her, depending upon my whim) in the proper way and found either an agent (a babysitter) or a publisher (a kindergarten). This week, I’d like to expose you to the most exacting and satisfying treatment by a publisher I’ve ever experienced. Dreamspinner Press and its imprint DSP Publications have both published some of my work. I’m so impressed, I want to share their procedure for bringing my books to market. By the way, they are interested in BLGT work only.

*****

Our Baby Book All Grown Up
Photo Courtesy of Pixabay

Okay, now we've gone through the labor process, given birth to our book, and had her take baby steps by locating a literary agent and/or a publisher. Big sigh of relief, right? It’s over.

No, my friend, it’s just started. As noted earlier, I’ve had four publishers in my career, but none of them approach the professionalism of my present publisher, Dreamspinner Press. I’d like to take you through the way they handle their authors.

Once my work has been accepted by Dreamspinner or it’s imprint, DSPPublications, an online contract is offered. To accept, I execute it electronically, and then the dance begins.

In rapid order, I receive a Production Data Collection (PDC) form, a Cover Specifications Request, a Blurb Composition Questionnaire, and a Bio Request.

The Data Collection form provides the publisher with my legal name, pen name, gives contact information, advises of the Word Processing program I used, informs DSP if I have “fair use” (copyrighted) material in the book, and establishes if this is a part of a series (standalone? Read first to last, etc), is a first edition or a reprint, and determines the book’s genre. It also sets out any optional front matter (acknowledgments, author’s note, dedication, etc.).

The Cover Specifications allows me to give any suggestions for the cover art. In order to do this, I give the artist the primary plot points, describe the lead characters, and picture the cover of my dreams. The publisher sends cover art samples as a PDF to give me a feel for the types of covers available. I pick one or two that appeal to me, and from that, Dreamspinner assigns me an artist to work with. Maria Fanning has done all of my covers, which is a great help. We know one another now, so it doesn’t take much time to settle on an approach. She will give me three suggested covers, from which I can select one with which to work. Then we will email one another and discuss ideas until the final cover emerges.

Dreamspinner’s staff is far more skilled at doing a blurb for the book than I am. The Blurb composition questionnaire lets me summarize the story for the blurb editors, describe the main characters, and set the tone of the book (wistful, sweet, funny, dark, typical plot mystery, etc.). Finally, I take a stab at a sample blurb before they set to work performing their magic.

The bio report asks me to create a micro bio (short, pithy) and an author’s bio for the publication. I put the usual dry history down, and they turn me into a human, not a robot.

Then comes the edit… or more accurately, the edits. My head editor is Anne Regan, who lives in the Dallas area. She selects three different editors for three successive edits of the book, each looking for something different. The first edit is accompanied by Global Notes that gives Anne’s overall view of the book, pointing out faults as well as highlighting strong points. These may or may not be noted on the Track Changes accompanying the first edit. They are for me to address on my own, not by prompts in specific places.

Editor #1 then goes through the manuscript word by word and uses the track changes program to give comments. I address each one, accepting or rejecting as I see fit… giving a reason when I reject. Upon review by the head editor, the reworked manuscript is given to Editor #2, who generally has a different skill set. For my first two books, my second editor was David, a 29-year Phoenix police officer and karate black belt, who kept me straight on police procedures and machismo issues with my hero, BJ Vinson. Sadly, he developed health issues, and I lost his invaluable services. The third edit is generally mostly for style and grammar. Please note, at least one of these three editors will fact-check historical or current event details in the book. If I tie the reader to a particular time-period with music, movies, newspaper reports, etc., they’ll tell me when I get it wrong and why.

After the final edit, I receive a Galley Proof to review. They will only change this one if I find typos, omitted words, and the like.

Once the book is put to bed and a release date settled, DSP contacts some professional literary sites and arranges for me to guest post a blog about the book. There are usually four or five of these, and most will do a review of the book upon its release.

Then it’s up to me to self-promote and try to sell books… something at which I suck!

*****

Well, that’s it. I hope I was able to enlighten you on this birth and maturation process. By the way, I have started the sixth book in the BJ Vinson process. Next week, I hope to give you a sample of The Voxlightner Scandal.

In the meantime: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. And keep on submitting your work to publishers and agents. You have something to say… so say it.

If you feel like dropping me a line, my personal links follow:

Email: dontravis21@gmail.com.

Facebook: Don Travis

Twitter: @dontravis3

Here are some buy links to City of Rocks, my most recent book.

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/City-Rocks-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B071Z9V7DT

DSPP: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-city-of-rocks-by-don-travis-393-b

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-city-of-rocks-don-travis/1126419974

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-city-of-rocks/id1217068245

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-city-of-rocks

See you next week.

Don

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Birthing a Book (Part 2)

dontravis.com blog post #277

 I hope my analogy of writing a book as being similar to human birthing resonated last week. For this post, we take the next step. The infant becomes a toddler, and you need help. What do we do? We search for an agent or publisher, that's what.

*****

Courtesy of Flickr

As of last week, you—our struggling writer—completed the actual writing of the book. It’s been edited up the gazoo, read by a brother-in-law who doesn’t really like you, and checked through every grammar and style program you can locate. In fact, your progeny has reached the age where many parents temporarily find themselves. You can’t stand the damned kid. It’s time to find a babysitter to provide you some relief. So you set about trying to do just that by locating an agent (who will handle him) or a publisher (who’ll take him off your hands).

There are decisions to be made in order to plan for your child’s future. Do you self-publish or traditional-publish? I started writing when the thing was to be accepted by a professional publisher, and that still infects my thinking. I’ve been asked why I don’t self-publish many times, and I always give an honest answer. I want a professional to tell me my writing’s good enough to be put out there for readers. That’s still my preference. Yours might be different.

But for this post, let’s assume you wish to be published by others. So do you search for a literary agent or for a publisher? An agent likely has contacts you do not have that will increase your odds of being published—provided you can find an agent willing to handle your writing. If you wish to be published by one of the big five publishers, an agent is mandatory. Most (if not all) will not accept “over the transom” (meaning unsolicited) submissions. You must submit to them through an agent.  Agents also will have a better idea of where your work best fits… meaning which houses are looking for what. If you are willing to be published by a small or regional house, you might not need an agent.

I write for niche markets, so I have never had an agent. I’ve dealt directly with four different publishers over my career and made some mistakes along the line. The first went out of business shortly after he bought twelve of my stories (I’m sure one event had nothing to do with the other). A second, the largest in this particular market, lost its steam when the founder died, and a son took over. The third did not really understand the GLBT market, causing us to part company. The final one, Dreamspinner Press, has been a pleasure to work with.

How do you find an agent? A publisher? By a process that is every bit as onerous as writing your book. Research, research, research. aaronline provides names, addresses, and druthers of accredited agents. Writers Beware warns you of some of the crooks in the game (both agents and publishers). There are a number of good resources available on the internet. Writer’s Market annually publishes lists of both agents and publishers together with contact information, the genres they handle, and instructions for submission. Most prefer their queries and submissions by email, rather than snail mail. Let me assure you of one thing: You’re going to submit to a number of them before you receive any positive or encouraging responses. Most will not reply to your query, merely indicate that if you haven’t heard from them within a certain period of time, you can assume they’re not interested. In view of that cavalier treatment, I suggest you ignore any proscriptions against “simultaneous submissions.” Simply do not inform them you are doing so.

Although each agent or publisher has his own requirements for submissions, in general, you’re going to need a query letter (do your research on that little item, as well), a short synopsis of one or two pages (single-spaced), and up to three chapters or fifty pages of your completed, edited, and re-edited manuscript.

That’s a very loose treatment of this difficult process. But as SouthWest Writers is always saying, rejection notices are successes because it means you’re out there pitching. It is also worth noting at this point that organizations like SWW and the University of New Mexico hold workshops periodically, during which they bring in both literary agents and editors for publishers to speak and react with participants. You can generally sign up for a pitch session with one of them for a one-on-one discussion of your work. Such sessions generally last no more than ten or so minutes; therefore, you must be prepared and organized.

Next week, we’ll cover my writing experience with Dreamspinner Press and its imprint, DSP Publications.

*****

Keep on reading. Keep on writing. And keep on submitting your work to publishers and agents. You have something to say… so say it.

If you feel like dropping me a line, my personal links follow:

Email: dontravis21@gmail.com.

Facebook: Don Travis

Twitter: @dontravis3

Here are some buy links to City of Rocks, my most recent book.

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/City-Rocks-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B071Z9V7DT

DSPP: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-city-of-rocks-by-don-travis-393-b

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-city-of-rocks-don-travis/1126419974

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-city-of-rocks/id1217068245

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-city-of-rocks

See you next week.

Don

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

dontravis.com blog post #276

Birthing a Book

Thanks again to Mark Wildyr for allowing me to guest post his two-part story, “Antony.” Don’t know what kind of reception he got, but I had a few comments. As usual, they liked Mark’s story.

*****

The fourth book in my BJ Vinson series, The Lovely Pines, is due out on or about August 28, so that manuscript is cast in stone (or in black ink, if you prefer), but we are about to enter an interesting phase on the fifth, Abaddon’s Locusts, which is scheduled for the first quarter of next year. This got me to thinking about what all a writer endures to get a book to publication, at least, as practiced by my publisher, DSP Publications. To many authors, this entire process is akin to giving birth to a child and raising her to a certain age before turning her out into the cold, cruel world. We’ll consider this in three parts:

Courtesy of Wikipedia

          ·       Insemination, gestation, and birth (writing the thing)

          ·       Becoming a debutante (searching for an agent or publisher)

          ·       Coming of Age (the publishing process)

Today, we will look at the first phase, insemination, gestation, and birth.

Insemination is, of course, the germ of an idea that suddenly infects your mind and worries your brain until you know it will one day need to appear as a finished work: a novel, a novelette, a short story, an essay… something. For this posting, we’ll consider it will emerge as a book.

This is followed by gestation, the long and difficult birthing of your baby: the writing of the book. For some of us this takes something like the human gestation period, and for others more like that of an elephant. (If you don’t know the difference, look it up.) Once that’s done (call it Draft #1), you sit down with the infant manuscript and begin the process of raising it. Getting it to take first steps and speak primitive words. This, for me, is more fun than writing the blessed thing, as this is when the story truly comes alive. You recast broken bones (places where you’ve gone off in left field when it should have been right field), clear out clogged veins and arteries (making sure flowers smell and birds twitter, instead of the other way around), and smooth out the wrinkles by choosing better nouns, stronger verbs, eliminating unnecessary “hads” and “thats” and the like, finding and ruthlessly squashing those useless “ly” words (damn! I just used one) infesting your child’s precious flesh.

Then, guess what? You probably do it all over again at least once more. The very same process. Call it Draft #2 (and possibly 3, 4… you get the idea).

Next, you spruce up your baby by running her through the wash. Spelling and Grammar, for sure. Maybe Grammarly, as well. Then you cradle her to your bosom and sing to her. By that, I mean, you read aloud. Every! Single! Word! Of late, I’ve discovered the value of the Read Aloud function on Word. When I read my work, I know what it’s supposed to say and read it that way regardless of what it actually says. Read Aloud repeats what’s on the document, and I find all sorts of mistakes that I’d been blind to.

When all of that is done, find somebody you trust to read the manuscript. Not a mother or father who’ll say, “That’s great! Wonderful job” but some crusty old bastard who’ll say “What the hell were you trying to say when you wrote…?”

Maybe… just maybe you’re now ready to consider sending your child out into the world by submitting her to a publisher or an agent.

Let’s cover that next week.

*****

Remember, folks: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. And keep on submitting your work to publishers and agents. You have something to say… so say it.

If you feel like dropping me a line, my personal links follow:

Email: dontravis21@gmail.com.

Facebook: Don Travis

Twitter: @dontravis3

Here are some buy links to City of Rocks, my most recent book.

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/City-Rocks-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B071Z9V7DT

DSPP: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-city-of-rocks-by-don-travis-393-b

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-city-of-rocks-don-travis/1126419974

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-city-of-rocks/id1217068245

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-city-of-rocks

See you next week.

Don

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

dontravis.com blog post #275

Antony (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

Today we conclude Mark Wildyr’s story about Antony. You’ll recall that an artist, Greg, by name, met a handsome powwow dancer named Antony at the Indian Village on the Expo New Mexico grounds in Albuquerque. We left Greg preparing to leave the fairgrounds after promising Tony three sketches Greg had made of him. He intended to take them to his studio for completion and return to the powwow tomorrow. Just to be safe, Greg gave Tony one of his business cards. Now let’s see what comes next.

*****

Courtesy of CCO Creative Commons

ANTONY

By Mark Wildyr

I canceled a Saturday night dinner date with a friend in order to start converting the three pencil sketches Tony had selected—plus one he’d hesitated over before choosing another—into ink drawings on watercolor paper. After adding a few dabs of subtle colored highlights, I signed the pieces before pinning them to the white chalkboard wall in my studio.

The next morning, I intended to sleep late but was drawn into the studio by the need to begin my first oil painting of the appetizing Antony… the view of him standing nearly naked as he spoke to two friends before the powwow started yesterday afternoon. By the time I completed the transfer of the sketch to canvas, the powwow was well underway. Too engrossed in my work to leave, I further delayed my departure. As Tony’s beautiful head and face emerged in layers and layers of paint on that canvas, I was too inspired by my subject to stop painting. Before I realized it, the powwow was history. Fighting a tinge of regret, I kept at my canvas until I noticed my numbed fingers no longer responded precisely to my will. And a perfect model demands a perfect rendition, right?

After a shower, I donned a robe and ate my first meal of the day, a bowl of oatmeal, a slice of turkey bacon, and 2 percent milk. Then I stared at the television as waves of recrimination consumed me. I’d missed the chance to see Tony again, talk with him, interact with him. Be with the most handsome man I’d ever seen. Would I ever encounter him again? Perhaps at another powwow at the Indian Village. Did he live in Albuquerque? In New Mexico? Questions clogged my brain, each one a censure for failing to go to the powwow this afternoon as I promised.

I was considering going to bed—although I knew sleep would come hard—when the front doorbell pulled me out of my recliner. Because of the late hour, I punched a button and asked who was there. My heart fluttered a couple of times when my door answered:

“Tony. Tony Abó”

Still in my robe, I cinched the garment tighter and opened the door to be skewered by those obsidian orbs he used so effectively. Conscious or unconscious? Probably unconscious. Just his way of viewing the world.

I stepped aside and waved him in. “Hi. Surprised to see you.”

“The mountain didn’t come to Mohammad….” he said, humor brightening his handsome features. “Thought you were coming to the powwow this afternoon.”

“I got busy working on those sketches and let time get away from me.”

“Hope it’s not too late for me to show up on your doorstep.”

“No, I was just relaxing in front of the tube before turning in.”

“Intended to come earlier, but I went to the Forty-nine, and time got away from me, too. Forty-nine, that’s—”

“That’s the after-powwow party out on the desert where anything and everything goes.”

“Not just after a powwow. Any excuse is good for a Forty-nine. But yeah, that’s essentially it.”

I took another look at him as he preceded me into the living room. He didn’t appear to be inebriated… which is the usual state and often the intent of such a party. “The sketches are in the studio.” I brushed past him and led the way to the big room on the east side of the house where I did my work.

He momentarily forgot the sketches and walked straight to the easel to examine his image on the canvas. “Hey, man. That’s good. Really good. Do I really look like that?”

I pulled up a comparable photo on my phone and handed it to him. “You tell me.”

He glanced at the photo and compared it to the canvas. After a moment, he turned to me and smiled. “You know, I look at myself in the mirror every morning, but I’m not sure I really see myself.” He waved a hand. “Well, I see myself, but—”

“I know. You see the image, but you don’t really examine the image.”

“Right.”

“You are one handsome man,” I said.

That flustered him. “Thanks. Uh… did you have a chance to finish the sketches?”

“Right over here.” I led him to the pen and ink drawings on the whiteboard wall.

“Wow!” he exclaimed. “Those are great! And you signed them.”

“I sign all the work that goes out of here. And I did the fourth one you hesitated over. Thought you might want to give it to your girl.” I felt my brow furrow. “Or your wife.”

He turned and unleashed a smile on me. “No wife.”

“How about a girl?”

Tony pursed his lips. “No girl, either.”

“I don’t believe it. You oughta have them swarming all over you.”

“Oh, they swarm,” he said with no apparent arrogance. “But I don’t always respond.”

“So no girlfriend?”

“Been a few. But not right now.”

My left eyebrow reached for my hairline as I took the plunge. “Boyfriend?”

“Not at the moment.”

I went hyper. My eyesight sharpened; the smell of oil paint and turpentine flooded my nostrils. I heard the grandfather clock ticking in the distant living room. The taste of my now-digested oatmeal lingered on my tongue, the silken robe caressed my thighs. My words managed to squeeze past the lump in my throat. “But there have been some?”

He did that eye-piercing thing before answering. “Two.”

When I lose my head, I tend to babble. “They must be dead. Or crazy. Only way they would have left you.”

He laughed at my frown. “Fortunes of war. No, really. Fortunes of war. One of them was my co-pilot. Flew a few sorties against the bad guys over in the Middle East. Once, we got hit and were losing power. Wasn’t sure we’d make it back to base. All of a sudden, he blurted out he wasn’t afraid to die, but he was sorry he had to do it before he got me.”

“Got you?”

“That’s what I said. Got me? He admitted he’d been thinking about it ever since we teamed up.”

“And what happened?”

“We limped back okay, got us a room in town, and made it so he could die in peace the next time.”

“Was he the first?”

Tony shook his head, sending more of those invisible pheromones my way. Like I needed more. I was about to bust a gut as it was.

“And the first?”

“I was still in high school. We lived on a ranch at the time. This cowhand a couple of years older than me was the town’s stud. Had women all over him all the time. One day, we were working fence lines, and I noted his… condition. He caught me looking and mumbled something about a new girl in town. Without thinking, I told him I could take care of it for him. Didn’t know what I was talking about, just felt moved to say it.”

“And he let you, I take it.”

“Yeah. For the next two years. By the time I figured out he was just using me, not making a buddy out of me—except for his convenience—he’d enrolled in the army. Like I say, fortunes of war.”

I gulped again and said the first thing I could think of to delay him. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“You got a beer?”

“Coors.”

“Okay.

As we started for the den, he paused and looked back. “Greg?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Don’t let me forget those ink drawings when I leave in the morning.”

My knees nearly dumped me on the floor.

*****

Looks as if Greg and Tony got together despite Greg’s risky behavior. I hope you found the story as interesting as I did. I wonder if Mark’s figured out that I’m revealing the conclusion of his story a week before he does. Don’t anyone tell him. Thanks, Mark, for sharing your story with us.

And now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. And keep on submitting your work to publishers and agents. You have something to say… so say it.

If you feel like dropping me a line, my personal links follow:

Email: dontravis21@gmail.com.

Facebook: Don Travis

Twitter: @dontravis3

Here are some buy links to City of Rocks, my most recent book.

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/City-Rocks-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B071Z9V7DT

DSPP: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-city-of-rocks-by-don-travis-393-b

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-city-of-rocks-don-travis/1126419974

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-city-of-rocks/id1217068245

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-city-of-rocks

See you next week.

Don

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Antony (Part 1 of 2 Parts) -- A Guest Post

dontravis.com blog post #274

Mark Wildyr, a fellow author from Oklahoma, shared one of his stories with me, and I was so taken with it, I asked if I could guest blog it on my website. He agreed, so long as I give him credit as the author (would I do anything else?), so the first part of his short story “Antony” appears both here and on his website (markwildyr.com).  I have no shame... I even appropriated his photograph. I even added a comma where he left one out. Uh... thanks, Mark. Appreciate your generosity.

*****

Courtesy of COO Creative Commons

ANTONY

By Mark Wildyr

The mere sight of Antony Abó raises the testosterone, excites the nerve endings, exercises the libido, and loosens involuntary clouds of pheromones.

That was my reaction the first time I laid eyes on him and remains so today. I met Tony last summer at a powwow at the Indian Village in Expo New Mexico. An artist, I wanted to grab some photos and make quick sketches of dancers decked out in full regalia. Past Greg Gartzen paintings of Native Americans sold well, and I was inclined to see if I could replicate the success. Greg Gartzen… that’s me.

That summer day, I got no farther than a hundred steps through the gates of the village before I halted in my tracks… pole-axed by the sight of a masculine vision. A young man stood half-facing me as he engaged two companions in earnest conversation. What initially attracted my attention was his nakedness. Lightly—but definitely—muscled, his slender frame was covered only by a beaded breechclout. A real one, not a pair of short shorts with a flap in front and another in back. That was obvious by the brown flesh visible all the way to the garment’s waistband. An unbound cloud of glistening black hair flowed around his face and down his back, shimmering in the sunlight as he moved. The features did not match the physique, his was the beautiful, unlined face of innocence, seemingly younger than the rest of him.

I dropped onto a nearby bench, snapped quick photos with my iPhone camera, and flipped open my sketch pad. With quick, bold strokes of the pencil, I managed to capture the essence of the youth before an announcement over the loudspeaker broke up the trio. To my surprise, the thing he clutched in his left hand turned out to be his regalia. He opened the flat package and slipped his arms through straps, revealing a cape of blue and yellow and white feathers. He slipped a beaded headband over his brow and moved with the others toward the announcer’s stand.

I drew furiously for the next hour, as dancers, both male and female, took to the big patch of white sand utilized as a dance floor. I filled almost one entire sketch pad with images of the marvelous Tony as he performed the hoop dance solo. He seemed to be a featured dancer, at one time piping a haunting ballad on a wonderfully painted flute, accompanied only by doleful drums. Even as I reproduced his grace and beauty on paper, I learned his name, his tribe, and that he must be older than he looked because he was a recently decommissioned air force pilot. How had he managed to keep those flowing locks in the military?

I remained longer than intended, and the powwow was coming to an end before I started putting away my things. As I swiped my graphite stained fingers with wet towelettes I carry for the purpose, a voice startled me.

“Someone told me you had sketches of me? Do you mind if I see one?”

Gripped in the gut by that deep, gravelly voice, I lifted my head to regard Antony Abó, now dressed in denim, cowboy boots, and black Stetson. He pierced my soul with the onyx marbles he used as eyes. I had to catch my breath before I tapped one of the pads. “Mostly in this one. Feel free to take a look.”

“Thanks.”

I watched him turn the pages and examine each sketch before going to the next. What a paradox this man was: he possessed the frame of a young man coming into his prime, the face of an adolescent, and the voice of a commander. I believe a piece of my heart broke off and dropped into my gut at that moment.

At last, he raised his eyes and speared me with a stare again. “You’re good. But tell me something. Why so many of me?”

I drew breath to steady my voice. “Because you were the most interesting dancer out there.”

He flipped a couple of sheets and held out the pad. “What about her?”

I glanced at the sketch of a lovely young woman. “Can’t hold a candle.”

He frowned momentarily as something flashed behind those flinty eyes. “Guess I oughta be flattered. What are you going to do with them?”

“Three or four will be turned into paintings. I’ll keep a few as sketches to decorate my home or office. Would you like a couple?”

His mouth broadened into a smile. “Sure. Thanks.”

“Okay, pick out three and I’ll finish them later today. You can pick them up at my studio or I can bring them tomorrow.”

He selected three drawings and agreed to pick them up the next morning, the final day of the powwow. When he asked my name, I handed over a business card with the address of my studio… which also happened to be my home. Just in case.

*****

I hope you found the first part of the story as enchanting as I did. Do you think there will be a further meeting between Greg and Antony? Will something positive develop, or did Tony’s quick frown and flashing eyes signal something else? If you read the story on my blog, you’ll find out next week. You see, I put something over on my friend. Spoiler alert! I publish weekly, he publishes the first and the third Thursday of each month. I wonder when he’s wake up to that fact? Too late now.

And now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. And keep on submitting your work to publishers and agents. You have something to say… so say it.

If you feel like dropping me a line, my personal links follow:

Email: dontravis21@gmail.com.

Facebook: Don Travis

Twitter: @dontravis3

Here are some buy links to City of Rocks, my most recent book.

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/City-Rocks-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B071Z9V7DT

DSPP: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-city-of-rocks-by-don-travis-393-b

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-city-of-rocks-don-travis/1126419974

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-city-of-rocks/id1217068245

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-city-of-rocks

See you next week.

Don

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Rugged New Mexico

dontravis.com blog post #273

I’m still on a New Mexico kick. This time we visit the southwest, Bootheel country of New Mexico, the setting of the third book in my BJ Vinson Mystery Series.

I probably overdid it so far as length goes once again, but try to stick with me to the end.

*****

Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

From The City of Rocks:

Chapter 2

I headed for Deming, hoping to locate some of the dead man’s family or familiars, who might be able to give me a lead before driving to the M Lazy M Ranch. The sixty-mile stretch between Las Cruces and Deming was relatively flat and dominated by creosote, honey mesquite, and yucca. An ungodly amount of cacti and spiked plants of every size and description lived among these anchors. Except, of course, the tall, stately saguaros the entire world associated with the American Southwest. To the best of my knowledge, those grew only in Arizona.

Roadkill revealed the makeup of the local fauna: jackrabbits, desert terrapins, kangaroo rats, and the occasional rattlesnake. I even saw the desiccated carcass of a coyote hanging over the fence bordering the Interstate. Of course, in the Cooke’s Range to the north, there would be cougar and black bear and mule deer. The nearby Florida Mountains boasted ibex and mountain sheep with occasional unconfirmed sightings of the Mexican jaguar. I know this because I’m a confirmed history buff, especially the history of my native state.

The day was hot beneath a blue-flame sky, probably around a hundred degrees. But like we’re fond of saying down here, it’s a dry heat, so it doesn’t hurt much, especially at an altitude of three-quarters of a mile above sea level. Dark, menacing thunderheads hovered south over Mexico, but the monsoon hadn’t yet taken hold.

Deming, with a population of around fifteen thousand, was the county seat and principal town of Luna County. It is also located in rockhound country. A good part of southwestern New Mexico and southeastern Arizona is a paradise for rock and mineral collecting. Most of the old mines are closed now, but on public land, it’s legal to collect bits and pieces of once-treasured rock. Geodes. Fire agate. Jasper. Quartz. Azurite. Even turquoise chips can often be found in old dumps.

Chapter 4

The Impala breezed south over a landscape reminiscent of the drive between Deming and Las Cruces: flat, high desert terrain broken by blue-shadowed mountains in the distance. Heat waves rising off the asphalt were pleasantly hypnotic.

Columbus is an official, twenty-four-hour POE—Point of Entry—between the two nations, although it sits about three miles north of the actual demarcation line. Border City is where the crossings actually occur. Its proximity to the Mexican State of Chihuahua is what gave the place its brush with history.

The actual story is long and convoluted, as well as highly controversial. Two revolutionaries, Venustiano Carranza and Francisco Villa, better known as Pancho, tossed out a dictator named Victoriano Huerta and then turned on one another. A Columbus merchant and arms dealer by the name of Ravel supposedly sold defective ammunition to Pancho Villa. When the guerilla demanded a refund, the merchant reputedly told him the Ravels no longer dealt with Mexican bandits.

On the morning of March 9, 1916, one of Villa’s generals attacked Columbus with more than 500 men. The twenty-four-hour invasion burned down a significant portion of the town and killed fourteen American soldiers together with ten residents. Another eighty or so revolutionaries were dead or mortally wounded. The raid led let to General John J. Pershing’s Punitive Expedition deep into Mexico.

My initial glimpse of Columbus was as a disruption astraddle the flat, monotonous highway. After entering the town of mostly one-storied adobe affairs—some painted in brash colors of green or pink—I found a bed and breakfast and registered for the night.

Chapter 5

Ranchers, like farmers, generally rise with the sun, so I was on the road early Monday, breezing west along Highway 9 over a landscape dominated by creosote, locoweed, and wildflowers. The bright sky was spotted with scattered clouds. The blue silhouette of the Cedar Mountain Range shadowed the horizon.

The weathercast this morning had predicted a high of ninety-nine degrees, but the temperature had not yet climbed to that point as I drove into the country that had once sheltered the likes of Curly Bill, Old Man Clanton, and Dick Gray, desperados who hid out in the caves and canyons of the Boot Heel. Somewhere ahead of me was a black oak with large knotholes where the outlaws left messages for one another in what is still called Post Office Canyon.

I passed a sign noting I had crossed into Hidalgo County, a landmass of about thirty-five hundred square miles populated by fewer than six thousand residents and known for its large ranches. The Gray Ranch, which was now called by its original name of the Diamond A, was 321,000 acres—a staggering 500 square miles. Alongside that, the M Lazy M was a piker.

I turned south on Highway 81. The ranch was a fair drive from Hachita, the closest town, and as I had a considerable amount of work to do, I phoned Del to let him know I intended to take Bert Kurtz up on his offer to remain overnight. He wanted to clear it with the insurance company to make sure they wouldn’t consider it a conflict of interest should Mud Hen be involved in any sort of scam. He promised to call me back.

The M Lazy M lay hard against the Mexican state of Chihuahua just short of the Hatchet Mountains in the upper reaches of the Boot Heel. A cattle guard, flanked by a tall adobe arch bearing the ranch’s brand—two capital M’s, the second one lying on its side—marked the main gateway to the spread.

Chapter 17

The horses set an easy pace. Paul kept a snug rein on Streak, who broke into a gallop at every opportunity. On the other hand, the farther Lucy got from the stable, the slower her gait became. After another hour, Paul pointed ahead of us.

“Is that it?”

“Yep. The Lazy M’s own City of Rocks.”

“Man that looks weird out there all by itself. Even weirder than the big one up at the state park.”

“New Mexico’s full of weird. You think you’re standing on the moon at the Bisti Badlands. And then there’s Carlsbad Caverns, Tent Rocks, White Sands, and those eerie lava beds in the Malpais.”

“I gotta get out of Bernalillo County more often,” he said.

We went silent, falling increasingly under the spell of ghostly monoliths as we approached the City. The horses plodded between the first two hunks of mute rock on the north-northwest side. The “street” that opened up before us was a broad avenue strangely devoid of plant growth. I saw no human footprints, but wind whistling through the alleyways raised weak, wispy dust devils. Footprints in the sand would not last long out here. Our mounts’ hooves no longer clopped. Now they made a huffing sound. It was as if we had passed through a portal separating two worlds.

“That big boulder in front of us looks like a hotel. An old western hotel.”

I stared at the hulking mass. “Why? It’s just a big rock.”

“Come on, where’s your imagination? It’s a couple of stories high. It’s kinda square. It looks like those pictures of a frontier hotel minus the balcony that runs around the second story. And that’s Muldren City’s saloon over there.” He pointed to the right.

I fell into the spirit of the thing. “Okay, then that’s the bank. And the telegraph office.”

He laughed, obviously delighted I was playing along.” “Let’s go see if we can find the freight office. Then the town’s complete.”

“Oh no. Not without the jail, it isn’t.”

“Right. I forgot the sheriff’s office and the jailhouse.” He twisted in the saddle and pointed. “There it is, right across the square from the hotel.” Paul dismounted and looked for a place to tether Streak. “They forgot the hitching rail. No western town’s complete without a hitching post.”

*****

The last three posts were to convince you I meant what I said… I love New Mexico. I hope they’ve tickled your interest in the state, as well. Please visit. You’ll find the folks friendly and welcoming… for the most part.

And now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. And keep on submitting your work to publishers and agents. You have something to say… so say it.

If you feel like dropping me a line, my personal links follow:

Email: dontravis21@gmail.com.

Facebook: Don Travis

Twitter: @dontravis3

Here are some buy links to City of Rocks, my most recent book.

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/City-Rocks-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B071Z9V7DT

DSPP: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-city-of-rocks-by-don-travis-393-b

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-city-of-rocks-don-travis/1126419974

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-city-of-rocks/id1217068245

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-city-of-rocks

See you next week.

Don

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Beautiful New Mexico

dontravis.com blog post #272

  

Cracked Eggs Formation: Bisti/De Na Zin Wilderness
Courtesy of commons.wikimedia.org

I know! I know! This post is way too long, but I can’t resist taking you on a trip to Taos and the Four Corners areas of New Mexico. These reminders come from the second book in my BJ Vinson Mystery Series.

*****

From The Bisti Business:

Prologue:

A lopsided moon daubed wispy tendrils of scattered clouds with pewter. Glittering pinpricks of muted light smeared the Milky Way while moonshine bleached the barren landscape silver. Sharp-edged shadows shrouded the feet of mute, grotesque gargoyles of clay and sandstone: hoodoos masquerading as monumental toadstools, spheroid stones aping gigantic dinosaur eggs, and eroded clay hills with folds like delicate lace drapery.

         A great horned owl soared above the high desert floor, its keen eyes scouring the panorama below. The plumed predator dipped a wing and veered eastward, attracted by the dull metallic shine of a large foreign object. Quickly discerning it represented no culinary opportunity, the raptor flew in slow, ever-widening circles in search of something more promising.

Chapter 1

I returned to the visual meditation of the landscape outside my window. As nature’s glow dimmed, man-made lights came alive: amber lampposts, white fluorescents, flamboyant neons, yellow vehicle headlights reflecting off wet pavement, and far in the distance a tiny spot moving slowly across the sky—one of the aerial trams hauling patrons up Sandia Peak’s rugged western escarpment to the restaurant atop the mountain.

By leaning forward, I caught the faint, rosy underbelly of a western cloudbank, the lingering legacy of a dead sunset. Was that what had drawn Orando and Dana to the Land of Enchantment? Spectacular scenery and surreal sunsets? Or was it our rich heritage of Indian and Hispanic art? The two were history majors, and Albuquerque had a long history. It was approaching its 300th birthday, while Santa Fe and many of the nearby Indian Pueblos had longer lifelines.

Beyond my line of sight, the city’s original settlement lay to the west where one- and two-storied adobe shops—some ancient and some merely pretending to be—hearken back to their Spanish colonial roots. Now known as Old Town, it was founded in 1706 by Governor Francisco Cuervo y Valdez as the Villa del Alburquerque—some say Ranchos del Albuquerque. In either case, the Spanish colonial outpost was named in honor of New Spain’s Viceroy in Mexico City. The second “R” of the Duke’s name disappeared in 1880 with the coming of the railroad to New Town, located two miles east of Hispanic Old Town, a signal the Anglos had successfully wrested the heart—if not the soul—of the community from its founders.

Chapter 5

We encountered turbulence as the little plane lifted off from the Double Eagle Airport on the west side of town and headed straight up the Rio Grande. The browns and reds and grays of the desert terrain turned a monotonous dun as we gained altitude, broken only by darker wrinkles of dry washes known as arroyos, the double black ribbons of Interstate-25, and the dull sheen of the river—itself somewhat brown. The Rio is classified as a “dirty river,” meaning it carries high concentrations of silt on its way to the Gulf of Mexico. The green-shrouded slopes of the Jemez Mountains to the west provided a splash of color, as did the Sangre de Cristos to the north.

With a maximum range of 470 nautical miles plus a thirty-minute reserve fuel supply, the Cessna would not need to set down before reaching our destination. Taos is a 132-mile trip by car, and at a cruising speed of 129 mph, we would arrive in something under an hour.

“Quite a view, huh?” Jim asked. “I never get tired of it.”

Feeling a kinship with a soaring eagle, I took in the panorama. “Is that weather off to the west going to cause us any heartburn?” Bright bolts of lightning strobed the black sky on the distant horizon.

“I checked before we lifted off. It’s moving north-northeast, so I doubt we’ll be bothered.”

“Feel free to put down somewhere if we are.” I glanced down at the river again. “It’s really amazing how the Rio Grande changes character. Around Albuquerque, it roams around in a broad channel made for a bigger river.”

“You can blame that on the dams,” Jim observed. “When the Rio Grande was declared a wild and scenic river, it flooded regularly. Then they put in all the dams. The way I look at it, they put an end to the flooding all right, but the river and the Bosque are paying the price. They’re both slowly dying.” The Bosque was a two-hundred-mile swath of cottonwood forest lining both banks of the Rio.

Above Santa Fe, the water flowing beneath the plane picked up energy, shimmering in the sunlight as it rushed over rocks on its fall from the high country. The farther north we traveled; the wilder the river became. Soon it was white-water rafting country. A few miles below Taos, the true might and determination of the river become apparent as it raced down long boulder gardens to spill out of the black volcanic canyons of the Taos Box. From above, the river appeared to sink, but in reality, the terrain rose on its climb north toward Colorado.

Over the eons, gravity and friction and the sheer power of water molecules had carved a deep crevasse through the hard basalt of the Taos Plateau. The Rio Grande Gorge Bridge spanned that spectacular canyon ten miles west-northwest of Taos. We circled over the awesome, 500-foot cantilevered steel and concrete marvel of modern engineering as we lined up for a landing at the town’s small strip.

Taos claims a 6,000-year history based on arrowheads, potsherds, and pictographs left by nomadic hunter-gatherers. The town takes its name from the older Taos Pueblo, a massive, multi-storied, pre-history apartment complex of Tiwa-speaking Native Americans. Both the town and the Pueblo are cultural as well as tourist draws. Dozens of Hollywood films, documentaries, and television commercials have been filmed here ever since the 1940s.

Jim had radioed the tower well before touching down at the small municipal airport, and Officer Delfino met the plane, as promised. He turned out to be a police officer with more than a touch of the local blood. Standing five-foot-six in his boots with coarse black hair not quite long enough to wear in the traditional bun but shaggier than most lawmen, he projected a calm competence as we shook hands. It would not be wise to provoke this man. His hatchet face wore an air of serious determination, an impression reinforced by his extraordinarily broad shoulders and deep chest.

Chapter 12

Forewarned by Dix Lee and Lonzo Joe, we hoisted packs stuffed with water bottles, energy bars and a compass. Feeling like I was provisioned for a week in the wilds, I clapped a broad-brimmed floppy hat on my head as protection against the sun and glanced at Aggie. He looked a good deal more comfortable with the situation than I was, but then he would be. He hiked and climbed mountains and conquered deserts more or less as a matter of course. We set off across the rocky ground, following the map Dix had sketched for us. She was supposed to be trailing along behind with someone from the Farmington BLM office. Almost immediately we were swallowed up in a fantastic landscape—not magnificent like the Grand Canyon, but spooky. Weird. Like a moonscape. Mysterious, as if some omnipotent sculptor had capriciously balanced massive, flat sandstone rocks atop slender necks of eroding clay in order to see how long they would stand.

“Damn,” Aggie said in a near whisper. “I’ve never seen anyplace like this. What the hell’s keeping those damned rocks from toppling over?” He indicated one of the distant capped pink and gray striated clay towers wearing what looked to be an outlandish stone beret at a rakish angle. “I wonder what the Good Lord was thinking when he did all of this?”

“Probably did it to watch all of us stand around with our mouths open.”

We were almost diverted from the gravity of our task by the multi-colored stones, petrified stumps, washes filled with wacky shapes, and the silent menacing hoodoos towering uncertainly over us. In one moment, our surroundings were whimsical; in another, ominous. The Navajo considered this sacred ground, and I could understand why. We trod forbidden territory, or at least that’s the way it felt. There were no footprints in the dry washes or anywhere on the stony ground we traveled, and I felt ours would disappear with our passing, as if we walked an alien planet subject to different natural laws., I glanced behind me to check and took false comfort when I saw my shoe prints still existed.

We had barely started our trek, and already sweat was staining my shirt. Following Dix’s hand-sketched map, we plodded on, taking frequent gulps of rapidly warming water, barely able to resist rushing off to explore some fascinating structural gem: thin spires of sandstone rising toward the sky like frozen tongues of flame, piles of mudstone carved by wind and water into ugly, fascinating gargoyles, specks of amber crystal winking in the hot sun, and those endless columns of sculpted, gravity-defying capped rock.

Eventually we reached our target, a broad wash holding clusters of flattened, broken round rocks streaked with wind- and water-carved wrinkles. I’d seen color prints of the Cracked Eggs, but the startling reality was greater than the image. The stones did appear to be gigantic dinosaur eggs broken open and abandoned to the elements—dozens and dozens of them. They weren’t, of course, they were merely clay and stone fashioned by that same capricious Hand. In the photos they’d appeared in a dazzling array of color, influenced by the time of day, the intensity of the light, the influence of the clouds. Now, as the sun beat straight down upon us, they were a flat gray with rosy highlights.

*****

That should make you want to trade your city shoes for hiking boots, abandon Albuquerque, and explore the Taos and Bisti areas. The trip from Albuquerque to Bisti spins time backward from today to the time of the dinosaurs. Think of all that history lying in between!

And now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. And keep on submitting your work to publishers and agents. You have something to say… so say it.

If you feel like dropping me a line, my personal links follow:

Email: dontravis21@gmail.com.

Facebook: Don Travis

Twitter: @dontravis3

Here are some buy links to City of Rocks, my most recent book.

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/City-Rocks-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B071Z9V7DT

DSPP: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-city-of-rocks-by-don-travis-393-b

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-city-of-rocks-don-travis/1126419974

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-city-of-rocks/id1217068245

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-city-of-rocks

See you next week.

Don

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.