By Kristy McCaffrey
Last week, I was in the home stretch of editing my
manuscript The Blackbird. I’d spent
months writing, researching, and rewriting the story, then I sent it off to the
editor. As is usual when a manuscript is returned, there were many comments and
suggestions, with the bulk being fairly minor concerns. (Along with those pesky
grammar issues—it seems I still don’t know how to punctuate a compound verb.
Yes, we authors are always learning something new when it comes to writing
skills.)
There was a bigger issue, however, in the work. The heroine
and her father had a rather volatile, and, the editor felt, unforgivable,
aspect to their relationship. And while she loved the hero and his role in the
tale, the heroine’s actions gave her pause. I appreciated the input because
sometimes the writer is simply too immersed in the work to really see the
bigger picture. But I had to consider carefully how I wanted to handle any
modifications since anything I changed would ripple throughout the story.
It’s always good to sleep on it before making any knee-jerk
decisions. And as I’ve done many times in the past when faced with a crossroads
in my work, I hoped for a bit of inspiration. I can say with confidence that
95% of the time, no magical guidance ever arrives. As an author, I’m always
forced to simply make a choice about which way to go in the story. But, this
time, I did receive guidance.
I’d been reading a book called Eyes of the Wild: Journeys of Transformation with the Animal Powers
by Eleanor O’Hanlon. Ms. O’Hanlon is a field researcher for international
conservation groups and shares her travels and experiences with animals,
beginning with whales, but also including wolves, bears, and horses. That
night, I read a section where she recounted the tale of Sedna, a creative power
to the people of the Arctic basin.
Sedna lived with her father in a tent made of reindeer skin.
Together, they followed the herds across the great tundra plain. Before her
mother died, she taught Sedna many things, such how to make clothing using
finely carved needles from the bones of birds and how our own bodies are only clothes
that we wear for a short time, when we journey from other worlds.
Sedna grew to be a beautiful young woman. One day, a
handsome stranger appeared, and he was so vivid and compelling that she decided
to marry him. Her father tried to advise against it, but Sedna wouldn’t listen.
She left with the man, his hair the color of a raven. Once they were alone, she
came to know that he truly was a raven. In fear, she fled and called out to her
father, who came to her in his boat.
As Sedna and her father attempted to leave, a great storm
came upon them, and the boat began to sink. Frantic with fear, the father threw
Sedna overboard in an effort to save himself. As she clung to the side, he cut
her fingers one by one until she sank to the bottom. In death, she met her
mother and entered a light filled with all the love she thought she’d lost.
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| Photo courtesy of mrpsmythopedia.wikispaces.com |
Back on the surface, her father was lost in grief over what
he’d done. As Sedna tried to reach him, her fingers grew back, creating the
beluga whales, and the orcas, and the narwhals. All the whales sprung forth
from Sedna—the grays, the humpbacks, the blues, the fins, and the bowheads. As
the whale song reached Sedna’s father, he at last found peace in the grace of
the giant beasts.
I had the answer for my story. I needed to redeem my heroine’s
father, and once I did this, then her forgiveness would ring with far more
truth. I was glad to dig a little deeper into the narrative, to find something
more authentic than was previously present.
As an aside, I also decided to change a character’s name
during my final proof of the story. I had an Apache woman named Bly and an old
teamster called Vern Blight. Bly and Blight were so similar that I was getting
confused in my last read-through. So, I did a search, and replaced ‘Bly’ with ‘Smita’.
This proved to be a huge nuisance because Microsoft Word replaced other words
that contained ‘bly’. ‘Possibly’ became ‘possiSmita’. ‘Understandably’ became ‘understandaSmita’.
I simply couldn’t search for all the permutations, so I had to proof the entire
manuscript one more time. Ack! I found many—presumaSmita, incrediSmita, and, my
favorite, scramSmita.
But, I did it. The
Blackbird is finished and available in digital formats. I hope you’ll check
it out.
(It will be available at Nook, iTunes and Kobo within a few days.)
For two years, Tess Carlisle has tried to heal the mental
and physical wounds of a deadly assault by one of her papá’s men, but with no contact from Hank Carlisle since the attack,
she’s determined to track him down. Her only hope is bounty hunter Cale Walker,
a protégé of Hank’s and a man unlike any she has ever known. As he teaches her
strength not just in body but spirit, he also makes her yearn for something she
vowed she never would—love. (Rating: Steamy)
Excerpt from The
Blackbird
A bit of inquiry led him (Cale) to a hovel with a dirt floor and an
underlying stench of sweaty bodies. It was late afternoon,
but
there were already many customers, mostly
Mexicanos,
and they eyed him warily. He ordered a bourbon and downed whatever rotgut had
been substituted in one swallow, not of a mind to argue with the man serving as
a barkeep behind the wooden plank.
Cale took in the lay of the room, welcoming the distraction after
spending so much time with Tess. Her emotional distance, while he understood
it, irritated him.
And the fact that it bothered him only annoyed him more.
He didn't need to befriend her to find Hank. He knew that.
And damn it, he could be unfeeling and detached, too.
Cale set down his glass and the barkeep refilled it.
Emptying it, Cale continued this routine as Tess plagued his thoughts.
The
twinge of attraction that gnawed at him like a coyote chewing off his foot to
escape a snare made him want to save her and run from her at the same time.
After playing cards and downing more liquor than he
should've, he learned of a fella who might have a lead to Worthington. In
complete darkness, he managed to find the man's adobe home near the edge of
town. Just as he approached, the distinctive sound of a cane hitting the dirt
echoed behind him. He spun around.
“What are doing here?” he asked Tess.
She stopped before him, out-of-breath. “Trying to find you.” Her exasperated tone and narrowed
eyes clearly showed her condemnation, and he felt like a school boy caught by
his teacher. He stepped back before she smelled the liquor on his breath, but
it was too late.
“Are you drunk?”
She moved toward him and he could smell rose oil. Damn, she smells nice. Even in the inky
night, he could see the flash of anger in her eyes. He liked it. And he found
it difficult to ignore the appeal of her scent, the lush curve of her mouth,
the smoothness of her skin, leading from her face to her neck to...
“Just a little,” he conceded.
“Whatever on earth for?”
“It's tough for a man traveling with a woman.”
That caused her to freeze.
Damn again. He
shouldn't have said that.
“Look Tess, I didn't mean it that way. It's just been a long
few days.”
She stepped back and he tried not to notice how enticing her
hair looked, unbound and flowing over her shoulders.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, nodding toward the
dwelling.
“Following a lead on Hank.”
“Then, I'll help you.”
Cale didn't know what else to say, so he nodded. He walked
to the door and knocked.
An elderly Mexican answered.
“Sí.”
“My name is Cale Walker, and this is Tess Carlisle.”
At that, the man peered more closely at Tess. “You Hank's
girl?”
The man and Tess began conversing in Spanish. Short and
wiry, gray hair sprinkled Juan’s dark hair,
and
deep wrinkles fanned the sides of his eyes.
“Translate please,” Cale said under his breath to Tess.
“He can show us where Henry Worthington was several months
ago, in the hills to the east. Maybe Hank is with him. Juan isn’t certain.”
After more discussion, she said, “He doesn’t want money. He
said Hank did a favor for him once, so he will repay his daughter. We’re to
meet at the livery tomorrow morning at seven o’clock sharp.”
Juan interjected something in his native tongue.
“He says we’d better make it eight thirty,” Tess added.
“You’re going to need to sleep that off.”
“I'm not drunk.”
Tess gave Cale a look that said she didn’t believe him. She
shook Juan’s hand. “Gracias.”
She turned and began walking away, the cane at her side and
her checkered skirt undulating around her.
Cale nodded to Juan and ran a bit to catch up to her,
swaying from a bout of dizziness. “Wait for me, Tess.”
“No, I'll be fine.
I just don't want you walking alone.”
“I came here
alone.”
He fell into step
beside her, focusing diligently on walking straight. “You really don't make
friends easily, do you?”
“I didn't know it
was important to you that we be
friends.”
“Well, I don't like
it when we're not getting along.”
“We've only known
each other a few days, Señor Walker.”
“Because you call
me Tess?”
“I'm supposed to
call you Miss Carlisle?”
“That would be
proper, wouldn't it?”
Cale laughed. “But
you and I are practically related because of Hank.”
Tess stopped. “So,
you see yourself as my brother?”
Hell no.
At least he had enough sense not to blurt that out.
He'd definitely had too much to drink. This rarely happened
to him. He imbibed at times, but always within his boundaries.
In a flash, a hunger for this woman coursed through him.
Unable to tear his gaze from hers, he wanted to set this boundary clearly. “I'm not your brother, Tess.”
Her eyes widened and her lips parted slightly, as if she
were about to speak. Her momentary hesitation was all it took for Cale to know
that she wasn’t immune to what was happening between them.
She knew he wanted her.
Copyright © 2015 K.
McCaffrey LLC
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