Behind Redbuds and Bullets

I read Great Expectations for the first time when I was a freshman in high school. My English teacher, Nancy Brooks, who routinely channeled Eve Arden (Our Miss Brooks) in fictional name and temperament did a great job bringing the characters to life for us, and the weird relationship between Pip, Estella, and Miss Havisham haunts me to this day.

Jo Harper read Great Expectations in 1911, and this fact was the only thing I had to go on when I started writing her sixth adventure. I didn't know it would involve uprooting Jo for the first time, flinging her across the midwest on a tumultuous train ride, pitting her against dangerous adversaries in a gritty urban environment, and ultimately involving an old character who just wouldn’t stay out of the picture. It was exactly the kind of writing experience a writer dreams about --sitting down without a clue and letting the story tell itself.

Redbuds have always been sort of symbolic to Missouri. I had never seen the small trees before visiting Gina there in 1986. Blossoming purple in spring, they are ubiquitous and one of the few flowering trees that doesn't cause my son to immediately start sneezing. Not so for everybody. Like the bullets in the title, the little flowers look innocent enough but can pack quite a punch for some.

So after putting the Dickens novel in her hands, I knew Jo had to end up in Missouri. But what could make a headstrong girl, one tied firmly to her Wyoming roots, leave her friends?  In Jo's case, only a sense of family duty.

And with that, I was off and typing.

Redbuds and Bullets takes a few chances that previous Jo Harper adventures don't take. The story puts Jo more alone than ever before. It tests her metal away from the humorous distractions of Frog or the tough security of Abby Drake. Not only that, but the fate of strangers is directly under Jo's control. It's not a responsibility she takes lightly.

Finally, if you're familiar with Great Expectations, I'll invite you to compare and contrast it with Redbuds and Bullets. Find the similarities, the differences, and see if you can recognize a couple Dickensian Easter eggs. Some were intentional, but some surprised me even as they poured into the keyboard.

That's the kind of fun that keeps writing Jo Harper stories fresh for me. I'd like you to come along for the ride!

After growing up on a Nebraska farm, Richard Prosch worked as a professional writer, artist, and teacher in Wyoming, South Carolina, and Missouri. His western crime fiction captures the fleeting history and lonely frontier stories of his youth where characters aren’t always what they seem, and the windburned landscapes are filled with swift, deadly danger. Read more at www.RichardProsch.com

#NewRelease--Redbuds and Bullets (Jo Harper Book 6) by Richard Prosch -- #Giveaway

Be sure and leave a comment for Richard Prosch to enter the drawing for a free ebook of REDBUDS and BULLETS.

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Thirteen year old Jo Harper's trip to attend the reading of her mysterious uncle's will isn't welcome news to everybody in Willowby, Wyoming, and with the notorious Casper Brothers on the loose, the spring of 1911 isn't the best time to steam across the wide open west.

But with great expectations and grim determination, Jo hurtles into adventure, learning along the way who her friends are, and who wants her out of the way for good.

Blossoming danger! Dark captivity! And wildflowers galore!

EXCERPT

Jo's face flushed hot. She was the poor country hick without a ticket.

"I said, is there a problem?" said the conductor with a gruff voice.

"I'm afraid I've lost my ticket," said Jo.

"Lost? Or never had one to begin with?"

"No, I had it when I got aboard."

"I doubt that very much."

"Where's the other conductor? He knows. He saw it. When I told him I was going to Kansas City."

"Other conductor? What are you talking about? I'm the conductor on this train. There is no other!"

What was going on here? Jo's mind was awhirl. There had been another conductor. Jo was sure of it.

Now, this conductor reached down and pulled her up by her shirt collar. "Pick up your hat and satchel," he said. "No ticket, no passage."

"Wait!" said Jo.

"I'm sorry, kid," said the man, now clamping a meaty hand on Jo's arm. "Off the train."

Off the train?

"But I've got to go to Kansas City," said Jo. "My aunt is waiting for me."

"Don't tell me no sob stories. Let's go."

Easily twice Jo's size and weight, it was easy for the conductor to push her down the aisle toward the back door. When they got there, he pulled open the exit, and a wall of wind hit them both.

The train clickety-clacked along the tracks and a new fear rushed into Jo's head.

The man was going to throw her off the train, all right. While it was still moving!

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All Ages by Richard Prosch

What does the title of this post mean to you? What do you think when a book is listed as all ages?

I have to admit, for me it means it's a young adult or kids’ book. I don't know when that idea first took hold, but as a reader it's rock solid in my head. 

And I should know better. 

There are scores of books I read as a kid that were written for adults, books that are --in fact-- good for all ages. Great Expectations, 1984, Hondo, and The Martian Chronicles were all written for adults. But you could read them as a kid. 

I didn't need an adult to tell me what was appropriate. If I could understand the prose, I read it. From The War of The Worlds and Dracula to The Black Stallion and The Hardy Boys, I didn't care who the intended audience was. I read it.

As writers, do you think we get too hung up on that intended audience?

Isn't it something every agent and/or publisher starts telling us from the get-go? Where does your book fit on the shelf?  Imagine the spines of the books next to yours. Who's the target audience?

I sure do understand the necessity of listing a book correctly when it comes to the marketing. 

But here I’m talking about how we think as writers. Before the marketing must come the story. We shouldn’t write to market. We should write to tell a good story.

Thinking about a couple literary greats: if The Catcher in the Rye or To Kill a Mockingbird were published today, would they be listed in the catalog with the other adult material?  Or would they be labeled as young adult?  

I think they'd end up with the latter. 

Sadly, to list something today as adult fiction it's almost a given that there are potentially objectionable scenes or dialog inside. In other words, it's the sex and violence that make something adult.

The thing is, once somebody can read, I think it's more important to converse than to censor. Talk about the content instead of blocking it.

I'm here to tell you. In 1976, if somebody would've told my mom that Raymond Chandler or Isaac Asimov were adult books, those books would've been off my shelf pronto. 

But nobody told her. And I sure wasn't going to break the news.

So whenever somebody asks me what I write, I answer like a storyteller first. 

No matter the story's content, I write for all ages.

After growing up on a Nebraska farm, Richard Prosch worked as a professional writer, artist, and teacher in Wyoming, South Carolina, and Missouri. His western crime fiction captures the fleeting history and lonely frontier stories of his youth where characters aren’t always what they seem, and the windburned landscapes are filled with swift, deadly danger. Read more at www.RichardProsch.com

NEW RELEASE -- The Saga of Indian Em’ly Book 3: The Orphanage by Sara Barnard -- Giveaway!

Be sure and leave a comment for a chance to win an ecopy of Sara Barnard's The Orphanage!

Far from home in a land foreign to them, kidnapped Apache siblings Wind That Knocks Down Lodges and Cactus Flower are at the mercy of the Army soldiers they have grown to despise. When ordered to dispose of the children or else, the Army soldiers waste no time in depositing them at the nearest Catholic orphanage, where unlikely alliances are forged and Knocks Down must make a decision: conform to the Pale Face world or risk everything for an unlikely chance at escape.

Excerpt

    “A new garrison,” Cactus translated, though she didn’t have to. I was rolling the pale face words off my tongue easier with each passing sunset. “Wants to see the …prisoners?” Her word tweaked up at the end, turning it into a question. She looked at me. “Do they mean us?”

     Glancing over the seat again, I could see that they did. “They’re coming with a big man that is red in the face and whose head is covered in silver hair, like the cunning fox. Sit up and look like one of The People.”

     Cactus Flower did as I said, just as the dirty canvas pulled back. The red faced man peered in, a brown wad that looked like a fat twig clenched in his teeth. He must have held it there often, because a brown stain from the juice had crusted on his lips. “Kids!” he spat, flinging the wad of juicy brown paper and leaves into the back of the wagon with us. Neither Cactus nor I flinched. “Brats! Whelps, they are.”

     Silence covered the men like the burial shroud had covered my mother.

     The big man with the hair like the silver fox continued, his face growing redder with each breath he sucked in. “You call these Injuns prisoners? It’s no wonder why the general saw fit to relieve you bunch of misfits. Me and my men are taking over. Now.”

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New Release -- LONE STAR RANGER VOL4: A RANGER'S CHRISTMAS by James J. Griffin--Giveaway

Be sure and leave a comment to throw your name in a drawing for a free ebook of James J. Griffin's A RANGER'S CHRISTMAS.

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Nate Stewart has avenged the deaths of his family by seeing their pale-eyed murderer dead. But his days of being a Texas Ranger have only just begun. With Christmas on the way, and the Rangers sent to the Big Bend area to patrol, they’re faced with everything from a buffalo stampede to having to resort to finding water any way they can even if it means taking it by force. When Nate believes he may have accidentally killed a friend, he falls into danger that leaves the Rangers believing he’s been drowned. Can a Christmas miracle save him and reunite him with Captain Quincy’s men for A RANGER’S CHRISTMAS?

James J. Griffin's quest for authenticity in his writing has taken him to the famous Old West towns of, Pecos, Deadwood, Cheyenne, Tombstone and numerous others. While Jim's books are fiction, he strives to keep them as accurate as possible within the realm of fiction.

EXCERPT
    “We gonna be able to outrun that stampede?” Nate called to Hoot, shouting to be heard over the horses’ thundering hooves and labored breathing.
    “You’d darn well better hope so,” Hoot hollered back. “I’ve seen men killed in cattle stampedes, more’n once. It’s not a pretty sight, and I’d imagine gettin’ trampled by a herd of buffalo would be even worse. I sure don’t want to die that way. I’d sooner take a bullet, any day. So just lay over your horse’s neck and give him his head. Let him run until he’s run out. You just might save your neck if you do.”
    Stung by the fear and urgency in Hoot’s voice, Nate bent as low as he could over Big Red’s withers, and slapped the reins against his neck, getting still more speed out of the long-legged sorrel. Within moments, Red was even overtaking Jeb’s speedy paint, Dudley. Jeb’s gelding had long been the fastest mount in Captain Quincy’s company, but right now, Red was pushing him for all he was worth.

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Just in Time for Christmas -- New Release -- A COVEY OF QUAIL by RIchard Prosch -- Giveaway!

The Jo Harper series continues with an exciting new holiday story. Richard Prosch is giving away one free ecopy of A Covey of Quail to one lucky person who comments, so be sure and leave your contact information.  

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He came to Willowby every Christmas, an Arapaho boy looking for something, looking for someone. The first thing Stranger Cat found in 1910 was Jake Trail’s bullets, the next thing he found was a family of friends. But then the weather turned bad, and Jo Harper would have to rely on everything she’d learned as Deputy Constable to lead her covey to safety and, just maybe, a Christmas miracle.


Jo Harper leads her friends straight into the coyote’s den and a Christmas miracle!

EXCERPT

    Almost immediately, the teacher had Emily by the collar in one hand and Jo in the other. "I'm ashamed such nonsense is taking place on school property. I might have expected something like this of Frog Beemer. He's just a boy after all. But young ladies like you, Miss Jo Harper. And you, Miss Emily Bly. I expect so much more from you!" 

    Frog couldn't help but smile to himself. Mrs. Salamander was really laying it on thick.

    "And so close to Christmas Eve. Why...uh...girls? Are you listening to me?"

    Just like his teacher, Frog realized the girls weren't listening, at all. In fact, the attention of all four had been drawn away by the figure walking up behind them.

    Sneaking up!

    It was the Indian. Stranger Cat. But he was limping. He was hurt.

    "Excuse me," he said. "I seem to be...killed."

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PPB New Release -- Finding the Sky: The Jo Harper Collection by RIchard Prosch -- Giveaway!

Richard Prosch is giving away one free ecopy of Finding the Sky: The Jo Harper Collection to one lucky person who comments, so be sure and leave your contact information.  This is a great collection for old and young alike.

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Twelve-year old Jo Harper thought 1910 would be another boring year in the Wyoming range town of Willowby, Wyoming. Then tough-talkin' pistol-shootin' Abby Drake came to town and made Jo a deputy law and order woman...

Collecting four exciting Jo Harper novellas, Finding the Sky pits Jo and her friends against cattle rustlers, outlaws, a bank robber and a tinhorn gambler. With explosions of fire, flaming arrows, and a wild ride in a Model-T, Jo's introspective, early 20th Century life will never again be the same. 

EXCERPT

     Laughing and squealing, squinting into the sun, Jo didn’t see where she was going until it was too late. She hit the stranger full on, and bounced down, hard, on the boardwalk.

     Pain shot through Jo’s arm, and she cussed out loud, rolled onto her back, and kept her eyes squeezed shut against the tears.

     Funny bone!

     “Land sakes! Ain’t you a fireball,” said a woman’s voice.

     Holding her elbow tight, Jo opened her eyes.

     Scuffed leather boots, denim pants, a belt cinched tight around a thick middle, and a worn holster stuffed with iron. The woman’s gnarly bronze hand snatched up a big hat from where it had landed on the boardwalk and plopped it back onto a braided gray scalp.

     The face was impossibly old, a wind-burned landscape of chasms and puckered buttes with one eye, focused and alive, blazing over all, and the second one unmoving and made of glass. At her collar, a red neckerchief flapped in the wind “Name’s Abigail Drake,” said the woman. “And I wouldn’t take unkindly to an apology.”

     The breath caught in Jo’s throat. 

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