LINDA LAROQUE--Best selling author of Western Historical Romance

LINDA LAROQUE

I don’t know about other writers, but when writing a story, ideas pop up, and I find myself needing to research something. Such was the case when I wrote my newest time travel, A Marshal of Her Own, set in 1890s Prairie, Texas. Dessa Wade, an investigative reporter in her modern life, is given a typewriter by her soon-to-be husband Marshal Cole Jeffers. Imagine her thrill at having a means of putting her words to paper. The fountain pen had been invented, but wasn’t very reliable, and Dessa wasn’t adept at using a quill. Most of the ink found its way onto her fingers and paper. Her only alternative was a bulky pencil.

So today, I want to talk about the typewriter and the model Dessa received.

The idea of a typewriter first began not only as a way to communicate more quickly but also to aid the blind in communication. Yet, in the three articles I selected for this post, no mention of a typewriter aiding the blind was mentioned. For my post I'm focusing on the machine as a method of communication for journalists, writers, and work in the office.

The invention of the typewriter didn't receive international acclaim or attention like other inventions of the time such as the automobile or the telephone. One possible reason is that it was designed for work, not socializing.

The first patent for a typewriter like machine was issued in 1714 to Henry Mill of England. Unfortunately, no example of his work survives.

William Burt, of Detroit, Michigan patented his machine, called a typographer in 1829. It was designed with characters on a rotating frame. Burt's machine and others that followed were not successful as they were hard to use, cumbersome, and often took longer to produce a letter than if writing by hand.

Christopher Latham Sholes of Milwaukee, Wisconsin,  together with Carlos Gidden and Samuel Soule, patented the first useful typewriter. His patent was licensed to a well-known American gun maker and in 1874 the first commercial typewriter, the Remington Model 1, was placed on the market.

Thomas Alva Edison, using the Sholes model, built the first electric typewriter in 1872 but the machine didn't become widely used until the 1950s.

Many different types of typewriters were developed in the 1880s, but the one designed to resemble what we are familiar with today was the Underwood No. 1, invented by F. X. Wagner.

It was the first typewriter to strike the front of the planten and users could see what they were typing.

REMINGTON MODEL 2



My focus today is on the Remington Model 2 shown in the picture above. This is the model my heroine, Dessa Wade, received.  It was bulky and heavy.

If you look closely at the picture, you can see there is no shift key and you can only type in capitals. Shole is also famous for the QWERTY layout used today.

Like the Remington Model 1, the Model 2 continues the up-strike tradition. The keys hit the planten at the bottom so you cannot see what you're typing. Still, the Remington Model 2 is the first commercially successful typewriter. It wasn't until 1908 that Remington changed to the front strike planten with the Remington Model 10.

I learned to type on an old Underwood typewriter. Using one required strong fingers and I could pound out about 70 words per minute. Vintage typewriters are in style again, at least for writers who'd like to have one in their office for decoration.

References:
http://www.typewriter.be/remingtonstandard2.htm
http://typewriter.blogofstuff.com/typewriter108.html
http://www.ideafinder.com/history/inventions/typrwiter.htm

LINDA WILL GIVE AWAY AN EBOOK COPY

A Marshal of Her Own – Blurb and Excerpt
Blurb:

Despite rumors of “strange doings” at a cabin in Fredericksburg, investigative reporter Dessa Wade books the cottage from which lawyer, Charity Dawson, disappeared in 2008. Dessa is intent on solving the mystery. Instead, she is caught in the mystery that surrounds the cabin and finds herself in 1890 in a shootout between the Faraday Gang and a US Marshal.

Marshal Cole Jeffers doesn’t believe Miss Wade is a time traveler. He admits she’s innocent of being an outlaw, but thinks she knows more about the gang than she’s telling. When she’s kidnapped by Zeke Faraday, Cole is determined to rescue her. He’s longed for a woman of his own, and Dessa Wade just might be the one—if she’ll commit to the past.

Excerpt:

Dessa stood still and watched as they conversed. Something stank to high heaven about this entire situation. Why were the cops chasing robbers on horseback? It’s not like Fredericksburg was that isolated. She glanced at the captured men. The boy moaned, and she made a step to go over and help him. The Marshal spun, and the expression in his eye froze her in place.

 “He needs first aid.”

 “He’s fine. The Doc will tend to him when we get to the jail.”

“You could at least call 911 and let them patch him up for you.” She nodded to the man lying so still with his eyes closed. “Your other prisoner doesn’t look so good. He’s going to die on you if you don’t start CPR or get him some help.”

“Lady, no one is going to hear a yell from out here. Never heard of any 911 or CPR.” He propped the hand not holding the shotgun on his hip and threw her a disgusted look. “Are you blind? That man is dead, shot through the heart.”

Her head swam for a moment, and she struggled not to give in to the sensation and faint. She drew in deep gulps of air. “Well...well..., what about the coroner and the meat wagon, not to mention the CSI folks? If you don’t get them to record the scene, how are you going to cover your butt? The authorities might say you shot him in cold blood.”

He looked at her like she’d sprouted an extra head. “I don’t know what the hell you are talking about woman. No one will question my authority. I’m the law in this county. Now, be quiet, or I’m going to gag you.”

THE TYPEWRITER PIN LINDA WILL GIVE AWAY.
SEE BELOW.

 A Marshal of Her Own will be available on November 23, 2011 at The Wild Rose Press, Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble.com and other online book stores. It is the sequel to A Law of Her Own available at The Wild Rose Press, Amazon.com, and Barnes and Noble.com and other online book stores. I’m awaiting a release date for A Love of His Own, the third story in the Prairie, Texas series.

My release contest for A Marshal of Her Own begins today. I’ll be giving away this vintage typewriter pin. To enter the drawing, go to my webiste or blog and sign up for my newsletter. If you already receive it, email me at linda@lindalaroque.com
 with A Marshal of Her Own contest in the subject line.

Getting to know Nicole McCaffrey

Have you ever walked through a forest and looked up to see tall pine trees stretching toward Heaven, or paused to admire an impossibly wide maple tree? Beneath that dense shade squirrels, chipmunks and rabbits scurry about, deer munch lazily on nearby shrubs and song birds tweet from branches above... Well, welcome to my neighborhood.

Unlike most of the Sweethearts, I don’t live out west.  I make my home in the northeast, in a town nestled against  the shores of Lake Ontario in Rochester, New York.  Also unlike most of the Sweethearts, I’m a born and bred city girl.  I grew up in one of the oldest neighborhoods in Rochester, NY, in an area called Maplewood where old Victorian and post Victorian style houses and even older trees made up our  neighborhood.  I spent long summer days lounging on our porch swing reading—lucky for me our local library was just a short walk to the end of our street.  Most weeks during summer found my mother, sister and I making that trek and returning with bags of books.  

Which is not to say I was idle—swimming, biking, tennis and soccer were part of the daily neighborhood routine, but my favorite games were when we’d splash around in our pool and pretend to be mermaids, or jump around on our wide, open front porch and pretend to be pirates sailing the wide open seas—we’d stand on the railings and use an old cardboard paper towel tube as a telescope and look for any sign of land (at least until the streetlights came on, when we had to go inside.)  Other times, we’d play in the cool shade of the carriage house behind our house and pretend to be “outlaws”; we’d borrow my dad’s handkerchiefs, tie them about the lower part of our face and guard our buried treasure (some rocks my dad spray painted gold for us).  There’s no doubt in my mind all this pretending sparked this budding author’s imagination.  

Jump forward about twenty years and just a handful of miles from where I grew up.  I live in a town called Irondequoit, which is Iroquois for “where the land and waters meet”—and that’s a pretty accurate description of my neighborhood.  My backyard backs up to a park, and Lake Ontario is just a quick walk from here.  I live on less than an acre of land, yet I have eleven trees in my front yard and twenty in the back.  My husband and I have lived here for nearly eleven years now.  Our town is surrounded on three sides by water—a river, the aforementioned lake and a bay, so chances are if I’m going somewhere other than the local grocery store or to pick up my boys from school, I have to travel over water to get there.

These swans live near the lake just a short walk from my front door.

I’m not sure when my passion for writing first began, it’s something that’s always been with me.  My dad read to us constantly, and shared stories of his life during the depression and growing up a farmer.  When I was six, my older sister brought home a homework assignment to write a short story.  I don’t remember the details exactly but I do recall that was the exact moment it occurred to me that, rather than just read my favorite stories over and over, or feel dissatisfied that the books in my collection weren’t quite the adventure I was yearning for….I could write my own.  Suddenly a world full of possibilities opened up to me. I began writing stories to entertain myself right then and there.

It was several years before it ever occurred to me to share my stories with anyone else—for the most part, I wrote for my own pleasure.  In high school I began writing stories for friends—their own adventure starrting them and whatever teen heartthrob they wanted to be stranded on a desert island with.  Life moved on in a way that a friend of mine refers to as “lifus interruptus” and while somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I’d return to writing, for a long time I ignored “the voices”—the characters begging me to tell their stories-- and got on with the business of living. But I never stopped reading.  Somewhere along the way I set aside Nancy Drew mysteries and began reading Harlequin Romances—after reading my first romance novel, Nancy and Ned’s chaste relationship seemed far too boring.  So I read romance almost exclusively. But  something was still missing.  I was drawn to the big displays of books in the grocery store featuring covers with beautiful men and women in historical costumes –and that’s where I found my true passion.  Before long I was devouring historical romances and soon the writer in me became restless.  I didn’t just want to just read historical romances.  I wanted to write them.

Small Town Christmas - the story that started it all

Though I joined RWA and a local writing chapter in my early twenties, it really wasn’t until my early thirties that I began to seriously consider writing for something other than my own amusement again.  By now I ‘d met and married Peter, my best friend and the love of my life.  He encouraged me to follow my heart and write.  I wrote in my spare time, critiqued with small groups here and there but nothing clicked.  Then I lost my job in a major layoff at the hospital where I worked as a medical secretary.  Suddenly I had time to write.  Never one to be idle, and worried about money, I began my own business as a medical transcriptionist.  Since I was expecting our first child it was important to me to work from home—being self employed would allow me to set my own hours.

The Model Man - research I did for this story helped me during my dad's illness

I continued pursuing both careers—writing and transcription—over the next six years.  My oldest son was born in March of 2000 and was quite honestly the happiest baby I’ve ever met. He was content to sleep in my arms as I worked or wrote; new moms are supposed to be exhausted but he was a good sleeper, seldom fussed and I couldn’t wait to have more.  My youngest son came along in November 2002 (on my birthday, no less!) and quickly proved the opposite of his brother.  He fussed a great deal, seldom slept and never slept through the night until he was fourteen months old (we’re fond of joking that he was determined to stay the youngest by keeping mom and dad too exhausted to even think about adding to our family again, let alone doing anything about it).  Drained and frazzled, I cut back on my transcription gradually until I finally let the business go altogether.  I still wrote when I could, but for the next couple of years I didn’t actively pursue it.

My first historical western--so fun it practically wrote itself!

August 2006 is forever etched in my mind as “the best of times and the worst of times”.  My oldest was about to begin first grade and for the first time would be in school a full day.  My youngest would be starting preschool.  For the first time in nearly a decade I would have “me” time.  I was supposed to be excited about this, and friends and relatives teased constantly about what I’d do with all my free time.  I joked that I would sleep or catch up on reading, but inside I was heartsick.  I’d once overheard a mom on the playground lament that once your kids begin school there’s a whole part of their day that no longer includes you. I’ve wished many, many times I’d never overheard that, because it stuck in my mind and made it hard to be completely happy about this new transition—about my babies not needing me as much, and the parts of their day that I would know nothing about.  I was living my own version of empty nest syndrome --and my babies were barely out of diapers!

.

With my boys, Wyatt and Colton,  aboard the Maid of the Mist in Niagara Falls last week.

In the midst of all this, my dad—my rock, my hero, my everything—had become ill.   I knew exactly what he had, even if it took the doctors a bit longer to figure it out.  Research for a story I was working on (The Model Man, a contemporary story with an over 40 heroine and a younger hero), had led me to TIA’s or trans ischemic attacks .  Years of medical transcription for an investigator who worked primarily on cases of nursing home neglect had taught me more than I ever thought I’d need to know about senile dementia and  Alzheimer’s disease.  With the brutal clarity that hindsight offers, things began adding up and I realized my dad had probably been suffering TIA’s,or mini strokes,  for a long time, we just never connected all the dots.  Now the trans ischemic attacks had led to a bigger stroke that left him with a form of dementia and forever changed our lives.  

My Dad in the rose garden outside his nursing home.

All of this was on my mind those early September mornings after I walked my oldest son to school, then drove the youngest to preschool.  The silence of the house drove me crazy—I jumped every time the cuckoo clock chimed, or the ice maker in the fridge switched on.  I’d begun to take Tanner, our dog, for long walks just to get out of the house. It was on one of those walks that I realized that for the rest of the world, when life gets hard, there’s therapy.  But for a writer…there’s no better therapy than writing.

I’d had an idea for a holiday story in my head for a while but hadn’t done anything with it.  I recalled hearing that The Wild Rose Press, a brand new e-publisher I’d heard wonderful things about, was looking for short stories for the holidays.  Id’ never written a short story before, but suddenly, I wanted to try. I cut Tanner’s walk short and headed back home.  Over the next few days I poured all the emotions I’d been feeling—the sadness, the worry, the fear, the little moments of joy—into that story. It took less than a week to finish it and by the time it was complete, I felt more like myself again.  The silence in my house had been replaced with the clickety-clack of my fingers on the keyboard, my youngest was adjusting to preschool and had made lots of friends, and my oldest loved the routine of  first grade.  The doctors had prescribed a new medication for my dad that kept him from being quite so confused and my mom had found a senior day care center to care for my dad while she worked.  Things were looking up.

Tanner—our daily walks still keep me focused and allow me time to brainstorm.

To make a long story short, I sold Small Town Christmas to The Wild Rose Press that October and it was released the week before my birthday in November 2006.  I turned 40 that year and while some would find that depressing, I felt as though I’d embarked on a brand new chapter of my life.  I’ve since sold several more stories to TWRP, including The Model Man, which has also been released on audio book (it’s an August special this month at TWRP—on sale for .99!); Wild Texas Wind, my first historical western, which was released last summer and  a short Civil War time travel due out early next year. I also have my first short erotica story under consideration with them.  

Coming Soon to The Wild Rose Press

My fingers and imagination are never idle, so there are plenty more stories in the works. These days I write full time these and do freelance editing.  My oldest son is about to enter sixth grade and my youngest third; both boys love school and while they aren’t allowed to read my books, they love to tell anyone who will listen that their mom is an author.  My dad is in a nursing home now but he still knows who we are when he sees us. In many ways he’s still the same person, his personality hasn’t changed much, even if he’s confused as to time and place more often than not.  My mom has retired so she can spend more time with my dad and her grandchildren. And even after thirteen years of marriage, Peter is still the love of my life, my best friend and my biggest supporter.  

Aboard the Maid of the Mist –still crazy (about each other) after all these years.

I begin most mornings with some gentle yoga stretches (I’m a lifelong migraine sufferer; yoga helps reduce the number of migraines I suffer each month) and as I stretch and breathe, I gaze out the family room windows that overlook the backyard and marvel at the impossibly wide maple trees and the pine trees that seem to be stretching toward Heaven …and count my blessings.  

Peter and the boys on a recent fishing expedition in the park

No blog about me would be complete without mentioning the Lord of the Manor himself, Gilbert. He's pretty sure I work from home solely to give him a warm lap to sleep on.

Welcome to my World, aka. Mini-autobiography

I grew up on the South Plains, in the northwest portion of West Texas, on the flat table-top Caprock, where the sky looked like a big blue bowl turned upside down on a sea of green cotton or brown plowed dirt. There’s something sacred about it, holding the clean, pure air and sky and land in my heart.

It was the best of times, “the Nifty Fifties", labeled conservative, a classic American era, in which all was right in our country. But the entire population was in the throes of dying innocence, with Elvis, the Hydrogen bomb, the McCarthy hearings, and Marilyn Monroe leading us along. America would never be the same again.

And so in the sixties, the social revolution began. Young men burned their draft cards and young women burned their bras.

Well, I didn't have a draft card, and my bra wasn't big enough to make much of a flame…so I put my two young children with a babysitter, and began college…at age 27.

I married very young. My husband and I took turns going to college for degrees. He earned two, and then it was my turn, back and forth, all the time raising our kids and working, too. Between us, we have five degrees—but I'm not the one with the doctorate.

Thank God for the G.I. Bill.

My life is divided into clear-cut sections. Now? I'm in a wonderful place, where I can "do my own thing." I learned to play golf first, and for years competed for quarters and sometimes a little trophy. Then, due to odd circumstances, I quit golf and took up writing stories. That was in 2004.

I'd like to invite you into my world, where I live and write novels. This place is in Central Texas, and even though we're in a drought right now, I won't live anyplace else. Why? Because it's home, and I feel tied to it just as I did the High Plains.

We live in a big subdivision, which was divided into three-acres plots about forty years ago. My desk sits beside a window so I can look through the sceened-in porch and out the back and watch all kinds of wildlife meander to the bird bath and water bucket.

This is the screened-in porch. Some of the deer, like this doe and her twin walk right up to the back door, knowing that's where that human appears with water, and sometimes vegetable peelings, stale bread, and cantaloupe rinds or banana peelings.

A red fox sneaks up early in the mornings and drinks from the bucket. Then she scurries away toward the back.

My back "yard" resembles typical ranchland around here—live oaks intermingled with a few mesquites and sometimes the juniper (misnamed cedar), which sucks up water ten times more than any other tree. We cut those down.

While I look out on what was once a ranch, I daydream about our pioneers who settled Texas 150 years ago or more. This photo is one of my ancestors. In this beautiful picture, taken around 1840, she is 16 years old, dressed up for her portrait. People like her inspire me to write Western Historical romances.

Two of my books: The Cameron Sisters



TEXAS PROMISE-BOOK I



TEXAS TRUE-BOOK II

These are the last of the Camerons of Texas series. Please leave a comment to enter a drawing for one of these novels.

Thank you for visiting….

Celia Yeary-Romance...and a little bit 'o Texas  
http://www.celiayeary.blogspot.com http://www.celiayeary.com

http://sweetheartsofthewest.blogspot.com/