FINDING A SETTING FOR A STORY

The setting for all my books, as most of you know, is in Texas.  Recently, I began writing a historical short story that needed a town to get started. The time period is 1870 and the main part of my tale takes place in the fictitious town of McTiernan, a few miles north of Dallas. Actually the town will be built during the telling, but that's in the story.

In the book, Katie and the Irish Texan, the hero, Dermot McTiernan, came to Texas from Ireland to make his fortune in 1861. He becomes a ranch hand, working for land owner, Ian Benning. In 1863, they joined a brigade of Texas soldiers to help save the state from being destroyed like Georgia in Sherman's March to the sea. After the war ends, he returns to Ireland intending to marry his love and bring her home to Texas. Well, we know the course of life and love never runs smoothly and Dermot returns to Texas alone.

Sooooo, here he is in a saloon, in the middle of a card game, and about to be accused of cheating. He's not wearing plaid or a brightly colored hat and his name isn't Waldo, but where the heck is he? There are a myriad of places he could be, after all Texas is a pretty big state. While I peruse the internet, he starts to tell me a little more about himself and come to find out, he's been lumber-jacking in East Texas in and around the city of Jefferson.




Now, at this time, around 1870, Jefferson is quite the happening place. Toward the end of the war, she had been scheduled for destruction and to be set ablaze by the advancing Northern troops. Thankfully, she was spared this fate, unlike many of her sister cities, and by 1870, there were over two hundred buildings scheduled to be built. The town reached its peak population of greater than thirty thousand and became the sixth largest city in Texas.





Jefferson became a port for steamboat travel and at it's peak in the early 1870's, accommodated up to two hundred fifty steamers per year. She also was a major railway hub until 1873 when the completion of the Texas and Pacific railway rerouted rail travel  from Texarkana to Marshall bypassing Jefferson. After that her population diminished to about 3,500 residents.




Today, Jefferson is a lovely historic town, home to more state registered historic structures than anywhere else in the state. She truly lives up to being called, The Queen of thee Bayou, a unique and special place to be explored and shared.


I appreciate you stopping by and as always, I love to hear from you!

Hugs and have a great week,
Carra

Find me on my website: http://carracopelin.com
Facebook: http://facebook/carracopelin
Twitter: http://twitter/CarraCopelin

Dilue Rose and The Runaway Scrape

by Celia Yeary

GIRL IN SUNBONNET-WINSLOW HOMER-1878

Dilue Rose was only ten years old when she and her family were caught up in the terrible exodus called The Runaway Scrape. They'd moved to Texas only two years before and had barely settled in near Harrisburg when word came that Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna and his Mexican army were gathering on the Rio Grande River. The war between Texas and Mexico had begun.

The residents around San Patricio, Refugio, and San Antonio began to move east in large groups as early as January.

In March, Sam Houston arrived in Gonzales and learned of the fall of the Alamo. He decided on retreat to the Colorado River and ordered all inhabitants to leave everything and accompany him. People from all over Texas began to move toward Louisiana and Galveston Island to escape the Mexican Army. This began the Runaway Scrape on a very large scale.

Like all others, Dilue Rose's parents, Dr. Pleasant Rose and wife Margaret, were ill-prepared for the long trek east. In their state of panic, they left food on the table, a fire in the fireplace, stock to be tended, and chickens left to roam.

No one made proper preparations to survive on the run. They used any means of transportation available, or none at all, meaning many walked, including women and children. Babies and toddlers were carried which made the flight even more difficult.

As a young girl, Dilue followed her family as all other children did in a desperate attempt to get to Louisiana or Galveston Island.

DILUE ROSE HARRIS

As an elderly woman, Dilue used her father's journal along with her childhood memories of the horrors of The Runaway Scrape to write memoirs of those days. Those pages were used to write her story in various publications, including a book titled Texas Tears and Texas Sunshine-Voices of Frontier Women.

Dilue writes:

"We left home at sunset, hauling clothes, bedding, and provisions on the sleigh with one yoke of oxen. Mother and I were walking, she with an infant in her arms, while Father rode their one horse. Brother drove the oxen and my two little sisters rode in the sleigh.

When we got to the San Jacinto River, there were five thousand people waiting for the Lynchburg Ferry. We waited three days before crossing.

Our hardships began there. The river was rising and there were struggles to see who should cross first.

Measles, sore eyes, whooping cough, and every other disease known to man broke out. We got on the ferry first because of my little sick sister. The horror of crossing Trinity was difficult to describe. Once on the ferry, the flood waters broke over the banks above. It took eight men to get us to safety." 

By April 1 the prairie was a scene of chaos and desolation and death.  The spring rains fell in sheets, making every river crossing a terrifying ordeal. Women floundered waist-deep in mud, babies in their arms.  Some families gave up running and simply cowered where they were, in the tall prairie grass and bottomland canebrakes. Many refugees sickened and died along the trail. Children were abandoned. Thieves stole horses, claiming they were for Houston's Texian Army.

After weeks of intolerable conditions, a young man rode toward their camp, shouting, "Turn back! Turn back! Houston's army has whipped the Mexicans, and it's safe now. Go home! Turn back!"

They soon learned that the return trip was just as horrendous as the running away.

 

SANTA ANNA ON LEFT IN RED CAPE. SAM HOUSTON LYING ON GROUND, WOUNDED

Dilue writes:

"We crossed the San Jacinto River and stayed late into the night on the San Jacinto battlefield. A soldier asked my mother to go with him to see Santa Anna as a captive and the Mexican prisoners, but she would not go, saying she was not dressed to go visiting. Instead, I got permission to ride there with him.

Earlier, I had lost my bonnet in the raging river, and Mother made me wear a tablecloth tied over my head.  But I wouldn't wear the tablecloth again since I would be seeing some of the young men.

I was on the battlefield of San Jacinto on April 26, 1836. Two days later I turned eleven years old.

We left the battlefield late in the evening. We had to pass among the dead Mexicans, and once Father had to stop and pull one out of the road so we would not run over the body.

The prairie was very boggy, it was getting dark, and now there were thirty families with us. We were glad to leave the battlefield, for it was a gruesome sight. We camped that night on the prairie, and could hear the wolves howl and bark as they devoured the dead."

The family arrived home after many days of grueling travel. When they arrived, they found the house ransacked, dishes broken, furniture tossed about and broken, the floor torn up, and hogs running around in the house. They had practically nothing, and so the starting over began.

"Father had hidden some of our better things in a big chest so that no one could find them. We had left in our better clothes. Now our better clothing was in that chest, and among them was my old sunbonnet. I was prouder of that sunbonnet than anything, for I was sorely tired of wearing that tablecloth."

--Dilue Rose was born in 1825 in St. Louis, Missouri on April 28.

--After the Texas Revolution, her family moved to the area of Bray's Bayou five miles outside Houston.

--There, Dilue attended school.

--At age 13, she married Ira A. Harris who served with the Texas Rangers.

--They had nine children.

--Ira died in 1869 at age 53.

--Dilue died in 1914 at age 89.

NOTE: One of Dilue's little sisters died during The Runaway Scrape. If you recall reading my post of a couple of months ago titled, "Mary and a Horse Named Tormentor," she also was in the Runaway Scrape with her husband and babies. One of her babies died during the exodus, as well.

Celia Yeary

Romance...and a little bit of Texas

Sources:

The Handbook of Texas On-Line: State Historical Association

Texas Tears and Texas Sunshine: Voices of Frontier Women

Reminiscences of Dilue Rose Harris

Mike Kearby's "Texas"

Wikimedia Commons.

Public Domain Photos

Let's Spin a Yarn

 

Today for Big Art Day in Texas, my artist friends and I are going to yarn bomb the local arts council building. We’ve been crocheting, knitting and finger weaving for two weeks in preparation for the big day. My students have really enjoyed the process. So when I was trying to think of a topic, I thought I’d look up the history of yarn. Most pioneer women made clothing for their families and this often included raising the sheep or growing flax, spinning the fibers into yarn, weaving the yarn into fabric, dying the fabric and then sewing the articles of clothing. It was a very labor intensive process. As areas became more settled and mills more automated for making fabric, settlers could either order readymade clothing, commission a seamstress or in some cases buy clothing in the local mercantile.

The first recorded piece of yarn is a string skirt dating over 20,000 years so I figure I’ll cover the era after the spinning wheel was invented. While an exact date and place for the first spinning wheels are not known, many suspect the originated in India somewhere between 500 and 1000 CE. Charkha wheels are still used today and are among the first type of spinning wheels. “Instead of a wheel with a rim, Charkha wheels were composed of spokes with holes in the ends. A string was run through the holes, connecting the spokes in a zigzag and supporting the drive band. The drive band was connected to a spindle on its side, and powered by a hand crank.” (From Crochetvolution – The History of Yarn).

Spinning Jenny

With the spinning wheel, the production of cloth took less time. Technology continued to advance and in the 1760s the development of the water wheel, spinning jenny and the spinning mule contributed to the growth of the cloth industry and enabled the first fabric mills. By the 1830s, steam power allowed the mills to be semi-automated.

The most common fibers used for yarn are cotton and wool but yarn can also be made from more unusual sources like yaks, possum, ostrich feathers, bamboo, hemp or even soy.  Dyes could be made from natural materials like shellfish, bugs and certain plants.

The phrase “spin a yarn” comes from women spinning their yarn in groups and telling stories until eventually “spinning a yarn” also meant telling a story. So I guess it’s rather appropriate to be talking about yarn on a writing blog. For more information, check out this site on the spinning wheel.

A Little History on Forensic Science

BY Linda LaRoque

I say "A Little" because there is so much information and also because I want to focus on two aspects—finger printing and sperm identification.

Back in 2007 when I began writing my first time-travel novella, A Law of Her Own, set in 1888 in Prairie, Texas, it became necessary to learn when sperm was first identifiable under a microscope. That led to identifying the type of microscope might be available to a country doctor in a small town in the late 1800s. I needed this information so my heroine could prove the villain was not only a murderer, but a sexual predator. One novella led to two more set in Prairie and included some of the same characters.

I'm happy to say that sometime in the future the three—A Law of Her Own, A Marshal of Her Own, and A Love of His Own will be published as an anthology in both ebook and print. I'm very excited so had to add that little tidbit.

While writing Birdie's Nest, my heroine, a Texas Ranger is transported back to 1890 in Waco. One of the only people who halfway believes she's from the future, a detective on the Waco Police Force, asks her to work undercover and use her investigative skills to help locate a man carving up some of the soiled doves on the reservation. Of course, Victorian society does not approve of women dealing in men's business and Birdie finds herself in fixes.

So, that's all I can say about the story. You'll have to read it.

Archimedes (287-212 BC) the man behind the term "Eureka," is considered to be the father of forensic science. He determined a crown wasn't made of gold (as falsely claimed) by its density and buoyancy.

Later in the 7th century, Soleiman, an Arabic merchant, used fingerprints on clay tablets to prove the validity between debtors and lenders.

In 250 BC, Erasistratus, a Greek physician concludes that pulse rates of his patients increased when they lied—the first lie detector test.

In 44 BC, the first recorded autopsy occurred when a doctor determined that Julius Caesar died from the 2nd of 23 stab wounds.

There are many more recorded example of forensics being used in our early history, but I want to move on to more recent years. If you would like to read more, I used this website for reference.
http://forensicsciencecentral.co.uk/history.shtml

The first microscope was developed in 1590.

Anton von Leeuwenhoek, a tradesman in Delft, drew the attention of the Royal Society in London with the microscopes he made. He had no university training and spoke only Dutch, but through these new friends he developed a taste for speculation. His interests turned to whether mammalian generation (or more plainly put, reproduction) was determined by the male sperm or the female egg.

Understand that in the 17th and 18th centuries, the subject of generation was weighed down with religious and philosophical overtones. Naturally he was hesitant to use his microscopes on the study of semen. Also, he wasn't keen on writing about semen and intercourse nor the thought of having to talk about it. Some years later, in 1677, a medical student at Leiden brought him a sample of semen in which the student and now Leeuwenhoek found small animals with tails. "Leeuwenhoek resumed his own observations with his own semen—acquired, he stressed, not by sinfully defiling himself but as a natural consequence of conjugal coitus—observed a multitude of 'animalcules' less than a millionth the size of a coarse grain of sand and with thin, undulating transparent tails."
The website I used is below if you'd like to read further.
http://10e.devbio.com/article.php?ch=4&id=65

It was not until 1986 that DNA was first used to solve a crime. Sir Alec Jefferies, through DNA profiles, identified Colin Pitchfork as the murderer of two young girls in England.

Though researchers knew that lines and whirls in fingerprints and footprints could be used in identifying individuals for many centuries, there was no real system which made it unreliable and/or unable to prove. In 1880, a paper written by Henry Faulds of Scotland, suggests fingerprints at the scene of a crime could be used to identify the suspect. He used fingerprints to free an innocent man and lock up the perpetrator in a Tokyo burglary.

Sir Francis Galton established the first classification system in 1892 and published his book Fingerprints. In 1918, Edmond Locard suggests the use of 12 matching points as a positive fingerprint match.

The FBI was established by US President Theodore Roosevelt in 1905, but it was not until 1932 that the FBI crime lab was created.

Here is a picture of an 1852 microscope. The one Doctor Wilson, in A Law of Her Own, uses in 1888 in Prairie is probably very similar. I doubt he could afford anything newer.

Another reference not listed above.
http://www.ehow.com/info_8558497_early-crime-scene-investigation-tools.html

This is such an interesting subject to me. If you're interested, I hope you'll Google some of the websites listed and read further. You won't be disappointed.

I give full credit for facts in this blog post to the references where I gathered the information. The pictures are from Wikipedia Commons.

Wheelbarrow John Returns to Old Hangtown

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

The El Dorado Republican and Nugget got out a special edition in honor of the occasion of John Studebaker returning to Placerville, California, fifty-nine years after he left the gold rush town. (April 1907)

More than fifty-nine years ago a gaunt youth of nineteen stepped down from an emigrant wagon and took his first look around at the country where he had come to make a fortune. In his pocket was a lone 50-cent piece. Today a kindly-faced aged man stepped from a luxurious automobile and looked around him at the area where he had laid the foundation for his fortune. It was J.M. Studebaker returning to take perhaps his last look at the scenes of his early struggles.

The auto had drawn up in front of the Ohio House where on the wooden porch stood a score of grizzled men. As Studebaker stepped down from his auto he spied a face in the crowd. ''Hello Newt, you around here yet?" he said, by way of salutation.

"Yes, I'm here yet," answered Newton T. Spencer with his Missouri drawl, "but they call me judge now, Mr. Studebaker, ye see I'm the Justice of the Peace."

"Huh! What did you ever know about law when you and Hank Monk used to stop in the road and decide with your fists which of your stages was going to back up to let the other pass?" exclaimed Studebaker in jocular tone.

"And you, too, Charley Von Weidierwachs, where's that rip-snortin' Jayhawk, Blackhawk, Mohawk father of yours?" asked Studebaker, shaking hands with a bent figure, beneath whose black hat hung locks of silver gray.

"City clerk Weatherwax, if you please," he drew himself up with a mock show of pride, "that name bothered me worse than all tarnation, so I had to change it."

"Well, this town hasn't changed," Studebaker paused to glance about him as he shook hands with the men who were young and full of hope when he first came here.

"And where's Mike Mayer, one of the men who worked with me?" he asked.

Studebaker was told. A few minutes later he was driven up to a white painted cottage and was shown inside. His visit must be brief, he knew.

"Is that you, Wheelbarrow John?" a tremulous voice asked the question as a thin and emaciated hand came out from beneath the coverlet and groped for a hand to press in greeting.

"Yes, it's I, Mike," answered Studebaker, as he looked into the sightless eyes and drawn face of Michael Mayer.

There was feeling in his voice as Studebaker said, "I must go now, Mike."

They clasped hands for a minute more -- these two relics of the days of 1849 -- one worth millions and the other -- well, not so rich.

Before Studebaker would sit down to the banquet in honor of his return to Hangtown he must see some of the old places he knew. He saw not many. Hangtown was swept by the fire while he was here in the early days; it was destroyed again many years after he left. But the old-timers who rode alongside of him pointed out the place where he went to work for Joe Hinds to make wheelbarrows for $10 each.

The dining room of the Ohio House where the banquet was served had been elaborately decorated. The tables held bouquets of wild flowers, and the walls of the room were banked with yellow poppies against a solid background of ferns. The menu card, on which was emblazoned a picture of a man swinging from a tree, and another representing a man with overalls in boots trundling a wheelbarrow load of gold, was printed after the manner of pioneer typography, the clever imitation winning compliments for the craftsmen of the Placerville "Republican and Nugget office." The catalogue of eatables was replete with early-day references.

CHUCK LIST:

Chili Gulch Rib Warmer

Sluice Box Tailings, flavored with Chicken

High-grade Olives

Spanish Flat Onions

Cedar Ravine Radishes

Coon Hollow Pickles

Sacramento River Salmon paved with cheese

Indian diggings Spuds

Tertiary Moisture

Slab of Cow from the States

Bandana Fries with Bug-juice

Lady Canyon Chicken, Hangtown dressed

Webbertown Murphy's Shirt-tailed Bend Peas

Dead Man's Ravine Asparagus

Cemented Gravel a la emigrant Jane

Butcher Brown Fizz Water

Assorted Nuggets

Amalgam Cheese, Riffle Crackers

Mahala's Delight en tasse

Texas Hill Fruit

Pay Day Smokes

Hard Pan Smokes

LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT? (and a giveaway!) by CHERYL PIERSON

Do you believe in love at first sight? Can it happen? More importantly, can it last over the long haul of the ups and downs of a relationship?

Throw in a few obstacles from the very first meeting of the hero/heroine, and the relationship becomes even more intriguing.

In my novella, EVERY GIRL’S DREAM, that’s just what happens. (Every Girl's Dream was previously published with Victory Tales Press, and has recently been re-released with Prairie Rose Publications!)

Sheena McTavish, a young Irish girl, has been raped by the son of her father’s employer. Now, with a baby on the way, Sheena is given an unthinkable choice: give her baby to the father’s wealthy family to raise, or travel to New Mexico Territory by stagecoach to live with her aunt and uncle until her child is born. At that point, she will have to place it in a nearby orphanage.

Desperate to buy some time and protect her baby from its father, she chooses to travel west. Alone and afraid, she starts on the journey that will change her life forever. Before Sheena’s stage leaves, she meets handsome Army scout Callen Chandler. The attraction is there, even under difficult conditions.

As the story progresses, Sheena must learn to trust again, and Cal begins to realize he doesn’t have to live the solitary existence he’s endured up to now. Being half Comanche has left him with no place in either world—white or Indian. When Sheena comes along, everything changes…for both of them.

>

I WILL BE GIVING AWAY PDF COPIES OF EVERY GIRL'S DREAM TO TWO LUCKY COMMENTERS TODAY! BE SURE TO INCLUDE YOUR E-MAIL ADDRESS IN YOUR COMMENT!


To check out the rest of my work, click here:
http://www.amazon.com/author/cherylpierson

I’ll leave you with an excerpt of EVERY GIRL’S DREAM, available now for only $1.99.

Cal is a half-breed U.S. Army scout, who has just rescued Sheena, the heroine, from a Kiowa attack on the stagecoach she was in. They had met briefly the morning before, and as luck would have it, Cal comes upon the stage after the Kiowas have attacked and are getting ready to ride away with Sheena. He tells them he and Sheena are married and the Kiowas reluctantly let him take Sheena, but then…

Cal felt…something. His back tingled as he waited for the stinging burn of a shale arrowhead. He risked a glance backward, and saw the Kiowa leader’s stare heavy upon him.

“Sheena, hold on tight.”

“The baby—”

“I know, sweetheart. We won’t ride hard any longer’n we have to. Lowell’s Ridge is only about four miles away.” A very long four miles.

She nodded in understanding. “I’m sorry, Callen.”

“No call for that.”

“You came for me.”

He smiled at that. There was a small amount of disbelief in her tone, overshadowed by a huge amount of wonder. Who wouldn’t come for her?

“You could be killed because of me,” she said softly, as if she had only just realized it. She laid her hand over his, and in that moment, he wondered if dying for her would be worth the twenty-seven years he’d lived so far.

His heart jumped at her touch, then steadied. But as he risked another glance back, he saw exactly what he’d feared. Two of the braves were mounting up, and they weren’t riding the opposite way. “That still might happen,” he murmured.

He leaned forward, trying to protect Sheena with his body as he slapped the reins against the horse’s side, urging him into a lope, then a full-out run.

The Kiowas were close behind them. There must have been dissension among them. The leader had seemed content to let him take Sheena and ride away. One of the others must have disagreed with that decision.

Cal reached to pull his revolver from his holster.

They were strangely quiet, he thought.

The first bullet cracked from behind them, and Cal reflexively bent lower. The bullet whined past his ear like an angry bee.

Sheena gasped. He fired off a shot and got lucky. One of the warriors screamed in agony and fell from his saddle. But the other rode low, hanging onto the side of his mount. And he kept right on coming.

The next bullet sang over Cal’s head. He concentrated on eating up the miles to Lowell’s Ridge. Riding double was slowing them down considerably. Sheena’s body was tense beneath the shelter of his own. Fragile, but strong. Delicate, but determined. His hand splayed over her stomach, holding her close, cradling her from the jarring of their wild ride.

A whoop from behind them accompanied the crack of a rifle, and this time, the Kiowa warrior’s bullet found its mark. A bolt of fire seared through Cal’s right shoulder, and for a minute, the pain was so strong he almost sawed back on the reins. But at his harsh curse, Sheena glanced up at him, her hand instantly clamping tightly over his. The reins were still wrapped in his fingers, but Sheena kept her hand on his, reminding him to let the horse have his head and continue their flight for freedom.

“Hang on, Cal!”

The pain was so breathtaking he could do nothing but nod his understanding.

“Dammit!” she cursed. That almost made him smile, but the agony in his shoulder surged up and stole his breath again as the horse’s hooves pounded the ground below.

The road was not much more than a trail, and where it narrowed, branches reached out to scrape and snarl in hair and clothing, scratching their faces as they blindly rode toward safety.

www.prairierosepublications.com

Tom Rizzo’s West

Tom Rizzo

By Kathleen Rice Adams

Tom Rizzo writes westerns — good ones, with traditional action aplenty and, so far, romantic elements that play significant roles in the story. He writes westerns so well, in fact, that his debut novel, Last Stand at Bitter Creek, was among the nominees for the 2013 Peacemaker Awards, in the Best Western First Novel category.

The man bears watching, not only because he’s a rising voice in the genre, but also because of the level of historical detail he incorporates into his work. Rizzo loosely based Last Stand at Bitter Creek on a little-known theft of valuable documents during the Civil War. The resulting action-adventure tale reads a bit like Louis L’Amour dressed National Treasure and Robert Ludlum’s Bourne novels in six guns and denim.

Though Rizzo presents his tales from the male point of view, his female characters clearly are more than stereotypical damsels in need of rescue by a hard-bitten cowboy. Rizzo’s women think, they act, and they help drive the plot.

Like many other former journalists, Rizzo arrived on fiction’s doorstep later in life. His interests are broad, from mystery and crime to thriller and science fiction. He could have attacked any of those genres; yet, he chose to write historical westerns despite conventional wisdom saying “the western is dead.”

According to Rizzo, it’s only wounded.

Why westerns?

Tom Rizzo: Westerns represent such a rich legacy of American history. I grew up in the Midwest, small-town America. Like others, my introduction to westerns came from black-and-white movies. The plots were basic, simple, and straightforward in most cases, but it was the sense of adventure that attracted me.

Then, I began to read various authors and became impressed with their realistic visions and interpretations of the frontier. As much as anything, however, it was the physical beauty of the West that captured my attention and fired my imagination. The language of the West is its landscape — a visual poetry of mountains, rivers, streams, and deserts, rolling hills, and the sky.

Most authors who write in the genre grit their teeth every time they hear “westerns don’t sell” or “the western is dead.” Judging by the number of authors who continue to write westerns, though, a funeral may be just a tad premature. What would you like people who insist on consigning westerns to Boot Hill to know?

I think, at times, there’s sort of a Neanderthal mindset about westerns. Not from the readers’ viewpoint, but from that of literary agents and publishers. It’s as if they’re standing wild-eyed, brandishing a garlic ring and crucifix in an attempt to ward off the evil western writer who wants to foster the traditional shoot-’em-up, cowboy-and-Indian story.

As you know, this type of thinking is downwind of reality. This genre accommodates a number of sub-genres. Westerns, in fact, represent historical adventures, historical mysteries, historical thrillers, historical romances, and even historical horror and fantasy.

Perhaps there’s a marketing disconnect. We have to do a better job of attracting readers who haven’t yet tested the waters.

One of the common laments we hear within the admittedly aging community of western historical writers is that the traditional market for westerns is aging, too. Some see attracting younger readers as the key to keeping the genre alive, but no one seems quite sure how to go about that. Got any ideas?

Why don’t you just put me on the spot? A great question with no easy answer.

Some writers — Dale B. Jackson , JR Sanders, and Cheryl Pierson come to mind — have written novels aimed at the young adult and have done very well with those books. That could be a way to lure younger readers into sticking with the genre as they age.

At the same time, I think it comes down to an old-fashioned sales and marketing strategy in developing a message aimed at convincing younger readers to at least try the product. Westerns are not only great tales of adventures, but also wonderful resources of American history.

Traditional westerns often include a conspicuous romantic component, although many traditional western writers — especially men — are hesitant to call their stories “romances.” Your short story “A Fire in Brimstone” uses a romance between the sheriff and a café owner to propel the plot, and a case could be made for the story’s conclusion meeting the happily-ever-after-ending requirement of the romance genre. Where do you draw the line between “western” and “western romance”?

I don’t know that I could draw a line between the two — at least consciously. When I wrote “A Fire in Brimstone,” the term “western romance” wasn’t top-of-mind — or any other term, for that matter. The romantic attraction between the two characters seemed, at least to me, a natural component of the story.

Sometimes labels get in the way of good storytelling. I think most writers have of an umbrella goal in mind when they write. For example, no matter what the plot, I try to present characters in conflict — either with one another or with their own emotions — who face adversity and are striving for some level of justice or redemption.

You’re fond of a variety of genres from western to science fiction, noir, mystery, and political thriller. Do you find your eclectic tastes coming together in your work, intentionally or otherwise? How difficult is it to make all those influences work together?

What I find remarkable about the structure of the western is the ability to weave in varied sub-genres without sacrificing the concept of a true western. The difficulty, of course, depends on the intricacy of the plot or storyline.

The western can easily accommodate mystery, noir, and political thrillers. Science fiction, as well, but that would be a bit of stretch for me.

On your blog, you devote significant virtual ink to exposing some of the lesser-known scoundrels of the Old West — outlaws and wannabes alike. In fact, you’ve published a non-fiction book, Heroes & Rogues, containing profiles of some of the not-quite-notorious baddies and their not-quite-famous adversaries. To what do you attribute this fascination with villainy?

I think it goes back to my childhood. When my brothers and the neighborhood kids played so-called cowboys and outlaws, I was the first to volunteer to play the outlaw. They couldn’t understand why. But, I always felt an incredible amount of freedom in such a role. No rules to follow. No warning anyone what you were about to do. No decorum to maintain. The freedom to be devious, sneaky, and hide anywhere you could — as long as you stayed in the neighborhood and didn’t climb into Mr. Quinn’s Bing cherry tree to hide, because Mr. Quinn would shoot you.

It’s fascinating to me how many men wore a badge and then turned outlaw. Or kept the badge and played outlaw anyway. It amazes me how many of them would switch back and forth. Many — or most — of those who did ride the outlaw trail led very short lives, on average.

If you had lived in the Old West, when and where would you have taken up residence, and what line of work would you have pursued?

Wyoming, I think, would be a great place to live. Spacious. Beautiful. I would have been happy to live in a small-but-growing town and run the local newspaper. Newspaper editors, as you know, weren’t worth their salt unless they raised a little hell. And that would be fun, as long as you didn’t have to be fast with a gun.


Find Tom Rizzo online at TomRizzo.com, as well as on Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn. His Amazon author page offers a listing of his books.