One at a time

Not "Once upon a time...," that honored opening to a story. But one at a time.

I've been asked did I ever find a publisher for "Wherever You May Be" and what ever happened to "Riverbend."  You may picture manuscripts in your mind as 1) on hiatus and 2) in a full body cast.

The truth is, while waiting for my first round of edits "A Question of Boundaries" from Astraea Press, I have started a sequel call "A Question of Trust." And started. And started.

Truth is, I can't seem to get past the first five chapters. Which isn't a bad thing, it's just that I want it to be the best writing  I can muster, and I keep seeing things I need to improve -- especially after the round of workshops I took in the past few weeks. But I did make a public goal at the April meeting of the Carolina Romance Writers that I would complete two new chapters by the May meeting. That's at least 30 pages, so I need to get busy.

As for my minister friend and his divided congregation (WYMB), I'm still looking for a publisher who will take on a story that isn't exactly a Christian book (i.e., with a message and lots of Bible quotes)  but a story about how hard it is to be a Christian sometimes. I'm still looking, but sort of have it on the back burner right now.

"Riverbend" needs a lot of editing, if I am to believe the rejection/critique I got after my last submission. It really hurt, but after eating a quart of ice cream and venting to my long-suffering husband, I realized there was a lot of truth in what the submissions editor said. I have plans for a revision that will make the story more believable, but...

One thing at a time.

Meanwhile, here is a snippet from "A Question of Boundaries."

     Caroline woke with a start when Mrs. Porter called her name and the newspaper fell to floor in a flurry of sheets.

     “I’m sorry I woke you, Miss. A gentleman is at the door asking for you.”

     “Oh. Have him come in, then.”

     “He says he can’t.” She made disgusted face. “Says he stepped in something nasty in the street and he didn’t want to track it inside.”

     Caroline stood and hopped a little on a foot that had gone to sleep. Trying to ignore the pins-and-needles sensation, she limped to the door.

     A man with graying muttonchops and balding head stood before her. He looked the very illustration of someone’s kindly grandfather. “Miss Featherstone?”

     “Yes?”

     “I have come with word of your father.” His eyes twinkled as if he had very good news to impart.

     “Father? Is he well? Where is he?”

     “He is very well, and he is waiting for you outside.” He stepped aside and indicated a waiting brougham.

     Caroline let out a happy laugh and ran toward the vehicle. The man followed her, but when she turned, bewildered at the carriage’s empty interior, his grandfatherly expression had disappeared.

     “Get inside,” he ordered, and for the second time that day, Caroline faced a weapon. The difference was this one was a derringer.