I have decided to publish a number of my short stories in an anthology entitled, 'XLP#304'. It's named after one of my favourite characters. To sharpen my skills, I began writing short stories, using as a deadline the length of time it took for the bathwater to run. I have a very slow bath. They became known, unimaginatively as, the Running the Water Stories.

I then discovered the Writers Write 12 Short Stories in 12 Months Challenge. I have been enjoying that for two years now. It's where XLP#304 made his first appearance. Not to mention his second and his third!

So, if you are wondering why there are so few short stories on the website, despite the rather OTT title on the Short Story page header pic, that's why! They're all about to go into a book! It will be my first short story anthology and my first foray into self-publishing - not something I've ever been a fan of but... life is short and exists for us to have adventures and try new things, so why not?

I am trying extremely hard to get the anthology out asap!

Today, I have the pleasure of Charlene Raddon's company on my blog. Welcome, Charlene!

An avid reader, Charlene Raddon never planned to be a writer. A vivid dream changed that. She dragged out a portable typewriter and began to put her dream on paper. Originally published by Kensington Books, Charlene is now an Indie author. All her books have received high accolades, contest wins, and awards. When not writing, she designs historical book covers at her site, http://silversagebookcovers.com where she specializes in westerns.

Charlene: Thanks to Elaine for hosting me. I’m thrilled to talk about my latest release, Divine Gamble. This book has been a labor of love. Back when I was writing for Kensington Books, I sent a proposal for Divine Gamble to my editor. He rejected it and asked for a story about a widow with a couple of kids and a drifter. That’s how To Have and To Hold came into being. But I loved Divine Gamble, so I dragged it out now and then and worked on it, always laying it aside because something else demanded my attention.
Finally, my chance to finish the book came this year, and I’m excited to say it is published and doing well.

As a girl, Maisy Macoubrie witnessed the murder of her beloved father. She's been running from the killer for fourteen years. If only she could provide a safe home for her and her son… but she'll never get rich dealing faro in saloons, with a cold-blooded killer on her trail.
The Preacher never meant to become a gunman. Sometimes life deals a man a hard hand. Always alone, always hunted, he dreams of all he’s been denied—peace, family, love.
The moment Maisy and The Preacher meet, their lives change once more. United in battle against a powerful enemy, they fight side by side, but can they beat the odds they face? Is love worth the biggest gamble man has ever known? ​

The air shifted, and a breeze fanned the back of her neck. Someone had entered the saloon. Seeing Marshal Jake Harker look behind her and frown, she stuffed the bank draft into her pocket. The hair on her neck rose. She turned slowly, expecting to see death staring her in the eye.

A new stranger, built like a freight wagon, stood just inside. Small eyes squinted out from under bushy brows. Dirt and grime smeared his square, pugnacious jaw. He reminded her of Quasimodo, minus the hunchback, but with an ugly scar angled from the corner of his nose, and down across a fat-lipped, down-turned mouth, exposing a jagged tooth. Her father had played Quasimodo once on a beer-soaked stage in Wichita, frightening a five-year-old Maisy near to death. Did he seem familiar to her because he reminded her of that unnerving experience?

The newcomer gave her a bold once-over. He took what looked like a photograph out of his pocket, glanced at it, at Maisy, and, wearing a grisly smile, started toward her. Something behind Maisy caught his attention, and he stopped. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Harker staring at the stranger. The Quasimodo look alike cursed under his breath, spun about and left.

Maisy laid one hand over her heart and pressed the other to her lips as if that would keep her from falling apart. The man had gone but might be waiting for her when she left at quitting time. He must have seen Harker's badge and figured now wasn't the time to grab her. Maisy's heart raced. She closed her eyes and reminded herself of the other times she'd survived Gold's henchmen. She would survive this time, too.

A sudden urge to leave town assailed her. But the stage had left. The ore train from Telluride wouldn't arrive until morning. Why had she ever thought she'd be safe in a dead-end canyon like Pandora occupied? Yes, she had friends here, but she couldn't risk endangering them.

She discreetly closed her bag to hide the card box inside. "Snake eyes! I forgot my card box. Would you keep an eye on things, Jake, while I go back to the boarding house for it?"

"Let Delilah do it. I'd better go with you. You never know what gun-happy drunk might—"

She forced a laugh. "I'm a big girl, Marshal. I've been walking dark streets, storm or no storm, all by myself for a long time now, and I have my Deringer in my reticule. I don't need anyone holding my hand. Besides, Delilah's busy."

"Still, I think..."

"Don't be silly. I'll take Hock. He won't let anything happen to me."

As if comprehending her words, the dog rose and swiped a wet tongue over the back of her clenched hand. "All right."

Harker bent to pet the dog. "I think he'll make you a good guard dog. He knows you saved him. Get back here soon, though."

"I only need ten minutes, I promise. I'll take the back way, and no one will even see me." Slinging her cloak around her shoulders, she took up the bag and headed for the rear door of the saloon, the dog at her heels. The rest of her faro gear would have to remain here. Replacing it all would be expensive, but, if she took it, Harker would know she didn't plan to return and demand to know why.

Every instinct screamed for her to leave Pandora now. But she had to hang onto her wits, had to make plans. One choice would mean a steep and dangerous trek over a trail that zigzagged up the cliff and over the mountain. No, the train remained her best bet. She could only hope she'd be safe in her room until departure time. At least she had her reticule, the bank draft Harker had given her, and her Derringer. She'd managed before; she could do it again.
​
She had to.

Charlene's Links:
As a book cover designer, Charlene specializes in westerns. http://silversagebookcovers.com ​
Charlene’s website: http://charleneraddon.com 
Facebook: http://facebook.com/CharleneRaddon 
Amazon author page: https://www.amazon.com/Charlene-Raddon/e/B000APG1P8/

When I moved to South Africa from Zimbabwe, a friend said how lucky he thought I was - no one knew me in South Africa, I could re-invent myself, I could become someone I never could back home. This week, I've had a chance to think about that a lot. My novel, 'Harcourt's Mountain' has had a re-invention of its own. The cover is, as they say, exactly the same, but different.

The first cover had a mountain, a lake, a forest, a wolf and some flowers. This cover has a mountain, a lake, a forest, and a wolf - no flowers. Yet the interpretation of those elements, by two different designers, is as different as strawberries are to onions. And it's not just the lack of flowers. The old cover was a bit chocolate boxy, attractive, fruity even, but not real.  The new cover is as rugged as the land the book is set in. With nary a strawberry in sight. And while the first cover wasn't wrong in its depiction of elements found in the book, the second cover shows you the book's heart.

We can change ourselves to a certain extent. Especially the outside - a new haircut, go to the gym, a new diet, a new city, country, marital status, job, a new profession even. Occasionally, we're brave enough to make changes internally that we never could when surrounded, as intensely as we are at home, by our past and our families.

It's human nature to dream about being someone else. That's the appeal of stories, no matter what form they come in. Stories touch a deep part of us. They allow us to become someone else for a while. And that's important. Call it escapism if you want, but it's been proved that people who read are more empathetic to others, more able to image what someone's life might be like and do it with far less judgement than non-readers.

Storytelling is important. But here's the question, what story are you telling yourself about yourself? Are you telling the story of the you deep inside, the you, you want to be, the you, you could be? It may just take a slight shift in the story to ignite the re-invention.

Re-inventing ourselves, as with 'Harcourt's Mountain', doesn't necessarily mean becoming someone completely different. I think it means becoming more the selves we were meant to be all along. Making the changes that let the truth and the beauty shine through.

What story are you telling?

Did I ever tell you the bear story? It’s a story that has plagued my life. Shame really as I like bears.

It all began, as so many things that have a profound effect on one’s life does, at high school. We were given an assignment by our science teacher: Pick any animal and write on the sex-life of that creature.

Needless to say, I wrote on bears. I laboured long and hard on the project. When it was finished it filled so many exercise books that when stacked together were an inch thick. The project had in it a number of those wonderful pull-out maps you get in the National Geographic magazine. Photos from the same magazine, from the Reader’s Digest and hand-drawn illustrations and charts adorned the work. I had articles and bear tales from round the globe all beautifully annotated in as well. I had never been prouder of a project in my life. I positively glowed with pride when I handed it in.

I got a ‘D’. A fail. Not an ‘E’ for ‘We acknowledge you expended energy but you have almost no clue’, not an ‘F’ for ‘Complete fail’ but a ‘Nope, you didn’t pass D’.

My father, bless him, outraged that I was given a ‘D’ when clearly, based on the amount of work, the late nights endured and the sheer beauty of the project I deserved an ‘A+++++’, laurel wreaths and parades complete with brass bands and elephants, put on his shining armour, mounted his white charger and rode off to defend my honour.

According to him the conversation with the science teacher went something like this – bear in mind that my dad has a forceful chin and rather piercing eyes, so even slight annoyance looks like the wrath of a minor deity.

Dad: I’d like you to explain why my daughter failed. Please.

Mr Darwin (I kid you not), possibly quailing at the thunderstorm that had erupted in his lab: Mr Dodge, The assignment was “Write on the sex-life of any animal of your choice.”

Dad: So?

Mr Darwin: If you can find me one sentence in this entire project that even suggests the sex-life of bears, I’ll give Elaine an ‘A+’. (No proposal of parades and elephants though.)

Dramatic pause.

Dad: Are you saying she didn’t even mention it?

Mr Darwin: Not once. In fact, it’s so lacking in any discussion of the sex-life of bears that anyone reading this project would be forced to conclude that bears miraculously and spontaneously appear out of nowhere.

Ever after, “READ THE QUESTION!” became the mantra I had to endure for every test and every exam I ever took at school, university and college!

Ya think I’d have learnt my lesson, right?

Well, if I had there would be no point to this story. I recently proclaimed with much enthusiasm to the world at large that I was entering the Jameson First Shot Competition this year…I believe I may have said, “If it killed me”. I wrote two scripts. The first one was such rubbish I don’t even remember what it was about. The second one, I thought, had great merit. It was original, witty and clever. I finished it just in time to meet the deadline. Then the mantra began its slow but inexorable chant in my brain. “Read the question, read the question, read the question!” I dutifully went back to the competition website and read the question. This time I wouldn’t get a ‘D’. This time it would be a well-deserved and resounding ‘F’. Possibly followed by trampling of said elephants.

There was, however, light at the end of the tunnel. They had extended the deadline for one day due to technical difficulties! It meant a late night and some hard graft today. I had to come up with a brand new story immediately. It was lunchtime today before inspiration hit. Four hours to write the script that had the potential to change my life!

The echo of the mantra was still drifting lazily somewhere around the ceiling, so before writing my epic I went back and checked the website one more time.

The competition is closed. No more extension. In fact, the statement about the extension has completely disappeared. Vanished. Erased as if devoured by starving Krackens.

I am left disconsolate. Weeping tears of despair. Well, no but you get the drift. Still, there’s always next year. In the meantime I can practise READING THE &^^#%$%#@*QUESTION!!!!

For now, I, like my father and others before him, exit stage left – pursued by a bear!

Pic credit: Amy Sullivan www.amysullivanillustration.com

I was at dinner at a friend's the other day and the discussion touched on the plight of the Syrian refugees and the opportunities they were being offered in other countries in terms of university bursaries. One of the diners mentioned that the refugees were only being taught science related subjects - things, she said quite adamantly, that mattered, that would be of value to Syria when it came time for the refugees to return home and set about rebuilding the nation. They weren't being taught things that had no value, things like art, storytelling and music. I was so stunned that anybody could seriously consider art, storytelling and music to have no value, especially in a country that had been devastated, I just sat there, speechless.

How else does one discover one's roots, one's purpose and one's future if not through storytelling? How does one pass on a people's culture if not through art and what else can express that which is inexpressible, whether it be love, pain, despair, peace, desire and hope, when one has run out of political rhetoric and the heart's emotion is too great to bear, except through music?

Governments and ideologies that demote the arts do so for a very good reason. Not because medicine, agriculture, maths or science is more important but because the arts keep people human. They are the expression of our souls. The danger of the arts is that when people express their souls, when they imagine life beyond the confines of the regime's ideology, they will begin to think for themselves, to imagine and create a life without the regime or the ideology. They will yearn for, strive for and eventually bring into being a better life. A life of freedom. A government or ideology which doesn't allow creative thought and expression is one built on hatred and fear. And the only natural outcome of that is death. Someone once said, "Governments that burn books, will soon be burning people."

https://www.facebook.com/artFido/videos/vb.128082840616619/785709484853948/?type=2&theater