Another trip down anthology memory lane by Kaye Spencer #prairierosepubs #westernromance #anthology

In my June article (HERE), I revisited an anthology Prairie Rose Publications put out in the summer of 2014 (Lassoing a Mail-Order Bride).

For my July article, I’m revisiting another PRP anthology that saw its one-year publishing anniversary on July 4, 2020—

– a collection of six western historical novellas
that are hotter than a two dollar pistol and 4^th of July fireworks –

        

The stories and their authors are:

• Fake Marriage with a Dash of Desire by Karen Michelle Nutt
• The Lady Piano Player by J. Arlene Culiner
• Duty by Angela Raines
• Diamond Jack’s Angel by Elizabeth Clements
• A Summer to Remember by Julie Lence
• Give My Love to Rose by Kaye Spencer

A little more about my story—

Music often inspires my stories. In the case of Give My Love to Rose, Johnny Cash’s song of the same name gave me the basic idea for the plot. Rose in his song became my main character. The man who came across the dying man in my story is a deputy U.S. Marshal.

Here’s the song.

And here’s an excerpt.

Clint Callahan stopped a few feet from the covered front porch. “Is this the Griffin place? Lon Griffin’s?”

“Yes. It is.” The younger of the two women came forward, her gaze dragging from the back of the mule to look at him. “I’m Rose Griffin. This is my mother-in-law, Bess.”

Clint’s mental image of Rose crashed. Rose was hardly more than a girl, and Lon was…Well, he was old enough to be her father, maybe even grandfather. This put a different slant on the situation, and he wasn’t altogether comfortable with it.

Rose’s chin lifted with the set of her shoulders. “Was he dead when you found him?”

This was the hardest part, explaining. A woman’s reaction revealed much about her character. He’d seen it all from throwing themselves on the body in fits of wailing grief to outright joy the no-good scoundrel was dead.

“No. I found him at dusk not far from the railroad tracks.” Clint dismounted. “He’d fallen out of the saddle and lacked the strength to get up. When I knelt beside him, I could tell he didn’t have much time left. I asked his name and where he was going. He said he had to get home to Rose. I told him I’d take him home, but he was in too much pain to move. I offered to fetch you. He said no. He didn’t want to—”

“—to die alone,” Rose murmured.

Clint nodded. “Yes, ma’am. There was a buffalo wallow off from the tracks where the night wind wouldn’t hit us straight on, so I got him laid out on his bedroll. I put up a makeshift lean-to over him and built a fire close by. I boiled a piece of jerky and helped him sip on the broth. He dozed off and on all night. Sometimes he muttered nonsense in his sleep, other times he was wide awake and making sense. He must have told me his life’s story.”

Available on Amazon.com

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Until next time,

Kaye Spencer

Stay in contact with Kaye—

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Loneliness as Story Theme by Kaye Spencer #PrairieRosePubs #blogabookscene #westernromance

We all have stories that resonate with us. They may be oral stories handed down through the generations in our family. They may be books we frequently re-read. They may be movies we've watched so many times we can recite the dialogue. What these stories have in common are five basic story elements that the speaker, author, or director have crafted so well that we never tire of the story. In fact, those stories touch us deeply, and we need them.

Theme is the glue that holds the story together. Theme is the message the author intends, consciously or subconsciously, to communicate to the reader. A story’s theme is generally a universal truth. It’s not uncommon for an author to write all their stories around one or two themes. As readers, we turn to stories with themes that “speak” to us. Think about those few special books that stay with you.  What is at the heart of the story that makes it so memorable? Identifying that ‘something’ can be elusive. We can’t quite get our hands on it, but we know it at an instinctive, visceral level, and we return for more.

I know my theme.

Loneliness.

Not being lonesome, not being alone, not being lonely, but the utter hopeless agonizing heartache of loneliness. Loneliness shows up in every story I write. I can’t keep it out.

But where did this loneliness come from?

Perhaps it was my only-child upbringing until I was 13, or that I was a loner all through school (still am) with few friends. Experiencing a difficult mother/teenage daughter relationship may also have influenced my loneliness. Could my tendency toward loneliness stem from the traumatic brain injury I suffered at 18 and the resulting *holes* it left in my life from the loss of many of my childhood memories? Or did an early, and ultimately unsuccessful marriage, and then raising three children on my own have something to do with it? Other factors could have been my battle with clinical depression (eventually won that war) throughout my twenties and into my thirties only to have panic/anxiety attacks muscle past the depression.

Maybe there are no reasons.

Maybe it’s a combination of all my experiences.

Maybe it’s just how I’m hardwired.

However, in case you’ve grabbed a tissue—not to worry. I had a great childhood, and I’ve lived a satisfying, adventure-filled life. In fact, looking back through the years, there are few things I’d change, and I have even fewer regrets. I’m not lonely, so don’t play sad violin music just yet. ;-)

For your loneliness-listening angst, here is Marty Robbins singing Mr. Shorty, which is, at its theme core, a story about the hopeless isolation of loneliness. The verse beginning at 52 seconds is the part that gets to me.

Since the August theme for blog-a-book-scene is Alone Again, Naturally, here is a lonely excerpt from my recently published story in the Hot Western Nights anthology—Give My Love to Rose.

EXCERPT

How many times had he heard the last words of love for a beloved wife and children, or a wish to see a mother one last time? Some cried. Others cleared the burden on their consciences. Most only had enough time to name next of kin. When you heard a person’s last words, shared their last breath, shouldered their confessions, you took on the duty of seeing their dying wishes taken care of.

This man, Lon Griffin, was no different. He’d clung to a thin thread of life, slipping between delirium and lucidity all through the night. His will to live gave out in the dark just before the dawn.

Any other time, Clint would have dug a grave right there, said the proper words, and then rode on to tell the family or sent a telegram, whichever was the faster way to convey the news. This time, though, Lon’s widow waited at the house a good many miles on farther north, she was probably wondering right now when she’d see her husband again. She never would, not alive, anyway, and Lon begged him to take him home to be buried in the family cemetery.

Haunted heartbreak clouded Clint’s eyes. That Lon left behind a family brought back his own loss. Nothing he possessed, not his guns, his badge, his physical strength, or his love had been enough to prevent the accident of nature that had killed his happiness in the blink of an eye.

Clint went about the pragmatic tasks of breaking camp and loading up his pack horse. He saddled his horse and Lon’s mule and then wrapped Lon’s body in a blanket and secured him over his mule’s back. Angling toward the river in the general direction Lon had explained would take them to his house, Clint thought of Rose and the image he created in his mind from listening to Lon’s delirious talk all through the night. He’d spoken of her with reverence that he’d done something right in his life to deserve such a woman.

Clint understood that. It was a lucky man who found a woman to be his life-mate. He’d been that lucky man once, and he didn’t have it in him to go down that emotional road again. Every now and again, though, a wish to belong somewhere and to someone stirred at the fringes of his heart as it stirred now. Maybe it was because it was the dawn of Christmas Eve. Maybe it was from sitting beside a dying man all night. Whatever the reason, the weight of his aloneness rode with him.

 Available on Amazon.com

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As a writer, do you have a recurring theme that shows up in your stories? What is the force behind your theme?

As a reader, are you drawn to stories with certain themes? What about these stories speak to you so you keep coming back for more?

Until next time,

Kaye Spencer

Writing through history one romance upon a time

Stay in touch with Kaye

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Story Inspiration and Excerpt from Hot Western Nights - western romance anthology - by Kaye Spencer #prairierosepubs #westernromance

Songs often provide inspiration for my stories. Marty Robbins’ song Meet Me Tonight in Laredo gave me the basic idea for my book 'The Comanchero’s Bride', and Ghostriders in the Sky is at the heart of my book 'The Gunfighter’s Woman'.

Once again, a song provided the starting point for my novelette that is included in the new western romance anthology from Prairie Rose Publications—HOT WESTERN NIGHTS. My story is Give My Love to Rose.

 Johnny Cash fans will recognize that same title as one of his early hits. The song provided the [quite loose] plot fodder for my story. I changed things around and Rose became the main character. The man who came across the dying man is a deputy U. S. marshal.

Here is Johnny Cash’s singing 'Give My Love to Rose'.

EXCERPT

Gray sunrise at her back, milk bucket in one hand and a basket of eggs in the other, Rose Griffin gazed south beyond the river where the railroad tracks cut across the prairie. The tracks were too far away to see but, in her mind’s eye, she saw the abandoned water tower where Lon flagged down the train. She imagined him turning Molly out into the small fenced pasture with a natural spring and stowing his saddle and bridle under the lean-to.

Lon had allowed himself a week to take care of his business in Amarillo, including the travel there and back, which meant he should have returned by now. He was a man who allowed himself few celebrations in life. He wouldn’t miss being away from home at Christmastime unless he was dead. Truth be told, when they’d said goodbye, she’d known he wouldn’t make it home alive. Stoop-shouldered, eyes sunken, he’d wasted away these last many months and was in no shape to make the trip to his attorney. They all knew it, but there was no other way.

Lon’s plate was still at the head of the table. His mother, Bess, couldn’t bring herself to remove it. The sight of it represented the hope of his return, but too many days had passed to continue ignoring what had to be said. Rose didn’t relish the conversation they had to have, but Ma was a woman who found something good in everything and everyone. Her spirits seldom fell for long. She hadn’t said the words, but Ma knew as well as Rose they’d seen the last of Lon when he left home for Amarillo.

Bess Griffin was the mother Rose didn’t remember, and she loved Bess with all her heart, and those feelings were reciprocated. Since the day Lon had opened his door and invited her inside his house, Rose had whispered thanks for this blessing every night before she went to bed. Despite her upbringing, she wasn’t a religious woman, but she reasoned it couldn’t hurt to speak her gratitude aloud just in case there was someone out there listening.

Available on Amazon.com

Kindle | KindleUnlimited | Print

Until next time,

Kaye Spencer

Writing through history one romance upon a time

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