What is the date you began writing this piece of fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of fiction? I began writing NECESSARY DECEPTIONS in July 2018 and finished the draft manuscript in March 2020 with critique input and a final edit completed by July 2020.
Where did you do most of your writing for this fiction work? And please describe in detail. And can you please include a photo? The draft of the novel was written in my home office in Aurora, Colorado. The final edit was completed in a variety of places during a move which involved three temporary rentals and my new home in Albuquerque, New Mexico. My home office was/is a place full of wood-tone and books. Typically, I have piles if research folders within reach—either stacked on the returns of my oak desk or in boxes on the floor. Books being used for reference are on the bookshelves nearby. I have a big leather office chair where my cat sometimes settles in to “assist” me. Because there were unanticipated COVID-delays in the construction of my new home, I spent three months writing on kitchen tables in rentals with all my research material in banker’s boxes stacked on the floor.
What were your writing habits while writing this work- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? During the early part of the process, when working on character development, I would work in the evenings, using a notebook and would sit on the couch—typically this is an exploratory phase involving a lot of “if/then” imagination. Once my characters were solidified, it was time to hit the laptop in my office. While working on this manuscript, I divided my time between writing and my volunteer commitments for Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers and Women Writing the West (I served in conference chair roles for both organizations during that time period). Typically, I dedicated weekday mornings to writing and afternoons to volunteer roles, correspondence, and personal appointments and errands. Weekends were for relaxation and family. I have no rituals for music/special beverages/etc. I do find I am most efficient when I dedicate blocks of time to BICHOK (butt in chair, hands on keyboard).
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Click on the below link to visit Women Writing the West’s website.
Please include just one excerpt and include page numbers as reference. This one excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer.
This excerpt is from the end of Chapter Eleven and the beginning of Chapter Twelve, pages ___________
Five weeks later, Celie and Sarah stood at the kitchen door of Rose Hart’s brothel.
It shamed Celie to be here and she reckoned they’d sunk pretty low to be knocking on the back door of such a place, but they’d exhausted every respectable option in the city. They were cold and wet and hungry and she reckoned there wasn’t much more to be done.
Their meager savings had lasted but three weeks after she’d lost her job. Sarah’d been unemployed for a month. For the past few nights, they’d slept in an alley, eating scraps from garbage pails. Last night, they’d been approached twice by drunken men. That’s when she’d known there wasn’t any other way.
But she’d be damned if she’d service men in an alley.
Celie fought tears and told herself it wouldn’t be forever. If this was the only way left, she’d earn what it took to get Sarah back home. She shivered and clutched Sarah’s hand.
A dark-skinned woman opened the door and gave them the once-over. “What you girls want?” she asked.
“We’re looking for work,” Sarah announced.
Celie winced. “We were hoping for kitchen work. Washing dishes, helping cook.” She’d told Sarah that’s what they were doing. If luck was with her, maybe they would be hired as domestics and all her worry would be for naught.
“I’m the cook and I’ve got all the help I need. Unless you’re talking about ‘keeping house,’ there’s no work here.”
“Keeping house. Yes, we’d do that,” Sarah piped in. Eagerness shown in her eyes, bright for the first time in a week.
Celie bit her lip. Sarah didn’t know the term meant prostitution. It wasn’t what she aimed for Sarah to be doing.
“Well, that you gotta talk to Miz Rose about. Come on in. You’re letting a draft into my kitchen.” She motioned toward the table as she shut the door. “Go on. Sit if you want. I’ll see if Miz Rose is about.” She disappeared through a swinging door.
The kitchen was toasty warm, such a welcome change from the days outside. It was a wonder neither of them had caught pneumonia. She and Sarah clustered in front of the large cookstove and held their hands over the heat. Celie wanted to say something but she didn’t know what. Might be the less Sarah knew, the better. She didn’t need any arguments about what she’d decided. Not when she was as shaky about it as she was. Nope, the less said the better.
The door swung open and Miss Rose entered. Her dark hair hung loose about her shoulders and she wore a dressing robe. Tired lines etched her face. Celie guessed she was about thirty but it was tough to tell. She might be as old as fifty.
“Martha says you’re looking for work,” she said.
Sarah nodded. “We are, ma’am. We were wondering about keeping house.”
Rose met Celie’s gaze. “You two ever do that type of work before?”
“No, ma’am,” Sarah said. “But I reckon we’d catch on quick. We done plenty of housework back at home, before we come to Fort Scott.”
“Oh, lordy.” Rose waved her hand. “How old are you girls and where are you from?”
This time, Celie jumped in. “I’m twenty this year and Sarah just turned seventeen. We grew up on a farm in Iowa, before we ran away.”
“You been in Fort Scott long?”
“A few months,” Celie said.
“We need work bad, ma’am. The jobs we had dried up and there ain’t no money left and we’ve been out on the street for the past four days.”
Celie pinched Sarah’s arm, silencing her.
Rose’s eyes narrowed. “Keeping house might not be what you’re expecting.”
“I reckon I got an idea,” Celie told her. “Could the two of us talk in the other room? Leave Sarah here in the kitchen?”
Rose wrinkled her brow and offered up a gesture to indicate she didn’t care. “Come on into the parlor, then, and I’ll run through how we operate.”
“You stay here,” Celie told Sarah. Then she followed Rose.
“Your sister?” Rose asked, once the door swung shut.
“Yes. I’d rather keep her out of this.” Celie’d thought long and hard about it. She didn’t want Sarah involved in this, not if there was a way around it. She reckoned that would take some negotiating.
“I’m not sure I’d want just the one of you. She’s mighty pretty, fresh as a daisy.”
“You need girls, you’ll settle for one of us.” The words came out strong, a whole lot more certain than Celie felt.
“She can’t stay if she’s not working.”
“Why don’t we talk about that later? Once you tell me what’s what and we work out the details of me working here?” She needed time, to get Rose’s measure, to be certain how things operated. This wasn’t a dressmaker’s shop or a restaurant where a person got paid regular-like. That much she could guess.
Rose blew out a breath, clearly not pleased. “This is the gathering area. It isn’t fancy, like the bigger parlor houses, but it’s a step up from street-walking. I assume that’s what you’re trying to avoid.”
Celie eyed the tattered wallpaper and dirty carpets. The room was lined with mismatched chairs and a roughly made bar stood in the corner, planks atop a pair of barrels.
“It’ll do. It’s better than an alley.”
Rose laughed. It was a raspy sound, not at all like Irene’s tinkling amusement. Thick and low like it didn’t happen too often. Almost harsh.
Like what the life would be.
Celie swallowed.
“You’d have a room upstairs. Your sister, too, if I take her on. I run things simple. We don’t have a menu. I work same as the girls so it’s easier to charge everyone the same. The johns pay the bartender and he gives them a token. One token gets a straight poke, or a swallow if that’s their inclination. Two buys them something extra and they work out the details with the girl. First girl free takes the first john in line; no special requests.”
Celie nodded, her eyes stinging.
Rose peered straight at her. “You understand? You know what this is all about?”
“I understand.”
“That’s more than I expected. Innocent as you look, I thought I’d need to explain it all.”
In truth, Celie wasn’t sure of the strange terms. But she knew what a poke was and she expected she’d learn the rest. “I’ve seen farm animals do it and Ma said married folks did the same. I heard gossip there was places a man could pay to do it.”
“You have the sense of it, then. It’s a little more complicated than the barnyard but you’ll find the way of it. You had a man yet?”
Celie shivered. “No,” she whispered.
“Aside from seeing cows and pigs, you know what’s involved?”
“Sort of. I know his . . . his . . . man-part . . . gets put inside a woman.”
Rose laughed again. “It’s a cock, honey. Or a prick. You know where it goes?”
“Inside.” This time, Celie made sure she didn’t whisper. She wasn’t going to lie about her experience, but she’d be damned if she’d let Rose see any more of her fear.
“You know where?”
“Not exactly.”
This time, Rose slapped her on the arm. Slapped her like they were old friends but didn’t volunteer any explanations.
“The men will love you. You know anything at all?”
“Just that Ma said not to let a man inside your drawers.”
“Aw, honey, you got a lot to learn.” Rose tsked but offered nothing more.
Celie reckoned that would be the way of it, then. She’d be going in blind, learning by way of experience.
Tarnation. Her eyes stung like hell.
It’s only for a little while. Just to get Sarah home. Just to get back on my feet. It doesn’t mean my dream is gone. It doesn’t.
“What will I get paid?”
“Room and board and two bits for every token you turn in.”
Celie ciphered it out. “That don’t seem like much.”
“It isn’t. But I don’t make much either, not after I buy you clothes and underthings. You do well, we can talk about more.”
At two bits a poke, it’d take four pokes a night to earn a dollar—about half what a tailor made in a day, even with room and board. Course, a seamstress never got a tailor’s wages anyhow. It wasn’t much at all but Celie reckoned it was about right for someone just starting out. Like Rose said, she could ask for more once she got practiced in doing it.
“Now, about your sister?” Rose said.
Celie looked her in the eye. “I don’t want her doing this.”
The madam’s mouth dropped open. “What’s she going to do? Live on the street?”
This was it. This was the crux of it. Where Celie had to be strongest. She stood full tall and drew a breath.
“I’m thinking we can strike a bargain, maybe. You pay me up front, enough for me to send her back to Iowa, and I work for you without pay until I pay off the debt.”
“Advance you money?” Rose shook her head. “The other girls would have my hide.”
“The other girls don’t need to know.” Hating that she was doing it, Celie played the only hand open. “I’ll turn in the chips same as they do but you don’t give me anything back.”
“I don’t know about that,” Rose said but Celie saw the sparkle of greed in her eyes.
She sweetened the pot. “I’ll pay back extra.”
“Interest?” Now Rose was hooked.
“If that’s what it’s called.”
“You’ll sign a paper?”
Celie nodded. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe.”
Including selling my soul.
Chapter Twelve
Celia/Mattie
It all happens little by little, the lying. Especially when it’s lying to yourself.
1870
Fort Scott
Two days later, her heart in shreds, Celie sent Sarah home, along with the fancy photograph Celie had bargained for.
Sarah hadn’t been too happy about going, but there was nothing to be done. Even if things turned out bad back in Iowa, Celie reckoned it’d go a lot better for Sarah there than lying under strange men several times a night.
At least Sarah would have the remembrance of her.
Rose had sent Celie to be photographed, insisting the best parlor houses attracted clients that way—teasers to get them interested. The photographer had posed Celie leaning up against a pedestal in nothing but her chemise, her bare legs showing and her nipples dark under the thin cotton. She’d brokered direct with him to take a proper photo, too, and he’d decked her out in a demure plaid dress with ruffles at the hem.
She’d paid for the extra photo by allowing him to finger her.
Celie told herself the shame of it was worth it in the end. She’d learned a bit more of what would be expected of her in her new career and reckoned Sarah could look at the photo and remember how Celie had been before becoming a fallen woman.
This morning, she’d given the proper photo to Sarah, hugged her, and sent her away on the train. Tears had streamed down her face as the cars disappeared into the dark coal smoke that hung over the tracks. Sarah’d been full sobbing.
That was pretty near what Celie wanted to do. Then and now both.
She just needed to get through the night. After that, it’d come easier.
Miss Rose had opened up some ten minutes earlier and men had started drifting in. None of them were too respectable looking. Of course, if they were respectable, they wouldn’t be at a place like this. The respectable men, if a body wanted to call them that, would be at one of the fancy parlor houses where all the pretty women were, the ones with more class than Celie had. The houses like Rose’s catered to a lower-class clientele and Celie dreaded the hours to come.
She was drenched in sweat despite the chill that hung in the room. Rose rationed the coal for the small stove, saying the men would warm the place up in no time. Celie tugged on the low-cut chemise peeking above the tight corset Rose had laced her into. Celie reckoned it had once been white but it was faded to a dull cream. She’d also been given a gawdy scarlet dress but Rose said there was no need to bother with wearing it, not tonight anyway.
Being half-naked like that was plumb shameful, but Celie figured it was nothing like what would come later and she’d best push it out of her mind. She wished the corset didn’t thrust her breasts up so high. It pinched at her and they were near hanging out. A bit of powder came off on her hand when she mussed with the corset and she sneezed.
Rose turned her head and stared. So did the five men at the bar. Their lusty gazes drifted across the tired room. They all grinned, one after the other, as they eyed Celie and the other girls lined up in a row at the edge of the room.
Celie near retched.
One of the other girls elbowed her in the ribs. “Buck up.”
Celie swallowed.
“There’s the girls. First time tonight you’ll get a pick,” Rose announced. “Them three and me. Down your drinks, boys! We’re ready for you.”
The men shot down their whiskeys.
“Oh, and the redhead is new. And I do mean new.” Rose paused for effect as the men ogled Celie like she was a piece of meat. “First to have her will need to fork up extra tokens.”
“She unused?” one of them asked.
“Pure as the driven snow and completely inexperienced! She goes for four times the usual price, boys.”
The men searched their pockets while Celie trembled. Damn if her knees weren’t shaking. For the first time since the photograph had been taken, she was glad she’d allowed the liberties at the studio. At least she now knew where the damn cock would go.
Then, there were whoops and the men were congratulating a burly bear of a man.
She sucked in a breath. Good Lord, he’s huge. He towered near a foot more than Celie, well over six feet, she guessed.
The man strode toward her as the others purchased their tokens from the bartender. He lurched enough to tell her he’d been at the bar awhile. Either that or he had a gimpy leg but Celie didn’t think so. He reeked of alcohol, among other things. She doubted he’d bathed in close to a month.
Celie turned away and drew another breath of air.
“Good luck,” the girl next to her said. “Better you than me.” The girl shoved a glass of whiskey into her hand.
Celie choked back the bile in her throat, her hand to her mouth as she swallowed it down. The bitter taste lingered. She rinsed it away with the whiskey. The burn scorched all the way down into her chest.
“Let’s go, sugar.” The man grabbed her bare arm and jerked her across the room. “You ain’t much to look at, but I’ll take fresh pussy any time I can get it.”
Celie nearly stumbled on the stairs. She wished he’d slow down. Once they reached the hallway, he shoved her into the first room and slammed the door. It wasn’t even her room! She staggered a step in the small space, then hit the bed.
Lurch was already shucking his suspenders from his shoulders. Underneath, his grayed undershirt was grease-stained down the front and near-black under the arms.
“What are you waiting for?” he demanded.
She shook, hating that she did, unable to move beyond that. She had no idea what he wanted her to do.
He was near enough that she could smell his foul breath. Onions maybe, along with the whiskey.
“Hell, you are an innocent.” He grabbed at the yellowed chemise and yanked her breasts out, fondling them roughly as his onion breath heated her face. Calloused fingers squeezed at her like she was bread dough. She shut her eyes, fighting the discomfort, trying not to think of it.
Don’t think about any of it. Think about spring flowers and sunshine and . . .
He dropped her breasts and tugged her close, his hands grabbing at her bottom. His man parts stabbed at her. He ground against her and pulled her even closer. His sour mouth crashed down on hers.
“Shit. Open your damn lips.”
Celie did as she was told. That had been the sole piece of advice Rose had offered. Do as you’re told.
Lurch’s tongue forced itself between her lips, into her mouth. “Open, damn it.”
Celie forced her jaw to relax, not to fight against the intrusion.
“Damn, girl. You don’t know a thing!” He pushed her away and jerked open his trousers. His man-part—cock, she corrected—sprang out.
Lord a’mighty!Images of the circus camels flashed through her mind.
“Let’s teach you what to do with that mouth.”
Celie stared at him. Now what did he want of her?
“On your knees.” He shoved her down until she was eye level with the thing. “Put it in your mouth.”
Tears filled Celie’s eyes.
“You hear me?”
Do as you’re told.
She opened her mouth and moved toward his cock. Stale sweat and urine clung to it and she tried not to think of what might be crawling in the wiry black hair around its base. She took him into her mouth, praying the smell would dissipate once she did. But he still reeked and the taste of him was all salt and foulness.
He pushed on the back of her head, forcing more of his cock inside. “Suck on it.”
She closed her stinging eyes and tried, gagging.
He pumped his hips forward, forcing more of it into her as he shoved her head forward.
And then she retched, bile erupting up her throat and into her mouth.
“You bitch,” he yelled, stumbling away from her. His hand snaked out and slapped her cheek. “You goddamned good-for-nothing whore. Look what you done to me.”
Celie opened her eyes. Vomit dripped from his cock and had splashed into the coarse hair; it oozed from her mouth, onto her chest. The sting of the puke filled her nostrils as it dribbled out of them.
He yanked her to her feet and slammed his fist into her nose.
She reeled from the pain, fighting to stay conscious as she fell back onto the bed, blood spurting everywhere.
Swearing, he pawed at her corset and ripped it away, the hooks flying across the room. Then he shoved her legs apart and plunged into her.
The last thing she remembered was screaming as she tore.
*****
Summer 1871 (a year and a half later)
Fort Scott
Celie learned real quick just how important Rose’s instructions had been. She also learned what Rose hadn’t told her—that a body had to ignore pain and pretend to enjoy what was being done to it. The other girls told her later that Rose had kept her ignorant on purpose, since most men who paid for innocents wanted to control the events and got more excited when the girl didn’t know what was happening.
It had been her misfortune to vomit on Lurch.
Her nose had healed a bit crooked from the break and she’d been off the line for a few nights until she could take a man in without reopening the injury down below and bleeding all over. At first, Rose had thought to use that to trick customers into believing she was a virgin but one look at the scabs had convinced her that wouldn’t be possible. Instead, she’d added extra onto Celie’s debt for the nights off.
All that did was to make Celie more determined to learn all she could. The faster she made money, the sooner she’d get past all this and on to the life she wanted.
In the months since, Celie had learned to control her gagging and make a man think she was enjoying herself, if that’s what he wanted. If he wanted to exercise his power, she could play along with that, too. If a body cried out in pain at the right point, there was a chance to avoid getting bloodied. Sometimes there was no avoiding it since a few men simply beat a girl up more, hating it when she didn’t cry out, and working themselves into a frenzy when she did. Those times, she just held her breath and tried to find a way down the middle of things.
There was a water stain on the wall. Looking at it now, Celie saw it’d grown bigger, spreading brown across the faded flowers that a body could hardly see anymore. Not a lot bigger, but larger all the same. Or was it all in her mind? The john on top of her groaned as he spent his seed and collapsed with a sigh. She let out a little gasp and shuddered her body so he’d feel good about his performance. Then she pasted a contented smile on her face so he’d see it when he pulled out of her. Sometimes, when they thought they’d satisfied her, they left an extra coin or two. Sometimes.
He rose.
She let the smile spread and stretched like a cat. “You going to come back again, cowboy?”
“Count on it,” he said. He pulled on his clothes, grinned at her again, and tossed her a half-dollar.
Once he was gone, she dragged her aching body from the bed, poured a measure of water into the basin, and splashed it on her privates. It dripped some on the floor but she didn’t care none. The water cooled her, cleaned the stickiness away. She eyed the token on the commode, next to the basin, thankful for it in addition to the extra tip. Last week, one of the johns had pocketed the token on the way out, stiffing her. When she’d told Rose, the madam had called her stupid and told her to put the tokens in a drawer.
The only problem was that the drawer was stuck. Never mind that Celie had been complaining about it for nigh unto a year now. Now, she moved the tokens behind the basin so they wouldn’t be so easy to palm.
Celie squatted, legs spread wide, and splashed a little more water on herself. Then she dipped her finger into the bowl of butter on the nightstand and smeared it inside to make things easier with the next man in line. She redressed in the thin chemise and hooked the corset around her middle, plumped her breasts up, and checked in the mirror to make sure her hair was presentable. Her stockings and boots were still on. A lot of times, the corset and chemise were, too—just pushed all willy-nilly. This john liked his girls bare.
Funny how that made her feel a little less used.
She glanced again at the mirror, spied Sarah’s letter wedged in between the glass and the wood framing around it.
Thank God it wasn’t all for naught.
Sarah had written twice now—once to say she was safely returned and that Celie’d been right. Both Potts men were married up and Sarah hadn’t been shunned. She’d sent a second letter with the news that their older brother had passed on before the end of the year, his war injuries finally taking their toll. Pa still called her soiled goods but was willing to tolerate having her tend the house and help care for Tony May. She’d even thanked Celie for what she’d done.
Seeing the letter, remembering that Sarah appreciated her, made Celie smile a bit before she left the room and headed back downstairs.
There was time for one more customer, assuming there was one here this late.
Halfway down the stairs, she noticed him. He’d been there before, though Celie hadn’t had him. She remembered his hair—how clean and soft it looked. He leaned against the bar, easy and relaxed. Probably not too demanding. A good way to close up the night.
“You waiting on somebody?” she purred.
“Waiting on you, I suppose.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m here. You still nursing that whiskey?” She nodded to the half-full glass of amber liquid in his hand. “I’d join you, if you’ve a mind to share.”
She sidled up to the bar. She wasn’t one to buy her own whiskey, not out of the pittance she made, but she sure wouldn’t mind a drink if he was buying. She’d learned real quick that whiskey made the night easier. On the tough nights, she might even coax a john into buying a bottle and bringing it to the room. She could wash down the lies she was forced to act out. Them and the ones she told herself about how easy her life was.
The man signaled for another glass and Celie drained it.
He saluted her and took a sip of his own, then set it on the wooden plank.
“You got a name?” he asked, when they were halfway up the stairs.
The question took her by surprise, warmed her. Johns only asked for her name once in a blue moon. “Celie.”
“I’m Wyatt.”
That, too, came as a shock. Men almost never gave their names. Made this Wyatt more real, having him introduce himself. A gentleman, even.
“Good to meet you,” she told him. “You thinking we need to shake hands or something?”
He laughed, a solid hearty sound from deep inside. “I’ll take the ‘or something.’ Which room, Celie?”
She pointed and he opened the door with a flourish. “Ma’am.”
She laughed then, at how ludicrous it was. Lord, she hadn’t laughed for a long time. She reckoned this Wyatt fellow might be different.
A genuine smile crossed her face this time. “You tickle me, you do,” she told him.
“Glad to hear it. I aim to please.”
“I bet you do.”
He reached for her then, an easy grasp that gave her room to back out, if she had a mind to. Felt odd. He pulled her into an embrace and his gaze met hers, gentle, undemanding. Then, he bent his face toward hers and kissed her.
She didn’t much like kissing customers and didn’t ever kiss them back. Not for real—just the semblance of it, enough to give them what they wanted without putting any feeling into it. It was part of the job, a deception. But Wyatt’s kiss was so different, it pulled her in. Before she even realized it, she was responding, her tongue meeting his.
A surge of desire spurted through her, tingling her skin from the inside out.
Lord in heaven, if she wasn’t careful, this man would be the death of her.
Then she kissed him deeper.
*****
Click to order NECESSARY DECEPTIONS: THE WOMEN OF WYAT EARP from Amazon
Why is this excerpt so emotional for you as a writer to write? And can you describe your own emotional experience of writing this specific excerpt? I chose to share this excerpt because these scenes were difficult for me to write. I had to imagine the desperation that would lead a woman to chose prostitution, what her life must have been like, and how that might lead to an attachment to a man who showed little devotion to her. This, to me, was the crux of Celie’s character. In film, she’s been portrayed as a little more than a laudanum addict and non-fiction has dealt with her as a prostitute, possibly one who enjoyed her lifestyle. In my gut, I felt there was much more to her.
Few women dreamt of becoming prostitutes and it was seldom a lifestyle of ease and wealth. As a woman, I needed to tackle that head-on. As a writer, I needed to dig into her motivations. I suspected Celie reached her decision out of desperation rather than desire for adventure. I wanted to show her decision process and the desperation before and after choosing that path. I don’t know how she really came to be in the business but I tried to capture what I felt was most plausible and believable. When I felt her pain, I knew I was on the right track and that I had laid the groundwork for her attraction (and lifelong devotion) to Wyatt. She must have had so many layers to her psyche.
This excerpt lets takes us from desperate naivety with limited foresight of what may come to a woman of experience who still holds out a thread of hope for love.
Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? And can you please include a photo of your marked up rough drafts of this excerpt. Most of the changes to the scenes excerpted were to Celie’s dialect so that she could be conveyed as a country girl with an accent but the reader would not be bogged down by over-use of clipped words and poor grammar. However, I did have to sacrifice an entire scene later in the book when Celie/Mattie returns to Iowa to visit her family. That deleted scene was wrought with emotion but ultimately failed to advance the main plotline and was sacrificed to reduce the final word-count of the book.
The photo I have included is one of comments received from my critique group on the first chapter (the second version), one of the few marked-up chapters I still had in my file after a through file purge made prior to moving.
Pamela Nowak’s Autobiography: “I’ve loved both history and romance for as long as I can remember. Growing up in Minnesota, I spent cold winter days crafting complicated plots for Barbie dolls and reading Laura Ingalls Wilder books and imagining wonderful stories while playing in the hot summer sun. In junior high, I discovered Judy Blume and twice started my own “coming of age” manuscripts (I still have the spiral notebook with its 100 plus handwritten pages). When I discovered romance, I read all the sub-genres, from sweet Harlequins to gothics to bodice rippers. But my heart set itself on historical romance when I picked up LaVyrle Spencer’s The Fulfillment.
Still, I never really thought of writing as something I would actually do. I put away
My notebook and studied history at South Dakota State University, planning to teach. The week after I received my B.A., I married Tim and moved to Pierre, South Dakota where I actually did work as a teacher for a year. Tim and I shared a passion for history and our hobbies included participating in living history reenactments as well as in community theater.
Job transfers took us to Yuma, Arizona, where I served as a historic preservation specialist for the Quechan Indian Tribe at the Fort Yuma National Landmark. Our daughter Katrina was born in 1989 and writing was a distant memory. When we moved to Wyoming, I taught classes at the college level as well as adult basic education and GED classes at the state penitentiary. In 1993, one of my inmate students showed me a partial manuscript and told me he had just signed with an agent. Challenged, I figured I could do that, too.
I wrote my first 400-page manuscript in 6 weeks and thought it was the greatest piece of fiction ever. I was so wrong. Joining Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, I began to learn the writing craft and joined a critique group. Every time I mastered one technique, there was another waiting to be learned (as I suspect there always will be). I wrote slowly, in between my full time job and my commitments as a wife and mother. Thirteen years later, I sold my manuscript, CHANCES, and became an author.
Though widowed several years ago, I have been blessed to have unexpectedly found new love (it’s so great to live a real-life romance!) and currently live in the Denver area with the light of my life, Ken, who has taught me to find joy daily. Together, we parent a cat, and enjoy our combined grandchildren and daughters whenever the chance permits. My interests include reading, historic research, community theater, and visiting historic sites. And, of course, writing.
http://www.pamelanowak.com/wp/
Most of the INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION links can be found at the very end of the below feature:
http://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2021/03/stephenson-holts-arranged-marriage-is.html