You can take a peek at some of the opening pages of A Place of Her Own by clicking HERE for a short excerpt of my great-great-grandmother’s story. The click takes you directly to the new Excerpt page on my website which my webmaster daughter just added.

Or at the website you can access the Excerpt from the Home page by clicking “EXCERPT” under the book cover, or from the Books page by clicking the cover photo or the large orange “EXCERPT” link under the description for A Place of Her Own.

I remember the excitement when the cover first appeared. But you know what folks say about judging a book by the cover and all that. I love the cover, but the story is the thing. Right? So as we approach the day of publication I hope you’ll enjoy this brief glimpse of the actual words.

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The daffodils are up. Though struggling a little from wind and rain, they are persistent flowers. These are in the field outside my kitchen window. I need my daffodils. They promise me spring is coming. I just need to hang on a little while longer.

And that brings me to the subject of persistence as a writer. Even with publication coming up this June, the work goes on. And it has been a productive winter in my writing world.

I completed a major revision last fall of one of my favorite books, which adds a new title to the list I hope to market (as shown on my website). Called The Shifting Winds, this novel is set in the same time period as A Place of Her Own, my great-great-grandmother Martha’s story. Shifting Winds portrays the challenges of Oregon pioneer Jennie Haviland whose story of conflicted love parallels the conflict between the United States and Britain over the contested territory of Oregon.

And just last week I completed the rough draft of an all-new novel. It’s another of my ancient historicals set in the days of Minoan Crete, roughly 3,500 years ago. This one, called Grains of Light, portrays the crisis of Minoan artist Sarena when she bears the king’s son as surrogate for her high priestess who is too old to give birth. This couldn’t possibly work out as well as she’d hoped. Lots of work left on this book, but once the first draft is done it feels like a real entity. Having been immersed in the story, I was reminded of how much I love to write. I especially enjoy historicals because I love to step into a world unlike my own and live and breathe life as it might have been.

In other news, I recently got word that I will be a presenter at this summer’s Pacific Northwest Writers Association conference in Seattle. I met my agent Rita Rosenkranz at the 2012 PNWA conference which started me on my way to publication of Martha’s story. I’ll be giving a workshop on the Power of Perseverance (taking a lesson from those daffodils), and will serve on a panel of authors presenting our PNWA success stories. I’m excited about this conference. Rita will be there, and we can enjoy a little celebrating.

Meanwhile, I touched base with my publicist at Globe Pequot Press who will help in marketing A Place of Her Own. We’re on our way. Spring is coming. The book release is coming. June! I just have to hold on a little longer. One more bow to the daffodils, which thanks to the rain seem to bow back.

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When I walk the farm of my great-great-grandmother Martha, I do sense her echoes, but I’m often aware of nearer echoes, those of my father, Eugene “Gene” Fisher, who tended this place longer than anyone else in the family. It’s his birthday tomorrow, February 24, and I offer this tribute to him.

Even while he focused on his farm, he found time to help others. He wanted his children to have a better education than he had, so he joined the school board and eventually served on school boards at every level from the local to the national. President Dwight Eisenhower appointed him to a special White House Conference on Education. Governor Mark Hatfield appointed him to the Oregon State Board of Education, where he served for fifteen years, including four years as chairman.

The photo above shows him enjoying a light moment at one of those meetings.

He also served on farm boards and in the Grange and more. In recognition of all this he received the Oregon State University Distinguished Service Award, one of the university’s highest honors, which he accepted at their 1985 spring commencement exercises in full robed regalia, shown below.

He was listed in the Oregon 4-H Hall of Fame and, exciting to him in his late years, was named Tree Farmer of the Year in Douglas County–twice. The last photo shows him enjoying his cathedral of trees in those late years.

He fully believed he should leave the world a better place than he found it. A special man. Handsome, he had a certain grace about him, the way he walked and moved. Like other Maupins, he sat a horse as if one with the animal. That special aura seems to permeate the farm he loved.

When I tramp over his mountain and work in his orchards, I sense him, watching and nodding, sometimes shaking his head.

Martha would be proud of him. I miss him.

Voila! The cover for my book about great-great-grandmother Martha.

Authors sometimes await cover art for their books a little like mothers look forward to seeing the faces of their babies. You may have an idea what to expect but only a vague image.

I knew my publisher’s cover designers were going to use the old photo of Martha’s Victorian home that once stood on the family farm she bought in 1868. And I knew they planned to incorporate one of several modern pictures taken on the farm by my son-in-law Robin Loznak. I didn’t know which one or how it would be combined.

When I saw the cover I was surprised to see myself in that medallion which appears as the center in a length of ribbon wrapping up my book like a gift. And what a gift for me! My first published book after years of trying. Such a thrill that my great-great-grandmother’s story led the way.

The picture in the medallion shows me walking across a field on the river bottom with the old barn behind, catching a late afternoon sun. The book will have two inserts of photos, one showing old photos like this of the house as well as early portraits of family, and another showing several modern photos by Robin, including the one here.

How exciting to see the face of my book on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Powell’s, and Indie Bound, right along with all those other real books. It is happening. My baby is beginning to see the light of day. Now I look forward to holding it in my hand—and opening the beribboned package. That’s a few months away, but coming soon. June.

I love the cover’s old-fashioned look, the touch of old lace echoing the intricate scrollwork on the roofline of Martha’s house. It feels perfect for her. I believe she would smile to see it.

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My own love of horses seems to come naturally from my Maupin roots. The photo here shows me as a girl enjoying my favorite mare, Fleet.

When I began writing the book about my great-great-grandmother Martha Maupin, I first tried to draw on my own knowledge of the Maupins. I grew up on the farm Martha bought in 1868 after the death of her husband, my great-great-grandfather Garrett. The Maupin I remember best was Edith Maupin Edwards, the eldest daughter of Martha’s son Cap. All of Cap’s children grew up on this farm too, and if Edith was an example, as I believe she was, they all loved horses.

Much of my information about Martha came from Edith’s younger sister, Florence, who wrote a 75-page story of the family, in which she describes the Maupin love of fine horses. I knew horses had to be part of the scenario.

I’ll never forget watching my own father ride. We had an old mare named Dusty that my folks bought for my sister, Nancy, when I was five. Gentle. We could climb over and under her, and when we rode she carefully plodded along. Then my father would get on and she became a different animal. Head up, neck arched. Proud. She’d drop about ten years off her age. And he rode with grace and rhythm, moving as a part of the animal. I never saw a man sit a horse the way he did. It’s what inspired me to describe Garrett Maupin’s style in the book.

When I was nine, Edith and her husband Bill brought a stallion to the farm in hopes the old mare would foal. The offspring was to be my horse. A beautiful little filly was born in the middle of the night. Nancy and I slept outside that night near an improvised corral by the house, because old Dusty had seemed restless. In the wee hours Nancy woke me. “She’s having a colt.”

I mumbled, “Who’s having a colt?”

Nancy rushed to wake the folks, and I finally came to my senses. With flashlights we watched the birth. Such a thrill. Dusty had been a fairly silent mare, but when the foal came, she nickered in a low, sweet sound that touched my heart. I named my filly Fleet, and we were pretty inseparable for many years.

Edith planned to help me with training, but I kept getting impatient and one thing led to another. First, the halter, then when she was old enough to ride, the bridle, then the saddle. Once I had her all saddled she just stood there, so what was I to do? I got on. Nothing happened. She didn’t move. Later, she showed her spirit so I seldom had to press her to go. It was more a matter of holding back. I loved that spirit.

Through her papa, Fleet was related to one of Senator Wayne Morse’s fine animals. I showed him a picture once on a visit to Washington, D.C., and he knew immediately she was out of Kentucky Bourbon (I think that’s the name; it comes out of an old memory, but I’ll never forget his delight). I believe that was the American Saddlebred part. She also had a bit of Thoroughbred and enough Tennessee Walker to have the smooth, fast walk. Tall, sleek, feisty—like her papa. But gentle in nature like her mama.

Part of the Maupin legacy.

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So, here’s going way back in my life to those free and easy days on the farm Martha chose for her family, the farm portrayed in my upcoming book about her, A PLACE OF HER OWN. In the picture above I’m about five, giving a small curtsy in my overalls, ready for a run on the scooter or a game of rope with the dog.

Maybe my sister and I would catch the old horse and create some elaborate adventure of pioneers and covered wagons with excruciating danger lurking behind every tree. Or we’d run in the fields or the orchard, maybe climb the hill with our dad and check on the lambs, or feel the warmth of the barn on a winter day when he milked the cow.

These are the memories that enrich the roots holding me to a piece of land. Imagine my wonder when I learned of my great-great-grandmother coming here long before me, alone with her children, making a stand right here, starting roots I would later touch. Imagine beauty so stunning, work so exhausting, uncertainties so daunting. How to hold on? How to make it work?

Ah, but in those early days of freedom, the joy of being was enough. Get on the scooter and go.

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Now that Martha is in the hands of the publisher, inevitable changes are happening to make the book ready for debut. First, the title. After the last new title, I indicated there could be yet another change. And so there is. Editor Erin Turner found what she called the seeds of a title in what I already had, but by shifting the words a bit she came up with something much stronger, more dynamic. Here’s the new:

A Place of Her Own: The Pioneer Journey of Martha Poindexter Maupin

I love it. I got misty when Erin first presented it to me, knowing Martha’s story.

People often ask me what the title is. Some write it down. I’m excited to be able to share this one. I like that the main title has impact by itself, and I like that Martha’s full name is included in the subtitle. A lot of Poindexters and Maupins will no doubt appreciate that as well.

While I may continue to give a shortcut reference to the project as Martha, I’ll start talking more about A Place of Her Own, so when the time comes people will know what to watch for.

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Photo by Robin Loznak

Robin finally captured a photo of the white hawk we’ve been looking for, the one that did those aerial dances outside my window when I started putting together Martha’s book, the one that seemed to be leading me to something as my granddaughter and I followed it up the road. That hawk or one like it. We’re been hoping to get its picture. It has been back. The bird seems to visit at critical stages of the project, a haunting creature. But it always slips away before anyone can get a camera. Until today. Robin was on the hill taking pictures of new calves, and there it was, doing its dances over the big field above my house. It’s a Northern Harrier, commonly called a Marsh Hawk. An exquisite presence.

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Revision is on my mind, since I recently completed another revision on my Grandmother Martha’s story. I’ve been writing for many years, but sometimes the work takes an uptick when I feel I’ve reached a new level. Somebody shows me something new, I take a workshop, join a critique group, get some valuable feedback, something. I apply that to whatever I’m working on. But once that’s done, I look at my other work I still consider viable for publishing, and I want to apply the same treatment to those stories.

One of the recent treatments I mentioned in a previous blog was the matter of trimming. Cutting words. Making everything move a little faster. The industry has changed since I started writing. Paper costs more so publishers want shorter books. People’s lives seem to move faster so their attention spans are shorter. They want shorter books. Writers have to pick up the pace. Some people may write tighter than I do in the beginning. I’ve always focused more on flow and clarity and the art of storytelling. All of that is important, but it’s surprising how easy it is to get along with fewer words.

I’ve started reworking my historical novels. Fortunately historicals are allowed a few more words, given the need to create a world the reader may not be familiar with. However, tightening can help them too.

One thing that happens when I start revising, the threads in the tapestry begin to loosen. I’m not always quite sure the work is holding together. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes I see threads that don’t work for me anymore. On my story of Minoan Crete a question came up and I went online to check it. A funny thing happens when I go online to answer one question. Several more tend to pop up, and I find answers to questions I hadn’t even thought of. With these stories of ancient times much of the basis of the work is archeology. And those archeologists keep digging. They come up with new stuff. I read somewhere that if you get three archeologists in a room and ask a question you’ll get five answers. Of course with a little poetic license I can pretty well pick the answer that works best for my story. But when a lot of scholars are agreeing on a new find, I like to pay attention to that. So some details may need changed.

A cool thing that happened this time. When the threads loosened, the story came to life for me again. I can tell when that happens because ideas begin to flood my mind—often in the wee hours of the morning, but I take inspiration where I can get it. The book is improving. It feels more real. I hope the changes will help me find a home for it.

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