Bell Bridge Books

Night After Night

by Kathleen Eagle

Where do characters come from? From life, of course. From people. Even if the character is an animal, if it has thoughts, it’s a personification. Every writer’s characters come from people the writer has somehow experienced. Fiction is about the human experience—yes, even sci fi, even fantasy—fiction is about us. Writers find stories and characters in the world around them.

One of my most memorable characters is just a boy in THE NIGHT REMEMBERS, which was published in 1997. His father is black, his mother Lakota Sioux, and Tommy T—the nickname his father gave him—lives on the streets of Minneapolis. He’s resourceful, independent, witty, irrepressible, already a brilliant artist at the age of 12, when he “adopts” Angela, a woman who is out of her element and on the run. His older brother is a sad case, so Tommy T tries to look out for him, too. But Tommy T needs a hero, and he finds one in Jesse Brown Wolf, the enigmatic troubleshooter Tommy T calls Dark Dog.

Tommy T is one of my favorite characters, and he was inspired by a student from my early teaching days. Oliver was a terrific artist, a wonderful basketball player, a very smart young man. Years later—soon after we moved to the Minneapolis area—we ran into Oliver at an art show. It was so good to see someone from Standing Rock, the Lakota reservation where most of the Eagles live, where my husband and I met, where I taught high school for 17 years and where our 3 children were born. But here we were, out of our element, and here was Oliver, who was also glad to see people from back home, and who said, “I’m really doing good now, Mrs. Eagle.”

It wasn’t long after that meeting that Oliver died tragically. Heartbreakingly. Senselessly. Years later I wrote a story—not about him, but for him. And readers began to let me know that it wasn’t finished. Tommy T was one of their favorites, too, and he ought to be more than a secondary character. Tommy T had to grow up.  I knew who Tommy T was as a man, and I wrote NIGHT FALLS LIKE SILK.

Tommy T is now Thomas Warrior, a reclusive graphic novelist. He’s crazy successful and drop-dead handsome, but he’s also troubled by his past. He visits Angela, his adoptive mother, but only when Jesse isn’t home. He blames Jesse for his drug-addicted brother’s troubles. And now the characters in Thomas’s stories have begun to haunt him. They want him to go back to his roots, reclaim his heritage. Maybe that’s why he finds himself bidding on a set of century-old ledger drawings and feeling more than simply challenged by Cassandra Westbrook, the beautiful but outrageously privileged woman who outbids him. I believe NIGHT FALLS LIKE SILK is worthy of the irrepressible Tommy T as well as the irresistible Thomas Warrior.

Thank you, Oliver.

NIGHT FALLS LIKE SILK is only $1.99 through the 31st. Pick it up today: 

Why is there no Grandmother’s Day?

This is a trick question.

Every book I write, including The Crossroads Café, focuses not only on a core romance story but is also about family;  mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, and grandparents. Sometimes the theme may be subtle, sometimes not. Family is the parallel core, regardless.

My mother made me what I am today.

All the good stuff and the bad. Some of it sad, but forgiveness was always a given between us.

She was simple, easy, heartbreaking, wonderful. Ma was normal, flawed, like me, but kinder than I am and more realistic. I miss her every moment of every day. She died in my home nine years ago next December, her bedroom filled with Christmas decorations, with me standing beside the rented hospital bed, yelling for help from the hospice nurse.

I am writing this in a sunroom that is now my office, just outside her bedroom. Fifteen feet from where she lay in that sad, rented bed with its undulating air-pump mattress to prevent bed sores, its pull-up rails to keep her from tumbling out, and the loud, gasp-and-release gush of the oxygen concentrator that fed life into her cigarette-ruined lungs.

A few of her clothes still hang in the room’s closet. I store my yarn in there, and so I often stroke her dresses while searching for a skein or hank. Her soft fleece jacket, her nightgowns. I talk to them. To her.

I want her forgiveness for something. It’s always there, the need to be forgiven by her.

Forgiveness was never an issue with my grandmother, however. Forgiveness was for weaklings. She wanted to mold me into a fire-breathing dragon, the spitting were-cat of Southern womanhood. Just like her.

As a result, I’m a product of a mixed marriage.

Submissive, chain-smoking, hard-drinking, tender-hearted Mama.

Dominant, teetotaler, hard-hearted Grandmother.

I have the fantasies of a Valkyrie mixed with the manners of a furious wildcat shellacked with the veneer of Melanie Wilkes.

Why, bless your heart. And to hell with you.  

There she is. Grandma is peeking around the corner of my mind, whispering to me. Good angel or fallen angel? Both?

She defended me fiercely during my years as a whacky teenager, but would come into my tiny bedroom when I slept too late and throw a pan of sizzling, oven-broiled buttered toast on me.

On the eve of my wedding, she very dramatically (at 85 years old) staggered down her hallway and collapsed loudly against my bedroom door.

“Have your fun and spend your money the way you want to before you get married. After that, you’re stuck.”

No offense to my beloved Husband of lo’ these many years, but she had a point, at least in her experience. She’d given up her career at Western Union in the 1940’s, as a trainer of telegram operators, because my grandfather (who also worked for Western Union) said she must stay home and become a fulltime mother to my Dad.

Dad turned out to be an only child. Go figure.

She put aside her daily downtown Atlanta life, where she rubbed shoulders with Margaret Mitchell, shopped at Rich’s Department Store, and was among the first at Western Union to know that President Roosevelt had died at Warm Springs—top secret messages came through her office on their way to Washington, D.C.—to become a farm wife wearing aprons and canning vegetables.

The anger in her was immense. As a child I watched her gleefully wring chickens by the neck; she patrolled her property with a sawed-off shotgun and challenged neighbors to so much as set foot inside her territory. Before electric or even hand-cranked can openers, she jabbed the wicked blade of a hand-held can opener into quivering tin containers. She pumped the blade around their rims like an oysterman cracking a shell.

She could kill people with that can blade. I’m not sure she hadn’t stabbed a few. Some of her nefarious siblings (from a dirt-poor family of eleven kids) challenged her as long as she lived.

She adored her baby brothers—they could do no wrong, in her mind—the preacher, the polio survivor, the dead war hero, and the youngest brother who joined the navy not long after World War One and eventually settled in sunny California with a bawdy, lovable, California beach babe.

But her sisters? Whoa. It was whispered she’d hauled her indiscreet younger sisters to back-alley abortionists in their teens; she’d even incarcerated one sister in a Catholic “school” for girls. Grandmother didn’t care about religion, not seriously, so she had few prejudices in that regard. To her, Catholic nuns were admirably strict.  She judged them on that merit, alone.

Grandmother didn’t take excuses for an answer. This was the girl who got on a train in 1911 and traveled to the far end of Georgia. She was seventeen years old and had never been outside her own home county before.

She worked her way through a teacher’s college amidst the hot cotton fields of South Georgia, waiting tables in the faculty dining room.

It was a co-ed school. The boys studied farming. Modern agriculture. Grandma became sweethearts with a football player. She posed for a picture on a tennis court, of all things, holding a racket and pretending she would ever willingly smack a ball for fun; besides, the college’s dress code was still rooted in the 1800’s. So there she stood, the farm girl corseted into a dark, full-length dress with puffed seeves. Her brown hair was done up in a high Gibson Girl ’do.

Her expression looked grim.

You’re going to aim a stupid little ball at me? You’ll wish you’d been skinned alive, instead. 

She never doubted herself, never apologized, never backed down. At the end of her life, as she lay in a nursing home at ninety-two, with me holding her hand, I said, “I love you.” I had hardly ever said that to her before. She’d never said it to anyone, me included.

“I love you,” I said.

“I know,” she answered.

Couldn’t pry a return confession out of her. Not even with Death’s scepter as the can opener.

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IN MEMORY OF TRISH JENSEN

Last week the literary community lost one of its own. A champion of the written word and a talented author. Trish Jensen will be forever missed. Her words will continue to live in the hearts of her fans and pages of her books. In the words of her friends:

“I’ve known Trish Jensen for more than twenty years, first online and later in person. I remember when she made her first sale. I remember when she hit the USA Today list with one of her earlier books, and she didn’t seem to realize what a major accomplishment that was. I remember when she fell in love with her computer-geek boyfriend, and, some years later, when she fell out of love with him and sent him on his way. I remember when she was stricken unexpectedly by liver failure, and she was told she needed a liver transplant. A bunch of her writer friends organized an auction to raise money for her. I critiqued a bunch of manuscripts, for which the writers generously paid into the Trish fund. We were all so glad we could do SOMETHING for our Trishie.

And then she got her new liver and recovered, and she was back, as feisty and funny as ever. She and I disagreed on politics, but we never let those disagreements get in the way of our friendship. She was curious about Judaism and frequently asked me–no expert on the subject, but with the basic knowledge that comes from growing up in a reformed Jewish family–questions about the religion’s beliefs and practices. She was a Penn State fanatic, although she always cheered with me when the Patriots won a Superbowl. (I can’t prove it, but I think she might have had a crush on quarterback Tom Brady. <g>) She loved shopping at Chico’s. She doted on her dog. I think the dog ate better than Trish did–although I always meant to get Trish’s vichyssoise recipe. That was one of her specialties.

The last time I saw Trish was at the Ninc conference in 2011. I was hoping she’d come to this year’s conference. Three years was way too long to go without a hug from Trishie. I can’t believe I’ll never again get one of her emails asking about why Orthodox Jews aren’t supposed to watch TV on Friday nights, or a collage of adorable animal photos, or some silly joke. At least her books will live on, as will the love of her friends.” —USA Today Bestselling Author Judith Arnold

“For those of you who are Trish Jensen’s friends in real life, my deepest condolences.  But what a tribute to an extraordinary person that she touched people who didn’t know her in everyday life as well.  She promoted, cheered, and fought for us whether we were newbies like me or longtime bestselling authors.  My heart goes out to her family and friends. She’ll be missed, but never forgotten.” —Donnell Ann Bell, author of The Past Came Hunting, Deadly Recall, and Betrayed.

“I’m one of those lucky ones who has known Trish for years. She was always as she was here, the first to cheer, the first to support, and passionate in defending anyone or anything she loved.

I’m not feeling very lucky this morning. But I’m glad her pain is over, even if mine is just beginning.

A dear, sweet friend, author Trish Jensen, slipped away from this world early this morning. In all the many years I knew her, Trish was the first to jump up and cheer for anyone’s achievement, no matter how small, and was always there with support for everyone she knew. We nearly lost her a few years ago, so I suppose this extra time was a gift, but I’m having trouble feeling grateful for it when it wasn’t supposed to end yet. Later I will, I’m sure, but right now I’m just horribly sad. The world needs bright spirits like Trish.

About Trish being a force of nature, as Lynn said. Jill Barnett and I were messaging and got onto about there better be dogs in heaven, for Trish. And said if there weren’t she’d turn around and leave. And then I realized no, she would start a campaign and rally the troops to demand a rule change!”—USA Today Bestselling Author Justine Dare

“While many of us are homebodies, we writers know how to connect with each other across the miles, and Trish was always the first to step up.  She started the BBB authors loop, and then she made it work.  She introduced newbies and made them feel welcome.  She was first to encourage, first to raise a virtual toast, first to sympathize.  She didn’t just send positive vibes–she was positive vibes.  Trish was a generous friend.  I miss her already, and I will treasure her stories.”—New York Times Bestselling Author Kathleen Eagle

“There are people who knew Trish much better than I did, but I she always made me smile and made me feel like the little things in my life were important.  I will miss her sunny personality and am so glad I have her books so that I can continue to feel her presence. ” —USA Today Bestselling Author Katherine Garbera

“Trish was a loving and loyal friend, an author who made us laugh and touched our hearts.  She loved animals and she was always there to cheer people on and give them support in any way she could.  I will miss her very much.”—Eve Gaddy, author of Cowboy Come Home, Uncertain Future, and Too Close for Comfort

Humor is the great thing, the saving thing. The minute it crops up, all our irritations and resentments slip away and a sunny spirit takes their place.—Mark Twain

“Trish was very much a sunny spirit, and her books are a legacy that will be enjoyed for years to come.”—Lynn Kerstan, author of The Big Cat Trilogy

“I didn’t know Trish other than from the BBB Loop, but with all of the tributes to her that I’ve read today, I wish I had known her. The tributes show just how much she was loved and how much she gave of herself to others. It sounds like Heaven got another angel.” —Vickie King, author of Carly’s Rule

“I’m partial to funny writers–or rather writers who write funny books–and the writing world lost a good one today with the death of Trish Jensen.  I first read her when I judged her entry in the West Houston Emily contest.  Right away, I knew she was going to sell that book–and I told her so.  She did and it was published as THE HARDER THEY FALL.  We’ll miss you, Trish.”—USA Today Bestselling Author, Heather MacAllister

_____________________________________________

If I can’t make myself giggle while writing, I’m a goner.

Okay, Amazon just informed me that my book has shipped. I think I’m going to sleep with it. The cover is so beautious, I can’t wait to see it in print.

I’m really liking fan girls. What ARE fan girls, anyway?

I’ve been going through emails from Trish. Hundreds of conversations. In the past few years I got to know Trish better than I realized. Now I miss her as if we were lifelong friends.

My books just arrived. OMG, he’s more gorgeous up close and personal. Guess which dog is being bumped out of bed in favor of a book? He’s GORGEOUS. — Trish, pathetic, I know, but I take thrills where I can get him . . . errr, them.

Mainly, we discussed her books. The old ones being re-issued by Bell Bridge, but also the new one she was planning to write next. But in the course of “business talk” we also covered a crazy-quilt funhouse of you-name-it: talk show hosts, Teddy Bears, dogs, cats, our shared advocacy for animal shelters, old boyfriends, people she wanted to smack with a cooking pot, people I wanted to smack with a cooking pot, and much, much more.

On the success of a relatively mild promo success:

We’re #2! We’re #2!
Okay, back to polishing book and won’t look again for at least . . . you know, at least fifteen minutes. 🙂 — Trish

And when Against His Will reached No. 1 on the Barnes & Noble bestseller list?

Muchas Gracias!  This takes the sting out of the pictures my sister keeps sending me from her Caribbean cruise.

Sprinkled through all that chat and those work discussions was a comforting bond of friendship and life itself. That’s what I’ll miss so much. —New York Times Bestselling Author Deborah Smith

“I first met Trish Jensen when she signed onto GEnie’s RomEx roundtable. She and I became instant friends, and after chatting with her for only a few minutes about her writing, I said you’re next. It wasn’t long after that when she sold her first book. I was so proud. She also wrote reviews for Pen and Mouse during that time, and I was the recipient of one. To this day, it is one of my favorites. I still quote her whenever I can. She wrote: “laugh, cry and fall in love.” And that describes my relationship with Trish. I have watched us both laugh, cry and fall in love. She held my hand while my husband was dying, and was my champion when I became a basketcase after I lost him. When my grandbabies were born, she sent gifts and demanded pictures. Her sense of loyalty knew no bounds. To be Trish’s friend was to be blessed beyond measure. And I have been so blessed. All the puppies in Heaven are getting a belly rub about now. Miss you.”—Deb Stover, author of Maid Marian and the Lawman