BEST WRITING TIP:
Finish writing the book. It sounds simple, but it’s not.
There are so many things that can trip you up. And only by writing can you put
to use all the craft things you’ve learned and find your writing voice.
The other thing that sort of goes along with that is that
you shouldn’t be afraid of being unique. Yes, there are many conformities that
you must adhere to, but having a unique story to tell and a voice that
captivates will get you noticed and on your way to success.
SWEET DREAMS BOOK BLURB:
Dusty Fairchild and Paisley
Finch are close-knit cousins but opposite in every way. Blonde and top in her
class, Dusty has lived a sheltered life, raised on a Texas ranch by her
widowed, oilman father. She’s never lacked for material possessions but yearns
for a life of adventure and studying geology in college. Instead, her daddy
sends her to finishing school in East Texas.
Paisley, has grown up traveling
the country with her bohemian mother, and is wise to the ways of the world.
Dark haired and clever, she’s grateful to her uncle for letting her join Paisley
at Miss Fontaine’s. She’s weary of the “grasshopper” lifestyle of her mother
and ready to live a settled life.
At Miss Fontaine's, their
loyalty to each other binds them, but when they fall in love with the same
handsome young man, their relationship teeters on shaky ground. Only after a
tragic accident do they learn where their true hearts-and dreams-lie.
SWEET DREAMS EXCERPT:
Prologue
Two Forks, Texas ~ 1947
She found the stones the day they
buried her mama. Three of them catching the sunlight, twinkling beyond the
grave site. Her daddy clamped her small hand in his beefy, calloused one while
she busied herself with sniffing the air, the smell of fresh earth tickling and
sweet, mixed with the heavy perfume of roses. She itched to break free, to muster
her way through the skirts that swished this way and that, to run past the
stiff black britches of the men who stood like wooden soldiers at the ends of
the box they said held her mama.
She craned her neck, keeping watch on the shiny stones. They
winked back from their nesting place along the fence row.
When her daddy’s hand went slack, she dashed for it and dropped
to her knees on the grass, the scent of sage sharp from the field next to the
graveyard. With plump fingers, she reached shyly and touched the stones. They
were warm like the summer sun, one of them full of sparkle with rough edges
that bit into her fingers, another smooth, the size and shape of a pecan, black
on the top and bottom with a ribbon of white through the middle. And the last one,
dull brown and rough to her fingertips but flecked with a million black dots.
When curled in her palm, it had a perfect indentation to rest her thumb.
“Whatcha got?”
She jerked her head around, then smiled. Her cousin, Paisley,
stood with her hands planted firmly on her narrow waist, the taffeta of her
dress noisy.
“Nothing.” The spiny stone, the prettiest one, bit into the
palm of her balled fist.
“Yes, you do. Show me.”
One by one, she uncurled her fingers. “Here, you can have
it.”
“Really? Oh, look, it’s covered with diamonds.”
They plopped their bottoms on the grass and had just gotten
settled when a shadow crept over them. Aunt Edith reached down and snatched
Paisley up by the arm. “Come on. You’re getting your dress dirty. It’s time to
go. Tell Dusty goodbye now.”
When Paisley offered the stone in her open hand, Dusty shook
her head. “You can have it and bring it tomorrow when we play.”
Aunt Edith had already started toward the iron gate, pulling
Paisley with her. Just one quick wave, and they were gone.
Paisley didn’t come over the next day. Or the day after. Dusty’s
daddy said it was good riddance, and the way he spit the words out, she knew
Paisley was gone for good. She squeezed her eyes to shut out the tears. Daddy
didn’t like crying. No tears for her mama. None for her cousin. All she had
left was two stones—one with a skunk stripe, the other dull brown. She carried
them everywhere in her pocket, the lumps as familiar as the dimple in her chin
and the blue of her eyes when she stood on the bathroom sink and looked in the
mirror.
She knew as sure as her name was Dusty Agnes Fairchild that
the earth that swallowed her mama had given the stones in exchange. There was
no other explanation. Later, when she told her daddy about them, he said she
was mistaken about when she got them, that no three-year-old child could
remember such a thing. He said there were a dozen places on the ranch she
could’ve picked them up, and that her imagination would get her in a heap of
trouble.
She left him to his opinions and didn’t mention that she also
knew someday Paisley would return. She didn’t know how or when, but the feeling
never left her, like a tiny suitcase packed by the door, waiting for the day
when the door would burst open and life would return to normal.
Thanks so much for having me at WRITER’S ALLEY! May this be
the summer you pursue your dreams with fervor!
Links:
E-mail address: carla@carlastewart.com
Website: www.carlastewart.com
Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/carlastewartauthor
Twitter handle: www.twitter.com/ChasingLilacs
Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/chasinglilacs/
Thanks so much, Carla. Let us know what has been your biggest barrier to finishing the book or leave a comment or question for Carla along with your email address:
writersanonymous (at) writersalleys (dot) com
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