And it's all about ____ or is it?

 the comforter on the sofa is for the cats as it traveled with them to Arizona and back as their consistent comfort-- we all need that sometimes, right?

Boy have I been getting lessons in human nature and that includes my own. I've had some experiences that challenged me to live what I claim to believe or admit I never did except when it was words. 

At night, I've had dreams where I'd wake thinking-- is that it? Is that what life is about? I love those kinds of dreams even the scary ones (and there've been a few of those too). I ask for them. Nighttime is when I can let go of my expectations and the chaos in my head and let whatever comes-- come.

During the day, I also am happy for the experiences -- negative and hurtful or enriching and empowering. I have learned that when I live it as I claim to believe-- it all works better. I think the whole set of experiences is part of grasping what life is about-- which for me always reflects into my writing-- especially of the books.

There are writers, some very successful, million selling writers, who write whatever the market wants. They will literally sell their souls-- okay figuratively-- to be successful. If they know readers want it, they will try to deliver it. There are other writers who have something inside themselves that needs to come out through their words and stories. They will stick to that even if not as successful in terms of money.

So my latest dreams have encompassed events in them, but more important was what I was left with when I woke. Here are the questions with which I've been left to ponder.

In the first dream, I woke thinking-- what if there is no one truth for life? What if how you live, what you believe is how it will be?  So you believe life is dust to dust and all biology. You can live it that way and at least until you die, it's how it will be. Or maybe even then. What if we decide that and even then it can be dust to dust.

OR what if you are a wiccan and you believe in learning spells, use of potions, rituals, and maybe even are part of a circle. You live it that way, follow the Celtic traditions, use the incantations (never forgetting that what you put out you get back three times) in responsible ways and it works.

OR you are a Christian/Buddhist/Hindu/Islamist and you live your religion as true to its essence as you can. Prayer is answered. You feel the presence of the Holy Spirit. It works.

Might it be why we end up with so many people thinking they have the truth. We have assumed that there is one truth, but maybe there literally is not. There are many. If you live one of them totally, it will be true-- for you.

There is a limit to this thinking in that you might live it totally for you, but there are still the rules of the earth. You can believe all you want that a tornado is not coming straight at you. Can you really change it? Well the greatest seers, which include the one they call Jesus, who may have gotten his training from Eastern seers, did believe that you could. Most of us never live life to that level of certainty though. And the ones who think they are but are ignoring the earthly consequences as they go, they probably are thought balmy by others. They don't get it either. To have your own truth be literally true, there has to be evidence of a physical nature.

Okay that was one dream; and when I woke I thought of the corollary to it-- that we can do whatever we want but only as we go up the scale of understanding what that means. Rules are made to be broken but not by those who don't know why they were ever there. They can be broken as one grows in understanding of why they exist and why it's best to break them. So disciplined living grows into what appears to be freedom-- but really is about growth in understanding consequences and being able to weigh them. 

This fits a lot of the thinking in Christianity which is never actually followed-- or should I say rarely. It's just too easy to follow rules set by an earthly leader and most never get beyond that. But it's not how it's set up-- at least in that one religion.

The second dream fit into the second anthology that I will be writing to follow When Fates Conspire. I have to say that hardly anyone has given the first book a try. I don't know why. Perhaps though books that explore spiritual dimensions within a possible romance just don't suit the average reader in any genre. 

But the wonder of writing is you don't have to stop when readers didn't like what you wrote. You can go on and write the next step. That fits with the philosophy above where we live our truth and it becomes true. A writer's truest truth is not that they get a lot of money for what they do. It's that they write their truth as best they know it to be without selling out. I don't want to find any other way to live my life-- as what I write is part of what makes me who I am.

The interesting part for me is the second novella in this series, for wont of a better word, will be how evil impacts us. I am putting it together in my head, but it seemed, despite my own reluctance to think much about evil, it was the next step in what will be a trilogy. Then came a dream...

my guest today is author, Lyn Horner

A few western writers have come together to create a short story anthology due out the middle of March. I am pleased today to have one of the authors. Lyn Horner, here to discuss her story for this anthology as well as her novel, Dearest Irish, which recently was honored with an important award.

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Rain, thank you for inviting me back. I’m delighted to be here and to have you on my blog site today. I hope your followers will stop by and say hi. http://lynhorner.com/posts

Being a contributor to our Western Romance Anthology, Rawhide ’N Roses, is both a joy and a challenge. I don’t often write short stories. It requires a whole different way of plotting and forces one to cut out any “fluff”. I ended up cutting at least a third of my first draft, a painful process as you know. We authors don’t enjoy dumping sentences, paragraphs, even whole scenes for the sake of brevity. However, tightening our prose usually improves a story in the end.

The first book I wrote was 150,000 words long, way too much! After several edits I got the story down to a manageable level, even after adding a paranormal element -- psychic siblings. There are no psychics in my short story, just a case of opposites attract.

The Lawman’s Lady

by Lyn Horner

Blurb:

 Marshal Trace Balfour doesn’t care for schoolmarm Matilda Schoenbrun’s straight-laced attitude. However, a few moments alone with the spinster lady makes him realize she isn’t quite what he expected. It also makes him curious. Why doesn’t she like to be called Mattie? Most of all, what would she look like without her specs and with her hair down?

Excerpt:

     “Move aside,” Marshal Trace Balfour ordered, pushing through the noisy throng gathered in the street outside the Golden Slipper Saloon. Their shouts and laughter had drawn him from his office up the block. Among the crowd, he saw the local Methodist preacher, the undertaker and the owner of the mercantile across the dusty street. Several ranch hands, in town on their day off, made most of the racket.

    Trace also noticed the schoolmarm, Matilda Schoenbrun. With her brown hair wound in a tight bun at her nape and wearing a drab calico gown of the same color, she brought to mind a brown jay such as he’d seen as a boy in south Texas. When she spotted him, she threw her shoulders back and narrowed her lips, looking down her bespectacled little nose, setting his teeth on edge.

     “Marshal, please put a stop to this!” she demanded in a haughty voice.

     “Ma’am, that’s what I aim to do.” Touching his hat to her, he shouldered aside a pair of cowboys whose laughter and catcalls almost drowned out the shrieks coming from a pair of females rolling in the dirt. Trace recognized them as saloon girls form the Golden Slipper. With red and purple skirts bunched around their knees, they fought viciously, scratching, biting and pulling each other’s hair.

      He’d rather face a gang of bank robbers than deal with these snarling wildcats, he thought grimly.

* * * **********

Dearest Irish, book three in Lyn Horner’s Texas Devlins trilogy, is the recipient of a 2013 Reviewers Choice Award from the Paranormal Romance Guild (historical category.)

Book blurb:

Set in1876, Dearest Irish stars Rose Devlin, the youngest of three psychic siblings who hide their rare talents for fear of persecution. Gifted with the extraordinary ability to heal with her mind, Rose inadvertently reveals her secret to Choctaw Jack, a half-breed cowboy she finds fascinating. Unfortunately, she harbors another, darker secret that threatens her chances of ever knowing love.

Choctaw Jack straddles two worlds, dividing his loyalties between his mother’s people and the family of a friend who died in the Civil War. Like Rose, he keeps shocking secrets that could cost him his job, even his life. Yet, he will risk everything to save his dying mother, even if it means kidnapping Rose.

Excerpt:

Rose regained her senses slowly. Feeling herself rock to and fro, she groggily recognized the loping gait of a horse beneath her. But how could that be?

She forced her eyes open, taking in the starlit sky and the dark landscape passing by. Blinking at the sight, she realized she was seated crosswise on the horse – in a man’s lap. Just like that, the scene in her bedroom with Jack came back to her, and she knew whose chest she leaned upon and whose arm was locked around her.

Panicking, she cried out in fright. Pain lanced through her jaw, reminding her of the blow her teacher-turned-abductor had delivered just before she’d sunk into oblivion.

“Easy now,” the brute murmured. “You’re all right. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

She threw her head back to see his shadowed features. “I’m not all right, ye . . . ye kidnapper!” Cupping her painful jaw, she demanded, “Take me back this instant!”

“Can’t do that, Toppah.”

“But ye must! Tye and Lil will be looking for me.” Catching the odd word he’d spoken, she repeated it. “Toppah? What’s that?”

“It’s you. It means yellow-hair.”

“Oh. Well, don’t be calling me that again. Now turn this horse around and take me back,” she again demanded.

“Nope. We’re heading for the Nations. You might as well relax and enjoy the ride.”

“Enjoy the ride, is it? You’re daft!” She pushed at his steely arm and attempted to twist free, but, although his hold caused no pain, it was unbreakable. Feeling smothered and panicky, she shoved at his chest, managing to create a small space between them.

“Be still,” he ordered sharply. “Do you want to fall off and break your neck?”

Before she could reply, another man’s voice sounded nearby, speaking in an unfamiliar tongue. Unaware of his presence until that moment, Rose uttered a frightened cry and instinctively shrank against Jack. His arm tightened around her for a moment. He said something to the other man then spoke softly to her.

“Don’t be afraid, Poe-lah-yee. That’s only Tsoia. He is my friend, my blood brother. He won’t touch you as long as he thinks you’re mine.”

“Yours! I’m not yours!” she shrilled, once more stiffening against him.

“You might not want to let him know that.”

Twisting her upper body and craning her neck, Rose caught a glimpse of the other Indian’s shadowy form. He rode near them and, unless she was mistaken, he led another horse.

“What did he say?” she warily asked.

“He said you screech like an owl,” Jack replied, a grin in his voice.

Rose huffed in annoyance, not liking the comparison. After a moment’s silence, she asked in a softer voice, “And what did ye call me a minute ago?”

“Poe-lah-yee. It means rabbit.”

“Rabbit! I told ye before I’m no scared rabbit.” Although she did feel like one just now, she privately admitted. “Oh, and my hair’s not yellow, ’tis strawberry-blonde. That’s what they’re calling the color back in Chicago these days.”

“That right? Well, I guess I could call you Poe-aye-gaw. That means strawberries.”

“For goodness sake, can’t ye call me by my proper name?”

“I dunno,” he drawled. “Poe-aye-gaw is kinda nice, or maybe P’ayn-nah. That means sugar. Yeah, I like that one.”

Sugar? Did he think her sweet? And what if he did? It made no nevermind to her. Snorting in disdain, Rose squirmed uncomfortably in his lap.

Buy Dearest Irish here:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CK9LGA2 (Kindle & print)

http://tinyurl.com/l64ctss (Nook)

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Lyn Horner resides in Fort Worth, Texas – “Where the West Begins” – with her husband and several very spoiled cats. Trained in the visual arts, Lyn worked as a fashion illustrator and art instructor before she took up writing. This hobby grew into a love of research and the crafting of passionate love stories based on that research.

Lyn’s Texas Devlins trilogy blends authentic Old West settings, steamy romance and a glimmer of the mysterious. This series has earned Lyn several awards, including two Reviewers Choice Awards from the Paranormal Romance Guild, the most recent for her 2013 release, Dearest Irish. She is now at work on her next book.

Find Lyn At:

http://lynhorner.com

http://lynhorner.blogspot.com  

http://www.amazon.com/author/lyn.horner.award-winning.books

https://twitter.com/LynHornerauthor

https://www.facebook.com/lyn.horner.1

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lyn-Horner/161787403863487 (Fan page)

https://www.facebook.com/groups/WHRbookclub/?fref=ts

When Fates Conspire

When Fates Conspire

When Fates Conspire, set in Montana and South Dakota, is a contemporary, paranormal story, of fate, soul mates, and fairness. With humor and pathos, this novella tells of two couples and three spirit guides—all with very different ideas as to what life is about.

Lauren returns to Billings looking for something that never happened for her in high school. When the man she wanted then re-enters her life, all the ancient energy between these soul mates is aroused. Can it be they will finally get a happily ever after or will it end as it always has?

In Bozeman, Jessica is frustrated that the man she promised to marry won’t give her the advantages his riches could provide. How far will she go to get what she wants? Tragedy is the only possible result or is it?

This story came directly from a dream, with several powerful images and concepts. Writing the novella incorporated many things I have read. The question, that I hope readers will be asking when they finish, is what do you think life is about?

I’ve never used quotes at the beginning of a book but I knew this one would be enriched by them. I went looking and surprising me, everything I could want came from Dante, whose full name was Durante degli Alighieri born 1265 and died 1321. His poetry and books spoke so much to the mysteries of life. As I went through my chapter headings, time and again his words set them off perfectly. I am glad I hadn’t found him first or I might’ve thought he influenced the story that began with a dream.

“In that book which is my memory. On the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you, Appear the words, ‘Here begins a new life’.”     Dante Alighieri

 Excerpt:

With the next knock on the door, she managed to stifle her shock. She hoped. It was him. If she had hoped he would have grown less attractive, got no relief that way. Darkly tanned, movie star handsome, his Cheyenne features showed up more strongly than ever. To add to it she saw he had grown his long black hair out and wore it clubbed in a ponytail at the back of his neck. Then she saw the girl at his side. Who was she? Not part of their high school crowd surely.

“Clay,” Dale said taking their coats while Mindy handed them hot cider. “You hear about the storm brewing?”

“This morning,” he answered with that slight western drawl that had always caused Lauren’s heart to start fluttering. “I still have 200 heifers out on the south pasture; so that’ll be tomorrow morning’s job. Hoping I can get them in closer before it blasts us.”

“Lauren, did you know Rachel in high school?” Mindy asked as she drew the pretty brunette over to Lauren.

“You’re Rachel Adams?” Lauren asked now placing her as four years younger than them. “You’ve grown up,” she said forcing herself not to look toward Clay. God, she hoped she had been over that silly infatuation, but as soon as he was near she knew she had been fooling herself. It’s why no other serious relationships had developed. She had to get out of the house before she gave herself away. Was he married? Who was Rachel to him? She feared to look for rings.

Available for eReaders at Amazon