A Ms. Quote Interview with Troy D. Smith

MQ: Hello Fantastic Readers out there ‘cross the other side of the screen! Whee, I’m so excited! I’m gettin’ fan mail now! ‘Course I know I may never get the snicker-doodles amount that my hero, I.B. Nosey, the ‘official unofficial’ cyberspace reporter of Gum Drop Island fame gets, but shucks, I’m plum tickled to pieces! Who knows? Maybe I will become famous an’ stupendous an’ wondrous an’…an’ ever’thin’ else that’s ous. Even my producer, Billy Bob, remarked, “Huh. Who woulda thought it?” (presses finger to cheek in pondering gesture) Now, wonder why he said that? Anyway (flicks hair with airy hand) I’ve got another doozy interroga…uh, I mean, interview all lined up today. So, welcome, y’all. This is my column and it’s called…

Ms. Quote's WORDS with...

 Troy D. Smith

MQ: Yoo hoo, Mr. Troy D. Smith? You home?

TS: (calls from direction of patio) Back here, ma’am. I’m merely reclining in the shade with a glass of iced tea. Care to join me?

MQ: Oh, thank you, kindly. (heels tap across brick-lain walk as she sashays over to his table) But I’m a workin’ gal an’ I really shouldn’t drink while on the job.

TS: Ah. (peers at MQ through a haze of cigar smoke) I see you’re blond.

MQ: An’ I come by it naturally too! Oh, my! (gasps) What’s that standin’ over yonder next to the concrete fountain?

TS: The wooden Indian? I call him Old Blockhead. Just the sight of him inspires me while I type out my many western books.

MQ: (squeals) Yes! That’s what I want to interroga -- um, ask you questions about! Your book, Red Trail, for starters. Like, well, what makes it red?

TS: Because the road of revenge is a bloody, bloody trail. Or, for those Tolkien fans out there- “A Sword-Day, a Red Day, ere the sun rises!”

MQ: (blinks) Huh?

TS: Hm, yes. (puffs thoughtfully on cigar) Perhaps a reading of the blurb might be helpful. (pulls copy of book off top of table) Shall I?

MQ: Okey-dokey.

TS: RED TRAIL gets its name from the title story about a mountain man who embarks on a trail of vengeance against the Indians who killed his wife... and finds himself in danger of being consumed by his hatred. That volume also includes the two stories that were finalists for this year's Peacemaker Award, "Blackwell's Run" (about a cavalry sergeant captured by Indians and his bid for escape) and "The Sin of Eli" (the Peacemaker winner- about a godly farmer who is trying to reach his outlaw son, scheduled to be hanged.)

TS: And lest we forget the first book (holds it to face MQ). CHEROKEE WINTER: TALES OF THE WEST PART ONE...and in fact, the second part is RED TRAIL: TALES OF THE WEST PART TWO. Actually, it had been one big collection, but my publisher recommended dividing it into two books because smaller books sell better. Ahem, now the blurb: The title story of CHEROKEE WINTER is a story about real-life Tennessee frontiersman Thomas Sharpe Spencer, aka Big-Foot Spencer, an extremely colorful character and pal of Daniel Boone. The story is actually about his death... he was killed (in winter) in the very last Cherokee war in Tennessee, in 1793 (he had fought the Cherokees for decades.) So there are Cherokees... it is literally winter... it is the winter of Spencer's life... it is the winter of the Cherokees as a military power.

MQ: Ooh, Big Foot Spencer! Is he kin to that Big Foot fella who stomps through the swamps that everyone is so scared of?

TS: You mean my cousin Boudreau? I don’t think so. Boudreau’s last name is Bigg La Foot. He is best known by the sobriquet Bayou Boudreau Bigg La Foot.

MQ: (gives blank look) So--sobri--? Oh, bother. (waves hand in dismissive gesture) Anyhoo, how was Spencer a pal to Daniel Boone?

TS: They were “Long Hunters” together… long hunters were, well, hunters who went on months-long expeditions into the “frontier” of the 1760s and 1770s, present day Tennessee and Kentucky. Spencer and Boone went on such hunts together, with a handful of comrades, and were among the first Englishmen in Tennessee (the French and Spanish had already been through.)

MQ: Gosh. You seem to know a right smart ‘bout history!

TS: (purses mouth) Perhaps a bit. I’m currently teaching American history at Tennessee Tech, and serving as president of Western Fictioneers -the first national writing organization devoted exclusively to fiction about the Old West.

MQ: (giggles) Does Old West get upset if you write about Youn’ East?

TS: It’s kind of complicated, since the Old West is younger than the Young East, and since parts of the Young East were the Young West when the East was Young, so that makes the Western Young East the Old Young West. But East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, until at last we all shall rest at God’s great judgment seat. This is because Twain, who was from the Midwest and became famous in the Old West before he moved to the Old Young East, long ago met his demise, despite rumors to the contrary… after rumors of his demise were initially mistaken.

MQ: (nibbles on end of fingernail) Uh huh.

TS: (sips iced tea) What other information can I provide for your listening audience?

MQ: Oh. (clears throat) How ‘bout somethin’ ease --uh, I mean, simpl-- well, that is, an’thin’ before you became a writer?

TS: A bio? Good idea. Going back to the beginning, I was born in the Upper Cumberland region of Tennessee in 1968. I’ve waxed floors, moved furniture, been a lay preacher, and taught high school and college.

MQ: (gives bright smile) If you’ve waxed floors an’ moved furniture an’ stuff, I bet you wash windows too! The studio that Billy Bob operates can really use a cleanin’, let me tell you, mister. How much might you charge?

TS: Absolutely zero. See, briefly, during my misguided teenage years, I worked for a window cleaning company, and hated it. Ever after, in my cleaning guy career, I refused to do windows. Strictly a floor guy.

MQ: Oh, pooh. Well, what else have you done?

TS: Rather than to have you sign me on for any kind of work with Billy Bob (flashes grin), I’m going to fall back on relating my writing career. I write in a variety of genres, achieving my earliest successes with westerns -my first published short story appeared in 1995 in Louis L'Amour Western Magazine, and I won the Spur Award in 2001 for the novel Bound for the Promise-Land (being a finalist on two other occasions.)

MQ: (eyes widen) Did that hurt? When you won the Spur Award?

TS: It kind of smarted a little- I can only imagine how those poor souls who’ve won five or six must feel. I’ve been hoping to win a second one, though, because with only one spur I keep going around and around in circles.

MQ: Maybe you should be nominated for a Pukelitzer Award! My hero, I.B. Nosey of Gum Drop Island fame, won one, you know. (pouts) I wasn’t even invited to his trophy ceremony. Did you attend?

TS: Oh, no. I’m holding out for the prestigious No-Bells prize… or at least the No-Whistles prize.

MQ: That sounds like fun! And, oops, before I forget Billy Bob had a special question. (flips pages of notepad) Here it is. Okay. (brow wrinkles in concentration) You write westerns, but in your photos you wear no coonskin hats, like a regular western dude would do. So…you chaw tabacca?

TS: (chuckles) Well now, I might write about the west, but I’ve never claimed to be a Western Dude. In fact I am a Southern Dude (and a sneaky one, as many of my westerns are either actually set in the South or have Southern protagonists.) And in the South, nobody chaws tabacca… they chaw ‘bakker (which makes me think that perhaps Wookiees are Southern.) Actually, as a writer of westerns and of mysteries, and as a professor/professional historian, I wear many hats. Shall I try on a few? (reaches into bag propped next to chair and withdraws object).

This is my rodeo hat.

My private-eye hat.

Add a wee bit of Scotland to this one.

And, of course, my white hat. (plops it atop head)

MQ: Oh, that’s cutesy-wootsy! It just sets off your blue shirt and red neck hanky!

TS: Hm, yes, well…(coughs) Forgive me, ma’am, but I must bid you adios. There’s a new plot I need to write up and I’m off to find it. (gives sharp whistle. Rustling is heard in nearby bushes and a muscular stallion trots over. TS leaps into saddle)

MQ: (points to horse) But that’s not a muscular stallion.

TS: (spreads palms) My interview, my words.

MQ: But I haven’t finished! Can’t you swoop me up and take me with you like those daring western heroes of old?

TS: Sorry, ma’am, but this southern dude doesn’t ride sidesaddle. Hi ho, Cowlick! (kicks horse and the pair gallop away in a cloud of dust)

MQ: Well! (stomps foot and then shrieks) Troy D. Smith! (glares after him as he and Cowlick ride off into the sunset) You teach that mangy horsey of yours some manners!

* * * * * * * * * *

Visit Troy at his site and blog. 

Amazon page. 

CELEBRATING BIRTHDAYS! TODAY IS MINE!

My birthday is July 28th. I share my special day with Jackie O., and only one other person I’ve actually met in my lifetime—my daughter’s best childhood friend, Hailey.
I always loved that my birthday came in July. The Oklahoma weather was traditionally hot. In those early years, we dressed in our best party dresses, wore white anklets and Mary Janes, and always, there were beautifully wrapped gifts (no gift bags in those days!) and a marvelous homemade cake.

My sixth birthday is one I remember vividly. We were in the process of moving, and our furniture hadn’t arrived. Mom never bought cakes, but this was an exception. She bought the only chocolate cake the store had—a German chocolate cake—forgetting that I was “the one” who didn’t like coconut. We pulled out the kitchen drawers, turned them on end and used them for makeshift chairs around our “table”—a large wardrobe box turned on its side. The same day we were moving in, another family was doing the same thing, just down the street. The best birthday gift of all? They had a little girl my age! Jane became my best friend.

Slumber parties were popular in later years. Parents endured a houseful of giggling, rambunctious elementary school-aged girls for the longest night of their lives…until the next year rolled around.

Costume parties were another fad. The pictures that my parents took of a costume party I had for my tenth birthday are unforgettable. I remember how much fun we all had, figuring out “who” or “what” we were going to be. Amidst a hippie, a leprechaun, and Indian princess, and a gypsy, I was a hula dancer. My oldest sister had just returned from a year of college studies in Hawaii, and I had a brand new grass skirt that needed to be broken in. My good friend DaNel, who’d moved just across the street, wore my kimono—another present from my sister. This was before Pizza Hut—we ate hot dogs for dinner.

And what about skating parties? Do any of you remember those? We had a skating rink with a wooden floor (yes, this definitely shows you how old I am!) and we never tired of skating around and around, couples skating, all boys, all girls, backward skate—the changeups were endless, as were the games.

This month I’ll celebrate a milestone birthday—number 55. I don’t mind getting older at all—hey, I can get my discount at IHOP now!

In my book, FIRE EYES, Frank Hayes, the youngest of the deputy marshals, has made an

embarrassing and potentially deadly mistake. Though Kaed Turner, the main character, survives, Frank has made the decision to give up law enforcement. Kaed seeks him out, along with Travis Morgan, another marshal, to have a talk with him about it. He shows Frank that no matter what, he’s part of a different kind of family now. Birthday reminiscing is how the difficult conversation begins.

EXCERPT FROM FIRE EYES:
“Well, Frank, I expect you’ll remember to tell someone next time, won’t you?” Kaed said quietly.

“Won’t be a next time, Mr. Turner. I don’t b’lieve I’m cut out for this.”
Travis started forward, but Kaed put a staying hand on his arm. Travis met his eyes and Kaed shook his head. He came toward Frank slowly. When he got within arm’s length, he stopped.

“How old are you, Frank?”

“Twenty. Or close enough. My birthday’s next month. My ma, she always made a cake.” He glanced around at Kaed, a flush staining his neck, making its way into his face. “Chocolate,” he mumbled, “if she could get it.”

Kaed gave him a half-smile and closed the last bit of distance between them. “You’re awful lucky, Frank. I lost my mother when I was just shy of nine. I’m not sure I even remember exactly when my birthday is. But, that’s not really important, anymore.”

Frank nodded, but didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes fixed on the gently swirling water of the creek.

Kaed went on. “When you became a marshal, you got another family. We all share the same life, the same dangers, the same loneliness of bein’ out on the trail.”

Frank shuddered, his lips compressing tightly. “I know you’re right, Mr. Turner.”
When he didn’t continue, Kaed said, “I’m not mad at you, Frank. Anybody can make a mistake. Travis, here, he was a couple of years older than you when he made his big one.”

Travis drew his breath in, and Kaed turned to give him a quelling glance. “Right, Trav?”

Travis nodded.

Kaed turned back to Frank. “You’ll have to get Trav to tell you about it.” He spoke easily, as one friend would to another, as if he thought Travis and Frank were on amicable terms.

Frank gave a short, brittle laugh. “I don’t think Travis Morgan is gonna talk to me about any mistake he ever made.”

“Trav, come on up here,” Kaed said.

Travis slowly stepped forward to join Frank and Kaed, swallowing tightly. “Frank, I guess I need to say—”

“You better do more than guess what you need to say, Travis,” Kaed said, his tone cool.
Travis glanced at Kaed and flushed. He nodded. When he turned back to Frank, his green eyes were apologetic. “I gave you a hell of a rough time, Frank. I’m sorry for that.”

He extended his hand. “Will you accept my apology?”

Kaed looked at Frank expectantly. He felt like an older brother overseeing two younger, quarreling siblings, forcing them back to brotherhood once more. But Kaed knew he was the only one who could end this discord between them.

Hesitantly, Frank reached for Travis’s hand and shook. “Sure. Forget it.”

“All right. Now let’s hear no more of this business of you givin’ up marshaling, Frank,” Kaed said. “You trained with Lem Polk, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I think that might be my problem.”

Kaed nodded, sure that it was. “You ride with Travis for the next few months, see if he can’t teach you what you need to know.”

Both Travis and Frank started to speak, but Kaed held up a hand, giving them both a hard, cutting look. “Make your peace, boys. Travis, I expect you to teach him everything I taught you.”

I hope you enjoyed this excerpt from FIRE EYES--all my short stories, novels and novellas are available at Amazon here:
https://www.amazon.com/author/cherylpierson

HEART SONG And It's Imperfect Hero

It’s not easy to write a story around a hero with a life threatening disease. The usual template for a hero is that he must be handsome, rich and strong. Of course, that would make a wonderful hero but, beneath those assets there has to be something even greater, assets that set him apart from good looks and money and that would be a foundation built on courage, heart and determination.
When I was approached to take part in a breast cancer survivor anthology, my first idea was to have a heroine with breast cancer. However, I realized quickly that it was not a unique idea. I decided to  research breast cancer and found, quite to my astonishment, that men not only get breast cancer, but fifty percent of them die from it. Right then I decided how I wanted to create my story and make it unique but also meaningful.  It was tricky business for me to come up with a man suffering from breast cancer and still make him a genuine hero. I hope that Heart Song captures the heart of an indisputable hero.

Heart Song
Released June 29, 2012
ISBN: 9781476235066
Short Story 53 pages
Publishing by Rebecca Vickery Publishing
Facing death might change Gideon’s life.

Blurb

Gideon thought he had the perfect life as a musician with a beautiful model as his girlfriend, until he was diagnosed with breast cancer.

Ashamed and afraid he may die, Gideon hits bottom when his girlfriend dumps him for a real man.

Hope comes in the form of his father’s ghost and a person he has just met. Can he beat the odds and survive? And if he does, can he ever find happiness again?

Excerpt:

He had only himself to blame. Choosing a woman like Sylvia, beautiful, sexy, and narcissistic had proved ego boosting but emotionally exhausting. Every day her drama filled the house with tears or anger. A broken nail led to wailing that life wasn’t fair. A missed opportunity for a botox treatment led to tears and hysteria. She was, however, the perfect trophy girlfriend. Her perfect figure and her Elisabeth Taylor beauty perked up every social event. Envious males gathered around her at parties and wished they were Gideon with this exciting woman on his arm. If they only knew. A woman like that may be a great lover, a stimulating sexual partner in bed, but she wasn’t much of a friend and certainly no companion or partner.  First sign of trouble and she skedaddled into the arms of another man. He had chosen Sylvia for all the wrong reasons. Maybe he really wasn’t good enough.  He sure wasn’t a good judge of character. He felt about as empty as his house.

Places where you can find me:  
My website:  http://sarahmcneal.com
Places where I blog regularly:
Sarah’s Provocative Ponderings:  http://pasttheprint.blogspot.com/
Moonlight Romance Writers: http://moonlightromanceauthors.blogspot.com/?zx=f44efc849e7c64fc
Fantasy And Dreams (my blog): http://sarahmcneal.blogspot.com/
I am also on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?&new_box_added_id=7100654162#
And Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/Starcriter
My Amazon Author Page:  https://www.amazon.com/author/sarahmcneal
PbRBWT Author Page:  http://pbrjvwtb2.blogspot.com/p/sarah-j-mcneal.html

Buy Links for HEART SONG:
Amazon.com
http://www.amazon.com/Heart-Song-ebook/dp/B008G1GKJ0/
Smashwords
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/177196
Monkeybars
https://www.monkeybars.net/PbRJV
https://www.monkeybars.net/monkey/thing/5585f4cdefcaaa1f6d7fabaf22ced78e