A Shadow Life by Leta McCurry - Some Mystery, Same Sadness, Some Joy!

Readers I apologize if you are unable to read all of this article!
Would you believe the colors were changed--not by me--and made it impossible to read on the screen!
Add this to my list of computer problems!

Menard, Texas--June, 1938

The kerosene lamp burned low in the silence. Mattie Hawkins was the only one fully awake in the deep hours of the night. She stared at the plain pine coffin holding the remains of her husband as flickering shadows, like ghosts on the prowl, moved softly among the small group keeping wake. In that raw box lay her life and Laney's, snatched away as suddenly and surely as if they had been picked up by a tornado and blown to kingdom come.
How could God let this happen--in an instant--with no time to prepare? Could she have done anything to change it?
Only two days ago--the morning had started like any other except it was Calvin's birthday. About mid-morning, Mattie shopped working the iron pump handle and leaned against the kitchen counter to catch her breath. She took a tin dipper from its nail on the wall, filled it with the cool water she had drawn from the pump, and drank deeply. Patting the sweat from her face with the bottom of her apron, she smiled at her five-year-old daughter. Laney Belle, playing with homemade A-B-C  blocks under the kitchen table.
"Whatcha doin', dumplin'?"
"I spelled cat, Mama. See?" Laney patted the blocks lined up on the raw pine floor.
"You sure did," Mattie said. "You're so smart."
"And pretty," Laney giggled. "Daddy says I'm pretty just like my mama."
I might be pretty to look at on the outside but I'm ugly on the inside, Mattie thought. How come her neighbor women had a dozen babies one right after another and she could barely produce one?
Laney was the only living child from Mattie's five pregnancies over the last five years. The others were either lost early or stillborn. There wouldn't be any more babies either. Doc Crouch had taken Mattie's husband, Calvin, aside and made sure he understood that getting his wife with child again would likely mean her death...
...a constant prayer always hovered in Mattie's mind. Lord, don't let my girl grow up weak, and sickly like me and my mama before me.

~~~

A Shadow Life

By Leta McCurry

The stories Leta McCurry shares reveals the heartaches of women in the early 1900s. A woman could bear children one after the other and become an old woman while still young due to the hard work required to maintain her family... At the same time, if she was unable to have children due to health problems, that essentially ended the intimacy of the marriage.

Our story tells of a woman who had constantly lost children, and had been told that any further pregnancies would likely cost her life. She tried hard to keep her husband and child happy, but she greatly missed the intimacy, the touching they had shared. 

It was on her husband's birthday when it happened. Laney and her mother had to make a quick trip to town since she didn't have everything needed to make him a birthday cake. And the accident happened, there, right in front of them. Within seconds her husband was dead...

...Sorry wasn't what she needed. She needed her husband to rise up whole again out of that ugly pine box. She needed her life back. She needed the words for her little girl when she came home in the morning. Words to tell Laney there wouldn't be any more Daddy for piggyback rides, waking in the creek, reading fairy tales and singing Laney's favorite song, "Ragtime Cowboy Joe," at the top of their lungs...

Who was going to give her words for that?

I was acquainted with the loss that Laney and her mother felt when husband and father was accidentally killed. My mother was carrying me when my father was killed, too, in an accident in the mines. Mom was left with four children... But there were some benefits at that time and family nearby and we made it... 

Laney and her mother had nothing and were soon required to leave their home. The man had been at a tent revival and they'd attended. He was a stranger but she couldn't help knowing he was watching her. She felt something wrong about him, but after attending several nights, he finagled an introduction. It was a bad foolish decision for Laney to accept the proposal of a wandering man. But when there were no other choices, she took the only one available... 

While a new like began for Laney, another young girl, Ruby Jo Cassity, in Freeburg, Texas, enters the story...

Ruby Jo couldn't figure out
what there was about homemade
flour-sack panties that was
worth good money to Boyce...
But it didn't hurt her none
and it was an easy nickel...

Ruby Jo had the typical feelings for many children, they see children at school with nice clothes and getting presents, while their poor family can barely keep the family fed and clothed. There was one little girl in particular who made a point of looking down on Ruby Jo and she and her friends often made fun of her clothes...

But as she grew a little older, she had the opportunity to earn a nickel from a neighbor boy. All he wanted was for Ruby Jo to let him see her underpants... 

But soon, her teacher found out what was happening...and offered her a dime...

Ruby Jo's life continued along these lines for most of her life...

Ruby Jo sang softly about grabbing her coat and hat and directing her feet to the sunny side of the street as she took her books out of the satchel and put them on the bed. Mama would have a hissy fit if she heard. "Don't be singing them trashy songs, Ruby Jo," she would say. "Good gospel hymns keep the mind where it ought to be." Ruby Jo Snorted...

She didn't understand all of it, but she was beginning to get the idea that as long as there were men or boys around, there could be nickels for Ruby Jo. There couldn't be a whole lot wrong with that...

~~~

McCurry moves from one shadow life to another as Laney and Ruby Jo continue along the lives that has been made for them. One is timid and doesn't know how to change what is happening to her; the other has found a source of money that keeps coming in... She saves it all to allow her to leave home...

Readers can't help but become involved in the lives of both of these girls. But let's face it, if sexual abuse of the young is still going on in this world, did either of these girls really have a chance?

Ahhhh, but Leta McCurry could not leave either of these girls where they were. The amazing thing is how she has molded two stories, separately, while ultimately merging the two stories...and keeping readers somewhat in suspense while it is all happening!

There is no way I was able to foresee where the book was headed. It is compelling, provocative, and holds readers in thrall as the magical twists and turns evolve into a wonderful closing. I loved it! In fact, I loved both of McCurry's books, but this one had an edge because of the suspenseful telling of her story...I was simply amazed how she weaved this tale and can only highly recommend it!

GABixlerReviews

Biography

Tale-spinner. Revealer of secrets. A dog’s best friend. Cornbread and fried okra country girl.
Lives in Southern Oregon and enjoys writing, reading, the open road on a Stallion motorcycle (trike–as a passenger), good food, travel, genealogy, and a large, fun-loving family. Favorite destinations: Ireland and Singapore. Author of “High Cotton Country” and “A Shadow Life” and presently writing her third novel, “Dancing to the Silence.”

Leta says she loves the fascination of new characters and the fun of getting acquainted with them and seeing what they will do as the story develops.

And a final message from Leta

You can be an important part of my writing.

​

As a writer, I love feedback and conversations with readers. You are the reason I write, so when you have read High Cotton Country, A Shadow Life or any of the books to come, please tell me what you liked, what you loved, and even what you hated.

Who were your favorite characters? Why did you like them? Who didn't you like? Why? Please write me with your thoughts.

Here's another way you can really help me. Reviews. They are difficult to come by these days. People have good intentions but get busy with life and forget, but you, the reader, have the power to make or break a book. So, if you would be so kind, please post a review on Amazon. It doesn't have to be long or fancy.  Even a sentence or two means a lot and carries weight with a person looking for a new book to read. It would mean so much to me.

They say word of mouth is more powerful than the most expensive and expert advertising. I believe that is true, so please pass the word along if you've enjoyed my books. I really appreciate it.  Who knows? You could help one of my books become a best seller. Wouldn't that be amazing?

Finally, there's the Pre-Launch Team. It's kind of like the undercover "James Bond" part of the Advanced Readers Club. It's easy but it isn't for everyone because it comes with some responsibility. It doesn't take much time and it only costs 99 cents but it is very important. It is your opportunity to be involved in launching a new book and  it would be such a big help to me. (Oh, there is also a limit to the number of Pre-Launch Team Members for each book.)

​

Thank you! I appreciate each and every one of you.

​

Leta

​

​Leta, we certainly have enjoyed your visit at Book Readers Heaven. You are an inspiration to all of us and your books reveal the type of person you are... No wonder we enjoyed your stay! And...we're looking forward to your next book! Keep Writing... Glenda

High Cotton Country - Leta McCurry's Memorable Debut Novel! Part 1...

Your task is not to seek love, but to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it. – Rumi

Llano River Bridge Mason County, Texas - September 1938 

The last thing Big John Clifford needed was one more aggravation to pester his day, but there she was, big as life. Big John was so focused on his miseries he paid little attention as his old 1928 Model A Ford truck coughed and spit its way across the Llano River Bridge. But, about half a mile beyond the bridge he was startled out of his fretful thoughts by a sight so unexpected he instinctively slammed down the brake, jerked the steering wheel toward the shoulder of the road and almost skidded into a ditch. He sat there while the old truck shuddered and jerked on its creaky springs. It wasn’t enough that Clara, his lady friend of ten years, decided she had waited long enough for him to get the hitchin’ itch and was now walkin’ out with the local feed store owner. Or that, to show her where the cow ate the cabbage, Big John up and took a job diggin’ postholes starting the next morning at the Double K Ranch way up by Zenith. Big John hated diggin’ postholes. It wasn’t enough that it felt more like July than September with the scrubby landscape of the Texas hill country hunkered down under the humidity like dumplings under the lid of a cast iron pot of boiling chicken gravy. Or that, hovering over the tops of the low hills to the southwest, black clouds looked so angry and tortured Big John thought he could hear them moan. There was going to be billy jack to pay, no doubt about it. Tornadoes mostly hit in the spring, but they could ravage the countryside any time, and Big John knew a twister cloud when he saw one. 

If all that wasn’t enough to just jimmy-jam a saint, there was a woman walking along the opposite shoulder of the road in the same direction Big John had just traveled. What in the world was she doing way out here? Why was she pulling a child’s battered red wagon holding a little boy and a baby in nothing but a yellowed diaper? Big John maneuvered the truck into a safer position on the side of the road. He pulled a bandana out of his hip pocket, removed his Stetson and mopped away the salty sweat that trickled down his face. He plunked his Stetson back on, sighed deeply and hauled himself out of the truck. His mama had raised him not to meddle in other people’s business, but he had also been taught to be neighborly and mindful of women folk in particular. He felt obligated to offer whatever help might be needed. 

The woman didn’t stop walking or look up. A slat sun bonnet hid most of her face so he had a chance to study her briefly. He noticed her homemade flour-sacking dress was clean but threadbare. It and her cotton stockings were so saturated with sweat they clung to her bony back and thin legs. The boy, shirtless and barefoot and wearing striped bib overalls, was sitting on a pile of tow sacks, his shoulders seared an angry red by the sun. Big John guessed the boy to be about three. Tipping his hat to the woman, he said, “Afternoon, ma’am.” He spoke clearly but softly, hoping to assure her of his good intentions. 

The woman stopped and raised her head slightly, enough for him to glimpse under her bonnet. Perspiration beaded on her forehead and upper lip and her face was flushed crimson with the heat. He could see nothing but her face and hands because the bonnet covered her hair and her high-necked, long-sleeved dress hung inches above dusty, scuffed shoes with run-down heels. Her hands were chapped, the cuticles ragged, and her face was haggard. Big John was accustomed to seeing hill country women used up fast by a life of hard work, never enough of anything, and one still-sucking child slung on one hip and another in the belly. They married at fourteen or fifteen. Young’uns come one after another into late middle age. They seldom had a chance to even raise their heads from the time they said “I do” until they were lowered, worn and wasted, into their graves. So Big John was not surprised to realize this woman was much younger than she first appeared to be. 

She said nothing, just stared down the road. “Ma’am,” Big John began then hesitated, not sure how to proceed. He couldn’t flat out ask what in tarnation she was doing out here in the middle of nowhere with two young’uns in the smothering heat of the day. She must’ve walked some five miles or more because there was nowhere she could have come from between where she stood and the outskirts of the town of Zenith. “Ma’am,” he forged ahead, “can I give you a ride? I’m on my way to Zenith and I have plenty of room to put you and the young’uns up front. We could put the wagon in the back.” He held back on offering to take her someplace back down Highway 87 in the direction he had just traveled. 

She was so silent and unmoving he thought maybe she was a deaf-mute. Then she said in a voice that sounded like mice walking on dry corn husks, “Not going back to Zenith.” 

“But, ma’am, there ain’t much between here and Fredicksburg except Cherry Springs and it’s shut up tight this time of day.” He knew she couldn’t walk far enough or fast enough to gain any shelter he could think of before nightfall. Besides, it was doubtful she had enough strength to go another mile pulling the wagon in this heat. He suspected she was hungry, the boy too, but he had nothing to offer them. A clap of thunder caused him to look up at the darkening sky. “Ma’am, that’s a bad storm about to bust loose any minute. We’re in for some hard rain, maybe a twister.” “Storm won’t hurt us,” she replied so softly Big John leaned forward to hear. She recoiled from him as if cringing from some anticipated punishment. John instantly stepped back. “Ma’am, I think we might make Zenith before the worst of the storm and they’s plenty of folks would share a cellar with us.” 

“No, thank you.” She glanced at him and he noticed her eyes were an unusual color, not brown, not gold, but more like a thick stream of dark Karo syrup poured out against a window full of bright sunshine, speckled with a darker gold. Will you just look at that? I’ll bet she was some filly before hill country life got a good hold on her. Embarrassed by his frivolous thoughts about this strange woman, Big John shuffled his boots in the gravel and turned to follow her gaze back down Highway 87. What in tarnation did she see? He didn’t see anything. He squinted and stared until his eyes started to water but there was still nothing in any direction but scrubby mesquite and a few prickly pear cactus. There hadn’t even been a vehicle on the road besides his for the last hour or more. 

“Ma’am.” Big John knew he was begging. “Please, I’d be more’n happy to take you and the young’uns back to town.” He wanted to insist, to persuade her somehow, but being a simple man, he didn’t know how. 

“No, thank you kindly.” She walked away, pulling the wagon behind her. There wasn’t anything else to say, at least nothing Big John could think of that didn’t sound meddlesome. 

“Well then, afternoon to you, Ma’am.” Big John tipped his hat again. He climbed into the truck and drove slowly away. He carried on a silent argument with himself for about a mile then stopped the truck in the middle of the road and sat in total puzzlement. A peculiar cold feeling twisted itself into a knot right behind his big Lone Star belt buckle. Hell and damnation! Something ain’t right. He had to help her whether she wanted it or not, but how? It was unthinkable that he could just pick her up and put her in the truck although he could easily do so physically. “Wimmin!” Big John snorted aloud, viciously jerking the steering wheel to turn the truck around. No matter how, it had to be done one way or another. He was going to help this strange, haunting woman and he was sure her man would thank him for it. 

He didn’t see her. The silvery steel web of the bridge loomed ahead and he knew she couldn’t have walked any farther. Maybe she decided to go down and cool herself at the water’s edge. Big John stopped the truck in the middle of the bridge and strode to the rail. He saw her about fifty yards up the rocky river bank. The boy was still sitting in the wagon holding the baby, but the woman was walking along the edge of the water dragging the tow sacks behind her. The sacks were tied together with clothesline and there was about two feet of slack between them. The water was shallow where she was walking but Big John knew the river dropped off into a deep and dangerous pool a few feet away. He was about to shout a warning, but her next action was so odd, he hesitated in pure bewilderment. 

She stooped over, picked up a large rock, put it in one of the sacks, walked a few feet picked up another rock and put it in the same sack. 

He could tell one sack was heavy and the other empty by the way she dragged them. Now, what in tarnation is she doing? She dropped the sacks on the ground and walked over to the children. She lifted the baby out of the little boy’s arms then grasped the boy’s hand to help him out of the wagon. As they walked toward the sacks, Big John was seized by unspeakable dread. A chill rippled through his body and the hair on the back on his neck stood on end. He stared in open-mouthed disbelief as the woman placed the baby in the empty sack attached by the clothesline to the one containing the rocks. John tried to shout but he was paralyzed by the horror he suspected was playing out before his eyes. He bunched his muscles to spring into a run but his feet were rooted to the pavement. Imprisoned in the agonizing immobility of shock, he watched as she bent over and put the clothesline around her neck. When she straightened the two sacks dangled from her scrawny shoulders, one on each side of her body. As she reached for the boy’s hand, a skinny finger of lightening jabbed the earth a mile away. The sudden flash and rumble of thunder rocked the bridge under Big John’s feet, jolting him into action. 

“Ma’am!” he shouted. He was certain she heard him, but she did not look in his direction. “Lady!” he screamed at the top of his lungs as he lunged toward the end of the bridge. Running, he kept his eyes glued to what she was doing and bellowed his frustration at his inability to stop what he saw. She firmly held the boy’s hand as she waded into deeper and deeper water. Big John could not hear his own screams but the hysterical shrieking of the boy and the alarmed wailing of the infant joining together in a chorus of pure, raw terror seared his soul. He saw the boy twisting and struggling to escape his mother’s hand. But the woman held him firmly and when he lost his footing, she continued to drag him toward the deep pool.

“Oh, God! Oh, Lordy! Lady, please!” Big John shrieked as he bolted around the end of the bridge. His feet hit the loose rocks and, losing his balance, he tumbled head over heels down the steep incline toward the river’s edge. His Stetson flew off and his jeans ripped. Big John had the strange sensation of both being in his body as it hurtled down the embankment and, at the same time, out of it, standing a distance off, watching himself in slow motion as he kept his eyes glued to the woman wading deeper and deeper into the river, dragging the wailing boy behind her. The two sacks were already under water. Now, instead of one unending shriek, the boy’s screams were jerky as he struggled to keep his head above water. The sound empowered John with stamina and speed he didn’t know still existed in his old body. What seemed like an eternity was only minutes. The woman was already in water up to her chest as John drew near along the bank. The boy was being towed face down, under water except for his feet which were thrashing wildly, his screams now gurgled into silence. 

As Big John splashed into the river, lunging for the boy’s feet, he thought for a microsecond about his new Pedro Martinez boots, for which he had frugally saved for three years and which he was wearing for the very first time. Then the muddy bottom dropped from beneath him and he was in over his head. Opening his eyes and diving deeper, he frantically thrashed about, trying to see, until his lungs roared for air. Big John surfaced, gulped air, and dove again, reaching for depth. A shadowy apparition rose up to meet him from the murk. The darkening sky was turning the pool into a watery blackness with rapidly diminishing visibility so it took a moment for him to recognize the woman’s bonnet. It rode giddily on the current, the ties undulating behind like two snakes dancing in silent, bizarre unison. 

Big John back-paddled, attempting to elude the bonnet, but it relentlessly pursued him. It swirled against his head and he closed his eyes as the clammy fabric clasped his face, sucking greedily against his nose and mouth. In a panic, he tore the bonnet away to a sight that would haunt him all the rest of his days. Her face was only inches from his but her body faded into the darkness so her head appeared suspended, bodiless. Wispy hair, now loose, fanned out around her face like silken threads floating on the current. Big John could not have been more terrorized if her actual decapitated head had floated up to meet him, but it was her eyes that froze his heart. They were open and they were not dead eyes. They were living, knowing eyes, and she was looking at him. Her mouth was wide open and he realized she was drawing water into her lungs and drowning even as he watched. He reached for her but she faded into the murk. A few strands of her hair slipped through his fingers then she was gone. 

Big John dove into the depths again and again, finally surfacing for the last time. He floundered, bone weary and nerve raw, struggling to crawl to the river’s edge. He sat in the shallow water, gulping great breaths of air to fill his screaming lungs. Lightning fried the sky overhead, followed by thunder that rattled the teeth of ground hogs in their holes. A gust of wind picked up his Stetson from near the bridge and sailed it through the air then skipped it along the surface of the water until it stopped skipping and floated off downstream. Big John stared blankly at the toes of his boots sticking up from the water with not a single thought about Pedro Martinez or the cost of his footwear, now soggy and discolored. He was not aware of the thunder nor did he see the lightning. He was seeing an old-young face with a spray of freckles across the nose, loose silken hair floating like a spider web in the current and wide-open weary eyes looking at him. 

Big John Clifford, who had not shed a tear in more than fifty years, threw his head back and howled his rage at his impotency against her determination, and he wept.

~~~


“The coffin has to be closed, Abner. I’m sorry.” 
Nobody moved for quite a long time then Granny got up on unsteady legs and took a handmade Dutch Girl quilt off the double bed standing in the corner. She folded it carefully and with trembling hands, held it out to the preacher.
 “Wrap my girl in this,” she said then sank into a rocking chair and covered her face with her hands. 
Grandpa, holding his back stiff and straight as a two by four, walked out into the darkness of the front porch, letting the screen door slam behind him. 
Now, in the early morning heat, Cazzie studied the raw pine box resting on sawhorses across the open grave from her. It’s just an old box… Ain’t nothin’ a’tall in it, Cazzie whispered in her mind as the voices sang Take My Hand, Precious Lord in unison.
~~~

High Cotton Country

By Leta McCurry

Leta McCurry certainly knows how to grab her audience from the very first page! She places a historical tragedy as the first chapter, as a mother, taking her two young children with her, commits suicide/murder... Their lives were over, but the memory of what happened haunted the little town of Zenith for ever after...

Especially the one daughter who had not been taken to the river.  It is she who becomes the main character of High Cotton Country, and her one question which haunted her for most of her life: Why didn't her mother love her enough to take her along to the river?

Her trauma was great and she spent time after the funeral with her grandparents, while her father tried to pulled himself together. When he did take her home he promised to always be there for her, to always love and keep her safe. But one night something happened. Perhaps only the astute readers will realize the truth... But her father left the next morning...

Cazzie Randle was six years old...

We meet Cazzie in Dallas Texas in 1970. You will immediately realize that she is now very rich and successful... But this is a rags-to-riches story like no other. Cazzie might have successfully left her early life, but inside, she was still trapped with her six-year-old beliefs that she was not loved...and, after several other encounters with men...knew that she could not trust men to tell the truth...

It was Granny, with her wisdom and loving guidance that molded Cazzie to become the woman she did become. Cazzie put her hand on the back of her chair for support and inhaled deeply. You always get to the other side of trouble, Granny  always said. 

Just start paddling.

~~~

But it took many more to help her through those early years...

Memories began flooding back to Cazzie when she learned that her father was dying. Of course Cazzie had wanted to just ignore her feelings, but she turned to her best friend, Nine who usually could talk through issues with her and help her decide things.

They sat, silent, for a few minutes, then Cazzie, looking intently into her drink like something was swimming in it, said, “He’s dying.”    Nine didn’t ask who. Instead, drawing upon a commanding memory of Bible verses, she said, “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven; a time to be born and a time to die; a time to keep silence and a time to speak. Looks like your time to speak has come, Cazzie Rae.” “Are you saying I should go?” Cazzie gripped her glass so hard she thought it might break but she couldn’t let go. She had to hold on to something. Don’t let me down now, Nine. Back me up here. Tell me it’s okay not to go...

Cazzie met Nine on her first day working at a janitorial service. Nine had been appointed to train Cazzie for the area for which the two of them would be responsible. They clicked immediately, although Nine was Black and Cazzie White...In fact, they were soon living together, working together, and, when the time came, made a very special bargain to begin to build a better life for both of them. 

Cazzie had stayed with her grandparents into her teens, even though she thought her grandfather hated her... But after Granny died it got even worse. Cazzie's only time alone , she would take their donkey and head for the river... It was there that a boy stood, watching and lusting for her. But he was a smart city college boy and knew how to get what he wanted through sweet...lies...

Cazzie left home when she found herself in trouble, impregnated by a boy who had already left town and who seemed to be committed into a family-arranged 
marriage...


Look for Part 2 Next...

High Cotton Country - Leta McCurry's Memorable Debut Novel! Part 2...

You're right...I've never had a two-part review before... But the next part won't give away much of the story, and Leta really took her readers back in time with some old-time music...  I wanted to share a little more--I thoroughly enjoyed remembering and singing along...Hope you do too! Enjoy!


With no place to go, Cazzie stopped at a small motel and asked if she could do work to trade for a room...Once again a woman took this lonely girl under her wing and hired her.  It was while a maid that she met a group of traveling musicians, led by Johnny Gold... who quickly saw that she was sad and depressed... They soon started to play songs just for her...

Because Cazzie reminded him of his little sister who had died, he became protective.  Soon she shared her story with Johnny and he in turn shared the story of his little sister... and when they were heading to Texas, invited her to go along--she was going to find the father of her baby if possible and at least tell him she was pregnant... but didn't know what she'd seen as they slowly drove past a horrible car accident...

The only thing was that she'd be traveling as they did gigs along the way! And then one of the band members started coming in to stay with her while the rest of the band partied with their fans...

When he talked to her, offering to marry her to give her baby a name, she decided to do it...only to be later told by Johnny that he'd wished she hadn't...

Cazzie learned from Johnny “I guess Loy’s what my daddy would call shiftless.” And Johnny was right...

But he didn't leave her until she had three children and started to nag about being able to feed them...

You know, you wonder how  women can get themselves into the messes they do. One thing Cazzie had learned from Granny that was wrong, was that a woman's life was to be married so that she could have babies and raise the family... No wonder Cazzie quickly learned that men were not always willing to take that role as the "breadwinner..." 

Cazzie was intelligent, willing to work hard, and would not accept anything less than being able to take care of her kids. There was no way that she would ever follow in her mother's walk into the river!

McCurry's story may start in the past when there was little that a woman could do alone, with children. But she sets the story at a time when the young girl who had been left by her father at just six, and then bullied and abused in school because she was poor, only to discover that when she was older and became an attractive teenager, that her first boyfriend only wanted her for one thing...and hadn't been concerned about any unwanted results... 

But it moves into the recent past with startling action!

Cazzie Randle grabbed my heart and held on throughout the book... McCurry's story rings so true that we are worried and concerned and cheering her on with each step she takes to rebuild her life after being deserted over and over.

Leta tells her story so well that when changes start occurring, not only do we begin to cheer...but you may find yourself crying in happiness at some of the things that builds toward a totally unexpected, climatic ending... 

Holding both her hands, He sang La Paloma to her...

Fly little bird, go winging, 

and please lead her home safely to me. 

Cucurucucu… my love, love

~~~

Yes, you're right. This is a personal favorite... Highly recommended, and you're going to find I'm right!


GABixlerReviews

Tale-spinner. Revealer of secrets. A dog’s best friend. Cornbread and fried okra country girl.
Lives in Southern Oregon and enjoys writing, reading, the open road on a Stallion motorcycle (trike–as a passenger), good food, travel, genealogy, and a large, fun-loving family. Favorite destinations: Ireland and Singapore. Author of “High Cotton Country” and “A Shadow Life” and presently writing her third novel, “Dancing to the Silence.”

Leta says she loves the fascination of new characters and the fun of getting acquainted with them and seeing what they will do as the story develops. 

Leah McCurry Responds to Questions About Her Life and Writing...

Many pictures used are from Leta's
trip to Ireland with friends...

I’ve always been a voracious reader. My mom said I was reading Dick and Jane by the time I was three.  I know the adventure, companionship, comfort and inspiration I received from being an avid reader is what first inspired me to put on paper the stories that were bouncing around in my head.

And, I had an English teacher in high school, Rosemary Bell, who gave me a lot of encouragement and helped me believe I could be a writer.

Leta, I just had to add a picture of your first book...I think it will never go out of date! Many children have read this story and probably many more will...

What is the very first thing you ever had published?

The local newspaper published a poem, “The
Death of Kathy Fiscus” when I was about twelve. It was about a little girl who fell down an abandoned well in our area and died.

Wow...did you keep a copy? Would love to read it...This tragedy was also put to song... Memories last, don't they?

How much does your upbringing influence your writing?

A lot. My upbringing and the cultural and social environment played a great role in shaping me as a writer. The Texas Hill Country, where I grew up, is prominent in my first two books, and figures significantly in my work in progress.

I don’t believe writers can escape or ignore their life experience and knowledge. It is who they are and that in some way and to some extent influences a story.

Leta, I was touched by both of your books... We are not so far apart in age that I don't remember my own mother with three children, working continuously to bring us up...And there were many who were far worse off than we were... I agree that life experiences do much to add to the depth and breadth of each book... and you have effectively used them to bring your stories alive for readers...

What are your most rewarding experiences from writing?

Leta, the tilt of your hat makes me
sure we would be friends; I've
got a red one I wear like that!

The most rewarding experiences are when a reader tells me the story resonated with them and they think about it long after they finish the book.

I appreciate every reader review but the one that probably touched me most was the reader who said, “For the first time ever, I found myself 'talking' to her characters as if I was actually there. That is how real her characters feel.”

While in the middle of reading High Cotton Country, another reader told me that she was riding in the car with her husband, and turned to him and said, “I wonder what Owen’s doing now?” It took her a minute to stop and think Owen wasn’t real.

I love it when characters are this real to readers.

That is such wonderful feedback for you and I can verify that both could easily be correct! I'm almost through reading and can easily remember and think about the actions of your many characters and what their lives meant to bring about those actions...

What has been your most rewarding experience in your publishing journey?  

Two come to mind: the letter I received from an editor at Prentice Hall during the publication of my only non-fiction book, and the moment I held that first book with my name as the author in my hand.

Congratulations! Not too many writers get the chance to have a publisher reach out and commission a book! Certainly speaks well for your reputation and writing expertise! And I can see where part of your life experience came into play in your first novel!

Do you come up with your title(s) before or after you write the manuscript? 

Before.  But I changed the first one from Hummingbird to High Cotton Country and the second one from The Family Bible to A Shadow Life. I can’t see changing the third one though – Dancing to the Silence.

Hmmmm, I think you made the right decisions on both books!

What is your genre and why?

Women’s fiction because I am fascinated by strong women who grab life by the horns and wrestle it to the ground while hiding their vulnerabilities from the world.

Or a fancier way of saying it- I write about women on a journey to self-discovery, about the inherent dignity of the human being, of the burning desire to be in command of one’s own destiny, of the will, not only to survive, but to achieve, and to face adversity with courage and honor. I write not only about the fighting spirit of the main character, but also about the people who influence her self-esteem, shape her self-image and participate in her destiny.

I like that, but I do hope you also list under the historical genre...There is much to find regarding the role of women and how some responded--both good and bad--to those conditions... Women have advanced, but only when you read what happened to many historically, can we appreciate and strive for...more...

Do you always write in the same genre?

I never intended to write non-fiction but when Prentice-Hall, New York offered me a contract, I accepted. That was just an unexpected side trip.

I refer to my genre as women’s fiction but I have been told it is more general fiction. High Cotton Country has been read and reviewed by several men and I’ve had really good feedback from them so I guess it is a cross-over between general and women’s fiction.

Oh, Leta, let's put it right where it is...Historical Literary Fiction!

What was your inspiration for High Cotton Country and A Shadow Life?

For High Cotton Country, it was an incident that happened in our little town when I was about nine. It was so shocking, I never forgot it.

Ahhh, I surely can guess that incident and can fully understand your need to share it with readers...

For A Shadow Life, it was some family records found in a very old Bible of my mother’s after she died. It totally contradicted family history we’d always believed.

This book turned into somewhat of a mystery...I couldn't see where you were going...and the suspense started to build until the climatic ending. Really, I think you've already moved into multi-genre material...


Who is your favorite author and why?

I can have only one? I could list at least a couple of dozen. If I can have only one, I would say, Ayn Rand because she was a visionary and she had courage.

Actually, Leta, I normally respond to either favorite book or author, with...the one I'm reading right now...Why choose! LOL

It's like that ice cream cone you're enjoying...Why limit yourself to just one flavor or type cone! LOL... And then there's sherbet, frozen yogurt!
Just like...too many books, not enough time!

Who are the literary heroes that inspire your writing?

Fannie Flagg, Harper Lee, Carson McCullers, John Steinbeck. Larry McMurtry, Ayn Rand, Susan Crandall, Robert Walker, Mark Twain, Pearl S. Buck. I could go on and on.

What are your favorite books?

Way too many to list but definitely Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand (she makes me think - I’ve read it about six times), The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers, To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, Shogun by James Clavell, anything by Fannie Flagg.

I also like Elin Hildebrand – she entertains me.  Susan Crandall and Robert Morgan because I love their “voice”. They’re from my “neighborhood”. And Lincoln and Childs for a change of pace - they transport me to other worlds.

I totally agree with Lincoln and Childs, but my favorites tend to be more contemporary with, perhaps, J. D. Robb's series one of my favorites... I think I've traveled more through books than any other way...and am grateful for all the books I've had the opportunity to read here at Book Readers Heaven...

What has been the biggest help to you in your journey as a writer?

First, when I decided to actually sit down and write, I was lucky enough to be the beneficiary of the tough love, encouragement and guidance of the Lewis County, Washington Writers Guild. They really held my feet to the fire; they demanded I leave my comfort zone behind and write better and better, but in a kind and encouraging way. I was also fortunate to become a member of another great critique group online after I left Washington.

Next, feedback from readers gives me clarity about my writing and is a big help in my on-going endeavor to become a better writer.

And, support, input and guidance from other writers through local and online communities. I’m a member of several but probably at the top of the list is the Women’s Fiction Writers Association.

What other work have you done, and how has it impacted your writing career?

Sales. I think sales taught me to take risks and put myself out there. And not to take rejection personally. And, raising five children.

How long did it take you to publish your first novel?

About a year and a half from writing the first chapter through to publication.  (although I had been writing it in my head for about thirty years ).

Do you have any special time or place you like to write?

I write every opportunity I have in a little cubby-corner office at home.  Nice big windows with a view of the green Oregon trees and mostly blue sky. The squirrels put on quite a show most every day and we frequently have deer just over the fence.



Are you published through a traditional publishing house? If yes, how did you find your agent and publisher?

Yes. Non Fiction. College Text Book. Publisher Prentice Hall. As mentioned earlier, I was commissioned to write the book.

Why did you choose to go the self-publishing Indie route in lieu of traditional publication on your novels? 

I had interest from agents on both novels and am confident I could have gone that route. I chose Indie publishing or several reasons but the main one was because of the time factor involved in getting a book on the market via traditional sources. It just seemed that a year to two years was a long time.

Authors and publishers are always talking about finding your “Voice”. Exactly what does that mean to you and how did you find yours?

I think an author’s voice is the perspective on life that is unique to each of us.  It is the culmination of our circumstances of birth, the “imprinting” we received as we grew to adulthood, our experiences, and our emotional journey. The voice is always changing, growing, expanding, because as long as we are alive we are continually influenced by the world and people around us and our responses to those circumstances.

Great Response! Do you follow a structure pattern such as staying in chronological order, or alternating points in time or different POV’s?

I don’t follow an exact chronological order but I do follow a loose time framework. I write each chapter in sequence though. I have writer friends who may write chapter 20 then come back to 5 then write chapter 18 then 35 and come back to 6.  That would drive me crazy.

Writers are usually “pansters” or “plotters”. Which are you?
I write by the seat of my pants. When I sit down at the keyboard, I just let’er rip and worry about editing and finessing later. I know other people are avid plotters and outline the story from the first chapter to the last, but that’s just not my style.

I do, however, keep a running chronology of events as I write just so I don’t have someone getting married when they’re six!

What is the hardest part of writing?

First, it’s not the writing. It’s getting exposure for my books. With the advent of Amazon, the competition for the reader’s attention is fierce. There are hundreds, even thousands of really exceptional books that never garner any real following simply because they are lost in the plethora of titles constantly hitting the market.

Second, is getting reviews. Reviews, if they are not the single most important factor in the success of a book, they are very near the top for an Indie writer. It’s not that readers don’t have good intentions when it comes to reviews; mostly they do. It’s just that life spins like a top for most of us and a lot of good intentions fall by the wayside. If readers understood how critical reviews are, I think they would make the effort. I appreciate every single review of my books because I know that person took of their time and energy to do it.

Another reason people don’t review is that they think they have to make some really fluent, pithy comments. This isn’t so; just a brief comment that the reader liked the book or not and why is a great help.

Word of mouth is the most powerful success factor of all, so the best thing a reader can do is tell all their friends about a book they liked.

Lastly, what, for me, was stunning and unexpected was my vulnerability. There are a lot of really helpful and worthwhile resources out there, but there are just as many scammers. People know that new and inexperienced writers are eager to get recognition for their work, so this is a field ripe for harvest for the bad guys. This ranges from unscrupulous vanity publishers to “expert teachers” who offer empty courses, writers of meaningless “how-to” books, and marketers who promise to get your book in the hands of thousands of readers – all for a fee, of course.

Marketing our work is really the hardest part for most writers I know and there is plenty of “help” out there. I remember one “how-to” book that had a great title – sounded just like what I needed – and it was only 99 cents. It was useless. The only thing of value about it was the title. That was the cheapest of the lessons I learned.

There are some great – in my opinion – resources for writers. Some are free and some are not. A few that I have found viable and helpful are:

Women’s Fiction Writers Association
Mark Dawson’s Self-Publishing Formula
Story Genius and Wired for Story by Lisa Cron (Must read for writers.)
Rivet Your Readers with Deep Point of View by Jill Elizabeth Nelson
Writers in the Storm (blog)
Fiction University (blog)
Author Marketing Club
Blasty
Book Funnel
Publishing and other forms of insanity (blog)
Dave Chesson – Kindlepreneur (blog)
Kirsten Lamb’s Blog
Indie’s Unlimited (blog)
Book Marketing Tools (blog)
Create Space (print on demand publisher)
Pronoun (ebook publisher)

I’m sure there are others but these come to mind.  Some bloggers ultimately have something to sell you; others don’t. Even those on this list who do have something to sell aren’t pushy (if they are I don’t hang round) and they routinely provide good, free information.

Important information, and one thing I would suggest...Check out potential reviewers...see if they've reviewed on Amazon of Goodreads and other sites and see what they've said. Reviewers can be shysters as well, sad to say...

Write – write – write! There’s a saying that water doesn’t flow until the faucet its turned on and that is especially true with writing. You can have a desire to write; you can have a lot of ideas. Doesn’t matter. Nothing happens until you sit down and write something.

I would add read, read, read...I've had quite a few people submit material and when I mention other authors in the genre, they indicate they rarely read! I'm thinking, ahhh, now I know why your book writing, format, and editing activities are as bad as they are...

How do you develop your ideas? Do they come to you full-blown? Do you have an idea of the ending before you begin?

I’ve never had a concept for a story come to me full blown. It always starts as the smallest seed of an idea. A spark of some kind – like the story from my childhood for High Cotton Country or the discovery of a family record in an old Bible for A Shadow Life.

That’s the point where you have to turn the faucet on and start writing. Once I begin, my mind takes over and starts filling in the “what if’s” and the more I write the more fertile and active my mind becomes. It is kind of along the idea of a self-fulfilling prophecy. It’s exciting. The flow has always been there for me.

I may have a general idea of the ending when I first start, but a story takes on a life of its own and usually builds its own ending.

What if a new writer has an idea but doesn’t know what to write or where to start?

Every idea has a character at the center of the story. Set the story line aside for a while. Get acquainted with the character. She must have a name. Write that down (you can change it later). How old is she when the story begins? You must have some idea. Marital status? Kids? Love chocolate cake and hate oysters? You’ll probably never use any of this in your actual story, but the idea is to turn that faucet on. Write! Give your mind a chance to amaze you.

It's very clear that you're sharing your own advice...great ideas!

What is the most interesting thing about the writing process?

People think I’m crazy when I say this, but the most interesting thing is how characters have a mind of their own. Sometimes they won’t do what I want them to do. There’s a saying – writer’s block is when your imaginary friends stop talking to you (or get sulky and testy)  - how true. It’s a writer’s thing!

Leta, I've heard that from some other authors...My creative stories always come in dreams, only one I was able to remember and write as a short story...LOL  I guess what I'm saying is that I don't believe that everybody has a book in them, especially fiction... It takes more than a desire to be a writer, don't you think? It takes all that you've shared above and more... And the ability to apply it... You certainly have it, but I know I don't--I have ideas but not the ability to mold them into a complete novel-length book... But that's OK for me to acknowledge that...because I know what I am...A Reader!
Who is constantly thrilled to be reading so many wonderful writers' works...

A Great Discussion! Now my part starts...First Review next!