Anyone who knew anyone in Boston, knew him or knew of him. He was a known smuggler, a rebel, and a man not to trifle with. His efforts to defy the British rule seemed to color every account I read. He was dashing, elegant, handsome, and the richest man on this continent at the time. As far as using this as a device, each novel seems to take what it needs of real lives and real life.
There are characters in each of my other books that are very real people, though a reader may not recognize their names as handily. In These Is My Words, the children go to a one-room school taught by Miss Wakefield who soon marries the owner of the general mercantile, Mr. Tucson still has a Wakefield Middle School named in her honor, and the Fish name is laced through the town history in many places.
General Crook really commanded the Sixth Army in Tucson. Very real people. Q: Tell us about your Sarah Prine series and the real-life connection that inspired it. A: The real Sarah Agnes Prine was my great-grandmother. Stories abound among her children and grandchildren, but not much actual documentation existed when I began. Never mind she was on a horse throwing one.
Her mother lived until she was or Sarah passed at 96, her youngest daughter, my grandma, was 95, and my mother is still gardening at After growing up in far distant California, isolated from most of the family by distance, once the first novel came out, I heard from people all over the country who I can now claim as cousins. It was simply a way to connect to a woman I wished to know, and through her to create a character I could aspire to become were I in her position.
After serving in the Infantry in Vietnam for a year he became a police officer and retired after 33 years on the Arizona Highway Patrol as a supervisor.
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Q: Which do you feel is more challenging for you — to pen a series with recurring characters or to do a stand-alone book? A: I much prefer thinking about a stand alone novel than a series. I actually never meant to do a series, but the publishers were adamant that I at least make a try at it. The reason for me is simple.
I prefer to read a stand alone book. I was advised by my agent and considered splitting My Name Is Resolute into two books because of its length. However, no one, myself included, could find a place halfway through the story that made a good ending for one part and a good beginning for the next. I felt that if a person read the second installment first, it could not contain adequate examples of the motivation for Resolute and the other characters to do what they did.
My Name Is Resolute
I finally decided the story had to remain whole, and ultimately, the editors agreed with me. I just pick it up in the morning and start over. Writing itself is not about sitting in front of a computer. Yet, just getting it down on paper, or on a screen is never the end. Then the real work starts, the fun part. The editing. I love the work of going over each and every sentence, and deciding whether it says what it needs to say, uses the best words for the task, and if I can eliminate anything superfluous.
I spend many hours assembling a list of mostly instrumental music that keeps the story playing out in my head. I rarely if ever have experienced a writing block because when the music starts, the curtains lift, and my cast take their places on cue. A: I struggle after the end of each novel with whether I can do it again. You need that toddler to get out of your head before the next one comes along. Very much. I need to leave any more description of it there.
Might burst. A: My website is www. Just remember the initials, NET. There are a few fan pages around, and Facebook. The books are for sale at all major chains and local bookstores. A: I appreciate your taking the time to feature my novel on your site. My Name Is Resolute is, I think, my finest work, and if I were never to write another, I could retire happily knowing Resolute has told her story.
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My review: 4 stars
There were few things in the life of a young girl wearing her first long skirts more treacherous than a candle on the floor. I held a picture I had drawn in India ink on heavy paper. A drip had formed at the bottom edge, pulling the shoe on one of the figures to unnatural length. My eyes went from my drawing to Ma, to Uncle Rafe. He had just invited me to sit upon his knee and show it to him.
My sister Patience had called me to dinner many minutes earlier and I had ignored her summons to put some finishing touches on it that were now ruining the picture. It depicted two little girls, one white, one black, holding hands and running across the white-sand beach.
Their faces smiled quite cunningly, I thought. The figure of my dear Allsy in the picture held up an apple, precious fruit shipped here from far away, the last apple we shared, the danger of it so like one of my favorite stories in which a princess sleeps for a thousand years after a single bite. I had drawn crowns over Allsy's and my heads, as if she and I were princesses. Uncle Rafe slammed his tankard of rum on the table boards, and said, "Aye. A girl's petticoats catch fire soon enough. Tender as tinder. I stuck out my chin, thinking old Rafe did not know aught about a fiery petticoat.
Uncle Rafe roared and hollered, "God's balls! I may have been ten years old but I knew Rafe was not my real uncle, and that Pa's voice got thin and Ma's hands trembled when he was in the house. I stood and stuck out my tongue just as Pa came into the dining room, buttoning his vest, with Patience and our brother, August, following him. He looked from Uncle Rafe to Ma and to the mess on Rafe's pants and me standing there with hellfire in my eyes. I am old, now, wizened, some might say. I will tell you how I came to this place from that potent evening so long ago and so far across the oceans.
The day after I was born my parents named me Resolute.
My Name is Resolute by Nancy E. Turner | | Booktopia
Pa said it gave me an aspect of solemnity and perseverance, which are pretty things for a child with a sanguine humor. It was a good name for a girl, Ma always added, and there was nothing wrong with a girl being confident and ruddy. A boy could grow to "make a name for himself," but a girl needed a special one from birth. I knew all about fire. I had been playing with Allsy when we were both but six years old and my family had been on the West Indies island of Jamaica for the same six years.
Allsy and I had been hiding in the priest's hole, up the steps behind the fireplace. I brought two cakes and an apple for us to share and she carried a burning candle, placing it on the floor. I jumped over it. As I did, my petticoats made the flame bob and nearly go out. The edge of my skirt got a brown place and we held it between us, curious, as the spot grew and grew. A yellow tongue of flame suddenly burst from it, licked at us and burned my fingers. Allsy slapped her hands upon it and crushed out the flame.
She winced, but made no sound; putting her hands over her mouth, she made the sign of the cross as long black shadows of us spun around in the stair tower like ghosts dancing. We held our breaths. We laughed. Hand in hand, we climbed up to the widow's walk on the highest part of the house, where we could see far and wide across the ocean. In the distance, storms sometimes carried on all day, lightning dancing upon the water against a backdrop of gray roiling clouds like a silent mummer's play, never a stray wind ruffling our hair.
We watched, hoping for the rise of a mast that might mean cloth or shoes or more of Ma's precious goblets made of real glass. After we got tired of mocking seagulls squealing at each other, we shared a cake and took turns eating the apple. I had stepped over a candle and nothing had happened. I thought we were safe. But five days later, I took fever. The sixth day, Allsy did, too. The Shush-shush, Old Poe's name for the devil or death or something that you must not say out loud, something bad and haunted, he came whilst I lay afevered.
I retched and I itched, covered with smallpox. I cried and Ma brought cold rags for my head, and after two weeks I got up. Allsy must have been too close to me in that stairway. As I jumped over that lit candle, the old devil reached for me and caught Allsy. While I was too sick to know, Pa and Old Poe wrapped her in white gauze and laid my heart's friend in a grave.
Old Poe caught it and died, too, after two days of sickness. That meant nothing to me. Talk of pounds and crowns and sixpence went on all the time in Pa's office at the side of the good parlor. What mattered to me was that Old Poe knew how to make a lap for me to sit upon, knew more stories than I could ever remember — some of them including two fine wee girls just like Allsy and me — and knew how to wrap a sore finger with potash and brown paper and kisses.
I never told Ma or Pa that it was my fault Allsy died. I had escaped Old Scratch's claws. Ma said it is because I have something special to do. What is a girl going to do? Embroidery and arithmetic, that's what I get. I wondered someday if the devil might wake up and see he got the wrong girl, what will happen then? All my days I had heard things about England where Pa was born. Even more about Scotland, Ma's homeland, the two of them united into one country by that time. I knew about how my brother, August, used to wait with Pa until a dark night and watch the farmers light gorse when the village had a festival.
How Patience, my only sister and ten years older than I, had loved the son of a lord, a lord who faithfully waited on Anne the Queen's favor. Anne was a Stuart and a Tory through and through, and our father, being of both Tudor and Plantagenet lines with Radclyffe blood thrown in, made Patience a politically unsuitable bride for his son. This is where I was born and all around us is all I have ever known, fields of sugarcane and coffee, slaves to tend the cane fields, and then, wearing starched white linen, to bring in the roast chicken at dinner, the smell of the sea and the soil and the perfume of flowers.
Throughout the night, breezes off the mountains brought the rhythm of drums from the slave quarters. Sometimes if I kept quite still I heard singing. I imagined their happy world filled with music. I wished I could join them. By day I did my lessons in the schoolroom on the top floor where the window blinds were all that kept a girl from dreaming of a home she had never known beyond the sea, for the wind off the ocean seemed to pine for England, to mourn her like a lost promise, the way Patience weeps at night for her lost love and lost future marriage.
I pressed her to tell me how she could have threatened the son of a lord with marriage if she herself had been but ten years old. She told me that the path between our house and his was a common one, but a hedge had grown at a certain shady secluded point where they had used to meet together and play. He was two years older — a vision of manliness, she said — though I pictured a boy of twelve being spindle-legged and having great flopping feet. Such keen friends they had become that they spoke to each other of promises and everlasting love, and when he told his father, that was that.
She kept a lock of his hair, near black as pitch, in a box along with a little paper he had written upon with their names entwined by something rather like a crow carrying a twig although Patience says it is a dove holding a ribbon. For me a land called England was but a magical tale of far away and long ago.
My own ma and pa would tell me fancy tales they must have fashioned in their own minds about some kingdom of gold and crowns and cold such as I could never imagine, a land without mountains, without snakes or cane fields. I did not believe in those things. To me, it was make-believe just like the fairy folk, brownies, and selkies. For myself, I believe in God and a few saints and of course duppies, the sprites that live here.
Pa would laugh and say treacle ran in my veins. Uncle Rafe stood, his back to the hearth and hellfire as big as mine in his eyes.