Drum roll please...

I am excited to announce Becoming Fenimore is now available on Kindle, and will soon be out in hard back form on Amazon, and other fine retailers. Get yours now! And Merry Christmas. And Thank you!

http://www.amazon.com/Becoming-Fenimore-Rebecca-Bryan-ebook/dp/B018HOQLGM/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1449033751&sr=1-2

Major announcement forthcoming! But first, a little history lesson

Many people in literary circles have heard of Henry James, a famous nineteenth century writer with credits not limited to, Turn of the Screw, Portrait of a Lady, Daisy Miller and The Wings of a Dove. But few know one of his equals during his lifetime, a Miss Constance Fenimore Woolson, a writer with a list nearly as long of well-publicized novels in her time. In fact, many, including James himself, agreed that in the late nineteenth century Miss Woolson was a greater success than Henry. So what made her nearly obsolete while Henry went on to become one of America's most respected writers?

I first learned about Constance while researching on beautiful Mackinac Island in Michigan. She not only had lived on this island as a girl, but had based one of her first major successful novels, Anne there. I read it and thoroughly enjoyed it. I dug deeper into the history of Miss Woolson and learned of her close friendship with Henry James. I grew more curious as to why I'd never heard of her only to come across an article explaining her suicide in 1894 from a third story window in Venice.  I went on to read that after her death Henry tried to drown her dresses, and I knew that I had to write about this person. 

So that's what I did. 

Yes, my third novel, Becoming Fenimore, a paranormal historical romance, will soon be published! I am so excited for you to read it. While not strictly about Woolson or James, their story is important to the main character so I wanted to give you a little history lesson and a couple pictures.

Henry James

Constance Fenimore Woolson

Stay tuned for a cover reveal, and publishing date! I'm so excited!!!

If Life were a movie, what would yours be called?

There are a few movies that I can watch over and over again and I caught a part of one of those today with my daughter who is home sick with a pretty nasty cold. We settled down on the bed and  channel surfed until we fell upon one particular favorite. It was near the end, but I love it so much we stopped and watched it anyway.

The movie is all about this slightly dim, but lovable guy who discovers that his whole life has been a lie and that he is the subject of a TV reality show. We started watching where our protagonist, Truman, comes to the conclusion that there is no way to escape except by sail boat. (His biggest fear being water.) By now you've probably guessed that we were watching, The Truman Show. You're brilliant. Really.

Jim Carrey gives an amazing performance in this wonderfully written script, doesn't he?  Anyway, as Truman attempts to escape in the boat, the director, or "father figure" above, whose watchful eyes are impossible to escape, turns the storm up to an insane level that would appear unsurvivable. At first, Truman taunts the powers that be to "pump up the juice" so to speak, which the man upstairs-- obsessed with the story and with Truman's hellbent desire to survive--obliges. The waves crash over Truman, sending him overboard while the whole world watches, glued to their television sets, cheering him on with tears, screams, and broken shower curtains. It's insane, but it makes for good TV and the director knows it. Just when it seems like Truman is done for, the director, with perfect timing, calms the storm, and Truman, soaked and shivering, but with a look of wonder on his face, climbs back on board. The music rises, the camera cuts from Truman, to the director, to the people watching, to the sky and back to Truman who appears to be reborn. The clouds part, the sun begins to shine, Truman, realizing he made it through the storm, see's life differently now. 

My daughter said, "I love this part." I agreed and felt tears sting the corners of my own eyes. Darn that Jim Carrey and the beautiful music of Phillip Glass! 

Then like a slap, or an abrupt slam on the brakes, what might be called the boom of the boat rips dramatically through an invisible wall, poking a huge hole in the illusion that is his life. The music stops, the crowd stares open mouthed.  To finish out the story watch the clip below as everyone roots for him to find the stairs that will take him out to the real world. Anticlimactically, people turn off their TV's and look for something else to do. The end.

As I watched, I was reminded of an interview on Charlie Rose recently with Ethan Hawke. He was talking about how difficult it can be as an actor to make things beautiful in a scene that would be particularly difficult in real life. He was talking about working with Robin Williams and with Phillip Seymour Hoffman and the toll it takes on real people to make something that looks real, but isn't. Great artists both of them, by the way. The difference between movies and real life is that real life is not pretty. It's rough and scratchy and regular. It doesn't always end well, and never with an award winning score tied to the dramatic scenes. The good guy dies early or worse, stops being the good guy for a bit. Families fall apart, people get fat and old, and seldom do we truly forgive and love others, much less ourselves. And rarely do miracles happen just at the right time.  Real life lacks the grace of a movie. 

Hawke remembers Williams doing a big scene in Dead Poets Society, (Another favorite of mine) and when the scene was over, everybody headed for the craft services table, but Robin sat on a chair, his head down, totally depleted. Hawke said, "It comes with a price, this ability to take the harshness of real life and make it pretty and inspiring."  Wrapped up in a climatic bow. 

You write a story. You take someone on a dramatic journey that will change their life and you need to do it in about 300 pages or so. There's a math equation to this. We see the same thing done over and over again, and if they follow the rules it should have all the marks of a good story. 

This makes me think about my own life. Let's be real. I am definitely rough around the edges. Sometimes, I'm not the hero but the antagonist. Sometimes, I hate myself for the things I do or don't do. Sometimes, I doubt the miracles will come and want to quit trying. Sometimes, I am on top of the world with endless enthusiasm. Sometimes, I am proud of myself. Some days are boring. Some are stressful. Some are fun. Especially those where I get to dance! Some I'd be ashamed for anyone to see. But so far none of it has followed this 300 page screenplay rule of thumb. 

And that's why I like stories, and movies in particular. I like to see a beginning, a middle, and an end. I like to see loose strings tied up neatly at just the right time. I like to see courageous people doing something well, courageous. I like to see the girl get the guy and vice versa. I like that everyone is beautiful and funny and they say the right thing at just the right time, not like me where I think of it two hours later and snap my fingers in frustration that I didn't say "that!" instead. I like that I can disappear from my own struggles for a couple of hours and live sympathetically in someone else's life for a bit. I like to cry at the sound of a violin piercing my heart with its haunting melody or the triumphant chords of an entire symphony pushing me forward to battle. Sometimes I want to cry, "Charge!" as I climb into my Suburban horse and roll down my window so the wind can whip through my hair as I march down the road to meet my foes. "Call me Joan of Ladyhawk Lane." I cry into the wind.

And then I go to the grocery store and pick up a frozen lasagne and a chocolate bar.

But in the end real life trumps movie life. Why? Because it's real. Because each one of us gets a piece of the action. We get to do the growing. It's so hard sometimes, but our rough edges are slowly smoothed out with each chapter of our story. 

I hope my story is a long one. I hope it has a few miracles and surprises in store. I hope it has you in it. My family and friends far and near that have touched my life in so many different ways.  I hope it's got some good comedy, but mostly, I hope it has a happy ending. I really love a good ending.

PS-- Book is on target. Publishing date to be announced very soon!

My completed manuscript! Now on to editing!

Hello, Welcome to my 101st post. Just thought I'd send a sneak peak look at my next novel called…oh wait. Maybe I shouldn't give that away yet. I'm so excited to polish this baby up, give it a name and a face.  So now I'm looking for a possible reader. Someone who knows what to look for in a story as far as pacing, character development,  dropped plot points, etc, etc, etc. 

If you are interested let me know.

Otherwise, just enjoy a sneak peak…My newest baby...

HAPPY 100 POST DAY!

Hip Hip Hooray!!!

CONGRATULATIONS BECKY!

Why thank you.

Why am I so excited? Two reasons, actually:

This is my 100th post!

And…I finished my novel today!!!

 I was going to do a list of 100 books I loved, but that just seems long. Then I thought I would write about my favorite desserts, but that just has nothing to do with writing. So I bagged clever for just honestness.  Today was great, but then it turned out kind of crappy for other reasons, but I am not going to dwell on the negative. I am going to rejoice, hip, hip hurray for me.

Nobody is going to stomp on my party. Bring out the ice cream. I deserve it!

This novel was a long time coming. I restarted it three times, tearing it to pieces when it didn't do what I knew it should.  So I studied, researched a ton and wrote till my hands ached. Yeah, my hands and fingers ache. I'm worried it might be something more serious, but when I take a break (which I desperately need to do,) we'll see if it gets better. Let's just say that my fingers hurt all day long. And trying to open anything is almost impossible. Good thing I have strong boys around to help me out.

So here is my thought for today. I love to write. I may not be Margaret Mitchell, but I think I can tell a story. I'm grateful that my doubts and my weaknesses didn't hold me back from trying something scary. I am full  of self-doubt. BUT, I also have this incredibly strong drive to do and go and try when anyone or anything (my own mind) tells me I can't. I'm like a bull, digging my hoofs and snorting, angrily, minus the nose ring. And the horns, and the ability to buck people to oblivion, and stomp on them and stuff. You get the point.

So, I want to encourage you to do something scary.  I know I've said this before, but I look around and see people stopping themselves all the time. So if that is you…STOP IT. No matter your age, try something new this week. Go for a run if it's been a long time or try a new recipe, or learn a new song, or look for a play to audition for. I am in the craziest fun play right now and I am sooo glad I am in it. I have met the best people and had such a good time. It's been a blast.

I'm pretty darn satisfied with my life right now…minus a few glitches. After all, life is crazy, sometimes right in the middle of some pretty awesome stuff. So happy 100th post day. If you have read them all, let's go out for ice cream. You deserve it!

The Browning Homestead

Original cabin shown under stucco

The story began over a century ago. A family on the edge of the frontier. Pioneers with hopes and dreams and a will to begin again. Five generations or more passed through these doors. Dinners were served, three wars were fought, babies were born, deaths and disease crept through the cracks like invisible demons. Multiple families shared a two bedroom cabin. The depression was evident in their stories.

Today it comes down. 

Someone's dreams of a better life. Someone's memory of a childhood, now long gone: my father on his mother's back as she scrubbed her kitchen floors to a shine. The thousands of meals set at a simple table, prepared by the able and worn hands of a grandmother who could cook like no other. A gentle prayer offered. Cousins playing. Grandma's soft voice beaconing you close. Laughter. So much laughter. And singing.  If I listen I can still hear it in the rustling of the apple trees in the grove.

We sift through the rubble for signs of this other life, another time, another world. Looking. Wanting a piece of their souls as only a mortal can. Wishing to know them like they know us. What were they like? Did they struggle like me? Did they rejoice like me? And we learn through the scraps and rubble: Seven layers of pink and blue flowered wallpaper, whitewashed walls against bare logs now rotted by time and termites. 

A desire to make their place beautiful. A place of warmth, a refuge from the elements. A place of love and acceptance. A place of God.

interior with drapes

Some things are familiar. Others I've never seen before.

original floor (sometime before the thirties they rebuilt the floor

Linoleum floors that look like fancy carpet. Dainty trim.


They are gone. All but one. 

My dad. 

But they remain in our hearts and in our memories. I can hear her voice. The hum of the fridge. The smell of rolls cooking in the oven. My grandma singing. We are connected forever. 

We are family. And I know, we are not so different after all.

Surprise

My first national commercial. It was a fun day and believe it or not, it was a long day considering the commercial is only 30 seconds. We had rain, sun, clouds, and then more rain. The little girl in the commercial is the real star in this. I am pretty happy with the way it turned out.