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Danny Adams

[ website | Bio of a Silver Fox ]
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Today's Out Of Context Quote [Jun. 4th, 2013|03:46 pm]
[Tags|]
[Current Location |Before And After Land]
[Current Mood |hopefulhopeful]
[Current Music |Main theme from *Star Trek - Into Darkness*]

Me to (Anonymous): "'Good luck' isn't strong enough for the kind of good luck I want to wish you. It should be a 40-letter-long German word. Like 'Vielgluckerdammerung'."
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Shoot Yer Darlins [Jun. 3rd, 2013|05:08 pm]
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[Current Location |Aswirl In Arizona Photographs Land]
[Current Mood |restlessrestless]
[Current Music |"The Gael" from *Last of the Mohicans*]

Thanks to my grandfather I grew up with Westerns. Everything from reruns of Wagon Train on Saturday afternoons (I can still hum the tune) to the Wagons West series by "Dana Fuller Ross", when I caught snatches of them at points where he would put them down. As a teenager I had in mind to write a Western novel; I never did, but that was likely still in the back of my mind when I made my first trip out to Arizona at age sixteen and decided at once that Arizona would be the subject of one of my books someday.

Now I've gotten to the point in Arizona where a big chunk of what I'm writing really is like a Western. So my inner kid is rejoicing. No shoot-em-ups yet, though, unless you count army battles with the Navajo and Apache.

I'm also going to have to do a lot of text shooting as well, apparently. I'm creeping up on the 300,000 word mark; I'd projected 350K for the first draft (the same as James Michener's Centennial, the Michener fan in me always noted), but I look on track to surpass that. So I'll need to be shooting some pretty large holes in the draft sooner or later.

Two anniversaries in the "I can't believe it's been that long" category happen this month: One, it's been a year since my Arizona work-and-play trip...and thirty years since I decided I wanted to be a writer, amid a fateful trip to visit my novelist uncle in Peoria, Illinois at the age of twelve. I've had some gaps along the way since then, including one big one where I got next to no writing done for five years during and after college, but I've plugged away fairly steadily for the last decade now.

More on the writing anniversary later. For now I'll just throw out a Progress Report, ignoring the ones I neglected to do last week.

PROGRESS REPORT FOR 6/1/13


New Words: 2300 on chapter 9 ("Copper Heart") of Arizona. Copper Heart is a "downright industrial" town now, though it won't ever have Apache miners if anyone with pull in southern Arizona can help it.

Total Words: 290800.

Reason For Stopping: Other business to attend to, and I suddenly decided that what I had been about to write next wasn't very good.

Exercise: Walked Tucker around the neighborhood.

Stimulants: None.

Today's Opening Passage: Ulpian Shively was an almost unique white man in Copper Heart: He frequented every business in town, especially the saloons, no matter what race owned them. It had started out for a simple reason: To gauge the town’s mood and root out any trouble before it started.

Darling Du Jour: This is the closest ... He’d only given official reasons for wanting the vats, of course. He took one look at the drawings of the inside of a reverberatory furnace and started shaking. He told no one, not even Chukka, that he suddenly felt like he was looking inside a tomb. He didn’t understand how he could’ve spent so much of his life underground with no problem, but one glance at the long brick furnace with its arching roof made him want to run away.

Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: Prairie Tale - A Memoir by Melissa Gilbert; The Isles - A History by Norman Davies.
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Why I Do What I Do [May. 19th, 2013|06:57 pm]
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[Current Location |On the river's edge]
[Current Mood |Light and shady]
[Current Music |Themes from *Star Trek: Into Darkness*]

Creatively speaking, that is.

Not surprisingly, when people ask me about my creative process, it's mostly about writing. But occasionally I get similar questions about photography. The writers want to know about my inspiration or ideas; photographers and other artists want to know why I take certain pictures, or the angles, or framing, or whatever else.

This is a question I've been trying to answer for a long time myself. More than a decade ago my friend Walt Stoneburner / whiskeyrivers was starting to get interested in photography and asked me all of the above. It started with him looking at a sidelong shot I'd just taken of the Washington Monument while we walked through D.C., and he asked "Why did you take it from there?"

I struggled to answer because I wasn't really sure. At the time the best I could come up with was, "Because that's the way I saw it". Not a traditional straight-on angle, but something a little different that piqued my interest.

I wish I could tell you that I've got it all figured out now, but I really haven't. Looking at the picture now I can understand that I liked the look of the sky, the lighting, the shading on the monument, the perspective from an angle that "divided" the monument in two. But that's all technical stuff, really. If you asked me right now why I decided to snap the shot at that particular instant and no other, I'd still finally have to say, "Because that's the way I saw it."

Never mind a discussion about aesthetics; it felt right. But what does that even mean?

I've been thinking about this again lately since just had a bit of insight from my unwitting friend and fantastic artist Miranda Banks. She went to the Grand Canyon within two weeks of my visit there last summer, and after coming home painted a large and spectacular panorama of the South Rim. Never mind that I'd just been there myself and taken a couple dozen photos or more from different angles; her painting made me look at the Canyon again in a way I hadn't really seen it before. Which I suppose is one thing art is supposed to do. (And writing, for all that.)

Then this week Miranda posted on Facebook that she was doing a particular series of artworks that she hoped would show a place of her childhood the way she had seen it. Without thinking--and maybe specifically because I wasn't thinking too hard about it--I replied that this was exactly what I wanted to do with my photographs. I wanted people to see the things I cared about the way I saw them.

And I keep coming back to those places and people. For instance, my favorite spot on Earth is one-mile stretch of the Roanoke River where it crosses the Blue Ridge Parkway. I've been going there since 1985; if I've taken less than one hundred pictures of any single spot I'd be surprised. Like this...

HPIM0075


...a shot I've taken hundreds of times. But from slightly different angles, or times of day, or seasons, or weather, or what have you. It's a place with as many moods as a human being, and I like capturing and displaying all of them.

Especially if, say, someone like my nephew Jacob happens to be there too...

HPIM0076


...which leads to whole new layers I want to capture and explore and preserve. This is simply one of my favorite ways of preserving a moment and what that particular moment meant to me at the time I took the picture. And then to see what it means to the person looking at the picture.

And really, my writing works the same way. I write things the way I see them. I write things that I want to be preserved and displayed. I write something the way I want you to see it. And eventually I'll want to know what it means to the reader.

Looking over this again, I think I'm making it sound a lot more intentional and calculated than it really is. There's some of both behind my photos and writing, of course; to a degree there always has to be. There certainly is when I choose what to send to an editor or post online. But mostly, at the time of creation, I just happened to like the light and shade of that specific footstep.
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This Week's Out-Of-Context Quote [May. 19th, 2013|04:49 pm]
[Tags|]
[Current Location |Holding Back The Smackdown Land]
[Current Mood |Harried]
[Current Music |"Paperback Writer" by the Beatles]

Laurie to me: "Your anti-conscience is a rat bastard".
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Just A Boy With A Gun [May. 13th, 2013|06:58 pm]
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[Current Location |Missign Homeplace Fried Chicken Land]
[Current Mood |Salty]
[Current Music |"Promised Land" from *How The West Was Won*]

Since I keep forgetting to mention this, my (mainstream) poem "Chestnuts, Sleep", which originally appeared in the Winter 2007 issue of Appalachian Heritage, was just reprinted in the March / April 2013 issue of the Journal of the American Chestnut Foundation. Woot! I don't often let my stuff go for free, but I was thrilled to be able to make a "donation" to the ACF. They're doing great work--trying to restore the American Chestnut tree after it was almost completely wiped out by the Chestnut Blight in the 1910s through 1940s--so letting them reprint the poem was the least I could do.

In the meantime, writing occurred this past Saturday before I headed off to a Mother's Day country buffet, in the actual country, with my family at the Homeplace in Catawba, Virginia, which may very well have the world's best fried chicken. (They also make a mean peach cobbler.) This made Saturday pretty much my perfect day.

PROGRESS REPORT FOR 5/11/13


New Words: 2600 on chapter 9 ("Copper Heart") of Arizona. 13-year-old Gus Beckett gets his first taste of defending someone with a gun, while Carlos Alvarez gets his first taste of working with the Tucson Indian Ring, a group of businessmen who want the Apache War to keep going because it's making them tons of money.

Total Words: 279150. I wonder sometimes if my stubbornness about all of this staying one book will be more of an undoing than any publisher's or agent's rejection.

Reason For Stopping: Getting ready for the family outing.

Book Year: 1874.

Mammalian Assistance: Vegas briefly guarded his box pile.

Exercise: Walking Tucker around the neighborhood.

Stimulants: None.

Today's Opening Passage(s): Rock Marrak was angry. Angry enough, Will thought, to start throwing around the fists as hard as his nickname. As always, Marrak only got that violent when he thought his money was being threatened. And this time his anger was directed straight at Will, the head of Thompson-Marrak operations in Copper Heart.

He had Anglicized his Cornish name, Petrock, to Patrick. But to friends and enemies alike he was still Rock. And now with James Thompson dead—killed by Apaches, it was rumored, probably the only people alive vicious enough to finally take Thompson off the Earth—Marrak was the combination of administrator and enforcer, the diplomat who would still drag an opponent into the street and beat him nearly dead if he thought it was needed to get his way. He’d never threatened Will that way—but then again, he’d never hinted that Will was a threat to business before, either.


Darling Du Jour: Nothing springs out at me.

Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: Claudia Christian; Edward Rutherfurd.
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Not So Long Trips, Campus Cats, And A Future Sheriff In The Making [May. 8th, 2013|06:33 pm]
[Tags|, , , , , , ]
[Current Location |Looking Towards The Parkway Land]
[Current Mood |Anticipatory]
[Current Music |Deanna Durbin]

I've decided that worrying about kidney stone time bombs is silly. With one precaution I've started planning outings more distant than the nearest town, and it's a precaution I'd prefer to do anyway: Going somewhere with a companion or three. I like that better regardless of any other circumstances; I always enjoy outings more when they're shared.

With the hope that my newly-acquired reliable car will stay reliable (but getting AAA in case it doesn't), I've already started planning one such semi-distant outing: A trip with friends up to the northern end of the Blue Ridge Parkway for scenic photo-shooting and a hike to the top of Humpback Rocks. A couple of invitees have already accepted just so long as we can plan it around work schedules. At any rate, I'm shooting to do this sometime in late June or early July.

More immediately, I'm also gathering a small group to go watch Star Trek: Into Darkness on the 17th. Much less ambitious but anticipated just as much.

As has been the case many times in the past--especially at this time of year, when students leave campus and dump their animals--a cat is living just outside the library. Our building is ideal for small animals wanting to hide, as the facing is built in such a way that they can go up into the exterior wall and stay out of sight. This time, though, the cat was pregnant, and there are now several few-week-old kittens living with her. Food is being left for them most days. Sad and infuriating all at once...though I caught sight of one of the tiny fuzzball kittens out of the wall and playfully hopping around, which was a highlight of my day.

Writing: I'm back to a shift going in at noon, which guts most of my usual writing time. Unlike last year, though, this isn't going to last for months, just most of May. Then I'll spend the summer getting used to writing at night again. At any rate, my word counts are lower but the writing is still getting done.

PROGRESS REPORT FOR 5/7-8/2013


New Words: 1800 on chapter 9 ("Copper Heart") of Arizona. Ulpian Shively--former U.S. officer, former Confederate officer, now pistoleer-for-hire--arrives in Copper Heart and has a fateful meeting with the 13-year-old Gus Beckett that will put the latter on the road to eventually being a soldier in the hunt for Geronimo, a sheriff, a marshall, and an Arizona Ranger hunting Pancho Villa.

Total Words: 276,550.

Reason For Stopping: End of scene and getting ready for work, both days.

Stimulants: Today, An ice cream sammich.

Mammalian Assistance: Yesterday, Vegas guarded my lap. Today, none.

Exercise: Walking Tucker around the neighborhood.

Today's Opening Passage:

Yesterday: Two years before, the slab of mountain on the west side of the Verde Valley had been devoid of any human presence—not even Indians had frequented it for a generation or more, and certainly no whites. Except one, Will Beckett, seeking copper. Now there was a sprawling town across the eastern face overlooking the tiny ribbon of the Verde River far below, all at once looking as boisterously young as it was, but its terraces lined with adobe and brick buildings already showing some weathering as if they had been there since time before memory. Wind sweeping across the mountainside carried voices down toward the valley; Copper Heart was a town that never slept.

Today: Most saloons looked the same to Shively, and the Queen of the Mountain was no different: Like the better class of such places he’d seen, it had a long bar—polished walnut from who knew how many hundreds of thousands of miles away—a mirror behind the bar—which Shively always found useful in case anyone tried sneaking up on him—and a piano, which was unattended at the moment. No doubt there were whores upstairs, busy servicing the men who’d come off the night shift. The place was half full, including some women Shively didn’t bother making guesses about.

What he wasn’t expecting was the boy.


Darling Du Jour: But Beckett was not why Ulpian Shively ascended the mountain to Copper Heart. Shively was a hired shootist looking for work, and he loved mining towns. Most were new and wild and frontier enough that the rules hadn’t quite been figured out yet, and enough men took things past the line that somebody sooner or later would want Shively’s gun.

And often, if there was some legal presence in the town, they turned the other cheek on him. He still carried his law books, the ones his father gave him what felt like a lifetime ago, and they were more than just horse ballast. Shively wouldn’t kill anyone he felt had done no wrong. True, the punishment might not fit the crime, but there was always a crime nevertheless.


Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: Babylon Confidential by Claudia Christian; Paris by Edward Rutherfurd.
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Friends Sneaking Up On Me [May. 2nd, 2013|03:15 pm]
[Tags|, ]
[Current Location |Two Days To Go Land]
[Current Mood |optimisticoptimistic]

The first seven years I worked for our college library I made a lot of friends among the students. In 2009 that came to a grinding halt.

This was due to two events I chronicled here at the time of each: The first, in early '09, was someone who I thought was one of the closest among those friends turning on me after her super-jealous boyfriend (now happily ex-boyfriend) convinced her I was bad news, that our hanging out together for a couple of years was nothing more than a big ploy to hit on her. The second came in late '09 when another friend, Jess Goode, was killed by a hunter who admitted later that he had no idea what he was shooting at.

These happened months apart but were emotionally cumulative. After Jess died I let myself turn into an emotional recluse for a long while--being nice to students but never letting myself get close to any of them if I wasn't already. A lot of friends and family, here and elsewhere, counseled me against this, but I allowed it to happen nevertheless.

Oblivious on so many levels as I am, especially when it comes to introspection, I only realized a few days ago that this is no longer the case.

The last of the folks who were already friends by late 2009 all graduated last year; yet it only occurred to me this week that I have a big group of friends this year too. They snuck up on me through trusted channels. Some I met through Laurie during her time as a student here; some I met through another student named Samantha who'd already been a friend for some years before she enrolled here; a few I met through both.

This revelation was followed by it dawning on me that the frustration and fear following 2009 is almost completely lifted. The unburdening came about so gradually that I hadn't been aware how much lighter my emotional footsteps were getting--until I started getting depressed about how many of these friends were graduating and heading off this coming Saturday.

But melancholy though I may be about graduation (as always), I'm also happier about it than I've ever been--coming as it does with the knowing how I gained friends by their stealthily sneaking through my armor. I'm a social person; generally I'm an extrovert. This has brought home just how painful that emotional wall was. I'm annoyed that it took me so long, but overall I'm vastly more happy than annoyed now that it's tumbled down.

As it happens some of these friends are local--I've just gotten spoiled by having them around all the time. But even being spoiled, considering the circumstances, pleases me. Today I'm grateful, relieved, and feeling blessed.

Happy Graduation, everyone!
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Copper Heart [May. 2nd, 2013|11:08 am]
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[Current Location |Thinking Of Last June Land]
[Current Mood |contemplativecontemplative]
[Current Music |"Misty Mountains" ala Taylor Davis]

It's bad when I blog on Live Journal so rarely that I almost forget my password when I do come around to post something. Ah well.

Just a belated updated that I'm back to work on Arizona after a couple-week hiatus for research. I'm on the next to last chapter, "Copper Heart" (the previous chapter, which tentatively had that name, has been reassigned the more accurate "The Burning Land"). The fact that this is the penultimate chapter (not including the epilogue) allows me the illusion of being close to finishing, when I ignore the fact that this will be another huge chapter (covering 70 years--and the last chapter was 58,000 words) and I'm still only in the 1870s. But it's nice to dream.

This one will include highlights like the hunt for Geronimo (who's been a character in the novel since he was born), the rise and fall and rise again of the Hispanic community of Tucson, and the coming of the Indian schools. But the title story is about the life and death of my fictional Verde Valley mining town, Copper Heart, based loosely on the resurrected ghost town of Jerome, between the years 1874 and 1942.

After this I'll have a short chapter starting in the late 1960s, then the present-day epilogue and a handful of small modern-day frame story "interludes" preceding some of the chapters...and then done.

I may hardly know what to do with myself. At least for a few weeks, then I'll start editing.

Anyway, might as well start at the beginning.

PROGRESS REPORT FOR 4/28/13


New Words: 2400.

Total Words: 275,150.

Reason For Stopping: Came to the end of the opening scene, wanted to decide which scene came next.

Book Year: 1874.

Mammalian Assistance: Vegas guarded the room briefly from his box pile, but it's gotten a bit of a lean to it so he usually vacates it after a short while.

Exercise: Morning walk around the neighborhood with Tucker the Big Dog.

Stimulants: None. This category will likely be empty most of the time now that soda and I are on the outs.

Today's Opening Passage: Over the course of the spring and summer of 1874 in Tucson, an increasing number of Los Tucsonenses—the Mexican population of the town and the farms sprawling out from its western edge—came to think that Carlos Alvarez was crazy. But it was a kind of crazy they liked and appreciated.

Darling Du Jour: It was fun to write--Carlos deciding he wanted to become a great horse racer so that the Hispanic community would end the half-shunning he'd endured--but nothing in particular springs out at me.

Non-Research / Review Reading: Eternity Road by Jack McDevitt; Supervolcano: All Fall Down by Harry Turtledove; Bloodfire Quest by Terry Brooks.
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Out Of Sorts, Then Back In Sorts With Paradigms Reexamined [Apr. 11th, 2013|09:08 pm]
[Tags|]
[Current Location |Second Star To The Right...]
[Current Mood |optimisticoptimistic]
[Current Music |"Sentimental Journey" ala Emmy Rossum]

Thursday morning, March 21st, almost exactly 7:30 am, which is two hours earlier than I usually wake up considering that I work till half-past-midnight: I wake up with a nagging pain in my right side. I figured it was a muscle ache from sleeping on it wrong; I've done that sort of thing before. But stretching doesn't relieve it, nor does sprawling back out on my bed. Instead it gets worse, and flares intensely when one of my cats does her normal thing of jumping on my belly.

Medical books at hand (right beside the bed, as a matter of fact)--classic symptoms of appendicitis. Pain gets worse. I get a little stubborn and decide to go to the local clinic instead of the hospital. Arrive at 8:30, see sign that says it's closed for a meeting till 9. Waiting seems like hours. Finally go in with pain getting to the point of being agonizing, doctor scolds me for not getting an ambulance, and gets one on my behalf. Eventually I get to the hospital, get pain medication and CT scan, get pain medication a couple of hours later when first dose suddenly wears off in a matter of seconds. Mother-in-law is there; mother arrives; Laurie, who drove all the way back from Richmond (3 hours away), arrives shortly after.

Turns out I have two kidney stones. The next couple of days are spent sprawled out in bed at home with Percocet for pain and something else for nausea, while friends and family who've had them offer advice. One female friend who has had both stones and children tells me, "Welcome to the world of pregnancy!" I don't know if the pain was quite on an equal level, but it really was all it's cracked up to be. A few more days pass of moderate pain but not anything I need narcotics for.

In the long view of things this wasn't anything serious--unless, of course, I become a regular repeat offender or develop large stones of the sort that cause blockages--but it did rearrange my thinking a little bit. That is, when I was going through the pain and riding in the ambulance I didn't actually seriously think that I was going to die, but there was still that little nagging doubt. So what was I thinking (aside from OW OW OW) at that point?

About things left undone and unsaid.

I was angry at the thought of being taken from my niece and nephews. Their father died when they were all very young, and I vowed to myself that I'd stay close to them at least until they were 18--which is still a few years off for all of them.

Regret over feeling like I was abandoning Laurie.

Frustration about not finishing Arizona and publishing the Shenandoah novels.

And last and least, just because my brain has to play with me a little now and then, annoyance that I hadn't yet seen the new Star Trek movie. 'Cause, you know.

The first three of those, at least, were important. I've had a couple of long talks with my sister since then. I had another discussion about some important things with Laurie today. Once the pain was done and my head was cleared from the medication, I managed to at least finish the current chapter I was on in Arizona, leaving one large and two small chapters left to go.

And I'm pondering if there's anything else I want to say to anyone. Back in 1999 I had an incredibly vivid dream where I was dying in the hospital and wanting to say so many (good) things to so many people, but I didn't have the strength and I was angry and depressed that they wouldn't ever get said now. So after waking up--at the point where I died in the dream--I decided to start writing what I called my Deathbed Letters, written to various people as if I was dying and wanted to pass along what I really thought of them (in a good way, I mean).

I'm wondering now if I should do that again. Updated versions in some cases. Particularly to my niece and nephews, who would be old enough to understand them.

I've also quit drinking soda. The night before the hospital visit was, alas, my last Dr. Pepper, and I haven't touched it since. Yes, feel better; yes, weight starting to drop. I do miss it, but I've been lucky enough to not have any cravings, and I'm not interested in contributing to more stones (and pain) from that avenue.

In the meantime, I've been advised against any long-ish traveling since I still have a 2 millimeter time bomb in my right kidney, and I don't want to be caught in the middle of a long stretch of road somewhere, or be so far out someone couldn't bring me home. Ironic since I finally have a reliable car again and was plotting out travel ideas, but they can wait awhile.

In the meantime, our days are warm and sunny, I'm hale enough to be doing yard work, I'm drinking a lot of water, planning to get back to something resembling my old workout routine, researching the next chapter in Arizona, taking more things at least slightly less seriously while other things get much more serious consideration, and enjoying every day that comes along.
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Crook In The Desert [Mar. 20th, 2013|11:39 pm]
[Tags|, , ]
[Current Location |The Light At The End Of The War Land]
[Current Mood |thirstythirsty]
[Current Music |"Fair and Tender Hobbits"]

It's a pity that chopping words out of my books doesn't come half as easily as adding them. I cut out 1300 last night and felt inordinately proud of myself...then added 1800 this afternoon. My knife isn't nearly bloody enough, I suppose.

PROGRESS REPORT


New Words: 1800 on chapter 8 ("The Burning Land") of Arizona. Lieutenant Colonel George Crook, dressed in the buckskins of a backwoods hunter, arrives in Tucson to take command of the armies of southern Arizona. A couple more writing days should finish off the chapter, though I may add an extra scene somewhere in its early parts.

Total Words: 270050.

Reason For Stopping: Running an errand, then getting ready for work.

Book Year: 1871. My writing speed seems to be about one hundred story years for every six real months.

Mammalian Assistance: None. Vegas pestered me several times that I should start writing so he could join me in the Writing Room, but by the time I sat down to work he was more interested in eating and lounging in the open kitchen window.

Exercise: Walked Tucker around the neighborhood.

Stimulants: Dr. Pepper.

Today's Opening Passage: By late June of 1871, three years after the Navajo left Fort Sumner and the fort itself was sold, and eighteen years after Riley arrived at Fort Defiance and raced his way into becoming a soldier, he was finally doing what he had set out to do in the first place: Fight Apache. He had never questioned his orders — not since Ulpian Shively’s middle-of-the-night order to steal some of Fort Defiance’s commander’s horses — but now he was questioning his place in the army itself.

Darling Du Jour: Nothing springs out at me.

Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: I'm still reading Bring Down the Sun by Judith Tarr / dancinghorse, but in snatched bits. Nearly all of my reading time is dedicated to five unpublished manuscripts I'm judging for this year's Amazon Breakout Novel Award contest.
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