Tag Archives: Texas



by Mary Connealy

There’s going to be trouble in Texas!

Ruthy MacNeil nearly drowned before being rescued at the last moment by Luke Stone.  Now, alive but disoriented, she is left with no choice but to stay with Luke … at least until they reach the nearest town.  But is she in any less danger with this handsome cowboy than she would have been alone?

THE TOP NAME in Inspirational Historical Fiction


A division of Baker Publishing Group  .  bethanyhouse.com

Available at your bookstore or by calling 1-866-241-6733

To learn more about Mary, go to maryconnealy.com

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by Award-winning Author Vickie McDonough


Three mail-order brides arive at Lookout, Tx, each expecting to marry the local marshal. But…he didn’t order a bride. ISBN 978-1602-696-8


Two rejected mail-order brides who can’t return home must find a way to survive. That means get a job or find a husband. ISBN 978-1- 60260-648-7


A reporter, a jailbird, and a twice-widowed woman stumble upon romance- will they give love a first, second, or third chance? ISBN 978-1-60260-649-4

“Ms. McDonough has crafted an engaging read, one made even more pleasant by her quirky characters.”- Romantic Times


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by Irene Sandell

2009 Willa Finalist Original Soft Cover Fiction

Name Best Book of 2009 by the INSIDE VIEW SHOW

Although 100 years separate Kate & Sarah, their fates and fortunes intertwine along the Rio do los Brazos de Dios, the River of the Arms of God

ISBN: 193464559-1


by Irene Sandell

Weaves a colorful tapestry of love, hate, triumph, and tragedy in the oil boom towns and dust bowl farms of Texas in the 1920’s & 30’s.

ISBN: 1-57168-765-3

Sunbelt Eakin Press



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Robert Flynn Author- JADE: OUTLAW, a new novel


Is doing the right thing the right thing to do? Riley O’Connor did what he was taught was right. When he told his story his listeners agreed he had done the right thing. But Riley was not convinced and became Jade, a feared and respected outlaw. Then he met a woman who could prove he did the right thing but she did what everyone knew was the wrong thing and refused to confess it.

For more about Robert Flynn and his work go to http://www.robert-flynn.net/

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Robert Flynn- Author, wonderful writer, funny stuff

              ROBERT FLYNN
      I was born at home in a house surrounded by cotton fields.  A few miles to the east and we would would have been in an oil field.  A few miles west and we would have been on land good for nothing but running cows and chasing jackrabbits.  My grandfather had been tricked into buying the only place in twenty miles that would grow cotton.
It was in the cotton field that I first learned the power of the English language.  Those who chopped cotton with a hoe were not called hoers.  As my mother explained to me with a switch.  It occurred to me that if the wrong word like hoer had the power to move my mother to such action, just think what using the right word like hoe hand could accomplish. 
That was when I first got the notion of being a writer.  I knew it wasn’t going to be easy.  We didn’t go in much for writing at the country school I attended.  We studied penmanship.  But we knew what a writer was.  A writer was somebody who was dead.  And if he was any good he had been dead a long time.  If he was real good, people killed him. They killed him with hemlock. Hemlock was the Greek word for Freshman Composition. 
The country school I attended was closed, and we were bused to Chillicothe.  Chillicothe, Texas is small.  Chillicothe is so small there’s only one Baptist Church.  Chillicothe is so small you have to go to Quanah to have a coincidence.  For a good coincidence, you have to go to Vernon.  Chillicothe was fairly bursting with truth and beauty, and my teacher encouraged me to write something that had an epiphany.  For an epiphany, you had to go all the way to Wichita Falls. 
Real writers wrote about such things as I had never heard of.  Damsels.  Splendor falling on castle walls.  For splendor, we had to go to the Fort Worth Fat Stock Show.  Since I wasn’t overly familiar with damsels and  splendor, I tried reading what real writers wrote about rural life.  “Dear child of nature, let them rail.  There is a nest in a green vale.”  Which was pretty mystifying to me.  Didn’t writers get chiggers like everybody else?
It looked like for truth and beauty you had to cross Red River.  All I knew about was a little place called Chillicothe.  And it wasn’t even the Chillicothe that was on the map.  Truth in that mythical place was neither comic nor tragic, neither big nor eternal.  And it was revealed through the lives of common folk who belched and fornicated, and knew moments of courage, and saw beauty in their meager lives.  But I could not write about the people I knew without using the vocabulary they knew.  My father did not believe a cowboy said “golly bum” when a horse ran him through a bob wire fence.
      Words are not casual things.  They are powerful.  Even explosive.  Words can start wars, or families.  Words can wound, they can shock and offend.  Words can also heal, and explain, and give hope and understanding.  Words have an intrinsic worth, and there is pride and delight in using the right word.  Anyone who chops cotton with an axe is a hoer.
(From “Truth and Beauty”)
      Taken from Robert Flynn’s website.  For funny stuff yet serious, go to http://www.robertflynn.net .

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Randy-writing about the past Yep, “Barrow Butt” and “Frog Tit”

      To pick up girls from the country, specifically from deep in the heart of Texas, was to experience something we could hardly believe.   It was our good fortune to run into three of the wildest girls we had ever met, and they said they needed a ride to school.   That suited us three boys just fine.

       They were “Barrow Butt,” “Frog Tit,” and… How in the world have I forgotten the name the third girl gave herself?   (But it would be too late to go back to that small town to look her up and find out, even assuming now she’s still alive and has grandchildren.)   The town was rural; the three of us were from the city (even then only bridges separated Irving from Dallas, so technically speaking we were city boys).   The two girls who piled into the back seat of my blue convertible (1953 Chevy) with my two best buddies were wilder than the girl I got stuck with in the front seat; she wouldn’t French-kiss me. Cursin’…derived from who knew where, smokin’…a cigar without coughin’…fed our unrealistic expectations.   (I don’t know who produced the cigar; I just know us boys didn’t.)   These girls were having a great time at their own expense.   Our imaginations weren’t needed with them; to be perfectly honest they were the ones who suggested we go skinn’-dippin’.   Sure male hormones in great quantities (stimulated by more than a suggestion or two.   If you call yourself “Frog Tit,” you can imagine) played a part in our jumping on the idea of getting naked with these tomatoes (remember this was way before the days of social correctness.)   And to go on our great adventure (if only a hundred miles or so) to see what we could see and find three nasty girls was a dream too good to be true.   And it was too good to be true.   The rest of the story involved a run-in with the local sheriff.

      It is from incidents like this one (from my youth and settings I can recall) that I can draw on for future plays and stories, bits and pieces, here and there.   I have tried to use Barrow Butt and Frog Tit several times, but so far, I haven’t been able to fit them in anywhere.   And maybe that’s a good thing. Or maybe they deserve their own story.   We’ll see.   Randy Ford

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Randy-Acceptance and encouragement essential for a writer

       The most important acceptance of me has to come from me.   I am from Irving Texas and not New York.   I am a product of Irving High School and not some prestigious prep school.   I was a television baby and grew up on As the World Turns.   The biggest tragedy I remember in our home was when one of the characters of that soap died: my sisters sobbed.   My mother’s inability to spell and write a complete sentence has added to my insecurity and has certainly contributed to my rejection of my past when as a writer embracing it would’ve been more productive.   I was a highly energetic boy, with a whopper for an imagination.   (Perhaps I’ve said all of this before: I do forget and repeat myself.)   I married a good editor, whom I met at Trinity University.   Trinity, I wouldn’t have gotten in there without first having gone to Baylor University and having had some pull.

      My education has served me well, although until recently I haven’t relied on it.   (I pride myself in not planning; I enjoy traveling without a map; and that aimlessness led me into the field of social work, a career I excelled in.)   Something has kept me from making too many mistakes: nothing has kept me from landing on my feet.   I’m like my dogs: it doesn’t take much to get me excited about something.

      When a very good writer told me that I could write better than she could, with that encouragement and the free use of her computer (I didn’t have one then), I wrote my first short story.   (Not true: I took a short story writing course taught by Robert Flynn at Trinity and he required a short story a week).   From that day until now I haven’t stopped writing.   Just a word or two was all it took.   Off I went.   And I don’t think if I had stopped and thought about writing quality I would’ve gotten very far. Quality, sure is important.   But, I think, for a writer quantity is more important.   Practice.   Practice, practice, practice.   Slap those words on paper.   You can always go back.   Then judicious pruning becomes essential.

      During my development as a writer encouragement has been key.   Like I said, it didn’t take much, but I was not a natural.   I didn’t have the background for that.   That brings me back to a message I heard over and over again this weekend at the Society of Southwestern Author’s conference Wrangling with Writing.   I heard story after story about teachers and how they have changed people’s lives.   In my case that was certainly true.   A high school teacher first sent me to the Dallas Theater Center.   I would like to ask her today what she saw in me.   She said…she didn’t know what to do with snippets of dialogue I had written for classmates in my study halls.   (I had two of them back to back that year, which thank God bored me.   The only thing I can figure is that I first started writing out of boredom.) A start, a spark, I don’t think there was much there, but there was enough.

      Good day, Randy Ford


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