Tag Archive | publish

Author Interview Program #10

Here is my second author interview for the day! This writer has recently plunged into the world of writing, and I know that he’s going places! Meet Mr. Ryan Gibson!  

Where can we find you?


Twitter: @gibsorya


What is your author name? Or do you use a penname instead?

I think I may just use Ryan Gibson. If I were to use a penname, I would use R. C. Gibson for my fantasy/sci-fi books and Ryan Gibson for other books.


What is the title of the book you’re currently writing?

The Tales of Camellia


What is the genre of your book?

Science Fiction/Fantasy


What is a 3-4 sentence synopsis of your book?

500 years after World War III, Camellia Rose lives in a world with no electricity. During the festival celebrating a “no-wars” anniversary, Cam’s village is suddenly attacked. and whilst in the middle of the attack, Cam’s sister is kidnapped along with other children. With the help of her friends, Cam travels the continent of Europe to find her sister and solve this kidnapping mystery. In the middle of the adventure, Cam and her friends discover a plot that will effect the entire world, so they have to make new friends to completely stop the plot.


What inspires you to write?

I just love to write! I have only discovered that I like to write back in October-December in my Creative Writing class. I love being creative and being able to share my imagination.


Self-publish or traditional publishing, and why?

Traditional. I don’t think self-publishing will get me very far.


What advice would you give to an aspiring author?

No matter what people say, just keep writing! What you write is what you are inspired by. It’s your writing! Don’t let people tell you how you should write.
Thank you Ryan!



I just got the first rejection for my modern day werewolf book. The agent said “Your premise is interesting, but your opening pages failed to engage me. You have a ton of back story and set up without anything actually happening.

*another, longer sigh*

I’ve put a few samples of the book here on my blog (links below) and would love it if you could read them and give me your feedback. This was a book I thought would be easy to snag an agent’s attention with, but I guess I’ll have to wait and see.

I’m not sure what should be in a synopsis, so for any of you dear readers, could you tell me what should be included in a good, strong synopsis?

https://whenibecameanauthor.wordpress.com/2013/01/28/here-with-the-wolves/ https://whenibecameanauthor.wordpress.com/2013/03/26/here-with-the-wolves-part-2/

Can your characters speak to you?

When I read this, I though, Finally! Here is someone else who thinks that characters can sometimes take over a story without the author’s permission! (It has happened to me too many times to count.)

Re-blogged from: http://andrewtoynbee.wordpress.com/

Characters that can write their own stories

This is a debate that will probably rage forever.

I have encountered the discussion / argument a few times and sadly, I am forced to agree with both sides of the arguement – never a happy position.

source; Crirez – Stock.Xchng

One writer commented;  ’Think about how ridiculous that sounds – someone you’ve invented in your own head decides that he is now going to refuse to run into a burning building.  You, the writer, decides what he will and will not do.’

My argument (whilst agreeing with the technical explanation above) is that at some point it may feel completely wrong for a character (with a given personality) to be forced to perform an action – unnatural, even, no matter how much the First Draft required it.  And if it feels wrong to the writer, it will almost certainly feel wrong to a reader.  So the character is showing his…well character…and ‘protesting’ that what the writer is asking him to do is…out of character.

This is an extract from ProcrastinatingWriters on the very same subject;

Jennifer said;

How would you suggest a writer learn more about what their characters want? I often hear writers say their characters “wrote” the story for them. My writing doesn’t unfold like that. I come up with everything–not my characters. I’d be interested to hear how you suggest someone allow their characters to take the lead.

My reply;

My characters often take over scenes and need frequent reining in. I know many writers don’t believe this can happen (I admit that it does sound a bit daft! But it happens.) but I believe it might stem from having created strong characters (or at least well-established ones) with clear motives.

When I’m in Muse mode, writing dialogue, a character can leave the well-chosen track and head down a different road altogether. By the time my fingers have stopped moving, the new conversation is already underway. I am then faced with a choice; Hit Delete or go with the new coversation and see where the chat leads. If it’s relevant, or new and exciting, I stay with it. If it leads me down a dead-end, I won’t scrap it entirely, but Cut and Paste it into my Recycling area – from where I may retrieve it later. That bit of dialogue might even inspire a new chapter, idea or complete novel.

So allow your characters some freedom within the story and they might just surprise you by doing something unexpected – something you’d never normally have plotted. Whatever they do, it’ll be within character (it has to be for this theory to be valid).

I also found this entry on Fiction Factor;

Have you ever been writing a story only to have a minor character try to take over? Okay, so they aren’t real and they can’t really do that, but sometimes it seems like they have a mind of their own.

Larry Brooks says;

Your characters will begin to talk to you.

Ah, the mantra of the pantser.  Waiting for the completely fictional construct of your imagination to take over the story.

This is like asking your nine year old to drive so you can enjoy the scenery.

If you have to wait until the character figures out what’s required in the story before you do, then your story is already broken.

Because the story isn’t completely and solely about the character.  It’s also about the narrative landscape upon which a drama unfolds – conflict and tension – which may not yet be fully realized within the character’s perception.

Like a nine year old who can’t see over the dashboard.

All valid points, Larry.

However, I heard this from Carole Barrowman (Professor of English and Director of Creative Studies in Writing) on Monday 17th Sept 2012.  She was on BBC radio with her brother John Barrowman (yes, him!) discussing the latest Dr Who novel they had written.

She said; “It’s surprising the routes that the characters can take your story down.”

Evidence of characters guiding the story?  I think so, Larry.

When I write, I have definite plot points that must be fulfilled and a nailed-down ending.  Anything that happens in between those points can be guided by the characters I have created.  If I originally visualise a character as being introverted and shy, with events being determined by that and then other events mould that character into a determined, angry and vengeful person, I will happily follow this new line, allowing the new, developed persona to shape their own destiny.  The result is often a stronger character and higher drama.

The debate will doubtless continue…

Whilst idly browsing my WordPress stats, I noticed that someone had highlighted this very page from Reddit.com.

The post was one of several that referred to something called (and this is a completely new word for me) Tulpae.

The page describes a Tulpa as; …best described as an imaginary friend that has its own thoughts and emotions, and that you can interact with. You could think of them as hallucinations that can think and act on their own.

The contributor opens the discussion with;

Are characters in a novel the Tulpae of the Author?

Very interesting question…

The post then goes on to ask;

By talking and fleshing out something to your own subconscious for so long, you start to get answers from it. The answers align themselves with all these preconceived traits you’ve given them (for the most part). When you talk to your own mind for long enough, it will answer back: this is an accepted fact.

This sounds a lot like an author with a good enough character not deciding what the character will do, but the author knowing what the character would do because the character tells him or her.

I was told by a writing professor of mine that authors should strive for this level of character development, to the point where the character makes its own decisions.

anyone interested in discussing this?

Read more of the discussion here.

I’ve noted some other thoughts on my post ‘Are authors guilty of creating imaginary friends?’  (Link to follow on Dec 19th 2012)

Back onto the subject of characters taking hold of a story, I stumbled across a Ray Bradbury quote on Chichikir’s wordpress page (if I may borrow the great man’s words);

“The bottom line here is that I am not the one in control. I do not try to steer my characters; I let them live their lives and speak their truths as quickly as possible. I listen, and write them down.”

Even the great Ray Bradbury let his characters find their own way?

And so the debate continues…

CG Blake also discusses the phenomenon here.

*   *   *

Amira K. at Z-Axis says this;

(Outline your stories before you write.)

Okay, I get that it works for some people, maybe, but it sure doesn’t work for me. When I try to outline I end up boxing myself into corners without giving my characters room to live, breathe, and make their own choices. My characters come to life on the page, sometimes almost without my consent, and do things that take me completely by surprise. They do things that I would never do. If I outlined my stories, I would never be able to give my characters the freedom they deserve.


Book name change

Hello everyone! As most of you know, I have a book available for sale through amazon.com called: The Untold Story of Margaret Hearst, Alias Maugrim Valletta. Well, I’m currently re-writing the book to make it longer and a little bit more informative. I am also thinking I ought to change the name. I’ve been thinking something like: The Ballad of Margaret Hearst. What do you think? For any of you who’ve read the book, I’d love to know your opinion! Should I change the name? Should I make an ‘extended cut’ that goes a little deeper into the characters’ back stories? If you haven’t read the book, here’s the link for your convenience! The Kindle edition is .99 cents and the paperback at $4.75


It is a short story, and eventually I may just sell it as part of a collection of stories, but for now, I’d really like to expand, but its up to you! Several people I’ve spoken to liked the book as-is. Others thought it was rather brief. So let me know! Your opinion is very valuable to me.

Thank you in advance for your purchase and I’m excited to hear back from you!   


Caught in the Moment

For any of you writers out there, I’m sure you’ll understand when I say that I’ve been caught in the moment. It might be just a normal day, you’re at work, you’re at home, or maybe you’re at the county fair, and then all of a sudden, an idea hits you! It is the perfect ending to that book you’ve been working on, the one you’d come to a stand-still with because you were lacking incentive or inspiration  to go on. And just like that, an idea presents itself. Or maybe you’re given the sudden urge to begin a new book. Most of the time, I search for ideas, either to complete or continue the book I’ve been slaving over for what seems like an eternity. But the funny this is, that rarely am I able to come up with an idea on my own. It seems like the harder I dig into my brain for something usable, the more unusable my ideas become. Only once I’ve put the book out of my mind and go on about my business, will I find the answer that’s been eluding me.

Let the atmosphere capture your imagination! Maybe on that boring drive to work you’ll see a breathtaking sunrise that just makes you freeze (hopefully in a mental, not physical way, or else you might be in danger of driving off a cliff or something equally as unpleasant) as the plot of your story pieces its-self together in your mind, and all you have left to do is remember the details until you can make it to a notebook or keyboard. I’ve had these sudden bursts of mental creativity while weeding the garden, chasing after a calf, readjusting the sideroll wheels, or just sitting on the porch drinking a cup of coffee. Perhaps there is a certain song or movie that gives you ideas, or perhaps there is a perfume or potpourri that can awaken your imagination. Whatever it takes; always be on the lookout for the moment of creativity to find you. You’ll be surprised to discover how much you can do when you’re focused on doing something else.

March is here!

This month I officially begin working on my book, unofficially titled “Me and Billy the Kid” which was accepted for publication last November by Tate Publishing and Enterprises LLC. I’m so excited, and just a wee bit nervous…okay, a LOT nervous! I’m anticipating being contacted by a senior editor tomorrow. I’ve been told the editing stag lasts about four months. And knowing me, I’m sure my book will be no exception, see that grammar isn’t one of my strongest suits and my manuscript is probably full of errors. Just hopefully I’m not going to be going crazy and tearing out my hair while working through all the editing. Another thing is, I’m worried about having to re-write a lot of my manuscript, try to figure out/agree on a name, writing a bio (I’m not good describing myself), as well as the teaser for the back cover. Hopefully, my book will be complete by November. I know, I know, that’s eight months from now, but I was told that this is going to take a l-o-n-g time. I’ll just have to grit my teeth and keep telling myself this is what I want: this is going to get me known, its going to make me money, and now maybe I’ll have a shot at finding an agent and being able to publish traditionally, with a major publishing house. I’ve only just realized how busy I’m going to be! And on top of everything else, I’m still going to be farming and ranching, writing new manuscripts, keeping up with the housework, gardening, weed eradication, etc. My word! I truly hope all this will be worth it in the end. Because after all, if I’m going to be a writer for the rest of my life, I’ll have to get use to dealing with this chaos. Well, wish me luck everyone, I’m going to need it!   

The Kidd

Here’s a sample chapter for my children’s western book, The Kidd


The Kidd

By Briana C. Vedsted



Kidd pulled back the tent flap, frowning out at the pouring rain. With a sigh, she let the flap fall back down into place.

It was cold. Even for late September, it was cold. It had been raining for three days, pausing only when the wind howled like a pack of angry wolves.

All the wood was wet, so there was no fire. And now, the rain had saturated the heavy canvas tent and water was starting to drip down into the only shelter.

Kidd plopped down onto the pine boughs, shivering.

Dan looked up at her, wistfully asking, “Has the rain stopped?”


Dan’s shoulders slumped.

Kidd looked down at little, three year old Amos who coughed in his sleep now and again. The sickness had settled into his lungs.

“He needs medicine.” Kidd brushed Amos’ dark hair back off his forehead.

Dan fretted, “We ain’t got much money. And we don’t know how far it is to the next town.”

“How much food do we have?”

Dan pawed through the supply bag. “We got a can of fruit, a handful of dried beans, and almost half a pound of hardtack.”

“Got any sugar left?”

“Just a little. If we had a fire, I could make some gruel for Amos.”

Kidd got to her feet. “Well, I’m goin’ scouting. Maybe I’ll find some dryer wood, and I’ll try to make a fire again.”

“You takin’ the rifle?”

“Yeah, I’ll leave you the derringer.”

Kidd got up and put on her worn-out black Stetson and grabbed her hand-me-down leather duster. She took her old man’s rifle and a handful of shells.

“I should be back a’ fore dark.” She told Dan as she was stepping out of the tent.

There was no sound but the steady drumming of rain and the occasional, distant, clap of thunder.

There wasn’t much hope of finding any critters out in this weather, but with any luck, Kidd might find a squirrel or a woodpecker.

Jolly, Dan’s mare, whickered as Kidd walked past.

“Easy, girl.” Kidd told her softly.


It had been a few hours. Kid sat down to rest under an old cedar tree. She had managed to find a few dry branches, and even a pocketful of tinder. But no food.

Kidd was just about to head back to camp when she heard a sharp snap.

Kidd looked up.

There was a jackrabbit, about ninety yards away, nibbling on a blade of grass behind some thin brush!

Kidd slowly raised the rifle.

The rabbit looked up.

Kidd paused.

The rabbit went back to eating.

Kidd s-l-o-w-l-y squeezed off a shot.

The rabbit fell down dead.

Kidd grinned proudly. That had been a tough shot. But Kidd was good with a rifle. Pa had taught her how to shoot a gun when she was only knee-high to a grasshopper.

Kidd took out her knife and skinned and cleaned the animal.

It certainly wasn’t a young rabbit. So it might be a little stringy, but it was still food.

Kidd saved the skin; Dan could make it into a fine hat or a pair of mittens for Amos.

Shielding the wood and the meat from the rain beneath her duster, Kidd hurried back to camp.


It was freezing in the tent.

Dan was holding Amos on her lap, breathing on his fingers to keep them warm. She chattered, “D-d-did y-you f-find a-any w-w-wood K-Kidd?”

“Yeah! And I got a rabbit!” Kidd tossed her hat into the corner and put the meat and wood on the ground. Her duster was still warm from being worn, so she wrapped in around Amos and picked him up.

Dan hurried over to inspect the meat.

Kidd chuckled, “I kept it out of the dirt, Dan.”

Dan was very picky; it made her sick if there were any pine needles, dirt, hair, or leaves in meat.

With Amos’ cheek nestled against her neck, Kidd threw back the tent flap.

The rain was just a steady drizzle now.

It didn’t take Kidd any time to build a cheery little fire.

Dan had the meat cut into thin strips, and had seasoned it with a little sage and ground peppercorns.

Put on a spit and turned occasionally, the meat would be well smoked and could be safely kept without worry of spoiling.

Amos watched with wide, green eyes. “Can we eat it now?” he asked.

Dan, who was stirring up a pot of ‘goo’, as Amos called it, turned to look at him, “No, Amos. Now we will eat the gruel. Maybe tomorrow we will have meat.”

Amos pouted, “I don’t like the goo. I want meat.”

“Soon, Amos, soon.” Kidd promised him.

True, the gruel was very unappealing. Pale, watery, and flavorless.

But Dan had put all the sugar into Amos’ bowl, hoping he would like it better.   

Amos at all his gruel, but he made faces the whole time.

Kidd ate hers, trying hard not to grimace. Hardtack on its own was difficult to eat, but this gruel, while nutritious and warming, it was down right nasty.

Dan was the only one who could eat the gruel without grimacing.

Late that afternoon, the rain stopped.

Kidd wanted to go, but the meat was still raw in the middle.

Dan insisted on waiting a few more hours.

In the meantime, Kidd filled the skeins and canteen, packed up the tent and blankets, built up the fire, and stashed the supplies in her saddlebags. 

Amos toddled around, picking up oak leaves and pinecones. He was consumed in his own little world, happy, full, and content. For now.

Dan was salting and stretching the rabbit fur. She hummed to herself as she worked.

Impatiently, Kidd moved the meat closer to the flames.

Bad idea.

Dan sprang to her feet, sniffing noisily. “You’re burning the meat.” She said dryly. Deftly, she pulled the meat away. She frowned at Kidd and muttered something about ‘patience’.

Kidd had nothing else to do. She had already cleaned her rifle, twice. She counted and re-counted the shells. She checked the packs and saddles.

Dan finally exclaimed, “Oh alright Kidd! For heaven’s sake! I’ll pack up the meat, you put up the fire. Come along Amos, put on your hat; we’re leaving now.”

Kidd’s horse, Chip, chomped on his bit. He was ready to go. The smell of horse was strong after all that rain.

Jolly pranced, wanting to be on the way.

Amos’ pony, Nut, on the other hand, grazed contently, in no hurry.

Amos kicked his heels into the pony’s sides, urging him forward. But Nut didn’t move. He just stepped to the side, never ceasing to eat.

Kidd took Nut’s lead rope and tied it to her saddle horn.

Amos was too young to ride by himself anyway.

Nut would have to be sold.

Kidd sat Amos on the saddle in front of her, making sure he was comfortable.

Dan was fussing with her stirrups.

Kidd rolled her eyes. Why did Dan have to be so picky all the time?

Kidd complained, “Come on, Dan! It’s going to start raining again. I figured we could make at least five or six miles a’ fore sunset!”

Dan left her stirrups alone and kneed Jolly forward. “After you.” she curtly said.  

Kidd lifted her reigns. Chip stepped forward eagerly. Kidd grinned. She had had Chip since she was six, and he was perfectly trained to her liking. She never had to use spurs on him, or even touch him with her heel to tell him to go. Only rarely did she even have to cluck her tongue. 

Jolly, on the other hand, was still a spirited young horse, only four years old.

Besides, Dan never had liked riding much.

And Nut was just spoiled. Amos had only ridden him a few times before he was sent to pasture, where he had grazed to his heart’s content and never had to work. He would be a good horse for some rich man’s child, who would only ride him for play. But not for a hard-working boy like Amos would grow to be.

And if Kidd could find a willing buyer, Nut would bring a good price.

Dan wouldn’t be happy about that, for some reason. So Kidd would have to make the sell when Dan wasn’t around. That would be tough.

I’ll figure something out. Kidd thought.

Copyright 2013 Briana Vedsted

My Fairy Tale Storybook

I’ve been writing this story since 2009. It is the longest book I have; over 600 pages, and it still isn’t even close to being done. I’d like to split it up into a trilogy, but before I can submit it to an agent, I have a lot of editing to do. What do you think about this sample chapter? Think I have a shot at getting it published?


How do you face the morrow, when you are caught in the pain of the past? Can you move on? Can you forget the sorrow, the pain, and the bitter resentment? Or do you remain? Dwelling, soaking, in the memory of loved ones lost? What if the memory reoccurs in your nightmares? How would you find the courage and the strength to move on and fight for the safety of total strangers? There is only one answer: love. This is the story of my long-ago Grandfather, Lane Williamson.

Chapter One
A new day will always dawn. The sun over the beautiful land and the wind stirs the tree branches. A lark bunting whistles a soft song and then takes flight. A lone deer grazes in the meadow and a butterfly floats by, fluttering its soft yellow wings. The quiet of the morning is suddenly broken by the pounding of hooves.
A group of twelve horses race through the trees. The horses’ riders are sad and tired looking. They are the only survivors left from the terrible battle that was fought in the middle of their homes. They were all heavily dressed for a southern winter, not the northern summer.
No one saw them coming, just suddenly, they were upon them. There was no time to think, no time to prepare. With only the crudest of weapons, the villagers fought for their lives and for the lives of their families. One by one, they fell, leaving no one to defend the women, the children, or the elderly. Finally, the few people who were left fled for their lives, taking only a few of their belongings, with only the smallest hope of getting away. Every person who had escaped had lost at least one member of their family.
In the lead is a man with iron gray hair and a thinning moustache. Beside him rides a pale girl with long brown hair wound up into a loose bun. Behind them comes a woman clutching a baby, the arms of a small girl wrapped tightly around her waist. Close beside them rides two small boys on a swayed-back mare. Then there is a young man and an old woman. Behind them, there is a burly man and a dainty girl, each holding a small child in their arms. Behind them ride three young ladies who are fair skinned, dark eyed sisters. And last of all, comes a young man, tall, with black hair and miserable, smoldering, brown eyes.
These people have not seen any other human being in weeks. They have traveled for many, many miles. They were just about to abandon all hope of finding a civilized place to live in safety again, when suddenly, up ahead, they saw a small house! A woman leaned out one of the window and looked at them. A man stepped out the door, crossing his arms and frowning. There were two small children playing in the grass by the door, and a cow grazed contentedly in the tall grass.
As the people on the horses drew closer to the house, the man called out, “Greeting, my good people. How may I be of service to you?” The man in the lead pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted, favoring his left leg slightly. He shook the other man’s hand and said, “Greetings, sir. I am Jonas Donaldson. I humbly ask for food and water for myself and my people. We have traveled a far way, and we are weary.” The kindly man looked sympathetically at Jonas and said, “Of course sir. If you all would come into my house, my wife will get you something to eat. My name is Lukas.”
The people entered Lukas’ house and were warmly greeted by Lukas’ wife, Mary, who served them tea and small, white cakes. And while the weary travelers ate, Lukas asked them why they had come to travel so far from home. As Jonas told the unhappy tale, Lukas and Mary stared at them in horror. Mary breathlessly asked, “What attacked you?” Jonas cleared his throat and looked at the people around him before he said, “Our people knew them as the Evil Ones. No one knows who they are or where they came from, but wherever they go, they bring evilness with them.”
Mary bit her lip nervously and looked at her husband out of the corner of her eye. Lukas said, “I’m sure you will all be welcome in our village.” Jonas smiled and said, “Thank you; that would be a blessing to us all.” Lukas stood up and put on his hat. He said, “Jonas, if you will allow me to, I will escort you and your people to the village, and take you to the Mayor.” Jonas nodded and said, “Thank you.” Everyone stood up and mumbled their thanks to Mary, and then they went outside and mounted their now rested horses.
Lukas led them to a great stone house in the middle of a quaint, peaceful looking village. Lukas motioned to the door and said, “This is the Mayor’s house. Mayor Greg is a not very patient man, but I know he will not refuse you. Good luck and safe passage to you all!” Jonas shook hands warmly with Lukas and said, “And safe passage to you, my friend.” As Lukas rode away, Jonas and his people walked single file into the Mayor’s house.
The Mayor was a short, fat man with a big, round nose and small, beady eyes. He was sitting in a big rocking chair smoking a pipe. He motioned the people to enter, and curtly told them to sit down. Since there were no other chairs in the room, everyone had to sit on the floor. Two somber young ladies entered the room carrying large trays filled with cups of tea and tiny fruit tarts. A third girl entered the room carrying a big leather bound book, an ink well, and a quill pen.
The Mayor put down his pipe and surveyed the group of people before him with shred eyes. After a long pause, he spoke. His voice sounded like a thousand rasps grating across rocks. It was almost torture to listen to him. He said, “I do not know you. You are not from here. Why have you come, and are you planning to stay?” Jonas stood and bowed formally, saying, “Yes, Mayor, we want to stay. We are from a village far from here. We have traveled here because our village was attacked, and we are the only survivors.”
The Mayor rasped, “If what you speak is true, and since you have nowhere else to go, I cannot turn you away. You are welcome here. Now, I shall need to know your names.” Jonas said, “My name is Jonas Donaldson,” and then he pointed to the brown haired girl who was always by his side, saying “and this is my daughter, Lucille.” Jonas pointed to each person in turn, naming them, and last of all, he pointed to the tall young man with the sad eyes and said, “And this is Lane Williamson.” The girl with the book scribbled down all their names, then bobbed a curtsy, and hurried out of the room. “Now,” the Mayor continued, “my sons will escort you to the village and find you a place to stay.” Jonas bowed again and said, “Thank you, sir,”
Three young men led the people out of the house and through the village. Many of the village people opened their homes to the weary strangers, and in the end, the only one who still had nowhere to spend the night was Lane Williamson. The Mayor’s sons asked many people to take him in for the night, but they all refused, apparently thinking he looked like a troublemaker.
As the sun went down, the Mayor’s sons turned to go home. One, the youngest, called back over his shoulder to Lane, “Good luck, we hope you will find a place to sleep.” Lane trudged off through the twilight, looking for a hay stack or a deserted barn in which he could sleep.
*** To be Continued ***

Even the Histor…

“Even the History Books tend to favor one side of the Story.” (c)

After writing the book about Billy the Kid that is in production, courtesy of Tate Publishing and Enterprises, LLC. I thought up this quote, which I believe could be very valuable to any historical fiction novel. Though many things are based on truth, there is one key element in my story which is purely fiction: Angel, Billy the Kid’s girlfriend, as well as the fact I portrayed Billy as a victim instead of the bad guy.