Carole Beers

Pardon me, but do you read cows? You heard right. Or, herd right. I am mesmerized watching them, in pasture. I feel at peace, and become lost — and found — in their world. It’s almost like watching the ocean. Or reading an absorbing book.

What’s your favorite breed or genre? For me, it’s big, blocky, ink-black Angus, though I love all breeds. But sometimes I like frisky ones or those determined to return to their herd after being cut out by dogs and horsemen. Again, I am reminded that cows, calves, steers, and heifers are in odd but important ways, a bit like books. And that’s no bull. You learn things, feel things, see through different eyes, reading both.

I gravitate toward the beef breeds — big, languid calves and adults who know their place on the land and with their peers. Like all cattle, they regard the world and its mysteries with large, curious eyes. They play and react rightly to needs, threats or attractions. Perhaps seek food or their calf. Reassure a herdmate, drive off interlopers, find shelter together. And often they just hunker down and chew things over.

So, too, with unpretentious yet powerful books. I like a book that’s confident of its place, nature and purpose — which may or may not, in time, include obscurity. For example, plain-speaking books that nonetheless move with a certain grace and at an appropriate pace. They can race occasionally. They can buck, twist, veer from their herd. Or merely ramble here and there, searching out a hidden tidbit.

The main thing, whether they be books or cows, is that they must show they know what they’re about. They must give a reader every opportunity to read and evaluate that. No apologies, just laying it out there with their own voice, their own unforced style. Just saying “moo!”

Let me offer examples of what I mean. “To Kill a Mockingbird,” for one. It is told truthfully yet simply from an educated Southern family’s viewpoint as life unfolds, halts, runs, turns and hesitates at the threshold of catastrophe. Even tips over into that, as we read, spellbound. Unable to look away, though the book moves along with no more exertion than necessary.

Other examples of books behaving naturally and honestly, true to type yet with their own brands, quirks and earmarks, are works by: Joan Didion, Craig Johnson, Catherine Ryan Hyde, Robert B. Parker, John Steinbeck, Molly Gloss, Ernest Hemingway, Will Rogers, and (insert your favorite) here.

Now watching friskier or prettier critters — like reading relentlessly zippier books — can be quite a delight. Even addicting. Let’s change it up, put pep in our perusals. Let’s grab this new Janet Evanovitch or that Lee Child. Venture into that mid-list author who’s charging strong!

But as a general practice, day in, day out, I am most at ease with books that are more like cows: Tomes that have natural lingo, reasonable pace and occasional bright, scary or funny situations, rather than the noisy, showy faster-moving ones. Life is cabaret enough, war-zone enough, Saturday-night-fever enough. I don’t shrink from such places or people. I seek truth with entertainment, after all. So I welcome the occasional thriller, chiller or romance all tarted up with hypercharged language and constantly shifting scenes.

I just don’t seek them as my main fare. For that, and for heartfillng peace and long-haul sustenance, I need my cows!

I am “Over the Edge” with excitement today. The second book in my Pepper Kane mystery series, warmed by the hands of early readers, has at last hit online sites and select bookstore shelves. It’s about time. The conception was rip-roaring fun, as conceptions often are *blush*. The ten-month gestation, not so much — although there were many high points in the creation that really rocked.

The book began life as a novella. A short, sweet sumpin’ designed to bridge the gap between “Saddle Tramps,” the first Pepper Kane contemporary-cowgirl mystery, and its sequel flickering on the far horizon. I wrote a draft of this “shortie.” Had my amateur sleuth in present tense (both meanings) riding to the edge of Oregon’s Table Rock, where she rushed to stop another rider from falling off a cliff.  Seemed a good idea at the time. Didn’t it? What part of “no” didn’t I understand? Something did feel off. And my writers critique group howled with dissatisfaction. Back to the writing board.

Then my mentor Stella Cameron, a NYT and USA Today bestselling author, advised I write a full-length “Saddle Tramps” sequel book IMMEDIATELY. Which in writer’s lingo means six to eight months after the first. At most, a year. Or readers will forget you, she said, and move on.  Stella writes her brilliant English village mysteries in six months! Many bestselling authors write that fast.

Thus began the book that became the “Over the Edge” you see today. Incorporating parts of the rough novella, I crafted a more complicated plot with a larger, more diverse cast of characters, and then hauled them all off to Texas for a world-championship horse show.

Of course the book took WAY longer than I thought to write, revise and pull together. And buckets more blood, sweat and tears. For me AND my editor. Don’t they always? Even the cover gave me a few fits.

But now it’s out. At last.  I can breathe. And best of all? I really love this little bugger. If you can call 340 pages “little.” If you call weighing over a pound, “Little.” I am proud as punch. Can punch be proud?

Here. Have a cigar. Oh, and a pretty balloon. Many of you cheered and supported me in creating this novel. So thank you for that. Here. Hold the baby. Give it a good long look. I hope you love it as much as I do.

Then, when done, will you kindly leave a review on Amazon and Goodreads? Thanks, everyone. We’re all in this together — a family for the books!

Last week while walking past the skinny window by the front door, I finally saw a flat, familiar-looking little brown package on the porch. Joy, relief and gratitude whooshed in. After eight months of writing my new novel — of living, dreaming, commiserating and rejoicing with its characters through every conceivable crisis and complication, the moment was here. My baby was crowning. The proof book awaited only a final edit and a nod to the publisher to fly out to the world of bestsellerdom. (If only!)

But as I stepped out to fetch the parcel and rip it open, the joy suddenly drained from me. Shock and anxiety rushed in. Holding the book in my hands, now icy and hesitant, I stared at that cover I adored weeks ago. Doubt fingered my spine. The cover of “Over the Edge” looks glossy and eye-catching, I thought. But is it too like that of “Saddle Tramps,” a previous book? Will it confuse readers? The back cover looked good. But it but didn’t particularly grab me in that emotion-wracked moment. There were typos. Where was the author blurb I’d managed to snag?

My overall reaction at seeing that proof book of “Over the Edge” — the second title in the Pepper Kane mystery series — was akin to what I’d felt years ago encountering a lost lover. Whether lost deliberately or by chance made little difference. The main thing was, that person meant a great deal to me, wove himself into my life, and then went away, taking a piece of my heart.

I never got that piece back. I still miss it — and them, in a way. The attraction remains. But then, so does the pain. Enough so that I’d be stupid to go there again.

The nice thing was – and I took comfort in that — I didn’t have to open the proof book, get into heavy editing and light revising, that very moment. It would be there when I was ready. I might have looked at a page or two, the Acknowledgments and Meet the Author. Just to make sure they read all right. They did! I could exhale, at least, about that.

In that moment of hesitation, I had a small epiphany. Hey. I could give the proof book to a writing friend who did line-edits on “Saddle Tramps.” A fine author in her own right (write?) and a retired professor, she could have at it first. Maybe by the time she finished, I’d be ready to face it again.

It’s been nearly a week now since that proof book hit the porch. Since it practically dared me to immerse myself in it. It’s time for me to take a breath, prepare to revisit my pain. Who knows? Maybe I can also rejoice in the good parts, in the happy times. My friend is done with it. She liked how nicely I reworked the book since she read it in-progress. It’s changed, she assures me. For the best.

Finally taking possession of it again, safe on the couch with comfort dogs all around, I gingerly opened “Over the Edge.” I started reading, notepad in hand, ruler on page, inching steadily down while I started my own proofreading. I settled in, beverage at hand, read some more. Odd, how I became increasingly comfortable. I saw both good and sketchy points with a wiser, more objective eye. Read almost as if this were written by another. One with no claim on me, no matter how tentative. One with no stake.

Hey, I thought. I can do this. I realized that, like lost lovers meeting again, we can each have our separate lives, run into each other occasionally, yet still have a connection. And, surprisingly? I was good with it. AM good. What’s even better? It’s good.

Do you love to tell friends about the great book you just read? Say, a fast-paced contemporary mystery like “Saddle Tramps,” splashed with wit, romance and equestrian adventure? Score! I seek a few good people to read and review a few good books. And make their voice heard by millions on the Amazon and Goodreads websites. (Thank the United States Marine Corps for letting me tweak their motto.)

So, readers. I would love to have you join my Beers Review Crew. Whether you know me as a real live person, as Carole T. Beers, Author on Facebook, as creator of the FB group READING COUNTRY, or as boss lady of this website,  know that your input is appreciated!

I read every review — good, bad or indifferent — very closely, and several times. Readers are my best teachers. But Review Crew members are a cut above. Having read a multitude of books both for pleasure and evaluation, they can, in a few carefully chosen words, teach me and other authors about writing better. They enlighten us about reader preferences or turn-offs in plots, pacing, covers and characters. And talk about wielding power! Having crafted a review, however brief, they can increase an author’s status exponentially.

The “magic” number an author needs to get noticed on Amazon is fifty reviews or more. That number puts a writer in the running for free ads and other perks. What author wouldn’t want that?!

If you have read “Saddle Tramps,” or when you do, kindly grab two or three minutes to visit Amazon.com and Goodreads.com. While there, enter the book title, scroll down, and write and submit a short review. Easy as that. It can be as short as one sentence! You’ll find links at the bottom of this page for your convenience. I will swoon with joy. OK. “Swoon” is perhaps too strong a word. I never claimed to be subtle! Let’s simply say I would have an extra bounce in my step as well as in my book recognition. Plus, I will pray that your own dreams come true — literary, relationship and otherwise. (I pray that anyway, but will light you an extra candle.)

Remember: Review, hit submit, and let me know about it via email at . That makes you an ex-officio Review Crew member. If you want to hear about and review future books, tell me there, or in Contact on this website. Then, if you live in the U.S., your name will be entered in a drawing for free Advance Reading Copies of my latest books!

“Over the Edge,” the next exciting Pepper Kane romantic mystery, is due out in early September. Like “Saddle Tramps,” it’s a “page-turning thrill fest,” to quote one reviewer, set in Oregon’s Rogue River Valley. With a side trip to Texas, y’all.

Getting an Advance Reading Copy or a Post Reading Copy (an ARC or PRC) is not “payola.” That’s because  these copies of a book, often under edit, are considered proofs that may include typos or other errors. These copies are what professional review groups see.

Now. Are you ready to join the Beers Review Crew? Awesome. Go!

Why stop there? Double your free fun by subscribing to my blog and newsletter. Find signup prompts in these pages. You will receive not only a warm virtual hug from Yours Truly, but also an occasional update on book projects, thoughts on writing (and life), horsey wisdom, recipes to read by, and lots more.

I can’t wait to see you aboard!

I mean no disrespect to the revered American Indian warrior. But my sweet sorrel Paint horse, Brad, should be re-christened Crazy Horse. That ‘s because my boy, after two years of behaving (mostly) calmly in hand or under saddle, inexplicably has taken to obsessive observation of birds, bushes and other scary stuff like garden tractors that MIGHT MOVE UNEXPECTEDLY or MAKE A SURPRISING AND POTENTIALLY DEADLY NOISE!

Just yesterday after I led him from his pen and saddled up, Brad seemed good with life and with me. The outdoor temp was in the 90s with a gentle breeze blowing. Our barn manager, Terry Stringfield, trundled to and fro on his tractor, fluffing the arena footing and then mowing the field grass back of the barn. Normal and calm, right?

I led the saddled Brad to the outdoor arena. Again, he seemed copacetic with everything. I looked forward to a good if short ride, as it was growing late and I planned to work in a visit before dinner to a friend temporarily ensconced in a rehabilitation facility.

Mounting Brad in the arena, I settled into my rough-out work saddle and adjusted the bridle reins. He felt at ease, though with a slightly elevated head. That should have been a clue. We eased into a walk, me riding with legs softly engaged and both hands holding the reins low, in light contact with the bit, on either side of the saddle horn. We’d round the ring each way and then do our training circles, diagonal passes and straight lines at the three gaits, as usual.

Or not. At the far corner Brad jumped as the wind rustled an oak branch. His ears and neck went up and stiff. I made him trot small circles at the point of spook, in each direction. That would alter his behavior and bring his attention back to me. Then the tractor mower clanked over some sticks — ka-blang! He jigged, and tossed his head. More circling. More leveling out. Ahh. Now we’re good to go.

A few moments later, jogging down the rail, Brad again acted antsy. He again began looking for every potential threat beyond the arena. So, even more circling, leveling, driving calmly forward. We passed previous “shy-spots” until we could pass without incident. I grew sweaty. Brad grew sweaty. I hoped my friend wouldn’t mind industrial-strength horsey smells at her convalescent center!

The Grand Shy — which should be a recognized dressage maneuver — happened OUT OF THE BLUE when we’d been “riding” a half hour. We were trotting nicely along the rail when Brad’s haunches suddenly spun left, his front end lifted, and he ran BACKWARD for thirty feet. Heart in mouth, I teetered on the edge of an unplanned dismount.

After regaining control, it was back to work, sweating with the oldies — myself, and Brad — though at age 10 he’s really only middle-aged in horse terms. It took another half hour. But we finally executed a reasonably slow and relaxed walk, jog and lope on a loose rein, with forward motion, all the way around the ring, and through the middle. We’d win no prizes. It wasn’t pretty. But we got ‘er done.

I marvel at how my writing is like this, some days. I sit down all fresh and ready to write forward, mingle with my characters, enjoy the scenery and engage in the action. I am in control, mistress of my literary universe. This work, overall, will be fun. I settle in.

Then some element revolts. A character veers off course, an action scene stops mid-struggle, or a conversation jumps the tracks. That’s when I must take a deep seat, steady my hands, and — YES! — breathe, relax. Work through it. No matter how long it takes.

Sometimes you just have to be happy with what little you get, even if it’s barely passable. Sometimes you let it go. After all, tomorrow is another day.

Alternately? Go saddle a different horse!

Yesterday I drove the white Honda six miles south of Grants Pass to scope out a ranch where I might move Brad, my handsome sorrel equine partner and plot-development guru. I’ve visited Nelson Cutting Horses and Saddle Mountain Cattle Company before. I felt drawn to its state-of-the-art stable, sweeping fields and covered arena. Perfect for keeping a horse clean and slick, and a rider sheltered, during the punishing days of our cold, wet winters and sizzling summers.

Plus there was the prospect of riding a grand 300 acres of irrigated pasture and exploring the tree-lined banks of the Applegate River — a fish-rich tributary of the mighty Rogue. Big skies, picturesque green hills, lush pastures for black Angus cow-calf pairs that roam at will. All this and a clean, well lighted stable, too. What wasn’t to love?

My only sticking points were, as before, the depth of the arena footing (deep, for cutting horses), a community tack-room where one’s saddle, etc. could be “borrowed” at any time by a guest or another boarder, and that there might not be like-minded souls to ride with.

Don’t get me wrong. I have loved keeping The Bradster (Shiny Good Bar) — the semi-retired Western show horse seen on my “Saddle Tramps” book cover – the past two years at Cedar Tree Stables near town. It’s beautiful, too, and features perfect footing in the outdoor (only) arena and grassy arena-trail course. The stable is clean and safe with outdoor pens for every horse. But most times I ride alone, as other owners have other priorities. And I ride outdoors only, even in extreme weather. If the other horses are turned out, Brad has to stay out with no shelter: He freaks at being the only horse in the barn!

All this circled around my mind again as I drove the packed-gravel drive along the river toward Saddle Mountain’s stable and arena. The pastures spread away to a forested ridge to my right. The giant, rolling Rainbird sprinklers were arrayed sparingly. Black cattle dotted the grassland. A red-tailed hawk picked at his ground-squirrel breakfast on a boulder by a watering hole.

An “aaahhh” feeling filled my heart and made me smile. Would this be our new home? Would this be enough to seal my decision to relocate Brad? However, despite the ranch’s beauty, I still had reservations, as  noted. Would I, would he, be happy here?

Then I saw the dozens of pickups and horse trailers parked outside the arena. Riders coming and gong. There was a monthly barrel race set to begin! I parked, walked into the stable and met a darling younger woman, Katie, who boarded there. “I love it,” she beamed, saying she rides her older Paint horse often in the fields and beside the river. I learned the tack-room situation might be improved, and that Brad could be legged-up (conditioned) to stay sound in the arena footing.

Climbing into the small covered grandstand that overlooks the arena, I was surprised to see and chat with a longtime, horsey artisan-friend, Spirit, who’d brought her daughter to the races. The excitement and camaraderie there were electric. Here were my people — all ages, active, outdoorsy, fit and dedicated to The Sport of the Horse!

As I prepared to leave, I spied a quartet of young women sitting their horses outside the arena wall, looking across it at the barrel-racing action. They radiated youthful energy, fearlessness,  can-do attitude. Sixty years ago, I was one of those girls. (Still am, in my opinion.)

That did it. Hey, Nelson Cutting Horses & Saddle Mountain Cattle Company? Brad and I are so THERE. Or we will be in a few weeks. I can hardly wait.

Change and experiment are good. They open minds, spur growth. But nothing compares with the feeling of being where you belong, being among your own — be they riders, readers or writers.

How can odd collectibles inspire? How can freaky yet treasured objects have the power to, well, power us forward? Surely you own some strange little something that’s followed you from place to place, that’s evoked a succession of smiles or head-shakes. You have no idea why you still have it. Why you snatched it from someone, once. Why you haven’t just pitched it out. Yet you know you will keep it forever, and in a place of honor, no less!

It’s that way with my duck-feet goblet. Obviously crafted in the freewheeling 1970s by some slightly deranged artisan, it’s just wrong. An art object that raises objections. Funny, yet not.

I think much of the appeal relates to the memories it stirs. Back in my own freewheeling 1970s I kept my horses at Jeanne and Chuck Wolfe’s Bridlewood Stables near Seattle. I wrote fast and furiously for The Seattle Times, enjoying some notoriety, mostly good. We horse-pals gathered at the owners’ home every Christmas for a Barn Party that featured fabulous food and a fast-paced White Elephant gift exchange. We brought wrapped presents — weird or recycled stuff being highly prized — and rolled dice to make our selection. We could choose an unwrapped gift, or take somebody else’s unwrapped one. And take it again until time ran out.

That duck-feet goblet first claimed by Boots Leonard was the coolest thing I had ever laid my peepers on! Purposeful, hand-crafted, funny. Never mind the “ick” factor. I had to have it.

We went around the circle rolling dice, taking gifts, for an hour. We were twenty people. I took the goblet, but Boots kept taking it back. When the clock stopped she had it. I was crestfallen. Then she rose, walked over and handed it to me. I felt grateful and humbled.

Yes, I still smile and shake my head at the goblet, forty years later. Yes, it is an emblem of its time, of the friends, the aesthetic and the hopeful energy of days that still dance and glow in memory. But it is also more. It represents myself — a slightly odd but capable artist going her own way, IN her own way, eliciting her own smiles and followers.

Bonus: The duck-feet goblet, like the artist, stands in its own truth, holds a universe of ideas, is a testament to friendship, and owns its uglier aspects while working for a higher purpose.

Maybe.

Well, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it!

Or are they walking me? I’m never quite sure. My intent is to give the Three Little Bat-Eared Pig Dogs (AKA Boston Terriors) fresh air, exercise, and sniffing, marking and elimination opps. They are indoor dogs, in case you haven’t guessed. Thin-coated, snub-nosed wusses. Northwest Lesser Knee Sloths.

They have their small outdoor dog-yard for early morning and evening “business” trips. Fenced, bark-covered areas beyond back door and deck. But there’s nothing like the wide open spaces down and beside our wild and winding half-mile private lane.

The dogs are on leash, of course. We’ve spotted coyotes on previous walks. Don’t want my precious pups wandering off to become lunch for the wild ones. But I give the BTs plenty of free rein. Stop where they want, follow them to this shoulder or that bush, occasionally venture into a field or forest — though not too far from our lane

Ahh, the sweet-smelling morning air scented with essence of grasses, wild flowers, oaks, blackberry vines and … Morning! The calls of the towhee and flicker. The feeling of peace and possibility that fills me as my body responds with purpose or repose to the whims of the dogs.

It reminds me of novel-writing. (Face it: Many things remind me of novel writing, as that’s my main occupation these days.) I start fresh and hopeful, open to promise and possibility. Maybe even with a plan or envisioned path. I cruise blithely forward, until …

Yank! A jerk on the leash, and I step into a course change. Thunk! I come to a dead stop. Bam! A steady pull, and I reverse direction as my characters investigate some heretofore unnoticed but fascinating arrangement of bark and leaves — hiding poop under it. Big poop. Maybe not even neighbor-dog poop. Looks like bear, to me.

Has this ever happened to you? To your best-laid plans for a walk, a visit, a writing project? Don’t all raise your hands at once. That’s right. Plans are meant to be changed. Givens, meant to be not-so-much. It’s called L-I-F-E.

And dog-walking. You pick up the leash, take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and follow where the Little Bat-Eared Pig Dogs go. You keep to a general path or guiding plan. They (and your conscious and subconscious) wander at will or whim along that lane.

But you also allow for pit stops, course changes and sweet or not-so-sweet surprises. That’s called serendipity. Alternately, “Going with the Flow.” So to speak.

This approach worked for my New West mystery, “Saddle Tramps.” And it’s worked for my upcoming sequel, “Over the Edge.” So I have to keep at it.

My takeaway? Loosen or tighten the leash, as needed. How the dogs and I get where we’re going is as important at getting there. What we discover along the way may be mundane, but it also may be priceless. At very least, worthy of inspection. It’s what the dogs say. They know more than we think!