Hens Lay Eggs

food for thought

Hogtied by #HollyBargo

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nCowgirl meets biker … what could go wrong?
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nWhen a biker shoots her sister’s prize steer, champion roper Melanie goes after him. Unfortunately, she doesn’t think it through, and that hot temper puts her squarely in Hammer’s sights. Melanie’s ire only increases when Hammer defuses the dangerous situation by claiming her as his property. If the former Marine and now sergeant-at-arms of the Black Ice Revolution MC thinks she’s his for the taking, he’s sadly mistaken. She wants nothing to do with him, but he’s not about to let this sexy, feisty woman go. ​n

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nPre-Order Available 
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Excerpt 

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n“No need. You all stay off my property,” the old man said. “I’m inclined to shoot every last one of you.”
nHammer raised an eyebrow and his skepticism must have showed.
n“Daddy was a sniper in the Gulf War,” Melanie explained with a saccharine smile. “And he taught Julie and me how to shoot, too.We can protect ourselves.”
n​Hammer met her cool confidence with another small smile. “The three of you can’t protect the whole
nfarm and your father knows it.”
nHe turned around and walked to his motorcycle, his strides slow and sure. He’d be damned if he showed uneasiness in front of the old man and two girls. He’d faced worse in the Middle East and the Central and South American cesspits where drug cartels, terrorists, and revolutionaries were indistinguishable from one another.
nMelanie watched the man’s slow swagger and admitted silently to herself that he filled out his jeans very, very nicely. She liked the breadth of his shoulders and the bulge of hard muscle beneath his tee shirt. Stick a sword in his hand and she’d cast him as Aragorn in a Lord of the Rings remake.
n“He’s hot,” Julie whispered, echoing her sister’s thoughts.
n“He’s trouble,” their father muttered. 
n“What do we do, Daddy?” Melanie asked as the man started his motorcycle and rode away.
n“We wait.”n

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Writing to immerse the reader

nI recently edited a manuscript that dealt with a sensitive subject and subjected the characters to extreme violence. It left me unmoved, and not just because I’m a cold-hearted bitch.
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nThe story’s execution failed. Through telling, the author put distance between the reader and the characters. The omission of sensory detail reinforced that distance. Weird similes popped the reader from the narrative and seemed out of place.
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nI’m pretty sure I know what the author was trying to do. Unfortunately, the effort wasn’t up to the task.
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nI ended up rewriting a good bit of the story. (Don’t fret: I use “Track Changes” so the author can accept, reject, or act in some other manner each recommended change.)
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nThe problematic execution of the story went beyond this author’s usual grammatical disaster. Perhaps that happened because the author extended his work beyond his comfort zone or simply beyond his experience. Some writers are like actors. That statement, of course, reminds me of an anecdote I heard in an interview long ago with, I believe, Dustin Hoffman.
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nDustin Hoffman is a talented actor–a method actor. He prepares for his roles by immersing himself into the persona he will assume for the play or movie. That includes experiencing things as the character would experience them, which can sometimes result in self-harm.
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nThe full-character immersion of method acting puzzled Alec Guinness who, upon seeing the physical toll preparing for a role took upon Hoffman, said something along the lines of, “My God, man, why don’t you just act?” 
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nAnd that, of course, brings me to another anecdote. Long ago when I was in college, one of my friends did her senior presentation on Oscar Wilde and the necessity of experiencing something to write about it. It fell under the oft-repeated admonition to write what you know. Her presentation perturbed one professor who took her aside after the presentation to ask her whether she truly believed a writer needed to do evil in order to understand it. She reassured him that she’d made that argument–effectively–only for the sake of the presentation. Later she confessed to me that she agreed with Wilde’s assertion: one must do evil to understand it and write about it.
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nWrite what you know.
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nI disagree. Write what you can imagine is better. I don’t need to lay my palm against a hot burner to know that it’s going to hurt. A lot. I can imagine it and extrapolate from other, smaller pains and injuries sustained over my lifetime.
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nWhen writing scenes of intense emotion or physical feeling, it’s imperative for the author immerse the reader in those sensations. Immersion brings the reader into an intimate relationship with a character such that the reader gladly accompanies the character through the trials, tribulations, and, perhaps, the triumphs of the story.
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nEvery word counts.
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n#henhousepublishing #hollybargobooksn

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I’m living here #MFRWhooks

​Cowgirl meets biker … what could go wrong?

When a biker shoots her sister’s prize steer, champion roper Melanie goes after him. Unfortunately, she doesn’t think it through, and that hot temper puts her squarely in Hammer’s sights. Melanie’s ire only increases when Hammer defuses the dangerous situation by claiming her as his property. If the former Marine and now sergeant-at-arms of the Black Ice Revolution MC thinks she’s his for the taking, he’s sadly mistaken. She wants nothing to do with him, but he’s not about to let this sexy, feisty woman go. 

Pre-Order Available 

Excerpt

​Hammer sighed. He’d known this wouldn’t go well. He tried again to explain. “I claimed her as mine, which means she gets the protection of the club and, by extension, so does her family. She’s got to stay with me for a while, at least until the Dogs lose interest. Black Ice Revolution will extend protection to you and yours until then.” 

Melanie wanted to stomp her foot like a child, but she heard and saw the truth in what he said. “Tell them I’m your girlfriend if you want, but I’m living here.” 

The biker gave her a small smile and shook his head. “Ain’t gonna work that way, sugar. They need to see you with me.”

“But I don’t want—”

“Do you want to see your father and sister hurt and your livestock killed?”

She blanched. “Surely, you don’t think they’d do that?”

“You hurt their pride, girl. Men like that—”

“You mean men like you,” she accused. 

He continued speaking as though she hadn’t interrupted. “—won’t take that lying down.” 

“That greasy fool killed my sister’s prized steer,” she insisted. “We’re the ones insulted, not them.”

He pulled a thick envelope from his back pocket and handed it to Melanie’s father. “Sir, here’s the money for the steer. Prez of Satan’s Dogs ain’t entirely unreasonable.” 



















Author

Hard boiled, scrambled, over easy, and sunny side up: eggs are the musings of Holly Bargo, the pseudonym for the author.

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Karen (Holly)

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