My guest today is Carl R. Brush. Hello! Welcome back to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you here again.
 |
| Carl R. Brush, author of THE YELLOW ROSE |
Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can
we get it?
My
latest is a historical novel called The Yellow Rose, A novel of the Texas
Revolution. It came out around the first of the year and it’s available on
Amazon and at my house in California.
Wow! That's great!
Is there anything specific that
inspired you to write The Yellow Rose?
I co-authored the novel with Bob
Stewart, a mixed marriage of sorts in that he was a native Texan (San Antonio)
with political leanings rather (actually TOTALLY) the opposite of mine.
 |
| Bob Stewart, co-author of THE YELLOW ROSE |
I’m a
native Californian who knew little or nothing about the Texas upheavals of 1836
before Bob asked me to join him in the venture. We’d met and liked one another
online; he’d been a beta-reader for my Bonita; he thought we’d make a
good team. Somehow, despite the demographic odds against us, we did. Sad to
say, Bob died shortly after the book was released. He did get to see the final
results in print, but left us not long after.
Oh no! I'm so sorry to hear that about your writing partner... :(
But you're right. At least he got to see the book published, and I'm sure that was a great comfort.
We'll try a different question, all right?
If this book was made into a film, who would you cast in it?
This, I haven’t had a chance to
discuss with Bob, so I hope he approves from afar. For the Yellow Rose of
Texas, (She was, by the way, a real historical person named Emily West)
Jennifer Hudson would be my choice. Gutsy, savvy, gorgeous. Kerry Washington
would be a close second. Tommy Lee Jones would be my hands down choice for Sam
Houston. At least as he was ten years ago, and we’re fantasizing here, aren’t
we?
Yes! Well, that is quite the cast!
Let's tackle some general questions.
When reading, do you prefer traditional printed books or ebooks? And why?
When reading, do you prefer traditional printed books or ebooks? And why?
I’m going about half and half these days. The Kindle is
great for traveling, print books being so heavy and bulky when you’re trying to
save space and weight. It’s also a marriage-saver when reading next to a
slumbering partner who’d rather not have lamps or flashlights shining in the
dark (just turn that screen down.) I do enjoy having a hefty paper volume in my
hands and following the action in ink from page to page and chapter to chapter,
so I always have a traditional book in progress.
Nice! That makes sense. I like physical copies as well.
So, what are you reading now?
On my Kindle I’m reading The
Water’s Edge by Norwegian mystery author Karin Fossum. She really
knows how to explore the guilty conscience. My print book is My Name Is Red by
the Turkish Nobel Laureate Orhan Pamuk. It’s an absolute marvel of a book and
one of the most intellectually challenging I’ve ever read. It’s also enormously
suspenseful. Quite a combination.
Great!
When
you get an idea for a book, what comes first usually? Dialogue, the
characters, a specific scene? Or do you plot it out before you write?
I don’t do a lot of plotting.
Beginning, end, main characters. Any outlines I create seem to get twisted out
of recognition or even obliterated in a few chapters. It’s hard to remember the
genesis of all my books, but I suppose it’s usually the characters. For The
Yellow Rose, the event itself—the Revolution—dictated the main characters.
However, they were like line drawings to me, just waiting to be given contour
and color. It was a great writing adventure, and a great process going back and
forth with Bob as we painted the final images together.
So, what do you have planned next? Or is that a secret?
No secret at all. I’m well on my way to finishing a sequel
to my Bonita, a coming of age novel about a twelve-year-old San
Francisco (then called Yerba Buena) girl, who, in 1843, discovers that she’s
been lied to about who she is and where she came from. Her search for her real
identity carries her through the Gold Rush, the Mexico-America War, California
Statehood, and the creation of the metropolis of San Francisco.
The sequel (Working title--Bonita
in New Orleans, but I don’t like it much) takes her to New Orleans to
discover the truth about the parents she never knew and the infant who was
stolen from her at birth. Sounds juicy, huh? You bet it is.
Is there anything you'd like to add? Any advice for new writers?
I have four words for new—or
any—writers: Butt In The Chair. And make it a habit. That matters more
than talent or luck. Just finished a bio of Jack London. 1,000 words a day he
wrote. No matter what. Sick or healthy. On sea or land. I confess I’m not that
disciplined, unfortunately, but I believe in it even though I don’t quite
practice it. The closer I come, the better the results.
Great advice! Yeah, I wish I was so disciplined as well. LOL.
But as long as we keep trying to get there, I think that counts.
Well, thank you for visiting, Carl!
Thanks for the great questions, Marie,
and for the opportunity to appear on your blog. You do a great service both
with your website and your books.
It's my pleasure, of course! Thank you so much. :) Happy to have you here any time!
Readers, here is the
blurb for The Yellow Rose.
Historically, “yellow rose” was a term for a pretty mulatto woman. Also
historically, the original Yellow Rose of Texas was one Emily West, and
her story is intertwined in song and legend with the Texas Revolution of
1836. That series of battles, led by Sam Houston, made Texas a
republic, its own country. A historical event unique among the fifty
states.
The Yellow Rose is set during the revolution and supposes that Emily and Sam not only collaborated in certain incidents that gave the Texans victory, but became romantically involved.
The novel mixes legend with fact. No one knows for sure if our Emily met Sam Houston or if she participated in the revolution at all. On the other hand, no one has proved the contrary. So, The Yellow Rose asks the question: What if . . .
The Yellow Rose is set during the revolution and supposes that Emily and Sam not only collaborated in certain incidents that gave the Texans victory, but became romantically involved.
The novel mixes legend with fact. No one knows for sure if our Emily met Sam Houston or if she participated in the revolution at all. On the other hand, no one has proved the contrary. So, The Yellow Rose asks the question: What if . . .
Here is an excerpt.
February 24, 1836
Morgan’s Point, Texas
“Girl. Let’s have another.”
Sam Houston called to me, waving his mug at the end of a buckskin-clad arm. Fringe danced under an armpit stained with sweat. It probably smelled worse than a dead polecat, but sure as cotton’s white, I wasn’t about to test that theory.
My name is Emily West, but in Morgan’s Point Hotel, they called me “girl.” A common enough name for a mulatto woman working in a saloon. Somehow my skin didn’t crawl when Sam Houston said it. He didn’t use the derogatory tone most of these louts did with us darker people. I could slough off the insults better than most, being a high yellow mix of white and black, a free woman under contract, not the slave that people figured me for. Still and all, that constant “boy” “girl” “boy” “girl” business felt like needles jabbing, jabbing, jabbing every time.
Houston, though, he sounded like he was just calling for service. That’s what got me interested in the first place. I nodded in his direction and made my way toward him, dodging and slapping away the customary pats and squeezes, some on my backside, some higher, some lower. The clients of Morgan’s Point Hotel Saloon were rougher than an outhouse corncob.
“That’s what I like. A woman who steps right to it when a man calls,” Houston said to his companions without taking his eyes off me.
“What say, General?” demanded the man sitting across the table from him.
“Turn your good ear so you can hear me, Deef,” Houston said. Then, playing to rest of the table, he yelled, “Oh, I forgot, Deef ain’t got a good ear.”
The men roared their delight, Deef right along with them.
Houston handed over his empty tankard, then picked up his jackknife and began whittling on a shapeless wooden block, the slivers joined the other shavings that covered his moccasins.
He wasn’t much to look at, this Sam Houston. Nose a bit too big, lips too thin, his hairline headed north, and bushy sideburns curving south along his chin. Kind of disappointing, since I’d heard so much about what a warrior he was, wounded hero of the Battle of New Orleans.
Gossip here was that President Andrew Jackson had sent this big drunk to pull this godforsaken Mexican hot box into the Union. Why they’d want it was beyond me. It didn’t seem worth the wind it’d take to blow every grain of sand of it into Galveston Bay, which seemed likely to happen any day. Houston just wanted to prove he could do it was my guess. Like any man. Seems like what made the most sense was just leave it to the Mexicans.
But nobody asked me.
Houston and his buddies were on their way to getting glassy-eyed, but hadn’t quite arrived there yet. I got Houston’s attention by making sure he got a peek inside my low-necked bodice when I bent over to pick up his mug. Then I turned around, gave my hips an extra sway, and tossed a smile and a wink back over my shoulder as I returned to the bar. I felt his lust. Good. Bigger tips meant bigger savings toward the inn Mother and I planned to buy when I got back to New York where I belonged.
The tankards filled, I renegotiated the gauntlet of eager hands, painting a smile on my face to hide my resentment at every pinch and squeeze, then plopped the brew in front of him. I directed a bit of a splash down his front in the process. Why, I don’t know. To remember me by, I suppose.
“What the hell?” He dropped his knife and carving and jumped to his feet and bellowed like a bull calling for a heifer.
“Sorry I got your dirty clothes clean,” I said, mopping at the suds foaming on his matted chest hair.
“Leave it,” he said, slapping my hands away.
I was surprised to discover I had to lift up my chin to look in his eyes. Most men I look at straight across, and a goodly number have to lift their eyes to meet mine. Houston wasn’t ten feet tall like the stories said, but he had me by a good three or four inches. Maybe I hadn’t given him enough credit at first glance.
Still and all, he didn’t look like someone you’d count on to turn a mismatched conglomeration of Anglos and Mexicans into an army fit to throw off the likes of General Santa Anna. Quite a gamble for Old Hickory to back him. Like betting on a long shot in a cock fight. But maybe the president did that, too.
Houston’s watery blue eyes scanned me. He tilted his head like a dog, curious and wary about a cat he’s happened on. He swayed a bit. Not unusual for our patrons this time of night, but more noticeable with his height.
“You’re a tall one,” he said.
“Is that what makes you a great leader?” I said. “Your knack for spotting what’s obvious?”
“Here girl, keep your mouth to yourself.” A monotone voice flared behind me, a rough hand grasped a fistful of my sleeve and pulled at me.
I was about to treat his hand to a taste of my fingernails, when Houston laughed and said, “No, Deef. Leave her be. She’s got gumption, and you know I like a good laugh.” He reached to dislodge his buddy’s hand but never took his eyes off me the whole time, nor did I take mine off his. I felt Deef release his grip and retreat. Big dog, little dog. I’d seen this act before.
“He hears better than he makes out, doesn’t he?” I said.
“You don’t talk like a Southern nigger,” Houston said.
“Nossuh,” I said, mimicking the accent of a Southern chattel. “I’s from New Yohk.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Colonel Morgan signed me on to look out for his warehouse and serve here in his saloon.”
“Signed you on? Contract then?”
“One year. And with six months to go, I wish it was over.”
“So you’re one of those free ones, are you?”
“Cross my heart.” I batted my eyelashes and patted the place under my blouse where I had my papers tucked away. “Lots more of us around than you might want to think.”
“Warehouse. Big job for a man like Jim Morgan to trust to a girl, free or not. So must be you can read and write and cypher.”
“Me?” I said, simpering and looking up at him with half-closed eyes, “a simple bar girl?”
Houston smiled. “Deef,” he said, sitting back down and grasping the handle of his mug, “we must treat this woman with respect. She’s probably more educated than you and me.”
“That’s a safe bet,” I said
He stuck out his hand. “Houston’s the name. Sam Houston.”
I didn’t take his hand immediately. “I don’t have to read, write or cypher to know who you are, General.”
He didn’t withdraw his hand. “It’s Sam to you Miss … ” He raised his eyebrows.
I finally deigned to clasp his hand. “West. Emily, General Houston.”
“Well, Emily West, would you draw me a bath and see to my buckskins?” He lifted a pair of saddlebags from the floor and slapped them on the table. “I have another outfit in here needs washing as well.”
“I’ll draw your bath, General,” I said. Then I whispered, “And that’s all.”
“What did you say, girl?” Deef said.
Houston shrugged. “Deef here didn’t catch that, but I heard you loud and clear.”
Deef started to answer but sat looking at me with murder in his eyes. Obviously, no one challenged his general.
Houston downed his beer, then leaped up and marched off toward the stairs that led to the upstairs rooms. I gathered the saddlebags and followed, Deef straggling behind me.
My mind was racing. I’d thought I had control of the situation with this overgrown, half-drunk, so-called general, and then suddenly I was left holding his dusty saddlebags and chasing him up the stairs.
My first lesson in how quickly Sam Houston could turn the tables in his favor.
Morgan’s Point, Texas
“Girl. Let’s have another.”
Sam Houston called to me, waving his mug at the end of a buckskin-clad arm. Fringe danced under an armpit stained with sweat. It probably smelled worse than a dead polecat, but sure as cotton’s white, I wasn’t about to test that theory.
My name is Emily West, but in Morgan’s Point Hotel, they called me “girl.” A common enough name for a mulatto woman working in a saloon. Somehow my skin didn’t crawl when Sam Houston said it. He didn’t use the derogatory tone most of these louts did with us darker people. I could slough off the insults better than most, being a high yellow mix of white and black, a free woman under contract, not the slave that people figured me for. Still and all, that constant “boy” “girl” “boy” “girl” business felt like needles jabbing, jabbing, jabbing every time.
Houston, though, he sounded like he was just calling for service. That’s what got me interested in the first place. I nodded in his direction and made my way toward him, dodging and slapping away the customary pats and squeezes, some on my backside, some higher, some lower. The clients of Morgan’s Point Hotel Saloon were rougher than an outhouse corncob.
“That’s what I like. A woman who steps right to it when a man calls,” Houston said to his companions without taking his eyes off me.
“What say, General?” demanded the man sitting across the table from him.
“Turn your good ear so you can hear me, Deef,” Houston said. Then, playing to rest of the table, he yelled, “Oh, I forgot, Deef ain’t got a good ear.”
The men roared their delight, Deef right along with them.
Houston handed over his empty tankard, then picked up his jackknife and began whittling on a shapeless wooden block, the slivers joined the other shavings that covered his moccasins.
He wasn’t much to look at, this Sam Houston. Nose a bit too big, lips too thin, his hairline headed north, and bushy sideburns curving south along his chin. Kind of disappointing, since I’d heard so much about what a warrior he was, wounded hero of the Battle of New Orleans.
Gossip here was that President Andrew Jackson had sent this big drunk to pull this godforsaken Mexican hot box into the Union. Why they’d want it was beyond me. It didn’t seem worth the wind it’d take to blow every grain of sand of it into Galveston Bay, which seemed likely to happen any day. Houston just wanted to prove he could do it was my guess. Like any man. Seems like what made the most sense was just leave it to the Mexicans.
But nobody asked me.
Houston and his buddies were on their way to getting glassy-eyed, but hadn’t quite arrived there yet. I got Houston’s attention by making sure he got a peek inside my low-necked bodice when I bent over to pick up his mug. Then I turned around, gave my hips an extra sway, and tossed a smile and a wink back over my shoulder as I returned to the bar. I felt his lust. Good. Bigger tips meant bigger savings toward the inn Mother and I planned to buy when I got back to New York where I belonged.
The tankards filled, I renegotiated the gauntlet of eager hands, painting a smile on my face to hide my resentment at every pinch and squeeze, then plopped the brew in front of him. I directed a bit of a splash down his front in the process. Why, I don’t know. To remember me by, I suppose.
“What the hell?” He dropped his knife and carving and jumped to his feet and bellowed like a bull calling for a heifer.
“Sorry I got your dirty clothes clean,” I said, mopping at the suds foaming on his matted chest hair.
“Leave it,” he said, slapping my hands away.
I was surprised to discover I had to lift up my chin to look in his eyes. Most men I look at straight across, and a goodly number have to lift their eyes to meet mine. Houston wasn’t ten feet tall like the stories said, but he had me by a good three or four inches. Maybe I hadn’t given him enough credit at first glance.
Still and all, he didn’t look like someone you’d count on to turn a mismatched conglomeration of Anglos and Mexicans into an army fit to throw off the likes of General Santa Anna. Quite a gamble for Old Hickory to back him. Like betting on a long shot in a cock fight. But maybe the president did that, too.
Houston’s watery blue eyes scanned me. He tilted his head like a dog, curious and wary about a cat he’s happened on. He swayed a bit. Not unusual for our patrons this time of night, but more noticeable with his height.
“You’re a tall one,” he said.
“Is that what makes you a great leader?” I said. “Your knack for spotting what’s obvious?”
“Here girl, keep your mouth to yourself.” A monotone voice flared behind me, a rough hand grasped a fistful of my sleeve and pulled at me.
I was about to treat his hand to a taste of my fingernails, when Houston laughed and said, “No, Deef. Leave her be. She’s got gumption, and you know I like a good laugh.” He reached to dislodge his buddy’s hand but never took his eyes off me the whole time, nor did I take mine off his. I felt Deef release his grip and retreat. Big dog, little dog. I’d seen this act before.
“He hears better than he makes out, doesn’t he?” I said.
“You don’t talk like a Southern nigger,” Houston said.
“Nossuh,” I said, mimicking the accent of a Southern chattel. “I’s from New Yohk.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Colonel Morgan signed me on to look out for his warehouse and serve here in his saloon.”
“Signed you on? Contract then?”
“One year. And with six months to go, I wish it was over.”
“So you’re one of those free ones, are you?”
“Cross my heart.” I batted my eyelashes and patted the place under my blouse where I had my papers tucked away. “Lots more of us around than you might want to think.”
“Warehouse. Big job for a man like Jim Morgan to trust to a girl, free or not. So must be you can read and write and cypher.”
“Me?” I said, simpering and looking up at him with half-closed eyes, “a simple bar girl?”
Houston smiled. “Deef,” he said, sitting back down and grasping the handle of his mug, “we must treat this woman with respect. She’s probably more educated than you and me.”
“That’s a safe bet,” I said
He stuck out his hand. “Houston’s the name. Sam Houston.”
I didn’t take his hand immediately. “I don’t have to read, write or cypher to know who you are, General.”
He didn’t withdraw his hand. “It’s Sam to you Miss … ” He raised his eyebrows.
I finally deigned to clasp his hand. “West. Emily, General Houston.”
“Well, Emily West, would you draw me a bath and see to my buckskins?” He lifted a pair of saddlebags from the floor and slapped them on the table. “I have another outfit in here needs washing as well.”
“I’ll draw your bath, General,” I said. Then I whispered, “And that’s all.”
“What did you say, girl?” Deef said.
Houston shrugged. “Deef here didn’t catch that, but I heard you loud and clear.”
Deef started to answer but sat looking at me with murder in his eyes. Obviously, no one challenged his general.
Houston downed his beer, then leaped up and marched off toward the stairs that led to the upstairs rooms. I gathered the saddlebags and followed, Deef straggling behind me.
My mind was racing. I’d thought I had control of the situation with this overgrown, half-drunk, so-called general, and then suddenly I was left holding his dusty saddlebags and chasing him up the stairs.
My first lesson in how quickly Sam Houston could turn the tables in his favor.
Purchase Links:
Universal Amazon: http://bookgoodies.com/a/B019CWLBQI
Books-A-Million: http://www.booksamillion.com/p/Yellow-Rose/Bob-Stewart/9781625263216?id=6720891044711
CreateSpace: https://www.createspace.com/5939050
Thanks, Carl! We'll be sure to check out this riveting story!
Author Bio
Carl Brush has
been writing since he could write, which is quite a long time now. He grew up
and lives in Northern California, close to the roots of the people and action
of his historical thrillers, The Maxwell
Vendetta, and its sequel, The Second Vendetta.
A third volume of the trilogy, Bonita,
set in pre-gold-rush San Francisco is completed and awaiting publication.
You can find Carl
living with his wife in Oakland, California, where he enjoys the blessings of
nearby children and grandchildren.
Journals in
which his work has appeared include The
Summerset Review, Right Hand Pointing, Blazevox, Storyglossia, Feathertale, and The Kiss Machine. He has
participated in the Napa Valley Writers’ Conference, the Squaw Valley Community
of Writers, the Sewanee Writers’ Conference, and the Tin House Writers’
Workshop, and the Dallas-Fort Worth Writers conference.
Author Links:
Website: http://www.writerworking.net/
Blog: http://www.writerworking.net/blog/
Blog: http://www.writerworking.net/blog/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CarlrBrush
Twitter: https://twitter.com/carlrbrush
Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Carl-R.-Brush/e/B00DCXPH64/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6538152.Carl_R_BrushAmazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Carl-R.-Brush/e/B00DCXPH64/
Publisher: http://solsticepublishing.com/carl-brush/
Carl's Books:
You're the best, Marie. Very, very nice job. Small whoops for me--I see I have to update my bio. Nevertheless, I thank you for hosting and giving your readers a peek at The Yellow Rose. Bob and I had planned sequels to that too, so I think I have my writing future laid out for m.
ReplyDeleteMy pleasure! Thanks for being a guest!
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