Elisabeth Grace Foley

Historical Fiction Author

Small Snippets

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When I paused recently to take stock of what I’d written this year, I was surprised—as I often am when I look back over a few months’ work instead of focusing on how much I am accomplishing (or not accomplishing) in the day-to-day of the present. I admit, the first three-quarters of the year were tough going, but I did make inches of progress here and there; and October was a good month indeed. Once again I’ve racked up more words on short story projects than on any of my novels-in-progress, but I don’t really mind. I’m very happy with several of these stories, and I’m now looking at releasing another Western collection sooner rather than later. And hopefully the bit of momentum I’ve been gaining will spill over onto one of those “big” projects at the right time.

Meanwhile…we have snippets! For the first time in ages! Most of these are from the aforementioned Western short stories, plus a tiny taste of a Mrs. Meade short story which you’ll be reading in its entirety even sooner…

Dell Paget had not said a word. He moved between the men without looking at them, seemingly unconscious of the threatening attitude that radiated from them, and stood staring down at the calf, which had ceased to struggle and lay there with slightly heaving sides, raising its head every once in a while and letting it fall back with a thump of its muzzle in the dust. There was a freshly burned brand on its flank—a little crude as might be expected of one done with a straight iron, but a perfectly legible Paget mark.

*

“You’ve got an idea,” said McCreath. “I can see it running round inside of you. What’s up, Giff?”

“I’ve got a hunch,” said Gifford. “It’s a long hunch, but I’ve got to play it, because I don’t see any other way out of this. I’m going out for a while. Owen, you think anybody’ll try to scare up trouble here tonight?”

“Not without my say-so.”

“Well, then don’t say so. I’ll be back before dark if I can. But if I don’t make it back till morning, just remember I voted for you last election, and I’ll be sorely disappointed if you let any unauthorized persons get in this jail when they shouldn’t.”

~ “The Smoking Iron”

[Read more…]

Re-Introducing “The Summer Country”

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Some time ago, I went through my blog and unpublished a whole slew of posts related to unfinished novel projects. I was genuinely unsure whether these particular books would ever be finished or not, and I (a) didn’t like the idea of blog readers maybe getting interested and hoping to read the finished story, and then being disappointed when it never came; and (b) was depressed myself by looking at all those posts, reminders of what I saw as a string of failures.

Fast-forward to the present. At least one of those unfinished manuscripts remains decently archived as an Early Work (primarily useful in having taught me how to write a book and how not to write a book); but a couple of the others—to my own surprise—have since taken a new lease on life. I’m actually not sorry I unpublished those old blog posts. It took off some of the pressure of feeling that I needed to finish those books as soon as I could because I’d publicly committed to them…and it also means I now have the pleasure of digging some of that old material out of the archives and sharing it again, as I hopefully inch closer to finally being able to share at least one of those books with the world.

If you’ve been around here a long time you may remember The Summer Country. It was one of those ideas that dropped on me out of nowhere, which I had to run with simply because it entranced me too much not to. It’s a middle-grade, non-magical children’s historical fantasy set in Edwardian-era New York, about five orphaned siblings living with an uncle, and their adventures involving dreams curiously connected to the bedtime stories told by their oldest sister. The best way I can describe it is that if you love the children’s classics of E. Nesbit, J.M. Barrie, France Hodgson Burnett, A.A. Milne, Elizabeth Enright, and C.S. Lewis, this should be the book for you. In fact, one of the joys of writing this story has been recognizing the subtle and not-so-subtle influences of the books I loved through childhood shaping my own vision and style.

Here’s some of the snippets I originally shared when I was drafting The Summer Country several years ago, polished up a bit to match the edits I’ve done since:

“Why, to smell the flowers,” shouted the Little Old Man, trying to use his walking-stick as a megaphone and then realizing it wouldn’t work. “You’re looking for the garden, aren’t you? Well, you certainly chose the hard way in, but it’s there all right. Just keep going right—I mean left! Left. Yes, that’s right.”

*

There were plenty of rooms in Uncle Timothy’s house, Morrie had once observed darkly, leaving it to be concluded that there was something else missing.

*

“Dear me,” said Mrs. Butler in a voice of genteel surprise, which made her sound like she was a long way off from the confusion, perhaps viewing it through an opera-glass. “And what is all this?”

*

And when he had gone out she slipped into the front parlor, leaving the others still chattering in the dining-room, and watched from behind the lace curtains as he went down the street along the sidewalk, with his head bent a little. Nobody should walk with their head bent that early in the morning.

*

“Perhaps I’m just too civilized,” said the Gentleman Traveler, “but I don’t exactly relish the idea of being close to the ground. It’s dusty.” He glanced down at his immaculate patent-leather shoes.

*

In the doorway she remembered something and turned back. “Oh, Uncle Timothy, I forgot—Cook has given notice.”

This time Uncle Timothy put down his paper. “What for?”

“I think she said something about the meals being irregular.”

Peggy had a very good vocabulary. What the cook had really said was a long speech without stopping for breath about houses where meals were never eaten at the same time twice in a week and had to be warmed over so many times of an evening that they couldn’t hardly be called meals at all.

Status of this project? Interesting question. I finished the first draft early last year, got a developmental edit on it, let it sit for a bit, and now I’m doing some revisions. I don’t know exactly what route to publication I’m going to take yet. I feel like this book needs something a little bit different than anything I’ve done so far—I’m considering possibly exploring the idea of a hybrid or small press. But I feel more confident now that some way, sometime, you’ll be able to read the finished product.

Scattered Snippets: 2022

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Although it was not a year for getting down a big chunk of progress on one individual project, I did make tiny bits of progress on several. It doesn’t seem like a terrible lot to me, but at least it’s enough to give you a very tiny taste of snippets from each one. I’d love to hear which story appeals to you the most…and no doubt it will be whichever one I’m least in the mood to work on. Take bets on which one I’m likeliest to finish first, if you like—at the present moment I haven’t the faintest idea which that will be!

(Technically, The Summer Country is finished; it just needs a round of edits, and I’m still considering different options for publication. The other two still have a lot of drafting to go.)

The Summer Country

{middle-grade novel: historical fantasy}

“If you meant to catch the 8:15,” said the Gentleman Traveler, holding up his watch, “you had exactly fourteen hours and fifteen minutes since the six o’clock train last night to do it in. And you were still late.”

“Gracious goodness, my dear man, I wasn’t trying to catch the 8:15!” said the Lady with the Map, putting it away in her handbag (the map, that is).

*

Milly answered the door, and when she saw Anne she did not say “Walk in, please, miss,” as she probably should have, but uttered an astonished “Well, I declare!” Milly had never been very good at answering the door properly, and since so few real guests rang the doorbell at Uncle Timothy’s she had gotten even more out of practice.

*

Peggy sat down on the edge of his wheelbarrow and watched him for a minute, studying his battered hat and his big boots with the fresh soil always on them, and his weathered hands handling the spade. It was all so exactly like what she had been told that Peggy felt he must know something; he must know the secret of what puzzled her. So when presently he turned and his keen, kind eyes met hers, she spoke what she was thinking without it seeming at all strange. “I wonder, are you really the Gardener?”

The City of the Great King

{novel: Ruritanian}

“Dear Julian,” ran the microscopic note in Phyllida’s inky curlicued handwriting. “I am giving a very elegant, very intellectual little dinner this week, and one of my less important guests has cried off at the last minute. Do come and fill his place so I don’t have to rearrange my table.”

*

“I don’t fancy Schaldorf much,” observed Kinzelmann. “Cold sort of climate—dodgy company. And their vintage is sour.”

*

Deep down Matthias knew that Isabel would not be Isabel were it not for her honesty and her principle, but he had always been a little too serene in imagining that they would always agree, as they had always agreed heretofore, and that he would never do anything that Isabel might criticize. It always seems a little unfair to have cold water poured on you by the person you have paid the very great honor of admiring and holding in high esteem.

Last Ride at the Lazy G

{novel: historical mystery}

For half a minute, listening to the sizzle of frying eggs on the stove and seeing the patterns the morning light made on the floor, Rusty felt absolutely nothing. It was like the few seconds of perfect silence before a bomb made impact. Then the hollow feeling in his gut told him that yes, he had actually heard the words. He stared at his father, who met his look fairly now with concerned, heavy-browed eyes. “Sold?” he said.

“You mean you didn’t know?”

“You thought I did?” Rusty was still at sea, but with the futile clenching of hurt and anger a hard knot under his breastbone.

*

Mrs. MacIntyre’s voice turned warm and friendly. “Rusty! How good to hear your voice again! When did you get home?”

“Yesterday afternoon.” Too soon to call? Not soon enough? Come on, Gregory, get a grip on yourself. It was sometimes useful to think in his sergeant’s voice. “Is Janice there?”

*

The sun edged above the eastern hills and the pasture streamed with gold. For a while they rode without speaking, soaking in the sights and sounds of morning, their horses moving at a slow jingling trot. Rusty glanced at the amateur helpers; Judy Price’s shining face and Nicky Sheridan’s straight back and eager scanning of the landscape showed that this was high adventure to them. Jack Vaughn, trailing in the rear, sat his horse casually and whistled sporadically, scraps of no tune in particular that were like off-key echoes of the birds trilling from trees and thickets.