by Howard Petote Post # 11 November 14, 2017
The Sins of Maggie Black: Latest News
Excerpt, Chapter One:
"Billy, Billy," she whispers, inches from his face. "Sweetie, wake up." The little boy lies on his back, fast asleep. She brushes her hand over his spikey blond hair and he moans, turning his head to the side. She places her palm on his chest and gently pushes down a few times. "Billy, it's Momma—come on, we have to get up." He starts to whimper and she puts her fingers over his mouth. "Sh, sh, sh,—come on baby, let's wake up for Momma."
Author in The Black Hills
Photo by Melanie Norton
by Howard Petote Post # 13 February 16, 2018
An Occurrence in Deadwood, South Dakota
As related in my last blog, origins—the creative spark, the seed, the turning point—are mysterious and fascinating. Some have planning behind them—as a carefully designed garden, house or career—but often they are capricious and spontaneous, dictated by chance more than anything else. Such is the nature of life, I think. The origins of my novel, The Sins of Maggie Black, began with a memory.
by Howard Petote Post # 12 February 3, 2018
Origins: An Irish Girl Named Maggie
In 1968 the state of Missouri was blessed with the arrival of a baby girl, a one-year-old lifted from the arms of nuns in the west of Ireland. Her name was Maggie, and her adoptive parents—strict Catholics—wanted her to be perfect. But Maggie Black was not perfect, she was merely human—an earthy, feral child who one day realized she would never earn their love. Drifting into drugs, con artists and petty crime . . .
In Scottsbluff, Nebraska
by Howard Petote Post # 14 March 6, 2018
The Mythical Nature of Real Places
Exhausted, I drove alone late one night, heading north on Connecticut's Interstate 95. I had already driven from western New York to Queens for a job interview, then endured, once I left the city at rush-hour, the nastiest traffic jam of my life. But that was behind me as I cruised toward Massachusetts, where I would spend the night. The passing lights and dashed lines of the highway became hypnotic, and my brain shut down. As I passed through Providence, Rhode Island, vivid memories flooded my mind.
by Howard Petote Post # 15 March 27, 2018
Into the Crucible
"Out of whose womb came this child? She is dirty and wild, and her
pretty eyes don't fool anyone."
Who is Maggie Black? She would now be about fifty years old, though I don't know her current situation because I've not written her past the age of twenty-six. It is difficult to write about her without saying too much—explaining the joke, so to speak—and her personality shines on its own in my novel, The Sins of Maggie Black. As stated in my previous blog on origins, she was . . .
Photo credit: ArtofPhoto/Canstock