Elizabeth A. Garcia
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  Lies With Lunch

6/27/2014

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Picture
My ex-husband, a man I adore even though we gave up trying to live together, made a surprise trip to Alpine from Terlingua and invited me to lunch. Of course I accepted.
The waitress took our drink order and disappeared. Without warning, he slapped a recent newspaper onto the table in front of me.
“Did you say in print that I’m a liar?”
“Well…” It was the column about La Llorona.
“Probably a million people have read this by now.”
“I don’t think the Alpine Avalanche reaches a million people.” But wouldn’t that be great?
He gave me a dark look.
“It’s only a story,” I said.
“It makes me look bad. It’s slander.”
“No; it isn’t that at all. It’s about that time you tried to scare me with La Llorona—” His expression stopped my explanation. If you’re a gringo and think you have a grasp of the Spanish language, you should try explaining to an angry Mexican man how calling him a liar is not slander. Yeah. I’ll wait.
“I know this wasn’t the first time you called me a liar in print.”
Who is the big-mouthed troublemaker in Terlingua translating my columns to him? I tried to find out but it was no dice. I’m offering a reward.
“I was having fun at your expense,” I admitted, “but anybody who reads what I write about you knows it’s without malice. They’re just stories. All I’m doing is telling a tale.”
He was not impressed.
“It’s not like you haven’t had a few laughs at my expense,” I added.
He tried to say that wasn’t true but I knew better, and he knew I knew. His wide-eyed innocent look didn’t fly. Instead of admitting guilt, he crammed a salsa-loaded chip into his mouth.
As with a thousand arguments before, this one dissipated like early-morning fog. We began to talk about our daughter, our favorite subject. As I listened to him enthuse about a possible trip to visit her in California, another story came to mind. When I look at him there are millions.
Back in the eighties, Lajitas used to host unforgettable dances. The favorites were referred to as “Mexican dances.” People came from all over the region and the town would be booked full. A band from Ojinaga or San Carlos would arrive and “let the festivities begin!”
Our daughter, whose name is Margarita, was a few weeks old when we decided to take her to a dance. We seldom missed one and had seen other couples there with their babies. She had already been introduced to the wonders of dancing by one of the all-time greats, her second cousin, Kiko Garcia. During an in-out trip to the Lajitas Trading Post, he jumped up from a bench, yelled, “Mi primita!” and grabbed my three-day-old baby and danced her around the porch. I swear I think she smiled.
We dressed to the nines and headed to the dance. As we walked past the side of the pavilion towards its entrance, the music began. It was loud enough to rattle teeth in Cuidad Chihuahua. The sudden blast startled our child and she wailed. Her dad handed her to me, but trying to comfort her was useless. She was so distressed we didn’t have the heart to stay.
We returned home, agonized about it, and decided to leave Margarita with a neighbor who constantly begged to keep her. It was the first time we’d left her with anyone other than her grandmother, but we knew she’d be in loving hands. And we’d only be a yell away.
It was difficult to leave our baby, but we needed time together and we wanted to dance. We made it through two before Margarita’s dad said, “Do you think she’s all right?”
“I can’t stand this.”
He grabbed my hand. “Let’s go.”
Our daughter was sleeping the peaceful sleep of tiny babies, but we swept her out of there as if the place was burning down. We put her to bed at home and then we danced.
When we parted after lunch, my ex hugged me and whispered, “Please stop calling me a liar.”
“I will when you quit lying.”
He laughed and started to walk away but came back. “Did I ever tell you about the time I came face-to-face with the Ghost of Paso Lajitas?”
Do tell.

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June 24th, 2014

6/24/2014

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On June 22, I participated in an event at Malvern’s Books in Austin, TX. Winners of the Texas Association of Authors awards for various genres were invited to read from their works. My first novel, “One Bloody Shirt at a Time” won first place for Best Crime Fiction of 2014.

It was a great experience. I was able to meet and listen to other Texas authors and that was fun.

My longtime friend (and loyal Deputy Ricos fan), Keith Godwin of San Antonio, attended and helped in various ways with her trademark great humor.  I was surprised and honored to be visited by other readers of my books as well. Many thanks to Alexa Walker for coming and to Rosa and Curtis Toews. The biggest surprise of all was to see my friends Julie and Tim McKenna! They came all the way from Terlingua (an 8-hour drive). They brought Julie’s mother, Fran Conrad, who is also a Deputy Ricos fan. The presence of your smiling faces made the event more pleasant and less terrifying. Thank you.

I could not have done anything without my great friend Lynda Douglas. She helped with everything from loading books into my truck to being my navigational officer in that crazy Austin traffic. She made the trip less long and much more fun than it would’ve been without her. Thank you, Lynda.

Heartfelt thanks to Alan Bourgeois of the Texas Association of Authors for his hard work on behalf of Texas authors and to my loyal and loving readers who enrich my life every day.


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A Tale of Two Publishers

6/20/2014

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Picturere-released version
Scrolling through Facebook, but I did a double-take on this: “One’s best success comes after their greatest disappointments.” The quote was attributed to Henry Ward Beecher, and I had just proved it true.

Towards the end of last year, I made a wrong turn onto a path that was a rough and bumpy uphill trail to the edge of a steep cliff. And it was dark. And slick with ice. Since I was driving, so there was nobody else to blame. I was even warned! A small voice whispered not to do it, but I didn’t listen. Every time I ignore that voice a tough lesson follows.

It didn’t take long to realize I had put my books into the hands of an unethical publisher. They held my novel, “The Reluctant Cowboy,” hostage for several months.  She (the boss of the outfit) stole money from me on the pretext of sending books. She held my royalties and still has them. I’ll never see them unless she has an attack of conscience. When I complained, she threatened to publish the third Deputy Ricos tale, even though I had already withdrawn it from her so-called publishing house.

There are times you have to stand up and fight. This woman had to be beaten back with a gigantic metaphorical stick. It was a terrible time for me. Fighting is not my style, but I will defend myself. I got through several awful months by writing, continuing to believe in myself, and with the help of my family, friends, readers, and readers who have become friends. I also made therapeutic trips to South Brewster County and into the Davis Mountains.

I tried to stay positive, but everything made me cry: people being nice, people being jerks, my daughter calling, my daughter not calling, watching the sun set in the West, having no sunset to watch, thinking about the past, and thinking about the future. I was slipping off the cliff.

People who have never met me in person offered to help in any way they could, including sending me money to pursue a lawsuit. I was stunned by the outpouring of support and passionate feelings, and so grateful. It felt as though I had an army backing me. In a manner of speaking, I did and still do. The Beatles had it right: “I get by with a little help from my friends.”

Once I was released by the pretend publisher, good things started happening so quickly it was like magic. I republished “The Reluctant Cowboy” and sales took off as though they had never been interrupted. I released “Darker than Black” and boom!

I won an award from the Texas Association of Authors for “One Bloody Shirt at a Time.” Who would have thought? Sales increased for all my novels. A dear friend hosted a well-attended book signing for me in the Terlingua Ghost Town where I sold novels and watched the Chisos Mountains: bliss.

I was invited to be the featured author at a fundraiser for the Alpine Public Library and I was even interviewed on Marfa Public Radio. I was invited to participate in a book signing on June 22nd at a bookstore in Austin and to woman the Texas Association of Authors’ table at the Texas Book Fair in October to talk about and sell my novels.

That’s incredible, right? Here’s the best thing. Three weeks ago I was signed by a longtime, respected Texas publisher who will help, not hinder me. They’ll work with me to further my writing career, not try to cripple me. Writer + a real publisher = great things coming! I couldn’t be more happy and excited for the future.

Above my writing desk, I have these words pinned to a bulletin board: “I am seeking. I am striving. I am in it with all my heart.” The quote is by Vincent Van Gogh, and he expressed in an eloquent way how I feel about writing. When we’re in anything with our whole hearts, we’re bound to make mistakes. Van Gogh made plenty, but have you seen his legacy?


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My Name in Lights

6/12/2014

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PicturePaige Delaney Alpine Librarian with Beth
Last Friday evening I was honored to participate in a fundraiser for the Alpine Public Library. When I was first invited, I had no clue I would be the only author there. When I realized it, my heart went into my throat. Why would anyone pay to spend an evening in “intimate conversation” with Elizabeth A. Garcia? What would she say? Never mind; maybe no one would buy a ticket. But that would be terrible, wouldn’t it? There was no way to win this.

It was like that when I published “One Bloody Shirt at a Time.” A part of me pushed me to do it at the same time that another part told me not to. I’ve always tried to do things in spite of fear. The story was/is important to me. I needed to tell it and wanted to publish it even if rotten tomatoes were thrown at me. We have to be who we are in the short time we have here; otherwise, what is the point?

When I entered the large room at the library and saw all those chairs, I wanted to bolt. But up on the front wall was a giant-sized poster of the cover of “One Bloody Shirt at a Time.” No way was I going anywhere. I was as filled with pride as if I’d seen my name in lights!

As I walked to the podium my legs trembled. I thought about my mother and how proud she would be that I was speaking at a library about my own books. She read to me early-on and encouraged me to read before I ever went to school. Mom took me to the library and helped me learn how to find and check out books. When I was a kid, the library was the only place she let me go whenever I wanted.

“This is for you, Mom,” I thought as I took a breath and turned around.

When I saw the faces looking at me, I knew I was among friends. Paige, our librarian, gave the most thoughtful introduction I will ever receive. She took my own words about writing off my blog and knocked me over the head with them. When I heard them read by her, I was so touched I nearly started to cry. She had done her homework. But of course she had; she’s a librarian, one of the heroes on the frontlines in the fight to keep our society educated and questioning—reading, in other words.

I read for a short time from the book that was represented on the wall next to me. When I asked for comments and questions, they were wonderful. Someone asked if I’d done a lot of research into law enforcement practices before writing the story. My reply was yes, I had done some, but not enough. I got some things wrong. Writing is like life. You do your best with what you have and learn as you go, and always, always, try to do better.

Towards the end of the questions, I received this one: Are you planning to write a sequel to “The Reluctant Cowboy?” Wow. We had only been talking about the Deputy Ricos series, so the question took me aback. “The Reluctant Cowboy” is the best thing I ever wrote, but that is only my opinion. Some see it as “controversial material.” Maybe it is, but it shouldn’t be. Love is love is love, and love is all that matters. I will go to my grave believing that and writing about it.

I tell stories from my heart. Nothing I’ve ever written contains more of my heart than my coming-of-age love story about The Cowboy. Someone read it and liked it enough to ask about a sequel. I was speechless for a second. “Say something,” I prodded myself, but the question made me want to jump in the air and scream “Woo-hoo!”

Yes, I’m writing the rest of that story. Thank you for asking. I never planned to tell more about Jed, but the characters won’t let me rest. It’s not over, the same way the tales about Deputy Ricos are not over until she says so.

My final thought for this column is about our public library. Every single person in this community who believes in an intelligent, educated future for the human race should support it. Paige and her staff should be reading to little kids and figuring out what books to buy and doing whatever they do to make our library one of the top-rated libraries in the whole state of Texas. They shouldn’t have the extra work and stress of making fundraisers, but this writer is so thankful they did.



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Late Night Lies

6/5/2014

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I mentioned before that I married a storyteller. In addition to tall tales and outright lies, he loved to scare me and would go to great lengths. Late one night we were crossing the Rio Grande when the truck stalled. Muddy water raced past the headlights, sweeping all hope downstream.

My husband removed his expensive boots. We had been to a wedding dance in Mexico and were wearing our finest clothes. He wriggled out of his pants and crawled through the window to check out the problem.

His exit left me alone to stare out into the night. The only sound was the gurgling of the river and the creaking noise made by the truck as the insistent current pushed against it.

“Honey,” I yelled, “do you think the Rio could move the truck?”

“Why do you think I’m standing upstream?” he called from under the hood. Then he slogged to the window. “I’d come find you, Mi Amor,” he assured me, but he was laughing.

I was not comforted.

He went back to work on the motor, but within a few moments he yelped. There was panicky splashing and grunting, and then he catapulted through the driver’s side window.

“Something touched me,” he gasped, his dark eyes huge.

“It was probably a fish.”

“It was a hand! We can’t stay here.” He shivered. “She’ll come for us.”

“Stop it.” I didn’t ask who would come for us because I didn’t want to know.

My husband shifted in the seat to face me, his eyes still wide. “She haunts the river, you know.”

I knew what was coming and didn’t want to hear a creepy tale about the Rio Grande while we were stuck in the middle of it on a night when the darkness was as thick as mud.

Before I could stop him the liar launched into the story of La Llorona, the most famous of the Mexican ghost stories. Long tale short, Maria Gonzales fell in love with a young nobleman and they married, but the marriage soon turned sour. She loved her husband, but he flirted with other women, especially the young ladies from the wealthy side of town. This hurt Maria’s pride.

After the birth of two children, Maria’s husband became even more distant.

Sometimes he wouldn’t come home until morning. When he did, he brought small gifts for the children, but he ignored Maria. He wouldn’t even look at her.

The end came the day Maria spied her husband riding with a beautiful woman in a fancy wagon. As she watched, her children ran to meet them. He gave them a big smile and pieces of candy, but he never looked at her once.

Jealous rage boiled up in Maria. When her husband and his companion rode away, she took her children to the river. In a moment of insane anger and jealousy, she threw them from the cliff. As soon as she did it, she realized what she had done and fell to her knees moaning and wailing. Then one dark night, Maria threw herself into the river where she had murdered her niños.

A few days later, La Llorona appeared at the spot where Maria had drowned her children. On dark and silent nights, a voice carries on the wind. A voice choked with tears, crying out, “Mis niños, mis niños!”

With the passage of time, Maria forgot what her children looked like so she began calling to all children. Whenever she finds a child alone in the dark near the water, she grabs it.

“La Llorona still cries for her children,” he finished, “coming in the dark, seeking what is forever lost to her.”

“That’s such a sad story,” I said.

“Nah, nah, nah.” He shook his head, disgusted with me. “You’re not supposed to be sad. You’re supposed to be afraid.”

“It sounds like a story people tell their children to keep them away from the river at night.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m disappointed, Mi Amor. I went to a lot of trouble to scare you.”

“Why? Being stuck in the river in the dark of night is plenty scary.”

“Well,” he sighed, “I guess that’s something.”

Then he winked at me and started the truck.


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