Literary Development Scam

 The other day, I received an email from an alleged literary agent who seemed impressed with my work. Granted, I haven't published anything since 2016—when I self-published my Appalachian novel, Them That Go—so it isn't likely any agent is looking for my work.

The email was addressed to me by name and was titled "Journey to His Heart: Adventure to New Depths in Your Walk With God." This heading made no sense because I am not connected to a book with this title. So I Googled it. Turns out there is a book with this title and the author's first name is similar—but not identical—to my first name. The book was published in 2022 by a vanity publisher and has garnered a total of 5 reviews on Amazon.

Anyhow, here's the email. Note I have redacted the agent's name:

I hope you're well.

My name is T— J—, and I work independently in literary and screen development in Los Angeles. I collaborate with producers and development executives who are actively looking for distinctive material with strong cinematic potential for film, television, and streaming.

I figured that "independently means he isn't actually employed by a company. It would have been nice if he'd mention the actual names of some of his projects, though. 

I came across your work and was intrigued by the possibility of how the story could translate to the screen. At the development stage, I’m particularly interested in projects with a compelling premise, strong character arcs, an identifiable visual world, and a narrative hook that can sustain an audience beyond the page.

Notice he flings around literary-sounding phrases like "strong character arc" and "narrative hook." However, he doesn't mention the title of my book.

I’d like to take a closer look at the property and get a sense of its adaptation potential. If the material feels like a strong fit, I can then determine whether it makes sense to introduce the project to a producer or development executive within my network.

Translation: "I haven't actually read your book and don't even know what the title is, but I'm hoping you are gullible enough to be flattered by what I've mentioned so far."

For an initial development review, please send:

• Title and genre

• Logline or brief synopsis

• Link to the book or a representative excerpt

• Current film/television rights status

• Best contact number and time zone

If you'd rather speak first, you're welcome to send your preferred number and a convenient time for a brief call.

Translation: "I'm trying to sound like a real professional here, but I don't have a clue about your book other than you self-published and might be clueless about how production and development works."

There is no obligation or fee associated with this initial review. At this stage, the goal is simply to assess the property's creative and commercial potential and determine whether there is a meaningful path toward further development.

Translation: "While there's no fee for this initial review, you can bet the fees will come later and they'll likely be hefty."

The strongest adaptations begin with a story that already has something cinematic at its core: a distinctive world, characters audiences want to follow, meaningful conflict, and a reason the story belongs on screen.

Translation: "I'll fling out a few high-sounding phrases that you'll probably want to hear so you'll think I'm legit. Because you're self-published and probably think your book would be a great movie, you'll fall for my scam."

I’d be interested to see whether your work has that potential.

I'll bet you're interested. But ain't no way you're gonna see it—because I recognize a scam when I see one. 

Best regards,

T--- J----- 

Independent Literary & Screen Development

At the bottom of his email was this notice:

CONFIDENTIALITY NOTICE: This email and any materials shared for development consideration are intended solely for the recipient and should be treated as confidential. Please do not reproduce, distribute, or disclose any unpublished material without authorization. If received in error, please notify the sender and delete this message and any attachments.

My own notice: Any email that comes to my inbox becomes my property, and I will do with it what I see fit. If you want confidentiality, contact me by snail-mail. It just turns out that this unsolicited email was perfect for a blog-post to let my writer buddies know what scams to avoid.

FYI: I visited his web site which "connects clients to opportunities worldwide while offering tailored, hands-on support." While his web site looks slick and impressive, there is no mention of what projects the agency has actually worked on, who any of the clients are, etc.  Oh, and his email is through Gmail—something that professional agents generally don't use.

~

Wildflower Haven: A Review

 Readers who have enjoyed Lin Stepp's other Mountain Home books are likely to enjoy the latest one: Wildflower Haven. The cover depicts the setting nicely: a mountain range in the background and wildflowers in the foreground. Both mountains and native plants are important to the book.

The back cover gives hints of the main characters and the plot:

 

Like previous Mountain Home books, Wildflower Haven is rich in family values, a strong sense of faith, connection to the land, family traditions as well as local traditions, and—of course—romance. The Mountain Home novels also characteristically have a happy ending, but the road to getting there is a bit rocky and sometimes surprising.  

 

Wildflower Haven could be classified as an Appalachian novel, a Christian romance, a women's novel, or a blend of all. But it's an entertaining read however you classify it.

 

When the cats wake up, they will decide who reads Wildflower Haven first.
 

The novel—set in Cosby, a small town in the Smoky Mountains—gets its name from Wildflower Haven, a nursery and garden store that's been in the same family since it was established in 1889. Valerie Merton and her sister Senna help their grandparents and great-grandfather run the family business. 

Both sisters are college graduates who chose to return to their roots. At college, each was involved with a man, but Senna divorced her husband who wanted her to return to Ireland with him, and she and her daughter returned home. Valerie rejected her college suitor when he wanted her to move far way with him. But both women have found their niche back home—Valerie tends the herbs and gives lectures on plant use and care, and Senna tends the beehives. Senna's former high school sweetheart, Emmett, lives nearby and is still in love with her, but she isn't interested in rekindling their relationship. When Valerie encounters Patrick, a handsome college professor who just bought the house next door, she isn't attracted to him—at first. However, in both cases, love finds a way, but the way has many twists, turns, and complications. 

 

There are some other complications, too.  Plants and shrubs are being stolen from neighboring greenhouses and garden centers, and the Mertons worry that theirs will be hit. The son of neighbors—who also have a nursery business in the area—returns home after years of being away and returns to his former obsession with Senna, who can't stand him. Plus Senna has a secret that only a few know. . . .  Of course, there's a lot more to the plot.

The setting is important, and Stepp uses plenty of description so readers feel as if they're almost there. For instance, hiking is a major activity in the book, so the trails are described in depth and let the reader see the wonders of the Smokies. When Patrick lets Valerie know he enjoys hiking, she invites him to show him some area trails. Of course, they discover many of their common interest as they hike.  

 

Typically, Stepp includes a map of where her characters live. Here's part of the map that shows where the nursery is. . .

. . . and the part that shows where the Mertons' house is and where Patrick's house is.

 

Wildflower Haven will be available on Amazon in paperback on March 7, 2026, and is currently available for pre-order from Amazon. It will be available for Kindle soon.

 

Looks like Charlotte is going to read Wildflower Haven first.

~

Discontented Winter

 Now is the winter of my discontent—or perhaps it's the weather of my discontent. We've had some rough winter weather in the last week or two.

While the predicted big snow storm in late January didn't happen in my part of Franklin County, we did get several inches of ice instead. In some ways this was way worse than snow because ice can't be easily shoveled. In many cases, it couldn't be plowed off the roads. Because temperatures were in the teens or lower for over a week, melting didn't happen. County schools have been closed since January 26.

Arlo, Grover, and Rufus check out what the ice on my deck looked like. They're probably glad they're house cats.

Thankfully, someone scraped our driveway. Keep in mind that this is ice, not snow.

Last Saturday we got a few inches of snow on top of the week-old ice.

The best way to deal with this dreadful weather is to stay inside and cuddle up with a friend. Chloe and Tanner demonstrate how to do this:

Today is Ground Hog Day, and the rodent saw his shadow so we'll get to prolong our discontent with six more weeks of winter. A couple decades ago I wrote a groundhog poem for a Virginia Poetry Society contest. (It didn't win.) This dreadful poem is as good a way as any to end this post about the weather,

The Groundhog

The groundhog, I’m fairly certain,

Lives behind no silken curtain,

Lounges on no chaise or chair,

Wears no garments but his hair.

The groundhog, I do believe,

Keeps no secrets up his sleeve

Since he doesn’t wear a shirt.

He spends his days in digging dirt.

The lowly groundhog, I have found,

Makes his home beneath the ground,

Shuns townhouse and doublewide,

And makes do with his hole’s inside.

This large rodent, I have learned,

Has—of necessity—luxury spurned.

Both his needs and wants are few.

He only does what he needs to do.

But every winter, he has a day when

He ventures forth from cozy den

As his fans eagerly watch and wait

To see what he’ll prognosticate.

When the sun is out in force,

The groundhog’s shadow appears, of course;

If he sees it, we can be sure

Six weeks of winter we’ll endure.

If clouds prevail and sun can’t shine,

No shadow means weather will be fine.

The groundhog really doesn’t care;

He just returns to his cozy lair

Underground, so snug and deep,

That sheltered him for his winter sleep.

About his forecast, he doesn’t worry

As humans do each February.

* * *

A Nearby Smith Mystery

 Recently I discovered a Smith cousin from the 1800s who lived not far from me: John Henry Smith, a great-grandson of my fifth great-grandfather, Col. John Smith.

The cemetery is "Smith at Listening Hill" but it isn’t on Listening Hill Road. It’s on Bar Ridge Road—about a half mile down the road from our Polecat Creek Farm. During the late 1980s, my cousin and I used to ride our horses on this farm. Although, we would have ridden within 100 feet of this cemetery, but I never noticed the marker.  Most likely high grass obscured it.

Only three people are buried there, John Henry Smith (1840-1904), his wife Flora Margaret Ann Housman Smith (1851-1939), and their son Vilos Lanier Smith (1892-1919). 

John Henry’s father, according to the marriage register, is Robert Cunningham, and his mother is “Giddy” (actually Gilly) Smith. Gilly Smith, b. 1805, is my first cousin 5 times removed. Her father was Coleman Smith, son of Col. John Smith (my 5th great-grandfather). Thus, John Henry is my 2nd cousin, 4 times removed.

From Ancestry, I learned John Henry Smith was a Confederate veteran. On 20 May 1861, he served in Company D, 2nd Cavalry, and was hospitalized in Charlottesville with bronchitis during April 1863. As for his service, "1861-10-31 he was On rolls, Present; 1862-09-30 Detailed, As courier for Colonel Munford; 1862-11-15 Returned, Estimated day; 1863-07-15 Returned, Estimated day; 1863-08-15 Detailed, As courier for Col Munford; 1863-09-15 Returned, Estimated day; 1864-08-31 Detailed, As courier for Col Munford, NFR; 1864-10-31 Detailed, As courier for Col Munford." According to the application for a pension by John Henry's wife, he died suddenly of a heart attack. 

From Ancestry, I discovered a bit more about Gilly Smith's father: Coleman Smith, the son of Col. John Smith and Frances Mildred Haynes, was married twice—first to Tabitha Hatcher, then Rebecca Crosby. Coleman's children were Samuel, John, Caleb, William, Mary, Phoebe, Annie, Nancy, Gilly, and Catherine. Coleman and his brother Samuel (who married Martha Hatcher) went to Greene County, Tennessee and then to Cocke County, Tennessee. [This info was from an old Rootsweb file.] Coleman's name might have been William Coleman Smith, but Col. John already had a son named William. 

I also looked at Family Search, where I found this info: "When Gilly Smith was born in 1805, her father, William Coleman Smith, was 33 and her mother, Tabitha Hatcher, was 30. She had at least one son and one daughter with Robert Cunningham."

I wish I could have found out more about about Gilly Smith and her son John Henry, but their lives remain a mystery..

~

Note: Pictures are from the FindaGrave site, and they were taken by James Brooks.

Free-Range Summers

I wrote the followoing article for a local family magazine several years ago. That magazine was short-lived, so I'm recycling the article: Free-Range Summers in the 1950s

In the 1950s when I was young, the term “free-range kids” wasn’t used, but that’s indeed what we were in my Williamson Road neighborhood. We played outside, we explored our neighborhood, and we entertained ourselves—especially in summer.

 

“No more pencils, no more books! No more teacher’s dirty looks!” my friends and I chanted in early June as we walked home from Huff Lane School on the last day. We’d be free of educational obligations for three whole months.

 

We didn’t go cold turkey (a term that hadn’t been thought of in those days). For a week in June, we usually attended Bible School—which was a little like school but without homework or tests. Although I wasn’t a member of Grace Methodist Church, my friend Martha was, so I went with her. I don't remember any parental involvement—we kids walked a few blocks to the corner of Floraland and Williamson where the church was, showed up, and were admitted to a class in an old house that used to be behind the church. After a morning of singing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” “Jesus Loves Me,” and other songs that everyone knew, we worked on craft projects, and had a snack—usually cookies and Kool-Aid. We were back home in time for lunch.

 

Sometimes we’d ride our bikes to Huff Lane School to play unsupervised on the playground. Usually we’d take a piece of wax paper to slick up the slide so we’d go down really fast. We’d swing as high as we dared, and then we’d climb on the monkey bars—which some called a jungle gym—without anyone to tell us how high we could climb or how long we could hang by our knees. During the school year, girls weren’t allowed to climb high because we wore dresses and boys might see our underpants. But wearing our shorts in summer allowed us to climb as high as we wanted. From the top, we could get a good view of the Huff Farm next door. I don’t remember anyone ever falling onto the asphalt below.

 

Our bikes gave us the freedom to explore, too. When we were six or seven, we usually ventured no more than two or three blocks from home. Most folks in that area knew who we were or where we belonged, so we could always stop for help if needed. Since few women went to work, housewives would be home to no doubt keep a watchful eye on us as we passed by. I don’t remember ever needing help, though. 

At eight or nine, we’d go farther. If we had a dime, we could ride the shady back streets to Hardies—a combination gas station/convenience store—on Williamson Road for a Coke or an ice cream bar. If we had any empty soft-drink bottles, we could turn them in for a refund. I think it was 2¢ a bottle. 

 

By the time we were ten, we’d ride to Evans Drug Store near the intersection of Hershberger Road and Williamson. Of course, Hershberger didn’t have nearly the traffic it does today, so it was easy to cross, and what would become Crossroads Mall was then a cow pasture. Evans Drug Store was my main source for comic books when I was ten, and a few years later my source for movie magazines. When I was twelve, I bought my first Revlon lipstick there.

 

We didn’t always ride bikes. On Saturdays we’d walk a mile along Williamson Road to the Lee Theater for the Kiddie Show which cost a quarter. The main movie was usually a western, but there was also a serial (usually Tarzan), and a couple of cartoons. I don’t remember any parents attending with their kids.

 

If we didn’t go to the Kiddie Show, we’d spend an entire Saturday morning watching TV because the shows were geared to kids. There were cartoons, but I’ve forgotten which ones. I remember some non-cartoon shows, though. Sky King was a western with an airplane, and Fury was kind of a modern western about a boy and his horse. I loved horses, so I rarely missed a western. Rinky Dink and You was an interactive show, in which viewers could attach a plastic cover to the TV screen and use special crayons to draw objects to help Rinky Dink achieve his goal. A voice-over would tell us what crayon to use and what to draw: “Use the black crayon to draw a bridge so Rinky can cross the river.” Mr. Wizard introduced us to science experiments and told us what to eat for breakfast: “Fruit, cereal, milk, bread, and butter.” Prior to Mr. Wizard, we’d always eaten eggs and bacon or sausage for breakfast, but now we demanded the cereal that sponsored the show.  

 

We played outside games during the summer—tag, hide and seek, croquet, badminton. Hide and seek was especially fun in the dark. Since everyone had a cap gun, we might play cowboys and Indians, which wasn’t politically incorrect in those days. None of us had ever met a real Native American, but we were familiar with cowboys from all the Westerns on TV. Just about everybody watched Gunsmoke, Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Lone Ranger, Have Gun Will Travel, and others. I don’t remember any organized sports. If we needed a team to play a game, we formed teams with whoever was playing outside at the time. We kept cool by soaking in a wading pool in the backyard. When it was too hot to play in the sun, we might lounge on an old quilt and read comics book in the shade or stay inside and read books.

 

Parents almost never supervised our outdoor recreation. Once in a while, a parent might take a carload of kids to Lakeside or Tinkerbell swimming pool, but in the neighborhood we were pretty much on our own. I don’t remember any fights breaking out, and arguments were usually settled quickly—a little name-calling and maybe a few thrown rocks was the extent of it.

 

Once a week or so, we might accompany our mothers on their shopping trips. This involved a bus ride to downtown, so we’d have to dress up—no shorts and sneakers! My mama would always buy some canned goods from the A&P at the edge of the market, fresh meat from one of the butchers in the market building, and some fresh vegetables from the outside vendors. When she had two shopping bags full, it was time to catch the bus for home. Once in a while, we might first take in a western movie at the Rialto Theater near the market or shop in the dime stores a block or two up Campbell Avenue.

 

On some Sundays, Mama and I would ride the bus to Grandma’s house in Rugby, where my cousins and I played outside while the grown-ups stayed inside and talked. Grandma’s big front yard was perfect for games that involved running or required us to spread out. We played Red Light-Green Light, Mother May I, Old Gramma Hippy-Toe, and London Bridge Is Falling Down. We sometimes explored the Watts farm next door, taking care to keep our distance from the resident bull. Sometimes we’d go down the hill past Grandma’s big garden to Lick Run Creek where we might wade or look for minnows. Sometimes we’d just sit on the bridge and watch the water as it flowed toward 10th Street. Once when I was five, I leaned a little too far over and fell in. My nine-year-old cousin reached down and pulled me out. By the time we climbed the hill back to Grandma’s house, I was halfway dry.

 

Looking back, I’m glad we didn’t have computers, tablets, and video games that would’ve kept us inside and isolated. I’m glad that instead of virtual reality, we had real reality—playing games with real people, running across real fields, riding bikes to real places, and even falling into real creeks. The 1950s was a great time to be a free-range kid.

~

Gifts in Appalachian Lit

 I've been a fan of Appalachian literature ever since I read Jesse Stuart's short story, "Split Cherry Tree," in my 7th grade lit book. The first Appalachian novel I read was when I was thirteen— Harriet Arnow's Hunter's Horn. As I got older, I read more Appalachian books—novels by Jesse Stuart and Janet Holt Giles, and eventually others. When I was in my fifties, I started writing Appalachian short stories—I eventually won the Lonesome Pine Short Story Contest five times—my favorite is this one— and the Sherwood Anderson Short Story Contest three times. My Sherwood Anderson winners are in this ebook, Rest in Peace.

I especially like Appalachian stories where a character has a "gift"—like Sharyn McCrumb's character Nora Bonesteel, who's appeared in several of McCrumb's novels. My favorite is The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter. The first two lines of this novel immediately hooked me: "Nora Bonesteel was the first one to know about the Underhill family. Death was no stranger to Dark Hollow, Tennessee, but Nora Bonesteel could see it coming."

In 1916, when I wrote my own Appalachian novel, Them That Go,  I featured a main character with a gift—Annie Caldwell, who can communicate with animals. 

I have Annie begin her story by remembering which stereotypes her classmates were. She concludes her list by identifying herself: "Who was I back then? The quiet mousy one that nobody noticed. I was 'The Other,' a term I learned years later when I was no longer an Other. But in 1972, I didn't have a word for who I was. All that I knew was that I was Annie Caldwell, I lived at the end of a holler, and I wasn't like other kids. I had what Aint Lulie—my great aunt on Daddy's side—called 'the gift.' "

Consequently, I'm always delighted when I find other Appalachian novels that feature a character with a gift. Rebecca D. Elswick's new novel, The Dream is the Truth, has several characters with "gifts."

This lovely and lyrical novel has a strong sense of place—Coal Valley, West Virginia. Among its Appalachian motifs are superstitions, mountain wisdom, uses for plants, Irish heritage, strong women, and the importance of family, 

The book bridges two stories and two time periods: Zelda's story which begins in 1912 and Maggie and Hannah's story which begins in 1990

And the first line hooked me: "Two days shy of Zelda Ryan’s tenth birthday, she went into the forest to gather Shepherd’s Purse and came back with a dead baby."

The rest of the opening paragraph kept me hooked: "Zelda’s mother was a midwife, and she needed Shepherd’s Purse to make a poultice to stop bleeding. It was May fifth and Shepherd’s Purse was in bloom on Rock House Mountain, and thanks to her grandmother, Zelda knew every nook and cranny of the mountain. Zelda was named for that grandmother, a healer who now in her old age was called Granny Zee."

Chapter 3, which switches to 1990,  begins: "Addie buried the secret ring deep in the heart-shaped pocket of her dress. With her other hand, she grabbed her mother’s wrist and tugged her down the hall. Her Tinker Bell backpack swished back and forth on her thin shoulders as she step-skipped through the crowd of parents and children gathered in the hallways of Coal Valley Elementary School."

This chapter introduces Margaret—Maggie—Whitefield and her daughter Addie, and Hannah Lively and her daughter Reilly. Maggie recently moved from the Washington DC area because of her husband's job, but Hannah's family has lived in the Coal Valley area for generations. The two women  meet on the first day of school where their daughters are beginning kindergarten. Addie finds a ring on the ground and returns it to its owner, Reilly. 

Maggie "had not seen Addie pick up the ring, but she had looked around the parking lot, and she was certain the mother and daughter, who claimed ownership, had not been there.  She said, 'Addie, when you found that ring was the girl there?' Addie shook her head in a slow side to side motion. 'Then, how did you see her drop it?' Addie giggled. 'Oh Mommy, I saw her with my other eyes.' ” 

The rest of the novel switches back and forth between the two time periods, and connects them beautifully. I highly recommend this novel—it is indeed a gift!

~

Same Place, Different Times

 In the late 1920s, my maternal grandfather, Howard Ruble, bought some land on Watts Avenue in Roanoke's Rugby section and built a house. By 1928, his family was living there 

The front porch—Grandaddy in his rocking chair and Grandma in the porch swing. The shrubbery looks freshly planted. Behind the house, you can see the corner of Grandma's chicken house.

The swing is to the right in this photo of their daughter Alene—who was 15—standing in front of the porch steps.

From the left corner of the porch, you can see a mostly rural neighborhood behind Alene and her brother Lawrence.

Another picture of Alene—now 17—on the porch shows the fields in the background.

The view from the kitchen window showed Grandma's garden and Mr. and Mrs. Bishop's house. Above the Bishops' property was part of the Watts Farm, and beyond that was Round Top—later called Round Hill. Now I-581 runs through where the trees were, Valley View Mall is where the Watts farm was, and Round Top is covered in houses. 

Soon Grandaddy and his sons—Lawrence and Raymond— built a garage.

Near the garage was a sycamore tree. Alene stands on the running board of one of Grandaddy's trucks while a chicken is headed to the road.

By 1946, when this picture was taken of Alene's daughter (the author of this post), flowers and bushes had grown up around the garage. The sycamore tree would be to the left of this view.

A winter view in the early 1930s, looking left from the front yard shows houses in the background along 10th street. The big house on the hill belonged to a Hunt family.

About 1936 and from a slightly different angle (the Hunt house is on the hill in the upper left), Alene holds Lawrence's son Jimmie on a sled. More houses have appeared and some farm buildings have vanished. 

In the early 1930s, Alene and her cousin Pearl Hunt pet Grandaddy's dog in front of the rural view from the front yard.

 

 A few years later, the view from a different angle shows the neighborhood developing as more houses appear.

About 1931 or 1932, Raymond and his cousins Billy and Danise Gross sit in the same spot where Pearl and Alene sat. 

In the late 30s or early 40s,  Howard's dog "Nick"stands in front of a tree growing near the same spot. 

In 1942 or maybe 1943, the neighborhood behind  30-year-old Alene and her niece has developed and trees have grown. 

In 1947 or 1948, Alene's daughter stands in front of the same view as the previous five pictures.

I still have that doll carriage. Unlike my grandparents' neighborhood, it hasn't changed much.

~