Jane Candia Coleman

This collection of stories by award-winning write Jane Candia Coleman is about women coming of age. In each one, the protagonist discovers facets, truths about herself and the world that she has not known—finds places in herself where she has never been. "It's long past time for women to explain themselves in fiction," Coleman writes, "particularly literary fiction, to write about the world and their own emotions with that sensuality that characterizes women writers—to write from the inside out, and not vice versa. "Living is a voyage of discovery, and I hope that the readers of these stories will identify with them and, perhaps, take courage from the actions of the characters I have had the pleasure of bringing to life. "In no way did I mean to slight men in this collection. Rather, I hoped to elucidate the relationships between men and women (good and bad relationships) and the possible ways of continuing or ending such relationships. "I have long admired D. H. Lawrence for the fact that he brought literature out of the Victorian Age, but I have also been frustrated by his inability to understand women. Several of these stories, particularly 'Wives and Lovers' and 'La Signora Julia,' were written as rebuttals to what I perceived as Lawrence's innocence. "The symbolism in 'Wives and Lovers' was unintentional, but it is there—the heart of the flower/the heart, mind, body of the female protagonist. So perhaps the most important point is that in Discovering Eve I have tried to elucidate what it is that a woman feels, and how, and why, from my own depths and from the depths of my characters who are struggling for wisdom, strength, the courage to survive."

An excerpt from Stories from Mesa Country: "They are coming back from the burial ground. I can see them walking, two abreast, along the narrow track by the wash. Tom has his head down, his hands in the pockets of his black suit. Beside him, Reverend Sherman is talking, waving his arms, trying, I'd guess, to comfort. Behind them come Enid and Faith, square shapes in best blue dresses, and then Seth and Arch, leggy as colts, uncomfortable in Sunday suits, in the shadow of tragedy. Now a space, long seconds passing before I see Luisa. She is alone, walking slowly. She is crying. I know that, even from this distance, from my bed beside the window. She wipes her eyes on her apron. Her shoulders heave. She has been crying for three days. "I wish I could shout so they could hear me. I wish the Reverend would go to her, assure her of her place in heaven and in our house. I wish one of them, Tom or the children, would take her by the arm, lead her home. Instead they act as if she is not there at all, perhaps thinking that if they ignore her she will vanish and with her this house, these three days, the newly turned earth in the far field. "Well, they are wrong. None of it will disappear. We'll live with it, tiptoe around it, make excuses and blame each other. And who is to blame? Tom, for coming here to homestead at the foot of the red rock mountains? For begetting children upon my body? Sons to inherit, daughters to marry? Or I, in my -- not innocence, that's not the word I want -- my cocoon, my shroud of womanhood that brought me here, a continent away from home to wifehood, motherhood, acceptance of death as a part of life? Birth and death are what I see and take for granted. Life comes and goes with the seasons, with the years. There is a violence in this soil, in the people who labor on it. Perhaps it is only the truth of the earth, and one accepts it or goes down in defeat."

An excerpt from Stories from Mesa Country: "They are coming back from the burial ground. I can see them walking, two abreast, along the narrow track by the wash. Tom has his head down, his hands in the pockets of his black suit. Beside him, Reverend Sherman is talking, waving his arms, trying, I'd guess, to comfort. Behind them come Enid and Faith, square shapes in best blue dresses, and then Seth and Arch, leggy as colts, uncomfortable in Sunday suits, in the shadow of tragedy. Now a space, long seconds passing before I see Luisa. She is alone, walking slowly. She is crying. I know that, even from this distance, from my bed beside the window. She wipes her eyes on her apron. Her shoulders heave. She has been crying for three days. "I wish I could shout so they could hear me. I wish the Reverend would go to her, assure her of her place in heaven and in our house. I wish one of them, Tom or the children, would take her by the arm, lead her home. Instead they act as if she is not there at all, perhaps thinking that if they ignore her she will vanish and with her this house, these three days, the newly turned earth in the far field. "Well, they are wrong. None of it will disappear. We'll live with it, tiptoe around it, make excuses and blame each other. And who is to blame? Tom, for coming here to homestead at the foot of the red rock mountains? For begetting children upon my body? Sons to inherit, daughters to marry? Or I, in my -- not innocence, that's not the word I want -- my cocoon, my shroud of womanhood that brought me here, a continent away from home to wifehood, motherhood, acceptance of death as a part of life? Birth and death are what I see and take for granted. Life comes and goes with the seasons, with the years. There is a violence in this soil, in the people who labor on it. Perhaps it is only the truth of the earth, and one accepts it or goes down in defeat."

Jane Candia Coleman is a magical storyteller who spins brilliant tales of human survival, hope, and courage on the American frontier, and nowhere is her marvelous talent more in evidence than in this acclaimed collection of her finest work. From a haunting story of the night Billy the Kid died, to a dramatic account of a breathtaking horse race, including two stories that won the prestigious Spur Award, here is a collection that reveals the passion and fortitude of its characters, and also the power of a wonderful writer.