enslaved person or a Native American or a frontier wife would
feel in a certain situation. I came to realize that empathy is the
greatest source of inspiration.
CL: Do you have any rituals/best practices for writing?
DB: Initially, I approached writing as a job. I would sit at my desk
with a cup of coffee, first thing in the morning, and stare at the
screen, waiting for words to materialize. Old habits are hard to
break. I soon realized that I needed to write when the creative
juices were flowing, which could be any time of the day. I did
commit to doing something on my book every day. It could be
research, or jotting down notes about new ideas, or rewriting
the chapter that didn’t hold up on the second pass. There were
times though, when stepping away and letting passages
marinate was the only way forward.
CL: What advice can you share with other local aspiring
authors?
DB: I know its cliché, but write about something you know and
love. Read Stephen King’s book, “On Writing.” Find a really good
editor. It’s never too late to start writing, but don’t wait. I wish I
had started when I was younger.
CL: How has your environment influenced your work?
DB: My roots are in Appalachia. I love the mountains, and spend
as much time there as I can. They’re changing rapidly. When I
was a child, there were farms and forests and pristine ridge
lines. There are very few farms remaining today, and the ridges
are topped with cabins. My book seeks to capture a time when
the mountains were untamed, and convey a sense of what
we’re losing.
CL: What’s your favorite part about writing? Your least
favorite?
DB: I love the “eureka” moments, when an idea strikes you that
ties different plot lines together perfectly, or you hit on a piece
of dialogue that really captures a character’s essence. The
business side is challenging. As a new author, it’s difficult to
break through in a very crowded industry.
CL: Who are you currently reading?
DB: “Hamnet: A Novel of the Plague” by Maggie O’Farrell. It’s
set in 16th century London, but it could be today.
CL: Why did you start writing? What made you take the
plunge?
DB: I’ve been involved in genealogy for over thirty years. It has
always struck me that all you really leave behind is a story. For
most of our ancestors, their stories have been lost to time. Aside
from the simple pleasure of story-telling, I wanted to create
something that might survive me.
CL: What/who is your favorite book/ author of all time? Why?
DB: I’ve lived long enough to have read a lot of good books, so
it’s hard to name just one. The first book I truly loved was “Gone
with the Wind.” I was twelve years old and oblivious to its faults,
but it was a great story. “To Kill a Mockingbird,” was a big
influence. “Cold Mountain,” by Charles Frazier, was the book
that really motivated me to become a writer. The setting, the
characters, the dialogue, everything just came together so
lyrically, it was poetic.
CL: What makes your work stand out from other authors in
the same genre?
DB: Historical fiction is such a large genre, with so many
wonderful authors; it’s hard to stand out. My novel is well
researched, realistic and sheds light on a difficult period
unique in our history. But its strength lies in the characters
and their stories. I hope readers will be swept along in their
journey.
THE FOLLOWING IS AN EXCERPT OF DON BUCHANAN’S LATEST NOVEL, “COUNTING SOULS.”
May 21, 1829 – Outside Franklin, North Carolina
Thomas Love sat on a pile of boulders near the foot of Cullasaja Falls, watching the water cascade down the slick
black rocks. He didn’t remember the steps that led him to this spot, and he had lost track of how long he had been
sitting there. He stared into the torrent, watching the water change every second but somehow never change.
The steady roar filled his ears and vibrated through his body. The overhanging branches of a massive, ancient
chestnut shaded him, and the sunlight danced around him as its leaves fluttered in the soft breeze, painting the
rocks and the water in a moving tapestry. Trilliums grew in profusion along the banks, and their white flowers
seemed to explode when shafts of sunlight would find their way through the canopy to settle on the blossoms.
The air was fresh and warm, and the rich, earthy smell of last fall’s decaying leaf litter wafted through the forest.
It was a perfect spring day in the mountains, a delight for the senses, but it was all lost on Tom.
He was far from this idyllic spot and didn’t see the sun or the flowers or hear the water or smell the lush forest.
Instead, he was trapped in a dark room on a cold winter day, where voices spoke in hushed tones and muffled
sobs echoed off the walls. The minutes crawled by like hours. Shadows moved through the room in slow motion.
He sat by a bed and looked down at the face of a young girl, her eyes half-closed, her dark hair, damp with fevered
sweat, wrapped around the pale skin of her face. Her breathing was labored and shallow and made a sound like dried leaves blowing across the
porch. She opened her eyes and found her father. “Daddy, I’m afraid,” she whispered. He squeezed her hand and put his face against hers. His
throat so tight it felt like he was being strangled. Straining to control his voice he said, “Oh, my darling, don’t be afraid.”
DECEMBER 2021 | COBB LIFE 57