Jane Little Botkin

Two men wearing suits and cowboy hats; Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (250 x300)

Who’s Butch Cassidy? For Whom Do We Authors Write?

By Jane Little Botkin / September 9, 2018 /

Here I am, my brain processing facts, connections, and others’ analyses for two different books. I can’t believe I started writing at such a late period in my life, but it is what it is, and I have to be hyper-vigilant about my interpretations and analyses, and even word choices. Sometimes I type a word…

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 A statue of a person riding a horse and the roads in Lander Area (300 x 266)

The Dude Was Born, and the Western Rockies Have Never Been the Same

By Jane Little Botkin / August 24, 2018 /

On my way home from Lander, Wyoming, after a horrible start, so bad that I questioned the wisdom in flying out last week. My Southwest Airlines flight took off an hour and half late because someone got the emergency exit door stuck. My connection in Denver was a charter flight to Riverton, WY. Instructions were…

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The Best Part of a Story Is When It Changes

By Jane Little Botkin / August 20, 2018 /

My mom died. It is a strange feeling being an orphan at my age. I am uncomfortable with the void I feel. I talked to her every day for the last twenty-three years. She had been diagnosed with lung cancer in January. Four months later, gone. One of my best fans, gone. Of course, I…

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Cowboy riding a horse logo design

Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys

By Jane Little Botkin / August 16, 2018 /

I email Bump Boedeker’s bronc image to Sarah. I hope the new discovery peaks her interest in her heritage. Cowboys may not impress her much; after all, she is a Wyoming girl where Steamboat is imprinted on everything except the state flag. (Steamboat is Wyoming’s ubiquitous bucking bronc logo.) And like my son, she attended…

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A person riding a horse, black and white

Bump Boedeker, Ride “‘Em, Cowboy!”

By Jane Little Botkin / August 15, 2018 /

Taking care of a dying person is draining, but I can fend off depression by concentrating on the Boedeker family. This tack triggers another realization, adding guilt to my panoply of emotions. I realize that I am a voyeur, my mind’s eye loupe is peering into their lives without permission. Should I tell Sarah? I…

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