What do you do when the words won't come? by Nancy M Bell

Click on the cover to learn more about Wild Horse Rescue and Nancy's other books.

Writer's block is without a doubt one of the most frustrating things a writer of any type of material can encounter. Whether you're wracking your brain to produce commercial text, a poet with no words spinning into rhymes, or a fiction author chasing their absent Muse, writer's block is not a welcome visitor. If you're in the midst of just such a crisis, take some comfort from the knowledge you are not alone. Being at a loss for words is an issue every writer deals with at some point in their career. So rather than beating your head on the keyboard or re-booting the blank screen with your shoe, let's explore some solutions.

Keep in mind every person is different and what works like a charm for some will fail miserably for others. For myself, staring at the screen or out the window rarely works. I have found that taking a break works well for me. I take the dogs for a walk (I once came home with a poem singing in my head that come to me while walking the mutts), doing something mindless like watching a soap opera will take my mind off my recalcitrant characters and Muse. Reading a new book or a new author is another method I use. Often re-reading a book I have enjoyed in the past frees up the jammed cogs in my brain.

When I return to the computer and look at the either blank screen or the flood of unfinished thoughts often the characters will shake themselves awake and obligingly continue to tell me their stories so I can share them with others. Alas, sometimes they stubbornly refuse to even look at me from their suddenly two dimensional flatland and nothing will coerce them to join me in the story I'm trying to tell. This usually calls for drastic measures, especially if there is a deadline involved. Eeek! The dreaded deadline combined with writer's block will raise any author's blood pressure and produce a doozy of a headache. Deadlines actually tend to help spur me on to conquer writer's block, for others it is the final nail in the coffin.

One method to break the block is to sit down at an appointed time every day, which ever time of day seems best for you. Write anything that comes to mind, don't judge, turn off your internal editor and internal critic. Just write anything no matter how trivial. Set yourself an attainable goal of how many words you will produce. For some that will be 200 words for others 3,000, it doesn't matter how many or how few, or how many your writing partners or other friends are producing. It's not a contest.

I often find sitting quietly by the garden (in the warmer weather) and just letting my mind drift will often find my characters tugging at the fringes of my thoughts and offering up snippets of their previously withheld stories. Doing something you love that you find relaxing often allows your mind to unwind and the words to break free. I often go and spend time with my horses, brushing them and just being with them helps to loosen the log jam in my head.

Music will help, not head banging stuff (at least not for me, but maybe for some), songs from when I was young, songs with memories attached (both happy and sad depending on what I'm working on), classical music. As an aside, I used to play classical music in my hen house and the hens always laid better than if I played other types of music.

Exercise will help empty and reset your brain. If you're a gym person, go and have a hard workout. A run or a walk will work just as well for those less physically inclined. I like to walk where I'm close to nature, walking barefoot under trees, or just leaning against a tree, will often do the trick. For more urban folks, walking through your neighbourhood or familiar places works. Even a walk through the local mall can be cathartic.

Make a list of keywords which you can use as prompts to jump start your creative juices.

Look at art that inspires you, or even random images brought up in an internet search can be helpful.

There are tons of self-help books and articles on the internet, but honestly, there is no miracle cure for writer's block and we each have to fight our own way through to the other side where our Muse awaits us tapping his or her foot and asking what took us so long.

I hope this helps a bit. Good luck with your writing and above all else --keep writing!

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Queen Anne Stuart Part Three The Cinderella Princess by Rosemary Morris

To find out more about Rosemary Morris' books please click the cover above.

Queen Anne Stuart
Part Three
The Cinderella Princess

Princess Anne’s relationship with Sarah Jennings, the future Duchess of Marlborough would last into her middle age.
Sarah, a year younger than Anne’s fifteen-year-old stepmother, was the daughter of a landed gentleman and the younger sister of Frances Jennings, a maid of honour, appointed to serve Anne’s mother.
At the age of twelve, Sarah, who would play such a crucial role in the Cinderella princess’s life, was appointed as one of her attendants. Years later Sara wrote: ‘We had used to play together when she was a child and she even then expressed a particular fondness for me. This inclination increased with our years. I was often at Court and the Princess always distinguished me by the pleasure she took to honour me, preferably to others, with her conversation and confidence. In all her parties for amusement, I was sure by her choice to be one.’
Kneller’s portrait of the teenage Sarah reveals a pretty girl with an oval face, broad forehead, fair hair and confident blue eyes. Yet no portrait could reveal her vivacity and charm.
It is not surprising that the motherless, Cinderella princess living in the shadow of her older, cleverer sister, Mary, and the daughters of her governess, Lady Frances Villiers, became deeply attached to Sarah.
Anne was pretty with plump features, red-brown hair and her mother’s elegant hands of which she was very proud. However, she was shy, easily ignored and all too aware of her short-comings – her poor education did nothing to boost her confidence. As Sarah said years later: Your Majesty has had the misfortune to be misinformed in general things even from twelve years old.
Undoubtedly, there was no reason to provide Anne and her sister with a better education because it was not unlikely that the Queen would provide an heir to the throne. In her day few women could read and write – perhaps as few as one in a hundred. For Anne it is likely that little more than dancing, drawing, French and music were required to prepare her for life at court. Her general education was neglected but not her religious education which was rigorous and the foundation of her belief in the teachings of the Anglican faith.
Anne and Mary lived apart from the court at Whitehall and their indulgent Roman Catholic father and step-father. Expected to be virtuous, the sisters could not have been totally unaware of the licentiousness of their uncle’s court and that both their uncle, the king, and her father had acknowledged illegitimate children. Indeed, their governess, Lady Frances Villiers, wife of Colonel Villiers, the nephew of the ill-fated Duke of Buckingham, a favourite of James I and his son, Charles I, was the daughter of the king’s notorious mistress, Barbara Castlemaine.
Lax though King Charles II’s morals were, he took some interest in Anne who would be one of the best guitar players at court. She also had a pleasing voice and he ordered the actress, Mrs Barry, to give Anne and Mary elocution lessons. These stood Anne in good stead when, as Queen, she addressed Parliament and no doubt when she and Mary took part in some of the masques and plays popular at Charles II’s Court.
‘Cinderella’ and Mary grew up in the company of clerics and women, secluded from Whitehall with little to entertain them. One can imagine the boring conversations, stifling closets (small rooms) and endless card games. Sarah declared: I wished myself out of Court as much as I had desired to come into it before I knew what it was.
Despite boredom and whatever storms lay ahead, Anne dearly loved her sister. So much so that when Mary married her Dutch cousin, William of Orange, in 1677 and Anne lay in bed suffering from smallpox, her father, who visited her every day, ordered that she should not be told her sister had departed for the Continent. The charade went as far as messages, purported to be from Mary asking about her health, were delivered to Anne.
While Anne’s tutor fretted in case her fanatical Roman Catholic nurse influenced her when Anne was ill, as soon as she recovered, Anne had to cope with the death of her governess. Fortunately, she still had Sarah’s companionship and enjoyed the vast grounds of Richmond Palace, leased by the king for his nieces. This tranquillity would soon be disturbed by the so called ‘Popish Plot’. And it is not unreasonable to suppose that her mind would be occupied with thoughts of who she would marry.

Extract from Tangled Love
1693

Nine-year-old Richelda Shaw sat on the floor in her nursery. She pulled a quilt over her head to block out the thunder pealing outside the ancient manor house, while an even fiercer storm raged deep within. Eyes closed, she remained as motionless as a marble statue.
Elsie, her mother’s personal maid, removed the quilt from her head. “Stand up child, there’s nothing to be frightened of. Come, your father’s waiting for you.”
Richelda trembled. Until now Father’s short visits from France meant gifts and laughter. This one made Mother cry while servants spoke in hushed tones.
Followed by Elsie, Richelda hurried down the broad oak stairs. For a moment, she paused to admire Lilies of the Valley in a Delft bowl. Only yesterday, she had picked the flowers to welcome Father home, and then arranged them with tender care. Now, the bowl stood on a chest, beneath a pair of crossed broadswords hanging on the wall.
Elsie opened the massive door of the great hall where Father waited at one side of an enormous hearth. Richelda hesitated. Her eyes searched for her mother before she walked across the floor, spread her skirts wide, and knelt before him.
Father placed his right hand on her bent head. “Bless you, daughter; may God keep you safe.”
He smiled. “Stand up, child. Upon my word, sweetheart, your hair reminds me of a golden rose. How glad I am to see roses bloom in these troubled times.”
Richelda stood but dared not speak, for she did not know him well.
Putting an arm round her waist, he drew her to him. “Come, do not be nervous of your father, child. Tell me if you know King James II holds court in France while his daughter, Mary, and William, his son-in-law, rule, after seizing his throne?”
“Yes, Mother told me we are well rid of King James and his Papist wife,” she piped up, proud of her knowledge.
With a sigh, Father lifted her onto his knee. “Richelda, I must follow His Majesty, for I swore an oath of allegiance to him. Tell me, child, while King James lives, how can I with honour swear allegiance to his disloyal daughter and her husband?”
Unable to think of a reply, she lowered her head, breathing in his spicy perfume.
Father held her closer. “Your mother pleads with me to declare myself for William and Mary. She begs me not to return to France, but I am obliged to serve King James. Do you understand?”
As she nodded, her cheek brushed against his velvet coat. “Yes, I understand, my tutor told me why many gentlemen will not serve the new king and queen.”
“If you remain in England, you will be safe. Bellemont is part of your mother’s dowry, so I doubt it will be confiscated.”
If she remained in England! Startled, she stared at him.

Sil’s Five Star Review of Tangled Love
A Superb Page Turner

Rosemary Morris has crafted a superb novel set in the Queen Anne time-period in London. The historical details are accurately researched and artfully presented, making excellent use of vivid sensory details. Further, the characters spring to life, each fully moulded into his or her unique personality.
Bound by a childhood promise made to her father, protagonist Richelda faces tough challenges nearly a decade later. Poor and now orphaned, she dreams of a better future with all the trappings of the good life. But, to keep her promise, she must regain the ancestral home, Field House, which is said to contain hidden treasure. Her vow to her father is sealed by a ruby ring that she wears on a chain around her neck--a constant reminder of her promise.
Dudley, her childhood sweetheart, plus the charismatic Viscount Lord Chesney, her suitor in an arranged marriage by her wealthy aunt, set the stage for Richelda's doubts and uncertainties. Dudley won her heart years earlier, but is he all that he appears to be? Chesney, on the other hand, is the owner of Field House and could offer her the life she dreams about in her ancestral home. Further, Aunt Isobel has promised to make Richelda her heiress on the condition she does indeed marry Lord Chesney. Yet are her push-pull feelings for Chesney strong enough to merit a marriage vow? Throughout the story, Richelda never disappoints. She is spirited, fiercely independent, sweet, and loving--truly a three-dimensional character.
Author Rosemary Morris takes her readers gently by the hand and leads them down a highly entertaining pathway filled with love, intrigue, deceit, and mystery. Highly recommended. A 5 Star winner!



About Rosemary Morris

Writing a novel is a solitary occupation. Every day, I am alone with my desktop working for at least eight hours, When I’m not writing, I read and post e-mails, write blogs, deal with business and study historical non-fiction to research my new romantic historical novel. The protagonists in my tales of times past are not twenty-first characters in costume.
As a historical novelist I don’t think it is possible to portray every minute fact about the past accurately, but I have a responsibility my readers to thoroughly research the eras in which my novels are set. In addition to reading non-fiction and making detailed notes, I visit libraries, museums, stately homes and other places of historical interest.
When my words flow well, I am tempted to work for many hours without a break. That would be detrimental. Writing is mentally and physically tiring, so I have a five-minute break every hour, during which I stretch and exercise my eyes. If the weather permits, I work in my organic garden. I also visit the health suite at the leisure centre to swim and enjoy the jacuzzi, steam room and sauna.
I don’t want to be a writer in a garret but sometimes I wish I lived in an ivory tower with nothing to distract me from my imaginary companions. However, the daily chores, cleaning, washing clothes, shopping etc., keep my feet on the ground, so does time with family and friends.

Novels by Rosemary Morris

Early 18th Century novels: Tangled Love, Far Beyond Rubies, The Captain and The Countess
Regency Novels False Pretences, Sunday’s Child, Monday’s Child, Tuesday’s Child, Wednesday’s Child and Thursday’s Child. Friday’s Child to be published in June 2019
Mediaeval Novel Yvonne Lady of Cassio. The Lovages of Cassio Book One
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary

Setting Goals

A few years ago when I trained karate, part of the first class of the New Year was 

time to setting goals.We would write one karate goal, one career or school goal, and one personal goal. Since I'm no longer in karate, I now start with a writing goal.

My writing goal:   To write one new novel in 2019

Currently, I have two jobs. I work at a live-stage theatre and am also an author.

My author goal:  To publish two new novels this year - ambitious maybe, but doable!

Personally, I have one goal for the New Year that is starting to come together. I had an MRI on my knee December 23 and got the results December 27. Right now, I'm waiting for an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon to have my knee fixed. 

My personal goal:  To be able to walk five kilometres again in 2019 without pain!

Do any of you set goals for the upcoming year?

What sort of goals do you set?

Do you accomplish them or forget about them by February?

Please check out my newest release:

  

Wild Blue Mysteries Book 4: The Painted Lady

The pieces of Christina Davidson's life have built up into place over the past few months, despite the one last secret she's trying hard to hide. When Leo Blue returns to town, then people from her past turn up, her carefully constructed walls begin to crumble and the only people who can help her now are the men of the Wild Blue Detective Agency.

Leo Blue can't escape Packham nor the life of a private detective no matter how hard he tries. Six months after the murder of artist DJ Gage, the prices of Gage's paintings soar. When a woman winds up dead and a forgery is discovered in the local art gallery, Leo has to find a murderer and a forger.

You can find my books at:   Diane Bator, Author

Sharing some Christmas memories from the 1960s by Nancy M Bell

This is a novella of Christmas Eve in a small town peopled by the characters from A Longview Romance series. CLick here for more info. Also available at Amazon.

Yes, I am that old! Growing up in the 1960s was a much simpler time that now. We had only black and white television and one phone in the house. It seems to me looking back that families stayed closer together, not so far flung around the country and the globe. That's not to say that Christmas like all holidays and celebrations didn't sometimes dissolve into family disputes, but generally at least we were all together. My mom's brother and his wife always came for Christmas dinner, my maternal grandparents lived with us and my older sister and her family joined us at the table as well. Our living room was not large, the expanded 'good' table took up most of the floor and to get from end to the other you were required to walk on the couch as there was no room behind the chairs at the table.

Below are some excerpts from a small chapbook I created to help preserve these old family memories for later generations.

This is one of my favourite pictures of my dad. It was taken in 1963 or 1964, you can see the remains of the Christmas feast. I'm guessing we got doctor's kits for one of our presents. LOL

The Rafter Family Christmas Eve was always a variation of the same theme.

My parents would pack up the two youngest children, myself and my sister Wendy, and set off in the car to visit my Dad’s sisters ( my aunts) who lived in various parts of Toronto and the outlying area.
My Aunt Ola and Uncle Bunny lived near Whitevale, Ontario with my cousins Rose and Fred. They lived on a farm and had the most amazing white farmhouse. The floors always were polished to diamond brilliance and I loved their kitchen. Lots of room and tons of windows, it was a wonderful welcoming place. The adults would visit and we would play with Rosie and Freddy our cousins, either outside in the snow or inside on the floor. We would drop off our gifts and receive the ones that went home to go under our tree.

After eating Christmas goodies we would all pile back into the car and head off to the next aunt’s house.

Auntie Joy and Uncle Norm lived in the west end of the city with a house full of our cousins. Glennie was the oldest and then Charlie, Suzanne, Wayne, Billy, Dennis and Brenda. There was always lots to do at Auntie Joy’s, we played games and one year when they lived in Streetsville we played in the ravine near their house and got totally covered in burrs. We were not popular children when we got home. There was great food and the cousins always had the latest in games and toys to play with. We dropped off the presents and packed the ones for us into the car and we were off again.

Next stop Aunt Loral and Uncle Bob and cousins Debbie and Lori. Aunt Loral’s was usually the last stop in the early years.

My Aunt Gloria and Uncle Tommy and Cindy and Tammy Lori lived in Caladar, which was up near North Bay when we were young, we would go and visit them on New Year’s Day every year. Later years they moved to Toronto, not far from Aunt Loral and we stopped there on Christmas Eve as well. Aunt Irma ( who later changed her name legally to Rocky) and Uncle Wally lived near Ottawa and we did not get to see them as often, or our cousins Gary and Scott.
Aunt Loral had a very small house and it always seemed so crammed full of Christmas. The living room was usually quite dark and the tree seemed to fill it up totally. She had the most amazing tree topper that was all the colors of the rainbow and it sent the colors all over the room, reflecting off all the walls and the front room window. As this was our last stop Wendy and I were both tired and didn’t spend too much time actually playing with Debbie and Lori. It was also getting late and near bed time so that Santa could come and leave his gifts for us. There was always time for yet more goodies and more pop. Aunt Loral always had great fruit cake at her house. Dark and moist. She also had a zillion of the little statues that used to come in Red Rose Tea. They were lined up on the top of the door frames in her kitchen and just about anywhere that you looked There were so many of them that I could never actually count them without loosing track. I liked the horse one and the gingerbread man the best. Then it was time to go home. Wendy and I usually fell asleep on the way home to West Hill in the far east end of the city. We lived with my Grandma and Grandpa Pritchard and before 1963 when she got married, my older sister June lived with us as well. There were seven of us in a little house. June had her own room, Grandma and Grandpa shared what would have been the dining room but worked quite well as a bedroom at the front of the house and Wendy and I had bunkbeds in Mom and Dad’s room.

Grandma and Grandpa were always waiting for us when we got home and Christmas Eve and helped to put the presents under the tree.
We always put the tree up on December 20th as that was my birthday. Mom and Dad never wanted to put the tree up earlier than that as we always had a real tree and they worried that it would dry out.
We had these really cool bubble lights that were all different colors but got really hot when you left them on too long. There was a fluffy white angel on top.
One Christmas Eve when we were still outside in the driveway just getting out of the car Wendy and I got a huge surprise. There, coming down the Cooney’s driveway, who were our next door neighbors, was Santa Claus!

We both screamed and then bolted for the back door. If Santa came while were still up and awake he wouldn’t leave us anything. We tore through the back door into the kitchen and down the back hall to the bedroom. With our wet snow boots and coats still on Wendy and I scrambled into bed and pulled the covers over our heads. I had a harder time getting into bed as I had to climb up into the top bunk, but I made it. Mom and Dad came in and tried to get us to take off our coats and boots and change into night clothes. Wendy and I wouldn’t budge, we were pretending to be asleep so that Santa would leave our presents. We were sure that he was coming to our house any moment because we KNEW he just next door and he hadn’t been to our house next. He must have already been to Jo-anne and John Lee’s place because they lived on the other side of the Cooneys, so we had to be next. Mom and Dad must have removed our boots after we were asleep because they were gone in the morning. And Santa did leave our presents for us that year.
Things changed in 1964, June was married and living on Homestead Ave with Butch and my brother Timmy was born in July. So Christmas 1964 was a little different. There was one more of us to track all over the city to visit my aunts.
Sometime in the 1960’s Aunt Gloria and Uncle Tommy and Cindy and TammyLori moved to Toronto. My Grandma and Grandpa Rafter moved from Constance Lake near Ottawa and bought a little store on Davis Lake, near Kinmount. Every winter they would come to Toronto and stay with Aunt Gloria and Uncle Tommy, so now we had even more excitement and visiting on Christmas Eve. We often went to Aunt Gloria and Uncle Tommy’s for New Year’s dinner. The turkey dressing was always yucky, it had so much sage in it ( which Gramma Rafter LOVED) and sometimes sausage. Not my favorite part of the meal I’ll tell you. There was always way too much to eat, tons of turkey and cranberries, mashed potatoes and gravy.

Our Christmas dinner at home was always large. June and Butch and their sons Geoff, Peter and Terry would come. My Aunt Frances and Uncle Jim came on Christmas afternoon early and brought their sausage dog with them. The first dog I remember was Sandy who was quite portly and smelled like DOG. He would bite my dad if he tried to discipline us in front of him. We liked Sandy. Sandy would also dance with us, running around while we pranced around laughing. Aunt Frances always gave us Avon for Christmas and her packages were always decorated with cool stuff. Uncle Jim is my mother’s only brother and he has one daughter Marilyn who lives in the States. There would also be My Gramma and Grampa Pritchard who lived with us, Wendy and me and Timmy. Mom would pull the big table with all the leaves in it out into the middle of our small living room and the table would stretch from the front window to the door to the kitchen. It was set with these cool plates that we only used at Christmas, all pale yellow ,blue and pink around the edges with white roses in the centre. Mom used her good silverware that Dad bought her one year for Christmas and a tablecloth that never seemed to escape the cranberries or the gravy. Our small house was full of the smell of turkey and gravy and boiling potatoes. There never seemed to be enough room but somehow everyone managed to get seated at the table and Dad would carve the turkey. Wendy and I would fight over the drumsticks, although in later times Timmy always got one.


Lots of great memories of those no longer with us, and those who still are. As long as we remember them they are never gone, but live in our hearts.

Here are few memories from later Christmases.

Queen Anne Stuart Part Two ~ The Cinderella Princess by Rosemary Morris

Click on the cover to discover more about this title and Rosemary's other titles.

Author’s Note My novel, Far Beyond Rubies, in which the heroine is another Cinderella, is set in Queen Anne Stuart’s reign 1702 – 1714.

Princess Anne’s mother died. Her father, James, Duke of York, had taken the unpopular decision to become a Roman Catholic. Her uncle, the childless King Charles II, knew politics demanded his heirs, Anne and her elder sister, Mary, be raised in the Protestant faith. He appointed Lady Frances Villiers, a committed Anglican, as their governess and leased Richmond Palace to Frances and her husband.
The princesses benefited from country air and were privileged to live by the Thames in the days when due to bad roads the river was of great importance.
Anne’s indulgent father visited his daughters regularly, showered them with gifts and often stayed for several nights at Richmond Palace. Yet all was not well with the family. In 1673, due to the Test Act, which excluded anyone who did not take communion in the Anglican Church from public office, James was forced to resign as Lord High Admiral and to give up all his other official positions. In that age of fervent religious allegiances, I wonder what effect religious controversy had on Anne, a stubborn child.
What did Anne think when her father married fifteen-year-old Mary of Braganza? History relates that James was captivated by his bride. Looking at a copy of her portrait, I’m not surprised. She was tall with a good figure, jet black hair, a fair skin and large eyes that her contemporaries at court described as ‘full of sweetness and light’. The proud bridegroom introduced his new wife to his daughters as a ‘playmate’, but Anne formed a bond, not with her stepmother, whose children would be raised in the Roman Catholic faith, but with vivacious Sarah Churchill, who would have such a profound influence on Anne’s life.
Motherless Anne, a Protestant ‘Cinderella’ of her era, has all the ingredients of a fictional heroine, but – a member of the tragic Stuart family - what would she make of her life?

Extract from Far Beyond Rubies

Chapter One

1706

“Bastards, Juliana! You and your sister are bastards.”
Aghast, Juliana stared at William, her older half-brother, although, not for a moment did she believe his shocking allegation.
It hurt her to confront William without their father at her side. At the beginning of April, she and Father were as comfortable as ever in his London house. Now, a month later, upon her return to her childhood home, Riverside House, set amongst the rolling landscape of Hertfordshire, his body already lay entombed in the family crypt next to her mother’s remains. Would there ever be a day when she did not mourn him? A day when she did not weep over his loss?
A cold light burned in the depths of William’s pebble-hard eyes.
Juliana straightened her neck. She would not bow her head, thus giving him the satisfaction of revealing her inner turmoil.
William cleared his throat. His eyes gleamed. “Did you not know you and your sister were born on the wrong side of the blanket?”
Anger welled up in her. “You lie. How dare you make such a claim?”
Hands clasped on his plump knees, William ignored her protestation. “You now know the truth about your whore of a mother,” he gloated.
Well, she knew what William claimed, but did not believe him. “You are wicked to speak thus. My mother always treated you kindly.”
“As ever, you are a haughty piece.” William’s broad nostrils flared. Anger sparked in his eyes. “My dear sister, remember the adage: ‘Pride goes before a fall’. However, do not look so worried. I shall not cast you out without the means to support yourself.”
William rang the silver handbell. When a lackey clad in blue and gold livery answered its summons, he ordered the man to pour a glass of wine.
Juliana watched William raise the crystal glass to his lips. What did he mean? How could she maintain herself and her sister? She had not been brought up to earn a living.
She looked away from her half-brother to glance around the closet, the small, elegantly furnished room in which she kept her valuables and conducted her private correspondence before her father’s death.
Now it seemed, William, the seventh Baron Kemp, and his wife, Sophia, had sought to obliterate every trace of her by refurbishing the closet. Where were her books and her embroidery frame? Where was Mother’s portrait? Rage burned in the pit of her stomach while she looked around her former domain. Juliana wanted to claw William’s fat cheeks. It would please her to hurt him as he was hurting her. No, that wish was both childish and unchristian. She must use her intelligence to defeat him.

Five Star Review of Far Beyond Rubies
By
Janet Glaser

When reading Far Beyond Rubies, I felt I had stepped into the 18th century. Ms Morris has done her homework to bring us such a rich story with all the historic background and social graces of the era. I especially loved her description of the gentlemen's fancy outfits. They dressed as brightly as male peacocks and wore make-up and wigs that even outshone the ladies of the day.
The dialogue filled with authentic words used in that time period and the way her characters expressed themselves added to the enjoyment of the story telling. I read the book on my Kindle and truly appreciated the dictionary just a click away to find the definition of the words used in that time period.
I wasn't familiar with the history of England, so I enjoyed learning about kings, queens, and politics etc. The author made it easy to understand. The sweet romance was filled with interesting characters and so many secrets.
I would recommend this book for lovely escape reading and for the historical value.


About Rosemary Morris

Writing a novel is a solitary occupation. Every day, I am alone with my desktop working for at least eight hours, When I am not thus engaged, I read and post e-mails, write blogs, deal with business and study historical non-fiction to research the romantic historical novel which I am writing. I visit places of historical interest to convey the lives and times of the characters in my novels. The protagonists in my tales of times past are not 21sr characters in costume.
As a historical novelist I don’t think it is possible to portray every minute fact about the past accurately, but I have a responsibility my readers to thoroughly research the era in which my novels are set. In addition to reading non-fiction and making detailed notes, I visit libraries, museums, stately homes and other places of historical interest.
When my words flow well, I am tempted to work for many hours without a break. That would be detrimental. Writing is mentally and physically tiring, so I have a five-minute break every hour, during which I stretch and exercise my eyes. If the weather permits, I work in my organic garden. I also visit the health suite at the leisure centre to enjoy the jacuzzi, steam room and sauna. Water aerobics are beneficial, but I’m not keen on the loud modern music played to encourage the participants to keep up the pace.
I don’t want to be a writer in a garret but sometimes I wish I lived in an ivory tower with nothing to distract me from my imaginary companions. However, the daily chores, cleaning, washing clothes, shopping etc., keep my feet on the ground, so does time with family and friends.




Novels by Rosemary Morris

Early 18th Century novels: Tangled Love, Far Beyond Rubies, The Captain and The Countess
Regency Novels False Pretences, Sunday’s Child, Monday’s Child, Tuesday’s Child, Wednesday’s Child and Thursday’s Child. Friday’s Child to be published in June 2019
Mediaeval Novel Yvonne Lady of Cassio. The Lovages of Cassio Book One
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary

Hello from Snowy Alberta Canada by Nancy M Bell

WIld Horse Rescue is the first in The Alberta Adventures Series featuring the same characters from The Cornwall Adventures. I hope you enjoy Laurel's latest adventure. For more info and buy links please click here.

But now, back to snowy Alberta! This is only the middle of October and already we've had more snow that is necessary. I mean really Universe... Although the ski hills in the mountains are celebrating those of us prairie dwellers are not. Crops are still in the fields, some swathed and some still standing. Canola, barley and wheat stretch for hectares under overcast skies and highlighted by a frosting of snow. It's been a crazy year, we went from winter to summer with no spring to speak of and then from summer to winter with no fall to speak of. Usually, we take a drive through Kananakis Country west of Calgary to enjoy the golden leaves and blue skies, but not this year.

On another note, it's been a busy summer promoting the Canadian Historical Brides series of which I have two titles. His Brother's Bride representing Ontario and Landmark Roses representing Manitoba. I also did research for the New Brunswick title On A Stormy Primeval Shore. Then I had a deadline to finish Wild Horse Rescue and I'm happy to say it released September 30th of this year. I was privileged to present at When Words Collide in Calgary in August. On the 14th of October a panel of the Brides authors hosted an event at the Carstairs Museum and on the 20th we will be at the Strathmore Library. Busy busy.

I'm also very excited to be involved with the Alexandria Writers Centre Story Coach program. Story Makers were chosen by the Centre and they in turn chose who they would like to work with from a list of Story Coaches. I'm happy to say I was picked and I absolutely love the writer I'm paired with. Her steam punky magic filled story shows great promise and I look forward to working with her. The program runs from October to end of April when there will be celebration of work well done. If you live in the Calgary area and are interested in learning more about the Alexandria Writers Centre you can click here.


For now I leave you with some snowy Alberta pictures. So those of you who are enjoying Indian Summer, don't blink, it's coming your way. LOL Until next time stay well, stay healthy and happy.

A million words by J.S. Marlo

J. S. Marlo BWL Author Page

A few weeks back, I was in Calgary for When Words Collide. During the three-day conference, I attended many workshops and chatted with many authors, publishers, and readers. During an interesting conversation with a fellow author, she asked me how I started writing, where I learned the craft, how many books I wrote before I landed my first publishing contract. She had read somewhere that a writer should have written at least a million words before considering herself ready to write a decent book.

A million words? That sounded like a lot of words, so I reflected on the path I followed, the twisted path that led me to become a published author.

I scribbled as a teenager, but my real journey started fourteen years ago when I began writing stories for fun and posted them for free on the Internet for others to enjoy. In four years, I wrote twenty-nine stories. I cringe when I reread some of them. Most of the plots were good, but the writing was...awful, atrocious, brutal, especially in the early stories. By the time I wrote the twenty-ninth, I had improved by giant leaps and bounds. I felt ready to tackle my first "real" novel.

That first novel "Salvaged", which took nine months to write, must not have been too shabby since it won a writing contest and I was offered my first publishing contract. From there I ended up publishing many more novels, but it didn't stop that conversation about a million words from following me home this week. Had I been ready or simply lucky, or maybe a bit of both?

To answer that question, I decided to comb through these twenty-nine free stories. The shortest one was 1,013 words, and the longest 128,982 words. Four of them were above 100,000 words. They average 46,818 words per story for a grand total of...1,357,732 words. I was shocked I'd written way over one million words before I "started" writing for "real".

One of my former editors asked me once why I wasted four years writing stories for free. At the time, I didn't have an answer, except maybe "it was fun". Writing this post today made me realize I didn't waste my time writing these stories. Without knowing it, I was practicing my craft, testing what worked and didn't work, honing my skills, finding my voice...

Thanks to these 1,357,732 words scribbled for no other reason than pure enjoyment, I became an author.

Happy reading!

JS

 J. S. Marlo's Website

The Differences of Research data: Mata Hari by Katherine Pym

 

Buy Here

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Mata Hari clothed

This was a fairly popular post a few years ago so I thought I'd share it again. As an author of historical fiction, I spend a lot of time researching. Usually, my research centers on London in the 1660’s. Once and awhile, though, I run across some information that doesn’t center around my time of expertise, but find it too interesting not to share.

NOTE: The source I am using differs from most, especially Margaretha’s early life but it is too interesting to ignore. I will let you decide which to take home to your family by making clear the variances in the below text.

Mata Hari was born on August 7, 1876 as Margaretha Geetruida Zelle in Holland. Her parents were religious; she grew up Roman Catholic and was sent to a convent at the early age of 14. 

Other sources say:


“Her mother dead and her adored father bankrupt, teenaged Margaretha was sent to train as a kindergarten teacher, only to be seduced by the headmaster.” And another source: “Following her mother's death, Mata Hari and her three brothers were split up and sent to live with various relatives.”

At 18 while on holiday in The Hague, Margaretha met a Scotsman named MacLeod and married him. He was a drunk and wife abuser. He did, well you know, the typical things brutal men do to women so I won’t bore you with them. Other sources say: “Disgraced and bored, the girl answered a newspaper ad to meet and marry a career colonial officer twenty years her senior who would be soon returning to the Dutch East Indies.” My source continues: He took her to Java where he continued his savagery plus he was a bounder and unfaithful.

No longer a wide-eyed, postulant schoolgirl, the experience caused Margaretha to deviate from her chaste background. She studied books in the art of sensual love performed in Buddhist temples. She was also introduced to the evocative ritual dances that eventually made her so popular. (Some sources don’t mention this at all.)

Usually, life takes strange turns we never expect. Margaretha endured the savagery of MacLeod, studied sensual love—it’s not recorded if she used this on him or anyone else for that matter while in Java—as her husband gadded about with other women. Some were jealous he was married. One was their nurse who took care of Margaretha & MacLeod’s young son. MacLeod rejected her and in revenge the nurse poisoned their son. Another source: “The marriage dissolved in a nightmare of drinking, gambling, and vicious hatred following the death of their son...”

From now on, I will continue with my source.

Margaretha emerged from this a changed woman. She never showed outward emotion but went forth in life with a face etched in steel. She hated men and she hated MacLeod whom she blamed for the death of their son. Without remorse she reportedly strangled the nurse.

Back in Europe, Margaretha lead a life of the narcissistic.

In France, Margaretha became Mata Hari, a woman born in “...India within the sacred caste of Brahma”. After the birth of two children, her body wasn’t the svelte one of her youth, but that did not stop her from performing naked on stage in Paris. She spoke in a soft, seductive voice and danced erotic dances, some graceful, others lewd, only before seen in Buddhist temples. 

Full Figured Mata Hari

She was a sensation throughout Europe. Men begged to have her in their beds. She would oblige them for no less than $7,500 a night. Her lovers listed in the Who’s Who of the times; prime ministers, princes, high up men in their governments.  She demanded luxurious apartments in Paris, had milk baths to keep her skin young and supple. When her influential lovers lost their money, she would kick them to the curb and take another.

She enjoyed sex and would visit brothels (probably not for $7,500) even as she hated the men who bedded her, using them for her gain. She was vain, self-indulgent, cruel and ripe to be approached by the Germans. They sent her to spy-school in Lorrach and gave her what is now known as a pre-war code number.

Mata Hari was relentless. She slept with men then betrayed them. She learned of their plans and sent those plans to the Germans. The figures speak for themselves. It was declared by the judge at her trial she was considered responsible for the deaths of 50,000 allied troops but this number seems trivialized. Other sources say the number is closer to 100,000.

In the end, the Germans betrayed Mata Hari, but she did not think she would die. Too many of her lovers told her of their plans for her escape. When those failed, it was suggested she plea pregnancy, but by now realizing her doom was fixed, Mata Hari refused to see the doctor. 

Mata Hari before the firing squad (one source)

Vincennes: At the age of 41, Mata Hari was taken to a young tree stripped naked of limbs and leaves and tied to it with a red ropes. She refused the blindfold, did not wince or show emotion when the firing squad cocked their rifles. Several of her lovers watched from the sidelines, some perhaps part of the squad.

She did not utter a sound, but smiled when the major barked the final command to fire. Mata Hari, once a postulant in a convent, her name Margaretha Geetruida Zelle died at 5:47 AM on October 15, 1917, a hated and loved legend of her time.

Many thanks to:

Main source: The People’s Almanac by David Wallechinsky & Irving Wallace, Doubleday & Co., Inc., Garden City, NY, 1975.

Penn State Science: http://science.psu.edu/news-and-events/2007-news/Shipman7-2007.htm

bio.o: http://www.biography.com/people/mata-hari-9402348#early-life

All pictures come from WikiCommons Public Domain: his media file is in the public domain in the United States. This applies to U.S. works where the copyright has expired, often because its first publication occurred prior to January 1, 1923. See this page for further explanation.