Living, or rather being ruled by, a dachshund, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

My first historical mystery. 1781 Who murdered Lady Pentreath, her unhappy husband or the apothecary who prepared the last tincture she drank? Will these two disparate people find love or end up at the gallows?

To purchase, click HERE Barnes and Noble, or Amazon

Sadly, there are no dogs in this book

My post is about living with the unpredictable breed known as a dachshund. I hope you find it interesting. This is Lilly-Scout (named by my granddaughters) glaring at the camera. She is my boss, or thinks she is. But she is loving and sweet, when she decides to be.

Dachshund in German means badger hound. Over four hundred years ago, these dogs were bred with a long body and short legs to go down holes after badgers, and other burrowing animals.

As a pet, they are demanding, loving, noisy, and will bark at anything, even a leaf blowing by.

Here is a dachshund in a deceptively loving position, when she's really thinking about attacking the next person who walks by. They are very protective and territorial.

Dachshunds love to play, but will only stop when they're ready, after exhausting you.

They are extremely intelligent and can even spell. When we said 'out' our dog would get all excited. Then we resorted to spelling it. From the first time on, he knew exactly what we meant. You can't fool a dachshund.

They also love to burrow under the covers and will take over your bed if allowed in. For such a small dog they can take up more room then a full-grown German shepherd. And don't even try to move them when they're sleeping; it's like moving a piano.

My first weenie dog, as they are affectionally called, was Fritzie. Picture above. He took over my life and my heart. He taught me well the dachshund disposition. He lived for 16.5 years, and it wasn't long enough.

They are loveable, cuddly, excitable, irascible, and full of barks, and will become your best friend. As long as you mind their rules!

To find out more about me and my books.

                                           

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

RIP Tom Kelleher by Eileen O'Finlan

To purchase:

Amazon

Barnesandnoble.com
Smashwords

On May 26, 2026, I received devastating news. My dear friend, Tom Kelleher, had just been killed when he was hit by a car while riding his motorcycle to work. Those who read the acknowledgments in my historical fiction books, know that I always thank Tom. As a professional historian, Tom was an enormous help to me in my research. He also read my drafts to check for historical accuracy. I even dedicated The Folklorist to him. He was indispensable to me for the 1830s timeline in that book.

Tom was a research historian and curator at the living history museum Old Sturbridge Village in Sturbridge, Massachusetts where he worked for 40 years. The Village is a living history museum which interprets life in a New England village in the 1830s. A brilliant historian, Tom had a gift for making history real for thousands of visitors. There was nothing he enjoyed more than putting on a 19th century costume (some of which he made himself on his grandmother's foot treadle sewing machine) and getting into character. He even created several characters such as a peddler, a traveling dentist, a revival preacher, and a phrenologist.

It seems that there was very little Tom didn't know about 19th century American history. Yet, it didn't stop there. He also had a vast knowledge of European history and American history of other time periods as well. It wasn't just me who turned to Tom when in a research conundrum. Other professional historians who knew him have told me that if they didn't know something and weren't having any luck finding the answer, they'd contact Tom. He always knew.

I met Tom in the mid 1990s when I worked for three years as the Museum Assistant for the Department of Research, Collections, and Library at Old Sturbridge Village. He was promoted from costumed interpreter to Research Historian during my second year of working there. We quickly became friends and, not much later started dating. We were a couple for eight years, the last year of which we were engaged. For reasons I won't go into here, we decided not to marry and to go our separate ways romantically, but we never ended our friendship. It continued uninterrupted until the accident on May 26th took his life.

Tom and me in the log cabin where he lived - early 2000s

Tom was a huge part of my life. To the day he died, my entire family still considered him part of our family. Everyone loved Tom. Whether they knew him professionally, personally, or both, all held him in high esteem. That was evidenced by the seemingly endless stream of people who attended his wake which was held in the Center Meeting House at Old Sturbridge Village.

At about the half-way point of the line for Tom's Calling Hours

I knew I needed to acknowledge his passing and the massive contribution he has been to my writing and to my life. That's why I did not write a blog post in June or July. I wasn't ready. Even now, in early August, I had to psych myself up to write this. I can still barely believe that he's gone.

Rest in peace dearest friend. I will always love you.

                                        

    Tom in costume at Old Sturbridge Village

Interesting Cornish Superstitions, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

A young adult haunted house story set in Nahant, Mass. Five stars from Long and Short Reviews! They were thrilled by the novella.

To purchase, click HERE Barnes and Noble, or for Amazon

I wrote many novels set in eighteenth century Cornwall and became fascinated with its myths. Two of them, Escape the Revolution and Hostage to the Revolution, were set on the wild northern coast. Cornwall covers the western region of England where tin mining was often the main occupation of the people. Many superstitions arose from this grueling work. 

Miners believed in gnomes called Knockers. They believed any strange noises in the mines were caused by the knockers, who warned of dangers to come, such as cave-ins. The knockers also caused mischief. The miners would leave them bits of their food to placate them.

The Cornish also believed in Piskies (Pixies). To avoid being tricked by the Piskies, they'd wear their clothes inside out to fool them. I'm not sure how that worked.

A scary belief was a Spriggan. They were small and ugly and they guarded treasure. If you angered one, they might kidnap your child and leave you a 'changeling'. This elf or troll might look like your child, but its demeanor would soon become strange.

Fishing was another important occupation in Cornwall. Fishermen would never count their catch. They'd chant over it first to keep the bad spirits at bay. You also could not mention the word 'rabbit' or 'minister', or whistle when onboard your boat, or it would cause you bad luck.

Giants are also part of Cornish myths. The children's story, Jack the Giant Killer is set in Cornwall. Might there be magic beans?

When my husband and I visited there the people were kind and open. And we didn't see one giant or gnome. They must have been hiding.

To find out more about me and my books.

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

Rough Travels in the Eighteenth Century, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

The sequel to "Escape the Revolution", to purchase "Hostage to the Revolution", click HERE (or scroll to the bottom)

In modern times we take travel for granted. We can fly around the world if we wish. But in the eighteenth century, it was a rough, often dangerous trip, where you didn't get very far in a day.

Enjoy the ride.

Writing novels set in this era, I had to take into account how far my characters could get from point A to B. Were there even roads where they wanted to go?

When my heroine sailed to New York in 1796, she found she had to take another ship to New Orleans as no roads existed to travel on land that far.

The foreign traveler to England usually came across the English Channel, a stormy and uncomfortable sail in raging water, when at last they rejoiced to see the white cliffs of Dover. 

Then they had to clear the Customs' House. Their person and luggage were thoroughly searched, and any precious items could be confiscated. The richer could bribe the customs men to let them pass easily.

Once onshore a group of bawds, pimps, and pickpockets waited to take advantage of them. The Englishmen considered foreigners suspicious; people who ate snails and disregarded good English beer.

The visitors might be lodged in noisy, dirty inns, waiting to secure a coach to other cities, especially London--eighty miles away. It would take up to twelve days to make the journey.

The rich could hire a carriage and horses, or a post-chaise, but the average traveler was forced to board a crowded coach. The poorer among them rode on top of the coach, suffering the wind and rain. Even the luggage basket at the rear might hold a passenger or two.

Bad roads could turn to mud, and bogs, and coaching accidents were frequent.

The stage-coaches were heavy and lumbering. And your fellow travelers might be smelly and loud. The ride would be jolting, especially before the 1750s when springs were introduced.

The traveler paid by the mile and was expected to tip the driver and guard; the awful trip could be expensive. The guard rode next to the driver and carried a shotgun, hence the term "I call shotgun." Highwaymen often watched who boarded and if they looked rich, they'd rob the coach out on the open road.

When the coach entered an inn yard, the roof passengers had to climb off or be knocked over by an archway. Staying at the coaching inns, men and women crowded in beds, sharing with strangers, and might come away with fleas or bedbugs.

A bill was introduced in Parliament in the 1780s to regulate how many passengers could be allowed to ride inside and on the coach roof. It didn't pass.

All in all, travel is much more convenient now. And hotels cleaner. But putting these details into my writing brings the story to life.

To find out more about me and my books.

                    

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

Motivating your Characters By Connie Vines #Writing #Storytelling #Hero #Tropes

 The Art of Motivation 😕

Motivation (According to Wikipedia) is an internal state that propels individuals to engage in goal-directed behavior. It is often understood as a force that explains why people or other animals initiate, maintain, or terminate a particular behavior at a given time.  It is a complex phenomenon, and its precise definition is disputed...

In Connie's world, it means sitting down at her computer with a thermos filled with coffee...and talking to herself.

Every writer has his/her own system for producing a novel.

Some have grafts, charts posted on a wall, detailed notes, etc.

I have a tendency to become fixated on details (which is fine during revisions, but a problem during the first draft). 

Now, I interview my main characters. 

Lynx Maddox was a Texan and a bullrider. Q&A is like a radio/online format.

I ask questions, and fornatuely, Lynx had ready answers for me in his deep Texas dawl.

In Lynx's case, it was simple: Win a Rodeo Buckle, and because it's a contemporary romance, Win the Girl.

However, motivation, goal, and conflict are also part of a story...

Why is he motivated? What keeps his goal out of reach? And what about the girl? 

According to Debra Dixon (Goal, Motivation & Conflict), Goals should not be subtle. Get out the two-by-four and start wacking your reader over the head.

Since we are all familiar with the Wizard of Oz, Dorothy must get to the Emerald City. Second, she must get in to see the Wizard. Third, a broomstick.

I have notebooks and favorite pens. Before setting down to write my first draft, I conducted research. I have handwritten notes, dialogue, and scenes. The act of writing in cursive activates a creative area of the brain (the same area activated when playing a musical instrument). 

My notebook info and sensory details, etc., are not included until after I've completed my rough draft.  

When I first sit down, it's nuts-and-bolts.  

When my rough draft is completed, the characters begin to 'talk to me".

Reveal bits of their past. 

Some of my characters are sassy (Charlene/ Meredith). Others have overcome hardship (Rachel/Tay), and some are sexy heroes (Lynx, Brede, Vicktor, etc.). 

Goals: also motivate your characters.  

You can run, but you can't hide from goals.

Each character has a goal.

Goals must be important and urgent. 

Goals must be internal and external. (win the buckle/win the girl).

Character decisions must drive the plot.

Goals must be achieved by characters. (No magic wands, or it just happens.)  Yes, I know many popular books were based on coincidences.

 I, however, subscribe to Joseph Campbell's "Call to Adventure" (Hero with a Thousand Faces) and Christopher Vogler's "The Writer's Journey".

We all have our favorite reads :)

Name your favorite Hero/Heroine, your favorite book, and why you still remember the story.

Happy Reading!

Connie

Where to shop for my books/ ebooks?

There's a glitch in Amazon at the moment (Only my audio version of "Lynx" is available :( 

Barns & Noble, Apple Books, or your fave online book store.

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/brede-connie-vines/1115934010

 

Walking where my Character Walked, a visit to Cornwall, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

I became fascinated with Cornwall, England after reading books and watching movies set there. Situated at the western end of England, the region of Cornwall, with its Celtic culture, is its own country in many ways. They had their own language as well.

Poldark, by Winston Graham, is a famous series set on the wild northern coast of Cornwall. Graham's books are also a good source of eighteenth century lingo used by the inhabitants. 

My heroine flees France during the French Revolution, and ends up working in a bawdy tavern in this area while she tries to solve her father's murder and discover the whereabouts of her mother.

She soon finds she is pursued by rebels with sinister intentions.

"Simply brilliant," the Historical Novel Society.

To purchase, Escape the Revolution, please click HERE

Of course my husband and I needed to travel there to get a feeling for the place. On a rainy evening, driving on the left side of the road, during the worst rains in 400 years, our adventure began. 

We entered the village in the pitch black, where we had a cottage rented, traversing a narrow road with towering hedges.

The quaint cottage, called Coombe Cottage was perfect. A stone in the wide fireplace had the date 1750 etched into it. Here is a painting my friend, Christine Valenti, did of my husband in front of the cottage.

We walked the coastline where I set the tavern, down to Tintagel, where King Arthur supposedly had a castle, all in ruins now. We ate meat pasties, which miners took with them to eat down in the tin mines. Later, I loaded up on research books in a crowded Padstow bookstore.

Bettina, (Lisbette) my French heroine--the daughter of a count--is shown these places by the mysterious Everett Camborne. He is a man she is falling in love with, but dark rumors surround him.

She also learns to make the pasties, as she acclimates from her privileged life to one of the poorer classes. She learns to be self-sufficient and is proud of it.

We visited the grand estate of Lanhydrock, where I set another novel later on. It was too fancy for Everett's manor.

We walked down to Port Isaac, where the "Doc Martin" series is filmed, and where Everett takes Bettina.

I got a feel for the thrashing sea, the brisk air, the rocky land, and incorporated it into my novel. It adds the "senses" that make the words come alive.

Cornwall is full of quaint towns and beautiful, rugged landscapes. I made up the village of Sidwell where Bettina lives and Maddie's tavern thrives so I could use it as I wished. Bettina, at first determined to leave, finds a home here, and a man she loves. But more events await her, good and bad.

I want to mention we lost the woman who started BWL Publishing at the beginning of this month. Heartfelt condolences to her family and all of us at BWL We'll miss you, Jude.

Find out more about me and my books

                        

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund. 

The Mystery of Old Economy Village, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

A young adult haunted house story. Five stars from Long and Short Reviews! They were thrilled by the novella.

To purchase, click HERE

Today's post is about a visit I took with my husband and best friend to Old Economy Village, an historic site near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I hope you find it interesting.

The village was founded by German Lutheran separates in the 19th century. A sect that formed to create a utopian society, waiting for the second coming of the Messiah. 

Visitors can explore several historic buildings, original artifacts, and learn about their culture.

George Rapp led the group. He began preaching in his native Germany. When he split from the Lutheran Church he was banned from preaching. He called himself a prophet and defied the church. His subsequent persecution forced him to flee to the United States with his followers in 1803.

He preached celibacy to keep the group pure as they waited for the Messiah. They didn't believe in procreation, and that was their downfall. Pretty soon they died out.

Rapp died in the village in 1847

Here is my husband talking to our guide

The society was self-sufficient. A sawmill, tannery, distillery. We even took part in rope making. I can't find the picture I took of that.

They nurtured beautiful gardens and grew their own food.

Harmonist church-another society in Harmony, PA, founded by Rapp

They were nonviolent pacifists who refused to serve in the military. Following the literal teachings of the New Testament, as interpreted by Rapp, they believed Jesus would come again and a thousand years of peace would ensue. Their experiment failed.

Rapp was sometimes called a tyrant and was sued by former members for compensation, so not everything was peaceful.

The village is mostly intact and welcomes visitors. A fascinating excursion.

A recent storm sent a tree onto one of the buildings, crushing it. Sorry to hear that.

Find out more about me and my books

                                         

Diane lives in western Pennsylvania with one naughty Dachshund

Creative Living

                                                      Find my books here

Merika is a Greek word meaning creative spark. We all have it. It's part of what makes us human. 

Creative people lead creative lives. Most of my author friends have other creative passions that sometimes fed their writing lives. 

My friend Jodi is a caller for traditional New England dances. 

In addition to her wonderful books, my friend Juilene is an Irish Storyteller in the oral tradition. 

Friend and BWL author Eileen O'Finlan keeps a beautiful garden in her Massachusetts home.

Our readers have wonderful sparks of creativity, too. Roseanne creates beautiful table settings for her large family at holidays. Jeanie is a creative baker. David and his uncle Bill delight children with beautiful model train villages for our local historical society displays.

What are your satisfying creative pursuits, dear reader? How do you make our world more beautiful?

Will Luke Survive the Ruthless Oyster Police during the Potomac Oyster Wars? by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To Purchase, click HERE

In 1956 the state of Virginia fought a war with Maryland over dredging oysters on the Potomac River. Maryland had their own Oyster Police Force, who shot at the Virginians.. Dredging ruined the oyster beds but collected more bounty. Here is a scene from my story where my protagonist Luke is involved in this illegal and dangerous business. Enjoy:

This is a fictionalized account of an event that actually happened:

Luke cringed and leaned over the port rail. Images were blurry in the mist, though the faint light of dawn appeared in the direction of the Chesapeake Bay. Miss Ann’s engine roared to life.

The two police boats closed in, pushing strong waves against Sally. Their boat rocked. Bobby and Frank shoved up on either side of Luke.

Miss Ann sped across the water toward Monroe Bay, the two police boats in pursuit.

At a noise in the sky, Luke stared up. “A seaplane, too?”

“Mama won’t like this,” Frank said, though didn’t sound scared.

“Virginia should have a plane,” Bobby groused. “We’re too timid.”

Jim grabbed his binoculars. “Hell, this looks bad.”

Gunfire exploded, shot after shot. Luke winced, though the shots were in the opposite direction, toward Miss Ann.

Captain Jim started their engine. They nosed out into the water. “We should find a safer place, or head to port.”

The Miss Ann careened back and forth over the waves in the glimmer of dawn like a combat maneuver.

“We might get in the line of fire,” Silas said. “Damn fool, Harvey. We should stay put.”

“I should have brought my pistol,” Frank said, breath rasping.

“I warned you about that.” Luke glared at the boy. “Silas is right, we could all be shot. Have some sense.”

“Shut up, Frank.” Bobby pushed on his cousin’s shoulder to force him to kneel. “Stay down. I hope Harvey blasts those bastards.”

Spray dampened Luke’s face and shoulders as he held onto the boat’s rail, balancing with the slap of the river. On shore, as the sky lightened further, the sun straining to shine through the murk, people gathered. They cheered for Harvey and cursed at the police.

Bullets flew. Luke and Bobby ducked beside Frank on the slimy deck. Jim navigated near the shore, toward a creek’s mouth they knew about. Up on the bank, tree trunks splintered, struck by gunfire.

Harvey careened around bars and in and out of coves, then he cut a hard turn as the seaplane lowered to the water’s surface. The Miss Ann revved, and Harvey steered her right at the plane.

“Oh, shoot,” Jim muttered. “He wouldn’t.”

In a splash of flying water, Harvey gunned his boat. The people on shore gasped. The seaplane lifted just as the Miss Ann swerved beneath her pontoons.

“He’s as insane as Bozo.” Luke gripped one hand to the port rail as he still kneeled.

A boat roared up behind them, lights flashing.

“We’re spotted.” Jim slipped Sally into the creek, amongst thicker foliage. Little sunlight had penetrated in there yet. The mist clung like a smoky curtain.

A sudden shift in water again, and a low engine sounded behind them. The police had followed! A spotlight lit up their boat. “Stay where you are!” a disembodied voice shouted. “We’re coming aboard to check your equipment.”

Luke cursed. He couldn't risk being arrested. He had a wife and young son to support. Their boat pushed into deeper shadows, scraping the starboard side.

“Dammit. Jump overboard. All of you.” Jim flicked his cigarette away. “I’ll take the heat.”

Find out more about me and my books

                                         

Diane lives in western Pennsylvania with one naughty Dachshund