Priscilla Brown goes walking

 We  know walking is excellent exercise, and I find it so not only for the body but for my contemporary romance writer's mind. I've found the senses come alive during a walk: sight, small, touch, hearing, taste, offer inspiration and suggest ideas. Several years ago when I lived by the sea in New South Wales, I loved strolling along the beach. Underfoot there's the tactile sensation of sand hard and damp where the tide has just receded, and soft close to the dunes where the water seldom reaches. The breeze carries the aroma of the ocean - lick lips and taste salt. Since this is a bay, there's no surf and the waves are not usually high. Paddling on the edge, cool wavelets wash over feet. During my excursions on the beach, I started to write in my head the novel which became Where the Heart Is. However, the final story is set not in temperate Australia but on an exquisite sub-tropical Caribbean island. https://books2read.com/Where-the-Heart-is

 

Moving inland to a rural area, I became an alpaca owner, and as I walked around the farm my senses received whole different influences: the scents of grass and
of warm animals, handling their smooth fleece, the dog barking to get them to move to another paddock, the breeze rustling through the windbreak eucalypt trees.Enjoying the curiosity and intelligence of these handsome friendly creatures meant that I had to put them in a novel, and Sealing the Deal took shape. https://books2read.com/Sealing-the-Deal

 

In my current semi-urban area, the senses are still present during my exercise walking around the tree-lined streets close to a railway line.There's the light wind hissing thought the foliage of the huge trees bordering the rail line, and the rattle of trains and hooting as they approach the station. The area has mostly quiet road traffic, and a lot of cockatoos screaming at each other. Right now in late spring blossom trees are shedding their white and pink flowers, and the scent of wattle pervades the air. My local walking has not yet brought forth a complete new story, but bits and pieces of characters, description, setting are gradually coming together. I have been known to sit on someone's garden wall to jot down in my ever-present notebook a particularly interesting and potentially important idea or thought or observation.

Enjoy your walking and your reading, best wishes, Priscilla 

 

https://bwlpublishing.ca 

https://bookswelove.net/brown-priscilla

https://priscillabrownauthor.com 

 

You Know You Are a Writer When... by Victoria Chatham

Kissing Beach, Mexico

…you are lying on a beach, soaking up the sun, listening to the soft murmur of the waves, drink within hand’s reach—and then it starts. The voices in your head. That one character, who has been giving you gears because she’s not doing what you had in mind, telling you clearly what she is going to do. The sudden visual of the staircase in the house where your character lives. Where does it lead? Is there a purpose for it?

Sigh. Yes, the magic of that sun-kissed moment shatters as your analytical brain nods off allowing your creative brain to burst into life. You pull your notepad from your beach bag and jot down those intrusions because, if you don’t, you know the rest of your afternoon will be more of the same.

Friends who do not write do not get the concept of what populates your head. They don’t understand your need to be alone or that when you sit staring into space, your mind is going a mile a minute, bursting with ideas for which you need more time alone to formulate into words on the page. Then those words need to be organized into scenes or lines of dialogue. They need to paint pictures for readers to see the settings you have created for your characters are and what they are doing.

And when all the words are written, when all the threads weave together to form a beginning, a middle, and an end and you think you are done, there’s a sinking feeling because you know the real work is about to begin.

Whether they like it or not, authors must contend with feedback from critique partners, editors, and beta readers. There are copy and line edits, and revisions as characterizations are strengthened and plot holes plugged. There is often weeping and wailing as beautifully written paragraphs which, though the prose may be perfect does nothing to further the story, are cut.

Writing is not for the faint-hearted. But, if you have ever read a book and thought ‘I can do better than that’, then maybe you have what it takes to write one. What are you waiting for? Sit your butt in a chair, write longhand or type, whichever is most comfortable for you, and get that story idea you’ve been toying with written. When you type THE END, congratulations. Whether your story gets published or not, congratulations - you are a writer.

AVAILABLE HERE

VICTORIA CHATHAM

​AT BOOKS WE LOVE

 ON FACEBOOK

 MY WEBSITE

Priscilla Brown muses on writing environments

   She's lover shopping, but her new boss could never be the goods on her wish list. Besides, which of them is really the boss?

For more information and to purchase this recently released contemporary romance, visit http://www.bookswelove.net/authors/brown-priscilla-romance

A few weeks ago I attended a short lecture on the writing lives of four famous authors: Daphne du Maurier, Virginia Woolf, C S Lewis and Ernest Hemingway. The lecturer addressed where they lived, where they actually wrote, their daily routine, and how much their environment shaped their work.

I found myself particularly interested in the influence of the physical environment, and wondered if the stories for which these writers are well known could have been written in different surroundings; not necessarily the location of the plot, or of most of it, but the setting in which the writer is working.I haven't been to du Maurier's beloved Cornwall where she wrote and which clearly had a huge influence, and her writing brought the area to vivid life for me. In contrast, Ernest Hemingway lived in many different places and, interestingly, wrote about Paris and others after he'd left them. My curiosity lay in the outside environment rather than the room and desk where the creative work occurred.

Thinking back to my own writing life, when I started more or less seriously (that is, aiming for publication), I was living in an isolated New South Wales coastal village and attempting short stories. I used to take my notebook to the beach, sit on the sand and scribble ideas, fragments of stories. This physical environment--the sea, usually calm as our village was situated on a large bay, and frequented by dolphins; the white sand beach, its access track fringed with bushes; the tall forest behind the village--all inspired, indeed encouraged, my literary efforts. Most, but not all, of these early stories were set around this locale; a few were published, and others relegated to a hard copy file in case parts could be used in some future work. (Still waiting!)

The physical environment is of course not only about place and the sense of sight. It's also about the other senses. With this littoral environment, the ocean-fresh sense of smell was marked, of salt and of the scent of eucalypts in the forest; salt contributed to taste also--it stuck to lips and found its way into sandwiches. Sounds included the gentle slap of waves, the hum of the sea at night, calls of seabirds, dolphins breaching, bushes rustling in the breeze; the sense of touch was stimulated by brushing against spiky leaves, swimming in the the often cool water, sand tickling bare feet.

Perhaps I should add that this area has a temperate climate, warm summers, chilly winters, and there is bad weather, high winds, rain, storms. In fact, one of my favourite short stories involved a small boat wrecked during a storm.

Moving inland to a small regional town  means that while this particular ambience no longer actively influences my writing, twenty years of living by the sea will always remain in the background, and I 

 recall the experience when required for a story. Now, instead of writing by the beach, I'm finding our

lovely small garden, such as was difficult to establish in coastal sandy soil, fulfils a need for an outdoors creative space. I appreciate its peaceful mood, and enjoy watching honeyeaters and parrots feeding on the Australian native flowers and shrubs. The only drawback is at the moment in winter it's too cold to work outside.

The idea for Class Act developed from several years teaching English to adult speakers of other languages, work sometimes challenging and always rewarding. The setting of Gina and Lee's language school is in a different city and different kind of building, and the plot and characters are complete fiction. (My then Director was nowhere near as interesting as Lee in the story!)

Enjoy your reading!  Priscilla.

http://bwlpublishing.ca 

 https://priscillabrownauthor.com

The story behind my latest book: Pathway to Tomorrow

My latest book, Pathway to Tomorrow has just been published. There's a story behind it too.

I live close to the beach, near pinewoods and wonderful, wild vistas. The area is criss-crossed with bridleways because a lot of people ride horses through the woodlands and down to the beach. It is also idyllic dog walking country. Consequently, when a wealthy business man purchased a derelict farmhouse and closed off the adjacent bridleway that led to the open fields and then on down to the beach, it caused a great deal of local angst. Horse riders and dog lovers alike all protested. In the end, common sense prevailed. The new land owner opened up the bridleway again and dealt with his own privacy by planting hundreds of trees and bushes and installing a lot of fencing. Who can blame him? Nobody does locally now that access to the beach is available again. After all, who would want every passerby to be able to see into their house? As well, the building of the house and its adjoining estate has been a source of great local interest for several years.

That is as far as any resemblance to Pathway to Tomorrow is concerned of course. I don't know the local businessman. His house is no longer visible from the path because the bushes have grown, and a huge double gate blocks off his driveway. The demolition of the old farmhouse and the building of a huge property with stables, a gym, a swimming pool and myriad outbuildings prompted the beginning of my story though. After walking past it for months it suddenly occurred to me that it was just the setting I was looking for, for Marcus, my hero.

There is another equally important part to the story too. How did I find Marcus? Well a lot of months ago I was invited to listen to the Red Stripe Band http://www.red-stripe.info, a fantastic and fun jazz band that has played all over the world and been feted by many big names but, when I happened on it, was performing at a small venue in the Yorkshire Dales. Go to my blog post http://bit.ly/14GxVNL to see it.

On that evening I 'discovered' Marcus. He wasn't any of the performers but more an amalgam of the whole ethos of the band; someone who lived and breathed music and loved to share it with others. He changed during the writing of course. It always happens when a writer lets the hero take over! And when he 'told' me he could't perform any more but had to concentrate on composition...well I had to let him. Who am I to argue with someone as single-minded as Marcus? I still owe many thanks to the Red Strip Band, however. It was there at the right time, when I needed some inspiration, and I have dedicated my book to it. Thanks for the music Red Stripe.

And what about Marcus' story? Well, when he bought the derelict farmhouse next to Jodie’ Eriksson's riding school he didn't know whether to be amused or irritated by her angry reaction to his plans. Then her sister Izzie visited him and made things a whole lot worse…or was it better…because now he had an excuse to see Jodie again.

Although, when he sees her, it’s not exactly a meeting of minds, they do discover they have one thing in common; they both believe they know what’s best for Izzie, and for Marcus' son Luke. It turns out they’re wrong. The children they thought they were protecting need to be set free. It’s Jodie and Marcus who have the problem; but can two broken hearts make one whole one? The battle lines that were set when they first met have long since been breached but the war won’t be over until Jodie learns how to trust again, and until Marcus allows himself to believe in his son.

Beach Settings

Many readers have commented favorably on the settings in my books, often centered--although not always--on the Oregon Coast or the Puget Sound area in western Washington. Two examples are my YA romance, Sandcastles of Love and my adult romantic suspense novel, The Fisherman's Daughter. (Both books are available on Amazon.com) Marine background settings do indeed play a big factor in these books. But why beach settings? Why do they evoke strong memories that fuel my writing?

I grew up near Edmonds, north of Seattle, WA. Many decades earlier, Edmonds began its existence as a logging town. Now this “friendliest town in Washington” boasts luxurious condos with sweeping views of the Sound, unique gift shops and boutiques, antique stores, and scrumptious bakeries--just to name a few. In summertime and early fall, colorful hanging flower baskets adorn the main streets, giving the town a festive, European ambiance.

I remember as a small girl scouring the beach in Edmonds for shiny small rocks and shells, and the soft plopping sounds as I dropped each shell into my plastic bucket. Even broken shells would do! (Those were the days when it was all right to take the shells home.) I remember the relatives who visited every summer without fail from the Midwest. They loved riding the ferry, even if it were only to the opposite shore and back. Often in the late afternoon, the women packed up a casserole, a simple salad, and beverages to tote to the beach where we’d spread out our feast onto wind-worn picnic tables. My dad would join us once he returned from work. There we’d eat, laugh, talk and gaze out over the Sound. We'd sometimes make a game of counting the number of vehicles boarding the ferry. And what impressive ferries they were with their multiple decks and their green-and-white, sleek designs.

I remember my early teen years when my girlfriends and I’d walk to the beach during summertime. We’d spread out blankets, slather on cocoa butter, bake under the sun, and look for cute guys. With a briny breeze against our faces, the warmth radiating up from the sand, and the occasional wail of a train that rode the rails paralleling the beach, we were happy Beach Bums for the day. Later during high school, our crowd I often drove to the beach on warm summer evenings. We built beach fires that scented the air with the salty smell of driftwood. We strolled barefoot, feeling the gritty sand between our toes. Later we huddled around the fire to toast marshmallows and solve the world’s problems--or so we thought.  

And a weekend campout on Whidby Island with my biology class resulted in several of us kids getting caught by an incoming tide. What an adventure finding our way out! (That scene appears in my second published book, Double Crossing, released by a German publisher many years ago.)

After I'd married, and our two sons were small, we took them to Edmonds often to visit their grandparents. The beach was always an important part of those visits. How the boys loved to dig in the sand--if we'd forgotten to take a bucket and shovel, they'd improvise by using shells as "scoopers." And whenever they'd hear the Amtrak whistle growing louder, they'd drop their "scoopers" and go running to get a good view of the train roaring by and to wave to the engineer, who would usually wave back!

My husband and I still visit Edmonds regularly. Though our immediate family is gone, some extended family and friends remain, and it’s fulfilling to connect with them. Yet a good part of our time is spent overlooking the beach and the ferry dock. There we love watching the ferry traverse the Sound, hearing the waves lapping gently against the beach, and seeing the rugged Olympic Mountains off to the west.

Yes, some things do indeed change, but not all things. And my memories are forever fixed in time. These are just a few of the evocative sensory details I aspire to bring to my writing.