The Unexpected Gift Inside a Book by Eileen O'Finlan

 

                        

                                           

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I grew up hearing family stories and reminiscences from both of my parents, especially my mom. She told many of them so often I eventually knew them by heart. My mom often spoke of her old friend, Carleton Carpenter. They grew up together in Bennington, Vermont. She talked about how close they were as youngsters and the many things they did together growing up in the 1920s and '30s. She would reminisce about how Carleton used to write plays and get all the kids in the neighborhood together to put them on, directing everyone with authority. This is no surprise when you realize that he went on to act on Broadway and in several movies, often playing opposite Debbie Reynolds.

One day, several years ago, when my mom (and Carleton who was the same age) were in their 90s, I found out that Carleton Carpenter had written a memoir called The Absolute Joy of Work: From Vermont, to Broadway, Hollywood, and Damn 'Near Round the World. I bought a copy for Mom which she loved. 

Then I got the idea of trying to see if I could reconnect these two old friends. They'd lost touch after high school so it was a longshot but worth a try. It took a while, but I finally tracked him down and got an address. He was living in New York. I wrote to him, explained who I was, and hoped he'd remember my mom. He was, after all, in his 90s, and I had no idea what he might or might not remember. I was so excited when I got a letter back from him saying that he certainly did remember his old friend, Barbara, and was so glad that I had contacted him. He included a letter for my mom in the envelope. I don't know who was more delighted, Mom or me!

I had given Mr. Carpenter our phone number in the letter I sent to him and he put his in the letters he sent to us. I set up a date and time with him to call my mom. After that call, she spent the day looking like she was in a blissful daze. She just couldn't get over the fact that she had been reconnected with a dear old friend who she hadn't seen or heard from in over 70 years. They continued to write to each other and talk on the phone frequently. She caught him up on her life, who she'd married, her kids, where she'd worked and lived. And he told her all about her acting career and his close friendship with Debbie Reynolds and how sad he was at her recent passing.

It was only a few years later that Mom slipped so suddenly and deeply into dementia that she had to be moved to a nursing home. I learned that Carleton Carpenter passed away on January 31, 2022. I chose not to tell Mom because by then she thought she was living in Vermont and he was her neighbor. It would only confuse and upset her. Mom passed away almost one year later.

Recently, I came across Mom's copy of the memoir he'd written and decided to read it. It begins with his childhood in Vermont. As I read, I noticed that Mom had underlined the names of several people and places he mentioned. Obviously, these were people and places she remembered. Now, as I read it, I imagine what it must have been like for her to read that book and be taken back to her childhood and the happy days she spent with Carleton and their friends and neighbors in Bennington.

I have also found that it is a gift for me because I feel as though through the underlined passages she is pointing things out to me, once again telling me her stories and sharing her childhood with me. I am so glad I found this book and decided to read it. I had thought that there was no way I could ever have that experience again and yet, here it is. I've always found books to be a great gift, but this one has given more than I could have hoped for in a way I never would have expected.

 

  

 

Readers' Pet Peeves by J. S. Marlo

 

Undeniable Trait

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J. S. Marlo's BWL Books

I'm working on a new story, tentatively titled Misleading Truth. It's a mystery in the heart of the Canadian Rocky Mountains amid the preparation of a wedding.

As I was browsing the Internet for original Pet Peeves, I stumbled on Readers' Pet Peeves. What annoys a reader the most when reading a book?

The list isn't in any particular order, but these are the pet peeves that appear the most often:

     - Two dimensional characters, like perfect men with no flaws who always make the right decision and save the day, or gorgeous women with no personalities.

     - Same description repeated multiple times throughout the book.

     - Long scenic descriptions that add nothing to story.

     - Cliché or predictable storylines.

     - Characters with similar names, or names that are hard to pronounce or remember.

     - Long paragraphs or substantial difference in length of paragraphs, like three very short paragraphs followed by an extra long one.

     - Cliffhanger at the end of a book. The annoyance intensifies if the next book isn't readily available.

     - Series in which books are not numbered.

     - Books of different sizes, especially if part of a series.

     - Misleading blurbs or blurbs with spoilers.

     - Bad editing, bad formatting, bad translation.

     - Small or uneven font size.

     - Poor book cover design.

     - Stickers on books.

     - And last but not least, readers don't like to be bothered when they read.

Personally, I cannot stand excessive and pointless profanity in books. I was once asked to review a book with a supposedly "strong" heroine. In the first chapter, she used the f*** word in almost every sentence that came out of her mouth. I don't know if it was the author's way to make her sound like a strong woman, but to me, she just sounded vulgar and rude. I stopped reading right there.

Happy Reading & Stay Warm! 

J. S. 

 

 

J. S. Marlo's Website

January's Blues by Janet Lane Walters #BWLAuthor #MFRWAuthor #January #Blues #Weather

 

January has arrived with cold weather. This isn't my favorite time of the year these days. But I'll manage to get into better weather. As a child, I loved winter, especially the marvelous snow storms. Winters these days seldom bring more than snow dusting. Enough complaints about the weather.

January brings a new year and new ideas. Hoping to finish the book I've been working on for months. The main problem is the writing was interrupted by two hospital stays and both times helped me lost the gist of the story. I'm on track now and hopefully by the end of the month the story will be ready to set off. The Horror Writer's Demise is the start of a new series. The second book is starting to gel. Title hopefully is the Historical Writer's Snuff Boxes.  Looking forward to writing this but not for a time but there is a medical romance perking and partially planned.

Looks like next year will be a writing one. In my old files, I found a draft of a story I don't remember when I write it. A post Civil war historical. I want to look it over and see if it can be saved. There's also a Regency Historical with a plan that could be written. I'll see what happens there.

Update on current Work In Progress ~ When your characters go AWOL by Nancy M Bell

 

to learn more about Nancy's work click on the cover.

The progress on this book has been slow. For awhile, my characters refused to speak to me which was frustrating. I depend on them to carry me forward. I finally figured out why they had disappeared into the Ontario bush of 1917 and refused to come out. 

I was so tied up with historical timelines and who said this and where this other person was at such and such a time that I forgot about the underlying story I was attempting to tell. I finally pulled my head out of the rabbit hole and said "to hell with timeline etc."

I got back to my main character, Harriet Agnes St. George, and turned her loose on Canoe Lake and the Algonquin bush. One of the things which has plagued me is that this is based on actual happenings and Tom Thomson's death has never been fully explained. There are many and conflicting accounts of the events leading up to his death and those following the event. I have been sunk in a conundrum of what to use and what to disregard as not fitting with my storyline.

As this is a work of fiction, both historical and a mystery, I need to have a satisfying conclusion to the mystery. But as there is no clear indication of who the murderer was, or if indeed it was murder and not an accident, it has caused me some pause.

Clearly, I can't say such and such a historical figure was the murderer and to the best of anyone's knowledge, there were no eye witness to the attack/accident. So I have invented Harriet who tells the story in her own words from a unique perspective. I think the reader will find the conclusion and the wrap up of Harriet's story both surprising and satisfying. 

I'm not going to reveal anything more about that. Just say, keep an open mind as you follow Harriet through her journey to discover who killed her friend and fellow artist Tom Thomson.

In closing, just let me say, I hate hate hate writers block and I hate when my characters desert me and then suddenly show up in the middle of the night waking me up with "hey lady, about your story line- how about this...."

Until next month, stay well, stay happy.

A writer is a reader first...by Sheila Claydon

Find my books here

A writer is first and foremost a reader. Reading is what inspires us. In my book Empty Hearts the heroine  is a TV presenter turned writer. 

My daughter-in-law was complimented the other day when she and her daughter (my ten year old  granddaughter) were staying in a hotel together and the waitress who was serving them saw my granddaughter reading a book. She wanted to know how this was possible when every other child sitting at a table waiting to be served was on an iPhone or a tablet. My daughter-in-law didn't have an answer other than 'she likes to read.'

How did this happen? Is it because we are a book loving family so it's in the genes? Or is it due to the fact that every night before bed she had a story until the day she dismissed her parents, saying she was now old enough to read to herself? Is it because she is surrounded by books? She has a whole bookcase full in her bedroom, another shelf here when she visits me, and a library ticket for whatever country she is in. Currently the family live in Singapore. Previously it was Hong Kong. Before that Australia. All interspersed with long stints in the UK. 

In the UK our local library is good but small. There are reading pods for the children who start a book the moment they arrive, and a garden to play in for the ones needing to let off steam. It offers lots of storytelling activities and every child can take home 20 books at a time. It is not, however, a patch on the libraries she used in Australia and Hong Kong. Nor the Singaporean one she uses now. They are all truly amazing with what seems like miles of shelving and lots of child sized seating areas as well as roomier ones for parents to join in. There are school libraries too, so she's never short of books. 

None of this means she doesn't use the iPad however. It's still one of her favourite things alongside her Nintendo Switch (which means nothing to me!) but she always finds time for her books. 

Now all this sounds as if she has been conditioned to love books and of course it has helped but it can't be the only answer. My other two older granddaughters were treated in exactly the same way as they grew up (apart from living in multiple countries!) and yet one of them never reads while the other one always has a book on the go. So loving books has to come from somewhere inside us. Is it imagination, curiosity, an ability to visualise what the words on the page are saying, or something else entirely? 

My non-reading granddaughter is bright, academically able and can read and spell perfectly well. She passed all her English exams with good marks, then gave up reading. Yet she is much better than the rest of the family at interpreting diagrams, building flatpack furniture from the pictures, ditto Lego and other constructions. She has an amazing memory and can map read like a pro, whereas I can get lost in a carpark! 

So what is it? I only have a sample of three to go by, but loving reading and valuing books really does seem to be something inbuilt. A child who reads is an adult who reads, and who, maybe, one day, become a writer. 

The Age of Eighty-eight Keys by Janet Lane Walters #BWLAuthor #MFRWAuthor #Mysteries #romance #Paranomal #Fantasy

 

Another year has passed and though i am only a day older than yesterday, I have also reached the age of piano keys. My son who sings is the one who pointed this out. Makes for some interesting thoughts. Does it mean I must write faster and try to write as many books as I have years. Would be nice but as a typist I am slow.

I have two books on the drawing board. One is the Horror Writer's Demise. A start of a mystery series. The heroine does research for college professors. She has a five- year old son and no man in sight. The hero is a police detective. He also has a five year old son. His wife died two years ago. His sister takes care of his son. The heroine's mother does this for her grandson.

The second is a Regency historical. Actually book two of a three book series about three sisters who have spent part of their life in India. This is the beautiful sister. he loves cloth and designing clothes. Her beauty makes her rather stuck on herself. She marries the son of an earl but he is not the heir. In a carriage accident, her face is cut and she becomes a recluse. Her husband returns to his playboy's life. Then he receives a blow to his ego and h sees what has become of his wife. He must change and bring her into society again.

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Creating a Home Library - A Labor of Love, Part 2 by Eileen O'Finlan

 

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In my February 7th post I wrote about how I was turning an unused room in my house into a long-desired home library. Good news - it's finished!

It was indeed a labor of love in more ways than one. I mentioned last month, how much I love being surrounded by my books. The other "love" part of this labor is that the room in question used to be my mom's bedroom. We lived together since shortly before my dad passed away in 1996. About three and a half years ago my mom had to move to a nursing home because of rapidly increasing dementia. She died on December 16, 2024. During the time she was in the nursing home I didn't do much with her room. Mostly, I just kept the door shut because I couldn't bear to look at her empty bedroom. 

Before Mom went to the nursing home, when she was still enough in her right mind, she and I talked about what would become of her room after she passed away. She was open like that. Talking about her own passing didn't bother her. Mostly, she wanted to know that the people she left behind would be alright. During one of those conversations, I broached the idea of turning her bedroom into a home library. At first she didn't say anything and I was worried that she didn't like the idea which was a surprise to me since she loved books and reading almost as much as I do. When I asked if she objected, she said, "No. I think it's a wonderful idea. I was just thinking that I wish I would be here to see it."

So, Mom, this library is in your honor! I truly believe that as I was creating it she was watching over my shoulder and nodding approvingly. If her gentle spirit is a presence in my new library, it will be a blessed place.

                 
    Table for doing research for novels                            Reading nook

   

Mom's shelf with her diploma in elementary education from the University of Vermont, 

her graduation program, and her name plate

Creating a Home Library - A Labor of Love by Eileen O'Finlan

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I recently took on a labor of love in my home - turning an unused room into a library. "Labor of love" is definitely the right term. There is a tremendous amount of both involved. 

After having the furniture that was in the room removed, I had to do battle with a slew of killer dust bunnies. I was able to banish them, but they took their revenge by inducing a lot of non-stop sneezing.

Next came removing all the books from all five bookcases in my living room as well as the books on the built-in shelves on either side of the fireplace and carrying them, one bag at a time, to the soon-to-be library. Following that, I carried each bookcase into the room. With so many books taking up the floor space it wasn't easy getting the bookcases into the room. I can't imagine what I'll do in the coming days when I bring in the books from five more bookcases coming from other rooms. I could load the books into the bookcases already there, but I really want to organize them first.

                                  

I've had to rethink my plans more than once. I originally wanted to put my antique secretary desk and my papasan chair in the library, but now I realize that even though I might be able to squeeze them in, they will make the room very overcrowded. Instead of the papasan, I moved in my bentwood rocker. I'll wait on the secretary and see how much room is available when I'm finished. (With the removal of the bookcases from the living room, there is now enough space in there for the papasan so all good!) I'm also planning to put the round rock maple table in the center of the room as a place to spread out my books, notes, and documents for my novel research.

That should give you an idea of the "labor" part. Now for the "love."

Having a home library has always been one of my heart's desires. Seriously, I could sit and gaze as shelves of books in the same way one gazes dreamily at a lover. (Add a cat into the picture and I'm over the moon!) So, the fact that this is becoming a reality has me in raptures. I can just picture myself gently rocking in my rocking chair reading a book or sitting at the table diligently researching my next novel. I nearly swoon thinking about it.

Labor of love? You bet! Lugging books, bookcases and other assorted furniture is a small price to pay for what it will be in the end.

Christmases Past (and Presents)...by Sheila Claydon

 

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I haven't written any books with Christmas in them but Loving Ellen (Book 2 of Mapleby Memories) has exactly the right cover. I can imagine little Ellen's excitement when she wakes up on Christmas morning and sees a bulging stocking at the end of her bed. And that imagining has made me remember some of the favourite gifts I received as a child.

The first one I can clearly recall is a pair of rabbit fur mittens. I was about 5 years old. The fur was on top, the palm was leather, and there was a gathering of elastic at the wrist so they wouldn't fall off. They were so soft and warm and  I wore them for most of the Christmas holiday, indoors and out, often rubbing the furry side against my face. I adored them. In those days it was real fur too. Nowadays it would be faux. We also used to eat rabbit in those long ago days not long after the war, so it seemed entirely natural to use their fur for hats and gloves, whereas now rabbit pie has all but disappeared from the British culinary tradition and rabbits are mostly children's pets.

Another present I remember was a doll house. It was really special although I didn't know how special until years later when I realised my parents had made it for me. It was only a few years after WW2 so toys were in short supply and money was too. But by using wooden boxes, scraps of wallpaper and carpet, and by contriving beds, chairs and sofas out of matchboxes plumped up with cotton wool and covered in old dress material, they conjured up the most marvellous gift. It had four fully furnished rooms and a family of tiny rubber dolls. The baby's cradle was half a walnut shell. I loved it beyond words.

I remember, too, the artist's palette, 3 canvases and box of oil paints I received from a much older cousin when I was about 14 and fancying myself as a painter. My poor grandmother and my father patiently sat  for hours while I painted them. Although I am no artist I did capture their likeness and my mother hung them in the hall until I left home. She then removed them somewhat rapidly and I am quite sure with a sigh of relief.

I remember the baby doll too. I insisted it was a boy and called him Michael. Maybe prescient as that's my husband's name! He was almost new born baby size and my mother, who had kept my old carry cot ready for another child who sadly never arrived, let me use it for Michael along with the covers and shawls I had been wrapped in as a baby. I had a doll pram too but I don't remember how or when that arrived or whether it was new or second hand. I do know it was maroon though.

Then, when I was about nine years old, I had the book Christmas! I don't remember what my parents gave me, but everyone else gave me a book. I had a great many aunts and uncles and cousins, so that was quite a lot of books. At least ten, and not a single one replicated. Nor had I read any of them before. There was What Katy Did, What Katy Did Next, Little Women, one of Enid Blyton's Famous Five books, Swallows and Amazons, Children of the New Forest and Heidi to name a few. I don't remember them all but I know my parents had a very peaceful time because I spent Christmas with my nose in one book after another. And although I already loved reading, I think that was the year I started writing too. I can remember turning a cupboard in my bedroom into a desk with pencil, rubber and notepad laid out neatly on the shelf and a small stool tucked underneath. None of my early scribblings survived but I do remember writing about a girl called Dorothy although what her story was about is lost in the mists of time.

Christmas for children is wonderful if they are lucky enough to be part of a caring family. Nowadays, so many years later, I enjoy my Christmases vicariously through the eyes and excitement of my grandchildren, and, although I hardly dare admit it, my grand dogs, cat and horses!! According to my granddaughters they are so much part of the family that they can't be left out. However I don't think dog biscuits, catnip and hay nets will have the same lasting memories for them that my early Christmases have for me. 

As I get older I relish the memories and know how lucky I was, and still am. I hope you have your own wonderful memories too.

Merry Christmas!

Bon Voyage To Meee by Vanessa C. Hawkins

 

 

 Vanessa Hawkins Author Page

    So curretly I am en route to Toronto Ontario, so I fear there will be but a small blog post this month. I flew via Flair Airlines without a hitch, and am typing this up as I sit in the very front of the Robert Q bus. What a flight, I must say! I was glad to have a bit of liquid courage on the plane because the landing was rocky at best. The wildfires in Canada mean the skies are clouded in smog, which I suppose corresponds to mega turbulance. However, I am lucky to find myself here and on the way to plan and map out another book!

It was a lovely view in New Brunswick today at least. Though, if you have ever flown flair you may know how cheap it is. This comes at a price however, as every little thing has an extra charge. For example, carry on baggage. Now... I am but a humble writer. I'm no Stephen King nor Dean Koontz. I can't afford all the extras can I?

Well... not on a novelists salary! So, I planned ahead! I wore all my clothes on the plane, packed a fanny pack, and made sure even my boots had pockets!

I wasn't kidding! Good for one pair of underpants! 

Now that means as soon as I arrived I had to change. Holy heck its hot here! New Brunswick was crisp 10 degrees maybe, but by the time I arrived at TO I was due for a wardrobe change. I'm only here a few short days, but I am hoping to take in some sights while I'm here. I'm also going to be meeting up with my co-author for the Ballroom Riot series, Tara Woodworth! 

I'll have more to report next month when I return from my first trip since the pandemic! So stayed tuned then and keep writing! 

                

Before Flight and after flight... I felt much cooler after changing! 

Bon Voyage to Meeeeeeeeee

Writer on the Move by Diane Bator

https://bwlpublishing.ca/bator-diane/

A writer on the move. That sums up my life about now.

For anyone who has ever wished they could run away from their lives and go somewhere else to start a new life…I’m living your dream!

In all the midst of promoting my latest book, All That Shimmers, I’ve also been packing to move across Canada. Who knew I had so many copies of my own books for events and whatnot let alone friend’s books and my TBR pile? You know you have a problem when you plan to take more books than kitchen accessories!

Now that the kids are grown and doing their own great things, and a few other things haven’t gone the way I’d hoped, it seemed like a good time to hit the road and “go back home.” Yup, I said it. It won’t be a Hallmark movie. I guarantee that. There was no high school sweetheart. No guy I left—or who left me—at the altar.

I’m looking forward to going back to see family and old friends.

To spend time writing without other responsibilities for a little while. Until a new job comes along, that is! A writer needs to eat and pay rent, you know.

And feed their adoring cats!

Ash and Jazz, my furry companions whom I’ve dubbed the Hallelujah Chorus, will be joining me. To date, they don’t travel well. My hope is that after an hour on the road they’ll give up singing and take a nap. After 8 hours in the car, they might plot my death once we reach the hotel though.

I used to be afraid of so many things in life. Death, taxes, driving the 401 freeway in Ontario, but after all the changes I’ve had to deal with in the past few years I’m ready for a challenge. In the past couple weeks, I’ve done some interesting things:

· Bought a new-to-me car.

· Rented a new apartment sight unseen.

· Packed everything I own and figuring out how to Tetris it all into my new-to-me car.

· Said goodbye to friends and co-workers, some I’ve known for nearly 18 years, worked with, wrote with, and trained with.

· Mapped out a route to drive 3300ish kilometers across the country alone over 5 days with 2 cats and staying in 4 hotels.

· Scanned hundreds of journals, school photos, family photos and the like so I have less paper to move.

· Learned how to use the cool new features of said new-to-me car.

· Took about a thousand deep breaths and wondered if I was doing the right thing—only to have more things happen to remind me that I have great things awaiting. I’ll be able to share more of those down the road.

In the meantime, there’s more packing and scanning to do and cat stuff to prepare.

Then I’ll set out for my drive across Canada.

I’ll let you know how it goes!

Diane

https://bwlpublishing.ca/bator-diane/

Shelf Life by Eileen O'Finlan

 

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One way to know if you are a genuine bibliophile (aka bookworm) is by how much you love your bookshelves. This is more important than how many bookshelves you have. That could simply be determined by the amount of space available in your home. Therefore, it may not accurately project the depth of your love for books. It is more about how you feel when you look at the shelves you have. I have been known to spend time gazing lovingly at my shelves of books, taking them in as the things of wonder that they are. A warm, cozy feeling wells up in me as I contemplate my book collections. It's no surprise that I nearly swoon upon entering a library or bookstore. But the bookshelves I can view in the comfort of my own home are the best simply because they are mine. 

I have always dreamt of having a library in my house. Given the number of books I own, I suppose I do have one, but I mean one specific room dedicated to books. As yet, that is not a reality for me. Nonetheless, I take great pleasure in turning my entire house into a library. With the exception of the hallway, there is not a single room in my house that does not contain books. There are even a few shelves on the walls in the kitchen holding stacks of cookbooks. 

Despite the four bookcases in my living room...

     

                            (An antique from my grandmother's home holds non-fiction history books)

(A bargain at a second-hand store holds non-fiction and poetry)

                                                         (An online purchase hold fiction) 

(A rotating bookcase handmade for me by a very dear friend holds biographies)

... the shelves in the front entryway...

      This set of shelves holds a mix of fiction and non-fiction history books)

... the bookcase in my den...

(This one holds the books in use for research on the topic of whatever historical novel I'm writing at any give time.)

... the bookcase on the sunporch, and the five bookcases in my half-finished basement, I still have trouble finding places for all the books I collect so I've had to get creative.

The eight shelves lining either side of the fireplace once held a tea set, framed photos, and an assortment of knick-knacks. Four of those shelves have given up their accoutrement to make way for books.

(Mostly fiction on the shelves; Art & Photography books on one side of the mantel and Irish history on the other)

                                 

I have recently been thinking that I may have to find another spot for the tea set even if it means packing it away. There are too many books waiting for a good home. Many are currently piled in artful stacks around the house.

You may rightly ask if I've read all these books. Alas, I collect them much faster than I can read them. I also donate large amounts of books to the local library once I have finished reading them unless they are likely to assist me in research for a future writing project. This allows others to love them, too, and frees up space for more books. But no matter how full my bookshelves are, I find there's always room for more and even one small space on a shelf calls out to me for a book. This and the swelling of my heart that occurs when I take them all in, tells me that I am, without a doubt, a true bibliophile and proud of it!

                                                   

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