4 REASONS FOR MAKING TIME TO READ by Rita Karnopp

I think all of us on this blog love to read. I’ve often heard people say, “I absolutely love to read, but I just don’t have time.”  WHAT?

     Even if you read while in line at a restaurant . . . or a page every night before bed… you'll finish reading a book. When I had three jobs and kids to handle . . . I still ‘found’ time to write.

1-Reading Nourishes Your Writing – I don’t think I’d have written a single book if I hadn’t been a reader. There were times while reading I’d tell myself, “Now why didn’t that author do this or that?” Or I’d ask, “Really?” to the ending.”  Now it’s a given, if I’m writing Native American – be sure I’m reading my favorite Indian historical or documents on Native Americans. I go as far as to watch movies and documentaries about the genre’ I’m writing. Same goes for when I’m writing suspense; I’m reading suspense books, I’m watching suspense movies, and I read books on killers and why they kill.  You get my point.

     I also find reading novels and documentaries inspire my creativity. I have more ideas come to me when I’m reading historical facts than any other place. When does inspiration strike you? Once you figure that out – there is an endless source of book fodder for you to cultivate!

     Reading opens a world of new styles of writing, and although one wouldn’t ‘copy’ another author’s ‘style’ it will inspire you to ‘create’ your own style with the information.

     I recently read an article where an author said, “You should read something from every genre to ensure you haven’t missed a tool from another novel style.”  That’s great advice – one I’m working on for sure.

2-Reading Builds Confidence – When I first started writing – I studied my favorite author’s style; was pacing even and pulling me through the book? Did characterization make me fall in love with the hero/heroine and hate the protagonist? Was setting written so I felt I was right there with the characters? Did the plot make me turn those pages?  etc. NO, I didn’t copy the writing, but I learned a lot from writers such as Stella Cameron, Roseanne Bittner, and Dee Brown. I knew there were great writers right in Montana; such as Kat Martin and BJ Daniels, whom I might add were great inspiration to me when I first started writing, and still are.

     A spanking new author carries so many insecurities, that it’s frightening to share even one sentence – for fear of it being torn apart.  At the beginning the thought of sharing a completed manuscript with a friend or stranger was scary enough to send me running hysterically into a closet, slamming the door, trembling – manuscript gripped tightly in-hand.

     Once I got over the fear of having my manuscript critiqued, then came the heart-pounding fear of reading what was said about my ‘baby.’ I have to be honest here; the first critique I received was from a contest. The person who marked in red all over my manuscript was not kind. She was honest – brutally so – and not concerned with my feelings. She said, “Learn to write before wasting time creating such a disaster.” I was devastated! I was going to throw my Selectric IBM typewriter out my front bay window. I cried for days. I ranted and raved to my friends. I secretly called the author (whom I truly admired and liked – until the critique) just about every name I had in my ‘bad name’ arsenal (I’m not much for swearing – so there weren’t many … but I was angry and hurt!).

     Two weeks (or more) later, I decided I would read through the comments again – just in case one or two of them made sense, and perhaps I could learn from them. With a new attitude about reading those comments, I found there were a lot of them I could learn from.

     I went through the entire manuscript and rewrote … rewrote… and rewrote. I asked this ‘author/critique guru’ if she was willing to review it again – and see if it was better. She suggested I learn on my own.

     Hmmmm that was not a good beginning. So I got angry and when I get angry – I get determined and stubborn! That was good for me.  I started reading ‘how to’ books, and from there I pushed myself to apply what I learned into book after book.

     Then I stopped. I could read and re-write until I’m blue in the face. What I needed to do was WRITE. From that point on I started my writing career and wrote Whispering Sun, my first Indian historical romance.  Ask me how proud of that novel I am!

3-Reading Enables Revision –  My point here is that after years of confusion and frustration, what I learned is there is a time when you just need to write and learn how to improve each novel as you go. I believe it’s important to study books you totally enjoy and become a better writer for it by learning what worked in someone else’s writing. That helps you become a better writer in your own work.

     When I find things that don’t work in a book I’m reading, I learn it won’t work in my writing either. You want honest feedback?  This can only happen when you’re ‘honest’ with yourself. Evaluate your work as though it were someone else’s work. You’d be surprised how many things glare back at you then.

     What this consequently does for you is builds confidence and helps you improve the quality of your writing. Good writers are always learning and improving their craft. You need to be a ruthless editor of your own work. You are only as good as your next novel.

4-Reading Helps You Sell – There is one added-plus if you're well-read. If you're discussing your work with other writers, authors, or even editors, you will be prepared if they ask, “Where do your books fit in today’s market?”  You'ill know, with confidence, where to pitch your work and how it will fit into the universe of existing books..

     My advice is to never stop reading . . . always find time to read. Life is too short not to be enjoying a good book. It’s my goal to read a book every week. When I was so busy that I didn’t have time to think – my goal still was to read at least one book a month. I couldn’t bring myself to stop reading.

     My ultimate goal is to have readers out there wanting to ‘fit my book’ into their busy schedule. I want to be the author of the book . . . that took them away from it all.

The Wearin' of the Green (and Purple) by Karla Stover

The Wearing’ of the Green (and purple)

 

     It’s March—that time of year, again when people eat corn beef and cabbage, drink green beer, wear something green, and celebrate a saint. Any excuse for a party, right? Well, not for the Finns who, as is well known, are of a reserved nature. Fortunately, for them, celebrating St. Urho Day on March 16^th doesn’t require much in the way of revelry.

     People became reacquainted with St. Urho in the 1950s although opinions differ on whether he grew out of tales told by one Sulo Havumaki of Bemidji, MN, or from the whimsical stories told by Richard Mattson of Virginia.

     According to a man named William Reid, Sulo was feeling bad because there were no Finnish saints. The Reid family had relatives going to Finland and William’s father “got some very old pieces of old human bones and wood and gave them to the relatives to take to with them along with a letter and the following instructions:

            (1) Find a recent obituary in a Finnish newspaper.

(2) Have the letter translated into Finnish and insert the deceased's name.

            (3) Mail the letter to Sulo Havumaki by air, and send the bones and wood to Sulo by sea.” In time,

     Sulo received both and held on to them until Reid senior finally fessed up when Sulo was terminally ill with cancer.

     However, Mattson’s son says “his father, a fun-loving Finnish-America and employee of Virginia’s Ketola’s Department Store, created the saint, after which female employees threw a St. Urho party in the store’s lunchroom and a woman read a poem she’d written. The local newspaper ran an article about the event and, Bob’s Your Uncle, a legend was born. Either way, St. Urho’s legend has grown to where he is celebrated across the United States and Canada and even in Finland. His claim to fame:  he chased the grasshoppers out of ancient Finland, thus saving the grape crop and the jobs of Finnish vineyard workers. Contemporary wine drinkers are well aware of the quality of Finnish grapes and wine.

     Thirty-five years ago, Minnesota Governor Wendell Anderson issued a proclamation naming Minnesota as Saint Urho’s unofficial home. And the saint has been recognized with proclamations in all 50 states. So wear your green but add Urho purple, make a Kalakukko (fish pie) and give thanks to the saint for Finland's amazing vineyards.

On March 16th everyone's Finnish.

 

 

 

 

and give thanks

 

 

to the saint for Finland’s amazing vineyards. On March 16^th, everyone’s Finnish.

The Wearing' of the Green (and Purple) by Karla Stover

The Wearing’ of the Green (and purple)

     It’s March—that time of year, again when people eat corn beef and cabbage, drink green beer, wear something green, and celebrate a saint. Any excuse for a party, right? Well, not for the Finns who, as is well known, are of a reserved nature. Fortunately, for them, celebrating St. Urho Day on March 16^th doesn’t require much in the way of revelry.

     People became reacquainted with St. Urho in the 1950s although opinions differ on whether he grew out of tales told by one Sulo Havumaki of Bemidji, MN, or from the whimsical stories told by Richard Mattson of Virginia.

     According to a man named William Reid, Sulo was feeling bad because there were no Finnish saints. The Reid family had relatives going to Finland and William’s father “got some very old pieces of old human bones and wood and gave them to the relatives to take to with them along with a letter and the following instructions:

(1) Find a recent obituary in a Finnish newspaper.

(2) Have the letter translated into Finnish and insert the deceased's name.

(3) Mail the letter to Sulo Havumaki by air, and send the bones and wood to Sulo by sea.” In time,

     Sulo received both and held on to them until Reid senior finally fessed up when Sulo was terminally ill with cancer.

     However, Mattson’s son says “his father, a fun-loving Finnish-America and employee of Virginia’s Ketola’s Department Store, created the saint, after which female employees threw a St. Urho party in the store’s lunchroom and a woman read a poem she’d written. The local newspaper ran an article about the event and, Bob’s Your Uncle, a legend was born. Either way, St. Urho’s legend has grown to where he is celebrated across the United States and Canada and even in Finland. His claim to fame:  he chased the grasshoppers out of ancient Finland, thus saving the grape crop and the jobs of Finnish vineyard workers. Contemporary wine drinkers are well aware of the quality of Finnish grapes and wine.

     Thirty-five years ago, Minnesota Governor Wendell Anderson issued a proclamation naming Minnesota as Saint Urho’s unofficial home. And the saint has been recognized with proclamations in all 50 states. So wear your green but add Urho purple, make a Kalakukko (fish pie), and give thanks to the saint for Finland’s amazing vineyards. On March 16^th, everyone’s Finnish.

 

Swing into Spring Contest ~ New, Easy Entry!

 To celebrate the Spring Season, BWL is giving away a Kindle Fire HD 7, 7" HD Display, Wi-Fi, 8 GB

All you have to do to win is visit the Books We Love home page  browse our "Coming Soon" and new releases books and tell us which book you would like to read.

Send an email to bookswelovecontest@shaw.ca with your selection(s) and your email address and home state/province. One entry per subscriber. Multiple entries do not increase your chances of winning. Sorry, this contest is only available in the US and Canada - not valid in Quebec or where prohibited by law.  Winner's name will be posted on the website on June 15, 2015.

Good Luck!

Swing into Spring Contest from Books We Love

 

The Apothecary's Widow by Diane Scott Lewis

Just released at Amazon.  Don't miss this exciting new historical mystery.

Books We Love's newest release from the legends of Haida Gwaii

http://amzn.com/B00UBARFE8

What if a native legend came back to life and was saddened by the destruction of his people, their culture and their environment?

What if that legend was the Haida creator god Raven and he spirited away the girl you were falling in love with?

What if you didn’t believe in native spiritualism and found yourself battling Raven with only a shaman to help you?
Inspired by true events that took place on the Queen Charlotte Islands, Raven's Lament centers on a journalist who investigates a killing tied into the destruction of old-growth forest and becomes tangled up in a spirit war. He finds love and meaning as he encounters a centuries-old Haida prince, formerly imprisoned along with Raven in a rare Golden Spruce tree.



Endorsements:

"After being stranded twenty kilometers from the nearest road at the tip of Rose Spit, Haida Gwaii, and having to push his spanking new SUV a few kilometers along the beach before the tide came in and we ran out of booze, my first reaction on being asked to write a back cover blurb was, “over my dead body." Some people will do anything to get an endorsement.” Susan Musgrave

From the lands and legends of the Haida Gwaii of Northern British Columbia Canada comes a paranormal suspense rich in traditional lore mixed with modern environmental concerns and forgotten taboos. You won't be able to put this one down until you've reached the surprising conclusion. Jude Pittman, author of Healing Spirits, Book 1, Bad Medicine

Diorama Card by Cheryl Wright

I am very lucky to be part of a tight-knit group of cardmakers on Facebook. When one of us finds a new-to-us idea, we share links, then challenge each other to attempt the card technique in question.

Recently someone found these fabulous cards, and a video on how to make them. I am talking about Diorama cards.

They are a little fiddly, and they do use slightly more cardstock than a regular card, but they are worth the extra effort for someone special.

This card was my first attempt. I had to watch the video a second time as I was having some difficulties, but it turned out okay in the end.

From the outside, it looks like a regular card, but when you open it, it's a whole different story:

There is so much scope for these cards, and you really could get carried away if you let yourself.

If you would like to see the video instructions, or would like to view a masculine version of this card, go here.

Thanks for looking!

Til next time,

Links:

My website:  www.cheryl-wright.com 
Blog:  www.cheryl-wright.com/blog
Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/cherylwrightauthor 
BWL website: http://bookswelove.net/authors/wright-cheryl/

Stephen King: My Favorite Teacher by Joan Hall Hovey

The year was 1984, a lovely summer’s day and I was sitting in the packed, buzzed audience waiting for Stephen King to appear.  To say I was excited is an understatement. Uncool? Totally. I’d bought my hardcover copy of his book Different Seasons for him to sign.  I wouldn’t be denied. I had all his books in hardcover – Carrie, Cycle of the Werewolf, Danse Macabre, Salem’s Lot -  there would be  many more to come. He was my hero in a time when I was already much too old to be star-struck.  I’ve read that it is mainly teenagers who are addicted to Stephen King’s work, and I was hardly that.  Though probably immature.  I’m at a much more more advanced age now and that hasn’t changed, and I hope it never does.  Stephen King was  the Elvis Presley of the literary world.

I hadn’t had a novel published yet; that was still a dream, floating somewhere above the horizon. But I’d written and published some articles and short stories, enough to make me eligible for a travel grant through the NB Arts Council to London, England to the writers workshop at Polytechnic Institution  on Marylebone Road, aptly across the street from Madam Tussauds wax museum.  Stephen King would be a panelist, along with authors P.D. James, Robert Parker and some others.  I was eager to hear all the celebrated authors, but I’d flown all this way from New Brunswick, Canada to see and hear Mr. King. 

He came into the large room through the back door and I swear I knew the instant he did.

You couldn’t miss the rising buzz of the audience, of course, the shifting of bodies as people turned to look, but I also felt the change of energy in the air. On stage, Stephen King joked about his ‘big writing engine’ and I had heard (within my third eye – yes, it can hear) its power, its purr.   Or maybe there’s more to it.

As he talked to us about writing, he spoke about seeing with that third eye.  The eye of the imagination.  He told us to imagine a chair.  Then he said it was a blue chair.  I saw it clearer now.  He added the detail of a paint blister on the leg of the chair.  Now I saw it close up, with my zoom lens.  We hung on his every word.  He was funny and brilliant and entertaining, and we learned. Everything he said was not necessarily something brand new, but were reminders to pay close attention to details.  To always tell the truth in our writing.  I even got to ask a couple of questions.   And his answers to all our questions were thoughtful and insightful.   I try to pass along a few of those lessons to my own students.

Stephen King has been teaching creative writing to aspiring and even established writers for decades, long before his wonderful book On Writing came out.  Such a gift to writers that is, regardless of the genre you write in.   I am gushing.  I don’t mind. It’s true. I have been fortunate to have had many highlights in my life –  an anniversary trip to Niagara Falls with my wonderful husband, the births of my children and grandchildren, great-grandchildren – a trip to the Bahamas with my eldest son – my own first novel published and several more after that - and I have to say that that workshop in London, England, where Stephen King spoke to us about writing, is right up there.  Thank you, Mr. King.

I want to leave you with a quote from an interview with contributing writing for the Atlantic, Jessica Lahey, published in The Atlantic,  Sept  2014.  She asked him if teaching was craft or art.

“It’s both,” he said.  “The best teachers are artists.”

Stephen King is an artist on every level.   He tells the truth.  In his fiction.  And in his teachings.

~~

By Joan Hall Hovey, author of The Deepest Dark

www.joanhallhovey.com

All in a Day's Work Or How to Make Good Use of a Distraction by Tia Dani

Since there are two of us, wouldn't you think we could finish a book in record time? Sure, we both have busy lives. We have husbands, kids, grandkids, housework, other careers and hobbies (well, Tia has hobbies, Dani just plays) but that's another blog for a later time. Like we said, we are both fully committed to our writing.  So what happens that we can't seem, to finish a project?

Life happens. Not always in a mundane way.

Take the other day for example. Our plan was to meet up at Tia's house and not leave until we had completed the next phase of editing our work in progress. Which, by the way, it is going to be an awesome blend of the present and past, with elements of paranormal, regression, and plenty of romance. But when Dani pulled into Tia's driveway she was met with a frantic Tia waving her arms. She needed help with an unexpected emergency.

The emergency was a baby bird that had fallen from its palm tree nest near the front of Tia's house. Tia was certain it was an owl and we needed to find a rescue place quick. Someone needed to come get the bird before it died. She had already called two places who both told her they don't take in raptor species. Raptors?!? Aren't they supposed to be those honking, huge birds during the dinosaur age?

We made several more calls to animal shelters and finally were directed to a place that would take in raptors. Only problem, they didn't pick up. We had to deliver.

Twenty minutes later we had packed the back seat of Dani's car with the make shift cage, which was really a crate with a lid over the top to hold the tiny ball of white feathers. Off we went with the directions programed into the GPS system. It took us almost 45 minutes on the freeway to the exit we needed to take us north to Cave Creek and the bird hospital.

At this point, we should let you know Dani is not really fond of birds. Not that she doesn't like them, it's just she's sorta afraid of them.

When she called her husband to let him know where she was headed he said, "You are what?"

"Rescuing a bird."

"That's what I thought you said. You have a bird in your car?"

"Yes. We are saving his life."

"Ooookay. Good luck"

Meanwhile Tia is yelping and leaning over the seat, trying to keep the tiny owl from squeezing through the holes in the grate and jumping out of the box. Miniature fuzzy feathers are flying everywhere. With all the commotion we missed the turn off and had to do a U-turn and go back to where the GPS was insisting we should go in the first place. It was a winding dirt road with large pot holes. We bounced along making the odd turns, when told by the voice that seemed quite sure of where we were going. Us not so much.

In the distance we saw a sign and perched on top was a metal hawk with the large wings spread wide. WILD AT HEART. Yep, we had reached our destination. 

Relieved we pulled in and parked. Not only had we arrived safe and sound, our little owl was still alive. Tia retrieved her precious cargo from the back seat. Dani stayed a safe distance away.

Off we went to find a doctor.

We were greeted immediately and our little guy was taken to be examined.

After a thorough examination we were assured he would be fine. He was wrapped in a warm blanket and placed into an incubator where he would be watched for several days. Then they broke the news to Tia that her baby was not an owl but actually a falcon.

"What!" Tia exclaimed. "It must be an owl. He's so small and his feathers are white. And just look at his cute little face. He must be an owl?"

The examining veterinarian assured Tia her bird was definitely a falcon.

While we were in the critical-care room, a landscaper from the near-by golf course brought in a severely injured hawk.
We were allowed to stay and watch as they examined him, feed him an antibiotic stuffed into a dead baby mouse. (Here's where Tia nearly lost it…Abandoned baby bird fine. Poor dead baby mouse…ugh.)

Who knew?

Once our sweet raptor was snuggled in and sleeping, we were invited to look around at all the wild raptor birds they had in their outside sanctuary. We could stay as long as we wanted. Tia immediately took advantage of their generous offer and pulled along the reluctant Dani outside to see the many different kind of birds.

It was a wonderful day of adventure. Needless to say we didn't get any writing done that day, but we did help save a life.

Which is okay because there's always tomorrow.

And who knows, our little adventure might just end up in a book someday.

Wild At Heart is a non-profit 501(c)3 organization dedicated to the conservation and preservation of Arizona's native birds of prey. http://wildatheartraptors.org/

To find out more about the writing team Tia Dani and our books visit us at: 

http://bookswelove.com/authors/tia-dani/
https://tiadaniauthor.wordpress.com/

Time's Enduring Love, our historical time-travel is a Books We Love Best Seller.
To purchase click this link.
http://amzn.com/B00EVXABV0

The Happy Place - Gail Roughton

           “I need to visit my happy place.” How often we hear that! But what, exactly, is a happy place? And where is it? “Oh, it’s all in our heads!” you say. Well, that’s right. And then again—it’s not. We all carry our permanent happy place with us. See, it’s not limited in location or the space-time continuum. It can be with you any place, any time. All we have to do is remember. Remember the place where magic lived, where memories were made, the memories of things past that shaped us, changed us, molded us, into the person we are. Where was my place? A little beat-up, sun-seared wooden fishing dock on the banks of Stone Creek.

I was born in the Deep South in the 50’s and grew up in the early and mid-60’s. It was a pivotal time in history when the Civil Rights movement, the Vietnam War, and the space program began to drag even the sleepiest little Southern town kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. Rowan & Martin regularly socked it to the country as Laugh-In looked at the news, and Simon & Garfunkel sang of their brother who had died so his brothers could be free. None of that made much never-mind to me, though. I was busy following my Daddy around like a shadow whenever he was home from work. He was a construction foreman and a master carpenter. On weekends, he’d take me to his building sites, where I walked on the long light poles of Macon’s Henderson Stadium when they still lay on the ground and wrote on the chalkboards of schools-to-be long before students entered their doors. Daddy’s gone, but most of the structures he helped build still stand, strong and functional, still in use. That’s rather a form of immortality, don’t you think?

We lived a few miles outside the mid-sized Middle Georgia city of Macon in a small country neighborhood of only four or five houses, perched on the banks of Stone Creek Swamp. Readers might recognize the name from The Color of Seven. Stone Creek itself ran about half a mile behind the house. I guess I was nine or so when our neighbor “up the hill”, Mr. Emory Scoven, built the dock over the spot where Stone Creek expanded into a small pond.

Mr. Emory was a retired railroad man who lived with his brother, sister, and sister-in-law in the house on the hill next door to us. I ran in and out of that house without knocking, with total impunity. Nobody in our neighborhood knocked back then. I loved the other residents of that house, Mr. Will, Miss Lucille, and Miss Ethel, but Mr. Emory? Mr. Emory was a modern day Pied Piper. Children loved him like lint loves wool. Once upon a time the neighborhood had brimmed with kids who’d dogged his every step, but in my time, the child population was down to one. Me. And on summer days when school was out and Daddy was still at work, I trailed the man unmercifully while he tended the yards and fruit trees he so loved. If he ever grew impatient or tired of my company, he never showed it. His railroad tales were better than the fairy tales of Hans Christian Anderson and the Brothers Grimm.

Late spring and summer evenings were the best times of all. Daddy came home from work, showered and ate. That’s when we headed out the back door to join Mr. Emory at the dock and cast our lines into the leaf-brown waters of the creek. The three of us sat for hours in perfect contentment, talking or not talking, it really didn’t matter either way, while the corks from our fishing lines bobbed on the water. It didn’t matter if we caught anything, either, and in fact, we preferred not to, especially since we always released any fish caught that evening back into the creek when incipient darkness forced us back up the trail toward the house. We caught some of those fish pretty much every day. I learned to recognize them over the course of a summer because all fish don’t look alike, not even fish of the same species. They have individual shadowings of color and irregularities in their gills and fins.

That’s childhood. That’s my happy place. The creek, the dock, Daddy and Mr. Emory. Sitting cross-legged on bare planking, slapping at mosquitoes as they discovered my bare arms and legs. Cane poles only, of course, because rods and reels were useless in the close confines of the creek and its small pool and would only catch uselessly in the brush and undergrowth of the banks.

I remember the sound of the frogs as dusk fell, and birds flying low across the pond’s clearing. Sometimes you could see the head of a water moccasin swimming across the creek further downstream, crossing a safe distance from the intrusion of the dock upon their territory.

Nothing else on God’s green earth feels like late evening in the spring in the Deep South. The air feels like velvet, light trembles off the water, birds fly overhead. The sounds of the frogs and insects make their own symphony. I have no pictures of that creek and dock to post. Digital cameras were far into the future. Children don’t think of such things as recording special moments on film. No matter. There’s no way any camera could have properly recorded those moments, those men, that place, that time. The photographs are in my heart. They always will be. I take them out and look at them frequently, especially when I’m writing. 

I know somewhere out there, they’re still fishing together on the banks of Stone Creek. I love you, Daddy. I love you, Mr. Emory.

Country Justice

* * *

Find all Gail Roughton titles at http://bookswelove.net/authors/roughton-gail/

And at Amazon at http://amzn.to/1DZ6Mte

You can also visit at http://gailroughton.blogspot.com

And

https://www.facebook.com/GailRoughton