Tricia McGill—there’s no place like home.

Or is there? 

It occurred to me lately that I live in a very confined area. I don’t drive distances as I once did, and tend to stay nearer home. A lot of this is due perhaps because the roads aren’t like they used to be in what us older people refer to as “the good ol’ days”. I’ve towed an 18 foot caravan around Australia when my husband had to give up driving after one of his early strokes, but as much as I would love to take off, and still envy folk who take to the highways and byways of this beautiful country I call home, I couldn’t stand the hectic pace on the roads these days.

My pondering came about after reading Sandy’s post of a day or so ago when I commented that if I returned to my hometown I’d be hard-pressed after so many years to find more than about six people apart from family and a few friends who would remember me. Of course my hometown was London and to be more specific Highbury in Nth London, which was no small town by any stretch of the imagination.

I then pondered on the fact that perhaps I am a homebody who likes to be in familiar places, but then I started to think about the places around the world I have visited and it occurred to me I’ve been quite a traveller in my time. 

My first trip in a plane was to San Sebastian in Spain. In those days a trip to anywhere in Europe was considered very extravagant. My sister was getting married at the end of that year and I was to be married soon after, so we took the opportunity to travel before settling down. While there we took a bus trip to Madrid, where we walked out of a bullfight in disgust after about half an hour. I guess we only expected all the grandeur of the parade and never considered the poor bull was going to die a slow death. I have to say here that we were told afterwards it was a very poor fight and the matador was not considered very good. We also went on a bus trip to a coastal resort in France. I can’t recall exactly where but do remember the horrendous drive where the driver seemed intent on killing us all, driving along mountain roads like a kamikaze pilot.

That's me on the right--at San Sebastian

 

After my marriage my husband and I drove every year to Devon or Cornwall. For anyone who knows that area of England my favorite places were Crantock or Lynton/Lynmouth. I expect both have changed considerably since the 60s.

Of course the biggest journey of all came when we migrated to Australia. We opted to come by sea, and sailed on the Fairstar, a recently refitted liner, in 1966. The sea trips from England to Australia were abandoned long ago, so we were very fortunate. It took exactly four weeks. Now when I refer to the Good Old Days you will understand what I mean when I tell you that along the way we went on a side trip to Cairo and the Pyramids at Giza. In those days ships traveled through what was then called The Suez Canal. We left the ship and stayed overnight in Cairo. Next morning we were up early and took a camel ride to the nearby pyramids. Then we visited the museum where the stand out was Tutankhamen's artifacts. Next we went by bus to Giza to see the Great Sphinx and pyramids. We met up with the ship again and continued on our journey. All this for 8 pounds sterling!

 

My husband went back to England about six times over the years, but I only returned once and that was in 1975. On the return trip we stayed overnight in Singapore. 

I’ve traveled extensively in Australia, been right around the coastline once, up the inland road to Darwin, over to the west a couple of times traveling across the Nullarbor Plain. I’ve stroked a dolphin in the sea at Monkey Mia in WA, visited Uluru in the red center, and swam in the warmest, clearest water you can imagine off the Great Barrier Reef, walked through magnificent rain forests, driven across unmade roads and along highways, seen a platypus swimming in his natural Tasmanian habitat, and emus and kangaroos running free.  I’ve been across to Tasmania more times than I can remember, sometimes by air and other times on the ferry. For years we towed a caravan—our preferred means of travel as we could then take our dogs along. My husband would have spent all his days on the road, but I was always glad to get home, to sleep in my own bed. 

A boab tree near Derby WA        

Silverton, near Broken Hill (Many movies have featured this pub and the walls are lined with the pictures of stars and celebrities)      

Strahan Tasmania (where we stayed in a haunted cottage--I swear I saw the ghost)

So, back to where I started, there is obviously no place like home for me. But then home is where the heart is. My early years were spent in a tenement house in Nth London where I was surrounded by love and had no idea that we were not rich. But after my mother passed away that ceased to be home so anywhere my husband and I were together was home. I will remain in this house until they carry me out. My heart is here.

Tricia McGill's books can be found on her Books We Love page:

http://bookswelove.net/mcgill.php

Or her web site:

www.triciamcgill.com  

A visit to All Hallows Eve in the 18th Century, by Diane Scott Lewis

To celebrate the coming of Halloween, and for my historical novel Ring of Stone, I researched ancient customs in Cornwall. Here is an abridged excerpt where my heroine, Rose, slips out in the night with her brother on All Hallows Eve to witness the rising of the spirits:

Rose opened the back door to the inky black. A lantern winked not far off. "That should be Mr. Poldeen." Her heart skipped and she stepped out into a cold breeze that whipped her face. Her brother Michael rushed past her toward the lantern.

The caretaker, Mr. Poldeen, tipped his hat when she came close. "Are you ready, Miss Rose?"

"Of course, let us proceed." She walked beside him. The lantern bobbed a circle of light as they approached the stream. Poldeen took her hand and helped her over it. Such a casual, polite gesture, yet her skin heated at the touch of his strong callused palm.

"Hurry!" Michael ran ahead, beyond the light.

"Your brother is quite anxious to find out about the spirits this night." Amusement filled Poldeen’s voice.

"I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Poldeen. I haven’t been very daring when it comes to this stone circle. But I’ve yet to understand why." She listened to make certain she still heard her brother’s footsteps.

"It comes from the same feeling as in St. Petroc’s. You should know, as like there, the ring has secrets, but is not evil."

How could rocks and stones have the same aspects as human beings? A tiny part of her worried that they’d experience nothing tonight, and the ring held no magic.

"Well, I’m here, and intend not to demure." She stumbled over a stone. He grasped her arm and held it. Again, she had that urge to lean into him. What had come over her with this man?

They reached the field. The breeze ruffled the grass. The ocean surf slapped the cliffs in the distance, like a living entity, breathing in and out.

"Michael, stay with us," Rose called when her brother, a murky outline, started to tramp over the grass. "Mr. Poldeen, please tell us some of tonight’s custom, won’t you?"

He waited until Michael rejoined them. "This be the end of the old year, or Samhain, meaning summer’s end, an’ the beginning of the new. The Celtic god straddles the two, and hopes to pierce the veil to see what comes."

Rose stared toward the cliff outline where the ring stood shrouded in darker shadows.

Poldeen set down the lantern. The light spread over their shoes. The salty wind flapped their coats like night birds. "The living can travel to the underworld, but all must return to their rightful place at cockcrow. If you have faith in the legend, this be the perfect time for your ancestors who died here to search for you."

"Senara died somewhere else. But Mrs. Trew insisted she was buried here." Rose shivered as the wind cut deeper. The darkness pressed in around her.

"Let’s walk over to the stone." Michael hopped up and down, rubbing his hands together.

"Let us do that, if you wish, Miss?" Poldeen picked up the lantern and crooked out his arm. Rose took it and they stepped across the damp grass. Michael again hurried ahead.

The cliffs were framed against the starry sky. Poldeen lifted the lantern until a blot of light trailed over the crags and across the stone circle, which looked quiet, innocuous.

"I read," Rose absorbed the heated closeness of his body, yet his nearness made her jittery—or maybe it was the unusual situation, "that the ancient Celtic view of time is a cycle. So tonight, this eve of the new year represents a point outside of time, when the natural order dissolves back into primordial chaos, and prepares to reestablish itself in a new order."

"’Tis true. The Celts see tonight as the time when they can view any other time, past or present. But the church, now they say not to hold a feast for the unblessed dead, only those hallowed, made holy. That’s why she’s All Hallows Eve." He halted. They stood only a few yards from the ring. The wind whistled through it like a flute.

Rose inhaled a deep, slow breath when the whistle turned to a moan.

"Can you hear that?" Michael leaned forward. "Is it Malscos calling to Senara?"

"Of course it isn’t. I want to step closer to the circle." Rose slid her foot forward in the grass. Hand fisted, this was her moment. She’d touch the ring and banish her qualms.

A flapping noise sailed over her head. Rose blinked and stared up. A bird or bat of some kind—wings fluttering in the shades of blackness. Her bonnet slapped at her cheeks and she stifled a gasp.

A figure, hunched over, hair flying, moved along the cliff top. A loud laugh sounded. Or was it more of a cry?

More rustling sounded, then feet running. Rose squeezed up against the caretaker before she realized she’d done it.

"It’s a woman." Michael ran up and grabbed her other hand. His fingers felt cold and trembled a little. "Senara! Is that you?"

Footsteps raced by, leaving the scent of herbs. Poldeen swung up the lantern.

The figure darted closer. Hair streamed in wisps about a round face, an arm thrust up to shield their eyes.

"They were here! The spirits have gone back now!" rasped a voice. "You be too late."

To find out what happens, purchase Ring of Stone.

Or visit my website: http://www.dianescottlewis.org

A Fall To Remember by Victoria Chatham

 John Keats’ Ode to Autumn caught my attention at an early age. I love the sensations that the first line, Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, engenders.

Maybe it’s because September is my birth month or maybe it’s that my imagination warms with the rich visuals Keats offers us. I’m no poet, but I love poetry. It’s a different way of writing, a different way of conveying scenes, senses, characters and sometimes packs more of an emotional wallop than does prose.

Of all the seasons, I find fall to be the most peaceful. The promise of spring rushes into the bustle of summer but then, when those first fall mists creep over the fields, when those dew-dropped cobwebs form on bushes and fences, there is a quiet expectancy as the world waits for winter.

I was fortunate to live for several years in a 300-year old house in rural Gloucestershire in England. Of all the houses in which I have ever lived, I loved that house the most. My mother could never understand why I gave up a modern double-glazed, centrally heated home in favor of a draughty, stone and brick built not-quite-heritage house but it had its own charm. It also had its regular fall visitors.

Sometimes mice and other critters decide to move in to a home. It may be because of a food source, it may be to construct a cozy nest but in our case we knew that when those mists started forming over the surrounding fields and the temperatures cooled, then we could expect an influx of field mice. These were dealt with in the traditional manner of traps and cheese, and less traditional by the animal rights supporter in the household who stalked and pounced with as much joy as a Yorkshire terrier on the hunt. The offending creature was then taken outside and released. This was all very well, but one year I had the feeling we were in for something else when my daughter asked, “What does a rat look like?”

I live now in Alberta, Canada, which is a rat-free province but even so everyone understands the damage of which this rodent, and indeed all rodents, are capable. I did not want one living in my house but as we lived very close to a farmyard the only surprise was that we had not been visited by one before. 

After my daughter’s first sighting of said rat there were more positive signs that we had an extra and unwelcome house guest. These were more sounds than signs, scratching and scraping in the walls, scurrying and squeaking up and down the chimney breast which ran from the living room up through my bedroom and the attic bedroom above it. As these sounds happened late at night when most of the household was either in bed asleep or not yet arrived home, my comments were met with some scepticism.

Grocery day came. Bags and boxes of groceries were hauled in from the car into the house to be stored away in our large walk-in pantry. I opened the door, reached in to switch on the light and came face to face with a large brown rat. All I can say was that it looked extremely healthy with a rich mahogany coat, long and plentiful whiskers and bright, black eyes. Its naked tail hung down over the edge of the shelf. Before I could blink it jumped down, ran over my feet and headed up the stairs. The blood drained from my face at the same time as all pandemonium broke loose.

My dogs, Sue, Charlie and Tim took off up the stairs after the rat. My children took off after the dogs. I got my wind and blood back at about the same time and went after all of them. On the first floor landing the children had come to a halt, deciding that maybe it would be better if the dogs did the catching as they really didn’t want to get bitten. Baying like a real pack, the dogs had run the rat to ground under the water tank in the attic bedroom. I pushed the dogs aside and shone a flashlight under the tank and could see the reflections of those beady eyes and the gleam of twitching whiskers. Then the rat was gone, melting into the fabric of the eaves like a wisp of smoke dispersing in fresh air.

The animal rights supporter was all for making a cage for a trap and release operation. I felt this would be a direct invitation for the rat to return. No, the only solution as far as I was concerned was to call the town council’s pest control department. This was duly done and, on the appointed day, the rat catcher arrived.

I’m not sure what I expected but it certainly wasn’t the lady who arrived on my doorstep. Her face was tanned and textured like a dried out old apple with more lines than an ordnance survey map. Out of this leathery visage peered a pair of bright, brown eyes disconcertingly similar to those of our rat. She wore a battered blue felt had on top of her grey curls and was dressed in brown overalls.

“Afternoon,” she said in the dialect of deepest Gloucestershire, making the word sound more like ‘addernoon’.

“Hello,” I responded. “Can I help you?”

At this point I was sure she was a tinker after some knife grinding work or looking for old scrap metal.

“No, I’m here to help you, m’dear,” this apparition replied. “I be Amy. I’ve come for your rat.”

“Oh, well, yes,” I stuttered. “You’d better come in.”

Amy stepped out of a pair of Wellington boots that had seen much better days and padded into my house on feet clad in purple wool socks.

“Where did you last see ‘un?” she asked.

I took her up to the attic and pointed at the water tank. “Under there, but I mostly hear it in the chimney.”

“They old walls in that chimbley be just like a staircase to one ‘o they,” she declared.

I watched Amy get down on hands and knees. She shone her flashlight under the tank, just as I had. A big game hunter on the African veldt couldn’t have been more determined than Amy. She puffed and panted, grunted and got up, dusting her knees off.

“Could you see anything?” I asked.

“Oh, ar, reg’lar ‘ole highway through there. We’ll stop ‘un.” She removed the lid from the bucket she was carrying and scooped out a measure of green-dyed grain. “Warfarin,” she said. “Should do the trick, ‘specially if there be only one. Keep the kiddies and the dogs away from it but if they little beggers gets into it, doctor ‘em right away.”

I said I would but how, I wondered, had Amy got to be a rat catcher.

“Twas the war,” she said, answering my unasked question. “Well, when they men went away, someone had to do it and I was better ‘n most. Then when they bliddy men came back I warn’t goin’ to be put out of a job so I told they council gaffers I was staying and I did.”

The rat caused us no further problems. Maybe the news went around the local rat and mouse population that our house was not a friendly one because the following fall, and for the rest of my time there, we had no further problems.

Keats I am definitely not, but that poem still intrigues me and sparks my imagination. It      enables to me to, I hope, convey scenes, senses and characters of a fall season which I will never forget. 

Is there a poem that prompts your recollection of a particular season, if so what might it be? 

Check Victoria out at these following links:

www.bookswelove.com/chatham.php
www.victoriachatham.webs.com
www.amazon.com/author/victoriachatham
www.facebook.com/AuthorVictoriaChatham

You Can Come Home Again by Sandy Semerad

     Thomas Wolfe haunted me on my way to Geneva, Alabama. Wolfe wrote You Can’t Go Home Again, which was published after his death. The main character is an author, who discovers he’s not welcome in his hometown. He’d written about his town and its people, and they are angry enough to kill him.

     

     Thinking about this, my imagination went wild. As many writers, I’ve used creative license and the backdrop of my hometown Geneva, for scenes in Sex, Love and Murder and Hurricane House.

     

     In my latest book, A Message in the Roses, I wrote about a murder trial I covered as a reporter. That book is set in Atlanta, but many of its characters share traits and backstories of people I’ve known.

     Before I arrived in town, the Geneva Reaper ran an article on me and my books. The newspaper also stated that authors, craftsmen and artists would descend on Robert Fowler Memorial Park to celebrate Total Recall, Oct. 10. Anyone who had ever attended school in Geneva had been invited back. Tents and tables would be set up, where a variety of vendors and alumni were expected to gather.

     Like other southern towns, Geneva has fascinating personalities. Some of my dearest friends live there or nearby. This town (population about 4,300) is  renowned for the Constitution Oak, the oldest and largest live oak tree in the United States. Possibly the largest in the world. This oak has lived at least 500 years. It is 75 feet tall. The tree’s branches spread approximately 175 feet.

  

     Homecoming day in Geneva was hot and humid. No breeze rustled the stalwart branches of the Constitution Oak.

     Breeze or no breeze, I eagerly anticipated visiting with old friends, even though one friend had asked,“Remember the lady you mentioned in your first book, the one who hated your mother’s piano playing, the one who slept with the preacher?”

     I froze, unable to respond.

     “I knew that woman,” she added.

     In light of what happened in Thomas Wolfe’s book, I felt the need to explain myself. “I made up that story. I’m always making up stories in my head. As a child, I entertained myself by making up stories.”

     As my friend quietly studied me, I expounded on my entire writing process. I wanted her to know, I didn’t intentionally defame real life people in my books.

      I went on to explain how I write a back story for the main characters and give detailed descriptions. “I outline on note cards. Outlining keeps me on track,” I told her.

“When I begin the process of writing and typing the story, I’m in a zone,” I said. “I think I know my characters, but they’re always surprising me.”

“How long does it take you to write a book?” she asked.

“It depends. Once I’ve completed a rough draft, I read through the story again and fill in gaps. If I find common themes, I try to accentuate and weave those themes throughout. I’m always trying to create more conflict. And I ask my husband to read it and give suggestions. I also ask my writer friends to be brutally honest with their critiques. I’ve learned I can’t shove my baby out in the world before she’s ready. It’s helpful to let the manuscript sit for a week or two and come back to it with fresh eyes. Then I rewrite and rewrite and pray for perfection.”

            After I finished explaining my writing process, my friend said, “Hurry up and finish the sequel to A Message in the Roses. I want to know what happens to Carrie Sue and Marcus.”

            I hugged her and thanked her for reading my books. “It was great seeing you again,” I said. “Wonderful being back home in Geneva.” 

And indeed it was.

www.sandysemerad.com

http://bookswelove.net/sandysemerad.php

https://www.facebook.com/SandySemerad

The Rules Apply to Westerns, too. #writingtips

Whether or not we write western novels or any other genre, there are certain rules to follow that make us better writers/authors.  I've done a lot of reading lately, and also re-edited a couple of my previously published booked in order to add in the things I've learned since they were published the first time.  How many times have you read something you've written and said, "oh, I wish I had known that then?"

I decided to share a few common "unnecessary" faux pas I see, AND WRITE out of habit.

If you read a sentence containing "that" without the word and the meaning is still perfectly clear, take out the word.  I was a big offender when I first started writing but now I catch myself, and also do a search before I submit a manuscript for publication..

Example:  His declaration that he was innocent fell on deaf ears.
Better:  His declaration of innocence fell on deaf ears.

Note:  did you know "was" is passive? (I normally would have said 'did you know that "was"....I'm trying hard to minimize how many times I use the word.  Be sure to watch your tenses and stay in the present.  I'm not a big fan of "to" phrases, except in the case above because trying is something I intend...  in my mind using 'to see' and similar combinations shows intent rather than action.  It's important to have the story unfold as if the events are taking place in the moment.

How tired do you get of reading "he watched, she heard, she knew, or similar sentence lead-ins?"  We generally write from one person's point-of-view, and if we are doing a good job and not hopping from one head to another, then the reader will know who is watching, hearing, knowing or seeing. Of course there are time you will use a pronoun, but here's an example of how much more smoothly your novel will read if you adhere to this rule of thumb:

Bad:  She heard the doorbell and knew it was probably Michael.  She heard a muted whistling sound outside, opened the door, and found she was right.  
Better:  The doorbell sliced the silence and Greta placed her eye against the peephole.  Michael stood on the porch.. His puckered lips sent the muted melody he whistled  beneath the door. His handsome profile made her heart flutter. She opened the door and invited him inside.

Okay...maybe a little much, but I think you get the idea.

How about tags.  They can get very tiresome, and we forget how smart our readers are. If only two people are in the room. If you feel the need to identify the person speaking, have them do something...that's called an action tag.

Example:  "Nice day, isn't it? John said
Better:  "Nice day, isn't it?"  John stood at the window overlooking the garden.

Okay, so I used an "ing" word, and we've been beaten into submission about why to avoid them.  I think rules are made to be broken sometimes, especially ones that don't make sense.  I could have said  "that overlooked," but why?  I try to use them sparingly, but there are just times when nothing works as well as an "ing or an ly."  If there is a stronger verb to be used, I use those to SHOW more than tell, which brings me to another rule.

Show rather than tell!  I learned with my debut novel that there is a real difference between telling a story and showing a novel.  Strong verbs that SHOW the emotions, emphasize aromas, and put the reader in the character's shoes are signs you've done a good job.

"I'm so angry I could spit."  Jane left the room.  (Tells the reader Jane's angry.)
"I'm so angry I could spit."  Jane spun around and stomped out. (Shows the anger)

Oh...I should also mention that dialogue is really important, especially if you want to describe the person whose POV you're in. Normally a person would not describe themselves, such as long, brown hair, or eye color.  When you think or talk do you refer to your characteristics?  Probably not.  I'm sure not going to mention the size of my butt, and I hope no one else does, but you never know.

Example:
"I love the sparkle in your green eyes and the way the sunlight deepens the red in your long curls."  John brushed her lips with a kiss.

Last but not least...cause before affect.  In other words...something has to happen before someone can react.

Bad:  Susie started at the slamming door.
Better: The door slammed and Susie jumped.


Okay, I could go on and on, but I won't.  If you think of something to add, please feel free to use comments.  What bothers you most when you read?  Inquiring minds NEED to know.

Of Puppies and Book Signings!

Hey everyone, hope you're enjoying your fall whatever the weather is throwing at you. Here in southern Alberta it has been a brilliant gold and blue few weeks. Now that the freak early snowstorm nonsense if over with. The poplars/aspens are golden torches on the mountainsides, pirate's gold against the blue green of the firs and spruce trees. And the sky is that clear Alberta blue that almost seems to burn across the heavens it's so intense.
I volunteer for an animal rescue in Calgary called Alberta Animal Rescue Crew Society, they are a no kill rescue who works closely with the Spay and Neuter Assistance Program(SNAP). Currently I am fostering a lovely momma dog with eleven puppies. They were three weeks old on Oct 13 and are just starting on soft food. Takes about 2 hours to get them all fed, mom fed and walked and the pen cleaned. What a joy they are, all with different personalities and colouring. A few a monster puppies while the majority are medium sized and a couple are quite small. I named them after black colour names because when they were born they all looked black. There is Ebony (F), Sable (F), Onyx (F), Jet (F), Obsidian (F), Midnight (M), Black Jack (M), Ink Spot (M), Brown Eyes (M), Noir (F), Tiger Eye (F)- she is turning out to be a golden brindle colour.

My upcoming release form Books We Love is Christmas Storm, a romance set in Longview, Alberta. The scene stealing dog in the book is based on a number of dogs who have touched my life over the years. The dog, Storm, is dedicated to a black momma dog who didn't live long enough to get rescued. I wish she had been as lucky as Storm. My last rescue dog is a black lab X and I called her Storm in this dog's memory. You'll have to forgive my un-techiness, I can't get the image to rotate properly. Sorry.

I am very excited to share that I am attending the Surrey International Writer's Conference in Surrey British Columbia this weekend. I leave on Thursday morning and am in Jack Whyte's Masters Class at 1:30. I love this class, it will be the fourth year I have participated. Each person submits 3 pages of their work that they would like some feed back on. Jack reads it to the class in his amazing Scottish accent and then there is discussion. The class is limited to 12 people so it is quite fun and a lot of us are regulars which makes it very dynamic. For the last two years I have worked the conference as a presenter,this year I am not presenting so I will have more time to play! There are great workshops and great presenters every year. Friday night is dress up costume night, the theme this year is Spies, Lies and Bad Guys. I am going as a spy, I'll share pictures next month! In the meantime here is my costumes from 2012 (Flapper) and 2013 (Evil Editor)

Saturday night is a massive book signing which is open to the public. If anyone is in the Vancouver/Lower Mainland please come by the Sheraton Guildford and say 'hi'. The book signing is in the Fraser ballroom at 5:30 pm. Some big name authors will be signing their books, Jack Whyte will have the next book in his Guardians of Scotland series available at the onsite Chapters store, Diana Gabaldon of Outlander fame will be in attendance, Anne Perry is another favorite. There are many more, for more information you can check out the conference website Surrey International Writers Conference

I'll share my conference experience with you next time, and keep you updated on the puppy progress. Once they are old enough, the babies will go to separate foster homes to learn about crate training and house training. Momma dog, Missy, will stay with me until she finds her forever home. AARCS has a very through adoption process, so I am confident everyone will find a good home.

Till next time...

Conferences and Horu's Chosen by Janet Lane Walters - New Release

Wasn't sure what I would write about since I'm undergoing a bit of a split in my personality. I want to shout out about my new release, Horu's Chosen and also talk a bit about conferences. So I've decided to do both.

I used to attend conference after conference and have been to some that are different. This weekend I'll be at New Jersey Romance Writer's conference and this is usually a fun time. Mainly because I get to see old friends and even make new ones. One of my old critique partners is going to be a featured speaker and I really will be glad to see her again. Two of my friends are finalists in a contest and that makes me happy for them. Would love to see them both win. They're competing in different genres so there's a chance.

This made me think. Why do you go to conferences? Do you want to learn new things? Do you want to see your friends? Do you just like to be part of a group? I've been to large conferences and one tends to get lost in the shuffle. Smaller conferences are more fun. One conference I've never wanted to attend is RT. Somehow this isn't my thing. One I really enjoyed was the EPIC conferences and the RWA ones where I've been a speaker. Also a science fiction conference that meets across the river from here. That was fun. Sold a bunch of books and met some new and interesting people.

Now for my second matter. Horu's Chosen was released. Though it was up for pre-sale, I have no idea what that meant or did. This story had an interesting start. When planning the trilogy, and writing the first book, I needed a hero for the second. A few lines in the first book gave me the hero. Seth, an undercover cop. Never realized he was in the first book. There's just a small few lines where he warns the heroine of the first book not to go home. Something in his eyes made her think he wasn't the homeless man he pretended to be. So he came into being, betrayed by his handler and a priest he had to flee and he found his way to another world and another ancient Egypt.

Horu's Chosen (An Alternate Egypt Book 2)
Seth, an undercover cop has been betrayed by his handler. To escape he calls a number on a flyer and is transported to an ancient Egypt he doesn’t understand. He must rescue the Daughter from the evil priests of Aken Re. Merin is the Daughter....
amazon.com

Ring Around the Rosy by Roseanne Dowell

My goal in life was to become a topnotch journalist. I loved writing. Always had. Ever since I can remember that’s all I ever wanted to be. Suddenly, the goal was at hand. Within reach. I got it. My first big byline! I beat out all the other reporters at the scene and the paper printed my story. MINE!

So… there I was drinking coffee and reading my story. My headline! GEORGIE PORGIE PUDDING AND DIE by me, Susan Weston. Word for word just the way I’d written it. I’d been first on the murder scene the night before, even before the cops, so I got a pretty good look at the body. Turned out to be a guy I knew from the neighborhood. Not a sight I’m likely to forget.

 It made me feel good that my story got printed. This was my big chance. Things were going to change now. No more fluff pieces for me. And then everything went haywire.

The phone rang. Of course I answered. The voice on the other end sent goosebumps up my arm, down my spine, and chills down to my toes. It still does. Just thinking about it.

I could hardly hear the caller. His raspy voice faded out. Something about liking my story and strawberries. I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. Probably a crank call. But something about it bothered me.

My life hasn’t been the same since. To find out what happened, you’re going to have to read my book, Ring Around the Rosy available from Amazon. http://amzn.to/PjLvDp

Excerpt:

Susan propped the News Gazette on the counter and focused on the headline. ‘Georgie Porgie, Pudding and Die’ by Susan Weston, it blared at her. Her headline. Her story. She’d done it. Finally got her headline. She drummed her hands on the counter and did a little dance step. She swore if her grin got any wider her face would crack. .”Susan Weston, journalist!” she shouted. God, she wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

The phone rang, startling her. “Who the heck is calling at this hour? “ She grabbed the phone. “Hello.” Bella rubbed against her legs, waiting to be fed. “Hello?” Susan grabbed the box of kitty food, filled the bowl, and set it on the floor.

“Hello,” she repeated, ready to hang up if no one answered this time.

The evil, raspy voice on the other end sent goose-bumps up her spine. “Who is this?” she whispered.

The voice mumbled something she could barely hear.

“Strawberries? What are you talking about?”

“Just for you,” the garbled voice continued.

“I can’t hear you. Who is this?” What kind of sick joke is this?

She caught the words, “loved your headline,” more garbled words, and “Watch for Jack be nimble.” Then the phone line went dead.

Susan grabbed the counter to steady herself. Her hand trembled, and she stared at the phone. She dropped the receiver back into its cradle as if it was on fire. But she couldn’t stop the trembling. Her stomach churned. Nausea filled her throat. What was wrong with her? Just someone playing a sick joke. This wasn’t her first crank call, why react like this? Maybe because none of the others had sounded like this.

He said he liked her story. That shouldn’t bother her. Something about that voice, so harsh, so evil. It gnawed at her. The hair prickled on the back of her neck. Something about it seemed familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.

After pouring a cup of coffee, she read the story under the headline aloud, trying to keep her mind off the phone call. “Police are investigating the death of thirty-one year old George Lucas, whose body was found last night in Lagoon Park near his west side home.” The sound of her shaky voice surprised her.

What was the matter with her?  “Get a grip, girl.”

Must be the effect of seeing the lifeless body. The way George Lucas’s eyes stared into space. What was he thinking when he looked into his killer’s eyes? The distant street lamp didn’t help. It cast an eerie shadow on the victim. His face frozen in terror, lips parted in a silent scream, and his head tilted to one side as if it was too heavy for his neck. The way one hand clutched at his throat and the other gripped the note, fingers frozen around it, sent icy chills through her, even now. She shuddered.

Thank God there wasn’t any blood, since the image would forever be embedded in her mind. Susan rubbed her arms to warm them.

Picking up the paper, she continued to read. “The coroner will determine the cause of death, but early reports indicate that Mr. Lucas was strangled. Lipstick was smeared across the victim’s mouth, and he clasped the nursery rhyme, ‘Georgie Porgie,’ in his hand. The teen who discovered the body reported seeing a man carrying a bag and wearing a gray shirt running from the park moments before. Police have no suspects at this time.”

Bella brushed against her legs, jumped on the counter, and snuggled against her.

Susan’s heart pounded. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. So much for the thrill of seeing her name on the front page. The image of the body filled her mind. Her hands trembled while she held the paper and reread the headline with her name below it. It was exactly as she had written it — not one word changed, short and to the point.

George Lucas lived in her neighborhood. She’d seen him a few times in Meliti’s Market talking to old Mrs. Meliti. Although they never spoke, they had nodded and smiled hello. Nice-looking guy, about her age. What a shock seeing him dead. Another shiver shook her body. Seeing a dead body was bad enough, but knowing the victim threw her for a loop. Made it personal.

"One) lucky reader who comments on my blog will be randomly selected to win an eBook of Ring Around the Rosy. Good luck!"

How I found my hero by Sheila Claydon

http://youtu.be/nKSOFuQL5e0

There I was, off to visit friends in the Yorkshire Dales for a weekend of over-eating and dog walking, with absolutely no idea that I was going to meet the hero of my next book!

Visiting the glorious Yorkshire Dales when the weather is good is, indeed, like visiting 'God's own country.' Ask any Yorkshireman.  Visiting, as we did, when a blanket of grey mist hung like a pall over the whole landscape, was another story altogether. Walking left us damp and cold with our walking boots inches deep in mud, our trousers spattered with it from ankle to thigh and our hair lank and wet from the moisture swirling in the air around us. And when we climbed to the top of Middleham Low Moor we could have been at the end of the world. The gallops where race horses train most mornings were deserted. There was not a single  sound, not a jingle of harness or a creak of leather, not the snorting effort of the horses or the sharp calls of the jockeys, not even the sound of a curlew or the harsh shriek of a pheasant, just that strange cotton-wool silence as the world closed in on us. Think <em>Never-ending Story </em>if you've seen the film, and you'll be close. It was like Fantasia once it had been destroyed by <em>The</em> <em>Nothing</em>, except that in Yorkshire on that day, there wasn't even colour. Just a bleached white-out that hid the wonderful views that we knew lay below us.

Of course the local beer, the pubs that welcome dripping walkers, muddy dogs and wet boots in no particular order, the excellent and abundant yorkshire food, all made up for it, as did the log fires and the hospitality.  A delicious lunch of pork belly and apple washed down with beer soon had us putting the world to rights again. And then, right in the middle of everything, serendipity came to call.

I had only just decided that I wanted a musical background in my next book.  I hadn't even got as far as deciding what sort of music, and I was still in a dilemma about the hero when...there he was playing jazz piano at a jazz evening that we were taken to later that day, and where we swayed and clapped and drank wine with the best of Yorkshire.

So thank you Yorkshire, thank you Red Stripe Band, and thank you jazz piano player.  Don't worry.  You won't recognise yourself in the book because it isn't you, so please don't fret and please don't sue!  I just needed someone to point me in the right direction and you did it, with your music, your band, and your wonderful enthusiasm...so let's hear it for The Red Stripe Band.

sheilaclaydon.com

amazon.com/author/sheilaclaydon

facebook.com/SheilaClaydon.author

twitter.com/SheilaClaydon

My Cats and Dogs by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

 

My Cats and Dogs by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

I have always loved cats.  When I was a child we had a gray cat named Smoky. He slept with me most nights and greeted me at the door when I came home from school. When he was outside and wanted in he jumped up onto the narrow ledge of the front window and sat down looking in until someone opened the door. We had him many years and then one day he became ill. My parents tried to cure him but nothing they tried made him better. He lost weight and they finally decided to take him to the Pound and have him put to sleep.  It was a cool autumn day when they put him in a box and set the box on the floor of the back seat. Mom and Dad and we four kids went to the Pound to drop him off. It was a sad day and we each took turns saying goodbye.

       But he proved to be a tough cat. On a cold winter morning when mom opened the drapes of the front window, there was Smoky sitting on the ledge. She quickly opened the door and let him in. We never found out if he had gotten better at the Pound and escaped or if someone adopted him and he left them to find his way back to us. He lived another three years before finally dying.

       We then got brother and sister tabby kittens and I named them Salt and Pepper. They were still around when I married and moved away. Due to my first husband not liking cats and my son being born with an allergy to animals, I was unable to have indoor cats. However, after my daughter was born a collie dog showed up in our yard and we had ourselves an outdoor dog. Over the years my second husband, Mike, and I had outdoor cats and dogs but I disliked that they had to stay outside during the cold winter months.

       Shortly after my son’s eighteenth birthday he came home with a Cockapoo pup which he was not allergic to. When he graduated in the summer he headed to college and left Chevy with us. Chevy grew to be about twenty pounds. We had him seventeen years before we had to put him to sleep.

       During that time Mike and I rescued an abused and starved pup while on holidays in northern B.C. He was about the size of our little cockapoo and on our two week jaunt home he slept on the bed with us and Chevy. When we got home I thought Modie would be an outdoor dog. The first night he howled so long and loud that I let him in the house but made him stay at the back door landing. That wasn’t what he wanted and he continued howling until I let him onto the bed where he settled into his spot with Chevy and us. Even when he grew into a 130 lb, dog he insisted on sleeping on the bed with us.

      During the day Modi followed Chevy around and grew to idolize him. However, Chevy was less than happy to have Modie in our family and would turn and snarl at him. Modie thought Chevy was playing and would run around him excited. If Chevy ignored him, Modie would trab his tail and pull him backward to get his attention.

       Our house had a three bedroom basement suite that we used for family get togethers and when family and friends came to visit. Because my son was allergic to Modie we kept the door to the basement closed so he couldn’t get into it. Since my son was already allergic to one of my animals I decided to get a cat. A couple we knew in the country had a stray kitten show up at their place so I went to pick her up. It was a striped tabby just like the two cats we’d had when I was a teenager. I named her Salt.

      Just after that, my sister, Gwen, got a male tabby and called him Pepper. When she got a female tabby she called her Saltina. Unfortunately, Salt left us one day and never returned. Mike suggested that I go to the SPCA and find another cat. I brought home two female cats. One was a ten month old tabby that I named Saltwo and the other a three month old gray and white kitten that I called Saltry. So we had two dogs and two cats but then we had to put Chevy to sleep. Not a happy time in our household.

       One day Mike noticed an advertisement in the newspaper that was looking for a home for a cat that had been left by its owners when they moved. The cat had survived the winter outside and the people who found it already had three cats which was the limit allowed per house in the city. I phoned and then went to pick up the cat. It was a short haired orange tabby which I named Red. We were now a family of two adults, three cats and one huge dog.

       So those were the animals we had when we moved from Edmonton to Vancouver Island. We settled on a small acreage and put up a fence so Modie would remain in the yard. Red and Saltry liked to explore our acreage as well as the neighbours. Saltwo was more inclined to stay close to home so it was a real surprise when she got into some poison somewhere and died.

      Once I had recovered from her loss, I called the SPCA and asked if they had any cats for adoption. One had just come in. They needed a few days to check her over and then I went to pick her up. She was six months old and a long haired orange tabby. I decided that I had one orange tabby named Red so I named my second orange tabby Purple. Saltry took over from Saltwo as the head of the pride (not sure if that is the word for domesticated cats) and the others acquisitioned.

       The next year when I was doing a book signing for my first mystery novel at Comox B.C. While waiting for me Mike saw some cats at an SPCA display. He took me there after my signing. He had looked at a long haired white cat but I found a tortoise shell cat and decided on her. Her name was Molly and she had been born in the SPCA and was now two years old. She had never been outside except to be taken to these displays. When we got her home I changed her name to Daisy.

       Daisy had lived in large cage with three other cats and was used to cats coming and going in her life. When she saw Saltry she mewed and went over to her. Saltry was not that friendly with strange cats and hissed and swatted at Daisy. Daisy stopped in surprise and Saltry walked away. Daisy next tried Red who was a bit standoffish but friendlier. After a couple of days, Red had taken Daisy under her wing and was grooming her and they were sleeping together. Purple didn’t really care that there was a new member to the family.

       It didn’t take her long to figure out how to go in and out the cat door and she was soon enjoying her taste of freedom.

       About a year later I looked out onto our front deck and saw a skinny, long haired orange tabby eating the crumbs from Modie’s treats. I went out but she took off. I found a small dish and put some cat food in it and left it on the deck. The next day I saw her eating from it. I went outside to talk to her but she scurried through a hole in the skirting under our mobile home. I called to her and heard her answer but she never came out. The next day was the same but this time I went to another opening under our mobile and talked with her. She answered me and slowly came to me. I picked her up. She was so light, it felt as if she weighed about three pounds although she was a full grown cat. I carried her inside to the pails of cat food I leave out for our cats. She ate but then left again. The next day she was back and this time after she ate she allowed me to carry her into our bedroom and lay her on our bed. Over the next three days all she did was sleep, eat, and use the kitty litter. She became our fifth cat. Even though I was naming our orange tabbies after colours, this time I couldn’t think of a colour that suited our latest addition. She was quiet, demure, aloof and just wanted to be left alone so I named her Lady

       By this time Modie was 13 and had very bad arthritis. He was overweight because we had had to stop our walks, and was having a hard time walking and standing up when he laid down. We finally decided it was time to put him out of his misery. Mike took him to the vet and two days later we had his ashes.

       So we were left with five cats. Three years later Gwen’s cat, Saltina, died. A few weeks later Gwen was at our place and Lady spent the night with her. Gwen said that if we ever had to get rid of Lady she would take her. We offered Lady to Gwen and she accepted. So we are now down to four cats, the same four cats that my husband and I are now on a three month tour with through the United States.

 

http://thetravellingdetectiveseries.blogspot.com/

http://www.facebook.com/writingsbyjoan

 

Books of The Travelling Detective Series boxed set:
Illegally Dead
The Only Shadow In The House
Whistler's Murder