Rosemary Morris talks with Janet Lane Walters by Rosemary Morris

To learn about Janet Lane Walters and Whispers of Yesteryear click on the cover above.

Whispers from Yesteryear by Janet Lane Walters is the novel I most enjoyed reading this year. The tale slips backward and forward from 1755 to July 2017. The past cast long shades over the lives of twin girls in their next reincarnation and those of those they knew in the past. The author led me by the hand through the ups and downs of their lives. Engrossed in the twin’s story I finished reading it in less than twenty-four hours desperate to find out how the havoc wrought by a heartless villain was resolved.

Janet Lane-Walters has been writing and published since the days of the typewriter. She has 30 plus novels and seven novellas plus four non-fiction books published. Janet lives in the scenic Hudson River valley with her husband, a psychiatrist who has no desire to cure her obsession with writing.
She is the mother of four and the grandmother of five with two children expected to arrive soon from China. Janet writes in a number of genres - Romance from sweet to sensual and from contemporary to fantasy and paranormal. She has published cozy mysteries and medical suspense. She also has a number of YA fantasies published.

Blurb
Not the children.” Willow Carey is awakened by the remnants of a dream she hasn’t had for years. Today she is to return to Indian’s Sorrow, a house she inherited from her aunt. The inheritance has caused a rift with her twin sister. Her father and stepmother have died in an accident. Though she doesn’t want to go to Indian’s Sorrow, she must take charge of her young half-sister and brother.
Reid Talbot, a man she once loved lives near the house with his family. Now a widower, he lives with his sons. Learning to trust him again is difficult but he also has dreams.
Together, they must learn the meaning of the dreams before the whispers of yesteryear destroy their newfound happiness.



I hope you enjoy this taste of Whispers of Yesteryear.

Chapter One
July 1755

Willow Who Bends stood at the entrance of the Long House and stared at the sky. Though the sun shone brightly, to the west dark clouds gathered and carried the threat of a storm like the one she felt inside. She knelt beside the father of her spirit. Corn Dreamer had raised her and taught her the ways of healing. She prayed he would wake but feared he wouldn’t. Sorrow rode the beats of her heart and threatened to spill in a rain of tears.
"Corn Dreamer, must you travel to the spirit world and leave this one behind?" Her voice cracked and she caught a breath to still the ache in her throat. "The men have taken the warriors’ path in answer to Waraghuyagey’s call. The-Man-Who-Understands-Great-Things speaks for the redcoats, those men who want our help. What have we to do with the ones who fail to live in harmony with the land?”
Not all the pale-skinned men, she thought. A smile crossed her face. There was one who often stayed in the village and sat at Corn Dreamer’s feet to learn.
Near a moon ago, a message had come for Hair of Fire. He had left the Long House and journeyed west. A shiver crawled up her spine. Was he safe? In these days, danger rode the currents of the air the way carrion birds circled a kill.
She returned to her teacher’s side and pressed her fingers against his wrist. What had made him fall into sleep yet not sleep? Why did his heart flutter like humming bird wings and then slow. She wished for a way to rouse him for he would know the answer.
"Corn Dreamer, spirit father, medicine man, this woman is not ready for you to leave. What can this one do to help?"
She closed her eyes and sought among the things he had taught her. An answer arose. "This one must go into the forest to gather fresh leaves and bark."
From her sleeping place, she lifted a bark basket by the carrying strap and left the Long House. As she stepped outside, she heard the children’s laughter and the voices of the women raised in the growing chant. The sound chased her sorrow.
Across the clearing, her sister sat with the ones too young to work how hard she tried, she never remembered more than the cry.
She stepped from the shower. After pulling on a blue terry cloth robe, she stripped the bed and stuffed the damp sheets in the hamper.
What had triggered the dream? With the thoroughness of a pathologist seeking the cause of death, she examined the past few days and found no incident that could be called a trigger.
As she made the bed, she recalled the first time she’d dreamed. She’d been sixteen. She and her twin had been at Indian’s Sorrow visiting their aunt. Willow had always loved staying there. This time had been different. One memory lodged in her thoughts.
"Willow, come here. This is so neat." Brooke had opened the gate at the side of the garden.
Willow halted at the opening. She looked beyond her sister. "Get away from the edge."
"I’m fine." Brooke leaned forward. "The rocks look like a giant’s teeth. Come see."
"I can’t."
Brooke laughed. "Chicken."
"Something dreadful happened here."
"And I thought I was the one with the imagination and you were the logical one." Brooke spun around. "I love this place. Do you think Aunt Willow will leave it to us? She doesn’t have kids."
"I don’t..." Willow had turned away. She hadn’t
with the women. Though born of the same mother and on the same day, she and Willow by the Stream had been raised at different fires. On the outside, they wore a single face as reflected in a still pond, but their inner natures were different. As the first born, Willow Who Bends had been given to Corn Dreamer to learn about the ways of medicine and the spirit world. Her sister had been raised as a woman of the clan.
She drank in the sight of her sister. Soon Willow by the Stream would take a husband. That was good and right, but the change would further separate their lives.


July 2017
Chapter Two

"Not the children!"
Willow Carey jerked into a sitting position. Her heart thudded in her chest. Waves of terror flooded her thoughts. She gulped deep breaths of air.
She stared at the familiar surroundings and wondered why the bedroom seemed alien. Like a shroud, the sheet had twisted around her legs. She tugged it free. Her sleep shirt, soaked with perspiration, clung to her skin. She shook her head to dislodge the fragments of the nightmare that had awakened her. Terror, grief and rage had followed her into consciousness. What? Why?
Once her heart rate slowed, she reached for the alarm clock. Too late to go back to sleep and too early to get ready for work. As the effects of the adrenaline rush faded, her sense of uneasiness grew.
She hugged her knees. Once again, she had failed but she couldn’t remember who or how.
Moments later, she stood in the shower. Warm water washed away the sour smell of fear. The nightmare wasn’t new. Six years had passed since the last time the cry had jolted her awake. Always the same urgency and the same surge of emotions. No matter how hard she tried, she never remembered more than the cry.
She stepped from the shower. After pulling on a blue terry cloth robe, she stripped the bed and stuffed the damp sheets in the hamper.
What had triggered the dream? With the thoroughness of a pathologist seeking the cause of death, she examined the past few days and found no incident that could be called a trigger.
As she made the bed, she recalled the first time she’d dreamed. She’d been sixteen. She and her twin had been at Indian’s Sorrow visiting their aunt. Willow had always loved staying there. This time had been different. One memory lodged in her thoughts.
"Willow, come here. This is so neat." Brooke had opened the gate at the side of the garden.
Willow halted at the opening. She looked beyond her sister. "Get away from the edge."
"I’m fine." Brooke leaned forward. "The rocks look like a giant’s teeth. Come see."
"I can’t."
Brooke laughed. "Chicken."
"Something dreadful happened here."
"And I thought I was the one with the imagination and you were the logical one." Brooke spun around. "I love this place.”

www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary

Captain Kidd & Wooden Ships by Katherine Pym

YA for All Ages London 1665

 ~*~*~*~

Capt Kidd in NY Harbor. It was traditional to have wives & lovers aboard before sailing

Research takes me to different eras and locales. One of those places is on a wooden ship slicing through the ocean's heavy swells. I have several books that describe the building of them, their terminologies, but few mention what it was like living on board. Until now...

Oh, I knew ships were crowded. Cages of ducks, geese and chickens lined the main deck rails. Cows and goats were harnessed to masts. Below decks, the magazine and filling rooms sat close together but the powder room was farther astern. Safety, you know, even as ships sometimes spontaneously exploded.

Capt Kidd's New York home

Seamen would often re-use old gun cartridges that, after a while, would deteriorate to a fine dust, and combined with particles of sulphuric and nitric acids found in gunpowder, a highly combustible substance called ‘guncotton’ would form. This friction of dust and gunpowder would cause terrific explosions, sinking the ship and everyone on board. 

Upward to several hundred men crowded onto a vessel. Captain Kidd, the privateer who turned pirate in the last years of the 17^th century, had one hundred fifty-two men and boys cheek to jowl aboard his ship Adventure Galley. Men had to sleep in shifts. 

Inaccurate renduring of Capt Kidd

The decks were so short, maybe 5 feet ceilings, everyone had to walk in a permanent crouch. Unless a seaman was given express permission from the captain, no fire could be taken below decks, and unless the decks had gun ports, it was damn dark down there. 

“’No man will be a sailor who has contrivance enough to get himself into a jail,’ observed Samuel Johnson. ‘For being in a ship is being in jail with the chance of being drowned... a man in jail has more room, better food and commonly better company.’

“Every available inch below deck was taken up with water-casks, barrels of salt beef, peas, beer; coils of ropes, bundles of extra canvas;” a private cabin or two, depending on the ship’s rate. These cabins were 4x4 feet. No one could stretch or pace. One had to sleep in the fetal position. 

“For landsmen, novices at this naval dormitory, the smell of that sleep chamber was gagging. Their overworked fellow sailors rarely changed their clothes or bathed; to top off the aroma of vintage sweat, toilet hygiene was rudimentary at best. 

“The ship’s head (i.e., toilet) consisted of a plank with a hole in it, which extended forward from the bow; a sailor perched on it, rode it like a seesaw, and, while doing his business, resembled some gargoyle or perverse bowsprit; the ship’s rail might provide the merest amount of privacy. A man attempting to tidy his ass risked a plunge into the sea.” 

Sailor being flogged

Even as existence such as this seemed pretty unpalatable, it got into the blood of men. Once they found their sea legs and learned the ways of the sea, many wouldn’t leave it for all their stolen treasure. If they didn’t like what their captain did, they could always mutiny, throw the offending captain overboard (as the Henry Hudson’s crew did) and sail away into the stormy sunset. 

~*~*~*~*~

Many thanks to: 

Wikicommons, public domain 

The Pirate Hunter, The True Story of Captain Kidd by Richard Zacks. Hyperio, NY, NY. 2002

Tuesday 4 August, 2015: http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/the-london-after-350-years-the-riddle-of-britains-exploding-fleet-is-finally-solved-10438854.html

Writing for Sanity

Years ago I was fortunate to teach a journaling class as part of a Women's Wellness seminar at a hospital in Edmonton. It was my first time every doing any sort of presentation in front of a crowd and my co-instructor, a minister, had made notes to keep us both on track. On that page of notes was a typo. A mistake. That one little piece of "wrong" struck me as funny and relaxed us both. When I told the story in the session, one woman got very angry at me for "embarrassing" the other woman in front of the crowd. The typo - and our nervousness - wasn't the point of the session.

The entire point was learning to give yourself the freedom to write.

In all fairness, I had asked my partner if I could talk about that tiny mistake as an example of how we don't need to be perfect when we write. We just need to do it. We don't need to be afraid of the mistakes, just write to get the ideas out of our heads. To clear our minds.

Rough drafts, to me, are like journaling. Things come out of our heads, out of our pens, our keyboards and fill the page. Sometimes they make sense. Sometimes they're disjointed scenes of a book that really don't seem to connect until we get them down on paper and find a way to connect them. Sometimes they're even filled with weird typos that make us laugh. But those things aren't meant for an audience, yet sometimes we share them just to give our friends a good laugh. Our finished novels are.

One of the most common complaints I hear in my writing group is that everything has to be perfect and writers will work on Chapter 1 for days, weeks, or even years until it is just right. Then they will move on to Chapter 2 and find they have to go back and change something in Chapter 1, and so on.

My cure for that is simple. Just write the book! Your rough draft doesn't have to be perfect. I just has to be written. Once it's done, then go back and smooth out the rough spots. Remove paragraphs. Add paragraphs. Take out whole chapters. Whatever it takes to get those thoughts out of your head and turn that book into something you can be proud of.

Julia Cameron in The Artist's Way, talks about Morning Pages. Sitting down every morning before you do anything else to "prime the pump." Basically writing all the gunk out of your head so you can go on to form actual thoughts and create your art whether it be writing, creating music, painting or the like.

Whatever you call it, just write to clear your head. For your sanity.
I'll be here writing for mine!

Diane Bator
http://bookswelove.net/authors/bator-diane-mystery/
Author of Wild Blue Mysteries, Gilda Wright Mysteries & Glitter Bay Mysteries

The confusing world of idioms by J. S. Marlo

J. S. Marlo BWL Author Page

I love idioms. They can be colorful, sarcastic, and more often than none, impossible to translate in a different language. 

The first idiom I encountered in English was When pigs fly. I was in my twenties slowly learning English when one of my friends said it. I understood the when, the pigs, and the fly, but I couldn't figure out how or when she switched the conversation to pink farm animals. She explained, but then she was also surprised we didn't use that expression to say never in French. I told her we do have a similar expression, which also features a farm animal. In French we say Quand les poules auront des dents, which translate to When hens will have teeth. 
That's when I learned I couldn't translate idioms words for words. At the same time, it was fascinating to discover how two different languages use two different images to convey the same meaning, like:

Love at first sight   is the equivalent to   Coup de foudre (lightning strike) in French.
Once in a blue moon   to   Tous les trente-six du mois (every 36th of the month)
To feel under the weather   to   Ne pas être dans son assiette (not to be in one’s plate)
To mind one’s own business   to   S'occuper de ses oignons (to take care of one’s onions)
To have other fish to fry   to   Avoir d'autres chats à fouetter (to have other cats to whip)
To put in two cents   to   Mettre son grain de sel (to put one’s grain of salt)

It just goes to show that every language is truly unique and meanings can really get lost in the translation.

Happy reading & writing!
JS

 J. S. Marlo's Website

BWL Publishing March Releases and Mystery Suspense Features

BWL PUBLISHING'S MARCH RELEASES
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Enhance your reading experiences by enjoying books from

BWL's authors.  March's feature books are

Mystery and Suspense. For purchase and author information simply Click any book cover

Writing About the Weather in Fiction by Connie Vines

Writing about the weather in your novel, and writing about it well, is critical for an atmospheric story.

It’s also a great shortcut…

A simple description of storm clouds gathering on the horizon, say, can foreshadow troubled times ahead in the plot, or act as a symbol for the character’s mood. And it can do it in a short space.

It’s easy to forget just how important a part of our everyday lives the weather is.

We think about it so much that we’re rarely conscious of thinking about it at all. But it affects everything.

·         Our mood.

·         Our health.

·         Sometimes even our survival.

Ignoring the weather in the stories we tell just isn’t an option.

In the real world, we chat about the weather even when there’s nothing much to say. Which is fine – small-talk helps to oil the cogs of society. But having two characters in a novel talk about unremarkable weather, or having the narrator describe a perfectly ordinary rain shower, say, can send the reader straight to sleep.

Another problem with writing about the weather is that it’s easy to resort to cliches.

·         The rain lashed down on the rooftops.

·         The heat rose off the tarmac in shimmering waves.

·         The wind made the tree branches dance.

Good descriptive writing should be fresh, original, memorable – even unexpected. But because we talk about the weather all the time (and read so much about it in fiction, too), finding unique and exciting ways to describe thunderstorms or blizzards or perfect summer days can be tough.

WHY WEATHER IS IMPORTANT IN A NOVEL

Here are four reasons why weather matters in fiction.

1. It’s Part of the Setting

Not only that, it’s a crucial part of the setting, particularly when the weather shifts from being ordinary to extreme.

Imagine two characters in a novel, a husband and a wife, driving along a deserted highway. They’re fighting about whose fault it is that they’re lost. Outside, it is…

·         Freezing. Everywhere is white with snow and it’s tough keeping the car on the road.

·         Scorching. It’s the hottest August day on record… and the air conditioning is on the blink.

·         Stormy up ahead. And they’re driving right into it!

·         Foggy. They can barely see the road in front of them.

Each of these conditions would give the scene a totally different feel. But even when the weather is not especially remarkable – a warm summer’s evening, a cold and bright morning in autumn – it still gives scenes very different moods and atmospheres.

But if you don’t mention the weather at all in your writing, not even briefly, an important element will be missing from the mental image in the reader’s mind.

2. It Affects Character

Just as the weather affects our mood in the real world, so it affects the mood of a character in a novel.

·         If a character is feeling blue, a cold and wet day will form the perfect backdrop.

·         If the sun comes out, it’s a sign that their spirits are rising.

The viewpoint character’s mood complements or contrast with the weather outside is just another small way to add dimension to your fiction.

3. It Affects Plot

Even the most ordinary weather can affect the plans of people in the real world and, also, characters in novels.

·         Rain can spoil a wedding.

·         Fog can disrupt travel plans.

·         Drought can play havoc with a prized garden.

Make the elements more extreme and you ramp up the stakes. Writing about extreme weather can be a primary source of conflict in a novel.

4. Weather Is Symbolic

I mentioned earlier that weather can affect a character’s mood. Taking this one step further, you can have it actually symbolize how a character is feeling inside.

Suppose a mother is worried that her young son is late back home. As she stands by the window waiting for him to return, she notices the wind picking up. At this point, she is merely concerned.

One hour later, though, the garden furniture is cartwheeling across the lawn… and by implication, the woman is really starting to panic. The writer doesn’t even need to describe her panic. The scene outside tells the readers everything they need to know about how the woman is feeling inside.

5. Don’t Ignore It

If you can, mention it in every scene. Even if the weather isn’t that important to a scene, still write about it, however briefly.

When Mary left for work the next morning, it was still raining.

It was colder than Frank had expected when he stepped out of the house.

The snow started right after lunch.

There are no fancy descriptions here – no adjectives, no metaphors.

·         It’s raining.

·         It’s cold.

·         It’s snowing.

The reader can then take their experience of rain, say, and use it to imagine a rainy scene.

6. Show, Don’t Tell

When Mary left for work the next morning, the sky was as dark as slate and the icy north wind was blowing the rain straight into her face.

The entire sky was white with snow.

The sound of a dog pawing at the back door waiting to be let inside.

Use the best details you can imagine. Engage all of the senses (how the weather sounds and smells and tastes).

From my historical novel, “Tanayia—Whisper upon the Water

The wind began to blow, hot and restless.  It drowned out the sound of my fists pounding against the door.  It drowned out my cries for help.  I felt clammy, yet the heat of the day was trapped inside the attic.  The heat clawed at my like the talons of a vulture—cruel and without mercy.

Sweat poured down my body.  My legs were heavy with fatigue.  Allowed myself to rest upon the floor.  White spots danced before my eyes like moths.  My head pounded with a wild throbbing pain.

Sister Enid reminded me of Old Woman from my band.  She had appeared to be like everyone else.  She ate, she moved about, she spoke.  Only she wasn’t really like other people.  She was a woman in an empty body.  Old Woman’s sound had been taken from her. . .

Did my details draw you into the scene?  

Did you experience Tanayia's reality?  

Do you have a favorite 'weather scene' in a novel you've read?

Why is it a favorite?

Thank you for stopping by today at BWL Insider Blog.

I hope you enjoyed this month's post :-)

Happy Reading,

Connie 

BWL author site

https://books2read.com/Tanayia/purchase link

Thinking up the future – by Vijaya Schartz

ANGEL FIERCE - Azura Chronicles Book 2
Find it with other BWL titles from Vijaya Schartz here

You can’t stop the proliferation of technology. The visionaries warned us in the nineties that progress would require a severe loss of privacy. They weren’t kidding.

We already have AIs in our homes, who talk back and do our bidding. They tell us when to get the pie out of the oven, when to order more milk and when to change the air filters. They can also record our conversations. The cameras on our computers can be activated without our knowledge. Most houses have motion-activated cameras that capture the life of the entire neighborhood.

Self-driving cars are delivering our groceries.

We can clone body parts. Our cars drive us, not the other way around. We find our mates on dating sites that match our profiles. Our phones have become banking machines, movie screens, and a lifeline to all the people in our lives, whether we know them or not. Our daily lives are displayed for all to see and judge on Social Media. The authorities have access to all this information and our DNA can be used to solve cold cases... 

More and more teenagers who are not strong enough to sustain the pressure and the bullying on Social Media commit suicide. I see it as a gruesome reminder of what unchecked technology can bring to our lives. Or is a natural selection occurring, weeding out those unable to adapt?

Let’s face it. It’s a new era. Where will it stop? What will the future look like? Soon we might improve embryos in the womb, or grow babies in test tubes. We might even make ourselves more intelligent.

Human nature can adapt, but not as fast as our technology. I believe there will be a breaking point, and a severe backlash. Some visionaries believe in robot uprising. It could happen. Or the divide between the rich and the poor will cause a revolution and topple governments. Or a war, or a computer glitch will destroy most of the planet, and leave society in shambles. These are the usual themes of dystopian novels and movies, like the Hunger Games, the Divergent series, the Mad Max series, the Postman, the Terminator series, and many others.

I’m of the opinion that yes, some segments of society might rebel, and no, we will not destroy ourselves or lose all our technology. We shall adapt enough to survive. Then, when space exploration develops and becomes accessible to most, I believe many of us will sail into the unknown, like the adventurers who followed Christopher Columbus, like the pioneers who rode their wagons West. Some will look for riches, others for fame, for adventure, or for knowledge and the study of alien species. Others yet will look for a simpler way of life, for religious tolerance, for a chance to raise their family in peaceful surroundings.

Despite the rapid evolution of our technology, I believe we humans will slowly evolve, but our passions will remain the same. We’ll learn from our mistakes, we’ll love, we’ll fight for our freedom, and we will continue to do so, as long as the human race exists in this universe.

That’s why I enjoy writing the future. No matter what the technology becomes, humans will always be humans.

My latest novel, ANGEL FIERCE is set on a planet populated by angels.

Something’s rotten on the angel planet. When Avenging Angels turn up dead, Urielle, their Legion Commander, suspects the handsome intruder brought unspeakable evil to Azura.

Maksou never met a woman he couldn’t seduce. He came to the forbidden planet to rescue his friends and get rich in the process, but the jungle crawls with lethal life forms… including a gorgeous warrior angel, who saves his life but keeps him prisoner and challenges his irresistible charm.

Urielle, sworn to protect Azura at all costs, has no use for a maverick who ignores the rules and endangers the planet… no matter how attractive. Especially when the Galactic Trade Alliance (GTA) wages a secret war to get their greedy hands on the priceless crystal at Azura’s core.

HAPPY READING!

Vijaya Schartz, author
 Romance with a Kick
 http://www.vijayaschartz.com
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