Write about what you know by J. S. Marlo

 

Undeniable Trait

is available now!

Click here

   

 

  

J. S. Marlo's BWL Books

I'm a Jill-of-all-trades. If there's something needing repairs in the house, I will fix it. Not much deter me.

Six years ago, my daughter, her husband, and their little one moved in with us until their new house was ready. My little granddaughter has asthma and I had carpet all over my first floor, so before they arrived, I ripped the old carpet off and replaced it with laminate planks. Not only did it look amazing, but it was so easy to clean and keep clean. A few years later, I got rid of the carpet in the basement and installed vinyl planks instead.

Cutting the laminate planks was messy. Very messy! If I'd known how much easier it was to install vinyl planks, I would have installed vinyl planks everywhere.

They say a writer should write about what she knows, so I'll introduce you to Violette, my main character from Mishandled Conviction. She's a middle-aged woman, a Jill-of-all-trade, a mother, and I know she can't wait to become a grandmother. This is her story, and it starts with her installing vinyl planks in an escape room...

~ * ~

Down on one knee on the mock jail cell floor, Violette Hubert measured another vinyl plank. “Once I’m done, Phantom, inmates all across the country will be jealous of your accommodation.” Her voice echoed in the small escape room, designed to challenge any wannabe jailbirds’ wits and skills. “Though I doubt any of them aspire to die in their cell and become a ghost.”

Taking advantage of an unwelcome sick leave, Joe Kearn, the owner of the Escape Code Six Zero, had decided to add a fourth theme room to his selection of escape rooms. The story behind his new theme room, Haunted Jail Cell, was based on Phantom, a real inmate who haunted a condemned penitentiary in Ottawa after dying in his cell almost thirty years ago.

Even though she lived less than an hour away from Phantom’s alleged haunting ground, Violette had never heard of his ghostly legend until Joe invited her over for coffee a few weeks earlier. The invitation had taken her by surprise. Though unsure of his intentions, she’d crossed the street with a spring in her step and knocked on his front door with a touch of dread in her heart. Within minutes of walking into the kitchen—a kitchen she’d often visited under different circumstances—Joe had uttered the words flooring and extra money, quieting her misgivings.

Not only had he hired her on the spot to redo the flooring in his new theme room, but Joe had also added an extra five percent to the amount she’d quoted him. In normal times, she wouldn’t have taken advantage of his generosity, but with her first grandchild’s imminent birth, Violette needed all the money she could earn to help her daughter, Sophie.

Sophie had reached her third trimester. How her fiancé, Elliot, could suddenly abandon her and their unborn baby boy baffled Violette. The young couple had lived in Violette’s house for the past two years while they saved money to buy their own place. If Elliot’s behavior had raised any red flags, Violette had missed them. Her daughter had never been happier in her life, and Violette could have sworn Elliot felt the same.

A loud thump resounded in the room. Startled, Violette dropped her knife before scoring the vinyl plank she held in place with her knee.

“Joe?” Violette looked around the mock cell. “Is that you?”

When working alone on the premises, she kept the front and back doors locked. At this time of day, no one but Joe could, or should, venture in unannounced.

The uneasy feeling churning in her stomach abated when her gaze settled on the red brick that landed on the newly installed floor, leaving two damaged planks in its wake. “Swell.”

The vinyl floor, designed to withstand years of abuse at the feet of Joe’s customers, wasn’t supposed to be ruined in an instant by a rogue brick that shouldn’t have dislodged itself from the ledge of a fake barred window. “If that’s your idea of a joke, Phantom, I’m not amused.”

“What happened?”

At the sound of his voice, Violette dropped the brick, missing her boot by an inch but adding a dent to a third plank. It’s not going to be a productive morning.

“Sorry, Violette, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” Joe entered the mock cell in his police uniform, slowed down by the stab wound he’d sustained to his left thigh while responding to a robbery. “As of noon today, I’m back on full duty. Still can’t run very fast, but it feels good to be useful again.”

A crown of grayish hair and a sharp, navy-blue uniform added a dash of sophistication to his imposing physique. He’d lost his wife last winter, and though he excelled at concealing his feelings, she suspected he hadn’t stopped grieving since the day they laid Adele to rest. Violette wouldn’t mind dating a nice guy like Joe for a change, but such a catch deserved better than to get involved with a woman who possessed a long track record of disastrous relationships.

“I’m happy for you, Joe.” Using his impromptu visit as an excuse to take a break, Violette sat on her toolbox and grabbed a bottle of water. “So you know, I’m blaming your ghost for everything that goes wrong...and the guy who laid the bricks.” In his place, she would have plastered thin decorative bricks under the window, not cemented real ones. “I’m not replacing the damaged planks until he comes back and fixes his sloppy work.”

A frown creased Joe’s forehead. “I’m afraid it won’t happen. The guy is in the wind after breaking the conditions of his probation. Do you know anyone handy with a trowel?”

When the need arose, Violette also leveled surfaces, capped pipes, redid plumbing, removed and adjusted doors, and fixed anything that prevented her from installing flooring. There weren’t many tasks she couldn’t tackle, but there were some she wouldn’t get caught doing even if her life depended on it.

“Well, I’m better with a trowel than your jailbird, not that he set the bar very high.” She hadn’t planned on mixing mortar, but by the same token, to be able to afford a car seat for her vehicle as well as Sophie’s would be awesome. “But it’ll cost you.”

A disconcerting smile curled his well-trimmed mustache. “I trust you not to take too much advantage of my wallet, Violette.”

Her name rolled off his tongue, unsettling her. “Fine. I’ll bill you once I’m done. I should go get some cement now unless you wanted to talk to me about something else?”

“No.” With a sweep of his hand, he encompassed the entire room. “It looks great. If you need anything or run into any problems, send me a text. I’ll be at the station, but I can swing by on a dime.”

~ * ~

As far as my house is concerned, there's no flooring left to upgrade, but my oversea daughter just bought herself a house and she can't stand the old carpet in her smallest bedroom, so... I'm flying to Norway to help her rip the carpet off, install a vinyl floor, and spend time with her.

By the time you read this post, the new floor should be all done and I should be heading back to Canada.

Happy Fall!

J. S. 

 

 

J. S. Marlo's Website

How to Write a Book Review by Eileen O'Finlan

 

Click here for purchase information

Book reviews are very important for authors, especially those of us who are not household names. Not only do they help potential readers decide if a book might be to their taste, they also have an effect on the algorithms. The more reviews, the more a site promotes it.

One of the most common reasons readers don't leave reviews is because they have the mistaken idea that they are expected to write it as though they are a professional literary critic. Nothing could be further from the truth.

To write a book review, the reader only needs to keep three questions in mind:

1. Did you like the book?

2. What was your favorite part? (no spoilers!)

3. Would you recommend this book to others and why?

Putting the answers to these questions into a coherent paragraph is all an amateur reviewer needs to do. Failing that, at least leave a star rating. Even a review that consists only of "I really liked this book" is better than no review at all.

Another reason some might not leave reviews is because they are intimidated by the technology and don't know how to do it. It's actually very easy. Here is a Youtube video explaining step-by-step how to leave a review on Amazon. The steps for leaving reviews on other sites are similar.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eyXrmVZv21w

Happy reading and reviewing!

Welcome to Fall

 

https://books2read.com/Loving-Charlie-Forever

Welcome to Fall

            I know Fall is well underway, but the weather in Kansas has been more like summer than autumn, so it’s been difficult to think that Halloween has passed and Thanksgiving is around the corner. I love to incorporate fall into the settings for my stories -- the changing colors of the leaves, the smell of wood smoke on cooler nights as people light up the firepits, football games and bringing out sweatshirts and sweaters.

    On past holidays, I cooked and baked for days before the kids came home from college, making all their favorites. Now, the kids have families of their own, and my son enjoys hosting Thanksgiving dinner. Last year, there were over thirty people at his house – parents and in-laws and siblings and nieces and nephews from both sides of the family. This year there will even be some new babies to cuddle. Everyone shares in making a feast with traditional smoked turkey and dressing and all the side dishes you could possibly imagine.

            Everyone has their favorite Thanksgiving dish, and while some are the same nationwide, others vary according to location. You can imagine with me being from the Midwest and my daughter-in-law being from the south, we get an extra-large variety. But until a year or so ago, I had never heard of Macaroni & Cheese being a holiday dish.

    One Thanksgiving dinner staple is bread, in all its many shapes and forms. Last year, my son wanted me to make Bulgur Bread, a long time favorite at our house, so although I live in Kansas and he’s in Tennessee, I checked the ingredients and packed what I knew he wouldn’t have when I boarded the plane. (I didn’t make it until I got there because there is nothing better than fresh baked bread.) For those of you who enjoy the art of kneading dough and the smell of it fresh from the oven, I am putting the Bulgur recipe here. It’s a coarse texture, crusty bread that I know you’ll enjoy. (BTW, you can usually find Bulgur—cracked wheat – in the organic or health food section of the grocery store.)

Bulgur Honey Bread
1 cup bulgur (dry)
3 cups boiling water
½ cup honey
2 Tbsp cooking oil
1 Tbsp salt
2 packages dry yeast
½ cup warm water
6 ½ -7 cups flour

Combine bulgur, boiling water, honey, oil and salt in a large bowl. Cool to lukewarm. Add yeast to warm water. Stir to dissolve. Add to cooled bulgur mixture. Blend in flour in 3 parts, beating after each addition until dough leaves side of bowl. (Dough will be soft.) Turn onto lightly floured surface. Knead until smooth, elastic and doesn’t stick when pinched with the fingers. Put in a greased bowl and let rise until double (about 2 hours). Punch down, divide in ½ and shape into loaves. Put in 2 loaf pans. Cover and let rise until double. Bake in 350 degree oven 45-50minutes or until done. Brush with butter.

For those who celebrate – Happy Thanksgiving. For those who simply enjoy good food, Bon Appetit!

 

Barbara Baldwin (whose story characters often have favorite foods, which are actually mine and I sneak them into my stories.)

www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

www.amazon.com/author/barbarabaldwin

 

The Great BB King by Scot "Little" Bihlman

 

Despite our attempts to understand and make sense of the world, humans are unlimited in our knowledge and understanding. We are constantly influenced and distracted by external factors, and struggle to see the truth that lies beyond the tangible and temporary. We are caught in a cycle of constant change and growth, striving to reach a state of absolute and eternal transcendence.

~ SLB

I hear a worn out guitar case full of old stickers slamming shut and rattling the buckles like a mislaid tambourine piercing the green room with a bombshell. Looking up through my long curly hair I feel the unrelenting and merciless high frequency hit my psyche with a cosmic bucket of ice water. All my hypnotizing anxiety runs with the vengeance of a ghost train shaking loose lost memories to all the gigs that finally brought my band and I to this time and place. My band and I, we got the BIG call for the BIG show at the BIG venue on the BIG night!

Our “green room” which is technically a fancy name for a dressing room is very small with very little catering, and the backstage guests and crew have already rifled through our deli tray like sleazy robbers from a cheap hotel. It’s all pretty funny and concerning at the same time. I mean depending on your mental constitution as you sit there watching and hoping for someone to say, “hey hands off, that stuff’s for the opening band.” However no one ever does and like good soldiers everyone in the band just makes sure to grab their setlist, water and hopefully a towel that doesn’t look like it came out of yesterday’s dumpster. In Lehman‘s terms It’s technically, the bare essentials to have with you on stage as a safety net.

The temperature in the green room is always hit or miss depending on what part of the world you’re in and the size of the venue. It’s now time to start thinking about warming up and getting my physical and mental faculties together. This is where your mind starts to wonder about the bullshit soundcheck we received when we showed up which is literally par for the course on shows like this. Are the monitors  loud enough? Could you hear everyone on stage? Are the vocals loud enough and balanced with the guitar?  Well according to the stage manager the only criteria for our soundcheck was how fast we can mimic a NASCAR pit crew by getting on and off stage in seconds flat, and the only thing we can really do is dig in and stay focused – execute, execute.

* * *

However, tonight is a whole different kind of experience. Tonight we ride with the King on the coattails of a giant. It’s his people that have come in droves to witness a true king of his people and his artistry. We are more than grateful to be on this bill and let me tell you we are more than happy to oblige!

As I start to reel in my psyche and call upon my previous life as an outside linebacker, it’s time to join the tribe backstage as we get ready to flex all the musical muscle we have. Walking to the venue through the door and down the dark hallway, it starts twisting, and turning. I navigate the crowd as best I can while wondering who the hell all these people are and how they come to be backstage. And then I hear that unmistakable voice. The voice the whole world has come to know and love as the king of the blues. Mr. BB King. The master and commander and his incredible blues army. Like a big Buddha, he sits in the center of his green room swarmed by his loved ones. His children, grandchildren, nieces, cousins, friends and even his ex-wives are all there to be at the feet of the king. It is a sight to be seen and a memory that will stick with me forever. You see I was only 26 years old and for a young long haired motorcycling midwestern boy coming up through the ranks it was priceless. As I passed by the door of his room unnoticed there was only one thought I had. Go BIG or go home! It’s time to kick ass and anything lower than that bar line would be unacceptable. To whatever moving parts, the universe made for us to share the stage in this particular time and space we could not fall short of incredible. The pressure is on and we have to leave it all out on the stage every night. And we did night after night.  Everywhere we went every last drop of blood, sweat and tears was left on stage. It was one of the greatest experiences of my professional life. The feeling one gets digging deep and rising up proving time and time again, that if people pull together with a beautiful vision we all might have what it takes to be in the white hot spotlight and walk among giants….

 

A Lifetime in the Making - by Julie Christen

Order your copy here!

A year and a half ago, while winding down a long day with a glass of wine on the front porch, my husband's phone rang. It's funny how we don't get too many actual phone calls these days. Texting is usually efficient enough for most things, but when we saw the name Frank Kuntz on the screen, he said, "Huh, look at that. It's Frank Kuntz."  

The two visited a bit and caught up a little. How are your folks? How are the ponies? But it didn't take long for Frank to come right out and say to my husband, "How do you suppose Julie would you feel about writing my story?" 

That's when the phone got handed over to me. I listened to Frank's thoughts. I listened to him tell me not to answer right away. This would be a huge undertaking. This would require a lot of time. Then he told me how hard it is these days to find people he trusts, but he was tired of being quiet. He felt it was time for people to know about his lifetime fight to save the native horse of North Dakota.

Like I said, I listened to everything he had to say. But the truth is, from the moment our conversation started, I already knew what my answer would be. Yes. Yes. And Yes. I had no idea how I would make it happen, and I knew it would be difficult, but I felt in my bones that I was meant to play this part in the Nokota® horses' timeline. I hope Frank's story inspires readers as much as it has me. 

So it is with great honor that I present Echoes of the Nokota. A Memoir of Frank Kuntz.

How has one man’s life's mission to make an unjust thing right – to save the native horses of the North Dakota plains – changed history? Or rather, preserved it?

Growing up in small-town North Dakota, Frank Kuntz led a typical, country life with lots of brothers and sisters, hard-working parents, and farm animals of every kind. He learned the value of a dollar, what it meant to show your worth, and how to care for the things and people that are important to you. After serving his country in Vietnam, he returned with ghosts of wrong-doings and injustices haunting him, but he continued to work hard, start a family, and have a farm of his own just a mile down the road from where he grew up. 

On a parallel timeline to Frank’s life, the free-roaming descendants of Sitting Bull’s war ponies were inadvertently fenced inside the Theodore Roosevelt National Park at its inception. Thus began their struggle to find a place in a world where they were no longer wanted. And even though they faced extinction at the hands of humans over and over, they were designed by nature to survive. But how long can a wild horse herd stand against the prejudice of humans? Somewhere, deep inside their memories of ancestors, they knew their people still longed for them to return home and once again rejoin their families. Instinct told them their help would have to come from man – one whose soul understood their soul. So they waited. They survived. And they listened.

Never in his dreams did Frank Kuntz think that he would become the one they were waiting for.

Once in a while, choices are made that change the fate of others. The prairie winds shift, the stars align, history is saved, and legends are made.

Riddled with pain, anger, and sorrow … this is a tough story.

Sculpted by the hardest of times … the best of them too … this is a family story.

Founded on promises and passion … this is a love story.

But most of all, despite the sacrifice, loss, and injustice … this is a success story.

 

This is Frank’s story.

Order your copy here!

 

A bit about my writing by donalee Moulton

 

I thought I’d share some questions I was recently asked about my books and my writing.

 

Order here.

Can you tell us about your journey into writing and journalism, and what inspired you to pursue this career path?

The one constant in my life has been writing – poetry, short stories, essays, articles, books. As I was poised to begin a PhD in sociology, I decided to explore job options that would let me do more writing and less research. That led me into public relations and eventually to start my own company, Quantum Communications. In university I wrote regularly for the school paper. That led me to freelancing. I discovered you could be paid for writing – one of my personal top-five favorite discoveries – and I have freelanced ever since. My background in communications, journalism, editing, and related endeavors led to requests for me to teach. I accepted those requests and discovered that I thoroughly enjoyed engaging with people to explore ideas and theories while building skills. I did not enjoy grading.

Your portfolio includes a diverse range of publications, from The National Post to Chatelaine. How do you adapt your writing style to suit different audiences and platforms?

As a journalist (and a communications professional), you quickly learn that you are writing for the reader, and readers change from one type of publication to another. Adapting your style to meet their needs, and the requirements of the publication, is essential. That said, there are writing foundations that remain constant: conciseness, flow, readability.

Order here.

“Hung Out To Die” introduces us to Riel Brava, a unique protagonist. What inspired the creation of this character, and what do you hope readers take away from the story?

A bath inspired this story. I’m a big believer in bubbles, candles, scrubs, essential oils, and music with birds chirping in the background. Friends call this bathroom time my shrine. One night immersed in a lavender cloud I realized it was time to begin writing my mystery. Get off the pot kind of thing. That led me to a litany of possible characters and crimes. Through the mist Riel emerged. Not fully formed but outlined enough that I wrote down my ideas before I even moisturized.

Like 4-12% of all CEOs, Riel is a psychopath. Not the Dexter-Hannibal Lecter-Norman Bates kind of psychopath. The kind who live and work among us, mostly unnoticed, often successful, always on full alert their differences will be uncovered. Riel is personable, even charming. He’s keen to understand how the human mind works, so he’ll blend in.

It is my hope that people will close the last page on Hung Out to Die with a smile, maybe a tear, and a little bit more acceptance of all those around us.

 

"Conflagration" delves into Canadian historical events, particularly focusing on the story of an enslaved Black woman. What drew you to this story, and what challenges did you face in bringing historical events to life in a fictional setting?

This book was a gift from my publisher, BWL Publishing, which has a series of historical mysteries set in each province and territory in Canada.

Conflagration!, a historical mystery that follows the trial of an enslaved Black women accused of arson in Montreal in 1734, is founded in real-life events but wrapped in a mystery of my own making. The level of detail in court transcripts and the timelines set by the trial process meant I had a detailed blueprint for the book before I even began.

 

 

 

BWL Publishing Inc. New Releases November 2024

 To Purchase visit https://bookswelove.net 

How has one man’s life mission to make an unjust thing right –  save North Dakota’s native horses – changed history?

Growing up in small-town North Dakota, Frank Kuntz led a typical, country life with lots of brothers and sisters, hard-working parents, and farm animals of every kind. He learned the value of a dollar, what it meant to show your worth, and how to care for the things and people that are important to you. After serving his country in Vietnam, he returned with ghosts of wrong-doings and injustices haunting him, but he continued to work hard, start a family, and have a farm of his own just a mile down the road from where he grew up.

 On a parallel timeline to Frank’s life, the free-roaming descendants of Sitting Bull’s war ponies were inadvertently fenced inside the Theodore Roosevelt National Park at its inception. Thus began their struggle to find a place in a world where they were no longer wanted. And even though they faced extinction at the hands of humans over and over, they were designed by nature to survive. But how long can a wild horse herd stand against the prejudice of humans? Somewhere, deep inside their memories of ancestors, they knew their people still longed for them to return home and rejoin their families. Instinct told them their help would have to come from man – one whose soul understood their soul. So they waited. They survived. And they listened.

 

Never in his dreams did Frank Kuntz think that he would become the one they were waiting for.

 

Once in a while, choices are made that change the fate of others. The prairie winds shift, the stars align, history is saved, and legends are made.

Riddled with pain, anger, and sorrow … this is a tough story.

Sculpted by the hardest of times … the best of them too … this is a family story.

Founded on promises and passion … this is a love story.

But most of all, despite the sacrifice, loss, and injustice … this is a success story.

This is Frank’s story.

The Misunderstood Stagecoach by Eden Monroe

 

 Eden Monroe Author page

          The time is the 1870’s in the province of New Brunswick in beautiful Eastern Canada - the setting for the romantic suspense novel, Bound For Somewhere, Book One of The Kavenaghs series. It was also the era of stagecoach travel, one of the few methods of public transportation during the 1800’s.

But while travelling by stagecoach may seem like a fairy-tale chapter from the past, in reality there was nothing glamourous about it at all. It was simply a way to get from Point A to Point B. For one thing, passengers could count on getting coated with plenty of road dust during the summer and fall. Such was the fate for passengers Garrett Kavenagh and Eliza Williams as they made their way along the Westmorland Great Road from the shire town of Dorchester, a distance of a little less than thirty miles up to the bustling town of Moncton.

“She leaned back and looked out the side window. He briefly considered pulling down the leather curtain to spare them the billowing dust outside, but that would be at the expense of the scenery, such as it was. The roadsides were heavily forested so there wasn’t much to see, but at least there was daylight. The temperature had risen to an uncomfortable level inside the coach, so any attempt to block fresh air or hopefully a breeze would be most unwise.”

Another unpleasant circumstance that stagecoach travellers had to contend with were often deplorable road conditions (besides the dust). The roads in early New Brunswick were usually rudimentary at best (the bridges were even worse), although the main thoroughfares called the great roads were in better shape than many secondary roadways. Memories of such experiences are set out in W. Eugene Goodrich’s book The Stagecoach Era in Dorchester:

“… anyone who rode the sixteen to eighteen hours between Saint John and Dorchester in a … stagecoach must have been pretty sick of it by the end of the journey, even if it was in a Concord. In bad weather, and in general during the last years of the stagecoach era when the road had had time to deteriorate, it took considerably longer than that. An English lady touring North America left a harrowing account of a trip from Moncton to Saint John that took twenty hours—with stops only for meals and a change of horses. After an unusually soggy summer, the roads were so muddy that the passengers had to get out and walk up the hills because the horses balked at dragging the heavily laden coach through the mire. They also had to get out and walk across several bridges that were in such bad shape they were in danger of collapsing under additional load. It didn’t calm their nerves any when they were told, after crossing one particularly rickety specimen, that only a few weeks before, a coach and six horses had broken through its rotting planks—whether with injuries or fatalities was left unsaid.”

Also, in addition to the misfortune of being divested of your valuables by the occasional highwayman, there were plenty of accidents … and fatalities, including the horses. Long difficult journeys made for exhausted and all too frequently injured animals. Since horses were the lifeblood of the operation, their wellbeing was of utmost importance. Either a much-deserved rest or fresh replacements awaited at relay stations situated at about twenty mile intervals along the various routes throughout the province. (Some stagecoaches ran through the night).

Another popular misconception about these early stagecoach days has to do with the speed at which they travelled – which of course depended on the pace the horses were able to maintain. This particular misunderstanding exists because of television and the movies where stagecoach horses can be seen running for miles on end at top speed without seeming to tire. In reality. a horse can only run in full flight (a gallop) for about a mile and a half (unless gait varies with cantering and trotting) before becoming fatigued. Actual stagecoach horses usually travelled at a full trot (on good roads), averaging about six miles (9.65 kilometres) per hour, and considering the poor road conditions they were forced to navigate in some instances, they certainly earned their rest.

Also called post houses where the stagecoach and horses were serviced and passengers refreshed, these facilities were all too often found to be wanting. For the most part they were taverns, and intoxicating spirits typically flowed freely. Although there were indeed reputable establishments in use for this purpose, most accommodations were spartan at best. Such was the case at Todd’s Place, a stop along the line in Queens County, New Brunswick according to backyardhistory.ca:

“In her book ‘A Time There Was,’ Marion Gilcrest Reicker describes what was likely a nicer than average tavern called Todd’s Place, in Mill Cove on Lake Washademoak. Curiously, while the stable was by the road, the tavern itself was on the opposite side of the lake from the road, meaning guests had to be paddled across. Inside Todd’s Place, travelers would all eat together in a big common room, where they all sat at a single large table on long benches. Wet clothes were hung on a line over the large fireplace to dry. At night the travelers would all sleep in one big bunk room at the back of the tavern. Often there were more travelers than beds, and so strangers would sleep together in the same bed until there was physically no space left. Those not lucky enough to fit into the beds would sleep wrapped in blankets on the benches in the common room.”

Of course not many women travelled alone during those times, but those who did brave such an undertaking had better be able to hold their own in what was a male-dominated transportation industry. Although physically demanding in any number of ways, it might have been the question of proper accommodations during overnight stops that a woman on her own would have found most challenging.

The coaches themselves left much to be desired in terms of comfort, compared to the amenities we’ve become accustomed to today. Nevertheless efforts were made in that regard during those early times, including leather strap suspension designed to act as springs. These straps also helped take stress off the horses or (or in some cases mules). And if passengers suffered from motion sickness, and many did just like today, the relentless “pitching, swaying and tossing” stagecoach would be a hard way to go. Coaches came in various models, and depending on its size were pulled by anywhere from two to six horses. There was usually room for nine (very cramped) passengers inside the larger coaches, and they often had to hold their luggage on their lap. If business was brisk, there was room for another eight or nine passengers on the roof of the stagecoach.

Stagecoaches in New Brunswick serviced the province’s population by way of several routes throughout its 73, 440 square kilometres (28,354 square miles), mail delivery (at designated stops) being one of the key components of stage line operations. After freeze-up, “the rivers became ideal sleigh roads” to provide stage service. The advent of rail beginning in the mid to late 1800’s made for a quicker, cleaner, more comfortable means of travel although early trains, as set out in The Stagecoach Era in Dorchester “had an appalling accident rate” compared to stagecoaches.

But perhaps the greatest misunderstanding of all about stagecoach travel in general, is that of its origin. As many may mistakenly assume, stagecoaches are not a product of the old west.

“Stagecoaches are commonly imagined thundering across the plains of the Old West with bands of robbers or hostile Indians in hot pursuit, and indeed they sometimes did that. But they were equally common in eastern North America many decades before they appeared in the American West,” says W. Eugene Goodrich in his aforementioned book. “The first stagecoach lines were developed in Europe and were already a familiar sight in the time of Shakespeare.”

Loup-Garou

 

Amazon

Smashwords

Kobo

Barnes & Noble

Disappointed in love, weary of war, Goran von Hagen retreats to his idyllic alpine estate. He does not know the ancient secret of the looming mountain--or that it will change his life forever.

I first met this Being a very long time ago, back in my ninth or tenth year when our family was visiting Bermuda.  I was already in awe of this tropical place, because it was much warmer than our home during early April, which was, at that time, in upstate New York.

 Back in the 1950's  in NY, there was still plenty of snow on the ground, and it was still darn cold.  Bermuda was warm enough that you could swim, although the Atlantic was still cold, the sunlit coves and that crumbly brown and pink coral sand of the beaches was absolutely beautiful. I had that day just learned about the Moray eels who hung out in the coral outcrops in our swimming place and had been suitably alarmed. You could even see them in the clear water if you swam too close, peeking out of their lairs with gaping mouths filled with pointy teeth.

  So my nerves were already jangled when later a young Bermudian employed by the hotel, in the course of showing us where we were allowed to play, began telling a gang of us stories about Loup-Garou. As luck would have it, this was the night of the full moon. Soon, the worldly kids from NYC began to recount the plots of old horror movies, to show that although this Loup-Garou was a new monster to them, they already knew about lots of other creepy stuff. My imagination, never under control, went wild. 

In my little single room at the hotel that night, I had a lovely view of the ocean and the full moon shining on the water. As you can imagine, I didn't sleep much.

Then, a few years later, staying in Grenada for two months in a friendly little local hotel, I became good friends with the children of the owner. The owner's wife basically ran the place, cooking and riding herd on her staff and shopping, while her husband swanned about in the evenings, preparing drinks and playing host to the guests. He also kept the books and wrote letters to potential customers to confirm reservations. I remember peeking into his sanctum and seeing stacks of those blue Airmail letter forms atop his big desk. 

The kids were close to my age. The oldest was 15, and working hard to prepare for O Level exams. I played mostly with the second boy, Richard, and his younger sister, Lynette, who had been born just a year after me. They tried to scare me with Loup- Garou, but I scored points when I told them I had already been initiated into The Lore. They had a lot more to say on scary subjects, however, and started to explain zombies, of whom I hadn't yet heard. To their great satisfaction, zombies got under my white skin pretty thoroughly.  :)

The center of all things terrifying, these young West Indians told me, was Haiti. (Poor Haitians! Some things never change, only it's more terrible on that tragic island now than we "First World" people can begin to imagine, not just fantasy.)

This leads me to a book I just finished, which, sadly, has no zombies or werewolves, but is historical, about the early French colonists of Quebec. I was amused to discover, researching here and there, that the French of that province had brought their Loup-Garou with them, and so his "range" was not just limited to France and the West Indies. He also lived in the snowy North Country!

The French, apparently, had had "an epidemic" of werewolves since the 1400's. Of course, people suspected of having the affliction were regularly burned, hanged and so on. In Quebec, there were reports of such beasts from the earliest settlers. 

In 1767, the Gazette de Quebec reported just such a pernicious beast. After setting dogs on it, and much gunfire, the beast retreated. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief, but, like any good monster, one major attempt at extinguishing it wasn't sufficient. The second round of massed gunfire and ferocious dogs seems to have finally done for it, because, after that, although many have searched the remaining documents, we hear no more about it. No bullet-riddled human corpse left behind, not even a humongous dead wolf--nothing! 

Imagine that.   ;) 

~Juliet Waldron

Season's Greetings!

 

Halloween, All Hallows' Eve, and Trick-or-Treaters By Connie Vines #Halloween #ZombieRomCom

 Halloween is almost upon us...Black Cats,

Witches Hats, Goblins, Scary Bats, and Pumpkins are all in a row!

I was scribbling a flash fiction story that has turned into a  YA anthology...

This is why I'm venturing into my favorite Halloween Short Captions.

Do I hear a symphony of groans?

Halloween, for me, is harmless fun. Why? Because I have nightmares like a three-year-old. Bambi died off-screen in a cartoon,

I'm still frightened of the dancing mops in Fantasia and the talking trees in The Wizard of Oz (why the flying monkeys don't disturb me, I do not know).

In other words, I'm a sissy when it comes to Halloween.

My heroine in Here Today, Zombie Tomorrow is a vegan who eats chicken upon becoming a zombie.

No blood and gore for me.

No screaming, please!

And no jumping from behind the shrubby or out of a tree...because...well, just because.

Please comment with your favorite :) Halloween Caption.

Or provide one of your own!

Ghouls just wanna have fun!

Don't worry, worry, we're friendly ghosts.

Howl about them candied apples?

Everything's better with a bit of magic.

Bad to the bone.

Bugs and kisses.

He's trapped in my web.

You're a Zombabe.

My favorite: "Each year, the Great Pumpkin rises out of the pumpkin patch that he thinks is the most sincere."  -- It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.

If Supernatural RomCom is your Halloween treat idea, consider adding  "Here Today, Zombie Tomorrow" to your favorite eBook Reader! 

https://www.bookbub.com/authors/connie-vines

https://bookswelove.net/vines-connie/

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/connie%20vines

https://books.apple.com/us/author/connie-vines/id624802082

Wishing You Halloween a bucket filled Treats and

and an eReader Stuffed with Spookie Reads,

Connie Vines

WHY DO I READ POPULAR FICTION? ESCAPISM! – by Vijaya Schartz

FIND THIS BOOK AT BWL HERE

New Release: ANGEL REVENGE, Blue Phantom Book 3 (standalone) - by Vijaya Schartz

Find this and more of my books on my BWL page HERE or at amazon - B&N - Smashwords - Kobo 

amazon - B&N - Smashwords - Kobo 

An unruly Valkyrie on a flying tiger, a stern angel in love with the rules, and evil pounding at the gate… What could go wrong?

Riddled with survivor’s guilt after Ragnarök, Valka wanders the universe as a bounty hunter. But when hired by angels to recruit warriors for the final battle against evil, she welcomes a chance at redemption.

General Konrad Lagarde, First Mate of the angel ship Blue Phantom, strongly rejects Valka’s methods. A stickler for discipline, he also considers this fascinating woman hazardous to his sanity, as she could make him forget all the rules.

Evil from another universe has infiltrated a secret society of former dictators hungry for power. Having massacred all the angels in his former world, the evil one wants to do the same here. The angels of this universe face their greatest challenge yet… destroy the evil one and avenge their fallen brethren… or the bringer of darkness will enslave us all.

WHY DO I WRITE AND READ POPULAR FICTION?

I always resented the authors who killed the protagonists at the end, after you invest your emotions in liking them. I usually never read another book from such authors, and I stay away from tragic endings. To this day, I cannot watch Titanic to the end although it is a true story, or suffer through the last episode of Castle. And I’m glad Shogun found a happier alternate ending in the most recent series.

If I want to wallow in sadness, I only have to watch the news. Life is difficult enough, complicated enough, hard enough, sad enough.

I read popular fiction to get uplifted, to forget about my problems, be transported to another world, another time, a place where it is safe to be scared and challenged, where justice will prevail… because I trust the author that the heroes will triumph and all will be well at the end.

It’s a secret pact between the author and the reader. No matter how bad it gets for the protagonist, even if a few secondary characters don’t make it, the hero or heroine will find a happy conclusion.

So, if I challenge my characters, if I make them suffer, be assured that it will all be worth it at the end. They will have matured, widened their understanding of life, and overcome their barriers to experience the rewards they deserve.

You can safely read my book, knowing that even if you cry a little, all will be okay at the end. 

amazon - B&N - Smashwords - Kobo 

amazon - B&N - Smashwords - Kobo 

amazon - B&N - Smashwords - Kobo 

Happy Reading

Vijaya Schartz, award-winning author
Strong Heroines, Brave Heroes, cats
http://www.vijayaschartz.com
amazon - B&N - Smashwords - Kobo - FB 

The Painful Reality of Hitting a Creative Wall by Jay Lang

 

https://bookswelove.net/lang-jay/

The Painful Reality of Hitting a Creative Wall

Hey there, fellow Authors! I hope you’re all doing great! I have a quick question for you.  Have you ever been sitting there, fingers poised over the keyboard, staring at a blank screen like it’s the most intimidating thing in the world. Writer’s block, am I right? It happens to the best of us, and trust me, you’re not alone. But don’t worry! I’ve got a few tips to help you break through that wall and get those creative juices flowing again.

First things first, take a breather. Seriously, sometimes stepping away for a bit can do wonders. Go for a walk, grab a coffee, or just chill out with some music. Let your mind wander. Often, inspiration hits when you’re not actively searching for it. You might find a spark just by observing the world around you.

Another great trick is to switch up your writing environment. If you always write at your desk, try heading to a café, a park, or even a cozy corner of your home. A new setting can offer fresh perspectives and ideas. Plus, a change of scenery might just shake loose that stubborn block.

Now, if you’re still stuck, try free writing. Set a timer for 10 minutes and just write whatever comes to mind—no edits, no judgments. It doesn’t even have to relate to your current project. Sometimes, the act of writing without restrictions can lead you right back to your story or spark new ideas.

You might also want to revisit your favorite books or shows for inspiration. What do you love about them? How do they handle similar themes or characters? Sometimes, diving into someone else’s world can ignite your own creativity.

Another approach is to talk it out, drive your spouse crazy! I do! Sometimes, just voicing what’s blocking you can help clarify your thoughts. Plus, they might have some killer ideas to help you push through, (This tip hasn’t worked for me yet.)

Finally, remember to be kind to yourself. Writer’s block is part of the creative process. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad writer; it just means you’re human. Give yourself permission to take your time. Sometimes, the best stories take a little longer to unfold.

So, next time you hit that block, try one of these tips, and remember: every writer faces this at some point. You’ve got this! Keep writing, and soon enough, that blank page will be filled with your amazing words.

 

Jay Lang