Changing Genres by Anita Seymour

Any literary agent will tell you one of the first rules of historical novel writing is to choose your genre carefully. Changing eras, however is not so easy, which also mean having to switch your author voice into that of another time in history.

Once, I couldn’t imagine writing about anything but 17th Century England. I immersed myself in the history, how the court went about its daily business, the clothes, habits, manners and sometimes even the speech. How they moved from place to place, what they ate, the subjects they talked about over the dinner table and the place they occupied in society.

Five years ago, the English Civil War was not the most popular era for historical novel readers, so to increase my readership, who were small but loyal and very appreciative, I started to write novels based in the Edwardian era. The more I researched, the more I grew to love the atmosphere of the ‘Belle Époque’ age until I can visualise the environment of that time; its smells, the objects used every day and how people moved around, spoke and the ideas which shaped their lives.

No problem so far then? Maybe not, however, I was then asked to revert back to my roots and write a story for a 17th Century anthology being published by a group of authors. How hard could it be? After all I had written four books in it so all I had to do is switch heads again into a time I know well.
Several times over the last few weeks I have set out my notes on the main characters of that era, and with my fingers poised over the keyboard, arranged my characters within my chosen scene and waited. And waited.

These characters are the darlings of the Carolean Court. Colourful, flamboyant, outrageous, irreverent, immoral and decadent – whose lives were dominated by their wits and their main weapon was the spoken word - but they had nothing to say. Not one of them - Well that’s not quite true, they do, but in 20th Century voices. They don’t even move right!

I feel as if I am being punished for having betrayed them and their time, and they would not let me in again. What I did was go back to my 17th C books and read them through to climb back into the era and my heroine’s head.

I got there in the end, but it wasn’t easy.

Anita's Author Page

Application to be a Squirrel Baby Foster Mom: Denied byKarla Stover

Wind out of the south, whitecaps washing over the floating bridges, the ferry system shut down—a Pacific Northwest storm. And one post-storm spring morning while driving to work and listening to NPR, I heard that the previous night’s gully washer caused another problem:  squirrel’s nests knocked out of trees leaving a surfeit of orphaned babies.  An animal welfare organization who shall remain nameless put out a call for foster parents.

Wow!  That sounded like fun, I thought.  I could do that.  I loved squirrels. I wrote the organization’s phone number down.

At work, I found a place where a box of the family Sciuridae could sleep while I worked, and where I could retreat to give them little bottles of food and some TLC.  Then I called the rescue group.

“I heard about your need for squirrel baby foster parents,” I said, “and I’m really interested.”

“Well now, isn’t that nice, but before adoption can be considered, I have a few questions.”

“Sure.”

“You understand that you have to be preapproved.”

Uh oh. I hoped she wasn’t going to run a background check on me. The first time I went back east to meet my in-laws, one of my husband’s aunts was living in a pre-Civil War house near Holmes Hollow and cooking squirrel pot pie on a wood burning stove that came with the home I’d try and keep that in the down-low. After all, what happens in Holmes Hollow stays in Holmes Hollow.

 “Uh, okay.”

“What’s your name?”

“Karla Stover.”

“Where do you live?”

“In Parkland which is just south of Tacoma, Washington.”

“Oh, now, that’s a bit of a problem.”

“How so?”

“Well, the babies were orphaned in Seattle.”

“I can drive there to pick some up.”

“And there are their physicals.”

Say what?

“Well, who administers the physicals?”

“A vet.”

“We have lots of vets in Tacoma, and running water and everything.  My husband and I have gone to the same vet for years.”

Levity wasn’t her strong suit.

“Yes, but it has to be a wild animal vet.”

I sensed roadblocks—the result of animosity and distain Seattle feels for Tacoma.

“Well, I’ll ask our vet if he can give them their physicals,” I said.

“No can do, I’m afraid.  We already have an approved wildlife vet ready to take them on.”

“Maybe I can drive to your vet, then.  Where is he?”

“Lynwood.”

Lynwood!  That’s a hundred miles away.

Still, I persevered.  “I could do that.”

“Every week?”

“What?”

“Every week.  The orphaned babies have to be checked and weighed weekly.  We want to make sure they’re getting the best possible care.”

“Are they vaccinated for hanta virus and Lyme’s disease?” I asked.  “Do they need Frontline?”

Perhaps she sensed my sarcasm.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but we have strict rules and regulations about who qualifies to adopt our orphans and how they are to be raised.”

“They’re rodents, for gosh sakes.”

“You see, that statement shows a flippant attitude.  I’m sorry but you don’t qualify.”

Jeez!  Take it down a notch, lady.

About a week later, someone knocked on my front door.  It was two little boys with three squirrel babies in a box.  “Here,” one boy said, “Mom said we should give them to you.”

I didn’t know who the kids were, who their mom was, or why she thought I should have the care and responsibility of three hostile-looking rodents.  Their unattractiveness knocked the romance of foster moming squirrels right out of the ring.  Nevertheless, I took the box and carried it to the garage. Then I tried to put dishes of water and sunflower seeds—shelled, I might add—in the box.  Nasty little buggers.  Their only interest was in trying to bite the hand that was attempting to feed them. 

After a few days, when it didn’t look as if they were eating, I decided to turn them loose among the apple, cherry, pear and filbert nut trees in our backyard.  They scampered for safety.

  And ever since, we’ve had squirrel families eating the filberts, biting holes into the fruit and, digging up my bulbs.

All without physicals, flea medicine or mailed reminders for booster shots.

 

Troy Seate, new author to BWL, introducing myself

 

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Hello, my name is Troy Seate and I am new to the BWL family. 

After reading a few of my stories, my parents booted me out of the house, but it didn’t stop me.  

 

I’ve been offered this opportunity to share a few ramblings with all of you. Many writers don't want to be bothered by the real world. It doesn't fit with the world of their words, a world they would rather to be in. I don’t go to this extreme, but I do believe when it comes to the future or the past, everyone writes fiction. 

I like to think of fiction as a mirror version of reality set to a greater or lesser degree of distortion depending on what genre a story is cast. Make-believe can be a great healer. Sometimes it can even save us. Turning words into people and places, and then mining the trivia of daily life to uncover the emotions beneath can sometimes be a difficult task, but it is the essence of what keeps us at it. So I say, wherever your dividing line between fiction and reality falls, keep at it.