BOOKS WE LOVE FABULOUS NEW RELEASES SEPTEMBER 15 - 25

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FOSTER MOM? or not

After an abnormally hot, dry spring and summer, we on Puget Sound had a freaky, one day  wind and rain storm. It reminded me of another storm when I tried to be a foster mom.

Orphans of the Storm

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 pre-approved.”

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 on 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 or mailed reminders for booster shots.

Deadly or a Curative-poisons in medications, by Diane Scott Lewis

Poisons and poisonous plants have been utilized for centuries in medications. A Persian physician in the tenth century first discovered that poisons such as mercury could be employed as curatives, and not just on the tip of an arrow to kill your enemy. But poisons had to be managed carefully.

Plants, long the healing forte of the wise-woman in England, were a common ingredient in medicinal “potions,” though so many had deadly qualities. The foxglove, with its beautiful hooded, purple bloom is fatal if eaten.

But eighteenth century British physician, William Withering, used infusions of this plant to treat dropsy (now known as edema). Later, the plant was used to create digitalis for heart failure.

Rosy periwinkle is also toxic to eat. However, in traditional Chinese and Indian medicine, it’s used to treat diabetes and constipation.

More well known is the Opium poppy, used to make morphine (and unfortunately heroin-the killer of many an addict). Morphine is invaluable as a pain reliever for the sickest of patients. Small doses of other deadly toxins such as henbane, hemlock and mandrake have been employed to ease the pain of surgeries. But a dose slightly too high would kill the patient.

In Shakespeare’s time, poisonous extracts were added to cough medicines. Opiates were common in cough remedies, mainly for sedation. Mrs. Cotton in the seventeenth century suggested a mixture of vinegar, salad oil, liquorice, treacle, and tincture of opium when “the cough is troublesome.”

No one yet understood the addictive nature of these drugs—if the patient lived to find out.
The chemical element mercury, another toxin, was used starting in the 1500’s to treat syphilis.
Well into the twentieth century, mercury was an ingredient in purgatives and infant’s teething powder.

Arsenic is another poison that was commonly added to medications. A chemical element, arsenic is found in many minerals. In the 18th to 20th centuries, arsenic compounds, such as arsphenamine (by Paul Ehrlich, 1854-1915) and arsenic trioxide (by Thomas Fowler, 18th c.) were popular. Arsphenamine was also used to treat syphilis. Arsenic trioxide was recommended for the treatment of cancer and psoriasis.

Numerous people suffered adverse effects or died after the ingestion of these lethal ingredients.
In my recent release, The Apothecary’s Widow, arsenic is found in the tinctures used to treat the ague of Lady Pentreath. Unfortunately, arsenic is not one of the ingredients listed in that cure, and never in such a large dose. Who murdered Lady Pentreath, her miserable husband, Branek, or the apothecary Jenna who prepared the medicines, a widow about to be evicted from her shop, which is owned by the Pentreaths? A corrupt constable threatens to send them both to the gallows.

Click here to purchase The Apothecary’s Widow.

To find out more about my novels, please visit my website:
http://www.dianescottlewis.org

Sources:
livescience.com
The Power of Poison: Poison as Medicine, the American Museum of Natural History
William Buchan, Domestic Medicine: or, a treatise on the prevention and cure of diseases by regimen and simple medicines [second edition] (London: 1772)
Wikipedia

From Pantser to Plotter by Victoria Chatham

Every writer falls into one of these categories, some writers may be comprised of a little of both. When I started writing I was definitely a pantser, the type of writer who sits in front of a computer and goes with the flow. As long as I had my characters, the rest would take care of itself, right? Well, not exactly.

My first book held marked similarities to raising my first child. Regardless of what I thought, I hadn’t got a clue what I was doing. To say I struggled with that first book is putting it mildly. At one point I had followed every lead my heroine gave me and finished up writing about her grandmother in pre-war Montreal

and how, pregnant and alone, she ended up in war-torn France fighting with the resistance forces. Great stuff, even though I’m blowing my own trumpet here.

However, that was not the story I was writing. I was writing a contemporary western romance.and badly at that. Had I taken the time to consider more than just my characters I would have saved myself a great deal of time. I’m not a fast writer, and when I realized how much time I’d wasted, I went back to the drawing board as it were.

Yes, I had my characters. They usually present themselves to me fully formed. I know their names and what they look like. Next is to fill in their character questionnaire, even complete a character interview. I know my characters well by this stage but throwing them on the page and expecting things to happen just didn’t work. I found writing historical romance or fiction easier in that I simply looked up the year (god bless Google), to see what major events were taking place world-wide and went from there for my background but it still wasn’t exactly a plot, more of an idea.

When I started writing my soon-to-be-released contemporary western romance, Loving That Cowboy, I soon ran into a brick wall. I’m sure many of you will know what that feels like. The words were just not there. It wasn’t writer’s block per se, more like this writer’s ineptitude. After one very frustrating day when I wanted to File 13 all ten pages I’d managed to produce, I was ready to give up. That was when I became a plotter.

I sat down and started from scratch, looking at my two leading characters and figuring out how to get them together and listed dozens of ‘what ifs?’. All that took time, but as I reached each plot point I noted it on a pink post-it and stuck it on my white board. Very pretty it looked too. Not only that, there was great satisfaction in removing the post-its as I reached each plot point. Now I really felt that I was getting somewhere. Sure there was a fair amount of rewriting on the way, but that is inevitable.

I also went back to several of my craft books, especially Deborah Dixon's Goal, Motivation & Conflict. She recommends watching six specific movies to illustrate her lessons. Great. I love movies. I spent a week watching some of those she recommended and some I chose to work with to determine how much I'd learned. I wrote notes, I went back to the book Save the Cat for more on plotting within the three act structure and finished up that week revisiting Techniques of the Selling Writer. Thank goodness I held on to those books when I packed for my last move.

Having tried both methods, I think from now on I’ll be doing much more plotting instead of relying on my characters to take me somewhere. How about you? Are you a plotter or a pantser, or maybe a bit of each?

For more information about Victoria go to:

http://bookswelove.net/authors/chatham-victoria/

www.victoriachatham.webs.com

www.facebook.com/AuthorVictoriaChatham 

Am I allowed to laugh while at the festival of the dead?

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Am I allowed to laugh while at the festival of the dead?

They say Madness merely depends on which end of the knife blade you’re staring at, and who’s holding the gun to your head. Or so said my mother, before we lost her on that first night of our holidays. She’d taken up jogging the day before she disappeared and to this day we still don’t know where she is.  I was ten at the time and had poked my head around the corner, everyone else was asleep. I asked her where she was going. Thinking it odd that she would be up by herself, getting dressed. She was crying and tried to hide her tears as I asked. She assured me everything was okay and as she patted my rear to the direction of my room, I remember seeing Dad staring through the partly open window of that Mexican beach house. He had a strange look on his face as Mom ran off and it wasn’t from Montezuma’s revenge either.  I’ll never get adults; life as a kid seems so easy. Only mom never came back. I cried for days. Dad said she was just running. It took me many years to know from what. I always thought for years after that it was me.

My parents brought us here to see the festival of the dead. I'd already guessed it wasn't going to be a happy holiday. Solemn affair, everyone just hanging around waiting to see whose limb falls off first. Some even tried placing bets, but all their credit cards had been cancelled and the relatives had absconded with the money. But I thought that's what wills were for. I'd already been to a couple of school sock hops that should have been named the same.

 Yes, Mexico. I did tell mom to make sure she earns brownie points by telling everyone at the festival that she should buy them a drink. Wouldn't cost much and even the zombies can't drink. Well, they try but by the time the drink reaches their mouths they've either crushed the glass or spilled it all over themselves. Oh and note to self, don't waste your best jokes on zombies, they don't get it. Humor I've discovered is way beyond them. But yo-yos are another matter. Keeps them entertained for days. Just watching the ball going up and down, up and down, up and down and believe it or not, up and down. Don't think they get past the string and realize there's someone at the end controlling it.

Yup, survival tip #101 when walking through parts of town that are quite dodgy, "If attacked by zombies, whip out your yo-yo, give it to someone with spasmodic seizures and run like hell".

PS. To all of those who are currently crying into their hankies, Kleenexes or shirt sleeves, please don’t. Do remember this is a blog written by a fiction writer. Hope that is a big enough hint. But if I did get you crying, well I’ve done a good job as a writer at pulling emotion out of the reader. Now if only I could predict lottery scores.

Available in Fall 2015