The Muse of Nature by Eileen O'Finlan

 

   

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Click here to visit Eileen O'Finlan's website

I recently spent a day at the New England Botanic Garden at Tower Hill in Boylston, Massachusetts. I used to have a membership there, but let it lapse during the COVID shut down. I figured I wouldn't be able to go anyway, so there was no sense in paying for something I couldn't use. But a few weeks ago my sister and her friend came to visit from Florida and wanted to go. My niece joined us and the four of us spent a lovely day wandering the gardens and woodland paths.

As I guided them out to the Belvedere, I remembered days that I had spent sitting alone in that Grecian-style structure. Those were days when I'd spend hours writing in my notebook, every so often looking out at the woods, the land below gently falling away, Mount Wachusett rising in the distance above the ribbon of blue that is the Wachusett Reservoir. It seemed that whenever my writing steam began to fade all I had to do was drink in the view for a moment and something would come to mind. Nature has that influence on me. It feeds my soul and my imagination.

As I stood with the others looking out at the view, my hands suddenly itched for a notebook and solitude. 

I think it's time to renew my membership.

View from the Belvedere 

Wildlife Refuge Pond at Tower Hill - Another inspiring location

Hush

 

Hush

Jay Lang

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

 

Hush

An Excerpt 

Pulling over to the side of the road, I turn off the engine and grab my phone from the seat. With my heart racing as fast as my mind, I quickly redial her. The automated message comes on immediately.

I feel the panic rising. I place the phone in the cubby and look at my watch. It’s 10:45pm. The last ferry leaves in fifteen minutes. I’m too far away from the terminal, but I’ve got to try. 

Tall trees reach high up to the small strip of night sky. My foot is heavy on the pedal, the truck fighting to stay on the winding road.

 

Chapter Two

 

The soft chatter of people I barely know reduces to white noise as I make my way in the direction of the red mahogany casket. I take a seat at the front, next to Mom, and I put a hand on hers. Denny is sitting on her other side, concentrating on his phone. He briefly looks up at me, showing his indifference, and then resumes texting.

“You look nice, Ma.”

She forces a grin while keeping her eyes forward. She’s pale and looks lost. Her cream skirt and matching blazer hang loosely from her body. The last two weeks in hospital have taken a toll on her already spindly frame. Besides the bandage on her forehead, the only other reminder of what happened is a small black brace on her right knee.

A lady wearing a flowered dress and a cardigan walks across the stage and sits at the organ.

When she starts to play, the chatter in the room dissipates. Mrs. Rumble, who is sitting on the bench behind us, taps my shoulder and offers her condolences.

The next hour of the pastor’s sermon is painful, not because I feel sad, but because of the guilt I have for not feeling anything at all. My father was a son of a bitch and I was his greatest regret. As I was a child full of promise in the beginning, he would bounce me on his knee and help me with my homework. In his mind, I would be a doctor or a lawyer, not a salmon hatchery worker and definitely not a lesbian. Hence my banishment at twenty-two to our summer cottage on Gabriola—far away from the West Vancouver palace I grew up in, and far away from his disappointed eyes.

When the service ends, the pastor and Denny walk down the aisle to the exit then wait to thank people for coming. What a crock of shit. Most of these people hated my father. The only respect they had for him was fear-based. He was a shrewd businessman and if you weren’t for him, you were against him. Undoubtedly, there are a few people in this room that were on the wrong end of his wrath.

 

Memories of the 4th of July by S. L. Carlson

I am S. L. Carlson, a proud and grateful BWL Publishing Inc. author. My books can be viewed and purchased by visiting https://www.bookswelove.net/carlson-s-l

Memories of the 4^th of July by S. L. Carlson

I realize Books We Love is a Canadian Press. Realize, too, that I am an American. Hence, 4^th of July memories on this blog post day of the 4^th of July.

 

My dad loved the 4^th of July. Actually, he loved being able to buy and set off the illegal M-80’s. Loud-loud bangs. I grew up with Dad exploding those as near to us as he dared. When I was engaged, Jeff and I went to my parents’ home over the 4^th of July. Dad threw an M-80 near my bare feet. I was used to Dad doing that, but it was always unexpected. As it went off, Jeff pulled me to behind him, protecting me. (My hero.) Dad was so impressed with Jeff’s quick action, that he didn’t set off another firework that entire weekend.

 

Jeff and I lived for ten years in Buffalo, New York. Our house was a fifteen-minute drive to one of the bridges going over the Niagara River. Our summer vacations, when our boys were small, were spent at our favorite Provincial Park: Algonquin. Canada is dear to my heart. And we still have dear friends residing there.

 

Living so very close to Canada, and with Canada Day being on the 1^st of July, the entire area celebrated a weeklong Friendship Festival. Events. Reenactments. Food. Parades. Parties. And, of course, fireworks every night throughout many locations on both sides of the river.

[picture many fireworks shots here]

One year, we watched fireworks from about a mile away from a third-floor gym. After about twenty minutes, the fireworks ended. We waited, then we finally went to bed. In the morning, we read in the newspaper (pre-internet), that one of the holders for the fireworks fell over. The lit projectile miraculously passed through a crowd of hundreds watching, crossed the road, and burst through the first doors of a hospital, exploding in that enclosed area. No one was hit or hurt!

 

My one and only trip to England was over the 4^th of July. While there, Jeff and I kept rather hush-hush about our nationality, because many Americans can be rather obnoxious travellers. Something we actually witnessed. Needless to say, there were no fireworks, but some brilliant memories.

 

We also lived in the Black Hills of South Dakota for nearly ten years. That is a strikingly beautiful, but semi-arid land, and so for several years no fireworks were permitted because of wildfire danger. (It only takes a spark!) One year, a friend was visiting, so we decided to bite the bullet, fight the crowds, and go hours early out to Mount Rushmore to watch fireworks set off over the four presidents. Although we were there four hours early, we still had to park more than a mile away on a 2-lane hill near Keystone. Walk-walk-walk. No place in Amphitheatre left to sit. Found some free ground, quickly surrounded by others. Plopped down. Wait-wait-wait. Fog rolls in. FOG? The Hills are never foggy! There were times we could not even see the lit-up granite faces. Fireworks delayed an hour. Then another thirty minutes. Then, about 11 PM, cancelled. Walk-walk-yawn-walk downhill back to the van. Some kind driver finally allowed us pull out. The following night it was clear, but we didn’t feel like going back up for another long-long wait. We made designs with sparklers in our backyard.

Then we lived in Battle Creek, Michigan, for about ten years. The 4^th of July weekend was called Field of Flight, with air shows and hot air balloon races. The non-commercial airport was about a mile from our house, so we had the privilege of watching/hearing the US Thunderbirds or Blue Angels or the Canadian force Snowbirds practicing and performing over our house. What a thrill raced down me at each of their passes.

There were also hot air balloons each morning and evening, depending on weather and wind. It was so cool to hear the “fffffft” of fire air going into balloons right over our roof. I’d rush outside to wave and give a shout out to the pilots.

Oftentimes, it was neighborhood dogs who set off the alarm of the hot air balloons approaching. Of course, the end of the festival concluded with fireworks.

In one of my unicorn books, I included fireworks through the POV of my main character who had never seen them before. Can you imagine? I hope you can. If not, read about it in a BWL book.

 

Happy celebrating, however you do. Build those memories.

 

 

S. L. Carlson Blog & Website: https://authorslcarlson.wordpress.com

BWL Inc. Publisher Author Page: https://www.bookswelove.net/carlson-s-l

 

Where Did That Idea Come From? by Diane Bator

 

I've been doing a lot of promotional things for The Conned Lady which came out in March and was asked the same question a few times. "Where did the idea come from for your book?"

To be honest, I'd never really thought about it. The human mind works in mysterious ways and ideas just seem to pop in from nowhere. We could talk about synapses firing which conncect thoughts and images, or how we're influenced by outside sources. I prefer to think of creative ideas as a blend of the two.

In the case of my Wild Blue Mystery series, the entire series began when I moved to a new town in Ontario across the country from where I grew up in Alberta. The entire series was formed from daily walks around town where I imagined scenes in local coffee shops, the indie bookstore, and a yard I walked past all the time. It started with the thought, "What if I was on the run and hiding from someone?"

It was a great way to learn more about the town I'd moved to as well as to keep my mind busy and meet other people. Once I joined a local writing group, I learned to write from prompts and added bits and pieces to my work in progress. They would inspire new scenes or even complete scenes I was working on. 

Writing prompts are great ways to coax ideas onto paper or computer. Here are a few samples of ones we used:

• This time her boss had gone too far.
• Red eyes.
• Stars blazed in the night sky.
• He woke to birdsong.
• ‘Shh! Hear that?’ ‘I didn’t hear anything.’
• He’d always hated speaking in public.
• She woke, shivering, in the dark of the night.
• The garden was overgrown now.
• He’d never noticed a door there before.

Great ideas and inspiration can also be nudged by lines in movies or television shows, overheard conversations, indidents in real life, sights while on a walk, the mundane routine of daily life, photographs, family videos, and so on.

In short, inspiration can come from anywhere. As a writer, you just need to be open to the possibilities!

Diane Bator

http://bookswelove.net/bator-diane/

https://dianebator.ca/

BWL Publishing Inc. new releases for July 2022

 

 

NEW RELEASES FOR JULY 2022

Click the covers for purchase information

 

 

Robie's War:  What good comes from a war? As far as Robie was concerned the answer was – profit.

It is Fall 1942 and the war rages on in Europe and on the North Atlantic. In the early years he had to deal with local criminals trying to profit from the sudden influx of men and materials destined for overseas and German agents. The issue of spies has fallen away as have most of the local players involved in thefts of war goods and materials. However, that is about to change.

It begins with a rash of hijackings outside the city. Robie is brought in to help his friend Inspector Phil Maloney, a RCMP officer on detached service to Naval Intelligence. Together they uncover a major French crime organization is working with a Montreal gang who are behind the thefts. The deeper they dig the more they begin to realize this could be their most perilous case yet.

 

The Tiger and the Honorable Man: 

A series of murder mysteries set in Ming Dynasty China. The protagonist is Lin Jiang, a gentleman scholar, poet, staunch follower of the precepts of Confucius, and chief magistrate for the city of Xiaolong in Fujian Province. With the able assistance of his manservant, Chen Ping, Lin investigates and solves these mysteries, bringing criminals, both high- and low-born, to justice.

 

Abruptly roused from his prosaic existence as a small-town magistrate in Ming Dynasty China, Lin Jiang is summoned to the house of Lord Chang Da, an extremely wealthy landowner and cousin of the emperor. To Lin’s consternation, the crime he is asked to investigate is the supposedly deliberate killing of Chang Da’s pet songbird.

 

Honor-bound to undertake the task, Lin soon discovers there is much more at stake in the great family of Chang. With the help of his trusty manservant Chen Ping, who himself has a dark connection to the House of Chang, Lin sets about discovering the truth. In so doing, he lays bare a tangled story of illicit love, jealousy, fraternal rivalry, and violent death.

 

Murder and Macchiatos:

Peyton Ashford is a law professor, her husband Cooper is the city District Attorney, and they have just turned an ancient barn, inherited from Peyton's grandmother, into Dauphin's Cove only coffeehouse, the Books and Brews Bistro. It is a very inviting place to have a delicious coffee drink and browse the many books at the back of the Bistro. While converting the huge upstairs of the barn into a beautiful living space for Peyton and Cooper, workers uncover a body behind the barn.

 

The body belongs to Peyton's great-uncle, whom she has not seen since childhood. The Sheriff declines to investigate so Peyton enlists the help of her two best friends, Willow and Kylie, to help her solve the murder. Strangely, this murder happened in the exact same way as the murder of her great-great grandfather, over 100 years ago. Along the way, a teenage girl mysteriously disappears and her parents refuse police help in finding her, but Peyton is determined to do so. A mysterious explosion destroys the teen's home, and searchers find the body of her brother...not killed in the explosion but murdered.

 

A competitive law professor and a Federal Drug agent become involved, determined to prevent Peyton from solving these crimes, especially that of her great-uncle. Fake art reproductions, hundreds of thousands of dollars fraudulently acquired, a stolen antique scrimshaw, a deadly lab, and the interference of a strange woman all add to Peyton's problems in trying to solve the worst and most unusual crimes the small town of Dauphin's Cove had ever seen.

 

Fatal Business:

When Roger Bartlett doesn’t return from his deer stand at sunset, his friends go looking for him. Failing to find him overnight, a broader search starts the next morning, led by the Pine County Sheriff’s Department.  Sgt. C.J. Jensen discovers footprints leading to a remote summer cabin. Inside, she finds Bartlett, dead from a gunshot wound.

The investigation quickly focuses on Barlett’s tire recapping business in the tiny town of Askov. The workers, all parolees from the nearby Federal Prison, are wary of the interviewing deputies, and are less than forthcoming. Roger’s widow seems upset, but she is the biggest beneficiary of Bartlett’s death, so a prime suspect. His partner was in Las Vegas at the time of the shooting, but his past criminal record is suspicious. As Sgt. C.J. Jensen and Investigator Pam Conrad dig, they develop a long list of suspects, all with alibis for the time of the shooting. Consulting with recently retired Sgt. Floyd Swenson, Pam and C.J. sift through layers of lies and misdirection until they uncover the motive and confront the killer.