Canadian Authors-Nova Scotia by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

 

https://books2read.com/West-to-the-Bay-Yarmey

 

https://books2read.com/West-to-Grande-Portage-V2

https://bwlpublishing.ca/donaldson-yarmey-joan/

I am a proud Canadian author of over twenty fiction and non-fiction books in my long writing career. But I am just one of thousands of published writers from this huge country. Canada has had a long and illustrious history of producing world renown authors and books going all the way back to the 18^th century.

     Frances Moore was born in England in 1724. She was a well-known poet and playwright in England before she and her husband, Reverend John Brooke moved to Quebec City in 1763, for John to take up the post of army chaplain. During her time there Frances wrote The History of Emily Montague, a love story set in the newly formed Quebec province. The story is told through the voices of her characters by way of personal letters between the two. This is known as the epistolary (of letters) type of writing and it was popular during the1700s in Europe. The Brookes’ returned to England in 1768 and the novel was published in 1769 by the London bookseller, James Dodsley. The History of Emily Montague was the first novel written in what is now Canada and the first with a Canadian setting. Frances died in 1789.

 The following gives a brief history of two authors from the province of Nova Scotia

Joyce Barkhouse (nee Killam) was born in Woodville, Nova Scotia on May 3, 1913. She earned her Teachers License in 1932 and began teaching in Sand Hill, now known as East Aylesford. At the age of nineteen she had her first short story published in Northern Messenger, a Baptist Church paper for children. She moved to Liverpool, Nova Scotia, to teach and met her future husband, Milton Joseph Barkhouse. They married in 1942 and had two children. They lived in Halifax, Charlottetown, and Montreal and after his death in 1968, Joyce moved back to Nova Scotia.

     Mrs. Barkhouse wrote many young adult adventure and secular stories for other church papers, anthologies and had articles published in teacher’s publications, school text books, and the Family Herald and the Weekly Star. She also wrote a self-syndicated column for weekly newspapers across Nova Scotia titled For Mothers and Others.

     Although Joyce had begun writing in 1932, her first historical book, George Dawson: The Little Giant wasn’t published until 1974. Joyce’s niece is Margaret Atwood and the two of them co-wrote Anna’s Pet, a children’s book that was published in 1980. Her most notable novel was Pit Pony, a story about the friendship that developed between an eleven year old boy who was forced to work in a coal mine and a Sable Island who was a pit pony in the mine. The novel was published in 1989 and won the first Ann Connor Brimer award in 1991 for “outstanding contribution to children’s literature in Atlantic Canada” and was chosen by the librarians of Nova Scotia to be produced as a talking book for the Canadian National Institute for the Blind (CNIB). Pit Pony was also made into a television film in 1997 and a television series in 1999.

     Joyce Barkhouse wrote eight books and was awarded the Order of Nova Scotia in 2007 and a year later she was made a Member of the Order of Canada for her contributions to children’s literature. She died at the age of ninety-eight on February 2, 2012.

 

Evelyn May Fox was born on May 16, 1902 on Emerald Isle (Stoddard Island) and raised on Cape Sable Island. Both islands are off Shag Harbour, which is at the southwestern tip of Nova Scotia. She went to high school in Halifax and then earned a Bachelor of Arts degree at Dalhousie University. She taught school until her marriage to Morrill Richardson in 1926. They moved to Massachusetts and then in 1929 they bought the 600 acre Bon Portage Island, a three kilometre boat ride from Shag Harbour. There, Morrill took over the duties of light keeper.

     Evelyn Richardson helped with the lighthouse duties, raised their three children, and began her writing career. During their thirty-five years of lighthouse keeping, she wrote many articles and several books about her experiences on the island.

     She won the Governor General’s Award for her memoir, We Keep a Light, in 1945, and the Ryerson Fiction Award for Desired Haven in 1953. The Evelyn Richardson Memorial Literary Award is an annual award given to a Nova Scotian writer of non-fiction.

     When the lighthouse became mechanized in 1964, Evelyn and Morrill left the island and retired to Doane’s Point near Barrington, Nova Scotia. She died on October 14, 1976 at the age of 74.

Look What I Found by Victoria Chatham

 

AVAILABLE HERE

Occasionally, I get busy tidying up old files, deleting many that have served their purpose, or, more often these days, forgetting why I saved documents or articles in the first place. One file was titled 'Shorts.' When I opened it, expecting to see short stories, I found a series of writing exercises, some as far back as 1997, from various workshops or classes. There were one-line prompts and then my effort to write something about it. 

Now, I've never enjoyed a situation where you are given a topic or prompt and asked to write about it for the next twenty minutes. My mind doesn't work that quickly. But, amongst the clutter were several 'postcard' stories. Postcard stories are usually no more than two hundred and fifty words long, often less, so maybe I had that in mind when I named the file. This is one of those postcard stories.

STRAWBERRIES

 Zach is fifteen, too old to be picking strawberries. His sister, three years younger, tugs his arm.

“Bet I can pick more than you,” she says.

“Can’t,” Zach mutters under his breath and strides away between the arrow-straight rows, kicking up sun-scorched dust with the toes of his runners.

“Zach!” His mother’s voice reminds him of why they are here.

He drops to his knees and parts the green canopy of protective leaves to reveal the bright fruit beneath. His fingers close around a plump, glistening berry, but before he can separate it from its stem, other fingers close around his. He looks up into a pair of blue eyes twinkling with mischief. A blue and white bandana holds back the girl’s dark hair. They stare at each other across the green spine of glossy leaves.

“I got it first,” he says.

She pouts and releases his fingers. Zach thinks of how many berries might be in his sister’s basket as he plucks the fruit and then hands it to the girl. As she takes it, her fingers again brush his. She sinks her perfect teeth into the succulent, pale pink flesh. Seduced by her moist tongue caressing the berry between her fingers, he catches his breath.

Time stands still as he imagines the texture and flavour of the berry in his mouth and tongue.

“Thank you,” she whispers, giving him a full, knowing smile.

Then she is gone, and Zach continues picking strawberries.

END

Victoria Chatham

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Image from author's collection.

Plots from the headlines

Plots come from dozens of places. Someone suggests a plot to me at virtually every event. Other times I see something in the headlines, or online, that catches my attention. Using timely events makes the story relevant, if not (sometimes) too close to reality.

A few years ago, I read a story about a county attorney who was considering charges against a woman who'd killed her husband. Because their relationship included documented physical abuse, the attorney was leaning toward calling it a justifiable homicide. The problem being faced was that the murderer had also killed her previous two abusive husbands. Having read that, I thought there's no way someone would believe that plot.

Instead, I prefer to pluck more plausible threads from headlines and twist them around a bit, then mingle them with scientific tidbits I've gleaned from my memory or research. That's exactly where the "Conflict of Interest" plot originated. I read about some teens who became ensnared in an online dating mess, and I was off to the keyboard.

My cop consultant, Deanna, suggested a twist that put this in a county near my usual Pine County location, and threw in some political intrigue, The politics created a conflict of interest for the local sheriff's department who call on the Pine County Sheriff's Department to conduct an independent investigation.

After discussing the outline with one of my fans, who retired from law enforcement, I learned that there have been at least three similar cases in the past few decades. None involved murders, but they did involve family members of powerful political figures which complicated the investigation of a crime. I stirred that together with the computer headlines, and out came "Conflict of Interest".

Check out this release from BWL Publishing on Amazon, or wherever you buy books.

https://www.amazon.com/Conflict-Interest/dp/B0D15858V6

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/conflict-of-interest-dean-l-hovey/1145417790

Life's Total Twist, by Diane Scott Lewis

To purchase my latest novel, and more, click HERE

May 12 would have been my 49th anniversary. So long! I can't believe it. I must have been eight when I got married (wink).

I hope you like my trip down memory lane.

When I was nineteen I joined the navy because I wanted to travel the world. On my first assignment, in Nea Makri, Greece, I watched a guy ride onto the base on a motorcycle. Being a California gal, I always loved riding on motorcycles.

This is a recent pic of the neglected base, but I was standing on that far left corner
when we met.

The guy got off the bike and took off his helmet. He had dark brown hair and dark eyes, sort of my "perfect" visage for a man.

My sponsor said immediately, "That's George Parkinson, he's trouble. Stay away from him."

Well, sad to admit, this intrigued me more. We eventually started dating, took a fantastic bike trip through southern Greece (I need to scan those old pictures), and a year later got married. But it wasn't an easy process. He was married, but legally separated. Everyone kept warning me, he's married. 

His mother found him a divorce lawyer, and though it took a year, he got his divorce. By that time I was pregnant with our first child, so a quick wedding was in order before I left the navy and flew back to California, waiting for George to join me.

We had two sons, and lived in Puerto Rico, California, and Guam, before settling in Washington DC until he retired.

He worked for the Navy as a civil servant and I started writing novels, a passion of mine since I was a child.

We had our ups and downs in our marriage, but held on. Now we have two beautiful granddaughters.

Five years ago we returned to Greece for a reunion. The base was derelict but the people friendly and welcoming.

In his early seventies, George started coughing, and lung cancer was detected. He did chemo and radiation. But on April 2nd he passed away. 

I want to celebrate a good man and a life well-lived. Not perfect but decent, and an adventure. Loved to the last.

I'm still getting used to not having my closest friend beside me.

Cherish your loved ones. I had fifty years and I hold on to that.

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

The Past is a Different Place...by Sheila Claydon

Find my books here

Many a Moon, the final book in my Mapleby Memories trilogy came about because of a thirteenth century mill.

On holiday a number of years ago, I took an early morning woodland walk and discovered it. Roofless, its water wheel missing, and only a muddy ditch where there would have once been a fast flowing river, it sat close to the edge if a golf course. Surrounded by trees and ferns it was both forlorn and intriguing, and when the holiday ended the image of the mill stayed with me.  So did the village where I stayed, and, over several years, the first two books Mapleby books were written. Remembering Rose and Loving Ellen.

Although I always intended to write about the mill, I knew it would require a lot of research as there was nobody in the area who knew anything about it. I only had one piece of information, gleaned from a blue plaque. It stated that in 1250 it had been a working grain mill but, beyond that, nothing, and nobody knew who had put up the plaque!!

A story was waiting, but because it was the third book in the series, I had to tie it in with the characters in the previous two books. As Mapleby was already a village with a time warp this worked out just fine, however, and I really enjoyed introducing my earlier characters to their new friends. 

Why am I telling you this? Well I've just been back to the place where I created Mapleby after a gap of seven years.  I didn't expect to meet my characters (although wouldn't that have been great) but I did expect the old mill to be the same. What a disappointment! It is now so completely overgrown that the blue plaque is hidden, and it is easy to walk past it without even seeing it. The river is back though. Not fast, and nowhere near as wide and fast flowing as it must once have been, but it was back! And the woodland was glorious. Full of wild garlic, bluebells and fresh green leaves. 

Always intrigued by the past and by how quickly nature, people, construction and development obliterate the smaller moments of history, I felt sad that something that had once ground the corn for the inhabitants of a busy port, was now a hidden mound of crumbling stone in the middle of a wood. Then I remembered that the port had dwindled too, into what was now a small tourist village, and I accepted that times move on. And after so many centuries there is no known history to gainsay my story and my characters, so I will continue to believe in both the modern day ones who live in my village, and the thirteenth century ones who used the mill. 

Then, just before the holiday was over, I fell into a wonderful moment of serendipity. Anyone who has read Many a Moon will also know that several monks and a monastery, long since gone, also featured largely in the book. A monastery that I knew once existed but whose history has also been obliterated by the shadows of time. So imagine my delight and surprise when I discovered this.

Since I last visited, someone had built a grotto using the one remaining piece of the monastery wall. There was nothing explaining it other than it was in memory of the monks who had once worked there. It was a lovely place and for one brief moment, Mapleby, my imagined monks and all my imaginary villagers seemed very real.