Oh, the Horror..... By JD Shipton.

 As we shamble through the rustling leaves toward another Halloween (Samhain, for our Celts and traditionalists), we might bear in mind that genre Horror has not always been among us. 

We have to read at our pleasure a veritable cornucopia of gruesome tales, nay, whole sections of bookstores devoted to the uncanny and the unsavory.  Some authors have reached a sort of literary super-stardom on the backs of this genre- obviously King springs to everyone's mind, but also folks like Thomas Harris and Anne Rice have unquestionably done very well for themselves.  In some of the titles of the past 10 years, the subject matter as a general topic of conversation alone would make me have to slap an R rating on the title of this blog post, as authors really stretch to find the limits of the dark corners of human imagination.  

But before we had Dracula or Frankenstein, Poe's myriad works or Porphyria's Lover, there must have been some work that lit the fuse on the whole thing?  I mean, we've got monsters and myth and unsettling human acts in any double handful of period fiction going back, say, 500 years, but the essence of the whole shebang really seems to stem from The Castle of Otranto- Walpole's thumbed-nose to the flood of romanticism of the time.  It really has it all and really sets the tone:  dark settings, towering architecture, ghosts and specters, and the purposeful evocation of human terror.  

So maybe this spooky season, before reaching for the remote and watching all the Texas Chainsaw Massacre movies in a row (again), maybe take a look back in time to the granddaddy of em all, and try to see Walpole's influence in the genre today.  

The Hardest Goodbye...by Sheila Claydon

 

Find my books here

I'm finally culling my books. Years and years of books. Books stacked and sometimes double stacked in bookcases and on shelves in the sitting room, the study, two of the bedrooms, even the utility. It's not that I haven't sorted through them before. Over the years I've culled them several times, but to little avail because those empty shelves  act like a magnet, filling up with more books in the blink of an eye. 

They are not all my books either. Some have been left behind by long dead parents, some by adult children, some by friends. Then there are the ones kept for visiting children, from baby's first board books to books for young teens and every age in between. But what to do with them?  Once upon a time local charity shops welcomed books. Now, since the advent of the electronic reading device and online books, not so much. I'm as much a culprit as any because I regularly download audio books from the local library to make house chores more interesting, as well as ebooks for when I'm relaxing. I still read paper books though, which is why those shelves keep filling up despite my best intentions. 

Now, however, I have found a solution. A community library. 

 

Across the UK many of our public libraries have closed because of lack of funds. Fortunately my village escaped the cut but a neighbouring one didn't and now houses have been built on the site of what was once a much used facility. Something wonderful has arisen out of its destruction, however. A determined community group that has raised funding, found affordable premises, and set up a community library run by volunteers. It has become so successful that it has now spread across two venues with something for everyone. Storytime for children, creative writing classes, IT classes, coffee mornings, quiz nights, a home service for people who cannot travel to the library themselves...it has become a real community hub and just the sort of place that needs my books. 

Now incentivised, I am beginning to pack them up. The children's books are easy as all the children in the family are far too old for them, so after removing a handful of favourites to pass on to my daughter for any future great-grandchildren, they are packed into two large boxes ready for collection. 

Sorting the adult books is not so easy. Oh there are some that we know we'll never read again...crime novels, science fiction, some romances, although none of the Jane Austen. There are the books that we thought we would enjoy until we started reading them, the pocket dictionaries in a variety of languages, autobiographies where the writer thought they were more interesting than they actually were. It doesn't take long to pack these away. But what about the others? The titles that remind me that I've been intending to read them again for years, the few that I haven't ever gotten around to reading, the ones that I probably won't ever read again but which gave me such pleasure when I did that saying goodbye to them would be like saying goodbye to an old friend.

Then there are the travel books, and the books on art. Books on writing too. And books that were presents. How could I possibly give those away? And what about the cookery books, and the gardening books? There's a book about herbs too, and another one about spices and how to use them. Then there are the classics...Dickens, Shakespeare, Twain, Austen...I can't get rid of those either. Sorting out a single shelf takes a whole morning. Shall I pass on the Steinbecks, what about Salinger, and what about those whole rows of Joanne Harris and Joanna Trollop. Will I really want to read them again when there are so many other books out there to choose from? Decisions have to be made, but it's far from easy because so many of these books are warm memories. And to my mind, a house is not a house without books, so I will have to keep some on my shelves. All I need to do is decide which ones I cherish as old friends, and which ones I can wave fondly on their way.

As I tackle yet another shelf, the community library keeps me going though because it really does need my books more than I do. And I might even add some of my BWL books to the boxes too! What a wonderful place to find new readers.

Apples Please by Helen Henderson

Fire and Redemption by Helen Henderson
Click the title for purchase information

The weather is changing and you won't hear any complaints from me. Autumn is probably my favorite season. Cool nights are perfect for sleeping, while warm (but not overly hot) days lure you outside. Harvest is is full swing. Pick-your-own pumpkin sites and haunted hayrides have sprouted in fields. It is also the time of year when I miss living up north. 

Peaches reign supreme where I now live. While my family farm had a peach tree, the fruit was really only suitable for the deer. Apples are my preference. Unfortunately, the clime here is not suitable for apple orchards so apples are only available in 3-pound bags in the grocery store. Quite a change from autumn in my old town. In addition to five large apple orchards where you could pick your own or buy them by the bushel, bins of many apple varieties including MacIntosh, Granny Smith, Rome, and Winesap were neatly lined up across the front of the markets. To supplement the locally grown apples, additional large bins were transported down from upstate New York.

 

As a child, our farm had a small apple orchard of about a dozen trees. They weren't the short, well-trimmed ones from the professional orchard. Instead, they were tall, ungainly, and fun to climb. Picking apples from the lower levels required standing on the hay wagon and snagging them with an apple picker, a small metal cage attached to a long pole. For fruit higher and out of reach, we climbed the tree then extended our reach with the apple picker.

Picking was just the start of the work. The apples had to be washed, peeled and cored, and cut into slices.

A snippit of what could easily be an autumn get-together. From Amulet and Redemption.

Nearing the central fire, Feldt gestured everyone to benches. As soon as she sat down, Deneas could tell the seats were recently vacated. A wave brought over several girls bearing plates of steaming fruit pastry and mugs of chilled water. As they ate, Deneas paid attention to both her friends’ conversations with the caravan leader and the people he waved over, and to the group gathering on the other side of the fire. While some faces reflected hope, for most of the traders, their eyes held fear and mistrust.

Betrys handed her plate to a waiting girl and leaned over. “Feldt is taking me on a walk around the second camp.” Then added in a whisper Deneas swore she heard in her mind rather than her ears. “They are good people. Just scared.”

Whether the fruit is baked into pies, cobbler, crisp, in the middle of puff pastry, or Amish apple cake, I will take apples please.

~Until next month, stay safe and read.   Helen

To purchase the Windmaster Novels: BWL

Helen Henderson lives in western Tennessee with her husband. While she doesn’t have any pets in residence at the moment, she often visits a matronly husky and a youthful feist who have adopted her as one the pack. Find out more about her and her novels on her BWL Author page.

Book Launch for The Tom Thomson Mystery Announced.

To learn more about Nancy's books please click on the cover above.  

https://bookswelove.net/authors/canadian-historical-mysteries/

 

I'm happy to announce that the book launch for The Tom Thomson Mystery will be on November 16, 2024 at 1pm MST. The Purple Platypus Bookstore 5003B 50 Avenue in Castor Alberta will be hosting me and I'm thrilled to work with Lynn Sabo, the owner. There will be refreshments and perhaps some swag.

Here is an advance reader's review:

Thomas Thomson was a Canadian artist best known for his landscapes. He spent his summers capturing the scenery in Algonquin Park, Central Ontario, first in oil sketches on small wooden panels and then producing larger works on canvas during the winter in Toronto. His best-known piece of work is The Jack Pine. What isn’t so well known is how Tom died. On July 8^th, 1917, Tom’s canoe was found overturned in Canoe Lake, not far from where he set out. His body wasn’t discovered until July 16, 1917, also floating in the lake close to where the canoe was found 8 days earlier.Was he murdered? Did he commit suicide? Or was his death accidental? Nobody knows.

Nancy M. Bell has skillfully woven the threads of fact and fiction in her rendition of what might have happened. Her protagonist is young Harriet St. George, a very modern-minded young lady who loves escaping her strict family, particularly her stern father. She also summers at Mowat Lodge on Canoe Lake in the Park. She loves to tramp through the woods, canoe, fish, and paint to her heart’s content. Her friend Winnie Trainor, also a summer visitor, is sweet on Tom, while Harriet appreciates his skill as an artist and does her best to emulate him. But then Tom is missing.

Harriet suspects the Lodge managers, Shannon and Annie Fraser, of being involved in illegal activities. Who should she turn to for help? Besides Winne, the Park Ranger, Mark Robinson, is the only person she can share her suspicions with. All the characters are clearly introduced and have their place in the story of the search for Tom. The ending is unexpected and dramatic, and some readers may not see it coming, but it is an entirely satisfying conclusion to a true Canadian mystery

VM Chatham

I thought I'd include a small excerpt as well, just to whet your whistle.

This is the Preface:

Hello, let me introduce myself. I am Harriet Agnes St. George. I’m sure you’re wondering what I have to do with Tom Thomson, or indeed, with the mystery surrounding his death. I’m a painter as well and the wilds of New Ontario, that which you now know of as Algonquin Park, is one of my favourite places to indulge my passion. Being the early 1900s it is unusual for a woman to wander about unchaperoned, and in the bush at that. But let me assure you, I am no ordinary woman. I like to think I’m the forerunner of a new breed of women who will strike out and demand to be allowed to reach their full potential without the mostly unwanted advice of some male figurehead. It is only in April of this year of our Lord, 1917, that women are allowed to vote. About time too, in my opinion.

Let’s just say, it’s a good thing my dear Great Aunt Lois left me a sizable amount of money in her will, in my name and solely in my control. Much to my father’s anger and dismay. But I digress.

Tom Thomson and I used to haunt the same places and tramp the same paths and portages, sometimes alone and sometimes together. Winnie Trainor often accompanied one or both of us, most often Tom as she had a soft spot for the man. Winne wasn’t a painter, but she did love to fish and was always happy to help portage. And she did have a yen for Tom, as I have mentioned.

So, leaving you with this bit of background information, I will endeavor to tell the tale of Tom Thomson’s death and the aftermath as I know it. The subject is still a painful one for me, so as you will soon see, I have set the story down in third person rather than first. It’s a way of distancing myself from the grief and the anger at the treachery that ended Tom’s life and his career.

Chapter One- to give you a taste of Harriet's character

Harriet St. George stepped off the train at the Canoe Lake Station and smoothed down her skirts. Tipping her head back, she took a deep breath of the sharp air of early May. It was so wonderful to be free from the restraints of her rather conservative family. Here at Canoe Lake, Harriet could dispense with the cumbersome skirts and traipse through the bush clad in trousers and a flannel shirt. Not to mention the much more comfortable boots she wore while in the woods, exploring for the perfect site to set up her portable easel and paintbox. She loved the French name for her paintbox: Pochade. It rolled off the tongue so nicely. Harriet giggled and refrained from doing just that. The locals already thought she was a bit strange, well except for Winnie Trainor who also liked to gad about in trousers and spend hours fishing out on the lake.

Shaking her head, Harriet turned to collect her luggage, not much more than the aforementioned paintbox and a duffle stuffed with what she would need for a summer of painting and fishing in the Park. Hopefully, the Frasers of Mowat Lodge had received her telegram, and her room would be ready when she got there. With the paintbox in one hand and the duffle over her shoulder, she went in search of the park ranger, Mark Robinson, who kept track of all comings and goings in the Park and had promised to arrange her transport from the station to the Mowat Lodge.

The duffle was heavier than one would expect, but that weight made Harriet’s heart light. Along with the few clothes stuffed haphazardly in the bottom, most of the room was taken up with her collection of oil paints, brushes, and thin wooden shingles that she intended to use painting en plien aire. She’d copied that trick from a fellow painter she’d met last summer. Tom Thomson tended to paint quickly, but with an accuracy and feel that Harriet envied, any place he found a scene in the woods that spoke to him he captured it on the shingle boards. Only later did he transform the rough painting on the board into a canvas, usually over the winter when he returned to Toronto.

Someday, she promised herself. Someday women artists would be recognized as well as the men. She loved the vibrant new style that was developing in the Canadian art world. Slipping away from the traditional method of reproducing a scene in minute detail. The advent of photography was slowly making that form of art less popular. Thomson’s use of colour and bold strokes of paint intrigued Harriet and she vowed to attempt to hone her own skills this summer.

“Oh, Mark. There you are,” she greeted the tall, thin park ranger who stepped out of the station house.

“Miss St. George.” Mark acknowledged her with a tiny bob of his head.

“Oh, please, it’s Harriet,” she chided him. “Once I ditch these skirts you’ll be hard pressed to tell me from the locals.” Harriet gazed at the thick bush and the pale blue early May sky, the lake where the ice was just beginning to break up. “I do love this place.”

“Harriet, then, if you wish. I’m sure if your father was here he wouldn’t approve of me being so familiar.”

“Pish posh on my father. I’m free for the summer of his stuffy ideas of what is proper for a young lady.” She giggled. “I have my Great Aunt Lois to thank for this freedom. She left me a generous inheritance with strict instructions to use it as my heart desired. And I desire to spend the summer here, in Algonquin Park, painting and fishing. Watching the stars and moon shining over the lake.”

I hope you enjoy the tale. Until next month stay well, stay happy.

Running Slow by Janet Lane Walters #BWLAuthor #MFRWAuthor #Writing #Slow

 I'm working on a new series. The first book is called The horror Writer's Demise. This time the story writing is going slow. I've been working on it sonce I left the hospital four or five months ago. The rough draft is finally finished.

Rough drafts are interesting things. When looking it over, I realize most of it is dialogue so there is much to fill in. I always wonder if other people when writing rough drafts do the same thing and just put down mostly dialogue. Now I must go back and turn this into a book. Hopefully this will go quicker than the rough draft did. The process will start today where I describe settings, people and events taking place.

I realize once the revision process takes place this will become a real story. Now if I can find where I stored the cover.