Saturday, November 2, 2024

A bit about my writing by donalee Moulton

 

I thought I’d share some questions I was recently asked about my books and my writing.

 


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Can you tell us about your journey into writing and journalism, and what inspired you to pursue this career path?

The one constant in my life has been writing – poetry, short stories, essays, articles, books. As I was poised to begin a PhD in sociology, I decided to explore job options that would let me do more writing and less research. That led me into public relations and eventually to start my own company, Quantum Communications. In university I wrote regularly for the school paper. That led me to freelancing. I discovered you could be paid for writing – one of my personal top-five favorite discoveries – and I have freelanced ever since. My background in communications, journalism, editing, and related endeavors led to requests for me to teach. I accepted those requests and discovered that I thoroughly enjoyed engaging with people to explore ideas and theories while building skills. I did not enjoy grading.

Your portfolio includes a diverse range of publications, from The National Post to Chatelaine. How do you adapt your writing style to suit different audiences and platforms?

As a journalist (and a communications professional), you quickly learn that you are writing for the reader, and readers change from one type of publication to another. Adapting your style to meet their needs, and the requirements of the publication, is essential. That said, there are writing foundations that remain constant: conciseness, flow, readability.



“Hung Out To Die” introduces us to Riel Brava, a unique protagonist. What inspired the creation of this character, and what do you hope readers take away from the story?

A bath inspired this story. I’m a big believer in bubbles, candles, scrubs, essential oils, and music with birds chirping in the background. Friends call this bathroom time my shrine. One night immersed in a lavender cloud I realized it was time to begin writing my mystery. Get off the pot kind of thing. That led me to a litany of possible characters and crimes. Through the mist Riel emerged. Not fully formed but outlined enough that I wrote down my ideas before I even moisturized.

Like 4-12% of all CEOs, Riel is a psychopath. Not the Dexter-Hannibal Lecter-Norman Bates kind of psychopath. The kind who live and work among us, mostly unnoticed, often successful, always on full alert their differences will be uncovered. Riel is personable, even charming. He’s keen to understand how the human mind works, so he’ll blend in.

It is my hope that people will close the last page on Hung Out to Die with a smile, maybe a tear, and a little bit more acceptance of all those around us.

 

"Conflagration" delves into Canadian historical events, particularly focusing on the story of an enslaved Black woman. What drew you to this story, and what challenges did you face in bringing historical events to life in a fictional setting?

This book was a gift from my publisher, BWL Publishing, which has a series of historical mysteries set in each province and territory in Canada.

Conflagration!, a historical mystery that follows the trial of an enslaved Black women accused of arson in Montreal in 1734, is founded in real-life events but wrapped in a mystery of my own making. The level of detail in court transcripts and the timelines set by the trial process meant I had a detailed blueprint for the book before I even began.

 


 

 

Friday, November 1, 2024

BWL Publishing Inc. New Releases November 2024



How has one man’s life mission to make an unjust thing right –  save North Dakota’s native horses – changed history?

Growing up in small-town North Dakota, Frank Kuntz led a typical, country life with lots of brothers and sisters, hard-working parents, and farm animals of every kind. He learned the value of a dollar, what it meant to show your worth, and how to care for the things and people that are important to you. After serving his country in Vietnam, he returned with ghosts of wrong-doings and injustices haunting him, but he continued to work hard, start a family, and have a farm of his own just a mile down the road from where he grew up.

 On a parallel timeline to Frank’s life, the free-roaming descendants of Sitting Bull’s war ponies were inadvertently fenced inside the Theodore Roosevelt National Park at its inception. Thus began their struggle to find a place in a world where they were no longer wanted. And even though they faced extinction at the hands of humans over and over, they were designed by nature to survive. But how long can a wild horse herd stand against the prejudice of humans? Somewhere, deep inside their memories of ancestors, they knew their people still longed for them to return home and rejoin their families. Instinct told them their help would have to come from man – one whose soul understood their soul. So they waited. They survived. And they listened.

 
Never in his dreams did Frank Kuntz think that he would become the one they were waiting for.

 
Once in a while, choices are made that change the fate of others. The prairie winds shift, the stars align, history is saved, and legends are made.

Riddled with pain, anger, and sorrow … this is a tough story.

Sculpted by the hardest of times … the best of them too … this is a family story.

Founded on promises and passion … this is a love story.

But most of all, despite the sacrifice, loss, and injustice … this is a success story.

This is Frank’s story.

Wednesday, October 30, 2024

The Misunderstood Stagecoach by Eden Monroe

 


 Eden Monroe Author page

          The time is the 1870’s in the province of New Brunswick in beautiful Eastern Canada - the setting for the romantic suspense novel, Bound For Somewhere, Book One of The Kavenaghs series. It was also the era of stagecoach travel, one of the few methods of public transportation during the 1800’s.

But while travelling by stagecoach may seem like a fairy-tale chapter from the past, in reality there was nothing glamourous about it at all. It was simply a way to get from Point A to Point B. For one thing, passengers could count on getting coated with plenty of road dust during the summer and fall. Such was the fate for passengers Garrett Kavenagh and Eliza Williams as they made their way along the Westmorland Great Road from the shire town of Dorchester, a distance of a little less than thirty miles up to the bustling town of Moncton.

“She leaned back and looked out the side window. He briefly considered pulling down the leather curtain to spare them the billowing dust outside, but that would be at the expense of the scenery, such as it was. The roadsides were heavily forested so there wasn’t much to see, but at least there was daylight. The temperature had risen to an uncomfortable level inside the coach, so any attempt to block fresh air or hopefully a breeze would be most unwise.”

Another unpleasant circumstance that stagecoach travellers had to contend with were often deplorable road conditions (besides the dust). The roads in early New Brunswick were usually rudimentary at best (the bridges were even worse), although the main thoroughfares called the great roads were in better shape than many secondary roadways. Memories of such experiences are set out in W. Eugene Goodrich’s book The Stagecoach Era in Dorchester:

“… anyone who rode the sixteen to eighteen hours between Saint John and Dorchester in a … stagecoach must have been pretty sick of it by the end of the journey, even if it was in a Concord. In bad weather, and in general during the last years of the stagecoach era when the road had had time to deteriorate, it took considerably longer than that. An English lady touring North America left a harrowing account of a trip from Moncton to Saint John that took twenty hours—with stops only for meals and a change of horses. After an unusually soggy summer, the roads were so muddy that the passengers had to get out and walk up the hills because the horses balked at dragging the heavily laden coach through the mire. They also had to get out and walk across several bridges that were in such bad shape they were in danger of collapsing under additional load. It didn’t calm their nerves any when they were told, after crossing one particularly rickety specimen, that only a few weeks before, a coach and six horses had broken through its rotting planks—whether with injuries or fatalities was left unsaid.”

Also, in addition to the misfortune of being divested of your valuables by the occasional highwayman, there were plenty of accidents … and fatalities, including the horses. Long difficult journeys made for exhausted and all too frequently injured animals. Since horses were the lifeblood of the operation, their wellbeing was of utmost importance. Either a much-deserved rest or fresh replacements awaited at relay stations situated at about twenty mile intervals along the various routes throughout the province. (Some stagecoaches ran through the night).

Another popular misconception about these early stagecoach days has to do with the speed at which they travelled – which of course depended on the pace the horses were able to maintain. This particular misunderstanding exists because of television and the movies where stagecoach horses can be seen running for miles on end at top speed without seeming to tire. In reality. a horse can only run in full flight (a gallop) for about a mile and a half (unless gait varies with cantering and trotting) before becoming fatigued. Actual stagecoach horses usually travelled at a full trot (on good roads), averaging about six miles (9.65 kilometres) per hour, and considering the poor road conditions they were forced to navigate in some instances, they certainly earned their rest.

Also called post houses where the stagecoach and horses were serviced and passengers refreshed, these facilities were all too often found to be wanting. For the most part they were taverns, and intoxicating spirits typically flowed freely. Although there were indeed reputable establishments in use for this purpose, most accommodations were spartan at best. Such was the case at Todd’s Place, a stop along the line in Queens County, New Brunswick according to backyardhistory.ca:

“In her book ‘A Time There Was,’ Marion Gilcrest Reicker describes what was likely a nicer than average tavern called Todd’s Place, in Mill Cove on Lake Washademoak. Curiously, while the stable was by the road, the tavern itself was on the opposite side of the lake from the road, meaning guests had to be paddled across. Inside Todd’s Place, travelers would all eat together in a big common room, where they all sat at a single large table on long benches. Wet clothes were hung on a line over the large fireplace to dry. At night the travelers would all sleep in one big bunk room at the back of the tavern. Often there were more travelers than beds, and so strangers would sleep together in the same bed until there was physically no space left. Those not lucky enough to fit into the beds would sleep wrapped in blankets on the benches in the common room.”

Of course not many women travelled alone during those times, but those who did brave such an undertaking had better be able to hold their own in what was a male-dominated transportation industry. Although physically demanding in any number of ways, it might have been the question of proper accommodations during overnight stops that a woman on her own would have found most challenging.

The coaches themselves left much to be desired in terms of comfort, compared to the amenities we’ve become accustomed to today. Nevertheless efforts were made in that regard during those early times, including leather strap suspension designed to act as springs. These straps also helped take stress off the horses or (or in some cases mules). And if passengers suffered from motion sickness, and many did just like today, the relentless “pitching, swaying and tossing” stagecoach would be a hard way to go. Coaches came in various models, and depending on its size were pulled by anywhere from two to six horses. There was usually room for nine (very cramped) passengers inside the larger coaches, and they often had to hold their luggage on their lap. If business was brisk, there was room for another eight or nine passengers on the roof of the stagecoach.

Stagecoaches in New Brunswick serviced the province’s population by way of several routes throughout its 73, 440 square kilometres (28,354 square miles), mail delivery (at designated stops) being one of the key components of stage line operations. After freeze-up, “the rivers became ideal sleigh roads” to provide stage service. The advent of rail beginning in the mid to late 1800’s made for a quicker, cleaner, more comfortable means of travel although early trains, as set out in The Stagecoach Era in Dorchester “had an appalling accident rate” compared to stagecoaches.

But perhaps the greatest misunderstanding of all about stagecoach travel in general, is that of its origin. As many may mistakenly assume, stagecoaches are not a product of the old west.

“Stagecoaches are commonly imagined thundering across the plains of the Old West with bands of robbers or hostile Indians in hot pursuit, and indeed they sometimes did that. But they were equally common in eastern North America many decades before they appeared in the American West,” says W. Eugene Goodrich in his aforementioned book. “The first stagecoach lines were developed in Europe and were already a familiar sight in the time of Shakespeare.”

Tuesday, October 29, 2024

Loup-Garou

 



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Disappointed in love, weary of war, Goran von Hagen retreats to his idyllic alpine estate. He does not know the ancient secret of the looming mountain--or that it will change his life forever.

I first met this Being a very long time ago, back in my ninth or tenth year when our family was visiting Bermuda.  I was already in awe of this tropical place, because it was much warmer than our home during early April, which was, at that time, in upstate New York.

 Back in the 1950's  in NY, there was still plenty of snow on the ground, and it was still darn cold.  Bermuda was warm enough that you could swim, although the Atlantic was still cold, the sunlit coves and that crumbly brown and pink coral sand of the beaches was absolutely beautiful. I had that day just learned about the Moray eels who hung out in the coral outcrops in our swimming place and had been suitably alarmed. You could even see them in the clear water if you swam too close, peeking out of their lairs with gaping mouths filled with pointy teeth.


  So my nerves were already jangled when later a young Bermudian employed by the hotel, in the course of showing us where we were allowed to play, began telling a gang of us stories about Loup-Garou. As luck would have it, this was the night of the full moon. Soon, the worldly kids from NYC began to recount the plots of old horror movies, to show that although this Loup-Garou was a new monster to them, they already knew about lots of other creepy stuff. My imagination, never under control, went wild. 


In my little single room at the hotel that night, I had a lovely view of the ocean and the full moon shining on the water. As you can imagine, I didn't sleep much.

Then, a few years later, staying in Grenada for two months in a friendly little local hotel, I became good friends with the children of the owner. The owner's wife basically ran the place, cooking and riding herd on her staff and shopping, while her husband swanned about in the evenings, preparing drinks and playing host to the guests. He also kept the books and wrote letters to potential customers to confirm reservations. I remember peeking into his sanctum and seeing stacks of those blue Airmail letter forms atop his big desk. 

The kids were close to my age. The oldest was 15, and working hard to prepare for O Level exams. I played mostly with the second boy, Richard, and his younger sister, Lynette, who had been born just a year after me. They tried to scare me with Loup- Garou, but I scored points when I told them I had already been initiated into The Lore. They had a lot more to say on scary subjects, however, and started to explain zombies, of whom I hadn't yet heard. To their great satisfaction, zombies got under my white skin pretty thoroughly.  :)

The center of all things terrifying, these young West Indians told me, was Haiti. (Poor Haitians! Some things never change, only it's more terrible on that tragic island now than we "First World" people can begin to imagine, not just fantasy.)

This leads me to a book I just finished, which, sadly, has no zombies or werewolves, but is historical, about the early French colonists of Quebec. I was amused to discover, researching here and there, that the French of that province had brought their Loup-Garou with them, and so his "range" was not just limited to France and the West Indies. He also lived in the snowy North Country!

The French, apparently, had had "an epidemic" of werewolves since the 1400's. Of course, people suspected of having the affliction were regularly burned, hanged and so on. In Quebec, there were reports of such beasts from the earliest settlers. 

In 1767, the Gazette de Quebec reported just such a pernicious beast. After setting dogs on it, and much gunfire, the beast retreated. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief, but, like any good monster, one major attempt at extinguishing it wasn't sufficient. The second round of massed gunfire and ferocious dogs seems to have finally done for it, because, after that, although many have searched the remaining documents, we hear no more about it. No bullet-riddled human corpse left behind, not even a humongous dead wolf--nothing! 

Imagine that.   ;) 



~Juliet Waldron

Season's Greetings!

 



Monday, October 28, 2024

Halloween, All Hallows' Eve, and Trick-or-Treaters By Connie Vines #Halloween #ZombieRomCom


 Halloween is almost upon us...Black Cats,
Witches Hats, Goblins, Scary Bats, and Pumpkins are all in a row!

I was scribbling a flash fiction story that has turned into a  YA anthology...


This is why I'm venturing into my favorite Halloween Short Captions.

Do I hear a symphony of groans?

Halloween, for me, is harmless fun. Why? Because I have nightmares like a three-year-old. Bambi died off-screen in a cartoon,
I'm still frightened of the dancing mops in Fantasia and the talking trees in The Wizard of Oz (why the flying monkeys don't disturb me, I do not know).

In other words, I'm a sissy when it comes to Halloween.
My heroine in Here Today, Zombie Tomorrow is a vegan who eats chicken upon becoming a zombie.

No blood and gore for me.

No screaming, please!

And no jumping from behind the shrubby or out of a tree...because...well, just because.

Please comment with your favorite :) Halloween Caption.
Or provide one of your own!


Ghouls just wanna have fun!

Don't worry, worry, we're friendly ghosts.

Howl about them candied apples?

Everything's better with a bit of magic.

Bad to the bone.

Bugs and kisses.

He's trapped in my web.

You're a Zombabe.

My favorite: "Each year, the Great Pumpkin rises out of the pumpkin patch that he thinks is the most sincere."  -- It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.

If Supernatural RomCom is your Halloween treat idea, consider adding  "Here Today, Zombie Tomorrow" to your favorite eBook Reader! 















Wishing You Halloween a bucket filled Treats and
and an eReader Stuffed with Spookie Reads,

Connie Vines












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