Saturday, August 23, 2025

A Short Story Competition by Victoria Chatham

 




My dear departed husband (henceforth, my DDH), tired of hearing me say that I would write one day, signed me up for short story writing classes. Once I had completed two or three stories, he encouraged me to enter writing competitions. Some people are natural competitors. I am not. I declined. However, after reading a short story in a local paper, he said, “You can do better than that.”

He handed me the newspaper with the pages already folded back so I could read the winning entry of a western-themed short story competition. The year was 1999, and I don’t remember now what that winning story was about, but it sent my little grey cells into overdrive. My DDH told our friends that I was going to enter the next weekend-long Write ‘Em Cowboy competition, and soon my cheerleading section of one had blossomed into a dozen or more. I finally agreed to submit an entry, simply to shut them all up. 

The entry rules required submitting a one-page outline of a western-themed short story, a page of unpublished prose, and a $20 entry fee. The first prize was $1,000, but I didn’t get excited because I didn’t expect to be selected. Well, how wrong I was. My story was titled The Red Bull, and I expected nothing more than a receipt for my entry fee when I opened a letter from the competition organizers. The first word I read was “Congratulations!” I could hardly believe I had been chosen as a finalist.

The whole weekend was a writer’s delight. No phones to answer, chores to do, people or pets to care for. The event kicked off with a Friday evening reception. There was a short presentation by the chairperson of the organizing committee, and then the guests and the finalists were free to mix and mingle. To prevent the chance of any sneaky notes, all the computers, along with a couple of technicians to ensure there were no problems, were donated by a local company. Each finalist chose a workstation, and writing commenced at 9:00 am on Saturday morning, continuing until 9:00 am on Sunday.

Image courtesy of Pixabay

The story was to be no more than 7000 words. By the time my DDH came to see how I was doing on Saturday evening, I had already hit the 10,000-word mark. I was not prepared to burn the midnight oil to edit out 3,000 words, so I went home to sleep on it. Which, of course, I couldn’t. We were on the road back to the venue by 5:30 am and arrived just after 6:00 am on Sunday. Yes, I beat the deadline with 6,865 words at 8.55 am.

 We waited for the rest of the day as the judges deliberated. Once the Sunday evening banquet was finished and the tables were cleared, the winners were announced. I was placed fourth, earning me a prize of $100 and an excellent critique. Each of the six judges made the same comment: My story was not a short story; it was a book. Because of that, plus the encouragement from my DDH and support from BWL Publishing Inc., it saw the light of day as a contemporary western romance, Loving That Cowboy. I have entered a couple of competitions since, but the heady heights of that first competition remain with me.


Victoria Chatham

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Friday, August 22, 2025

An author walks into a library and asks...


 That sounds like the opening line of a joke. In reality, it's a regular discussion for most authors. I didn't "walk" into the library, but emailed one of my favorite librarians, and asked, "Is your library haunted?"

Madeline replied, "There are some strange unexplained things that happen (in our one-hundred-year-old library), but I've never ascribed them to a ghostly entity. She went on to explain that most of them involved books falling off of shelves, lights being on or off when they shouldn't be, strange noises coming from the older parts of the library. They occur most often to the assistant librarian and volunteers when the head librarian is away. Some volunteers apparently refuse to investigate any of the book falling off the shelf incidents unless accompanied by one of the staff.

"Do you know who the ghost is?" I asked.

"We jokingly refer to her as Anna, who was the first librarian. We don't know that anything bad happened to her, which would make her haunt the library."

"Have you ever had a seance in the library?" I asked.

Since this conversation is going on via email, I wasn't surprised when I didn't receive a response for several days. "I have not personally been involved in a library seance." 

I explained that my co-author, Anne Flagge, and I were outlining a book featuring the haunted Two Harbors Library, where Madeline is the head librarian. "Would you be disturbed by us creating a fictional ghost in a fictionalized version of your library? And maybe having a seance to initiate a conversation with the ghost?"

Madeline was totally onboard with the ghost and seance. She suggested a location for setting up the seance and its special effects and even consented to the use of her real name as the book's fictional librarian. We went on to discuss the core of the plot, something stolen from a locked library table drawer, who's key had been missing for decades.

A few weeks later, Madeline contacted Anne and me to say the library is having a summer reading competition. She asked if she could offer the opportunity for the winner to have her name included in the upcoming book, "Whistling Librarian". We agreed, and Paula Pettit (the winner) is the book's assistant librarian.

My message to all of you is, talk to your librarian. They're a great resource for many questions, some they'd never considered. The most important from me was, "Will you host a book event for us?"

Anne Flagge and I were at the Two Harbors library yesterday. Madeline and Paula were delighted to see us, as were Shannon Walz and her friends of the library group in Silver Bay.

Thursday, August 21, 2025

What's a good book event?


 I recently did a "meet and greet" at a bookstore in a medium-sized northern Minnesota city. Sherri, the events manager, set me up with a table, a couple of book stands, and a selection of pens. Stepping back, she wished me luck and assured me there would be somewhere between one and one thousand people buying my books. Hmm, somewhere between one and a thousand people offers a lot of wiggle room. 

As is usually the case the sales were closer to the one than the thousand. However, that doesn't represent the fun I have talking about books to intelligent, well-read people, like those who frequent bookstores and libraries. One young gentleman who was dressed like a lumberjack, paused when he saw me. Roger walked over and read the "A Bourbon to Die For" blurb, then looked at me with a very serious expression. "What's it like to write a book? I mean, so you sit down and write it from beginning to end without thinking about where it's going, or do you have a skeleton?" He went on to explain that he was a professional musician and composer. As he put it, "There are times when I've been commissioned to write a song and there's literally nothing musical that comes to mind. Other times, I'll be doing something mindless and a whole melody and lyrics come so fast that I can't get them all on paper."

His comments brought to mind my friend, Terry. He'd worked as a roadie for a big-name country star while he was trying to decide if he was going to be an engineer or a truck driver. (He became an engineer). As Terry explained it, one night the roadies and the band were drinking beer and jamming when Terry overheard something that made him start picking a song. Kenny O'Dell developed the melody and Terry sang three verses of "Behind Closed Doors". Charlie Rich heard them singing it, had them write it all out, and he added it to his next concert. Terry and Kenny won a Grammy Award for a song they wrote in half an hour.

So, this young songwriter and I talked about books and songs, dungeons and dragons, and what it's like to live in a city with nine months of winter and three months of "poor sledding". (Yes, we were that far north.)

Roger bought a book, then thanked me for sharing my story, and for listening to his. It was the sale of one book, but it made my day. I hope Roger went home and wrote a hit song! 

Sometimes, a book event isn't about how many books you sell. It's about meeting and connecting with people. Yes, I'd love to have another event like the one where I sold eighty books in an hour. But even without that type of sales, there's so much value to talking to people, sharing ideas, and maybe strumming a guitar.

In the end, Sherri was right. I had somewhere between one and a thousand people buy books. But better than that I met Roger, and a woman who was spending her children's inheritance by filling her new house with books, and another woman who was awestruck to meet an actual author and get MY signature in her new book. How do you put a value on those things?

Check out my books at the BWL website. I might be prejudiced, but I think "Skidded and Skunked" and "A Bourbon to Die For" are pretty good reads.

A Bourbon to Die For — BWL Publishing

Did People really kill over Oysters? The 1950s Oyster Wars, by Diane Scott Lewis

 


To Purchase this book click HERE


A friend of mine said her boyfriend had been a witness to some of the dangerous antics on the Potomac River in the 1950s. Maryland owned the river and shot at any Virginians who were dredging for oysters, a profitable practice but it ruined the oyster beds. My protagonist, Luke, is involved, anxious to make money to support his family.

My critique group said this couldn't possibly have happened, but it did.

Enjoy an excerpt:

Colonial Beach


Spray dampened Luke’s face and shoulders as he held onto the boat’s rail, balancing with the slap of the river. On shore, as the sky lightened further, the sun straining to shine through the murk, people gathered. They cheered for Harvey and cursed at the police.

Bullets flew. Luke and Bobby ducked beside Frank on the slimy deck. Jim navigated near the shore, toward a creek’s mouth they knew about. Up on the bank, tree trunks splintered, struck by gunfire.

Harvey careened around bars and in and out of coves, then he cut a hard turn as the seaplane lowered to the water’s surface. The Miss Ann revved, and Harvey steered her right at the plane.

“Oh, shit,” Jim muttered. “He wouldn’t.”

In a splash of flying water, Harvey gunned his boat. The people on shore gasped. The seaplane lifted just as the Miss Ann swerved beneath her pontoons.

“He’s as insane as Bozo.” Luke gripped one hand to the port rail as he still kneeled.

A boat roared up behind them, lights flashing.

“We’re spotted.” Jim slipped Sally into the creek, amongst thicker foliage. Little sunlight had penetrated in there yet. The mist clung like a smoky curtain.

A sudden shift in water again, and a low engine sounded behind them. The police had followed! A spotlight lit up their boat. “Stay where you are!” a disembodied voice shouted. “We’re coming aboard to check your equipment.”

Luke cursed. Their boat pushed into deeper shadows, scraping the starboard side.

“Dammit. Jump overboard. All of you.” Jim flicked his cigarette away. “I’ll take the heat.”

Luke hesitated, but he urged Bobby and his cousin—though they both cursed—to crawl over the side and slosh through the shallow water.

“You got a young family,” Silas hissed and pushed at Luke’s shoulder. “Get goin’. Now.” 

Luke couldn’t be any help to anyone in jail. Especially his family.


For more on me and my books, visit my BWL author's page


Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

Wednesday, August 20, 2025

Life Beside the Sea...by Sheila Claydon

 

Find my books here


Several of my books are set on or beside the sea (Cabin FeverReluctant Date, Kissing Maggie Silver) while others are set in countryside close to the sea, including the three time travel books in my latest series (Mapleby Memories), where the sea is briefly a major player in book 3, (Many a Moon).  This is probably partly because I was born in a seaside town on the south coast of the UK, partly because my grandfather was a sailor with many sea faring stories, and partly because my earliest memories feature sand blown, windswept trips to the beach. 

When my husband and I married, however, we moved away from the sea and spent 25 years living  close to London, so nowhere near the sea at all, although we did spend some summer days picnicking on the banks of the River Thames as it meandered its way out of London into the Buckinghamshire countryside. It wasn't the sea though, so when we learned our jobs were moving north we decided we would look for a house as close to the sea as possible. We were lucky. The house we have now lived in for 35 years was a wreck when we bought it but it's on the edge of a nature reserve with nothing between it and the sea except fields, woodland, and rolling sand hills, so all the effort that had to go into renovating it has been worth it. Living so close to the sea does, however, have drawbacks as well as responsibilities.

Out of season it is wonderful. We can walk for miles and see nothing more than one or two dog walkers in the distance. In season, every family for miles around wants to visit, and who can blame them. So we are used to the parking problems and the piles of litter that pollute the area for a couple of months of every year. And, like most local residents, we consider clearing up the mess and the occasional traffic queues a small price to pay for the fact that we are lucky enough to be able to enjoy it everyday.

Sometimes though, the problems are more serious. This year we have already taken one visitor to the local hospital when he badly burned his foot on very hot sand after he moved a portable BBQ. We have twice been custodians of car keys when cars have broken down and the owners couldn't get them collected until the following day. We have also rescued lost dogs, one of which seemed to want to stay with us indefinitely! We have invited desperate mothers with small children to use our bathroom, and filled water bottles for others. We've had to sluice down the path outside the house when a small child was violently sick. And we have advertised many lost car and house keys on our local social media site and then held them until the owners could collect them. 

We also have to explain, myriad times, to families with pushchairs, wheelchairs, small children, and less than agile oldies, all wearing sliders or flip flops, that while the beach is close, it is a wild beach, so there are no paved paths, nowhere to rest on the way. No ice cream stops. No coffee shops. Just fields, woods with treacherous tree roots, and finally high sand hills to traverse before they climb down to the beach itself. 

We have twice had medical helicopters land in the field right in front of our house and watched the paramedics set off at a run to rescue someone who had been badly injured. Sadly there have also been a couple of deaths, one very sad one when an elderly person with dementia was lost in the sand hills. We have reported woodland fires and watched the rapid regrowth with fascination. Seen police on sand buggies drive down to the beach to break up the occasional fight. On one of our rainy days I even found an elderly woman and her dog hunched, dripping wet, under a bush, as she desperately tried to call the emergency services. She had slipped and broken her leg and was in a lot of pain. Directing the paramedics to the spot where she'd fallen, which was in the middle of unmapped woodland, took some doing with an almost non-existent phone signal, but we managed.

We've even had to help track an out of control dog that killed a mother goose and her 3 goslings, something that involved phone calls to others as we all covered the wide area surrounding the lake where the geese had been living peacefully all summer, much to the pleasure of the local residents. That was a sad day! 

Another day we had to persuade visitors to abide by the notice that asked them to keep their dogs on a lead in one part of the woodland, as a baby owl had fallen out of a tree and was being cared for on the ground by its parents until it was strong enough to fly. Most did as they were asked but some who didn't  understand the unspoken countryside code were not so helpful. Fortunately the little owl soon found his wings and flew away.

And as well as all that we have to let the National Trust that manages the nature reserve know if we find dead wild animals such as squirrels, seals, foxes etc., and also if we see live ones that shouldn't be here such as grey squirrels, as the area is a red squirrel reserve. If greys invade they kill them, not physically, but by bringing in viruses that the reds can't survive.  Once upon a time the smaller reds were too numerous to count until they were decimated by the greys squirrel pox.  The few remaining ones were captured and quarantined for 6 months. When they were released the National Trust stopped selling the small bags of nuts that visitors bought to feed them because they had by then realised that to survive healthily in the area the population needed to be less dense, so the squirrels have now voted with their feet and moved away from the visitor area to the more varied woodland at the edges of the reserve. If you know what to look for you can find still them, so showing small children how to identify chewed pine nuts and then watching them set off on a squirrel hunt is satisfying, although I'm not sure they are always successful.

So living in such a lovely area comes with responsibilities, especially on the sort of sunny days we have been enjoying for most of the summer. But it comes with so many pleasures too, such as being able to pick wild apples, blackberries, sloes, dewberries, damsons, rosehips and buckthorn. There are even nettles for those who want to make nettle soup. And while there are wild flowers in bloom for most of the year, the bluebells that cover most of the woodland in Spring are an amazing sight. Such pleasures far outweigh the occasional emergency or upset. And because it is a wild beach, dogs are allowed to run free, and the most joyous thing is to see a dog breach a sand hill, spy the sea in the distance and race towards it without a care in the world. And every dog and dog walker becomes a friend. I don't know whether it's the feeling of freedom that comes with wildness of the countryside, the unspoilt beach and the wildlife all around, but nearly everyone says hi or stops to chat. The dogs do too.  Long may it continue as it offers time out from an increasingly stressful world. 


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