Tricia McGill--on revision and re-writing

There are some writers who cringe at the thought of editing or revision. For me that has always been the favorite part of writing. I consider it is better to get the words down on the page as fast as my Muse will let me, then after the book is finished, that is the time to go through and make the necessary changes. It’s always a revelation to me when I see what I actually ended up with. I think a lot of authors have the same reaction, thinking, “Did I really write that?” I’m about to embark on re-working most of my earlier published books so I guess it’s a good thing that I enjoy the process, isn’t it.

At some stage in our writing career we have to learn to live with the fact that our work is not as perfect as we like to think it is, and we must allow another person the privilege of reading and criticising our baby.

I’ve worked with a lot of editors in my time, and can’t ever recall an instance when I said, “What you’re saying is a load of rubbish. I refuse to change my work to suit someone else.” I might have said more than once that I much prefer to leave a paragraph as is or just tinker with it, but I value the opinion of editors far too much to ignore their input.

One of my earlier books, now re-published by Books We Love as Remnants of Dreams went through 9 re-writes in its previous life if my memory serves me correctly, which means I have lost count of the editors whose hands it has passed through on its way to publication. I tried different points of view and at one stage wrote it in first person from the POV of the main character. Without the input of editors along the way it would never have won RWA’s Romantic Book of The Year award.

Lonely Pride, due out soon at BWL started its journey in 2004 (with a different name and long-defunct publisher) so that’s another one that has enjoyed the input of a few editors along the way. But I wouldn’t dream of ignoring the opinion and suggestions of my latest editor.

I guess my message to new authors is: Never think your baby is so finished to perfection that you can afford to ignore the wise words of your editor or critique partner.

 Lonely Pride--Book 1 in the Beneath Southern Skies series

coming soon

Links to Tricia McGill’s Books on Books We Love

http://bookswelove.net/mcgill.php

Tricia McGill’s web page: 

www.triciamcgill.com

A Trip to Paris with Renee Simons

Paris is exactly what one would expect:  busy, crowded, filled with chic (and not so chic) city folks.  The traffic was horrible, the food wonderful, Notre Dame Cathedral impressive and the Eiffel Tower heart-stopping.  

 

There was a river boat cruise on the Seine from Paris to Normandy for a 70th anniversary memorial to the D-Day invasion.  We spent 3 days in Paris before setting out and it was wonderful.  Having studied the language in high school some 60 yrs ago, I'd dreamed of going to Paris, to see the famous sights we all know of and read about or see in films.  We also took special tours to Versailles, to Montmartre, Van Gogh's and Monet's homes,  various ancient castles, abbeys and ruins and then lastly to Omaha Beach, site of the invasion for a special, very moving ceremony at the American Military Cemetery, where over 9000 men are buried.  The French countryside from the river is beautiful, with many charming towns in view.  And in a big surprise to all of us, glimpses of the same "white cliffs" in Dover, England were visible in and among the green open spaces. (Geology at work.)

 

A visitor had better be able to walk over many cobble-stoned streets, and climb more hills than level roads when touring some of the historical areas of the city.  I had a hard time because of my various physical problems but I managed to see most of what I wanted and I'm glad I went. Most of all, the people were friendly and willing to converse with me, responding to my very rusty attempts to speak the language with kindness and even some delight. So if you make it over there, don't be afraid to try. Your attempts will pay off. And if you don't have a travel partner, go with a tour group.  You'll make friends with whom to share experiences, have guidance and someone to lead you to the places you've always wanted to see. 

 

Renee 

http://bookswelove.net/simons.php

Diane Scott Lewis - Crazy Superstitions on Bodily Health

In researching my eighteenth-century novel, Ring of Stone-I delved into this research for a character, a young physician-I came across many interesting beliefs on how to cure sickness.

Before modern medicine lay people and some physicians held the belief that transferring the ailment to another object could cure you of disease. Since antiquity, and well into the eighteenth century, people believed that men reflected aspects of the natural world. It was a dominant strategy that explained the mysteries beyond the ken of the science of the day.

A man in late seventeenth century Somerset claimed that his brother was cured of a rupture by being passed through a slit cut in a young ash tree, three times on three Monday mornings before dawn. When the tree was later cut down, his brother grew ill again.

To cure jaundice, you took the patient’s urine, mix it with ashes and make three equal balls. Put these before a fire, and when they dried out, the disease leaves and he’s cured.

In Devon, to cure the quartan ague, you baked the patient’s urine into a cake, then fed the cake to a dog, who would take on the disease.

Even Richard Wiseman—a Barber Surgeon—who wrote Chirurgicall Treatises during the time of Charles II, believed to remove warts you rub them with a slice of beef, then bury the beef.

Color as well played a part in how health was viewed. "Yellow" remedies were used to cure jaundice: saffron, celandine with yellow flowers, turmeric, and lemon rind. John Wesley, who wrote Primitive Physick, in the mid-eighteenth century, suggested that sufferers of this illness wear celandine leaves under their feet.

Health was also governed by astrological explanations. Manuals intended for physicians and apothecaries included this "otherwordly" advice. Nicholas Culpeper detailed which herbs were presided over by which planets in his famous health text, Culpeper’s Complete Herbal. For example, if a headache was caused by the actions of Venus, then fleabane (an herb of Mars) would cure the malady.

However, the Vox Stellarum, the most popular almanac in the eighteenth century, took a more moderate view: "Men may be inclin’d but not compell’d to do good or evil by the influence of the stars." Yet this same almanac, in 1740, listed which diseases were prevalent in certain months—a vestigial form of astrological medicine.

Thank goodness more enlightened physicians, such as brothers William (a leading anatomist and renown obstetrician) and John Hunter (one of the most distinguished scientists and surgeons of his day) in the eighteenth century, came along to bring medical thinking into the modern world.

William Hunter

Though superstition among the lay people remained.

Information taken from, Patients, Power, and the Poor in Eighteenth Century Bristol, by Mary E. Fissell, 1991.

For more on myths and superstition, check out my novel Ring of Stone, where the myths of a stone ring in remote Cornwall may save a life while destroying another.

Here's the beautiful cover by Michelle.

　
To learn more about my novels: http://www.dianescottlewis.org


　

　
　

Where Did That Come From? by Victoria Chatham

             One of the joys of writing, for me, is doing research. I know some writers hate it and others view it as a form of procrastination but I love delving into history. Apart from the facts I do want to confirm, I frequently come up with oddities that just fascinate me. Some may be questionable, other folks may have a different version of where or why a saying evolved. The following list mostly derives from English history and the terms and sayings have been transported around the world as Britain expanded her trade and borders.

Bringing home the bacon. Having a pig to raise, or the man of the family bringing home some pork, was a sign of wealth. The pork was usually hung in the rafters of the home, close to the chimney, so it was handy for the housewife to cut slices from and to show off to visitors.

Chewing the fat. A term we think of today as people gathering around to have a pleasant conversation and that’s not far from the possible origin of this term. With visitors admiring the ‘flitch’ or uncut side of bacon hanging in the rafters, the householder would cut off a little of the fat to offer his guests so they would sit around and ‘chew the fat’. In addition, a flitch of bacon could be awarded to married couples who could swear to not having regretted their marriage for a year and a day. This old tradition purportedly still survives in some pockets in England.

Dirt poor. While wealthy people may have had slate or stone floors, poor people didn’t. Mostly the floors of their homes consisted of leveled dirt which gives us the saying ‘dirt poor’ to denote someone who really does not have very much of anything.

Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater.  Do we really appreciate the luxury of the baths and showers we have today? Imagine living in a household where having a bath consisted of a big tub filled with hot water. The man of the house had the privilege of the nice clean water, then all the other sons and men, then the women and finally the children. Last of all the babies. By then the water could be so dirty you might lose someone in it. Hence the saying, ‘Don't throw the baby out with the bath water’ meaning not to lose something of value.

Four poster bed.  With only a thick straw thatch above you, there was nothing to stop bugs and other droppings falling into the house and messing up a nice clean bed. So beds with a post at each corner and a sheet hung over the top offered some protection. Over time the sheets became more elaborate canopies, including curtains surrounding the bed which could be closed to keep out drafts and afford privacy.

June Bride. Most people got married in June because they took their yearly bath in May so still smelt pretty good in June. But, because many were already beginning to smell again, brides starting carrying bouquets of sweet smelling flowers to hide their body odor.

Pay on the nail. Outside the Corn Exchange in Bristol, England, are four brass tables or ‘nails’. They have flat tops with raised edges to stop coins rolling off. The four nails were made at different times, probably modeled after the portable tables used in fairs and markets, but the oldest nail dates from the Elizabethan period.  So, if you ‘pay on the nail’, you pay in cash and on time.

Peas porridge. You may be familiar with the old rhyme ‘peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold, peas porridge in the pot nine days old’. This refers to a time when everything was cooked in the same pot over the fire. What wasn’t eaten would be left to get cold. Meat was not readily available to the average family, so when the fire was lit on the following day it was mostly vegetables that were added to the pot.

Piss Poor. To dispose of the overnight waste from chamber pots, many families sold this commodity to collectors who took it the local tannery or woolen mill. The ammonia in stale urine was used to tan animal skins and to set dye in cloth. If you had to do this to survive you were ‘piss poor’, but the really poor people couldn’t even afford to buy a chamber pot so didn’t 'have a pot to piss in’.

Raining cats and dogs.  In an era when houses had thick, straw thatched roofs with no wood underneath, it was often the only place that animals could get warm. Cats, mice, bugs, all lived in the roof, but when it rained it became slippery and sometimes the animals would slip and fall off the roof, so if it was raining really hard, it might be ‘raining cats and dogs’.

Upper crust.  Picture a beautiful, aromatic loaf of bread fresh from the oven. Guests would get the top, or upper crust, the family would get the middle section and servants and workers would get the sometimes burnt bottom of the loaf. Therefore, someone who is ‘upper crust’, would be considered special or of having some elevated social status.

Salute.  Who is not familiar with this sign of respect used by the military and most uniformed organizations? Especially poignant is the iconic photograph of a young John Kennedy saluting his father’s flag draped casket as it was carried from St Matthew’s Cathedral. The salute evolved from medieval times, when knights in armor raised their visors to reveal their identity.

Saved by the bell.  Today we use this term to indicate a situation being saved or solved at the very last moment, but it has a rather gruesome origin. Being a small country, when English parishioners began to run out of space for burials, they would open graves and coffins to reuse them. It was found that 1 out of every 25 coffins opened had fingernail scratch marks on the inside of the lid, and it was realized that people had been buried alive. A string was then tied around the corpse’s wrist and fed through a hole in the coffin lid, up through the ground and tied to a bell. Someone sat by the grave (hence the term graveyard shift for a night worker) so that if the bell was rung the coffin would be immediately opened to save whoever was inside it.

Threshold.  Wealthy people had slate or stone floors in their homes that, when wet and especially during the winter, could get very slippery. To avoid this they spread straw, called thresh, on the floor to keep their footing. Throughout the winter more thresh was added until, when you opened the door, it started to slip outside or was carried out on peoples’ feet. A thick piece of wood was placed across the door way to keep the thresh inside and became known as a ‘thresh hold’.

Wake.  Our ancestors’ table ware was often hazardous to their health. Plates were made of pewter and any food with a high acid content could cause lead to leach into the food causing death by lead poisoning. Tomatoes have a high acid content, so for 400 years or so tomatoes were considered poisonous.

Ale and whisky were served in lead cups and the combination often knocked the imbibers out for days. Anyone walking along a road could take them for dead and prepare them for burial. They were laid out on the kitchen table for a couple of days and the family would gather around and eat and drink and wait to see if they would wake up. This was the origin of bringing food and drink for guests to partake of after a funeral.

So now you know. Do you have  any explanations for sayings in common use today? 

You can find Victoria on:

www.bookswelove.com/chatham.php

and on her blog at www.victoriachatham.webs.com

A New Life for Kelly McWinter ~ A Murder State of Mind by Jude Pittman

The Indian Creek Texas Mysteries have been revised for a second edition printing and are now available as A Murder State of Mind by Jude Pittman

Find the first book in this mystery series by clicking the cover. 

A Murder State of Mind: Deadly Secrets

Kelly McWinter, a retired cop who suffered a personal tragedy has been coming to grips with his personal grief and is once again feeling the pull to return to law enforcement. That decision escalates when he and Jake find one of the Hideaway’s favorite characters dead on the floor of the flea market.

Coincidences, the emergence of a secret life, a treasure, an heiress searching for her birth mother and the ulterior motives of some of the Creek’s own citizens all have Kelly scrambling to uncover the truth before his best friend ends up being convicted of a crime that Kelly is positive he didn’t commit.

Previously published as The Indian Creek Texas mysteries

"DEADLY SECRETS kept me guessing. Just when I thought I knew "whodunit," I'd turn the page and discover someone new with the means, motive and opportunity. If you like an entertaining mystery that will confound you until the very end, DEADLY SECRETS is for you. I highly recommend it and look forward to more from this talented storyteller." ~ 5 out of 5 stars, Marilyn Miller "Mystery Maven" 

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00NRBS1JQ 

 

A Book Signing to Remember By Sandy Semerad

     As husband Larry and I drove from Santa Rosa Beach to my book signing at the BAM store in Destin, Florida, I had a flashback. 

     I remembered a story Robert Crais told years ago. Crais is an award winning novelist of detective fiction. At one time, he wrote television scripts for shows like Hill Street Blues, Cagney & Lacey, Quincy, Miami Vice and L.A. Law.

     

     Many readers would be honored to buy his books and have him autograph them, I thought. But apparently that wasn’t the case at a Walmart store, according to what Crais told a group at Sleuthfest, where he was the keynote speaker.

     

     He aggressively hawked his books and tried to engage customers, he said. He’s say stuff like, “Do you like detective fiction. Do you like mysteries?”

     

     One man replied, “No,” and then asked Crais to help him find the fishing gear, he said.

     I pushed that memory out of my head and told myself, my book signing would be successful. I was determined. I believed in my book, my baby, and I wanted everyone to read A Message in the Roses.

     Larry and I arrived about 30 minutes early. I placed six blue pens on the table beside a stack of my books. I was determined not to run out of ink.

     We put the bookmarks and an address book on the table and placed my poster on an easel. Luckily, the store positioned me near the front door. Before long, a potential customer walked in.

      Larry went into action. He sounded like a carnival barker, “This is your lucky day,” he shouted. “Author Sandy Semerad is autographing her critically acclaimed book, A Message in the Roses.”

     As he led this unsuspecting and somewhat stunned woman toward me, I asked her, “Do you like romantic thrillers?”

     “I prefer nonfiction,” she said.

      “Well, then, you might enjoy A Message in the Roses,” I said, motioning, in Vanna White fashion, toward the stack of books. “It’s loosely based on a murder trial I covered as a newspaper reporter in Atlanta.”

     I handed her a bookmark. She glanced at it and then picked up one of my books.

     We began a conversation. I asked her to sign my address book and said, “I’d be happy to autograph a copy of my book for you.”

     And so it went.

     With other signings, I’d learned to autograph on the title page, and I knew I darn sure needed to ask each person how to spell his or her name.

     I'd also learned to ask, “How should I autograph this?”

     Most people respond with, “Write whatever you want.” But I think it's important to write something personal, and it's easier to do that if you've shared conversation.

     I’ve been told it’s best to have a person write out instructions to the author on what to say. I’m sure that’s good advice, but I didn’t do that.

     After I signed the books, Larry snapped our photos. That is, if they agreed to have their picture taken. If they did, I later e-mailed the photos to them, and tagged their names after posting on Facebook.

      Everyone at BAM was supportive. One of the employees, with the voice of a broadcaster, kept announcing, “Author Sandy Semerad is in our store signing her latest book A Message in the Roses.” She added blurbs about my book to entice customers. I complimented her later. 

     Should I have written my own announcement? Perhaps, but luckily, she did a superb job.

    After the signing, I got the store’s approval to autograph the remaining copies that didn’t sell. I’m hoping they’ll display them, prominently, with the bookmarks I left behind. Maybe they’ll place an “autographed copy” sticker on them. Did I mention I’m a hopeful optimist?

     I thanked the BAM employees and a couple of days later, I called to thank them again. As an afterthought, I sent a photo taken with the staff to the BAM marketing site with a brief e-mail about the signing. 

     Maybe I should send a snail mail letter to the store and include more bookmarks. I want them to remember my books and keep promoting them.

     Weeks before I started trying to arrange book signings, I asked Michelle Lee to design my bookmarks. These were helpful in getting the signings in the first place, I think. (I gave a copy of the bookmark with a press release and a list of distributors to the managers of two books store and asked them to order my books.)

    I downloaded the bookmark to Printing for Less. I should have ordered more than 500. I’m almost out. I’ve been distributing them like crazy.

     For the signing, I knew I’d need a poster. So PFL created one on foam board, not cheap, but sturdy. It looked sharp on the easel, I thought. The poster has my book covers and a promo blurb under each and my photo.

     The poster arrived in time, but not the postcards, I'd ordered. I should have ordered them a month before. They came the week of my signing, and I was working out of town. My poor husband distributed them as best he could.

     Two weeks prior, after I checked to make sure the BAM store had the books, I e-mailed a press release to local newspapers. I also created an event on Facebook and other sites and invited everyone.

     There were a few things I wish I’d done. 

     I should have placed a copy of my book with bookmarks at the cash registers. I should have asked Larry to hand out book marks and a copy of my book to customers we didn’t catch at the door. I was too busy hustling those who came in to do that myself.

     And maybe I should have placed a bowl of chocolate candy on my table or held a drawing to win a gift, perhaps a free book. I’m thinking I might do these things at my next one, which is Saturday, Sept. 27, at the Destin, Florida Barnes and Noble.

     A lady from B&N has already called to say my books are in. Wish me luck. I wish you could come by and spread the love. #booksigning  #AMessageintheRoses

     www.sandysemerad.com

http://bookswelove.net/sandysemerad.php

https://www.facebook.com/SandySemerad

A Love Affair With Writing by Ginger Simpson #BooksWeLove

If you know an author personally, you're probably familiar with the term, WIP.  We always have a "writing in progress" project, and although some may sit on the back burner for months while a new and more exciting storyline takes precedence, I'll bet every other writer out there shares my burning desire to finish that meaningful story.  I have that problem right now, but for a different reason.  I earlier explained in another post the difference between "plotters/pantsers," and I'm a pantser, so my heroine in The Well speaks more often than Yellow Moon.  

I know I'm going to finish Yellow Moon, because I already have the cover, but she's been one of the most difficult heroines to work with because she turns mute on me.  I can't SHOW you her story if she doesn't TELL it to me.  So, for today, I'm going to give you an example of The Well, hopefully to make Yellow Moon jealous.  *lol*

So, while I'm trying to pry words out of Yellow Moon's mouth, here's the story that Harlee is anxious to share with you.  I'm loving it, but I really want to get Yellow Moon to my publisher soon.  Oy Vey...what I wouldn't give to be able to plot...but I've tried it and it just doesn't work for me.

The Well

Oklahoma Panhandle - 1894

Hot winds drove a herd of tumbleweeds across endless acres of sod–broken and dried by the sun.   The devastating drought in Oklahoma continued on, leaving everything parched or dying. Using the rope crank, Harlee Wagner lowered the bucket into the well. She swiped at the perspiration on her brow with the sleeve of her dress.

Each time she fetched drinking water for the family, the rope attached to the wooden pail reeled closer and closer to the end. What would they do if the well ran dry? They'd already given up bathing, and Ma only prepared one meal a day, using mostly dried meat and vegetables she'd preserved. Harlee’s younger sister, Hannah, complained the most, but sacrifice was inevitable if they were to survive.  

Drastic times called for change. The horses needed water every day but Harlee no longer filled the trough. Instead she gave them small amounts from a pail. The chickens seemed unaware of their plight and pecked unaffected at the ground, searching for insects.  

A small dirt devil swirled across the corral and moved like a ghost-like apparition through the weathered fence and then disappeared from sight behind the barn. Rain was certain to come and things would improve. She needed to cling to that hope. 

“Well, that was a durned waste of time.” Pa stomped by, his rifle resting against his shoulder and a frown on his face.

“Whadda you mean?” Her words stopped him before he went inside.

“I mean there’s not an animal around for miles that I saw, at least. I think they’ve all gone in search of something green to munch on instead of all this dried grass and weeds.” His leathery skin gave him a much older appearance despite not having a single grey strand in his auburn hair, and worry deepened the sun-etched creases in his brow. The wind fluttered his wispy hair into his eyes, and he huffed his annoyance and brushed the thin strands aside.

“How about fishing?”

“Open those brown eyes of yorn. Have you seen the lake recently?” His brow furrowed. “There’s more bloated trout dead on the shore than I can count. If it don’t rain soon, the lake is going to shrink into a pond.”

Her pa went inside and slammed the door. Harlee winced. At seventeen, this was the most severe season she’d witnessed in her life. Her stomach growled with hunger and her dried mouth cried out for a long, cool drink. The plants in the garden were as withered as Harlee’s heart. She wanted to leave Oklahoma, mainly because her chances of finding a beau, especially miles from nowhere, were slim to none, and most likely she'd end up an old maid. The family had only lived on the ‘farm’ less than a year, but the men who stopped by to see her pa were definitely not even close to her age.

A glance at the shack they called home served as a reminder there was no real reason to stay in this God-forsaken place, but Pa saw something here she didn’t and remained determined to make this their permanent home. Perhaps his decision was based on being driven from every other place they'd lived…either by crooked tax men or cattlemen who didn't want to share the range land. Pa came from a small town in New England that raised sheep and saw that as his calling.

Harlee cranked the bucket up and shielded her eyes against the sun while looking longingly at the sky for any hint of rain. A few wispy white clouds drifted across a sea of blue, and in the distance, vultures circled some poor critter either dead or dying. Her heart ached for such a gruesome end to life.

“Are you gonna take all day getting water?” Eleven-year-old Hannah poked her nose outside. “I’m mighty thirsty, just in case you care.”

“Hold your horses, would ya? If you think you can fetch a bucket full any quicker, you’re welcome to try.”

 Hannah stuck out her tongue and then disappeared back inside the house. No surprise, she wouldn't put forth any effort. As the youngest, she was spoiled rotten…and probably would still be even if the babe Ma lost when Harlee was her younger sister’s age had survived.

Harlee turned her attention back to the chore at hand. The bucket crested the well’s top, only half full this time. The water used to be so high, she often bent over and stared at her reflection. Doubtful she could see it now, she crawled up on the stone ledge and peered over, searching for any hint of her likeness. Stretching farther . . . she still saw nothing but emptiness. The old stone beneath her grip gave way, sending her tumbling into the black abyss, her head striking rock. Numbed by shock, her scream froze in her throat. 

Harlee hit the water, creating a splash, although not a very big one. Pain shot through her head, and she grabbed her scalp to soothe the ache and found a huge lump had already formed. Something dripped down the side of her face. Was it water? She touched the dampness, licked her hand, and confirmed by the coppery taste it was blood. Her attempt to choke back tears failed when the throbbing intensified and matched each beat of her heart. She cried until she got the hiccups, and leaned her head against the wall, waiting for them to stop.

  She jerked upright and stared up, noting the sun directly overhead. “I must have dozed off.”  Raising her hand, she checked her head and found the bleeding had stopped. “Oh, thank you God, I needed something positive about this day.”

  The light cascaded down the well and highlighted the greenness of the walls and the murky color of the water. Gathering her wits, she struggled to her feet, wiped sodden hair from her face and gasped when the water’s depth barely reached her thighs. “Oh, Lord, we need this precious liquid for so many things, but taking a swim wasn't one of them.”   

As the shock of her fall faded, she faced an even greater fear than how injured she was–how to get out of the well.  “Help me. Ma! Pa! Hannah! Someone! Heellllppp!” She yelled until she had no voice left. 

No answer came from above.

 Time ticked by and she grew weary. Her elbow, evidently skinned during the fall, joined the dull ache in her head, and her knees begged her to sit. The blue sky above darkened with the approaching night, and Harlee sagged into the water, letting it lap to her chin while she rested against the stony interior. Why hadn't someone come to look for her? Especially her impatient little sister?

Despite her discomfort, Harlee slept and woke with a crick in her neck and fingers wrinkled from being under water. She glanced up, praying to see someone peering back, but strangely, no longer saw the sky. Could it still be night? Straining her eyes, she noted light leaking around what appeared to be a cover. Her mind whirred. Was this all a bad dream? The fact that she sat in water, confined in a stone prison confirmed the truth. But why hadn't someone missed her, and why did they cover the well unless her family thought her dead? 

 With a hoarse voice, she shouted as loud as she could, but still no one responded. Trying to find a bright spot, she remembered the circling vultures. “At least I cheated those gluttonous birds out of a meal,” she muttered as tears plunked into the water, barely making a ripple. Death would surely claim her anyhow. Maybe the grim reaper already had and she didn't realize she'd passed. Resting a hand on her bosom, she searched for a heartbeat.

****

 Her soaked dress cloaked her like a second skin, and the slime from the well’s bottom coated her skinned palms. She crinkled her nose at the musty smell and kept assuring herself help would come, but her cries bounced off the walls and went unanswered.

Harlee’s strength waned more and more by the morning of the fourth day, and she prepared to die.  Her measure of time came by means of daylight filtering around the well’s sealed edges, and she no longer had hope of rescue. After wanting water so badly, she taken only small sips a few times and now dreamed of Ma’s buttermilk biscuits. An imaginary aroma masked the musk and hung teasingly in the air.

  Numbness enveloped Harlee’s body and outlook, but didn't dull her curiosity about her family.  Maybe they hadn't given up on her, instead perhaps something had happened to them?  At the thought, she embraced herself to quell her increased shivering.

Harlee inhaled a deep breath, drawing in the unpleasant aroma she'd avoided by shallow breathing.  The lack of air inside the well made her light-headed and the smell made her gag. The thought of sitting in her own urine soaked clothing added to her nausea. She retched a few times, but threw up nothing but bile. The bitter taste in her mouth matched the rancidness of the well’s bottom.  

 She positioned herself firmly against the wall, bending her knees and planting her feet against the opposite wall. Drowning wasn't a preference and there was enough water for that to happen. With any luck, she’d just fall asleep and wake up in the beautiful garden Ma read about in the Bible one Sunday. 

 The pictures the hallowed words painted colored Harlee’s mind and her muscles relaxed. Her head lulled to her shoulder. If her time had come, she was ready, despite lamenting she'd die without knowing the pleasure of having a husband and children. Still, at this moment, anything had to be better than the wet, damp hell that claimed her. Her eyes closed and then squinted tighter against a light much brighter than she'd ever seen. Was it the door to heaven? 

The bucket banged her atop her head. “Ouch!” The pain brought back her voice.

“Holy shit ” A deep voice sounded above. Surely, God didn’t curse. Then who?

Harlee tried to adjust to the daylight filtering down the well by holding a shielding hand to her forehead. She looked up, but the dank and dark prison had stolen her vision as well as her voice.  Weakness robbed her of the ability to stand. Despite only hearing a voice, she continued to peer up and pray. Finally, she managed to see her rescuer’s outline. 

“Help me,” she managed to rasp out.

He leaned farther over the opening. “Are you alive?”  

Seemed like a silly question since dead people didn't speak, but she stifled her sarcasm, not wishing to risk her rescue. “I-I think so.” Harlee barely had the strength to respond, but the idea of being set free gave her a voice.

“Hold on. Let me see if I can find something to help get you out.”

Out? The word sounded more beautiful than any other she'd ever heard, but when he disappeared from her sight, panic seized her heart. Was she hallucinating?  

The blue sky loomed overhead and the smell of freshness drifted down to replace the wet, musty stench she'd endured for so long. She released a pent-up breath when a fuzzy silhouette re-appeared.

“This place is deserted, but I did manage to find a good, hearty rope. The one attached to this old bucket is so rotten, it wouldn't hold up a feather. Do you think you could manage to tie this one around your waist and climb out while I pull?”

Tying something around her waist wasn't the problem.  Her legs had grown weak and she doubted she could stand. Still, the idea of living appealed more than dying. “I can try.” She braced herself with the sides of the well and forced herself to her feet. Her head spun and she feared she might faint. The rope unfurled as he released it. His comment about the place being deserted didn’t make sense, but then nothing did at the moment.

With shrivelled and weak hands, Harlee secured the braided horse hair around her waist, and gripped the lifeline with all the strength she mustered. “Okay, I'm ready,” she called up to her rescuer.

“I’ll pull and you use your feet to walk up the wall.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“Well, if I have to come down there and get you, there'll be no one here to pull us both out.  You've got to try.”

“All right. I will.”

She made a first step and a second. Water dripped from her body and splattered into what remained in the well. Her limbs trembled and the coarseness of the rope nipped through the thin material of her dress and chafed her skin. On her third step, her leg gave out and she slammed against the wall, knocking the air from her lungs and scraping her cheek against the rough stones. The stranger slackened the rope, allowing her to collapse back into the water. Harlee massaged her burning face and even in the dim light saw blood on her fingers. She used the wet hem of her dress to soothe the burning and dab the wound.

“Are you okay?” His deep voice resonated and brought her to her senses.

Would anyone who'd been trapped in a well for days be just fine? She took a deep breath and resisted asking him if he was serious.

“Did you hurt yourself?” He yelled louder.

“Yes. My cheek is bleeding and my hands are raw, but I’m ready to try again.” Determination drove her as she rubbed her sore hands along her skirt.

“Okay, I'm going to start pulling again, so stand up and hold on tight.”

Her mind whirred with questions she hoped to ask. Harlee struggled to her feet and took a firm grip on her lifeline. “Pull,” she instructed.

Despite the pain, she concentrated on each step, unwilling to waiver until she reached freedom.  Her palms and fingers burned and the top of the well appeared miles away. Still, she made sure she kept one foot anchoring her in place before she moved the other. Many times she wanted to surrender, but looking up into the blurred face of her hero gave her the strength she needed to continue.

After what seemed forever, sunlight warmed Harlee’s face and a breeze caressed her soggy skin. The stranger grasped her beneath her arms and hauled her over the well’s edge. Her feet touched the ground, but overcome by weakness, she sagged against him. He swept her into his arms as if she was nothing more than a feather and cradled her like a mother would her babe. “There, there, you're going to be fine now.” 

Somehow, in desperation, she believed his soothing words.

Okay...I'm either going to keep working on this on or choke the words out of Yellow Moon.  *lol*

Happy September 18th! by Nancy M Bell

Hello! This is my first monthly post and I'm very happy to be here.

This is me! Photo credit Unique Perspectives Monique de St. Croix

First, just let me say I love Books We Love and how happy I am that I made the brilliant decision to come here. I'm a bit of an eclectic writer. I dabble in poetry, a bit of non fiction and mostly I write YA fantasy and contemporary romance. That being said my current work in progress is a horror/thriller about Jack the Ripper. It's a new twist on the old rehashed theories. Because he could have been anyone, and there are good arguments for quite a few suspects, I basically had carte blanche when it came to how I shaped him. He really is a twisted dark person, but I have tried to give him a bit of a human face. My ultimate goal is not to make the reader like him but to at least feel some sympathy for him at some point in the story. We'll see how that goes.
I'm looking forward to the Masters class with Jack Whyte that I'm attending at the Surrey International Writers Conference. Each participant submits three pages of a work in progress and then Jack reads it out (a treat in itself) and the group discusses what works and what doesn't. It is a very interesting and enlightening process.

Me and Jack Whyte! Taken at Surrey International Writers Conference 2010

Pandora's Boox and Teas in Olds, Alberta is carrying my YA Laurel's Quest on their shelves. If you're up that way or int he neighborhood please drop in and say hi to the owners. The store is chock full of books, cool journals, over 60 types of loose tea and tea paraphernalia. I spent a good hour and a half drooling over the selection. Needless to say I came away with some new reading material and some scrumptious teas.

Christmas Storm is a romance set in Longview, Alberta. I'm working on the last edits and am hoping to have it released by Books We Love in time for the Christmas season. One of the secondary characters is the rescue dog, Storm. She tends to steal whatever scene she is in. LOL Which brings me to my latest adventure... I volunteer with a rescue group in Calgary, Alberta Animal Rescue Crew Society. I promised my husband I would only volunteer but not foster... Ummmm Yeah... about that... On Monday I brought home a very pregnant young dog who was surrendered to us. All the whelping foster homes were full and I just couldn't leave her in the kennel all pregnant and... well you know how it goes.

My husband is up for saint hood of course. He never batted an eye. In retrospect he was probably relieved it wasn't a horse, or a sheep, or.... The poor man never knows what will be waiting for him when he gets home at night. We fostered a sheep for over a year until his people got a place where they could keep him with them. I still miss Sheep (I know not very original) His people call him Spot, Doug calls him Ramses. Somehow Sheep just works for me LOL

I hope you'll drop by every month on the 18th and see what new trouble I've gotten myself into. There will be puppy cuteness coming soon so by October 18th there will be pictures. If anyone is in or near Calgary, Alberta this weekend AARCS is having a Jail and Bail on Saturday September 20th, please come by and support the great work this organization does.
You'll notice as you read my books, there is always animals included, usually horses, but not always. In A Step Beyond, book 2 in The Cornwall Adventures, the war stallion is quite the ham. I've grown very fond of him, I must say.

Till next time... Keep reading and I'll keep writing... Cheers

I'm on Facebook at AuthorNancyMBell
You can follow me on Twitter @emilypikkasso It's my horse's name and her father's name so no, it's not weird at all LOL
You can find my books at my Amazon.com Author Central Page
Please visit my author page at Books We Love.

Please keep in mind, to find me search for Nancy M Bell or Nancy Marie Bell. There are other Nancy Bells out there, but they're not me!

Introducing Bast's Warrior - Ancient Egypt #MFRWauthor #Suspense #BooksWeLove

1. Just released today. An alternate ancient Egypt with no pyramids or the Sphinx but with action and adventure with the avatars of the three gods worshipped aiding the hero and heroine.

   

   Bast's Warrior (An Alternate Egypt Book 1)

   www.amazon.com

   Tira flees a threat to her life and encounters two elderly women who offer her the chance to be sent to an alternate ancient Egypt with no thought of return. She has had a fascination with Egypt...

Just released, Bast's Warrior is the first book in a trilogy involving my love of ancient Egypt with a bit of a twist. There is a reason for making this an alternate world story. The other twist is while the story could be considered a time travel, it really isn't since the characters don't return to an ancient Egypt we know and have many artifacts from. The why for the change is "there were no camels in Egypt during the time I had targeted for the series." I so wanted camels meaning I had to find a place where they could exist. Enter an alternate world.

Tira is the modern heroine who is sent back to this world. The time is around the ending of the Hyksos, mysterious invaders who are never really identified in what is known about this ancient world. Because of my interest in Astrology, the means of sending her back is by casting her horoscope and the spinning of a giant horoscope wheel.

So Here's a look at the Heroine. Tira wanted three things in life and she had little chance of gaining any of them. She wanted to be financially independent. She wanted to go to Egypt and study the ancient ruins. And she wanted her sister to stop using drugs.

The last desire brought memories of this morning’s quarrel.  The money squirreled away to see them through the rest of the month was gone. “Luci, why?”

“You don’t understand,” Luci screamed.

True. She didn’t understand why her sister needed to escape into a drugged stupor instead of studying and working to step onto the road leading from the slums. Tira’s hands stung with the memory of slapping her sister. And the words she’d shouted as she slammed out of the apartment echoed in her thoughts. “I hate you. I wish you were dead.” A shudder rumbled through her body. She hadn’t meant those words. As soon as she reached the apartment she would tell Luci.

With a sigh she turned back to the museum display. The Egyptian artifacts awed her. For a short time she allowed the beauty of the objects to carry her into dreams of pyramids and temples, of gods and pharaohs and of digging in the earth to uncover treasures of the past.

The dream hovered beyond her grasp. Her chances of gaining a position on a dig in Egypt were slim. Positions were avidly sought by students who had chosen the right colleges and the right professors. Those choices had been beyond her financially. She sucked in a breath. Instead of adventure, when the summer ended, she would take her place in front of a classroom teaching history at an inner city high school.

A glance at her watch said dreamtime was over. She had to reach the apartment in time to change for her evening shift at a restaurant several blocks from the cramped fifth floor efficiency she shared with her older sister. Once again, flash moments from the morning’s quarrel exploded in Tira’s thoughts. She’d been so upset she’d missed her morning martial arts session at the local center.

Tira cast her dreaming self aside and donned the role of practical sister. She hurried to the exit and stepped from the past into a steamy August day. Heat shimmered from the sidewalk. The air hung heavy and filled with the odors of the city and the noises of traffic. She strode along the crowded area taking advantage of every opening.

Ten days to dream. Ten days to walk the halls of the museum. Ten days to study the artifacts that had become her lodestones. She breathed the aromas of real time, spices of cooking foods, metallic scents of passing traffic and the odors of people, some pleasant and some not.

Several blocks from the apartment building the crowds thinned. In an alley she glimpsed furtive movements in the dark shadows. She hurried past. On the corner across the street a group of gang members gathered. She sucked in a breath and held her head high. For all her twenty three years she’d avoided the gangs. As she strode past she heard the usual crude remarks about her body and her attitude.

Get a life, she wanted to scream.

When she saw the ambulance and two cop cars in front of the building where she lived she halted so abruptly she stumbled. A hand caught her arm. Tira saw the gray-streaked beard of one of the winos who slept in the doorways or the alley. “Get your hands off me.”

“Don’t go home,” he whispered. “Lose yourself in the crowd and keep your head down.”

She saw a keen intelligence in the man’s dark eyes. Who was he? He wasn’t as old as she had imagined either. “Why?”

“Your sister’s dead. Cops’ll be looking for you. They heard about the fight.”

Tira’s stomach clenched. She blinked away a rush of tears. Though hearing about her sister’s death wasn’t unexpected another dream shattered. There would be no rehab for Luci. “Junkies O.D. every day,” she said.

“She was murdered.”

Quite a way to start out. The hero Kashe has his own problems. Kashe of Mero sat on his bed in his chamber of the family compound. His head pounded. When he opened his eyes he saw the day had progressed into late afternoon. The bright light made him wince. He recalled the past night’s celebration for the retirement of the family’s arms master who had been his mentor and friend. From the Tuten he had learned the skills of a warrior. Last night Kashe had finally defeated his mentor with weapons and a capacity for beer.

“Kashe.” His father’s voice stabbed like a dagger.

He groaned and sat up. The drum in his head banged. Leave me alone, he wanted to shout. The Nomarch of Mero’s anger toward his middle son was nothing new. What did he want now?

As second son Kashe had been marked for the priesthood. He had no desire to become a priest. He found satisfaction in his role as a warrior. Yet, duty called for obedience.

If any other temple had been chosen he might have agreed. He had no taste for this newly risen cadre of men seeking to force their god into the circle of goddesses and gods of the Two Lands. Aken Re had been unknown until the invaders had arrived. The army of those men had been defeated so why did their priests linger?

The beaded curtain jangled adding cacophonic notes to the beating in his head. “Answer me.” The nomarch entered and halted at the foot of Kashe’s bed. “Rise and present yourself in the central hall. We have guests. Your older brother has news of importance.”

Kashe groaned. He and Pian were a year apart in age and generations in philosophy. In embracing the new religion, His brother had seen an advantage for bringing his ambitions to fruition. He believed the priests would smooth his path to the pharaoh’s chair.

Kashe sat on the edge of the bed and considered his brother and his plans. Pian was slender and shorter than Kashe. He fit the picture of an ideal pharaoh in appearance but not in character. He was cruel and selfish. His sense of justice and honor were lacking. He had no love for Kashe. 

“Throwback” was the mildest of the names Pian used as needles to jab his younger brother. Kashe had strengths his brother lacked. Every match on the training field had ended with Kashe as the victor.

He rose. He couldn’t help that in stature and build he resembled the Nubian ancestors his father and older brother chose to forget in their desire for power. If Pian became pharaoh the Nomarch of Mero would become his son’s chief advisor.

“Are you coming?” his father asked.

If he said no who knew what would happen. Kashe stretched. “As soon as I wash and dress.” Though he would rather have bathed he would make do here. He glanced in the polished metal mirror. His warrior’s braid was neat enough. He poured water from a pitcher into a basin and washed. After donning a fresh kilt he fitted wrist and arm bands and selected a collar necklace.

As he left the family sleeping quarters he braced for the evening meal, the main one of the day. He entered the central hall and hid a desire to duck behind one of the pillars. On the dais his parents sat with a pair of priests. Their gold medallions glittered in the torch light. His older brother stood before the men.

As Kashe neared the platform he noticed the robes were embroidered with gold-rayed discs representing their god. The pair were opposites. One was rotund, smiling and fluttering his hands while speaking. The other was lean with a hawk-like nose and a somber expression. Kashe noticed his younger brother lingered in the shadows near the dais. If anything was to be learned Namose would know.

The nomarch gestured. He strode past his sisters who were engaged in a board game and gossip. 

When Pian’s voice took on a tone both servile and arrogant Kashe grimaced.

“My lords, Oris and Hebu, beloved of Aken Re, has the daughter been found? I so desire to look in her face and claim her as my chief wife. The honor you offer humbles me.”

The rotund priest’s smile broadened. “As yet we have not found her, but the signs point to where she is hidden. When the auspicious hour arrives we will claim her.” He turned from Pian to the nomarch. “You know the price.”

The nomarch pointed to Kashe. “My lords of Aken Re, this is my middle son. He is skilled with weapons and has a vast knowledge of strategy. He will enter your temple as a priest.”

So welcome to my world. Horu's Chosen will be released next month and is up for pre-order. Toth's Priest is waiting for edits so there will be more about my fascination with ancient Egypt