Tricia McGill asks: “Don’t you just love the internet?”

There are many downsides to the internet. One being phishers and hackers. I have just received a suspicious email with an attachment stating it is from PayPal. I know they never send emails such as this and certainly not with an invoice attached. Knowing this was suspect I sent it on to them and they are grateful as they like to know of these emails and are in the process of checking if it is malicious.

But, having said this I do love the internet, and one of the main reasons being the ease of researching. This morning I have fixed a faulty cistern in my toilet. How, you ask, did I know how to do this task that most would think is strictly one for a male. When you live alone you have to become adaptable, and the www has helped me over the years in so many ways. I Googled the name of my cistern and the fact that it was leaking and how should I go about fixing it, and lo there was this informative video with step by step instructions. It might have taken me a while longer than a man to fix, but I’ve done it and am proud of this small achievement.

When I began writing long ago I wrote everything in longhand until my husband bought me a typewriter. I taught myself to touch type and in no time had dumped that for a small word processor. Then I graduated to a computer—ah, the joy. In those early days all the research for my books was done at the local library. I’ve always loved research so this was no ordeal and many happy hours were spent there poring over the valuable books on various subjects.

Any writer will tell you that research is essential, whether it be for the day a conflict started in a certain country to what a Viking woman would be wearing on an average day. My initial most intense research was for my Remnants of Dreams. This story starts in 1914 and goes through the two world wars and beyond. There were such things to learn as when the first newspaper was printed, what were the methods of birth control used in the early 1900s or even later into the 50s, what did basic food items cost. Then both wars had to be researched thoroughly. I knew little about WW1 and just a fraction more about WW11. Luckily my eldest sister was a teenager at the start of the Second World War so her input was invaluable. She could put me straight about gas masks, black-out curtains and air-raid shelters in London, not to mention ration books and the thriving black market.

           

This snip from my Time-Travel The Laird proves I had to learn, amongst many other things, all there was to know about the wildlife in Scotland in 1050.

“Why would any man wish to trap or harm a creature as magnificent as the eagle? An’ just where have they gone? Why cannae ye bring them back?” His brows met in a deep frown.

Liz sighed. “I’m afraid it’s impossible. Many families of animals have gone forever from this earth. Do you see many wolves roaming these parts?”

“Aye, we have our share of them, sure.” He looked puzzled.

“Well, the last one will be killed about 1800, and then if you ride these moors you would never see another. Man has made a real mess of things in the future, I’m sad to say.”

“An’ what man is this?” he wondered, snarling with anger.

“When I say man, I mean mankind in general. Not just one person.”

“Aye, I see. In what way have they made a mess, as ye put it?” He was obviously appalled. Liz hid a smile. It was apparent in his interest he’d forgotten he didn’t believe they were from the future.

“Well, he’s polluted the air the ground and the sea. He has blatantly slain many animals, simply for their hide, or their horns, or their innards. Usually for monetary gain. Sometimes simply for the pleasure of the hunt and the kill.”

“This I understand, there is no greater thrill than outrunning yer prey.” Travis grinned.

“Ah, but why do you hunt, Travis?”

“To eat, and feed my kinsmen and family, why else?” He shrugged at what was clearly, to him, a stupid question.

“There you are, you see. You hunt and kill simply to eat, but in the future animals are hunted for a stack of reasons. Food being the last and least of them.”

In researching for my Settlers series I learned so much that I didn’t know about early Australia, and have to admit this was probably my favorite research of all. To think that in a mere 220 plus years we have come—as has America—so far, is incredible.

So, why is the internet such a boon? Now, instead of trotting off to the library when I come up with a fact I need to verify all I have to do is google it and within seconds I have the answer. Perhaps I sometimes yearn for those long ago days when I spent hours in the beautiful surroundings of the library amongst a wealth of knowledge, but think how much time the internet saves us, and how easy it is to access the world’s fantastic array of advice and knowledge. Then there is the added benefit of a video to show us how to go about doing certain things, such as fixing a leaking cistern in the toilet.

All Tricia McGill’s books can be found here: http://bookswelove.net/authors/tricia-mcgill/#

Read excerpts on her webpage: www.triciamcgill.com

To Plot or Not by Roseanne Dowell

That is the question.
Or is it?
I've been asked many times if I plot my books. The answer is a resounding NO! It doesn't work for me. I'm not saying it's wrong. Many writers and hat works for them. Just like everything else in writing, there's no hard and fast rule. Many authors can't write if they don't plot. 

At one of our local chapter meetings of RWA, the speaker talked about plotting  and even writing a synopsis before the book was written. That concept never entered my mind. How can you write a synopsis before the book is written? She suggested if we'd never done that to try it. I figured what the heck,  why not give it a try.

So I did.

I had an idea for a story taking shape in my mind. As usual, I knew the beginning and end. What happened in the middle? I didn't have a clue. Oh, I had a few ideas. I knew there was a secret about my heroine’s birth, and that she’d find a dead body But I had no idea who he was (yes, I knew

it was a male) or why he was killed. 
So I tried plotting. I came up with a few ideas about his identity and even about who murdered him and even why.

I started to outline , and I came up with a pretty good story line. Then, I started writing. For a while, it flowed pretty well. Once my heroine discovered the body, I was stuck. Something didn't feel right. I wasn't sure what it was, but  I couldn't move on. My heroine wouldn't let me. No matter how I tried to write the next conflict, the words wouldn't come.

I was totally blocked. The story sat for the better part of the year without me adding even one word. Every time I opened it, I read it, made a few changes like I always did when opening my story,  and then I came to the part where I was stumped.

I stared at the computer, sometimes for hours, trying to come up with something, anything –even if it was garbage – just to get me past that hump. Nothing worked. 

So I’d move on to something else. I revised several other stories that I’d written a long time ago, then I’d go back to it. The problem was –I was locked into the outline, I didn't know how to make the transition to the next thing. It didn't feel right, wouldn't flow.                                                                 

It wasn't until I was emailing my writing buddy about my dilemma. I needed help and any suggestions she could offer would be most welcome. I told her what I had so far, and where I wanted the story to go. For some reason, in that email, I started to ask what if, which is how I usually write. I threw out a couple of ideas to her and answered them myself. Finally, I was unblocked. I even created a new character and another conflict. I ignored the plot outline and went a completely different way.

That's how I write. I'm what they call a panster (I write by the seat of my pants) I don't plot, I don't outline. At least not on paper. (computer). I write as I go along asking what if, and coming up with new ideas. For me, plotting and outlining doesn't work. I’ll never do it again. I know you're not locked into your outline, but for me, I couldn't get past it. XY and Z had to happen. I was wrong, of course, but by plotting and outlining, my subconscious mind wouldn't let me get past it. At least not until I went back to asking what if in the middle of the story like I usually did.  I had trouble deviating from the outline.  It blocked my creativity. Yes, I should have ignored it long before, but it was too fresh in my mind. It took a year and then some to forget what was on that outline so I could move on.

I guess my whole point is – write the way it’s comfortable for you. For the authors who plot and outline - that works and good for them. 

There is no right or wrong way, there’s only your way. Develop your own style, your own voice, and your own rules. Some authors get up in the morning and sit down to write. Some write later in the day, and still others write in the middle of the night. Again, whatever works best for you. The important thing is to write.

 Check out my books at: 

My current novels are available from Amazon at: http://amzn.to/tnqgR2  

Visit me at my website www.roseannedowell.com or my blog http://roseannedowellauthor.blogspot.com/

The "nerve" of the English Domestic Servant, by Diane Scott Lewis

While we think of servants of the past being much abused (and many were) I found out different in my on-going research. In the eighteenth century, a time when domestic service was seen as easier than toiling in a shop or factory, a poor farmer’s sons and daughters would go happily into this type of work. Even a parson’s family did not look down on the occupation. However, the English domestics thought of themselves as a cut above.

The English servant was quite independent and rarely satisfied with low wages. Instead of being content in the early part of the century with £2 a year, they were demanding as much as £6 and £8. Writer Daniel Defoe wanted to see wages fixed at no more than £5, or soon this rabble would insist on as much as £20.

Lord Fermanagh, when writing to a friend about his butler, who had the audacity to ask for £10, said: "I would have a sightly fellow and one that has had the smallpox, and an honest man, for he is entrusted with store of plate, and can shave, but I will give no such wages as this."

The English servant stood up for himself, giving notice or running away if ill-treated. One servant, after being struck by his master, turned on the man and killed him with a pitchfork.

Foreigners were amazed—since they treated their servants like slaves—to see a nobleman like Lord Ferrers hanged in 1760 for the murder of his steward.

In the earlier part of the century there was a scarcity of women servants, but later, after years of bad harvests, starvation sent many girls into service.

One lady, upon advertising for another housemaid, had over 200 applicants.

If wages were low, servants in a large house could supplement their pay with vails (tips). One foreigner complained after dining with a friend at his home: "You’ll find all the servants drawn up in the passage like a file of musqueteers from the house steward, down to the lowest liveried servant, and each of them holds out his hand to you in as deliberate a manner as the servants in our inns on the like occasion."

One clergyman reported that when he dined with his Bishop, he spent more in vails than would have fed his family for a week.

At least the Duke of Ormonde, when inviting a poor relation to dine, always sent him a guinea ahead of time for the vails.

A movement, rumored to have started in Scotland, was put forth to abolish vails, but nothing came of it.

If servants believed themselves independent, striving for respect, their employers often demanded too much from them for little pay. Mrs. Purefoy advertised for a coachman, who can not only drive four horses, but must understand husbandry business and cattle, plus he’d also be expected to plough. She also required a footman who could "work in the garden, lay the cloth, wait at table, go to the cart with Thomas, and do any other business that he is ordered to do and not too large sized a man, that he may not be too great a load for the horse when he rides."

Servants were derided by their "betters" as being lazy and selfish, especially when they’d leave their positions for higher wages and vails.

Of course, many servants during the eighteenth century—especially in the larger towns and cities—were mistreated and far underpaid, if paid at all.

Still, some servants were honored and treated as members of the family, as shown by this epitaph on a coachman’s headstone: Coachman the foe to drink and heart sincere; Of manners gentle and of judgment clear; Safe through the chequered track of life he drove; And gained the treasure of his master’s love...


To learn more about my eighteenth-century novels, please visit my website:

http://www.dianescottlewis.org


Source: English Country Life in the Eighteenth Century, by Rosamond Bayne-Powell, 1937

The Book That Started It All by Victoria Chatham

I class a favorite book as one I will read and then re-read again and again. The book I have re-read the most is Georgette Heyer's Frederica and I still find it as fresh and as funny as the first time I read it.

Georgette Heyer, 1902 - 1974

Frederica Merriville has one burning desire and that is to see her beautiful younger sister, Charis, introduced to the London ton in order to achieve a suitable marriage. To this end she engages the assistance of a distant cousin, the Marquis of Alverstoke - rich, bored and cynical. Alverstoke gradually succumbs to Frederica's charms, charms of which she is totally unaware as her family has her total focus. Along with her sister, Frederica also oversees the antics of brothers Harry (sent down from Oxford University), Jessamy (determined to be a priest and constantly berating himself as he falls between boyish pranks and high virtue) and Felix (who has a passion for science).

Alverstoke has already been approached by one of his sisters to have a coming out ball for his niece, Jane, at Alverstoke House. On a whim, he agrees to this providing his sister, Louisa, introduces Charis into society. Louisa has no option but to agree but is nearly undone when she discovers that Charis's shining beauty puts her own daughter in the shade. Tender-hearted Charis gets into one love interest after another culminating in her elopement. Jessamy's love of horses interests the Marquis, and Felix's scientific endeavors intrigue him. Harry, being older but not necessarily wiser engages the Marquis in an entirely different way. 

This is one of the best of Heyer's Regency romances. Heyer exquisitely captures the rough and tumble of family life with the social mores of the era, and wraps it into an engaging story with a strong thread of real comedy. The dialogue sparkles as Alverstoke is a perfect foil for Frederica's wit. One family adventure after another captivates Alverstoke's lively mind and, when he finally wins Miss Frederica Merrivllle's hand, it is on the understanding that he accept Jessamy and Felix too.

Heyer wrote her first book The Black Moth in serial form for her brother Boris, a young man in ill health who frequently became bored. Her father, George Heyer, enjoyed the story so much he became instrumental in getting it published and it was released in 1921.  

For many years Heyer took responsibility for supporting her family, publishing two novels a year, one a Regency romance and the other a thriller. Her Regency books sold well, her thrillers less so and were once criticized for having unoriginal 'methods, motives and characters'.

That her Regencies were influenced by the work of Jane Austen there is no doubt.  Austen rarely refers to details such as dress and manners because her writing was contemporary. Heyer, in comparison, included rich detail about fabrics, styles, and décor for her readers to understand the times and settings in which she placed her characters.

Heyer wrote until her death in July, 1974 and at that time had 48 titles in print. She lived out of the public eye, stating that “My private life concerns no one but myself and my family.”

I have read all of her romances and most of the thrillers, but it is Frederica that draws me back every time. This book alone gripped me from start to finish and made me want to create enigmatic characters, sweeping settings and thoroughly satisfying happy-ever-afters. I’m still working at it.

For more information about Victoria Chatham and her books, visit:

www.bookswelove.com/chatham.php
www.victoriachatham.webs.com
www.facebook.com/AuthorVictoriaChatham

Writers Distractions by Jude Pittman

The things we find to do when we know we should be writing that next chapter.

Okay, I confess I’m one of the worst when it comes to getting myself distracted. As many of you know, I’m a publisher as well as an author, so it seems there are always things to be taken care of.  Now I’m not talking about the “ordinary course of the day stuff that needs to be done”. Nope what I’m referring to is those “one of these days” projects you filed away under “things I’ll investigate when I have time.”  When you’re looking for distractions because you haven’t figured out where that next chapter is going and you know once you sit down to write it your muse is probably going to take over and it’ll be hours and hours before you come up for air.  Those are the kind of distractions I’m talking about here.

The kind that in true “distractor” style, you pull out of your hat and turn away from the blank page in front of you.  One of the first things I think of are facts that need to be checked out on Google or Wikipedia, or – best time waster of all time – I have an urgent need to check out Facebook and see what other people have to say about my topic.  See the pattern.

It’s easy to tell when I’m working on a new novel.  Usually when it’s my turn to Blog I’ll get an email from Jamie about a week ahead of time, reminding me that I’ve got a blog date coming up.  Of course, I’ll make a mental note of that – which I’ll promptly forget – and a couple of days later I’ll get another note from Jamie, this one saying, are you going to have anything for this month or do you want me to use some filler?  Okay, now she’s got my attention (as she knew she would) and I have to go digging for a topic. After a bunch of searching through stuff I have – just to see if I really have to write something new or I can get away with something already written – which usually I can’t because I’ve already everything in previous last minute blog posts.  In desperation I’ll finally apply the seat of my pants to my chair and write a blog.  Probably on whatever it was I was fooling around reading on  Google or Wikipedia, or Facebook if it isn’t liable.

Not this week though.  No Sirree Bob (which was one of my favorite Uncle’s favorite sayings). I’m writing a new book, the latest in my Kelly McWinter series (pictured above) – delighted to share – love sharing the cover – it’s that writing part that always sends me searching for distractions.  Jamie is going to be delighted. She’s getting this Blog a full week before she even gets to remind me. But then again, Jamie is also one of my advance readers on my book.  She’s probably expecting the blog post since she’s well aware of my penchant for distractions and what I’ll probably get from her in return is, “have you finished your 5,000 words for this week yet?”

Actually, I’m rather proud of this week’s work (what there is of it so far). My husband John, who’s Metis and comes up with some fascinating bits of trivia just when I’m in need of something, gave me this one after I’d been muttering around about how I wanted to write an intimate scene between my main characters but I didn’t want it to be an explicit scene. I wanted to leave it to my reader’s imaginations.  That’s when he piped up with “what about using a magic feather”?

Okay, even I couldn’t get distracted off of that one.  Here as a special advance preview, for those of you who I hope will be reading the first book in my new Kelly McWinter series, A Murder State of Mind, California, Deadly Lights, is what came out of the feather remark.

A Murder State of Mind, California

Deadly Lights

By

Jude Pittman

In the travel magazine Kelly read on the plane, the writer described Beverly Hills as a “mix of cosmopolitan sophistication and star-studded excitement”. From what he could see as they whisked along Wilshire Boulevard and turned onto Rodeo Drive, Kelly figured it lived up to its name. Gillian’s nose stayed glued to the window from the time they left the airport until they pulled into what the driver called the porte cochère, the drive between the two wings of the hotel.

When Kelly and Gillian got out of the limo they were met by a doorman – in top hat and tails no less. “Definitely posh,” Kelly whispered in Gillian’s ear.

The lobby beat description. Flowers, sculpted glass, a chandelier with more lights than the Hideaway lit up for a Saturday night shindig. Kelly had to admit the word elegance fit this place like a glove. 

 

“Can you believe this?” Gillian, eyes round as giant marbles, squeezed his arm.”

“Kinda takes your breath away.” They stood under the chandelier, caught in the magic of lights reflecting on the marble beneath their feet.

“Mr. McWinter.” A bellman magically appeared at their side and stood discreetly waiting for them to close their mouths.

“Everything is prepared for your arrival.” He smiled at both of them and spoke to Kelly. 

“If you and Mrs. McWinter would like to follow me, I’ll see you to your suite.”

They followed him across the lobby, gawking all the way. The elevator whisked them to the twelfth floor where they stepped out into a hallway lined with portraits of movie star greats from days gone by. 

“Ms. Davis mentioned that you’d want to be connected to the pool and spa,” the Bellman stopped in front of one of the doors at the end of the hall. “I hope you’ll like this corner Beverly Suite. As you can see, it has two balconies with a nice view from either.”

Their escort checked the rooms, made sure all their luggage had been delivered and reminded them to call if they needed anything.

“Nice. Did he say nice?” Gillian whispered when the door closed behind him.

“I guess in his world looking directly out on shoppers strolling along world famous Rodeo Drive is just nice.”

“You can talk out loud you know. I expect this room is insulated for sound.” Kelly laughed and Gillian poked him in the ribs. “Okay wise guy. And just how many times have you looked out your window at women flicking their chinchillas over their shoulders.”

“Yep, they do beat anything I’ve ever seen. It must be 80 degrees out there, and everywhere I look there’s a cougar with a rat around her neck stalking a billionaire.”

“Kelly McWinter, you stop mocking. Did you see the bar we passed? The place was probably packed with movie stars and millionaires.”

Kelly grabbed Gillian around the waist, backed up to the bed and rolled with her onto the ultra-soft mattress of their King sized bed. “I’m a lot more interested in what I’ve got right here in my own room than what they’ve got down there in the bar. Not arguing, just saying it’s a lot more likely there’s cougars and tourists looking for stars and millionaires.”

Gillian gave up and flopped back in his arms. “Did I hear that major domo say we had champagne and strawberries in the sitting room?”

“You stay right here.” Kelly gave her a quick kiss and headed out to get the goodies.

Back in the bedroom, Gillian stripped out of her traveling clothes, gave her hair a quick brush, and slipped beneath the satiny sheets.

* * *

Several hours later, after some very intense lovemaking, followed by a long and leisurely nap, Kelly woke up with Gillian snuggled in his arms.

“Wow.” He whispered into her ear. “If anyone had told me a woman could do that with strawberries and champagne I’d have called them a liar.”

Gillian opened her eyes and giggled. “Never mind that, what I want to know is where in the devil you got that feather?”

“You liked that did you? One of these days I’ll have to introduce you to Deputy Randy Buffalo. He’s a Comanche Indian, traces his line all the way back to Chief Buffalo Hump. We worked a case together while I was still on the force. He was tracking a suspect from Amarillo and I was tracking one from Fort Worth and damned if they didn’t come together in El Paso. We took them down on a Friday night and had to hang around waiting for a judge until Monday morning. I don’t remember a lot about that weekend, but I do recall a bet on who could swallow the first worm. I won the bet and Randy gave me the magic feather. He told me not to use the feather until I found a woman I wanted forever. I put it away in my stuff and never thought about it again. Then the other night, when I was looking for a set of turquoise cufflinks I bought in El Paso, I came across the feather. It seemed like this might be a good time to try out Randy’s magic, so I brought it along.”

Gillian wrapped one of her legs around Kelly’s waist and grinned. “I bet that Comanche friend of yours is a married man with half a dozen kids by now. At least he is if he kept one of those feathers for himself.”

To be continued after I finish…………….Distractions……………..

Jude Pittman

http://bookswelove.net/authors/jude-pittman/#