Where the blue blazes did THAT come from? by Stuart R. West

Hey there, Stuart R. West, new kid on the block . As a writer, "where do I get my ideas?" is the most frequently asked question I hear. And I'm sure all of the other Books We Love wonderful writers get the same question.

Wish I had a good answer.

Usually, when asked this, I end up looking like Bambi at the barrel-end of a shotgun. I stare, stammer, try to be witty. Stomp my hooves for a bit. But honestly? No clue.

I suppose I look at it as gathering my supper at a salad bar. I pick and pull and consider various leafy plot ideas, pile them on the plate of my mind, garnish them with what I hope is tasty style, top it off with a heaping dollop of personality. My dressing of preference is humor, heart, and horror. Steaming hot jalapenos of plot twists really set it off. I know, I know, it's an unlikely combination of flavors, but hey! It tastes great at the time, even if it burns when it leaves.

Finally, I let my palate of imagination hunger for the best. I demand shrimp. I know it's hidden away in the refrigerator of my mind somewhere.

Not good enough an answer?

Okay. Most of my books start with an image that strikes me. Out of the blue. Then I take it from there. For instance, I turned bored men sitting on the "husband bench" at the mall into a serial killer thriller/black comedy. I came up with a question, what might these men REALLY be doing there? They certainly didn't have many shopping bags nestled between their stretched out legs.

But what do I know?

Think I'll print this off, keep it in my pocket. Because, as I said, whenever anyone asks me where I get my ideas? I freeze, anything interesting or amusing completely gone the way of the leisure suit. This'll be my "get outta jail card."

  

Visit Stuart R. West at Books We Love

Coming soon from Books We Love: Ghosts of Gannaway

BATTLE OF THE BUNDT by Juliet Waldron

A “big” birthday just come and gone. (Clearly not the one above!) Our favorite local pastry bakery has gone out of business. I’m a scratch baker, but not a professional, nor a yuppie with a ton of equipment and endless dollars. Still, I bake bread weekly, and always baked all the family b-day cakes for my kids. I figured “what the hell, Archie!” This year, I will make one for myself.

I dragged a Bundt pan from the back of the cabinet and dug out the recipe book with which it came. I looked up recipes which would fit in the “mini” pan, found one that appealed, shopped ingredients and then began. I chopped cherries and prepped chocolate, sifted dry ingredients and creamed the butter, sugar and eggs. Then, I revved the mixer and was soon ready to pour batter into the pan. To my surprise, it filled almost to the brim.

I went back to the recipe book and checked again. Yes—this was specifically for the “mini” pan...

Full steam ahead.  I wasn’t listening to the shrill little voice of baker’s experience which was telling me that this cake would, shortly, be all over the bottom of the oven. Still, I didn’t put a cookie sheet underneath it. Why, I can find no reason for, except, maybe, sheer stubbornness, or a sad tendency to shoot myself in the foot.  

After all, this recipe book has never let me down before…

Well, as the voice of experience had warned, Vesuvius erupted. I turned the oven off, got gloves and the cookie sheet I should have put under no matter what “the book said.” Anyone with a bad back who has stooped to reach into a hot oven after a molten tub of something knows how scary this is, but it had to be done. Somehow I got the cake pan onto the sheet without more spilling or burning myself. I turned the oven back on, and, an instant later, the floor of the oven burst into flames. After staring for a moment, and realizing that with so much fuel, it wasn’t about to give up any time soon, I retrieved a box of baking soda. I put out the fire, after turning the oven off once again.

Okay! I’d got the fire out, and the cake pan situated so that the still lively volcanic action would no longer end up on the oven floor. Mad at myself, but not yet ready to despair, I went back to cleaning the kitchen, washing dishes, putting away the mixer, etc. and then started on the frosting. Half an hour later, I realized I hadn’t turned the oven back on again.

Well, this was a duel now, between me and my own folly.  I turned the oven on at a lower temperature and began to bake -- again. By using a thermometer, I would eventually make a decision about when the cake was done. 

At last, I removed it—best estimate—and after it had cooled a bit, and after a long session of chipping the lava flow off the sides of the pan and cookie sheet, I managed to pick it up and turn the cake over onto a plate.  Believe it or not, a few minutes later, the darn thing slipped out of the pan, and in proper Bundt form! About an hour later, I frosted it and my husband and I ate it--and ate it--for the best part of a week. It was—somehow—a totally yummy, moist chocolate cherry cake, despite all the misadventures it and I had been through together.

~~Juliet Waldron

Not only is Juliet Waldron a warm and funny storyteller when relating personal experiences, she is an extremely talented and masterful author of historical novels like Mozart's Wife, Roan Rose, Genessee, and many more, including her latest, a novelist's history of Alexander Hamilton, America's first Secretary of the Treasury, which has debuted to rave reviews.  Click the cover to get a copy from Amazon.

 

http://www.bookswelove.net/authors/juliet-waldron/

More about my historical novels:

http://www.julietwaldron.com

Just Me and My Besties--Slugging a Path Through Those 'Sagging Middles' By Connie Vines

PURCHASE FROM AMAZON

Yes, I have friends, associates, family, and other writers to converse with though out my day.

Yes, I network, attend workshops, and belong to online writing chapters.  I even have other writer friend only a text message away.

But at 3 AM, when I'm slugging my way through a 'not-quite-working' middle of a novel, and I've started talking to myself.  It's nice to have a BFs at your disposal.

While the focus of the movies and television seems to be on helpfulness of minions and the like--I prefer the company of a good listener--or cheering section.

Well, it's not conventional--but then I'm a bit quirky, most writer's are.  After all we do spend quite a bit of time in our own company.

For a person who did not indulge in, or particularly like, dolls as a child  (I held my baby doll by a foot allowing her head bounced around in the dirt).  I did like monster movies (The old Universal Monster Movies).  I collected the model kits and read all the magazines about horror make-up and read bios about the great actors.  So I guess this type of cheering section makes perfect sense.
(See qualifying statement in earlier paragraph).

So did I come up with any sure fire way to get through those 'sagging story middles', with or without the help of Besties?

I've changed to Pandora Radio for evening listen, and Slacker Radio during the day. When I'm working though a snag, B.J. Thomas is usually singing in the background.

Let's face it. the middle of a story can be depressing.  Our hero becomes overwhelmed.  Things look savage and harsh.  Paths disappear (for both the hero and, unfortunately, the writer).

To quote, Nancy Kress, The function of the middle is to develop the implicit promise made by a story's beginning.

After all, a promise is a promise.

This is when we must ask ourselves, whose story is this?
Who are the point of view characters?
What is the main plot line (throughline is the film term)?

Not certain?  Boy, do you have a problem!

Getting a clear focus on your plot line can make the middle of your book easier to write.  Where should the emphasize be--which scenes, which characters.  I used to rely on 3 x 5 index cards, now I use several writing programs and apps.

Since I write in series of threes: chapter 1-3, 4-7, etc. my middle seems longer because it over laps sections.  I also like to have 3 scenes in each chapter, with a scene often breaking at a chapter's end and ending in the following chapter opening.

Still experiencing a bit of trouble?  Choose three novels you know well.  For each summarize the plot line in a sentence or two.

Jane Eyre: Penniless in a region of England she does not know, Jan experiences three bitter days of begging, sleeping outside, and nearly starving.

 Dracula: One of Dr. Seward's mental patients, Renfield, lets Dracula into the asylum where the others are staying, allowing the count to prey on Mina.

It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!:  When Linus sees a shadowy figure rising from the moonlit patch, he assumes the Great Pumpkin has arrived, and faints.

Now, pull out your WIP or a few of your unfinished stores.  Summarize its plot line.  List the scenes.  How does each scene advance the plot, develop character, contribute to the middle plot line?

Do you need to add an additional scene?  Should a scene have more emotional intensity?  I find this to be true in my stories.  My stories are character driven and  the emotional reactions are a force which drives my plot lines.

Keep your characters from having a mid-life crisis by shoring up those 'sagging middles', and relying on your "Besties".

Happy Reading,

Connie

novelsbyconnievines
Word Slinger
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The medieval sound of the horn - by Vijaya Schartz

Nothing says medieval like the sound of a horn in the distance, filling a valley, bouncing off mountains, and reminding everyone around that something important, or dreadful, was about to happen. These horns were made of animal horns or ivory, hence the name. Often they were sculpted or engraved with intricate carvings.

My first recollection of reading about such horns was in school, while learning about Charlemagne and his loyal nephew Roland, who was isolated and attacked at the end of the column, by the enemy, in the Pyrenees. The mournful sound of Roland's horn, named Oliphant, called for help but remained unheard by Charlemagne at the front of the legion. As a result, Roland was killed, despite his unbreakable sword, Durandal. At the time it was a tragedy. Roland was Charlemagne's favorite nephew, and history says that he was betrayed by the knight Ganelon.

 Nothing can set the mood in a medieval novel, like the sound of a horn. Every time I read or write about it, it gives me goosebumps. Whether it's a village fire, an invasion, a natural danger, the horn is often a precursor of calamity.

Even now, we use sirens to warn the population of tsumani, tornadoes, and other dangers. Their sound imitates the mournful lament of the ancient horn.

In BELOVED CRUSADER, my latest book in the Curse of the Lost Isle series, the Crusaders, like the armies of Charlemagne, set out and stop to the sound of the horn. Actually, they also take the Charlemagne road, that crossed Europe from its northern point to the famed city of Constantinople. Hope you enjoy the read.

Vijaya Schartz, author

Blasters, Swords, Romance with a Kick

http://www.vijayaschartz.com

http://bookswelove.net/authors/schartz-vijaya/ 

Thank heaven for the Kodak Brownie--Tricia McGill

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And thank heaven I belonged in a family who loved taking pictures. I have friends who don’t have a single photograph of their parents, their siblings or themselves when young. This is so sad. Being the youngest in a large family I was treated as a pet, especially by my two eldest sisters who would doll me up and cart me off regularly to the local photographic studio to have my picture taken for posterity. I don’t think I was particularly happy with this arrangement as most of the photos taken in the studio show a pouting brat—but I did look smart with my big white bow atop my head. The pictures that were taken with the old Kodak Brownie were a different matter. 

Here it is for those who have never seen one

I don’t know who bought it or how this camera came into the family’s possession but I now have probably a thousand pictures here on my computer that show my extended family over the generations.

For those who have no idea what I am talking about this box camera was one of the first made by Kodak in 1915. But I can remember it being used by one of my sisters or brothers years later. Perhaps they had a later version, I can’t recall. Of course rolls of film had to be inserted and when that was full it would be taken off to the chemist (pharmacy) who would send the film off to be developed. I never bothered much with the details of how these wonderful photos ended up back with us, I’m just glad they did. When our beloved mother died my sister and I had a drawer full to sort through.

Our Dad taken around 1916, not sure but think it is in France. He cared for the warhorses.

Because of my family’s love of picture collecting I not only have the snaps taken by them I also have other pictures of my parents and siblings that have been passed down to me.

me aged 4

That's me at the front on the left scowling at my eldest brother's wedding. My parents are at the back and the other bridesmaid is my eldest sister.

The computer is a boon as it has enabled me to scan and edit them, a time-consuming but worthwhile task. I’ve made photo books for my sister and for my eldest sister’s daughters showing our family story from about 1909 onwards and I feel so sorry for others who do not possess their past shown in pictures. I gave my sister a digital photo frame for Christmas and it is a joy to her to flick through the pictures and get a visual journey through the family’s past right up to the present. 

That's our sister Joan on the left, the glamor girl of the family. Note the fabulous bathing costume. It was passed down to me. Can you imagine the picture I made wearing that. By the time I inherited it the thing was so loose and baggy it fell off me. Anyone remember the elasticated costumes?

Unfortunately only four of us remain out of the original ten so I am glad that our eldest sister’s daughters share our love of collecting photos and looking back into their past through old snaps.

You can find excerpts from all my books here on my webpage where you will find Remnants of Dreams, my book that, although fictional, is based on my mother's life.

Or visit my Books We Love author page.

Still Time to Win a Kindle Fire in BWL's Swing into Spring Contest

 To celebrate the Spring Season, BWL is giving away a Kindle Fire HD 7, 7" HD Display, Wi-Fi, 8 GB

CLICK HERE TO ENTER TO WIN A KINDLE FIRE

All you have to do to win is visit the Books We Love home page  browse our "Coming Soon" and new releases books and tell us which book you would like to read.

Send an email to bookswelovecontest@shaw.ca with your selection(s) and your email address and home state/province. One entry per subscriber. Multiple entries do not increase your chances of winning. Sorry, this contest is only available in the US and Canada - not valid in Quebec or where prohibited by law.  Winner's name will be posted on the website on June 15, 2015.

Good Luck!

Swing into Spring Contest from Books We Love

 

Snails Instead of Match.com? Husband Hunting in the 18t c. by Diane Scott Lewis

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In these modern times with the internet (and women freely allowed to enter bars) females have choices in their search for a mate. But in eighteenth century England, my era of research, girls were superstitious, and quite limited, especially in the small country villages.

An English lass's search for a husband was vitally important. In bygone periods marriage was what most young women had to look forward to, or they’d be ridiculed and regulated to spinsters, farmed out as governesses, or forced to live on the charity of their already poor families.

To this end, many relied on ancient customs and folklore. Most of these search-for-true-love customs revolved around the seasons.

Cerne Abbas

At the ruined Abbey of Cerne Abbas in Dorsetshire, girls flocked around the wishing-well in all seasons. To obtain their heart’s desire, they’d pluck a leaf from a nearby laurel bush, make a cup of it, dip this in the well, then turn and face the church. The girl would then "wish" for presumably a man she already has in mind, but must keep this wish a secret or it wouldn’t come true.

Other customs included, in Somersetshire on May Day Eve or St. John’s Eve, a lass putting a snail on a pewter plate. As the snail slithered across the plate it would mark out the future husband’s initials.

On another ritual to this end, writer Daniel Defoe remarked by saying: "I hope that the next twenty-ninth of June, which is St. John the Baptist’s Day, I shall not see the pastures adjacent to the metropolis thronged as they were the last year with well-dressed young ladies crawling up and down upon their knees as if they were a parcel of weeders,

Defoe

when all the business is to hunt superstitiously after a coal under the root of a plantain to put under their heads that night that they may dream who should be their husbands."

Throwing an apple peel over the left shoulder was also employed in the hopes the paring would fall into the shape of the future husband’s initials. When done on St. Simon and St. Jude’s Day, the girls would recite the following rhyme as they tossed the peel: St. Simon and St. Jude, on you I intrude, By this paring I hold to discover, without any delay please tell me this day, the first letter of him, my true lover.

On St. John’s Eve, his flower, the St. John’s Wort, would be hung over doors and windows to keep off evil spirits, and the girls who weren’t off searching for coal or snails in the pastures, would be preparing the dumb cake. Two girls made the cake, two baked it, and two broke it. A third person would put the cake pieces under the pillows of the other six. This entire ritual must be performed in dead silence-or it would fail. The girls would then go to bed to dream of their future husbands.

On the eve of St. Mary Magdalene’s Day, a spring of rosemary would be dipped into a mixture of wine, rum, gin, vinegar, and water. The girls, who must be under twenty-one, fastened the sprigs to their gowns, drink three sips of the concoction, then would go to sleep in silence and dream of future husbands.

On Halloween, a girl going out alone might meet her true lover. One tale has it that a young servant-maid who went out for this purpose encountered her master coming home from market instead of a single boy. She ran home to tell her mistress, who was already ill. The mistress implored the maid to be kind to her children, then this wife died. Later on, the master did marry his serving-maid.

Myths and customs were long a part of village life when it came to match-making. Now they sound much more fun than the click of a mouse on a computer. But then as now, you never know what you'll end up with.

In my novel, Ring of Stone,which takes place in eighteenth-century Cornwall, my heroine Rose will experience magic on All Hallows Eve and glimpse her future husband over her sHoulder.  Click the cover at the top of this Blog to buy a copy of Ring of Stone. Thanks for reading my blog post, and I hope you will purchase and enjoy my novel(s) as well.

For more on Diane Scott Lewis’s novels, visit her website: http://www.dianescottlewis.org

Source: English Country Life in the Eighteenth Century, by Rosamond Bayne-Powell, 1935.