Setting The Scene with Diane Bator

In writing the Wild Blue Mystery novels, I've had to make sure to keep the settings close in mind. I've even gone so far as to make a map of the stores and homes in my fictional town of Packham for my own sanity as I go from novel to novel. So far, I've written three novels and have two more in the works so I have a lot of locations to keep track of. Places like Daisy's Bakery, the tattoo shop, Java Jo's, all have to be consistent with each book in the series.

Currently, I'm juggling three book series with different publishers, so keeping each new town distinct and organized is no small feat!

The Wild Blue series features two main towns:  Packham and Newville. Both locations are in the Northeastern US. One is a small town, one a larger city. Both are central to a few of my main characters.

One of my favorite books to research for the series was The Bakery Lady. Not only did I have to learn more about the bakery itself, but just happened to see a show one night about Andy Warhol who became my inspiration for artist D.J. Gage and his studio loft, painted silver and decorated with Warhol in mind...including the famous red couch.

The small Ontario town I currently live in was my inspiration for the town of Packham, right down to Father Sam's front yard with the Virgin Mary statue and the Presbyterian church with the amazing stained glass windows that Katie walks past. The bookstore Katie eventually owns was also based on a local indie bookstore that I love to haunt, right down to the staircase to the upper level. I've even held book events there and look forward to planning a new one now that all my Wild Blue books are in print, but that's a whole other blog!

 

So, if I live in Canada and have used my town as a backdrop for my novels, why did I chose to set the series across the border? Easy answer:  on the advice of a fellow writer who did the same thing on some advice he received. It's working for me so far, but I would like to set a series in Canada once all my current obligations are met...two books for the Wild Blue Mysteries series and an undetermined amount for my other two series. 

I do hope you check out my Author Page on the Books We Love website as well as on Amazon and my personal website Pens, Paints and Paper.

YOU CAN'T ESCAPE THEM - DEATH, SEX AND TAXES - MARGARET TANNER

SEX, DEATH AND TAXES – MARGARET TANNER

Everyone has to pay taxes; no government on earth is going to let their citizens get away without paying taxes. Taxes on your salary, business tax, death taxes, you name it, they will tax it. Even the humble hamburger doesn't escape the clutches of the tax man.

In romance novels, we don’t talk about taxes. I don’t recall ever having read anything about tax collection.

Sex – yes in all its forms, sweet and tender, just a kiss or two. Hot and spicy, no shutting the bedroom door here, and the really hot stuff that Margaret Tanner doesn’t write. I do commend the talented authors who do, and pull it off so successfully in their erotic romances.

Death – In novels, I consider death to be a great tool in creating emotion and upping the drama. I don’t mean having the hero and heroine die, but the villains and secondary characters. Of course, near death experiences for heroes or heroines is always good.

I have been thinking about this in regards to my stories. I write historical fiction with romantic elements, so death is probably easier to include in these stories. Harder to justify in contemporary romance, unless it is some villain who is hell bent on harming the heroine and to save her life, he has to go.

In bygone days, death in childbirth was quite common. People died of snakebite/disease/illness because they were miles from medical assistance or could not afford to pay for it. Bank robbers, stage coach robbers, cattle rustlers etc. the sheriff could quite legitimately shoot these criminals down without fear of reprisal from their peers, or condemnation from the public.

In war, on the field of battle, soldiers die or are wounded, so we happily accept this in historical romance. We probably shed a tear or two for the gallant warrior and the staunch heroine who waits in vain for him to return. We wouldn’t throw the book against the wall because of this. We just sigh with contentment when another dashing soldier rides into the life of our heroine and she finally gets her happily ever after ending.

I have to confess that in all my novels there is some sex of the medium to hot variety and someone must die. Never a main character, of course, but someone invariably has to go, usually a baddie, but not always so.

As for taxes, I never mention the word in my novels unless it is to say – the heat became very taxing.

My Links:

http://www.margarettanner.com/

http://bookswelove.net/authors/tanner-margaret/

My novel, Falsely Accused, published by Books We Love, has recently won the Historical Section of the Easy Chair Writing Competition. Yes, there is a death or two in this story, but hey, the 1820’s were wild and violent days in a young colony.

 

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00LEXEVES

 

Shirley Martin on Celtic Celebrations

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Before writing my fantasy romance, "Night Secrets," (Book 1 of the Avador series), I knew I needed to give my novel its own culture, its own civilization. The ancient Celts have long fascinated me, so I gave my fantasy a Celtic flavor, with my own variations. To describe the Celtic culture would take a book in itself, so here I've centered only on their festivals.

Celtic festivals weren't connected to equinoxes or solstices but were related to the fertility of the land. The four seasonal festivals reflect the pastoral and agricultural cycles of the year. Another way these festivals differed from more modern celebrations was that they began on the eve of the specific day of celebration. The Celts measured time by the moon.  In all of their calculations, night preceded day. In their festivals, we find traces not only of religious beliefs but also of a magical belief in things.

Samhain marked the beginning of the Celtic year and began on the night of October 31. (Guess what holiday we've derived from Samhain.)  On Samhain, the veil between the real world and the Otherworld was torn aside.  The sidhe--fairy mounds where the people of the Otherworld lived--opened, and spirits walked the land. The sidhe released phantoms and goblins to ride the night winds. The warrior dead came back to life, and bonfires were lit to guide the returning warriors. Gods and demons walked the night places, and humans knew to stay inside. A harvest festival, Samhain is the best-known Celtic celebration of all. (Although it's not part of the Avador series, my fantasy romance, "The Sacrifice, is based on this holy eve.)

Imgolg (or Imbolc) was a fertility festival celebrated on the first of February. It marked the beginning of spring. As believers of magic, the Celts brought divination and watching omens to this celebration. They lit candles and bonfires if the weather permitted.  Fire and purification played a prominent part in this festival. The Celts visited holy wells on this day where they prayed for health.

In more recent times, Imgolc has become a holy day honoring St. Brigid. Before going to bed, people left clothing and bits of cloth outside for Brigid to bless. In the morning, they brought the strips of cloth inside, now believed to have powers of healing and protection.

The Celts also believed that on Imbolg the Cailleach--divine hag--gathers her firewood for the rest of winter.

Beltane is the Celtic May Day festival and marked the beginning of summer, a time when cattle were driven out to pasture. As with Samhain, the people lit bonfires at night and walked around the fire; some even leaped over the fire.  People doused  household fires and relit them at the Beltane bonfire. A great feast that featured lamb accompanied these gatherings.  As a festival of life,decorations of yellow flowers--symbolizing sunlight--abounded, even on cattle. 

Some people say the bonfire was an attempt to mimic the sun and to ensure a plentiful supply of sunshine for the people, animals, and plants. In some places people took oatmeal cakes, a bit of which was offered to the spirits to protect their livestorck.

If tales are to believed, Beltane often became a riotous affair, where not only fire but romances were kindled.

Lughnasad was celebrated on August 1. Some say the god Lugh started the festival in honor of his mother. It marked the beginning of the harvest season. Often animals were sacrificed, the victims placed in baskets and thrown into the bonfire. The Celts held the concept of the vegetation or tree spirit that had the power over rain, sunshine and every means of fruitfulness. A tree held a prominent place in this festival, where tree branches were attached to houses to impart fertility.

This festival, too, involved great gatherings that included religious ceremonies, ritual athletic contests, feasting, and as with Beltane, matchmaking.

A Vivid Dream by Eleanor Stem

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Princess in the Woods

When I was young, probably nine or ten, I had a wild dream that spooks me to this day. It was winter, and dark outside. We lived in this small house I want to call a dacha (a country house or cottage in Russia). It had two rooms: a larger common area with a hearth, table and chairs, and a sleeping chamber, much smaller. The sleeping area was a series of platforms tacked to the wall, one above the other almost to the ceiling. We kids slept on the higher platforms, the adults on the lower.

No adults were at home. I must have been the eldest, and was in charge of some other children. 

A fierce storm raged outside. It had come up quickly, and did not give me time to close the shutters. I would have to go outside, but I was afraid I’d get lost in the driving snow that pricked your skin like needles.

The winter had dragged on for weeks, one storm after the other. Food was scarce. Wolves that normally howled at night, started doing it in the daytime. As the winter progressed they became more aggressive. Horses, dogs, and sheep were vulnerable. Wolves attacked people in their sleighs. They'd run up from behind, pull people off, and devour them on the icy road.

Tonight, with the adults gone, the shutters that slammed in the winds, the wolves became reckless, crazed in their hunger. They smashed in the windows of the front room. I pulled the children into the sleeping chamber and shut the door. Wolves surrounded the little house, ten or twenty, piled against the outside windows, growling, snapping their teeth.

Man attacked by wolves

Those inside slammed against the bedchamber door. In a panic, everyone screaming, we climbed from one sleeping shelf to the next, higher, toward the ceiling.

The windows burst with wolves. The door latch broke. Wolves jumped up against our climb to the higher sleeping levels. They were relentless, would not go away. Their fur brushed against my legs. They spewed vile odors from their snapping jaws, wild with bloodlust. We huddled together on the top shelf nearest the ceiling while the wolves snarled and fought each other. They climbed over themselves in an attempt to reach us, their eyes flashing with hunger. 

I awoke, filled with terror, shaking, and glad I was where I was, not in a small Russian cottage during a terrible winter. Needless to say, I’ve never liked really big dogs, like German Shepherds. I’d walk a mile out of the way to avoid one.

Do dreams have meaning? Where did this vivid scene come from? I was young, innocent. After years of thinking about this, I believe it was a memory from a past life, a memory that bled into this life. A not-so-good past life.

Scary Moment

I want to thank Wikicommons Public Domain for these pictures. 

LODESTONE LETTERS

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I’ve always had an interest in reading biographies of famous people, but it didn’t take me too many years to realize that these books, by nature, are only the opinion of a single writer. That’s when I started to read the notes and the bibliographies and these soon became as interesting as the book itself. This naïve reader had just “discovered” an author’s finest source material. 

As I, back in the day of inter-library loan, began to pursue these leads, I discovered the most exciting material of all, letters and diaries. The language isn't always easy for a modern reader. Eighteenth Century language has a circuitous, verbose style which tends to disguise the emotional thrust of the message. From these letters and journals, however, a voice still speaks; the past enters our present in a breath-taking way.

Here’s one which paints a picture of the realities of 18^th Century travel, of an Albany still forested, as the Marquis de Chastellux describes a Revolutionary War winter visit to General Schuyler’s mansion.

 

“It was a difficult question to know where I should cross the Hudson…for it was neither sufficiently frozen to pass over the ice, nor free enough from flakes to venture it in a boat. …I was only twenty miles from Albany; so that after a continued journey through a forest of fir trees, I arrived at one o’clock on the banks of the Hudson…A handsome house half way up the bank opposite the ferry seemed to attract my attention and to invite strangers to stop at General Schuyler’s, who is proprietor as well as architect…The sole difficulty therefore consisted of passing the river. While the boat was making its way with difficulty through the flakes of ice, which we were obliged to break as we advanced…”

Envision this world—so green, so cold! All you have between you and Old Man Winter is wool, felt and hide, and your feet and hands are continually numb. The Hudson flows like slate under an only single shade-up grayscale sky. A twinkle of snow sinks into the surface. The pines hiss, and the wind picks up as we are ferried across the water, the drifting ice striking the boat and icy droplets of water strike our face.  

I get inspiration from this stuff! Here’s another, a charming (and alarming) view into the life of Mozart, a musician on the English leg of his “world” tour, aged eight years and five months:

“Witness as I myself of most of these extraordinary facts, I must own that I could not help suspecting his father imposed with regard to the real of the boy, thou he had not only a most childish appearance, but likewise had all the actions of the stage of life.

For example, whilst he was playing to me, a favorite cat came in, upon which he immediately left his harpsichord, nor could we bring him back for a considerable time.

He would also run about the room with a stick between his legs by way of a horse. ..” 

~Daines Barrington, 28 September 1769, report to the Secretary of the Royal Society in London.  

I was happy to read that the little boy was allowed to have time with a favorite cat, that Leopold Mozart (“Papa”) didn’t play the martinet and order Wolfgang straight back to the piano. Like little boys today playing with cars, little Mozart would, in his imagination, ride horses.

I’m thinking, really excellent ones, matched, of course, maybe white or dappled gray…”

Sometimes these surviving letters say a great deal about kinks in personality, some not so pleasant, things you’d rather wish your subject hadn’t said, something a writer has to ponder and work to understand. Sometimes, when this happens, you may have to rewrite an entire character.  

It’s understandable—not to snoopy writers and historians, of course— that wives of men judged ‘famous” by their contemporaries often burned and bowdlerized their husband’s surviving letters—all and any they could lay their hands on.  In deference to those wives, whose spirits have been so forthcoming to their humble servant, here is a brief sample of something I'd rather not have read:

“Received December 22 of Alexander Hamilton six hundred dollars on account of a sum of one thousand dollars due me.”  ~James Reynolds

This is a receipt for the first part of the blackmail Hamilton would pay for his adultery with Reynolds’ wife Maria. She must have been a hot number, because talk about shooting yourself in the foot—this particular bad move just about takes the cake, both politically and personally! As I’ve studied his wife, Betsy Schuyler, I’ve grown to have the profoundest respect for her. She was a woman of convictions, the kind which helped her survive fifty years beyond the death of her husband. For me, she's become the  embodiment of the word "lady."  

Here's a happier excerpt (a flirtatious double entendre) from Nov 19, 1798, some years after his infidelity, sent by Hamilton to his wife:  "I am always happy My Dear Eliza when I can steal a few moments to sit down and write to you.  You are my good genius; of that kind which the ancient Philsophers called a familiar; and you know very well that I am glad to be in every way as familiar as possible with you."

  

And last, a charming diary entry, one from James McHenry, of later Fort McHenry fame, about Revolutionary War evenings while quartered with the rest of Washington’s ADC’s upon a substantial Pennsylvania household.

“Eight miles from Moors & 25 from Philadelphia. Head-quarters at Jonathan Fells (Doylestown). A raining evening. The company within doors includes a pretty, fullfaced, youthfull, playfull lass and a Family of Quakers meek and unsuspicious. Hamilton thou shalt not tread on this ground. I mark it for my own.”

This tells me that the recreational behavior of army officers/staff hasn’t changed a whole lot over the course of the last 250 years. It brings us, readers and writers,  closer to a world that is, in many ways, technically and socially, alien.  We no longer have to trust ourselves to a small ferry in sketchy winter conditions in order to cross the Hudson and arrive at the warmth, food and good company of the big house, but down at the core, we humans remain the same.

 

~~Juliet Waldron

 

See all my historical novels at:

 

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

 http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B004HIX4GS