Friday, February 9, 2018

Write What You Know by Rita Karnopp



Write What You Know by Rita Karnopp. Some of the best advice I’ve ever received in my writing career is to ‘write what you know.’  Writers can’t help but draw from their own life’s experiences when developing stories.  This enriches and deepens the believability of our characters.
A writer improves with each book, and so does their ability to reach deeper inside themselves to pull out those personal life experiences through the actions of their characters. By allowing our characters to experience our very own emotional roller-coasters or hurtful experiences … we bring our reader in … and they will sense the honesty and vulnerability of your characters.
It was through writing that I realized I was drawn to the Native American’s way of life and traditions.  I’ve always felt the eighteen hundreds through the Native American’s point of view.  In sharing that epiphany with my sister, she revealed, “That’s because our great grandmother was Chippewa Cree from Wisconsin.”  Say what?
I had no idea … and so developed my love for writing the Native inspired story; whether 1800s or 2020.  Because I live in Montana … I turned my attention to the Blackfeet; the most feared Indian nation on the Northern Plains in the nineteenth century.
Through extensive research I found I could draw on those life experiences of true Native people who participated in the changes that ripped their lives and culture apart … and their struggles to survive. 
I believe writers should ‘write what you know’. But, it’s equally important to ‘write who you know.’ Every character you create should have a reason for existing … and a reason they are who they’ve become. 

History gives us an opportunity to create believable characters.  I found a sketch showing Territorial Governor Isaac Stevens and James Doty, Secretary to Stevens, and Little Dog, who served as an interpreter, plus various Blackfoot tribes (Piegan and Blood), the Flathead, Nez Perce, Gros Ventre, Kootenai, Pend d’Oreille, Cree, and Shoshone at the Judith River, for the signing of the Blackfeet’s first treaty with the United States. This was the inspiration I needed to write Leota, Dream Woman, who believed it was her mission to stop Chief Lame Bull from signing the Treaty of 1855.  The white berry from the red willow was bitter and even though it was used as a kind of enriched vitamin for the Native, the white man found it bitter and undesirable.”
That grabbed me … the ‘white berry’ could be my white woman and the ‘red willow’ could represent the Indian Nation … and so my book White Berry on the Red Willow developed.  History is a world of captivating stories of ‘what ifs’, and by writing them we bring characters to life.  We give them air between the pages of an exciting life’s journey.

  
Check out my latest novel, OFF THE GRID, a YA that is for readers thirteen to ninety-three.


 Living in the woods, surrounded by nature, is a fantasy of those living within the unethical confines of society. But when you’re seventeen, even thinking about walking through the woods conjures up ghastly visions.


Taylar must forgive her father’s intentional betrayal of bringing her family to live in the remote Bob Marshall Wilderness in Montana. Hundreds of miles from civilization, she must put aside her fears and do her part to help her family survive the challenges of dense wilderness, mountain lions, bear, rattlesnakes, and the worst animal of all – man.
Will their father realize that their neighbors aren’t what they appear to be . . . before it’s too late? Will her almost sixteen-year-old sister, Brook, who loves hunting and nature, have what it takes to guide them out of the untamed wilderness and back to civilization?

  

Rita Karnopp is a fun-loving, imaginative, creator of stories that take you away . . . until you close the book. Versatile, she writes Indian historicals, suspense, thrillers, futuristic, YAs and a trilogy about the Gypsies during the Holocaust.

When not writing, Rita enjoys the Montana outdoors with her husband, Dennis, her Cockapoo, Gema, children & grandchildren, RVing with new camper, crystal digging and gold panning. 

Please visit Rita at Amazon page:  

BWL Publishing Inc.  http://www.bookswelove.com/

Email Rita at:  ritakarnopp@bresnan.net

Thursday, February 8, 2018

Dragon Princess, Book 1 of the War Unicorn Chronicles, released today




http://www.bookswelove.net/authors/carlson-sandy-young-adult/ 
 
After a period of writing niche historical fiction for kids, I rested back into my long-time love of fantasy—reading, dreaming, researching, writing, repeat all with lots more dreaming.

After writing War Unicorn: The Ring, published last October with BWL, I could not let the characters go. I had an arrogant, demanding unicorn and a simple apple farmer tossed into an underdog country where magic coexists with Ordinaries. The only way I could move on was to continue writing about them. I soon came to realize it’s not that I can’t let go of the characters, but that they won’t let go of me, not until their stories are told.

Dragon Princess, release date February 7, is the first book of the War Unicorn Chronicles. Mortal enemies Aldric and Thram must work together to find other unicorns, an impossible relationship sent on an impossible quest.

From Chapter one:
Ricky bit his lower lip as he watched Neighbor kick out with her back legs in the trained war unicorn way while the horses cowered in a far corner of the field. Aldric couldn’t peel his eyes from his friend. Yes, this Unicorn Keeper had to agree with Iggy Millerson that Neighbor was not acting like herself. But what, after all, did they know about unicorns? As far as anyone knew, she was the only unicorn in the world. It wasn’t like there was any training for this position. He only had the experience of the year before, spent with her, becoming her friend.

Maybe his mother knew a unicorn story he hadn’t heard yet. Or perhaps his father could put a calming spell on the unicorn. Crabapples! Neighbor would never stand for that. One spell on her was enough. Who knew how Neighbor would react if she realized her sudden calmness was caused by a magical spell?

Skirts rustled as a girl his own age slipped between him and Iggy. Ricky straightened up and pushed back his blonde hair from his forehead. He sucked in a breath, but kept watching the field.

“Your unicorn’s going crazy,” Gwen said.

“So I’ve been told,” he answered.

“Maybe it’s her moody time,” she suggested.

Ricky bit his lower lip and looked away. Gwen, of anyone in the kingdom, knew about moody times.
He turned to the princess. Why couldn’t he control the jump his heart did each time she came near? How could he still have feelings for her after all she’d done? Not too many moons ago, she was just the general’s daughter, a girl who liked to dress in boys’ clothes so she could work in the royal stables. She loved her horses. Back then, she was just Gwen, his friend. Now that her father became king of Farhner, she was pulled along with him to be the king’s daughter, the princess. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw her wearing trousers.

“So where’s your boyfriend?” Ricky asked coolly.

Iggy let out a low whistle and, suddenly fascinated with the passing late summer clouds, moved a post away from Gwen and Ricky.

“Thram is not my boyfriend.” Gwen put one hand on her hip. “And even if he was, what business is that of yours?”

Apparently none, he wanted to snap back.

“Your business,” she continued, “is poor, dear, old Neighbor out there, who is going crazy. What are you going to do about her?”


From Chapter seven:
“The unicorns are somewhere in this direction,” Neighbor said, although Ricky didn’t think she sounded very certain.

“We’ve got nine days and a bit before we have to turn around. I’m sure we’ll get some hints of your people by that time. We must.” Ricky realized he didn’t sound very certain, either.

After riding a few more hours, Thram complained of sore thighs. Ricky wondered if he should point out that Thram didn’t have any idea how sore his legs were going to be by the end of the three weeks. Instead, he suggested they dismount and give the horses a break. Once they got into the mountainous areas, the animals would be working hard enough. Gwen would have been proud of his horse thoughtfulness.

“You know how Thram can sometimes sense his mother’s thoughts?” Ricky asked Neighbor. “Can you do the same with your herd?”

Neighbor twitched, and there weren’t any flies on her. “I do not know. Neither do I remember much. There were mountains, big, white, protecting mountains.”

“What were they called?”

Neighbor ducked her head and blew through her lips. “Our mountains?”

“What did they look like?”

“Bbrrrrah! Mountains! The snow-on-the-peaks kind! Like those. I think.” She shook her head and stomped angrily like she had fire ants racing up her legs.

“Sorry,” Ricky said, knowing it was a weak apology.

“No. I am sorry. Pitifully sorry...for myself.” Her sides expanded as she drew in a deep breath. “I just do not know those things, Aldric. How I wish I did. I was merely a filly, not even a yearling when the Wizard Wormage captured me. And that action was hundreds of years ago. Everyone in the herd is probably all dead by now. I am certain Wormage must be.”

“Well, if your home...er...range,” Ricky said slowly, “was in a secluded mountain section, couldn’t your people have survived undetected? Or... what if you aren’t the only unicorn Wormage captured?”

“Don’t be silly. No one would be that stupid.”

Ricky raised his eyebrows. Ah—no one except for her, she’d meant.

“We are trained from the day we first stand on our wobbly legs not to have human contact. We hide. We camouflage—”

“You know how to camouflage? Me too!” Ricky said.

“I know. Remember escaping the Spikes from Martin’s Company? I was there when you covered us both with your spell. And you covered my horn, and…actually, Ricky, that act of covering us in battle drew me to you more than anything else you could have done or said. When mother unicorns smell danger, they camouflage their babies. I did not live with the herd long enough to learn how to do it for myself.”

Ricky chuckled. “So it was like I was your father?” He stood next to her. “Aw. My little baby filly.” He stroked her neck. Neighbor’s mighty muscles rippled tensely beneath his hand. He stopped stroking.

“Mothers camouflaged. Father gave the warning and covered himself.” Neighbor sounded as though she was going to cry, just as if she were a human.

Ricky patted her neck and pulled one of the remaining flowers from her mane. “It’ll be all right. If we don’t find any other unicorns this time, there are other months. We’ll keep trying, stretching out in different directions. Our adventure is in the journey, and the journey’s been uncomplicated, just as King Segan said.”

Neighbor jerked her head up, ears laid back.

Thram put his foot into the stirrup and swung onto his horse’s back. “I wish you hadn’t said that out loud.”

“You are so superstitious,” Ricky said. “Saying things like that out loud doesn’t mean it’s some kind of verbal magic spell to cause things to go wrong. I know about these things.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, tell that to them.” Thram nodded to the hills on their left. Nine black-bearded men rode upon horses, trotting straight for them, each wearing black Spikonian leather-armor.


 

October, 2017 Release with Books We Love Publishing:
WAR UNICORN, Digital Stores: http://books2read.com/u/3Ro6jp


Tuesday, February 6, 2018

The Proof is in the Mixin' Bowls! by Gail Roughton

Home Is Where The Heart Is

A current Facebook funny video's making the rounds (courtesy of  the public Facebook page It's a Southern Thing; anyone who likes a good laugh should check it out) which oddly enough, seems to make folks think of me, though I can't imagine why (and yes, that's sarcasm, 'cause the video features a "southern" Alexa, complete with southern accent). A writer friend of mine from Kansas tagged me with it on Friday and even though I'd seen it, I watched it again 'cause it's just so dang funny and has so much truth in it.  But it wasn't till the next day when I was doing Saturday morning chores that I realized just how much truth.  (Yeah, I think of some pretty strange things while I'm cleaning.)  

One of the scenes has the lady of the house checking the fridge and instructing Alexa to add biscuits to the grocery list.  So Alexa responds, "Adding flour, baking powder, sugar..." Not exactly what the lady of the house had in mind.  "No, no, no! Canned biscuits." To which Alexa exclaims in horror, "Why on earth would you do that?  Are your mixin' bowls broken?"  

Biscuits do happen to be one of my signature dishes, but while I swept the floor, I suddenly realized I'd once responded almost exactly the same way to someone, though biscuits weren't involved.  A couple of years ago during the holiday season, my publisher, who shall be nameless but whose initials are Jude Pittman, emailed me for a recipe for cornbread because, as she explained, she wanted to make dressing but couldn't find the pre-packaged mix she usually used for cornbread on the shelves of her Canadian grocery store. Horror-struck at the thought of cornbread from a package, I immediately e-mailed back, "There's absolutely no reason to ever use a package mix for cornbread!  All you need is two cups of cornmeal..." And off I went, spouting forth a basic cornbread recipe along with pretty much every variation I could think of.  

Now don't get me wrong, I don't labor under any delusion that every southern woman is a master cook (certainly I'm not) or always bakes from scratch (certainly I don't, except for cornbread and usually biscuits) and for certain sure I've never seen my daughter make cornbread from anything but a package mix. But I do think every region has its own traditions, passed down through the generations, and I absolutely believe cooking and recipes are very big players in forming the character of a region, whether same be New England, Pennsylvania Dutch, Mid-Western, Southwestern, Western, Pacific Northwest, or Southern. Or Floridian or Californian 'cause sometimes those states do tend to be separate entities all by themselves. Certainly cooking and recipes are integral plot ingredients in cozy mysteries, and I definitely use food throughout my writing to "flavor" the words for an extra touch of southern. 

Pretty much nothing's more southern than cornbread, so just in case anybody's in need of a quick cornbread recipe that throws together just about as fast as any package mix, here you go:



2 cups self-rising cornmeal (though you can add in 1/3 to 2/3 cup of sugar if you like, and also you can use 1 cup cornmeal and 1 cup flour if you prefer. Also, if you're not using self-rising, you're goin' to need a dash of salt and some baking soda.  A little baking powder wouldn't hurt anything either.  Which is why I never buy anything but self-rising cornmeal or flour 'cause it's just too complicated if you don't.)

3 tablespoons oil (though you can go as high as a 1/3 to slightly under 1/2 a cup if you're using flour and sugar along with the cornmeal. Also, you can use melted butter instead of oil but butter disappears fast enough at my house as it is so I don't.)

1 egg (or two, depends on your mood and whether you're using flour and sugar instead of just cornmeal)

1 1/2 cup buttermilk (approximately, 'cause changing up the number of eggs and adding flour and sugar into the mix is goin' to change the amount of liquid used and if you've gone with the almost but not quite 1/2 cup of oil and 2 egg option, you need to use 1 cup of buttermilk. Also if you don't have buttermilk, you can use milk but it doesn't take as much milk 'cause milk makes the batter thinner and trust me, it ain't goin' to taste as good either, so you have to eyeball it as you mix.)

Mix together and bake in either an 8 by 8 pan or muffin pan (12) at 425 for 15-18 minutes, though if you've gone with the flour, sugar, and more oil option, bake at 375 for 30-35 minutes,  depending on your oven and how golden-brown you want it, 'cause the texture's going to be different.

And if you want some killer jalapeno cornbread, throw in 1/4 cup diced jalapenos before mixing, though if you do, you definitely need the 1 cup corn meal, 1 cup flour, 2/3 cup of sugar, almost but not quite 1/2 cup oil, 2 eggs, 1 cup buttermilk, (don't forget the 1/4 cup diced jalapeno), bake at 375 for 30-35 minutes (my perfect time is 33 minutes) version.  

Confused? You've just been "southern reciped". And that's why I never ask for anybody's recipe for anything.  I look up a black and white recipe and then make my own modifications.  (However, that last paragraph detailing the making of jalapeno cornbread is truly awesome as well as being exact in measurements.) 

But you don't have to cook for a taste of southern, just go settle in at the Scales of Justice Cafe, located within the pages of Country Justice. And for links to all my novels at all online sites, just visit my author page at BWL Publishing. Y'all come back now, hear?

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Monday, February 5, 2018

Baroness Orzy - Her Life and Times - By Rosemary Morris




Before I could read, I admired the pictures in my story books. At five-years-old learned to read and, in later life, shared my favourite children’s fiction. For example, at Christmas, I gave my two older granddaughters A Little Princess and The Secret Garden.
Recently, I visited old favourites among which are Baroness Orczy’s series about The Scarlet Pimpernel then researched the life of this talented novelist, the whose life was as interesting as her novels.

Baroness Orczy – Her Life and Times

Best remembered for her hero, Percy Blakeney, the elusive Scarlet Pimpernel, Baroness Emmuska Orczy was born in Tarna Ors, Hungary, in 1865 to parents who frequented the magnificent court of the Austrian Hungarian Empire.
Emmuska enjoyed every luxury in her father’s magnificent ancestral chateaux, where she lived until 1870 when a mob of peasants burned the barn, stables and fields. Yet, throughout her life, the lively parties, the dancing and the haunting gypsy music lived on in Emmuska’s memory.
Fearing a national uprising, the baron moved his family from Hungary to Belgium, and, until her family settled in London, Emmuska attended convent schools in Brussels and Paris.
Emmuska fell in love with England which she regarded as her spiritual birthplace, her true home.  When people referred to her as a foreigner, and said there was nothing English about her, she replied ‘my love is all English, for I love the country’.
Baron Orczy tried hard to develop his daughter’s musical talent, but she chose art and had the satisfaction of her work being exhibited at The Royal Academy.  Later, she turned to writing. 
At Heatherby’s School of Art, Emmuska met her future husband, Montague Barstow, an illustrator. In 1894 they married, and, in her own words, the union was ‘happy and joyful’.
Her bridegroom encouraged her to write. In 1895 her translations of Old Hungarian Fairy Tales, The Enchanted Cat, Fairyland’s Beauty and Uletka and The White Lizard, edited with Montague’s help, were published. Inspired by thrillers she watched on stage, Emmuska wrote mystery and detective stories. The first featured The Old Man in the Corner.  For the generous payment of sixty pounds the Royal Magazine published it in 1901.  Her stories were an instant hit.  Yet, although the public could not get enough of them, she remained dissatisfied.
In her autobiography Emmuska wrote: ‘I felt inside my heart a kind of stirring that the writing of sensational stuff for magazines would not and should not, be the end and aim of my ambition.  I wanted to do something more than that.  Something big.’
Montague and Emmuska spent 1900 in Paris that, in her ears, echoed with the violence of the French Revolution. Surely, she had found the setting for a magnificent hero to champion the victims of “The Terror”. Unexpectedly, after she and Montagu returned to England, while waiting for a train Emmuska saw her famous hero, Sir Percival Blakeney, dressed in exquisite clothes.  She noted the monocle held up in his slender hand, heard both his lazy drawl and his quaint laugh.  Emmuska told her husband about the incident and wrote The Scarlet Pimpernel in five weeks.
  Very often, although the first did not apply to Emmuska and Montague, it is as difficult to find true love as it is to get published. A dozen publishers or more rejected The Scarlet Pimpernel.  The publishing houses wanted modern, true-life novels. Undeterred Emmuska and Montague turned the novel into a play.
The critics did not care for the play, which opened at the New Theatre, London in 1904, but the audiences loved it and it ran for 2,000 performances.  As a result, The Scarlet Pimpernel was published and became the blockbuster of its era making it possible for Emmuska and Montague to live in an estate in Kent, have a bustling London home and buy a luxurious villa in Monte Carlo.
During the next thirty-five years, Emmuska wrote not only sequels to The Scarlet Pimpernel but other historical and crime novels.  Her loyal fans repaid her by flocking to the first of several films about her gallant hero. The first directed by her compatriot, Alexander Korda, was released in 1935.  
 Emmuska and Montague moved to Monte Carlo in the late 1910’s where they remained during Nazi occupation in the Second World War.
Montague died in 1943 leaving Emmuska bereft.  She lived with her only son and divided her time between London and Monte Carlo. At 82, her last novel Will-O’theWisp and her autobiography, Links in the Chain of Life, were published in 1947 shortly before her death.
A lasting tribute to the baroness is the enduring affection the public has for her brave, romantic hero, Sir Percival Blakeney, master of disguise.

The Captain and The Countess
London. 1706
      
Why does heart-rending pain lurk in the back of the wealthy Countess of Sinclair’s eyes? 
Captain Howard’s life changes forever from the moment he meets Kate, the intriguing Countess and resolves to banish her pain.
Although the air sizzles when widowed Kate, victim of an abusive marriage meets Edward Howard, a captain in Queen Anne’s navy, she has no intention of ever marrying again.
However, when Kate becomes better acquainted with the Captain she realises he is the only man who understands her grief and can help her to untangle her past.

Novels by Rosemary Morris

Early 18th Century novels. Tangled Love, Far Beyond Rubies, The Captain and The Countess

Regency Novels. False Pretences, Sunday’s Child, Monday’s Child, Tuesday’s Child, Wednesday’s Child

Mediaeval Novel. Yvonne Lady of Cassio. The Lovages of Cassio Book One



Friday, February 2, 2018

My sinuous path to writing by J. S. Marlo





Many people I meet are curious to know how I became a writer, but I’m afraid the answer often disappoints them—or isn’t quite what they expect to hear.

I would love to say I obtained a degree in English literature, journalism, or creative writing (such a degree would come handy on a daily basis), then wrote and published stories. Instead, I followed a different path, a path I never dreamed would lead to writing and publishing.

As a teen, when I was bored during math class, I scribbled short stories, imagined new scripts for my favorite TV shows, or rewrote the ending of books I read, but without any writing expectations. It was pure fun. A hobby. A secret passion. I believed my path forward was lit with numbers, not words. I wanted to become an accountant, a statistician, a mathematician, or an actuary. I obtained a degree in business and finance, and for nearly twenty years, numbers ruled my world with little room for words.

 Then one summer day, I underwent a routine surgery but developed a severe infection following major complications. I spent many months in bed. To save my sanity, my husband gave me a laptop so I could interact with the outside world.

Well...I found a writing site. At first, I was a reader, then I gathered the nerve (or maybe it was the meds) to post the opening scene of a story. Next thing I knew I started getting comments about my scene, so I posted another one. Writing my daily scene gave me purpose and pleasure amid the pain. What had started as an escape became a torch at the end of a long tunnel, a flame that rekindled that secret passion buried deep inside me. In time, I healed and re-entered the world of the living, but I couldn’t ignore or re-bottle that passion I unleashed. In the following six years, I wrote and shared over two dozen stories—fun stories that served as learning tools for POV, floating body parts, show vs tell, character development...

Thanks to the encouragement I received, I started writing a special story, a story about a female scuba diver who investigates a Ford Model T sunk at the bottom of a lake, a story I kept to myself and showed to no one. After I finished it, I submitted it in a contest sponsored by a new publisher. In my wildest dreams I never imagined it would land me my first publishing contract.

Writing is a precious gift I rediscovered under difficult circumstances, and it changed my life for the better. The journey is ongoing as I write almost every day and sometimes way too late at night. So far, I’ve published eight novels, I’m midway through a ninth, and I’m geared up to start a new romance paranormal series later this year.

So, how did I become a writer? Quite literally by accident.

Thanks for joining me. Have a wonderful day!
JS




Wednesday, January 31, 2018

Priscilla Brown writes about love tokens


For details on this and my other contemporary romance novels, check my Books We Love author page:


On a recent visit to the National Museum of Australia in Canberra, I spent some time studying the exhibition of  convict love tokens. Created between 1762 and 1856 by convicts in England around the time of their sentencing to transportation to Australia, the tokens were given to family and friends as remembrances of their loved ones so far away. On the whole, the tokens in the exhibition remain in reasonable condition. 

Using both sides of ordinary coins, the convicts prepared the surfaces for engraving by beating them flat and smooth, then used pinpricks to stipple the text and often decoration. A large copper coin known as the 'cartwheel penny' first minted in 1797 was a popular choice. The tokens display various lettering styles from simple and rough to elaborate and elegant; some messages are printed in lower case, some in upper, and others written in cursive script. The name of the convict, his or her date (most tokens were formed by men, with some by women), and the name of the loved one appear together with a few words; embellishment is often incredibly detailed on such a small surface. Hearts are frequently portrayed, while many creators, clearly artistic, depicted people and their clothing, flowers, birds, animals, ships and other objects possibly important or relevant to both convict and recipient. Defacing coins of the realm was a crime; to replace the image of King George III with their own work perhaps gave the already sentenced offenders a surreptitious pleasure.

As a romance writer, I like my characters to give each other small 'tokens' as reminders of their love when they have to part, either temporarily as in the recently released Silver Linings, or as in Hot Ticket when they believe the parting must be for ever. In Silver Linings, jewellery designer Cassandra fashions a stylish silver pendant for 
Alistair, while he makes an intricate wooden jewellery box for her. Hot Ticket's Callum collects owl images and 
small sculptures. and he knits (no, he is not the nerd Olivia originally suspects); he gives her a top he's designed and knitted. She finds for him a life-size owl.


 



A major part of my story creation is developing personalities. Among several aspects, I like working out the characters' interests and, in their backstories, how they came to have these. This can  involve a lot of research (for the above stories, the only interest I knew anything about was knitting); this for me is an enjoyable though often time-consuming part of being a writer.

Happy reading! Priscilla




Source: National Museum of Australia
 

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