Rosemary Morris - Thoughts About Writing a Novel - Plot

 

      A plot, with a conclusion which satisfies the reader arises from interlinked actions and reactions that are a result of the main characters’ situations.

Before I finish a book, I think about the plot for my next novel while cooking, doing housework and gardening etc., but not while driving the car because it would be dangerous. 

According to Ronald B. Tobias there are only twenty plots which he explores in his book Twenty Master Plots and How to Build Them. 

Plot is the framework a novel depends on in the same way that builders depend on scaffolding when they erect an office block.

Some novelists plan every detail of their plot before they write the first word. I choose a plot, approach it from a new angle. E.g. Suppose Little Red Riding Hood murdered a charming wolf in sheep’s clothing.

I write historical fiction, so my plots often arise through reading non-fiction.

Before I write the first word of a novel, I choose the principal characters’ names, which must be appropriate for the era in which the book is set. Next, I complete a detailed character profile for each of the main protagonists. By the time I finish it, they are as real to me as either a member of my family or a close friend.

To plot or not to plot in detail? After I choose one I allow my characters to surprise me. I have a rough idea of the end of their fictional journey will be, but not of the route they take during which there will be major and minor conflicts, crises and questions which tempt the reader to turn the pages until the end.

I enjoy writing romantic historical fact fiction because I enjoy charting a journey through unique eras in which I create a story that brings past times to life. When I work on character profiles for major and minor protagonists I ensure they are not 21^st century people dressed in costume. To bring believable fictional men and women to life, I plot how they look in period clothes, what they think, how they speak and act. To give authenticity to my novels, among other subjects, I study economics, etiquette, politics, religious beliefs and social history, all of which play a part in plotting.

When I finish the first draft of a novel I read it to make sure the plot is clear and that there are no inconsistencies.

* * *

Four of my novels set in the Regency era, Heroines born on Different days of the Week, have been published, and I am now writing Thursday’s Child.

 

After I wrote Sunday’s Child, I decided to write six more novels with titles taken from A children’s poem.

“Monday’s child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace, Wednesday’s child is full of woe, Thursday’s Child has far to go, Friday’s Child is loving and giving, Saturday’s Child works hard for a living, And the child that is born on the Sabbath day, is loving and blithe, good and gay.” Anonymous.

 

Books by Rosemary Morris  - Plots

Regency Novels

 

Sunday’s Child Marriage of Convenience Monday’s Child Triangle (Two Beaux) Tuesday’s Child Suspense and Romance Wednesday’s Child Poor Little Rich Girl

 

Early 18^th Century novels

Tangled Love Rags to Riches. Far Beyond Rubies Quest for Justice  The Captain and The Countess Courtship.

Mediaeval Novel

Yvonne Lady of Cassio. The Lovages of Cassio Book One  Forbidden Love

* * *

The plots in my romantic historical fact fiction are ones with which modern day readers can identify with. In Wednesday’s Child, the young heroine comes to terms with loss, comes to terms with her situation and finds happiness and peace of mind.

 

Wednesday’s Child

Extract

“Amelia, promise not to grieve when I take my last breath. After so much pain, my old bones will welcome death,” Mrs Bettismore whispered from her large four-poster bed. The heavy scarlet silk curtains embroidered with gold thread shadowed her pallid face. “I look forward to eternal peace with my Maker.”

Amelia squeezed her eyes shut to prevent tears spilling down her cheeks. She could no more accept her grandmother’s words than she could accept Doctor Cray’s prognosis. “Grandmamma, please don’t say that. We will consult another doctor who will cure you.”

“My dear child, please accept that I am dying,” Mrs Bettismore said speaking with increasing difficulty. “It’s time for us to be honest. I admit that I’ve failed you.”

“Never! Even when you chastised me, it was for my own good.” From her chair Amelia reached out to clasp her grandmother’s thin hand.

“I apologise for being too strict.” A few tears trickled down her cheeks. “But please believe I’ve loved you since the day you were born, even when I applied the cane if I considered it necessary.”

“Grandmamma, I love you too. Please don’t trouble yourself. There is no need to say more.”

Her grandmother ignored her interruption. “I overindulged you. I should have insisted you marry a gentleman, who would protect you.” Her face a contorted mask of pain, Mrs Bettismore closed her eyes.

“I wish I could do something to ease your suffering.”

The faded blue eyes opened. “So much to explain. So little time left to me. Pay attention, child. You’ll inherit the cotton factory in Lancashire my first husband, Mr Belcher, God rest his soul, bequeathed to me,” she rambled with pauses between each phrase. “Sell it,” she murmured. “Better for you to be a landowner. You’re only accepted by the ton due to my wealth and your paternal grandfather’s rank.”

Even on her death bed Grandmamma concentrated on her property and ambition. “No need to speak of these matters now. You need nourishment. Shall I send for your gruel?”

Mrs Bettismore tried to raise her hand. “No, stop trying to fatten me up like a Christmas goose and listen. After I die don’t allow any of my husbands’ relatives or your future father-in-law to hang onto your coat sleeves.”

Amelia thought of Sir Bartholomew, her maternal grandfather, who bequeathed all his considerable property to Grandmamma, which Amelia did not want to inherit if it meant death. Tears down rolled down her cheeks. She wiped them away.

“Amelia.” Her grandmother struggled to breathe, her pale, sunken cheeks suddenly poppy-red but she managed to whisper. “I loved Mr Bettismore, not my other husbands.”

“Yes, I know. Please be quiet. I don’t want you to exhaust yourself.” She poured a glass of wine then held it to her grandmother’s dry lips. “Sip this.”

With an unexpected burst of strength, Mrs Bettismore pushed the glass aside. The ruby red wine pooled on the gold silk counterpane.

“I’ll send for a maid to change the bed covers.”

“No, don’t fuss, child,” her grandmother said with sudden energy. “There’s more important things than spilt wine. I’ve safeguarded you in my will, and given instructions to my secretary. He’s an honest man. You may trust him.” Her head lolled on the pile of lace-trimmed linen pillows. “There’s something very important I should have told you-” She broke off. Her breath rattled in her throat.

“Grandmamma, what do you want to tell me?” Amelia trembled. She stared into the half-open eyes shining with love. At first, she did not realise they were sightless.

When she understood her grandmother had left her body, she covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

 

* * *

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              I like the way Mrs Bettisnore’s strong personality weaved throughout the novel, providing conflict. Like Daphne Du Maurier’s Rebecca, even dead, she’s a great character.

 

Katherine Pym, Author of Erasmus T. Muddiman: A tale of Publick Disorder; Pillars of Avalon (with Jude Pitman) Canadian Brides Book 5, and other historical novels.

 

www.rosemarymorris.co.uk

http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary

 

 

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Under the Northern Lights by J. S. Marlo

J. S. Marlo BWL Author Page

Hello, everyone!

I’m JS Marlo, but my hubby calls me Marlo, which is why I chose that pen name. “Voted Out”, my first novel with BWL,  was released two weeks ago, and it’s my first time on this blog, so I’m not too sure what I’m doing. I can’t believe my publisher gave me access to all those buttons in the blog. Trust me, it doesn’t matter if it’s supposed to be fool proof, I could manage to derail a train, any trains, even one that is docked at a railway station. My publisher is brave…

I was born in Quebec, but I've lived all across Canada. Two words: military wife. Nowadays, when someone asks me “Where do you live?”, I answer “Northern Alberta”. Quite often that person will say “Oh, Edmonton”, and I will reply “No, no. Keep driving from Edmonton, keep driving north for another five hours, and don’t forget to fill up on gas. That are no gas stations in the last 200 kms. Then you’ll find  me—under the Northern Lights.”

Someone asks me once to describe the northern lights, but I couldn’t. The first time I saw them, I just stood there in the cold, staring in awe at the night sky. It’s almost like looking at the ocean and seeing waves roll in at twilight, but not quite. One moment the sky is dark, then seconds later, an invisible hand streaks the heaven with colorful waves, and then the waves waltz for a few seconds, a few minutes, a few hours. Most of the northern lights I’ve seen were light blue, green or turquoise, but I recall two magical instances when I was transfixed by the sky’s ethereal beauty.

Many years ago, hubby and I were driving back from visiting our daughter in university at the end of September. We were on that long stretch of road in the middle of the forest (the 200 kms without gas station, or any other structures) around 2am, when suddenly the sky lit up. Waves upon waves of bright turquoise, rich purple, and striking red dance above our heads. We were driving straight north, but the northern lights played havoc with the compass on our SUV. The compass twirled around. N, NW, SW, S, SE, N, SW… We stopped alongside the road. And watched. I can’t remember how long we stayed there, but I remember the beauty of it.

The second instance was a few weeks back. When I checked to make sure my back door was locked, I looked outside. When you can see the northern lights through the window, you know they are bright, so I stepped onto the deck. Despite the streetlamps, I saw pink and purple peeking at the edge of the turquoise. We’ve been spoiled this fall as Mother Nature has given us many amazing nightly shows. Maybe it’ll continue throughout the winter.

Many of my friends want to come visit me so they can see them, but I can’t promise that the sky will light up any more than I can promise a cloudless night will await them weeks ahead of time.

Some say in the silence of the night, you can hear the northern lights sing. Maybe one day I will hear them.

JS

J. S. Marlo's Website

Priscilla Brown ponders the stages of an author's writing life

This contemporary romance, set in the Caribbean, sees the two main characters struggling with different lifestyles and ambitions. The story got stuck in the second stage described below, went into hiding for a few years, then emerged to undergo a major re-write in Stage Three.

Find it on Amazon at B01FA8JSY

  

 How did I get to be a fiction writer? Every author will have a different set of 'stages', but perhaps for most the first stage is when we decide to write a book. The type of book -- fiction, non-fiction--may be unknown, but the mind-picture arrives of 'self as author'. We've been to school, presumably we can spell, have a working knowledge of grammar, have acquired a vocabulary, and can put a decent sentence together. Millions of people have written books, so how hard can this be? Such confidence!

I think I decided I wanted to be a writer while in primary school. I came top in spelling tests, and received good marks for what was called composition which included creative and non-creative writing. Then, at age about 11, I  won a short story competition. (The prize was Kenneth Grahame's Wind in the Willows which I still have.) Therefore, I could write! This early success indicated to my child's mind that I was going to be an author.

In what I consider to be the second stage of my writing life, a stage which was difficult and lasted years, I discovered that what I thought I'd learnt in the first was hopelessly inadequate. I knew nothing about creative writing. This period is a kind of apprenticeship, trying to grasp the technical skills--characterisation, plot, dialogue, pacing, tension, conflict, and a hundred other things essential to a well-crafted story. Lots of work to be done, reading widely in the chosen genre, joining relevant groups and finding similar writers, studying how-to books, attending workshops and conferences...and writing, re-writing, scrapping it all and tackling the ironing instead, deciding training as an astronaut must be easier than becoming a published writer. And yet the compulsion to write, to develop those ideas scribbled into a notebook, remains significant. Plus, and this is important, I started to enjoy this  preparation, and still do.

By Stage Three, I like to think I've more ore less mastered the individual elements that can pull a book together. But still, somehow, it may not feel right. While in theory the writing may be adequate, the story could lack soul. Perhaps it needs more emotion, more tension, to encourage readers to page-turn even though the dinner is burning, to care about the characters and be anxious about their prospects. Working on this can be challenging, but worthwhile and ultimately satisfying.

 Sales success launches Stage Four, when I can honestly describe myself as a writer. However, Stages Two and Three remain present in my writing, as there's always more to learn and to apply.

If you are not a writer and would like to be, I encourage you to go for it!  Good luck! Priscilla







For those of you celebrating ghosty and witchy happenings this 31st of October, have fun! 






 
www.bwlpublishing.ca

www.bwlpublishing.ca/authors/brown-priscilla-romance-australia

https:priscillabrownauthor.com

Ghostly and Supernatural Tales from Quebec Province

I do not enjoy scary books, ghost tales, or frightening movies. Maybe it’s the creepy music in the flick added to augment the buildup to a blood-curdling moment that sends my heart thumping to near lethal levels and my blood pressure rising. My husband and daughter love them. Even coming through a closed door, that sinister music has its desired effect on me.

Not to say I don’t believe in the unexplainable. Two days after our beloved springer spaniel Casey crossed over the Rainbow Bridge at the age of 14, I was watching TV. Something in the periphery of my vision caused me turn away from the Yankees game. Not trusting what I thought I saw, I did a double-take. To my astonishment, there was Casey standing in the open doorway, her head hanging, ears forward, attention focused on me—a familiar posture in life when she wanted something. We made eye contact for a long moment. And then she dissipated like smoke in the wind. Some have told me that Casey probably just wanted to say goodbye.

Years ago, when I was still living in my parents’ home during summer breaks from college, I was having trouble falling asleep one night. Maybe I was suspended on that fragile boundary between dreams and consciousness when something tangible brushed my cheek and rustled the hair falling over my ear. And then a woman’s whispered voice announced (to whom or what?), “She’s asleep now.” Shortly after, a deep, sonorous baritone from beyond my open window began intoning what sounded like “Pil…grim’s…Pri-i-ide.” If I wasn’t 20-something at the time, I probably would have high-tailed it into my parent’s room and begged to let me sleep with them.

OK. This is supposed to be about ghosts, ghoulies, and other bump-in-the-night stuff from

Mark Twain

Quebec Province. As a Connecticut Yankee, no one deserves a mention here more than Mark Twain. This is from a piece by Mark Abley in the Montreal Gazette (October 17, 2014)

In December 1881, one of the most celebrated writers in North America came to  Montreal on a lecture tour. Mark Twain … was then near the height of his fame. …

 “That afternoon, a reception had been held for him in a long drawing room of the Windsor Hotel on Peel — recently built, and at the time the most palatial hotel in Canada. There, Twain noticed a woman whom he had known more than 20 years earlier, in Carson City, Nevada. She had been a friend, but they had fallen out of touch. … She seemed to be approaching him at the reception, and he had ‘a full front view of her face’ but they didn’t meet.

“Before he gave his evening speech in a lecture hall, Twain noticed Mrs. R. again, wearing the same dress as in the afternoon. This time they were able to speak, and he told her that he’d seen her earlier in the day. She was astonished. ‘I was not at the reception,’ she told him. ‘I have just arrived from Quebec, and have not been in town an hour.’”

Baron Baumgarten

All right. I agree. This is kind of “woo-woo,” but hardly the stuff that inspires goose bumps. But both Quebec and Montreal, with their long and illustrious histories, are rife with tales of the mysterious and macabre. There are so many such stories that I’ll limit them both by time and necessity.

As a writer of historical fiction, I’m drawn to some of these older stories. For example, McGill University is Montreal’s oldest (founded in 1821) and also one of the most haunted in a city of multiple haunted places. Its Faculty Club was once the opulent mansion of the German-born sugar magnate, Baron Alfred Moritz Friedrich Baumgarten.

At the turn of the 19^th century, the Baumgarten house was a center of social activity, so much so that it became the favorite stopping place of Canada’s governor-general when in Montreal. The start of World War I ended all that when anti-German hysteria forced him to sell off his assets and lose his standing in society. He died in 1919, a broken man. In 1926, McGill University bought the mansion to house the school’s high chancellor, General Sir Arthur Currie. After Currie’s death in 1933, the building was repurposed for use as a faculty club.

From the beginning, faculty and staff at the club reported feelings of unease when in the building, while others experienced some truly strange happenings. A piano in the basement began playing itself and no manner of trying to stop it succeeded. Doors opened and closed of their own accord. Elevators ran between floors with no one inside to operate them. In the billiard room, balls moved on the table and into the pockets as if a game were being played, and portraits on the walls appeared to follow people with their eyes as they walked past them down the halls. Even its phones had a life of their own, calling college offices late at night when no one was in the building. And then there’s the fireplace, closed off for decades, still emitting the smell of ash and smoke. There are tales of murder, particularly that of a young servant girl whose untimely death had been covered up and whose spirit has been seen wandering aimlessly, apparently seeking justice. Some postulate that many of ghostly happenings are the work of Baumgarten himself, whose restless soul attempts to regain what had been lost.

The death of General Wolfe by Benjamin West

On the Plains of Abraham in Quebec on September 13, 1759, the battle between France and England for supremacy in the New World ended with the death of the charismatic British General James Wolfe and took his opponent, Louis-Joseph de Montcalm, who died of his injuries the following day. Here some 258 years later, ghosts of the dead from both sides can be seen drifting across the battlefield, particularly one lone soldier at the entrance to Tunnel 1, accompanied by the acrid smell of sulfur smoke and the sound of cannons.

From Montmorency Falls in Quebec comes a sad story and one that seems to have many similarities to other tales of such nature. That of a beautiful young woman whose fiancé was called off to war and died in 1759 during the French and Indian War. Legend has it that the grief stricken maiden donned her wedding dress and went out in the evenings calling his name in hopes that he would return. The Lady in White has often been seen in the mist of the falls, tumbling to her death.

Of course there are more such stories, many more, but for now that’s all folks.

Wishing you all a ghoulishly Happy Halloween...but please keep the music down.

 

 ~*~

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Kathy Fischer Brown is a BWL author of historical novels, Winter Fire, "The Serpent’s Tooth" trilogy: Lord Esterleigh’s Daughter, Courting the Devil, The Partisan’s Wife, and The Return of Tachlanad, an epic fantasy adventure for young adult and adult readers. Check out her BWLAuthor page or visit her website. All of Kathy’s books are available in e-book and in paperback from a host of online and brick and mortar retailers. Look for Where the River Narrows, the 12^th and final novel in BWL’s Canadian Historical Brides series, coming in July 2018.