Saturday, February 10, 2018
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:
Email
Rita at: ritakarnopp@bresnan.net
I would say writing is my passion . . . I see a story in just about every situation. I love Native American history and all the lessons it has to offer.
Thursday, February 8, 2018
Dragon Princess, Book 1 of the War Unicorn Chronicles, released today
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, Print: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1773627201/
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?
All titles, All sites Writin' With Southern Stylin'! |
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
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