Finally, A Title -- or Two

For more information about Susan Calder's books, or to purchase visit her Books We Love Author Page. 

For the titles of my mystery novels, I inadvertently backed myself into a corner. My novels are series books. While the titles of individual books in a series don't have to follow a pattern, this helps connect the books in readers minds.

Mystery author Sue Grafton hit on a brilliant idea with her Kinsey Millhone 'alphabet mysteries.' Her plan was to write 26 books in the series, titled with each letter of the alphabet. She started with 'A' is for Alibi and continued to 'Y' is for Yesterday until illness stopped her one book short of completing the series. 

Sue Grafton, 1940-2017

A big plus for this particular pattern is the obvious order of the books in the series. Many mystery readers like to read series books in order, to follow the character and overall story arc developments. With Grafton's books they instantly know which novel comes next and next and next. For her titles Grafton managed to find a fitting word for some challenging letters --'Q' is for Quarry -- but modified the pattern for one book. Series novel # 24 is simply called 'X.' Her website notes X: The number ten. An unknown quantity. A mistake. A cross. A kiss.

I'd be curious to know how much the letter/word in each title influenced the particular story.

I didn't start with a plan of writing a four-book series set in Calgary's seasons. The working title for my first novel was In Remembrance of Me.  I felt the title suited the story, but it didn't identify the book as a murder mystery novel. While revising the story, I pondered what aspects of it might work in a title.

I didn't have this handy chart at the time, but settled loosely on #10 When Your Story Takes Place. In my novel's case, this was the season of fall, with its many resonant meanings, including the fall of (wo)man. Then I asked myself what popular mystery title word might go with it? How about Deadly?  Deadly Fall. I checked Amazon and library listings to see if the title was overused. To my surprise, it wasn't. 

The title for my series book # 2 didn't come right away, but it was easier. I knew the story would be set during The Calgary Stampede, my home city's annual 10-day rodeo and exhibition, which takes place each July. To continue the pattern, I wanted the word 'summer' in the title along with a reference to the Stampede. Titles like Summer Stampede and Stampede Into Summer didn't quite do it. Ten Days in July would have been great for a series incorporating months of the year in the title. Months rather than seasons would have also given me scope for more books in the series.

   
Then it hit me: Ten Days in Summer. Calgarians use the phrase interchangeably with Ten Days in July when talking about our Stampede. I set myself the challenge of framing the story with the Stampede's 10 day time period. Okay, I cheated a little by setting the first two chapters on the evening before Parade Day, the Stampede's official start. But events do begin on Stampede-eve with Sneak-a-Peak night at the exhibition grounds.    

And now I am working on Book # 3, set in Calgary winter. The case involves a hit and run car accident, which killed a woman under suspicious circumstances. Almost immediately, I thought of a great mystery book title, Dead of Winter. But a search on Amazon.com revealed a couple of dozen mystery novels with this name. Titles aren't copyrighted, but I'd prefer one that won't be confused with numerous other books.

Back to my Book Title Chart, I considered # 13, Where Your Story Takes Place. I decided that the hit and run would take place on a street named Wintergreen Close, which became my working title. I wasn't satisfied with it, but figured it could be okay.

During the Christmas holidays I was listening to music CDs while preparing dinner. A stanza from the Christmas carol "Good King Wenceslas" jumped out. 
                                             
                                                     Mark my footsteps my good page,
                                                     tread thou in them boldly:
                                                     Thou shalt find the winter's rage
                                                      freeze thy blood less coldly.

Winter's Rage. That's it! What is murder about if not rage and my story in particular features characters who can't get past their rage at what happened to them.  

Now as I write the book, I think of how to emphasize rage in the work. Except, the street, Wintergreen Close, has a large focus in the story and sometimes I like the subdued Wintergreen Close better. So I've gone from thinking that the perfect winter title is out of reach to having two titles I like. Who knows which one will win in the end? It's a work in progress.

       

Black Gold Isn't Texas Oil Anymore by Karla Stover

I just finished a book where a Sikh taxi cab driver in New York gets involved in the hair imports market. Naturally, a mystery ensues. A rather unusual topic, I thought, but one that taught me something. Before reading the book, I never gave any thought to hair extensions--to how Britney Spears could be bald one day and have a full head of hair the next. I wonder if she was thinking about the where her extensions came from as someone was attaching them. 

Right now, when women world-wide have jumped on the "me too" bandwagon and are fighting for equality with men, I recall something Caroline Cox wrote in The Guardian. "When women try and change their role," she said, "their hair becomes short and chic like in the 60s and 20s, but when gender roles become more traditional, fake hair comes in. Extensions also reflect a retrogressive attitude towards women's place in society."

Which brings us to a controversial commercial recently aired which compares actress Winona Ryder's comeback to the restoration of damaged hair. In the ad, Ms. Ryder has a beautiful head of hair. I wonder where she got it?

In 2010, a reporter named Scott Carney traced some of the ubiquitous tresses to Tirumala Tirupati Devasthanams, a temple in the Indian state of Andhra Pradesh. There men and women were separated and, as Mr. Carney waited his turn, he noted that "The pilgrim at the head of the line bows low as a man with a straight razor makes swift work of his curls." (the pilgrim's, not the barber's.) Hindus offer their hair as a way of thanking the gods for answering prayers, or to honor said gods. The majority of India's Hindus have had their heads shaved at least once. Writing for motherjones.com, Mr. Carney found the shaving a disgusting business, noting that, the "Human hair contains all sorts of secretions, including sweat and blood, plus food particles, lice, and the coconut oil many Indians use as a conditioner. Put 21 tons of the stuff in a room blooming with mildew and fungus and the stench is overpowering."


Dieter Telemans/Panos


After it is cut, the hair--otherwise known as Black Gold--is carefully untangled, cleaned of all vermin, and washed in vats of detergent. When that is done, it is stored in warehouses until sold--curly hair to markets in Africa, straight hair to those in Europe, and both to the "cosmopolitan" United States. The sales bring in million to the temples; the pilgrims are generally paid little or nothing. It is the sacrifice that counts.

So here we are, with Ms. Cox's opinion, the me too movement, and long hair everywhere, often dragging down the faces of mature women. Perhaps, it is as Victoria (Posh Spice) Beckham said, "I love fashion, and I love changing my style, my hair, my makeup, and everything I've done in the past has made me what I am now. Not everyone is going to like what I do, but I look back at everything, and it makes me smile."

I think Ms. Beckham trumps Ms. Cox.
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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:  

http://www.amazon.com/Rita-Karnopp/e/B00CNVRLTW or

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

Email Rita at:  ritakarnopp@bresnan.net

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

 

Now Available from your favorite online retailers

 

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

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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