Featured Author - Katherine Pym

 

I am BWL Publishing Inc. author Katherine Pym. My books can be viewed and purchased by visiting https://bookswelove.net/pym-katherine/

Research is the crux of my stories:

Several years ago, I made a life decision to live in England and write a novel. One day, I wandered into a used bookstore to find the full diary of Samuel Pepys. I remembered reading of him in high school and had an immediate affinity with him. So, I purchased the whole set by Bell, published in the early 20^th century. The books were filled with everyday life, his thoughts, fears, and actions, but looking at it from a 400 year time span, most of what he wrote could have been in Sanskrit. Written in the common language of the time, there were fads and expressions never before seen. I had to learn more of that era to understand the content of Pepys’ life.

So, I began to study London during the mid-17^th century. I used footnotes from the diary then followed up with the bibliography, or source notes. I studied all aspects of the 1660’s until I understood Pepys’ era and the local language he used.

He was a man of his time with frailties that all humans have, and he was not shy about telling them. He noted news of the day, gossip, and the newest plays. He wrote a song and had his portrait made with the score in hand. He was deeply curious about almost everything, including the budding sciences and medical procedures. He was sexually active and had mistresses, but due to surgery for kidney stones at the age of 25, he was infertile and never produced offspring.

Sam wrote of his wife’s illnesses, her frustrations even as he dismissed them. He left her for long periods during the day while on Navy business. He studied the craft, the details, and asked for help when he needed it. In the end, despite the laissez-faire of his aristocratic bosses, he pulled a ramshackle organization of the Navy together. I attribute Samuel Pepys as the father of the current British Navy because of the changes he sought in the mid-17^th century.

When I thought I’d learned enough to understand the world in which he lived, I sat down and began my 1660 London series of books, from the onset of the Restoration to the pretty much death of central London by burning.

If we think our current world is tumultuous, think again. During the early to mid-17^th century, London experienced civil wars, regicide with the beheading of Charles I, a period of time with Cromwell as leader and its Puritan ethics.

When one dives into a period of history, one learns all sorts of strange things, like when Cromwell died. Stories conflict as to what happened to the body, how it had to be quickly buried because the coffin oozed wet, stinky filth. Then, while people whispered Charles’ name, men of title who had followed Cromwell, worked behind the scenes to bring Charles back from exile. Sam Pepys had the opportunity to accompany his mentor to The Hague and retrieve the new king.

When I read this in the diary, I had to learn of wooden sailing ships, and how they were run, what the men ate, how they slept in tightfitting quarters. One night in heavy seas, the window leaked. Water funneled into Pepys’ mouth, nearly drowning him. Little things like this make research rewarding and adds dimension to a story.  

This sent me into 1661, the king’s coronation, and my story of twins where a superstition persisted that a man could only sire one child at a time. If his wife had twins, she was considered adulterous. But what about royal twins? Surely, somewhere over the centuries a queen gave birth to twins. How realistic is it to think a king squirreled away the extra child to avoid conflict later?

In 1662, I used the background of a bakeshop to explore spies in London. 1663 formed my interest in Early Modern England’s science and medicine, some treatments quite shocking. There was a great deal of bigamy then, and I explored that aspect as well. Then we come to 1664 when the London merchants hankered for war with the Dutch. More spy stories. 1665 everything came to a halt with war, the plague, then in 1666, I burned London to the ground. Almost.  

I was given the honor to co-write a story of Canada Brides, where we brought to life Sara and David Kirke. A true-life couple, their love and strengths met the challenge of dividing their time between London and Newfoundland where they colonized and made a great fishery. To this day, an annual award is given to women entrepreneurs in Sara Kirke’s name.  

I have other stories, but I am most proud of my 17^th century novels where the history is as close as I can get to the reader ‘being there’ as my characters explore life. Pepys is never mentioned, but he is there in spirit, holding a ‘lanthorn’ as the reader explores the dank streets of old London.

An excerpt from Highwayman (London 1666):

Suddenly, unholy screeches enveloped the house. Merry jigs halted; fear danced upon the servants’ miens. Whilst lusty pipe notes flattened, everyone fled to the parlour.

Grandfather’s cadaver grunted and groaned. His arms flailed. Linen still upon his face, he cried, “I doth knew it. Thou art eating me out of house and home. I shall cry up the constable for riotous, thieving behaviour. You’ll see the dark side of gaol this very night.”

The corpse sat up, his hand brushing against the maid, who fell into wild screaming fits. “Spectre, spectre!” Goggle-eyed and slathering, she grabbed the iron pan from the hearth ash and swung it above her head.

Too shocked to react, Geoffrey stood rooted to the spot like a damned stick.

With a mighty heave, the maid clapped the ghostie on the head, a froth of soot flying about the chamber.

Bone cracked, a loud gasp stilled the babble. Grandfather’s carcass fell back into the coffin.

An excerpt from Pillars of Avalon (17^th century London/Newfoundland):

Humility pierced the blanket of his confusion. David rose and faced his king.

Maxwell relieved the sword from His Majesty and set it on the table. He opened his mouth to say something but the king raised his hand. “You are now a peer, Kirke. I hope by all that is sacred, you hold this privilege dear.” He regarded David expectantly.

David lowered his gaze. “I do, Sire.”

“Then go forth and honour me.”

Maxwell motioned for him to move to the end of the table where the gentleman held a parchment, embossed with the king’s Great Seal. “Your certificate, my lord.”

Before David took the parchment, his name scribed in bold letters, the gentleman withdrew it. “You are English.”

“Aye.”

“Since being knighted in Scotland, you must take this to Lyon King of Arms in Edinburgh.” He gazed at him. “Do you understand?”

David nodded. “I do.” He could not fathom these men with their veiled animosity.

The gentleman released the document into his hand. As David backed away from the king, His Majesty stepped up to him. Thoughtful, he stroked his beard.

David bowed, showing a leg. “Your Majesty?”

“Rise.”

David straightened.

King Charles gazed at him, his soft brown eyes tinged with bitterness. “I forgive thee, Kirke.” He stepped closer and whispered, “Aye, I forgive thee for the ills you have done me.”

The Author's Voice by Victoria Chatham

AVAILABLE HERE

Most writers understand the term the author’s voice. For non- or new writers who may not, it refers to the writer’s personal and distinctive elements of style. Someone who loves classical music can differentiate between Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart. A jazz fan will know Muddy Waters from B.B. King. Fans of Nora Roberts or Debbie Macomber, John Grisham or Lee Child will not need the cover or spine matter to know who has written the book. A few lines of text from a single page will tell a seasoned fan all they need to know because they recognize the author’s voice.

But there is another author's voice to consider. It is that real voice, the one an author produces the first time they perform, either at a reading or giving a presentation. It is the part that authors over and over say they like the least because many authors are often introverts and prefer to be seen but not heard. They do not want to hear that thin, reedy, wavering vocal vehicle that cannot possibly be their voice. They know it is not going to reach the back of the room or do anything to WOW their audience. They suffer from glossophobia, the technical term for fear of public speaking which affects at least 25 percent of the population so in that they are not alone.

However, as with writing, practice makes perfect, and the best place to practice your reading is in the comfort of your own home. First, find a paragraph in your book that resonates with you. It could be descriptive narrative or a few lines of dialogue from a passage with which you are comfortable. For your first attempt, make it a short piece. You might barely move your lips around the words so that you are only whispering, but that will not do. Read your passage out loud, and I do mean OUT LOUD, and then re-read it. Next time, lift your head, look straight in front of you and then dip our chin slightly so that you lengthen your neck. Now hold your paper (or book) up so that it is at eye level and re-read the piece.

Notice your breath. Many of us, when we begin public readings, take a deep breath and go for it, ending on a gasp like a landed fish. Learn to breathe. Yes, you read that correctly. Controlling your breathing goes a long way to calm your nerves, which ultimately modulates your voice. Take three deep breaths and re-read your piece. Better?

Here’s another tip. Print the page from which you are going to read and mark it up with a backslash at

every comma and period, which will show you where you can pause to take a breath. It is also a neatway to determine if better punctuation will make your writing flow more easily. If you can’t comfortably read a sentence in one breath, then it is too long. You may also find places where you naturally want to take a breath, so mark these as well. Note the solid backslashes and the dotted backslashes in this sample take from my book His Unexpected Muse. 

 Practice as much as you can. Watch TED talks on YouTube and watch how the presenters interact with their audience, or research online articles on public speaking. If you have the chance, visit the venue where your reading is to take place, get comfortable with it. Is it a library, bookstore, or school? If you can, meet the staff who will be there on the day of the reading. Find out where the podium will be placed and check the lighting. Is it good enough for you to see your page? To make it more comfortable for yourself, print your page(s) in as large a font as you need. Look around and familiarize yourself with entrances and exits. The last thing anyone wants is to be placed by the washroom door. You may laugh, but that has happened.

On the day of the reading, a couple of things will help you stay calm. Most of us love our coffee, but too much caffeine before the event can make you more nervous. Drinking milk, or having any milk-based product may cause congestion. You know yourself best, so if this is likely to happen to you, it would be better to drink water.

When you step up to the podium, look at your audience who need not know this is the first time you are reading in public. Pick one or two people, make eye contact with them and imagine you are reading just for them. Smile. Breathe. Begin.

When you have finished, look around your audience again and thank them for listening. Keep smiling, even though your knees may be knocking, and you long for that coffee or a stiff drink—pat yourself on the back. You’ve done it! You’ve survived. And the more you do it, the more you prepare for it, the easier it gets. I promise.

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Featured Author - Diane Bator

 Hello! I am BWL Publishing Inc. author, Diane Bator. I’m a mystery writer and my books can be viewed and purchased by visiting https://bookswelove.net/bator-diane/ I’ve been a writer my entire life. Since I was little and learned how to scribble with crayons. I still have short stories and poems from when I was a teenager.

Back then, I had one major goal in life. I wanted to be on the Oprah Winfrey Show. In my daydreams, I was an actor or a writer and Oprah and I got on famously. Flash forward many years, a marriage, three kids, and a divorce. Oprah’s show is in reruns. I work in administration for a local theatre and get to meet actors. Oh, and I became a writer.

I’m likely not Oprah Show material at this point. Somehow, I don’t think she’s read my books nor have they been part of her book club, but I’m still a fan.

That’s okay. I write for me.

Writing is what keeps me happy and sane through all the obstacles life hurls. It gives me focus even when the world feels like it’s falling apart. As one of my friends says, it’s like breathing and the ink is in my blood.

I’ve been on several Zoom chats with some very inspiring authors through all of this. Some are encouraging, some are more focused on other things in the world right now. It’s a juggling act between the real world and our fantasy lives some days. Not everyone can keep the balls in the air all of the time. Sometimes, we need to just sit. Just rest.

If I could offer one bit of advice to anyone who wants to write but doesn’t know where to start, I’d say to start with what you ate for breakfast. Silly, right? As Julia Cameron says, sometimes we need to prime the pump. Start writing just for the sake of writing then the great—well, good—stuff will follow.

As for me, after a month and a half of being numb in this new world, I’m writing again. Chapters at a time, which is exciting after a dry spell.

For now, may I present excerpt from my two newest novels, Drop Dead Cowboy and Dead Without Shame. I hope you enjoy the excepts. I promise, there will be much more to come!

Diane Bator

Drop Dead Cowboy (Book 1 Sugarwood Mysteries)

Excerpt:

Chapter 1

“Wow, Miss Lavinia sure goes all out for Halloween, doesn’t she?” Merilee set a brown paper tray with two take-out cups on the front counter then slipped off her black leather gloves.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, her shop is always ready for Halloween. It’s her favourite day of the year.” I reached for a cup and took a whiff. Stitch’n’Time was the only thing that kept me busy and happy now that the children were on their own and I had nothing left to do at home but clean the house and stare at walls. Not that I wasn’t good at either. “Mmm, nothing like a cup of pumpkin spice tea on a chilly October day.”

Merilee Rutherford, my best friend and partner in our shop Stitch’n’Time shook her head. “Give me coffee or let me sleep.”

“What are you talking about?” I laughed. “You get up at five in the morning to do your work out. You’re half done your laundry before I even get out of bed. You’re the earliest early bird I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah, well, it starts to catch up by mid-week.”

I sniffed my tea once more. “Does Miss Lavinia plan to do palm readings again for the Halloween Festival on Friday?”

Merilee shrugged. “I didn’t go inside. I just noticed all the creepy little voodoo dolls and shrunken heads in her window. What’s creepy is that one of them looks a lot like your husband.”

“There’s a shrunken head that looks like Rex?” I raised my eyebrows. “No wonder I haven’t seen him much lately.”

“No silly.” She tapped my arm. “A voodoo doll. How would she know what he looks like or have a piece of his blue striped shirt? Has he ever even been inside her shop before?”

I straightened a rack filled with embroidery needles and a dozen fancy crane scissors I’d bought online for a steal from another shop going out of business. “Only when I dragged him in to see her that one time. I hoped she could cure his snoring with one of her essential oil blends.”

“Did it work?”

“Nope.” I sighed. “Rex still snores like a chainsaw. The problem is now Drake has started to snore too. It’s like I’m stuck between two race cars revving their engines at the starting line. Some nights, I go to sleep in the guest room. I couldn’t get the dog or Rex to wake up. I should go check out her decorations.”

Merilee chuckled. “Oh, speaking of interesting decorations. Did you happen to see the new one on the bench in front of Miss Lavinia’s shop?”

I frowned. “Did she put something on the bench? I know a few people who won’t be happy about that. Mr. Ossington sits out there and throws breadcrumbs for the pigeons.”

“We have pigeons?” She stared.

Excerpt:  Dead Without Shame (Book 4 Gilda Wright Mysteries)

Just as he predicted, the lunch hour class was packed, even though he did wear the top to his karate uniform. Not about to let anyone slack off, he pushed all the students to run a lap then drop and do ten push-ups over and over until Gilda’s arms and shoulders burned.

“Okay, I give. I’m six push-ups away from death.” Marion Yearly, Gilda’s best friend for nearly ten years groaned beside her. “Who gave Kane coffee today?”

Gilda gasped. “No coffee. Just an unhealthy overdose of ego.”

“Stop being nice to him, will you? Flattery will get us all killed.” Marion dropped face down onto the mat. A foot taller than Gilda and built like an NFL quarterback, Marion was a local 9-1-1 operator. She’d lost about twenty pounds since August when she started training as well as eating healthier along with her new boyfriend, Razi Mauli.

“Get up.” Kane nudged Marion’s leg with his big toe. “One more lap then you can collapse.”

She didn’t look up. Her voice was muffled by the tatami mats. “I’m good. Just run me over.”

Kane closed his eyes and shook his head. He grabbed Marion’s feet and dragged her into a corner. He left her there face down then turned back to face the class. “Yame. Stop and grab your sparring gear.”

“Did he just yell stop?” A loud groan came from Marion in the corner. “Seriously?”

“Except for you.” Kane glanced back over his shoulder.

She struggled to get up. “Oh good.”

“You can give me another fifty push-ups.”

Marion flattened her body to the mat with a groan. “You’re cute, but I hate you.”

“Just think how good you’ll look in a bikini next summer,” he said.

Gilda tried to stop a giggle from escaping as she fastened the Velcro on her sparring gloves. The fact Marion had started training to impress Razi wasn’t lost on Kane.

“Me in a bikini?” Marion pushed her upper body off the floor in a Cobra pose she couldn’t do two months ago. “Could you imagine?”

Kane’s eyes grew wide. He flashed Gilda a small grin. “I asked for that, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did,” Gilda muttered.

He paused. “Okay, on your backs. Count out ten sit-ups each. Marion starts.”

“Yup. Still don’t like you.” Marion flared her nostrils then rolled over and counted.

Gilda never saw Marion move so fast in her life. Not even for ice cream, and that was saying something.

Diane Bator

http://penspaintsandpaper.com

http://dbator.blogspot.ca/