Guess Who Brought Home a New Puppy? by Connie Vines

Yes, it was I! 

As most of my readers know (via my Blog posts, Twitter, and Instagram feeds), I have a 4-year-old Poodle-Caviler King Charles Spaniel mix, named Chanel.

Her 4th B-Day Pic

We are best buddies.   I run my plot-lines and dialogue past her.  She smiles and gives me that, "I love it!" look. 

She has her beds, toys, and routine. She carries her favorite toys in my office to play with while I write.  Life is good.

But something is missing. 

I'm on dead-line (always) and working on multiple novels and stories (no change here), however, there was one major change in my routine.  This summer I retired from the field of education. 

Wow!  I am no longer forced write from 9 PM to 1:00 AM.  I can actually write during the daylight hours every week day.

Sidebar:  So, for the past several months I've been keeping an eye-out for a suitable dog-friend for both of us.  With the stay-home order, the task has required a little-jumping-through-hoops.  (Probably a little like an online dating app.)  Search the Humane Society/Shelter postings, daily.  Make phone calls (because there is a phone interview and then a scheduled meet-and-greet).  Send follow-up emails.  After several not-a-good-fit meets, I spied a l year old, 14 lb Westie Terrier Mix who was brought in as a stray and listed on Adopt-a-Pet.

I completed the paperwork/ had a phone interview' and went down to meet him at the Rancho Cucamonga Animal Shelter. I loved him, he loved me (I loved him more because he was completely potty-trained).  So, Chanel had her own appointment with him at 2:00 PM.  He followed her around.  She eyed-him (he was scruffy looking and not up to her grooming standards) but he met with everyone's approval. I christened him with a nice Scottish name:  Gavin.

Gavin before grooming

Gavin groomed

Gavin and Chanel are adjusting to each other. Gavin is still wearing his Elizabethan collar and bumps into everything and everyone. He has kennel recovery/rest time; Chanel has supervised 'Gavin' time.

Are you wondering, "What was she thinking?  She disrupted a perfect routine!"

Well, maybe. 

But it seems to be working out fine.  I like activity.  I appreciate 'controlled' chaos. And, more importantly, I loved dogs (and horses and goats).

I'm trying-out several dictation apps on my iPhone. This way I can enjoy the Southern California sun shine and a cup of coffee while dictating a chapter or working out my plot-structure.

So mixing up your routine is a good thing!

It gives you a new outlook.  You explore new pathways.  And you get to spend money on puppy toys (only three).

I'm still cooking.  Ya'all.  This week it was Shrimp and Cheese Grits.  I've gotta keep that New Orleans' vibe going!

https://bookswelove.net/vines-connie/

 Connie's Website and Links

Brief history of the written word - Part two - by Vijaya Schartz

ANGEL FIERCE award-winning SFR.Get it HERE

Last month, I spoke about the origins of writing in China, Japan, India, cuneiform writing in Mesopotamia, and hieroglyphic writing in Egypt, as well as the gradual switch from graphic representation of objects to the use of sound symbols.

Phoenician tablet

In the early 8th century BC, the Phoenicians, who traded throughout the Mediterranean basin, developed the first known alphabet. Instead of using imagery, the letters, some consonants and some vowels, were linked together to form phonetic words.

Soon, the Greek borrowed and adapted the Phoenician alphabet, and their culture flourished. 

Aramaic writing

Many other alphabets developed after that, like the Arabic alphabet in the 6th century BC. The first Proto-Hebrew alphabet developed from the early Phoenician, then they adopted the Aramaic alphabet during the Persian, Hellenistic and Roman periods (500 BC – 50 AD). 

Ancient Hebrew alphabet

In the first century AD, the Viking and Celtic tribes of northern Europe also devised the Runes. 

Runic stellae

Then much later, in the 9th century AD, St. Cyril devised the Cyrillic alphabet derived from the Greek, and used until recently in Slavic countries like Russia.

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In the 8th century AD, in China, where writing was done by hand with a brush (calligraphy) the emperor ordered some religious Buddhist texts to be carved on wood blocks, to be inked and pressed on parchment or paper, as an early form of printing. The blocks took a long time to carve, and could only be used a certain number of times before losing their sharp quality.

Some ancient cultures, like the Druids or the Polynesian and Native American tribes, had a strong oral tradition but never developed a writing system. That is why so little is known about their history today. Still, very old pictograms, drawings, and symbols carved in ancient stones, cliffs, caves, or etched over miles of Andean desert, baffle the anthropologists. This only tells us that some kind of writing communication may have existed well before what we understand today.

When the ancient Romans conquered the Greeks of antiquity, they borrowed and copied their culture, their religion, their arts, and adapted their alphabet to fit Rome’s needs, and for centuries, they thrived. Through conquest, the Romans imposed their culture and their Latin alphabet upon the defeated Frankish, Germanic, Saxon, and Breton tribes, overriding whatever local system they used at the time, and replacing it by the alphabet we are still using today in the west. 

 Of note is the fact that many countries added their own modifications to the alphabet. The French have the “oe” letter and many different types of accents. The Germans also have special characters on their keyboard that are not used by any other countries… so do the Danish and the Norwegians.

Roman writing tablet and stylus

Everywhere writing developed, it prompted a cultural revolution, the exchange of ideas and information, the first development of advanced culture, art, engineering, science, mathematics, and philosophy.

But there is much more to be told. Next month, in Part 3, we’ll talk about how writing evolved over the centuries, and how it translates in today’s society.

I write about the past and the future, as they are closely linked. My latest book is set on the Byzantium Space Station. Enjoy the read!

Akira's Choice

Byzantium Book 2 (standalone)

Find it from your favorite online store HERE

When bounty hunter Akira Karyudo accepted her assignment, something didn't add up. Why would the Galactic Trade Alliance want a young kidnapped orphan dead or alive?

She will get to the truth once she finds the boy, and the no-good SOB who snatched him from a psychiatric hospital. With her cheetah, Freckles, a genetically enhanced feline retriever, Akira sets out to flush them out of the bowels of the Byzantium space station. But when she finds her fugitives, the kidnapper is not what she expects.

Kazmo, a decorated Resistance fighter, stole his nephew from the authorities, who performed painful experiments on the boy. Stuck on Byzantium, he protects the child, but how can he shield him from the horribly dangerous conditions in the lawless sublevels of the space station?

Akira faces the worst moral dilemma of her career. Law or justice, duty or love. She can't have it both ways.

"Science fiction romance at its best. Great story, interesting characters and a great cat make this story one to read and perhaps re-read. The world creating is top notch." 5 stars on amazon

Vijaya Schartz, author
Strong Heroines, Brave Heroes
http://www.vijayaschartz.com
amazon - B&N - Smashwords - Kobo - FB

Musings from a lover of words--Tricia McGill

Find this and all my other books on my Books We Love Author page

I wrote these short pieces years ago, so thought I would give them another whirl, as my thoughts haven’t altered a lot where ideas are concerned.

Thoughts Grow Like Mushrooms

A small germ becomes a giant idea. We all have ideas but most people let them slide away, never to be recalled. I am forever seeking new ideas, new paths to walk; new avenues to explore. My mind is never idle. I wonder what others think about when they just sit and stare. Are they, like me, investigating another avenue to take? When I began to write I thought—will I ever be fortunate enough to see a novel I have created in print? Will it be such a tragedy if I don’t?

I am never sure what prompted me to write, but once I began, I couldn’t stop. If I was unable to read or write I feel my life would have no purpose. I’m not sure what drives me. When I was a teenager, I felt an urge to write down my emotions—such as that shy glance from a boy I thought was nice, and how it made me feel at the time. This urge was dormant for years while my career path went off in another direction—but then I reached a stage in my life when I had time to do as I pleased. That is when I began to write in earnest, as if guided by what I like to call my Muse. Of course, there were those pesky rejections to deal with along the way.

People who don’t quite understand writers think we’re strange. How do you have the patience they ask, when told how much work goes into a book. How can I answer them when I don’t know myself? All I know is that I often wonder what my mind would be doing if it wasn’t toying with new story ideas. Perhaps I would have continued with my first love, painting. But the urge to paint was never as strong as the urge to write.

When I read a book or a passage of writing by another author that stirs me to tears, laughter or strong emotion I long to have the same effect on a reader. Perhaps this is why we all keep at it. To have someone say, “I read your book, and loved it. I enjoyed it so much I couldn’t put it down.” That is completely satisfying. I feel I have accomplished a feat that once seemed impossible.

I know people who try something and when they fail say, “I couldn’t be bothered to carry on.” I’ve tried a few things in my time that I haven’t been all that successful at, but I’ve always kept on until I felt I was as good at it as I could ever be. I hope I have become a tolerant person as I’ve grown.

Words

Words. As writers, we love them. Idolise them, in fact. Words are to us writers as the paintbrush is to an artist, the baton to a conductor, movements to a dancer. A paragraph, sentence, or at times one word will catch our attention, hold us in thrall, and make us wish we’d thought of that phrase or word first.

As I work my way through the dictionary, this occupation brings home to me as never before how glad I am that I was taught English from the moment I could speak. How often in the past, I have scoffed at newcomers to my country. How many of us are guilty of suggesting they should learn our language before they arrive. Yeah, like it will only take them a short course of a couple of weeks to learn the million and one connotations and idiosyncrasies of the English language. So many English words change their meaning by the alteration or addition of one letter.

Never will I ridicule someone who endeavours to find their way around the English language.

Visit my web page for excerpts

Barkerville Beginnings, Book Four of BWL Publishing's Canadian Historical Brides Collection

A single mother running from her past and a viscount running from scandal meet in the rough and tumble gold rush town of Barkerville. (Available at your favourite online store HERE.)

***** 

Four years ago, my wonderful publisher BWL Publishing invited me to participate in a project in honour of Canada’s 150^th birthday. The Canadian Historical Brides Collection is comprised of twelve books, one for every province and territory and each book is the story of a bride who contributed to the building of Canada. Our only stipulation was that the book had to be a blend of fact and fiction.

(You can find the entire collection on the BWL Publishing website HERE)

Each participating author could choose which province they wanted to write about and I was lucky enough to snag British Columbia. I say lucky, as British Columbia is one of our favourite vacation destinations and it wasn’t too difficult to come up with a location in which to place my story. Eventually I decided on the ghost town of Barkerville that sprang into existence during the Cariboo gold rush. My husband and I have visited there a couple of times over the years and I thought it would be a wonderful setting for the story of Rose and her little girl Hannah, and Harrison.

After gold was discovered in 1861 in Williams Creek in the Cariboo, thousands of men and women made the trek up the Fraser River, through the Fraser Canyon, north to what is now Quesnel and from there east into Barkerville. At one time, this town was thought to be the largest settlement west of Chicago, with an estimated population of 10,000! With such a large influx of people, in 1861 the Royal Engineers were given the task of building the Cariboo Road. By 1865, the road made it possible for mule trains, freight wagons and stage coaches to serve central British Columbia. When completed, it was considered one of the wonders of the world. Today you can still see remnants of the road just outside of Lytton.

As an author of one of the Canadian Historical Brides books, I had to incorporate real people so I did. ie Wa Lee, who gives Rose a job in his laundry, Judge Begbie, (known as “The Hanging Judge” and doesn’t that tweak your interest!), Madame Fannie Bendixon, the hotelier and saloon keeper (who may or may not have run a brothel!) who also offers Rose a job, Dr. Wilkinson who treats the injured leg of Rose’s daughter Hannah, and Wellington Delaney Moses, the barber, because Harrison needed a shave after being out in the gold fields.

I’ve been to Barkerville so I wanted to mention the lonely grave you drive past on your way in from Quesnel. Here is Rose’s impression as she passes by:

The wagon slowed as the road neared a fenced grave, enough that Rose could read the headboard: Charles Morgan Blessing.

“Lonely spot to be buried,” Harrison commented and he doffed his hat as they drove past.

Rose nodded. “It is.” A chill tiptoed down her back at the forlorn sight, a reminder of the fragility of life in this wilderness. She craned her neck for one last glimpse before the road twisted away.

I was also quite taken with the wooden sidewalks so of course I had to mention those as well:

 “Looks like we’ve arrived,” said Harrison as a cluster of buildings came into view. Once again the mules, sensing the end of a long day, picked up their pace and the wagon bounced and rattled down the last little bit of the Cariboo Trail.

Rose hadn’t known what to expect but her first view left her numb. This was Barkerville? The town that gold built? This jumble of wooden, mostly single story buildings tottering on stilts alongside a wide, muddied creek? Surrounded by steep hills stripped bare of trees? How unattractive, brutally so.

The road through town was in poor shape, rutted and puddled with patches of drying mud. In consideration for pedestrians, raised wooden walkways fronted every building like planked skirts. Rose could only conclude the creek must flood frequently. Her poor boots, already soaked through once since embarking on the trip, would certainly be put to the test here.

The closer they came, the more her heart sank. What had she got themselves into?

Here are a couple of pictures of Barkerville today. The second picture gives you a good idea of the wooden sidewalks. 

As an author of historical romance, it’s my job to place my readers in the proper time frame and I hope I’ve accomplished that in Barkerville Beginnings!

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.”