Footnotes

More about me and my books

"The history books you read sanitized slavery, disregarded indigenous stories, minimized wars, 

and dismissed the narratives of immigrants, poor, and working people."

-- Humanity Archive

I have a profound appreciation of those who have come before, who have made my life possible.  Some of our ancestors have been left out…people of color, immigrants, women.  I cherish their lives. I want to find their stories, even if it means combing through the footnotes, finding obscure archives for articles, paintings, drawings, photographs.  Here's one I came across recently... Who would not want to tell this woman's story?

O-o-dee of the Kiowa, 1896

Sometimes I am lucky enough to find some scholarship just when I need it, like Charles Swain's book, helping me discover how brave African American families survived and thrived in the north of a country divided. This informed my knowledge of life in New York, often called City of Sedition because of its economic ties to the South, and the horrible carnage of the Draft riots there in 1863, featured in Mercies of the Fallen, the second of my American Civil War Brides series:

The culture of the Diné (Navajo) is seen through the eyes of a woman in:

You can be sure this informed my Code Talker Chronicles series.  I loved the thought of Luke Kayenta being raised by women like this one!

I hope you enjoy my novels and see history from a different perspective though them!

I Can't Write the Future Anymore

                           Please click this link for author and book purchase information

On March 10th, I began the third draft of my novel-in-progress, Winter's Rage. Unlike my two previous mystery novels, this story shifts between three viewpoint narrators and two time periods. For reading ease, I placed a header at the start of each chapter with the narrator's name and the story month and year. For the main storyline, the date was January, 2020. But this March I thought, since the book won't be published until next year, why not reset it in 2021 to make the novel more contemporary? Later, I could insert any minimal changes needed or specifics to highlight that future date. I had done this easily for my earlier books to help bridge the time gap between starting a novel and its publication. In fact, draft #2 of Winter's Rage was written months before January 2020.

So I changed the headers for my first few chapters to January 2021, started revising, and realized I couldn't do this. In March, the effects of COVID-19 hit Canada with full impact. International travel shut down. Empty shelves, lineups and changed protocols appeared in grocery stores. Museums, restaurants and group activities closed. Each day brought a new development that I hadn't considered the day before. I couldn't predict what my world would be like the next week, never mind ten months in the future.

Even now, three months later, I don't know what daily life in January 2021 will be like in Calgary, my home city and the setting for my mystery novels. Will we have a vaccine or cure for COVID-19 by then? Probably not, but if I assume this and a miracle happens I'd have to significantly change any story I'd write now. And if COVID-19 is still with us, what rules, guidelines and customs will Calgarians experience in January 2021? Will schools be open, or will students continue to study online? Will we all be wearing masks? In lockdown or moving about fairly freely, keeping our social distance? What percentage of people will be working from home, or be unemployed? Will our economy have collapsed, flattened or revived with a renewed flourish? Will national and international travel be open? Will Canadian snowbirds travel south, as usual, to warm, sunny destinations or hibernate at home?

We can all make guesses, but no one is sure enough about life in Calgary next winter for me to portray it in the novel I'm in the process of finishing now.

I returned to the first chapters of Winter's Rage and reset the date to January 2020, when I and many others lived in the old normal, oblivious to what lay a month or two ahead. As I revised my manuscript, ordinary behaviours I'd included struck me as strange in our current time. Characters shake hands when they meet for business. Some touch people who don't live in their own households. I'm sure they often stand closer to each other than two metres (6.5 feet or, in Canadian terms, about the length of a hockey stick).

Paula, my insurance adjuster sleuth, visits insurance claimants in their homes. No one thinks twice about inviting her into their living room. In an early scene, Paula helps a claimant prepare hot chocolate in his kitchen.  The man is 85, recovering from heart surgery and at high risk for serious complications from COVID-19. He and Paula pass each other mugs, utensils and the can of chocolate powder without hesitation. In these details, my novel and others set at the start of 2020 will chronicle our society immediately before everything changed.

Too close

Winter's Rage is book three of my murder mystery series. Since the first and second novels were set in fall and summer, the one thing I know about book four is that it will take place in spring, to complete the Calgary seasons. Since it won't be published for a couple of years, I'd expected to set the story next year or later. Then I thought, with no travel on the horizon, I might have time to start the first draft this summer, writing by hand on my back yard patio. The novel could take place this spring, while we're experiencing the height of COVID-19 restrictions. Why not portray this unique time in a fictional murder mystery story? The current social mood even fits what I have in mind for Paula at this point her life. Uncertainty. Fears. Isolation from loved ones.

But how can I have dramatic interactions between Paula and suspect strangers when everyone with something to hide has the perfect excuse to tell her, "Stay away, I won't talk to you in person?" How does an insurance adjuster/detective do her job without meeting people face to face? I'd better start researching this before life returns to a new normal and people forget the details of this peculiar time we're living through.

Social distancing on Hunchback Hills, Alberta. In the past, my hiking club would squeeze together for a group photo. 

 

        

Choosing the Right Word by Karla Stover

                   




I am always fascinated by the words people choose to express themselves or to name something--what writer isn't? And lately I've been looking at the names of housing developments as I drive past them. How a developer came up with Nantucket Gate a couple of miles from me when we are smack dab between Puget Sound and Mt. Rainier is a puzzler. There's absolutely nothing Cape Cod-ish about our neck of the woods. One name that makes perfect sense, though, is Brookdale Greens. It was built on an old golf course (greens) just off Brookdale Road, but just down the street, on the other side is Sawyer Trail. There's no trail because it's built more or less against a hill, and a sawyer is a person who saws wood. Ah, well, moving right along, the reason I saw these places was because I'd made an early morning, quick trip to the hardware store. While in lock-down I decided to paint the bathroom and as long he doesn't have to help, my husband is willing to let me. We even agreed on a color and it has a foo-foo name.

I used to think my ideal job would be to write descriptions for what I call the 'Odds-and Ends' catalogs. Examples in the latest one sent here: The LAWN RANGER TEE; "You might not be fighting outlaws, but your weeds are running scared!" Very fun. The DANCING TIKI LIGHT, "Transform your yard into an exotic paradise." It'd take more than a tiki light to do that in  my yard, and STYLISH COMPRESSION KNEE-HIGHS. That's gotta be an oxymoron. There is nothing fashionable about compression socks. The same catalog also had BOOST OXYGEN in assorted scents, "used by famous celebrities." Isn't every celebrity famous? I'm just asking. Speaking of celebrities, wouldn't 'The Sinatra' be a great name for a cool and classy car?

However, getting back to the paint, color samples, some of the names on the little cards are almost as fun as a tee-shirt for fighting weeds, for example: Bromance Blue or Teal & Tonic. I quite liked Left Bank Blue and Nantucket Fog but New Born's Eyes makes me want to gag.

As a writer, I regularly used the 'synonyms' function on my Word program. Is there a better word, one that gives more punch, one that will eliminate repetitions?

Anyway, the color my husband and I finally agreed on for the bathroom is 'Heaven on Earth.' In the context of a color for a bathroom, I find that funny.

Bumpy Road Ahead

Find my books here

I tried something different this month and you may have to enlarge your page to fully appreciate the jpgs I've added. 

A collection of short stories by Elizabeth Dearl

https://bookswelove.net/dearl-elizabeth/

https://bookswelove.net/dearl-elizabeth/

(click link to purchase)

MALICIOUS INTENT

A collection of short stories by

Elizabeth Dearl

Now available from BWL Publishing

in Kindle and Paperback

 

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I blame my grandmother.

I blame her for raising me, for loving me, but most of all, I blame her for teaching me to read before I started kindergarten.  I was reading Dr. Seuss books to myself (or aloud to my grandparents) at a time when other children were still having the books read aloud to them.  By the time I started first grade, I was reading books left behind on her shelves by my father and by my older siblings.  By age eight, I was reading Jane Eyre and Robinson Crusoe.  I fell in love with words.  And I knew, beyond any doubt, that I wanted to be a writer.

I discovered short stories, in magazines and in hardbound collections, and found myself particularly drawn to Hitchcock and Ellery Queen.  I devoured Amazing Stories, as well as collections containing works which would later be transferred to the small screen as Twilight Zone and Outer Limits episodes.

I grew up and life intervened, of course.  Before I could scratch the writing itch, I had to survive in the real world.  I held down jobs I hated (security guard, secretary, employment counselor) and jobs I really enjoyed (police dispatcher, reserve sheriff's deputy, police officer).  When I left the police force to operate a small bookstore that my husband and I had bought, I finally found time to write a story or two. 

I began with short stories, because I had always loved them.  And, too, I thought it would be an easier start than churning out a novel.  Boy, was I wrong.  Short stories, I discovered, are odd beasts unto themselves.  Leaf through the submission guidelines of any magazine, in print or online, and you'll see.  Word limits range from 50 (no kidding) to 15,000 words.  Some pay only in copies.  Others pay as little as five dollars, no matter the length.  Still others pay by the word.  I learned about genres and sub-genres.  A mystery isn't just a mystery.  It must be cozy or amateur sleuth, or funny, or frightening, or noir. 

Ah, well.  I wrote my stories and kept them to myself, terrified that if someone else read them, I'd hear:  "Well, this stinks."  Or worse.  Finally, one evening, I let it slip to my husband that I'd been writing at the store, between customers, and he wanted to read one.  Honestly scared to death, I offered him a sample -- handwritten in pencil on a legal pad.  I tried not to watch him read it.  At last, he finished, looked up at me, and said:  "YOU wrote this?" 

"Yes," I replied, shaking in my boots.

"Wow,"  he said.  "I had no idea you could write like this."  Thank you, Joe!

Thus began my journey of actually submitting my stories.  I won't go into how many rejection slips I collected -- and most really are slips, you know.  "Does not meet our needs at this time," is the most common.  I cried, I cursed, I persisted.  And then, who knows why, one day the dam broke.  I received my first acceptance letter.  Then another.  And another.  Many of those early stories are included in this collection.  Not only mysteries, but horror, fantasy, and even a couple of out and out romances.

I did, finally, go on to write novels, and I love that process, too (now that I've gotten over the initial dread of plotting longer works).  Writing my Taylor Madison Mystery Series has brought me incredible joy.  But short fiction will forever hold a special place in my heart.  I hope you enjoy reading these stories as much as I enjoyed concocting them. 

From Malicious Intent:

DENSITY

            "There's a hole in the boat!"

            "Row."

            "But I can't swim –"

            "Row."

            Muscles straining, I rowed.  My captor sprawled across the stern, stuffing a Twinkie into his mouth with one hand.  His other hand was occupied, pointing the business end of a revolver at me.  A wadded handkerchief sprouted from his left shoulder like a crimson carnation.

            "Good goin', Doc,"  he mumbled, spraying bits of yellow cake against my neck.  "I'm impressed.  Little speck of a gal like you."

"Thanks,"  I said sourly. Not for the first time, I regretted a lifelong compulsion to prove myself.  A four-foot-eleven, ninety pound woman doesn't make it through the rigors and taunts of med school unless she can excel, scholastically and otherwise.  However, in the present situation I would have been much better off pleading feminine frailty.

I hadn't been kidding about the hole in that weather-beaten shell of a boat.  Frigid water lapped over my shoes as more of the rotting wood gave way. 

"We're sinking!" 

He laughed.  "Guess it's time to get out of this wreck, huh?"

"I told you I can't swim.  What –"

"Hey, take it easy.  You can walk, can't you?" 

The huge man eased over the side and stood, the water level just below his knees, holding the gun and two plastic sacks.

"Out,"  he said.

I picked up my soggy medical bag and obeyed.  "What about the boat?"

He shrugged.  "Let it sink."

Shivering, I watched the lake swallow my only means of escape.

We stumbled across the rocky shore and into the woods, me in the lead, a hard shove to the small of my back urging me along if I didn't move fast enough to suit him.  He'd chosen Gnat Island, named for its size, not its insect population, as his hiding place.

The tiny island, not even half an acre in land mass but studded with enormous pines, is a popular picnic spot for summer tourists.  I'd spent many a warm weekend here myself.  It was a good place to bring friends from Boston, come to pay a pity visit to their former college pal out in the boonies.  "No wonder you live here,"  they'd always end up saying.  "So peaceful."  And instead of scorn for the colleague who'd chosen to cast aside big-dollar specialty medicine in order to practice as a lowly GP in a place no one had ever heard of, they'd carry a little envy back to the city.

Winter is a different story, the main shore lined with deserted summer cottages, the island abandoned.

            We reached a small clearing and he sat down on a carpet of pine needles, motioning for me to do the same.

            "It's getting dark,"  I said.  "Want me to find some fallen branches and build a fire?"

            "Good try, but no thanks.  Don't want you signaling for help."

            "That wasn't my intention.  You brought me here to give you medical treatment, but I can't do that in the dark."

"I've got a flashlight."

"Fine, but that doesn't provide any heat and I'm freezing.  Aren't you?"

            "Nah, I never get cold."

            I could believe that.  Fat is a great insulator, and this guy must have weighed over three hundred pounds.

            "Well, I do get cold, and you don't want my hands shaking when I dig that bullet out of your shoulder."

            His eyes narrowed.  "How'd you know it was a bullet?"

            "Because you're Hank Nelson.  Don't look so surprised, you've been all over the news.  Bank robbery, two guards dead, you wounded."

            "Pretty smart."

            "Not smart enough to lock my office door when I closed up this afternoon."  I was gathering twigs as I spoke.  "If you had let me take care of you there, you'd be back on the road by now."

            "Told you, I had to find a private place, lay low for awhile.  Too many cops on my trail.  Lucky I found that old boat when I ditched the stolen car."  He thought things over.  "Go ahead and build your fire, Doc.  I guess we're far enough into the trees that no one will see the light." 

            No one would see my fire if I built it at the edge of the island, not in winter.  The main shore across from us would remain abandoned until late spring, but I didn't see the point of sharing that information.  "Toss me your lighter."

            He reached for his pocket, then stopped.  "Now, how'd you know I'd have a lighter?"

            "You're a smoker.  I can smell tobacco on your clothes."

            He handed over the lighter.  "You oughta be a detective, Doc.  Say, what's your name, anyway?"

            "Memory problems, Hank?  You must have read the shingle outside my office, or you wouldn't have known I was a doctor."

            "Yeah, Doctor Sullivan.  I meant your first name."

            I fanned the tiny flame, added twigs.  "Nunya."

            "Nunya?  Weird.  Is that short for something?"

            "Yes, it's short for nunyabizness.  None of your business, get it?"

            He grabbed my wrist so hard I thought I heard a bone crack.  "Get this, Doc.  I don't like being messed with.  If I ask you a question, you'll damn well answer it."  He showed me the revolver, blue steel gleaming in the flickering light.  "This makes me boss.  Get it?"

            "Got it."  I hated it that my voice trembled.

            "Okay.  Now, quit stalling and fix me up."

            I rummaged through my bag, produced a syringe.

            "Hold on, what's that?"

            "It'll numb your shoulder."

            "No way.  You're not shooting me up with anything.  How do I know you wouldn't drug me?"

            "Why would I do that?"

            He rolled his eyes.  "Well, duh.  So you could take my gun and run for the cops?"

            "A pleasant idea,"  I admitted,  "but impossible.  I told you, I can't swim.  How could I run anywhere, except around and around this island?"

            "Whatever.  No shots."

            "Your call."  I put the syringe back in the bag.  "But this is going to hurt like hell without anesthetic."

            He tapped my cheek lightly with the barrel of the gun.  "Better be sure you don't make it hurt more than necessary.  No games."

            Hank never flinched as I worked to dislodge the bullet, but sweat stood out on his forehead and his jaw  tightened.  When I had finished and was bandaging his shoulder, he pulled a pint of whiskey from one of the plastic bags and took a swallow.

            "Want some?"

            "No."

            "You know, Doc, I was plenty surprised that you could row that boat like you did.  How come a little thing like you is so strong?"

            Remembering his earlier anger, I bit back a sarcastic reply.  "I was on a rowing team at college.  These days I work out with weights.  Sometimes doctors have to lift or move patients, and I don't want my size to interfere with my ability to do the job."

            "Rowing team?  That's funny, thought you couldn't swim."  He fiddled with the revolver in a way that made me very nervous.

            "Swimming and rowing are two different things,"  I said lightly.

            "But what if you'd fallen in?"

            "I wore an inflatable vest.  There, that'll hold you,"  I added as I taped off the bandage then sat back, as far away from the gun as possible.

            "How come you never learned?  To swim, I mean."

            "Why does it matter?"

            "Just curious.  You come across as being real athletic, and you don't seem like a chicken to me.  I mean, you never even screamed when I snatched you."

            Of course not, I thought bitterly.  Screaming was yet another feminine weakness I had overcome.  Never mind that in this case it might have helped me out of a jam.

            "When it comes to swimming, you could call me a chicken.  I tried to learn when I was seven.  Problem is, I can't float.  High density."

            "Huh?"

            "The more muscle in a body, the higher the density, and dense objects don't float.  I've always been slender, wiry, very little body fat.  I sink like a rock."  Memories of my father pushing me back into the water.  Arms flailing, legs scissoring, struggling to the surface for a gulp of precious air . . .

            "I like to swim,"  Hank said.

            "Good. Did you ever take a Red Cross lifesaving course?"

            "Me?  Nah.  Why?"

            "Well, since the boat's gone, I was just wondering how you plan to get us both off this island."

            He smiled, and I knew that smile implied something I didn't want to hear.  Before he could put the thought into words, I leaned forward.  "Your bandage is coming loose.  I'd better add some tape."

            Women joke about their purses containing everything but the kitchen sink.  I'm fairly sure my medical bag has a sink in there somewhere.  Fully stocked, it weighs about fifteen pounds, and in one motion I brought it up and connected with the side of Hank's thick skull. 

            The gun rose, wavered, tumbled from his grip.  He collapsed in slow motion.

           

* * *            

            "What the hell –?"  Slurred and bewildered, the question drifted out of the darkness to my right.

            "How ya doing, Hank?"  I was a little breathless, but not much.  I can bench press nearly twice my own weight, and although Hank exceeds that limit by close to one hundred pounds, I hadn't been forced to lift him – just to drag him a ways.  "Valium injection, twenty milligrams.  Should have doubled it for someone your size, but what with the Hippocratic oath and all, I was trying to avoid killing you.  Don't ask me why, since you were planning to kill me.  It's a doctor's curse."

            "Can't move . . . legs, arms."

            "Of course not, I tied you up.  Bandages." 

            "Cold."

            "Thought you never got cold, Hank."  My teeth were chattering despite the exercise.  "Guess even all that extra fat can't keep you warm in December lake water.  Sure does make you float like a cork, though.  Now, shut up, I'm busy."  Tightening my grip on his belt, I kept kicking toward the main shore.

Green thumb? by J. S. Marlo

J. S. Marlo's BWL Books

Many years ago, my daughter asked me to take care of her cactus while she was away for three months. Her only advice was "try to remember to water it a few times before I get back". Well, by the time she returned, it was dead. I truly believe it takes special talent to kill a cactus.


That being said, I love flowers, specially lilacs and lavender. I tried growing lavender...it followed the cactus into the compost bin, but I have five lilac trees around the house that grow four different varieties of flowers from deep purple to pale pink. I started with six trees but one befriended the cactus. Lilacs are low maintenance and hardy, the first quality suits me and the second the  northern area where I live.

Every year I plant some annual flowers and tomatoes. This year, finding flowers or soil was a challenge. With the quarantine and social distancing, it seems everyone decided to start gardening. I still got a few plants but I lost half my tomato plants two weeks ago after they froze to death. My fault...I should have put a blanket over them instead of ignoring the risk of frost warning.


Though not all perennials survive  minus 40 degrees winter or our short growing season, I managed after many failed attempts to find a rose bush that comes back to life every spring. It has pretty red roses and right now it's budding.

I tried planting tulip bulbs, but no matter how many I bury in the fall, only one tulip grows every spring. This year my lone tulip is yellow with a black center.

My biggest successes are probably my poppies. I started with an envelope of red and yellow poppies that someone gave me decades ago. For years, I had red poppies and some yellow ones, then gradually some red poppies became more orange until one day, when amid the yellow, orange, and red grew a single snow white poppy. Since then  I get some white or very light beige/pink poppies every year.

I'll admit I'm fascinated by the genetic changes that occur in my poppies over the years. My thumb may be a little green after all.

Stay safe. Many hugs!
JS

 

J. S. Marlo's Website

Characters Speak For Themselves by Eileen O'Finlan

Click here for purchase information

Click here to visit Eileen O'Finlan's website

I just completed my first blog tour. What an experience! Thirteen bloggers over ten days featured Kelegeen with either a spotlight, excerpt, review, guest post, author interview, or what turned out to be my favorite, a character guest post. That's right - twice a character from Kelegeen got the chance to step out of the book and speak their own minds. I had never written a character blog post before, but now that I know how much fun it is, I will be doing many more of them.

My first thought was to let Meg and Father O'Malley "write" the two character guest posts since they are the point of view characters in the novel. I quickly rejected that idea because, well, they are the point of view characters. They've been telling the story, so to speak, throughout the whole book. Why not give two other characters a chance?

My choices? Meg's mother, Deirdre O'Connor and Siobhan O'Toole, Father O'Malley's first love from long before he became a priest. Deirdre, being the wonderful mom that she is, took the opportunity to write about her family, giving a mother's glimpse into each of her kids.

Siobhan is a different character all together. Here is what she had to say:

My name is Siobhan O'Toole and I've been asked to regale you with tales of my part in the story of Kelegeen. You'll not believe it, but I've never stepped foot in the town of Kelegeen. As it happens, I'm not even alive when the story takes place, but that doesn't stop me from having a role in it. You see, I was in love, long before that story began, with a man named Brian O'Malley. In Kelegeen you'll know him as Father O'Malley, but his priestly vocation came after I died. Oh, he's a good priest, he is. Faithful, devout, completely committed to God and his parishioners. He'd have been just as good a husband and father had I lived long enough for us to marry and give him wee ones. We were everything to each other. That's why I couldn't leave him even after I'd died.

You'll be more comfortable calling him “Father” after you've read the book, no doubt, but to me he'll always be Brian, so don't think I'm showing disrespect by calling him by his Christian name.

Brian and I met one night when I was playing the fiddle for my brothers who were dancing up a storm. He thought himself bewitched at first sight of me. I can't say I blame him, what with my long, tangled red hair flashing in the moonlight, me hopping about on a rock while I played a rollicking tune. He came and asked me to dance, so I gave the fiddle to my brother, Quentin, and we danced. From that moment on we were inseparable.

I think Brian was intrigued by the stories, legends really, that he'd heard about my family. The best one being that I had an ancestor who was one of the good people – what you folk would call a fairy. Quentin, being the mischievous sort, told him I was one, as well. He asked me if it was true. He made out like he was only teasing, but I could tell a small part of him actually wondered. I had a grand time with that, I can tell you! I never did give him a proper answer. He may have gone his whole life wondering after it for all I know.

We planned to wed, but it wasn't to be. I'll let the story of Kelegeen explain what happened to me and how it led him into the priesthood. Aye, but the ways of God are mysterious indeed.

When you love someone with all your heart and they love you as much, even death does not fully part you. That's how it was for Brian and me. He talked to me often throughout his life. At times, he believed he felt me with him. Sure enough, he was right. I was always at his side. Always, that is, until he sent me away. But that he did for a noble reason – a reason of selfless giving. He would sacrifice anything for any one of his people including my cherished presence. How could I not love him all the more for that? How could I not do what he asked of me?