AVAILABLE HERE |
The origin of names goes so far back into history, there is more than one truth or theory, depending on the era, the culture, and what part of the world a character comes from.
AVAILABLE HERE |
The origin of names goes so far back into history, there is more than one truth or theory, depending on the era, the culture, and what part of the world a character comes from.
Moments later she'd found a Two Harbors website featuring a pirate ship with Scantily clad wenches lining the deck and beefy pirates hanging from the sails. The text below listed an upcoming date, a weekend of activities, and a list of bands performing. There were contests, foods, liquor, and a clothing-optional sailboat cruise.
I froze, perhaps literally. "Um, dear," I said. "We live near Lake Superior, and sticking even a toe in the water at any time of year is painful. The deep waters of the Lake Superior never rise more than a degree or two above freezing in the height of summer, and sunbathing cruises seem...wrong." We rechecked the date of the festival. It was set for June, still part of the possible snow season in northern Minnesota, and early enough in the year that it would be foolish to assume there wouldn't be ice fishermen walking on the lake rather than sailboats full of sunbathers. It was then we realized she was looked at the website for Two Harbors on Catalina Island.
Ideas flew around my head like billiard balls. We're all coming out of Covid isolation and people are looking for things to do. Tourists will search for Two Harbors summer festivals and would find this interesting site. Missing the small detail of the California area code as we had, they'll be making motel and campground reservations in Two Harbors, Minnesota. Calls will be made to the local chamber of commerce requesting information. Wanting to capitalize on the tourism surge, the chamber of commerce, fraternal organizations, and churches will put together their own Buccaneer Days festival for the same dates.
I started writing. Peter Rogers, my protagonist who is the recreation director of Whistling Pines senior residence, sets up activities to mirror the town's plans. He puts together pirate and wench costume contests, a pirate sing along, and more.
At this point I paused, struggling to think of other possible festival activities. I contacted my tuba playing Two Harbors consultant. His wife answered the phone, I outlined my book to her and asked if I could consult with Brian. "Oh, yes, please. I'll get him from the tubararium." Moments last Brian was on the phone. "What's a tubararium, Brian?" I asked. He explained that it was his soundproof room where he practiced playing his tuba. He's designed it to keep the neighbors from complaining to the police.
After explaining my lack of activities, he started firing off ideas. "The city band does concerts in the park, the Sons of Norway have a summer picnic including a lutefisk dinner, the Rotary club has a fundraising pancake breakfast. You can gather them all into one big festival. There have been rumors about the Sons of Norway planning a lutefisk tossing contest, but they've always backed off when someone points out it might be illegal for lutefisk bits to wash into the lake."
I laughed, included the lutefisk toss to the list, then fired off an email to my other consultants requesting other ideas for the festival. Within a day I had dozens of other ideas, and encouragement to include a naturist cruise, promoted by the Whistling Pines residents. I wrote a pirate-themed murder, added a Lake Superior regatta, and wrote until my fingers bled (figuratively speaking).
The eBook version of Whistling Pirates is available for pre-order ahead of the May 1 release.
To purchase my novels and other BWL books: BWL
Find out more about me and my writing on my website: Dianescottlewis
Hello and Welcome to the BWL Insiders Blog! My name is JQ Rose.
BWL Publishing released my memoir, Arranging a Dream, in January 2021. Launching the book and getting readers' reviews has been so much fun.
Readers most often ask, "What inspired you to write Arranging a Dream?" BTW, that was not the first title of the book. The working title was JQ Rose Memoir. Catchy, huh? So, after much thought, I came up with Pink Petals and Baby Poop. In my mind, it was a real keeper.
My writers' group laughed at that one. When I told them I was serious, their laughter turned to concern. I dropped the Pink Petals, etc., but I still like it because it summarizes what the book is about. Starting a florist and greenhouse business and the joys and concerns of motherhood.
Question mark Image courtesy of Peggy Marco on Pixabay |
Back to the question about why I wrote this memoir. I have several reasons.
1. 1. I have presented workshops on writing life stories for years. I encourage people to record their stories for their family and friends all the time. I thought it was about time for me to do what I preach.
2. 2. I wanted to pen this
slice of my life for our daughters and grandchildren.
3. 3. I look at our story as a guide for readers now and in the future. As I wrote the manuscript, I realized it was a story about having a dream and turning it into reality. People bury their dreams due to the many obstacles they must overcome to achieve them. I don’t want anyone to look back at their life and have regrets for not trying to have a career in something they are passionate about. Reading through the pages of Arranging a Dream, they can be assured we overcame problems to have an extraordinary, ordinary life, and they can too.
Woman writing at her desk Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay |
Have you considered writing your life story? Oh, I know that sounds overwhelming. I don't mean to write the entire story of your life from birth to the present. Your life story is made up of lots of little stories. Just think of the experiences you have had. Your brain is a storehouse of memories. Our memories are all tangled together, but once you pull out one, you will begin the untangling. One will spark another and another and another and so on.
Filter through those memories and pick out one. Write it or make a video with you telling your story using your mobile phone. Start with a story that you often tell your family and friends about the good 'ole' days. Or choose to write about a family member like your grandma and what a great cook, seamstress or game player she was or is. Give yourself time to scribble down the basics of the story. Don't try to write an award-winning novel. Do not edit. Take 10 minutes to just begin. Choose a time to sit in a comfy place and set aside a few minutes or an hour every day. You can share it, or not.
You are the author of your story! Have fun with it. Life storytelling rewards you with new perspectives you gain about events in your life seen through the lens of time.
Please leave a comment and let us know if you have thought about recording your story, have already begun or actually have a published life story or memoir. You can do it!
Click here to connect online with JQ.
Author JQ Rose |
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Windmaster Legend by Helen Henderson |
After the past year, and since this is April (more on that below), one topic seemed a natural to write about, "Challenging oneself as a writer."
One definition of a challenge is, "a call to take part in a contest or competition." This is especially appropriate for April. For the past two years, the month has been dedicated to posts based on the AtoZ Challenge. Like the name implies, each day during the month of April (except Sundays), bloggers write a post using a different letter of the alphabet as the topic. Which got me to thinking about challenges. Instead of my usual focus on history, this post is more of my philosophy as a writer.
As a rule
I don't like to write about myself, nor reveal too personal details, so these
challenges can be, yes, I am going to say it, challenging. However, that doesn't
apply to the characters whose tales are told in the Windmaster Novels. Their
words, actions, dreams and fears are all fair game.
Where the AtoZ Challenge is once a year, writing challenges can also be weekly, monthly or even daily. Since romance tends to fight fantasy for top element in my works, I also participate in various writing hops for romance writers. One monthly hop has a topic that you have to write to. The weekly is more challenging in that each author chooses the subject. Other hops start with inspiration suggestions. Some are book related, others can be more personal. Answering an inspiration doesn't necessarily mean you will write a full-blown post for release. The purpose is often is to help a writer break through writer's block or a dry streak, expand their horizons as a writer, or just to journal a thought or two.
There are different reasons to do a challenge, sign up to receive inspirations, or participate in a blog hop. It can be to get your books in front of readers by having other authors in your genre list your name and topic on their post. A reader goes to their favorite author, then hops from one to another post in the list. Hopefully they will stop at yours and something will catch their fancy. When there are several hundred participants organized by genre (and a downloadable list that can be customized,) the potential recognition and exposure is significant.
How do blog hops and challenges try a writer? Working an excerpt into a post based on the letter of the alphabet, a specific word, or topic forces you to look at your writing from a different perspective. And to make the posts more interesting, finding or creating appropriate images.
April isn't finished and there are still several more posts to go. Click on the link to my blog to check out the excerpts and posts that go from A to Z and to see if I make it through the entire alphabet. And be sure to check back here, because as I said the month isn't over yet and there are still interesting posts by other BWL authors.
To purchase the Windmaster Novels: BWL
~Until next month, stay safe and read. Maybe use your favorite BWL author's works to help you meet another type of writing challenge, one where you dare yourself to read a given number of books in a year.
Find out more about me and my novels at Journey to Worlds of Imagination.
Follow me online at Facebook, Goodreads, Twitter or Website.
Helen Henderson lives in western Tennessee with her husband. While she doesn’t have any pets in residence at the moment, she often visits a husky who has adopted her as one the pack.
Chance Cullen stood on the high school steps,
having just turned in his graduation robes. He glanced at the certificate in
his hands and sighed. What difference does a high school diploma mean when I
don’t even know what I want to do? The parking lot was awash in colour, the
girls in their fancy dresses flitted from group to group like a flock of
butterflies. The thought brought a wry smile to his lips. The after grad was
out at the Rowan ranch, unbidden his gaze sought out Laurel Rowan, long corn
silk blonde hair twisted into some crazy up do, his sister called it. The blue
of her dress was the exact colour of her eyes, not that he was likely to get
close enough to her to compare the two.
Jamming his wide brimmed hat on his head Chance wended
his way through the throng of students, parents and grandparents, and probably
most of Pincher Creek besides. He was stopped a couple of times by friends
wishing him well, but finally reached the sanctuary of his truck. Tossing his
diploma onto the passenger seat, he slid into the driver’s seat. His hand
hesitated in the process of starting the engine and he leaned his forearms on
the steering wheel, resting his chin on them.
Without meaning to, he searched for Laurel in the
crowd. With unerring accuracy, his Laurel-dar, as he liked to call it, found
her standing with his sister Carly. Laurel’s parents were with the two girls
and Chance’s own mother. Anna Rowan’s hair was the same spun silk colour as her
daughter and Colt Rowan towered over both of them. Sally Cullen clutched at
Carly’s arm and glanced toward Chance’s truck, attempting to pull her daughter
away. Chance grinned, it looked like Carly was standing her ground. No doubt
Mom was going to make another attempt at forcing the family together. He
straightened up and grimaced. He wouldn’t be surprised if Mom hadn’t streamed
the whole graduation ceremony to Dad up in prison at Bowden. Bitterness twisted
his gut, like that man cared about anything but himself.
He started the truck and backed out of the spot,
pretending not to see his mother making her way toward him, he turned out of
the school and headed out of town. His phone buzzed in his dress shirt pocket,
he pulled it free and dumped it beside the diploma on the passenger seat
without checking the caller ID. There was no one he wanted to talk to right
now. He drove north out of town, past the hundreds of power windmills sprouting
from the rolling prairie hills. God, he hated those things. They marred the
stark beauty of the land and the constant noise drove him crazy. Chance chose
north on purpose. It was the opposite direction from the Rowan’s. After what
happened last November, getting Laurel in danger with those bastards from the
dog fight organization, Chance couldn’t look Colt Rowan in the eye, let along
his wife. Mr. Rowan said he’d forgiven him, but Chance still struggled
with guilt. He slammed his palm on the wheel. Dammit, dammit all to hell!
The last thing in the world he ever wanted was to put Laurel in any danger.
Why did I ever listen to Dad? How did I ever
convince myself that getting involved with those guys was a good idea? How
fucking stupid am I? And what happened to those dogs…
Chance pulled to the side of the gravel road and
rubbed at his blurred eyes. Those images would never leave him. Christ, he had
nightmares every time he closed his eyes. Willing himself to force the memory
of the savaged dogs and the high-pitched screams of terror drowned out and
silenced by the harsh growls of the victorious dogs. Chance put his hands over
his ears which only served to intensify the chaos in his mind. Flinging the
door open he stumbled out into the June sunshine, rounding the front of the cab
he collapsed in the tall grass at the edge of the ditch. Burying his head
between his knees Chance let the emotions locked down for so long escape. It
was more than he could do to hold them in check any longer. Physical pain
accompanied the roar of emotions that swept through him carried on his sobbing
breath. The images and sounds raging through his head were more real than the
gravel biting into his hands where he clutched the ground beside him. Anything
to feel anchored to something.
The sun was almost touching the horizon when the
visions finally released Chance. He took a shaky breathe and scrubbed his hands
over his face, grit from the road scraping his cheeks. The pain was welcome and
immediate, serving to ground him in present and chase the last vestiges of the
memories away. “Christ, when is this going to stop? I don’t know how much more
of it I can take.” He shook his head, removed his hat and ran fingers through
his damp hair. Glancing at the sun, he shoved himself to his feet. “Gotta get
home and check the stock,” he muttered. Harvey Good Smoke would be at the
Rowan’s party, along with his wife. They were so proud of Joey and Chance
guessed they had good reason to be. Grimacing, he shoved his hat back on his
head and climbed into the still open truck door.
The engine was slow to catch and Chance cursed
himself for leaving the door open and running the battery down. How long was
I out there sitting on the side of the road like a dead coyote? The truck
finally rumbled to life, the phone on the far seat ringing at the same time.
Chance closed his eyes and fought the urge to throw the thing out on the road
and drive over it a time or two. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and
picked up the phone. The caller cut off before he could decide if he wanted to
answer it or not. Seven new voicemails, ten texts. Scrolling through, he
ignored the call from his father. Waste of skin. Likewise, he skipped
the voicemails from his mother, four of them. There were two from Carly, he
grinned. She must have been desperate, his sister much preferred texting.
Checking those, his grin widened, five were from Carly. A small jolt of
adrenalin shot through him, the last one was from Laurel. His hand trembled as
it hovered over the keys. What could he say to her, hell, what should he
say to her? While he procrastinated, the phone vibrated in his hands. What
the hell? Colt Rowan! Why is he calling me? Deliberating the wisdom of
answering the call, Chance’s head shot up and he slammed the truck door shut.
Slouching down in the seat he pulled his hat lower over his forehead. The last
thing he needed right now was company.
The approaching pickup slewed to a stop beside
him, the driver leaping out and wrenching Chance’s door open before he realized
what was happening.
“You been drinking?” Joey Good Smoke demanded,
knocking Chance’s hat off his head.
“No,” he snarled in reply. “And why the hell do
you care if I was?” Chance jammed his hat back on.
“Are you kidding me? Your sister is in hysterics
thinking you’ve gone and done something stupid, the Rowan’s had to call the
doctor to settle your mother down.”
“They should know better than to worry about me,”
Chance muttered, refusing to look at Joey.
“Yeah, they should. But for some reason they still
love you. Damned if I can figure out why, the way you act.” Joey kicked the
gravel in disgust. He pulled his cell out of his pocket and punched a finger on
the first contact that came up.
Chance tried to shut his door, but Joey blocked it
with his hip.
Whoever he was calling finally picked up. “Yeah, I
found him.” A long silence. “Looks like hell, but he don’t smell like he’s been
drinking.” Joey glanced at the passenger side of the cab. “No empties I can
see.” Another silence. “Range Road Eleven, out near the Castle Valley
campsite.” Joey pushed his hat back a bit and glared at Chance. “I’ll try,” he
said.
“You’ll try what, Joey?” Chance demanded,
attempting to wrest the door shut again. “You reporting to Carly?”
Joey shook his head. “Colt. He’s worried about you
and he’s on his way. He told me to tell you to stay here.”
“Like hell!” Chance threw the truck into gear.
“I wouldn’t,” Joey warned him. “The cops are
looking for you too. You might as well sit here and face the music.”
Chance swallowed against the dizziness that made
his head float and his vision blur. “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong. Why’re the
cops involved?’ He wiped a shaky hand across his mouth. “I don’t need this, for
fuck’s sake.”
“Blame your mom, she was so worked up she called
the RCMP before anybody could stop her.” Joey slammed a fist against the box of
the truck. “Why couldn’t you just answer your God damned phone? You looking for
sympathy or something? Poor Chance, all alone on grad day when we should all be
celebrating. Poor misunderstood Chance. You make me sick! If it wasn’t for
Carly, I swear…” Joey stepped back and slammed Chance’s door, sending a quiver
through the vehicle. “You know what? Go ahead, go drive off the coulee, go
drive into the river. Take your pity party somewhere else. I’ll tell Colt I
couldn’t stop your from leaving. ” Joey stomped back to his truck and reversed
so he was parked behind Chance.
“Fuck you,” Chance snarled and took his foot off
the brake, releasing the clutch at the same time. The pickup rolled forward,
the tires catching in the deep gravel at the side of the road. Chance tipped
his hat back and pounded his fist against the sudden tightness in his chest.
“Not now,” he muttered, hitting the gas. He clung to the wheel, driving more
from instinct than anything else, while the road and hills snaked around him.
Chance fought the constriction in his chest as it rose to his throat and pulled
his lips back from teeth. Hang on, just hang on, almost home.
Finally, the familiar ranch gate loomed in front
of him and Chance turned into the lane, barely avoiding driving off the edge of
the cattle guard. He jammed his foot on the gas when the barns and shed rose up
in front of him. The pickup slewed to a stop by the grain bins. On somewhat
safe ground, fairly certain he was alone, Chance released the death grip on the
steering wheel and leaned his forehead on it. Fighting for breath, he tried to
slow the rapid breathing tearing at his lungs and twisting his gut. Sweat ran
down his back, he threw his hat onto the passenger seat, leaned out the door to
hurl his guts up. Make is stop or let me die. God, make it stop. What the
hell is going on. God make it stop. Jumbled thoughts bumped and crowded
each other in his mind.
After what seemed forever, Chance opened his eyes
and raised his head. Moonlight cascaded into the cab, reflecting off the silver
grain bins beside him. Raking a hand through his hair, Chance grabbed his hat
and stepped out of the truck. His good shirt stuck to his back and his best
boots had stains on them. He couldn’t remember how that happened. Bending over
with his hands on his knees, Chance drew deep breaths into his lungs, his ribs
and back protesting as he did so.
“Christ, I feel like I got dumped and stomped on.
What the hell was …whatever that was? Am I going nuts or something?” He
straightened up and shook his head, instantly regretting the movement. The cell
buzzed from inside the truck. Wearily, he reached in and snagged it from the
passenger floorboards. Carly. Chance cleared his throat and took the
call.
“Yeah, Carly, what’s up?” He tried to sound
normal.
“What’s up? What’s up?” Carly’s voice could have
been heard by the coyotes two sections over. Chance held the phone away from
his ear until the shrill sounds died down a bit.
“Carly, shut up and let me get a word in, would
ya? I just didn’t feel like going out to the Rowan’s.”
“Why not, you’re part of the grad class, you were
invited, and you were welcome. You know that—”
“I couldn’t…Colt…and Mrs. Rowan…after what
happened with Laurel…I just couldn’t…”
“Well, you could have told someone, you could have
answered your phone, your texts. Damn it, Chance! How much fun do you think I
had dealing with Mom and her hysterics. Got herself so worked up she was sure
you’d done something stupid.”
“I’m sorry about that Carly. I didn’t mean to
cause trouble.”
“Don’t you ever think before you act? It wasn’t
just me, Joey and Mister Rowan and bunch of the guys and their dads went
looking for you. Then Joey finally finds you and you run off again. Idiot!
Where the hell are you now?” Carly demanded, still on a roll.
Chance sighed and rubbed a hand gingerly over his
sore ribs. “Tell them to call off the search, I’m at the ranch and getting
ready to do chores. Tell Harvey he doesn’t have to worry about night check.”
“That’s big of you.” Sarcasm dripped off his
sister’s voice.
“Look, I said I’m sorry. I’m telling you I just
couldn’t do it, face everyone. Them looking sideways at me and whispering under
their breath…”
“You’re imagining a lot of that, Chance. The
Rowan’s are over it, Laurel’s worried about you. She wanted to go look too, but
they talked her out of it.”
“Ya see! Colt wouldn’t want Laurie to find me, be
alone with me, not after what happened with the dogs last fall…”
“Get over yourself, Chance! For God’s sake, you’re
starting to sound like Dad. Coming up with excuses and blaming other people for
your stupidity.”
“Fuck off, Carly. I’m not like Dad,” Chance
growled.
“Aren’t you?” Carly snarled and ended the call.
Off With The Old – On With The New
Was going to paste the new cover for Haunted Dreams Book 7 of the MoonChild series but I have no clue as to how to do this? Some day before I grow too old to learn new things I’ll master the challenge.
I am into the final typing and adding all the things I forgot to put in during the other drafts. This can be a slow process but I’m half finished. Another week or two and the book will be ready to be send off to the editor. So, it’s off with the old and on to the new.
I write all my drafts by hand but I have what I call writing drafts and reading drafts. The reading drafts look at several things, settings, characters, plot lines and finally language. I end up after each go through with more written comments on the printed pages than typed words. That is an exaggeration but there are always a lot. The final read through may have me making notes to re-write scenes for flow but I enjoy doing this.Then comes the final type. I don’t go in and make the changes in the printed copy but carefully type each word. When I try just adding them in without this retyping process, often they interrupt the flow of the story. This is where I am with Haunted Dreams scheduled for June and I will have it to the editor well before that date.
Now it’s on to the new. Since I’m in typing mode, now, I’ve just finished the planning for Incal, Book 4 of the Moon Rising series. For a month, I’ve been carrying the characters for this quest kind of story when I go to sleep and the pattern of the book has come into being. I am ready to begin the rough draft. I’m rather an odd duct when writing since I have writing drafts done with pen and paper, typing drafts when I type these in and print the pages and reading drafts when I read and put in notes for revisions and re-writing. These drafts are alternated until I finish the book.
Perhaps this is slow but that’s the way I work. I do love the rough drafts but I also enjoy doing the other drafts and hopefully by the time I’ve finished I’ll have tied up all the loose ends and made the story sing.
My Places
https://www.facebook.com/janet.l.walters.3?v=wall&story_f
http://wwweclecticwriter.blogspot.com
https://www.pinterest.com/shadyl717/
Buy Mark
https://bookswelove.net/walters-janet-lane/
I love kickboxing. I've been a student at the local dojo, TNT School of Martial Arts, since 2013. About five years ago, I joined the advanced class so I could pass an annual exam and earn a 'belt' for each level. I'm working on my Purple belt (just Brown and Black belt remain) and though the Dojo has been closed throughout each Covid lockdown, I've tried to attend via Zoom classes. That is, until last summer when my shoulder turned into a crybaby.
That's when I met the dragons and the guard dogs.
I didn't know I had them in my body, these dragons and guard dogs. They were in my right shoulder, to be precise. At the time, I only knew that this shoulder was the location of the crybaby: muscles that cried like a baby. You see, it's been months since I've been able to fully raise my right arm above my head and even longer since I've been able to hook on a brassiere with hands behind my back. Oh no. Bra has to be hooked in advance, then stepped into from the ankles like I'm pulling up a girdle type of boob-gitch.
What to do?
I have to do something. Spring is here and that heralds sailing season, which hails spring-fitting, which entails plenty of cleaning, waxing, polishing, etc. on our 36' Catalina sailboat. Which means lots and lots of elbow grease. And we all know the elbow is part of the arm which is connected to the shoulder. And in my case, connected to the crybaby shoulder.
So what do I do? I can't ignore the crybaby anymore... well, I contacted my local chiropractor, Dr. Beverly, and put my shoulder in her hands. She is the one who told me I have dragons breathing pain in my shoulder, and guard dogs protecting the muscles. (Don't you just love a chiropractor who speaks in metaphors?) But the dragons stay fired up inside the wall of muscle and ligaments that the guard dogs are protecting, all while the crybaby rotator cuff whines and whimpers.
Acupuncture needles minus the jumper cables |
We started with acupuncture therapy. This includes attaching tiny jumper cables to the wee acupuncture needles. Well, I call them jumper cables since they're just like the jumpers you use for your car battery, only much smaller. Dr. Beverly laughs but explains they're 'stimulators,' or 'stims' for short. They're attached to a battery which pulses energy every second. Imagine sticking your tongue in an electric socket every second. Yes, that's a good charge. But these jumper cables stimulate the muscle which encourages blood flow, which encourages healing.
And the healing has begun. I can now raise my arm above my head and stretch it out to the side. And - huge improvement - I can hook up my own brassiere from behind my back. Woo hoo!
However, there are painful moments when the good doctor is manipulating my shoulder, or pressing into the supraspinatus (see diagram below) or pushing up into the teres minor, and oh dear, that's when my super-power-kickboxing-footkick wants to literally kick-in. Oh, if the good doctor only knew how close she was to a wee kick to the head... breathe J.C. Control.
Who let the dragons and guard dogs out?
Breathe... control... no kick |
For a limited time, my e-books are 50% off at Smashwords. Yah baby!
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bwlkavanagh
Stay safe everyone!
Ah!
The feeling of a hardbound book in my hands! The rows upon rows of texts,
stacked five high! The quiet, studious atmosphere!
If
you’re like me, you are surely missing your local library. With the pandemic,
my library has been closed for months. It seems like an eternity. In these days
of Zoom meetings and digital readers, here are a few things I miss about
libraries:
2) A place to concentrate: I write at home. But, like most writers, I need to get out regularly for the creative juices to flow. At home, distractions abound: the television, family members and even the dog. At the library, it is just me and my thoughts, and ideas flow so much more easily.
I'm not a great planner when I start writing a new book. I just have a sketchy overview of what I want to achieve, and an ending. I trust the characters to take care of themselves as far as the rest of it is concerned because I've learned that, for me at least, too much planning kills the story. So I allow my hero and heroine to lead and I just follow them.
Such a laissez-faire attitude can only get me so far though, so before I start I have to have a very clear view of who my characters are. This means a mind's eye view of how they look and dress. An understanding of their temperament and their ambitions. And most importantly, how they feel about themselves and about those around them. Although very little of this will be described in the book it shows in their actions and speech.
With this in mind (and a new book incubating) I've been thinking about my heroes and heroines this week and have decided that the one attribute they all have is kindness. Like everyone, my main characters can be temperamental, short-tempered, judgemental, miserable, the list goes on, but none of them is ever deliberately unkind. On occasion, some of the secondary characters are, of course, because conflict makes a story, but even they mostly have redeeming features.
In my book Loving Ellen, the story only works because Millie, the heroine, is kind. It's not a soppy sort of kindness though. She isn't afraid of confrontation or disagreement. Underpinning her every action is an inbuilt kindness that it transformational, however, and for this I genuinely like and admire her.
I like all the heroes and heroines in my other books too. Some more than others, but they are all people I would enjoy meeting in real life.
Thinking about them has made me think about kindness too. And about how we all treat one another nowadays, especially on social media. What is it that makes some people empathetic and kind, and others spiteful and vindictive, or just outspoken and uncaring? Is it their upbringing, an inbuilt part of their character, or is it because they can hide behind the safety of an anonymous name online? Whatever it is, it is sad, and it overshadows the acts and words of the many who still believe in kindness.
We don't have to agree on anything to still be kind to one another.
My first memory as a reader was of my mother reading a wonderfully illustrated copy of The Wizard of Oz when I was suffering with the mumps. I was so enthralled that I forgot all about my achy body. Ah, the power of story!
I dedicated my first published novel to my mom, because the best thing the novel taught me was how much I loved her ... as much as the heroine loved her mother. Ah, the power of storytelling!
I lost my mom this month. She died peacefully just shy of her 102nd birthday.
Conceived during the last world pandemic, she grew up in the Devil's Kitchen of New York City in an apartment full of love but very little money. She married my dad at 17 and became a professional mother of 10, grandmother of 29, and great grandmother of 20. The youngest is our little Desmond and they are 100 years apart.
My mom's name was Kitty. She had many adventures. Her life is full of story.