What's In A Name by Victoria Chatham

 

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.

 What is clear is that names mostly stemmed from a need for identity and connection within families and communities.

People were often named for the trade in which they were skilled like the English surnames Smith, Baker, Archer, and Tyler, or after the towns or countries from where they originated like York, Hamilton, or French.

First names were often handed down from father to son, mother to daughter, which could get confusing if you had a long line of Edwards or Marys and even more so if, like the boxer George Foreman, all his five sons were named George. Today it seems anyone can name a child anything and often seems more by fancy than reason.

As an author of historical romance, I have most of my work done for me as all I need do is Google the popular male and female names for any given year and go from there. Please note: Google is a starting point, not the be-all and end-all for any type of research. I have also used parish records and names found on tombstones to be full of information, too.

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Because my settings are mostly English, I can pinpoint the county my characters populate and run a list of names for that area. My next Regency romance is set in the New Forest in the county of Hampshire, England, so I am currently researching surnames from that area in the early 1800s.

Once I have a list of names, I consider how easy those names are to pronounce and if the first and second names not only fit together, but also suit my characters. Into that mix I must consider the intricacies of the British peerage if I include lords and ladies in my books. Burke’s Peerage is an invaluable resource for this.

One thing that I find frustrating is when I come across a name in a book and have no knowledge of how to pronounce it. In this instance Google is my friend, as you can search ‘how to pronounce’ whatever the name is and listen to the result. That is why I would never use an invented name in any of my books unless I can qualify it in some way for my reader to easily understand it.

In my current work in progress, a contemporary western romantic suspense, my female character is Callie. Where did that come from? Her mother (like mine!) loved calla lilies, so I have worked that into the story. It is just a small detail which I think (hope) gives my character a little more reality.

​Victoria Chatham

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A summer festival gone awry - Dean L. Hovey

 I sat, fingers poised over the keyboard, ready to write the next Whistling Pines cozy,  but nothing came to mind. NOTHING. My perceptive wife looked at me and asked, "What's wrong?" I explained my dilemma and she thought for about two seconds and said, "You've never written about a Two Harbors summer festival."

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.

Yelena, an oysterman's wife caught in the crossfire, by Diane Scott Lewis

  

"Ring of Stone (former title) is an entertaining read, combining accurate historical details with a fast-paced plot and a number of credible characters." Historical Novel Society" Review for Rose's Precarious Quest.

Diane Scott Lewis grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, joined the Navy at nineteen and. She writes book reviews for the Historical Novels Review and was a historical editor for an online press. She lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund. 

To purchase my novels and other BWL books: BWL

Find out more about me and my writing on my website: Dianescottlewis

In my upcoming novel, Ghost Point, my heroine, Yelena, struggles to better her life while her husband, Luke, is in the middle of the Potomac Oyster Wars in 1956. He toils, dredging for oysters on the Potomac River. Does she still love Luke or has she outgrown him? A girl from a higher class family, everyone warned her not to marry a gruff waterman's son.

 After she obtains a bookkeeping job in the local used bookstore, a mysterious man with a foreign accent catches her attention. Is he attracted to her, or after information on her husband's illegal activities? His suave demeanor enchants her. The town begins to whisper that she is leaking evidence to the hated inspector.

She is caught between her wish for a fancier life and her youthful love for Luke. And what about their little boy? He will suffer in the consequences. 

Yelena must choose, tear her family apart and chase the unknown, or stay put and fix the issues with her husband.

The Potomac Oyster wars, between Maryland and Virginia where watermen fired and murdered one another, was a real event in the small coastal town of Colonial Beach, VA in the 1950s..

Inspiration for Writing Arranging a Dream: A Memoir, Life Storytelling

 

Arranging a Dream: a Memoir by J.Q. Rose

Click here to discover more books by JQ Rose 

on her author page at BWL Publishing 

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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Challenge, Hop, or Blog by Helen Henderson

 

Windmaster Legend by Helen Henderson
Click the cover for purchase information

 

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. 

 

The Alberta Adventures Chance's Story by Nancy M Bell

 

To learn more about Nancy's work please click on the cover.

I am currently working on the last book in the Alberta Adventures. So far the series has dealt with rescues of one sort or another.  This last novel is about Laurel's friend Chance Cullen. He's been a part of all the stories so far and I think he deserves his own story since I've dragged him through hell and back again. In Chance's Way (working title) he struggles with his demons and coming to terms with the sort of man his father is. Here is the first bit of the Chapter One. As you can see, Chance has more than a few things to come to terms with, including his seemingly unrequited love for Laurel Rowan.

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.

Chance stared at the blank screen for a moment. Carly never hung up on him. Ever. “She must be really pissed.” He shoved the phone in his back pocket and headed to the house to change his clothes.  

https://www.bookswelove.com/bell-nancy/

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Off With The Old and On With the New - Janet Lane Walters #BWLAuthor #MFRWAuthor #Haunted Dreams #Incal #Books

 

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.

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Dragons and guard dogs, by J.C. Kavanagh

 

The Twisted Climb  

Book 1 of the award-winning Twisted Climb series

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

I stay in control trusting the good doctor because I know I'm in excellent hands. But there is one character who is out of control. That would be Patty, Jayden's alcoholic mother from The Twisted Climb award-winning series. How does Patty impact the horrific dream world that the main characters keep getting drawn into? Check it out for yourself... 

https://bookswelove.net/kavanagh-j-c/

For a limited time, my e-books are 50% off at Smashwords. Yah baby!

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bwlkavanagh

Stay safe everyone! 

J.C. Kavanagh, author of 
The Twisted Climb - Darkness Descends (Book 2)
voted BEST Young Adult Book 2018, Critters Readers Poll and Best YA Book FINALIST at The Word Guild, Canada
AND
The Twisted Climb,
voted BEST Young Adult Book 2016, P&E Readers Poll
Novels for teens, young adults and adults young at heart
Email: author.j.c.kavanagh@gmail.com
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What I Miss About Libraries

 

 

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:

 1)      Librarians: Yes, Google helps me track down reference materials, but search engines are only as smart as I. Many an instance, librarians have taken my searches in directions I didn’t imagine and found surprising answers to my questions. And I can have a conversation with a librarian; the computer remains mute.

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.

3)      Conversations. This might contradict the previous point, but one of the things I enjoy about libraries are the random conversations with interesting persons. Yes, they can be distractions if overdone, but are refreshing and energizing if done intelligently.

         4)      Cozy corners and enchanting places: This is especially true with old libraries, with their long wooden tables and reading chairs hidden in unexpected places. These places transport me into a mood where, unsurprisingly, I become easily absorbed in my reading.

        5)      Heading home with a stack of books: Somehow, there is a special feeling of contentment and fulfilment in spending a couple of hours in the library, wandering through the stacks, exploring dozens of texts, choosing the appropriate ones, checking them out and planning which one to read first.

             Hopefully these dreadful pandemic restrictions will end soon, and we can all get back to our normal lives. And with any luck, my local library will open soon!

 

            Mohan Ashtakala (www.mohanauthor.com) is the author of "The Yoga Zapper," a fantasy, and "Karma Nation" a literary romance. He is published by Books We Love (www.bookswelove.com)

The Importance of Kindness...by Sheila Claydon

Click here for my BWL page

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.

Mothering

Find my books here

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.