Fun With Fonts by Karla Stover

 

                                              A book about high-class prostitution in 1900.

Allow me, please, to quote fontspace.com:  "Comic Sans is arguably the best font ever!"  A very arguable statement. However, love it or hate it, (and there's a huge list of people and places who and which hate it)  Comic Sans is included in the "Dyslexia friendly style guide."

I had to send my nephew a thank you note a few weeks ago and, because my handwriting is bad, I typed the note but chose a cute font. Sadly, I don't remember what I used, only that it had something to do with Superman.

Not so much anymore but in the not-too-distant past my library book would have a page giving the origins of the font used. I generally gave the article a brief look - see but didn't pay much attention. However, after finding a fun font for my nephew's letter, I started looking at fonts (or typefaces) and their history.

I love ITC Blackadder because of its history. British designer Bob Anderton created it from British insurrectionist Guy Fawkes' signature after he was tortured. It's described as being elegant but menacing. There are actually a bunch of creepy fonts: Bloodstain, Gravedigger, Darkmode, for example but I'm guessing they're mostly used for covers and not the actual narrative.

A handwritten menu at a restaurant in Cambridge, Massachusetts inspired Kristen (ITC) . It's supposed to be reminiscent of a child's handwriting. ITC, by the way, stands for International Typeface Corporation. It's a company that "was founded to design, license and market typefaces for filmsetting and computer set types internationally." 

An Austrian commercial artist created Forte Font. He had trained as a compositor and taught typography and drawing in Vienna. He must have also liked nature because Forte came from his studying plants, particularly the long stems and furry heads of reeds. 

BWL folks might be interested in Gabriola, named after British Columbia's Gabriola Island. A man named John Hudson was said to have been inspired by music and the idea that the same melody can be played in more than one mode. Each had its own expressive characteristics therefore each adds different elegance and grace.

The Georgia font was named after a tabloid headline which read, "Alien heads found in Georgia."

The Baskerville font has been around since the 1700s and one has to wonder if that's where Sir Arthur Conan Doyle got the name for his Hound of the Baskervilles. John Baskerville created it and the Baskervilles were an old British family. I did a cursory google search but couldn't find out of the family is still around.

Of course various social media sites have their own fonts. Twitter uses Chirp. Instagram has a list of suggested fonts, my favorite being Leah Gaviota because it's upbeat-looking. According to typoscan, Youtube uses Roboto, Arial, San Serif and YT Sans.

Here's a scary quote from https://arturth.com: "For sighted people, there are a lot of hidden meanings behind each font, which is why social media platforms work tirelessly to come up with the right type of font to refer to a certain part of their website." 

Yikes! Google is watching me and fonts are trying to manipulate me. My neighbors are complaining about drones hovering over the yards. Is it time to stockpile food and water, build a shelter in the woods and become a prepper?

I Wrote a Book - The End / by Barbara Baker

 

Whoa. Not so fast.

It feels fabulous to write The End but there’s more work to do. So much more work. First, I read the novel from start to finish. When I feel the plot is solid, the dialogue is smooth and shit happens in every chapter, I send the document to an editor and a few writing buddies who have great critique skills. Then I close the file and wait. 

Almost the longest wait ever.

Responses trickle in. I sift through suggestions, rejig sections I agree with, swear at not having caught my own errors and then, because I fiddle fart around with the text, I recheck the story threads to make sure the sequence of events still work.

Once that’s done, I check for excess use of ‘ly’ endings in adverbs and adjectives and move on to search for those bad words. You know the ones: was, felt, very, had, thought, saw, very suddenly (never use), that, only, and for some reason (also, never use). I've collected these words from speakers at writing conferences so don’t blame me for the list.

Next, a quick review of exclamation marks. Did you know some agents will search the manuscript for them and if there are too many, they won’t read a single word? Again, not my experience. I learned that tidbit from a panel of agents who were discussing their editing process. And personally, I probably used up my quota of exclamation marks by grade 10.

Then it’s on to spell, grammar and punctuation check with the Word edit tool. Yup, tedious but necessary. It still surprises me how my favourite words aren’t in their dictionary yet.

Nearly done.

One. More. Final. Read. I am a firm believer of reading aloud to find errors my eyes skim over when I read to myself. I like to do it in two consecutive days, so everything is fresh, but I procrastinate. By the end of day one my house is spotless, and I’ve done 10,000 steps. Not a single page turned.

Day two, I plunk down in my office chair. My screen is dust free. The light is perfect. I change Word’s Read Aloud program voice to a male, speed it up a notch and increase the screen viewing size.

As the unsexy voice tells my story, I follow on the screen to spot errors. Thirty-seven pages in, I find a typo. How’d I miss that? How’d my readers miss it?

Two days later, a huge sigh of relief. The End. Again.

And off my baby goes to the publisher.

Fingers, toes and eyes crossed, I walk, I bike, I invite grandchildren over to play. Days take longer than 24 hours and I’m grumpy.

Longest wait ever – but only for me.

The publisher’s edit returns. I open the document and check the comments. One, two, three pages in without edits, a few notes, more pages without…I breathe when I get to The End for the last time.

When the manuscript returns and the book cover pops into my email, my heart melts.

It’s perfect.

What About Me? Release date September 1, 2022. 

How do you know when you’ve finally reached The End? What’s your process?

Summer of Lies: Baker, Barbara:9780228615774: Books - Amazon.ca

Summer of Lies - YouTube

Smashwords – About Barbara Baker, author of 'Summer of Lies'

Barbara Wackerle Baker | Facebook

Barbara Wackerle Baker (@bbaker.write)

 

I'm Going On A Writer's Retreat to Retreat From My Life by Vanessa C. Hawkins

 

 Vanessa Hawkins Author Page

      I'm back! Ya-a-a-a-a-a-a-ay! And if you were anywhere near Canada last month, you may have heard--or experienced--the giant internet outage that raged throughout the country. The chaos it caused! I'm talking mass hysteria! Riots in the streets! 

Okay, not really. Though it happened while I was coming home from PEI and leaving the province without access to a debit card was a bit wonky. If you've read my previous post about the Island of Prince Edward, you may know that in order to leave you need to pay money. And in a world increasingly reliant on an invisible cyber universe, not having access to your bank account can make things difficult. 

 But I escaped! And the internet is back, so I can blissfully immerse myself in stupid cat memes, tik toks and other general nonsense that keeps me from doing anything remotely worthwhile during the course of my day to day life! 

Which may be the reason I thought it was a good idea to sign up for a writer's retreat! 

Whenever I write it's always a retreat... from the crushing reality of my own inadequacies...  
*not really*.... cries

So what is a writer's retreat? Well, I suppose that depends... For me, it's offering a chance to escape the mania of my household for a weekend and browse facebook somewhere that is devoid of familial distraction and responsibilities...

For the sake of my sanity. 

But really? It's a chance to write and I'm REALLY FREAKING excited! Not because I'm going to constantly worry about wasting time, but because it's been almost three years that I've had an opportunity to focus on my writing. My husband has graciously been supportive in my decision to go, and it's only a weekend! So I mean, definitely not enough time for them to destroy the house or summon Cthulhu accidently, right? 

Nah... it will be okay. That's a problem for future me. I ain't gonna worry about it until I get back. Present me is excited! Thrilled! Already prepping my current work in progress for all the productivity I am going to encompass!

*True dat*

Maybe I'll leave the computer at home... or buy one of those fancy, old style typewriters to keep me from becoming distracted... What would you do? I suppose I could hire someone to come along and slap me across the face whenever I start browsing the toks! But that kinda defeats the purpose of being by myself for the weekend... and...

...is there such a service? 

  What if I invented one!? What if there's a catalogue of hires you can choose from. They come with you, tell you that you're a great writer and will read all your crummy drafts, SMASH that writers block. 

I think I'd need a tall dark and handsome one... who likes to walk around with his shirt off...

Maybe less Zoidberg and more Mamoa...

Maybe George R. R. Martin should go on a writer's retreat. Maybe if it works for me, I'll suggest it on his social media platform! 

 

At least it's an ending... *Cries again*

Also, how the H-E-double hockey stick does Winds of Winter already have OVER 9000 reviews on Goodreads!? IT'S NOT EVEN OUT YET PEOPLE!!!

Why am I always crying? 

Wounded Hearts by J. S. Marlo

Wounded Hearts

"Love & Sacrifice #2"

is now available  

click here 

 

 

  

J. S. Marlo's BWL Books

I am delighted to present my newest novel: Wounded Hearts

Faced with the impossible choice of hurting the man she loves, or leaving him forever, Rowan Kendrick flees Iceland for Prince Edward Island, Canada. Heartbroken, and unable to forget him, she finds refuge at The Buccaneer, a bed & breakfast recently willed to her by an estranged aunt.

Haunted by a fatal shooting, Avery Stone seeks his escape in Buccaneer's attic room. Despite himself, he is drawn into the peculiar circumstances behind the previous owner's death and the strange bones exhumed by Rowan. His dislike for the doctor befriending her turns to mistrust as matters unravel.

Rowan struggles to cope with difficult guests, the puzzling Mr. Stone, and her increasingly complicated family secrets. When she unearths a murderer, is she doomed to death like her aunt? Or will the men in her life, including the love she left behind, set aside their own troubles and band together to help her?

Storylines don't usually just pop into my head. In most cases, something in real life sparks an idea, and that idea develops into a storyline.

This is the story behind Wounded Hearts:

Years ago, Hubby and I went on a two-week vacation on Magdalen Islands, a small archipelago in the gulf of St. Lawrence on the Atlantic Coast. We stayed in a Bed & Breakfast on one of the smaller islands. The hosts/owners were as charming as the old school building they had transformed in a Bed & Breakfast.

When they learned I was a writer, they suggested I set my next story in a Bed & Breakfast on the Atlantic Coast. I couldn't resist their wonderful idea. This is the reason Rowan inherits a Bed & Breakfast on Prince Edward Island.

Happy Reading & Stay Safe!

JS

 

 

J. S. Marlo's Website

 

Inspiration for the characters in my book Shatter by Jay Lang

 

http://bookswelove.net/lang-jay/

My inspiration for this first chapter was to showcase how a chain of events can lead people down a path they never dreamt of going down. In the city of Vancouver B.C, there are areas with large populations of homeless, drug addicted and mentally ill people. It is against this backdrop where my story begins.

Chapter One

    The only thing more terrifying than the sounds of her screams, was when they stopped altogether. Their fights were brutal and frequent and were usually a result of whatever drug they had indulged in. In the morning's we would help clean up the debris and by evening, our lives would go back to normal—existing in pre-chaos. But this time was different. We could feel it. Something sinister and scary had happened. We just didn’t know what.

Chapter Two

  I sit on the thin mattress and rest my back against the paint chipped wall in my small apartment. Staring at the sun-bleached picture of my family on top of the TV, I listen to the low buzz coming from the broken neon sign outside my window. It’s been a long day. Ten hours in the pit, pulling wrenches at Ziggy’s Garage while my young boss, Rae, blasts rap music. I’ve got to make a change soon; this shit is getting old.  I hear yelling from the street and crawl over my bed and look out the window. Hasting’s Street is the go-to place for the wondering souls who have lost their way and found their misfortunes.

While I pull back the sheer curtain, my eyes sweep the street to find the source of the noise. A street lamp lights the entrance to the dark alley at the side of my building.  It’s not uncommon to see three or four homeless with drug dealers hanging around. Across the street is Leung’s Chinese restaurant, a cheap place to eat that’s open late which makes it a beacon for riffraff and night walkers. 

Just as I turn away, I hear the scream again. Looking back to the road, I see a man wearing dark clothes run out of the alley and into the street. He stops, grabs his gut, and keels over. An elderly man pushing an overloaded cart walks past him, pauses and then continues walking.  A part of me wants to run down and make sure the injured guy is okay, but another part of me says that it could be a trap. One too many times, I’ve watched as someone fakes an injury and a good Samaritan stops to help, only to have the ‘injured’ man’s accomplice jump out of the darkness and rob the do-gooder—no thanks. I’ll just call the cops and watch from the safety of my window. Even though I’m too many floors up to be a credible witness to what’s happening on the street below, I dial 911 and tell the dispatch girl what I just saw. She tells me that she's received other calls pertaining to the incident and that she's sending a car around.

I watch as the man fights to stand. If he is pulling a scam, he's good. Then, from the same dark alley, another man appears. He's wearing a beige jacket and a baseball cap. He bee-lines it for the wobbling man, pulls out something shiny, and without pausing, aims it at the guy’s head. Next, I hear the booming echo of a gunshot, as it bounces off the building's and shakes the windows. A spray of red fluid blows out the back of the man’s head; his body drops to the pavement like a ragdoll. The shooter doesn't run; instead, he looks both ways and steadily continues to walk until he's out of view. A minute later, I hear the sound of siren's get louder. I watch as the cop car pulls up and stops within feet of the shooting, illuminating the blood and matter around the body.

Instantly, my stomach feels queasy and my mouth fills with water. I just saw someone get their head blown off! What kind of fucked up shit is that? A wave of anxiety rushes through me like electricity. I quickly reach for my phone.

Jason answers almost immediately. “How’s my favorite girl?”

“Right now, I’m about two seconds from losin’ it.”

“Why? What’s up?”

“Let’s just say I won’t be eating spaghetti for a while.”

“Let me guess, you went on a date with an Italian chick and despite her being great in the sack, she couldn’t cook worth shit?”

“I’ll give you marks for imagination, but you’re way off. I just saw some guy get his brains blown out.”

   “You were freak-watching again, weren’t you?”   

     "I heard a noise, so I looked. And, just because they're street people doesn't mean they're freaks."

My goal was to humanize those who are shunned and misunderstood by the upper classes. The protagonist in this story, Jules Gordon, is a product of her environment and is fighting hard to overcome her past. Even though Jules strives to move away from the slums, she also sees the people around her as having value and importance.