Entitled: Giving your story a name that resonates by donalee Moulton

 

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Let’s talk titles – not king, queen and my personal favorite, goddess – but the titles that alert readers to what is about to unfold before their eyes.

I’d like to start by telling you a bit about myself – and my experience with titles. I am a freelance journalist and have written hundreds, actually thousands, of articles for print and online publications across North America and beyond.

One of the things you soon learn as a freelance reporter is that editors write the titles of articles. This is not always the case, but it is usually the case.  There are a number of reasons for this, and we’ll discuss those. In a minute.

First, I’d like to share with you the options article writers have when it comes to titles. One, you can come up with a title that you think reflects the article, is clever or straightforward or funny – whatever attribute you think will appeal to readers. If the editor likes it, they may use it. If they don’t, they will write their own. More often than not, they will write their own.

Years ago I did an article on a trademark dispute involving use of the Bluenose, Nova Scotia’s famous schooner. My title went something like this: Ship disturbing trademark battle erupts in Nova Scotia. I thought that was very clever. My editor did not. Well, she may have, but the title she used ultimately went something like this: Nova Scotia businesses barred from using Bluenose name.

On the other hand, I wrote an article on champagne and called it “Liquid Bling.” My editor wrote to say she loved the title, and she used it.

My feeling was it never hurt to include a suggested title, and no one usually knows the story as well as the writer. But good titles take time to craft, and on many occasions the articles I submitted did not have a title. They had a descriptor: Profile of Donald Duck, Article on the pros and cons of ducks vaping, Conference report from Ducks Unlimited. I was leaving the work to the editor.

And here’s what editors are looking for in an article title. (1) Something that grabs the reader’s attention (2) Something that describes what the article is about (3) Something that is not longer that the first paragraph of the article itself (4) Something that makes them want to read the article or shows them why they should

Are you likely to get all that in one title. Probably not. But that is what is behind the words that introduce an article. Often those words are more dramatic or more urgent or more intense or more gripping than the article itself. Indeed, most of the time someone objected to an article I wrote it was the title that set them off.

And I didn’t write it.

 

 

 

 

New Releases for May 2023 by BWL Publishing Inc.

NEWEST RELEASE

A Glitter Bay Mystery

 

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When Laken Miller moves into the apartment above Vintage Sage, it seems all of Glitter Bay goes crazy, especially when Laken suspects her new home is haunted. Just when she thinks she’s the victim of mass hysteria, she finds her ex-husband’s body in the courtyard.

 

Can Laken prove her innocence before the local police cuff her with a different kind of glittering bracelet?

  

A Walk on the Beach by Eden Monroe

 

To purchase Sudden Turn click here

The romantic suspense novel Sudden Turn is set in the fictitious city of Franklin, in the real life province of New Brunswick, Canada. I know everyone has their own little slice of heaven, and for me that’s New Brunswick (Nouveau Brunswick), my home province. So forgive me if I brag a little.

Not that size matters, but New Brunswick is 72,908 square kilometres of mostly trees, lakes, etc. There are also plenty of cities and towns, although more than half of us live in rural areas, me included. But nature can be pretty exciting.  Like watching a river run backwards. It’s a fact! It happens twice a day and you can almost set your watch by it. I’m talking about the mighty St. John River, often called The Rhine of North America. It does its slow dance through the province from north to south until it meets up with the Atlantic Ocean and then things get really interesting. Rising tides literally shove this 450-mile river in the opposite direction with force, creating powerful rapids. I’ve ridden those rapids in a jet boat at their peak. Epic!

And speaking about the tidal action of the world-renowned Bay of Fundy, how about this? You can walk barefoot on the ocean floor, wet sand oozing between your toes where just six hours earlier you would have been taking that same walk under as much as forty plus feet of salt water. That’s about the height of a four-storey building! The tides of course are the result of the gravitational pull of the sun and the moon on the earth, which itself is in perpetual motion. The highest tide on record in the Bay of Fundy is 53.6 feet! It’s pretty phenomenal because about 100 billion tonnes of seawater makes its way in and out of this funnel-shaped bay in a gentle sway during its twice a day tide cycle. That’s equivalent to the estimated flow of all of the freshwater rivers and streams on the planet!

There’s also the spectacular Old Sow Whirlpool in the western passage of Passamaquoddy Bay, an inlet of the Bay of Fundy. It’s the largest whirlpool in the western hemisphere, second only in the world to the massive Saltstraumen maelstrom in Norway.

New Brunswick has tidal bores too, again because of the giant Bay of Fundy tides. One of the best known is found in the city of Moncton where the incoming wave can reach up to a metre high and rushes up the Petitcodiac River at about thirteen kilometers per hour. Surfers love it. It’s a rare natural phenomenon because there are only sixty tidal bores in the entire world.

Again along our rugged coastline, the Hopewell Rocks are probably the biggest stone flowerpots in the world. Some of these amazing sea stacks are as tall as seventy feet at low tide when you can literally walk among them … or kayak in this most unusual flowerpot garden at high tide. The choice is yours. The difference is about forty to fifty feet of seawater.

Moving inland a bit, New Brunswick has it’s own gravity hill – Magnetic Hill in Moncton where vehicles coast uphill. It used to be said the land was somehow magnetized, hence it’s name, but it’s just an optical illusion. There are actually sixty gravity hills in the world, but perhaps Magnetic Hill is one of the best known. I’m guessing there might also be more of them. I recall riding a bicycle from Saint John to my parent’s home on Darlings Island one time and I came to a long stretch of highway that looked like a steep upgrade. I thought I was in for a lot of heavy pedalling on my old school bike with no speed gears, but to my surprise I actually coasted the whole way. It looked like I was going uphill, but I never once pedalled. I’m serious! The funny thing too is before that highway was twinned many years ago, there were a lot of fatal crashes along the stretch where traffic from the Fox Farm Road entered the highway. I wonder if perhaps cars may have appeared to be further away than they actually were when people pulled out and tried to merge with the existing traffic flow?

In Saint John, Canada’s oldest incorporated city, there is a green space like no other, well in this country anyway because it’s the largest urban park in Canada. Rockwood Park is 2,200 acres in size and was designed by Calvert Vaux, one of the designers of New York’s Central Park. Rockwood Park is home to an 18-hole 70 par public golf course, 10 freshwater lakes and 55 walking trails and footpaths, and it’s just a hop, skip and a jump from downtown. I’ve spent many an hour in this pristine urban wilderness.

Are you into bridges? No? Well maybe you will be after this, given the romantic nature of covered bridges. Also called kissing bridges, you have time for quite a few in our Hartland Covered Bridge. Built in 1898 as an uncovered bridge, it got its roof in 1922 and is now the longest covered bridge in the world with a span of 1,280 feet. That’s just under a quarter of a mile long! In the early days you would be penalized with a substantial fine if you were caught travelling through it with your horse going faster than a walk. It was likely a resonance issue.

And of course prehistoric creatures also once called New Brunswick home and we have our own mastodon, discovered in 1936. There are said to be about sixty such specimens found across Canada, and the Hillsborough Mastodon is “considered to be one of the most remarkable.”

Speaking about fossils, we certainly have our share. The farm where I once lived had plenty because many stones found in that area have some kind of plant fossil embedded in them.

Among the countless fossils found in New Brunswick is the world’s oldest intact shark skeleton dating from approximately 409 million years ago. That makes it about twice as old as dinosaurs. This specimen was discovered in the Restigouche River basin. For the scholars among us, that’s Doliodus problematicus. Say that five times fast.

Now many of you at this point are probably shouting at your screen. Please! Eden! Tell us how New Brunswick got its name! Okay, it happened in 1784 in honour of the reigning British monarch, King George III who was also the Duke of Brunswick. So … New Brunswick. It’s not exactly original, but it stuck.

And New Brunswick is the only province in Canada that is constitutionally bilingual, with about a third of our population speaking French. I love the dual cultures.

If you’re taking notes here’s a couple of other interesting facts: The New Brunswick Museum is Canada’s oldest operating museum (that’s where we keep the mastodon and the shark), founded in 1842, and we’re home (in Rogersville) to two of Canada’s only three Trappist monasteries (one of monks and one of nuns). Also, just off our east coast lies the province of Prince Edward Island and linking the two provinces is the eight-mile long Confederation Bridge. It’s not only the longest bridge in Canada, but the longest bridge over ice-covered water in the world.

Oh and one more thing, if you’re into French fries, one third of the world’s frozen French fries are produced here. Just sayin’.

Thanks for letting me go on a bit about New Brunswick. Nothing but fun here in Canada’s picture province. Come on over!

 

https://www.bookswelove.com/monroe-eden/

 

 

 

 

 

 

Catalog Stories

 

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We of a certain age remember (print) catalog shopping, beginning with the venerable Sears Catalog that once sat in homes all across America. "Wish books" folks called them. I remember the excitement when the Christmas catalog arrived from Sears. I could hardly wait to get hold of that, to search for toys that I wanted "Santa" to bring me. 

Things got complicated during the 60's when all sorts of catalogs, ones for clothes and for household goods and just about everything else you can imagine, arrived at the same time, the back-breaking bane of postal carriers' lives. But I want to talk about some advice my mother-in-law gave me, back when my husband and I were married students, with spare change for entertainment in short supply. She advised, from her own experience, that one of the easiest ways to get some no-cost reading material was to subscribe to seed catalogs. I found addresses for many within the pages of that required reading for New Englanders, The Old Farmers Almanac. 

"Catalogs are free and come in the winter," she said, "and they are filled with color pictures that will cheer you up and remind you that summer will come again." In Massachusetts, back in the 1960's, this was good mental health advice, which I took. Ever since then, January (even, now, December!) brings me catalogs, although at first I didn't even have a plot large enough for a tomato.

I was, however, just as my mother-in-law was, raised by people who gardened. Many people of that generation were not too far away from genuine farming. During the Depression, among some social classes, turning your yard into food was a life-supporting practice. That was the era of the backyard chicken, before we all had to pretend to be Louis XIV. 

Living in a rental property, I began raising -- you guessed it -- tomatoes -- in an abandoned flower bed. I dug up a corner with an old coal shovel I'd found near the oil burner in the basement. Fresh tomatoes were an inducement, and the seed catalogs were an inspiration for what else might be coaxed from the soil. From then on, spring time meant gardening.  

Messy late year garden

I've had some large gardens in my time, gardens that fed us through summers with tomatoes, carrots, beans, beets and melons, squashes, (winter and summer) as well as lettuces, herbs and spinach. Husband, kids and I learned to enjoy greens of all kinds. "Greens" is a large topic I'm still exploring. This year, when it warms a bit, I will try to grow Callaloo, which I first enjoyed years ago in the West Indies as soup, cooked up in a rich yard-chicken stock. 

I decided last year that in my limited box-garden space I would plant mostly greens. This year, I have some seed "cabbage-collards" already started in the house and lettuce and beets in the ground--fingers crossed because of the on-going Weather Weirding. Our year started with heat and drought during the first three months. Now, when it should be warm, it has reverted to March/April chill. At least, it's begun to rain...

My catalog choices are wider now, thanks to the internet and the advice of granddaughter Rachel who lives and gardens in GA. Southern seed catalogs have become my go-to, and lately I've had more success with these. This is because here, on the upper end of the Atlantic Coastal Plain, summers were always hot and humid, but now they are 100+ scorching, the way they are in the deep South. Over the years, I've switched from the big time seed suppliers to the little guys, who often have heritage and rare seeds. This sometimes leads to disaster--diseases and plant-chewing insects are fiercer than they ever were, thanks to over-use of pesticides and so many invasive viruses/ species entering this hemisphere. 

I have learned there is an Insect Apocalypse going on in tandem with all the others--just ask the pollinators, cicadas and fireflies if you don't believe me--but the die-off doesn't seem to be affecting garden pests. A new project just begun is my attempt to grow host plants for birds and the "Good" Bugs, which has meant a whole other set of catalogs in which to browse the bright images and dream. For me, catalogs are still wish books.   :)

(And Happy Birthday to Fraulein Gottlieb, too, today. Soon, she dances in the May with her Lover!)

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~~Juliet Waldron

 

   

When Your Main Character Organizes a Hostile Takeover of Your Novel By Connie Vines #Plotting a Novel", #Surprise Storyline #BWL Insider Author Blog

 Here I sit, night 3, in my cluttered office, excitedly plotting my contemporary novella.

I have the setting, the theme, and the plot points, and I'm fleshing out my primary and secondary characters. 

And then. Pow! I hear a voice. (Yes, writers listen to voices).

My main character doesn't like her name and is angry because I don't 'get' her. That's a bit combative, unlike the helpful information my characters give me. 

She also informed me she liked what I ate for lunch today. (That's a bit creepy 😲) FYI, She prepares her salad the night before, storing the toppings and dressing in separate containers.

Kale and Lettuce Salad w/ Smoked Salmon 
 rice croutons and almonds 

I wander into the kitchen to brew another cup of coffee.

Who cares if it's midnight? It's not like I can sleep anytime soon (probably for the rest of the week).

Fresh Start. Sigh 

Then it dawns on me 😒I listen to music when I write. I just know my primary character has a favorite artist 🎤🎹🎸🎼. Since I subscribe to Apple Music, I pick up my phone and look at what's featured.

Chanel, Gavin, and I now listen to Rosanne Cash: Deep Cuts Album.

My Heronie's theme song:" God is in the Roses." 

As the music plays on, I find her sharing her internal struggle.

Which is different from what I envisioned. An internal struggle that I didn't expect...it was true, what she said.  I really didn't get her.

I like my newest heroine. She made me laugh and cry a little.

Soon, I hope, she will share her name and secrets with me, too.

My current project boards

My blog post (in progress)

Chanel (Gavin sent himself to bed 🐾⏰)

Fragrance is a sensory signature, an extension of your personality, an aura of glamor and mystery, and ultimately feminine. 

What are your favorite Christmas scents?

What scent would you select if you could capture a fragrance in candle form? 

What fragrance do you wear during holiday events?

What fragrance would you love to try? Why?

.

A gift from my brother and sister-in-law.
Yes, I do run on caffeine and often sarcasm.

Remember, I have yet to answer any of the questions listed above. I'm eager to find out what my readers have to say. 

Please share your 'fragrance secrets' (good and bad) with me.

Due to problems with scamming, this blog can no longer allow comments.  

Follow me on Facebook to share your choices/ give me snippets of fragrance stories.

Facebook:

Connie Vines, Author 

Author Connie Vines

Find me on the Books We Love Author Page:

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

Book links and more are listed here!

Happy Reading,

Connie Vines

Setting up the series - by Vijaya Schartz

FIND MY BWL BOOKS HERE

Creating an entire universe, with its inhabitants, its rules, its technology, is exciting but a lot of work. And as I create a universe for a story, I usually fall in love with it, which makes it difficult to let go of it to write something completely different. So, I tend to write series.

Although I write each book as a standalone, long series sometimes discourage the readers. Who wants to start with Book 8? And buying all the books that came before in one sweep may seem overwhelming.

Other readers want to wait until the series is finished to read all the books in one sweep. I understand that.

The Curse of the Lost Isle series, based on Celtic legends, has eight books. It can be a challenge or some readers.

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The Chronicles of Kassouk science fiction series has six. Still too long for some readers.

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So, I recently decided to limit each series to three or four books. But then, I start another series, set in another part of the same universe.

Sometimes, I fall in love with a secondary character in my story in progress, and I decide he or she deserves their own book. So, I use the secondary character from the current book as the protagonist for the next one. Or I introduce the next protagonist at the end of a story. It provides a link, and the reader feels grounded in the new series.

That way, I can enjoy writing new stories in the same universe I love so much, like the Azura Universe. Azura is the angel planet featured in the Azura Chronicles. 

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But the Byzantium Space Station series is also set in that universe, where Azuran angels cross path with human, alien, cats, and cybernetic characters.

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And the Blue Phantom series also stems from Azura, as the Angel Ship sails alone about the universe, rescuing the worthy and fighting the forces of evil. I'm currently writing the second book, ANGEL GUARDIAN, set for release in October 2023. 

From series to series, the Azura universe evolves. The forces in power at the beginning may be defeated, evil rises, an authoritarian regime falls and lawlessness follows. Evil never misses an opportunity to insert itself into the mix. We discover new corners of the universe, new planets, and special places, like Byzantium, The Land of Many Waters, or the Pandemonium Space Station, ruled by a powerful crime lord.

The advantage is that the universe is consistent for the reader, who, like me, enjoys spending time there. I noticed that, once hooked on one series, my readers will check out the other series in that same universe. All the books in the Azura universe feature cats. It’s evident on the covers for the Byzantium Space Station series. For the Azura Chronicles, and for the Blue Phantom series, all the titles start with Angel. The style of the covers may vary from one series to the next, but the theme remains. Angels, strong heroines, and cats, protecting the universe from evil forces.

Desperate to save her people from the Marauders swarming her space freighter, Kefira prays for a miracle. Blake Volkov, legendary captain of the Blue Phantom hears her plea and deems her and her refugees worthy of his help. Grateful for the rescue, Kefira finds his price shocking. Despite his glowing wings, handsome looks and impressive abilities, Blake admits he is no angel… although Kefira’s feline bodyguard strongly disagrees.

Meanwhile, an old enemy bent on revenge against Blake unleashed an unspeakable evil on the galaxy. Time to face past mistakes… time for innocent blood to flow. Nothing prepared Kefira for the upheaval ahead.

Can Blake find redemption? Can Kefira save her people? Can either of them ever trust again?

"Unique and memorable characters who travel throughout the galaxy battling the forces of evil in a truly epic novel. There are so many unique aspects to this book and not just the world building. The characters are well rounded, the description on point, and the surroundings are awesome. The plot of "Angel Ship" will grip readers from the first page and keep in a talon-like grip until the very last page... Fans of Science Fiction will love this offering and will be drawn to read more books from this talented and capable author." Ind'Tale Magazine

Happy reading!

Vijaya Schartz, award-winning author

Strong Heroines, Brave Heroes, cats

http://www.vijayaschartz.com

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An Australian Historical Journey by Tricia McGill

 

Mystic Mountains

In the early 1800s the penal colony of Botany Bay was an unforgiving and harsh place. Isabella O'Shea is transported to New South Wales for wounding a member of the British aristocracy who raped her, so it is understandable that she loathes members of the upper class and the system that punished her; sentenced her to seven years transportation.

Tiger Carstairs is rich, ambitious and English-so is it any wonder she is determined to hate her new master. Tiger dreams of making a new life beyond the aptly named Blue Mountains, so called because of the perpetual haze of blue surrounding them.

Mystic Mountains is a story of courage and persistence-traits that were essential for the settlers who carved out a new life in a raw land where suffering and heartbreak were commonplace.

Isabella and Tiger face tragedy and many hardships in their quest for a new life in this untamed land.

Reviews:

“Tricia McGill has written a sweeping love story of two people fighting for their places in an unfair world among the wild, untamed vistas of Australia. The strong plot reveals much about the early settlement days of the continent of Australia and is a history lesson in itself besides a sizzling romance. A job well done by Ms. McGill.” Lani Roberts 5 stars ***** Affaire de Coeur

“Sometimes we in America forget that Australia is an equally young country, complete with tales of adventure about the settlement of the land. In this story of love adventure and hardship, we see a man and a woman work together to survive and overcome the harsh land that is Australia. A thoroughly enjoyable book, well-written and exciting.”  Deborah Brent for Romantic Times book club

 

Chapter One

March 1818 Sydney Cove.

 

A wind as hot as the devil’s breath sent the longboat rocking. Isabella tried not to think about her roiling stomach as she raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun that blazed down on them. Fear, like some deadly snake, coiled itself around her innards, sliding viciously into every muscle and bone, every part of her body, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

The woman Isabella now counted as a true friend groaned. “S’pose we’ll ‘ave to get used to this heat,” she muttered as she ran a hand around her nape and blew a strand of greasy hair out of her eyes. “‘Tis hotter ‘ere than it was on the stinking ship when we was anchored off Rio de Janeiro!”

Isabella grimaced. “That’s a fact, Gracie.” They had been forced to get used to a lot of things, a deep and abiding despair more than anything else.

“These blooming six days we’ve been stuck out on the water ‘ave seemed longer than the whole bloody voyage,” Gracie grumbled. “Gawd but it’ll be good to get me old feet on solid ground again.”

Isabella wrapped her arms about her middle and shuddered, swallowing the bile that threatened to choke her. “I don’t ever want to see the ocean again as long as I live, Gracie.” Much as she might wish she were back in Stepney, she would never want to repeat that dreadful voyage. A violent storm lasting for nearly two days coming round the Cape had caused such wretchedness they’d feared they would all perish. No, she wouldn’t care if she never saw the ocean again.

Gracie nudged Isabella as the wharf loomed before them. “Well, girl, ‘ere we go, ‘ow d’ya feel, eh?”

“As if a mess of worms are wriggling about inside me, that’s how.”

Even when evading the constables in the alleyways and back lanes of Stepney Isabella had always felt that one day things would improve. That certainty died on the day of her arrest. Gracie had tried to give her some hope for better days ahead, but Isabella knew that a woman in her position had little hope for anything in life, least of all a bright future.

Gracie winked broadly at one of the sailors, now getting ready to stow the oars. He blew a raspberry and she chortled. Isabella had no idea how she would get by without Gracie. The older woman had been like a rock on the awful voyage. Dougal too. She saw the Scot now on one of the other longboats, which was carrying cargo. She waved and his plain face reddened as he shot her a cautious grin.

The first mate made a rude gesture. “Right, you lot,” he shouted. “Get a move on. The time has arrived for you to leave this illustrious vessel. Steady now, we don’t want you falling in the drink and spoiling your nice clothes, do we?” He sketched a bow. “This here’s Government Wharf.”

Isabella felt like pushing him into the sea, but the small moment’s triumph wouldn’t be worth the punishment she knew him capable of dishing out. How she hated him. Sweat trickled between her breasts and ran down her legs and she trembled as much with fear as with anticipation.

The man leered and suddenly grabbed her arm. “Now we’ll see ‘ow you’ll manage without that Scottish dolt watching over you every step of the way. You got away with it on the ship, slut, but let’s see how you like having one of those toffs putting his hands under your shift, eh?” He grinned evilly as he nodded to the men milling about on the wharf. “And not only his hands. He’ll be poking on you with more than his hands, mark my words.”

Isabella squirmed. “Let me go!” But he tightened his grip until she thought her arm might break.

“I will, after you gives me a little thank you kiss for being so nice to you.” Before she could back off he pressed his wet sloppy mouth over hers.

He was pushed aside, and forced to let her go or head into the water, as the women jostled to be first off the boat.

“All right, all right, don’t shove,” one shouted, elbowing Gracie.

Gracie threw herself bodily at the first mate. “Whoops, must ‘ave tripped,” she said with a grin.

Isabella wiped her mouth on the hem of her skirt, and jumped swiftly onto the dock. The first mate shook a fist at Gracie and she waved audaciously. He cursed loudly.

Gracie muttered, “Just look at that Marjorie, carrying on like the doxie she is.”

A buxom woman on one of the other boats lifted her skirts and shook a leg, making the boat wobble dangerously. The sailors guffawed. Some of the women made lewd gestures and shouted obscenely to the sailors as they climbed out, adding to the crew’s amusement.

Isabella was silent. She would never feel anything but heartsick at being brought to this hostile land. Some women had stolen with one purpose in mind: to join lovers and husbands already transported, and these few were cheerful at the prospect of being reunited with their menfolk.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a shout. “That there’s The Rocks.” The first mate jerked his head towards the cottages and shacks sprawled on the hillside. “If any of you ladies is interested in working in the public houses and rum taverns, that’s where you should head,” he said, amid coarse laughter from his mates.

“Gawd, let’s ‘ope we’ve seen the last of pubs, eh?” Gracie said as Isabella huddled closer to her side. Gracie had made no secret of being a whore in London. To most of the women, whoring was the only means of supporting themselves and families apart from thieving. Isabella shuddered and Gracie patted her hand. “You’ll have no need to end up over there, you wait and see.”

“I hope to God I don’t, Gracie.” For a period back there in Stepney she had expected to spend the rest of her days as a whore. Most of the young girls in that slum had resorted to selling their bodies to save themselves from starvation.

But for good or evil, that scum of a gentleman had put paid to that expectation.

She grimaced as Gracie went on blithely, “I saw it in me tea leaves, you’re gonna make yer fortune ‘ere in the colony.” She chuckled at Isabella’s skeptical look.

“Oh Gracie, what am I going to do without you?” Isabella shook her head. The thought of their impending separation made her feel sick.

“You’ll do a treat, ducks, yes you will.”

“I only wish I was as certain,” Isabella muttered. She’d been lucky to end up with Gracie when the prisoners were split into mess groups at the start of the voyage. Gracie had been her protector and her mentor. Not even a childhood spent foraging for sustenance in Stepney, or the violence during her stay in prison, prepared her for the hardness and cruelty of some of the thieving harlots on the prison ship. Gracie held Isabella’s hand when they’d peered through the scuttle holes to get their last despairing glimpse of London, knowing they’d never see it again.

Gracie now tapped Isabella beneath the chin and grinned again, showing the many gaps in her teeth. “You’ll get a good master, don’t fret, then all your troubles will be over.”

Isabella had a feeling her troubles would never be over.

Dazedly she watched as the boat dropped off the last woman and turned to head back to the ship for the next load of human cargo. The haze caused by the swirling dust gave the scene a sense of unreality. Sweat seemed to seep from every pore in Isabella’s skin, soaking her ragged clothing, but she’d grown used to almost every form of human discomfort. What was a bit of sweat? The wind raced across the wharf, the flying dust stinging her cheeks, bare arms, and ankles.

The harbor was a cauldron of activity. Longboats ferried cargo to and from the dozen or so ships bobbing at anchor in the cove, most bound for exotic and oriental ports. At first sight of it the startling scenery had lifted the convicts’ flagged spirits after weeks of endless ocean, but that first sense of exhilaration had soon dispelled.

 Gracie nudged her. “Buck up dearie, ‘ere’s the nobs.”

Isabella tried to stop her fingers shaking as she wiped at her dry, cracked lips. Soldiers, lined up and armed, stared at the unkempt women as if they were no better than the rats that had swarmed below decks.

“Stand to one side,” one of the soldiers ordered and another waved his truncheon.

“What do they think we are, a load of stupid sheep?” Isabella moaned.

“Ah well, we should be used to it by now.” Gracie sighed as they all moved to where they’d been directed.

“They’re looking at us as if we’re creatures on display at the fair. You’d think they’ve never seen a female con before.”

There were men everywhere, not just the soldiers. They lurked around corners and on rooftops, treating the arrival of a shipload of women as a spectacle. 

“‘Tis a fact that we’ve been brought here because they have a shortage of women in the colony, Bella. I s’pose that lot’s waiting to find out which of us they’re gonna own, eh?” Gracie jerked her head towards a motley group of men standing openly surveying them, eyes gleaming.

It took some time to bring all the prisoners to shore. Isabella was close to fainting with the heat before the final boatload was set down.

 At a signal from one of the officials a gentleman came out of a building. Moving with stiff precision to the center of the dockyard, he stopped, then wiped his face on a white kerchief as he cast his eyes along the row of women. Unsmiling, he announced, “On behalf of Governor Macquarie I welcome you to New South Wales.”

“God bless me, if he don’t sound like ‘e’s really glad to see us who’ve come from the other side of the world at the King’s pleasure.” Gracie chuckled. “Nice of Governor Macquarie to send one of ‘is codgers to make sure we’re all ‘appy to be ‘ere.”

“Yes, happy as larks,” Isabella retorted in a sharp whisper.

“As you know,” the man went on, “you have been allocated quarters or assigned masters. These good men,” he gave the officials a stiff smile, “have spent many hours taking your particulars to ensure that everyone goes to an appropriate place of employment. You will show your allegiance to these masters. If you work hard to prove you are of some worth to the new colony you will earn your freedom as many others have before you.” Obviously bored, he ran his eyes along the row of sweltering women. “Many of you will be in far better positions than you would ever have hoped to attain in England.” He turned and strode back into the building.

Isabella blew upwards in an effort to cool herself. She’d only taken in half of what he’d said. She was a prisoner, for all his fancy words. Still, in the long run, better to work here, hopefully in some nob’s kitchen, than to rot in a prison back home. Or face the hangman’s noose.

Home? It was so far away and so far removed from where she stood now, that it seemed as if the years before she’d been arrested had been lived by another person. But for all their poverty she’d always known what it was to be a part of a close, loving family. Oh how she missed her ma, and her brothers and sisters.

 Isabella ignored the leering looks they received from men scurrying to off-load cargo. Her legs felt as if they would give out on her at any moment. Her bad foot with its crooked toes was beginning to ache fiercely and she swayed.

At last they were herded to where a stern government clerk sat at a table, a ledger in front of him and a pen in his hand.

Gracie poked Isabella in the back. “I ‘ope I get a strong ‘ansome master,” she said with a chuckle. “Like that one with the gold ‘air over there. Look at ‘im. Lord, ‘e’d do me fine. E’s been staring ‘ard at us since we came ashore. Stands out from the other lot like a boil on yer nose, don’t ‘e? Rather a dandy, I don’t mind saying so. I’ll warm ‘is bed any time ‘e likes.”

“Can’t say I noticed him,” Isabella lied.

“Oh no, suddenly you’re blind, eh?”

“One member of the gentry’s the same as the other. They can all rot in hell.” Isabella shuddered. She detested them all, with their fine clothes, finicky manners, and hearts as cold as stone.

“You may sit on the ground, ladies.” The officer in charge gave the order then smirked as he marched away.

“Cripes, why didn’t they tell us that before?” Gracie sank with a huge sigh onto her well-padded bottom. The others followed her.

 

* * *

 

Tiger Carstairs removed his hat, then ran his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. Smiling grimly he pushed the hat back on as he turned his back on the bedraggled lines of women.

What a bunch. They didn’t get any better. Still, one female had caught his eye. She was a bit short on flesh to cover her bones, but there was a light of defiance in her eyes that the dreadful journey with all its degradation hadn’t snuffed. She’d stared right at him from eyes as green as the sea as she’d limped past, her spine straight as a broomstick. He liked that.

Yes, she’d do perfectly.

She was young, if not very hearty, but Thelma had told him to keep his eye out for one who didn’t look as if she’d be off in a flash with any man who showed up at the back door. This one hated men, if that glower she’d given him was anything to go by. So blatant was her scorn he’d fully expected her to spit in someone’s eye. The sunshine had picked up glints in hair that would probably be reddish-brown after a good washing. But the wench had really taken his fancy, stirred some deep emotion. It was an unnerving sensation, peculiar in its uniqueness.

“Ho, Tiger Carstairs, after a new woman to warm your bed?” called one of the other men who’d come to inspect the new arrivals.

Tiger eyed the man coldly. Half of these poor dregs of humanity would end up as bed-warmers for this lot. Still and all, most of the females who’d landed today had whored in London and on the journey over, so the new life in the colony would hold no surprises for them.

“No, Mackenzie. Believe it or not, some of us are merely looking for women capable of keeping our homes clean and our stomachs full.” Tiger looked away, watching the hustle and bustle of unloading.

Mackenzie’s laughter was coarse as he walked away. Probably rum soaked as usual. Tiger sauntered over to the table where Gregson sat with his list of assignments.

“The wench there with the cropped red hair, who’s to take her?” he asked indolently. “I’d like her.”

“Have to wait your turn, Carstairs. She’s been assigned. I have your woman already noted. Let me see...” Gregson ran a finger down his list. “Ah, yes, you have been allocated one Moira Paine.”

“I don’t want one Moira Paine unless it’s that wench.” Tiger pointed to the red-haired girl. She was staring at her feet, looking for all the world as if she was unaware of what was going on around her. Or had cut herself off from it all.

Gregson peered along the line to the woman in question. “What would you want with a scrawny wench like that, eh?” He shrugged. “Mind you, she has the makings of a beauty, I suppose.”

“I care not for looks, old chap.” Tiger knew he lied. “My kitchen woman needs a girl to help. This one looks capable.”

“Oh aye.” Gregson chuckled. “She does look capable enough.” He leered, and Tiger hid a grimace of disgust. These men all had one thought in mind where women were concerned, and that was having them on their backs with their legs spread. “Hold on, old man, we’re about to start allocating now.”

Tiger eyed Gregson with annoyance. With a look along the line he saw that the wench in question still stared at her feet. His heart gave a strange lurch, unsettling him.

 

* * *

 

“Ah, thank the Lord, I’m gasping for a drink,” Gracie said when some women came along the line with water jugs. “You cons?” she asked the one who offered her a mug.

“Yea, all of us.” The woman grinned.

“‘Ow d’ya find it ‘ere?”

“It’s a blooming laugh a minute ain’t it?” She showed her toothless gums as she threw her head back in a laugh. “Mind yer Ps and Qs and yer’ll find it ain’t half bad,” she advised, before going on down the line.

“Not bad!” Gracie blew a raspberry, then wiped her mouth with the back of a hand. “Gawd, but it’s like a blooming oven out ‘ere, ain’t it?” She wiped the hem of her filthy skirt across her face, making streaks through the grime. 

Isabella sighed wearily. Her bad foot ached, her stomach was twisted in knots, her hair was lousy and she stank like a pile of animal droppings. The seasickness that had racked her during the long months at sea was still with her, and the ground seemed to be going up and down.

Now the fear that had plagued her since she’d been herded onto the ship so many months ago rose up to stifle her. Just what sort of master would she get? She knew she was as strong as any woman here, but they would take one look at her crippled foot and discard her as a domestic help. She’d get picked as some man’s whore for certain, that was all these high falutin’ nobs sought. That was how she’d got herself into this mess in the first place. By taking a knife to one of them who’d thought it was his God-given right to lay his white pampered hands on her.

With a small sob, her right palm went to her stomach. The babe had lain there such a short while. Although she’d loathed the thought of the nob’s spawn resting in her womb, when the growing babe had been torn from her she had mourned its loss. It hadn’t been the babe’s fault; and perhaps it had been better off not coming into this cruel world.

One of the babies born on board began to whine and Isabella stared at its screwed-up face. Poor mite. Its mother, a doxie who’d worked the streets of Islington, put the child to her sagging breast.

Heartsick and afraid of what the future held, Isabella put her face on her bent knees and closed her eyes.

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Writing Historical Novels by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

 

https://www.bookswelove.com/donaldson-yarmey-joan/

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https://www.bookswelove.com/authors/canadian-historical-mysteries/ 

As a historical writer it is important to make sure that you use the words of the period you have set your book in. For example if your story is set in the 1500s you could use the word hugger-mugger when talking about a sneaky person who is acting in a secretive way and elflocks to describe messy hair. Jargoyles meant that a person was puzzled about something in the 1600s while in the 1700s a person who was out of sorts was grumpish. In the 1800s people would have felt curglaff when they jumped into cold water and a man going for a post dinner walk while smoking his pipe was lunting. In the early 1900s a person who was drunk was referred to as being fuzzled.

Of course, it is important when using those words that the writer somehow explains what they mean such as, if a man said he was going for an after lunch lunt, the person he was talking to could reply. “I don’t have my pipe and tobacco with me today.” I feel that writers who use terminology from a different era or words or phrases from a different language without clarification are trying to impress the reader with their vocabulary and intellect. Speaking as a reader, for me what they are really doing is making me angry and interrupting the flow of the story. I am jolted out of the lives of the characters and into my life as I try to process the meaning of what was written.

As a writer you want the reader to be so caught up in the story that they don’t want to put the book down, you don’t want them to throw the book across the room because they don’t understand what has been said or done.

Another important aspect of writing historical novels or even novels set in past decades is to make sure that you do have the characters using devices that hadn’t been invented yet.

The ball point pen came into use in the 1940’s so you can’t have someone signing papers with it in the 1920s. The Charleston dance was introduced in a movie in 1923 and caught on after that, so a story set before that time could not have party-goers dancing it. While the computer was invented during World War II, it didn’t come into commercial use until the 1950/60s and personal use until the 1970/80s. Don’t have a person make a phone call before March 7, 1876, which is when Alexander Graham Bell patented his telephone and don’t have someone send a text on a mobile phone in the 1970s.

It is important to do your research when writing a novel set in the past, no matter what the year.

More historical words:

In the 1590s beef-witted described something as being brainless or stupid.

In the 1640s callipygian described a beautifully shaped butt.

In the 1650s sluberdegullion meant an unkempt, drooling person.

In the 1950s two people making out in the back seat of a car were doing the back seat bingo.