I am the author of two mystery novels, Deadly Fall and Ten Days in Summer, both set in Calgary, AB, and featuring insurance adjuster sleuth Paula Savard. My short stories have won contests and appeared in magazines and anthologies, most recently in Writing Menopause, Long Lunch/Quick Reads and AB Negative. I belong to the Alexandra Writers Centre Society, Crime Writers of Canada and the Writers Guild of Alberta and serve on the board of When Words Collide Festival for Readers and Writers. A native of Montreal, I live in Calgary, where I love hiking in our nearby Rocky Mountains.
By the same author:
A Line to Murder a Puget Sound Murder
Murder: When One Isn't Enough a Puget Sound / Hood Canal Murder
Wynter's Way a gothic mystery
Parlor Girls the story of the Everleigh sisters, world-famous madams
BWL Publishing Inc.
Every week I am mailed the New York Times best sellers lists for fiction and non-fiction. According to vox.com, to get on the list you have to sell between 5,000 and 10,000 books in a week. But who you sell to is important. I don't take much credence in the lists so lets review.
My most recent nonfiction list had the following: books by Prince Harry and Michelle Obama, one by a movie star and another by a radio personality, one by a poet, and one by a democratic congresswoman. Stephen Hawking's final theory is apparently popular enough with the book-buying public to be on the list as is something co-written by Oprah. Also included is a biography of LeBron James, books on the KKK, the Texas Rangers and frontier justice, poverty, longevity and the offensively-named, I'm Glad My Mother Died. Except for the last one, most of these are givens. Is there one title/topic/author here who would be ignored by libraries? I'd like to think the last one would, but apparently not. And Prince Harry, Michelle and LeBron were probably also picked up by bookstores, in fact most likely all of them were, but in what amounts?
The fiction list has books by authors who are regularly listed: Barbara Kingsolver, Kate Morton, Harlan Coben and 2 co-written by James Patterson, plus (obviously ) others. So how does the Times come up with its lists? According to the observer.com it's a closely-guarded secret. What is known is that the paper has its own list of certain book sellers across the country from which it gathers statistics. And which ones make the cut is a tightly guarded secret. Statistics at the ready, a Times brain trust decides whom they think should be on the list. Quoting the observer.com, "this is done to keep people from gaming the system, which is partially true. But it’s also done so that The New York Times can have a say about which books get the extra credibility of being named a bestseller.
"NPD BookScan™ is the gold standard in POS tracking for the publishing market. It covers approximately 85 percent of trade print books sold in the U.S., through direct reporting from all major retailers, including Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Walmart, Target, independent bookstores, and many others." The Times doesn't use it.
Here is a recommendation from observer.com (and I suggest you read the entire article. It's not overly long but is an eye opener.): hire a laundering firm. The firm will hire people nation-wide "to buy books through various retailers one at a time, using different credit cards, shipping addresses and billing addresses. This allows the sales to go through and show up as individual sales, instead of bulk purchases. These sales then get reported to Nielson BookScan. Pay the firm A LOT OF MONEY. Sit back and prepare to celebrate.
I turned sixty-five this year. How is that possible? When I was a kid, I thought anyone over sixty was ready to kick the bucket. And yet here I am, five years past bucket kicking age. I’m embarrassed to say, my teenage thoughts support the adage - youth is wasted on the young.
Of course, with this aging process, there were a battery of tests my family doc prescribed to ensure all body parts were functioning well and to detect any irregularities from previous (more youthful) years.
Last
year my doc promised, when I got this old, I’d be eligible for a colonoscopy.
Imagine my excitement. And then imagine my disappointment when the colonoscopy
lab told me I was too healthy, and the poop-on-a-stick test (PIC) was all I
needed. It was easy to move on from my initial disappointment.
And then there was:
- the infamous squish-your-boobs-into-pancakes experience. Another pass with flying colours. A couple years ago when I endured the procedure, The Globe and Mail published my interview with a mammogram technologist. I’ve included the link at the bottom in case you’re curious.
Exercise
– averaging 10,000+ steps a day. Yes, those final ‘walking on the spot’ steps
while brushing teeth do count.
My
doc’s parting statement when I left the appointment was, “Medically speaking, you’re boring.” It’s the only time in my life I’m content to be boring.
With
the medical stuff out of the way I researched financial advantages of
reaching this milestone. Canada Pension. Old Age Security. Blue Cross Benefits.
And senior discounts. I’ve developed empathy for clerks who must verify my
age prior to giving me said discounts. One of the better openings I
received was, “I know you’re not old enough, but I have to ask if you qualify
for the senior discount.” Diplomatic. Hesitantly apologetic. And delivered with
a smile. Her relief was visible when I said, “I sure do.”
This
year I will nap in the afternoon guilt free. I will advertise my weakness for red
wine, barbecued Brussel sprouts, Hawkins Cheezies (no substitutes) and
chocolate. And bedtime will come earlier if I miss my nap.
So onward with all the excitement, new adventures, sunrises and sunsets sixty-five rotations around the sun brings me. I know the future will be full of grandkids’ escapades, slower-paced outings with Dad (he’s turning 91), finishing Book 3 of Jillian’s story and whatever else shakes up my day.
Thanks to grandsons Lane and Wyatt for their drawings for this blog.
You can contact me at: bbaker.write@gmail.com
Summer
of Lies: Baker, Barbara:9780228615774: Books - Amazon.ca
What
About Me?: Sequel to Summer of Lies : Baker, Barbara: Amazon.ca: Books
So lately a few writing opportunities have sprung up, and though I'm not complaining, it made me think of the differences between writing creatively for one's own enjoyment and writing to make bank.
Starting out, when I would write, I would do so for my own entertainment. Voices in my head would come alive on paper, and I could get them to do all sorts of things. I could build worlds and construct cheesy dialogue, or kill off whoever I wanted when I wanted and all for the sheer joy of doing so... something that would likely earn you a prison sentence if you tried to act it out in real life.
Don't take her advice.
Anyway, the point is that things changed when I started wanting to publish my book. Now your talking audience and appealing to readers. This really switched up the game for me because when I started publishing and writing with the hope TO publish, I didn't just have to think about myself. I had to think about what publishers wanted---if I were to go the traditional route---and what other people who enjoy the genre would want to read.
Which shifted the focus a bit, but was still fun. But then came the submission calls, and inquiries to write in a specific genre or about a specific story and things changed.
Now it was a matter of, do I do this even though it's a bit out of my comfort zone? There is a ton of benefit if I do. Not only will it be lucrative, but it would showcase my work to a broader audience.
Also money might happen... money...
 |
| Money. It matters... |
I hate writing introductions because my first thought it how can I make this as extra as possible. Honestly, I'm not that interesting. I write books sometimes and hang out with my family and eat nacho's on Friday nights when my daughter goes to her Grandparent's house. Sometimes I dress spooky, but lately because of Covid (yeah... Covid. Right...) I've become too fluffy to fit into my goth clothes. I'm married. I like comics, and I like sleeping in, though I rarely get to do it these days.
I grew up in Shawinigan, a small French Canadian town, attended military college, married a young officer, and raised three spirited children. Over the years, I enjoyed many wonderful postings in many different regions of Canada.
After my children left the nest, I began writing. Three years later, I captured my dream of becoming a published author with my underwater novel “Salvaged”.
Many of my romantic suspense novels are set in Canada or feature Canadian characters. One of my latest series also involves time travel.
I'm not sure where time flew, but decades later, I ended up writing under the Northern Lights in Alberta while spoiling a gorgeous little granddaughter.
Click here to purchase Sophie's Choice
Sophie slid off her mare, looped the reins over a convenient shrub and
gave the horse a quick pat on the nose. She turned and began the familiar trip
down the little path that meandered through the dunes to end up at the gravel
and shell beach just on the edge of her family’s estate. When she neared the
edge of the sea, she held out her arms and tilted her face to the June sun
before stripping off her bonnet. She tossed it in the air where the breeze caught
it and whirled it about, ribbons and all, before it landed in a frivolous clump
on the beach.
She sat down and removed her riding boots and stockings and wriggled her
toes with sheer delight. Then she unpinned her hair and shook her head so the
chestnut curls spilled over her shoulders and down her back.
“Aaaaaah.” Pleasure spiraled through her. “I have missed this so.” Feeling
a little foolish for talking to herself, she glanced around to be sure that she
hadn’t been heard. It would not do to have the locals gossip that Lord
Harrington’s eldest daughter was daft!
Sophie gathered up the skirts of her kerseymere riding habit and
crunched across the beach to the water’s edge, dabbling first one big toe then
the other in the chilly waves. The gravel pricked against the soles of her
feet, delightful in its intensity and for the first time in weeks she felt alive,
well and truly alive. Not that she hadn’t enjoyed her stay at boarding school, particularly
the time assisting in the school library, but it had been restrictive, to say
the least.
She mimicked the head mistress. “Sophie, you must pour this way, Sophie,
you must set a stitch that way, Sophie, mind that your voice is never raised.”
Mama would be scandalized if she saw Sophie now, poking fun at Miss Smythe and
standing bare foot in the sea.
“Your mama would be scandalized.” A masculine voice interrupted her,
echoing her thoughts perfectly.
She spun around, dropping her skirts into the water. Rueful, she glanced
down for it was sure to leave a stain. Then she raised her gaze to the stranger
before her. And raising her gaze it was for he stood at least a head taller than
her own five foot five inches. Her breath caught in her throat.
He was handsome, to say the least – tall, dark and lean with a rapacious
air about him as if he would pounce on his prey at any moment. Judging by his
burnished cheeks, tousled black hair and the crop dangling from one wrist, he
had also been out riding.
Sophie realized she must look a fool standing there dumbfounded and ankle
deep in water. For once in her life she was completely nonplussed.
“You, you …”, she stammered, managing to wobble her way back on to the beach
without incurring further damage to her habit.
“Yes?” Amusement tinged the stranger’s voice.
Bravado was her best option so she squared her shoulders and jutted her
chin. “I meant to say you’re trespassing.”
“I think not.” He pointed to a marker just off to one side. “I believe
that is the edge of my property. Indeed, you are the one who is trespassing,
Miss…?” The question dangled between
them. When she didn’t answer, he swept forward in an elegant bow. “Allow me to
present myself. I am Lord Bryce Langdon. And you?” Again he waited for a
response and again she declined to answer.
Oh dear, she knew very well who Lord Langdon was. He’d just acquired the
adjacent land. In fact, they were all to meet him this evening for the first time.
However, if word ever got out that she’d
met him in this situation, her reputation would be ruined. Anger at herself for
the foolishness that had brought her here unchaperoned made her tongue sharp.
“You, sir, are an ill-mannered boor.” She spat the words at him. “Only an
ill-mannered boor would compromise a young lady as you have just done to me.”
“I must beg pardon then for I had not recognized you as such.” He
pointed to the ten toes peeping out from beneath the hem of her skirt. “I dare
say your behaviour is sadly lacking.”
“You, you scoundrel, how dare you insult me so,” she fumed. “You, you -.” Her mind went blank, sucked
bare by the devastatingly handsome man before her.
“Wretch?” he suggested, the corners of his mouth
beginning to lift.
Sophie stared at him for a few seconds, watching the devilish grin threaten
to take over his entire face. Her lips twitched and she scowled in a vain attempt
to maintain her decorum. It didn’t work.
Giggles burbled up and burst free and she began to laugh. He joined her,
the sounds of their laughter mingling with the cries of the sea gulls circling
above. Bryce Langdon must be an astute judge of character for he was entirely
correct in his assessment of her. She detested the rules and strictures of the upper
class and it was that rebellious quality that had landed her an extended stay
in boarding school in the first place. There was no point in denying it.
“No, you’re absolutely right. I’m not behaving like a lady. That is,” she
hastened to correct herself, squeezing out the words between giggles, “in the sense
I do not enjoy sewing and such. Much to the dismay of my mother and sisters, I
prefer to be outdoors.”
“And I am no drawing room fop so I see we shall get along famously. You have yet to introduce yourself?”
She curtsied. “Lady Sophie Harrington. We are to meet this evening for
dinner at Harrington House.” A wry expression twisted her face. “Please don’t mention to anyone that you saw
me here today.”
Bryce took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Rest assured, I shall
tell no one. Tonight when we meet, it will be as if for the first time.” His dark
eyes were admiring and warm with promise as he kissed her hand again before
dropping it. “I look forward to seeing you again, Lady Sophie Harrington.” He
said her name carefully, rolling out the syllables as if he savored the
cadence. He saluted her with his crop then turned on his heel.
Sophie watched him walk away, scuffing his polished black boots along
the beach until he disappeared from view. Then she looked down at her hand
where he had kissed it. The skin still tingled and her heart beat a little
faster at the memory of his lips on her skin.
A secret smile curved her lips. Perhaps, she thought, not everyone
thinks I must conform to society’s rules. Perhaps I can be loved just the way I
am? With a light heart she gathered her boots, stockings and bonnet and made
her way back up the little path.
* * *
Sophie handed the reins to Hobbs, the head
groom. He tipped his cap, revealing a thatch of red hair matching the freckles
scattered across his cheeks, before fishing in his pocket for a carrot. He
handed it to her. “Looks as if ye’ve given
Dancer a bit of a ride,” he said.
She held out the carrot and the mare’s lips
rippled across her palm before snagging the treat. “It was a beautiful day for it
and I’m afraid time ran away from me.” That wasn’t really the truth. Her encounter
with Bryce Langdon had left her feeling unsettled and she’d tried to ride away
the feeling. She stroked Dancer’s nose. “You’ll give her a good rub down?”
“Of course,” he replied. “And I should warn
ye, yer mother’s been searching for ye and is in quite a state. Sent one of the
footmen out here to see if you’d returned.”
Sophie groaned. She’d really hoped to make it
to the sanctuary of her room to change before catching her mother’s notice. The
entire household was in an uproar over tonight’s dinner party. Lady Harrington’s
evenings were always a success and invitations to them were highly sought after.
That success didn’t come without a price – Mama ran herself ragged organizing
to the tiniest detail. Every last bit of silver must be polished, every last candle
in the sconces must be replenished and Harrington House dusted and polished from
top to bottom. Her mood wasn’t always the best at these times and the family had
learned to stay out of her way. “Thank you, I shall pay heed.” She patted Dancer
one last time before waving at Hobbs and turning away.
She darted across the cobblestones that paved
the courtyard between the stables and the house and slipped into the kitchen
door. As expected, pandemonium reigned in the kitchen and Sophie knew better
than to interrupt Mrs. Winston, the cook. The woman, red faced and perspiring,
tossed her a distracted glance then focused again on what looked to be buttered
apple tarts.
No sooner had Sophie stepped into the hall
than she heard her sister Leah’s voice. They were three – Sophie, the eldest at
twenty, Leah, two years younger and Catherine, two years younger again.
“You’re in for it,” Leah said, waggling her
finger at Sophie. “Mama’s been looking for you for the past hour.”
Sophie rolled her eyes skyward. As usual, Leah
was her impeccable self, not a hair out of place and her peach coloured muslin
frock freshly pressed and tidy.
Not like Sophie. Despite her attempts to re-pin
her hair, most of it hung loose down her back and the sea water had left damp stains
on the skirts of her riding habit. She bunched them forward so her sister
wouldn’t notice. “We all know how she ties herself in knots when she’s entertaining.”
“Particularly this evening as we are to
welcome our new neighbor, Lord Langdon.”
Whom I’ve already met, Sophie thought and a
frisson of excitement tickled her scalp when she remembered the admiring look
in his dark eyes. “Yes, I know,” she said aloud.
“What do you suppose he’s like?” Leah’s face
grew dreamy. “He’s said to be ever so handsome and he’s unmarried. Do you
suppose he’ll take an inclination to one of us?”
Sophie snorted. “Don’t expect Papa to agree
to us marrying anyone at this time. You know he’s said we’re to wait until we’re
twenty-one.”
“I don’t know why,” Leah pouted. “Abigail
Penner had her season at eighteen and is already engaged to be married while we
are stuck here in Cornwall.”
Where I much prefer to be. “It’s not so terrible. There are shops and tea rooms and a theatre
close by in Truro.”
Leah gave her an incredulous look. “You? What
do you know of the shops?”
Sophie made a wry grimace. She fooled no
one, visiting the shops was not her favourite form of pleasure. She much preferred
outdoor past times such as riding or archery. If she must be indoors, then she
filled her time with reading or sketching. Needlework made her head ache and
her fingers were like sausages on the pianoforte that graced the drawing room. “I’ve
heard tell that some of the establishments are as fine as any that can be found
in London.”
Leah frowned and gave Sophie a push. “You’d
best find Mama.” Her grey eyes were earnest. “Or she’ll have your head.”
Sophie nodded and headed towards the staircase
leading to the upper floors. With any luck she could shed her riding habit and
its telltale stains.
Halfway up the staircase, Catherine flashed
past her heading downstairs, blonde curls bouncing with every step. “Where have
you been?” she threw over her shoulder as she reached the bottom. “Mama’s in a
state and nothing will do but she must speak with you.” She didn’t wait for Sophie
to respond but darted into the library.
To hide, Sophie could only presume, and she
picked up her pace. Mama must really be annoyed with her this time if both Leah
and Catherine issued warnings. She reached the first landing and had her hand on
the railing of the stairs leading to her room on the next level when Lady Evelyn
Harrington’s voice rang through the air.
“Sophie.”
Mama’s annoyed tone couldn’t be ignored. Drat.
Sophie’s heart sank and she cast a longing glance up the stairs. She’d not make
her escape after all. She turned and spied her mother advancing on her like a
square-rigged frigate. Plump and petite, her stature belied an iron will. A few
wrinkles haloed her blue eyes and a few grey hairs shadowed her blonde hair,
but she was still attractive and Papa adored her. She still looked much as she
had when their family portrait was painted soon after Catherine’s arrival. It hung
over the staircase with other Harringtons past.
“I’d ask where you’ve been for most of the afternoon
but I see you’ve been wading.” Her mouth tightened and she pointed to the hem
of Sophie’s skirts. “I can only assume your boots are also wet because I can’t
imagine a daughter of mine being so foolish as to splash about barefoot where
others might see you. And please don’t tell me you went down to the beach. It’s
not safe with all the smugglers sullying our coast.”
Sophie clasped her hands at her waist. “No
Mama, I didn’t go to the beach. I was hot so I dipped my toes in the stream
behind the mill.” Heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks and she hoped she
didn’t look as guilty as she felt over the fib. Thankfully she said nothing about
Sophie riding out without a groom to accompany her so Hobbs must have kept that
to himself.
Lady Harrington sniffed. “More than your toes,
I’d say. But never mind that for now.” She smoothed an imaginary stray hair. “The
Earl and Countess of Blackmore will be joining us this evening, as well as Vicar
Sinclair and his wife and of course Lord Langdon. I have in mind a small entertainment.”
“Entertainment?” Sophie dug her fingers
into her palms. Please no, not the pianoforte. Despite hours at the keyboard, the
fugue by Bach she’d been working on for weeks resembled the screeches of a tom
cat rather than anything musical.
Her mother smiled. “I’m not deaf, I’m not
expecting you to play. I had thought Catherine could accompany you while you sing.
Your voice is more than passable.”
“Sing?” For Lord Langdon? How could she
look him in the face after their encounter this afternoon?
“Yes, sing. I suggest “Greensleeves”. It’s a
lovely piece and your sister has mastered it admirably.”
“Sing Greensleeves?”
“You’ll find the music on the bench. If you’d
been home sooner, you’d have had more time to practice.”
“But -.”
Her mother raised a manicured finger. “There
will be no excuses from you. I intend to make a good impression on our guests, particularly
our new neighbour. I understand he is a barrister of some note.”
“I see.” A barrister. A man who earned his
living. That explained his comment that he was no drawing room fop. A small
burst of admiration flushed her cheeks anew. Most men she knew, including her father,
contented themselves with overseeing the management of their estates. But perhaps
Langdon didn’t have an estate before purchasing the neighboring property. That
would explain his foray into law and if he were as successful as her mother implied,
he’d done well for himself to become a landowner.
“Besides,” continued her mother, “it’s a
good opportunity to practice the entertainment we shall offer once we are in
London for your coming out this Season. We shall host evenings where you will
sing, Catherine shall play and Leah will read her poetry.”
“I don’t want to come out in London. I’m quite
happy here in Cornwall.”
“Nonsense. How are we to find you a
suitable husband otherwise?”
“I don’t fancy being paraded about like a
prize thoroughbred and given away to the highest bidder.” Sophie tried to keep
the petulance from her voice but failed miserably judging by the frown on her
mother’s face.
“Paraded? Given away? It won’t be like that
at all. We’ll find a suitable young man and soon enough you’ll be inclined to
accept his attentions, you’ll see. Perhaps someone like Viscount Weston.” She
slanted a glance at Sophie. “His mother is ever so charming and you could do
far worse.”
I doubt that very much, Sophie thought.
Giles Weston might be considered a catch and she might be able to overlook his
pimpled face and yellowed teeth. However she’d once seen him whip his horse until
the animal bled. That cruel streak she could not overlook. Nonetheless arguing
with Mama would lead nowhere. Once she made up her mind, there was no changing
it. Sophie bit her lip. Best to say nothing.
Lady Evelyn stood on tiptoe and kissed
Sophie’s cheek. “Do wear your lilac frock this evening. It brings out the
colour of your eyes.”
“As you wish.” Well, at least that was one
thing they could agree on. Until now, she’d not had the opportunity to wear her
newest frock. She loved the white silk embroidered flowers along the hem and indeed,
the lavender shade made her green eyes a deeper hue.
Her mother sailed off, leaving a rose scented
breeze behind her and a befuddled Sophie clutching the carved oak railing of
the stairs. Not only was she to reacquaint herself with Lord Bryce Langdon this
evening, she must sing for the man. How was she to do that without bursting into
giggles of embarrassment?
By making sure she sang as well as she
possibly could. After she changed, she’d search out Catherine so the two could
practice as Mama suggested.
Research
I have a file in which I write down
ideas for romantic classical novels. I am drawn to one which I might write in
2025. I have a mental image of a young lady in times past. She has eyes the
colour of bluebells, skin white as lily of the valley and hair fair as
primroses. The comparisons are because she will fit into the story in which a
garden will be a prominent part.
Before I begin writing I complete
intensive research. For this tale I have made notes about robins, because I
love it when a robin watches me work in my organic garden from a short distance
waiting for me to dig up a worm or insect.
The results of a survey declared that
robins are the U.K’s favourite bird. I am always delighted when one visits me
although I know it will defend its territory sometimes at the cost of its life.
I appreciate the little redbreast’s
cheerful song all year round and am amazed because it will sing at night by
light from lamps in the street.
In my garden these small birds have
built nests in the shed, when I left the
door open by mistake, in ivy growing up
railings along my garden and in crevices in trees, and in nest boxes, to
conceal them from cats. Throughout the year I scatter birdseed. I enjoy
watching them hop and fly around my garden even in the coldest weather, when
they are at risk of death from starvation caused by frozen ground and snow that
makes it impossible to feed on worms etc.
During bitterly cold, weather when I
was a young child, I remember chanting The north wind doth blow and we shall
have snow. What will poor robin do then? I was very sorry for robins and
glad because my mother scattered bread outside for them and continued to do so
throughout her long life.
Folk law
It is said that after Jesus’ birth, Joseph gathered
wood to add to the fire and robins fanned it with their wings to keep it
alight. According to folk law, either the Virgin Mary rewarded the little birds
with red breasts, or they were touched by Christ’s blood which gave them red
feathers.
Some people believe that if a robin signifies a
loved one’s visit from beyond the grave. it is a sign that a lost relative is
visiting them from beyond the grave. They are also a symbol of a new beginning
and, or signs of good fortune and good luck. So, it is thought messages from
robins should be taken seriously.
I read that a lady’s Irish mother said a robins
have the souls of loved ones who pay visits to give their love. Her previous
day was special because a month after her father’s anniversaries, two beautiful
robins flew down from the apple trees, settled outside the French doors and
peered in at her through the glass.
I live in central Minnesota and have all my life. I have taught 8th grade English plus 6th and 8th grade health in the same room in the same district for 27 years. Some say I have “staying power”. I am fiercely dedicated to the things in life that make my heart happy – books books books, my family, my animals, and my writing. My husband and I ride a Harley and our horses when we’re not working on some part of our new hobby farm. I have way too many hobbies, but they bring me joy and, I think, help keep me young.
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