Tuesday, March 19, 2024

It Is Fun ... Until It Isn't by Helen Henderson

 


Fire and Redemption by Helen Henderson
Click the title for purchase information




The post title came about while doing the marketing plan for Fire and Redemption. And here is why. Promotion is usually the final step in what can be a series of ups and down. Something being fun until it isn't is a sentiment that can also relate to most of our lives.

There is the excitement of a new project. Often followed by the blind staring at a blank sheet of paper (or computer screen) when the words needed to go from point A to point B refuse to coalesce.

After surviving the rapids of being in the writing zone interspersed with portage around slow spots (aka plot holes,) you reach the three-quarter mark. The characters have taken over and you are no longer the creator, but the scribe. Hurray, you are almost done.

New project ... It's is Coming Along ... Almost there
 


 

 

 

 

 

 

For many authors I know, if they could, they would avoid editing. A major, "It isn't fun," moment. Even if we enjoy the mechanical review and polish (which can be fun when you smooth out a rough spot in the prose,) there is a more personal element. Putting your hard work out for critical review can give anyone pause. Even though I have worked as an editor in some of my "day" jobs, the panic never goes away.

Editing is done, triple-quadruple checked. Excitement is at an all time high. Your finger hovers over the "Send" button, then you take the plunge. Great, the worst is out of your hands. It can be fun again. You can play with pretty graphics. But you also have to beg for reviews. The fun disappears.

Some authors love the in-person events, to get out there and meet the readers. Others, prefer to stay behind the scenes. Glad-handing is not fun, until someone who stops by your table who you can really engage. I will be finding out in two weeks whether BookStock 2024 is fun or not. Visitors from three states to the only event within a four-hour drive should make it interesting.

The writing life can be fun ... until it isn't. But it can surprise and delight when it becomes fun again. Stories come and go, characters drop into our lives and leave their mark. For me as an author, I have a responsibility to keep writing for the special readers who come into our lives.

To get Fire and RedemptionPreOrder.

Or to purchase Fire and Amulet or any of the Windmaster Novels: BWL

 ~Until next month, stay safe and read.   Helen


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 have adopted her as one the pack. Find out more about her and her novels on her BWL author page.




Monday, March 18, 2024

Wild Horse Rescue by Nancy M. Bell

 



 

Wild Horse Rescue 

The Alberta Adventures ~ Book One 

 

By Nancy M Bell 

Dedication 

 

 

To all horses and beasts of burden, both wild and domestic, may you live in Peace as the Universe intended 

 

Wherever man has left his footprint in the long ascent from barbarism to civilization we will find the hoofprint of the horse beside it.  John Moore 

 

 

Wild Horse Rescue 

The Alberta Adventures ~ Book One 

 

By Nancy M Bell 

Dedication 

 

 

To all horses and beasts of burden, both wild and domestic, may you live in Peace as the Universe intended 

 

Wherever man has left his footprint in the long ascent from barbarism to civilization we will find the hoofprint of the horse beside it.  John Moore 

 

 

Wild Horse Rescue 

The Alberta Adventures ~ Book One 

 

By Nancy M Bell 

Dedication 

 

 

To all horses and beasts of burden, both wild and domestic, may you live in Peace as the Universe intended 

 

Wherever man has left his footprint in the long ascent from barbarism to civilization we will find the hoofprint of the horse beside it.  John Moore 

 

Sunday, March 17, 2024

St. Patrick's Day - A bit late

 

This is my one book with a real Irishman in the story. The hero is based on a neighbor who always charmed me with his accent. I miss seeing him and his wife and being charmed by their accents.

St. Patrick's Day is well celebrated in Rockland County with a parade and many activities. Dance competitions and of course food, singing, too.

While I can claim an Irish heritage, it's not a green one but an orange one. Never bothered me when I was younger but often received comments, some not so nice. I had an orange jumper I wore on St. Patrick's Day. Wore it to Duquesne U located on a hill over looking Pittsburgh. Mt English class contained most of the basketball tea,, a powerhouse in those day. I recieved laughter and the shaking of heads but also an invite for coffee. With seven escorts the day was great.

I also had the chance to visit the town where my Irish ancestor left to come to the un Bellenahinch. I'm sure I've spelled this worng. A town built on a hill but pretty.

Saturday, March 16, 2024

Post-surgery sillies, by J.C. Kavanagh

 

The award-winning Twisted Climb series. Click here for purchase options.
https://www.bookswelove.net/kavanagh-j-c/

If you've ever been sedated for surgery, or been with someone after surgery, you'll know what I'm talking about.

Post-surgery sillies.

My partner, Ian, was scheduled for root canal surgery a couple of weeks ago. Due to the deterioration of the back molar, the oral surgeon mentioned that he may have to remove the tooth. Either way, he recommended full sedation.

First, a little background. Ian hates going to the dentist. I mean, HATES it. Not the dentist or the hygienists, no. It's reclining in a chair, mouth open to the point of splitting, and helpless to whatever they want to do. The vulnerability of it!

But back to the oral surgeon. We arrived early and they ushered him in immediately. I sat in their comfortable waiting room, waiting. And waiting. After two hours, the door opens and there's Ian, hanging on to the dental surgeon. He wobbled toward me like a drunken Popeye, feet moving forward like cement slugs. Ian's face was pale and his lips cracked. His eyes kept crossing and closing, unable to focus. If the surgeon wasn't propping him up, he would have fallen to the floor with a silly, lopsided grin. 

"Hey babe," I greeted him.

"They did it," he slurred.

"Did what?"

"They chopped up a whole bunch of ostriches and stuffed them in my mouth."

The surgeon tried not to smile. I put my arm around Ian and together with the surgeon, we propelled him out the door and into the car. 

I strapped him into the passenger seat and stood back.

"Are you OK?"

He shook his head, eyes glazed.

"Look," he slurred and opened his mouth, pointing into gaping bloody hole that once held a tooth. "They gave me a hippo mouth."

Then I had to laugh. Ian appeared insulted. "It's true," he insisted. Then he leaned back and passed out.

Poor Ian. But oh, how I wish I'd filmed this delightful silliness!

Keep smiling, and make sure you tell the ones you love that you love them :)


Ian being silly, pre-surgery.


GREAT NEWS!

The Simcoe County Museum is hosting a month-long author exhibition and I am honoured to be part of it! There are 17 authors in total, representing 17 areas of Simcoe County. Readers will know that I live within Simcoe County and in fact, The Twisted Climb series takes place within the New Tecumseth area of Simcoe County. The Museum is located at 1151 Hwy. 26 in Minesing, Ontario L9X 0Z7. Come on by!






J.C. Kavanagh, author of
The Twisted Climb - A Bright Darkness (Book 3), Best Young Adult Book 2022 FINALIST at Critters Readers Poll
and
The Twisted Climb - Darkness Descends (Book 2) voted BEST YA Book 2018, Critters Readers Poll, and Best YA Book FINALIST at The Word Guild, Canada
AND
The Twisted Climb,
voted BEST YA Book 2016, P&E Readers Poll
Voted Best Local Author, Simcoe County, Ontario, 2021
Novels for teens, young adults and adults young at heart
Email: author.j.c.kavanagh@gmail.com
www.facebook.com/J.C.Kavanagh
www.amazon.com/author/jckavanagh
Twitter @JCKavanagh1 (Author J.C. Kavanagh)
Instagram @authorjckavanagh


Wednesday, March 13, 2024

Book Birthday: Spectral Evidence

                                                           Find my books here!

 

I love book birthdays!

My latest, written with my wonderful partner in crime, Jude Pittman, is Book 8 of the Canadian Historical Mysteries: Newfoundland, entitled Spectral Evidence.

Imagine learning about a specific historical setting in each of Canada's provinces and territories through a thought provoking mystery? What fun!!

Ours is set in 1692-93 Newfoundland, which had historic trading ties to New England, and specifically Salem, Massachusetts. Well, THAT got our creative juices flowing, because it was the time of the notorious Salem Witch Trials and their tragic aftermath.

Our sleuth and storyteller is 17 year-old Charlotte Jaddore, the daughter of a merchant ship captain and his Beothuk/Mi'kmaq wife. Both heroine and content make our novel appropriate for YA readers as well as adult mystery fans. 

Jude and I are most pleased to present this excerpt. We hope you'll enjoy Spectral Evidence, and the entire series of Canadian Historical Mysteries.

Chapter 1 

Home from the Sea



The first name given to me by my mother, Rising from the Wave came because I was born in Lampok, the water world’s swell, on board my father’s ship. He insists the gale becalmed to hear my coos and suckling sounds. He sometimes calls me ma petite onde, his little wave. I’m a good person to have around in a storm still, he says. 

But I am also deeply rooted here, on the island my father’s people call Newfoundland. They came from across the wide Atlantic in ships with great white wings. My mother’s peoples, the Mi’kmaq and the Beothuk, who call me many variations of my first name, were watching from shore. They were not surprised by the new people’s arrival. Long ago a holy woman had a vision of islands of trees floating towards us, So, we greeted the tall ships with joy, eager to trade. We even added their spirit world of Christianity within our own. 

My father sought refuge here, away from wars and kings. Newfoundland is a good place, full of the bounties of earth and sea and sky. But the wars followed. 

We were in one of those wars in that Spring of 1692 as I scanned the horizon on a cold and fog laced spring day before dawn.  My companions on our cliffs above St. John’s, were gulls, our colorful sea parrots, and rough-legged hawks. And soon came the sound of Randall Kelly’s step assisted by a walking stick.

“You are up before the sun,” I said quietly.

A gusting, like the one our island ponies make through their noses, came out of him. “I tread toes first in the moccasins you made for me, Charlotte Jaddore,” he complained, loud enough to turn the head of a curious gull.

I turned. “Aye, but you took a winding way, giving me more time to hear your approach.”

Randall Kelly grinned. “Straight paths make for dull stories. I hope you have reaped some stories for me over the winter with your grandmothers.”

“I have. How did you know I was returned from the inland?”

“The dust has been flying out your windows.”

“Ah. Spring cleaning.”

“And the praise of your hired helper, after you noticed her hurting arm and took to your concoctions for help. What kind of a crier would I be to not know the comings and goings of St. John’s and all of Avalon beyond? You cut me to the very quick, lady!”

My smile ran away from me as we sat together on a nearby outcrop of rock. I miss our past together when Randall called me “child” and “sprite.” The “lady” had begun after my return last year. It honors me and my growing into my womanhood, but it feels strange still. 

I have known Randall Kelly since I was not much more than a toddling child and he an orphaned immigrant of ten years. Because of the injury he suffered over his Atlantic crossing, he was judged unfit for his indenture-contracted seaman’s duties. But he was more than fit to nurse my family through the smallpox that descended soon after, killing my mother and her babe, driving my father near madness in his grief. We all bear the marks of that terrible time. Randall Kelly bears them the lightest, showing us the way, for he had already survived the loss of his own family in a place called Waterford, Ireland. 

My father bought out the terms of Randall’s indenture. In the years that followed, others saw him as our lame servant, doing the work of women, the cooking and cleaning and household management. But he became my brother as he sat beside me at my lessons. We gained our love of books and knowledge together. Soon, we’d formed a new family—Randall, my father, and I. His literacy, combined with his sanguine humor and curiosity made it natural for our small community of St. John’s to offer him the brass bell of Town Crier.

Randall had his own rooms now, in an old storage barn he acquired because it had a window that faced north. He carved more windows in that wall so that he could get that beautiful artist’s light, even on our many cloudy days. When my father brought paintings from Amsterdam to our shores, Randall was in their thrall. The portraits and landscapes became his teachers as his drawings acquired color and skill. His barn is his home now, and he sleeps below its rafters. 

The sign above our tavern-the Sea Parrot- bears Randall’s portrait of the nesting birds that live on our cliffs. Those seeking to decorate their dwellings with more than fishing tackle and clothes hooks are happy to keep our artist fed and clothed in exchange for the products of his craft. 

Randall leaned his dear face against the leaping dolphin he’d carved into his walking stick. He looked at me with his artist’s eye now, as if judging how well I fit into his mind’s new composition, along with land and sea, shrouded in morning fog. Suddenly, his brow quirked up, the way it used to when he suspected me of keeping a secret. “Are all shelves and storerooms made ready for this year’s new goods?”

“They are.”

“Aye, then. And now, Charlotte Jaddore, with your powers beyond mere mortal ken, might ye know when the winds will blow the Esperance in?”

“Do not you tread over that territory with me,” I admonished him. “George Wyatt already thinks I have dried up his cow.”

“Does he? And have you?”

“Pish. What do I want with her calf’s food? You are a strange people who steal eggs from the birds and milk meant for the young of others.”

He laughed. “Now you sound like your grandmothers. How did those fine women fare over the winter?”

“They are well. Their message for you is to study the weasel over our coming crowded months.”

Randall Kelly is one of the few my grandmothers have allowed close to the inland camps of the Beothuk and Mi’kmaq. He is a smallpox survivor. That is part of the reason they feel safe. The other lies inside our artist crier himself, who both my grandmothers consider a holy person. Holds Two Spirits is their Medicine name for him. They send me back to St. John’s every spring with another animal for Randall Kelly to study, to gather around him, to give him strength and protection. 

Randall’s laughing eyes, the color of seagrass in summer now stilled. “Tell the grandmothers that I will risk the weasel people’s bites of displeasure to follow their advice.” He looked at his hands then. “And thank them for me, will ye?”

“Of course,” I agreed.

“It’s glad I am that they see me as a scholar studying the world around.”

We had achieved twenty-five and seventeen years of life on Mother Earth, Randall and I. But I suspect we both missed our free childhoods, before I ran my father’s house and business. Before Randall took up his paints and the crier’s bell, back when we were welcomed like unruly puppies into all the communities of Avalon—the English and Dutch of St. John’s, the French at Plaisance, and the Irish dory fishermen of our many bays and coves. We were welcomed even into the high valleys of the mountains and barrens, where our trading partners, the Mi’kmaq and the reclusive earlier people of my great-grandmother, the Beothuk, abide.

The east wind picked up suddenly, blowing away the night’s fog. Randall reached into his pouch for his spyglass. He scanned the horizon, past the harbor bay, just as the sun was appearing over the eastern edge of the world the Mi’kmaq call Turtle Island.

“I knew it! I knew trudging up here after you would bear fruit!”

He handed me the glass, took up the shell horn that he used for long-distance summoning of the town’s attention, and blew. I stood beside my friend, letting my blue apron fly like a flag of welcome. For out there, among the last of the icebergs, was a ship we both knew well. The Esperance.  My father was home from the sea.


The gathered people at the dock parted upon my approach. I lifted my skirts and ran to the Esperance as the gangplank was set in place. Every mother’s child of them knew they would not get a first look at the wines, the lemons and oranges, the stockings, and French silks. Not until my father had given his heir and business partner a proper greeting. His arms, his salt tang smell mixed with clove, the quill and bead decoration that dangled from his ear- all were home to me. My world was not returned in balance until his quartermaster began a reel on his pipe and we’d danced a swinging circle in each other’s arms.

As the tune finished, we heard Randall Kelly’s bell, then his powerful voice.

“Hear ye! Hear ye! Be it known that by the grace of Divine Providence and the skill of her officers and crew, the good ship fashioned of fleet Bermuda cedar known as the Esperance, in their Majesties King William and Queen Anne’s port of St. John’s in the Colony of Avalon, has landed this eleventh day of April in the year of our Lord sixteen hundred and ninety-two! As first of the season into port, Martin Jaddore is hereby declared Fleet Captain and Fishing Admiral!  Is this not a day to bring our poor wintering souls joy? A day altogether calling to mind the words of our own gracious late and lamented governor poet?


The air in Newfoundland is wholesome good,

The fire as sweet as any made of wood,

The water, very rich, both salt and fresh,

The earth more rich, you know it is no less

Where all are good, fire, water, earth and air,

What man made of these four would not live there?’”


Loud cheering followed his recitation of Robert Hayman’s verse. Amid the jubilation, my father growled before he whispered in my ear, “Poetry? More like royal sanctioned versifying lies out of that Devonshire pirate! Did we not have Randall Kelly recite enough Shakespeare in his youth to know the difference?”






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