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Friday, September 25, 2015
FOSTER MOM? or not
After an abnormally hot, dry spring and summer, we on Puget Sound had a freaky, one day wind and rain storm. It reminded me of another storm when I tried to be a foster mom.
Orphans of the Storm
Wind out of the
south, whitecaps washing over the floating bridges, the ferry system shut down—a
Pacific Northwest storm. And one post-storm spring morning while driving to
work and listening to NPR, I heard that the previous night’s gully washer
caused another problem: squirrel’s nests
knocked out of trees leaving a surfeit of orphaned babies. An animal welfare organization who shall
remain nameless put out a call for foster parents.
Wow! That sounded like fun, I thought. I could do that. I loved squirrels. I wrote the organization’s
phone number down.
At work, I found a
place where a box of the family Sciuridae
could sleep while I worked, and
where I could retreat to give them little bottles of food and some TLC. Then I called the rescue group.
“I heard about
your need for squirrel baby foster parents,” I said, “and I’m really
interested.”
“Well now, isn’t
that nice, but before adoption can be considered, I have a few questions.”
“Sure.”
“You understand
that you have to be pre-approved.”
Uh oh. I hoped she
wasn’t going to run a background check on me. The first time I went back east
to meet my in-laws, one of my husband’s aunts was living in a pre-Civil War
house near Holmes Hollow and cooking squirrel pot pie on a wood burning stove
that came with the home I’d try and keep that on the down-low. After all, what
happens in Holmes Hollow stays in Holmes Hollow.
“Uh, okay.”
“What’s your
name?”
“Karla Stover.”
“Where do you
live?”
“In Parkland which
is just south of Tacoma, Washington.”
“Oh, now, that’s a
bit of a problem.”
“How so?”
“Well, the babies
were orphaned in Seattle.”
“I can drive there
to pick some up.”
“And there are
their physicals.”
Say what?
“Well, who
administers the physicals?”
“A vet.”
“We have lots of
vets in Tacoma ,
and running water and everything. My
husband and I have gone to the same vet for years.”
Levity wasn’t her
strong suit.
“Yes, but it has
to be a wild animal vet.”
I sensed
roadblocks—the result of animosity and distain Seattle feels for Tacoma.
“Well, I’ll ask
our vet if he can give them their physicals,” I said.
“No can do, I’m
afraid. We already have an approved wildlife vet ready to take them on.”
“Maybe I can drive
to your vet, then. Where is he?”
“Lynwood .”
Still, I persevered. “I could do that.”
“Every week?”
“What?”
“Every week. The orphaned babies have to be checked and
weighed weekly. We want to make sure
they’re getting the best possible care.”
“Are they vaccinated
for hanta virus and Lyme’s disease?” I asked.
“Do they need Frontline?”
Perhaps she sensed
my sarcasm.
“I’m sorry,” she
said, “but we have strict rules and regulations about who qualifies to adopt
our orphans and how they are to be raised.”
“They’re rodents,
for gosh sakes.”
“You see, that statement
shows a flippant attitude. I’m sorry but
you don’t qualify.”
Jeez!
Take it down a notch, lady.
About a week
later, someone knocked on my front door.
It was two little boys with three squirrel babies in a box. “Here,” one boy said, “Mom said we should
give them to you.”
I didn’t know who
the kids were, who their mom was, or why she thought I should have the care and
responsibility of three hostile-looking rodents. Their unattractiveness knocked the romance of
foster moming squirrels right out of the ring.
Nevertheless, I took the box and carried it to the garage. Then I tried
to put dishes of water and sunflower seeds—shelled, I might add—in the box. Nasty little buggers. Their only interest was in trying to bite the
hand that was attempting to feed them.
After a few days,
when it didn’t look as if they were eating, I decided to turn them loose among
the apple, cherry, pear and filbert nut trees in our backyard. They scampered for safety.
And ever since, we’ve had squirrel families
eating the filberts, biting holes into the fruit and, digging up my bulbs.
All without
physicals or mailed reminders for booster shots.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
Deadly or a Curative-poisons in medications, by Diane Scott Lewis
Poisons and poisonous plants have been utilized for centuries in medications. A Persian physician in the tenth century first discovered that poisons such as mercury could be employed as curatives, and not just on the tip of an arrow to kill your enemy. But poisons had to be managed carefully.
Plants, long the healing forte of the wise-woman in England, were a common ingredient in medicinal “potions,” though so many had deadly qualities. The foxglove, with its beautiful hooded, purple bloom is fatal if eaten.
But eighteenth century British physician, William Withering, used infusions of this plant to treat dropsy (now known as edema). Later, the plant was used to create digitalis for heart failure.
Rosy periwinkle is also toxic to eat. However, in traditional Chinese and Indian medicine, it’s used to treat diabetes and constipation.
More well known is the Opium poppy, used to make morphine (and unfortunately heroin-the killer of many an addict). Morphine is invaluable as a pain reliever for the sickest of patients. Small doses of other deadly toxins such as henbane, hemlock and mandrake have been employed to ease the pain of surgeries. But a dose slightly too high would kill the patient.
In Shakespeare’s time, poisonous extracts were added to cough medicines. Opiates were common in cough remedies, mainly for sedation. Mrs. Cotton in the seventeenth century suggested a mixture of vinegar, salad oil, liquorice, treacle, and tincture of opium when “the cough is troublesome.”
No one yet understood the addictive nature of these drugs—if the patient lived to find out.
The chemical element mercury, another toxin, was used starting in the 1500’s to treat syphilis.
Well into the twentieth century, mercury was an ingredient in purgatives and infant’s teething powder.
Arsenic is another poison that was commonly added to medications. A chemical element, arsenic is found in many minerals. In the 18th to 20th centuries, arsenic compounds, such as arsphenamine (by Paul Ehrlich, 1854-1915) and arsenic trioxide (by Thomas Fowler, 18th c.) were popular. Arsphenamine was also used to treat syphilis. Arsenic trioxide was recommended for the treatment of cancer and psoriasis.
Numerous people suffered adverse effects or died after the ingestion of these lethal ingredients.
In my recent release, The Apothecary’s Widow, arsenic is found in the tinctures used to treat the ague of Lady Pentreath. Unfortunately, arsenic is not one of the ingredients listed in that cure, and never in such a large dose. Who murdered Lady Pentreath, her miserable husband, Branek, or the apothecary Jenna who prepared the medicines, a widow about to be evicted from her shop, which is owned by the Pentreaths? A corrupt constable threatens to send them both to the gallows.
Click here to purchase The Apothecary’s Widow.
To find out more about my novels, please visit my website:
http://www.dianescottlewis.org
Sources:
livescience.com
The Power of Poison: Poison as Medicine, the American Museum of Natural History
William Buchan, Domestic Medicine: or, a treatise on the prevention and cure of diseases by regimen and simple medicines [second edition] (London: 1772)
Wikipedia
Labels:
eighteenth century,
murder,
poison
I'm a former Navy Radioman (person) from California, married to a retired Navy chief. I've always loved to write and discover the past. I have two sons and two granddaughters.
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
From Pantser to Plotter by Victoria Chatham
Every writer
falls into one of these categories, some writers may be comprised of a little of both.
When I started writing I was definitely a pantser, the type of writer who sits
in front of a computer and goes with the flow. As long as I had my characters,
the rest would take care of itself, right? Well, not exactly.
My first book
held marked similarities to raising my first child. Regardless of what I
thought, I hadn’t got a clue what I was doing. To say I struggled with that
first book is putting it mildly. At one point I had followed every lead my
heroine gave me and finished up writing about her grandmother in pre-war
Montreal
and how, pregnant and alone, she ended up in war-torn France fighting
with the resistance forces. Great stuff, even though I’m blowing my own trumpet
here.
However, that
was not the story I was writing. I was writing a contemporary western romance.and badly at that. Had I taken the time to consider more than just my characters I would have
saved myself a great deal of time. I’m not a fast writer, and when I realized
how much time I’d wasted, I went back to the drawing board as it were.
Yes, I had my
characters. They usually present themselves to me fully formed. I know their
names and what they look like. Next is to fill in their character
questionnaire, even complete a character interview. I know my characters well
by this stage but throwing them on the page and expecting things to happen just
didn’t work. I found writing historical romance or fiction easier in that I
simply looked up the year (god bless Google), to see what major events were
taking place world-wide and went from there for my background but it still wasn’t
exactly a plot, more of an idea.
When I started
writing my soon-to-be-released contemporary western romance, Loving That Cowboy,
I soon ran into a brick wall. I’m sure many of you will know what that feels
like. The words were just not there. It wasn’t writer’s block per se, more like
this writer’s ineptitude. After one very frustrating day when I wanted to File
13 all ten pages I’d managed to produce, I was ready to give up. That was when
I became a plotter.
I sat down and
started from scratch, looking at my two leading characters and figuring out how
to get them together and listed dozens of ‘what ifs?’. All that took time, but
as I reached each plot point I noted it on a pink post-it and stuck it on
my white board. Very pretty it looked too. Not only that, there was great
satisfaction in removing the post-its as I reached each plot point. Now I
really felt that I was getting somewhere. Sure there was a fair amount of
rewriting on the way, but that is inevitable.
I also went back to several of my craft books, especially Deborah Dixon's Goal, Motivation & Conflict. She recommends watching six specific movies to illustrate her lessons. Great. I love movies. I spent a week watching some of those she recommended and some I chose to work with to determine how much I'd learned. I wrote notes, I went back to the book Save the Cat for more on plotting within the three act structure and finished up that week revisiting Techniques of the Selling Writer. Thank goodness I held on to those books when I packed for my last move.
Having tried
both methods, I think from now on I’ll be doing much more plotting instead of relying
on my characters to take me somewhere. How about you? Are you a plotter or a
pantser, or maybe a bit of each?
For more information about Victoria go to:
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
Am I allowed to laugh while at the festival of the dead?
Click here to buy from Amazon |
Am I allowed to laugh while at the festival of the dead?
They say Madness merely depends on which end of the knife blade you’re staring at, and who’s holding the gun to your head. Or so said my mother, before we lost her on that first night of our holidays. She’d taken up jogging the day before she disappeared and to this day we still don’t know where she is. I was ten at the time and had poked my head around the corner, everyone else was asleep. I asked her where she was going. Thinking it odd that she would be up by herself, getting dressed. She was crying and tried to hide her tears as I asked. She assured me everything was okay and as she patted my rear to the direction of my room, I remember seeing Dad staring through the partly open window of that Mexican beach house. He had a strange look on his face as Mom ran off and it wasn’t from Montezuma’s revenge either. I’ll never get adults; life as a kid seems so easy. Only mom never came back. I cried for days. Dad said she was just running. It took me many years to know from what. I always thought for years after that it was me.
They say Madness merely depends on which end of the knife blade you’re staring at, and who’s holding the gun to your head. Or so said my mother, before we lost her on that first night of our holidays. She’d taken up jogging the day before she disappeared and to this day we still don’t know where she is. I was ten at the time and had poked my head around the corner, everyone else was asleep. I asked her where she was going. Thinking it odd that she would be up by herself, getting dressed. She was crying and tried to hide her tears as I asked. She assured me everything was okay and as she patted my rear to the direction of my room, I remember seeing Dad staring through the partly open window of that Mexican beach house. He had a strange look on his face as Mom ran off and it wasn’t from Montezuma’s revenge either. I’ll never get adults; life as a kid seems so easy. Only mom never came back. I cried for days. Dad said she was just running. It took me many years to know from what. I always thought for years after that it was me.
My parents brought us here to see the
festival of the dead. I'd already guessed it wasn't going to be a happy
holiday. Solemn affair, everyone just hanging around waiting to see whose limb
falls off first. Some even tried placing bets, but all their credit cards had
been cancelled and the relatives had absconded with the money. But I thought
that's what wills were for. I'd already been to a couple of school sock hops
that should have been named the same.
Yes, Mexico. I did tell mom to make sure she
earns brownie points by telling everyone at the festival that she should buy
them a drink. Wouldn't cost much and even the zombies can't drink. Well, they
try but by the time the drink reaches their mouths they've either crushed the
glass or spilled it all over themselves. Oh and note to self, don't waste your best
jokes on zombies, they don't get it. Humor I've discovered is way beyond them. But yo-yos are another matter. Keeps them
entertained for days. Just watching the ball going up and down, up and down, up
and down and believe it or not, up and down. Don't think they get past the
string and realize there's someone at the end controlling it.
Yup, survival tip #101 when walking through
parts of town that are quite dodgy, "If attacked by zombies, whip out your
yo-yo, give it to someone with spasmodic seizures and run like hell".
PS. To all of those who are currently crying
into their hankies, Kleenexes or shirt sleeves, please don’t. Do remember this
is a blog written by a fiction writer. Hope that is a big enough hint. But if I
did get you crying, well I’ve done a good job as a writer at pulling emotion
out of the reader. Now if only I could predict lottery scores.
Available in Fall 2015 |
Frank Talaber, Writer by Soul.
A natural storyteller, whose compelling thoughts are freed from the depths of the heart and the subconscious before being poured onto the page.
Literature written beyond the realms of genre he is known to grab readers; kicking, screaming, laughing or crying and drag them into his novels.
Enter the literary world of Frank Talaber.
Monday, September 21, 2015
Writing tips I've learned from my long ride by Sandy Semerad
It's been a lengthy journey, going from news reporter to author. I'd like to think I've learned a few things along the way, although I have often pondered this question:
Has working as a reporter helped me write better novels?
I hope so, but it’s been quite a ride. It didn’t start off as
I intended.
As a child, I made up stories in my head, but as a reporter,
I had to stick to the facts—“just the facts mam.”
In my early years, as a wet behind the ears journalist, I
struggled to write a proper lead sentence with who, what, when, where, why and
sometimes how. Or at least I was told that was the proper way.
I’d lose sleep, agonizing over the five w’s, not to mention
the how’s. With perseverance, I learned to please my editors and meet my
deadlines.
I still think it’s important to know the rules, particularly the
rules of grammar, but it’s equally vital to find your own voice. Breaking the
rules might be part of that process.
As for my journey as a writer, I have evolved. I’ve learned to
construct simpler lead sentences, without including the five w’s all at once. I
felt it was my obligation as a news woman to inform readers without boring them
to death.
Readers crave excitement and conflict. That I know.
Who wants every question answered in the beginning? Not I.
It wasn’t until I moved to Florida that I started writing down
the stories in my head. I saw a man fall from the back of a truck into a car,
and I wondered: What if this happened to me on my way to New Orleans during
Mardi Gras?
I entertained myself with this story until the characters
began to multiply. I couldn’t keep them straight in my head. So I started
writing about them. In a few months, I had a novel, or at least the first draft
of a novel.
In reading through my first draft, I realized I needed more
conflict. It wasn’t easy placing my lovely characters in danger, but I bit the
bullet, and ruthlessly overwhelmed them with problems. I made them struggle and
fail and encounter death until the very end. Call me merciless.
I also learned how to start off my tale with an inciting
incident. I call this hooking the reader. Hook the reader with every turn, I
say. Add hooks in the beginning, cliff hangers at the end of each chapter and
at transitional breaks.
For me, the beginning of my story is the most challenging.
How will I create a life-changing event? Will this event be the death of a
loved one, a divorce, a murder, a job loss, a terrible accident, or a violent
argument? Whatever, it must be riveting.
My first mystery novel Sex, Love, & Murder (previously
Mardi Gravestone), begins with two inciting incidents. In the prologue, the president
and my main character Lilah--a journalist and young widow-- are shot. After the
prologue, I have the first chapter starting the week before the shootings. Lilah
is in an automobile accident. A man is in a coma as a result of that accident.
As the ambulance takes him away, Lilah discovers his tossed suitcase,
containing cash and the details of a murder.
In Hurricane House, my protagonist is mourning the death of
her fiancé when she discovers a body in the gulf.
In A Message in the Roses, Carrie Sue unlocks a diary revealing
secrets she has yet to resolve.
But I must confess, when I first began writing novels, I
suffered from backstory-itis, commonly known as information dump. (I define back story
as anything that has happened to a character before the inciting incident).
As an avid reader myself, I enjoy a story with unanswered
question. I like to ponder and wonder. Adding too much of the back story takes
that pleasure away from me.
Now I find it helpful to write a back story for each of my
main characters before I begin my tale. I want to know my characters as well as
I know myself. Armed with this knowledge, I can add back story as needed.
In A Message in the Roses, Carrie Sue’s parents died in a
plane crash. I mentioned this in the first chapter, because I thought readers
needed to understand why she grabbed a letter opener and tried to stab her cheating
husband. If I failed to create sympathy for Carrie Sue, readers might not like
her and understand her impulsiveness.
Including back story can be tricky, no question. It can be
almost as complex as utilizing the five senses in scenes.
I have a tendency to overwrite, and for that reason, I hide
my first drafts. No one sees them unless I badly need the opinion of someone like
my husband, whom I trust.
I wish my every word and every sentence were impeccable but, I
no longer bow to perfection while writing the first draft.
Perfection, I’ve found is an elusive goal, entirely
subjective, and in my life, it seems I’ve attained more from my imperfections
and failures. I’ve certainly learned never to give up, no matter what, and I sincerely
hope you’ve learned a few things from my writing struggles.
Whatever you take away, I want you to know: I write with passion,
and when you think about it, writing with passion, might be the best tip of
all.
To read more about my work please visit my website and the links below: www.sandysemerad.com
Buy link, A Message in the Roses |
Buy Link, Huricane House |
Labels:
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A Message in the Roses,
books we love,
Hurricane House,
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Love & Murder,
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Welcome to my blog. I invite you to participate.
I have worked as a newspaper reporter, editor and broadcaster and I've written two novels: Mardi Gravestone is available in paperback and in the ebook version it is called, "Sex, Love & Murder," to reflect the steamy content.
I hope you will take the time to read them. Hurricane House is my second novel, set in a Florida fishing village with a murderer at large.
Midwest book Review gave Hurricane House five stars and Romantic Times gave it four-and-a half-stars. My books are available everywhere books are sold.
Sunday, September 20, 2015
How The Ghost Dance Originated by Ginger Simpson
Writing historical westerns with a smidge of romance and sex is my passion. Although I've drifted away from the genre from time to time, I keep getting called back by my characters. Yes, you know I hear voices and amost of them have a twang.
I just submitted two re-releases to Books We love, and as you probably guessed, they are historical westerns. My nose is always in a research book because when you write about historical facts, you'd better get them right. Here's a little info on the kind of stuff you find when you're looking. You may not always use the information in a book, but learning is always a good thing.
While researching history, I've turned again to my wonderful "America's Fascinating Indian Heritage" published by Reader's Digest. I cannot tell you how many times I have counted on this historical guide to help me get my facts straight...and to learn.
In 1881, Sitting Bull and his Sioux tribe surrendered to the U.S., closing the history of the plains Indians as we know it. All plains Indians were confined to reservations in the Dakotas, to lands so dry and unyielding, that even experienced farmer's would encounter problems working the soil. The people were expected to survive on supplies rationed by the government to supplement what they grew, but sadly, the food they received was as scarce as the yield they garnered from the tilled soil.
Land-hungry white men took advantage of the starving Indians and tried to buy their plots for as little as 50 cents per acre, and certain government agencies pressured the red man to consent to sell off the excess real estate. Caught in the middle of greed and hunger, the tribe sustained themselves with memories of the old days.
Far away, a Paiute prophet, Wavoka had a vision that spread and gave a new hope to the desparity. The Ghost Dance would bring a new dawn and a time when the white man would disappear. The dead would be resurrected and all Indian existence would change, living forever and hunting the new herds of buffalo that would reappear.
In preparation, The Ghost Dance had to be performed, a simple ceremony consisting of dancing and chanting, often resulting in a frenzy where participants often fell into a semi-conscious state and saw visions of the coming of the new world. A Ghost Dance shirt, thought to make the wearer safe from the white man's bullets, was adopted, and because so many wore such shirts, the garments may have been the reason the ritual was considered a war dance.
Despite mistreatment at the hands of the whites and the undertones of the Dance, no antiwhite feelings were expressed and the message of the cult was one of peace, but fear mongering among the white officials on the reservation and spreading of gossip pointed a finger at Sitting Bull, who was thought to be the focus of the ceremony.
Forty-three Indian police were ordered to arrest him, and descended upon his cabin. He fought against the injustice due to what has been said to be taunts from old women to resist the whites once again. Shots were fired and at the end, fourteen people, including Sitting Bull lay dead. More next month of the aftermath known as the Slaughter at Wounded Knee.
Note from Ginger: All information pertaining to the Ghost Dance is attributed to Reader's Digest. I have paraphrased to share this event with you.
In 1881, Sitting Bull and his Sioux tribe surrendered to the U.S., closing the history of the plains Indians as we know it. All plains Indians were confined to reservations in the Dakotas, to lands so dry and unyielding, that even experienced farmer's would encounter problems working the soil. The people were expected to survive on supplies rationed by the government to supplement what they grew, but sadly, the food they received was as scarce as the yield they garnered from the tilled soil.
Land-hungry white men took advantage of the starving Indians and tried to buy their plots for as little as 50 cents per acre, and certain government agencies pressured the red man to consent to sell off the excess real estate. Caught in the middle of greed and hunger, the tribe sustained themselves with memories of the old days.
Far away, a Paiute prophet, Wavoka had a vision that spread and gave a new hope to the desparity. The Ghost Dance would bring a new dawn and a time when the white man would disappear. The dead would be resurrected and all Indian existence would change, living forever and hunting the new herds of buffalo that would reappear.
In preparation, The Ghost Dance had to be performed, a simple ceremony consisting of dancing and chanting, often resulting in a frenzy where participants often fell into a semi-conscious state and saw visions of the coming of the new world. A Ghost Dance shirt, thought to make the wearer safe from the white man's bullets, was adopted, and because so many wore such shirts, the garments may have been the reason the ritual was considered a war dance.
Despite mistreatment at the hands of the whites and the undertones of the Dance, no antiwhite feelings were expressed and the message of the cult was one of peace, but fear mongering among the white officials on the reservation and spreading of gossip pointed a finger at Sitting Bull, who was thought to be the focus of the ceremony.
Forty-three Indian police were ordered to arrest him, and descended upon his cabin. He fought against the injustice due to what has been said to be taunts from old women to resist the whites once again. Shots were fired and at the end, fourteen people, including Sitting Bull lay dead. More next month of the aftermath known as the Slaughter at Wounded Knee.
Note from Ginger: All information pertaining to the Ghost Dance is attributed to Reader's Digest. I have paraphrased to share this event with you.
Here are my two latest releases from Books We Love. Find them on my page and click the covers for more information and purchasing options.
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