Friday, December 8, 2017

Reminiscing the Christmases of my Childhood by June Gadsby


 



Today the grass is glistening with frosty crystals; a beautiful reminder that Christmas is just around the corner. Here in Gascony, south-west France, I hope for a white Christmas, though it’s more likely that there will be blue skies and sunshine, or rain.  

How I long to revisit the Christmases of my childhood when my mother and I lived with my grandparents and my aunt in an old upstairs miner’s cottage built in 1901 and described then as ‘luxury flats’. Built over a disused pit, the long street of terraced houses was at the top of the small mining town of Felling. It curved down steeply towards a stone quarry, passing by a grassy area where concrete mine traps still sat waiting for the German invasion that never happened. Further on, down and down, you could keep going and reach the River Tyne. From our house, we could hear the ships hooting and see their black funnels as they passed by. In the distance lay the city of Newcastle and I often wondered what life was like across the river. It seemed a long way to a small child, almost a foreign land. And yet, there would come a time when I would work and live there.

As Christmas approached, the atmosphere in my grandparents’ home became electric with excitement. Presents were wrapped and hidden out of my sight. My grandmother, so house-proud, would complain about the needles from the fir tree dropping on the carpet and swear she would buy an artificial tree for the following Christmas, which she did, and I so missed the smell of pine that increased in strength with the heat from the open coal fire, the fire that she black-leaded regularly and where I used to post letters to Santa Claus in the soot trap. How upset I was, one day, seeing her rake out the trap and, with it, my precious letter with all my dreams for Christmas carefully written upon it. Every year my list was headed by the same two items: a bed of my own and a piano. They were both a long time in coming, yet the money my family spent on a dining table full of gifts would so easily have bought a bed and I would not have had to spend my nights perched on the middle hump of the old family bed between my mother and my grandmother, while my grandfather occupied one small bedroom and my aunt the other.

It was with my aunt that I enjoyed preparing the Christmas decorations for the living room [then called the kitchen], twisting strips of coloured crepe paper and stringing them across the ceiling and around the gas light, there being no electricity. We also saved the silver paper from sweets and chocolate and rolled it into little balls to thread together and drape around the Christmas tree. I saw little of my mother in those early days as she worked full-time in Newcastle as a statistician for the National Coal Board, having separated from my father when I was only ten months old. At weekends the family gathered around the wireless to listen to our favourite programmes and sang along to records on the phonograph that had to be wound up regularly, but would make us laugh when it ran down and distorted the voices of the singers. My aunt had a beautiful soprano voice and we often sang together. She was the solo singer in the Songsters of the local Salvation Army, to which my grandmother’s family belonged. She was married to a sailor, who was sometimes there, sometimes not, and was the kind of character that you felt you shouldn’t like, but couldn’t help being fond of him. He was a joker, laughed a lot and we would laugh with him; and he cried at Lassie films.

On Christmas Eve, I was put to bed and told to stay there while the family brought out my presents from their hiding places. I lay there with butterflies in my tummy, tingling with excitement and longing for morning to come. Sleep was difficult to achieve as I wondered what Santa would bring me. Maybe this year I would get that bed of my own, no matter how small, no matter which corner of the tiny house it would be tucked into. I would lie there awake, it seemed, forever, longing for morning, the air tinged with ice in the room; no heating and the wind howling through the window that was frozen solid and the curtains billowed out, making me afraid that there was a ghost or a monster behind them waiting to pounce.

Then morning would come and I took on the task of opening mounds of presents, far too many for an only child, and I wished I had a brother or a sister to share them with. Books. There were always books, and how I loved them. I had a miscellany of other small presents. My family thought that the more presents there were the happier I would be. But there was no bed. There was never a bed. I would return that night to the lump in the middle of the family bed, squashed between my mother and my grandmother, hoping that next year might be different.

After a mammoth clear up of torn gift wrappings, my grandmother would start the Christmas ritual of baking sausage rolls and brewing up her mother’s secret recipe of hot ginger wine. The house already smelt wonderful as the turkey had been cooking gently throughout the night to ensure that it would be ready and melt in the mouth by midday. Outside, the world had turned from frosty silver to cotton wool white snow and the sun was shining down from a clear blue sky. We all listened with baited breath for the sound we loved – even my grandfather, perched on the end of the fender, reading one of his beloved Western books, was dressed smartly in his Sunday clothes.

And then we heard it. The heart-lifting sound of the Salvation Army brass band, in the distance, moving nearer and nearer until it reached our street and stopped. We all rushed down the front stairs and opened the door. The Soldiers of Christ were gathered together in a tight group, their dark uniforms with flashes of red disappearing beneath a blanket of soft snowflakes, the faces of the bandsmen rosy with the cold.  Hark the Herald Angels Sing turned into Silent Night as a special treat for my grandmother, Polly, a grim-faced little sparrow of a woman who hardly ever smiled. I was too young then to ask why she was like she was. Now, it’s too late. They are all long dead.

The music ended and the band was, as always, invited into our small home. They shook off the snow from their shoulders and crowded into our kitchen, laughing and joking, enjoying the hot sausage rolls and hot spicy wine. Before they left they said a prayer, then off they went to their own families and Christmas dinners, while we sat around the table enjoying ours – turkey and all the trimmings, laughing because my grandmother one Christmas thought that the turkey had four legs. It was a never-ending feast that continued through the afternoon with chocolate and fruit. Later we would join my grandmother’s sister and family for high tea with ham and salad, cakes and tarts, all home baked. And there was fun and games with my great uncle playing the organ. I was too shy to join in and how I now regret that paralyzing shyness that kept me from enjoying myself. Back home, around nine o’clock we would have supper – succulent turkey sandwiches. I couldn’t cope with all that food now, but the memory of those festive times still gives me a tickle of excitement – so much so that I included this family ritual in my book “When Tomorrow Comes” with my favourite heroine, Hildie, in charge.

I did eventually get a bed of my own, and I swore to myself that I would never again share a bed with anyone. It didn’t quite work out that way, but a lot of water has run under that proverbial bridge since then. Maybe I’ll get to write about it one day, when I have the courage to face my adult past.

In the meantime, I hope you all have a jolly Christmas when it comes and, if you’re sad, remember the good times you had in the past. Smile, laugh, shed a tear or two if you must. That’s what I do.

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

Thoughts on Writing A Novel – Show Don’t Tell by Rosemary Morris






I was born in 1940 in Sidcup Kent, England. As a child, when I was not making up stories, my head was ‘always in a book’.
While working in a travel agency, I met my Hindu husband.  He encouraged me to continue my education at Westminster College.  In 1961 I and my husband, now a barrister, moved to his birthplace, Kenya, where I lived until 1982.  After an attempted coup d’état, I and four of my five children lived in an ashram in France.
Back in England, I wrote historical fiction and joined the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Historical Novel Society and Watford Writers.
Apart from writing, I enjoy classical Indian literature, reading, visiting places of historical interest, vegetarian cooking, growing organic fruit, herbs and vegetables and creative crafts. 
My bookshelves are so crammed with historical non-fiction which I use to research my novels that if I buy a new book I have to consider getting rid of one.
Time spent with my children and their families, most of whom live near me, is precious.


Show Don’t Tell

If you are thinking about writing a novel, are a new or experienced novelist or someone who likes reading about an author’s thoughts on writing, I hope you will find this brief blog post interesting.
To write quality fiction it isn’t enough to have a good idea for a story. Whether we write literary fiction or popular fiction we need to understand how to write effectively and hold our readers’ interest.
For the novice and experienced writer there are numerous non-fiction books about How to Write. These include subjects such as creating believable characters, viewpoint and show don’t tell. Although Books We Love have published nine of my novels, I still enjoy dipping into copies of my ‘how to write books’.
My advice is don’t tell the reader anything at the beginning of a scene to ensure it makes sense. Find a livelier, more interesting way to explain it. Show the main character in each scene through what he or she says, does and thinks. This admits the reader onto the stage and allows him or her to experience the protagonist’s emotions and reactions as though watching television, a film or a play.
In fiction, showing is usually a blend of dialogue and narrative. Telling is undiluted exposition about something your character does not know.
Since the action arises from the characters, by dramatizing them they can demonstrate essential information and give hints.  Ask yourself what the characters want and feel. You can show through specific details, thoughts and action, what is important or relevant to them. This can also be shown by the reactions and thoughts of other characters. 
Was, were, had, feel, felt and feeling are words that tell instead of showing. They should be used sparingly. When I am editing a novel I always check to see if I can replace them.
In fiction a main character should be introduced immediately, and the scene should be set.
I hope you will agree that the first sentence in my published novel, The Captain and The Countess, achieves this.

“London 1706

Edward, the Right Honourable Captain Howard, dressed in blue and white, which some of the officers in Queen Anne’s navy favoured, strode into his godmother’s spacious house near St James Park.”

I had researched costume and the area, but resisted the temptation to write a long description which would have been exposition.  
Also, I avoided using the word ‘was’ because it often tells instead of showing. e.g. Captain Howard was dressed in blue and white tells instead of showing; so do the words were, had, feel, felt and feeling, which should be used sparingly.
Fairy Tales continue to have a glamour and grip on readers, whether young or old. Previously ‘Once Upon a Time there was…’ often began the story. Today, a writer needs to cut right into the core of the book.
Modern-day readers are not prepared to read page after page of descriptive prose to reach the main point.
The beginning of a story needs to show the character.

Your comments would be appreciated.



The Captain and The Countess – Back Cover
Why does heart-rending pain lurk in the back of the wealthy Countess of Sinclair’s eyes? 
Captain Howard’s life changes forever from the moment he meets Kate, the intriguing Countess and resolves to banish her pain.
Although the air sizzles when widowed Kate, victim of an abusive marriage meets Edward Howard, a captain in Queen Anne’s navy, she has no intention of ever marrying again.
However, when Kate becomes better acquainted with the Captain she realises he is the only man who understands her grief and can help her to untangle her past.


The Captain and The Countess
Chapter One
London 1706

Edward, the Right Honourable Captain Howard, dressed in blue and white, which some of the officers in Queen Anne’s navy favoured, strode into Mrs Radcliffe’s spacious house near St James Park.
Perkins, his godmother’s butler, took the captain’s hat and cloak. “Madam wants you to join her immediately.”
Instead of going upstairs to the rooms his godmother had provided for him during his spell on half pay—the result of a dispute with a senior officer—Edward entered the salon. He sighed. When would his sixty-one-year old godmother accept that at the age of twenty-two, he was not yet ready to wed?
He made his way across the elegant, many-windowed room through a crowd of expensively garbed callers.
When Frances Radcliffe noticed him, she turned to the pretty young lady seated beside her. “Mistress Martyn, allow me to introduce you to my godson, Captain Howard.”
Blushes stained Mistress Martyn’s cheeks as she stood to make her curtsey.
Edward bowed, indifferent to yet another of his grandmother’s protégées. Conversation ceased. All eyes focussed on the threshold.
“Lady Sinclair,” someone murmured.
Edward turned. He gazed without blinking at the acclaimed beauty, whose sobriquet was “The Fatal Widow”.
The countess remained in the doorway, her cool blue eyes speculative.
Edward whistled low. Could her shocking reputation be no more than tittle-tattle? His artist’s eyes observed her. Rumour did not lie about her Saxon beauty.
…Continues

5* Review by Mrs. Jennifer M. Black

Rosemary Morris lives and breathes the late Stewart period of history. The world she describes, in which Morals and Rules were known and adhered to, has vanished now, but her characters speak and behave in keeping with what we know of the customs of the well-born of the time, which makes a refreshing change to the huge amount of historical fiction where young girls behave and think as they would in this century.
The Right Honourable Captain Edward Howard, a handsome young naval officer and artist is at something of a loose end when he visits his godmother Рand ignores her attempts to marry him off to an empty-headed young thing. Twenty-two years old, he meets Kate, Countess Sinclair, who is nine years older than him and hides a terrible secret from her past life behind a beautiful face and a formidable fa̤ade. Edward is at first intrigued and then falls heavily for the lady, but she swears she will never marry again.
If you enjoy sentences put together with care and grace, dialogue that sparkles without falling into clichés, slang and platitudes; if you want a storyline with genuine twists and turns and a happy ending that comes as a surprise and does not jar against the habits of the time, then this book will give you, as it did me, great pleasure.

Novels by Rosemary Morris 

Early 18th Century novels
Tangled Love, Far Beyond Rubies, The Captain and The Countess Courtship.

Regency Novels
Sunday’s Child, Monday’s Child, Tuesday’s Child, Wednesday’s Child

Mediaeval Novel
Yvonne Lady of Cassio. The Lovages of Cassio Book One


Monday, December 4, 2017

Spies and Underhanded Dealings during the 17th Century by Katherine Pym



Use Coupon
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“The ministers of King Charles II were not chosen for their honesty…”  Violet Barbour, author of Henry Bennet, earl of Arlington, (published 1914).

King Charles II

King Charles II did not trust anyone. When in exile, and after the Restoration, his life was often imperilled. There were several assassination attempts on his and his brothers’ lives.  

During the Cromwell days, John Thurloe was head of espionage. As Secretary of State, he sent out spies to cull out plots from within the Protectorate’s government. His spy network was extensive. He employed men – and women – who were, on the surface, stalwart royalists. His spies could be located in every English county, overseas, i.e., in Charles II’s exiled court, in the Americas, and the far Indies. 

The king and company considered the spies ardent Royalists and frolicked with the best of them. Everyone played as well as they could considering how poor the king was. He went from one royal house to another, hoping for shelter and sustenance. He had mistresses and already fathered the 1st Duke of Monmouth.

Mr. John Thurloe, Cromwell's Spymaster

Apparently, Cromwellian spies had too good a time or perhaps they worked too slowly. Thurloe decided it was time to murder the king and his brothers. He orchestrated the Sir Richard Willis Plot, where the brothers would be lured out of exile to the Sussex coast.  Once the brothers disembarked on shore, they would be instantly murdered.  It failed because Thurloe and Cromwell discussed this in front of the clerk, Mr Morland, whom they thought slept. Morland listened to everything the men said. As soon as he could, the clerk informed the king’s court, then located in in Bruges.   

Mr Morland, a clerk under Thurloe
Even as this plot failed, Commonwealth spies infiltrated homes, churches and businesses to destroy the royalist enemy. Thurloe compiled lists, sent spies into enemy camps, had men tortured and killed. Mr Morland confessed to witnessing a man ‘trepanned to death’ at Thurloe’s word.  

Trepanned Skull

It did not matter who was in power, plots were part of the political life. Under Charles II’s, his government did the same.  Their goal was to destroy nonconformists, or fanaticks.

The king inherited a land filled with restless people and bitter malcontents. After the Restoration, Thurloe was dismissed, but not executed for crimes against the monarchy (Charles I and II). He was let go for exchange of valuable Commonwealth secrets.

Charles II replaced Thurloe with Sir Henry Bennet and appointed him as Secretary of State. Bennet brought on board Joseph Williamson who was born to this work.

Mr Joseph Williamson, King Charles II Spymaster
Williamson took the bull by the horns and enhanced the processes Thurloe had begun.  He built a brilliant spy network. An attractive man, he persuaded men and women to turn on associates.  He burrowed spies into households, businesses, and churches.  He used grocers, doctors and surgeons, anyone who would send him notes on persons who were against the king. He had men overseas watching for any plots against the crown.

His tools were numerous.  He loved ciphers, and cipher keys. Doctor John Wallis was an expert in this who worked under Thurloe and Bennet. The man could crack a code in nothing flat.  Williamson, known as Mr. Lee in the underworld, used the Grand Letter Office for ciphered messages to pass back and forth between the undersecretary’s office and his spies. He expected them to keep him informed by ciphered letters at the end of each day, and passed through the post office.

Williamson obtained letters from ambassadors of other countries living in England. His clerks int he post office opened and searched the letters for underhanded deceit. Williamson developed a system of local informers, letters and money crossing palms.  Under Thurloe, the secret service received £800 per year. Under Bennet, the money doubled. Most of the annual budget was spent on spies and keeping them alive.

It was an underhanded world in the 17th century but I can probably say, and be correct, almost every king and queen in every century had their spy networks. It was precarious business to sit on a throne and watch your back for daggers and pistols pointing at it. 

Life is tenuous at the top. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Many thanks to Henry Bennet, earl of Arlington by Violet Barbour, Historian of Vasser, 1914, & wikicommons public domain for the pictures. 


For more on spies and underhanded deeds, please see my Jasper's Lament, a story of the 2nd Anglo/Dutch war buildup. 

Buy Here


Saturday, December 2, 2017

When to Bend the Rules by J. S. Marlo



Most publishers have one thing in common. They like unusual settings or characters. To be honest, it never occurred to me an election office could be considered an “unusual” setting. I worked Canadian elections for more than twenty years—inside polling stations and election offices—and they hold no secrets for me, but then it struck me how often strangers had asked “What do you do in there for two months?”

Well, we perform many different tasks, and in northern and remote districts, these tasks are wrapped in a few extra layers of complications. We have to find polling stations in the middle of nowhere and secure leases. We often have to order our ballots through out-of-town printers, wait to receive them, and then rush to deliver them to these polling stations by car, by plane, by helicopter, by boat...or by snowmobile. It takes days to reach all the stations—and longer if the weather isn’t cooperating. We fear winter elections and snowstorms. If our fax machine dies, it takes a week to get a new one, and we can’t function without a fax for a week—we tried, but we ended up borrowing one from a school. We hire 400 to 600 workers, train them in a few weeks, and pray to every God that they will show up to work on Election Day. We register electors, update their information, and let any eligible electors vote in the office ahead of time even if they don’t live in our district. Did I forget to mention every task is governed by a series of rules? There are even rules about rules. And don’t get me going about the paperwork we have to fill and the authorizations we have to obtain.

Many years ago, on the last evening of special voting, an elector came in our election office. He didn’t live in our district—he lived seven provinces and four time zones away—and his driver’s license listed a post office box, not a real physical address. We need a real address to place the elector in the right district. I suggested a utility bill—gas or electrical bills always mention the address of the dwelling for which the service is provided—but he didn’t carry any with him. As you can imagine, there are rules about acceptable documents an elector can show to vote. We went through the list of documents twice, but he didn’t have any of them with him. The man really wanted to vote, and above all, we have to ensure that every eligible elector is given the opportunity to vote.

In the spirit of “giving him the opportunity to vote”, I asked him to Skype his wife back home in front of me. It was midnight over there and he woke her up.  She rummaged through the kitchen drawers in her nightgown looking for a bill. She was a good sport, and once she found a utility bill, she showed it to me. The name of her husband was on it along with the physical address of their home. The elector received a ballot—and he owed his wife a dozen roses.

On a different occasion, we lost a remote polling station a couple days before the election. An elderly person had died, and the wake and funeral were taking place inside the community hall we’d leased. We struggle to find an empty place. In normal times, every polling station has to be pre-approved and meet a long list of requirements before we can use it. If the place doesn’t meet all these requirements, we need to request a special exemption. In the end, the only place available in the small village was a lodge without running water. The toilet was an outhouse behind the lodge. Needless to say, we didn’t have time to fill any paperwork or request any exemption. The two workers who manned that polling station for thirteen hours on Election Day went above and beyond the call of duty.

During the course of an election, many challenging situations arise and decisions must be made. Returning officers are dedicated men and women who sometimes are caught between a rock and a hard place and forced to bend certain rules in order to fulfill their obligations. Problems are rarely black and white, but we all do our very best to solve them the right way.

In my latest novel “Voted Out”, Thomas is a devious, sleazy, and despicable returning officer, the type of character you wouldn't encounter in an election office. I had a blast creating him. He doesn’t bend a few rules to get the job done, he breaks as many as he can for his enjoyment and personal gain. He crosses all the lines for all the wrong reasons. And he doesn't get caught...or does he?

“Voted out” is a romantic suspense that takes place inside an election office. It’s a tale of betrayal, deceit, extortion, blackmail, sex, murder, justice, integrity, dedication, passion, and love. It will make you laugh, growl, blush, shake your head, pull your hair, and leave you guessing until the last chapter.

Warning: this author assumes no responsibility if you stay up all night reading.




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