Old Books Reborn II

Last summer I posted about rewriting and bringing three of my out of print books up to date, and publishing them as ebooks and print on demand books. They’re finally out.  They’re available now as paperbacks in bookstores and online, and as ebooks on Kindle and Kobo.

The Other Elizabeth is especially timely now, as Canada is planning a host of activities next year for the 200th anniversary of the War of 1812, and that is the setting for this story. Elizabeth is a seventh grade student on a field trip to Upper Canada Village, a pioneer village in Loyalist country along the St. Lawrence River. She is drawn to the local Cook’s Tavern and when she enters, she finds herself back in the year 1813, just before the Battle of Crysler’s Farm, a decisive battle in the war.

“Why it’s young Elizabeth Frobisher,” says one of the men sitting around a table by the hearth.”

“But I’m not…” Elizabeth tries to say, “I’m not Elizabeth Frobisher! I’m Elizabeth Duncan!”   View Trailer

The Other Elizabeth was my first foray into historical fiction. I was hooked. I lived in England for a few years and during that time I became fascinated with the menhirs, the standing stones such as the ones at Stonehenge, that dotted the fields and countryside.

The idea for The Stone in the Meadow was born.

Jenifer is equally intrigued with a large, black stone in a meadow in Cornwall, where she and her family are visiting her uncle, in a home that has been in their family for over a hundred years. Drawn to it, she steps into its shadow and finds herself back a hundred years, with a young boy staring incredulously at her. Together, she and Perran travel back to the period of the Druids–a dangerous time for Jenifer who is the image of Fedelm, a Druid priestess.

While we lived in England we travelled in Wales as well as Cornwall. One March break, with three children and the dog stuffed into our tiny car with us, we explored the wild coast of Wales. On a gloomy, rainy day we drove past an old dark house, slate roof gleaming in the rain. Below the cliff on which it sat, seals played in the waves and rocks. As soon as I saw the house, I knew I had to write a ghost story set there.

View Trailer

In The Haunting of Cliff House, when Alison’s great aunt dies in Wales, Alison and her father go over for a summer to settle up the estate. Alison’s father is delighted with the old house they find there, set high on a cliff above the sea, and settles in for the summer to write the book he’s never had time for. Alison is not as enthusiastic. Then she discovers an ancient diary belonging to a girl, just her own age, who had lived in the same house centuries before. The girl’s life bears an uncanny resemblance to Alison’s, including a growing jealousy of a woman who is intruding into their lives. Alison’s unease turns to fear as Bronwen appears to her, calling to her and appealing for her help. Help she doesn’t know how to give. View trailer

It has been a very rewarding journey, revisiting and rewriting these books. Since they went out of print I have had many requests for them, so I am wishing them well in their new life.

Reading with children

I built up an extensive library of children’s books while my own children were young. Because of my husband’s job, we moved every three or four years to different postings in different countries. With each move my library grew larger…and heavier. Finally my children were all grown up, but I still insisted on carrying those books with us. My husband could not understand why I did it and felt, with some justification, that it was a large expense added to our moving costs.

More years passed, during which our grown-up children married and had children of their own. Then one day when my eldest son was visiting, I heard his voice in the room that was our library at the time. I peeked in and there was my six foot six, thirty-something-year-old-son sitting folded up on the floor with his four-year-old daughter on his lap, reading an old, battered and taped-together copy of Fly High, Fly Low, by Don Freeman, that had been his favourite book at that age. His daughter was as enthralled with it as he had been.

“That’s why I saved those books,” I said.

Now more grandchildren have arrived and they still hear the old favourites as well as exciting new discoveries. On a recent camping trip with my daughter and her two young children I took along The Borrowers, by Mary Norton. (Can’t put up the cover because it was on my Kindle). Emily and Nicholas were delighted with the small people’s adventures, and so was my daughter, all over again.

Books, and reading to our children, have been a tie that has united three generations of our family and I’m sure will continue to do so for generations to come.

I often hear people say, “Oh, she/he isn’t old enough yet to understand books.” Understanding doesn’t have that much to do with it. What is important is the nurturing of the love of books from the very beginning. Even with a baby so young that they literally “devour” books, chewing on their edges as you read, there is something special about the act of reading. Cuddled in your lap, tucked in beside you in bed, stretching out in front of the fire or bundled up in a sleeping bag in a tent–what more delicious and secure way to be introduced to the world of books, at any age.

One of my favourite books to read to my grandchildren, from way before they were old enough to understand it, was The Cataract of Lodore, by Robert Southey, an English poet and man of letters, appointed Poet Laureate in 1813, and illustrated by David Catrow. What a joy to read and what does it matter if the child doesn’t understand a word? Just the sound of it makes a waterfall.

The Cataract strong
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging
As if a war waging
It’s caverns and rocks among:
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,
Around and around,
With endless rebound!”

Just feel the delight of those words in your mouth and drink in the wild and frolicking pictures that illustrate it.  There is more–pages and pages more–and not once were any of my kids bored with it before the end, even when they were far too young to understand the half of it.

Another favourite: Zoom at Sea, by Tim-Wynne-Jones, illustrated by Ken Nutt.

The brave little cat who desperately desired to go to sea, and was beyond himself with delight when the mysterious Maria grants his wish.

“I’m at sea!” Zoom exults. And then:

“He danced around on his driftwood deck and occasionally cupped his paws and shouted very loudly back to shore.

“More waves,” or “More Sun,” or “More fish.”

I defy anyone , young or old, to read those words and look at that picture without laughing out loud and feeling as exhuberant as Zoom himself.

“There were monkeys
In my kitchen
They were climbing up the walls
They were dancing
On the ceiling
They were bouncing basketballs”

Sheree Fitch’s book, There Were Monkeys in my Kitchen,  illustrated by Marc Mongeau, is as much fun to read as it is to look at and listen to. No matter if you’re reading it to a one-year old baby, the rhythm of it is irresistible. Don’t be surprised if your baby starts bouncing in time to the words.

Reading with your children is as much fun for you as it is for them.  There are so many wonderful books out there. Go for it.

More waves! More sun! More fish!

The Joy of a “Given”

 

Short stories take a lot of time and work. They come slowly. Sometimes the idea that seemed so bright and shiny-new turns dull and the story dies. Another idea comes along and we start again. Same process, same amount of time and work.

But sometimes…Sometimes we get a “given”. A story that comes to you complete and writes itself in your head and your fingers have to scrabble to keep up with it. It’s a rare occurrence, but when it happens–what a joy!

I’ve only had two of these in my writing life, but both of them turned into stories that sold and one of them went on to become a novel.

Coffee, Snacks, Worms had its birth one day when I was driving along a dusty Ontario highway, on my way to a school visit. It was a hot, sunny day. I was daydreaming along the road when I suddenly saw a billboard propped up in front of a grubby service station. Tired tires were stacked in piles to one side of the dilapidated building. Heat shimmered up off the tarmac.

COFFEE, SNACKS, WORMS, the billboard proclaimed.

I grinned at the vision the sign conjured up, seeing myself walking in and ordering a coffee, a chocolate bar, and a juicy bowl of worms. Then I forgot it. I thought.

The school was one that brought in students from long distances away. Some of the students faced an hour-long bus ride each way every day.

“What do you do on the bus all that time?” I asked during our workshop.  ”Homework?”

Snorts of derision. Then one girl, who had been quiet up until then, said “I plot stories.”

And in that instant Kate was born. A girl who lived in a grubby service station just like the one I had passed. Her father was an alcoholic, her mother a passive victim. Her life was grim. So grim that she had found a way out. She made up stories. At home, at school, on the bus–she lived most of her life in her head in stories about the incredible Stephanie, who was as unlike her as possible. Beautiful, prone to dangerous and exciting situations, but always, with a toss of her wild, untameable mane of hair, triumphant. Kate’s friends sometime had to give her a push off the bus at her stop, so deep in her fantasizing she was. Reality had no place in Kate’s world.

Until Mike turned up.

“I’ve got a knife. Give me all the money in the register.”

Kate’s character Stephanie had never been threatened with a knife. Kate didn’t know anything about knives. Still half in her fantasy world, she didn’t react the way she was supposed to.

“What kind of a knife?” she asked. She felt it was something she should know.

Perplexed, the would-be thief stuttered out, “A sharp knife. You don’t want to find out how sharp…”

My short story, Coffee, Snacks, Worms wrote itself. But Kate had taken hold of me and some years later, with a lot more work and planning, I turned the story into a novel, THIRTEENTH CHILD , so that I could find out what happened to her.

My other “given” happened to me one day when my 5-year old granddaughter was visiting. We had inherited a crabby old cat, who deeply distrusted children. I was working in my office and heard Jessica and my husband, Jim, in the bedroom. There seemed to be something interesting going on, so I left my desk and poked my head in. My husband was on his hands and knees, entreating the cat, who had holed up under the bed.

“Come on, kitty kat, come on out. Jessica loves cats. She won’t hurt you,” he was cajoling, with no success.

Jessica was standing beside him, arms folded. With the wisdom of a child, she said, “You can’t rush a cat, Granddaddy.”

I rushed back to my room and wrote, all in one fell swoop, my one and only picture book: YOU CAN’T RUSH A CAT  .

I am still waiting for another “given” to fall out of the sky. In the meantime I’m writing the usual way.

What is it about dragons?

“How many books are you going to write before you die?” asked a student at one of my school sessions.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “I don’t really know when I’m going to die. But I do know that I’m going to write a book about a dragon before then.”

Well, I did. In fact, that one book turned into three, my Taun Trilogy: Dragonfire, Whisperings of Magic and Dragonmaster. And there may just be a fourth lurking in the far reaches of my mind.

But why? What was my fascination with dragons? It started, of course, with Smaug, J.R.R. Tolkien’s unmatchable worm. But I am not alone. Just for fun, before I started writing this blog, I googled “Dragons, origins of myths.” Try it. It would take months to research all the sites. There are dragon myths from every corner of the world and just about every culture. Walk into a bookstore and see the shelves upon shelves of novels about dragons. What is it about dragons that intrigues us so much?

Dragons are evil incarnate. That’s a given. So, being obstinate, I created a Dragonling, Hhana, in Dragonmaster, who is only half dragon and therefore not evil incarnate. But because of her dragon inheritance, her battle against her evil side is even more intense than a normal human’s struggle. I still haven’t decided what the final outcome of this battle will be, hence the possibility of a fourth book. But it’s that idea of total, impersonal evil that captivates, I think. The utter impossibility of communicating or negotiating with a being that encapsulates evil–that has absolutely no good side to appeal to.

And the power. A dragon is all-powerful. Writers had to invent one small place on the underside of a dragon’s throat where the beast is vulnerable, but other than that, there is no conquering them. Dragons can be seen as a symbol of some of the most terrible evil walking this planet. Their one, tiny, vulnerable spot is our only hope of fighting back. Dragons are one way of facing evil so complete that there is no way of comprehending it, that struggling against it is almost hopeless.

Almost hopeless. But not entirely. We have faced this kind of evil in this world and we have defeated it.

Are there any books out there where the dragon wins? If so, what is the message?

Are dragons always evil?

For a somewhat different take on the usual dragon books, I’ll recommend two books by a friend and favourite author of mine,  Janet McNaughton: Dragon Seer and Dragon Seer’s Gift. You can find her books on her website at http://www.janetmcnaughton.ca/

Random Acts of Publicity Week

In honour of Random Acts of Publicity Week I’m featuring an eclectic collection of new books on my blog today. Here they are:

DRAGON SEER’S GIFT, by Janet McNaughton
For details and Launch date, click on http://tinyurl.com/3nt7p7d

THE ALWAYS TEAM, by Val Lawton
The second book of the Saskatchewan Roughriders’ children’s series
www.riderville.com

RUNNING TO EXTREMES, by Steve Pitt
http://www.amazon.ca/Running-Extremes-Steve-Pitt/dp/0143179675.

JUST DESSERTS, by Eric Walters
http://www.amazon.ca/Just-Deserts-Eric-Walters/dp/0143179357 

Last two books are “sort of a team effort – same subject (extreme running and Ray Zahab) treated by two different authors in two different ways.” They are cross-promoting each other’s book. How’s that for writerly fellowship?

THAT BOY RED, THE FLUTE, by Rachna Gilmore
Details and reviews of both books at www.rachnagilmore.ca

REACHING, by Judy Ann Sadler. A new picture book, illustrated by Susan Mitchell

FINGER RHYMES FOR MANNERS, by Lily Erlic. It’s National Manners Month in the US.
http://www.lorenzeducationalpress.com/product.aspx?id=TLC10595&source=AltSearch

EXPLORERS WHO MADE IT…OR DIED TRYING, by Frieda Wishinsky. She even gives them grades for their efforts. Cortes got an “F” in “Getting along with others.”

LEAVING DUBLIN, by Brian Brennan http://www.bookclubbuddy.com/2011/09/brian-brennan-on-leaving-dublin/

EUGENICS AND THE FIREWALL: CANADA’S NASTY LITTLE SECRET, by Jane Harris-Zsovan
http://www.thewinnipegreview.com/wp/2011/01/eugenics-and-the-firewall-canadas-nasty-little-secret/

THE HEART OF THE CITY AND OTHER URBAN POEMS, by Dina Ripsman

CRYSTAL BEACH–THE GOOD OLD DAYS, by Erno Rossi

DUPED! TRUE STORIES OF THE WORLD’S BEST SWINDLERS, by Andreas Schroeder.
Describes eight of the most outrageous scams in history.

PICTURING ALYSSA, by Alison Lohans. The 1931 Iowa setting is loosely based on Alison’s mother’s childhood in Iowa, and features the Quaker “plain language” as it once used to be spoken.

THE YO-YO PROPHET, by Karen Krossing.
Details and summary at www.karenkrossing.com

WITCHLANDERS, by Lena Coakley.
Earned a starred review from Kirkus!

VIGNETTES FROM VINEYARDS OF MEMORY, edited by Uma Parameswaran.
A collection of memories by ten Manitoba seniors born in Manitoba, Ontario, U.S.,Belgium, Trinidad and India.

THEN TO NOW:  A Short History of the World, by Christopher Moore.
Details at  http://www.christophermoore.ca/fromthentonow.html

Starting a new book and I have a question

How do you handle your research? Do you do as much as you can before you start writing, or do you research as you go along?

I seem to belong to the first group. I research exhaustively until I know as much as I can about the whole background of my book. I even do this before I start developing the characters. That’s another question: how well do you know your characters before you start? Do you do detailed character sketches first and start to write with a solid knowledge of your characters, or do you get to know them as you go along?

Here I belong to the second group, although my characters, especially the main character, have been living in my head for so long I have a pretty good, if somewhat unconscious idea of what they’re like.

Anyway, I’ve done all the research I can for now for my new book and it’s time to start writing. It’s a historical novel for the Dear Canada series, set in Ottawa, Canada at the time of Confederation, 1866/1867. I’ve learned a lot about Canadian history along the way, now it’s time to learn about Rosie Dunn.

Here’s what I’ve got so far. All comments most welcome. Would you be tempted to keep on reading? Actually, that’s five questions. Hope to hear back from you.

Sunday, March 4th, 1866

Quèbec, Province of Canada

My life is about to be turned upside down. When we got home from church this noon, we found Mary Margaret here. Not too unusual that, as she gets every other Sunday off from the Bradley’s where she is in service to Mrs. Bradley, but what was unusual was that she was humped over the kitchen table in floods of tears. Mary Margaret never weeps. My big sister is usually obnoxiously cheerful.

At first no amount of fond encouragement from Mam could be after getting her to say a word, but finally I got exasperated and blurted out, “Fine then, weep if you must, but could we not sit down to our dinner before it gets burned to a crisp?”

Mam glared at me as if I were very cold-hearted indeed, but Da and the little ones looked relieved. Mary Margaret gave me a fierce look, but stopped her weeping.

“You’d be devastated too, Rosie Dunn, if you had just heard the news I have this morning,” she said.

She gave a huge hiccup and burst into tears again. Mam patted her on the back. I would have given her a good shake. Then she began again. Once she got started it seemed like she’d never stop and the words poured out fast and furious. I can’t begin to write down everything she said, but the gist of it is that Mr. Bradley is a civil servant with the Government and now that the Capital of the Province of Canada has been moved from Quèbec to Ottawa in preparation for Confederation next year, the Bradleys must move to Ottawa with all the other Government civil servants. Mary Margaret is adamant that she will not move with them. True, Ottawa is said to be a horrible town way out in the middle of nowhere, nothing more than mud and sawmills, but the main problem is because of the young man Mary Margaret is stepping out with. Donny and she are planning on being wed this summer and Mary Margaret will not put it off.

Now, this is the part that has stunned me past words. Mary Margaret’s solution to this problem is that I should take her place with the Bradleys and go with them! And the worst thing is that Mam and Da are considering it! I started to protest and Mam just said I should save my breath to cool my porridge. “You’ll do what you’re told, me lady,” she said in that tone of voice of hers that brooks no argument.

Even though I’m thirteen and I knew I would have to leave school and go into service next year–there are six younger than me to feed and clothe after all and I have to do my part–I never thought it would happen so soon. And to go so far away! I can’t even imagine it.

Things that go beep in the night

I am beset with things that blink, beep, hum and flash at me. First thing in the morning,  my alarm clock clicks at 7 a.m. even if it is not set to come on. Not entirely a bad thing, as the dial is so bright that I have it turned to the wall, so this is the only way I know what time it is.

I get up, walk to the bathroom, and pass my office where my computer is humming, and its blue light seems to illuminate the dark room unreasonably well. The printer has a green light that is steady, and an orange flashing light that has been on for a year now. My fax machine is momentarily quiet, but ready to burst into beeps when the first fax inviting me to take advantage of an employee discount comes through. The shredder is quietly blue, overwhelmed, I think.

Into the bathroom. Turn off the nightlight, turn on the electric toothbrush. It doesn’t beep, but it buzzes.

Into the kitchen. Pass the TV room. The TV has red lights and blue lights and I have no idea what they are doing, but sometimes they blink very efficiently. In the kitchen the stove and the microwave have brightly lit clocks, just in case I still haven’t realized what time it is.

The refrigerator is beeping. Oops, I’ve left the door slightly ajar. It is festooned with a row of green brightly lit symbols that tell me all sorts of stuff. I must read them some day.

Now the microwave is signaling that a frozen waffle is done. It sounds desperate, so I liberate the soggy waffle, decide I am not that hard up for food, and toss it in the compost. The stove isn’t beeping. Yet. It will if I decide to heat up something. How else would I know when it’s up to its assigned temperature?

The washing machine tells me when it’s done; the dryer beeps when it’s finished, and keeps on just to be sure that I know that it’s going on to the wrinkle-free cycle now.

When I get up in the middle of the night and go to the kitchen for a snack, there is no need to turn on lights. The various blue, orange and red lights from the many electrical and electronic appliances light the way very well. What happened to the dark?

Oh, I almost forgot the telephones. One in the bedroom, one in my office, one in the kitchen. All with red lights, sometimes flashing red lights when there is a message waiting. All have different rings that fill the house with noise. Very disconcerting at 2 a.m., especially when it’s a wrong number and the person on the other end seems to think it’s my fault that my number isn’t the one he wants.

Last week during an incredible thunder storm, the worst beep of all. The emergency sump pump burst into life. More of a screech than a beep, and with good reason. Our main sump pump was blocked and before we could do anything, the basement flooded. The basement is now torn apart and awaiting restoration. At least the TV, computer and my husband’s battery charger are temporarily silenced down there. It’s an oasis of silence. A grim, concrete-cold, carpetless silence, but not entirely without appeal.