Sandra Hurst's Blog, page 5

Y’keta in the blogosphere.

Thanks so much to Edward Gray for inviting me to do a “Meet the Author” guest post on his blog! An aspiring mystery writer, Edward is a Calgary mystery author’s I had the privilege to meet during signings at Chapters/Indigo Signal Hill.  It was great to talk to another bookaholic and to share stories about the indie publishing industry.

https://www.edwardgrayauthor.com/single-post/2017/10/09/Sandra-Hurst

 

 

Morning at my house.

A soft echo of cursing drifts from the bedroom as a minion on my tablet yells “BELLO”* WTH- an email notification at 6am! I run into the bedroom to grab the tablet before it wakes the fuzzball; too late-it’s up. Good morning, I’m sorry, kiss, coffee.. all’s well in the house.

Now, who’s emailing me at half-past awful? Amazon… Oh? Really?

Eyes brighten, smile gains at least a gigawatt.

Y’keta has a new REVIEW!
Customer Review



5.0 out of 5 stars A truly beautiful piece of literature. [image error]

ByAmazon Customer on September 14, 2017

Format: Kindle Edition

Y’keta is a beautiful telling of fictional Native American history. It tells the story of not just Y’keta, the main character, but a host of others as well. Sandra is a true wordsmith that captivated me with her unique and poetic style of writing. Her depiction of her characters not only makes them relatable but pulls you in emotionally. It is truly exceptional writing to the core. Thanks for this beautiful story, I look forward to more work from you.








Thank you so much, Amazon Customer.

Reviews are like hugs to an author! 

 

 

 

Y’keta is making such good friends!

As a writer there is nothing that excites me like hearing that my book is making new friends. Thank you so much to the amazing reader who sent me pictures of  Y’keta out and about enjoying the fall sunshine.

Y’keta receives an award!

[image error]I am very proud and happy to announce that Y’keta has been awarded a Crowned Heart Review from InD’tale magazine. The novel was then featured in the magazine’s September issue.

Here is what they said:

[image error]FANTASY:  “Y’Keta” is an epic fantasy story set in an ancient world, where the Sky Road offers a way to the stars. Y’Keta, the main character, has just found a new place to settle when it is threatened by secrets from his past. If Y’Keta shares his knowledge with the villagers, it will destroy their history and traditions… However, at the same time Y’Keta’s knowledge may be their only chance of survival when the village becomes under attack.

With a culture reminiscent of Native American culture, and strong world building, “Y’Keta”, the first book in The Sky Road Trilogy, offers an intriguing story with a solid setting. Often, epic fantasy books rely on European medieval settings or Roman settings to draw inspiration from; it’s refreshing to see a book drawing inspiration from Native American culture, for a change. The prose is lyrical, unfortunately sometimes a little too lyrical. While it fits the mythos the book tries to create, it also makes the plot drag a little.

Told in several distinct voices and POV’s, and following characters as they grow from children into adults, it’s a coming-of-age story that while different also feels familiar, yet in a good way. The familiarity comes from being able to relate to the characters, not from having a rehashed plot.

Majanka Verstraete- InD’tale Magazine.

Stepping it up for Fall.

Starting this weekend I’ll be doing a guest blog and some book reviews for Opal Publishing (opalpublishing.com.) I’m really excited about the opportunity to work with Opal and look forward to sharing this new journey with you!

That hateful rain.

Our lives are surrounded by concepts and media portrayals of conflict. Discrimination, hate, war, and greed have become a deluge that follows us from our homes …to our work places and even into our churches and social lives. Trying to stay dry in this unending rain of negativity requires some fancy footwork and a very large umbrella.

Lately I’ve been patching up my own umbrella, working on a few leaks that are allowing negativity and condemnation to run down my neck and chill my spirit; and I think I’ve learned something.

The most divisive, hurtful, downright skanky word in the English language isn’t hatred or anger it is much, much older and more basic than that. It is the word, them. . .

Coming from the old Norse word ‘theim’ its meaning is literally ‘of them’. The word epitomizes the plight of the other, the outsider. If you are ‘of them’ are not and can never be ‘of us.’

Every war that has ever been fought, every political movement that has sought gain at the expense of a minority of the population, every high school clique that turned someone’s difference into a reason for exclusion; all started with a ‘them.’ They are not us; therefore its okay to demonize, persecute, tease or bully them.

Politicians, workplaces, families, school groups, even churches – all look for a ‘them’ to justify behaviour that they would never think of doing to a friend or family member.

From childhood we have been taught the Golden Rule. “Do unto others as you would have done unto you”. Many of the major religions have a form of this as a basic tenant and it is something that we would all agree on. But have we really looked at what these words mean?

Do unto whom? It says. Do unto others.

Those who are ‘not us’. Those who do not look like we do, do not match our colour palette or slip seamlessly into our communities. Notice that nothing is ever said about doing unto others to help them be like you. We cannot change people, it’s not our job. Our job is to do to others what we would wish done to us?

Do I wish to be hungry? Cold? Marginalized? Persecuted? Of course not – then those are the people I am called to do unto.

I am an ‘other’ different and unique in so many ways, but when you look at the multitude of ‘others’ in the world, the number of our similarities far outweigh and perceived differences. We love, we laugh, we cry, we want to improve our lives and the lives of our children.

Can we stop making these artificial differences, Please.

The spear in your brother’s heart IS the spear in yours. You are he.

[image error]

When Words Collide 2017 – the tragedy that almost was.

Today was the second day of WWC 2017 in Calgary, and I was having too much fun! Now you have to remember something, Guy Gavriel Kay is one of the keynote speakers at WWC this year, and he is one of ‘those’ authors to me. He is the one whose words I read when I need to compare my writing to the best of what ‘real’ fantasy should feel like. His words and the way I feel when he uses them is why I write the way I do.

The conference was now 2/3 over and I still hadn’t had the time or the mobility to attend any of his sessions. So I figured on not getting the chance to meet Mr Kay in person, and was just relaxing and having fun with all the new authors and readers that I was meeting.

On Saturday night, in the middle of the autograph signing session, with the line to meet him for 3-second signing was right out the ballroom doors, not possible to me with my razor wire knees, my body caught up with my brain and yelled STOP in a you-will-sit-down-now voice that I couldn’t ignore.

So I called for help and my faithful knight, Sir Michael of Bunning, revved up the chrome charger and dashed to my rescue, grabbed my books and bags and ran, okay walked, okay wombled, up to the main gates. And wouldn’t you know, as I was standing waiting for Mike to pull up in the Van, Mr Kay walks across the parking lot in front of me and we exchanged a few pleasantries.

“Thank you for coming” “Oh, I love coming to Calgary” “Have a good night” that kind of stuff.. but I’d met him. Angels sang and neon stars flashed in my eyes (okay no, but it was cool). Mr Kay walked away across the parking lot, just as the great blue charger rounded the corner to pick me up.

“NO!” I screamed (internally I hope). “Don’t run over that one, he’s important to me.”

Brakes work, heart works, sweat glands working overtime, all while Mr Kay walked calmly into the hotel, never knowing the tragedy that almost happened.

Truth, Hope, Belief.

This month I’ve been learning about frailty, the kind of mental and physical uncertainty that freezes you solid at the thought of moving forward, and then breaks your heart because there is no going back.

Like every life, every story, and every character has a point at which it is heart-breakingly frail, where the characters rest on a knife edge, the quest is in danger of either failing, or succeeding at a terrible cost, and the line between truth and hope, good and evil, strength and weakness looms like an unscalable cliff between you and the next act. These are a few of the thoughts that have been tumbling around in my mind and working their way through onto the pages of my book.

We are brought up in a society that values certainty above almost everything else, anything that makes us ask questions causes a discomfort that we are often reluctant to face. This is the point where, as a writer, I start questioning the truths and certainties that underpin my worlds.

There is a fine line between truth, hope, and belief, and as writers we need to be very careful to understand which we are using when we build worlds. So:

Belief

A character’s beliefs will colour all their actions whether consciously or unconsciously. Ren, one of my characters in Y’keta, has an underlying belief that she is unwanted and unworthy. This reveals itself in several conversations and in an unconscious ‘stepping back’ from any kind of intimacy.

Hope

It’s very easy to confuse belief and hope, they are shadows of each other that seem to twine backwards and forwards through your characters lives, almost indistinguishable, but there is a major difference. At their lowest point characters, like people, can lose hope. Burnt out by the awful things that the author has done to them (insert smirk here) they feel that the world is against them and for a while they sit dazed and disappointed. But to lose a belief, that takes a major internal restructuring which changes the essence of who the character is. The slow change in Iamaat from the leading mother of the village to the cold suspicious character we see in book two of the Sky Road is more typical of a change in belief. It isn’t sudden or random, but a deliberate retooling of her entire internal structure.

Truth

This is where reality steps in. What is true, is true, despite the hopes or beliefs of the characters or what they want to see happen in the world. You don’t need to believe that an arrow can kill you, it will. It doesn’t matter if you hope you’ll survive, or not. Truth is hard, cold, and in your face. The stone Siann carries, and the lightning score on her hand, proves that Siann has power, she doesn’t want it, never hoped to have it, didn’t even believe that magic was real, but the truth says that she will impact peoples lives, she can’t wish it away.

The price she pays for a power she never wanted is the underlying truth of her journey on the Sky Road.

Reposting in honour of Harry’s Birthday.

Required: Active male companion for frail senior, all expenses covered, must be willing to travel. The ad was irresistible.

The reality was a Geritol driven hell.

 “That’s it!” Rory shoved his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes and slung the despised paisley oxygen carrier from one shoulder to the other “One more whine, one more complaint, and the first time she puts those knitting needles down, I’m shoving one through her eye.”

“Stop muttering Rory,” his elderly employer said. “You know I can’t hear very well. And do try to keep up. The pattern says I have to make this train.”

Rory glowered at the wispy gray bun bobbing ahead of him, and explained to himself, for the thousandth time, that for the travel and the fifty dollars a day, this really was worth it. Stepping up beside the walker, he reflexively flicked a glance over his employer. Walker, check, Oxygen check, god damn knitting needles, check. “We’re almost there Mrs. P. I’m sure we’ll be in time.”

“Don’t be so sure,” her voice, strong and authoritative, gave her away. She wasn’t even close to the ‘frail senior’ Rory had bargained for. “I’ve missed this train before, and that was back when my legs didn’t need these props.”

Her cloudy brown eyes lost focus for a second and Rory shivered, waiting for the inevitable flood of delusions. “I was there you know.” Mrs. P. started, “That’s where the pattern began. I’m just responsible for ending it.”

Ootching his charge forward a bit Rory pointed at the train station across the street.

“There we are, and with half an hour to spare.”

“Not enough time,” Mrs. P. protested. “I’m running out of time to make the pattern complete!”

“Come on now,” Rory said, manoeuvring the unwieldy walker and its irritable owner down the curb and into the crosswalk. “Let’s just get there and then we can work on the pattern.” Senile old bat, he thought gluing a prefabricated smile to his face. We’ve worked on ‘the pattern’, whatever the hell that is, in every train station on the continent. The old lady might be nuts but she has the funds to jet me around with her and I could never afford this kind of trip on my own.

The arching entrance to the train station dwarfed the odd couple as they slowly precessed down the dirty marble tiles and lined up at the ticket booth. “Tickets for Rory C.,” he said to the uninteresting girl behind the counter. “We ordered them for pickup here.” The girl looked up, gave them a quick once over, then, as always, smiled brightly at Mrs. P. It didn’t matter that he had spoken, or that the tickets were in his name, the ‘little old lady magic’ always shoved him into the background. “Here you go dear,” she said. Passing the tickets through the bars to Mrs. P. “You’ve got half an hour till train time.”

“What time is it Rory,” Mrs. P. quavered.

“10:35, we’ve got lots of time,” he said. “Let’s just have a sit over here and you can work on the pattern while we wait.”

The cheap plastic benches didn’t fit the old world architecture of the station but by the time Mrs. P. finished complaining about it, he had settled his charge on a bench, put down the portable oxygen satchel and handed her the knitting bag. Smiling absently, she dug out her yarn and some number nine needles from the knitting bag. “Number 9’s for here I think,” she murmured. “Yes, definitely 9’s and 10’s.”

Rory shook his head. It didn’t matter what country they were in, or which train station, the process was always the same. Arrive early, sit and listen to the infernal clicking of Mrs. P.’s needles until train time. Then drink tea and go back to the hotel. They never took the god-damned trains!

Right on schedule, at 10:55, Mrs. P. started in on him again. “Rory, have you been to get the tea yet? I’m parched!”

“In a few minutes Mrs. P.,” he said. “It’s almost train time.” He checked his watch, the clunky, second-hand one that Mrs. P. had given him when he started travelling with her. Its brown strap was worn and faded but she insisted that the watch kept perfect time and that all her ‘patterns’ were timed by that watch.

“I know dear,” Mrs. P. said, tucking her yarn and needles back into their floral carrying bag. “But I’m finished here, this pattern wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be. We can head back to the hotel soon. I think I saw a tea shop just around the corner. Be a dear and get me a cup.”

With an insolent shrug, Rudy slouched away, glancing back as he turned the corner between platforms to make sure that Mrs. P. hadn’t wandered off.

Mrs. P. smoothed down the flowered pinafore dress, her brown eyes, even though they were hidden behind horn-rimmed glasses, all of a sudden didn’t seem quite so vacant. With a surreptitious glance towards the corner where Rory had disappeared she picked up the knitting bag and leaving behind the walker, the oxygen and the illusion of querulous Mrs. P., stepped through the opening between platforms 9 and 10 and onto the Platform 9 ¾.

The billows of steam and the oily tang of coal fires made her eyes water and her asthma act up. She should have brought her oxygen, but it would be unnecessary soon.  An elderly man, tall, and still well-built, moved towards her through the clouds of soot. “Did you finish your knitting?” he asked with a well remembered smile. “You laid down enough yarn around the continent that it would take an Italian pasta chef to untangle your trail.”

An impish grin lit up her face, allowing him just a glimpse of his old friend from Hogwarts dark days. “Did you bring it, Ginevra?” he asked looking around cautiously. “Brilliant place to meet by the way. Out in the open and surrounded by student chaos no one could ever say that we are trying to hide what we’re doing.”

Ginny smiled, opened the knitting bag and pulled out a hideous hand knitted sweater, red and blue, and obviously Weasley. “You never got one of these,” she said, “and you deserved one. The lining on this one is something special.”

Headmaster Longbottom inspected the sweater, only 4 or 5 sizes too large for him with a hand-picked N. embroidered on the front. “Are you sure about this Ginny? What about the Grandkids?”

Ginny shook her head. “We decided on this before Harry passed.” A frail hand rested, bird like, on Neville’s arm for just a moment then was gone. “We don’t want the kids to be responsible for guarding the cloak. There will always be people looking for it. Any one who needs the cloak, will have to find it, or earn it. The only remaining Hallow shouldn’t pass down like a pair of favourite shoes.”

“Luna sends her love,” Neville said. “She wanted to come and see you off, but her hip is still bad from falling out of that burrberry tree when she was chasing nargles last year.”

Ginny giggled, glad to know that some people, especially Luna, never changed. “I’m off now,” she said. “I’ll let myself be seen around London, then head to see some family in Scotland, that should put off any pursuit.”

“Will you be alright?” Neville’s voice was concerned. The smile and the voice he heard were Ginny Potter, but age wouldn’t be denied, and he knew this goodbye was probably, THE goodbye.

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” Ginny said. “Everything I need is in here.” She shook the extensible knitting bag, knocking over the books stacked inside. “I wish I could see that Rory Crabbe explaining to the police how he has so much unearned cash in his account, and why my walker and oxygen tank are sitting at the platform but I’m gone.”

Neville roared. “Ginny you didn’t!”

“Oh yes I did,” Ginny started to sparkle as the portkey in her knitting bag activated. “His dad was a git and I owed him one!”

 

 

A Chat with Sandra Hurst

One of the ironies of childhood is that our first introduction to reading often comes in the form of fairy tales and myths in which magic, mysticism, fantastical creatures and mysterious realms app…

Source: A Chat with Sandra Hurst