Meredith Allard's Blog, page 15
December 1, 2020
Christmas at Hembry Castle is now available
Today is the release day for Christmas at Hembry Castle. Hurrah! The lighthearted Victorian Christmas tale, with shades of A Christmas Carol and Downton Abbey, is now available in ebook and paperback formats at major online retailers.
One of the most important lessons I’ve learned this year is that if you are determined to do something then you are likely to get it done. That was my experience with Christmas at Hembry Castle.
Toward the end of 2019, as I was deciding what my artistic goals were for 2020, I decided that Autumn 2020 would be the perfect time to release the newest Hembry Castle story, which I had already decided would be a Christmas tale in homage to A Christmas Carol. The publication date for Christmas at Hembry Castle was set for October 25, 2020. In addition to writing Christmas at Hembry Castle, I was going to revise and edit my first nonfiction book about, what else, writing historical fiction. Also, 2020 has been the 20th anniversary of The Copperfield Review, a literary journal for readers and writers of historical fiction. I had so many ways I wanted to celebrate that extraordinary milestone. I had my entire writing and editing year for 2020 scheduled. And then.
We all know what 2020 has been. Suffice it to say, I found great joy in watching John Oliver blow 2020 to bits on his HBO show Last Week Tonight. Like other creative people, I spent the first months of the pandemic staring at the wall. I wrote nothing. I did as little as possible. Finally, around May, I realized that this is what life is going to be right now and I made the decision to get back in the swing of things, at least as far as writing goes. Copperfield was still on the backburner, but I wrote the first draft of Christmas at Hembry Castle during the summer, which was something at least.
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I had to make a decision. Do I finish Christmas at Hembry Castle this year and publish it by Christmas 2020, or do I hold onto it for a whole year and not release it until 2021? I was sorely tempted to wait until next year. Not only was I so far behind on my writing schedule, but I had started to have trouble with my eyes and my vision had become blurry, like crazy blurry, like two cameras out of focus blurry. On the positive side, I was writing in the world of Hembry Castle, a place I love, and I was writing about characters I adore, which made the writing process not only easier but far more enjoyable.
Something in me said I should put the Christmas novella out this year, if for no other reason than to prove to myself that I could. I’ve always considered myself a slow writer, which in itself is not a bad thing. Then I had two eye surgeries two weeks apart in November. I feel like those old-timey lyrics from my childhood, “I can see clearly now, the rain is gone…” Determined is as determined does, and despite everything, I finished Christmas at Hembry Castle, all edited and pretty-like, by the end of November, which is later than I hoped but better late than never. The novella is written as a stand-alone, so readers who have not read When It Rained at Hembry Castle can follow along just fine while fans of Edward, Daphne, and Frederick will enjoy seeing what happened after the curtains closed on When it Rained at Hembry Castle.
Whether you’re a devoted fan of the upstairs/downstairs folks at Hembry Castle or you’re looking for a lighthearted Victorian holiday celebration, I hope you enjoy Christmas at Hembry Castle. It was a true joy for me to write, and I hope it is a true joy for you to read.
The ebook version of Christmas at Hembry Castle is currently on sale for .99 cents and the paperback is $6.99. The ebook version of When It Rained at Hembry Castle is also on sale for .99 cents for anyone who would like to read that one as well.
Enjoy!
Booksellers
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November 23, 2020
What Are You Thankful For?
Happy Thanksgiving to all my American friends!
I know Thanksgiving will look different this year, but now more than ever it’s important to keep ourselves and our loved ones safe. I had to cancel plans with family as I’m sure others have, but just because Thanksgiving is different doesn’t mean we can’t still be thankful.
What am I thankful for this year? My eyesight. For a few months, I was struggling with blurry vision. I mean crazy blurry. Now that my vision is clearing up I’m not sure how I was functioning, yet somehow I pushed through. I’m still healing, but after two eye surgeries in November, I’m well on the way to clear sight again. For that, I am definitely thankful.
What are you thankful for? It seems like more of a stretch to answer that question this year, but I hope you can find at least one thing you’re thankful for despite the craziness of 2020.
Since we’re spending a quiet Thanksgiving at home, we’ll be cooking our meal and enjoying ready-made desserts from Trader Joe’s. If you’re interested in the one recipe my family cannot do without on Thanksgiving, here it is:
Green Bean Casserole
1 can (10 1/2 ounces) cream of mushroom soup1/2 cup milk1 teaspoon soy sauce1 dash black pepper4 cups cooked cut green beans1 1/3 cups fried onions
You can see the complete recipe here.
To celebrate Thanksgiving, I thought I’d reshare the holiday celebration with my favorite paranormal family, The Wentworths. Here is Chapter 7 from Her Loving Husband’s Curse. Enjoy!
* * * * *
In November Halloween was gone, ghosts and ghouls replaced by stoic Native Americans holding pies and smiling, buckle-hatted turkeys unaware of their fate. And pumpkins. The trees were bare now, the burst of temporary color gone, leaving their sugar and crimson behind, the leaves raked away. The branches, now naked and spindly, shivered in the poking, colder air. Storm after storm wet Salem, riding out to the ocean on the crashing waves of the bay. Heavier coats were found, scarves and mittens pulled from their summer hideaways, and people walked closer together, huddled in preparation for the real cold to come. It was calmer in Salem after the summer tourists and the Halloween partiers cleared away, and the locals stretched their legs and walked the quiet streets in peace.
Sarah paced the wooden gabled house two steps at a time, rearranging the autumn harvest centerpiece on the table near the hearth, straightening the Happy Thanksgiving banner on the wall. She paced again, now three steps at a time, down to the end of the great room and back, dusting the bookshelves again and back, checking the baking cookies in the stainless steel oven and back. When she heard the squeak of the front door, she sighed with relief. She ran to James and pressed herself into his arms.
“She’s not here yet,” Sarah said.
“I told you I’d be back in time.”
She pushed herself away and paced again.
“Maybe I should have put out some Pilgrims,” she said. “What if she notices there aren’t any Pilgrims? Everyone has Pilgrim decorations at Thanksgiving time. What if she thinks we’re not good Americans? What if she thinks we won’t know what to do with a child because kids love Pilgrims at Thanksgiving time?”
“First of all, those Thanksgiving harvest plays the kids do aren’t factually correct. If she wants to know why we don’t have Pilgrims in our house, I’ll explain it to her.” He pulled Sarah back into his arms and kissed her forehead. “We are Pilgrims.”
“We didn’t come over on the Mayflower.”
“No, but we were here when Massachusetts was a colony. We’ll bring down our old clothes from the attic and show her.”
“That’s not funny.”
Sarah walked back to the oven, checked the cookies with a spatula, decided they were brown enough, and pulled them out, placing them onto an autumn orange cake platter with green and yellow leaves.
“Cookies?” James asked.
“Chocolate chip cookies.”
“They smell sweet.”
“That’s why people love them.” She pulled one apart, then licked the melted chocolate dribbling down her fingers. “Do you want to try one?”
“I’d love to, but I can’t.”
“You can’t eat at all?”
“Honey, I haven’t eaten solid food in over three hundred years.”
“That’s too bad. Life isn’t worth living without chocolate chip cookies.”
“I think I’m doing all right.”
The cauldron in the hearth caught Sarah’s eye. It looked like it should bubble, bubble, toil and trouble while the three witches in Macbeth cast spells and foretold the future, hysterical with evil visions and dastardly deeds. She looked inside, checking to see if the heavy black pot could be unlatched and removed, shaking her head when the seventeenth century fastenings held strong.
“I never should have left this,” she said. “I should have had it taken out during the remodeling. She’s going to think it’s a child hazard, and it is.” She jumped at the hollow knock at the door that echoed like a loud No! No! No!
James stroked Sarah’s hand. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “Relax.”
He opened the door, and the social worker walked in, stiff and stoic, underpaid and overworked, an unsmiling woman in an ill-fitting purple jacket with linebacker shoulder pads and a purple flowered skirt. She looked, Sarah thought, like a summer plum. She was slump-shouldered and long-faced, like this was the fiftieth home she had visited that day and it was always the same, smiling faces, fresh-baked cookies, guarantees they would take care of the child whether they would or they wouldn’t.
The plum-looking woman entered the great room without saying hello. She didn’t acknowledge James or Sarah. “You have a lot of books,” she said finally, writing in the spiral notebook in her hand.
“My wife and I both like to read,” James said.
Sarah stepped aside as the woman nodded at the flat-screen television and shook her head at the three hundred year-old desk, scratching more notes. James looked over her shoulder, trying to see what she wrote, but Sarah shook her head at him. She didn’t want the woman to notice anything odd about James, though his curiosity was human enough. The plum-looking woman stopped in front of the cauldron.
“Are you witches?” she asked.
“No,” James said, “but our best friends are.” When the social worker didn’t smile, James stepped away. “The cauldron came with the house,” he said. “We thought it gave the place character so we kept it.”
“How old is the house?”
“It’s from the seventeenth century,” Sarah answered.
“How long have you lived here?”
Sarah and James looked at each other.
“Two years,” James said. “We both work at the university.”
The plum-looking woman nodded. “If you’re approved you’ll have to have that thing,” she gestured with her pen at the cauldron, “removed. It’s a safety hazard.”
“Of course,” Sarah said.
“Does this place need an inspection? Sometimes these older houses have bad wiring, or improper plumbing.”
“The house is up to code,” James said. “We made sure of that when we had the place remodeled.”
“When was this remodeling?”
“They finished during the summer. I have the paperwork here.”
He handed the social worker the forms that said the house met the qualifications of a twenty-first century inspection. She glanced over the paperwork and nodded, writing more notes. She looked around the kitchen, the bedroom, the smaller room in the back. She scowled at the wood ladder that led up to the attic.
“Can that be removed?” she asked.
“We can take it out if it’s a problem,” James said.
She nodded, scowling more at the cauldron as she walked back into the kitchen.
“Would you like something to drink?” Sarah asked.
“Thank you. Water would be fine.”
“We have some cold water in the fridge,” Sarah said.
“No need to trouble yourselves. I’ll get it.”
Before Sarah could protest, the social worker opened the refrigerator and eyed the groceries before pulling out the water pitcher. Sarah dropped into a chair, unable to hide the horror on her face. What if the social worker saw James’ bags of blood? But James nodded, pointing to his temple, an I’ve got this look in his eyes. He pulled a glass from the cupboard, poured water for the plum-looking woman, then joined Sarah at the table, smiling the whole time.
“What do you do at the college?” the social worker asked.
“I’m a professor, and my wife is a librarian.”
“What do you teach?”
“English literature.”
She sipped her water as she glanced over the application in her manila folder. “I think you’re my son’s English professor. Levon Jackson. Do you know him?”
“Very well,” James said. “He took two of my classes last year, and he’s in my Shakespeare seminar this term. He’s a bright young man, and a very good writer.”
Mrs. Jackson clapped her hands, her mother’s love everywhere on her round cheeks. No longer the plum-looking woman, now she was Levon’s mother.
“You should hear how he raves about you, Doctor Wentworth. Every day he comes home saying Doctor Wentworth said this or Doctor Wentworth said that.”
“It’s a pleasure teaching a student who wants to learn,” James said.
Mrs. Jackson’s round-cheeked smile lit the room. “You’ve done a world of good for my boy, Doctor Wentworth. I was so worried about him after that back injury meant he couldn’t be considered for the NHL draft. Going pro is all he’s talked about since he put on his first pair of skates. When that was no longer possible for him, he floundered. He didn’t have plans for anything else, and now he wants to be a professor like you. I’m pleased to meet you, Doctor Wentworth.”
“Please, call me James. It’s my pleasure.”
As Mrs. Jackson looked over the paperwork, James winked at Sarah.
“I don’t see any problems here, Doctor Wentworth. Everything seems to be in order. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll have the rest of the paperwork approved by my supervisor.” Mrs. Jackson looked at Sarah. “Mrs. Wentworth, you have a lovely house with a lot of history here. Any child would be lucky to have such a home.”
“Thank you,” Sarah said.
James escorted Mrs. Jackson to her car, said good night, and waved as she drove away. Back inside, James walked to Sarah, put his arms around her, and pulled her close. She felt the invisible fairy-like thread drawing them together again, only now it was looser, stretching out, over there to where someone else waited, someone they didn’t know yet but someone who was loved unconditionally.
Just because, Sarah thought. Whoever you are. We love you just because.
She pointed her chin up, and James kissed her. When she opened her eyes, he was smiling.
“Was that your idea to move the blood bags?” she asked.
“I thought she might look in the refrigerator,” he said. “To see how clean we are.”
“That’s why you’re brilliant, Doctor Wentworth.”
“I know,” he said.
They know. It is just as the trader man said. They are going soon, going West, the direction of Death, they say.
Going…
Going…
Gone.
They go about the night the best they can. The boys play ‘a ne jo di’ (stickball) in the moonlight, which they play with hickory sticks and deer-hair balls. They are families, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers. They laugh and cry. They grow angry and show kindness. One mother kneels near her crying son who has tripped running. Another watches her husband show their son a trick with the hickory stick. As I watch them I am reminded of Shylock’s words, begging for his humanity:
Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warm’d and cool’d by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed…
I try to catch the eye of my neighbor, but he is busy with the medicine man while the women and children disappear into their homes. He is old, the medicine man, his face well creviced, his jowls low, though his silver hair is thick and he has the manner of someone who understands much. He nods at me, and I nod in return, thankful because he is the first Cherokee to acknowledge me. The tribal leaders have gathered and I am not supposed to be here, I think, but the medicine man does not seem concerned. I sit on the ground and watch as they begin the Stomp Dance. There are shell shakers wearing leg rattles made of turtle shells filled with pebbles, and the rattles provide a heartbeat-like rhythm as they dance around the red-blazing fire singing a language I do not understand.
The medicine man stands. He stares at me over the heads of the seated men. “Listen,” he says. “We are praying to you, our Creator, Unetanv, the Great Spirit. Who are we without our lakes and valleys? Our rivers and forests? The copious rain and the good soil?
“Chief John Ross fought our removal in the United States Congress, in the United States Supreme Court. Don’t the liberties of the American Declaration of Independence apply to us as well, he argued? We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness. But no one in the government would hear him.”
The men nod as they stare at the orange flames, at the crackling cinders, at the ground beneath them, at the half-hidden moon, or at whatever phantom images their blank visions show them. The medicine man watches me, a knowing gleam in his eyes. I sense his words are meant for me.
“Listen. This is the creation story of our people. In the beginning, there was no land. Only water and sky. All living things dwelled above the sky. In this time, all beings lived and talked in common. Then the sky vault became crowded with people and animals. To find more room, Dayuni’si, the water beetle, flew down to see what was there. It dove to the bottom of the ocean and brought up mud that grew and grew until the earth was born. This was so long ago even the oldest medicine man cannot remember. Even I cannot remember, and I am the oldest of them all. Then the earth dried and people were created. A brother and a sister. And we have grown from there.
“They have wanted our land from the moment they arrived. They have the right of discovery over the land, they say. But how do they discover what is already here? We were already here. Did we only begin to exist when they arrived?” The medicine man looks at me as though he knows I was here all those many years before. “They have taken our land as though it was theirs all along. For years they have chipped away at it, pocketing this piece here, stealing that piece there. After they decimated our people with their diseases they wanted more. Now they want it all. But we know the land was meant for us. For all of us. Many of our people converted to their religion. Were not Adam and Eve expelled from their Paradise because they were not content? Here we are content. We know the wind is our brother. The trees are our sisters.
“Great Creator, hear our cry. We want to be invisible so we can fly away like the birds and then the soldiers will not find us as they have already found others. We do not want to lose our ancestors. They are everywhere here. Where the soldiers want to take us, they are not there. This is what I have said to you.”
He sits, his head slumping under the weight of his knowledge. Everyone is silent, the singing crickets the only sound in the forest night. Then, the medicine man lifts his face and nods at me. He sees I understand.
November 12, 2020
A New Book Announcement!
Honestly, I wondered if I was even going to be able to make this announcement this year because of everything that has been going on. But never fear, a new story featuring Edward, Daphne, Frederick, and the other beloved characters from Hembry Castle is coming this Christmas.
Christmas at Hembry Castle is a light-hearted romp through the holidays in Victorian England. The novella (it’s 32,000 words) will be available in ebook and paperback formats on all major online retailers beginning Tuesday, December 1, 2020.
[image error]Here’s the gorgeous cover by the amazing Jenny Q.
Those of you who loved the first book in the Hembry Castle series won’t be surprised by the Downton Abbey and Charles Dickens influences. Of course, I had to put my own spin on A Christmas Carol, so there is a ghost hovering about Hembry in the shadows of the night. There will be one more Hembry Castle novel after this one, so this isn’t the end of Edward and Daphne’s story. I’ve had a few questions about whether or not you need to read the first Hembry book in order to understand the story. I don’t think you need to read When It Rained at Hembry Castle in order to follow Christmas at Hembry Castle since the novella was written as a stand-alone story.
As always, I’m happy to offer my readers free copies of Christmas at Hembry Castle in exchange for honest reviews. You can find me through the Contact form (you can find the link above) or you can email me at meredithallardauthor@gmail.com. Don’t forget to let me know which ebook format you’d prefer—mobi, epub, or pdf.
I’m also releasing my first nonfiction book in February—Painting the Past: A Guide for Writing Historical Fiction. You’re so surprised right now, I know. I wasn’t sure how I would like writing nonfiction, but it turns out I enjoyed the process and I’m already working on ideas for my next nonfiction book, which will focus more on the creative aspects of writing. I’ll have more to say about Painting the Past soon.
One thing about sticking close to home these past few months is that it forced me to be honest with myself about what I really want for the rest of my life. Some things are still up in the air, but one thing I realized, the one thing I cannot live without, is writing. As a result, I’m putting even more energy into my writing than before. I’m looking forward to seeing where that takes me. I’ll have more to say about that too.
For now, I hope you’ll enjoy spending time with Edward and Daphne this holiday season. You are hereby cordially invited to spend Christmas at Hembry Castle. Victorian England is waiting for you.
October 18, 2020
The Loving Husband Series is on Tour!
Today is the first day of the Loving Husband Series Virtual Book Tour. An extra special thanks to Silver Dagger Book Tours for putting together an amazing tour and making sure we were celebrating our favorite vampire, James Wentworth, during the Halloween season!
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Here are websites for the tour stops so you can follow along. We’re giving away a $50 Amazon gift card, so enter the giveaway at each tour stop for a chance to win. Hope to see you there!
Oct 18
Kickoff at Silver Dagger Book Tours
Oct 19
Oct 20
Oct 21
Oct 22
Oct 23
Oct 24
Oct 25
Oct 26
Always Love Me Some Books Blog
Oct 27
Oct 28
Interesting Authors | Eclectic Readers!
Oct 29
Books all things paranormal and romance
Oct 30
Oct 31
Nov 1
Word Processor, Romance, Cats, Kids and Creed
Nov 2
Momma Says: To Read or Not to Read
Nov 3
Nov 4
Musings From An Addicted Reader
Nov 5
Nov 6
#BRVL Book Review Virginia Lee
Nov 7
Nov 8
4covert2overt ☼ A Place In The Spotlight ☼
Nov 9
Nov 10
Nov 11
IndiePowerd by No Sweat Graphics
Nov 12
Nov 13
Stormy Nights Reviewing & Bloggin’
Nov 14
Nov 15
Nov 16
Nov 17
Nov 18
October 12, 2020
A Vampire Teaching Vampire Literature?
Yes, that’s exactly what happens in Chapter 11 of Her Loving Husband’s Curse. James Wentworth, my favorite vampire, also happens to be a professor of literature. I know, but it works. He was talked into teaching a vampire literature class and here’s the scene where he teaches the class for the first time.
I referred to this scene in my last post so I decided to share it with everyone. To this day this scene was one of my all-time favorites to write, and it goes well with the Halloween season.
Also, the entire Loving Husband Series is going on tour starting on Saturday, 10/17. Be sure to join me at each of the stops!
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* * * * *
James nodded at the students as he entered the room, recognizing a few familiar faces from previous terms. He pulled out his class roster and put his book bag in the bottom drawer of the instructor’s desk. In a matter of moments every seat in the room was taken. Too bad, he thought. He was hoping most of them would drop and they’d have to cancel the class.
“Hey, Doctor Wentworth. Your favorite student is here!”
Levon Jackson rushed into the room, nearly tripping over a classmate in his haste.
“Are you taking this class?” James asked. “Last year you had to cover your ears whenever anyone said the word vampire.”
“I need the units so I can graduate in the spring. Besides, it’s make-believe, right? And I can suffer through any class of yours, Doctor Wentworth.”
“Thanks a lot,” James said.
Levon sat in his usual seat, front row center, and he nodded to familiar classmates. “My mom says hi,” he said to James. “She said to tell you not to forget her appointment next Tuesday night. She needs to check up on you, make sure you’re all right.” Levon grinned. “She likes you, you know, so I wouldn’t worry.”
“I like her too,” said James. “And I suppose you’re all right as well.”
James looked at the clock on the wall. Class time. Two more students rushed in, shivering and stomping winter wet from their boots. They smiled at James as they took the last seats in the back row. All eyes in the classroom turned to him, and suddenly James felt like he had a flashing neon-pink arrow pointing at his head, freak show style: “Step right up, step right up ladies and gentlemen, to see for yourselves one of the garish creatures of the night. See the angry vampire monster-man who wants to drink your blood!” But the students didn’t hear any carnival barkers. They watched him, waiting for class to start, and he smiled at the fresh young faces staring back at him while he called roll. Everyone who signed up for the class was there. Damn. That never happened. There was even one student who hadn’t signed up, sitting in his usual spot in the back closest to the door. James checked his roster again, and he was right, Timothy’s name wasn’t there. James could tell by the way Timothy glanced around that he was listening to every conversation in the room. Levon and Timothy together in a vampire literature class. This should be interesting, James thought.
There was one student who stood out in particular, a young man named Brent Wilson, about twenty years old with dyed jet-black hair, black eyeliner, and black clothing. He wasn’t painted white, though he seemed pasty for a human, like he stayed out of the sun. James wondered briefly if Brent was one of his kind, but he looked, listened, and knew, no, the boy is human. He may want to be one of us, but he isn’t. James wanted to take the boy aside and tell him the truth. This life might seem exciting, but there are so many problems. Stay human, James wanted to tell him. Stay human the way I wish I could have stayed human.
James passed out the class syllabus, then began with a simple question: “What do you know about vampires?”
He looked at Levon, expecting the well-built, athletic-looking young man to slap his large hands over his ears the way he had before.
Levon smiled. “Not a thing, Doctor Wentworth.”
“I guessed as much. Anyone else?”
A blond-haired girl sitting by the window raised her hand.
“Yes?” James said.
“They sparkle.”
James sighed. “Anyone else?”
A burgundy-haired girl raised her hand. “They come out at night. They drink your blood.”
“Yes, those are common beliefs. What else?”
“They turn into bats.”
James looked at the clock on the wall. Ten minutes into class. This was going to be a long term.
“Some people believe vampires turn into bats,” he said. He looked at a young man to his right. “Yes?”
“They’re dead, but they come back to life at night.”
James nodded. “That’s another common belief. Does anyone know when the first vampire story was told?”
“The movie with that Russian guy,” said a bearded young man. “The one wearing the black cape with that weird accent you can hardly understand.”
“His name was Bela Lugosi, and he was Hungarian. The movie version of Dracula you’re referring to was made in 1931, but vampire stories were told thousands of years before that. The earliest vampire stories go back as far as 4000 B.C.E. to the Sumers in Ancient Mesopotamia.” The students began scribbling in their spiral notebooks or typing into their laptops. “The Sumers spoke of a vampire known as the Ekimmu, which they believed was created when someone died a violent death or wasn’t buried properly. The Ekimmu were believed to be rotting corpses roaming the earth searching for victims to torment. In early Hebrew tales, Lilith was depicted as a winged demon. She is believed by some to be the first wife of Adam, and since she considered herself his equal—heaven forbid a woman should consider herself a man’s equal—she was banished to the demon world. Some say the mark of Cain is the mark of the vampire. Eastern Europe was, and is, a hotbed for vampire legends. Stories of the undead have been told all over the world, and every culture has their own version. Some are merely ghost stories, but others grew from a need to explain misunderstood anomalies before science could explain them.”
“Like what?” Levon asked.
“Like porphyria, a hemoglobin issue that causes extreme sensitivity to sunlight. Another is catalepsy, a suspension of animation where the person appears dead but then appears to come to life again. In 1730s Serbia, murders of people and farm animals were attributed to the undead. A number of corpses were exhumed and found to be rosy-cheeked with fresh blood in their mouths.”
“That creepy dude with the accent comes from there.”
James looked at the bearded boy. “He comes from the area,” he said.
“Who has a funny vampire story?” Levon asked.
“The Greeks. Andilaveris isn’t a scary vampire, only an annoying one. At night he roamed into villages and dined off the villagers’ food and smashed their plates and glasses. One night he stood on the roof of a church and urinated on anyone passing below.” The class laughed. “He had to stay in his grave on Fridays, so one Friday a priest, a sexton, and a few others opened his tomb, captured him, and sent his body to a deserted island, Daskaleio, where he was trapped and never bothered anyone again.”
Levon nodded. “I like that one, Doctor Wentworth.”
“Me too,” James said.
“What about the Native Americans?” asked a dark-haired young woman. “They have vampire legends too. What about the Kalona Ayeliski?”
James nodded, keeping it casual. There was nothing odd about the question. This was simply more information he could impart to his curious students.
“For the Cherokee, the Kalona Ayeliski, or Raven Mocker, is a powerful evil spirit, so powerful other spirits and witches fear it. The Raven Mocker tortures and torments a dying person to hasten their death. After the person’s death, the Raven Mocker consumes the heart to bolster its own life force. Raven Mockers add a year to their lives for every year their victim would have lived.”
“Don’t they appear as old men or women?” the dark-haired girl asked.
“They can.”
“Why are they called Raven Mockers?” the bearded boy asked.
“The Cherokee believe that when the Raven Mockers hunt they make a sound like a raven’s cry. People feared the sound because it meant someone would die soon. Only the medicine men could see them, and the medicine men would stand guard over the dying to prevent the Raven Mockers from stealing their hearts.” James shook his head, forgetful of the forty young people sitting there. “They didn’t know,” he said. “They didn’t understand.”
A student near the back coughed and James came back to himself. He scanned the faces of his students and realized he had a captivated audience. Even Timothy dropped his pen to listen. In all his years of teaching, James had never seen anything like it. He had taught Shakespeare, Dickens, the Romantic Poets, the Harlem Renaissance. He had taught contemporary American masters like Morrison, Oliver, and Walker. But here, in this vampire literature class, he had his students’ attention unlike ever before. They were so engrossed in the discussion that most of them stopped taking notes or typing. They watched him the way Grace watched him when he told her bedtime stories—wide-eyed and mesmerized.
“So now we have some background information about early vampires legends,” he said. “What else do you already know about vampires?”
“They’re real.”
James turned to the student who had spoken, the pale-skinned boy in black. Other students laughed. Some rolled their eyes. A few muttered obscenities under their breath.
“Freak,” a blond-haired boy said.
“Vampires are real,” Brent said. He stared into James’ eyes. “Isn’t that right, Doctor Wentworth?”
James looked at the floor, at the clock on the wall, around the room at the other students. He smiled. Did Brent know? He sighed, a big display sigh because at that moment, with all eyes on him, the word vampire in the air, hanging over him like that neon arrow he imagined, he needed the students to see his chest move.
“Who believes vampires are real?” Levon asked. “Besides that fool with the blog and that idiot over there.”
James looked at Brent. The black-haired boy was firm, his arms crossed in front of him, his eyes disappointed and small.
Suddenly, from the side of the class, James heard, “Hey, Doctor Wentworth, you’re pale and you only teach night classes. Maybe you’re a vampire.”
“Right,” Levon said. “Doctor Wentworth’s a vampire. Next you’re going to tell me his wife is a werewolf.”
“Actually, she’s a ghost,” James said.
Levon laughed. “But you still haven’t said how vampires get to be vampires in the first place. Where do vampires come from?”
The bearded boy faced Levon. “You see, first the mommy vampire and the daddy vampire meet and fall in love, and then they…”
“I’m serious,” said Levon. “What makes a vampire, Doctor Wentworth?”
“They’re cursed,” James said. “It’s the only explanation.”
“Can a vampire ever break the curse?”
“I’m not familiar with any way to break the curse.”
James sat on the edge of the instructor’s desk while he gathered his thoughts. These young people, so curious, so vigorous, so alive, had no idea what it meant to be cursed. If they knew his truth would they come to his class then? Would they run away screaming in the halls? He settled his worries and continued his lecture about early vampire legends, with no further interruptions from Brent, while the students took notes and asked questions.
“James?”
Sarah stood near the door, a sleeping Grace in her arms. “Class was over twenty minutes ago. We were waiting for you in the library.”
“I’m sorry, honey,” James said. “I lost track of time.”
“We all did,” said Levon. “You’re a good storyteller, Doctor Wentworth. Especially that Raven Mocker stuff.”
“Thanks, Levon. All right everyone. Your assignment is to research an early vampire legend, not the same ones we talked about here tonight, and bring in some information about the legend to share. I’ll see everyone next time.”
The students said good night and filed away. At first, James thought they were tip-toeing around him, though he knew it was his paranoia brought on by Hempel’s blog and Brent’s questions. Timothy was gone. A few students peeked at Grace as she slept in Sarah’s arms. One blond-haired girl smiled at James. “She’s cute, Doctor Wentworth. She looks just like you.”
“Thank you,” James said.
Levon said good night to James and Sarah and smiled at Grace before he left. When the room was empty and only Sarah and Grace remained, James put his arms around them, holding them close while he kissed the top of his daughter’s silk-like curls. He closed his eyes, clearing his mind.
“How did it go?” Sarah asked.
“It’s a vampire literature class. How do you think it went?”
“Was it that bad?”
“I’ll survive.”
“It looked like a full class.”
James kissed Sarah’s forehead. “It was,” he said. “It was.”
* * * * *
The complete Loving Husband Series, which includes all four books, are now on sale for $2.99 at all major online retailers.
October 10, 2020
Spooktastic Giveaway 2020
It’s that time of year again! I know I say that every year, but it really does remind me how quickly time flies when it’s time for pumpkin spice lattes and my annual Halloween book giveaway again.
To celebrate this Halloween this year, I’m giving away five copies of Down Salem Way in your choice of ebook or paperback. The giveaway is from October 10-October 31, 2020, and you can participate by joining me on either Facebook, Pinterest, or Twitter.
Down Salem Way, with its story of the Salem Witch Trials, vampires, and a witch or two, is the perfect Halloween read.
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September 28, 2020
Writing About Vampires
Since October begins at the end of this week, my favorite time of year is now officially on its way. I’m hoping that the holidays will bring at least some joy to our ever-crazier world. When it comes to the question “Pumpkin spice lattes, yes or no?” I am definitely on the “Yes!” side of the answer. I’ve already begun my quest to see how many pumpkin cream cold brew coffees I can fit in between now and Thanksgiving.
As much as I love Halloween, I still find it funny that I ended up writing about vampires, let alone that my most popular novels would be about a vampire, a very human vampire, as a matter of fact.
When I decided to write Her Dear & Loving Husband, I realized that I knew very little about vampire myths and legends. I had never been into the paranormal/urban fantasy genre before. I had read exactly zero vampire novels before Twilight, and I had seen exactly zero vampire TV shows before True Blood. The historical novelist in me wondered if you have to do research to write about vampires. After all, vampires are imaginary creatures, so I thought I wouldn’t have to do much studying to write Her Dear & Loving Husband. The vampires I wanted to write about are products of my imagination, and I didn’t need to read books to understand them because they were already mine.
Still, being a curious person, I had a lot of questions. Where did vampire stories come from? How long have they been around? I thought Bram Stoker’s Dracula was the beginning of the craze, but it turns out he was inspired by stories of the undead too.
In fact, vampire legends have been around for as long as there have been people to tell them. In earlier years, people explained whatever needed explaining through supernatural beliefs. Good things happened because of good spirits and bad things happened because of evil spirits. In the years before science could explain medical oddities—such as why some people sweat or cry blood or how someone could stop breathing and “come back to life”—these things were explained as possession by evil spirits. Such people had come back from the dead and they were to be feared.
Stories about dead friends, neighbors, and family members who had come back to life circulated throughout villages, beginning our fascination, and our fear, of vampires. Societies all over the world have some stories about the undead in their folklore. I had some fun taking what I learned about vampire stories and putting it into the classroom scenes in Her Loving Husband’s Curse where James teaches a vampire literature class. It’s a funny scene and it was one of my favorites to write in that novel.
For those of us writing vampire stories, we have the freedom to create our preternatural characters however we wish. The possibilities are endless. As I considered how my vampires would live, I decided that I would stick mainly to conventional ideas. James Wentworth, my favorite vampire, sleeps by day and lives by night. He’s immortal and will stay looking thirty years old as long as he remains a vampire. He drinks blood. He has to learn how to live among humans without revealing his true nature because he knows how people can react when they’re confronted by things they don’t understand. As for garlic bulbs and signs of the cross, well, those are just Eastern European legends after all. If you can live forever, I don’t see how some garlic can hurt you, though it might give you bad breath.
As someone who wrote historical fiction, which is based on fact, I didn’t think I would enjoy writing about such imaginary, fantastical characters. But once I allowed myself to try it, I realized I love writing paranormal fantasy because I can mold the supernatural characters in my own way.
By stepping out of my comfort zone, by allowing myself to explore a genre I had never considered before, I had a whole paranormal/fantasy world open up for me, and it’s one I’ll be forever grateful for.
To celebrate Halloween, and pumpkin spice lattes, Her Dear & Loving Husband is currently free and the entire Loving Husband Series will on sale for $2.99 through the month of October at all major online retailers. Enjoy!
And while we’re on the subject, here’s a recipe to make your own pumpkin cream cold brew. I tried it, and I liked it.
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Pumpkin Cream Cold Brew
iced coffeecold milksweetenerpumpkin pureevanilla extractpumpkin pie spicesea salt
September 8, 2020
An Interview With Author Kari Bovee
Here’s the interview I did with author Kari Bovee for Copperfield. Kari is the author of the historical novels Girl with a Gun, Peccadillo at the Palace, Folly at the Fair, and Shoot Like a Girl from Bosque Publishing.
Meredith Allard: When and why did you begin writing, and did you always write historical fiction?
Kari Bovee: I’ve journaled and written stories for as long as I can remember. When I first started writing novels, no, I didn’t write historical fiction, but I’ve always written mysteries. My first few novels (that shall remain nameless) were contemporary mysteries. I’ve always had a love for anything historical, so I decided to take my two interests and merge them.
M.A.: I’ve always had a fascination with Annie Oakley. How did you come to write about the girl with a gun? What makes her a good topic for historical fiction?
K.B.: I love learning about amazing and empowered women in history and those are the types of women I want to feature in my novels. We’ve seen depictions of Annie Oakley in plays and movies, but I always thought they portrayed her as rather one dimensional. Several years ago I saw a PBS American Experience special on her and I realized what an incredible person she was. Her life as a child was not an easy one, but she discovered early on she had a talent for something. Shooting. She shot game to help put food on the table and to sell to local merchants. After she won a shooting contest against Frank Butler, who became her husband, she started utilizing her talent and eventually became one of the most famous women in the world excelling at a sport that was dominated by men. And she did this without compromising herself in any way. She didn’t try to bend to anyone else’s ideal of what it was to be a celebrity, or a performer, or a person. She made her way in the world without being anyone other than herself, and that was tough for women in the 1800’s.
M.A.: What makes your book(s) different?
K. B.: I’ve taken an iconic woman in history and used her self-empowerment, celebrity, and integrity to make her a really good amateur detective. I think I’ve also put some fun into writing about historical people and events. I’ve tweaked some of the history for the sake of the story, but I think I’ve stayed true to who Annie Oakley was as a person, even though I’ve put her in some interesting situations.
M.A.: All authors have a different path as they seek publication. What was your journey to publication like?
K.B.: Long! I’ve had a couple of agents throughout the years, but couldn’t break into the world of traditional publishing. I opted to go with a hybrid publisher to get my feet wet, but now have my own imprint and publish my own books. That said, I didn’t go into independent publishing without thoroughly investigating it and learning as much as I could about it. And, I would never put a book out into the world without having a team of professionals helping me with editing, cover design, etc. It’s a lot of work, but I enjoy having ultimate control over my books and career.
M.A.: What are the joys/challenges of writing historical fiction for you?
K.B.: I love doing research, and I do quite a lot of research before I work on a particular project, but it makes the writing a little slower. Things come up when I’m writing and then I will have to stop and look into it to make sure I’m not completely off base. Right now I am working on the second book in my Grace Michelle mystery series and I find that I have to stop writing and look something up for historical accuracy. If I’m not careful, it’s easy to go down a rabbit hole and get completely distracted. I think the enjoyment I get from writing historical fiction comes down to learning about people, places and events I might not have explored before. It’s a constant education and I love being a student!
M.A.: What is the research process like for you?
K.B.: When I decide what it is I’d like to write about, I start looking into things like historical setting, the clothing of the era, word usage and slang words or phrases. I usually have real-life historical figures in my books, whether they are the protagonist (like Annie Oakley) or secondary characters. Even if they make a cameo appearance, I need to do a little research on them to make sure I get their “essence” correct. If the book centers around an event in history, like the second and third books in the Annie Oakley series, I need to look into those events. Folly at the Fair takes place at the World’s Fair in Chicago in 1893. Most of the buildings that were built for the fair are no longer there, so I had my work cut out for me. I was able to find a great book that explained the history of the fair, the layout of the grounds and the buildings, and what each attraction was like. It was great fun to go back in time and imagine myself participating!
M.A.: Do you travel for research? If so, what role does travel play in your writing process?
K.B.: I have not traveled specifically for research, but I’ve been to many of the places where my stories are set. So, I guess it works in reverse for me. But with the internet it’s pretty easy to get whatever you need for research. For the book I am working on right now, I had planned to go to Los Angeles/Hollywood for research but then COVID-19 happened. I’ve been to LA many times, but I was looking for specific buildings, streets, neighborhoods, etc. so, I decided the next best thing was to find a map of Los Angeles in 1924. I was thrilled to find one in mint condition on Etsy. Saved me a lot of time, money, and my health!
M.A.: Which authors are your inspiration—in your writing life and/or your personal life?
K.B.: I’ve been inspired by so many. In my writing life, of course the Grande Dame of mystery, Agatha Christie, is a great source of inspiration. I also like Elizabeth George, Phillipa Gregory, C.W. Gortner, Anne Perry, Deanna Raybourn, Rhys Bowen, and the works of Larry McMurtry.
When I’m in the mood to completely escape reality I like to read some of the 19th century classic authors like the Bronte sisters, Jane Austen, and Elizabeth Gaskill. I never get tired of them!
I’ve found Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic a wonderful source for inspiration and creativity, and I’ve been working through Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way this summer.
M.A.: What advice do you have for those who want to write historical fiction?
K.B.: Like with any genre, I think you need to be emotionally invested in it to do it well. If you don’t love history, or love reading historical novels, it might not be the way to go because the research is so integral to the process. And if you are one of those writers who love to do research more than anything else, keep in mind that you are going to have to sit down and actually write at some point!
M.A.: What else would you like readers to know?
K.B.: I’d love to hear from them! If they want they can go to my website at www.Karibovee.com and subscribe to my newsletter to become a part of my community (and get the prequel novella to the Annie Oakley series, Shoot like a Girl, for FREE.) There is also a contact form where they can send me an email.
I also have a Facebook Group called the Kari Bovee Fan Club https://bit.ly/3533tqR and I’m building a community there, too. In both places they can find out about all of my news and upcoming releases, get to know my horses and dogs, and I also have a lot of fun giveaways, so some come on over and join me!
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/karibovee_writer/?hl=en
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/KariBovee/
Twitter: https://bit.ly/2KWUoay
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/karibovee/
August 31, 2020
Twilight Memories: Inspiration for Her Dear & Loving Husband
The release of the new Twilight book has brought back a lot of memories about my original inspiration for Her Dear & Loving Husband.
My journey with James and Sarah began back in 2007 when I was teaching middle school American history. In the school hallways, I’d see girls holding these black books with an apple on the cover. Finally, I asked one of my students what the book was, and she said, “Oh, it’s Twilight. Don’t you know Twilight?” I didn’t, and I asked her to tell me about it. As soon as she mentioned vampires I tuned out because I wasn’t into vampires. Yeah, I know. But at the time I associated vampires with horror stories, and I’m not into the horror genre. Then I heard a few fellow teachers rave about the book, giggling over it like our teenage students.
A few weeks later a student tossed Twilight onto my desk. “I’ve read that book too many times,” she said, “and I have to find something else to read. You can read it.” I appreciated the gesture, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I figured I’d take the book home, skim through it enough to get some character names, and then say how much I loved the story when I returned the book to its owner.
As I skimmed the pages (okay, here’s a Bella…there’s an Edward…) I thought some parts looked interesting enough so I ended up reading the whole book. Even though Twilight is meant for young adult readers, I found the story endearing enough to decide that maybe vampires weren’t all bad. Yes, in case you’re wondering, I did end up reading the whole Twilight series. If I hadn’t read the Twilight books, I never would have watched True Blood on HBO, and it’s more accurate to say Her Dear & Loving Husband was inspired by True Blood.
There’s an episode early in the first season of True Blood (I think it’s episode four, but don’t quote me) where vampire Bill is giving a talk at Sookie’s grandmother’s church. Someone shows Bill a picture of his family from his human days before the American Civil War, and Bill becomes so emotional at the remembrance of them. That’s what clicked my brain into gear. Here’s this vampire who has everything humans only dream of—extraordinary strength, immortal life—and yet he becomes so emotional at the sight of the ones he loved as a human. After that episode, I wondered…what happens to a vampire who lives forever? Obviously, the humans he loved would have died somewhere along the way. Would he forget about them and go on? Would he have trouble moving on? What if he fell in love again? What would that look like, and who would he fall in love with? If he was so in love with his wife, could he ever love anyone else?
I didn’t have any immediate sense that there was something tangible like a novel in those oddball daydreams. I like to tell stories, and I’m always kicking scenarios around this empty head of mine, most of which come to nothing. When I was still thinking of this vampire idea six months later, I decided to see if there was anything to it. Between watching True Blood, reading Charlaine Harris, Anne Rice, Bram Stoker, and the Twilight books, believe me, I had a brain full of vampire waiting to get out. Luckily for me, that vampire turned out to be James Wentworth.
The exact date I began writing was April 15, 2009. It was a Wednesday. I remember the date because I was off for Spring Break that week. I had just come back from a few days in my hometown, Los Angeles, to spend some time by the beach. Back home in Vegas, I woke up that Wednesday morning and the crazy vampire idea was distracting me again. I made myself eggs, toast, and coffee, sat down at the computer, and started typing out whatever I knew about this vampire and the woman he loved. The story had a working title—The Vampire’s Wife.
In case you were wondering, James’ birthday is April 19 because that was the day he found his name. When it comes to character names, I feel like the name is inherent in the character; in other words, they already know their names, but they leave it to me to guess. I feel like the miller’s daughter scrambling to guess Rumplestiltskin’s name. Is it Bob? Is it Herbert? Is it Randolph or George or Ichabod? At some point, I do guess correctly, and that’s without the help of a messenger spying on the One-To-Be-Named. I can’t write about a character until I know his or her name, so that’s always my first step when I write a new story.
After I had my main characters’ names—James and Sarah, and of course Elizabeth—it became a matter of deciding where the story was going to take place. At this time I had no sense that this story would move back and forth between the past and the present. In my initial conception of the story, it was going to be a present-day love story between a vampire and the woman he loves. It turns out that choosing the setting of Salem, Massachusetts was the most important decision I made while writing Her Dear & Loving Husband since that is where the element of historical fiction came in.
It’s because of the James and Sarah superfans out there that Down Salem Way even exists since I was certain the Wentworths’ story ended with Her Loving Husband’s Return. Turns out, I was wrong. I’m not done yet.
Just as Her Dear & Loving Husband was initially inspired by Twilight, the next stage of the Wentworths’ journey is inspired by Outlander. The inspiration comes from the fact that the Outlander books follow Jamie and Claire’s daughter, Bree, as she becomes an adult. The new Loving Husband books focus on Grace Wentworth, James and Sarah’s daughter. James and Sarah will be there, never fear, but Grace has her turn in the spotlight in her world of historical fiction and magical realism. I envision the new stories as a trilogy, but we shall see…
August 17, 2020
Lockdown Lessons: Chasing Dreams, Finding Happiness
I’ve learned a lot about myself during these quarantine days. Deep thinking goes along with being a writer, and I’ve been doing a lot of writing and a lot of thinking.
One day, out of the blue, I realized that I’ve spent my entire adult life chasing happiness, as though happiness were some elusive thing that had to be captured by surprise and bound close before it escaped again.
When you’re always chasing something, you’re never happy because you’re always grasping after that, over there, whatever it is you think you need. When I have a bestselling novel, I’ll be happy. When I have my Ph.D., I’ll be happy. When I have this other thing, I’ll be happy. I’ve had bestselling novels, and I have a Ph.D. Did they make me happy? Yes, for a moment or two. But it’s fleeting. The moment passes and I’m right back to who I was the day before, chasing after some new dream and feeling incomplete until I achieve it. I remember telling a friend from my Ph.D. cohort that in truth, the only place on the earth where it matters if you have a Ph.D. is on a university campus. Outside of a university campus, no one cares. Really, no one. I had this burst of brilliance while taking out the trash the day after my graduation ceremony. Here I am with this grand accomplishment, a Ph.D., and I’m taking out the trash like I always do. I was still going through my days like always. Of course I was. What else did I expect?
Mainly, this summer has been a lesson in letting go. Letting go of the life I thought I would have but didn’t. Letting go of relationships and friendships that weighed me down. Letting go of a job I thought I wanted, and then, after I saw that job from the inside, allowing myself to accept that the imaginary job I saw in my head was not the reality.
It took me two years to fully process the fact that this dream job was not what I thought it was. It was hard for me to let go. It felt like an amputation, as if I cut off this piece of myself that I held onto for so long. Even after I made the intellectual decision to leave the dream job aside, there was still phantom pain. Am I giving up too soon? Did I not try hard enough? Despite my lingering questions, all the evidence pointed to the fact that I made the right decision. With letting go, I’ve discovered the quiet joy that comes with leaving behind dreams that don’t fit my goals for an authentic life.
While I’m in the process of letting go of things that don’t bring me joy, I’ve also decided to ditch the hair dye. I’ve been thinking about it jokingly for two years and semi-seriously for about a year. Although the COVID-19 restrictions have been largely lifted, I’m not comfortable being in close proximity with someone so the hairdresser is still a no-go for me.
I’ve had concerns about the toxins in hair dye for years, and I’d always get welts on my scalp after my hair was colored. Still, like a well-trained consumer, I dyed my hair monthly for years because I had been brainwashed into thinking that I had to hide my gray hair from polite society. My hair started going gray when I was 19. For years I enjoyed going to the salon, trying out different colors—everything from blond to various shades of browns and reds, highlights, lowlights, even funky colors like purple and hot pink. Then the gray started growing faster and I’d have gray roots two weeks after a dye job.
When visits to the hairdresser stopped being fun I started using box color at home. That grew old quickly. I hated the mess, the fumes, the stained clothing and towels. Once I even stained my bathtub. I still don’t know how I did that. A few weeks ago I started looking on Pinterest for photographs of women with gray hair and discovered a whole movement of lovely ladies called Silver Sisters who ditched the hair dye and are happier and healthier for it.
I’ve come to realize that my life isn’t about impressing anyone. It’s not about being able to brag, humbly or otherwise, about my accomplishments. It’s not about worrying what anyone else thinks of my silver hair as it begins to peek through. It’s my hair and my life and finally, I realized that I get to decide what both my hair and my life look like. I want a life that is authentic for me. Just as with writing, there is no one size fits all for living. Yes, we should have goals, and we should strive to achieve those goals. Having something to work toward gives our lives purpose. But we should not allow ourselves to be defined by those goals.
It’s easy to get trapped on the ceaseless treadmill of expectations heaped upon us by family, friends, even strangers on social media. Compare-itis is a real thing and I’ve suffered from it as much as anyone else. To get off the treadmill means we have to be brave enough to listen to ourselves and no one else.
The most important thing I’ve learned is that it’s okay to let go. It’s okay to let go of dreams that didn’t materialize for reasons we may never understand. It’s okay to let go of goals that are unrealistic, unimportant, and unsuited to our most authentic selves. I hope this will be a lesson I will continue to carry with me post-pandemic, whatever that life might look like.
