Allan Hudson's Blog, page 6

The Story Behind the Story with Author/Poet Hollay Ghadery of Ontario, Canada.

Let’s welcome Hollay to the Scribbler.

We are most pleased she has accepted our invitation to share the SBTS of her newest book. A very busy lady and an award winning author I know you will enjoy learning about.
Read on my friends.

Hollay Ghadery is a multi-genre writer living in Ontario on Anishinaabe land. She has her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Guelph. Fuse, her memoir of mixed-race identity and mental health, was released by Guernica Editions in 2021 and won the 2023 Canadian Bookclub Award for Nonfiction/Memoir. Her collection of poetry, Rebellion Box was released by Radiant Press in 2023, and her collection of short fiction, Widow Fantasies, is scheduled for release with Gordon Hill Press in fall 2024. Her debut novel, The Unraveling of Ou, is due out with Palimpsest Press in 2026, and her children’s book, Being with the Birds, with Guernica Editions in 2027. Hollay is a co-host of Angela’s Bookclub on 105.5 FM, as well as HOWL on CIUT 89.5 FM. She is also a book publicist and the Poet Laureate of Scugog Township. Learn more about Hollay at www.hollayghadery.com.


Title: Widow Fantasies

Synopsis:Fantasies are places we briefly visit; we can’t live there. The stories in Widow Fantasies deftly explore the subjugation of women through the often subversive act of fantasizing. From a variety of perspectives, through a symphony of voices, Widow Fantasies immerses the reader in the domestic rural gothic, offering up unforgettable stories from the shadowed lives of girls and women.


The Story Behind the Story:

Widow Fantasies has its origins in theseven year mark of my marriage. It was at this point when I began to daydreamabout planning my husband’s funeral. I felt completely depleted and depressedrunning a house, raising a handful of young kids, holding down a full-time job,and trying to find time to write or do anything for myself. My husband was there,but wasn’t really contributing—at least not without being asked, sometimesmultiple times. He didn’t do much of the background work to keep our familyrunning. In fact, I was often in charge of his affairs too: taxes, schedulingappointments, doing his paperwork. I felt less like I had a partner and morelike he was another dependent. I was more than happy and ready to take care ofmy kids as a mother, but was not so thrilled to be constantly mothering myspouse.

Ispoke to a therapist and apparently my daydreaming—my fantasizing—about beinghusband free was not uncommon. Many women in oppressive heteronormativerelationships have these fantasies, and they even have a name: widow fantasies.Thinking about how women use fantasies to escape the subjugation of their livesgave rise to all the stories in this collection. The exploration of my feelingsalso led to a conversation with my husband. Obviously, it was a good, healthyconversation because we’re coming up on 16 years together and he is now anequal, if not the biggest, contributor to our domestic partnership. (He is alsothe biggest supporter of this 
collection of stories.)

Website: Please go HERE.


A question before you go, Hollay:

Scribbler: Where is your favourite spot to write? Are you messy or neat? Your beverage of choice?


Hollay: I am neat. I cannot think in disorganized spaces! My brain is messy enough. I cannot have my external world reflect my internal one.

An Excerpt:

Georgette’s outside the grain elevator, stance braced as if preparing to stop a train. One of her arms is outstretched, the other is holding her phone to her ear. Her wiry grey-blonde curls spring out from beneath her bandana and she’s talking fast, but from the lip of the front lawn ten feet away, Leyla can’t hear what she’s saying.

The wind picks up and smacks Leyla with a treacle gust of fresh hay from the fields. The chickens squabble.

Lani, swaddled against her chest, grunts and lets loose a lamb’s cry, her little chin quivering.

Leyla’s eyes dart around the yard. She bounces in place, patting Lani’s bottom to calm her. Kent’s truck is still parked by the hay wagon where he left it. The little school bus is bumbling
away from the end of the lane. Ava and the twins wave from the back window. Beetle, in barking pursuit, propels himself up the dirt hill that leads into town, black legs flying like licorice whips.

Everything looks fine, but Leyla’s sure she heard Georgette shout.

She feels it first: the sweep auger, which usually hums, is thumping. It was stuck for the second time this month, and Kent left to fix it after breakfast. He needed to climb into the grain bin and kick it loose. He’d done it a dozen times before.

That was at 6 a.m., so over an hour ago. In her mind, she sees the stove-top clock, splattered with bacon grease. She feels Kent’s arms wrap around her waist while she pushes the bacon around with a fork. His warm, minted breath on her neck. The coffee pot gurgling and how he said he’d be back for breakfast in a few minutes. How she had to close her eyes against the urge to shrug off her own skin.

The wind blows an empty bag of chick feed across the lawn and Georgette howls into the phone.

“My son!”

Years from now, what Leyla will remember most about that morning was how her breasts had been milk-swollen for days and it was agony to have Lani pressed against them. She’ll remember how, the night before, Kent had heated cabbage leaves for her to put in her bra as relief and how, even then, she’d wished he’d go away.

She’ll remember running barefoot across the lawn toward Georgette and the grass being so dew-slick that she slid trying to stop. She’ll remember that when the wind hit the maples, they shook like wet dogs.



Thank you Hollay, for being our guest this week.
We wish you continued success with your writing endeavours.


And a BIG THANK YOU to all our visitors and readers.

The Story Behind the Story with author Susan E. Wadds of Ontario, Canada.

 

Let’swelcome another newcomer to the Scribbler.

 Susan was introduced to me by a mutual friendand we are more than happy to have her as our guest this week.

Sheis sharing the SBTS of her novel and is treating us to an excerpt.

Readon my friends.

 

 

 

Finalist for the 2024 Canadian Book ClubAwards and Winner of The 2016 Writer’s Union of Canada’s Prose Contest, SusanWadds’ work has appeared in carteblanche, The Blood Pudding, Room, WaterwheelReview, and many more. The first two chapters of her debut novel, What TheLiving Do, (Regal House Publishing, 2024), won the Lazuli Group’s ProseContest, and were published in Azure Magazine. A graduate of the Humber Schoolfor Writers and a proud member of The Writers Union of Canada, Susan is acertified Amherst Writers and Artists (AWA) workshop facilitator. She lives ona quiet river on Williams Treaty land in traditional Anishinaabe territory withan odd assortment of humans and cats.

 

Title: WHATTHE LIVING DO (Regal House Publishing, 2024)

Synopsis:

Sex and death consume much ofthirty-seven-year-old Brett Catlin’s life. Cole, ten years her junior, takescare of the former while her job disposing of roadkill addresses the latter.When a cancer diagnosis makes her question her worth, suspecting the illness ispayback for the deaths of her father and baby sister, she begins a challengingjourney of healing and self-discovery. Encounters with animals, both living anddead, help her answer the question, who is worth saving?

 

The Story Behind the Story:

There’s a pervasive belief in many culturesthat illness is somehow deserved. We ask, Why is this happening to me? Whatdid I do wrong? Is this God’s punishment? Or even, I don’t deserve this.As though the body has betrayed us by falling ill.

But what if we are carrying a guilt so deepthat a cancer diagnosis confirms our suspicions that we don’t deserve to live?

I came face to face with this belief with myown 1991 cancer diagnosis; that some meanness in my past had caused cells tomutate. As I worked through aspects of my past and psyche through various formsof therapy to uncover the source, it began to dawn on me that my illness mightnot actually be my fault.

In this novel I intended to illustrate thisarc in a more dramatic way than being selfish or inconsiderate, so I gave mycharacter an early tragedy. The deaths of her father and sister are burdens ofguilt that created a barrier to anyone getting too close. Instead of a powerposition such as lawyer or doctor, I wanted her in a genuinely tough work role,so I put her on a roads’ crew side-by-side with misogynistic men. To furtherboost her need for distance, I gave her a much younger partner.

As for where the images and ideas spring from—I lived for years on and off in the Slocan Valley in the Kootenay Mountains, where a sweet Doukhobor cabin I first lived in burned to the ground. Luckily no one was at home when it happened, but having that experience gave me the idea to dramatize such a thing.
The aspects concerning Brett’s work partner, Mel, come from my years with Chippewa, or Ojibwe, and Cree people, including my former husband and son. So much of what that character imparts to Brett is what was directly said and taught to me. I wanted to honour my son’s family and ancestors.


Website- please go HERE.


A question before you go, Susan:

Scribbler: Where is your favourite spot to write? Are you messy or neat? Your beverage of choice?

Susan: I’m messy as hell. I often write along with others from visual or situational prompts. I facilitate several workshops a week in the Amherst Writers & Artists method, which requires me to take the same risks. In other words, even if I don’t “feel” like writing, I’m bound to do it. In that way, most of my first draft scenes get written. The rest of the slog through the editing and revision processes are done at a messy desk that also needs revision. And when it comes down to the final push, I take myself far away from distraction or responsibility. A retreat or artist residency to devote myself only to the manuscript. One of my devices is to send the manuscript to my Kindle and read it as though it isn’t mine. I can pause to make notes directly onto the Kindle and then take it back to a messy desk to do the final edits.

I drink coffee in the morning and water throughout the day. I do not listen to music when I write. I need quiet—too much noise already in my head. Once my writing day is done, I do love my red wine.


Excerpt from What the Living Do (pages 78-80.)

 

WhatNorah told me was that she was an only child because her mother had MS, andthat all she longed for was a swarm of children laughing and fighting andscrambling around in the dirt. She’d gladly give up her consultant job for ashot at being a mother, a housewife—anything for a family. I spewed my usual,“The world’s going to shit. How can you justify bringing another human intothis hellhole with no future?” And she’d laughed, poured me another drink, andfast-forwarded through the credits to start the next episode. “Don’t be anidiot, Brett,” she said. “Children are what make it all worth saving.”

Ihave to tell her. Right now.

Imotion to the server. “Bring us two margaritas. Shaken, not frozen. No ice.Lots of salt.” The server nods and slinks off, her hips too narrow to bearchildren.

Iwill tell her when the drinks come. Maybe after we’ve finished the first one.

“So,”Norah says, happy now, forearms supporting her as she leans toward me. “Bringme up to speed. What’s new?”

“Ihave cancer.”

Shedoesn’t know. Josh didn’t tell her because Cole didn’t tell him. Men are somystifying. Of course she’s pissed off that I didn’t tell her sooner, but shewon’t abandon me. It’s easier to support someone when the thing that’s wrongisn’t their fault.

“I’vebeen thinking about leaving,” I say. “Maybe it would be better for everyone ifI get my sorry ass out of here.”

“Leave?For where?” Norah’s tongue slides along the glass of her margarita. “You meanafter you have the surgery?”

“Youknow I’ve always wanted to go to Bali.”

“Yeah,yeah, but that scumbag Mark didn’t want to go, right?”

Acrumb of salt lodges in my throat. “Right,” I say, coughing a little.

“Oh,right,” she says, looking down. “I am sorry, you know. I was hurting. Ishouldn’t have—”

“It’sall right,” I say. “Really.” Indicating her glass, I say, “Should we do thisagain?”

She’sgrateful, I can tell. Which makes me feel grateful. I order another round.

“So,you won’t go? You’ll stay, right?”

Ishake my head too vigorously and the plasma screens distort the way afairground distorts from the Zipper ride. Blinking, I whisper, “Cole loves me.I’m trying to let him.”

“Lethim?”

Icontinue to whisper. “Yes, let him. And between you and me,” I say, tipping mybody over the table, “it scares the crap right out of me.”

“Well,for heaven’s sake,” she says, meeting me there at the center of the table. “Youlove him, don’t you?”

“Loveis a scary, scary thing, Norah. A very scary thing.”

Shelaughs, that high tinkling sound I’ve missed so much.

Pushingmyself back against the seat, I raise my frosty glass. “This may be the lasttime I get drunk as a real woman,” I declare.

“Oh,Brett, you mustn’t say that!” Her glass stalls in the air. “You’ll still beable to have sex, won’t you?” Her voice drops low. “You can still have sex now,right?”

“Ican since I’ve healed from the LOOP or LEEP or whatever. And apparently even ifI have the works taken out my husband won’t even know!”

Weclink. “You got married and didn’t invite me?” Her eyes have lost their focus.I follow the path of her fingers as she pinches up some salt and pitches itover her left shoulder. I lift my glass again. “You’re drunk, Norah. Plain andsimple. Like a skunk.”

“Look,”she exclaims, pointing with her knuckle at a forty-something guy in a ball capat the bar. “He’s into you. He knows you’re a real woman.”

Theguy has a three-day beard and a pretty sweet profile, a Keanu Reeveslook-alike.

“He’snot even looking this way,” I say, although I’m aware that he has been.

“Arewe going to talk about it?” says Norah, suddenly sober and dead serious.

Overher head well-padded men in blue and white and red and black chase each otherwith sticks up and down a wide, slick surface. The sound system blasts a batchof singers singing about being really happy. “Happy!” they insist.

“Ithink we need another round.” When I speak again it isn’t quite a mumble. “It’snot right to bring children into this world, Norah. It’s not safe.”

Pinchingup more salt that’s fallen from my drink, she casts it over her shoulder, herlips mouthing some habitual incantation, gestures so automatic she doesn’tnotice my amusement. “We can keep them safe. We just have to watch for signs.You can’t stop the wheels of life because some bad things happen to some peoplesome of the time.”

Happy.

“Signs?Bad things happen in this world. Bad things happen to children. Children gethurt, Norah. No rabbit’s foot or horseshoe or rain dance is going to preventthat.”

Sheswats at the air. “It’s not like that here. We have things in place.Safeguards. We’re civilized.”

Mylaugh is harsh. “Those safeguards are illusions. Wake up, Norah. Bad shithappens. It happens here, there, and everywhere. This world is a barbed-wiremaze of bad shit.”

Happy.

“Aren’tyou just a ray of sunshine? We don’t live in a third-world country, Brett.”

Ifall back against the hard wood of the booth. “It can happen. In a heartbeat.”

Shewaves her empty glass. “I don’t believe you. I think you are afraid fordifferent reasons. But if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay; I stillwant a family. I don’t care what you say, I’m not giving up.” These last wordsquaver at the end. As she tips the oversized glass to her mouth, she tilts herhead as if to pour back tears as well.

“Ineed a cigarette.”

“That’sthe stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” she says after guzzling her drink. “Youhate smoking.” She sends a knuckle out toward Keanu. “Maybe he smokes.”

Thissounds like a wonderful story, Susan. Thank you for being our guest. We wishyou continued success with your writing.

Andanother BIG thank you to all our readers and visitors.

Feelfree to tell us what’s on your mind.

The Story Behind the Story with Arts NB's Literary Art's Award Laureate and Author Valerie Sherrard of Miramichi, NB, Canada

 

We are beyond happy to have Valerie join us once more.

Valerie is the recipient of theprestigious Lieutenant Governor’s Award for high achievements in the Arts. 2024Literary Arts Awards Laureate.

Her dedication to the art of writingis an inspiration for all of us.

If you missed her previous visit, please go HERE.

She is visiting today to share theSBTS of her newest novel.

Read on my friends.

 

 

 

I’ve been writing books for young people for a couple dozen years now. Istarted writing seriously in my early forties, though I’d always wanted to createbooks. Having worked with young people for years, it was a natural choice towrite for children and teens. I enjoy producing work for all ages, from picturebooks for young children, to young adult for teens, but my ‘sweet spot’ ismiddle grade. To date I’ve had 34 books published. I chose the traditionalpublishing route as that felt like the best path for me, and I’ve been happywith the results.

This year, I was thrilled to be honoured with this province’s LieutenantGovernor Award for High Achievement in Literary Arts.

Today I’m introducing my latest young adult novel – about which Kirkusreviews says: ““[The] first-person narration will ensnare readers immediately,sustaining their interest as this compact, strongly paced story navigates redherrings and subplots. … A fast-paced page-turner that explores moral grayareas.”

 

Title: An Unbalanced Force

 

Synopsis:

EthanGranger isn’t sure what his father does for work, just that it’s lucrativeenough to support their family’s privileged lifestyle, and that it oftenrequires him to go out of town for business.

WhenEthan catches his dad in a lie, it raises unsettling questions he can’tignore.  Before long, this seeminglysmall fib reveals a clandestine and potentially illegal operation he’s beenkeeping from the family. Ironically, Ethan uses all the deceitful tricks hisfather taught him to find out the truth.

Hiringa private eye, sneaking into his father’s office, following him on his“business trips” — how far will Ethan go to expose his dad’s lies? What if thetruth forces Ethan to make a choice that could throw his whole world offbalance?

 

The Story Behind the Story:

Thisis one of my novels that grew from an idea for a title. Taken from IsaacNewton’s first law of motion, the phrase An Unbalanced Force drew me. While itgenerally relates to objects, I thought it would be interesting if applied tosituations. In this story, the main character is faced with a decision thatcould create an unbalanced force that impacts his whole world.

 

 

Website: please go HERE.

Link to Valerie’s Arts NB  Award.

Please go HERE.

A question before you go, Valerie:

Scribbler: What is the ideal spot for you whenyou write your stories? Music in the background or quiet. Coffee or tequila?Messy or neat? 

Valerie: I do most of my writing in my office – a small and somewhatcrowded room off the kitchen. I prefer coffee and quiet while I write butwelcome the sights and sounds that come from a bird feeder that hangs justoutside my window. It’s a cozy arrangement, except for one thing!

My desk possesses a magnetic force for attracting clutter. This force ispowerful enough to overcome all efforts to keep it tidy. I often come into myoffice in the morning expecting a nice, organized workspace, only to findthere’s been an overnight accumulation of chaos.

 

Excerpt from An Unbalanced Force:

 

Chapter One: Ten Years Ago

 

When I was seven years old, my fathersaved me from certain death.

That is a truth that lives in me. It formsitself into the shapes and colors of my world, and rises with me every morning,as faithful as the sun.

I am here today, and not reduced to whatis politely referred to as “remains” because of my dad.

For a number of years after that day, Ihad a great need to hear the details again and again. Often, I coaxed the storyfrom my mother while she cooked dinner or folded clothes or when the two of uswere running errands in the car.

There was something about hearing it toldto me—something about the story itself that seemed strangely solid, as thoughit was a trophy I could display on a shelf. How or why words formed themselvesinto a kind of possession I can’t explain. They just did.  

 “You had just turned seven,” my mother wouldbegin. And then, without fail, she would pause.

I wonder, looking back, what those pausesmeant. It may be that she was giving me time to transport myself to that day inmemory. Or, perhaps those few seconds were for her—a chance to steel herselfagainst the emotions she was about to relive.

“We were living in the south end of thecity,” she would say when she was ready to continue. “You remember the place,Ethan—the beige two-story house with white shutters at the windows. Your roomwas blue with beautiful white clouds painted around the top of the walls. Theprevious tenants left it that way and you never wanted us to change it.”

I have vivid memories of those clouds. Asnight fell, they seemed to swell and billow in the dancing shadows cast by anearby streetlight. They weren’t part of the story, but Mom had her own way oftelling it, and I never tried to hurry her.

“You weren’t supposed to leave the yard byyourself. Not ever.”

Sometimes Mom would look at me then. Lookright into my eyes, as if she needed to reassure herself that I was actuallythere, that my disobedience hadn’t stolen me from her. Other times, she’d hurryon to the next part.

“And of all the places you could havewandered off to, you decided to make your way to the only empty house on theblock.”

That big old empty house was like aseven-year-old-boy magnet. I’d discovered the place not long after we’d movedto that neighborhood and had already been there more times than I couldremember.

“I don’t know what could have possessedyou to do such a thing, but you actually went into the house!”

Reproach has crept into her voice at thispoint of the story and I’m not one hundred percent sure it’s all for me. HasMom really never considered that I had probably been on the vacated propertylots of other times?

Maybe not. To get there, she’d have toadmit she was a stay-at-home mother who often had no idea where her kid was.

And then she’d tell the rest of thestory—as she knew it. Mom’s version was soft and gentle, free of the terror ofthat afternoon. I wrapped it around mine like a bandage.

But half accounts will not do today. 

The empty house was faded brick, a tiredlooking place. In the heat of the summer it had a stillness that otherhomes—homes that are lived in, did not. That stillness gave it an air ofmystery. It summoned me with its breathless, heavy silence.

It drew me in.

The windows on the lower levels wereloosely boarded up, with spider-webs and bits of leaves and such in between thewooden slats that had been hammered in place. Whoever had nailed the boards onhadn’t taken many pains at the job. Otherwise, it’s doubtful the fingers of aseven-year-old boy could have pried off the single slat of wood thathalf-heartedly covered a small basement window at the back of the house.

Brushing aside the detritus I pushed myface close to the pane of glass and squinted through the film of grime thatcovered it. Except for a hulking shape I later discovered was the furnace, thebasement was nothing more than a dark haze from where I squatted.

Oh, but it promised more if I could getmyself onto the other side of that pane of glass.

The window was an old aluminum slider,seized up with dirt and inactivity. It moved an inch or two in response to mytugs and then refused to budge any further. I pulled and strained to no availand was close to giving up a few times but the prize of getting into the housekept me going.

And then, quite to my surprise, the windowyielded with a sideways jerk. Seconds later, with my heart nearly bursting, Ihad dropped to the floor inside and was tiptoeing through the deep greyshadows. The air smelled like dirty socks and swamp water and something sharp Icouldn’t identify.

A quick scan of the room told me there wasnothing worth exploring down there so I made my way up to the main floor,relieved to find the door at the top of the steps unlocked. There wasn’t muchmore on that level than there’d been downstairs—an old sideboard and a tallchild’s chair with fold-out steps, which saved the day when I was ready toleave and found I needed something to climb on to reach the window I’d come in.The final object downstairs was a cracked mirror leaning against a wall in anopen hallway closet.

I went from room to room. I walked aroundthe perimeter of each one. As I moved about, a peculiar feeling grew in mewhich I can only describe as a sense of ownership. This feeling gained strengthand seemed more real with each subsequent visit. I reveled in the thrill that Iwas alone and no one knew where I was.

I was in my house.

On the day of the incident—which happenedafter at least half a dozen visits there, I discovered the purpose of a polethat had been left in an upstairs bedroom closet. It was a plain wooden poleexcept for a metal hook on one end and I’d taken to carrying it with me,sometimes thumping it on the floor as I walked around, other times brandishingit like a sword.

On this particular foray I’d beenexploring upstairs when I noticed, for the first time, a framed rectangle onthe ceiling of the second floor hallway. I knew it had to be a passage to theattic and quickly realized the pole was the key to opening it. I fetched it andspent the next few minutes poking the pole’s hook at a metal loop until,suddenly, it took hold and a drop-down ladder descended.

For several seconds I could do nothing butstand and stare, trying to take in the incredible luck of finding a way toexpand my explorations.

Then I climbed up and into the attic.There wasn’t the slightest chance that I could have done anything else.

 

Thank you for being our guest thisweek. Congratulations on your recent Award.

We wish you continued success withyour writing.

 

 

And another HUGE thank you to all ourvisitors and readers.

The Story Behind the Story with Author Jon Hurd of New Brunswick, Canada.

 

Let’swelcome another first-timer to the Scribbler.

Jon hasgenerously accepted my invitation to be our featured guest this week.

I’mquite certain you’ll enjoy hearing the SBTS about his newest novel.

Readon my friends.

 

 

Jon Hurd works with men in addiction recoveryin Moncton, NB, Canada. Writing seriously since 2020, he has two bookscurrently in print. He loves spending time with friends, feeding people andyelling at the TV during sporting events. Jon is also the exceedingly proudfather to two girls.

 

Title: Hot Dogs on Pizza

 

Synopsis:

Jon Hurd's trove of essays and musings dives deep intolife's quirks, from friendships to faith to failures. Join in for arollercoaster that nudges you to ponder your own life’s journey and your placein the world. With wit and wisdom, this book turns everyday moments into ahumorous exploration of life's twists and turns.

 

The Story Behind the Story:

I’ve always just looked at life a little differently. Ialways wondered if other people would appreciate that view. As in my firstbook, “Jesus Farted …”, I look at life, work, people and faith and try to dowith equal parts wit, wisdom and whining. 

 

A question before you go, Jon:

Scribbler: Where is your favouritespot to write? Are you messy or neat? Your beverage of choice?

 

Jon: Thecouch. I write on my phone. Ice cold Coca Cola.

 

An Excerpt from Hot Dogs on Pizza

“When I was a kid, we grew up eating someweird things. Peanut butter and iceberg lettuce sandwiches. Bread toasted underthe broiler with Kraft singles. And instead of pepperoni, Mom would put slicedup hot dogs on our pizza.”

“Not everything makes sense in life.Sometimes you have to cobble together the pieces of who you are and what you’vedone. But pizza is pizza. There are no bad slices.”

 

 

 

Thankyou for being our guest this week, Jon. We wish you continued success with yourwriting.

 

Andthank you dear readers and visitors.

Feel free to leave a comment below. T.Y.

The Story Behind the Story with returning author S. C. Eston of Fredericton, NB, Canada.

 

Great News! Steve has a new book outand he’s here to tell us about it.

 

Surrender has been long anticipatedby fantasy lovers and Mr. Eston’s many fans.

He’s no stranger to the Scribbler andplease follow the link if you missed his previous visit.

Go HERE.

Read on my friends.

 

 

STEVE C. ESTON has been a lover of the fantastical and the scientificsince he was a young boy. He wrote his first story by hand while still inelementary school—a five-page story about a tiger-masked ninja fightingmythical monsters that included his own illustrations.

Steve has published four books: The Burden of the Protector, TheConclave, Deficiency, and The Stranger of Ul Darak (First book of the LostTyronian Archives).

When not spending time with his family, Steve makes time for his numeroushobbies, which include reading books, listening to music, playing video games,watching movies, making puzzles, and playing hockey and tennis. He also lovesto travel.

For information on current writing projects and for free short stories,head on over to:

www.SCEston.com

 

Title: Surrender, Book 1 of the Baneseeker Chronicles

Synopsis:

Lyna,a young warrior-sorceress, roams the world, looking for a place to belong whilehunting and destroying every bane core she can find—objects of pure evil thatbring madness and misery wherever they appear.

Hernext quarry lies in the isolated village of Tanasu, located at the edge ofcivilization and bordering the Territories of Sij, the land of her ancestors.There, Lyna hopes to destroy the deadliest core she’s ever faced and maybe finda place to call home.

Butwith each use of her powers, Lyna loses a part of herself; a memory of herpast, a remnant of her spirit, a piece of her strength and youth. And when sheonly finds death and a cursed land in Tanasu, Lyna starts to question if herefforts are making a difference and if there is any hope for this world, andfor herself.

NowLyna must decide. Abandon her quest and leave the world to fend for itself? Orcontinue what has become a hopeless fight—at the risk of surrendering her verysoul?

 

The Story Behind the Story:

Thankyou Allan for having me once again on the South Branch Scribbler. The idea forthis series developed over the course of many, many years. ‘Surrender’ takesplace in an imaginary world known as Arvelas. I created it as a young teenager,when I first started playing table-top role-playing games. I have beentraveling there, writing stories and hosting role-playing games, for over 35years. Arvelas is a world I know well, a place I love deeply.

Whileat university, I hosted a series of gaming sessions. During one of these games,a character played by one of the players went to the Netherworld, orunderground world, to rescue his mother who was a prisoner there. Thischaracter is none other than Onthar, the main protagonist in ‘The Conclave’,one of my published books. During this quest, Onthar was captured andimprisoned in the mines of Quartas, a dangerous and bleak place where workersare slaves with little hope of escape. This is where Onthar met Lyna, a youngshadow elf, for the first time. In exchange for her help escaping from hiscell, Onthar promised to help her reach the Surface, the world above ground. Aswe learn in ‘Surrender’, Onthar was true to his word and brought Lyna with himall the way to the city of Telstar.

Fromthe first time I met Lyna during this gaming session, I knew that she wasdestined to play a major role in Arvelas. I wanted to learn more about her, herpast, and see if she could find a new place to call home in Arvelas. Although Ihosted many other role-playing games over the following years, I was never ableto explore Lyna’s story. It is in one of these games, though, that somesinister objects of pure evil first appeared: the bane cores.

Afew years ago, I was between stories and pondering what to write next. Thereception I had received for ‘The Conclave’ had been extremely positive and afew readers had asked if I was planning on writing more stories in Arvelas. Theanswer was always yes. It was just a question of when to write, and what towrite.

Ibelieve that I mulled over this for a few days, playing with a wide array ofideas, perusing some old notes. What stood out were the bane cores, introducedin the gaming sessions I mentioned previously. These objects were not destroyedduring the games we played. In fact, by the end, they were stronger and thefuture of Arvelas was quite bleak. These objects had to be dealt with, if onlyto satiate my curiosity as to what was going to happen to Arvelas next. Whileconsidering what and if I could write anything about these objects, I stumbledon my notes for the gaming sessions of Onthar in the Netherworld. One namestood out then: Lyna di’Stavan.

There,I had it... the main protagonist.

Ialready had the setting: Arvelas. I had objects of pure evil that needed to bedestroyed. I had thought for a while of exploring a new genre: dark fantasy.

Ihad most of the ingredients for a brand new series.

Whatwas missing? Well, that would have to be discovered after I sat down, andstarted to write.

 

Website: Please go HERE.


An Excerpt from ‘Surrender’

A cart pulled by a single gray horse appeared on the crest of the hill. At its helm, a bulky man held the reins in one hand and the edge of his cowl in the other. As the cart made its way down the slope, the wheels left two muddy trails in the snow.

Lyna stepped off the road, conceding the way. Above, the dark sky reminded her of her motherland, its thick clouds forming a ceiling just as compact as the cavernous rocks of Karlynas. Although it was midmorning, the sun had yet to show its face.

Since she had branched off toward the north, leaving the Green Road that had once connected the realms of Tilia and Istagon, darkness had gotten heavier, bleeding freely into the day. The phenomenon was anything but natural and Lyna wondered if this was a manifestation of the Territories of Sij, her intended destination.

The cart slowed down and stopped in front of Lyna. A treated canvas covered a significant quantity of merchandise in the back. Most likely a peddler.

Beside the man, on the end of a pole, a pendant in the shape of a leaf swung left and right. The symbol of Mitra, deity of protection and healing. It was common practice in these lands to display one on your travels.

“Turn back,” said the driver, without looking her way. A large nose and a black beard stuck out of the hood. The hair was unnaturally dark, most likely oiled and colored. “You heard me?”

“I did,” said Lyna.

At her voice, the man turned his head sideways. “I know that accent,” he said.

Lyna doubted he did. She also knew he could not make out her face hidden inside her own hood.

“An elf, from Quilanis?”

“No,” said Lyna.

She was not welcome in Quilanis. The Quil’an didn’t think favorably of their cousins from the Nether.

The man snorted, as if he did not believe her. The horse puffed, wanting to leave. It was a beautiful animal, its coat thick and smooth. Even though it was not the typical mount a knight would ride, Lyna guessed that it originated from Erlinia.

The peddler let the animal take a few steps. The wheels of the cart creaked as they went in and out of a hole.

“No matter,” he said. “Turn around. Whatever business you have in this place isn’t worth your while.”

At the man’s feet, Lyna noticed a single boot, on top of which rested a torn cloak. Both garments were too small for the driver.

“What happened to your partner?” she asked.

The man looked down and touched the cloak. “This land is cursed, and the village…”

The peddler shook his head.

“What happened?” Lyna asked again.

“They took him!” he said. “They took him and they gave him to the woods.”

“A sacrifice?”

“Call it what you want. I say it’s insanity.”

“Who did this?”

“The villagers. The Territories muddle their minds. Who can blame them?” The man shifted as if to look over his shoulder, but stopped himself.

“I thought only the Red Shield were allowed to ban captives into Sij.”

“Officially, yes. But who would know? This is the end of the world. No one cares what happens here.”

“Some care enough to come all this way and trade.”

The man stared at her and mumbled something she could not make out.

The horse took another step. “Turn back,” repeated the peddler. “This is my advice to a fellow traveler, freely given. Heed the warning of an honest trader, I say, and return from whence you came.”

With those words, the peddler whipped the reins and the horse jumped forward—and Lyna stretched time, suddenly, with great force. The cart’s movements slowed down, as if it was pushing through thick quicksand, slowed until the cart barely moved.

Lyna closed her eyes and took a deep breath, enjoying the flow of energies whirling around her and through her, feeling relief, feeling free, and feeling the cold and dominant presence of the core to the north.

When she opened her eyes, the peddler and the horse had not budged, one of the man’s hands open and reaching but not yet touching his cowl, which had moved back ever so slightly under the wind.

Lyna went to the back of the cart, untied a hemp rope, and lifted the canvas. Under, on one side, elongated wooden boxes were stacked from front to back. Food, most likely oats, some vegetables, possibly even flour. Common items, but it made sense that a village as isolated as Tanasu would welcome such wares. It made less sense that the peddler would leave without selling any of it.

On the other side, round casks held beer, wine, or a combination of both. The containers were in passable condition. Farther down, one leaked and the smell suggested that its contents were as cheap as the barrel they were stored in.

Lyna retied the rope and stepped back to her initial position. Something was not right. She had half expected to find a body hidden in the back of the cart. She wondered why she cared and realized she didn’t.

Once again, she had called upon her ability to drink from it, not because it served any useful purpose. She hated how craven she had become, how dependent. Yet she hesitated to let go of the energy. What harm would it do if she held on just a little longer? The energy flowed around her, caressed her, swaddled her. She almost felt safe in this place between realities, where time bent to her will.

Safe and reinvigorated… momentarily. The reassuring feeling was an illusion. Dizziness and disorientation would follow, her body aching for the power, demanding it. For now though, for just an instant, Lyna felt at peace.

She breathed in deeply and reluctantly let go. Time flowed back to normal, and instantly the horse’s hooves found the ground and jerked the cart forward. It quickly gained speed.

The peddler kept his head low and didn’t look back. For him and his horse, the short pause had never taken place. The cart negotiated the partially hidden road fairly well, Lyna’s own prints hinting as to where it was. A few moments later, the peddler and his wares disappeared between the trees at the bottom of the hill.




Thanks for sharing the good news, Steve. I’m anxious to get my hands on a copy. Thanks also for being our guest this week. We wish you continued success with your writing.


And another HUGE Thank You to all our visitors and readers.
Feel free to tell us what’s on your mind.

The Story Behind the Story with Author Zev Bagel of New Brunswick, Canada.

Zev is no stranger to the Scribbler. We've been fortunate enough to have him visit previously to discuss his earlier writing. 

This time, however, he is sharing theSBTS of his newest novel which has been published by Merlin Star Press of New Brunswick,Canada. 

I invite you to check out their website. Links are below.

If you missed Zev’s previous visit,please go HERE.

Read on my friends.

 

Zev Bagel is a two-time winner of the David Adams Richards Award and wasshort-listed for the Atlantic writing awards.

Born in the UK, he moved to Calgary, Alberta in 1994, and to NewBrunswick in 2009, where he lives overlooking Shediac Bay with his wife, artistNicole Tremblay. The Romanian Cleaning Lady is his fifth novel. The others are BernieWaxman & the Whistling Kettle, Secrets, Solitary, and The Last Jew in Hania.

 

Title: The Romanian Cleaning Lady – a Bright & Breasy mystery

 

Synopsis: Lizzy Bright has just opened her office as a private investigator and her first inquiry seems like a prank. When the case takes her into the murky world of prostitution and human smuggling Lizzy is in over her head, until retired Detective Inspector William Breasy appears. But Breasy also has his air of mystery, not least the fact that he was a friend of Lizzy’s father, who vanished when she was eleven. The shadows from her past weave through the darkness of the present, pulling Lizzy deeper into a web of dangerous secrets.

Based in the historic city of Canterbury in England, this is the first in the Bright & Breasy mystery series by Zev Bagel.

The Story Behind the Story: I always wanted to write a mystery novel but feltintimidated. When I watched a BBC TV series about two private eyes called‘Shakespeare and Hathaway’ based in Stratford-upon-Avon, home of the Bard, Iwas inspired to have a go. I set my stories in Canterbury, the historic town inEngland, that I know very well, and which it seems has not been a setting forany similar books. Having ‘discovered’ Lizzy Bright and William Breasy, I havebecome well-acquainted with them and love this odd couple. I wanted the storiesto be relatively light, so a ‘cozy mystery’ series rather than gory murders,which is why this pair of investigators are focused on finding missing persons.

Ihave already completed the second book in the ‘Bright & Breasy’ series, andam about to start on the third.

****Zev's Website: Please go HERE.****


A question before you go, Zev:

Scribbler: What is the ideal spot for you when you write your stories? Music in the background or quiet. Coffee or tequila? Messy or neat?

Zev: I usually write at my desk on the computer. If I raise myself from my seat, I have a view of Shediac bay, which is always inspirational – or if it’s not, it’s relaxing. My desk is littered with odd scraps of paper, books and other paraphernalia, underneath which a telephone lurks. When I get stuck, I might call up ‘Coffitivity’ and listen to sounds of coffee-shop chatter. It makes me think I’m surrounded by people, which encourages me to keep writing. Every now and then, I will take an excerpt and read it to my wife, Nicole. This helps me to be more objective about what I’m writing and if it’s working the way I want.


An Excerpt from The Romanian Cleaning Lady.

Lizzywalked into her flat, pulled off her shoes and flopped onto the sofa. Shehadn’t responded to any calls or messages for several hours. Now she scannedthrough her phone to see what was there. The only two she felt at all likeresponding to were Katya and Michael. Her friend could wait a little longer.She called her son.

“OhMum.” His voice sounded croaky. “I was kind of wondering if I can come and stayfor a bit. Few nights, that’s all. That okay?”

“Ofcourse, dear. You do know there’s not much room, and the spare room is a bit ofa mess at the moment. Bed’s made up, though. Did you want to come round thisevening?”

“Beright there.”

Thedoorbell buzzed thirty seconds later. Michael stood there, holdall in hand, adour expression on his face. Lizzy knew that look. It was Michael’s message ofdisappointment at a loss, of unfairness, at himself. Perhaps all three.

“Thatwas quick,” said Lizzy, opening her arms to him. Michael was not the huggytype. He made an exception this time as he walked into her embrace and let hismother hold him.

“I’vebeen sitting in the car,” he said. “Been there for an hour or so. Actually, Iwas dozing when you called.”

“SorryI didn’t call you back earlier, Michael. Been quite hectic today. Now let’s getsomething to eat. You can sort yourself out in the spare room, and you can tellme what’s going on if you want to. Not that I’m likely to be surprised.” Shewished she hadn’t said any of the last part. She was turning too much into herown mother.

Theexhaustion she’d felt as she came through the door dissipated. She poked herhead into the fridge and delved into cupboards, grabbing an implausibleselection of ingredients which she transformed into a meal for both of them.While the pots simmered, she tended to Limpy, who looked at her with eyes sobaleful Lizzy experienced the sense of shame she used to have whenever she lefther children to fend for themselves.

“Justneed some time apart,” said Michael with his mouth full. “Sarah’s going throughsome kind of, I dunno, some kind of crisis or whatever. Said she’s trying tofind herself. Reading all kinds of stuff. Self-improvement she calls it. Orself-realization. Why it means I have to move out beats me. She says she has tohave some space. Says she loves me but can’t be with me while she’s doing herown thing. Do you have any idea what all that means, Mum? Is that what happenedwith you and Dad?”

“Whathappened between me and your father was Paula,” Lizzy said, regretting thewords the moment they escaped her mouth. She felt a grudging admiration forSarah, and wished she knew her better, a feeling that turned to guilt for beingdisloyal to her son. She must have a lot to learn from Sarah.

“Anyway,”said Michael, “I won’t be here long, whatever happens. And I’ll pay for mykeep.”

“You’lldo no such thing. Tell you what, though. You could do some more work on mywebsite. I have a new person working with me and he should be up there. ExDetective Inspector. Impressive, eh? And I think I can do a better video nowthat I've actually experienced some detective work.” Michael, she knew, hadalready exceeded the usual limit of his personal revelations. Any more and he’ddrop off to sleep on the sofa. She would get more of his story in slivers, asthough picking up the shards of a broken glass with tweezers. They couldinspect the fragments after a few days; perhaps to see if the glass wasrepairable, perhaps to understand its fragility and accept its demise.

Lizzytalked to her son about her work, without mentioning specifics, apart from thelatest event—the search for a lost child, which was out of their hands, andwould soon be in the newspapers. Mostly, she talked about Bill Breasy.

“Youmean, he knew my grandfather?”

 Michael always loved stories of her father.Lizzy never got used to the fact that her son wanted to know about someonewho’d disappeared twelve years before he was born. She deduced it was becauseMichael had an unsatisfying relationship with his own father, and a minimal onewith his paternal grandfather. John Bright, however, remained a mystery, andoffered the possibility of some undefined discovery. It must appeal even now toMichael’s sense of potential adventure, which he manifested through his creationof online video games.

“Theyused to be in the same drama group. They were known as Bright and Breasy. Notthat they did a double act with the name.”

“Brilliant,”said Michael. “Am I going to meet him soon?”

“Ifyou like.”

“Great.Wait a minute. Don’t tell me. You’re not going to be the Bright and BreasyDetective Agency?”

“’fraidso. It depends. Anyway, brace yourself.”

Ithad turned past midnight by the time Lizzy got to bed. She’d forgotten to phoneKatya. She dreamt of lines of police digging in muddy fields searching for abody.

Merlin Star Press – please go HERE.


Fantastic story, Zev. Thanks for introducing us to Lizzy and William, Thanks also, for being our guest this week. We wish you continued success with your stories.

And a Humongous THANK YOU to all our visitor and readers.
Feel free to share your thoughts with us.

The Story Behind the Story with Artist & Author/Poet Brian Francis of New Brunswick, Canada.

 

TheScribbler is fortunate to have Brian,  a fellow New-Brunswicker, join us this week.

 

 

Imet Brian online through another author friend and he has kindly accepted our invitation to beour guest.

Let’swelcome him to our pages.

 

Readon my friends.

 

In this intimate collection of writing and art, Brian J. Francis invites us to explore the sacred space within. Through vision, prayer, and dream work, Francis channels messages from the ancestors to help us contemplate themes of nature, mortality, truth, and reconciliation. The result is a shimmering testament to his Mi’kmaq ancestors, and a pledge to the next generation. Guiding us beyond spirit and nation boundaries, this eloquent read is ideal for anyone seeking sanctuary, sacred space, and a comfortable seat at their own altar.

 

From www.bearpawmedia.ca

 

 

 

 

 

 

Title: BetweenTwo Worlds – Spiritual Writings and Photographs 

Synopsis:

Between Two Worlds: Spiritual Writingsand Photographs" is a deeply personal and introspective collection ofwritings and photographs spanning 20 years. As an Indigenous person, the authornavigates the intersection of ancient spirituality and modern life, sharingwisdom gained through dreams, visions, and ceremony. This poignant andthought-provoking book explores themes of past-life experiences, current challenges,and the quest for balance between spiritual and worldly realms. Through theauthor's unique lens, readers are invited to reflect on their own place withinthe world and the interconnectedness of all things 

 

 

The Story Behind the Story:  

I would say it is a “statement’ and expression of mycurrent “worldview” of my world. 

I look at the state of our “Nation “with mixedfeelings and emotions. I see where we are, where we have been and where we aregoing.  

With life changing so fast that we do not even have achance to “save” ourselves. So, i guess I've tried to capture my own snapshotof time, to bring attention to something sacred in this realm calledlife.   

Spirituality is a very highly misunderstood“phenomenon”, with each one's life experiences guided by their own spiritualjourney, some knowing and some no knowing what that may be. 

 

 

Website: please go HERE.

 

A question before you go, Brian:



Scribbler: What is the ideal spot for you when you write your stories? Music in the background or quiet. Coffee or tequila? Messy or neat?

Brian: In reality, I write mostly in the early mornings between 5-8 , themajority of what I’ve written in my book was written, moments after a ceremony,when the words just come to me.  I love music, but while writing I amimmersed in my thoughts and my struggle of translating Mi’kmaw thoughts into English, so it's difficult with music, I love my coffee, and my work is usually on themessy side. 

An Excerpt from Between Two Worlds – Spiritual Writings and Photographs

Muted Tones By Brian Francis

I lived in a different world.
A dark, black world of alone
I saw color within the confines of my soul
But lived a life of muted tones

All I ever wanted was to be seen.
To be heard, not even to be understood
I spoke and no one listened
So I spoke to the demons in my mind.

I know who I am.
I know where I’ve been
Treading the deep waters of life.
I still paddle towards the shores
I am surrounded with mixed minds and bodies
Mixed eyes and mixed feelings

I am here yet , I am not seen
I scream but in muted tones
I recoiled into my place of comfort
The comfort of the darkness kept me safe.

The colors of the palette will eventually fade
And the words of the heart eventually forgotten
I stood up now and again, uncovered myself to
Experience breath,
It is beautiful , just as I had always imagined,
But overwhelming for the jumbled mind like mine

I know the confines of my soul.
I may rise once again, I may speak once again
For someone may hear the muted tones

Thank you for sharing your work and for being our guest, Brian.We wish you continued success with your writing.

 

And a BIGthank you to all our visitors and readers.

 

Tell us what you like about theScribbler in the comment box below. T.Y.

The Story Behind the Story with Andrew MacLean of NB, Canada.

 

Let’s welcome Andrew, anothernew-comer to the Scribbler.

 

He has kindly accepted our invitation to be the featured guest this week.

His books are flying offthe shelves and garnishing great reviews.

He’s sharing the SBTS withus today.

Read on my friends.

 

 

 

 

 

Andrew MacLean is the author of two Backyard History books (with athird coming in November 2024), the writer of the Backyard History newspapercolumn that appears weekly in 19 newspapers), the host of the Backyard HistoryPodcast, and the scriptwriter of the Backyard History TV Show hosted byBellFibe. 

 

His truehistorical writings combine meticulous research with vivid storytelling,captivating anecdotes, and the human touch Atlantic Canadians are known for.

 

 

Title: Backyard History: Forgotten Stories From Atlantic Canada’s Past (VolumesOne and Two)

 

 

Synopsis:

BackyardHistory unearths the often hilarious, mostly mysterious, always surprising untoldstories of Canada’s East Coast, as only a Maritimer can spin them.

 

These twoextraordinary collections gather the very best from Andrew MacLean’s popularnewspaper column and podcast now enhanced with fresh insights and discoveries.

 

The Story behind the Story:

Back inearly 2020 I was travelling everywhere from Nunavut to Miami tracking globalclimate change with airplanes equipped with lasers. Three days before moving toBoston, the border shut down because of a global pandemic, and I along with 87co-workers were mass-fired over a Zoom call.

 

I movedback home to New Brunswick where I spent my pandemic taking long hikes throughrural areas. I started wondering about obscure tales from the past …specifically, a tall tale of a sea monster nicknamed “Old Ned” from little LakeUtopia, NB.

 

I do havea background in History—a degree I hadn’t found especially useful until thatpoint—so I dug into old newspaper reports and contemporary eyewitness sightingsof Old Ned from the 1800s. Then I wrote it up as a story, inspired by the waymy grandfather told me stories in Tide Head, NB when I was a kid.

 

I putwhat I thought of as a rather silly sea monster story up on social media toentertain my friends during pandemic lockdowns, and the damn thing went viral!

 

It gotshared by some big meme accounts, a huge national podcast asked me for aninterview, and then the newspaper I once delivered on my bicycle as a littleboy called and asked if they could pay me to write stuff like that every week.

 

Now thatcolumn appears in 19 newspapers every week, I have 2 books (plus a third onecoming out in November!) and my own podcast, all under the Backyard Historyname.

 

And I oweit all to, of all things, a sea monster! 

                          

WEBSITE: Please go HERE.

 

 A question before you go, Andrew:  

Scribbler: Where is your favourite spot to write? Are you messy or neat? Your beverage of choice?

Andrew: I’mreally not very precious about where I write. I’ve written stories in the car(as a passenger, not while driving!) and on ferries. In fact, I am writing myanswers to this questionnaire as I sit in the Saint John City Market withAmerican cruise ship passengers milling about. (I just had quite the littleargument with one fellow who is absolutely convinced he is in St. John’s,Newfoundland and doesn’t believe me when I tell him we are actually in SaintJohn, New Brunswick!)

 

Normallythough, my environment would be at home and would be clean: things put away,floors swept, dishes done, etc. … to all the better make a huge mess with mywriting! 

 

When I’mreally going I’ll have photocopies of old newspaper clippings, scrawledremarks, post-it notes, etc. all over my desk, on nearby tables, the floor … toan onlooker it’s got all the hallmarks of a natural disaster rolling through,but to me, I know where everything is!

 

I’d becaffeinated to the hilt with music —typically Arcade Fire—almost always playingin the background.

 

 

EXCERPT:

 

You’veheard of “Nessie” from Loch Ness, “Ogopogo” in Okanagan Lake but have you heardof New Brunswick’s own lake monster, “Old Ned”? 

 

Read thefull version of the aforementioned article that launched Backyard History “OldNed, The Lake Utopia Monster”   Go HERE. 

 

Watch for it!!!

 

Thankyou for being our guest this week, Andrew. We look forward to book #3 and hopeyou’ll return one day to tell us about it.

Wewish you continued success with your writing.

 

And aSpecial Thank You to our visitors and readers.

Feelfree to leave a comment.

The Story Behind the Story with Author Anna Dowdall of Toronto, ON, Canada.

 

It’s a real pleasure to have Annaback as our featured guest.

She’s sharing the SBTS of her newestnovel this week.

If you missed her previous visit, please go HERE.

I’m looking forward to reading thisstory.

Read on my friends.

 

Anna Dowdall was born in Montreal and currently lives in Toronto.  She likes to write mystery novels infusedwith a kind of otherworldly Canadiana, creating characters that seem real andfairy tale-ish at once.  The SuspensionBridge is her fourth novel and the first to feature reluctant amateur sleuthSister Harriet of Bingham, whom she cautiously asserts to be Canada’s first nunsleuth.

 

 

Title:  The Suspension Bridge (Radiant Press, October 2024)

 

Synopsis:
In this irreverent and immersive pilgrim’s progress set in a Canadian river city, Sister Harriet plunges into new teaching duties at a boarding school where girls ominously begin to disappear. Between sleuthing and teaching, Harriet hardly has time for her secret identity crisis. But it’s 1962, and the whole world is restless. Hellbent on glory, Bothonville (pronounced Buttonville) is building a gigantic bridge, unaware everyone is falling victim to its destructive influence. Amid the dreams and double lives, the monsters and mayhem, who will make it out alive?
 

The Story Behind the Story:

WhenI was young I had a series of dreams about supernatural bridges I was trying tocross.  If they weren’t ill-intentionedlike the highway to hell bridge in my new book, they were certainly mysteriousand portentous.  That’s one source.  I was raised very Catholic, by Irish parentsin a traditional French Canadian community. When I was ruminating one day about how to write a mystery that’s littleoff-beat and historical while doing hardly any research--being a lazy soul—Ihad a “duh” moment regarding mining all that unique cultural experience.  In fact, I love books featuring clericalsleuths; they range from cozy to darkly metaphysical and I love them all.  As for what one of my book sponsors referredto as my quietly droll narrative voice, I’ve been accused of flippancy andsimilar all my life, but now I get to go with it in my stories. 

 

            Website – please go HERE

A question before you go, Anna:

Scribbler: Your books have been called literary mysteries. What the heck does that mean?

Anna: I rely on the conventions of the mystery novel and then bend and bend again and see where that goes. My books are middlebrow, but with secret depths. I enjoy description and the use of what one literary agent accusingly termed “big words,” I play with themes and symbols, and the wrapping up of the mystery features deliberate improbabilities and dangling threads. But The Suspension Bridge is still discernibly a mystery. You can certainly read it for its twisting and turning plot and final reveal, also its recognizable character types like the hapless detective and the relatable amateur sleuth.



An Excerpt from The Suspension Bridge.


Sister Harriet had doubts about what she was about to undertake, but the arrival of the fire department early the next day for a timely inspection—they were going to have a couple of overdue fire drills once the girls were back—seemed to her a propitious sign. Perpetua assembled a band of nuns to do a walkabout with the inspectors, but some of the nuns were in the middle of things and so others were substituted. The resulting mild bedlam, making her absence easier to miss, smiled on her endeavour.

The keys to the senior girls’ dorms were simple to extract from the office, with only Lester the cat to witness the act. The fire team had moved on to another part of the school by the time Harriet let herself into Laura Rome’s old room. Each boarder had an alcove of her own, with a bed, a closet and a desk. It wasn’t hard to find Laura’s cubicle, the attractive clothes set it apart.

Harriet felt odd, going through the dead girl’s effects, but how else could she leave the school grounds without being noticed by the reporters still camped out front? Things were being boxed up for the Rome family to pick up, and someone was coming tomorrow. Harriet could have borrowed some other girl’s clothes. But with the first students coming back at the end of the week that could lead to complications. A little voice told her she would hang onto what she borrowed today.

Trying on Laura’s clothes felt even odder. She ignored the dress up clothes and uniform, the latter somehow hardest to look at. She wanted casual and warm. She settled on a woolen turtleneck and corduroy pants that she only had to roll up a little at the ankles. She grabbed a shoulder bag as an afterthought. She burrowed through the boxes before she found an oversized pompom beret she could pull down over her face, and an insulated pea jacket. The whole thing worked. The hat hid her no-style choppy hair, and with a scarf to cover her lower face she was unrecognizable. A boyish young woman in a modish getup stared back at her in the mirror. She swung by her room to pick up the Marimekko bag—better than Laura’s purse—and slipped out the back exit.

She scaled the wall behind the barn where the trespassing journalist had entered. When she emerged in full view of the news teams out front her heart was thumping. She got a glance or two, but there was nothing to interest them in this young woman with a tote, probably a Vivamus coed, crossing the intersection.

Harriet was practically giddy with success when she got the same reaction on the half-filled bus: casual glances, but so different from the furtive no-look looks that greeted her as a nun. She’d never ridden a Bothonville bus before and she enjoyed the passing scene in the sunshine. She knew where to transfer for the bus to Turpentine Flats.

It had occurred to her that Florene must be there, if she was anywhere. The shanty towns had an on-again off-again, but mostly off-again, relationship to civilization and officialdom, for everything from taxes to electricity supply. The police had known to go to the River Flats address. Roger had been described as a resident of River Flats. Did anyone even know about the existence of a second cabin at Turpentine Flats? If Florene was missing, and not in the hands of welfare authorities or the supposed cousin, it was possible she was there.

The second bus let her off at the mouth of Factory Alley. The walk through towering grey walls and belching stacks was eerie, and she almost lost her way when she was once again crossing the frozen fields. I’m always here, always doing this. A peculiar thought, perhaps not even true, and yet it felt true. Her booted feet balancing on the snow-crusted ridges, the fence of trees rising up on the horizon. Surely she’d done this before.

She plunged into the twilit world under the canopy. She remembered the footpaths leading to the Sherwoods’ place. She knocked on the sagging door. The weasel-faced boy gave her a shock when he suddenly wrenched open the door. She didn’t introduce herself. What could she say? “You won’t recognize me but I am one of the sisters who visited?” Confidence was the key.

“I’m looking for Florene Pellerin.” No reaction. She gestured to her bag. “I’ve brought her some things.” The boy’s eyes dropped to the bulging bag, back up to Harriet’s face. He frowned, as if something nagged at him but he couldn’t think what.

“Things she needs.” Harriet hefted the Marimekko. “I know she’s being helped by neighbours, but you can’t do it all by yourselves.”

The hostility lessened. He looked behind him into the house, made up his mind. He grabbed a coat and stepped outside.

“I’ll take you.” He gave her a shove along the path.

He was bigger than he’d seemed before, and she didn’t much care for walking ahead of him through the semi-darkness. The back of her neck and the space between her shoulder blades tingled. He occasionally called out “left” or “right.” The place was big, it went on and on. Cabins and huts crouched amid the roots of great trees in a way that made River Flats look positively suburban. She became disoriented. It grew darker, as if evening could decide to come whenever it felt like it in this alternate world.

When he told her to stop, she didn’t see the dwelling at first, for the rudimentary door was half concealed down a tunnel of vines. She could just see the shape of a structure behind it, camouflaged by trunks and shrubbery. She wouldn’t have thought anyone lived there.

“Is this where she lives?” But Harriet spoke to herself.

She knocked. Presently she heard slight noises. There were cracks in the wood and she tried to look benign. The door opened, and Florene appeared.

“I’d know you anywhere, Sister.”





Thank you for being our guest this week, Anna. We wish you tremendous success with your writing.


And a Special Thank You to all our visitors and readers.
Tell us your thoughts in the comment section below. I know Anna would love to hear from you.

The Story Behind the Story with Author Mark E. Shupe of Halifax & Calgary, Canada.

 

Let’s welcome Mark to the Scribbler.

 

He is a newcomer to the blog, and mostwelcome. 

His book is garnishing many 5-star reviews and he has kindly agreed to share the SBTSwith us today.

Read on my friends.

 

Mark looks like an everyday bland Clark Kent. If Clark Kent had a moreboring profession like an accountant. But inside, Mark is a burgundy and blueclad Shuperhero, whose chin sometimes scrapes the sidewalk while he is flying.He dabbled in sports writing, but quit just before cable sports increased thenumber of sports journalists tenfold. Apparently, his watch runs three yearstoo late.(It does however play the bagpipes) He is also a whirl of creativityimagination, and angst. He dampens his natural energy by running marathons,walking all the streets in a city (i.e. Halifax, Calgary, Dieppe) or consuminglarge amounts of chocolate. He has three children who are all taller and complainthat he makes too many Dad jokes. He pretended to be an accountant for thirtyyears, all the while writing the most epic of epic fantasies which someday,fates willing, will be his published masterpiece. Upon retirement, he toneddown the zaniness of his writing to produce the Wish Doctor, which received astarred review from the Miramichi Reader. Mark likes to travel, hike, makejokes and puns, be outside and read comic books while eating chocolate. Oh andhe owns 32000 comic books. He’s read 30000 of them.

The doctors’ told him his arteries were so clogged, unless he got hit bya bus, he was going to die of a heart attack. To which he answered, “Anybodygot the number of that bus?”

 

 

Title: The Wish Doctor

 

Synopsis:

For 500 years, The Wish Doctor has battled the evil spirits that make wishes go wrong. Now, the number of wishes going wrong are increasing. The wish he has made to stave off a fatal heart attack is wearing off. He needs to find a replacement or the number of bad wishes will overwhelm the world. So he opens the School of Wish in the aptly named Baddeck, Cape Breton. He invites 22 of the most outlandish characters, all susceptible to the power of wish Magic. The Wish Doctor uses his last birthday wish to wish for a replacement. What can possibly go wrong with a wish like that?

 

 

The Story Behind the Story:  

Wewere traveling in Ireland and on a bus trip to the Giant’s Causeway we saw amovie about a human and a leprechaun in a wish battle, which had me thinkingabout wishes and how they go wrong. There really should be someone who helpedtrain people to make wishes correct. Later we were in the West of Island on afairy trail with all sorts of little fairy houses and doors. The storycrystalized in my head. Details were added while telling the story to my sonwhile we walked through poets corner in Central Park, New York. The story tookon gravitas when I had two heart attacks and realized I had to turn over myresponsibilities to a new generation – hence the need for the Wish Doctor tocreate the School of Wish. Of course, I don’t believe in telling anythingcompletely seriously. Even with dire consequences, one must keep their sense ofhumor with them, so the plot of the Wish Doctor is actually propelled by puns.The cornerstone of my life.

Ohyeah, despite the imagination of this book, every single scene, is based onsomething from my real life. After you have read the book, think about thatline. What kind of life has this guy had?

Website: Please go HERE. 


A question before you go, Mark:

Scribbler: What is the ideal spot for you when you write your stories? Music in the background or quiet. Coffee or tequila? Messy or neat?


Mark: Outside, feet lifted, staring into the sky, sea, mountain or garden. Scotch is the correct beverage. Chamomile tea for editing. My Scotch is kept in an antique globe bar, my beloved spouse gave me celebrating the publication of The Wish Doctor. My mind is an unorderly, orderly mess. My outside world, which I don’t often see due to the flashing lights of imagination, in my head, is a string of chaos theory, decorated with gingerbread icing swirls.

Currently, we are spending our writing time in our piece of heaven known as WishLight Cottage with the view of a famous little lighthouse.

At low tide, behind our summer house is the Wine and Sand Bar, where only the grandest tales are told. We encourage people to visit us. You never know what kind of story you are going to hear…

Photo from Mark's website.

An Excerpt from the Wish Doctor



From Chapter 19, The Danger of Birthdays

The Wish Doctor’s ninth lesson:

 

“A birthday wish is almost always useless. Unless you want to invitetrouble. It is the single type ofwish most likely to go wrong.”

“Why?” Christianasked. “I make birthday wishes all the time.”

The WishDoctor felt like shaking his head.“I’m well aware of that. It’s why the true colour of your face is purple andwhy you always have termitesin your pants.”

The other studentslaughed. They thoughthe was joking.

“To get a birthday wish right, to make it so that the languageis airtight, that nothing can go wrong, to overcome a granter’sdesire to make the wish go wrong, isalmost impossible.

“Since a birthdaywish is yoked to the turn of time, it can rarely be used or boosted in conjunctionwith a pure wish, making it even more difficult to use, or use withoutsomething going wrong. Yet even so, a birthday wish sometimes may be your only way to solvea problem.

“Everyone has a set of birthday wishes, andthough you may give them away, no one may takethem. In an emergency, if you know how, you may borrow a birthday wishfrom the future, as long as it is froma year in which you will stillbe alive.

“To make a birthday wish work takes greateffort. If you can do that, you can make almost any wish work.You must use the principles I will discusswith you now in makingmost wishes, but most certainly for birthday wishes. But first I have to make you promise onething.”

He looked across the class with the most seriousexpression the students had yet seen upon his face.

“You must promise me you will not make abirthday wish until you have made it to fourth year and then only with myblessing. We cannot continue until you promise me this. Raise both hands if youagree.”

Syd was the first to raise his hand, and mostfollowed quickly. Alma could not help looking at the triplets. Not for thefirst time did they raise their hands last, but they did.

The Doctor took a deep breath and called for all eyes to look upon him, and all earsto hear. If ever anyone of them wereto learn enough to be his replacement, they must learn this lesson.

“To make a wishhappen, you must never have just one wishto use. At minimum you need nine wishes. Nine wishes, so maybe, maybe, you can makeone come true. Without disastrous circumstances.

“Use the first three wishesas protection wishes, to protectthe actual wish you make.Use them to guardagainst misinterpretation, whether wilful or unwilful.

“The last three wishes are mitigation wishes,wishes to make sure that another wish doesn’t come along and undo the wish you made. The power of magic is always in flux and seeks to find balance. An unprotected wish may seem okay today, but other wishes will seek toundo what you have done. Unlessyou mitigate your wish, it will be undone.

“The fifth wish is usually the best wish to beyour actual wish, but you must know the natureof the granter, if there is a granter. There are some who just detest the fifthwish. If it is a wish using naturalforces, then five is the best because nature favours the number five.” The Doctor held up his left hand spreading out his five fingers.

“Use the fourth wish to protectthat the wish doesnot later become unbearable. We call thisthe Midas protection.

“The sixth wish isa wish that allows you to reversethe wish you just made in casesomething went wrong. We call this the escape wish.

“Your studies over the next yearwill be difficult, let me warn you. You need to learnhow to harness the power of nine wishes to make a wish to help undo awish that has gone wrong. And, rarely, for the pure benefit of the wish itself. Most of you won’t be able todo it. Most of you will be sent home. But maybe one of you or two of you willlearn to do it and begranted tuition for a second year.

“I wish you well,” the Wish Doctor said.

Thank you for being our special guest this week, mark. We wish you continued success with your writing.

And another HUGE thank you to all our visitors and readers.
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