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Coville and Stine, Lewis and Riordan: The Makings of Geniuses

I never paid attention to my seven-year-old son’s hobbies, until his school held a reading marathon and I recorded his daily page count. My first grade son read 164 chapter book pages per day. He attended school, participated in sports four days a week and played hard on the weekends; yet, dedicated free time to reading.

Where did it all begin?

Perhaps two weeks after he was born. Feeling stir-crazy, I played folk songs while wiggling his arms and legs as if he were a puppet in The Sound of Music. Three times a day, I read seven picture books – twenty-one picture books per day. That made for hundreds of fantastical stories with dazzling artwork and catchy phrases. I covered numerous Bible picture books. We visited the library two or three times a week and hung out at the Thomas the Tank Engine section of our local book store once a week. I questioned whether such a young child gained anything  but appreciated interacting with him and staying busy.

By the time he was two, he became interested in non fiction books. Not only obsessed with weather, horses, and reptiles, he taught himself the spellings and facts about dinosaurs. I only wished I could go back to high school and retake a few tests.

By the time he was four, I read Bruce Coville books out loud. Imaginative, ironic and inviting, Coville novels sparked in my son a yearning to know the “what ifs” of the world. My son proved he was listening all those years by finding similarities in the plots. He gathered his Coville books together and counted the pages.

“Hey, in all his books, his first chapter is X number of pages long. They enter the fantasy world around Y number of pages. The bad guy shows up around Z page. Do you think the author did that on purpose?” He flipped through several books to show me the similarities.

“Really? The author follows a rhythm for his outlines? That’s impressive that you noticed.” I wondered why I never thought to count the pages.

He’d ask me to reread certain scenes from the Coville novels, digesting whether a boy would actually twist a ring and say the magic words if he knew he’d turn into a monster. Was it bad to be a monster? He was never quite sure whether a girl should trust a unicorn. He wanted to fully understand the cave scene.

When he was five, I was in charge of reading R.L. Stine books to him, but I wasn’t dedicated enough. He wanted to know what happened too soon for me to keep up and so he started reading by himself in the bathtub. No boy could resist opening the cover when rewarded with a moaning ghost.

Along came the Black Stallion. A boy, an adventure, and my son read it independently and noticed typos. By then, he wanted to be a hero.

Vacationing in Virgin Gorda, his reading appetite peaked when I bought aTreasure Island book with a CD narrative. Ignoring the beach toys, he followed along, learning how to spell. When we snorkeled in the caves that inspired the story and he was mesmerized.

When he was a six-year-old first grader, he graduated to the C.S. Lewis,Chronicles of Narnia so he could beat his older sister who read them when she was in second grade. Sometimes, he accidentally dropped his books into the bathtub. While one book dried on the towel rack, he’d switch to another, adopting the habit of reading three books at once.

“Don’t forget number 154.” He called out numbers whenever he had to stop reading and go to school. His system was for me to remember where he needed to pick up later.

He stuck with non fiction adult books. At a silent auction, he insisted we bid on a series about ghost sightings throughout the state. We spent weekends at the ghostly destinations because he was curious what they were like.

After years of his persistent questions regarding the differences between the movie and novel versions of The Lightning Thief, at age seven, still in first grade, he demanded I purchase all of the books at once, swearing he would read them. I doubted he would but bought them anyway. His comprehension and speed developed with the Riordan series. Finishing each book in three to five days, he was able to discuss mythology and teach me a few facts. He crossed over to being an official story junkie.

Is that all it takes, starting to read great books at an early age?

Perhaps, his interest developed prior to his birth? During my pregnancy, I dutifully listened to classical music and limited my diet to fruits, vegetables, dairy, and during the third term, fish. I meditated, walked three miles every day and did floor exercises until my seventh month. After he was born, I took him for daily walks, stopping to show him the cackling egrets during mating season, and collecting leaves and rocks along our path.

Once he was old enough to sit up in his stroller, we took the Audubon field guide everywhere we went, looking up which birds lived at the lake and which preferred the trees. Each day, we ate popsicles in a flowering thicket, waiting forpileated woodpeckers and jeweled hummingbirds and barred owls to join us so we could reread their narratives.

Maybe it was generational, going back to how much my family loved books. His father’s a genius reader – an exceptionally smart man. He retained the knowledge he gained at those swanky schools he attended.

I studied my older siblings’ schoolbooks to compare the prior scientific conclusions with the then-current findings. My sister’s social studies book devoted a chapter on why man would never reach the moon. An encyclopedia set dated around 1903 intrigued me by listing great men who had been forgotten. I read aloud to my Siamese cat each night. Her favorite story was about a lost dog looking for his mother. Before that, my mother took me to the library once a week where I discovered Little Babaji.

Outstanding authors motivated my son to read. The ability of Coville, Stine, Lewis and Riordan to arrange words to share their imaginations enticed him to read. Their ingenious skill with incorporating history with fantasy prompted my son to evaluate the characters’ behaviors.

By studying their work, my son developed an awareness. He noticed someone mentioned in chapter three was never brought up again. He asked me whether it was a mistake or perhaps Suzanne Collins intended for the boy to stay behind in the underworld.

“You’ll have to read the book in order to find out. If you want an answer, you have to look it up.” It was the same answer I gave when he asked about gaps in movie plots and like always, he took my advice.

Which came first, the chicken or the egg? The geniuses wrote the books, which taught children how to think like geniuses.

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Rejuvenate and Get a Date in Turkey’s Miracle Mud

Embark on an ancient quest along the Mediterranean coast for a healing indulgence. The Dalyan River (Dalyan Bogazi, known as a strait) in Turkey has natural silt deposits abundant with therapeutic properties.  Whether you arrive at the mouth of the river on a small cruise ship or reach a nearby town, such as Marmaris, via minibuses, travel down the twisting waterway on your journey into the pastime secrets for ridding your body of aches and pains, dissolving skin wounds and clearing your mind.

The Dalyan River opens at Istuzu Beach where sunbathing beside loggerhead turtles is a passion. Plan to socialize with the sensuous locals and enjoy watching the protected baby turtles. Those turtles cross the Atlantic every year. The beach gets crowded with eager souls seeking mates, fun-loving couples, and boisterous families.

Charming wooden boats with refreshments and music transport you up the strait to the Sultaniye hot springs and mud baths. Tall reeds provide secluded nooks and primitive wooden buildings on stilts used for fishing prove the customs never died. While the social scene is active, the still river transports you to an ancient mood where tall grasses and tantalizing cliffs smell of sweet silt. The atmosphere eases away anxieties.

Resort clubs line the waterway. Many are dating hotspots where the stars shine overhead and the river lazes alongside the social scene. Others are family resorts, suitable for relaxed sunny days.

Activities revolve around mingling and rejuvenating your mind, body and spirit. A few shops appear, clustered within each tiny community but the supplies are limited, aside from handmade rugs.

Rosy mountains loom over the fertile river.  When you least expect to spot civilization, elaborate, Lycien tombs appear on mountainsides.  Founded during the 9thcentury BC, a mysterious town named, Kaunos, is known for its citizens having yellow skin and eyes.  Their unusual coloring is credited to the high mineral content of the Dalyan River and as a result of an outbreak of epidemic malaria.  Experience the Mortal Combat mood of the extraordinary theatre, acropolis, basilica and city walls.  Carved red stones shape the columns and architectural details, which became chic in 9thcentury Kaunos as a result of an invitation by the ruler of Caria named, Mausolus of Halicarnassus.

If you choose to visit the hot springs and mud baths multiple times in order to completely heal, you can stay as close as Dalyan, Turkey.  Motels, restaurants, and disco clubs of this coastal tourist community spills into the Dalyan River. Shops offer contemporary merchandise. Rug retailers weave carpets to your specifications. There is a Club Med, mingle and mate feel.

The mud baths provide clean, paved and civilized community pools with changing rooms, showers and a snack bar, as opposed to being a stinky hole in the ground. First you enter a hot pool of water that holds mildly radioactive minerals. At your leisure, you enter a second pool filled with grainy mud, teeming with calcium, sulphur, iron, nitrates, potassium, and mineral salts. Mud bathers cover their bodies with the oozing soil and bask in the sun until it dries. Return to the mud bath to loosen the body mud pack from your skin and then use the fresh water at the showers for a good scrubbing.  For an extra-double duty dose of ridding your body of stubborn minerals, join the line where a cabana boy sprays you from head to toe with a high powered water-hose.

Refreshing is the main word that comes to mind.  Light-footed and peaceful are two others.  The rejuvenating mud heals the body, eradicates painful joints, and removes toxins.

Entire families participate and everyone interacts with a communal manner. It is a bonding experience for all who attend, and all kinds of folks delve into the mysterious Dalyan River.

Don’t wear fine jewelry because the rising heat in the pools can damage stones. Leave valuables at your hotel. You can’t carry them into the pools and by midday the mud baths are crowded. Most importantly, heal.

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Nature Thrives and Mingling Jives in Lively Costa Rica

Whether you want to expand your consciousness or party until you drop, Costa Rica is an affordable destination. You can fly into San Jose, the capital, and choose between inexpensive motels and luxurious hotels. It is good to stay downtown in a place with enough shops and restaurants on site that you won’t be tempted to wander into the crime-filled streets.

Don’t be alarmed if you are mistaken for a prostitute. So many men spread rumors about the benefits of legalized prostitution in Costa Rica that male tourists think every woman walking through a hotel lobby or looking for butterflies along the road is for hire.

Security is tight, because non Costa Ricans sweep into the country and rob the banks, particularly in towns near Nicaragua. Guards patrol the banks with machine guns. Occasionally, truck beds traveling on the public roads are filled with armed men.

After a night of recuperating from your air flight, you can travel to your final destination either by bus or commuter plane. There is a huge difference between the west and east coasts of Costa Rica. Surfing, white water rafting, horse riding, scuba diving, and deep sea fishing is popular on the west coast. The east coast attracts a more subdued clientele, people accustomed to the Caribbean islands with more alcohol and less outdoor activities.

Throughout the country are national parks filled with wildlife, waterfalls, volcanoes, and exotic plants. Some rain forests seem sparse compared to lush woodlands of North America. Once you appreciate the lack of groundcover, you will notice the monkeys on branches watching the sun set. Brilliant birds fill the skies. Sluggish alligators congest the rivers. Snakes are under every bush and thousands of ants dominate the dirt paths. Flowers are abundant and you can pay for a tour through landscaped grounds and then ride a sky-lift to the top of mountains.

Costa Ricans are easy-going and friendly. Someone is always willing to accommodate your every desire. Don’t expect to suffer because of the simplified lifestyle. At the base of the volcanoes are day spas where you can play in the hot springs, get a massage or disco the night away under an active volcano. You can find extremely low-priced souvenirs in shop huts and small marketplaces. Don’t forget to visit pre-Columbian settlement sites.

At the hotels along the coastline you can mix and mingle at swimming pool bars. Shacks in tiny communities are available for hard-core surfers to stay for little rent per day. If you get inspired, you can find inexpensive property for your vacation home. There are clusters of North Americans, Germans and other nationalities, mainly in the northern towns. Want to keep a boat in Costa Rica? Plan to pay a high tax on all imported goods. Costs for upkeep and repairs includes exorbitant taxes for parts. Similar issues arise with maintaining houses.

Costa Rica is an appropriate destination for college students, families and couples. The ingratiating social scene welcomes single travelers as well.

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Forever and Ever – Love Tree Blessings

Want endless love? Unconditional loyalty is attainable. All you have to do is make the journey of discovery.

Uninhibited seekers of everlasting love realized destiny ended at the Love Tree. Fate led me to it and I recommitted my affections. It was in front of a cozy house built during 1906 in the oldest city in the United States of America.

My family and our two puppies visited St. Augustine, Florida several times a year. One late afternoon, we rushed to reach town before the sunset. As we drove to the historic district on our regular route, construction barricaded the bridge next to the old railroad station. We broke away from the modern city farther north where enormous parking garages imposed on wooden cottages.

I avoided parking garages, especially after dark. There were too many hiding places. It was dinnertime and I knew after a few hours of strolling along the river, it would be scary to walk up a stairwell, out of sight from the rest of the tourists.

On a side street behind a quaint, lime-green house with rose trim sat a small parking lot. Easily accessible, it was two blocks away from the gateway leading to the main pedestrian street. We pulled in and parked.

The dogs hopped out and we fastened leashes on them. Our Labrador acted fussy. He had overindulged on what we call kumquats. Yellow berries fell from Queen Anne palm trees, hundreds a day, and that’s the number of kumquats our dog ate each day. Those berries decided for themselves when they would work their way through his digestive track. Before we reached the grassy area across the street, he squatted. We dragged him by his leash, only to have him ducked under a bush at the bottom of a porch. I realized the house was a restaurant with outdoor seating.

A waiter holding menus appeared beside us. “How many for dinner?”

“Um.” I glanced at our dog as he took his time and then noticed a sign said, “Vegetarian Friendly.” “Yes. We would like vegan pizzas, chips and smoothies for each of us. And a brownie for dessert.”

My family eyed each other. What could we do? The owners caught our dog defacing their establishment.

We filed up the steps and took all the seats, squeezing out a smooching young couple. The view faced a secluded cemetery with monumental tombstones worthy for the wealthiest families. On a stool next to our table, a jukebox played 1940s, mood-setting music. Our Labrador nosed it, punching some buttons and throwing the DVD off track. The waiter/cook stepped outside and eyed the jukebox.

“Oh, sorry. Our lab liked your tunes,” I said.

He smiled and handed us bags of chips. Unable to get the jukebox operational, he cranked up the interior stereo so we could listen to it, instead.

I stepped inside to wash my hands. The bathroom felt like a theater actress’s backstage changing room. Antique bottles of perfume were available for anyone to spruce up her scent. I squirted a few, hoping no ghost wanted them for herself. I sensed an uneasiness as if an apparition guarded the antique bottles.

Feeling guilty about our dog’s poor digestive system, we ate quickly. However, I relished my smoothie. They had become my chocolate milk shake replacements, which was my main source of nutrients before I went vegan.

Our stumbling upon the quaint cafe wasn’t per chance. It was meant to be. Our dog had led us to a supernatural setting – a sacred spot for seekers of eternal love.

According to folklore, a man and woman loved each other dearly. To express their devotion, they planted two trees at the same time. According to an old wives’ tale, planting a tree in honor of any loved one, whether it be a child, a relative or a spouse, bestowed longevity and good luck upon him. The woman planted a palm tree, which was sturdy and able to withstand the most violent storms. The man planted an oak tree, representing flexibility and protection.

One month later, the man passed away. Tormented without him, the woman died within thirty days. Their love endured the passage of death. The two souls searched for one another in the afterlife, refusing to allow fate to rip them apart. A year later on the eve of the couple’s separation, their souls crossed paths and they became reunited. As a manifestation of their joining together for eternity, the oak tree wrapped around the slender palm tree, protecting her while she stood steadfast.

Some claimed to have encountered the spirits of the couple at the Love Tree. The endless love of the two spirits understood true love and channeled their protection and guidance on couples seeking the same spiritual connection. Any lovers who exchanged a true love’s kiss under the Love Tree was likewise be united throughout all eternity.

My husband and I kissed under the Love Tree. Then, we shared a few words about our unconditional love and happiness thus far on our journey together. It felt right.

I wondered if my husband’s fate threaded with mine the same way Servius Snape and Narcissa Malfoy created a pact in Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. Did joined spirits embody man’s ideals? Or was the afterlife intended for solo traveling?

Curious whether the legend could be based on truth, I photographed the Love Tree to see if any ghost revealed themselves as orbs. Although there were no lights on the house and no reflective surfaces on the porch, energies appeared to watch over lovers who craved a similar fate. White bundles of energy stood for love and healing power.

Nothing more than two entwined trees made up the Love Tree. No ornaments decorated the surface; yet, a pink light moved around the trunk as couples declared their undying devotion to each another, sealing their intentions with a single kiss. Pink energy channeled to our world inspired compassion, nurturing and unconditional love. Exposure to pink spiritual rays bestowed blessings for unconditional acceptance and the love of God.

Could it be a true story? Regardless, passing under the Love Tree evolved into a tradition for couples to recommit their love for one another and take a moment to appreciate their one true love. The original couples’ intentions never died.

If interested in gaining some loving rays? Contact Ancient City Tours at 6 Cordova Street by calling (904) 823-1818. Their office sits inside the Love Tree Cafe and provides attraction tickets for tours in St. Augustine, vegetarian friendly dining, and loving couple ghost tours in the supernatural setting where the legend began.

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Dancing on the Nile River, Egypt

For a peaceful getaway that allows you to read and laze in the steamy desert, hope onto a flatboat and slink down the Nile. You embark from Cairo, which is a thriving metropolis filled with favorite franchises. Evenings within the hotels lining the river entice lovers to take languishing walks amid the chains of lights arranged on sundecks and strung on boats.

The Egyptian Museum is a must see. It houses artifacts from the numerous Egyptian eras. Outside, the pyramids have been stripped and are bare  Most of the wall paintings have faded and the etchings are sometimes faint. The preserved statuary and treasures have been moved into the museum where you can get a close look at the amazing craftsmanship.

There are several pyramids to see in the area surrounding Cairo, and each offers a distinct adventure. To reach the Giza Plateau where Cheops and Chephren overlook the Sphinx you can arrive on camelback with the heat from the desert brushing the hair off your face and the music from Sir Laurence of Arabia playing inside your head. There are several additional pyramid sites, such as Zoser which opened to the public recently and Meidum which must be unlocked in order to enter. After sunset, you can visit a hookah bar and then stroll to the Sphinx and watch the identical lazar-light show you’ve admired when the character, Jaws, tries to murder James Bond. It will be hot at night. Suggest wearing similar summer dresses or sleeveless tops instead of jeans.

Careful with the taxi rides when traveling through Cairo. The drivers tend to find routes far from your destination to increase the prices. Be prepared to either enjoy the ride or consider paying a tourist escort to haggle on your behalf.

After a few days of sightseeing in Cairo, board one of numerous flatboat cruise ships located on the Nile River. Each is designed like a gilded casino with crystal chandeliers and elaborate Louis IVX furniture. The cabins are small but serviceable with European electrical outlets and simple furnishings. The flatboats are smaller than ocean cruisers and the staff provides personalized attention to your dietary preferences and tour excursion choices. The intimate dining halls encourage passengers to become fast friends.

Expect to be entertained by dancing, playing games, and performing theatrical skits with your new pals. The gift shops sell belly dancing outfits and Arabic robes for costume parties. A popular game is dancing in circles while the band determines the moments for diving on the floor to grab spoons. Passengers stay awake well into the wee hours of the following morning, celebrating the alluring setting of fertile banks and contrasting vastness of the arid desert.

As you voyage down the Nile, merchants pull up in colorful rowboats. It was my favorite moment. They toss their goods over the rails, calling out good will and quoting the prices. If you are interested you throw money to them and somehow, young boys manage to catch the coins before they fall into the dark Nile. If you lack the impulse to purchase a lace tablecloth or cotton dress, you will receive another choice in your hands as soon as you drop the goods.

With each city, you learn about a particular time of Egyptian history. Destinations with impressive complexes include Luxor, Karnak, and the Valley of the Kings. You can take a day trip by airplane to see the giant images of Ramses II. The boats dock at small communities such as Esna, where the surprisingly complete Temple of Khnum merges with the present day homes. The Temple of Horus in Edfu reveals man’s destructive nature during wartime. Men striped the temple of its original artwork and replaced it with Christian icons which were removed. Aswan offers shops and restaurants, but don’t stray because the residents have a way of staring that makes you feel vulnerable.

The playful energy and constant activities are ideal for collegiate travelers. Although more than one time I didn’t feel safe, the walking tours are comfortable for children. Once on the flatboat, the atmosphere was wonderful for large families of cousins, grandparents, married siblings and their kids traveling as a group.

Keep in mind the intense heat during the summer months, which deterred all passengers except those accustomed to the temperatures in Florida from taking several tours when the humid heat reached over 100 degrees. Those Norwegians dropped like flies.

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It’s Me with the Shark

Recently, I acquired family heirlooms, keepsakes and trinkets, from my childhood home. Each carried a sentimental value far superior to any feelings I’d felt for items accumulated since establishing an adult life. Yet, as much as I loved them, my heirlooms spurred those marital feuds I’d heard about – one spouse denying another the freedom of expression to incorporate his roots into their united living space.

I arrived with my booty while my husband was distracted with obligations for his biological family. I strategically arranged my loot on our walls and bookshelves. Even more were carefully placed above the kitchen cabinets for a glittery effect when your eyes wandered during bouts of excessive talking by others.

Once everything was ready for viewing, I knew what was coming. My husband (Zip, we like to call him) was a very predictable man.

“Bahhh.” Zip screamed as he walked down the stairs.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” our daughter cried out.

I didn’t have to ask. I knew Zip hadn’t fallen down the stairs or bumped his head. Nothing I had to say would change his initial reaction. I didn’t even need to look for him to explain our glory in having received the bountiful blessings. He found me in the laundry room, folding the sheets I had used as packing material.

“I love you, but that shark is mangy and no way on the deer.” Zip tossed a pair of socks into the straw basket and glared at me.

That was my family he was talking about. And I didn’t appreciate it, none, at all. Had he no grasp of what value those two particular items  meant to my family, meant to me? Did Zip not realize how heavy they were? Risking my life by carrying them up a rickety ladder, again and again, trying to get the nails in perfect placement on the walls, deserved more appreciation.

That shark was special. My mother caught it on her honeymoon in Clearwater, Florida. She was the only person who hooked anything on their deep-sea fishing excursion. Granted, the cracks devalued its intrinsic nature and underneath his belly hides a gruesome backside, but the shark defined the path of my parent’s fifty-some-odd-year relationship.

The deer was unique. My uncle caught the fellow in Colorado. I loved my uncle. He’s a geologist and his keen intelligence played a key role in my development. He demonstrated ambidexterity for me. As an inventor, he took apart toasters and devised wind gauges. Traveling all over the world in search of oil, he collected rocks as gifts for me. I wouldn’t describe him as a hunter-type which made the heirloom all the more exciting. True, while I was vacuuming the poor deer, it fell off the wall and I had to nail it back onto the mount. From the looks of the construction, it was an original home-crafted mounting with the same random technology I applied. I doused it with Lysol three times a day for a week, but still, every time I touched it, my fingers became coated with an oily blackness. If we left it alone on the wall for the next forty years, it shouldn’t fall on anyone’s head, again.

Admittedly, I was a vegan, but unfortunately for the world with myself included in some kind of third-party way, my sympathies and lifestyle changes from a roast beef, rice and early English peas diet to abstaining from consuming rotting flesh hadn’t expanded into my wardrobe and decorating selections. Yet, that was to say.

 

Oddly, the same night Zip announced his refusal to merge representations of my family adventures into our binding pack, he dragged me out of bed in a panic. He had placed some parts of a gun in front of the television and wanted to know where I had put them.

“I can’t sleep until I find out where they are,” he said, completely oblivious as to how insignificant his tid bits compared to my memorabilia.

I pulled them out of a drawer – a practical place to put mechanical garbage. He laid them out on the table top in front of the television, same as they had been before I tidied the house. Seemed like if they were so special he would have found a container or safe to store them inside.

As I walked upstairs, Zip said innocently,”Did you grab any bullets lying around your parent’s house for me while you were up there? I want to use them to teach the kids how to shoot those guns you brought back.”

Based on my husband’s attitude, we had some serious housecleaning to do. There was the reindeer skin I picked up in Sweden and the zebra skin pillow from Africa. We have to get rid of the elephant foot my husband made into a trashcan. There was the sheepskin our friends sent back from New Zealand. Three leather chairs and a sofa had to go. I needed to toss the lion dew-claw my husband ripped from a fresh kill for good luck. There’s the zebra rug, too. The antlers, let’s not forget those. He had planned to have a python skin we picked up in Morocco placed on a nine-foot long plague, but the taxidermist ruined it. Since then, he’s considered acquiring a stuffed tiger that died of natural causes at the zoo. As if a taxidermist took a sleeping animals and propped him up on his hind legs, the tiger’s paws remained lifted after he struggled at his last breath.

Thankfully, Zip’s initial repulsion to become subdued; however, I dread his reaction when grandmomma’s furniture arrives. I haven’t decided whether or not to prepare him for the shipment.

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Creating Believable Fantasy Set in Medieval Times

King’s Envoy is the first novel in the fantasy series, Artesans of Albia, written by Cas Peace. Set in medieval realms filled with mysticism and chivalry, King’s Envoy embraces the reader by grounding the characters. Cas builds contention between two of the realms which has its origins in the desire of an Albian Baron to destroy the Artesan craft. Instead of traveling across pastures to battle scenes, the adversaries must cross the substance separating each realm. Only some men and women are powerful enough to open the channels to these parallel worlds.

Human Artesans live in Albia, the fourth dimension, where the craft is slowly dying. Artesans in general possess the power to control their life force (metaforce) which is channeled through each person’s unique pattern of psyche. This control can then be used to gain power over the four elements of the earth. While having the ability to develop the craft is a birthright, Artesans rely upon an experienced person of higher rank for their training.

Janie: Are your realms based on the Buddhist concept that multiple worlds exist on earth, where each is unable to see one another, yet at times, they notice one another’s presence? When did you make the choice to combine cultural beliefs for a unique outlook in your story world?

Cas: Before I answer that I want to say a huge Thank You, Janie, for the opportunity to reveal these facts about King’s Envoy. I’d also like to say how much fun I had answering your challenging and insightful questions. The process made me think about my book from a slightly different angle, and often gave me pause for thought. I hope what I have said here piques readers’ interest, and that they will get as much pleasure from reading the book as I did from writing it.

Ok, now to answer Janie’s questions!

I would have to admit that my world of five realms does owe something to Eastern beliefs, if only in a small way. The concept is not unique in fiction, of course. Many writers before me have used this idea of layered worlds and I was intrigued by the possibilities that might arise when completely separate and self-contained worlds, all of which would have evolved their own distinct beliefs, cultures and customs, could be visited at will by denizens of the other realms. Add the proviso that only an elite core from each realm would have this ability and you create a volatile and infinitely variable set of possibilities. Such possibilities speak potently to a writer. In King’s Envoy, and indeed the entire Artesan series which comprises nine books in all, only two of these realms are explored in any detail. The other three are mentioned, but only in passing. This, of course, leaves ample opportunities for me to write novels set in the realms that remain unrevealed!

Janie: Traditional medieval literature includes witch-craft and sorcery. Did you intentionally model your plot to accommodate the qualities of witch-craft? The supernatural skills held by your characters resemble the philosophy at the root of practically every culture. Did you choose the mastery over the four elements based on Celtic beliefs to follow with your setting?

Cas: One of the concepts I deliberately wanted to avoid when writing my novels was the concept of witch-craft. It appears in many hundreds of novels, and I wanted my world’s “magic system” – for want of a better term – to be something different. So I went back to what I believe were probably mankind’s earliest beliefs – those surrounding the forces of nature and the heavens. I drew on what I knew of the ancient Druids and Celtic shamans in this, and in many fundamental ways Albia is a Celtic realm.

            In my novels I have also deliberately separated religion from the powers possessed and manipulated by Artesans. Unlike witches or wizards, who traditionally drew their powers from some fallen or ancient deity who demands worship or sacrifice in exchange for power, Artesans venerate neither the forces they learn to control nor their source. They understand that what they are doing is simply harnessing the natural energies of the world they live in, not the supernatural. The only cost to Artesans in using their powers is in terms of mental and physical exertion; the elemental forces make no demands other than those of strength and capability. There are deities in my created world and they do hold sway over spirit and soul; they do not, however, empower their worshippers or enter into power-bargains with them. 

Janie: The two main female characters in your novel both work and earn a living independently from men. Both have strength of character and the confidence to fight evil.

Were these characteristics common during medieval times, when life was difficult for everyone? Did you incorporate a contemporary ideal of women to add depth to the female roles in medieval times?

Cas: I believe that women down the ages have always possessed the mental strength and capability to deal with difficult situations. Women in medieval times were, I’m sure, much tougher than some romantic novels and films give them credit for. There were many women merchants in those days, as well as independently-wealthy noblewomen who lived life much as they chose. The balance of gender preferment in human society has shifted often in the past, and both sexes have had to adapt.  

            My two main female characters are strong in different ways, yet both exhibit the flaws inherent in human nature. One of my original goals in writing the novel – and this goal was conceived long before I ever put pen to paper – was to create a credible heroine who was an authentic human female yet who could hold her own in a man’s world; and in some cases surpass men. I am aware that this statement could make her sound like a Paragon, an Amazon, or a body-building freak; in reality she is young, small and slim, with a loyal and loving nature. Her steel lies underneath.  

Janie: If you met either of your main female characters in person, what qualities would you want to change in them? Why didn’t you give them those qualities in King’s Envoy?

Cas: I love this question! Each of my characters have their faults, such flaws are what make us human. We’ve all read books where the characters either seem too perfect, or they are so flawed that they become completely unlikeable; I find both scenarios irritating. I wanted to tread a more realistic line with my characters and therefore some are more flawed than others. As far as my two female leads are concerned, one is a healer. She is trained, talented and extremely capable, the kind of person you’d want by your side in a medical emergency. Yet take her out of her comfort zone and she becomes shy and insecure. Her confidence only extends as far as her knowledge of herbs, ailments and treatments – don’t ask her to stand up and speak in front of a crowd. As the Artesan series progresses she does gain more in the way of personal confidence, but only when among people she knows.

            My other female lead possesses all the confidence the healer lacks. She knows her own strengths and weaknesses and isn’t afraid to test herself against whatever life throws at her. She takes her successes humbly, while her failures (yes, she has failures!) do not break her. Her worst quality is that in times of stress she resorts to bad language. I know that many people in our modern will not view this as a weakness, but in the environment that surrounds this woman, swearing is discouraged. It’s a rule she tries to obey, but one which she regularly breaks.

            I suppose if I’m honest, both the confidence issue and the bad language are subjects I struggle with on a personal level. I would love to be a very confident person, but I’m not. I also resort to the odd swearing session on occasion!

Janie: Just as during the Middle Ages when tribes fought for territories and explorers went out into the world, the characters in King’s Envoy love adventure. The protagonist, Taran, embarks on his quest for knowledge and training, while the heroine embraces obstacles for the betterment of her kind. Journeys are made between the realms in order to end evil or, for the antagonist, for the purpose of conquering and dominating the kingdoms.

Did you give each character a different motivation for craving adventure because each had a distinct personality and background? Was their motivation critical for developing the plot?

Cas: Yes it was, although Taran doesn’t crave adventure as such. In his case the motivational force is desperation; a yearning to achieve his potential, an urgent desire to acquire the knowledge he simply can’t find in his own realm. This is the crux on which the entire story-plot hinges, for if Taran hadn’t been so desperate to increase his knowledge he never would have had the courage to embark upon the naïve and risky plan that resulted in him uncovering what the antagonist was plotting. I love the contradiction – Taran’s tendency toward failure results in success: the discovery of this treacherous plot.

            The other main characters in King’s Envoy all possess different traits which enable them to make their contribution. But that contribution is not always directly related to defeating the enemy. Sometimes it involves supporting and enabling other characters to do what they must.

Janie: In the medieval classic, Roland, the codes for knights evolved. Knights acted on behalf of the church, at times on a crusade to save souls and other times to protect the throne but always in the name of God. Your protagonist, Taran, opens King’s Envoy with his personal interest to develop his supernatural skills. Only once his poor judgment places innocent people living within his realm in danger does he venture into the world in order to save the common man.

Do you consider Taran to be a knight in training? Based on his morals and loyalty to his neighbors, would Taran have gone out into the world in order to stop the antagonist from brutally slaughtering the people in his town if he had not felt personally responsible for inciting the attacks? Does Taran represent the foolishness of mankind causing wars?

Cas: Well, poor Taran is certainly foolish, at least at the beginning of the book, but I can’t pretend that it was in my mind to be so profound as to have him represent all that is foolish in Man. I think that’s a bit much for one character to carry all by himself! Is he a knight in training? That wasn’t really my intention either, and Taran would never think of himself in those terms. Yet he is a deeply honorable man and that honor brings him problems. Would he have defended his village against raiders? Definitely yes. Would he have put himself forward as someone who could go up against the antagonist? Absolutely not. All Taran really wants is to be left alone, in peace, to learn his craft; yet his innocent desire for knowledge has left him responsible for endangering his village and sees him plunged into the possibility of starting an all-out realm war. However, it is his very deep-rooted loyalty to his craft and those who practice it that enables him to cope with the dangerous and unexpected nature of the adventure he’s brought upon himself. This becomes the start of his own personal journey, a theme which runs throughout the series and culminates in a spectacular and cataclysmic finale.

Janie: In classic literature, it wasn’t until the Arthurian tales of the Knights of the Round Table that heroes rose from common births. During the age of Beowulf, heroes grew from noble households. Taran is born of a common birth but craves the training and education for reaching the highest level of Artesan. He would hold standing in the community because of his Artesan birthright, but he doesn’t come from a royal household.

Did you intentionally place your protagonist in a humble background so that he could rise higher? Is his modest childhood intended to make him more approachable for readers?

Cas: Taran’s breeding wasn’t necessarily established as humble in order for readers to identify with or like him. I hoped that his character and nature would make him likeable no matter what his origins. But I did intend him to be a character who lacked from the outset the kind of traits and privileges that come with noble birth. Taran is not intended to be a lowly peasant; he’s just an ordinary man who has been born with an extraordinary gift. It was the way he would deal with the problem of satisfying his craving to learn that I was primarily interested in.

            I had already decided that the Artesan craft would be passed down the generations in a different way in each realm, meaning that each race would view practitioners of the craft in very different lights. The talent is not inherently evil, yet as we know from our own daily life those who are perceived as ‘elite’, for whatever reason, are often treated with suspicion and wariness. In Albia – Taran’s realm – anyone, male or female, rich or poor, can inherit the gift. Perversely, this is the only realm where the craft is dying out, hence Taran’s struggle to find a mentor. His particular dilemma is that although he yearns to increase his knowledge and therefore his Artesan rank, such achievements are likely to lower his standing among his fellow Albians, not increase it. So not only is Taran embarking upon a rite of passage regarding his personal power, he’s also struggling to find his place within the world. I hope that readers will identify with Taran’s problems, or at least empathize with him. 

Janie: Throughout King’s Envoy, there are battles, sometimes between two men, other times an army rains down on citizens. In the opening chapter, Taran’s poor judgment and swordsman expertise channel the wrath of an ambitious kingdom down upon his clan.

Was this a method for showing his manhood and loyalty to his lineage?

Cas: This was actually a method of showing Taran’s naivety and innocence. Don’t forget, he’s had so many failures that he’s now willing to try anything. Based purely on some notes left by his father, he sets off to a foreign realm, with the deliberate aim of challenging another man to a duel. The optimistic side of Taran’s nature has led him to believe that all he needs to do is force a draw. He has no desire to hurt anyone and if there was any other way, he wouldn’t be resorting to this plan at all. Its dreadful outcome leaves him morally wounded as well as physically. His spirit suffers more pain than his body. This is the final straw, and it breaks him. It’s a way of revealing the flaws in Taran’s training as well as his nature, and it leaves him embarrassed and completely vulnerable. Yet although he is broken and frightened, he doesn’t shirk his responsibility. Here lies Taran’s strength, and this is what enables him to move forward and become the person others know he can be.

Janie: Taran exudes high moral character. He represents chastity and obediently acts according to the law. He acts courteous and obliging toward women. He accepts training under a desirable woman and remains obedient despite his growing attraction toward her.

Did you make Taran submissive to his love interest to bolster tension in their scenes?

Cas: Absolutely! I think it works, too. This is another recurring theme throughout the series and readers might be surprised at how it finally resolves. Yet there was another reason. You have mentioned Taran’s high moral character, and this becomes both an asset and a hindrance to him. He faces many moral dilemmas in his relationships with other characters and I find it fascinating to watch him struggle through them. Does he represent chastity, or sexual frustration? Even repression? Does he even fully understand his feelings toward the women around him? Or have his humility and tightly-controlled emotions stunted his personal development? Reading the full series might well answer most of these questions.

Janie: Similar to the historical fantasy, Beowulf, Taran is a regular guy. Through hard work and wise choices, he exercises expertise when cornered into a battle or swordplay. Like Beowulf, Taran is chivalrous beyond expectations of his peers. No matter the circumstances, Taran follows the codes of conduct for a knight by conforming to authority.

How did you give Taran such sensitivities without emasculating him?

Cas: In writing King’s Envoy I deliberately decided to focus on the emotions and inner motivations of each character, rather than concentrating on the epic plot. I believe that by showing Taran’s aspirations and the nature of his needs and desires I have avoided all possibility of him being considered less than masculine. He desires power, he enjoys swordplay, he delights in each advancement of his Artesan talent. The fact that he doesn’t brag about his achievements, or flaunt any of his talents, is not, in my opinion, unmanly. In fact, I feel that there is an air of mystique about Taran that would be quite attractive to women. He is passably good looking, has a fit but not overly developed physique, and he has a protective and generous nature. There’s nothing un-masculine about that, in my opinion! 

Janie: Initially, Taran is driven by his yearning to learn how to use his skills. Once his mistake harms others, Taran wages war to protect the innocent lives he placed in jeopardy by his original sin. True to the ideals of knights, he isn’t interested in acquiring land or becoming wealthy.

Was it your intention to give him a higher motive as you developed his character? Did the character of Taran guide you in the direction he desired?

Cas: All my characters seemed to guide me in their own directions. Apart from the original decision to open the book with a ‘lost’ character, someone searching for what he needs to become whole, I had no other firm plans for the rest of the ‘cast’. Taran’s Apprentice, Cal, and Cal’s lover, Rienne, started life as insignificant characters. Their natures and involvement evolved as the plot demanded. The characters at the Manor were more fully visualized before I began writing those scenes, but even they revealed deeper and sometimes unexpected traits as the story progressed. I found it fascinating to watch each character react to the events around them; sometimes they surprised even me!

Janie: In The Prince by Machiavelli, realism is given to the Middle Ages hero. A hierarchy is provided for ordering society, which results in the good life. The hero is required to be strong and instill order, even if it requires him to act unethically. Innocent lives are sacrificed for the greater good. Individuality is rejected. The hero is motivated by the receiving glory in his afterlife in the kingdom of God.

Taran and your heroine feel real. Although a gorgeous warrior, your heroine holds a higher military rank over Taran. She received training and has greater resources. She is the leader in their relationship. Her motivation in joining Taran’s journey to develop his skills lies with a commonality in their past. She understands Taran’s frustrations and experienced his same weaknesses prior to rising above her surroundings. She strategizes against the antagonist according to her wits.

While your heroine is a remarkable woman, she successfully released her individuality and abides by the codes and orders of her superiors. Did you model her after the ideal qualities of a medieval knight? Why did you choose for the damsel in distress to be superior to the protagonist, but with an injured past she wants healed by a strong man?

Cas: Throughout my reading life I have been fascinated by the varied characters of fictional heroes and heroines. Yet I have often felt that the fantasy genre didn’t have enough truly credible heroines – leading characters that felt like real women; that is, women who could compete with men, and sometimes become superior to them, without compromising their femininity. I’m sure many people will hold opposing views on this subject but I am speaking from my own reading experience. The nearest I have ever come to finding what I considered to be an entirely believable, strong heroine who never compromises her femininity is in Hugo Award winning author C. J. Cherryh’s Chronicles of Morgaine. Although it was completely unintentional, my heroine takes much from Morgaine including, I hope, her air of mystery. Thinking about it, my world has many parallels with Morgaine’s, a fact that also happened subconsciously. I suppose you could also cite similarities between Taran and Vanye, Morgaine’s ‘sidekick’, but again, what similarities there might be are coincidental.

            My heroine’s wounded past, and the events that befall her in King’s Envoy, are defining moments in her life. They mold her character and cause her to react in certain ways. When coupled with her deep sense of loyalty and duty, and driven by the tremendous power she commands, they create a dangerous entity, one who possesses the capability to destroy as much as to heal. The question is – will the many traumas she suffers during the course of her mission overcome her love and loyalty, turning them to hatred and destruction? Only reading the books will tell!

Janie: The most notable quality of King’s Envoy is the detail given to daily life. The scenes are built with the mechanics of chores performed, such as serving dinner or setting camp. Explaining how man went about his regular activities emphasizes the differences between modern conveniences and the struggles of medieval lifestyles.

Where did you learn so much about the equipment available at the time? Did you place yourself in the setting and imagine what it would have been like? Did you research what inventions were discovered during the period? Did you worry with whether or not you accidentally included a technique for workers that was not discovered until later in history? Which did you consider to be most important, authenticity of the times or elements within the story?

Cas: This is another fascinating question and it touches upon what I felt was one of the most important aspects of my fantasy world, one I kept high in my mind while writing the series. In my opinion, the area where some fantasy books fall down is in not sufficiently grounding the reader. We all understand, basically, how our world works, we don’t have to think too hard about it. But when we pick up a fantasy book, we know we could be plunged headlong into almost anything. It’s exciting, it’s why we read that kind of book, but it can also leave us floundering for a few chapters until we get our bearings. I wanted readers to be able to grasp, almost without thinking, what kind of world mine is, and how it works. I’m not talking about the fantastical elements of it – Artesans and their powers – but the everyday stuff. Fantastical elements become stranger and more wonderful when placed in a more mundane setting. I also think that such small details, provided they’re not overdone, really help to bring a character vividly to life. And I find that immersing myself deeply into my story and my characters, so deeply that I see what they see, smell what they smell, and hear their voices, is the only way I can write.

            As to knowing about the period itself, I can only put that down to my reading experience. I love historical novels, whether fact or fiction, and I’m sure I’ve absorbed much information this way. Of course, it’s also pretty easy to research such things on the Internet these days. But let me say here that complete historical accuracy was not my aim. This is a work of fiction, and fantasy at that – it is not meant to be a definitive work on the medieval period. There may well be things that a historian would roll their eyes at, or take issue with me over, and one of those areas could well be medical care and treatment. Because one of my main characters is a healer, medicine often features in the story. Further on in the series I touch upon the medical advances being made, and there is a scene involving the giving of someone’s blood to save another. I have no idea how well this technique was known or practiced in the medieval period – all I do know is that it happens in my world at this time! I make no apologies for any historical inaccuracies – if you want actual facts, you can read a history book!

Janie: A traumatic incident is followed by a tender moment. The two main female characters become friends in a personable situation. Cas grasps a sense of real life experiences instead of plummeting the reader with one high-charged scene after another.

Was the purpose of your pacing to give readers time to become friends with the characters so that they will care about them when the stakes are raised? Did you intentionally slow the pace between battles so that readers have time to digest the complex information regarding your supernatural world?

Cas: Personally, I find it unnatural and irritating when writers try to race the reader from one exciting scene to another with no pause for breath. Yes, a good pace is essential to a novel, and readers want stimulating scenes. Yet there have to be lulls in the pace, as much for variety as for the giving of information. King’s Envoy’s opening chapters are pacy; full of excitement and mystery. But then comes phase two of the story, where a whole new set of characters are introduced. Their personalities and their place in the world and the lives of Taran and his friends are essential to the plot. The way Taran and others react to certain events is determined by these scenes – such important factors should not be rushed past the reader. Also, King’s Envoy is the first book of a trilogy – Artesans is a triple-trilogy series – and I wanted to ensure that readers understood the cataclysmic events of the series’ finale. So I hope I will be forgiven this small reduction in pace in King’s Envoy. Books Two and Three, King’s Champion and King’s Artesan, are faster-paced throughout.

Janie: In King’s Envoy, time is devoted to the relationships between horses and the main characters. The reader meets the fine fillies and shares the joy of developing a bond with creatures that are necessary for survival. Cas’ unique sensitivity with man’s relationship with animals layers emotion into the plot. More importantly, the glimpses of minute details in life during medieval times places the reader in the shoes of the characters.

Was your goal to create an intimate look at the period of the setting? Do you incorporate the ways in which daily activities were performed during the period as a means for flavoring the plot? Do you feel the story would stand on its own without the extra flavoring?

Cas: I am certain that the essence of the plot could be placed in any context in any period and survive the transition. The themes of love and loyalty, betrayal and treachery, and the pursuit and uses of power are universal. I know that I could have placed my characters in a completely different historical period, or even a completely alien world, and still have used that plot. My intention in incorporating such intimate details was to allow the reader to become immersed in the setting. With regard to the horses, they were an essential and vital part of medieval life. I harbor a deep love of horses; I am a qualified horse-riding instructor and spent some of my early adulthood working and teaching in a school of equitation. When I left, I purchased my own horse – a small Welsh cob named Lively – and proceeded to train him to pull a carriage. I competed in cross-country driving events (similar to eventing but without the jumps!), carriage-dressage, and along with the other members of my driving club was among the first members of the public allowed access to the newly-completed M25, England’s most notorious motorway. There were no traffic jams back then – horses are much more pleasant to drive than cars!

            I do not own a horse now, weak back muscles have put paid to that, but I do ride whenever I can. I’m sure this abiding love of horses had something to do with the direction my writing took. We’re always told to ‘write what you know’, and I know a bit about horses! 

Janie: The point of view shifts between characters throughout King’s Envoy. The opening chapter revolves around the hero; do-gooder, innocent yet curious Taran and his desire for knowledge. Then the story shifts to the ruthless antagonists who devise a plan to rule their kingdom at the cost of hard-working people. A healer who works with herbs to save lives provides a tender touch to the story. Each character given the spotlight for expressing their perspective on the situations gifts the story with fresh motives and emotion.

Why did you choose to tell this story through the eyes of several people, instead of concentrating on Taran? Did you feel Taran wasn’t wise enough to give the story full justice? Was it imperative for the reader to know more than the protagonist in order to increase tension? Did you intend to invoke multiple emotions by providing several opinions based on strong contrasts in personalities?

Cas: In this first trilogy, the story is mainly told through the eyes of four characters. Taran is one, the antagonist General Sonten is another, and the two female leads are the others. Because the plot spans two different realms and involves more than one faction, it would be impossible to convey sufficient information through a single character. Events occur that would be meaningless and would confuse rather than enlighten were it not for a change of POV. There are also several sub-plots bubbling under the storyline – these all necessitate the use of more than one point of view. Yet it was not my intention to force the reader’s attention in and out of multiple characters’ heads. The story sticks with one character until the plot demands a switch. And I do believe that intimately learning the motivations, aspirations and emotions of several characters enhances a reader’s experience.

Janie: Oftentimes, in medieval fiction, the hero fails to attain his goals; however, his actions and warrior skills serve others, which is better than his smaller goals. Taran desires to strengthen his elemental skills and through his quest he finally meets a worthy teacher. He realizes how little he knew about the rules of combat for Artesans.

As with medieval literature, did you intend for Taran to accept his teachings and receive the more valued affluence of eternal life and God, even though you never actually pull an almighty power into the story? What is Taran’s underlying desire? Aside from being skilled, did he subconsciously intend to save the world all along, and interestingly enough, his actions created the situation for him to save?

Cas: Wow, that’s a deep one! I really love the concept that Taran’s subconscious desires and yearnings could somehow have manipulated the ambitions of an outlander character and twisted them to his own ends, simply so he would have a reason to acquire the knowledge and power to oppose them. I almost wish that’s the way the novel had gone! Sadly not. Taran, bless him, would never even dream of himself as a Savior. His involvement with the plot as it stands is reluctant; he’d much rather remain safely at the Manor and take what teaching was on offer. He’s a simple soul who doesn’t look further than his next advancement; his only goal is reaching the rank his father attained.

            As for the story not dealing with death and a possible afterlife, and my not pulling an almighty power into the story, all I can say is – read the entire series!

Janie: As with all great literature, the hero loves his woman. In King’s Envoy, Taran takes his time committing his heart to a woman. At first he is infatuated with your heroine. Then he also develops deep respect for her. Yet it’s not until she shares a secret and reveals her vulnerability to him that Taran admits he can’t resist her allure.

What is it about Taran that makes him slow to admit his feelings toward your heroine? Did you intend for him to be sensitive and genuine in his relationships? Is he so admirable that his focus on learning his elemental skills overpowers his interests in courting? Does a gradual relationship create deeper bonds and stronger ties for a hero to defend in the following books of this series?

Cas: Taran spent his early years being tutored by his father, an uncompromising man who was a hard taskmaster. Denied any female company (the fate of Taran’s mother is not revealed) Taran learned to work and to obey, often with no reward. He becomes … not obsessed, that’s too strong a word … infatuated with the potential he sees within himself. His life goals are primed by his father – emotions and personal relationships are sidelined, even discouraged. After his father’s death, the first person Taran befriends is Cal, a disadvantaged young man in whom Taran sees himself reflected. Cal possesses the vestiges of power yet has had no training, and has already turned to petty crime. Taran, a man who knows intimately how Cal feels, takes him under his wing. Their relationship is similar to Taran’s with his father, albeit on a more conducive level. When Healer Rienne, the practitioner of a respected and desirable profession, arrives in the village and becomes attracted to Cal, Taran sees her as a way of gaining his neighbor’s forbearance. All his attention and drive is focused upon his innate talent and so he feels no jealousy of Cal or desire toward Rienne – pretty as she is. This focus, this intensity of purpose, is the reason why Taran falls so heavily for the story’s heroine. Not only is she an extremely beautiful young woman but, more importantly, she possesses the kind of power Taran can only dream of. Power and beauty – an intoxicating mix. Taran’s long-suppressed emotions can’t cope.

            Without wishing to give details away, Taran grows in many ways throughout the series. His emotions, his honor, and his loyalties all contribute, for better or worse, to the storyline. He is a pivotal character.

Janie: King’s Envoy was written as the first story in a series of tales. At what point should a writer plan to create a series? Why have the same characters continue on their path instead of giving them closure and birthing new characters for the next story? What about a series is more appealing than individual novels?

What can we expect from the next book in your series, Artesans of Albia?

Cas: When I began writing King’s Envoy, or Masters of the Matrix as it was then, I didn’t even know I was writing a novel, let alone a whole series. All I had was a beginning, a middle and an end, and no real idea how I would get from one to the other. It wasn’t until I’d written ‘The End’ on my manuscript and began reading back through it that I realized just how long it was. Some research (no computer of my own at that time, so it wasn’t easy) as to how long first novels should be soon told me that what I had was two books, not one. For some time this is how it remained. However, on reviewing the feedback I was getting from agents and publishers I decided that the story would be better split into three. The first Artesans trilogy was born.

            As soon as I’d finished those first books, I knew the story wasn’t over. There is resolution of a kind, of one aspect of the plot, yet the full plot was too involved, the machinations of its originator too complex and far-reaching to be dealt with in one trilogy. Also, by this time the characters had taken hold of me, they were demanding more of my time. So I began work on the second trilogy, Circle of Conspiracy, once more becoming totally engrossed in the story and my characters’ lives. And this time, because I had learned more about the craft of writing and knew what my goals were, the experience was even more intense, more enjoyable. I was more in command of the stages of the book, I knew what I wanted from it. I was able to delve even deeper into the nature and motivations of my characters, pushing them to their limits. They had become real to me, as real as my husband or my friends, and I enjoyed spending time with them. Some might say I enjoyed a feeling of power over them, that I was indulging in acting like a kind of deity, manipulating their lives for my own ends. I suppose in a way that’s correct; it’s what all writers do. Yet I had a very strong sense of being just a player in this, simply a conduit for recording actual life. If that sounds lame and sad, too bad! It’s simply how it was.

            When ‘Circle’ was finished, I thought that was it. All the loose ends had been tied, the plot resolved. But it soon became apparent that my characters hadn’t finished with me, and soon I began working on the final trilogy, Master of Malice. As its title suggests, the Master trilogy is much darker than the previous two. I’m not sure where this darkness comes from and I’ll admit I found it disturbing. I suppose we all have a core of darkness within us and in the Master trilogy, mine found an outlet.

            So; to the question of at what point should a writer decide to create a series, my answer would be; when he or she knows that those characters have more to give. I believe, and I’m also speaking personally, that readers like to follow a fictional character’s ‘career’ just as much as that of a celebrity or a family member. Look at Conan Doyle’s’ Sherlock Holmes, or a more modern analogy, Peter James’ Roy Grace, or, to stick with fantasy, Stephen Donaldson’s Thomas Covenant. I think we all like familiarity and reading about our favorite characters is like catching up with old friends.

            As to what you can expect from my next two books, the answer is more tension, more battles, more revelations, heightened emotions, more mystery and lots of action. I hope that King’s Envoy whets readers’ appetites and that they will come back to see whether Taran succeeds in his personal goals, and also discover the significance of the terrible weapon he inadvertently stole. I’d love to hear readers’ thoughts on the novel!

            Thank you for your interest,

            all the best,

            Cas Peace. 

Janie: Thank you for sharing your insights into your writing and how to create authentic medieval settings. Book One in the Artesans of Albia trilogy, King’s Envoy, is available from:

Rhemalda Publishing: http://www.atlasbooks.com/rhemalda/artesans.htm

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Kings-Envoy-Artesans-Cas-Peace/dp/1936850133/ref=sr_1_1s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1305023006&sr=1-1

Barnes & Noble: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Kings-Envoy/Cas-Peace/e/9781936850136/?itm=10&USRI=rhemalda#TABS

Stay in touch with Cas Peace at: http://www.caspeace.com

You can also find her on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/cas.peace

and Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4180597.Cas_Peace

If you hurry, Goodreads are giving away 5 copies of King’s Envoy up until August 15th 2011. If you have a Goodreads account, putting King’s Envoy on your ‘to read’ list will help the book’s profile and make Cas Peace very happy!

by

Hippies Strengthened My Beliefs

One fall morning during my eighth year, a life-changing visitor arrived at my house. Sick with the flu, I stayed home from school that day. The doorbell rang and I ran to see who was there.

I swung the door open upon two tall, beautiful men. They glowed in the humidity. Both angelic beings had long hair framing their faces. They emitted tranquility by clasping their hands across their chest. Shocked by their presence, my waist-length hair stood on end and I screamed.

“Momma, Jesus and one of his disciples are at the front door!” I left them standing outside to let her know the great news.

Never in all my days had I expected to meet Jesus Christ in person. My mother taught Sunday school at the Presbyterian Church. I won a Holy Bible the prior year for not missing one class during 365 days. Having Jesus stop by my home was even better than when the preacher paid his tri-monthly visits to see if everyone was well.

To my disappointment, the disciple was my Texas cousin and Jesus was his mere mortal friend who happened to have been blessed with strawberry-blonde hair, hence giving him a nickname having to do with wine. After graduating first in his class from college, my cousin and his pal refused to submit to society by joining the masses. In search of truth, they embarked on nomadic wanderings. Crossing the Mississippi River and stopping for a rest in Tennessee satisfied their awakening. They made their political statement by loading boxes at a warehouse.

“Well, they must be hungry because it’s lunchtime,” my mother said after a few visitations.

“Why do you think that?” I asked.

“Because, whenever we eat they show up,” my mother said.

“Just like Jesus. That’s how he and his disciples got fed, too.” I wasn’t ever completely convinced they weren’t angelic.

For several months, the two boys gathered at my house at mealtimes. They never came out and asked for food, but somehow as I watched cartoons with a bag of Ruffles potato chips, their hands would sneak inside.

They were endearing. They never complained about wrestling our 120-pound Airedale. I told them silly stories and we had tickle contests. My cousin carved the highest quality pumpkin faces I’d ever seen. The guys were peaceful and benevolent, making a huge impression on my life. I loved how we all gathered together without any expectations or resentments as to what the other was doing. No judgments whatsoever.

My mother said they must’ve gotten tired of needing money because, eventually, they relinquished their protests against the “Big Man.” My Texas cousin became a hot-shot CPA attorney, still fighting the system but within luxurious surroundings.

The way my mother welcomed my cousin and his friend into our home gave me a sense of security in knowing people took care of each other. I felt extra love in watching her fuss over the charming boys. She didn’t mind that they wanted free food. She accepted them as her own children and always encouraged them stay longer.

I modeled the mother of Shea Tabor in the Stone Zone Mystery to accept her daughter’s carefree idol with the same love. Everyone deserved the comfort of trusting his neighbor and the confidence in us all being here, struggling to survive together.

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Passion Flares in Copenhagen, Denmark

I belong in Copenhagen, Denmark. Its atmosphere enters my soul and embraces me. Even my husband says I blend with the rest of the civilians. Residents ask whether I’m from there.

Such a romantic city, even Denmark’s royal family smolders with passionate tales wherein their enduring love for one another broke all barriers.  Established by Danes and Vikings, Copenhagen has a special quality that combines contemporary artistry with avid traditions.  Bronze and plaster sculptures created by noteworthy artists adorn every street and most buildings.

Copenhagen’s Town Square is fairly new, rebuilt during the early 1900s.  The romantic Scandinavian Renaissance architecture includes twisted spires held high by demons, copper rooftops supporting copulas, and dramatic coloring within the textures.  Decorative doors enhance the clean lines of the smaller buildings.  Some doors are geometric with contrasting primary colors, and others are hand-carved with intricate vegetation scenes.  There are no boundaries imposed upon the creativity of Denmark artists.

The city is known for its damp, moderate climate.  Vibrant splashes of flowers bloom around houses and illuminate fields.  If you are lucky to visit during a storm, plan to search for amber deposited by the waves along the northern shores.

As a sea faring city, red, navy and white boats brighten the harbors and accentuate the charming yellow and orange cottages designed in Danish Neo-classicism.   Entering from the waterway, you will see the Little Mermaid, sculpted by Edvard Eriksen, sitting on a rock, staring out at sea, waiting for her prince to return.

Funky décor accentuates restaurants that spill onto courtyards.  The meals are prepared with the same crisp appeal as the immaculate washrooms.  And the people are gorgeous.

Shops are tucked into basements and inconspicuously nestled along quiet streets.  Antique stores offer unique selections of World War II relics and needlepoint.  Bright moccasins, capes and weapons crafted by Eskimos and other tribes near the North Pole are treasures. Selections are unique and highly crafted.

A must see is the Tivoli Pleasures Park that inspired Walt Disney.  Its authentic international themes lead you along walkways strung with celestial lights and surrounded by fountains.  There are countless museums and churches with refreshing architecture and prehistoric relics.  Denmark is an example of imagery at its best.

Pack sweaters and light jackets.  Depending on the time of year, you might even need heavier clothing.  Make sure they are stylish.  Copenhagen remains atop the most current trends in everything from clothing to furniture to light fixtures.  Even dishes and silverware have a zesty spin.  Be prepared for twilight hours during the summer, which means more daylight for enjoying the picturesque town.

A definite “yes” for families who enjoy long days of endless visual stimulation.  An “absolute” for couples who yearn for a fabulous backdrop over a delightful holiday.

Having such a huge impression on me, Copenhagen is the inspiration for the enchanted world within Evangabella. I place the protagonist in enchanted swamps possessing similar characteristics. My most outrageous settings are sparked from their futuristic ways of thinking within their traditional locales.

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Talking to Ghosts, Walking in Orlando

Christopher HufferWe love Scooby Doo at our house. For a live experience, we made an appointment to walk through downtown Orlando with the American Ghost Adventure. I expected a man dressed in Victorian garb with a top hat to tell us ghost stories. Instead, we met Christopher, a regular guy wearing a black tee-shirt with a gothic cross on his chest. His ghost hunting activities aired in Great Britain.

He educated us on the different classifications of paranormal activity. Memories of emotional moments in a person’s life sometimes repeated themselves without intentions. Lost apparitions had no idea people noticed them. Other spirits reasoned and interacted with living beings.

He passed around KII EMF meters and we strolled through downtown Orlando. The fresh city had more history than the glass skyrise buildings made it seem. Christopher didn’t focus on historical events. He reported details of recent paranormal encounters.

Okay, sure. It’s possible. I mean, I’ve seen a few odd things myself over the years.

With the setting sun, the accounts of ghosts hauntings became spooky. I appreciated being greeted by a cross whenever I looked at Christopher. The bar activity added to the atmosphere. Stilettos and cocktail dresses were the perfect ghost hunting wardrobe because as it grew dark outside, the streets fill with hoochie girls, Hollywood boys, and transsexuals. It was a nice touch for the raucous happenings behind the unrested souls.

Did I see a ghost? Maybe, at the top of the Bumby building where apparitions of children played upstairs. The white light suggested they were active.

At the end of the walk, with a scary tone established, Christopher took us to his home-base located at a reputable museum. As bold as I was, entering an unfamiliar building after closing hours with a security guard locking us inside bolstered the creepy factor.

Upstairs we went into a historic courtroom. A streak of terror hit me when I touched the last spot Ted Bundy, the relentless serial killer, sat outside jail. He etched his name on the table during his trial. According to our EMF devices, a ghost was in the courtroom with us.

The real action started in the judge’s chamber. Several ghosts lingered after traumatic life experiences. They seemed accustomed to Christopher because they answered his questions by turning on flashlights.

Christopher placed equipment on the table for anyone to use. EMF (electro-magnetic frequency) detectors revealed paranormal activity.  An ovilus exposed the words on his iPhone.  Bursts of heat and chills read on the temperature gauge suggested other-worldly presences controlled the paranormal activity. He took photos with a night vision camera.

An EVP (electronic voice phenomenon) taped paranormal communications. One ghost engaged us in a thirty-minute conversation. He asked me to get a pencil and paper to write down his words.

The EVP gave cryptic phrases, same as if English wasn’t the first language of ghosts. It reminded me of the way neuroscientists routed brain waves of paralyzed patients who had lost their ability to speak to computers. As images flashed on screens, the computer verbalized the patients’ thoughts, proving loss of the ability to speak didn’t mean lack of intelligence.

This experience was perfect for paranormal lovers. It was thrilling, clean fun. Highly recommended to be added to the theme park entertainment list. The tour ended by ten o’clock and made an excellent cocktail hour before clubbing, too.

I became a believer. How about you? Well, fine then. If you have pictures with suspicious looking images or experiences out of your comfort zone, contact the specialist for yourself at americanghostadventures@gmail.com. He answers all emails and freely provides his opinions.

Apparitions are characters in some of my novels. In Eangabella, they pester the protagonist, same as a persistent guy at a cocktail party tags along after getting the brush off. In Under a Full Moon, a ghost materializes on certain nights to guide the protagonist toward clues for solving a mystery.

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My Childhood as a Fire Starter

When I was at the glorious age, too young to ride a bicycle and overjoyed to cruise the cove on my Big Wheel, my younger brother and I played with fire. Actually, he was my older brother but the youngest of my siblings, leaving me with the permanent nickname, “Doc’s Baby,” since my father was a surgeon.

Having a ten year gap with our older siblings, my younger brother and I ate meals in a separate room in front of the fireplace. It was a fabulous set-up allowing us to discover the variety of colors flames created. During warmer months, we were lucky enough to have candles on our miniature dinner table. We burned napkins, wrapping paper and Dixie cups, unwanted brussel sprouts and string beans. Even our leopard print hearth cushion caught on fire a few times. We made wax art with soda bottles and melted crayons.

When we got bored with burning, we created new condiments. We mixed into Ketchup bottles everything left on the table, including the unwanted beans and radishes and hot sauces. We didn’t taste our experiments but laughed our heads off, all the same.

Early on a Saturday, my brother woke me so he could show me how quickly matches burned in a Charles Chip cookie container. After lighting several dozen, we decided to go outside and ride our bikes.

“Where’s Momma?” I asked.

“She’s not here. We’re all alone,” my brother said.

Just before leaving the room, I got the clever idea to cover the metal container with my grandmother’s bedspread to keep it safe. I put on my white, go-go boots and we headed outside.

In an adventurous mood, I recommended we go beyond the end of our cove. We turned one way and another, until we were completely lost. Nothing looked familiar. There were new sounds in the foreign neighborhood.

“What’s that noise?” I asked my big brother.

”It’s a police car. He’s chasing someone,” he said.

“Let’s follow!” I said.

“No. We’ll get arrested if we do that,” he said.

Even though my big brother thought it was a bad idea, I convinced him to follow the sirens. They led us to the end of a wide hill.

“Hey, that’s our house,” he said.

“No. We don’t live anywhere around here. Why would the sirens go to our house?” I asked.

Sure enough, firetrucks led us home. I felt relieved and confused at the same time. The firemen were amazing to watch. I couldn’t help getting excited about the whole thing. They carried hoses across our patio and stomped around, determined and fast.

A young firefighter noticed me and asked in an irritated tone, “Are you the kids who were playing with fire?”

“Who me? It must’ve been a very small fire.” I didn’t think matches counted as actually being irresponsible.

“A neighbor called the fire department. She saw flames rising from your window. Why did you leave the house without telling your mother?” the firefighter asked.

Well, it ended up we weren’t alone that morning, after all. Somehow, my brother and I woke up before everyone else. Momma was taking a shower when we left.

My brother and I were grounded, which meant we had to sit in a leather chair all day long. We weren’t allowed to talk, either.

My oldest brother strutted across the den and grabbed our experimental bottle of Ketchup. We tried to stop him, but since we weren’t allowed to speak it was difficult for him to understand our warnings. He poured the dark brown mixture of Tobasco sauce and unwanted greens and crusty condiments onto his sandwich.

As he shushed me for shouting, he took a big bite to go with that adorable, “Smokey and the Bandit,” Burt Reynolds attitude he flaunted. Needless to say, our time-out on the leather chair was extended.

I couldn’t believe my fortune when Grandmomma Shelton’s furnishings were replaced with a pink Holly Hobby decor and a fancy new headboard with a cushy mattress. Certainly, no excuse for starting a fire.

I incorporated my fire starter experiences into an accident caused by Ivy Clearwater in Evangabella. Like me, she didn’t intend to be a delinquent. Fate and all the supernatural powers of the universe invoked a punishment on her that was more fitting than a few hours in a time-out chair by forcing poor Ivy into the enchanted underworld of Florida.

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Sultry Heat in Kusadasi, Turkey

For an exotic mix of sensuous cultures and sultry heat, I took a cruise from Istanbul, Turkey through the South Aegean Sea.   My husband and I were angry with each other when we arrived in Kusadasi, Turkey.  We spoke little as we exited the small ship and made our way past a Turkish destroyer ship and all of its guards.  We had been in Turkey for a few days and were accustomed to seeing soldiers with machine guns guarding benign looking buildings.  It was common for soldiers to force families out of their vehicles and to perform searches that our tour escort insisted was nothing to be alarmed about.  Entering a port full of military vessels was not too intimidating.

My husband walked a few feet in front of me, giving us space.  When I reached the guard, I asked whether we could have a tour of their vessel because my husband was a war buff.  The soldier ran up the gang plank and then returned with an invitation from the captain to dine with him that evening.

That certainly lifted my husband’s spirits and resolved our argument – he was the one in the wrong anyway, right?  We spent the day in romantic bliss.  We ate at a rustic café.  The food was wonderful, and Turkish meals are my favorite.  When I went to the restroom, it was ironic that I had to pay because there was no back wall and several donkeys peered into the ladies room.  Perhaps, the café owners were raising money to complete construction.

We strolled to the bazaar. A shopowner shouted, “Lucky man.” To my husband, I think because I had pinned a tiny evil-eye to his shirt. It was supposed to ward off negative intentions from others. My husband took it as a compliment in his having me as a wife.

By then, in a jovial mood, he sat in a throne-like chair at a leather shop, like a sultan drinking the complimentary wine, ordering the owner to shorten my skirt three times before he agreed to purchase it.  By the time he finished, the skirt was so short, two little girls giggled as I walked through the winding passages.

We discovered an isolated dock beside a restaurant.  As is tradition when we travel, my husband tried to persuade me to go skinny dipping.  Several men stepped out of the restaurant to watch my husband jump into the freezing water.  I let my naked toe touch the tip and kept my knickers in place.  No way was I going to get arrested for taking off my clothes in a Muslim country.

At the end of the day, we dressed for our dinner affair.  We met the captain and the head officers of the Turkish destroyer ship on the deck.  They served their only dish, mush with champagne.  Incredibly handsome soldiers surrounded us, standing at attention beside torpedoes and other gigantic weapons.  We learned much about the Turkish work force.  For instance, the children take aptitude tests when they reach 14 years old.  The scores are used for placing the students within their professions.  Therefore, if a child is determined to be a leader, he is trained for that position; while if a child is found suitable for less prestigious work, he will never be promoted.

The Turkish culture is erotic and the styles are vivacious.  Although the security is tight for the civilians, it feels safe for tourists who are willing to pay for a tourist escort or else stay within the main public destinations.  Turkey is one of my top choices as an adventurous destination and ancient charm.

Every few months, my husband announces, “Lucky man.” Then, he then recalls the compliment he received for being with me in Turkey.

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Mud Wrestling with Pigs

Throughout my childhood, I resided in the suburbs of Memphis with weekends at the cotton farm around Longtown, Tennessee. It was the best of both worlds. Although I appreciated modern conveniences, I never forgot the difficult life-styles experienced by some of my friends who were raised in the country.

Beside our barn for the horses, two boys and a girl lived in a dilapidated shack without electricity or running water. Their outhouse was a rotting board with a torn wool blanket hung on rusty nails. I referred to their toilet as an “outing-house,” making them laugh at what a silly city-slicker I was. Even though all but one of the children had repeated several grades in elementary school, on more than one occasion they taught me a thing or two.

It was a hot summer day during junior high when I decided to frolic with farm animals. I couldn’t believe my friends didn’t realize how amazing it was to keep pigs a few feet away from their house.

“Let’s play with the pigs.” I leaped into the pig pen and wrestled the large critters. I kicked up mud and danced around the pink guys as a dozen grunting, rolly-pollies circled me.

“You shouldn’t do that,” the girl my age said. She was the oldest and didn’t like to talk about it, but her brothers had passed her grade in school. While extremely kind and quiet, she preferred napping on the porch with the flies swarming around her over anything else.

“Come on. It’s fun,” I called out, tickling the unresponsive oinkers behind the ears.

The three children stood on the fence, open-mouthed with their eyes three times their regular sizes.  The youngest one, he was the smartest, he shook his head while his siblings stared in disbelief.

“Ut-ah. I ain’t going in there,” he said.

The following Monday, I returned to my city-slicker personae. I had play practice at an all-boys’ Memphis prep school. Sitting in the red theatre, I propped my feet up on the chair in front of me as I chatted with a close guy-friend, who happened to be an heir to the largest chain of jewelry stores in town.

“What’s that smell?” He wrinkled his nose and sniffed.

“I don’t smell anything,” I said, more interested in the people on the stage.

“Oh yeah. There’s a smell.” He squinted and inhaled another drag of air. “It’s your shoes.”

I pulled my foot up to my nose and took a whiff of my Tretorn tennis shoe. It was putrid.

Bleaching and washing failed to get rid of the pig smell. I burst into laughter. How could my privileged friend understand what I’d been doing over the weekend? He had an aquarium and solarium in his gigantic home bathroom.

It hadn’t occurred to me at the time I jumped into the pig pen, but there was a reason they lived in mud while the rest of the yard remained arid. Pigs defecated, urinated and vomited within their living quarters. I did notice trash in the mud, too. My country friends had told me their father fed the pigs garbage. Why hadn’t I realized how gross that was at the time?

I might be a slow learner, but I never played with pigs after that day. And I don’t eat them either. My protagonist in Evangabella captured the same sense of never fitting in with the majority. She grew up in the ritzy suburbs of Orlando but kept strong ties with her rural relatives. Luckily for her, the survival skills she learned in the country saved her life.

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London Ghost Warning

If during a visit to London you have a vacant evening, consider filling the time with a ghost bus tour. Beware, or that is to say wary, if you anticipate actually seeing paranormal activity.

The London ghost tours answer any questions you had about where out of work British actors find work. The commentator of the bus tour puts on a grand show, leaning into the camera to distort his face, utilizing every crazed voice he’s developed and screaming as he runs up and down the stairs. Not that he’s uninformed. Quite the contrary. The commentator shares educational narratives about English monarchy and their brutal deaths. He gives accounts of fires and romances. The catch is, he interrupts himself regularly to intentionally create chaos.

It is all in good fun and is an excellent opportunity to see areas of the city you might otherwise overlook. He talks rapidly, pointing out so many interesting monuments and providing such shocking accounts of English history, it is difficult to glimpse every location.

If there are ghosts, the bus moves too quickly for anyone to take photographs or see them. The actors are there to entertain. The ghost tour creates suspense to scare the patrons. It is similar to a haunted house where the purpose of going inside is to be scared.

Patrons include a families and gothic collegians. Young adults show up with wigs, black lipstick and Goth clothing. Expect to laugh and sit at the edge of your seat to avoid being attacked by ghoulish monsters. The interior of the bus resembles a coffin and gives the feeling you are headed to a funeral.

Surprises crop up, according to the time of year. For instance, around Easter, a serial killer rabbit joins the crew.

Patrons get off the bus one time, and a huge surprise is that the tour ends on a sentimental note, instead of somewhere dangerous. It is a great way to learn about London and monarchy deaths. The actors discourage young children from taking the tour because they do want to scare you.

The tour reflects on experiences of people who often lead to their becoming ghosts. Paranormal activities first interested me when I was three years old and my grandmother passed away. My interpretation of paranormal activities appear in my stories. In Evangabella and Under a Full Moon, the protagonists encounter ghosts they must learn to understand in order to solve their conflicts with the world.

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The Duce in Ponza, Italy

Ponza, Italy is an authentic European town without touristy shops, no fast foods, and no crowds.  So remote and inconspicuous, it is an excellent destination for World War II history buffs.  You arrive by tender or ferry at the marina full of weathered commercial boats and scruffy private sailing vessels lining the high sea wall of the Pontine Island.  Rugged men sell comic books and plastic toys at their newspaper stands.  Locals zip through the main waterfront street on vespas and motor scooters.  Taxis minibuses are abundant, which is fantastic since aside from the small restaurants, a pharmacy, and an ice cream shop, there is nothing to see.

Nothing to see for those who lack imagination, anyway.  Practice your Italian so you can easily give instructions to the taxi driver as to where you want to go.  There is little information published about the island and you should have an idea of what you would like to see ahead of time.  You can climb the mountainside, ideally in a vehicle, and view the town from above with a statue of Queen Mary over your shoulder.  It is a short trip; however, the taxi fare is high.

Persistence reaps rewards.  If you ask numerous taxi drivers, you will find one who not only speaks more than one language, and possibly yours, but also he will know where the most famous house in Ponza is located.

Benito Mussolini, the Duce, was captured and taken to Ponza, Italy.  He was held hostage for eight days before being transported to a different location.  Most residents fain no knowledge of the previous Italian leader, but it only takes one man who knows the way, up the hill, through the town, down several disjointed streets too narrow for a bicyclist to feel safe.  At the end of a rutted road, hidden from the main thoroughfare, ocean waves strike the backyards of untidy homes.  There, across the street from an outdoor bar that relies on old tires and discarded novelties for decoration, you find the historical location.

The men of Ponza sipping beers at picnic benches in an outdoor bar painted in pinks and yellows do not recall the incident.  The owner of the house where the Duce was imprisoned hoses the path in front of the yellow building.

Villagers stop listening to their boom boxes to see why anyone would stop and photograph the old structure.  It is kept up better than the surrounding homes.  Bougainvillea blooms up one wall and a welcome mat invites people inside, but not to see the rooms where the Duce lay awake at night, wondering if this time it would be the end.  A different shop is resident of the special home.

The Duce was taken to a different location where he was eventually released and reinstated as Italy’s leader with his execution arising from a later capture.  In this bright yellow building, there is no evidence anyone willing to join Nazi forces ever took notes about his life, ever prayed for his mistress, or ever planned for Italy’s liberated future.  But you will know and you will tell.

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Novel Outlining: Strategize

First and foremost, decide the core elements of your plot.  Take your time and keep your initial structure simple.  Establishing what you intend to accomplish keeps you aimed on the bull’s eye of your target.

The main structure of your story has an Act I for the beginning, an Act II for the middle and an Act III for the end.  Write down the basic plot for each.  Some examples are as follows:

  1.  Act I:  The hero meets the protagonist.
  2. Act II:  The hero cheats on the protagonist.
  3. Act III:  The hero reaffirms his love for the protagonist.
  1. The Beginning:  The protagonist runs away from home.
  2. The Middle:  The protagonist changes his identity.
  3. The End:  The protagonist returns home as a hero.

Within your beginning, you promise to answer the question, “Why?”  The Middle pumps the story full of specifics.  The End feels complete because you answer the “Why” and provide an unexpected ending.

Once you have determined the core of your plot, list your setting for each of the three acts.  Include the location, the mood, and the environment.  Think about your protagonist and hero as if they were your friends whom you can call or meet for lunch to find out how their lives are going.  Notice what about them is unique from anyone else you know.  Start with this list and expand your information to include whatever you consider relevant.

Act I – The Beginning:

  1. Where does the protagonist live at the beginning of the story?
  2. What year does the beginning take place?
  3. How does the protagonist feel about her age at this time?
  4. Is the protagonist happy with his appearance?
  5. What jobs did her parents have?
  6. Did the protagonist enjoy his childhood?
  7. What type of friends does the protagonist have?
  8. What is most important to the protagonist?
  9. How did the situation, the driving action, in the Beginning result?
  10. When did the situation first evolve?
  11. Why does the protagonist care whether the situation took place?
  12. Who else was affected by the situation?
  13. Did the protagonist tell his friends?

Act II – The Middle:

  1. How did the protagonist reach this point?
  2. What caused the situations to develop?
  3. What motivated the protagonist to react the way she did?
  4. List three clues about how the story ends?
  5. What effect did the action by the protagonist in the Beginning have in the Middle?
  6. What mistake does the protagonist continue to make?
  7.  What situations have become worse for the protagonist?
  8. How is the protagonist vulnerable?
  9. What are the protagonist’s strengths?

Act III – The End:

  1. What would you like to see happen?
  2. Which outcome is best for the common good?
  3. How did the protagonist manage to survive this far without giving up?
  4. How does the protagonist feel at this point?
  5. When will the protagonist feel content with the circumstances?
  6. Where should the protagonist go from here?
  7. What happened that the protagonist wanted to avoid?
  8. Why should anyone care about the protagonist?
  9. What is similar in the End to the Beginning?
  10. What has changed in the End from the Beginning?

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Ghost Orbs Populate St. Augustine

The ghost tours in St. Augustine, Florida encourage visitors to take photographs of the haunted locations in hopes ghost orbs appear on film. Orbs are a recently discovered phenomena. Researchers theorize orbs of light appear in pictures when spirits drift into the scene. Some believe the spirits seek out past relatives to comfort and protect the living. Others consider the orbs to be disquieted souls with unfinished business on earth. Such ghosts suffered emotionally or physically at the time of their death.

Even though I saw no evidence of ghost orbs while walking around the town, images of round lights appeared on my developed pictures. “Are they nothing more than distorted refractions of light taken by digital cameras?” I asked the film developer. He also toured St. Augustine and felt some were glitches with digital cameras and others were actual spirits. “It’s whatever you want them to be,” he said.

The spirit of a boy likes sits in this tree at the Catholic cemetery. Thousands of confused spirits join him, wishing someone would tell them how to get out of the graveyard.

Native American Chief Osceola was imprisoned at the fort on the river. Upon his death, the doctor decapitated him and kept his head as a souvenir. Taking on a bluish appearance, the head of Osceola bounces above the fort in search of its body.

Spirits enjoy hearing stories about themselves and follow the tour guide along with the visitors. My dog growled and became anxious at this point so I took a picture curious if she was reacting to ghosts.

Many townspeople died at the city gates, forbidden to enter because of an illness or unsatisfactory behavior. The town burned to the ground on several occasions and fleeing residents died. One sweet little girl still skips down the street and then sits at the top of the left column.

Robbers uncovered a body and stole a man’s gold teeth. The man’s spirit searches for his teeth during the night. This yellowish orb is identical in size and placement to other photos posted on the ghost tour websites.

Three rogue brothers lived a jovial life, drinking and partying every night. Even after their death, the three brothers play around the cemetery.

A school mistress looks out the window in search of her students who burned in a fire. The spiral lines inside the orb suggest it is a spirit and not refracted light.

Ghostly encounters throughout my life inspired the theme for my supernatural story, Evangabella, where a girl senses paranormal activity but doesn’t know whether to trust the spirits.

What do you think? Are they real?

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Philippa Gregory Prefers Queen Victoria

Did I befriend Philippa Gregory on the Queen Victoria’s transatlantic crossing?

The day we disembarked from Florida, a captivating woman and a man got on the elevator with my family. Her hair was naturally fair – perhaps a soft grey with frosted highlights, or was it a muted blonde with sprinkles of grey? The coloring depended on how the light caught it. From the front, her hair duplicated the swept-back style Philippa Gregory wore, but the side view revealed cropped curls on top while the rest of her hair hung just above her shoulders.

The short lady beamed with enthusiasm, thrilled about life in general. When she moved, her gold jewelry shimmered around large stones. Her effervesce bubbled throughout the entire elevator. She laughed, overjoyed about something, pushing the button for the Lido buffet. This woman was clearly Philippa Gregory, except an older, more serene version of the photos on the back covers of her books.

Her expression was open and she held her chin up with an air of royalty, like the character’s in her historical fiction. She turned to me and giggled a greeting. I stared, absorbing every detail of her face. For fear of scaring the dear lady, I smiled and looked away.

My husband tapped my arm and nodded at Philippa. He noticed something amazing about her, too.  It wasn’t my imagination.

I took him to the library, looking for a back cover photo of the famous authoress we encountered. I hurried up the spiral stairs and back down, determined to find the Gre fiction section.

Three books by a Gra author leaned to one side but where Philippa Gregory’s books belonged, the shelf was empty. Room remained for eight hardcover books. It was the only vacant space in the library.

“We saw the historical fiction author, Philippa Gregory, on the elevator. They don’t want anyone to recognize her,” I insisted.

The following afternoon, Philippa and the man ate at the 24 hour Lido buffet. A woman approached her table. They shook hands and talked briefly. The woman left. Perhaps another fan.

Two Belfast dames also sensed Philippa’s heightened presence. The redheaded cocky dame considered the lady’s high cheekbones and regal stance obvious signs of her success.

“Opportunities only come once in a lifetime. Go over and ask her if she is Philippa Gregory. She might be flattered,” the blonde, flirtatious dame said.

“It would be in poor taste to interrupt her while she is eating. I’ll wait until the next time I see her,” I said.

Philippa made eye contact, maybe recognized me from the elevator. No, her eyes roved around the room taking in everyone with equal interest. Maybe, she studied people for inspiration on a new project.

My opportunity came at afternoon tea. The only seat in the room faced Philippa. I sat, wondering if I seemed intrusive. The man traveling with her introduced himself as Anthony. While he talked, I kept one ear fixed on Philippa’s conversation with a Belgium bombshell across from me.

“Rejection is the worst. You never really get used to it. And it comes. Expect rejection to come because you can’t do it without rejection. I can’t quite describe the pain with a rejection but they come and you have to expect them. You can’t stop. And when I got rejection, I decided I didn’t care what others said. I felt I was right in what I was doing and didn’t let others tell me not to continue. I determined to persevere and that’s what you have to do until you finally get there,” Philippa said.

I didn’t have to nerve to jump into their conversation. Instead, I sat taller and asked the group whether they were familiar with two cities where my ancestors owned castles. Philippa fixated on me. She scooted closer and asked what research I had done.

“Well, none. I assumed locales ending with “hide” or “shire” were sections of London,” I said.

“Why no,” Philippa explained. She asked me if I had Googled the towns and suggested a few other research avenues off the top of her head. She impressed me with her knowledge regarding English monarchy. She suggested I talk to the ship librarian for recommendations on atlases and maps.

We shared family tragedies and personal antidotes well past the end of tea time and during the two-week journey across the big pond. With each bit of information, I kept changing my mind as to whether it was Philippa Gregory.

She introduced herself as Sophie, explaining she didn’t like to use her formal name. Perhaps Philippa Gregory was a pen name anyway.

A man broke into a home she owned in Yorkshire. He committed assault and battery on the person who lived in her house. Maybe a crazed fan looking for Philippa Gregory. She also owned property in Yorkshire.

She lived on the coast outside London but frequented her Yorkshire home. Perhaps Philippa Gregory spent winters in the south and summers in the north.

She and Anthony had a total of six children in their combined family. Philippa Gregory and her husband raised the same number of kids.

Anthony shared the same first name as Philippa Gregory’s husband. Did coincidences like that really happen?

She preferred staying in the shadows, observing other peoples’ flirtations and dancing. Sounds like a clever way to gain inspiration for developing characters in historical romances.

Every day, she ate breakfast at noon. Could she be writing through the night while I wasted time in bed wishing my husband would close the balcony door so the gale force winds wouldn’t cause the wall panels to howl?

She questioned my marital skills during each conversation and evaluated my behavior. For instance, my filling a plate with sandwiches and pastries for my husband prompted her to pat Anthony’s hand and comment on how wonderfully I treated him. She asked if my husband instructed me to get the food. “Yes, he instructed me to return with egg salad sandwiches,” I explained. “Oh well. That does make a difference.” She digested this detail, likely analyzing relationships for establishing motives in her novels.

Every minor event intrigued her. She had never seen nacho chips before and found the concept of corn creating a chip fascinating. Passionate writers exaggerated insignificant elements of life.

Parables about men rolled off her tongue. She asked whether my husband liked the food I took back to my cabin. “Why no. He refused to eat any of it and was upset because I took so long,” I said. “That is true for all men. No man ever understands what a woman does with their time.” If she were a writer, it made sense she theorized about mankind for situations to play out in her novels.

With the same wispy air of a timeless classic, she explained how women ought to return to the old way of managing men, no raised voices or nagging. Women used to direct a man’s actions without resorting to such behavior. I shrugged. Maybe Philippa Gregory provided marital counseling in her novels, life lessons for her readers.

One time, she stumbled into an interview about how her love-live evolved. She wasn’t usually forthcoming about personal information, but once the interviewer started talking, her story slipped out. Her love story will appear in an upcoming publication along with some other people’s stories. The interviewer commented that although he taped her lovely voice, he wasn’t able to capture the dazzle in her eyes. Clearly, she was famous.

She magnetized the energy around her. Anthony became captivated by her when they first met because she was such a striking woman. She giggled, saying, “Striking wasn’t what I want. There are many characteristics more appealing for a woman than striking. I’d like to be one of those.”

My life stories intrigued her by playing out like a series of novels. “Actually, I do write, ” I said. Finally, on the last day of the trip, I asked what she did for a living. She bowed her head and gazed at Anthony. “I never did do much of anything. I was born in the wrong time. Perhaps if I had been born in a different period I might have done something more.” Yeah right. The Tudor period. When I coaxed her for more information, she picked up a corn chip and marveled at the toppings. “They eat these in Mexico? They really are delicious,” she said.

I remained undecided about whether the woman on the Queen Elizabeth was my favorite authoress, Philippa Gregory. It doesn’t matter. She was my Philippa Gregory.

For having known her, I admired Philippa Gregory even more. Being exposed to her manner of relating to people and her philosophies regarding relationships taught me lessons in writing; observing and cherishing  reality provided material for flavoring fictional relationships in my stories. For instance, my protagonist in the Stone Zone Mystery finally gets to meet her idol, only to discover life isn’t what it seems for the rich and famous.

Thank you, Philippa.

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Like, Do You Really Mean It?

Ever since author and ex-agent, Nathan Bransford, blogged about the benefits of adding Like buttons all over websites and Facebook, I’ve been inundated with Like requests. Oftentimes, I punch those buttons not of the content, but because I like to help others. The Like button reveals what a likeable person the punchee is. 

I Like charities and businesses and unpublished manuscript descriptions and ebooks and artwork and pictures and novels and contests and publishers and unorganized groups and a few colleges. But the thing is, I’m not so sure the hundreds of pages I Like reciprocate my feelings. It’s like having a one-night stands. The fleeting joy of clicking the Like button is forgotten and I never hear from them again.

There are my friends who want to dump me from their conversational links and have a noncommittal relationship instead. It’s like being told, “I don’t want to speak to you ever again but I still want you to Like me.” Liking in cyber-space leaves the same void as when I had crushed on a boy during my childhood and never bothered to actually speak to him. 

Just as I never checked a box in a “Do you like me, yes or no?” note from a boy because it seemed contrived, unless someone shares my blood or speaks to me on a regular basis, I don’t Like him. Don’t take that as an insult. If I don’t Like you, it means I want substance. I want to interact with you. I don’t check out my interests pages to see what generic postings are happening with my siblings’ businesses. If I ever Like you, it means I won’t notice what you are up to again.

Noteworthy authors allow fans to converse with them on their friend pages. Acceptance by people I admire encourages me to remain loyal with following their publications. Marketing strategies evolve and images emerge according to the reactions of readers to simple tag lines.         

Cyber-space is sterile enough without the formalities of Like. I crave communication. By conversing with peers, I tweak my writing skills and tailor my words. Interchanges develop my craft. Feedback directs my future. 

Therefore, Nathan Bransford, I don’t Like you. It’s like my mother told me in a round-about way, “You can Like some of the people some of the time, but you can’t Like all the people all of the time.”

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Leopards in London

Is it uncivilized to wear leopard in London?

My family and I took the South Hampton train to Cardiff. It was cold compared to my homeland Floridian climate. For warmth, I wore my favorite article of outerwear: a faux leopard print jacket. It made me feel happy, like having a thick blanket wrapped around my shoulders.

We barely had time to throw our overstuffed luggage onto the train before it departed. Inside the compartment, there were two satchels on the luggage shelf. Just as a woman with a hat slowed down the Thomas the Tank Engine schedule, a stoic woman refused to allow us to move her satchel to make room for our luggage. Our suitcases remained in the aisle with a few outside the door in the entryway.

The train passengers rolled their eyes and whispered about our barbaric packing skills. They laughed and talked loudly of how a place such as Florida where the vegetation remained green all year round couldn’t really exist. It was all too outlandish.

The trolley conductor made his way toward us, walking backward as he pulled a cart full of snacks and sodas. I jumped up from my seat and started to place our luggage on the shelf.

“Just leave it,” the same woman said. “Don’t touch it. Your bags are fine where they are. You can get by.” Everyone around her nodded in approval.

So there I stood on a rickety train, straddling my luggage while her dainty, baby goat-skin tote barely took up any space on the shelf. I felt the coziness of my leopard print jacket jolt all the conservative passengers. They glared, refusing to actually look at me.

I knew the problem. I was a savage wearing a garish article of clothing in a country where black was the only proper sense of fashion. Accessories could have frills, shoes could be four inches tall and coats could have ruffles layered upon lace, but nothing aside from black would do.

Now, I am a Southern lady of the Tennessee Delta chapter, making me well equiped for managing the fiercest of situations without scandalous outbursts. As always when in doubt, I smiled.

The trolley conductor bumped into the first of our seven suitcases. He looked around confused.

The expression on the woman shifted from hostility to realization. She mumbled permission for me to move her bag.

After thanking everyone, I took my seat, humiliated in knowing my leopard print jacket gave the impression I didn’t belong amongst the people of my ancestors. It didn’t matter that my blood served kings and owned castles.

My husband turned to me, pointing in distaste. “It’s because of that jacket. You need to pitch it.”

I packed away my fuzzy wardrobe and traveled from Cardiff to London in solid black with faded denim. Shamefaced, I admitted we were met with carefree conversations, giggling and unsolicited offers to have family photos taken. As a matter of fact, wearing thermal underwear I purchased at an outdoor sports store as a shirt I qualified as a “smart jean” dresser for afternoon tea at the Savoy.

Shifting from my comfort zone into a more conservative environment gave me insights as to how my protagonist in Under a Full Moon, a seaworthy traveler solving a mystery in the Caribbean, would have to tone down her image according to local customs at each destination.

Learn from my mistake. Unless it is a scarf, retire leopard fashions from your London wardrobe out of respect for the culture.