I write fiction, I make it all up. I tell lies for a living now. Yep, that's what I do. I used to be a more honest person. In my former career I taught school and I prided myself on my honesty. Not so anymore.

My Daddy was a consumate liar. He was famous for it. He'd tell the same lies so many times that he'd believe them himself. I guess I owe my dad for my gift of writing fiction. He taught me to tell stories. I learned  how to embellish the truth.

An idea pops into my head and I run with it. Easy as pie right? I gave up writing historicals because I didn't have time to do the research. But guess what, even writing contemporary fiction requires research, so I spend many hours gathering facts and articles, maps and pictures all to insure that my stories, while fiction, ring true.

Right now I am working on a romantic suspense set during a major snowstorm in the Atlanta area. Guess what I've been researching?

You got it, the great Snowpocalypse of 2014. I've found so many details of that event to include in my story. When I started developing this plot, I had no idea who my hero would work for, so I reached out to a retired military friend for that information. I waited a couple months for the answers to my questions because he had to get permission to give me those answers. Wow, I was impressed. Maybe he wasn't quite as retired as I thought he was.

Once while working on a story that involved agents from the GBI I called the Atlanta office and talked to an agent. He was very informative. I promised him a copy of that book, but haven't managed to sell it, so he's still waiting. Now maybe I'll pull it out and go the indie route, so I can send him his copy.

I've decided historicals might be easier after all, history doesn't change like contemporary times do. Don't even get me started about sci-fi or paranormal or fantasy. Yes, you make it all up. Yes it's fiction. But you still have to get the details right and that means research.

Don't get me wrong, I love the research. I'll waste... uh work for hours researching. Did I mention I majored in history in college? Well, I did and I love research. I love researching and digging up the little details that make my lies ring true. What about you? How do you make your lies ring true?

'Liberty, once lost, is lost forever.'

~JOHN ADAMS, letter to Abigail Adams, Jul. 17, 1775

In these troubled times in America, it’s wise to remember where we came from  and what our founders envisioned for this great nation. Being an American is a sacred privilege, our hard-won freedoms, fast eroding, should never be taken for granted, and preserving these inalienable rights, a call to arms for all who cherish liberty. With that in mind, I highly recommend watching the excellent HBO production that came out several years ago featuring the indomitable John Adams–appropriately entitled John Adams. Not to be confused (as I’ve done) with an earlier production, The Adam’s Chronicles, (not that this wasn't also a worthy series).

What John Adams and his remarkable wife, Abigail, and their entire family suffered and sacrificed in the forging of America is unbelievable. Not only them, but countless others as well.  I wonder if I’d last a day in that turbulent era, and yet, my forebears did.  So did many of yours.  If your ancestors were not yet in this country at its birth, no doubt they played an important role in making America what it is, or is intended to be, at its finest. Let us not forget, or our children and grandchildren will pay the price. Theirs already is a vastly different America than the nation envisioned by its outstanding founders with their mind-boggling perseverance.

As an author with several stories set in early America, and currently at work on the sequel to my Revolutionary War romance novel Enemy of the King, I’m particularly mindful of our roots.  Join me in the quest to remember.

***Enemy of the King banner by my talented daughter Elise.

You may know I’m a Virginian living in the lovely Shenandoah Valley, but did you realize my family has been here for several hundred years and were among the earliest settlers in the valley, that the driving force behind my writing has been my passion for Virginia and its rich history, and reaches even further back to my English/Scots-Irish roots?

I find inspiration in the stories and places known to the people who’ve gone before me.  Many of these homes were dear to them and still are to us today.  I’m also an enormous fan of old gardens, mills, churches…if it’s historic, I’m on board.

Some of the old Virginia homes I’ve found most intriguing and inspiring are described and illustrated below.  This is only a sampling of the many beautiful houses that date to various time periods in Virginia’s extended history.

Mount Vernon, (above), the home of George Washington (built in 1757).  Mount Vernon is absolutely exquisite and the grounds are too.  I can’t rave enough about Mount Vernon.  The gardens are wonderful and the last time I was there, they sold heirloom flower seeds you can grow in your own gardens.  Same thing at Monticello.  Many of these historic sites are accompanied by museums and gift shops that offer items and books unique to that place.  Excellent for doing research on any particular site or time period.

Monticello, the home of Thomas Jefferson (Built in 1772). I love Monticello, a wonderful old home, and the grounds and gardens are fabulous.  It’s filled with Jefferson’s inventions.  He was an amazing man whom I much admire.  We are proud to claim him as a Virginian, along with a number of other outstanding founding fathers, including George Washington mentioned above.   Not to neglect the founding mothers of whom my favorite is Abigail Adams.  If you haven’t seenThe Adam’s Chronicles, you really should.  Extremely well done series, produced by Tom Hanks,  much of which was actually filmed in Virginia.

The beautifully historic homes in Colonial Williamsburg…all of Williamsburg, actually, are wonderful. Largely restored in the 1930′s, Williamsburg is a major tourist attraction for visitors from all over the world.  My dad tells me his aunt had an antique shop there he used to visit, now gone.  Sigh.  Wish that was all restored and still in the family.  How kewl would that be?  I’m a huge fan of colonial Williamsburg.  You haven’t lived until you’ve visited Williamsburg, but if at all possible go during the less crowded and more pleasant seasons of spring or fall.  Summer can be quite hot and humid, but anytime is better than missing it altogether and they do have air conditioning in most of the buildings.  The last time I was there the weather was cool and the crowd thin.  Just the way I like it.  I toured once in cold wind-driven rain, but the crowd was light.  Come to think of it, it’s high time I went back for another visit.

The magnificent Carter’s Grove Plantation (Completed in 1755)  An amazing place!  We visited Carter’s Grove repeatedly on our honeymoon as we went to Williamsburg and it’s not far.  Carter’s Grove is spectacular.  Definitely one of the most impressive colonial homes I’ve ever visited.  I try to imagine actually living there.

Shirley Plantation (Completed in 1738) Fascinating old home and outbuildings.  Shirley is part of the inspiration behind light paranormal romance Somewhere My Love. I have a separate post about Shirley’s famous ghost, Aunt Pratt.  That’s an amazing tale in itself, and one I've featured on this blog and my home blog at One Writer's Way. For the ghost story of Aunt Pratt click here.
The idea of haunted homes has also influenced my work.  But I digress... 

Berkeley Plantation (Brick home built in 1726 but the history of the site extends much further back into early America).  I was particularly struck by Berkeley, part of the inspiration behind light paranormal Somewhere My Love.  Berkeley has beautiful gardens too.  I have a separate post on Berkeley, the actual site of the first Thanksgiving.

Chapel Hill our Virginia family home place (Circa 1816) *the snowy pic below of the home decorated for Christmas.  This beautiful old house had enormous significance in my life and undergirds every story I tell set in an old plantation.  That ‘snake incident’ in historical romance Enemy of the King happened right here.  Those of you who think snakes can’t wind themselves around the antlers of a buck mounted up on the wall best think again.   And they like to do it at night when small children are on route to the bathroom.

I recently completed the next story in my 'Somewhere' series entitled Somewhere the Bells Ring, a light paranormal Christmas short set at this old family home in 1968 with flashbacks to 1918 and the World War One era.

The Joshua Wilton House: “The Joshua Wilton House…is a superb small inn and restaurant” – The Sunday New York Times ~ To quote from their website: “Joshua Wilton House offers guests an oasis of quiet charm and gracious living in the heart of the Shenandoah Valley. In an elegantly restoredVictorian home, Joshua Wilton House occupies a corner in the historic “Old Town” district of Harrisonburg, Virginia.”

This lovely old home (lit up at night) is part of the inspiration behind light paranormal romance Somewhere My Lass. I used a compilation of Victorian era Virginia homes, some of which I’ve lived in, for the mysterious house in historic Staunton Virginia where the story begins~

Books I’ve written most influenced by old homes thus far include:

Colonial American Romance Novel Enemy of the King

Light Paranormal Romance Novel Somewhere My Love

Light Paranormal Romance Novel Somewhere My Lass 

A Warrior for Christmas,  in An American Rose Christmas Anthology.

I explored my fascination with castles in light paranormal time travel romance  Somewhere My Lass as part of my Scottish roots. This is the beautiful Eilean Donan. I hope you share my passion for the past and these wonderful old homes in particular.  But whether you do or not, I will always cherish these places and my memories of them.

• 
  

History never repeats itself. The historians repeat each other.

The one duty we owe to history is to rewrite it.

The details of history ... are always wearisome and usually inaccurate.

Oscar Wilde

By Pamela Roller

I'm writing this with my box of tissues close by, fighting a nasty head cold. In spite of my sneezing and sniffling, however, I'm really pumped about Christmas. It's my all-time favorite time of year. I get as excited as a little kid.

Was Christmas exciting 400 years ago? Imagine, no new laptops under the tree, no Kindles, iPods, books by fabulous authors, nor the latest in kitchen gadgets. No new car in the driveway with a huge red bow (not that I ever got one of those), no inflatable snowmen in the yard or netted lights around the bushes. Just what did people give as gifts four centuries ago? How did they celebrate? How did they decorate?

And can you imagine Christmas being banned? Let's go back to 17th century England to see what happened.

Through the early 1600s, December 25 was a holy day (holiday), celebrating the birth of Christ. Shops and offices were closed, and people attended special services at church. This day marked the first of the Twelve Days of Christmas, and over the next eleven days, people went to more church services, and businesses and shops were open for shorter hours. Sounds tame, right? Read on.

Families decorated their homes with ivy and holly and rosemary. Just inside the threshold of a house was hung a woven bough, in the middle of which was placed a small effigy of the Christ child or the holy family, and was blessed by the local priest. Those who visited the house during the Twelve Days of Christmas showed they brought only goodwill with them by a symbolic embrace under this holy bough (this became the hanging of mistletoe in Victorian times). In the spirit of "keeping up with the Joneses," families vied with each other to decorate their boughs more elaborately with gilded nuts, small apples, colorful ribbons and the like.

Where they lived and how much free time and money they could spend determined their degrees of celebrating. Visiting friends and family, eating and drinking, and exchanging presents was the norm. The richer folk gave "boxes" of money to servants, the poor, and various tradesmen. St. Nicholas was not one who gave children presents as he does today, but rather was considered a sort of Master of Ceremonies for community and private celebrations.

And folks got wild during the Twelve Days of Christmas.

People made special food and drink, back then filling up on plum pudding, minced pies, turkey, peacock, goose, swan and beef. Taverns sold huge quantities of their specially brewed Christmas ale. These days were a deliberately permissive period of singing and dancing, eating and drinking to gluttonous bliss, sitting around, playing games, gambling, getting drunk, and having a whole lot of sex. Twelfth night, the last night of the celebration, was marked by even more feasting and frivolous fun.

Alas, toward the mid 1600s, many people, in particular the more Godly, frowned upon this type of Christmas celebration. Too extravagant, they said, too disorderly. And far too immoral. Moreover, Christ’s mass, as they saw Christmas, was encouraged by the Catholic Church and had no biblical justification. Thus, they sought to ban the celebration of Christmas, which they saw as Popish and sinful. The new buzzword was "Christ-tide," where December 25 would be a day of fasting and spending most of the day in worship. Parliament, increasingly supporting Puritan Protestant Oliver Cromwell, ordered people to remember in humiliation those who had, in the past, turned the day into sinful gluttony, "giving liberty to carnal and sensual delights." From about 1647 to 1660—during Cromwell's rule—no one in Great Britain was allowed to celebrate Christmas. Shops were ordered to remain open on December 25, and it was against the law to eat mincemeat pie.

However, traditions are hard to kill, and many people continued to celebrate. Secret religious services marking the birth of Christ continued to be held on December 25. This led to a Christmas civil war, so to speak, in the late 1640s that consisted of sometimes violent confrontations to force shops and businesses to stay open and to prevent public celebrations.

The defeat of Cromwell and the restoration of Charles II led to declaring all legislation of banning the celebration of Christmas null and void. The religious and secular elements of the full Twelve Days of Christmas was restored.

Eat, drink and be merry. Happy holidays!

Pamela Roller is the author of On Silent Wings, a gothic historical romance set in Restoration England. Visit her website at http://www.pamelaroller.com/.
©Pamela Roller

I’m delighted to announce my paranormal romance THE MAGIC KNOT is a finalist in the Romantic Times Book Review Magazine’s forth American Title contest. (For any of you not familiar with the contest, it’s like American Idol, only for books!)

The first round of voting starts on October 15th and closes on October 28th. Voting takes place on the Romantic Times website at www.romantictimes.com. There are ten finalists, and first round voting is for the best first sentence. Please take a look when the time comes, and if you like my first line, I’d love your vote.
As today’s blog is supposed to be about history, I thought you’d be interested to hear a little about the place that inspired my vision of the Irish fairy queen’s mansion that features in The Magic Knot.

The beautiful Palladian mansion Powerscourt (pictured above) is found within the Wicklow Mountains near Enniskerry, a few miles from Dublin. When you stand on the elevated terrace behind the building, forty-seven acres of lush gardens roll out before you. The jewel-bright colors of beautifully manicured flowerbeds are set against the backdrop of waves of multicolored shrubs and acres of mixed woodland. The gardens surrounding the mansion, contrast with the stark beauty of the mountains in the distance.

A castle has stood on the site since 1300. The current structure was refurbished in 1974 in preparation for opening to the public. Tragically, on completion of the work, the house was gutted by fire before it could open. The owners didn’t have the heart to start again, and the structure now houses a mixture of quality boutiques and shops for tourists. There is a display documenting the refurbishment and fire. Luckily, some of the original internal building survived, and is open to be viewed.

If you would like more information on my story The Magic Knot, please visit my website at http://www.helenscotttaylor.com/

An except of The Magic Knot is posted on this blog here: http://pinkfuzzyslipperwriters.blogspot.com/2007/09/magic-knot.html

One hundred and ninety three days ago yesterday, Francis Scott Key wrote the Star Spangled Banner to the tune of an English drinking song. Do you know all the verses?

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro' the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof thro' the night that our flag was still there.
O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore dimly seen thro' the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream:
'Tis the star-spangled banner: O, long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion,
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has wash'd out their foul footsteps' pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

O thus be it ever when free-men shall stand
Between their lov'd home and the war's desolation;
Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land
Praise the Pow'r that hath made and preserv'd us a nation!
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: “In God is our trust!”
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Excerpt from Hundred Dollar Bill

by Sherry Morris

Chapter One

Washington, D.C.

February 16, 1945

Sometime before midnight, freezing rain pelted out a maddening symphony on the window. Benjamin Franklin gazed compassionately from the bloody hundred dollar bill floating near Miss Chloe Lambert’s breasts. The redhead lay soaking in a claw-footed tub at Mrs. Grogan’s boarding house on Nichols Avenue in the District of Columbia.

Her skin was flushed from the steamy water, but she was sure she’d never feel warm again. With eyes dehydrated from crying, Chloe stared at her black, blue, green and yellow bruises.

* * * * *

Earlier that night, across town, Mrs. Anna Eleanor Roosevelt’s footsteps resonated army-like as she stormed the west wing. A black Scottish terrier rounded a corner and scrambled toward her. “No, Fala, no!” Dodging his excited leap, she caught the fluffy sash of her emerald evening gown on the edge of a marble pedestal displaying the bust of Abraham Lincoln. She twisted and caught old Abe, but the taffeta tore. Eleanor replaced the sculpture, picked up the little dog and marched to an office.

She shoved the door open. Stepping inside, Mrs. Roosevelt vigorously petted the wiry-haired pooch while closing the door with her back. It hit the jamb with an audible resolve. “Vera, I am well aware of your…your little game, and I’ve had quite enough of you.”

Mrs. Vera Blandings stopped typing. The long-legged brunette stood, removed her librarian’s glasses and snuffed her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. She blew a plume of smoke at the first lady before running manicured fingers along her starched beige shirtdress. A smirk twitched the corners of her scarlet lips. She crossed her arms and turned toward the wall.

The first lady crinkled her nose and bent down. Fala leapt from the crook of her arm. He scampered over to sniff the closed door to the Oval Office.

Eleanor rose, thrust her shoulders back and stomped to the rear of the desk, launching a rolling chair out of her way. She squeezed between her husband’s newest secretary and a portrait of George Washington.

Vera took a step back, grinning.

Mrs. Roosevelt demanded, “Just what will it take to make you disappear?”

“A new job.”

“Done.”

“A role in the next Alfred Hitchcock movie.”

Eleanor laughed.

Vera glared. “I’m quite serious.” She cocked her head, retrieved her chair and tucked it under the desk. Pulling out the bottom drawer, Vera removed her reptilian pocketbook and gently shut the drawer.

Eleanor silently seethed in the stale smoky air while composing a response. I will not allow this woman to slip me into unsavory territory. “Fine then. So be it. Pack your snakeskin. No more games in the interim or—”

The magnetic purse clasp clicked when Vera opened it. After removing a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches, the President’s secretary sashayed out of the office.

The first lady glanced at her diamond watch and groaned. She pulled the chair out and plopped herself down. It hissed as the cushioned seat compressed. She opened Vera’s top desk drawer and rummaged through stubby pencils, rubber bands, a loose deck of playing cards, a crumpled issue of True Romance magazine that was caught in the back, a piece of yellow police chalk and several pistachios. Eleanor briefly picked up the waxy chalk. What in the devil is she doing with this? The stuff they outline corpses with…

She shrugged her shoulders and dropped it back inside with a clunk. Digging out a paper clip, the first lady wove the coiled wire through the soft frays of her ripped sash. It popped right off. She noticed a little chalk had transferred from her fingers to her gown. What else can happen?

Yanking the middle drawer open, she found a stapler inside. After three squeezes and some creative tucking of the taffeta, she was good to go. When Eleanor replaced the stapler, a metallic glint in the back caught her attention. She opened the drawer all the way and pulled out a pearl-handled pistol. What the…

Eleanor heard giggling. Her eyes darted around the office as she shut the drawer, shoved the gun under her waistband and covered it with the sash. She jumped up, wrapped her arms around her midsection and tiptoed to the open door to peek into the corridor.

Eleanor watched Mrs. Stoneburner meandering toward the kitchen. Claude Fuji, the President’s valet, was finishing up a good bubbly laugh.

“Hello Missus First Lady. You are so beautiful in jade.”

She exhaled and stepped into the hall.

He reached out to shake hands with Mrs. Roosevelt, as was his nature, but she awkwardly declined.

“Thank you, Claude.”

His face saddened at the slight. “Anything I do wrong to you?”

“No, Claude, no…oh…come on to my study. Follow me.”

Mrs. Roosevelt’s evening gown swished as they hurried to her private room.

“Close the door, Claude.”

He obliged.

Eleanor gingerly peeled back the delicate folds of taffeta and yanked the gun out.

“Look what I found in his secretary’s desk!”

“Missus First Lady, please do not go waving that thing at Claude.” The valet snatched the firearm from her.

Eleanor moved closer, hovering over him. Her stomach knotted as she whispered, “Is it loaded?”

“Please step back,” he said with a sternness she’d never before witnessed.

She complied.

He proceeded to her small desk. An envelope flew to the floor as he shoved a stack of stationery away to clear a space. He emptied the chambers into his hand and then spread the contents on her desk. Yanking the chain on her desk lamp, Fuji picked up one nine-millimeter brass bullet and held it under the light. “Blanks.”

“Blanks? How can you be sure?”

“The ends of the casings are crimped down and sealed. Live ammunition is rounded and smooth. These are definitely blanks. Look.”

Mrs. Roosevelt leaned down and examined the projectile as he twirled it slowly.

Just what are you up to, Vera?

Claude Fuji replaced the projectiles. “Put back where you got from. We watch her.”

“You mustn't tell the President about Vera’s gun. I don’t want to upset him unnecessarily.”

“What gun? No gun.”

©2007 Sherry Morris

Photo by John Churchman

Shenandoah Watercolors: Hiking in the Blue Ridge Mountains at Milam’s Gap

By Beth Trissel

The sun was low in the sky and the woods dusky as my husband and I hiked the Milam’s Gap trail in the Blue Ridge Mountains. How green and still it was among the hay-scented fern, and the twilight mild and sweet, like a melody softly played. Few birds called. The flutelike trill of a thrush sounded overheard and a robin flew into the ancient apple trees that mark the beginning of the walk. Gnarled, lichen-encrusted, branches thrust high above us.

Milam’s Gap apple trees are far removed from the modern day dwarfs. These relics from the past were planted by the mountain people who once lived here and were coveted as the apples for cider and apple butter making. An old mountain woman told me. The ridges and hollows still bear the names of these stalwart souls, like Lewis and Dean Mountain, Hensley, Kemp and Corbin Hollow, Hannah Run Trail, and Mary’s Rock.

More menacing names, Rattlesnake Point, Dark Hollow and Ghost Forest also remain. The invisible presence of these people seemed to linger in these woods where their log homes once nestled, smoke rising from the old stone hearths, corn cakes sizzling on the griddle. What must life have been like for those hardy folks? Cold much of the time, and hard, I should think.

I envisioned the women and girls in calico dresses, the men and boys in worn pants and overalls, gathering chestnuts, hazelnuts and wild berries, clearing patches of ground to grow corn and vegetable gardens, sorghum for molasses, struggling to keep a few pigs, chickens, and cows alive. A bear snatching the pig the family had been fattening to supplement their winter diet must have been quite a loss. Trips to town would have been arduous and rare, the supplies purchased slim: perhaps flour, sugar, salt and cornflakes for a special treat, cloth, gun powder and shot for hunting. Timber, orchards, livestock and the lucrative moonshine trade helped to supplement what was quite a self-sufficient lifestyle.

Doctors were hard to come by and the people often doctored themselves. Anyone who was a healer, whether with plants, charms or incantations, would have been highly sought after. Some healers specialized in one thing, like wart removal, or in the stopping of blood from a gushing wound. Others claimed to have special stones called mad stones to cure the dreaded bite of a rabid animal. We can only imagine this long gone time.

©2007 Beth Trissel

We are a quirky group of romance and mystery novelists who blog in the style of an off-center woman's magazine.

The membership cap for columnists is 15. If we are full and you'd like to join, we do have a waiting list. You must be a romance or mystery writer to be considered.

Twice a month, we each schedule a daily topic to blog about:

Sunday: Recipes
Monday: Money, Home & Garden
Tuesday: Travel & Family Activities
Wednesday: Health & Beauty
Thursday: Children & Pets
Friday: Weather, News & History
Saturday: Entertainment--Celebrities, Movies, TV, Music & Books

Twice a month, we each submit prose to showcase our talent and give our audience a free story. This can be a published or unpublished novel excerpt, a teaser from your work-in-progress, a short story, creative nonfiction, poetry or essay. You may include your book cover, link to your website or to buy the book, and contest information if you'd like.

Our content rating is no curse words and no sexually explicit excerpts.

This is primarily a blog to entertain women with things of interest to them. It is not meant to be a hit and run promo site. If you only want to promote your books, please do so on your publisher's site or one of the many groups set up for that purpose.

If you'd like to join us as a columnist, click here

This group is owned by Sherry Morris