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

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

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

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

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

Read on my friends.

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

I have already completed the second book in the ‘Bright & Breasy’ series, and am about to start on the third.

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

A question before you go, Zev:

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

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


An Excerpt from The Romanian Cleaning Lady.

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

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

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

“Be right there.”

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

“That was quick,” said Lizzy, opening her arms to him. Michael was not the huggy type. He made an exception this time as he walked into her embrace and let his mother hold him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ll do no such thing. Tell you what, though. You could do some more work on my website. I have a new person working with me and he should be up there. Ex Detective Inspector. Impressive, eh? And I think I can do a better video now that I've actually experienced some detective work.” Michael, she knew, had already exceeded the usual limit of his personal revelations. Any more and he’d drop off to sleep on the sofa. She would get more of his story in slivers, as though picking up the shards of a broken glass with tweezers. They could inspect the fragments after a few days; perhaps to see if the glass was repairable, perhaps to understand its fragility and accept its demise.

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

“You mean, he knew my grandfather?”

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

“They used to be in the same drama group. They were known as Bright and Breasy. Not that they did a double act with the name.”

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

“If you like.”

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

“’fraid so. It depends. Anyway, brace yourself.”

It had turned past midnight by the time Lizzy got to bed. She’d forgotten to phone Katya. She dreamt of lines of police digging in muddy fields searching for a body.

Merlin Star Press – please go HERE.

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

And a Humongous THANK YOU to all our visitor and readers.

Feel free to share your thoughts with us.

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

 

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

 

 

I met Brian online through another author friend and he has kindly accepted our invitation to be our guest.

Let’s welcome him to our pages.

 

Read on my friends.

 

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

 

From www.bearpawmedia.ca

 

 

 

 

 

 

Title: Between Two Worlds – Spiritual Writings and Photographs 

Synopsis:

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

 

 

The Story Behind the Story:  

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

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

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

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

 

 

Website: please go HERE.

 

A question before you go, Brian:

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

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

An Excerpt from Between Two Worlds – Spiritual Writings and Photographs

Muted Tones By Brian Francis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

And a BIG thank you to all our visitors and readers.

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

His books are flying off the shelves and garnishing great reviews.

He’s sharing the SBTS with us today.

Read on my friends.

 

 

 

 

 

Andrew MacLean is the author of two Backyard History books (with a third coming in November 2024), the writer of the Backyard History newspaper column that appears weekly in 19 newspapers), the host of the Backyard History Podcast, and the scriptwriter of the Backyard History TV Show hosted by BellFibe. 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

Synopsis:

Backyard History unearths the often hilarious, mostly mysterious, always surprising untold stories of Canada’s East Coast, as only a Maritimer can spin them.

 

These two extraordinary collections gather the very best from Andrew MacLean’s popular newspaper column and podcast now enhanced with fresh insights and discoveries.

 

The Story behind the Story:

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Now that column appears in 19 newspapers every week, I have 2 books (plus a third one coming out in November!) and my own podcast, all under the Backyard History name.

 

And I owe it all to, of all things, a sea monster! 

                          

WEBSITE: Please go HERE.

 

 A question before you go, Andrew:  

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

I’d be caffeinated to the hilt with music —typically Arcade Fire—almost always playing in the background.

 

 

EXCERPT:

 

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

 

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

 

Watch for it!!!

 

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

We wish you continued success with your writing.

 

And a Special Thank You to our visitors and readers.

Feel free to leave a comment.

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

 

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

She’s sharing the SBTS of her newest novel this week.

If you missed her previous visit, please go HERE.

I’m looking forward to reading this story.

Read on my friends.

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

The Story Behind the Story:

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

 

            Website – please go HERE

A question before you go, Anna:

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

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

An Excerpt from The Suspension Bridge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d know you anywhere, Sister.”

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

And a Special Thank You to all our visitors and readers.

Tell us your thoughts in the comment section below. I know Anna would love to hear from you.

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

 

Let’s welcome Mark to the Scribbler.

 

He is a newcomer to the blog, and most welcome. 

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

Read on my friends.

 

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

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

 

 

Title: The Wish Doctor

 

Synopsis:

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

 

 

The Story Behind the Story:  

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

Oh yeah, despite the imagination of this book, every single scene, is based on something from my real life. After you have read the book, think about that line. What kind of life has this guy had?

Website: Please go HERE. 

A question before you go, Mark:

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


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

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

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

Photo from Mark's website.

An Excerpt from the Wish Doctor

From Chapter 19, The Danger of Birthdays

The Wish Doctor’s ninth lesson:

 

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

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

The Wish Doctor felt like shaking his head. “I’m well aware of that. It’s why the true colour of your face is purple and why you always have termites in your pants.”

The other students laughed. They thought he was joking.

“To get a birthday wish right, to make it so that the language is airtight, that nothing can go wrong, to overcome a granter’s desire to make the wish go wrong, is almost impossible.

“Since a birthday wish is yoked to the turn of time, it can rarely be used or boosted in conjunction with a pure wish, making it even more difficult to use, or use without something going wrong. Yet even so, a birthday wish sometimes may be your only way to solve a problem.

“Everyone has a set of birthday wishes, and though you may give them away, no one may take them. In an emergency, if you know how, you may borrow a birthday wish from the future, as long as it is from a year in which you will still be alive.

“To make a birthday wish work takes great effort. If you can do that, you can make almost any wish work. You must use the principles I will discuss with you now in making most wishes, but most certainly for birthday wishes. But first I have to make you promise one thing.”

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

“You must promise me you will not make a birthday wish until you have made it to fourth year and then only with my blessing. We cannot continue until you promise me this. Raise both hands if you agree.”

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

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

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

“Use the first three wishes as protection wishes, to protect the actual wish you make. Use them to guard against misinterpretation, whether wilful or unwilful.

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

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

“Use the fourth wish to protect that the wish does not later become unbearable. We call this the Midas protection.

“The sixth wish is a wish that allows you to reverse the wish you just made in case something went wrong. We call this the escape wish.

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

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

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