Saturday, 24 September 2016

4Q Interview with Guest Author Angella Cormier of New Brunswick, Canada




Angella Cormier grew up in Saint Antoine, a small town in south east New Brunswick, Canada. This is where her love of reading and writing was born. Her curious nature about everything mysterious and paranormal helped carve the inspiration for her current passion of writing horror and mystery stories. She is also a published poet, balancing out her writing to express herself in these two very opposing genres. Angella is a mother of two boys as well as an established freelancer in graphic design.

Previous titles include "Dark Tales for Dark Nights" published in 2013 (written under Angella Jacob) as well as "A Maiden's Perspective: A collection of thoughts, reflections and poetry" published in 2015.

For more information, please visit:
www.MysteriousInk.ca



 
 
 

4Q: Your latest book is a novel in collaboration with author Pierre Arsenault and it has just recently been launched. Tell us about the novel.

AC: Oakwood Island is our first novel which ironically wasn’t supposed to be a novel at all. It began as a series of short stories written by Angella and eventually Pierre came on board.  Together they merged those original stories and added much more to complete a full novel.  Those three short stories are now part of one bigger novel about strange occurrences on the small Oakwood Island. It is a horror book with some supernatural elements.  Here is a synopsis of the book:
 

There are many mysterious and evil things lurking on Oakwood Island. Things so strange that the locals are left wondering if their small coastal community will ever be the same. The police are concerned when Maggie, the local waitress, shows up at their doorstep cold, weak and frail, after having escaped a kidnapper that she describes as a monster.  Her strange symptoms of a mysterious illness that seems to be growing stronger baffles her nurses and doctor. What happened to her? 

A few local residents hold some of the answers, but will they be able to save their neighbours, and better yet, do they want to?  What is watching them as they try to hide?  The residents are all part of a much bigger mystery than they realize.

The island holds many secrets, but will they come out in time to save them all? Caught between the past and the present, good and evil both find their place on the island, but which will prevail and at what cost?

What started as a few short stories grew into the much larger story of Oakwood Island.  It is a multi-layered tale with several twists and turns, mystery and intrigue. The authors invite you to join them on the island, for a trip you will never forget. Just one important tip:

Don’t forget to check the schedule for the ferry back to the Mainland.

You wouldn’t want to get stuck on Oakwood Island for too long…

 

4Q: I always wondered how two people work on the same book. How did your partnership in writing with Pierre begin?

AC: When we first met, our passion for stories is what made us click as friends.  The idea of us possibly collaborating together came up soon after our initial meeting.  Once we figured out what our strengths and weaknesses were as writers, we decided to try writing one short story together to see how it would go.  It was really not hard at all to collaborate with Pierre. Our appreciation for stories and our common goals to create characters and plots was all it took to make it fun and rewarding.  We shared many cups of coffee and time spent discussing our characters and how they would react or where they came from. It didn’t feel like work at all and to share in the accomplishment with a great friend is very rewarding.

As for Oakwood Island, I wrote the first three short stories solo (it didn’t start out as a novel) and shared them with Pierre, and other readers. Pierre and I had already started to work on other short stories together, and he kept asking me about my plans for Oakwood Island. He was enthralled and needed to know more. This led to me trusting him with my Oakwood Island series and its cast of characters.  Pierre started to help grow said cast and aided in the development of the short stories into one larger tale. There isn’t one specific reason why it happened the way it did, it just fell into place that way, naturally.  In 2013, we published our first collaborative book, which was a collection of short stories. Oakwood Island is our second publication that we collaborated on together, but hopefully won’t be the last.

 

4Q: Please share a childhood anecdote or story with us.


AC: For a writer like myself, that creates monsters out of thin air and settings that would make a reader cringe, my childhood was, for the most part, pretty tame!  So, for lack of coming up with an interesting anecdote, I will share with you why I believe I became a horror writer instead of so many other genres I had to choose from.  I believe that what we choose as our genre, is almost entirely based on a few things: our life experiences while growing up and what we choose to read or watch on the screen. For me, it was a gradual process that eventually made me the writer I am today. You know, the one that enjoys hearing that I grossed you out or that you couldn’t get that one scene out of your head and it haunted you for a while. Yes, that’s me. J


The first book I can remember reading as a young child started it all. There was a large hard cover copy of The Grimm Brothers Fairytales at the St. Antoine Public Library. It had a light blue cover with a very detailed front cover illustration. Each page was illustrated so well and in so much detail, I would look over the illustrations just as long as I would spend reading the stories. I remember getting lost in that book, time and time again. I must have sat at the same back table there dozens of times reading out of that book, taking in every word, my mind aflutter with visions of old witches, big bad wolves and morphing ravens.  I wonder if they still have it on the shelves. J Of course, that was only the first one.

I remember reading The Adventures of Tintin and I would be enthralled by the mysteries he faced and that he had to solve.  Nancy Drew Mysteries was another big one. I also loved TV shows like Unsolved Mysteries, The Edison Twins (who remembers THAT besides me?) and also the popular shows Are You Afraid of the Dark and The Twilight Zone. Movies like IT, Christine and Pet Sematary.

Combine those along with an overactive imagination and lots of free time and you have the beginning pieces in place for a future horror lover. I also believe that certain life experiences, such as the passing of my best friend at 21, as well as having dealt with anxiety and depression through the years has helped me find my most authentic writing voice in the genre that chose me.  These events affected my writing style, especially when it comes to character and the emotional charges that I can personally relate to by having experienced them firsthand.

I enjoy reading and writing mystery and horror stories that have some supernatural or paranormal elements, but I don’t limit myself to any one genre or subgenre for that matter. I especially enjoy reading and writing those that show how the characters will react and deal with being pushed to their most extreme limits and how that will change them after the fact, be it good or bad.


4Q: Tell us about your other work and what’s in the future for Author Angella Cormier.
 

AC: Previous titles include "Dark Tales for Dark Nights" published in 2013 (written under Angella Jacob and in collaboration with Pierre C. Arseneault) as well as "A Maiden's Perspective: A collection of thoughts, reflections and poetry" published in 2015. 

In 2013, I created and managed an indie magazine (Codiac Chronicles) which unfortunately I had to put on hold indefinitely.  It was a huge undertaking, and one that I did on my own.  It was fun while it lasted, as I was able to meet several local artists, writers and photographers during that year it was published. It may be revived one day, but for the time being, it is dormant. Maybe in hibernation. If it ever reawakens remains to be seen. J

I am currently working on a collection of short stories (solo) that I hope to publish in the future as well as a new blog that I am putting together. That should be set to go live by the end of October, if all goes as planned.

My other love is graphic design.  I have been doing this for over 18 years and enjoy it very much. Over the past few years, I have been targeting my work to help other writers and publishers. I find it very rewarding as it’s the industry I have the most passion for and I know how important it is for writers to have not only the words crafted just right, but also the presentation of the covers and overall feel of the book’s design. I do everything from creating book trailers, bookmarks, posters, business cards, setting up static webpages, as well as consulting self-published authors through the many steps from idea to end product.

 

 

Thank you Angella for sharing your thoughts on the Scribbler's 4Q.

For you readers, please check out the links below to discover more about Angella and where you can buy her novels.

 




Don't forget to leave a comment ! ! ! !
 

 

 

Sunday, 11 September 2016

Guest Author Lockie Young of New Brunswick, Canada.

Lockie Young is the only author I know personally whose work has been stolen. Yes, someone stole one of his short stories and posted it on their blog. It went viral and was shared thousands of times and commented on that is one of the funniest stories ever. He was rightfully "pissed off".  Just shows how good this guy really is even though he never got paid for the entertainment.

Locks is a regular guest on the Scribbler. He lives in Albert County with his wife Trish. A published author with a Young Adult series of novels as well as many short stories. A clever story teller and a poet.

This week on the Scribbler he has agreed to share both and tell us a bit about each one.

Copyright is held by the author. Used with permission.





Grandson (Tiny Angel)

L.F.Young

 

Tiny fist pressed tight against mouth so small.

What gift is this?

Small drool trail catching sunlight’s glint

And crooked smile…leads us to think

Of the wonder of it all.

 

Tiny angel in my palms.

My hands wrinkled with age and wisdom, hold you strong.

My thoughts travel through time as I look in your eyes

Reminding me of times

When I held your parent, just as fragile.

Same face, same smile, same eyes.

Oh my how time flies.   

 

I wrote this poem around the time of the birth of my first grandchild. I think the things I thought and expressed at the time are shared with every grandparent who holds their grandson or granddaughter for the first time.


 

 
 
Baby No More

L.F.Young

 

 

Little baby boy

Of not so long ago

Miles in between, sights have been seen

Flashes of smiles missed.

Flashes of cries kissed.

You look at me

A boy I see.

No baby here.

In your big voice crashing

Running hell bent for greatness

In your dragon quest

Or dog tails best

As you pull for all you’re worth.

Little baby boy

Of not so long ago

Fly away home, lands left to roam

Flashes of golden clouds

Flashes of cries aloud

You look at me

And a man you’ll be.

Now my eyes cloudy with age

Wrinkled hand on crown

Little boy now grown.

 

This poem, also about my grandson was inspired by this picture taken by his dad. When they visited in the summertime, the little guy loved to pet the dogs and gently pull their tails, and I can still hear his child’s voice shouting as he ran from one end of the house to the other, so full of energy and play. They grow up so fast.
 
 
 
 

 
  

Diary of an Orphan

L.F.Young

 

Sun dried dirt on sun browned feet

Dust clouds rise in the village street.

Walking from here to over there.

Walking from here to everywhere.

 

African sun beats down on my head

No food in my tummy, no soft place for bed.

Yesterday, today, tomorrow, the same

Tho hungry and dirty I have no shame.

 

I want to live on, to love and to laugh

I want to belong, forgetting my past

So much death, so much sorrow

Will I see some hope tomorrow?

 

Sun dried dirt on sun browned feet

Food in my tummy and off of the street

This is my home now with people to love

This is my hope now, sent from above.

 

In 2008 I had an opportunity to visit South Africa with my family. While we were there we were going to visit an orphanage in a neighboring country called Swazi Land. Swazi Land is a landlocked kingdom, and is a very poor country with some alarming statistics. At that time the average life expectancy was 35 years of age and due to education has recently rose to 5o years of age as of 2013. In 2002 the World Health Organization reported that 64% of all deaths in Swazi Land were caused by Aids or Aids related diseases.

My Mother in law was over there as part of an educational contingency to educate the Swazi people about the dangers of unprotected sex, among other things such as hygiene and proper nutrition. According to her, and not a widely publicized opinion there, the King did not believe his people were poor, and therefore there was no need of any orphanages or any support for them. The consequence of this was very bad, because clearly over half of the population was dead or dying, and as a result, there was no middle aged population. This meant that grandparents were left to rear children, as in many cases both parents and even older siblings were dead because of this terrible epidemic. As a result I wrote Diary of an Orphan after my visit to one of the many non-publicly funded orphanages in that country. It is written from my imagining what a young girl or boy would experience when there was no one left to care for them.

L.F.Young

 

 



 

Diary of an Orphan

L.F.Young

 

The water leaked from my eyes and made snake trails down my dusty face, just to fall from my cheek onto the mud floor of my house, in silence.

Grandmother is dead.

She passed from here to there sometime last night. She wasn’t sick like the others. She was just old. She was just tired.

My mother, father and brother, the others… are all dead. They had the sickness and they left me a long time ago. I hope I don’t get the sickness.

Grandmother has looked after me for so long now, but she has left me too.

Now I am all alone. My belly is sore again. When I eat my belly feels good and is not so sore, but now it is sore again, and I am so afraid.

Like the water from my eyes fading into the dirt of the floor, they have all disappeared.

*

Today a nice lady arrived at my house to talk to me. She said that I could go with her to the mission and get some food for my sore belly. I don’t know what a mission is, but I like food for my belly and I said I would go with her.

She is a nice lady and she smells like clean sweet grass growing in the fields.

We left the village and took the dirt road that leads to nowhere. It was a very long trip, and when we came over the last hill I saw a place in the distance. It was all wavy from the heat of the road but it became clear as we got closer.

There was a big building in the center of this village. It had two sticks on the very top of the roof, and they were white. The nice lady who brought me here said she was teacher, and the big building was called church. She said a man named God lived there, and that someday I would meet Him. It was a fine house.

Teacher brought me to another building where there were lots of boys and girls my size. The floor was different then my home. It was made of wood. And there was food for my belly, and my belly told me it was going to stop the pain. That night I slept in peace, and did not dare to dream.

*

I awoke in a strange place, and was very scared. I could see the sunlight just peeking under the door, and then I remembered everything. I was safe. I was near God’s house and today I would meet Him, and see Teacher, and the other children who were here with me also greeting this new day.

After some good food, which made my belly quiet, I went to the house called school, where Teacher was to be. I liked this place and I had a warm feeling in my heart. It felt like when I hurt my toe on a sharp rock, and I went to Grandmother, and she held me and talked softly to me and said I would be safe. This was safe, and warm, and even if Teacher was not Grandmother, it felt the same and I was happy to be in this place.

Today I went to God’s house. He was not there but his friend who looked after God’s house was there, and he said welcome. He said that God was always in His house, even if we could not see him. He said God would always love me no matter what. I thought of Grandmother. I could not see her but I knew she was there, and that she would always love me too. I think God and Grandmother are a lot alike, and that makes me feel warm inside.
 
 
 
 
Thanks again Lockie for being our featured guest.
 
Find more of Lockie's work here.
 
 
 
The Legend Returns:
 
 
 
 
 
Ryan's Legend:
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Get your thoughts in gear, drop down a bit and leave us a comment. Would love to hear from you.

Saturday, 3 September 2016

Guest Author Carol Cooper of London, England.


Carol Cooper is a British doctor, journalist and novelist.
She practises medicine in London and writes for The Sun, the UK’s best-selling newspaper. After a string of parenting books and an award winning medical textbook, she turned to writing novels about thirty-somethings looking for love.
Like her fictional characters, Carol lives in leafy Hampstead, North London. Unlike them, she got married again in 2013. She loves a happy ending.

Blog: pillsandpillowtalk.com
Twitter: @DrCarolCooper 

About Hampstead Fever:

The intertwined lives and loves of six North Londoners gets complicated as a heat wave brings emotions to a boiling point. The mother panics about her child, the journalist struggles to pay her bills, the new chef cooks up trouble, and even the sensible doctor loses his head when the mercury soars.

Following is an excerpt from Dr. Cooper’s “just published” novel. Copyright is held by the author. Used with permission.
 
 
 


 
"Comment vas-tu, chérie?" shrieked Tante Lina before she and her sister had even got through Laure’s front door.
"And how is your darling little boy?" Tante Victorine's voice would have been useful had telephones not existed.
An opening round of kissing. An avalanche of lipstick. A haze of Diorissimo, as always.
Despite being tired, Laure had made an effort for Tante Lina and Tante Victorine. One had to, after all. That meant tinted moisturizer, a slick of lip gloss, a little mascara, and a whole lot of blusher.
Laure put the kettle on. To Laure, Earl Grey tea was like drinking cologne, but her aunts loved it. They were from the Lebanese side of the family and they worshipped everything British, especially The Times newspaper, Harrogate toffee, Marmite, the Houses of Parliament (though they understood little of its workings), and cricket (which they understood even less).
They were eager to see Jack, for whom they had brought a present, a pale blue all-in-one thing from Harrods, no less. 
"Une barboteuse, chérie," explained Tante Lina.
Laure thanked them profusely, although a dry-clean-only garment in merino wool was a bit impractical, especially this August.
"Now let me see him!"
Laure led the way to Jack's cot. "He cries a lot. He's a terror at night."
The two widowed aunts elbowed each other out of the way to admire him. 
Lying in his cot clutching a corner of his favourite blanket, Jack didn't look much of a terror. His lashes rested on his golden skin and his fair hair had curled in the sweat of his slumber. Then, just as Laure thought he might stay quiet all afternoon, he stirred and started up with a whimper that changed to ‘Uh, uh, uh’ before threatening to develop into a full-blown cry.
After a quick sip of tea, Laure picked him up and jiggled him up and down. Jack remained tetchy.
"He's a real challenge today," said Laure. When he cried, it wasn't just exhausting. It was worrying. If she couldn't console him right away, wasn't there always the chance that he might be ill?
"Let me take him," said Tante Victorine, gold bracelets jangling.
"I'll hold him," said Lina. "I hardly had him at all last time."
"Vraiment chérie, your memory is getting very poor. You played with him all afternoon and I didn't get a chance. I don't know what I've done to annoy you, I'm sure."
"Well, OK. But if your arms get tired..."
Laure handed him to Tante Victorine. Jack was heavy, but Victorine showed no signs of dropping him. She clasped him to her chest and held him close.
"Gimp," went Jack.
Laure thought his language skills were average for his age, but the aunts looked at each other as if Jack was a genius. Neither had raised a child. Victorine's baby died an hour after birth, the same year Laure was born.
Miraculously, Jack fell asleep again, loosening his grip on the blanket. His hand now hung on the side of Victorine's dress. Laure smiled at her aunt and noticed her eyes were glistening.
"Well," Laure said. "Anyone for another cup of tea?"
"S'il te plaît, ya ma chère," replied Victorine as she stroked the nape of Jack's neck and smiled. "He is very beautiful. Helou awi." So beautiful was he that Victorine had to break into a uniquely Lebanese mix of French and Arabic. Being Christian Lebanese, they mostly spoke French, but, when in the presence of great beauty like a pretty child or perfectly stuffed vine leaves, only Arabic would do.
Victorine was right, thought Laure as she boiled the kettle. Jack was gorgeous, only not at three in the morning when you'd just managed to get him to doze off.
Lina took her cup. "Merci, chérie."
"Yiy," said Victorine as soon as Jack surfaced again. "His eyes are exactly like yours." 
She had said exactly the same thing last time, right down to the very Arab expression yiy.  "True," Laure agreed. "Dan's eyes are completely different." 
"And he has your hair, not Dan's," Victorine pointed out.
That was true too. Laure knew Dan had gone bald in his twenties. The half dozen hairs left on his head got shaved on a regular basis. It suited him.
Lina gave a sideways glance. "How is Dan?"
“He’s well,” said Laure. She told them about his recent radio interview.
"La radio!" said Victorine. "Wonderful!"
Lina appeared to reflect as she drank her tea, her little finger crooked. "Quand est-ce que vous allez vous marier?" She gazed over the rim of the cup, waiting for a reply.  She hadn't asked Laure about getting married for a long while now, maybe almost a week. In the aunts' opinion, cohabiting was for lesser people, like the kind on Big Brother. Clearly their niece ought to aspire to better, especially at the age of forty.
Laure shrugged. That was the same answer she always gave people who talked about marriage. Jack bonded them together for life and there was no reason to get hitched, unless you worried about inheritance tax.
The aunts were assessing her response. Laure finally got off the hook with, "Maybe one day. We'll see."
Jack finally became too much for Tante Victorine, who handed him over to Tante Lina's waiting arms.
"Ism’ Allah," said Lina when she took his full weight. 
Laure congratulated herself for having persevered with breastfeeding. Over a year now. Her friends said she should have stopped long ago, but what did they know of all its benefits, or the satisfaction it gave her?
Tante Lina made Jack comfortable on her lap. He was quietly awake now. Laure half-hoped Jack would give just a sampler of his howls, but he seemed content in his great-aunt's arms.


"He's such a good baby," remarked Tante Lina. "Smells beautiful too," she added, inhaling the top of his head. It was a wonder Lina could smell anything when she had drowned herself in Diorissimo.
"Yes, he's very good," Victorine agreed.
Laure refrained from inviting them to pop round in the small hours of the morning.
The aunts took the customary pictures on their phones, with each of them holding Jack in turn, while saying repeatedly how stupid they were with technology, and how all the photos would be nothing more than close-ups of their thumbs.
"I have no idea how it came out so well, Laure chérie, but I have a nice one of you here," said Victorine.
It wasn't bad at all, thought Laure. Her aunts were a lot more capable than they pretended.
Lina grabbed the phone and studied it carefully. "Chérie, you look really lovely. And what a figure you've kept!"
Victorine chimed in approvingly. "It's good to look after your looks. Men stray when you let yourself go. Not that your Dan would do such a thing, of course," she added. "But, you know."
Laure didn’t bother chiding her. The aunts had such dated views of the sexes.
Lina and Victorine left some time later, bound for Oxford Street to check out some boring middle-aged fashions. Laure then remembered that she could already be classed as middle-aged herself, though she didn’t feel it.
 


Thank you so much Carol for sharing  an excerpt from your delightful tale.
 
Dr. Cooper's books can be purchased here:
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Hey, don't be shy!