The Story Behind the Story with Sean Paul Bedell of Halifax, NS, Canada.

 Let’s welcome Sean back! 

A true gentleman and a talented author, we are most keen to have him return to tell us about his new novel.

He’s been with us before and if you missed his visit, please go HERE.

Read on. My friends.

 

 

Author of the novel Somewhere There’s Music, Sean Paul Bedell has been writing and publishing for more than 30 years. A longtime paramedic and captain with the fire service, he lives with his wife Lisa and their golden retriever, Maggie (Margaret Atwood), in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia.

 

Title: Shoebox

 

Synopsis:

In this gritty and emotional exploration of the human condition, a dedicated paramedic, Steve Lewis, faces the devastating aftermath of a fatal collision that casts a dark shadow over his once-passionate commitment to saving lives. Plagued by guilt and grief, he finds his career, family, and very existence hanging in the balance as he navigates the complexities of trauma both personal and professional. As Steve grapples with the high stakes of his job amidst the scrutiny of a community that admires yet questions him, each life he saves rekindles his passion for his work, reminding him of the profound connections he can forge through compassion and care. A compelling and visceral journey of personal redemption and triumph over adversity, Shoebox explores the human spirit's capacity for healing.

 

The Story Behind the Story:

Two things drove me to write Shoebox. First, readers of my first novel, Somewhere There’s Music, frequently told me they liked the paramedic-ambulance-first responder angles in that story. Also I had a bunch of paramedic stories – sad, funny, poignant – from my own career as a paramedic. I worked ambulance for many years in the Halifax-Dartmouth area and along Nova Scotia’s Eastern Shore. As I wrote Shoebox, experiences that my fellow crew-mates and I had shaped some of the anecdotes in the book. Overall though, Shoebox is a story of redemption after tragedy, and the healing that hope offers.

 

Website: please go HERE.

Scribbler: Who was your favourite author, or story, growing up, Sean?

Sean: Growing up, I read everything I could. When I was twelve, my mother gave me a boxed set of classics. I immersed myself in those books. Exciting, exotic worlds enchanted me. My favourites were Treasure Island and Robinson Crusoe.

An Excerpt from: Shoebox

Chapter One 

My ambulance was based at University Station, the oldest f ire station in Halifax. In the year I worked there, I’d seen the sandstone building’s interior walls transform from frost-caked blocks in the winter to oven-like bricks in the summer. A brass pole that connected the firefighters’ sleeping quarters to the bays downstairs was cordoned off now, out of service. Two of the old-timers at the station still polished it every week so it gleamed when the sun hit it through the arched windows. If I ever did use it, to speed up my time getting to my ambulance, I’d look like that serpent, curled fetus-like around the pole. I’d pop out at the other end into the truck bays, freshly born to dispense miracles everywhere, sent out into the chaotic world to save lives. I would be one with the image emblazoned in the blue, six-pointed star of life crest on my ambulance, the same image embroidered on the shoulder flashes of my uniform shirt. Instead, to get to my ambulance, I’d bound down the narrow staircase that had three twists, each with a tiny landing. Legend said the staircase was designed during the days of horse drawn fire apparatus. The tight turns prevented the horses from climbing up the stairs. I didn’t care about blocking horses but wanted to get to my ambulance without breaking my neck or knocking myself out.

 

University Station was smack in the centre of downtown, a hotbed of the wildest calls a crew of medics could get dis patched to. It was at the crossroads of the wealth of Halifax’s South End and the grit and despair of its downtown. Calls were either dramatic or mundane. They ranged from stints fighting with newly liberated drunken university students out of sight of their parents for the first time; to the breathing or heart problems of the old, rich elites; to the homeless and addicted who had skidded here from across the province and toted their demons with them. I worked with Fletch—Gideon Fletcher. He was a tall medic with a tidy grey beard. His deliberate, erudite manner of speaking, along with his appearance, made him seem like a mis placed professor from one of the city’s universities.

 

Fletch stocked a bird feeder so he could watch chickadees and jays from the window upstairs in our quarters. Once, when we were coding to a call from Graham’s Grove to downtown Dartmouth, Fletch jammed up the brakes by Sullivan’s Pond to let a mother duck and her ducklings cross the road. A lot of medics would have roared through with a trail of feathers behind them; they would have plowed through anything to get to the call to save the day. That call past the duck pond turned out to be anything but an emergency. Fletch was down to earth, wise, kind, and didn’t take any bullshit.

 

Buy the book HERE.

This one too, maybe?

 

I’m looking forward to reading your new book, Sean. Thanks for being our guest this week.

We wish you continued success with your writing. 

Thank you to all our visitors and readers.

Feel free to leave a comment below.

We’d love to hear from you.

The Story Behind the Story with Author Chuck Bowie of Fredericton, NB, Canada.

 

Good news! Chuck is back with a new book!

 

He’s been a popular guest on the Scribbler many times and it pleases us to have him return.

If you missed the previous visit, please go HERE.

I’m a fan of his stories and I’m sure you will be too.

Read on, my friends.

 

 

Chuck is both a writer and an author, with fourteen books/novels published and one just underway. Chuck has recently settled into exclusively writing mysteries: Suspense-Thrillers and Cozy Mysteries. All of his books are well-reviewed, and he has sat on the boards of the Writers’ Federation of NB, The Writers’ Union of Canada, is a Fellow of the Kingsbrae International Residency for the Arts, as well as being acknowledged as a member of the Miramichi Literary Trail.

His thriller series chronicles the adventures of Donovan, an international thief for hire, while his cozy series (written as Alexa Bowie) follows the adventures of the owner of an arts and culture centre as Emma solves the crimes that swirl around her centre: The Old Manse.

Chuck lives in Fredericton as well as beside Miramichi Bay. Thriller number Six, Lost in London is now available, with Number Seven underway.

 

Title: Death Between the Cays, an Old Manse Mystery

 

Synopsis: 

The Problem, the Secret, the Decision.

Emma’s friend Thom delivers a luxury cruiser from Canada to the Bahamas, whereupon he promptly disappears. His employer hires Emma to go to the Caribbean to find him. Thom, however, left his girlfriend Sophie behind in the midst of a Christmas tiff, so…has he been abducted, or has he merely cut off communication with everyone?

During the voyage south a secret emergers: the boat may be used for an illegal, very profitable purpose. Now Thom knows this secret, but is subsequently kidnapped for his troubles. Thom has this information, but cannot share it. Meanwhile, Emma must risk her life, navigating the beautiful but dangerous Caribbean waters in search of her missing friend. Will she find him? Will she fall prey to the dark side of the sandy beaches, blue sky, and waters?

 

The Story Behind the Story: 

I’ve written a story—a series, really—about a small town and the wonderful, eccentric people who inhabit the tight-knit community. With the unfolding of each plotline, we come to know our heroine, Emma, but also get to know (and love) the characters that bring the town to life.

So, when a beloved character leaves town and disappears, everyone is naturally worried about him and want to help. Emma must leave her home at the most inconvenient time of the year: Christmas, but as the British say, ‘Needs must.’ I do add a separate narrative arc set in the town: it is an Old Manse Mystery, right?

 

Please go HERE.

Chuck is also present on FaceBook/Insta, as well as on Threads.

Scribbler: Who was your favourite author, or story, growing up?

Chuck: As an introvert, I read many, many books growing up. I took to series, early on, starting with L. Frank Baum (Wizard of Oz) and Trixie Beldon, and then on to Rex Stout and JR Tolkien. More recently, I’ve fallen in love with the Edinburgh mystery writer Kate Atkinson. Her writing is brilliant, convoluted, hilarious (at times) yet quite dark. She’s the best.

An Excerpt from Death Between the Cays:

 

* * *

“I’ve got a surprise.” Bobby’s face carried a smirk. “Back at the boat.”

          “I was hoping it would be food, but those two men loitering outside of your boat are painting a different picture. They are staring at us as if we are expected. Bobby, are they expecting us?”

          “Absolutely. Remember how I tried to tell you about our project, and how it will make us rich? These guys are gonna explain it in such a way that no one could refuse, or want to. We’ll have a sit-down in a minute, so prepare to get excited. Please give them a chance to wow you, okay?”

          Thom was about to say ‘I already told you I’m out,’ but they had already reached the boat. The men shook hands without taking off their sunglasses, and Bobby was halfway up the gangplank before Thom could even say hello.

          The three men followed Bobby onto the boat, and they sat on the bench seats in front of the transom. The first thing out of anyone’s mouth came from the stockier of the two strangers. He spoke with a French accent, and he had that weathered face borne of many years under the tropical sun. The man directed his words to Bobby. “You told him about moving some product?”

          Thom stood up. “No, Bobby told me nothing, and that’s because I am going home on the first flight I can catch. I can’t help you gentlemen out, since something has come up and I can’t stay. Please don’t say anything, so we can easily forget we ever met.”

          The stocky man with the French accent looked over to his partner. The partner’s eyes were locked on to Bobby’s (Thom presumed this was taking place, since the sunglasses had not dropped). And Bobby stared goggle-eyed at Thom, silently begging him to change his words.

          Thom did not change his words.

          Both men remained inscrutable. Bobby’s level of discomfiture rose with every heartbeat. Thom stood, waiting. What else could he do? He knew that this little bit of knowledge they shared might already be dangerous, and the next moment might very well rest in Bobby’s hands. Eventually—Thom realized he had been holding his breath—Bobby spoke.

          “Look, guys,” his voice was in sell mode, persuasive and low, “Tommy here is just along for the ride, you know, one last trip on the boat he loves. He says he’s not interested in making a few bucks. He’s got girl trouble, and that’s all he can think of.”

          Thom felt himself nodding, desperately willing his face to look as placid and not quite as knowledgeable as a two-year-old heifer.

          “Look. Tommy and me, we’ll head over to Moore’s Island and I’ll join you guys tomorrow, okay?”

          The stocky man spoke in a lighter tone, easing the pressure. “That works.  Listen Bobby, we have to go now, but before we do, can we have a word? In private?”

          Thom was quick to nod. “I’ll just head back to the beach. Can’t get enough of that, right?” He turned and left before anyone else had a chance to say a word. I’ll just go see if Edward is gone. I never did get his phone number. By the time he got back to the shoreline, though, both Edward and his boat and motor had vacated the beach. He spied an outbound ferry rounding the end of the long wharf, a boat attached by a rope. Ah. There he goes. I hope I’ll see him before I return home.

          Thom sat on a patch of sand to ponder his possible dilemma. If I go back to the boat (where my passport is sitting in a bag with my possessions), those two gangsters just might kill me on the spot. And since my so-called new friend Bobby is in thick with them, I now have to re-think my relationship with him. Do I cut and run with just my wallet, or do I take them at their word and part ways after Bobby and I have dinner this evening? He wouldn’t hurt me, would he? And it’s not as if those two guys in sunglasses are coming over with us.

          With that being said, though, what do you suppose they want transported? In the olden days, it would have been rum-running, using boats like that gaff-rig schooner, The Bluenose. Nowadays they’d use a cruiser like mine (well, she was mine) to haul maybe drugs, or cash for laundering, or worse. What’s worse than drugs? Either way, the less I know about it, the better. He stared up in the general direction of the sun, squinting. He was sweating, and it may have been the sun, but the issue might also be found a mere hundred yards away. It was time to get back to the boat and begin the hundred-and-forty mile trip over to Moore’s Island, check into the resort and book a flight home. The shine had definitely worn off his tropical vacation and it was time to leave.

Buy the book HERE.

To catch up on Donavan's latest caper, please go HERE.

 

  

Thank you Chuck for being our guest once more. We wish you continued success with your writing. 

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

Feel free to leave a comment below.

We’d love to hear from you.

The Story Behind the Story with Author Bretton Loney of Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada.

 

Bretton is back with a new book!

 

He’s been a guest before and we are most pleased to have him return. If you missed the previous visit, please go HERE.

This new story sounds intriguing and I’ll be in the lineup for a copy.

Read on, my friends.

 

  

I am a novelist and non-fiction writer who in 2022 published the novel, Joe Howe’s Ghost. I have published two previous books that were nominated for Whistler Independent Book Awards: in 2018 for my first novel, The Last Hockey Player and in 2015 for a biography, Rebel With A Cause: The Doc Nikaido Story.

A journalist for more than 20 years in Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, I also worked in communications for the Government of Nova Scotia for 16 years. I live in Halifax with my wife, Karen Shewbridge. For more information, please see go HERE. 

 

Title: Unsettling Time

 

 

Synopsis:

In Unsettling Time, I tell the story of Ryan Treiber, a Saint Mary’s University lecturer, who falls while walking in downtown Halifax and is unexpectedly hurtled back in time to 1749 and the city’s first days.

Incapacitated by the side effects of time travel, he is found by Aubry De Courcy, a member of Governor Edward Cornwallis’s council. As Ryan struggles to survive in an eighteenth-century settlement, he and Aubry learn of the brutal murder of a servant.

The authorities refuse to investigate the crime because of the servant’s alleged homosexuality. That injustice launches Ryan and Aubry on the hunt to find the killer.

The intelligent and intriguing Mrs. Athena Dunfield, her Black assistant, Joseph, and Ryan's new Acadian friend, Michel, join Ryan and Aubry on the quest to solve the murder. Ryan’s growing feelings for Athena make his new life increasingly more appealing.

Unsettling Time offers intimate insight into colonial Halifax and the people who shaped it.

 

The Story Behind the Story:

In 2013 while I was reading Jon Tattrie’s great book, Cornwallis: The Violent Birth of Halifax one particular passage fired my imagination. It described how many of Halifax’s main downtown streets, including George Street, were the first clearings carved out of the dense woods by the English colonists when they arrived in 1749. That passage was the seed from which the idea for this book grew.

I wanted to tell the story of Halifax’s founding from a broader perspective to include poor English settlers, Acadians, people of African descent, and the German and Swiss Protestants who first settled in Kjipuktuk (Halifax), located in Mi’kma’ki, the ancestral and unceded territory of the Mi’kmaq.

I inserted an inadvertent time traveler from our era to provide context that characters of that era would have no knowledge of to again give the story broader perspective. I created the murder mystery to propel the story along and to introduce various historical characters of colonial Halifax.

 

Website: Please go HERE.

 

Scribbler: What has been the most enjoyable about your writing journey? The least enjoyable?

Bretton: The most enjoyable part of my writing journey is learning. I do a lot of research for my books and I really enjoy that aspect of the process. The other very enjoyable part is putting together all my various thoughts, bits of dialogue, scenes I want to capture and characters I’m developing into a hopefully cohesive and enjoyable story. When all that begins to come together it is a wonderful feeling.

An Excerpt from : Unsettling Time

Chapter 1

July 16

 

A man awoke with his head in a muddy puddle. A turd

floated near the corner of his eye. He lifted his head

in horror and snorted out water. The ground started to

spin. A deafening ring pierced him, and hot bile rushed up

his windpipe and spewed out. He fell with a thud, missing

the puddle, and landed on ground coated with leaves and

pine needles that imprinted on his wet cheeks.

 

He revived to the thwack of an axe and the screech of

a tree falling close by, its branches whipping the forest floor

a few metres from his face.

 

“Are you okay, master?”

 

A strangely dressed young man looked down on him,

concerned, face dripping with sweat. He wore a stained

tricorn hat, a loose-fitting shirt, breeches, and buckled

shoes. A large axe balanced on one shoulder.

 

As the man carefully lifted his head, all he could see

were trees and rock and bush. Not a building, road, or

streetlight broke nature’s dominion. He noticed a crude,

narrow path making its way downhill toward a glint of

water.

 

The young man’s gaze left his as he heard another man

stride purposely toward them.

 

“Master De Courcy, I found this man lying on the

ground. Yet I swears he was not here a moment ago when

I passed by to look for the surveyor for me instructions.”

 

Still on the ground, the man looked from the young

man to the newcomer, who wore a tricorn hat along with a

long coat, vest, and breeches. The newcomer was about his

own age with a pleasant face but sunken, tired eyes. He

struggled to get to his feet.

 

“Are you alright?” asked the newcomer. “You appear to

have fallen into the mire.”

 

“Don’t know what happened,” he said, before

collapsing onto his knees and falling face first, once more,

into that same pool of dirty water.

 

“Woodsman, this fellow is oddly dressed, do you not

think? Long breeches, a peculiar shirt, and no hat. He does

not smell of drink. Probably done in by the sun. Help me

take him to my quarters,” De Courcy said. He and the

woodsman grabbed under the man’s arms and, swerving to

and fro like drunken revellers, dragged him downhill. “And

for God’s sake, do not mention him to the soldiers. We do

not want him shot by a sentry. They are nervous Nellies

and fear that a French spy or Mi’kmaw warrior lurks

behind every tree. When he awakens, I will sort out the

rights of it.”

 

When he regained consciousness, he was lying on a

simple wooden cot, looking up at the ceiling of a

tent. Once his head cleared a little he realized it was a

large sheet of white canvas draped over a few poles made

from thick branches, cut and stripped of bark. No one else

was inside.

 

Outside there was a riot of birdsong, conversations

among men with English accents, and the crack of axes

against trees. He peeked out the end of the shelter. It was

dusk. A redcoat soldier with tricorn hat walked past

cradling a musket in his arms. Campfires glowed in a small

clearing crowded with tree stumps.

 

The flap on the other side of the canvas shelter

snapped back, and the man he heard called De Courcy

poked a head in and smiled.

 

“You have finally stirred. You were out for most of the

afternoon. Are you better?”

 

He did feel better, but where was he? The last thing he

remembered before collapsing was walking up George

Street, in downtown Halifax, on the way to the Grand

Parade square to meet a local historian for lunch. The

noon cannon on Citadel Hill had gone off and was

echoing through the concrete canyons when he folded like

a paper bag and fell to the sidewalk.

 

He recalled waking up in the puddle. He had no idea

how he got from downtown Halifax to this forest, nor did

he understand why everyone was dressed like historical reenactors

or movie extras from an eighteenth-century

period piece. Had he been abducted? Was he still unconscious

and this was all a vivid dream? 

“I’m feeling better, but I’m confused. Where am I?”

 

 Buy the book HERE. 

 

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

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

Feel free to leave a comment below.

We’d love to hear from you.

An interview with Visual Artist Joan Dimock of Moncton, New Brunswick, Canada.

 

We have another new visitor to the Scribbler.

 

I met Joan this summer when she was co-managing the Art on the Wharf along with fellow artist, Colleen Shannon.

She has kindly agreed to answer a few questions and share images of her artwork.

 Please note her work is for sale and you will find a link below.

Read on, my friends.

 

 

Joan Dimock is a resident of south-eastern New Brunswick. She spends her summers in Shediac and winters in Moncton.  Her inspiration often comes from New Brunswick landscapes, beaches, coastlines, and the natural beauty of Bay of Fundy vistas and trails.

Joan paints exclusively in oils and usually paints landscapes that she has experienced herself or that instill a sense of memory. She is drawn to create landscapes that evoke the feelings one experiences from the vastness of skies, water, and vistas. She enjoys the challenge of reducing the largeness of what one sees in person to a painting that can still arouse the feeling of being in nature.

Joan's retirement has allowed a greater focus on her art and art community. In addition to her involvement with the Art on the Wharf in Pointe du Chene,  Joan is an active member of the Riverview Arts Council.

 

 

Scribbler: Thanks for being our guest this week, Joan. Please tell our readers how long you’ve been painting? How did you get started?

Joan: I have always been a creative but my interest in painting began about 10 years ago.  I am self-taught with a number of mentors/teachers along the way and believe painting is is a life long learning.  Originally I started painting to take time to breath, time for me.  I found that when you paint, you fully focus on what you are doing and can escape from all the competing priorities on ones mind.   I quickly became very interested in the process and developing my skills.  Now I paint because it has become part of me.

 

Scribbler: How do you decide what you are going to paint next?

Joan: My inspiration comes from the human need to connect with nature and my experience with those feelings, particularity from the places I have been, seen and felt.  Half the fun is exploring our landscapes and taking reference photos for future paintings, its part of my process.  I am inspired by the sensory affects of the sights, the physical feelings of the wind, the emotional feelings of calmness or nostalgia and even smells while walking through the woods or beside our seascapes.  What I paint next depends on what landscapes I have a connection with at the time.  I usually have 3 or 4 paintings on the go at the same time.

 

Scribbler: What I admire most about your paintings is the softness (not sure if that’s the right word) of the colours, which I find most appealing. How do you do that?

Joan: Choice of paint palette helps but I find painting multiple thin layers over several sittings create the softness you describe.  When studio painting, I am in no rush and I let the layers dry for a few days before continuing the process.  In addition I mix my paint with mostly transparent oils allowing the creation of depth with many layers and utilizing soft edges for brushstrokes.

 

Scribbler: I notice many of your images are of the seashore or in nature. What inspires you?

Joan: You will see that most of my paintings have some aspect of water in them.  I am inspired by  what one feels when by the water.  It can be the calmness of sunset on the Northumberland Strait, the power of the Bay of Fundy, the reflective nature of a brook or the sound of waves over our shorelines.   I often cannot feel a connection to a landscape without the water.

 

Scribbler: Where are your paintings exhibited or where can they be purchased?

Joan: I exhibit my originals mostly in the summer months in Shediac and prints can be found at Maritime Crafts in Shediac as well.  Although you can find me at a few Fine Art Sales throughout the year, the best approach is to contact me directly on my Instagram account  @joan_dimock.  

Please go HERE.

 

Scribbler: Is there anything else you’d like to tell our readers?

 

Joan: I have come to the conclusion that my love of landscapes continues to translate into other mediums and processes.  I continue to studio paint, particularly in the winter, however over the last few years I have put a focus on plein air painting (The act of painting outdoors). Painting plein air is a process of adventure and gives me the ability to paint nature while outside in nature, amplifying the feelings in nature and senses of colour.  Utilizing fibre art, I have also  translated a number of landscapes into wool needle felting pieces  that continue to provide the connection ones feels in nature utilizing an additional creative process.

 

 

 Thanks for taking the time to answer our questions, Joan. We wish you continued success with your paintings.

 

 

Another BIG thank you to all our visitors and readers.

Please leave us a comment, especially where you are from.