The Story Behind the Story with Author Alex Daggett of Quispamsis, New Brunswick, Canada.

 Let’s welcome Alex to the Scribbler.

 

I had the pleasure of meeting Alex at the GMRD Book Fair last April when he shared a table with his author wife, Joanne.

He has kindly accepted our invitation to share the SBTS of his memoir.

Joanne has been a guest on the Scribbler recently and if you missed her post, please go HERE.

Read on, my friends.

 

 

Alex: I live in Quispamsis N.B. with my wife of thirty-eight years, Joanne. I have been involved with carpentry for close to forty years, and enjoy being creative with what I build. I have three children and seven grandchildren and I cherish each and every moment with them.

 

Title: Where Did My Son Go? 

Synopsis:

Drugs, addiction, homelessness, mental illness and incarceration. These are not the words or wishes for any parent for their children. My book comes from a father’s heart for my son and reflects on the past twenty year journey.

  It covers many difficult topics in dealing with my son, his addiction and his out of control behaviour. I discuss many topics such as anger, grief, doubt, faith, boundaries, enabling, and depression.

   It is a raw and vulnerable true story, told from a dad who, at times, doesn’t know what to do, where to turn for help, and even questions God and his faith.

 

Story Behind the Story:

My dad passed away on Good Friday in 2023. He was a man I looked up to, took advice and wisdom from, who was all about family. I loved him very much. This started a process of reflection of my dad, myself, and my son and his family.

    I never planned on writing our story, which is mainly due to our son’s story and journey, but in the early spring of 2024 I felt the call to write. My heart was nudged to put pen to paper and share the details of what had become a twenty year battle. I have witnessed so many people, parents, siblings, and loved ones deal with drugs and addiction. I have seen firsthand what it does to families.

    I decided to start journaling, pondering the events and emotions of the past twenty years. Soon a book began to take form. Opening up and sharing about my family in an intimate way was a difficult and gut-wrenching experience. However, I knew I was committed to pouring it all out.

    In writing this book Where Did My Son Go? my hope and prayer is that it will help those who need to read the message. I pray it gives clarity to many family members who face traumatic and confusing events when dealing with a lost, struggling loved one.

 

 

Visit Alex’s Facebook page by going HERE.

 

Buy the book HERE.

 

 

Tell us about your writing habits, Alex.

 

Alex: My favorite spot to write is on our deck or at the kitchen table, both of which face the beautiful Kennebecasis River.

 

I am definitely a messy writer. My wife has the long task of editing and typing out my messy scribbles on paper.

 

My beverage of choice while writing on the deck on a hot day would be a Diet Pepsi or a can of carbonated flavoured water.

 

 Thanks for sharing your story with us, Alex.

And for being our guest this week.

Thanks to all our visitors and readers.

Please feel free to leave us a comment.

The Story Behind the Story with Mila Maxwell of New Brunswick, Canada.

 

It’s our pleasure to welcome Mila to the Scribbler.

We discovered her book online and she has kindly accepted our invitation to be our guest.

She will tell you what it’s all about.

Read on, my friends.

  

Mila Maxwell is an author from Clare, Nova Scotia, with a deep-rooted passion for storytelling and a love of the outdoors. A proud French Acadian, Mila draws inspiration from both her cultural heritage and her adventurous lifestyle, which includes being a volunteer firefighter. She lives in Sussex, New Brunswick with her husband Jeremy, son Bennett, and French Bulldogs Royce and Marlo. When not writing, you can find Mila out in nature, at the gym, or helping others through her work in the community.

 

Title: Finding Lady Baltimore

 

Synopsis:
Nestled in a quiet seaside village in Nova Scotia, Morgan has always felt overshadowed by her sister’s differences. She longs for a life unburdened by the weight of expectations, sometimes wondering what it would be like to let the powerful tides of the Bay of Fundy sweep her away. But when she stumbles upon a peculiar old suitcase, its unexpected contents shatter everything she thought she knew—about herself, her family, and the truths she’s been too afraid to face.

As Morgan unravels the mystery hidden within the suitcase, she is forced to confront her deepest fears and regrets. Along the way, she discovers that the things she once resented might hold the key to a deeper understanding—not just of her sister, but of herself.

Set against the backdrop of an untamed coastline, this poignant and suspenseful novel explores the complexities of growing up alongside a sibling with disabilities. A story of love, guilt, and self-discovery, it will resonate with anyone who has ever struggled to find their place in a family shaped by differences. Whether you are a sibling, a parent, or simply someone who understands the delicate balance of love and longing, Morgan’s journey is sure to stay with you long after the final page.

The Story Behind the Story:

My younger sister Sara has cerebral palsy and I always wondered what being her was like. One night, as I was falling asleep, I got this sentence in myself that made me sit up and go “holy sh*t that’s a book!” I wanted to tell my story of growing up alongside her and some of the struggles I’ve faced, but I also wanted to share her perspective, as well as those of my parents. Not only the challenges we faced, both individually and as a family, but the gifts that also come with growing up alongside a sibling with disabilities.

 

Website. Please go HERE.

 

Buy the book HERE.

 

A question before you go, Mila:

Scribbler: Tell us about your writing habits. Morning, late night, anytime? Music or solitude? What is your beverage of choice while writing?

Mila: I tried to be as consistent as possible with my writing. I found it easier to write earlier in the day, so as soon as my son would leave for school I would make a tea or coffee and sit down at my desk. Some days I was able to write for hours, missing lunch, and other days I would stare at the curser, barely writing a word. But I found consistency in those efforts, and small steps forward, well, really helped because I got a book out of it!

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

 

And another BIG thank you to all our visitors and readers. Please leave a comment below.

 

The Story Behind the Story with Author Joe Powers of New Brunswick, Canada.

 

Let’s welcome Joe back to the Scribbler.

 

Always a popular guest, we are happy he accepted our invitation to tell you about his new book. As a bonus, he’s sharing an excerpt.

If you missed his previous post, please go HERE.

Read on my friends. 

Joe Powers is a Canadian horror writer, New Brunswick native, and long-time fan of all things scary. He's the author of Terror in High Water, Seventeen Skulls, Old Bones, and Putting Down Roots. His short stories have appeared in various anthologies and collections.

Among his many inspirations he lists Stephen King, Jack Ketchum, Michael Crichton, Vincent Price, Peter Benchley and Richard Matheson. He enjoys introducing the reader to flawed, believable characters and leading them on dark journeys with an unexpected twist. He isn’t afraid to mix and match genres, fearlessly weaving horror into noir, western, or sci fi.

Joe enjoys poking around in the dark recesses of nature, off the beaten path, chasing down old legends and new stories. In his spare time, he's an avid hockey fan and dog lover, and still finds time to teach several classes at UNB's College of Extended Learning.

Joe currently lives in Maugerville with his wife and fellow author, Sheryl, and a wide array of creatures. Follow Joe at www.joepowersauthor.com.

  

Title: Putting Down Roots

 

Synopsis: Matt and Rachel Bailey have uprooted their family and moved across the country to a quiet college town in New Brunswick. Their new house is a beautiful old Victorian with a sprawling yard on a corner lot in a nice suburban neighbourhood. Rachel’s got a great job at the university, the kids are making new friends, and everything’s coming together.

There’s just one problem.

Huddled in the far corner of the lot, just inside the high board fence that surrounds the yard, stands an old, massive tree. The moss-covered branches hang low to the ground, like skeletal hands reaching for those who wander too close. The thick, gnarled roots ripple just below the surface of the ground like probing tentacles. Matt finds it creepy and unsettling and plans to remove it as soon as possible. But it won’t be that easy.

Before long, unease turns to terror as the true nature of the tree slowly begins to unravel. This is no mere tree, but an ancient evil presence that has preyed on unsuspecting animals and people for centuries.

And getting rid of it won’t be as easy as he thinks.

With the safety of his wife, two curious children, and the family dog at risk, Matt does everything he can to protect his family from the rooted predator that lurks mere feet away from their back door. One false move, a step too close, is all it takes for tragedy to strike. And just how close to the house do the roots reach? Is anywhere safe?

After a close call that he narrowly escapes, and with the number of victims on the rise, Matt must devise a plan to destroy the menacing evil before it destroys everything he loves.

 

 

The Story Behind the Story: 

One day about ten years ago I sat down and wrote a short story that I called Putting Down Roots. It was a quick little thing, born from a “what if?” idea I had about a tree that attacks and eats people. For the older crowd who may remember the Peanuts comic strips, the idea was a kind of spin on the kite-eating tree that used to torment Charlie Brown, only this one eats people instead of kites. It was a fun little thing, but I was never quite happy with it. As time went by, I realized that was because it simply wasn’t finished – there was a lot more story to tell. So I dusted it off and went to work. Gradually, characters came to life, the tension and suspense crept higher as the story took shape. It was closer to what it was supposed to be, but still, I wasn’t satisfied. Stumped and discouraged, I put it aside once more.

More time went by, other projects came and went, and all the while that insidious tree haunted me, demanding I tell its story properly. So last fall, all these years later, I was ready to finish what I started. I relocated the story to the fictional town of Beaverbrook, which might sound familiar to those who have read my second novel, Seventeen Skulls. Unfortunately, my writing style and skill had changed a great deal in the time since the first draft’s inception, so I had to effectively rewrite the entire thing from scratch. It was a long process, but it allowed me to get reacquainted with the story all over again and reminded me of what made me want to tell it in the first place. I have never in my life taken so long to finish writing something, but I’m pleased with the way it turned out, and very glad I stuck with it to the end.

 

Website: Please go HERE.

 

You can buy your copy HERE:

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

Joe: I write portions of each book at various places. The concept notes can come together wherever I happen to be. My notes are a blur of frantic handwriting, nearly indecipherable until I transcribe them. Sometimes, when I’m at large and trying to work through something I’ll write in an email draft that I can later cut and paste into my document. Once I get settled and ready to begin writing in earnest, I split my time between writing on my laptop and writing freehand scenes or fragments that will be added later on. I frequently have an array of web pages open to whatever I’m researching at a given time, and notes scattered all around me. Sheryl is fond of telling me my approach to writing is odd and unorthodox, and I don’t necessarily disagree. My style is my style, it might not work for everyone but it seems to work for me.

I like to get comfy in my usual spot on the couch, dogs sprawled all around me, laptop at the ready, one of a few specific musical selections in the background, and a Rockstar energy drink close at hand. In terms of music, it varies depending on the tone of what I’m working on. I choose something familiar from a small selection of regular titles so it isn’t a distraction.

An Excerpt from Putting Down Roots

The afternoon sun had drifted across the sky, casting long, eerie shadows over the yard. He stared intently at the carnivorous tree from as close as he dared to go. It simultaneously frightened and infuriated him, and trying to come to terms with how to deal with it perplexed him. The worst thing was that for the most part, it seemed deceptively serene, albeit frightening, and certainly appeared no more like a killer than any tree could be capable of. And the fact of the matter was he had yet to actually see it do anything other than stand there and look formidable, if somewhat dilapidated. Still, there was no mistake about what had been going on since his family had moved into the house, and apparently, for much longer. He wondered how many pets had gone missing in the area. Or kids. The thought made him shiver. 

The tree had to go. That much had become obvious. The trick, then, was to figure out the best way to destroy it once and for all. It occurred to him that maybe nobody had ever tried to kill it. Maybe, he reasoned, they had preferred to keep it around for its potentially useful abilities. In the early days, when it had been used as a tool of justice, that would almost certainly have been the case. In the years since, it seemed to have drifted from known entity to local legend, to all-but-forgotten folklore. Yet surely somebody, at some point, must have tried. Revenge, perhaps, for the death of a loved one. For that matter, how it had escaped the destructive swath of developers for so long remained a mystery. Maybe they’ve tried. It probably eats landscapers, too. Maybe even city planners. It made his head swim to think of just how much carnage the tree had caused over the years. 

He pondered his options while he stared and studied the details of the tree and examined the angles for the best possible point of access. He was vaguely aware of Crunchy’s muffled bark, a steady, agitated roop-roop from within the house, muffled by the glass door. He had no idea what the dog wanted and tried to push it out of his head and ignore it while he plotted. He considered the possibility of an attack from one of the sides with an axe or, even better, a chainsaw. Could he do enough damage before it fought back? He shivered as he recalled the stealthy attack on Shaw and doubted that would work. 

He started toward the shed, then turned back toward the house only to stop himself again in mid-stride. He paced out of nervousness and habit, he realized, with no clue where to go or what he was trying to accomplish. Is the knothole watching me? Can it see me? A disturbing thought occurred to him. Maybe that’s the eye of the beast that never sleeps, waiting for its next meal to wander too close. He paced several feet back and forth in front of the tree, his eyes locked on the hole, watching for any sign of recognition or cognizance. He realized how crazy his actions would appear to anyone who happened to see him and almost turned back, but he just couldn’t risk it. On the other hand, he reasoned, maybe it would be better if the authorities were to deal with the tree. At least that way, if someone gets eaten, it won’t be me. He gave a sharp cackle, somewhat surprised at his ability to find humour despite the circumstances. It occurred to him that he might be losing his mind, that Shaw’s death may have been the last straw that forced him over the edge. 

The ground shifted violently, and the tree suddenly vanished from his line of sight. His world was spinning, and he was falling backward. He landed hard with a grunt almost before he even knew his feet had gone out from under him. So intent was he on solving the conundrum facing him that he had failed to notice the earth ripple beneath his feet, or the snaking root that had broken the surface and latched onto its target. He gave a strangled cry and struggled mightily to free himself, but unlike with that first encounter Herb Shaw had experienced, there would be no narrow escape; the root was wrapped tightly around his foot, and he was held fast in a vice-like grip. He looked around frantically for any sign of someone who might help but saw nobody, heard nothing save for the faint creak of the root tightening its grip and the rustle of something much larger slithering just under the surface. With a groaning swoosh, one of the low-hanging branches reached around and ensnared him despite his desperate resistance. He thrashed and fought like a man possessed but was surrounded and forced to fend off attacks from all sides at once. He grabbed a nearby limb with both hands and strained with all his might, to no avail. It felt like steel cables wrapped around his leg, reeling him in. 

More branches had twisted themselves around his legs as he was slowly drawn toward the sinister hole in its trunk with a steady and unyielding force. Most of his attention was drawn to the knothole that lay ahead; though it was mid-afternoon, not a hint of sunlight penetrated the murky depths of the branches. The only illumination present was a faint green glow that emanated from within the knothole itself. 

I’m going to die, Matt thought bleakly. I am going to be dragged screaming into that hole, which is far too small to accommodate me. The tree doesn’t care, it will pull me through anyway. The pain is going to be horrible, and whatever is left of me is going to get a really good look at what makes this thing tick.

Thank you for taking the time to visit and read about my new novel.

Thank you Joe, for being our guest. We wish you continued success with your writing.

Thanks to all our visitors and readers. 

I hope you’ll leave a comment below. We’d love to hear from you.

The Story Behind the Story with Author Jordan Buchanan of Northern Ontario, Canada.

 

Looking for the next new book?

 

Jordan and I connected through an mutual author friend.

He has kindly accepted our invitation to share the SBTS of his novel with you and he’s treating us to an excerpt.

Stick around! 

 

 

I live off grid in Northern Ontario on a beautiful lake near the City of Greater Sudbury. I began writing in College and University and tried my hand as editor of the Canadian Association of Police Polygraphists Journal for two years, I decided to try a career as a novelist in my late 50’s after a 30 year career in policing. While a police officer, I spent 18 of those years as a detective in the Criminal Investigation Division working as an Intelligence Officer, General Investigations, Homicide, Sexual Assault Investigator, Forensic Polygraph Examiner and Major Case Manager.

 

Today I enjoy canoe trips, kayaking, SUP board, hiking, quadding, snowmobiling (I drive a trail groomer on nightshift in the winters as a part time job now). I love to read, play guitar and write. It was always a lifelong passion to become a writer and with publishing my first novel, I have reached that dream.

 

 

Title: Past Ghosts Echoed

 

Synopsis:

Detective Staff Sergeant Enoch Brown’s life takes an unthinkable turn after a lightning strike during a solo canoe trip. When he awakens, he’s haunted by vivid, fragmented visions, memories that don’t belong to him. Desperate for answers, he turns to a psychiatrist who, through hypnosis, unlocks an astonishing discovery: Enoch has inherited “echo memories,” vivid recollections passed down from his parents and grandparents, all of whom were police officers in Sudbury, Ontario.

Each echo memory opens a window into unsolved cases from his family’s past, stretching across a century of policing. Driven by a deep sense of justice, and the unshakable connection to his family’s legacy, Enoch reopens these long-cold cases. Using cutting-edge forensic techniques and modern investigative methods, he uncovers truths his predecessors could never have imagined, solving crimes that have lingered in the shadows for decades.

This novel masterfully weaves a heartfelt exploration of family legacy with the evolution of law enforcement, from horseback patrols to high-tech crime labs. Past Ghosts Echoed is a deeply human story of memory, duty, and the enduring pursuit of truth that bridges generations.

 

 

The Story Behind the Story:

I spent 10 years thinking about the story. I was trying to find a way of tying historical periods of policing in the Sudbury area. I also wanted to write what I knew about policing today. I came upon the idea of “echo memories”, something I invented for the novel. I give theories and elude to concepts of how these “echo memories”, of the main character’s parents and grandfathers who were all police officers, came about. In the end, the reader can decide which theory they believe. 

I did about a year of research into the various time periods of policing. I spent time outlining the book and having what I call idea noodles, small notes of things that might go in the book. I sat down to write the book in about 4 months. It then took another 5 months for editing, polishing and publishing. 

The locations and police procedures are real. The cases are fictionalized but are based on real cases in Sudbury. The modern forensics and policing techniques I used are all ones that I used in my policing career. 

The novel is a historical novel, police procedural, thriller and mystery. I like to place it in the realm of what I call Maple Leaf Noir. A genre of Canadian noir novels like Tartan Noir and Nordic Noir. I hope the audience will be international but I am happy to see it reach Canadians who may relate to it.

  

Website: Please go HERE.

Buy it HERE.

 

Scribbler: Tell us about your writing habits, Jordan. Morning, late night, anytime? Music or solitude? What is your beverage of choice while writing.?

Jordan: For writing, I have two offices for summer and winter. Both are unique spaces surrounded by books and music. An office in my home and one in a large shed (10’ x 16’) I call my pod. I also enjoy writing in coffee shops and at various libraries.

I like to write in the morning and early afternoon with a cup of coffee, of course.

I am very messy with piles of papers of scribbled ideas. It matches my thinking which is scattered. I have the uncanny ability to reach into any pile and pull out exactly what I am looking for and need.

I love to outline my stories first, giving me a template that I do not religiously follow but more meander as though walking beside a stream changing things as I find something more interesting on my journey.

An Excerpt from : Past Ghosts Echoed

“My name is Jane McDonald, I am a police woman with Sudbury Regional Police. I was an OPP officer but I changed jobs in 1973 when the Sudbury Regional Police was formed. I recently joined the Grubbies really known as the Old Clothes Detail (OCD). I was partnered with another officer and they still considered this my training. I would stay for 2 or 3 years then back to Uniform. I would sometimes work with other Units like the Intelligence Branch and the Drug Unit. We sometimes even worked with the RCMP and OPP. 

I was working an afternoon shift from 4 pm to 2 am with my partner and 2 Morality Squad detectives doing bar checks. Looking for underage drinkers, people smoking and selling drugs, checking licenses and capacity numbers for the fire department. A call came over the radio of shots fired on Durham Street downtown. We were on Lisgar Street heading up the alley toward Durham Street when I saw someone crawling around the corner. It was a guy I had arrested a few weeks before selling weed. He had blood on his leg and hands. He was fast crawling like an alligator for his life. 

As we got closer I saw he had nothing in his hands. My partner was driving so I jumped out drawing my .38 Smith and Wesson Chief snub nose revolver. I ordered him to stop. He yelled at me, “They fuckin’ shot me. Help.” 

“I said to stop. Don’t move. Let me see your hands.” 

My partner called for an ambulance and a Sergeant to attend the scene. I passed the wounded druggie and peeked around the corner toward the Coulson Hotel. I saw no one on the street and no vehicles. 

“Hey stop crying,” My partner told the guy. “Who shot you?” 

“I don’t know,” he replied. “But it was two guys and they left on foot toward Minto. I ran around the corner then fell down and crawled to the alley. I never saw them before and I can’t describe them.” 

 A likely story. 

He was Tony Vincent, date of birth August 12, 1954. Currently on charges for trafficking for selling me weed in the Ledo Hotel bar. He had a criminal record or CNI (Criminal Name Index) under CPIC for break and enter, theft and drugs. A stellar citizen to be sure. My partner, Joe MacDonald, used Tony’s t-shirt to stanch the blood on his wound. Tony was crying and appeared to be in shock. Joe gave out on the radio what little description we had and suggested since we came from Lisgar that they either ran all the way up Cedar Street or more likely into Memorial Park which was dark and not well lit. Uniform units attended there. 

I stayed at the corner of the alley with my gun out to cover my partner and the victim in case the shooters returned. 

“Hey Mick, you have quite the maternal instinct there,” said the Sergeant as he pulled up in his marked station wagon Sergeant’s vehicle with his window down smoking a cigarette. My short time as a Grubbie working with Joe has led to us both getting new nicknames that stuck. McDonald and MacDonald. They called us Mick and Mack. Too cute. I wanted to barf but you don’t get to pick your nickname when you’re a cop. 

I said, “With respect Sarge, fuck you.” 

“Haha. You’re too much Mick. The ambulance is coming. I’ll have a car go to the General Hospital or Memorial Hospital as soon as they tell us which Emergency Room they’re heading too,” the Sergeant responded. 

“It’s 10 pm. Memorial stops taking new patients and closes their Emergency Room at midnight,” I replied. 

“Well they can tell us anyway before I send a cruiser.” 

“Speaking of time, pretty quiet for this time of night here. Like everybody left before we got here,” said Mack. 

I winced at what he said. “Why the fuck would you say the Q word?” 

Sheepishly, my partner looked at me saying, “Sorry Mick.” 

Now we were jinxed for the rest of the shift. No good ever came from the Q word in any context. I just shook my head. Mack and I had been cops the same amount of time but all his time was with City of Sudbury Police and when they became Sudbury Regional Police Force, he became a Grubbie. So he had two years on me in Old Clothes and was training me. We worked well together and got along great. 

He also knew my secret. I was seeing a Detective in CID.

 

Jordan: Thank you for your consideration of my new novel “Past Ghosts Echoed”. The main character, Enoch Brown, will return in my second novel that takes place in New York, 2002, in the aftermath of 9/11 working with the NYPD to catch a serial rapist and serial killer.

  

 

 

 

 

Thank you to all our visitors and readers.

Feel free to leave a comment below.

We’d love to hear from you.