Readers often ask about research and where I get my information. I have a very large bookcase full of material covering all aspects of life, mostly from the 18th Century with a smattering of books on other periods along with my crime library concerning investigations and murder.

The most used is Cunnington’s Handbook of English Costume in the Eighteenth Century, an invaluable resource. Without it I couldn’t function, although I usually leave these descriptions to the editing stage. The great thing about Cunnington is the detail, from fabrics to accessories, with year on year changes for both men and women.

One book on antiques has a useful set of images depicting the way rooms actually looked, as well as individual items of furniture - for which I’ve also got Chippendale’s workbook. Ackermann helps with scenes of London, such as Brooks’s, Astley’s Amphitheatre, Covent Garden and the Pantheon. The Romance of the Road gives two whole journeys from London to Bath and London to Portsmouth in drawings, so you get distances, inns and the likely traffic. I can’t do without my books on Georgian cookery, and those with satirical drawings are wonderfully evocative of the period.

I like images best because they help me picture the scene, and I can garner textual stuff to furnish detail. It’s amazing how it puts me into the period in my head, which in turn enables me to write it for the reader to imagine.

This is what I love about books, and why research is vital. You’ve got to draw the scene in brush strokes of words, letting the reader fill in the gaps. You don’t have to detail everything.

In THE DEATHLY PORTENT, a shop bell tinkles as Ottilia enters, and the reader learns that she moved into the shop “casting her eye over the shelves, which were stacked to bursting, and the two large counters boasting a collection of drawers beneath and a plethora of goods on top, juxtaposed one against another with little heed as to type or symmetry.”

A few phrases create an instant picture in the reader’s mind. Then a little later, there’s a list to give an idea of the sort of goods being sold: “Her eye fell cursorily upon an open tray of coloured gloves, a collection of quill pens, several fancy knots of ribbon spilling from a casket, and a selection of brooch pins in a glass case.”

When Ottilia buys something, a few more details add to the picture. She’s there to question the shopkeeper about the murder, so the snippet of background detail here and there is a device to set the scene. It’s enough, because the reader can add the rest from their own store of knowledge about this type of shop.

Now I’m writing crime, a lot of research time goes on finding ways to kill people, and then the way my sleuth is going to read the corpse so she finds out how it was done. My favourite crime research book is Just the Facts, Ma’am, from which I got the nohow to create Ottilia’s investigative style.

I do go to the internet, and I’ve acquired several wonderful Google books reproduced from contemporary originals unavailable anywhere else. One on poisons is proving eminently useful. Then there’s judicial systems and inquests, policing and so on, to which there are wonderful pointers on the net, as well as Donald Low’s Thieves’ Kitchen, which is fast becoming one of my most used research tools.

I love research. I’m far too apt to lose myself in the books and forget what I’m actually looking for. One piece of research leads to another, besides throwing up new plot points I hadn’t thought of. Research for me is as much part of the process of writing as it is exploration of the period.

***

Elizabeth Bailey’s second novel in her Lady Fan Mystery Series, THE DEATHLY PORTENT, is out now in the US and in June in the UK.

The blacksmith has been bludgeoned to death and the villagers blame the local witch, a girl with second sight. The Fanshawes have broken down on the road nearby and when Ottilia hears the news, she cajoles Francis into going to Witherley, where a full-blown investigation leads her into personal danger before she can find out the perpetrator. More details at www.elizabethbailey.co.uk

Why writers don’t answer email…

I am lucky that I get email from readers of my Real Vampires series on a daily basis. Some of it comes from Facebook and it’s easy to answer with a word or two. I get to those right away. Others come to my personal account which I have a link to on my web page. I am happy to answer these as I have time. But some queries take more time than others. If you want to know how long my series will go on, believe me, so do I. In the publishing business, the authors are at the mercy of the dreaded sales figures. If a book sells well, a new contract will be offered. If it doesn’t? Well, a series may be allowed to die. Doesn’t matter that there are loyal followers of that chubby vampire who are clamoring for Glory’s next adventure. Unless the readers number in the thousands and they are all buying their own copies, not sharing or checking them out of the library or buying them used, then the series will not go on.

Now in this day of digital publishing authors do have the option of putting a book out on their own if a publisher drops them. So I could let the Real Vampires series go on forever by myself on Amazon or Barnes & Nobles as an e-book only someday. But it’s not easy to do that with no guaranteed paycheck. And I’m on book 9 now of Glory’s story. At some point maybe it will be time to put this story to bed. And not in the exciting, hot way that my vampire’s been doing, if you know what I mean. Now don’t panic. So far, the series lives.

I still get some snail mail in my P.O. Box too. Most of it is from prisoners. This is not fun. It’s really kind of sad and some of it is borderline sick. I’ve received stories from guys who want me to read their stuff and get it published. Fact of life: authors have their own stories, folks, we don’t need yours. And, seriously, a person who has been locked up for violent crimes may have a handle on fantasy but I don’t particularly want to read it. It is hard to get around to answering snail mail.

**

Gerry Bartlett figures that vampires are pretty much like everyone else except for the liquid diet. She is a native Texan who owns an antique business on the historic Strand of Galveston, and lives halfway between Galveston and Houston with her husband John and a Bedlington Terrier named Belle. Check out her website or follow her on Facebook.

Spring has been underway where I live for a bit now. I’m beginning to notice the afternoons are warm enough to be considered summer now. You know, I think I forgot what warm, bare feet felt like! Time for shorts and sandals and wide brimmed hats. So what is it that says ‘Summer’ to you? Is it clothing or a trip or something else? I know I’m looking forward to the summer movie releases. There is something about waiting in line for a good seat that just makes the moment a little more exciting. When I go back and look at that sentence, it almost like I enjoy waiting in line, which isn’t the case…lol. But there is honestly something about those movie lines. Sometimes I think, no, we’ll just wait a week, after all, the movie will still be playing next week…it never works. Just like a new book release. The folks at my local bookstore know me by now and they always have the new releases on the shelves. It was such a blast to see them putting out ‘The Highlander’s Prize’. I knew it was coming but there is just nothing like the moment when you see your book on the shelf for the first time. I’m going to include a little excerpt for everyone and I hope you’ll all leave me a comment on just what it is you’re looking forward to this summer. I’ll be selecting a winner from the comments and if you don’t win here, come over to my author page at Facebook for more chances.

Cheers!

Mary Wine

MaryWine.com

THE HIGHLANDER'S PRIZE-

“Ye sleep like a babe. Unconcerned as though the world is a peaceful place. Maturity should have taught ye differently, but I suppose I can nae be expecting any royal offspring to know much about life’s harsher edges.”

Laird MacNicols was a giant. He was poised on his hunches, the edges of his plaid just brushing the ground. She gained a glimpse of his well-made boots with antler horn buttons running up their sides before he muttered something to Shaw in Gaelic.

Fear twisted through her because Shaw’s eyes were icy and she recalled clearly what the other Highlander wanted to do with her.

Shaw was leaning against a rock, his long sword cradled across his lap. “She’s the one, sure enough. The only other was wearing a wimple and well past her prime. Saw them both get out of that wagon meself. There were nae any other females.”

The laird had blue eyes—startling with how intense they were. His hair was fair but streaked with hints of red. It hung down to his shoulders, with a section of it braided to keep it out of his eyes. There was an uncivilized way about him that had nothing to do with the common clothing he wore. It was in his eyes and the corded muscles so clearly visible on his arms and legs. He was not a man who had others do his bidding.

But his sword was fine. The pommel was clearly visible beyond his left shoulder and the rising sun illuminated the gold hilt. A blue sapphire winked at her from where it was set into a crest that included a rampant lion—A noble creature, only men with noble blood could use such an animal on his belongings. It meant he was more than just a clan laird. He had blue blood flowing through his veins.

The sight sent her struggling away from him, but the fabric still bound her. His lips twitched up, amusement sparkling in his eyes.

“Now, why the hurry to place distance between us, Clarrisa of York? Did I nae see to yer comfort quite nicely?”

“Your man wants to slit my throat. Why wouldn’t I want to be away from you?.”

He shrugged. “Shaw believes it a necessary thing, since yer kin seem to think we need their troubles spreading here to Scotland.” His grin faded. “Something I am nae in favor of either.”

“Neither am I.”

Surprise flickered in his blue eyes. “The way I heard it, ye were fixing to wait on our king like some fat pasha from the Far East.”

There was thick disapproval in his tone and he stood up. He was dismissing her—condemning her, actually. She struggled and sat up in spite of the fabric binding her.

“You understand naught.” She sputtered. “It was a ruse, to delay him.”

He returned his dark blue gaze to her, but there was a slight mocking arch to one eyebrow now. “Well then, lass, I’m listening sure enough. Why do nae ye explain to me what ye’re doing in me country and with me king?”

Why was she begging?

Because she wanted to live.

Heat stung her cheeks because she was ashamed at just how easily she had been reduced to whimpering. It wasn’t the first time she’d had no one to depend upon except herself. She drew in a deep breath and tried to collect her courage.

“I was sent here by my family. The ruse enacted to gain me freedom from the tower room your king intended to use to breed me like a mare.” The sting in her cheeks doubled as she spoke. “So…you see…we desire the same thing.”

He bent his knees so he was able to scrutinize her once more on the same level. He had his share of arrogance but what surprised her was the amusement lurking in his eyes.

“Do we now?” He muttered softly. “I have to doubt ye on that, since ye turned to flee from me.”

“I couldn’t willingly go with you when one of your men wants to kill me.”

He shrugged again. There was enough light from the rising sun now to show her thick muscles bulging along his arms and chest. His lips parted and his teeth flashed at her when he grinned at her. “I told ye it would nae be happening and I am laird.” His expression hardened. “But ye are still the natural daughter of Edward the Fourth of England and might well be accomplished in the art of twisting words.”

“I am hardly the only child he is rumored to have fathered outside his marriage.” She struggled against the fabric binding her again, feeling too helpless by far caught in its folds.

“I hear Edward acknowledged ye, which means a great deal, considering how rare noble blood is becoming due to yer war of the roses.”

He reached out and grabbed the fabric beneath her chin. A moment later she was on her feet. Her feet shifted, her balance unsteady because her toes had gone numb sometime during the night.

“Henry Tudor has wed Elizabeth of York. The War of the Roses is finished now because York and Lancaster are united.” She explained.

“But Henry has nae had her crowned queen and ye are here, brought under cover of darkness to a lone tower where James of Scotland sneaks away to meet with ye. Now that is suspicious, lass, and no mistake. But it is also dangerous for me and my clan, for we have enough troubles without ye giving James a son with York blood. Ye tried to flee when I offered ye freedom, which means ye might well be intent on becoming a powerful Queen through yer son.”

“I told you why I tried to run.”

He chuckled, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Am I to trust ye, then?” He stepped closer, maintaining a firm grip on the fabric to keep her in place. “Will ye offer to bathe me with yer delicate hands, Clarrisa? To show me how adept ye are at common chores? From what the young maid told me, ye claim to have more practice at polishing men’s weapons. Mind ye, I am no’ saying I would nae enjoy ye proving yer gratefulness in such a fashion.”

Her jaw dropped open but the sound that emerged was a snarl. Full of rage and frustration, she actually lowered her chin and tried to bite the hand securing her in front of him.

“I shall not! You’re a blackard to suggest such a thing.”

He laughed at her, jerking his hand away before she sunk her teeth into his flesh. She stumbled and would have landed on her backside, but someone caught her floundering body from behind and her face burned bright red as she listened to his men enjoy her shame. Someone yanked the length of wool off her and she spun around like a child playing in a spring meadow. When the last of the wool plaid fell away she was dizzy. Her captor gripped her wrists while she struggled to maintain her balance and wrapped a length of leather around them. He knotted the ends firmly before giving a satisfied grunt.

“I am Broen MacNicols and ye will be leaving, lass, but ye will be traveling with me to the Highlands where I can be sure ye are nae adding to the troubles in me country. Give me men any frustration and I’ll let them keep ye bundled like a babe.”

“Brute.” She accused. “Uncivilized… Highlander.”

If you’ve read some of my previous Writerspace blogs you might have noted that, due to my day job, I enjoy some amazing opportunities. This past week, which I spent in Boston attending the National Catholic Education Association conference, probably rated as the most astounding: I not only saw but had my picture taken with both the world’s largest chocolate bar and the Pope.

Okay, it was just a cardboard cutout of the Pope. Still, who knew he and I would share an appreciation—inanimate though it might be—of all that brown deliciousness!

I should have guessed that a guy with the fashion daring to wear gorgeous red leather shoes with his white outfits (you can’t see them in the accompanying photo, but believe me, he had them on the day his snapshot was taken for the cutout) would appreciate all forms of good taste, whether taste buds or the eyes are involved.

And speaking of the Pontiff’s red shoes, my buddy Jeanne, the photographer who snapped the accompanying shot and a lifelong Catholic, quipped that when he wears them, he likes to click his heels together and say “There’s no place like Rome . . . there’s no place like Rome.”

As for the giant candy bar, it was created by the World’s Finest Chocolate Company and is 3-feet high, 21-feet long and weighs 12,000 pounds. Recognized by the Guinness World Records people as the largest chocolate bar in history, it is capable of eventually providing 209,100 1-ounce servings should it ever be divvied up for consumption.

Sounds like my kind of party.

I’m likely to wear my own red shoes to an event like that! But don’t bet on me letting anyone take my picture while I’m there. Who needs the evidence of that much chocolate smeared on my face?

A FREE COPY OF MY DEBUT NOVEL, MRS. GOODFELLER WILL BE RANDOMLY AWARDED TO ONE PERSON WHO LEAVES A COMMENT BELOW BEFORE THE NEXT WRITERSPACE BLOG IS POSTED.

Jaycie Cash blogs on a regular basis for Writerspace.com. Her debut novel,MRS. GOODFELLER, is available through most major e-Book outlets, including Amazon and Barnes and Noble. She’d love for you to like her Facebook Author page.

www.jayciecash.com