Some of the Bundle Rabbit bundles that include my stories:
Kristine Kathryn Rusch, the curator of this Bundle of Bundles explains it very well here: https://storybundle.com/blog/sffbingereaderbundle/, but basically, this one bundle of bundles will take care of all your reading needs for the rest of the summer and, if you’re a slow reader like me, probably into the fall.
The total bundle includes at least 19 novels and about 100 short stories—we haven’t actually counted them. All shades of SF and fantasy. For $5 US, you get four bundles, including Faerie Summer, which contains one of my stories (“Skywalkers”)! And if you pay $15 you get all 10 bundles of goodness. As well you get the option to donate to AbleGamers, a charity that helps people with disabilities participate in the world of high tech gaming by customizing equipment.
The SF&F Binge Reader Bundle is only available for another couple of weeks, so if you like science fiction and fantasy, check out this amazing deal.
The initial titles in the Bundle Bundle (minimum $5 to purchase) are:
- The Digital Sea Complete Box Set by Thomas K. Carpenter
- Uncollected Anthology: Year 1 by Uncollected Anthology
- The Fates Trilogy by Kristine Grayson
- The Faerie Summer Bundle by Jamie Ferguson
If you pay more than the bonus price of just $15, you get all four of the regular titles, plus SIX more!
- The Washington Witches Series, Volumes 1-3 by Mindy Klasky
- The Diving Series Starter Bundle by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
- Fantasy Bundle by Fiction River
- The Thunder Mountain Starter Bundle by Dean Wesley Smith
- The Science Officer Omnibus 1 – Volumes 1-4 by Blaze Ward
- Feyguard Books 1-3 by Anthea Sharp
I’ve been getting a lot of gentle (and some not so gentle) nudging about when the fifth Mendenhall Mystery featuring Chief of Police Kate Williams will be coming out. I confess it was a little startling to realize the fourth one, The Untethered Woman came out in late fall 2014. It’s not like I’ve been lazy (not really). After all I’ve had two other novels (Ghosts of Morocco and Shelter) come out in the meantime, not to mention half a dozen short stories–and those are just the published ones–so, I’ve been busy.
But I am close to finishing the first draft of the latest installment of the Mendenhall stories. Kate and crew are dealing with persistent vandalism at a new construction site, which of course turns out to be something more serious, and with the theft of bull sperm from a local veterinarian. While the theft seems pretty straightforward (maybe even ludicrous) at first, it soon becomes clear that it may be connected to a murder.
Here’s the opening to Mendenhall 5 (I know, I know–I’m working on the title):
Mendenhall Mystery #5
There was absolutely nothing attractive about a sweaty, red-faced, middle-aged woman puffing on a treadmill.
Kate Williams, Mendenhall’s chief of police, watched herself bob up and down in the wall-length mirror and cursed the idiot who had thought setting mirrors in front of treadmills was a good idea.
Also reflected in the mirror were half a dozen men and women lifting weights, doing bicep curls and leg lifts, and running on treadmills just like hers. They all looked better at it than she did. In her defense, she preferred running outdoors. At least there she didn’t stay in one place long enough for people to notice how she looked.
No one spoke, but the small gym echoed with the whining of the treadmill engines and the clanging of weights as they were taken off the stand, or replaced. Beneath those noises were the regular grunts of effort from a few of the men.
It was early, barely past six in the morning, thank goodness, or there’d be many more people working out in Stan’s Gym. The more people, the smellier the gym.
Stan’s was one four gyms in Mendenhall, Manitoba, population 16,514. Apparently, the citizens of Mendenhall liked to stay fit. Stan’s wasn’t her regular gym. She usually went to Fit ‘n Fast on Hayes Rd. It was bigger, newer, and had more modern equipment. And it had a nice locker room and showers.
Her gaze strayed to the reflection next to hers. Rob McKell, her deputy chief, usually worked out at Fit ‘n Fast, too. She hadn’t asked him why he had switched, but she could imagine.
He didn’t want anyone from his regular gym to see him like this.
She’d had to switch for a week two months ago while Fit ‘n Fast underwent rewiring, and she’d bumped into Rob early one morning at Stan’s. She hadn’t planned to stay—Stan’s was an old-school gym, with barbells and rubber mats, not even a sit-up board. Besides, she could tell that her deputy chief was uncomfortable having her around. But within a few days, the gym owner, Stan Harvey, took her aside and told her that McKell worked harder when she was there.
So she stayed.
McKell wasn’t running. He was walking at a slow, steady pace, his face red and sweaty, and lined with exhaustion and determination. He was younger than her by a few years, but the accident and shooting last fall had aged him.
She watched his legs. They weren’t as strong as they had been before he took that bullet to the chest that almost paralyzed him, but they were getting stronger every day. Every time she saw him working out, a little part of her sent a heartfelt thanks out to the universe.
They had thought they’d lost him, at first. And then they had thought he would never walk again.
“It’s rude to stare,” said McKell matter-of-factly.
Kate’s gaze slid up his thin body to find his reflection looking back at her.
“Just admiring your technique,” she said. “Slow but effective.”
“Go to hell,” he replied mildly.
Kate grinned at him. His reflection refused to look at her, but there was a small smile on his face.
“Don’t you think it’s time you dropped by?” she asked. In the seven months since the shooting and car accident that had nearly taken his life, her deputy chief had stayed away from the station. She knew he didn’t want to appear weak in front of the constables, but if he was strong enough to work out, then he should start thinking about re-entering work life, even if only part-time.
Kate suspected the hurdle stopping him was more psychological than physical. She had encouraged Samantha Paterson, the acting deputy chief, to call him occasionally to seek his advice. Hopefully that would help keep him connected to police life. He would have to make it the rest of the way himself.
He shrugged. “Maybe I’ll swing by later this week.”
Kate stifled a sigh. He’d been saying that for a month. Well, she couldn’t force him. The doctors had said he was lucky to have regained the use of his legs, but that full recovery would take a long time. His body seemed to be recovering just fine, but his spirit wasn’t.
They worked for a few more minutes until Kate judged he’d had enough, then she slowed the treadmill to a walk and then to a stop. He never stopped before she did.
She stepped off the machine, bracing herself with the handle against the momentary disorientation, and grabbed the towel hanging there.
“Right, well, I’ll be at the station if you need anything,” she said, wiping her face with the towel.
Rob nodded, then wiped his own face.
She suddenly realized that he was studying her reflection.
“What?” she said.
“You’re looking a little thin, chief.”
Kate’s eyebrows rose and her heart skipped a beat. This was the first time Rob had noticed anything or anyone beyond himself since the shooting.
She smiled at him in the mirror. “I had it to lose.”
“No, you didn’t,” he said flatly.
Kate focused on her red-cheeked reflection in the mirror. Maybe he was right: she was looking a little gaunt. At almost fifty-five, losing weight quickly just deepened her lines. She looked severe.
“See you tomorrow.”
* * *
Most of the snow was gone, and the early April sun definitely had some heat to it, but the wind was still bloody cold. Kate shivered as she hurried to the Edge. She had bought it last September after McKell’s accident destroyed her Ford Explorer, which she still mourned. What had decided it for her was the fact that the Edge was a standard, which had charmed her. She’d learned on a standard forty years ago and she still preferred it to an automatic transmission.
She clicked her key fob to unlock the door and slid into the driver’s seat with a massive shiver. She hated walking out of the gym all sweaty, but she hated showering in that tiny metal coffin even more. Stan hadn’t renovated that gym in twenty years. She’d taken to showering at the station.
Stan’s Gym was on Archer Drive, in the industrial area of Mendenhall. It wasn’t even seven o’clock, but trucks were already out and about and workers were already making their way to work for the early shift. Kate stopped at the entrance to the gym’s parking lot to let a delivery van with panes of glass strapped to its sides drive in, then pulled out into traffic.
Aside from the glass factory, the industrial section of Mendenhall consisted of a recreational vehicle rental business, with behemoths locked inside a chain link fence behind the storefront, a car wash, a micro-brewery that was starting to make a name for itself in the province, and a couple of garages, one of which specialized in tires. It didn’t take long to drive through to the Wal-Mart and the Mendenhall Shopping Mall, beyond which was the downtown core.
The dashboard clock read 6:53. She had time to pick up coffee at the Tim Hortons on Main Street, then she’d be at the station just after shift change. A quick shower, then she’d read the log book while drinking her coffee.
She glanced at the rearview mirror, automatically checking what was coming up behind her, then found herself staring at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were clear and untroubled, and she realized that she was smiling. After a moment, she dragged her attention back to the road.
It had been a while since she’d felt like smiling. Between Rob McKell’s brush with death, the disruption to her detachment, and her break-up with Bert, she hadn’t had much to smile about. She looked around as traffic slowly moved past the industrial section and into the more commercial part of Mendenhall. The grass was turning green around the edges of buildings and the trees, mostly maple trees on this street, were in bud. Despite the wind, the thermometer in the Edge read ten degrees Celsius.
She had started to think spring would never come.
“Look at that, Kate,” she told her reflection in the rearview mirror. “You survived another one.” Her second winter in Mendenhall hadn’t been nearly as cold as last winter, or as long. It had only felt longer.
Twenty minutes later, feeling a little self-conscious about her bedraggled appearance, she parked in her allotted spot in front of the detachment. Two of the squad cars were out of their parking spots, which meant that the four constables on duty were out patrolling. A white truck, a Chevy Silverado with mud splatters all along the bottom and dents in the front bumper, was parked in the visitor parking stall.
She walked into the low-slung, wood-sided, post-World War II building, her tote back slung over her shoulder and balancing a cardboard tray securing coffee for herself, Nick Martins, who was on the duty desk today, and Charlotte Hrebien, the detachment’s only admin support.
As always, the smell of boot polish, burned coffee and damp wood greeted her. She let the storm door catch her on the butt so as not to let it slam, then reached back with the hand holding the tote bag to latch it. She wiped her running shoes on the horsehair mat then looked up at the sound of low male voices.
She recognized Martins’ voice, but the second one, while vaguely familiar, remained elusive. She started to move toward the entrance to the duty room, then hesitated, remembering that she didn’t look her best. Then she shrugged. What the hell.
She strode past the opening to the duty desk, where the duty officer usually sat on the elevated platform, and through the doorway on its right, into the duty room proper.
Martins and Charlotte were standing in front of the four battered desks grouped in the middle of the room, listening to a man who had his back to Kate. Martins glanced over the man’s shoulder and nodded slightly at her but didn’t say anything. He had been expecting her, of course.
Charlotte was writing in a notepad. The girl’s hair now brushed her shoulders, having grown out from the short style she’d favored over the past eight months. She had taken to placing clips in the glossy brown curls to keep them out of the way and it opened up her face in a becoming way. As the only civilian employee of the Mendenhall Police Department, Charlotte wore whatever she liked to work. Today she had on a pair of plaid pants in tones of green and brown, and a button-up sweater in the same shade of green as the pants. It brought out the green of her eyes.
She looked up as Kate entered.
“Good morning, chief,” she said seriously.
The man who had been talking turned to look at Kate and she recognized him as one of the veterinarians in town. Macdonald? Jamieson? Some Scottish name.
He had a shock of graying, sandy hair in dire need of a trim and eyes somewhere between gray and green. Attractive, in an outdoorsy, weather-beaten kind of way.
“Chief Williams,” he said politely.
Damn it. The man knew her name—of course he knew her name; everyone in town knew her name—but she was no closer to remembering his. Charlotte, bless her, recognized Kate’s dilemma.
“Chief, have you met Dr. McCrae?”
“I think so,” said Kate, setting the tray of coffees on the end of the counter, next to the log book. “Veterinarian, right? What’s the problem?”
The vet was staring at her hair and she had to control an urge to smooth it back and explain that she’d just come from the gym. Besides, it was a little like the pot calling the kettle black. She couldn’t do a thing about the heat rising in her cheeks, however.
Nick Martins grinned at her unabashedly.
“Someone stole my straws,” said McCrae.
Kate stared at him, aware of the weight of her tote bag on her shoulder, the smell of Tim Hortons coffee wafting over from the counter, the less pleasant but hopefully fainter smell emanating from her body.
“Your straws,” she repeated blankly.
Behind the veterinarian’s back, Martins’ grin widened.
“It was actually the whole tank,” said Charlotte helpfully. Kate wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw a suspicious gleam in the girl’s eye.
Kate turned back to the vet. “Your tank.”
He nodded. “I got a flat tire,” he said. Seeing no understanding on her face, he continued. “On Highway 34. My spare died last month and I haven’t replaced it yet. I got a lift back to Mendenhall to get the flat fixed, but by the time I got back to the pick-up, someone had broken into the back and taken the tank.”
“A propane tank?” she asked.
It was the vet’s turn to look at her blankly. “Why would I have a propane tank in the back of my work truck?”
She was pretty sure they were both speaking English.
Martins finally stepped in. While he wasn’t a particularly tall man, his thin, wiry build made him look taller. He had crinkly auburn hair, light brown eyes and an overabundance of freckles that usually made her smile.
“Ma’am, the tank contains frozen straws of bull semen for artificial insemination.”
“Good grief,” Kate blurted out. “Why would someone want to steal that?”
One of Dr. McCrae’s eyebrows rose and a half-smile formed on his lips. Now she remembered where she’d met him. Charlotte’s beau was a veterinarian, too, and worked with McCrae on a freelance basis. Charlotte had hosted a summer barbecue last year and invited everyone from the detachment, as well as McCrae. He’d been dressed in brown Carhartt pants—the practically indestructible heavy cotton pants that seemed to be the uniform of the working man around here—and a checked shirt then, too. Today, however, in deference to the cool spring weather he was wearing a heavy black jacket over his shirt.
“Depending on the bull,” he said, “it can be worth a small fortune. Anywhere from thirty dollars to five thousand dollars. A straw. And there can be up to five hundred straws in a tank.”
Kate tried to calculate what five hundred straws at five thousand dollars a straw might come up to. Millions. She blinked at the veterinarian.
At that moment, the telephone at the duty desk rang and Martins excused himself to answer it.
“How many straws…?” she asked.
“A hundred doses,” said McCrae. “Worth almost fifty thousand dollars.”
“Mendenhall Police,” said Martins just as the main door opened and closed. They all looked at the opening in front of the duty desk. Samantha Paterson glanced in as she walked by and did a slight double-take at seeing so many people staring back at her. Martins nodded at her and she came around the wall and through the door into the duty room.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
Kate shook her head and grabbed her coffee from the tray. “Stolen bull semen. This is Doctor McCrae. He’ll tell you all about it.”
And then she beat a strategic retreat to the change room.
I’ve been doing a lot of reading lately and I thought I’d share some of the gems I’ve come across:
No Shred of Evidence, an Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery by Charles Todd
An Unmarked Grave, a Bess Crawford Mystery by Charles Todd
Yes, I’m on a Charles Todd kick. Charles Todd is the nom de plume [well, sort of] of an American mother-and-son writing team, Caroline and Charles Todd. The two series are set during and just after World War One.
Bess Crawford is a nurse who works on the front lines in France during the war, and who stumbles across mysteries and murders. I love the layered background of her life, with a childhood in India, a mysterious father and his aide, and her willingness to get grubby to bring justice to bear.
After the war, Inspector Ian Rutledge returned to Scotland Yard a changed man. Suffering from PTSD, he now lives with a voice in his head of a soldier he executed for refusing a direct order. This damaged man clings to his work as his only salvation.
I’ve also been reading some excellent science fiction and fantasy, all with a mystery bent:
Company Town, by Madeline Ashby, was shortlisted for the most recent Canada Reads contest, in which five famous Canadians champion a different Canadian book. This is how the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC), which org
anizes the contest every year, describes it:
Canada Reads is a “literary Survivor,” with celebrities championing books. Books are voted “off the bookshelf,” one each day, until one book is chosen as the title the whole country should read this year.
Set off the Canadian east coast, Company Town tells the story of the fearless Hwa, a young woman who works as a bodyguard on the city-sized oil rig they all call home. There are death threats, alternate timelines and a series of interconnected murders, and Hwa must choose between protecting herself and protecting those in her charge.
Loved, loved, loved the story. I gobbled it up.
I know I could be biased, but I’m not. This is a lovely, lovely story featuring a murder mystery set in exotic 19th century Burma. It features anold singer and a magical Burmese puppet, the impish, ancient Yamin, who so desperately wants to be taken seriously by the humans and the members of his puppet troupe. Fascinating culture and unusual, endearing characters.
The one thing all these books have in common are strong, engaging characters, characters that the reader wants to follow on their adventures. It’s something I strive to do in my own writing.
Okay, now it’s your turn. What stories have you read lately that you would recommend? Any non-fiction?
(Originally published on Not Your Usual Suspects, May 31, 2017)
The summer sun bathes the earth in warmth and light,
Faeries dance under the moon at night.
Cross through the portal into a land ancient, beautiful, and wild.
See the wonders that enticed the stolen child.
Come away, O reader! To the Realm of Faerie.
But if you want to make it back home, you had better be wary…
This collection includes twenty tales of faeries and magic set in our world – and in others:
THE FLAT ABOVE THE WYND by Alexandra Brandt
SILVER DUST by Leslie Claire Walker
UNICORN MAGIC by Roz Marshall
BENEATH THE KNOWE by Anthea Sharp
LEXIE’S CHOICE by Deb Logan
FLOWER FAIRIES by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
PAULALEENA by Leah Cutter
ROLO THE GREAT by Annie Reed
THE FAKE PATH TO TRUE MEMORY by Brigid Collins
PROOF OF DEVOTION by Dayle A. Dermatis
BY DAWN’S BLOODY LIGHT by DeAnna Knippling
ONDINE by Brenda Carre
SNAP A TRAP, INC. by Louisa Swann
THE FAERY’S CHOICE by Jamie Ferguson
THE QUEEN OF MAY by Linda Jordan
SKYWALKERS by Marcelle Dubé
STORMRIDER AND THE LADY OF SOUL by Karen L. Abrahamson
THE BODY PLOT by Rebecca M. Senese
THE WISHING RING OF OLD QUEEN MAAB by Steve Vernon
HAWTHORN & WILLOW by T. Thorn Coyle
One of my favourite novels, Jilimar, is part of a new bundle from Bundle Rabbit, curated by Barbara G. Tarn. While it will be released on May 26 over at Bundle Rabbit and all other e-booksellers, it’s available now for pre-order at Kobo, Barnes and Noble and Amazon.
Here’s the Table of Contents:
1. The Crystal Courtesan by Karen L. Abrahamson
2. The Mage’s Grave by Timothy L. Cerepaka
3. Firehearted by Sabrina Chase
4. Singer by Brigid Collins
5. Rider by Diane J Cornwell
6. Jilimar by Marcelle Dube
7. Al-Kabar by Lee French
8. The Path of Water (Quests Book 1) by Barbara G. Tarn
9. Elf Saga, Book 1: Doomsday by Joseph Robert Lewis
10. Twice Against the Dragon by Stefon Mears
11. The Last Giant by Mario Milosevic
12. Dragons’ Choice by Debbie Mumford
The job of a good book cover is to make you pick up the book and flip it over to read the back cover. Or click on it to read the blurb. It does that by attracting the eye and providing the right “symbols” to clue you into the book’s genre. If you see a good-looking man and woman on the cover, you would be forgiven for assuming that the book’s a romance. If the man and woman are scantily clad and posed provocatively, it’s probably safe to assume the story contains hot and heavy sex scenes.
As an indie writer, I create almost all my covers. I (usually) enjoy the challenge and I can’t afford to hire a graphic designer for each cover. I mean, really, it would be embarrassing if the graphic designer earned more money on the story than I did.
I know, however, that a bad cover can spell disaster. I also know that “good” and “bad” are subjective. For example, the cover for The Mount by Carol Emshwiller. I had never heard of Ms. Emshwiller when I received her book as part of a goodie bag at a World Fantasy Convention. I looked at it among the 20 or so other books I received and was turned off by the cover. Still, I brought it home. It sat in my bookshelf for years. Every once in a while, I pulled it down and read the cover blurb and then put it back. I just couldn’t get past that ugly (to me—someone else might really like it) cover. Finally, desperate for something, anything, to read, I started reading it.
Well, hot damn. It was a great story—I could NOT put it down. But that cover had put me off so much that I didn’t get to the story for years. That cover failed to do what it was supposed to do, as far as I’m concerned.
While cover art is subjective, a good graphic designer can create a cover that has great appeal. But what if you’re an amateur, like me? You study the genre you’re aiming for. What do those covers look like? What elements do they have in common? Any colours that predominate? Then, trial and error.
When Carina published my first Mendenhall Mystery, The Shoeless Kid, they used the wonderful John Kicksee as the artist. To say I was blown away by the cover is an understatement.
When I decided to continue the series as an indie writer, I knew I wanted to carry on John’s vision. I knew I needed elements of mystery, without going too dark, but I also wanted to carry through the style of title and byline that John had used on Shoeless. What I ended up with was not as gorgeous as John’s original cover, but at least the covers look like they belong in the same series:
Every once in a while, however, imagination fails me and I can spend weeks (if not months) on a single cover, trying to get it right. “Bloodhound” was published as part of the Superhero Universe: Tesseracts Nineteen anthology. I wanted to put the individual story up for sale, but it needed a cover. Do you think I could find an appropriate image? It was like pulling teeth. The story revolves around a young man who was injured at Antwerp, during World War II. The injury left him with asnomia, or the loss of his sense of smell. Once back home, a series of events reverses the effect, and then some.
I fooled around with ideas for weeks, trying and rejecting, with kind friends looking them over and reacting with “no” to “hell, no!” Here are two of the “best” that got the “uh, no” reaction:
And here’s what I finally ended up with. It may not be perfect, but at some point you have to say, enough, and move on:
What about you? Do you create your own covers? How do you go about it? Any tips…?
(Originally published at Not Your Usual Suspects on February 27, 2017)
Sick of the cold? The snow, sleet, freezing rain? Well, yeah.
To help us all cope, Bundle Rabbit has come up with a 10-book bundle of mysteries set in winter, curated by Michael Jasper. And I have a book in it! The Tuxedoed Man is part of the Mendenhall Mystery series.
Crimes committed in the heat of the moment, during the coldest time of the year…
This ebook bundle collects mystery novels set in the coldest season of the year, or mysteries containing a strong element of cold (in one sense of the word or another).
The full collection includes the following mysteries:
Two sleuths in the North Carolina mountains spend a snowy week in March searching for people who don’t want to be found…
A haunted author must spend the winter battling his addictions, and worse…
A shapeshifter battles ancient spirits, a covert government agency, and his own dark past in a race to solve a murder…
A desperate man gets a phone call that pulls him back into a world of violence and mystery that he tried to leave behind…
An accidental death, a train wreck and dark secrets in a deadly northern winter places a police chief and her niece in jeopardy…
A crime committed decades ago refuses to lie dormant under the black waters of a lake…
The daughter of the Prince of Polka travels to the polka heartland of New Krakow, Pennsylvania, to solve the mystery of her father’s murder…
A nature-loving woman and a mysterious photographer stand up to a shadowy lumber company that threatens their beloved swans at Turtle Pond…
Two retired detectives search for a friend near a remote Idaho lake, a search that could lead to the most dangerous serial killer in Las Vegas history…
Two brothers must unravel the weird and dangerous secrets of Salmon Run, Alaska: a place of wild animals, wild lands, and wild inhabitants…
Special, limited-time offer:
So stoke that fire against the chill in the air, put up your slippered feet, and start reading one!
Available only at BundleRabbit, until March 20: Pay a minimum of $3.99 and receive 5 of the 10 novels.
From Kristine Kathryn Rusch’s November 2016 Recommended Reading List:
Dubé, Marcelle, Shelter, Falcon Ridge Publishing, 2016. Marcelle Dubé has long been one of my favorite writers. Her stories are quietly deceptive. They creep up on you, and make you think.
Ash Gantry is on the run from her abusive husband. She finally finds a place she wants to stay, but she has to confront demons—hers as well as some that exist in the town itself.
Shelter is exactly the kind of novel I’d craved for a long time. Not romantic suspense, exactly. More like a gothic women’s fiction novel, complete with ghost.
The novel has a marvelous sense of dread. The dread got so severe that I finally had to make a decision: set the novel aside or read it on one lump to the end. Of course, I opted to finish it. Marvelous book, dark and rewarding.
From What’s Up Yukon, October 26, 2016, reprinted with permission:
Yukoner Marcelle Dubé´s newest book is a ghost story
Do ghosts exist? For some they do.
The main character in Marcelle Dubé´s novel, Shelter, moves into a haunted house in a small town in Ontario.
Dubé started the story as a gothic novel and in the end it became a ghost story.
Marcelle Dubé is well known in the Yukon and she usually publishes one or two books a year. One could think that she is a writer who works fast, but not this time. Lately she had to suffer what all writers have to go through from time to time: writer`s block. A writing workshop helped her to get out of it.
“I could not write a word – for months. I thought that was it for me. But something that happened in the workshop kept coming back to me — a ghost experience, of a sort,” she says.
In her blog Dubé tells about her ghost experience. During the workshop, she stayed at an old hotel, which was haunted. Two people she knew well, who had also slept there, told her they had seen ghosts there. Friendly ghosts, who would show up, but were harmless, they said.
Dubé´s first reaction was to laugh, she tells in her blog article. She sees herself as a rational woman, even though as a kid she had returning dreams of ghost and monsters. She outgrew them and is using her imagination about them in her writing.
Dubé didn`t see a ghost in this hotel room, but she was scared at night, she writes. Back home she would wake up at night, wondering if there was somebody or something in the darkness.
“The experience bothered me, as I am not subject to those kinds of fears, so finally I decided to write about it, as an exorcism. “And once I started, I raced through to the end. It was most satisfying,” she says about the writing process of Shelter.
Shelter is a story about Ash, a woman who’s fleeing domestic violence and abuse. She is already exhausted and scared, and now she has to deal with a ghost.
Reading the first chapters, one can feel pity for Ash, who is wounded by her past. Dubé writes very well and empathically, but she switches perspective quite often. The reader jumps from Ash`s perspective into the head of her realtor Maddie, who is showing Ash the haunted house. It can be tiring for readers to switch perspectives after one page. Some readers might wish to stay longer in Ash`s head and get to know her better. But as the story unfolds, Dubé catches her readers with suspense.
Why did Dubé decide to write about domestic violence? It is not an easy topic.
“I have no idea how Ash came to me, or why she was running from an abusive situation. It’s not anything I have ever experienced, and I had to rely on experts to (hopefully) get the details right,” the author answers.
The whole story came to her as the cure for writer`s block. Also during the writing process she lost her fear about ghosts: “It worked. I’ve just returned from the haunted hotel I was at a year and a half ago, and I am happy to report that I slept very well.”
Do ghosts exist? They do in Dubé`s novel Shelter, a good read for spooky Halloween night.