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Writing Historical Fiction by Michelle Cox...

1/31/2017

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by Gwendolyn M Plano, hosting Michelle Cox
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​I've always had a special love for historical fiction, and especially for the 1930's. Author Michelle Cox, who lives with her husband and three children in the Chicago suburbs, has written an award-winning and bestselling novel focused in that time frame. Her second novel debuts the first of April. It is my privilege to introduce this new author to you.

In her own words....
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​People often ask me how much time I spend researching my historical fiction novels.  That’s a question that always makes me nervous because the real answer is “not much.”  But I can’t really say that and remain legitimate, so I usually make something up depending on the situation I find myself in. 

While it’s true that I have to research certain things like the names of dancehalls in Chicago in the ‘30’s or the exact date that “Blue Skies” came out and who sang the first version, most of the details that I sprinkle throughout my novels already live somewhere in my head.  It’s just a matter of pulling them out of their drawers when I need them.

I’m sure that sounds presumptuous, but it’s not meant to.  It simply is.  It’s not my fault that the stories of the past have been finding their way to me since I was a little girl.  Whenever the relatives were over, for instance, it was inevitably me that was slowed down and then drawn in by the elderly aunts and uncles in lawn chairs talking about the old days, instead of racing off somewhere with my siblings and cousins as they divided into teams for some impromptu game.   With a dripping popsicle, I would stand on the periphery and listen, mesmerized by their stories of a great aunt who was hit and killed as she walked to school by a doctor speeding by on his way to an emergency; how my great-grandmother literally saved the family farm during the Great Depression with the pennies she saved from selling eggs in town; how “hobos” passing through marked the trees in front of that same farm to indicate to others that came after them that this was a house that gave out food.  And literally hundreds more.

These stories enchanted me, obsessed me, as if they were trying to tell me something, and I’ve often wondered if it was the stories themselves that captivated me or the passion of the storyteller, which was usually my father as the years went along.  Eagerly I tried absorb them all, to commit them to memory with the desperation of one who knows their future existence depends upon it.  Perhaps this was a pressure handed on from my father, who voiced his own feelings of responsibility in keeping and telling the old stories as the preceding generations began to die off.  He felt a certain responsibly to the family history, and I seemed destined by fate to pick up the baton from him. 
  
Gradually as I grew, my love of the past expanded beyond just that of my family and my small town.  Most of what I read growing up was likewise predictably set in the past.  I had a particular fondness for Louisa May Alcott, CS Lewis, Tolkien and LM Montgomery, which naturally paved the way for the Regency and the Victorians during my college years and beyond.  Even the movies and TV dramas I prefer have always been period, PBS and BBC being my networks of choice and Cary Grant being dreamier to me than any Brad Pitt. 

And then there’s the music.  I have a secret passion for big band music.  Somehow the music of the ‘30’s and ‘40’s makes my heart race in an almost embarrassing way, so much so that it has, at times, moved me to tears. 

All of this, I know, is abnormal. 

It should be no surprise that I ended up with an English degree.  One might have guessed history, but that’s too factual.  I preferred story in every sense.  But an English degree, as everyone knows, is not a very employable one, and upon graduation, I ended up unhappily working in a graphics art firm in customer service.  After a couple of years, I became convinced that I would either soon die in this setting or at least contract some sort of stomach ulcer, so I quit to begin working as the admissions director in a nursing home, a seemingly random coincidence. 

It was a relatively easy job, but I was not very good at selling beds, which, I uncomfortably realized, a little too late, was really my main objective.  Instead of chasing ambulances, I instead spent most of my time wandering the halls amongst the residents already admitted, a veritable treasure-trove, I discovered to my great delight, of stories!  I had somehow landed in heaven.  I spent several years there with them, taking in their stranger-than-fiction stories and committing them to memory before I married and had children and began a different story of my own. 

But years later, when I finally decided to take pen in hand, it was only natural that I would set my novels in the past, borrowing from all the stories read and heard over the years and crafting them into a new creation.  In doing so, it is a way for me to live there, too, instead of merely clinging to some foggy memory just out of reach.  When I write about those days, something reverberates deep within me, and it isn’t hard to describe what I see. 

So when readers write to me after reading my debut novel, A Girl Like You, the start of a mystery/romance series set in the ‘30’s Chicago, and say, “I felt like I was really there,” I smile and know that I’ve been successful.  Somehow, someway, I’ve been there, too.  

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A Girl Like You has received two starred reviews from Library Journal and Booklist and placed as a Finalist in Romance in the 2016 Next Gen Awards.  It has also been listed as a top read by Your Tango, Popsugar, Culturalist, The Reading Room, and Buzzfeed and is currently enjoying its second print run.  Book two of the series, A Ring Of Truth, will be released April 2017.

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Patriotism and the Women's March

1/26/2017

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by Gwendolyn M Plano
Since last summer, the United States has been embroiled in politics at its worst. November 8th marked the election of our 45th president, and last week, millions of women marched to express their frustration over this fact.  It is about this drama that I write.

In the 1970s I lived in Japan for five years. I taught English, while practicing meditation and studying Tea Ceremony and Flower Arrangement. My daughter was born during those years.

One day two business men came to our home for their English class. They brought a book with them. It was a large coffee-table hardback volume with photos of ships on its cover. The three of us sat around a small table on the tatami mat floor. They opened the book to show me, page by page, all the U.S. ships Japan had destroyed during World War II. As they proudly pointed out one after another, I recoiled in horror. They saw victory where I saw my dad and uncles. For the first time, I consciously felt patriotism.

I grew up on a farm where the flag flew high each day. Dad was a veteran of WWII; mom was a Rosie the Riveter during the war. I remember the leftover ration coupons, the stories dad would tell, the fears of another war. Still, I did not feel patriotic until I was confronted with another person’s pride in their country.

Fast forward through the decades that include the Korean and Vietnam wars, that include my brother, my spouse and my cousins, that include the young veterans I worked with at a Southern California college, I can now say that I am very patriotic.

Returning to the women who peacefully marched last Saturday to strongly express their beliefs, I am so proud to be an American. My sentiments are not about our President, his selection of staff and certainly not about the elected officials serving in the House or Senate. My sense of pride lies in the fact that we can express our hopes and dreams.

I have no tolerance for thuggery – the destruction of property, violence against others – attributable to whatever cause. I have no respect for such behavior. It has nothing to do with our protected rights to express ourselves.

To the women who marched, thank you. To the men who accompanied them – in person or in spirit, thank you. To those who have voiced their support of our new President, thank you. To those who pray for the emergence of a more charitable, equitable, just country – thank you.

To all, who with pride and dignity, stand as free Americans to voice their heartfelt beliefs – peacefully – THANK YOU.  So many others do not have our freedoms.

May God bless these United States.
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The wisdom of children....

1/21/2017

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by Gwendolyn M Plano 
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I was surprised today by a blog post by author Wendy Scott featuring me. If you have a moment, I invite you to visit her website where you will enjoy interviews, writing tips and much more.  
 
Wendy is an extraordinary writer from New Zealand. A few of her books are captured below. Wendy brings research, fantasy, adventure and romance together as few can. Amazingly, she lives and writes off-grid with her family and four-legged friends. 

Wendy has commented that, "life is an adventure and we should all live a life less ordinary." Soon she will be featured on my blog site and we'll all learn more about her entrancing approach to life. ​

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What is our hope, our dream for America?

1/19/2017

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by Gwendolyn M Plano
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I’ve marched in Washington several times –  as a student to voice my concern about the war in Vietnam, as a young mother with children in tow to ask for civil rights – for South Africa and for these United States.  Multiple times, I have experienced the power of collective voice – even if it was silenced by side-street ugliness. Circumstance and heartfelt beliefs have marked my political journey.

I mention this because women are gathering, to ask our President to embrace the hope of the collective.  What is this hope? What was my hope when I walked those well-trodden streets?

This past election has left our country divided. Words have been hurled across a battlefield of broken dreams, leaving a wake of unparalleled destruction. Families, friends, neighbors – each have taken their sides. And what remains? Words…armed words…words that demand that you think like me.

What is our hope? What is our dream?

President Abraham Lincoln stated, “America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves.”

Again, I ask what is our hope? What is our dream?

One of my cousins is working in Haiti right now. She, her family and church members are trying to rebuild that impoverished and largely forgotten country.  The men are building shelters and installing plumbing where tents and mud once housed the starving. The women are providing health care and creating schools for children who have neither. Together they forge a future, less desperate.

Shoulder to shoulder with others, my cousin models something of the spirit of our country. We give generously; we love passionately – truth and justice.

May the women who march on January 21st stretch love into our differences to build bridges across our divides to mend hurting hearts. May they garner the strength and the resolve to carve pathways of understanding - for respectful exchange. May they find words that heal, words that accept differences.
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My hope – is for our country united, through and in our race, creed, sexual orientation, gender, education, beliefs, and so much more. My dream – is of a country shaped by manifest altruism. Ultimately, you and I are the hope and the dream.

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Can Humanity Be Saved? 

1/18/2017

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A re-blog from Canadian author John Fioravanti
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​“The only thing that is going to save mankind is if enough people live their lives for something or someone other than themselves.” ~Leon Uris

Leon Uris (1924 – 2003) was an American Jewish writer from Baltimore, Maryland. During World War II, Uris served in the U.S. Marines, and that experience gave him the background and expertise to write his best-selling historical novel Battle Cry. He helped write the screenplay for the Hollywood movie that followed the book’s success.

As a high school student in the 1960s, I cultivated a keen interest in historical fiction and read just about everything written by Thomas Costain and Leon Uris. I admired Uris’ writing style and was quite surprised to discover that he never graduated from high school himself. I would never have guessed that he failed high school English courses three times!

Despite his abysmal record in academics, his life experiences and keen mind led him to deeply philosophical conclusions like the one quoted above. He saw just one way out of self-destruction for humankind, and that was to turn away from the individualism that had become narcissistic. Too many of us live our lives terribly self-absorbed and look upon others as allies who will help us to achieve our goals, or as rivals and foes. Either way, the focus is upon self.

The beauty and fashion industries feed off our apparent need to measure up to impossible standards of physical beauty. The fitness industry doesn’t advertise the achievement of good health as its primary purpose; no, we will feel better when we look better. The downside to this preoccupation with physical beauty is the psychological suffering it causes the less attractive people to inflict upon themselves.

When we are self-absorbed, we will naturally come into conflict with others who are also preoccupied with their well-being exclusively. On the larger scale, nations which cannot see past their national interest and feel no compunction to share the incredible wealth of Mother Earth with developing countries will find themselves in a constant state of warfare. Unenlightened self-interest breeds distrust and hatred, which results in violence.

In the Twentieth Century we just barely escaped mutual destruction in the Cold War. As economic realities led to the demise of Communism, we thought we were home free. We in the free West had won! One year into the new millennium witnessed another type of global war – a holy war – waged by Muslim extremists who unleashed global terrorism. The response of the West was to launch the War on Terrorism, and the first theatre of that war was Afghanistan.

My life experience has taught me that there are individuals and organisations who live by these words by Leon Uris. They live and breathe and work for the well-being of others as they help the people of poorer nations by bringing them education, medical provisions, and teaching them how to feed and fend for themselves.

I heard a statistic today that sent cold shivers down my spine. The eight wealthiest individuals in the world together represent more wealth than the poorest 50% of the population of the world. I am dumbfounded! It is the wealthy that are directing the decision-making of the most powerful governments in the world. How can this translate into world peace?

Many of us wondered back in November how a man like Donald Trump could be elected to the U.S. Presidency? Within the States, the desire for substantial change was undeniable, and Trump was the one most likely to deliver. As I think about that, I wonder how substantive his changes will be when he is among the very wealthy. I’m sure many of his supporters will be sorely disappointed.

A theme I often come back to is that we are delusional if we think that significant change will be led by our elected governments. Leon Uris puts the responsibility right back into the hands of the individual “… if enough people live their lives for something or someone other than themselves.” The question remains, will these kinds of selfless persons be influential enough to direct government policy? I hope so because the future of humanity depends upon it.

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Writers and their characters....

1/7/2017

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by Gwendolyn M Plano
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"Talking to your yogurt again,” my wife, Pam, said. “And what does the yogurt say?” This is the opening line of an article by author Jerome Groopman in The New Yorker. I couldn’t help but chuckle when I read it and recalled a conversation with my then grade school children.

I had just prepared their dinner after a long day at work and we were all sitting at the kitchen table, when my daughter spoke up. “Why are you staring at my food, mommy? Do you want some?” I was quite unaware of looking at her food, as I was still at work, deep in a conversation.

In his article, Groopman admits to often having interior discussions with himself, though his wife does not. He further claims that for some, “it’s an essential part of the way we think.”

British psychologist and fiction writer, Charles Fernyhough, has studied the phenomena of inner conversations and claims that much of the day can be spent in self-talk, and this is especially true with writers. At the 2014 Edinbourgh International Book Festival, 91 writers responded to a questionnaire Fernyhough distributed, and 70% acknowledged that their characters speak to them and at times, they demand changes in the story.

A few months ago, authors Beem Week and John Howell discussed character development on Aspire to Inspire, a BlogTalkRadio program of the RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB. Their stories fascinated me, because their characters directed the writing of their books. 

Have you had this experience? 

I'm a non-fiction writer, but I've written a few fictional short stories. In both arenas, I carry on conversations. In the first, I listen to real people who occupy my imaginary space; in the latter, I'm a tag along to characters I both create and accompany. It's an amazing process, and if you are interested, I invite you to listen to the archived Aspire to Inspire episode. 

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Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way. ―Viktor E. Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning


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