Grace's Mosaic Moments

Saturday, November 25, 2017

That Old Bugaboo - EDITING!

 On the premise that "A picture is worth a thousand words":

I suspect this one may have been deliberate. A disgruntled employee?


I never lack for examples of poor editing. Over the last few weeks, I read a very long and well-written saga - not romance or sword & sorcery, but a serious series that encompassed many of the world's problems. But every once in a while, the words on my Kindle screen went nuts, stacking the letters one on top of the other in the center of the page. I have no idea how the coding messed up, but this was not a new book. There had been plenty of time to fix the digital edition, but it was still flawed. Why? That's the wonderful thing about ebooks - they're so easy to fix. Sigh.

The other flawed book I read recently was a mystery - a great start to a new series, but the copy editing was poor. Too many mistakes for a book of quality. Beginner's arrogance, I presume. We all think we're too smart to miss typos, particularly on our first venture into the digital world. And then comes the revelation . . .

My husband and I ran an educational publishing company for more than twenty years—just at the dawn of IBM's first typesetting "typewriter." And finally into the age of the first computerized typewriter, the IBM Displaywriter. I'll never forget my first look at that machine. I had to have it! The year was 1981. But even after this seminal moment when computer met typewriter, the ancient rule of publishing still applied: No matter how many people look over a manuscript, upon publication it will likely have at least three typos.

And I freely admit the first of my backlist published to "e," Lady Silence, had more than its share, for I too—particularly as a long-time editor—was certain I'd found all those pesky little errors. Multiple sighs.

So, authors, join the crowd and admit Editing is something you absolutely have to do. You have to edit for Content, and you have to Copy Edit, looking for all the "little things." And you have to do it again and again until you can't stand to look at another page. And then you do it yet again. Even authors who are print-published by major houses should never be careless about the manuscripts they submit. In the digital age, books no longer have to be typeset; they are published from the original manuscript. Yes, you have the added safety net of in-house editing and copy editing, but, let's face it, editors are going to be more pleased by "clean" manuscripts than by those they have to spend a lot of time and money on to get right.

Long-time readers of Mosaic Moments will recognize the definitions below, but it's been a while, so they bear repeating.

CONTENT EDITING. This is what editors get paid the big bucks for. Did you stray off the plot or the romance, adding irrelevant details that slow the story down? Do you have too many secondary characters who detract from the focus that should be on the hero and heroine? Did you skim over a major point, just touching it as you ran by, intent on getting to the next scene? Did you leave out motivation, descriptions, settings—i.e., are your characters talking heads against a blank background? Did you leave important backstory events in your head, never putting them where the reader can find them? Have you made your hero and heroine likable? (Flaws are okay, but they must be people readers can empathize with, root for, etc.)  And on and on. Content editing is what makes or breaks a book. And for indie authors, it's something you must learn to do for yourself. 

COPY EDITING.  This is the nitty-gritty. Publishing companies frequently farm this work out to part-time "English major" graduates or junior staffers. Alas, it needs a special someone who can read line by line and not get so absorbed in the story that they miss the glitches. (I, alas, am not among them. My Copy Editing ability is far from perfect.) Copy editors look for typos, missing words, extra words, continuity errors. They check punctuation, using the style sheet provided by their employer (and which varies from company to company). They are also supposed to "fact check." But as so many Historical authors have discovered, many copy editors have no idea what the facts are—or they don't care.  My own favorite story about Copy Editors dates back to my first published book, He Said, She Said, a Kensington Precious Gem. The copy editor put a decimal point before 9mm, making it ".9mm." Which would require a bullet about the size of a needle! Fortunately, authors do have the opportunity to go over the copy edits, accepting or rejecting the changes, so that my heroine was not confronted by a .9mm pistol!

I was going to include a summary of the agonies I've been going through with final edits on The Blackthorne Curse and the first chapter of Royal Rebellion, which turned out to be a stand-alone short story, but I think those are best left 'til next week.

Meanwhile, to borrow a line from one of my very first Mosaic Moments: 


And the last one, which I believe I haven't posted before for obvious reasons - and am hiding at the very bottom of this post . . . 

I almost missed this one . . .

From September 2017

~ * ~

If you missed the short story, "The Witch and the Wolf," please scroll down to last week's Mosaic Moments. (From the SciFi Saga, Blue Moon Rising)

For a link to Blair Bancroft's web site, click here. 

For a link to Blair's Facebook Author Page, click here. 

Thanks for stopping by,


Saturday, November 18, 2017

Short Story - The Witch & the Wolf

I had a post on Editing ready for this week, and then Amazon informed me that Rebel Princess, Book 1 of the Blue Moon Rising series, would be on sale for 99¢ from Sunday, November 19 to Sunday, November 26. So, change of plans. I am, instead, posting the opening chapter of Book 4, a short story complete in itself. If you'd like to know more . . .

For a link to Rebel Princess, click here.

 ~ * ~

One day, when I was in the middle of final edits for my sixth Regency Gothic, The Blackthorne Curse, the opening chapter of Royal Rebellion, Book 4 of the Blue Moon Rising series, insisted on being born. I called the chapter “Interim” because I needed to tie up an important loose end, remind readers what happened in three previous books, and bridge a gap of several years between Books 3 and 4. But as I read it over, I realized I had a stand-alone short story, even though it needed a bit of background for it to make sense to those who have never read any of the Blue Moon books. So . . .  

In a Star Wars-style Sci-Fi saga, there is an on-going rebellion against the Regulon Empire—a rebellion headquartered on Blue Moon, one of three moons of the pacifist planet Psyclid.  King Ryal of Psyclid has four children—two legitimate daughters and two bastards (by different mothers), the youngest his only son. All four have been swept into the rebellion, using their unique psychic gifts to help bring down the military might of the Empire. The leader of the rebellion, however, is a former Regulon (Reg) starship captain. And then there is the Psyclid resistance leader whose “gift” is older than the thousand-year civilization on Psyclid.


The ballroom, Crystalia, the Psyclid royal palace
Two Blue Moon cycles after the Battle of Psyclid
   The music flourished to a close, the women’s skirts flaring in a final kaleidoscope of color before settling to hug their bodies close as they dipped into curtsies. Their partners bowed, the men’s bright tunics competing with the women for which gender would add the most brilliance and sparkle to the evening.
   All but one, that is—a man slunk into the shadows behind a marble pillar, his back against the wall. Although he wore the required tight white hose, his tunic of black velvet fell well below his knees, his sole concession to fashion the intricate gold embroidery on his sleeves and on the bottom of the tunic. Embroidery he could not reject because his sister had created the garment with her very own hands, so what was a man to do?
   Except hide.
   He should not be here. This was a night for celebrating the completion of Psyclid’s ridó.
   A full two Blue Moon cycles after it was needed.
   He had failed. Men had died, ships were lost because there was a gap in the force field intended to protect Psyclid from the Regs. From the revenge of a mighty Emperor on a pacifist planet that asked only to be left alone.
   He, T’kal Killiri, had been tasked with getting the job done, and he’d fallen short. He was here tonight only because King Ryal had ordered it. And if there was one thing the Pysclid engineer was, it was loyal to the crown.
   A trumpet fanfare echoed through the vast ballroom. T’kal winced, recognizing the signal for what it was. The royal family was arriving and the ceremony was about to begin. The ceremony he wanted no part of.
   Fyddit! (Only the Regs had profanity strong enough for the occasion.)
   There was a great shuffling as the crowd parted, making a broad aisle from the ballroom’s double-doored entrance to the dais raised a good two meters off the floor, where a gilded throne with scarlet velvet seat and back, flanked by equally colorful sidechairs, awaited the Psyclid royal family.
   And there they were, emerging from the crowd, ascending the steps—King Ryal and his wife Jalaine. Six feet behind, the Princess M’lani, her red-gold hair gleaming in the light of the crystal chandeliers, her beauty unrivaled, even by the sister she had replaced as Heir Apparent. At her side, not accepting his proper place a few steps behind, was her husband Jagan, the Sorcerer Prime. The man who came late to the rebellion. T’kal’s lips curled in remembered derision. He and Jagan Mondragon were never going to be close. It had, in fact, taken considerable effort by the Princess M’lani to get them to work together to save Psyclid from the Regs.
   What . . . ?
   Shaken out of his stubborn indifference, T’kal stared as another couple mounted the steps.    Unexpected guests from Blue Moon. Not Tal and Kass, but the youngest royal and his Herc wife—K’kadi the bastard. K’kadi, whose powers seemed to expand from minute to minute. K’kadi the Strange turned K’kadi the Seer. The despair of the royal family become its most powerful weapon.
   T’Kal, who had witnessed one of K’kadi’s losses of concentration, still had his doubts.
   Among the missing royal children was King Ryal’s other bastard, his eldest child, B’aela Flammia, a witch best known as the Sorcerer Prime’s foremost assistant and long-time mistress. Before, that is, she transferred her favors to the acting Reg governor, Admiral Rand Kamal, nephew of Darroch, emperor of twelve star systems, the man who abhored the defiance of an obscure pacifist planet that refused to stay conquered. Unfortunately, Baela’s notoriety would never go away, even though her liaison with Kamal had been as a spy for her country. T’kal, knowing her as well as he did, suspected B’aela had likely refused to join the royal parade. She had not, after all, been raised a royal, as had Ryal’s other three children.
   She was here, though—somewhere in the crowded ballroom. T’kal always knew when she was near. Whether on a dark, dangerous night in Oban or in Crystalia’s crowded ballroom, her scent filled his head. A problem he had steadfastly ignored for many years.
   It was no surprise, however, that Tal and Kass weren’t here. Tal, leader of the rebellion, had sent a handwritten letter congratulating T’kal on the completion of the ridó. And confided that his wife, once Psyclid's Princess Royal, was suffering through a bad first trimester and would be unable to attend the festivities. As for his own absence, he hoped T’kal would understand. He still liked to think that keeping a low profile was protecting his parents and brother and sister who still lived on Regula Prime. Although, Tal added, it was more likely that by now half the Nebulon Sector must suspect that former Reg Captain Talryn Rigel and his huntership Orion had not been lost in a battle with the Nyx.
   T’kal ducked his head, glowering at the intricately patterned floor of green and white marble tiles. Tal’s note had suddenly become a stark reminder that the battle against the Regs was far from over. That celebration—even a small one like tonight—was premature.
   Another fanfare. The crowd surged forward, the gap filling in as all eyes turned toward the dais.
   Gap. T’kal winced.
   King Ryal, still a vital, fine-looking man though closer to sixty than fifty, stepped forward, his words smoothly amplified so they could be heard in the farthest corner of the ballroom. Even all the way to the wall stuck to T’kal Killiri’s back. “Friends, guests, welcome! You all know why we are here. Tonight we honor a man who has gone too long without recognition.”
   As he spoke, Ryal’s sharp eyes searched the crowd. Not a sign of tonight’s honoree. “When we were invaded by the Regulons . . .” Psyclid's king continued. “When we were shocked, confused, and in despair because we had no idea how to fight back, one person stepped forward. One person sought out other brave souls, found ways to make the Regs sorry they’d ever thought of invading Psyclid. Five years later when our Sorcerer Prime returned from exile, he found a large and effective resistance force already in place, considerably shortening our march toward Freedom Day.”
   Murmurs of agreement and approval swept through crowd. T’kal continued to study the colorful swirls in the marble tiles.
   “So naturally, when the Emperor threatened us once again, we turned to the same man, putting him in charge of building a ridó twenty times the size of the one protecting Blue Moon, a task which required re-discovering a technology long lost. And in spite of the near impossibility of what we asked of him, the ridó was built, only a tiny gap over open ocean unprotected by the time the Regs attacked.”
   King Ryal paused, dropping his gaze to his eldest daughter, who was standing in the front row just below the dais. “There are many other heroic acts I could name, but Killiri is a modest man. He will tell you that he failed because the ridó was not complete on the day the Regs struck. But where would we be now if it had not held over Crystal City? Over every city, town, and field on the planet? Where would we be without . . . T’KAL KILLIRI!?”
   T’kal wanted to turn tail and run, but he settled for pushing his back tighter against the wall as the roar of the crowd nearly deafened him. He didn’t stand a chance of remaining anonymous, of course, since his friends,  knowing how he felt about this event, had stacked the odds against him long before the evening began. His brother-in-law, Anton Stagg, descended on him from one side; Master Sergeant Joss Quint from the other. In front, two of the men who had been with T’kal that night in Oban opened a way through the crowd, both grinning from ear to ear.
   He’d known it would come to this. There was no way out of it. And now that the moment was here, he said all the right things, praised those who had done the actual engineering. Thanked those who labored so long and hard at a task whose completion seemed more a miracle than a technological triumph. He even thanked that constant source of annoyance, Jagan Mondragon, Sorcerer Prime. Looking back through the years, it was a wonder they hadn’t killed each other.
   Not that he said that, of course. T’kal’s lips twitched. No, he and B’aela’s long-time lover would never be friends.
   After granting a teeth-gritting half-minute to acknowledge the crowd’s shouts, howls, claps, and stamping feet, T’kal forced himself to descend the steps with dignity, his full attention on the goal of losing himself in the mass of people below. Except . . .
   B’aela was there. She seized his hand, the crowd melting away before them, with no more hindrance than calls of Well done! Thank you! and a fervent May the Goddess bless you! to mark their passage across the ballroom. The open doors to a balcony closed behind them, T’kal’s self-appointed bodyguards taking up a stance before them, barring any who might try to follow.
   “A well-executed maneuver, Highness,” T’kal drawled. “I suppose you planned the whole thing.”
   Dark eyes that had been sparkling with joy turned frigid. “Highness?” she asked. “Since when, T’kal?”
   “Since the day I learned the truth.”
   “Ancient history, Daman Killiri,” she returned with equally lethal formality. “You have had plenty of time to get over it.”
   “I have had time to face the reality of it.”
   “T’kal! We’ve spoken fifty, a hundred times since then, and never before—”
   “We were colleagues, working together against the Regs, working to restore the country—”
   “We were friends. Are friends!”
   T’kal looked out over the palace curtain wall to the shimmering beauty of Crystal City at night. At the crystalline buildings lit in a rainbow of colors topped by black sky, the infinite number of stars outshone by the light of Psyclid’s three moons—Blue at full, Red a mere crescent, and White down to a waning half low on the horizon. He was being stubborn. Again. The quality that made him so good at getting things done. And so poor at achieving any personal happiness.
   He suspected tonight was now or never. B’aela had played her part. It was his turn to be  braver than he’d ever had to be before. Even that time on Oban.
   “A fine setting for solving problems,” he offered.
   “Yes.” Her face softened ever so slightly. The militant look in her dark eyes faded to questioning.
   And there she was, the only woman with the capacity to make him forget N’tali. Even when he had not liked B’aela Flammia, she had stirred him out of the grief he had wrapped around himself for so long. T’kal took in the view that was far more fascinating than the beauty of Crystal City at night: a strong nose in a pale narrow face, huge brown eyes accustomed to hiding every emotion, the masses of dark brown hair as curly as his own, confined tonight in an intricate array of braids and studded with diamonds. If he didn’t unfreeze his tongue and say what needed to be said, he really was the greatest fool in the Nebulon Sec—
   “Sometimes,” B’aela said with care, “I miss the days of the resistance. There was a camaraderie, a special something impossible to recapture.”
   He knew exactly what she meant. He’d had thoughts, even back in the days when she was Jagan Mondragon’s discarded mistress. Thoughts that coalesced in Oban. And were shattered when she offered herself, willingly, to the enemy. Disintegrated completely when B’aela’s mother revealed she was born of the House of Orlondami, fathered by a king.
   Which, of course, reminded him of another problem—the once-favorite nephew of Emperor Darroch. “I heard that Kamal came back with you from Hercula,” T’kal said, tossing yet another obstacle into the mix. “That he fought the Regs. Evidently, your powers are even more wondrous than anticipated.”
   B’aela sucked in a sharp breath. “You cannot think—you who were my contact—” She broke off, gaping at him. “You know quite well I went to Kamal for revenge. And as a spy. You cannot believe that now we are free, I would—”
   But, agonizingly, she had to admit it was true. Regulon Admiral Rand Kamal, former acting governor of Psyclid, had been at the forefront of the Regulon attack on Hercula. He had lost his ship, been captured, and ended up commanding an armed merchant against the Reg’s latest attack on Psyclid. And she, B’aela Flammia, had shared a ship with her former lover all those long weeks home from Hercula to Blue Moon. T’kal had every right to wonder if she had played a role—perhaps an intimate role—in his defection from the Empire.
   “You will appreciate the irony, I'm sure,” she returned, her tone now cool and slightly caustic. “On our journey to Hercula, I shared a cabin with K’kadi’s mother, Anneli, and we have kept in touch. Which is how I know that Rand Kamal has a new interest in his life. And that it has become serious enough he may make the liaison permanent if his wife ever grants him a divorce.”
   T’kal rubbed at the frown lines on his forehead. Kamal and K’kadi’s mother? Then again, it was a pairing no stranger than the other convoluted romances that marked the rebel cause. Tal Rigel, once a Reg Fleet Captain, and Kass, former crown princess of Psyclid.  M’lani married to her sister’s former fiancé, Jagan Mondragon. K’kadi from Blue Moon and Alala, the Herculon warrior. T’kal’s own sister married to Anton Stagg, a Reg.
   Of all the royal children, only B’aela, the eldest, remained unmarried. And, to T'kal's gut-wrenching surprise, seemed to be hinting at an interest in the weirdest pairing yet.
   “There is a certain matter Ryal did not mention,” B’aela said. “He wished to spare me further humiliation, but we have not forgotten that among your many heroics, I owe you my life.”
   “I would have gone to Oban for anyone who needed rescuing.”
   “I know . . . but it wasn’t like that, was it?”
   T’kal drew a deep breath. “No.”
   “You were so angry when I went to Kamal. Every time I reported to you, you positively seethed.”
   “I know you loved your wife. A good woman. Pure." The words tumbled out. "It is the talk of Psyclid that you have never looked at another—”
   I looked. I did not act.”
   He knew what she was trying to say. An acknowledgment of something they’d each known for a long time, and for a myriad reasons refused to examine more closely.
   “B’aela,” he burst out, “you know what I am!”
   “As you know what I am.” A whore. Unworthy of the Hero of Psyclid. Most particularly,  the role of mother to his children.
   “Feelings aside,” T’kal said, ignoring the scarlet letter B’aela was certain must be flashing  on her forehead, “I fear the pairing of witch and wolf.”
   Dear goddess! She’d thought of all the other reasons he might object, but not that. Under the light of a full Blue Moon, B’aela studied the man she had admired for so long—the dark eyes, the square jaw, the sturdy body with shoulders broad enough to carry the whole of Psyclid on his back. “When I was very young,” she told the Alpha of his pack, “I thought I knew what love was. I wanted the Sorcerer Prime as a plant longs for the sun. But the sun burns, and in the wisdom of a more advanced age, another man caught my eye and my admiration. A man who flew half way round the world to save me from the most terrible degradation of my life. A man who single-handedly took down the Reg Governor-General—”
   “‘Handedly’ is perhaps not the most accurate word,” T’kal drawled.
   Distracted for a moment by his grim humor, B’aela pictured a shaggy gray wolf tearing out the throat of Governor-General Anton Grigorev. She had not been there, but she had savored the reality of it many times over.
   B’aela drew a shuddering breath and continued with the most difficult words she would ever have to say. The truly important ones she had to get out because it appeared T’kal never would. She was unworthy, she knew that, but she had crafted every second of these snatched minutes on the balcony, and she would not throw the opportunity away.
   “I wish to continue my list,” she said, meeting him eye to eye and emphasizing each word. “A man I have come to love, and whose children I would like to make my own.” Her chin jutted up.  “Even though I know I have fallen too far and have no right to ask for any man’s love—”
   “Hush!” At long last, T’kal did not hesitate. He folded her tight against his chest. “I would say madness has attacked us both, but since it’s been this way with us for some years now . . .” B’aela felt a chuckle ripple through his chest. “Whichever way I look at it, it’s wrong. Except you are the only woman who has ever tempted me into a second love. So I fear we may be stuck with each other.” His lips against her temple, T’kal added, “As part of your plans, you wouldn’t by any chance have a limm standing by?”
   “But of course. How else would I take home the man of the hour?”

   K’kadi, who had been released from the dais and was dancing with Talora Lassan, the woman some called his second wife, smiled and nodded his satisfaction. It was about time B’aela took his mother’s advice. Which, he realized, would likely make him related to four of the most powerful men in the Nebulon Sector: Tal Rigel, Jagan Mondragon, T’kal Killiri, and in the not-too-distant future, the Emperor's nephew, Rand Kamal.
   The end of the Empire was coming. It would take a while, but it would happen. That much he knew. Though who would sit on which throne—which thrones would even exist when all was said and done—was beyond even his powers of prognostication.

~ * ~

For a link to Blair Bancroft's web site, click here. 
For a link to Blair's Facebook Author Page, click here. 
Thanks for stopping by,


Saturday, November 11, 2017

Accent on Unusual Recipes

Here are three rather different recipes I have enjoyed over the last few weeks:

Sweet Potato Salad
This is one of the most exotic tastes I have encountered among the many recipes I've collected. I prefer it served warm and with pine nuts in place of pumpkin seeds, but that does not affect the overall flavor impact, which is truly remarkable. This recipe is from Grits and Pinecones. Below is the original recipe for 8 servings. I halved it for my personal use.

Grace note for Recipes One and Three:  If you a serving only 1 or 2 persons and expect to have leftovers, do NOT mix the dressing with the salad ingredients. Save and use only when needed, so salad greens do not wilt nor the flavors become overbearing.


4 medium sweet potatoes, peeled & cut in 1" cubes
3 TBsp olive oil
1 TBsp finely chopped fresh rosemary
1 tsp kosher salt
1 tsp ground black pepper
½ tsp ground cumin
½ tsp ground ginger
1 cup dried cranbeerries
½ cup chopped scallions (green & white parts)
½ cup jarred roasted sweet peppers, chopped *
½ cup roasted pumpkin seeds (or pine nuts, sunflower seeds, etc.)

6 TBsp balsamic vinegar
1/3 cup reular or mango chutney (not hot)
1 TBsp Dijon mustard
2 TBsp honey
2 garlic cloves, finely minced
¼ cup olive oil

*I actually found jarred strips of roasted pepper, but this is rare.

Make dressing ahead. Combine all ingredients in a jar and shake until well mixed.

To make the salad, preheat oven to 425°. 

1.  Mix the sweet potatoes with the olive oil on a large baking pan or cookie sheet and toss to combine. Make sure the sweet potatoes are evenly covered with oil. 

2. In a small bowl, combine the rosemary, salt, pepper, cumin, and ginger. Stir to combine. Sprinkle evenly over the sweet potatoes and toss to combine. Spread the sweet potatoes out in a single layer and bake until potatoes are fork-tender and golden brown - about 20-25 minutes. Do not overcook.

3. Meanwhile, put cranberries, scallions, and red pepper in a small bowl & mix well. Set aside.

Put the roasted sweet potatoes in a large bowl. Add the cranberries, scallions, roasted red pepper and half of the dressing. Toss carefully & taste. Add additional salt and pepper if needed, and more salad dressing if you like. Sprinkle with the toasted pumpkin seeds. Serve warm or cold.

~ * ~

Garlicky Zucchini Noodles

Grace note: for this one you will need the help of a "spiralizer." I bought mine online from Amazon, along with a recipe book with a lot more "spiral" recipes. If you really can't get into fruits and vegetables, this might be a way to make them more interesting. Here's what I bought:

Three-blade spiralizer by Zest


 2 medium zucchini
3 TBsp walnut or olive oil
6 cloves garlic, smashed, peeled & halved lengthwise
½ cup coarsely chopped walnuts
½ tsp sea salt
2 cups chopped cooked meat or poultry*
1 cup thinly sliced tart green apple**
Fresh ground black pepper

*I used pre-cooked Perdue chicken pieces
**I used the spiral cutter blade on the spiralizer to cut very thin apple "flowers." Or you can use a mandoline* to cut finer slices than is possible by hand.

1.  Using a spiralizer, julienne cutter, or mandoline, cut zucchini into long thin noodles.

2.  In a large skillet, heat 2 TBsps of the oil over medium-high heat. Add garlic; cook and sir 2 minutes or until starting to brown. Add zucchini noodles; cook and toss with tongs 1 minute. Transfer to a serving bowl. Add walnuts to skillet; cook and stir 1-2 minutes or until toasted. Add to bowl with zucchini. Sprinkle with salt.

3.  Add remaining 1 TBsp oil to skillet. Add meat; heat through. Add to bowl with zucchini. Add apple slices; toss gently to combine. Sprinkle with black pepper.

*I later bought a mandoline by Kitchen Bask, which slices at both 1.5 and 2.5, as well as having three other types of blades. (I am still experimenting with my two new gadgets, but so far they work as promised, and they have definitely increased my interest in fruits and vegetables. And added a whole new frontier of recipes.) The recipe above is from Paleo Recipes.


 Grace note: I used the 1.5 slicer blade to cut the red onion very fine, making it more like ambrosia than an onion.

½ cup very thinly sliced red onion
½ cup white wine vinegar
1 lb. asparagus, trimmed, cut to lengths desired
3 cups fresh argula
2 TBsps snipped fresh mint
2 TBsps olive oil
¼ tsp sea salt
1/8 tspn black pepper

1.  In a small bowl, combine onion and vinegar, pressing onion into liquid to cover as much as possible. Cover and let stand at room temperature 30 minutes or chill up to 24 hours, stirring occasionally.

2.  Cook asparagus, covered, in enough boiling water to cover 2 to 3 minutes or until crisp-tender; drain. Rinse with cold water to cool quickly; drain again. In a large bowl combine asparagus, arugula, and mint. 

3.  Using a slotted spoon, transfer onion to asparagus mixture. 

4.  For dressing, pour 3 TBsps of the vinegar from onion bowl into a small screw-top jar. Add remaining ingredients; covr and shake well. Drizzle dressing over asparagus mixture; toss gently to coat. 

Added note: If asparagus spears are thick, cut in half lengthwise.

This recipe is also from Paleo Recipes.

~ * ~
For a link to Blair Bancroft's web site, click here. 

For an eerie true tale, visit Blair's Facebook Author Page at: click here. 

Thanks for stopping by,


Saturday, November 4, 2017

More on Women's Fiction

Sneak peek at the cover for my 6th Regency Gothic, set on Dartmoor
Pub date - hopefully by the end of November 2017

For previous posts on Women's Fiction, please see
the Mosaic Moments Archives, 6/25/17 and 7/1/17.

In October our local RWA chapter presented a workshop on Women's Fiction, and I found it interesting to hear someone else's description of the differences between Women's Fiction and Romance Fiction. (Many people, alas, have no idea there is a difference!) The speaker told of a time when "Romance" was defined as "Fiction written about women, by women, and intended to be read by women." Well, thank goodness, most of us realize that is no longer true. There are men who write Romance, men who read Romance, and many plots and themes that peer inside men's thoughts and actions, their likes and dislikes.

And there we have the major difference between Women's Fiction and Romance. Women's Fiction really does come close to the definition of "About women, by women, for women." Romance Fiction must have a hero, usually a character prominent from beginning to end. Even in gay romance, there must be a definite romantic pairing, not a long pastiche about the foibles of the "female" side of the relationship.

The speaker at the meeting of Central Florida Romance Writers also defined Women's Fiction as "What comes after Happily Ever After." If you are familiar with the musical Into the Woods, Women's Fiction would be Act II. In the first act, we see all our favorite fairy tale characters and their stories come to a happy conclusion. (The Broadway musical was undoubtedly the precursor to TV's Once Upon a Time.) But in Act II we discover what comes next. And it isn't pretty!

Women's Fiction can also be a story of family (or a whole village), with the emphasis on the female line; i.e., a central female character and her interaction with her female relatives, good and bad. Also with her female friends, acquaintances, adversaries, etc. The men are there, but as more realistic characters than in Romance fiction. We see them with all their idiosyncracies, faults, their glaring wrongness. And they are not major players in the story, just a backdrop against which the female relationships play out.

Illness, death,divorce, childbirth, depression are frequent themes of Women's Fiction—female struggles usually shunned by Romance fiction. (Yes, deaths occur in romantic Mystery and Suspense, but as part of action or murder plots, not part of an anguishing of the soul.)

In Romance fiction—which can be as simple as a Harlequin contemporary or as complex as an Historical Suspense . . . which can also be Mystery, Sci Fi, Paranormal, Fantasy, Young Adult, New Adult, or any of a vast variety of sub-genres, the only absolute requirement is that Happily Ever After ENDS the book. And that's where Women's Fiction BEGINS. In the world of reality.

To complicate matters a bit, there are some authors of Women's Fiction who include a definite romance in each book, including an HEA ending. The difference? The emphasis is on the problems of the women in each story, enough so the romance remains almost peripheral to the main plot.  

Who reads Women's Fiction? A good question. I suspect the readership is almost entirely female. And includes those who like to read about other women who suffer as they have suffered. Or perhaps those who like to read about other people's problems so they can say, "Thank God my life isn't like that."  I do not number myself among them. I like heroes who are heroes, even if their only fights are on the homefront. I do not want to read about unremitting agony, suffering, desperation, and death. Not even on a small, hometown scale. But that's me. I'm a great believer in "To each his own." Certainly, there should be books that cater to every taste. The important point is to recognize which genre you want to write. Recognize the differences and follow the "rules." Do not wander on and on in the world of Females Only and think you are writing Romance.

And now a challenge—one I asked myself as I examined the differences between Women's Fiction and the Romance Fiction market. Why are my Regency Gothic novels, like The Blackthorne Curse, above, not Women's Fiction? 

Gothic novels are written in first person female. Always. That's the basis of the genre. A female, usually alone, attempting to survive in an inimical world. The entire story is told through her eyes. The people she interacts with are frequently female. The eerie twists to the plot usually take precedence over the romance. So why is a Gothic novel a Romance, not Women's Fiction?

Because the ending is definitely Happily Ever After. Gothic heroines suffer death threats, not the pangs of childbirth. They try to figure out who is trying to kill them, not who is back-stabbing them at work. And men play major roles throughout the book, even if they do not have a Point of View. The men can be witty, charming, villainous, surly, stupid, petty, etc., but they stand shoulder to shoulder with the women as participants in the plot. And in the end there is one male who is true blue, a hero who pairs with the poor beleaguered heroine to give us that traditional HEA. 

In short—at least in my not-so-humble opinion—Romance Fiction is for women who really like men, as friends as well as lovers. Women who think there's enough trouble in this world without having to read about the angst of daily living. We want Happily Ever After, and let's avoid the reality of what comes after. We live that; we don't need to read about it. And yes, we use the world of HEA as an escape from our problems.

Women's Fiction is for females who prefer socializing with women, discussing female-oriented topics, and facing the ugly realities of the world, often while keeping men relegated to bread-winning and bed. And yes, that is a deliberately provocative statement written by someone who is not a fan of Women's Fiction. And I invite rebuttal from those who find WF rewarding. 

If you are a "reader" rather than an author, you're fortunate. You can choose to read both Romance and Women's Fiction. For writers, it's a tougher call. Know your genre. Know what makes it tick. Know your readership. Write to the emotions they want and expect. And yes, of course, there's leeway for a bit of experimentation. (As mentioned in my July post about Nora Roberts's Come Sundown.)

I leave you with the happy thought that next week I am avoiding controversies by presenting recipes.

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For a link to Blair Bancroft's web site, click here. 

For "inside" information about The Blackthorne Curse, click here. 

Thanks for stopping by,