Guest Author ~ Tom Williams on blogs and writing

When Jennifer invited me on to her blog, I had no idea what I should write about. I wasn’t even sure if I should take up her invitation. I’d just been reading that blogs don’t help authors sell books and we should all be careful about spending much time on them. As I blog on my own blog (http://tomwilliamsauthor.co.uk/) more than once a week on average, this was alarming advice.

The thing is that all writers nowadays spend an enormous amount of their time blogging or on Facebook or Twitter or (for reasons I’ve never understood given that they are selling books and not photographs) Instagram. And we all agonise about the hours that we are wasting.

But what’s the alternative? At the moment I am republishing the first three of my books in my series about James Burke, a spy in the Napoleonic era. I’m doing this because I have two new books in the series coming out and I want people to remember who James Burke is and to remind them that they want to read the next books. There’s been a long gap because of worries about rights issues (and if you want to hear something that authors worry about even more than their social media presence, it’s how they deal with the awfulness of a situation where they lose the rights of their own books). Republishing, for me, has meant having very pretty new covers and trying to raise the profile of the books on social media. So it’s not terribly good time to tell me that I shouldn’t even be writing this.

Burke In the Land of Silver

Burke and the Bedouin

But what else is an author to do? People say that the answer is newsletters but, though I don’t try particularly hard to play the numbers game, I have over 400 people following my Facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/AuthorTomWilliams/) and over 1,500 on Twitter (https://twitter.com/TomCW99). I put most of my effort into the blog on my website that gets well over 4,000 hits a month. By contrast I have fewer than 20 signed up to read my newsletter. (You can join them at http://tomwilliamsauthor.co.uk/newsletter/.) I think I’ll be blogging and on Facebook and Twitter for a while yet.

What I am not doing while I write this is, of course, writing my next novel. I’m incredibly impressed by people like Jennifer who, before everyone cut back on everything because of covid, could turn out beautifully written blog pieces on an almost daily basis and has written more books than me. Even Jennifer, though, would presumably have produced yet another wonderful series like ‘Time for Alexander’ if she had concentrated on that rather than chatting to us on her blog.

It’s a quandary. The fact is that there are hundreds of thousands of books produced every year (amazon.co.uk offers over 100,000 books in historical fiction alone) and, however brilliant your book is, nobody is going to read it unless they’ve heard about it, and they won’t hear about it unless you tell them. (Your mother might tell them too, but mothers are notoriously unreliable sales agents.) Hence all the blogs. And Facebook posts. And tweets.

Generally I really enjoy blogging. My blog features a lot of historical material as well as random stuff loosely associated with writing (there seems to be a lot about cover design at the moment) and the occasional thing on tango, because I like tango and people seem to enjoy reading about it. I get a lot of satisfaction writing about history. As I mainly write historical novels, this is a good thing as my life would otherwise be very sad indeed.

On the other hand, I am a firm believer that my blog should be positive and upbeat and that can be a bit wearing. Jennifer’s blog is also a joy. But sometimes I just want to point out to people that continually producing free stuff online takes a very great deal of time. I suspect I am not alone in occasionally feeling that there is, perhaps, a touch of ingratitude from those who regularly read what I write for free but who have yet to shell out £2.99 for one of my books. (I know they don’t, because if everybody who read my blog in a month bought just one copy of any of my books, they would be in the bestseller charts and they aren’t.) I’m going to carry on blogging anyway. It’s writing and writing is what writers do. And, after a brief hiatus, I’m sure Jennifer will be back as well. It would be nice, though, if after you’ve read her blog, you bought some of her books. They really are very good.

Ashley’s Easter in Alexandria

Festivals took up a lot of time. There were rituals for every holiday, each god had to be honored, and some months were so full of festivities it’s a wonder the people got any work done. Maybe the secret to progress was ditching the deities, I thought one day, as I helped Chirpa clean the house. I was tired of always getting stuck with helping with ancient festivals. Fine, I was stuck in the past around 300 BC, but that shouldn’t mean I had to impersonate a goddess every time there was a solstice or something. Once, I’d blessed the fields — and couldn’t walk for a week. I wanted my kids to be civilized, not pagan. I’d have to install some of my more modern traditions in the family. The problem with being born in 2377 was that time travel had been invented, but children’s stories and religion had been banned. I would have to invent my own traditions to share with my children.

We’d been back in Alexandria for a few weeks now and the spring solstice was just around the corner. We were making sure not a speck of dust remained, so that the house would be ready for the goddess’s return. And who was coming back? Persephone, of course, my namesake – leaping from the cold arms of her husband, Hades, into the welcoming arms of her mother, Demeter. And since apparently Persephone wouldn’t come if the house wasn’t clean (I have had guests like that) we scrubbed.

I was getting sick of scrubbing. Axiom had gone to fetch the fresh herbs we needed to make the posies and bouquets, and I’d talked the boys into fetching eggs from our neighbor. In the back of my mind, I was planning a surprise. A real Easter egg hunt in ancient Alexandria – complete with dyed eggs, candies, and stories of the Easter bunny.  I had been keeping the onion skins, beets, purple and red cabbage, turmeric and carrot tops for dyes. Chirpa, who had dyed eggs in Persia as part of the fertility festival, was my reluctant helper. Instead of cleaning, she argued, we were making more of a mess. At this rate, spring would never come.

When Paul and Chiron returned with the eggs, I sent them off on another errand with Brazza. Then Chirpa and I started boiling the ingredients and soaking the eggs. It was messy, slow work, and I was afraid Brazza would return with the boys before we finished. Chirpa was cross because the house wasn’t cleaned, and Alexander, who came to see what “That awful smell was”, fled the house and went to oversee construction of the Great Library.

I put all the different colored dyes in separate bowl, and put the hard-boiled eggs in to soak overnight. Chirpa grumbled about wasting dishes, and it occurred to me we had none left for dinner. But since I’d wanted to get a new set of dishes anyway,  I left Chirpa to clean up the mess (her glare would have frozen the real Hades) and went to the market. Free at last! There was the newscaster, standing on his marble soapbox, the sale on parrots by the fountain, and the usual heckling and haggling going on at every stand. I located the pottery and dithered over a set with dolphins or a set with a chap in a chariot. The dolphins won, and I gave our address for delivery that evening. There were no street names at this time, although I’d suggested to Alexander he might want to start that trend. Instead it was, “The hill over there, yes, that one. The big house on the top with the black front door – with the lion scratched on it.” (Chiron’s work. He got a scolding for scratching up a perfectly nice paint job).

That evening, after we’d hidden the eggs in the garden, I told the boys the story of the Easter bunny, which I didn’t remember so well. My parents had never read stories to me, but I thought it had something about a watering can, a mean farmer, a goddess called Mary, her son Jesus, and their pet rabbit, Peter. I was embroidering a little – getting to the part where the mean farmer was about to kill the rabbit – when Alexander, who always liked to listen to my stories, interrupted.

“Does the rabbit get cooked with tarragon?” he asked. “Because I’m getting hungry, and that sounds good.”

“Of course not!” I was cross. “The rabbit escapes, and becomes immortal, and brings the Easter eggs to good little boys and girls. He hides them in the garden.”

Our scribe, Pan, (short for Panteleimon) had been listening, and had written the story down. Before I realized it, he headed towards the Great Library to file it. I was worried, then remembered the library would burn in a few centuries. Maybe a fragment of the story would remain, but it shouldn’t change the timeline any.  At least, I hoped.

The boys hunted for their eggs. Alexander found most of them. A few were found weeks and even months later. Chirpa liked the new dishes, (I gave them to her as a gift, for cleaning the house), and when I showed Chiron how to scratch drawings in the eggs, he promised not to scratch anymore lions on our front door. All in all, a good Easter, I thought!

Happy Easter from Ashley!  319 BC, Alexandria near Egypt. 

---

The Road to Alexander  

Legends of Persia

Book II in the, Time for Alexander series –

To catch you  up – Alexander and Ashley are married – but she is still struggling to come to grips with her new life in 331 BC. Two years ago, she travelled back in time to interview a legend – and Alexander the Great mistook her for Persephone, bride of Hades, and kidnapped her. He thought she would be grateful, but he stranded her in his own time. Ashely, a modern woman, used to hover cars and holoscreens, finds herself in ancient Greece – in the middle of a war campaign.

Ashley and Alexander have a baby – Paul – who was taken by the traitor Bessus to the wilds of Bactria – at the Ends of the Earth, and so that’s where they are headed; across the mighty Hinu Kush mountains in search of their son – “The Son of the Moon”, as he’s known.

Follow the Legends Of Persia Blog Tour, with excerpts and prizes to win –  Click here for the links to the blogs! 

Feel free to Tweet, Faceplant – I mean, share on Facebook, and Enjoy!

17th April

1. Over The Rainbow Book Blog

2. donnasbookblog

3. The Divine Write – Review

4. Dash Fan Book Reviews – Guest Post

5. For the Love of Books – Review

Kelsey’s Secret

Tags

short story

KELSEY’S SECRET

I have no recollection of the accident, not even one of those fragmented pieces of memory that surges suddenly out of a half-sleep with glimpses of tumbling sky or shiny asphalt.

My three children were at home with their baby sitter and I was on my way to the city to see a play. I was going to meet my husband at his office. All that I can remember clearly. Then, mysteriously, darkness falls over my mind and the next thing I know I’m staring at an open window.

Faramir’s Daughter ~ Chapter 7

We arrived at the gates of the southern lands, and the king had sent an escort for us. There was still another week of travel, across a desert, so the escort was welcome. They had brought their traditional tents and food, and music. At night, when we camped, the torches were lit and the musicians played. The first night I didn’t pay much attention. I was numbed by the fact that we’d reached the last part of the voyage and my fate was rushing up towards me like a hurricane. I fell asleep in one of the new tents, on the softest mattress I’d ever laid upon, and my dreams were colored by the strange music.

The next day, I felt better. The king had sent horses, and one of them was a gift to me. Nothing pleased me as much as a good horse, and this one was equal to the very best my mother’s tribe bred. Smaller and narrower than the mountain horses, it was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. At first, I’d taken it for a white deer as it pranced up to me, led by a groom. It had huge eyes, its muzzle was so small it could drink from my bowl, and its ears were curved in, giving it an inquisitive look. Its neck was arched like a swan, and its tail was held high as a streaming flag.

“What is her name?” I asked the groom.

“She is yours, so you must give her a name,” he replied in his language. A translator stood by my side at all times now, so I could communicate.

“What is your word for gift?” I asked.

“Ladi.”

“And for precious?”

“Keem.”

“I’ll call her Keemladi,” I said, stroking her velvety nose.

The people around me looked pleased. I had chosen a good name. That day I rode my new horse. My father ride beside me. I hadn’t spent time alone with him in ages. I was still angry with him though – for taking my mother’s side, for not trusting me. He knew though, and his first words to me were an apology. My heart was not hard enough to resist my father’s regret. I cried and hugged him, and told him I was sorry. For what, I didn’t know, but it made him smile.

Faramir’s Daughter ~ Chapter 6

The Wedding.

My father and mother accompanied me to the Southern Lands. Neither had ever been there. Also with us were the King and his Queen. Only then did I realize the importance of my marriage. The King and Queen had one son. He was five years old, and already whispers had it that he was betrothed to the King Under the Mountain’s daughter.

Royal marriages were made to strengthen bonds between people so that wars never happened again, explained my father. The King and Queen had no daughter, but I, as the daughter of the highest noble of the kingdom, would represent her. In fact, they would give me away at my wedding, not my own parents.

I knew the King and Queen well enough. He was often away, but when he came home, he loved nothing more than the peace and quiet of his own garden. His wife, an elf princess, was the most lovely woman I knew. She was kind, empathetic, loved by all. During our voyage south, as we sailed on barges down the river towards the great desert, she tried to comfort me the best she could. Her sympathy for my fate was evident, but she never once told me she felt sorry for me.

“You are doing a great deed for your home and family,” she told me. “Forever have men from the South fought men from the North. Your brother married a princess who left her home and family. You will marry a warrior prince and bring honor to us all. I am sure you can. Otherwise, we would not have chosen you.”

I was young. I was heartbroken. I wished I had not been chosen. I was also wise, and kept my thoughts to myself. I think I hid my sobs at night. In the morning, I was careful to bathe my swollen eyes with cucumber water before breakfast. I still had some pride.

Faramir’s Daughter ~ Chapter Five

There was nothing wrong with love from my point of view. And he was smitten as well. Both of us trembled at each others touch. A single glance, and my heart pounded madly. We lost ourselves in chaste kisses. Beneath the table, our feet found each other and entwined. If there was a dark corner, we would find it and embrace. I was delirious with joy, my parents would be so happy, I thought, to welcome Halthro into our family. We would live at the mountain hall – we would raise horses and children.

I was fifteen. I had never considered myself beautiful, but Halthro made me feel beautiful. And for me, Halthro was the most handsome of men. As he rode off on his stallion to bring in the herds, my heart was full to bursting when he turned to wave at me.

My brother’s wife had just borne her fourth child, a daughter at last. The pregnancy and birth had been difficult. My brother was tired and not as attentive as he should have been. I was allowed to run wild that summer – but suddenly Janne was there – my mother had decided that Fraya could use some help, and so sent her maid to tend to her.

Janne knew me well. Just one glance, and she took me by the chin. “Who is it, child?” she asked, keeping her voice light.

She fooled me. I thought she was on my side. “Halthro,” I said, a deep blush staining my cheeks. “He’s wonderful, don’t you think?”

The next day, I was packed up and sent home. My bewilderment was complete. I had no idea why. No one told me anything beyond, “You’re going home, today.”

It wasn’t until I was on my horse, heading home, that it hit me. I wouldn’t see Halthro when he came back with the herds. I stopped, turned my horse, and a guard caught my reins.

“No.” He said nothing else, but his grip was firm and I dared not protest.

When I arrived home, my mother cloistered me in my room. I stayed there for a month. Again, I was so naive I didn’t realize why. When my menses came, my mother called me to her room and then I learned everything. How I was never to return to the Mountain Hall. How I’d never see Halthro again. How I was leaving at first frost to the Southern Lands. I was to start organizing my household now. She would help me. Everything had to be ready. Linens, clothes, jewelry, candles…I heard it all through a sort of fog. My head ached and ached. I thought perhaps I’d die. My heart had been broken. I don’t know what broke it more – leaving Halthro or finding out my parents didn’t trust me. I was a virgin. All they had to do was ask me, not lock me up like a criminal. The hurt I felt ran deep, and I started to hate my parents. Perhaps it was a good thing. Part of me was anxious to get away from them. It made getting ready to leave almost easy.

I had four months to prepare. I was sixteen. I felt ancient.

Faramir’s Daughter ~ Chapter Four

Faramir’s Daughter

The next four years passed quickly. Boromir and Lorell had three charming girls, and Sam and Fraya had three boisterous boys. I was an aunt, and I spent a great deal of time with Lorell and her daughters. Lorell was a pure product of the city’s old ways. Her parents were nobles, and Lorell had been raised as a noblewoman. In some ways, she didn’t approve of me. There was always an invisible wall between us. I liked Lorell, I loved my neices, but I thought Lorell’s life was limited and boring. She thought I hadn’t been raised correctly and was always trying to teach me to behave.

In the city, I was member of an old and rigid society. There were rules for everything. For visits, for the ceremonies, for socializing. I was expected to stitch needlepoint, to grow an herb garden, and to make the proper prayers to the proper gods at the proper time of year. I could visit my brother and Lorell, but I had to be accompanied by a servant when I left our house. Usually it was my mother’s maid who went with me – Janne. She was an older woman who was always careful to whom I spoke and who spoke to me. In our society, boys were not allowed to approach girls on the streets and chat with them. We were expected to meet at a properly chaperoned house – perhaps at a party or a dance. And we stayed within our social rank. I was a Lady, my mother had been a princess, so I was not expected to befriend commoners.

My father thought it was all nonsense. After the war, there was such a lack of people that it made no sense to divide society into  small groups. My mother agreed. So on the whole, I was freer than most of my friends. But old traditions die hard, and my friends lived sheltered from anyone outside their station in life. I often felt I was astride two worlds – my father’s world, which he both loved and despaired of – and my mother’s world, where everyone was equal and women were freer.

I was always happy to visit Fraya and Sam – I loved the mountain hall so much. And so I begged and pleaded to spend summers there. When I was fifteen, I spent my last summer in the mountain hall. It was the best and worst time of my life. I was young, full of romantic dreams, and I fell headlong in love with one of the horse master’s sons.

Halthro was seventeen, he was tall and blond, and his eyes were as green as the clover in the meadows. I was swept away in a rush of emotions. We met in the stables, behind the king’s graves, by the river, in the valley, on the hillside…whenever we could. We slipped notes to each other, poems and love songs, promising the sun, the stars – the moon.

 

Faramir’s Daughter ~ Chapter Three

Faramir’s Daughter

Chapter Three

My brothers married all the same year. It was a joyful time at our house. Boromir was marrying a daughter of the city, and would return to live here! Sam married a girl from my mother’s clan. Lucky Sam! He would live in the mountain hall and his children would be raised on sweet mare’s milk and wildflower honey. Frodo’s wedding was last. He would marry here, then take his bride to the northern kingdom where he’d made his life. His bride came from the southern lands. She was a princess, and she arrived early in the summer with all her retinue.

I was twelve now, and old enough to believe in romance. Everything about that year was romantic. Boromir, with his dark-haired, solemn wife was now living close by, so that I saw him nearly every day. His wife, Lorell, spoiled me and seemed happy to have me visit. Sam was there too, with his red-haired Fraya. Fraya bought me a pony and a jar of honey, and she and Sam laughed and smiled so much that everyone looked at them, sighed, and said, “what a lovely couple!”

Frodo’s princess bride came in a curtained palanquin. We didn’t see her until the day of the marriage, and even then, throughout the ceremony, she wore a red veil that covered her from head to foot, even her face. Her arms, when she reached to take the ceremonial golden chain, were brown as cinnamon, and slender. Her hands were decorated with henna. When the vows were finally spoken, she slid her veil off, and stood before my brother, naked.

I hadn’t been expecting that, and gave a little gasp. Everyone else must have known, because there wasn’t a sound from the crowd. My brother bent, picked up her veil, and draped it over her shoulders, covering her nakedness. Then he lifted her hand and kissed it, sealing their marriage.

The princess stared over his shoulder. Her eyes were fixed on something only she could see. I couldn’t tell if she was happy or sad. Then she turned her head and looked straight at me.

I thought she was beautiful. Her skin was like caramel, her hair black as jet and wildly curly. Her lips were full and yet firm, like the rest of her body. Slender and strong. But her eyes were her best feature. Long, heavy-lidded and as dark as night. She had curly lashes, and her brows arched high on her pure forehead. She looked at me for what seemed a long while, and then the corners of her mouth lifted ever so slightly in a tiny smile.

That week there were parties and festivities – torches burned in the streets until dawn, and there was singing – strange tunes sung to strange instruments – as the Southern people bid farewell to their princess.

She and my brother went north to live in the city by the sea. I never saw her again. I wish I had. I wish I had had time to speak to her when she was with me, but I was shy, I was young, and anyway, we didn’t speak the same language. Then, the next week, everyone was gone. The princess and Frodo to the north, her people, the singers, the instruments, the fire jugglers and performers gone back to the Southern lands.

Faramir’s Daughter ~ Chapter Two

Faramir’s Daughter

Chapter Two

I didn’t know when I was to be sent away, but I’d always expected it. When I was two, my brothers, all three of them, were sent away to be pages. That is my first memory. We rode down to the river together as a family, and waved goodbye to a ship that bore my brothers away. I can clearly recall the sound of seagulls and the smell of fish and tar, the sound of wood creaking and water splashing against the hull of the ship. I can see my three brothers, lined up on the deck, wind in their hair, waving. We waved back. My mother cried. She was a warrior princess, but she’d tied her heart to her sons.

My father held me on his lap and said, “you’ll have to help your mother now.” Those are the first words I can remember him saying to me.

I was two, and my brothers were eight, nine and nine. Boromir, the youngest, was going to Rohan, to be a page for my uncle. Frodo and Sam, the twins, were going to a city in the far north, near the sea, to be pages for a mighty king. Boromir was named after my father’s brother, a great warrior. Frodo and Sam had been named for two Hobbit heroes who had won the war, carrying a magic ring to the dead lands of Mordor. The dead lands were still dead, but they were no longer wicked. There were no more wizards, no more goblins or trolls, and no more necromancer kings. The volcano in the middle of Mordor had ceased to smoke and belch fire and lava, and there were signs of life. Small bushes, tough grass, fern and vine had started to cover the sharp, volcanic rock. In a hundred years, there would be a forest there. The ents watched over the land, and our people guarded its border.

When I was old enough to ride, I’d accompany my father on his trips to the gates of Mordor. Behind them, we could see bare cliffs, the dust devils whirling along their tops.

My father said, “It used to be a different land. Mostly scrub, unfit for farming but good for raising sheep and goats. The farmers left when the wizard built his tower, and things went from bad to worse. We, in the city, saw what was happening, and we did nothing. We believed it was none of our business.” My father stopped, and we let our horses graze on a patch of grass. After a while, he said, “and on the other side of Mordor are the great Southern Plains.”

He looked at me sadly as he said this, but I didn’t realize that he was trying to tell me something.

To be continued….(Chapters posted every 2 days or so)