The path of writing is pocked with rabbit holes. I can remember each and every time the moment before the first fall, the peeking into the darkness, my hands wrapped over the edge and the grass tickling my fingers. There is something there, I would say, I can feel the eyes upon me. And then, without warning, the plunge; free-falling into those subconscious dreams as your fingers lay gently on the keys of your laptop. The miracle of the first line forming, spinning by you as you reach out and grab hold, while the sounds of ticking clocks and whistling teapots whirl in your ears. Sometimes you thud to the ground, that horrible feeling of being lost in a thought and not knowing where you are, the dreaded jabberwocky writer’s block. But you push forward, a small tasty morsel of inspiration settles in your jaw; you shrink down into your story, turn the key in the lock and open the door. What delights fill your eyes as a garden of characters greet you. The persistent flowers wanting to know what kind of writer you are, the intuitive caterpillar not resting until you answer his questions of ‘who,’ ‘what,’ ‘where,’ ‘how,’ and ‘why,’ the childish twins helping you remember things of your youth, those tidbits of memory adding to your tale, adding together a little madness, a little hare-brained concoctions of your own imagination, and “ta-da,” your story forms and weaves until the climax. All the while, the Cheshire cat in your heart smiles and moves you on. The climax stares down at you with an axe in her hand. She is the moment of ultimate revision when your story either collapses or succeeds. All the cards are in your hand. You play the game, you shuffle the stack, rearranging and reinventing until you stand tall over the creation of this dream. All your fears, all your passion, and all your days of winding down wordy paths, now complete and ready for the world. The jabberwocky is slain, your story has grown-up and the white rabbit waits for you a little ways down the trail. So, wake up to dream. Inspiration is right in front of your eyes. Come, follow me; I see another rabbit hole.
Salina Baker is a multiple award winning author and avid student of Colonial America and the American Revolution. Her lifelong passion for history and all things supernatural led her to write historical fantasy. Reading, extensive traveling and graveyard prowling with her husband keep that passion alive. Salina lives in Austin, Texas.
Links to Salina’s blog and American Historical research:
Imagine this: meandering down a corridor in the great Globe Theatre full of relics of the past, all speaking William Shakespeare’s name. But, of course, before that day you had no reason to consider any other name nor had any such thought been presented to you. And then, it happens. You round the corner and before you is a wall that displays the names and faces of five men that could have been the writer of the plays.
This is what happened to me. I perused the names with interest and amazement. Like finding a rare antique at a yard sale that someone missed, Christopher Marlowe’s face stared back at me and my heart skipped a beat. How could the world have missed the obvious; how could I? The sparkling little trinket of truth that spoke to me as if his ghost whispered in my ear, “Tell my story. Foul deeds will rise though all the world o’erwhelm them to men’s eyes.”
I suppose I could have chosen any of the men, but something moved me. From the very moment, Marlowe’s allure buried in his mysterious eyes made me know a story lay there hidden, waiting to burst forth. Within a week and endless hours on the internet and at the library, the clues he left behind, the secret little smile in his Cambridge portrait and the knowing glint in his eyes lay before me. The pieces of the puzzle fit together like never before: the treasured words of Christopher Marlowe, the Muse’s Darling, and not the man from Stratford, linked into a beautiful and tragic telling of a man who knew the world. Here was the man who travelled the continent, who knew court life and country travails, politics and provocateurs, religion, science, languages, intrigue, love, betrayal, and exile. All the meaty experience to fill the pages of mighty plays and sonnets.
One of the first things that we are told as writers is, “Write what you know.” The adage cannot have changed since the 16th century. Marlowe wrote what he knew, leaving behind the clues, which were a common and clever tool used by writers of the day. So I ask, why buy a reproduction when you can have the real thing? It’s a lot more fun to dig for authentic Marlovian gold than float along with the crowd picking up synthetic Shakespearean souvenirs.
And if you listen closely, you may hear his voice, as well. “I have a whole school of tongues in this belly of mine, and not a tongue of them all speaks any other word but my name.”
“Blood and Ink” by D. K. Marley – published May 2018
Winner of the 2018 Bronze Medal for Best Historical Fiction from The Coffee Pot Book Club Awards
Winner of the 2019 Silver Medal for Best Historical Fiction from The Golden Squirrel Book Club Awards
These books sound amazing! And even though Guardian is featured as a Just Hatched book, I will post the link to the first three so you can read them in order.
Book One – Discovery
Book Two – Shameless
Book Three – Treachery
Book Four – Guardian – now available for Pre-order and releasing October 20th.
In the mid-1850s, there were over 30k children living on the streets of New York City. Children as young as four and five who had to lie, cheat, and steal just to survive. Some of the children were true orphans, others were not. Either way, their situation was dire and something had to be done. So, between 1855 and 1929, over 250k children from New York and Boston were sent west on what was later referred to as ‘the orphan trains’ to find new homes. Some of the children went on to have grand lives; others did not. Yet, many in today’s society have never heard of the Placing Out Program.
Sherry’s Orphan Train Saga follows eighteen children that rode the New York orphan trains to find new homes. Each of the eighteen books will focus on one child’s story and take the children to different parts of the country in search of a better life. As was the case with the orphan trains some of the children will find good homes, others will continue their fight for survival. The first six books in the saga follow the children to Michigan, Ohio, Missouri, and Chicago. As the series progresses, Sherry’s Historical Fiction saga will expand to Kentucky, Nebraska and other states to help tell the children’s stories. While the children in Sherry’s books are fictional, the history that surrounds them is real. All of Sherry’s books are available in print (both hard and softcover and on Amazon Kindle. The books are meant to be read in order, starting with Discovery (book one) Shameless (book two), Treachery (book three) Guardian (book four) is now available for preorder in advance of its October 20th release.
Taken from his unwed mother immediately after his birth and sent to a New York Children’s Asylum, Franky never questioned his life of sterile walls, strict discipline, and emotionally distant caregivers. That is, until being selected to ride the orphan trains, where he quickly discovers there is more to life than living in an institution.
Taken in by a well-educated judge who is looking to save a wayward boy, the man soon turns Franky into a voracious reader who wishes nothing more than to join the Army he spends so much time reading about. The judge succeeds in teaching Franky there is more to life than violence. That is, until the judge’s past threatens Franky’s very survival.
Having vowed never to return to the asylum, Franky decides to take his chances on the streets of Detroit. Working under the protection of his uncle Tobias, street name Mouse, a trusted member of the infamous Purple Gang, he gets a new kind of education, one that isn’t taught in books.
Will Franky be able to handle the war raging around him, or will the ugliness of life claim another innocent soul?
Born in Louisville, Kentucky, Sherry was raised in the small town of Fairdale, a suburb of Louisville. Since eloping with her now-retired Navy husband to Tennessee shortly after turning eighteen, Sherry and her Navy husband lived in Kentucky, California, South Carolina, Michigan, Wisconsin, Virginia, Connecticut, Rhode Island, and Pennsylvania. Living in different areas and meeting new people from vastly different regions has been a unique gift she is grateful for.
Sherry got her start in writing by pledging to write a happy ending to a good friend who was going through some really tough times. The story surprised her by taking over and practically writing itself. What started off as a way to make her friend smile started her on a journey that would forever change her life.
Sherry readily admits to hearing voices, and is convinced that being married to her best friend for thirty-nine years goes a long way in helping her write happily-ever-afters.
Sherry writes children’s books under the name Sherry A. Jones
Sherry is currently working on the fifth book in The Orphan Train Saga. a historical fiction series that revolves around the Orphan Trains.
Sherry and her husband have returned to their adopted state of Michigan, to be closer to their children and grandchildren. She spends most of her time writing from her home office and traveling to lecture and book signing events. Sherry greatly enjoys traveling to Libraries, Schools and other venues where she shares her books and gives lectures on the History of The Orphan Trains.
Sherry’s book Discovery (the first in The Orphan Train Saga) has been honored as a finalist in The Book Excellence Awards and has been endorsed by the National Orphan Train Complex.
Author website @ http://www.sherryaburton.com/
For lovers of all things Jane Austen, Ms. Everly’s books do not disappoint!! Check out her latest Austenesque adventure!!
Released on September 14, 2020
The series is Miss Mary Investigates. The novel is Death of a Clergyman: A Pride and Prejudice Mystery by Riana Everly.
Blurb: Mary Bennet has always been the quiet sister, the studious and contemplative middle child in a busy family of five. She is not interested in balls and parties, and is only slightly bothered by the arrival of the distant cousin who will one day inherit her father’s estate. But then Mr. Collins is found dead, and Mary’s beloved sister Elizabeth is accused of his murder. Mary knows she must learn whatever she can to prove Elizabeth innocent of this most horrible crime, or her sister might be hanged as a murderess!
Alexander Lyons has made a pleasant life for himself in London, far from his home village in Scotland. He investigates missing documents and unfaithful wives, and earns an honest living. Then one day Mr. Darcy walks into his office, begging him to investigate the murder of Mr. Collins and to prove Elizabeth innocent of the crime. It seems like a straightforward enough case, but Alexander did not count on meeting a rather annoying young woman who seems to be in his way at every turn: Mary Bennet.
As the case grows more and more complicated, Mary and Alexander cannot stop arguing, and discover that each brings new insight into the case. But as they get close to some answers, will they survive the plans of an evildoer in the midst of quiet Meryton?
Riana Everly is the pen name of a South African-born Canadian author. Her first poem was published in the local newspaper when she was six years old, and she has been entranced with the written word ever since. In grade school, she began dabbling with short stories, and later on produced a sizable volume of academic writing, but she never imagined she would be able to write a novel. Then, one day, she decided to give it a try, and to her own surprise, succeeded! She has since melded her love of history and her love of writing to create a series of carefully researched romances.
Riana is influenced by the beautiful writing of Jane Austen and the rich historical tapestry of the early nineteenth-century, as well as by the fascinating history of early Canada, where British, American and colonial cultures met.
Riana grew up near the Canadian Rockies and misses those mountains each day. She now lives with her family in Toronto, and to the amazement of herself more than anyone, finds she rather likes it. When she is not writing, she can often be found playing string quartets with friends, biking around this beautiful province with her husband, trying to improve her photography, thinking about what to make for dinner, and, of course, reading! She can also often be found sneaking chocolate when she thinks no one is looking.
Riana’s alter ego has a blog, mostly about food, but sometimes not. Check out Musings from the Yellow Kitchen for recipes and more.
Universal Link: www.books2read.com/deathofaclergyman
Available on November 10th – NOW on Pre-order! I don’t know about you but this is going on my to-read list!! The synopsis sucked me right in. I will give my review when finished and the book will remain on my “Just Hatched” page (click here) to pre-order.
Vindicated, A Novel of Mary Shelley by Kathleen Williams Renk
Mary Godwin is a teenager with a formidable pedigree. Both of her parents are philosophers but it is Mary Wollstonecraft, the mother she never met, who haunts her waking and dreaming worlds. Reading about her mother’s life and death inspires Mary to keep a journal. Just as the tumult of her parents’ relationship comes alive in her imagination, she meets emerging poet Percy Shelley. Even though he is married and his wife is pregnant, Shelley threatens to kill himself if Mary will not elope with him. It’s possible that Shelley is mad, but their intellectual and creative affinities convince her that she is his Child of Light.
Passionate and intellectual, Mary struggles with the demands of her volatile husband and their circle of friends, including her stepsister Claire and George Gordon, Lord Byron. But as she writes Frankenstein, she also muses about her encounters with her creature and the philosophical questions of life, death, and creation that undergird her novel. Justifying their unconventional life and enduring personal tragedies, Mary follows in her mother’s footsteps, as she contemplates a woman’s place in literature and the world.
Bio: Kathleen Williams Renk taught British and Women’s literature for nearly three decades in the U.S. and abroad. Her scholarly books include Magic, Science, and Empire in Postcolonial Literature: The Alchemical Literary Imagination (2012), and Women Writing the Neo-Victorian Novel: Erotic “Victorians” (2020). Renk studied fiction writing at the University of Iowa with the Pulitzer-Prize winning author James Alan MacPherson. Her short fiction and creative nonfiction have appeared in Iowa City Magazine, Literary Yard, Page and Spine, and CC & D Magazine. Vindicated is her first novel.
“Vindicated is an admiring and graceful tribute to Mary Shelley, who was challenged to bridge her writing with the tasks of motherhood.” —Karen Rigby, Foreword Reviews
“Shelley’s waking and dreaming worlds conspire to create the most famously human “monster” in literature. You’ll read Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein with new eyes after you have devoured this book.” —Mary Helen Stefaniak, award-winning author of The Cailiffs of Baghdad, Georgia and The Turk and My Mother
Links to purchase Pre-order: https://www.amazon.com/Vindicated-Shelley-Kathleen-Williams-Renk/dp/1944453105
Hi, my name is D. K. Marley and I am the Historical Fiction Chick!
I’ve always loved reading books since I can remember. I think my first favorite book was Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. I remember watching the Disney movie over and over again, reading the book over and over, and then acting out the stories while I played on my granddaddy’s little farm in South Georgia.
I don’t know why but I developed a curious fascination with all things British, even as early as six and seven years old. My mom had several Beatles albums that I played on my little record player and I always tried to mimic their way of talking. My grandmother was also a huge Anglophile and an English Literature teacher, so when I turned eleven and she caught me perusing the pages of her college Lit book and her Shakespeare book, she promptly gave them both to me as gifts and set me on the path. Then, when my mom introduced me to the Victoria Holt series when I was about thirteen, I was hooked with historical fiction. Later on, in high school, I read “The Far Pavilions” and started writing my first novel (which I never published).
Years went by after graduation. I married and had my daughter, then took up writing again while she took her naps. In the vein of The Far Pavilions, I wrote a story about a young girl growing up in Kashmir, half-blooded with a British father and an Indian mother, whose mother and father both die in the Indian mutiny. She is shipped off to Britain to distant relatives she has never met and begins to suffer the cruelty of prejudice and hate. Anyway, it also became a novel that never left the manuscript phase but I like to think they both were my testing ground.
It wasn’t until 1997, my husband and I set off on our anniversary trip to London. We arrived there the month after the death of Princess Diana. I will never forget the sight of seeing the candle wax still embedded in the pebbled walkway in front of Kensington Palace.
During the trip we took a side-trip to Stratford-upon-Avon and to the Globe Theatre in London. While there, they were having some sort of museum exhibition about Shakespeare and one of the walls featured five men who might have been contenders for writing the plays attributed to him. Needless to say, I had never heard the idea but something intrigued me. I said while standing there, “Well, this might make an incredible story!” I took out a pen and some scrap paper and started writing notes, especially about Christopher Marlowe whose eyes seem to draw me in that day.
My journey began that day. After thirteen years of writing, rewriting, setting aside, getting frustrated, almost giving up, going to writing retreats, trashing a lot of the storyline, and more rewriting, I published a small run in 2010 just for family and friends. Sort of testing out if I even was going in the right direction. Some interest but something was still not quite right. I set it aside for another five years.
In 2015, my life changed overnight. The night of the Super Bowl, I lost my daughter, son-in-law, and unborn grandbaby to a stupid drunk driver who was running from the police. My kids were on their way home from a Super Bowl party and were only one mile from their house. Grief changes you irrevocably. After years of grief therapy and wanting to completely give up, my therapist suggested I start writing again,; first, a small journal to my daughter; then second, something that I enjoyed writing about before. After months of writing in the journal, I finally took the old manuscript of “Blood and Ink” off the shelf and did an entire revamp of the story.
I contemplated searching for an agent and going the traditional route but with the suddenness of losing my kids and the fragileness of life still fresh in my mind, I decided to take back my own power and self-publish which I did in May of 2018. Things progressed very quickly. By December I had it in ebook, paperback, hardcover, and Audible (thanks to the incredible vocal stylings of Mr. Jonathan Dixon) and at the end of the year I received the first award from The Coffee Pot Book Club for the Bronze Medal for Best Historical Fiction for “Blood and Ink”. My feet found their path and my eyes were focused on the next three books. “The Prince of Denmark”, “Child of Love & Water”, and “The Fire of Winter” all followed in succession and this crazy year of 2020 the first of my new historical time-travel will come out.
So, I guess you can say I found my voice through tragedy which is very appropriate for a Shakespeare-lover. Every word I write now is for and because of my kids and for my grandmother who set me on the path.
For most of you who know me, and even for those who don’t, you will know or come to know of my love for Virginia Woolf’s writings. A while back, probably ten or so years ago, I wrote a short story imagining sitting with her at her home, Monk House. The story was for a submission for a grant in her name (which I did not win, unfortunately, but the exercise of my imagination was so entrancing.
Here is the story, I hope you enjoy it!
A Visit to Monk House
Virginia Woolf sat across from me. Touching her slender fingers to her cheek as she turned her stare out the window, she answered my questioning look in a soft, yet resolute, voice.
“Women have sat indoors all these years, so that by this time, the very walls are permeated by their creative force, which has, indeed so overcharged the capacity of bricks and mortar that it must needs harness itself to pens and brushes and business and politics.” The corner of her mouth curled in a slight, awkward, smile. “Yes, I remember writing that.”
“And, Mrs. Woolf, what were your thoughts when you wrote that line?”
I prodded, hoping that she did not notice the nervous waiver in my voice and the insistent clicking of the silver knob on the end of my ink pen; an on and off whereby my hand struggles to write words in her presence, thus lending to my thumb’s pressing habit. Yet, of course, she noticed. How could she not? Even with her contemplative eyes staring through the unveiled window, over the untamed reaching arms of hollyhocks and tulips bowing over the garden path, and onward set on some distant thought in the passing cloud, she saw and heard.
She answered quick. “Oh no, my dear, that is not why you are here. You are here to answer for yourself. Tell me, if you can, what were your thoughts when you read that line?”
I felt overcome with clarity, like the sudden warmth rushing through your veins and flushing your cheeks when someone discovers you in a lie. My arm twitched and crooked to scratch an annoying itch at the spot between my shoulders. I paused in mid-scratching as her eyes rested on me with a knowing look. Oh dear, I thought, she saw that too. Of course.
“Well,” I said, swallowing down my fear, “I think women sometimes are their own masons.”
She struck a match and leaned her head back against the cushioned chair back; the end of her cigarette glowed orange as she sucked. “Too simple. You’re a writer, give me more,” she answered in a cloud of smoke, forming an aura around her loosely cinched brown hair.
I knew what she wanted. That connection. Perhaps she looked for the same electricity flying on the words of Henry James as he sat in her company. Perhaps he sat in this very chair. I crossed my legs and arms, fidgeting at the thought.
“You’re right, Mrs. Woolf, that is too simple. And yet, sometimes it is the simplest things that bind us in. Maybe not in your generation or even in my mother’s generation. Times were different then. Then, maybe women were among the trivial things of life, sitting within their four walls, cooking, cleaning, having babies, with men standing guard to make sure that his woman didn’t see that chink in the wall. For some, like you, their creative force found their way to pens and brushes, but, more often than not, so many suffocated in the darkness. I think of my grandmother. She was a college graduate, an
English teacher, a writer on the verge, yet her little brick and mortar house and her sitting did nothing but turn her into a sad spirit. Where did her creative force go? It ebbed away down the drains and lay like dust on the floors waiting to be swept under the rugs. Whether you know it or not, Mrs. Woolf, but writers such as you laid the cornerstones of writer’s rooms today. Now, when we sit and our creative force permeates the walls, harnessing to pens, the vibration shudders across our gardens, into our towns, and floods national and international boundaries. Your sitting in that room of your own has opened the doors for my generation. As I said before, I think writers build their own barriers today because there are so many more opportunities for this generation. In some cases, not all. There are still those who because of circumstance, choice, or mental and emotional problems, who have no idea of the freedom enjoyed in the spinning of a potter’s wheel, or slapping a bold slash of color on a canvas, or the releasing of demons onto a blank page. That is why writers need other writers, and artists need other artists. Reminds me of a scripture that says, ‘one mans face sharpens the face of another as iron sharpens iron.’ As writers who have been there, we can help those who cannot see beyond their walls and shuttered windows. It is amazing what a gift of a journal and a pen can do in the hands of a person who is battered, abused, abandoned, alone, sad, feeling unloved, unworthy, scared, tired, or hollow. You were one of the fortunate ones, Mrs. Woolf, to have a husband give you the freedom of a room of your own.”
She took another slug of her cigarette and looked across at me with those dark eyes. “Fortunate? How can you call me fortunate when every morning I awoke with shackles about my brain?”
I found it difficult to look into her sad face; so turning my head to gaze through the front window, I rested my cheek on my palm. The sun broke in little shafts of light through the dancing elm leaves, casting shadows on the windowsill, and a sudden unexpected roll of thunder shook the pane. I lifted my gaze to the sky. A dark cloud edged over the tops of the trees, already streaking gray far in the distance where the River Ouse slumbers along. I knew what she was thinking, so I answered her question.
“Yes, I know. I have imagined you, Mrs. Woolf, sitting in your room, the hours passing by, the temporary consolation in the scribbling of your pen, your creative force throbbing within those four walls like the rising bubble of magma just before an eruption. You wanted a freedom beyond words, something that you could bear, and yet, when the struggle seemed hopeless, you chose death. Like so many incredible artists and writers of your day and before, geniuses who struggled with the gift of the divine chained in a human form, very like Hamlet crawling between earth and heaven, and opting for the quiet rest from a thundering brain. Some would say that your writing benefited from your suffering, for in those four walls you struggled for us all, over those common threads that link us: childhood, parents, relationships, triviality, inequality, sadness, humanity, and death. Therefore, you gave us a gift, the gift that so many writers sitting in their rooms have given: their minds gushing onto a page. Yet, if you look closer, you will see the core behind mere words, something real, something true, something lasting beyond death woven into every letter and every sentence. The gift of their soul. You left us, Mrs. Woolf, and yet, you still live for the writers after you to learn. You left a legacy, just like my grandmother. Although she cleaned away her ambition with a rag and a broom, it hid like a film of dust hiding way on
the top of a bookshelf, waiting for my sticky young fingers to leave a mark and pick up my grandmother’s dust bunny soul. And this is me, now, sitting in your armchair at Monk House.”
The smell of smoke mellowed and I felt suddenly alone. I turned my head to see that Mrs. Woolf had risen from her seat and drifted away from me without notice. I ran to the window upon hearing the front door click shut and pressed my forehead to the cool glass. She paused at the front gate with her hand on the latch and looked up to catch my eye. The tilt of her head, the suggestion of a smile and the slight nod moved me beyond words. She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her coat just as the clouds burst open, drowning her fading form in gray.
As for me, I sighed and let my gaze caress over the items in the living room, the mementos of her past. Sucking a deep breath to soak in the lingering smell of her cigarette smoke, I brushed my forefinger over a certain dusty spot on the bookshelf: the spot where she left her final words. Like the sizzling pop of electricity, my brain throbbed, and, for a brief moment, I thought I felt her presence behind me. My tongue felt tacky and bitter from the ink pen clenched between my teeth and I imagined I heard her voice whisper into my left ear. Two words only, but they were enough.
Galileo said, “Facts which at first seem improbable will, even on scant explanation, drop the cloak which has hidden them and stand forth in naked and simple beauty.”
Simplicity often reveals truth, whereas there is confusion in an overabundance of words. I do not claim to be an academic, nor do I ascribe to the level of a scholar who spends her days wrangling with Stratfordians about the identity of “Mr. W.H.” or “the Dark Lady.” I am simply a writer who finds beauty in words, the way certain phrases roll off the tongue, the transcending feeling that a mere paragraph can invoke, or when a novel shows the commonality of the human condition. In that beauty, that naked and simple beauty, stands stark truth uncluttered by a convocation of words. At last, seeing the forest and not just the trees.
Facts that Stratfordians voice as improbable – the fact that Christopher Marlowe is the true writer of the plays and sonnets – even on scant explanation, such as I am able to produce being as I am just another common enthusiast, has indeed, to my mind, dropped the cloak which has hidden them and stands bared for all the world to see. Truth is simple. Truth is the one person shouting that the emperor is naked when all others shut their eyes, look away or refuse to believe. And the simplicity of it relates to the everyday ordinary person, which is the vast majority of the world.
If the world was able to be presented with the simple facts concerning Christopher Marlowe, as I was, there would be no more doubting. Even if the academic world can never produce solid evidence, we have more than reasonable doubt here that William Shakespeare had the skills, education, knowledge of languages, etc. to produce such profound verse. Simply put, he was an actor, not a playwright or poet.
Christopher “Kit” Marlowe, on the other hand, was gifted at an early age with skills that exceeded his years. Educated at the best schools and surrounded by those who prodded him, he travelled to the continent, he excelled in languages and proved himself a capable playwright and poet well before his twentieth year. Where was Shakespeare during those years? Still in Stratford, married with three children, with no evidence that he wrote a single thing.
Again, Galileo, an academic himself, revealed the answer in relation to these two men. Simple truth trumps pretentious fabrications any day. All you have to do is to remove the veil from your eyes, to stop gorging on the Shakespearean propaganda fed to you through the years, and hear the ring of truth sounded in Marlowe’s own words in Sonnet 76: “Why write I still all one, ever the same, and keep invention in a noted weed, that every word doth almost tell my name, showing their birth and where they did proceed?”
First of all, let me introduce myself . . . my name is D. K. Marley and I am a historical fiction author with a special interest in Shakespearean adaptations, British historical fiction, alternate histories, and historical time-travel. (Yes, you guessed it, I am a true Anglophile living in the United States and dreaming of selling enough books to buy a house in Warwickshire!)
What I hope to accomplish with this blog? It is my goal to provide a unique point-of-view on historical fiction, providing readers with new recommendations, new releases, and read-worthy details (sometimes obscure) tucked within the U.K.’s history.
As this blog progresses, I will offer author services, such as: Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter promotions; Blog Tours; Book Reviews; Author Spotlights; Newly Hatched Releases; and end-of-the-year Book Awards for books I read during the year.
For now, though, as I build my readership, blogging is my focus and British history is the theme. If you would like to submit an article, please contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org!