What to Read Wednesday

07 Aug

Thank you for joining me on another round of What to Read Wednesday. Today we have author David Niall Wilson visiting. He’s sharing a wonderful guest post about research and beyond and has some great advice. He’s also sharing an excerpt of his latest release Nevermore, A Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe. This is a Dark Fantasy and not only does the amazing cover draw me in, but so does the excerpt.

David’s book is sale priced at $2.99 for the duration of his tour, and if you click this link you can scroll down and enter to win some fabulous prizes via Rafflecopter. So check it out!

Enough jabbering from me. I’m turning the blog over to David…


Making History

When you set out to write a story or a book that is set in the past, you have your work cut out for you.  On the one hand, you need to do your research.  How much research is enough varies wildly, dependent on the setting, and how the events and time period play into the story.  I generally do far more research than is necessary, immersing myself in the characters, or the events of the time period, and then use what I’ve learned sparingly to keep things authentic. It’s as important not to bore your readers with details as it is not to lose them by using some event, or technology inappropriate to your setting.

But that’s the easy part.  You can find a thousand articles on how to write historical fiction.  There are wonderful blogs and tutorials on research, organizing your background material.  I could write about those things, but I’d only be adding to a wealth of good information that’s already out there.

Instead, I’m going to tell you something else that I’ve learned – something just as important, but that I’ve not seen covered in other places.  When you are writing historical fiction, particularly historical fantasy, you are creating a new world.  It’s particularly important in works of fantasy, or science fiction, or even romance.  The minute you diverge from recorded history, you have taken on a serious responsibility.

You aren’t just dropping your character into that setting; your character has to belong.  You aren’t just creating clubs, or music, or romance – you are carving a hole in time and inserting something that was not there before you started.  The key is in finding the right shades of touch-up paint and makeup to blend your creation perfectly into the story.

I think to write good historical fiction you have to be something of a method actor.  You have to not only get into the heads of your characters, but you have to get into the heads of  characters whose experiences, memories, and reactions are entirely foreign to your own.  Unless all of your fiction is written in a particular time and setting, you have to find a way to cleanse your creative palate.  You have to forget figures of speech that you are comfortable with and ignore the urge to reference the things that come naturally to you.

There are some tricks you can employ.  They follow along with research, but differ in their direction.  When I know the time-frame and area of the country I plan to write about, I search out newspaper articles from that time period – you can find a lot of these archived on line.  I read the headlines for a few months during the years in question.  If they are more modern times, you can search what was popular in music, radio shows, dances and theater.

I also find books from the time period, and read them.  The books people were talking about.  Of particular interest, if you are lucky, will be letters written by people who lived and loved in your setting, or better yet, journals.  Here in North Carolina, my wife, Patricia Lee Macomber(also a writer), and I attend estate auctions regularly.  We have found old diaries, piles of letters, family photo albums, and even the flight logs and all the military career information on a pilot who flew rigid airships.  That is the kind of material that can bring – for instance – a steampunk adventure to life.  The things your character says, and knows, that ring true.  You don’t have to pound this into your readers, you just have to drop in enough to lend reality to your fiction.  Use a paintbrush, and not a hammer, in other words.

In my novel Nevermore – a Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe there was a lot of research involved.  I had to study Poe, and his life. That was easy- there is a lot of information available.  When I brought him to The Lake Drummond Hotel on the banks of the Intercoastal Waterway, I had to study what was going on here at that time.  Luckily for me, North Carolina and Virginia are thick with folklore, journals, and legends.  There are still homes and families here that were around when Poe passed through.

I have visited the place where the hotel stood.  I drive past it regularly, and if my figuring is correct, Highway 17 drives right over the spot where the ruins would stand.  I’ve read books about the dismal swamp written back in the 1800s, and about North Carolina history.  I lived in Hertford, a very, very old town – dying now, but still rich with history, and every morning for a very long time I got up early and ran through the town – past the waterfront homes.  Some of them have been there since the 1700s, and there is one home in the town that stretches back ever deeper into the past.

I also ran through the cemetery on King Street.  It’s a rough neighborhood now, but on that stretch of road, I collected names, and families.

I wrote a short novel – one of my most popular – The Not Quite Right Reverence Cletus J. Diggs & the Currently Accepted Habits of Nature, and in that book I created Old Mill, North Carolina.  It’s a lot like Hertford, and a little like Winfall – a neighboring town.  It’s not that far from The Great Dismal Swamp.  I have been building on that setting for a while now, writing more about Cletus, and eventually bringing the protagonist of my main series, The DeChance Chronicles, to Old Mill in Book IV, Kali’s Tale. It was a chance comment in that novel that led to my writing Nevermore, and there are characters and settings that I’ve borrowed – even across all those years – to help make it real for my readers, and hopefully to attract new readers to my other works.

I’d like to invite you into my North Carolina…to its past, and its present.  I want to introduce you to Cletus J. Diggs, and Edgar Allan Poe, Nettie, the swamp witch, and Lenore – an artist with a special gift.  I’d also like you to meet Grimm – the crow who was Edgar’s constant companion.

Welcome to Nevermore – Let me tell you a story…

About Nevermore – A Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe

Nevermore CoverOn the banks of Lake Drummond, on the edge of The Great Dismal Swamp, there is a tree in the shape of a woman.

One dark, moonlit night, two artists met at The Lake Drummond Hotel, built directly on the borderline of North Carolina and Virginia. One was a young woman with the ability to see spirits trapped in trees and stone, anchored to the earth beyond their years. Her gift was to draw them, and then to set them free. The other was a dark man, haunted by dreams and visions that brought him stories of sadness and pain, and trapped in a life between the powers he sensed all around him, and a mundane existence attended by failure. They were Eleanore MacReady, Lenore, to her friends, and a young poet named Edgar Allan Poe, who traveled with a crow that was his secret, and almost constant companion, a bird named Grimm for the talented brothers of fairy-tale fame.

Their meeting drew them together in vision, and legend, and pitted their strange powers and quick minds against the depths of the Dismal Swamp itself, ancient legends, and time.

Once, upon a shoreline dreary, there was a tree. This is her story.


Chapter One

The room was low-ceilinged and deep. Smoke wafted from table to table, cigars, pipes, and the pungent aroma of scented candles. Laughter floated out from the bar, separated by a low half-wall from a small dining area, where the bartender regaled the crowd with a particularly bawdy story. In the corners, more private conversations took place, and at the rear, facing the Intercoastal Waterway beyond, the door stood open to the night, letting the slightly cooler air of evening in and the sound and smoke free.

The smoke prevented the illumination from a series of gaslights and lanterns from cutting the gloom properly. Smiles gleamed from shadows and the glint of silver and gunmetal winked like stars. It was a rough crowd, into their drinks and stories, plans and schemes.

Along the back wall, facing a window that looked out over the waterway and the Great Dismal Swamp beyond, a lone figure sat with her back to the room. Her hair was long and light brown, braided back and falling over her shoulder to the center of her back. She was tall and slender with smooth, tanned skin. She was dressed for travel, in a long, floor length dress that covered her legs, while allowing ease of motion. The crowd swirled around her, but none paid her any attention.

She paid no attention to anything but the window. Her gaze was fixed on the point where an intricate pattern of branches and leaves crossed the face of the moon.

There was a sheaf of paper on the table, and she held a bit of chalk loosely between the thumb and index finger of her right hand. She formed the trees, the long strong lines of the trees, the fine mesh of branches and mist. Her fingers moved quickly, etching outlines and shading onto her sketch with practiced ease.

A serving girl wandered over to glance down at the work in progress. She stared at the paper intently, and then glanced up at the window, and the night beyond. She reached down and plucked the empty wine glass from the table.
“What are they?” she asked.

The woman glanced up. Her expression was startled, as if she’d been drawn back from some other place, or out of a trance. She followed the serving girl’s gaze to the paper.

Among the branches, formed of limbs and leaves, mist and reflected light, faces gazed out, some at the tavern, some at the swamp, others down along the waterway. They mixed so subtly with the trees themselves that if you were not looking carefully, they seemed to disappear.

“I don’t know,” the woman said. “Not yet. Spirits, I suppose. Trapped. Tangled.”

“You are a crazy woman,” the girl said. There was no conviction in her words. She continued to stare at the sketch. Then, very suddenly, she stepped back. She stumbled, and nearly dropped her tray.

The woman glanced up at her sharply.


“That…face.” The girl stepped back to the table very slowly, and pointed to the center of the snarl of branches. The tip of her finger brushed along the lines of a square-jawed face. The eyes were dark and the expression was a scowl close to rage.
“I’ve seen him before,” she said. “Last year. He…he was shot.”

“Can you tell me?”

The girl shook her head. “Not now. I have to work. If I stand here longer there will be trouble. Later? I must serve until the tavern closes, a few hours…”

The artist held out her hand.

“My Name is Eleanor, Eleanor MacReady, but friends call me Lenore. I’ll be here, finishing this drawing, until you close. I know that it will be late, but I am something of a night person. Can we talk then? Maybe in my room?”

The girl nodded. She glanced down at the drawing again and stepped back. Then she stumbled off into the crowded tavern and disappeared. Lenore stared after her for a long moment, brow furrowed, then turned back to the window. The moon had shifted, and the image she’d been drawing was lost. It didn’t matter. The faces were locked in her mind, and she turned her attention to her wine glass, and to the paper. The basic design was complete, but there was a lot of shading and detail work remaining. She had to get the faces just right – exactly as she remembered them. Then the real work would begin.

Even as she worked, her mind drifted out toward the swamp, and toward her true destination. She didn’t know the exact location of the tree, but she knew it was there, and she knew that she would find it. She didn’t always see things in her dreams, but when she did, the visions were always true.

A breeze blew in through the open window, and she shivered.

The face she was working on was that of an older man. He had a sharp, beak of a nose and deep-set shadowed eyes. The expression on his face might have been surprise, or dismay. His hair was formed of strands of gray cloud blended with small twigs and wisps of fog as she carefully entered the details.

There were others. She’d counted five in all, just in that one glimpse of the swamp. She thought she could probably sit right here, at this window, and work for years without capturing them all. How many lives lay buried in the peat moss and murky water? How many had died, or been killed beside the long stretch of the Intercoastal Waterway? She tilted her head and listened. The breeze seemed to carry voices from far away, the sound of firing guns, the screams of the lost and dying.

She worked a woman’s features into a knotted joint in one of the tree’s branches. The face was proud. Her lip curled down slightly at the edge, not so much in a frown, as in determination. Purpose. From the strong cheekbones and distinctive lines of the woman’s nose, Lenore sensed she’d been an Indian. How had she come here, soul trapped fluttering up through the sticky fingers of the ancient trees?

Around her, the sounds of revelry, arguments of drunken, belligerent men, clink of glasses, full and empty, and the sound of a lone guitar in a far corner surrounded her. She felt cut off – isolated in some odd way from everyone, and everything but the paper beneath her fingers. Now and then she paused, reached out for her glass, and sipped her wine.

No one troubled her and that in and of itself, was odd. A woman – an attractive woman – alone in a place like the Halfway House was an oddity. She should have been a target. She was not. A few men glanced her way, but something about her – the way she bent over her work, the intensity of her focus – kept them away. She worked steadily, and one by one, the others drifted out the doors, some to rooms, others to wander about with bottles and thoughts of their own. Eventually, there were only a few small groups, talking quietly, the bartender, and the girl.

There was nothing more she could do. She had drawn an eerily accurate recreation of the trees over the waterway, and of the five faces she’d found trapped in their branches. She sensed things about them but knew little. She did not need to know. She knew that she had to set them free, to allow them to move on to the next level. Something had bound them – some power, or some part of themselves they were unwilling to release. They did not belong, and though she knew that most of the world either ignored, or did not sense these things at all – she did. All those trapped, helpless beings weighed on her spirit like stones. She was fine until she saw them, but once that happened, she was bound to set them free. It was her gift – her curse? Sometimes the two were too closely aligned to be differentiated.

She rose, drained the last of the wine in her cup, and gathered her pencils. She tucked the drawing into the pocket of a leather portfolio, careful not to smudge it. Soon, it would not matter, but until she’d had a chance to finish her work, it was crucial that nothing be disturbed.

The girl, who had been busy wiping the spilled remnants of ale, wine, and the night from the various tables and the surface of the bar, wandered slowly over.

“I’m in the corner room,” Lenore said, smiling. “The one farthest in on the Carolina side.”

The girl nodded. She glanced over at the bartender, then turned back.

“I will come as soon as I can.” She glanced down at the portfolio. “You have finished?”

Lenore nodded, but only slightly. “I have finished the basic drawing, yes.”

“He was a bad man,” the girl said. “A very bad man. I have never seen him there – in the trees – before tonight. I don’t like that he watches.”

“After tonight, he will not,” Lenore said, reaching to lay her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “But I’d love to know who he is – who he was. I seldom know the faces I’ve drawn. You saw him – in my drawing, and in the trees. Most see nothing but branches.”

“I will come soon,” the girl said, turning and hurrying back toward the bar.

Lenore watched her go, frowned slightly, and then turned. She had to exit through the front door and follow a long porch along the side of the building where it turned from the saloon in the center to a line of rooms on the Carolina side. There were similar rooms on the Virginia side, but her business was in the swamp, and the corner room gave her a better view of what lay beyond.

As she made her way to her room, she heard the steady drum of hooves. She stopped, and turned. A carriage had come into view, winding in from the main road that stretched between the states. It was dark, pulled by a pair of even darker horses. She stood still and watched as it came to a halt. Something moved far above, and she glanced up in time to see a dark shape flash across the pale face of the moon. A bird? At night?

She glanced back to the carriage to see it pulling away into the night. A single figure stood, his bag in one hand. He glanced her way, nodded, and then turned toward the main door of the saloon. He was thin, with dark hair and eyes. It was hard to make his features out in the darkness, but somehow she saw into those eyes. They were filled with an odd, melancholy sadness. As he passed inside, it seemed as if his shadow remained, just for a moment, outlined in silvery light. Then it was gone.

Lenore shook her head, turned, and hurried to the door to her room. She fumbled the key from her jacket pocket, jammed it into the lock, and hurried inside. She had no idea why the sight of the man had unnerved her, but it had. And the bird. If she’d woken from a dream, she’d have believed she was meant to set him free…but she was very, very awake, and though her fingers itched to draw – to put his image on paper and tuck it away somewhere safe, she knew she could not. Not now – not yet. There was not much time before dawn, and she still had work to finish – and a story to hear. The stranger, if she ever returned to him, would have to wait.

She lit the oil lamp on the single table in her small room, opened the portfolio, and laid the drawing on the flat surface. There was a small stand nearby, and another bottle of wine rested there. She had two glasses, but had not known at the time why she’d asked for them. Another vision? She poured one for herself, and replaced the cork.

Moments later, there was a soft rap on the door. When she opened it, the girl stood outside, shifting nervously from one foot to the other and looking up and down the long porch as if fearing to be seen.

“Come in,” Lenore said.

The girl did so, and Lenore closed the door behind them.

“What shall I call you?” she asked, trying to set the girl at ease. Something had her spooked and it would simply not do to have the girl bolt without spilling her story.

“Anita,” the girl said shyly, glancing at Lenore. “I am Anita.”

“I’m glad to meet you,” Lenore said, “and very curious to hear what you have to say about the man you saw in the trees. I see them all the time, you know. In trees, bushes, sometimes in the water or a stone. It’s not very often that I meet another who is aware of them – even less often that I have a chance to hear their stories.”

“It is not a good story,” Anita said. “He was a very bad man.”

Lenore smiled again. “He’s not a man any longer, dear, so there is nothing to fear in the telling. Would you like a glass of wine?”

The girl nodded. Lenore poured a second glass from her bottle and handed it over.

“Sit down,” she said. “I still have work to do, and I can work as you talk. It will relax me.”

“I will tell you,” Anita said, perching lightly on the corner of the bed, “but it will not relax you.”

“Then it will keep me awake,” Lenore said, seating herself at her desk. “You see, I don’t just see those who are trapped, I have to undo whatever it is that has them trapped. I won’t be finished until I’ve freed them all.”

The girl glanced sharply over, nearly spilling her drink.

“Maybe…maybe it is best if this one stays.”

Lenore pulled out her pencils, and a gum eraser.

“We’ll leave him for now,” she said. “There are four others, and I can only work on one at a time. Tell me your story.”
Anita took a sip of her wine, and nodded. “His name is Abraham Thigpen. He died about a year ago but I remember it like today…”

Lenore listened, and worked, rearranging branches, shifting the wood slightly, picking the strong woman’s face to release from the pattern first. Anita’s voice droned in the background – and she faded into the story, letting it draw her back across the years as she carefully disassembled her drawing, working the faces free.

About David Niall Wilson

David Niall Wilson - Author PictureDavid Niall Wilson has been writing and publishing horror, dark fantasy, and science fiction since the mid-eighties. An ordained minister, once President of the Horror Writer’s Association and multiple recipient of the Bram Stoker Award, his novels include Maelstrom, The Mote in Andrea’s Eye, Deep Blue, the Grails Covenant Trilogy, Star Trek Voyager: Chrysalis, Except You Go Through Shadow, This is My Blood, Ancient Eyes, On the Third Day, The Orffyreus Wheel, and Vintage Soul – Book One of the DeChance Chronicles. The Stargate Atlantis novel “Brimstone,” written with Patricia Lee Macomber is his most recent. He has over 150 short stories published in anthologies, magazines, and five collections, the most recent of which were “Defining Moments,” published in 2007 by WFC Award winning Sarob Press, and the currently available “Ennui & Other States of Madness,” from Dark Regions Press. His work has appeared in and is due out in various anthologies and magazines. David lives and loves with Patricia Lee Macomber in the historic William R. White House in Hertford, NC with their children, Billy, Zach, Zane, and Katie, and occasionally their genius college daughter Stephanie.


Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

23 responses to “What to Read Wednesday

  1. Brenda D

    August 7, 2013 at 11:08 am

    Wow, wow, wow! Seriously, wow. The excerpt blew me away. This book sounds amazing!

    • ChristineWarner

      August 7, 2013 at 11:59 am

      I agree Brenda! Thanks so much for checking it out 🙂

    • David Niall Wilson

      August 7, 2013 at 5:14 pm

      I think that the rest of the book is even better. I really had fun with Lenore as a character, but when she and Edgar begin to interact – the magic happens.

  2. D'Ann

    August 7, 2013 at 12:00 pm

    Wow, do you do a lot of research! I hate research, but admire those who don’t!

    • ChristineWarner

      August 7, 2013 at 12:32 pm

      Glad you dropped in D’Ann..thank you 🙂

      • shadeaux

        August 7, 2013 at 5:15 pm

        In this case, it was research for another book that led me to write this one…so I’m glad I like research.

  3. Jennifer Lowery

    August 7, 2013 at 2:50 pm

    That cover is awesome!! I am sharing this with my dad because he is going to love your book-me, too, but this is so him!! I used to hate research, but now I actually like it. Great post! Thanks for sharing!

    • ChristineWarner

      August 7, 2013 at 2:52 pm

      Thanks for coming by Jennifer. I love David’s cover too. It really grabs you and pulls you in to read the blurb. Glad you can recommend to your dad and I hope he enjoys it.

    • shadeaux

      August 7, 2013 at 5:18 pm

      I hope your dad DOES love the book. I hope everyone loves it. I’m having such a hard time getting news of this one out there, and after all these years, and all the OTHER books, you’d think it would get easier.

  4. David Niall Wilson

    August 7, 2013 at 3:50 pm

    Wow! First blog on the tour where there were a lot of comments. Sorry to be slow in responding. I actually have a lot more accidental tips – like the estate sale finds. I subscribe to National Geographic just because I’ve never read an issue that didn’t give me an idea before I was through it… I wrote a guest post about the cover yesterday. I’ve been linking all the stops on the tour at my own blog: If you all read the book, and love it, please review it? Tell me what you thought? Heck, tell everyone.

  5. shadeaux

    August 7, 2013 at 3:51 pm

    Also if any of you belong to or know a book club or something like that looking for a good book to try out….

    • ChristineWarner

      August 7, 2013 at 4:32 pm

      Thanks for stopping in David! I have to echo everyone who has mentioned your awesome cover and great post. I’m thrilled to have you on the blog!

      • shadeaux

        August 7, 2013 at 5:17 pm

        The cover is by artist Lisa Snellings – she does amazing sculpture, and makes Poppets… the cover is a photograph of her sculpture (made for this book) The Tree of Lasting Sorrow – she created that, and then she painted a backdrop and took some amazing photos of it.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: