Showing posts with label Historical Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Historical Fiction. Show all posts
Wednesday, 13 September 2017
Thursday, 4 August 2016
Author Interview: Lazlo's Revenge by Glen Thomas Hierlmeier
Glen Thomas Hierlmeier is a graduate of the United Sates Air Force Academy, and has an MBA from The University of Wisconsin. He served in the U.S. Air Force, where he helped develop the Manned Orbiting Laboratory and the F-15 Eagle fighter aircraft, and gained a deep interest in world affairs and warfare.
He subsequently completed a career as a banker and real estate executive, serving as President and CEO of various companies for over thirty years before retiring in 2009.
Glen enjoys writing historical fiction and has published three other books including Thoughts From Yesterday: Moments to Remember, We Had to Live: We Had No Choice..., and Honor and Innocence: Against the Tides of War, the prequel to Lazlo’s Revenge. For more information, visit: http://www.booksbyglenthomas.com/.
Readers can connect with Glen Thomas Hierlmeier on Facebook, Twitter, and Goodreads.
***
Do you plan everything or just let the story flow?
I create a setting, situation and characters, then let the story flow as I imagine it might in real life. In Lazlo’s Revenge, the setting is Europe, the situation is Max Fischer, retired war correspondent, seeking to find answers to the causes of war by tracing the steps of her ancestors and the significant people in their lives as they personally experienced the two great wars of the 20th century. She tells the story through what she learns of the lives and loves of the main characters as they are caught up in the political and military turmoil of the first half of the century.
Do your characters ever want to take over the story?
The characters do take over the story. They make the decisions as they are confronted with the circumstances of their lives. They take control early on and never relinquish it.
Are you a morning person or a night owl?
I am definitely a morning person, but when I am fully engaged in my writing, there is no distinction between morning and night. I write when it becomes clear to me what the characters will do next. I listen to my characters.
Where do you dream of travelling to and why?
My wife and I would love to travel the Danube River through Europe. The river and the cities along the river are prominent in Lazlo’s Revenge. My own ancestry is from southern Germany near Munich. Members of my family fought on each side in both world wars, undoubtedly sometimes fighting directly against one another.
Do distant places feature in your books?
Yes, indeed. Between the first book, Honor & Innocence, and this second, Lazlo’s Revenge, the characters find themselves in America, Germany, Switzerland, Italy, Greece, Bukovina (now part of Romania and Ukraine), Hungary, Spain, France, Singapore, and Australia, as well as sailing the Mediterranean Sea on two occasions.
Could you tell us a bit about your latest release?
Lazlo’s Revenge follows Maxine “Max” Fischer, a writer and Swiss war correspondent, whose parents lived through the tragedies of the Great World Wars.
Max sets out on an adventure throughout Europe to uncover her parents’ pasts and see the very places where they survived on their odyssey to escape danger and death. Stories of romance, war, and traumas are unearthed as she traces their footsteps back to the major sites of World Wars I and II.
During her journey, Max becomes fascinated by the people who influenced her parents' lives. She follows the life and times of Lazlo Floznik, the man who saved her parents and helped them escape catastrophe in Europe by seeking out refuge beyond the reach of the security forces that sought to imprison them. The years leading up to World War I, the time between the wars, and the experiences of World War II reveal their secrets as Max explores her family roots, in this deeply emotional story tied together by Lazlo’s intense story of love, and that of his father, Miklos, before him.
What have you learned about writing and publishing since you first started?
With 130 million books published worldwide and another 1.3 million in 2015 and growing, publishing an economically successful book is more than a little like playing the lottery. Unless you are a famous person, a person with a large audience already, or you are part of a very newsworthy current event, it is unlikely you will be published by a traditional publisher, or be profitable. There are always some exceptions for an extraordinary book by an extraordinary author, but these are a very small percentage. Also, it is possible to spend a lot of money on middlemen who are willing to sell their advice and give instruction with no guarantee or even a reasonable likelihood of success. The bottom line is write because you love to write, not because you expect to get rich or even make a living.
I love writing. I wish I had started much earlier in my life. I am following my bliss. I am creative, determined, and analytical.
Who, or what, if anything has influenced your writing?
My desire to write was first inspired by my high school English teacher, Ms. Elizabeth Ritzmann, who taught me there is good literature, and that I have the capacity to be a good writer. Though my writing was largely confined to my businesses during my career, I harbored a desire to write in retirement.
My curiosity about the causes of war and the aftermath of war, inspired by my time as an active duty Air Force Officer during the Vietnam War, led me to research the history of the great wars, and to tell a story from a perspective not found in history books, and through characters whom readers can love and hate.
What's your favourite book or who is your favourite writer?
My favorite book is not a novel at all. We Had to Live: We Had No Choice, is a story I wrote based on the life of my family beginning with the immigration of my fourth great-grandfather, Thomas Sewell, to the USA from England as an indentured servant. I tried to write the book more as a novel, telling the family story in a way to make it more inviting and readable. It was also my intention to use the writing of the book as a warm-up, so to speak, for further writing. As it turned out, an experience in World War II first related to me by my eldest brother, who has since passed away, during the writing of the family book, provided the nugget that stimulated the writing of my first novel, Honor & Innocence: Against the Tides of War. I immensely enjoyed the process of researching and writing my first novel, but I believe the first book and the intense and personal look into the family ancestry will forever be my favorite.
The two most absorbing and memorable books and authors have been Out of Africa by Karen Blixen and Sacred Hunger by Barry Unsworth. I think I have read and enjoyed all of Michener’s books. In high school I devoured Civil War books; Stephen Crane, Barbara Tuchman, and Bruce Catton come to mind. In my later years I tend towards philosophy, theology and mysticism – Alan Watts, Thomas Merton, C. S. Lewis, and politics, David C. Korten. For a couple of decades in mid-life I read only non-fiction, which helped prepare me to write fiction based on historically and spiritually real experiences.
***
About the Book:
Lazlo’s Revenge follows Maxine “Max” Fischer, a writer and Swiss war correspondent, whose parents (Hank and Roberta Fischer, the main characters from Hierlmeier’s previous book, Honor and Innocence) lived through the tragedies of the Great World Wars.
Max sets out on an adventure throughout Europe to uncover her parents’ pasts and see the very places where they survived on their odyssey to escape danger and death. Stories of romance, war, and traumas are unearthed as she traces their footsteps back to the major sites of World Wars I and II.
During her journey, Max becomes fascinated by the people who influenced her parents' lives. She follows the life and times of Lazlo Floznik, the man who saved her parents and helped them escape catastrophe in Europe by seeking out refuge beyond the reach of the security forces that sought to imprison them. The years leading up to World War I, the time between the wars, and the experiences of World War II reveal their secrets as Max explores her family roots, in this deeply emotional story tied together by Lazlo’s intense story of love, and that of his father, Miklos, before him.
Praise:
“Any reader who enjoys historical fiction, romance, war stories, and stories with action and adventure, should definitely give Lazlo's Revenge a read. I am pleased to be able to recommend this book to any such reader. I am also looking forward to reading more from the promising author, Glen Hierlmeier, as soon as I possibly can!” – 4 Stars, Reviewed by Tracy A. Fischer for Readers’ Favorite
Wednesday, 29 June 2016
Book Spotlight & Giveaway: Scattered Seeds by Julie Doherty
Scattered
Seeds
Julie
Doherty
Genre:
Historical fiction, elements of romance
Publisher:
Soul Mate Publishing
Date
of Publication: April 27, 2016
ISBN:
1-68291-050-4
ASIN:
B01E056H1Q
Number
of pages: 339
Word
Count: 100,000
Cover
Artist: Fiona Jayde
Book
Description:
In
18th century Ireland, drought forces Edward and Henry McConnell to
assume false names and escape to America with the one valuable thing
they still own–their ancestor’s gold torc.
Edward
must leave love behind. Henry finds it in the foul belly of The
Charming Hannah, only to lose it when an elusive trader purchases his
sweetheart’s indenture.
With
nothing but their broken hearts, a lame ox, and a torc they cannot
sell without invoking a centuries-old curse, they head for the
backcountry, where all hope rests upon getting their seed in the
ground. Under constant threat of Indian attack, they endure crushing
toil and hardship. By summer, they have wheat for their reward, and
unexpected news of Henry’s lost love. They emerge from the
wilderness and follow her trail to Philadelphia, unaware her cruel
new master awaits them there, his heart set on obtaining the
priceless torc they protect.
Book Trailer:
https://youtu.be/bNzrVFnl9Ts
****
Excerpt:
County Donegal, Ireland
1755
Henry stood next to his father surveying their largest field. He longed to say that the seeds might yet sprout, that there was still time to yield a return, but the undeniable truth lay right before them: drought had come to Ireland. Their investment in imported flaxseed was lost.
“A hundred days, Henry.” Father’s face bore the pained expression of a man whose hope was as withered as his crops. “A hundred days was all we needed, all that stood between us and prosperity.” He kicked a clod of dirt, and it turned to dust. “It’s all gone, gone along wi’ the horse that harrowed the ground.”
A lump rose in Henry’s throat. He ached for his father, and he missed their horse. Paddy was a fine animal purchased ten years ago after a bumper crop of rye, when Edward McConnell’s luck was good and Henry’s only chore was to stay out of his mother’s hair. Elizabeth McConnell moldered in the ground now, and Paddy plowed another man’s fields.
“We will pray, Father. God will help us.”
“God?” Father kneaded his forehead with calloused fingers. “God’s groping in our pockets right along wi’ your Uncle Sorley. Praying did nae pay our tithes or the hearth tax, did it?”
Surely he didn’t mean that. Everyone knew Edward McConnell to be a godly man.
“We’ll get more seed, Father. It’ll grow next year.” He squared his shoulders and tried to look confident.
“Will nae do us any good. Your Uncle Sorley plans to decrease our tillage in favor of pasture.”
“Wi’ no cut in rent, I’ll wager, and early payment again this year.”
Father spat on the parched ground. “He stopped by yesterday looking for it. Said he’ll call in after services on the Sabbath.” He ground his teeth together. “I’d gi’ anything to see the look on his face when he finds our empty hoose.”
Henry’s chest tightened. Were they moving again? He rubbed the back of his neck and looked across the rolling patchwork of fields to the northeast, where their last home rose above a copse of ash, and where his mother’s daffodils still swayed in the Ulster wind. Four years ago, the cattle plague put them out of that house and into the windowless shack they now shared with Phoebe, their only remaining sow. The hut contained a hearth, a curse necessitating the payment of tax despite the fact that it never contained a fire.
With no peat left and no horse to haul more from the bog, the McConnells relied on a moth-eaten blanket and Phoebe’s body heat for warmth.
They had room to fall; many Catholics lived in the open, bleeding cattle and boiling the gore with sorrel for sustenance. Perhaps his father intended to join them.
“Are we moving again?” he asked.
Father slipped two fingers under his brown tie wig and rubbed his temple, something he often did when puzzled.
Henry followed his gaze to the ruins of Burt Castle, which sat atop a knoll, just above Uncle Sorley’s grand plantation house.
“Nine years we’ve suffered bad luck, Henry. E’er since I buried . . .”
Buried what? Maw? She died five years ago, not nine.
Father sunk his head into his hands, muffling his speech. “I . . . I guess it’s time to . . .”
Henry stepped into the hard, hot field, directly in front of his father. “Father, what in the name of heaven is it?”
Father tilted back his head and whispered to the sky, “Forgive me, Elizabeth.” He looked at Henry. “I buried something. Your maw insisted on it, said it was pagan and she did nae want it in her hoose. I did as she asked. A woman can talk ye into cutting off your own hand, Henry, remember that if ye can.”
Henry nodded, not comprehending, wondering what pagan thing lay buried. He’d never heard it mentioned before, and he was a skilled eavesdropper. “What was it? What did ye bury?”
Father inhaled deeply, removed the worn tricorn from his head, and tucked it under his arm. “I’ll tell ye the whole tale, but first, we have to dig it up. We canny do that until after dark.” He turned without warning and headed for home.
Henry followed him, volleying questions against his back.
Father said nothing until they reached their hut. There, he stormed past Phoebe, flung open the door, and nodded toward a worm-ravaged chest sitting next to a heap of rushes that served as their bed.
“Gather up our claithes and shoes. Use my good cloak for a sack. Bring the dried nettles.” He grabbed the peat spade, the only tool left from his once abundant array of implements, and used it to prop open the door.
“Why bring the nettles?” Henry hated the bitter leaves. “There are more nettles than rocks in Ulster.”
When his father offered no reply, he lobbed another question, desperate for clues as to their destination. “Will ye not wear your good cloak, if we are traveling far?”
“My auld cloak will draw less attention.”
So, they were going to some populous place where good cloaks were bad.
Henry spread the cloak across the dirt floor, careful to avoid Phoebe’s manure. The cloak was long out of fashion, but still a quality garment that Edward McConnell could not afford to replace. He threw their scant belongings into the middle of it, brought the cloak’s corners together, then tied them together to form a sack. Excepting Phoebe and the clothes they wore, the sack contained everything worth saving.
He sat on the rickety chest to watch his father pace.
When Burt Castle became a silhouette against an amber horizon, Father donned his hat and cloak and ducked outside.
Henry followed him to the stone wall separating their field from Uncle Archibald’s.
Father began to tumble a section of wall.
With his perplexity and fear mounting, Henry assisted until there was enough of a breach to push Phoebe through the wall.
She trotted away, grunting and wagging her curly tail, while he helped restack the stones to prevent her from returning.
He could no longer hold his tongue.
“What are we doing? Why are we putting Phoebe in Uncle Archibald and Aunt Martha’s field? Are we going somewhere? Where are we going? Why are we taking nettles?”
In his frustration, he grabbed his father’s arm.
Father whirled around and gave Henry’s shoulders a fierce shake. “Get hold of yoursel’, lad, or I’ll cloot ye upside the noggin. No more questions. Just do as ye’re told.”
Henry stared at his father, who had never once laid a hand on him, nor threatened to.
“I’m sorry, lad. Go on in the hoose and get the bundle.”
When Henry returned with their belongings, his father was holding the peat spade.
“Get a good look around ye, son. It’s the last time ye’ll clap eyes on your hame.”
***
About
the Author:
Julie
Doherty expected to follow in her artist-father’s footsteps, but
words, not oils, became her medium. Her novels have been called
“romance with teeth” and “a sublime mix of history and
suspense.”
Her
marriage to a Glasgow-born Irishman means frequent visits to the
Celtic countries, where she studies the culture that liberally
flavors her stories. When not writing, she enjoys cooking over an
open fire at her cabin, gardening, and hiking the ridges and valleys
of rural Pennsylvania, where she lives just a short distance from the
farm carved out of the wilderness by her 18th century “Scotch-Irish”
ancestors.
She
is a member of Romance Writers of America, Central Pennsylvania
Romance Writers, Perry County Council of the Arts, and Clan Donald
USA.
Twitter:
https://twitter.com/SquareSails
***
Tour giveaway
$30 Amazon gift card
5 free Kindle copies of SCATTERED SEEDS
a Rafflecopter giveaway
Sunday, 6 March 2016
Book Spotlight: Steppe by Judy Bruce
by Judy Bruce
Historical Fiction
Miriam Press
Amazon | Amazon UK | BN
Blurb:
My World War II story, set in western Soviet Union during Germany’s retreat, follows the lives of a Russian war widow, a dissident, Christian, and black marketeer, as she serves as a medic on the front lines, and a disillusioned German lieutenant, a former professor and concentration camp officer, as he fights in a losing effort. After our heroine is forced into service as a navigator in a women’s air force regiment, flying plywood and canvas biplanes on harrowing night missions, she encounters the injured yet violent German when her plane crashes. Together they embark on a turbulent journey, first as enemies, later as lovers and disheartened deserters.
***
Excerpt:
Copyright Judy Bruce 2015. All rights reserved.
WAS I on my way to death? The possibility made my heart race. Breathing deeply to calm myself, I caught a heavy dose of truck exhaust as it wafted into the box-car, mixing with the man-stink of a dozen filthy soldiers. The pitching movement of the train mocked the upheaval in my stomach—at every station the train jerked to a stop then lurched forward at departure, churning my insides at every jolt.
What the hell was I doing here? Yes, I believed in hell be-cause I believed in God, which a good communist wasn’t sup-posed to do, and I did my best to be a bad one. Living in the U.S.S.R. was excruciating, as if Soviet Socialism was a dull knife stabbed into my guts since childhood, always twisting and dig-ging deeper. In this boxcar, I felt like a caged rebel—yet I was too proud to permit anyone to know the extent of my disgust and despair.
As I stewed over my circumstances, I twirled a clump of my wavy hair over the index finger of my left hand. To distract my-self from the rim of the barrel cutting into the back of my legs, I shifted my attention to the only other woman in the boxcar full of Red Army soldiers, an early-graying woman of thirty-five or so, who stood at the other end of the car, biting her nails. What was her story? Was she going someplace scary? Suddenly, a hard turn made me bash my head on the wall. Once I succeeded in stifling a grimace and righting myself on the barrel again, I gripped my satchel tighter, mindful that each day I clutched at a fistful of life. Now, as the train charged onward, I felt my grasp weakening; the little control I possessed over my life was pour-ing through the gaps in my fingers.
After another hour, the train labored to a stop at a station. When several rowdy Russian soldiers climbed into the boxcar, the floorboards creaked with the extra weight. With the addition of more strangers, I longed to be back home with my family—what was left of them—sitting around the kitchen table with a cup of sugary tea, listening to a story from my papa, and laugh-ing with my mama. But those people and that possibility became more remote with each frigid, snow-covered verst. Every day would be a fight; if I was to get back to them, I needed to survive in this new unknown.
The boisterous soldiers jostled each other like schoolboys, until one by one they fell silent as they noted the grim silence of the haggard veterans. When the soldier next to me said, “Not one step back,” I thought he meant to mock Stalin’s grand order, but then I understood the soldier merely cautioned a boarding rider not to back into the corner where the urine bucket sat. The newcomer wore a uniform—new, with the creases still denting the stiff, manure-colored pants. The young soldier nodded at the warning then like many others, stared out at the open land through the gap in the wall, a crude window with bars that kept the box car cold and lessened the odor of urine and grimy men. After a couple of moments, I realized I knew that voice. I quick-ly studied his face. He paused then returned my gaze.
“It is very cold,” he said.
“Yes, it is,” I said.
The soldier nodded then we looked away from each other. Angered by my lack of diligent observation, my face flushed hot. Clearly, I should have recognized him earlier and kept my dis-tance. Wondering what his name was, I felt sad that I only knew him as “19,” his black market code number. By necessity, our dealings had been simply business in nature, without a word of pleasantry beyond a stiff greeting. My last sight of him took place at one of my clandestine Bible studies, four or five months ago. Though no one knew who had arranged it, 19 arrived at the supposedly secret meeting with a box full of Bibles. The sum of four of the purchases became my commission. Although we would never speak or acknowledge each other again, I hoped he had a family that cared for him and wished him well. Venturing a glance over at his hands, which were chapped and creased with dirt, I realized I had only seen him in the darkness or by distant lamplight. Now that I had seen him clearly, I concluded his fami-ly honored the Shabbat, lit the menorah, and had observed the mourning period of shiva more than once.
Later that morning, the train jolted the passengers as it began to brake for the station. Soon after the train lurched to a stop, my guts cart wheeled when someone unlocked the doors from the outside. Why the hell did those communist bastards lock us in? I had been caged. But I needed to keep my wits. If I ever stopped thinking, I’d be lost—that’s when they take over. Then I’ll be a sheep like the rest of these louts.
“Medics disembark!”
***
Visit the author at JudyBruce.com
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