Monthly Archives: February 2017

…Author Jack Eason nails it for writing and acting jobbing jobs…

…my scribbling buddy, Author, Jack Eason, puts in perspective the LUV of writing versus the opportunities to ‘let that little literary light shine’





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…Writers… can’t seem to move yer story forward?… Authoress, Gay Ingram, shows yeez how…

…my dear pal, Authoress, Gay Ingram, discovered an antidote for the dreaded ‘Writer’s Block’… enjoy…





Sidelining a Stall

Every writer gets stuck from time to time. My latest release, Not Bound By Blood (, had a long road of bumps, halts, and starts. I recently came across a journal posting from 2012. At the time, I had reached the middle of the story, knew where I wanted to get, but not how to get there.

I agonized for weeks — distracted myself by fleshing out scenes for later in the story — but was at a loss on how to fill in the gap. I was stuck.

My solution was to push myself away from the torture of a silent keyboard and turn to an entirely different creative activity. My particular choice of escape at that time was to take on a quilting project. There is something about choosing scraps of fabric and shuffle them about to see how they complement each other that soothes me.

All the while, my subconsciouscontinued working at sorting out that story’s plot, without my even being aware. As I worked at the repetitious activity of feeding tiny pieces of material past the machine’s needle, images and scenes would pop uninvited into my head. I allowed them to float ..past, knowing they would find a lodging spot in the recesses of my brain and await my future invitation to see the light of day on my computer screen.

When the words and pictures inside my head felt ready to coalesce into a solution to my dilemma, I returned to the writing, refreshed and ready to pound the keys and shape the rest of the novel into shape.

It took several vacations-on-the-shelf before I finally wrote ‘the end’ to Not Bound By Blood.  It was released in May 2016 and I’m now anticipating the excitement of reading several promised reviews from faithful readers.

Thank you to all who enjoy the tales I write.

Here’s my latest – Not Bound By Blood –


Check out my Author page –

Have you seen the latest blog?

Want to know more about me?

…thanks for the great tip, m’Lady, Gay… see yeez later… LUV YEEZ! 🙂




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…’twas tough being a witch in 1600s England… as Author Gerald Neal reveals…

…my good friend, Author Gerald Neal, is no stranger to this ‘ere blog… and my page is the more blessed for that… however blessings are usually never far from curses… and his insightful piece below is witness to that… enjoy…



The first case on the Sessions Book in Harwich concerned five women accused of witchcraft in 1601 – all were found guilty and hanged, not burnt alive as myth would have it. This did not occur until 1645 when Matthew Hopkins, the Witchfinder General from nearby Manningtree bought over fifty suspected witches for torture and subsequent trial at Chelmsford court.

In 1605 Mary Hart was found not guilty of bewitching 7lb of meat that had gone putrid, but her luck ran out the following year when she was found guilty and hanged on another charge.

In 1609, Thos Barneby, Peter and Cecelia Wigborough were accused but found not guilty of witchcraft and wizardery. Also in 1611 and 1612 Peter faced further charges and was again adjudged innocent of all charges.

Most witches though were elderly widows or spinsters with a strong belief that witchcraft was hereditary. Indeed three generations of witches were accused in Harwich; Elizabeth Hanby (hanged), her daughter, Jane Prentice in1634 and 1638 plus her granddaughter Susan Prentice 1638.

Margaret Buller and her sister Anne was found guilty of murder and witchcraft at Dovercourt. John Camper’s father William Camper, a yeoman of Dovercourt, testified that; “John my son aged 13, fell ill with stomach pains and awoke during the night much frightened and scared with a thing fluttering on his face in his sleep like a bird and he said; pray God mother Buller did not send me something unto me this night”. Two days later John was dead. Both sisters were hanged.

Others were accused of making threats then sending their imps, familiars (often cats) or even birds to bring about their victims downfall; either sickness, loss of money or even their demise. One such woman (Jane Wiggins) went to Harwich docks to beg some fish from a fisherman Anthony Payne – he denied her so she cursed him and his ship. He, his ship with 16 other persons were all lost at sea on their following voyage. Also after the loss, strange rat-like imps and birds were seen to torment his surviving family and animal herd, Jane Wiggins was hanged for her perceived crimes.

The Essex witches though were not believed to fly or sail the sea in sieves, also they did not meet in witches’ Sabbaths, indulge in orgies or sleep with the Devil. A mark of guilt though could be ‘Witches Marks’ that were found upon the body of an accused woman, showing where she had suckled her imps with milk or blood.

Sarah Barton charged with witchcraft at Harwich 1645 gave evidence against her sister, Marion Hockett saying; “she had cut off her bigs (nipples) so she could suckle her three imps who she called; Littleman, Prettyman and Dainty.

After 1647 presentments for witchcraft decreased in number and there were no more executions, although Bridget Weaver the last Harwich witch was heard at the Essex Assizes in 1675.

…thanks for sharing, Gerald… see yeez later… LUV YEEZ!



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…Jurassic is as Jurassic does…

…this ol’ Scots scribbler has never ever claimed to be the vanguard for cutting-edge new gadgetry or even blunt-edge new gadgetry… my self-acknowledged label, ‘Jurassic’ applies not only to my dearth of understanding of all things compoootery, but also to a few other areas… in this age of handheld mobile communication instruments, when others around me, every other season, seem to trade up their current Samsungs/Nokias/Blackberries (yes, I had one of those until a few months ago!), I reluctantly swap mine only when the fabric of my present device is crumbling to pieces… when I purchase the latest up-to-date models, it takes me eons to understand how the bluudy things operate, including sum’times simply how to switch them on… and truly, all I ever want them to do is to receive SMS messages and to make and receive phone calls…


…and it now occurs to me, that regardless of my protestations of being open-minded about most things, p’raps over the years there have been a few hints and signals that I really do not easily accept or adapt to my modern changing WURLD… f’rinstance, apart from the embedded feature in the present-day ubiquitous mobile devices, I have never owned a camera… on the few occasions emb’dy else has handed me one and asked that I take their photograph, I’m more than likely to capture a picture of the cloud-laden sky above them, or have everybody move at the same time when I click the ‘go’ button on it, causing a blur of faces…


…(as a P.S. to the mobile’s camera, I am regularly surprised when photos show up on it, showing my knees or the floor, where sum’how I’ve clicked sum’thing I didn’t know was clickable)… another item missing in my ‘abilities’ or lack of them, is the ownership of a Driver’s Licence… never had one… and never ever wanted one… (subject of a to-be-revealed-later, sorry tale of a failed Vespa Scooter driving test on the Isle of Mull many decades ago)… so, with these and several other idiosyncratic Jurassic tendencies, how have I survived all this time?… just fine, thanks… Jurassic is as Jurassic does… I take pictures with my eyes… I ride in the passenger seats of vehicles … much less stress by a magnitude of hundreds… and have managed thus far to avoid the dreaded ‘selfie’ affliction… see yeez later… LUV YEEZ!



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…Scottish Junior football… junior in name only…

…football fans who hail from anywhere else in the WURLD other than Bonnie Scotland may be excused for mistaking the ‘Scottish Junior Football League’ tag as a reference to the age level of the players involved… not so… the ‘Junior’ refers to the level of the football, compared with the Senior Professional Leagues… the guys on the field are usually a good mixture of young bloods coming up through the ranks, with dreams of steeping up to the ‘big’ League, and older pros, one-time full professionals, having served their time in the headier atmosphere of the larger professional teams, but perhaps having lost a yard or two of pace, but still with plenty of footballing experience to hold their places in the Junior ranks… my earliest club in the Junior League, more than 50 years ago, was based in Glasgow, in the Docklands Govan of my youth… Benburb F.C…   ‘The Bens’ played at a ground called Tinto Park…. a more recent photo below doesn’t show the holes at the back of the corrugated iron fencing around the ground that used to allow us to get into watch games for free as youngsters… and I don’t recall ever seeing as much grass on the pitch as that!…


…summer time evening games rarely needed the string of floodlights as darkness in Scotland didn’t settle in until usually well past ten in the evening… another player at that time, Archie Donachie, lived in my street, but played for a rival club, Kilbirnie Lakeside F.C., who were based in North Ayrshire… too far away for Archie to get there every day for training (most Junior League players had day jobs back then), so he used to train with a few pals and I in a local park most evenings after WURK… he was much older than the rest of us, but with excellent skills… he taught us a few tricks of the trade… for example, I am naturally right-footed, but liked to play on the left wing… he trained me for half an hour each night, wearing a proper football boot on the left foot and a soft shoe on the right, making sure I would use the left as a more instinctive choice… he also showed is how to ‘ride’ tackles, by training with small ‘penny-dreadful‘ paperbacks tucked in the front of our socks, then making tackles on each other without the football, hitting the shins where the books were, ensuring our studs were off the ground… back then, few of us used shinguards, which are now mandatory in current football everywhere… I wonder how many of the ballet dancers masquerading as footballers in the modern game ever learned these basic tricks… see yeez later… LUV YEEZ!


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…of Language Snobs and Grammar Nazis…

…this ol’ Scots Jurassic is more fortunate than many, inasmuch as I’ve been exposed to the opportunity to learn more than one language in a career spanning three continents and five decades… along the way, the knack of picking up the local lingo wherever possible has proved a great boon, not so much to assist in pure communication, but more for demonstrating my desire to come someway ‘across the bridge’ to meet the local populace in their own linguistic backyard… dropping a few phrases into conversation in Cantonese, French, Gaelic, Tagalog and Arabic has often gone a long way to ‘breaking the social ice’… indeed, when I first arrived in London as a Trainee Master of the Financial Universe, ‘a-hem’ years ago, my Scottish brogue marked me out immediately as a foreigner in a strange land… adapting to the Queen’s English in deepest Sassenach country was mandatory for everyday survival… it has been a perpetual irk to me, however, when I hear Language Snobs, supposedly fluent in their English mother tongue, berating people from another country for lacking the depth of English in their conversation…aaaa…I recall once in Hong Kong taking one pin-striped ‘Hooray Henry’ to task when he railed against the local Chinese personnel’s lack of English, by asking him how much Cantonese he could speak… none, of course, but uttered with that air of despicable colonial righteousness that demanded that the locals, who comprised 99% of the populace, should understand his tongue, whilst he completely ignored theirs... when I hear someone speaking in broken English, I applaud them for the attempt to converse in a different language to their own… which brings me on to a parallel matter… the prevalence of Grammar Nazis on the web… Facebook is full of it…


…people nit-picking for sumb’dy else’s use of WURDS, as if the listener is the sole arbiter of use of grammar and phraseology… no matter how clear or otherwise a man’s verbal expression, if I can understand what he’s trying to say, that’s plenty good enuff for me… so, let’s kick into touch the Language Snobs and Grammar Nazis… or better still, lock ’em up together with a bucketload of English primers and foreign language dictionaries, and let them bore the hell out of one another… see yeez later… LUV YEEZ!



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…my Author pal, Charles E. Yallowitz has a great new book launch…

…enough mayhem in this new novel by Charles E. Yallowitz to keep yeez on the edge of yer seats, Lads and Lassies of Blog Land…

Return to the Shattered States
for a tale of love between a woman & her jeep!

Cover Art by Jon Hunsinger

Cover Art by Jon Hunsinger

Lloyd and Cassidy’s last adventure was to honor a life. This time they are out to end one.

It was a normal, violent mission to Texas that should have had nothing more than beer-induced hiccups. That is until an old enemy makes off with Cassidy’s jeep and most of their gear. Needless to say, she’s pissed off and challenging Lloyd for the psychopath of the month award. With the mouthy serial killer by her side, she is going on the warpath from Dallas to Miami even if it means declaring war on the drug cartels.

So strap in for another wild ride through the Shattered States and learn why you never mess with Cassidy’s jeep.

Available on Amazon for 99 cents!

Want a taste?

“So your boss thought she could send assassins to kill the Riflemen,” the black-haired leader says, earning a cheer from his men. A firm smack to the prisoner’s head silences her gurgling attempt to deny the charge. “Nothing you say can prevent the inevitable. Don’t go thinking that pet serial killer will save you either. The idiot brought a paintball gun to Texas and thought he’d win a gunfight? I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did. All we need to do is find the body and we can collect the bounty on him too. Guess you’re lucky that he’s wanted dead and you’re wanted alive by that warden up north.”

“I’d be careful, boss,” a sword-wielding gang member warns. She leans away from the angry glare, but rolls up her sleeve to reveal a sloppily stitched wound. “While this one isn’t as tough as her reputation says, she can still hit hard. Lost two men before we restrained her and three more are nursing broken balls. Maybe we should use some of our tranquilizer stash and keep her sedated.”

“No reason for th-” Top Hog begins as he runs his hand across the prisoner’s forehead. He rubs his fingers at the sensation of something sticky between his fingers and looks closer to figure out what he has touched. “This scar is fake. Made from glue or something. Are you sure this is Cassidy?”

“She was with Lloyd Tenay at the bar,” a one-eyed man replies in a shaky voice. He shifts from one foot to the other when everyone else takes a step away from him. “You told us to look for him and a blonde woman. She had the denim jacket, the forehead scar, cursed a lot, carried two pistols, and even has the correct tramp stamp. Everyone was calling her Cassidy after she drove up in the blue jeep too. We made sure that everything checked out, boss. Even bribed the bartender and two waitresses.”

Sweat beading on his face, Top Hog draws his large gun and presses it to the prisoner’s temple. He leans around her, his eyes repeatedly darting toward her hands to make sure they are still bound. Lifting her white shirt, he sees the unique tattoo that the widespread stories mention Cassidy getting a little less than a year ago. The design is two pistols back to back with vines of bone curling around and binding them together. A strange discoloration catches the gang leader’s attention and he rubs his thumb along the woman’s side, pushing his weapon harder against her head to prevent wiggling. He swears that he feels a seam, so he gets a dirty fingernail beneath what turns out to be a flesh-colored sticker. Top Hog yanks it off and shows it to his men, the prisoner biting her lower lip to avoid screaming. He can already see that the tattoo is smeared from where he has touched it with his meaty fingers.

Enraged and embarrassed, the gang leader is about to kill the fake Cassidy when he hears distant rock music. Within seconds, he realizes that the source is getting closer and is soon joined by maniacal laughter coming over a crackling megaphone. With a snap of his fingers, Top Hog orders one of his men to take the prisoner to his office while the others run for the exit. Nobody gets very far before a blue jeep, which has been outfitted with a wide battering ram, smashes through the front of the warehouse. The vehicle leaves a gaping hole in the wall, which is made worse by hooked chains on the rear bumper that catch and tear more of the obstacle down. The jeep continues at full speed through crates, shelving units, and the slower gang members whose deaths are celebrated by honks of the horn. Tires screech as the driver hits the brakes and gets the car to spin, the move appearing to have no purpose beyond making those inside dizzy. With an embarrassing thud, the vehicle hits the back wall and hisses to a stop.

The gang have already drawn their weapons and are cautiously approaching the jeep when the sunroof opens. Bullets fly at the blonde figure that leaps out, the projectiles creating so many holes that the top half of their target falls off. The legs of the cardboard cutout are casually tossed to the floor before the shriek of a megaphone makes everyone cringe and cover their ears. With the tattered remains laying face up, the frustrated criminals realize that they have destroyed another Cassidy decoy. They are about to inch closer when the jeep briefly roars to life and a man inside begins making engine noises. The sounds change to the exaggerated screams and detailed begging of those whose parts are still stuck to the scuffed battering ram.

“So that was your plan, Cassidy?” Top Hog asks with a chuckle. He turns to see their prisoner is trying to roll away and fires his gun into the air to stop her. “Two decoys, so that you could get the drop on us. Guess you thought more of us would get run over. You still have thirteen of my crew standing and you’re cornered in that jeep. Now, the only question is if I send a piece of you back to the Duchess as a message that she should stay out of my business. Damn northerner needs to stay out of Texas’s business.”

“Actually, that young woman was the bait and I was the distraction,” Lloyd announces from inside. With a gleeful laugh, he opens one of the doors and yanks it back when the gang shoots at him. “Well shit. That was my favorite power window button. Anyway, people make that mistake all the time. You see, bait draws you in and, at least here, allows the real predators to follow you back to the previously hidden hideout. Not even a sign to help us out, which is very rude and unaccommodating. Now, the distraction’s job is to keep you looking in one direction while a mischievous maiden of mayhem prepares her new toy somewhere else. Don’t bother running, boys, because she’ll take that as an insult.”

Top Hog and his men turn toward the hole in the wall, which has exposed them to the large parking lot. The sun forces them to squint at the lone figure standing behind a loaded mini-gun, the weapon glinting in the midday light. Clouds move across the sky, which makes it easier for the gang to identify the denim jacket and blonde hair of their enemy. They take a few shots at the distant woman, but their bullets either miss completely or bounce off several riot shields that are strapped to the weapon. A slamming car door causes them to jump, but they turn in the wrong direction and are unable to stop Lloyd from racing toward the prisoner. Wearing orange pants from his time as a prisoner and a red shirt with a lightning bolt, the black-haired serial killer seems like an obvious target as he scoops up the young woman and dives behind a box of grenades. Suddenly afraid for their lives, Top Hog and his men attempt to scatter and hunt for cover.

“I hate moving targets,” Cassidy growls.

And don’t forget how it all started in
Also on sale for 99 cents!


About the Author:

Charles Yallowitz was born and raised on Long Island, NY, but he has spent most of his life wandering his own imagination in a blissful haze. Occasionally, he would return from this world for the necessities such as food, showers, and Saturday morning cartoons. One day he returned from his imagination and decided he would share his stories with the world. After his wife decided that she was tired of hearing the same stories repeatedly, she convinced him that it would make more sense to follow his dream of being a fantasy author. So, locked within the house under orders to shut up and get to work, Charles brings you Legends of Windemere. He looks forward to sharing all of his stories with you, and his wife is happy he finally has someone else to play with.

Twitter: @cyallowitz
Facebook: Charles Yallowitz

…thanks for sharing, Charles…see yeez later… LUV YEEZ!



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…Authors… what do yeez want the artwork on yer book covers to do?

cover-for-violin-man…let there be no ambiguity… the most important part of a scribbler’s product is always the content… the writing itself… good material is the best advertisement for yer WURK… the single element more likely than any to get yeez repeat readership… however, as emb’dy who’s ever written a book will tell yeez… there are other things to get involved with to help get yer wee masterpieces circulating and selling…vwb-cover amongst these is the artwork… the wrapper… the visual magnet that draws the eyes of the casual browser around the shelves in Waterstones or the surfers of reams upon reams of Auntie Amazon’s web pages… I recall not so long ago when visiting into London on the vacation breaks from the Middle East, piling basketloads of printed books from Waterstones in Regent Street, usually from a glance-and-buy… ending up paying by the kilo for my reading material for the ensuing months in the desert… like most people, I have my  preferred JONGGRs, usually crime thrillers… but others will have their own… chacun a son gout biblophile… now, I’ve no idea how many titles exist in the crime thrillers category, but it prob’ly runs to hundreds of thousands… front-view-speven more relevant then does it become, that my nano-second decision making when I buy in the stores is affected by a great ‘teaser’ cover…killercityweb comes now my own wee literary babies… bawling for space and attention in this tsunami of offerings… and why, from the very start of this incredible author journey, I decided to go with the best cover artist I could find… my friend Edward Lu in Manila in the Philippines… I regard my investment in his ability to create what I want my covers to do as the best value around… he tells graphically on one cover page precisely what the reader should expect… but does it in such a way that it generates positive anticipation… deadly-impassethat’s what I wanted him to achieve, and he delivers… so, Authors… what do yeez want the artwork on yer own book covers to do?…see yeez later… LUV YEEZ!



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…true grit?… or just plain fitba’ daft?… the original ‘flying winger’…

…for a brief interlude in Master Gallacher‘s kaleidoscopic career, I played on the wing, in the outside left position, for the then Scottish First Division team, Third Lanark F.C.… the ‘Hi’Hi’s’, in the fifties and early sixties, vied with Partick Thistle F.C. and Clyde Football Club, as the city’s challengers to Glasgow’s big two, Rangers and Celtic… I was signed up (or rather my dad signed me up) on what were called ‘S-Forms’ – schoolboy player designation for a professional club… the playing staff at the time boasted two exceptionally talented forwards in Alex Harley and Dave Hilley, goal machines of the old school… and arguably the shortest professional  goalkeeper the WURLD has ever known at 5 ft 5 1/2 inches tall, Jocky Robertson… when he put on his goalie’s ‘bunnet’ (cap, Mabel… cap), he grew instantly taller… despite his being vertically challenged, he was an excellent keeper, and immensely brave…


…my first training session at the club was held in the evening (some of the players had other day jobs) under the car park lights… yes, the car park… the pitch was to be kept for match days only… none of yer running about and spoiling the surface before Saturday’s game… the car park was topped with ash, and we went through our paces there… I had purchased a new pair of shorts for my first showing in front of my new team mates and the trainer (‘coach’ back then was a WURD that meant ‘a bus’)… unfortunately in my haste to buy the shorts and get along to the club grounds at Cathkin Park, I took a pair that was two sizes too small… I struggled into them and began to train… kicking the ball back and forth was just about manageable, but when the trainer asked us to get ready for sprints, I knelt down, and on ‘ready, steady go’, lunged forward a la Usain Bolt… the tightness of the shorts restricted my legs from moving at the same speed as the rest of my body, and I took off in a perfect simulation of Superman, flying yards away from the start line, ending up sprawled face down on the ash surface… my extended hands and arms took the brunt of it… gravel rash dug into my palms and up my arms to each elbow… it was horrendously painful… I think I was more angry at the embarrassment than at the excruciating bite of the cinders in my now-bleeding skin… in a rage I ripped the sides of the shorts to free my thighs, and carried on to the next sprints… all of which I won easily, propelled by temper more than skill… (I won’t say I won ‘hands down’… too painful!)… I went on to play a season with the club before moving away from Glasgow to pursue my career as a Trainee Financial Master of the Universe… in 1967, the club sadly folded after dreadful mismanagement and embezzlement at the directors’ level… but at least for one training night I truly was a ‘flying winger’… see yeez later… LUV YEEZ!



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Writer’s support

…my great pal, Val Portelli, she of ‘Voinks’ blog fame, pens this terrific piece which makes for almost mandatory reading for every author on the planet, in my not-so-‘humble view!



Writing can be one of the loneliest professions. Even if we’re not stuck away in the proverbial attic our quill pens or laptops are not the friendliest of company. 

Luckily the ‘family’ of authors are one of the most supportive group I’ve ever come across. Having been there, done that and bought the printing paper I’ve learnt that experienced, best selling, traditionally published scribblers are as likely to offer their advice and support as others still struggling to understand the vagaries of the Indie route.


Here’s a quick guide to writing a book and becoming an overnight success:

  • Have an idea.
  • Start typing (or writing) feeling inspired.
  • Get stuck half way through.
  • Finally type ‘The End.’
  • Sit back and wait to become famous.
  • Realise that’s not going to work.
  • Re-read your masterpiece and discover all the errors.
  • Friends and family re-assure you it’s wonderful.
  • Re-write your blockbuster.
  • Proof read.
  • Get…

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