Merri Christmas by Victoria Chatham

 

The book that started it all!
AVAILABLE HERE

For the last several years, I have written a short, Christmas-themed story, and here is this year's offering. I hope you enjoy it.

 

 

A passing customer pointed at her name badge, chuckled, and sang out, “Ho, ho, ho.”

Meredith Christmas grinned at him from behind her glass-topped jewellery counter, pointed her finger at him and repeated his greeting before giving him a cheerful thumbs-up.

“Merri, I don’t know how you put up with it,” her colleague, Sandy, moaned. “All that ho-ho-hoing year-round would drive me nuts. How did you get the surname Christmas anyway?”

“It’s from my Dad’s side of the family and dates back to thirteenth-century England via one Richard Christmas, who settled in Virginia in 1647,” Merri said. She waved at a girl of about seven or eight who looked longingly at the jewellery displays but was hurried along by her mother.  

“Wow, it’s a pretty old name then,” Sandy mused.

“Yes, it is. Mom and Dad have a framed certificate showing the family crest and history.”

“That sounds positively baronial,” Sandy said, narrowing her eyes and looking thoughtful. “I can see an oak-beamed hall with a log-filled open fireplace and flames leaping up a stone chimney.”

Merri laughed. “You and your imagination. But wouldn’t that be lovely? It would be decorated with holly, ivy, and real lanterns, and there would be room for everyone.”

Sandy nodded. “Family and friends and all the peasants, of course.”

“Naturally,” Merri agreed, then sighed. “Christmas is such a special time of year.”

“Merri, of everyone I know who loves Christmas, you’re the hands-down winner.”

“You love Christmas, too, Sandy, and don’t pretend otherwise. Ooh, look out, a customer is checking out the gold counter. Your turn.”

Merri picked up a polishing cloth and moved aside for Sandy to approach the counter. They started working on the same day at Boyle’s Emporium, the town’s original and historical corner store. It had been family-owned since it opened, but it was a mystery that none of the staff knew anything about the current Boyle family. Another mystery was that at the end of September, when Boyle’s started hiring for the Christmas season, they had not asked for resumes but five-hundred-word essays on why the applicants wanted to work at Boyle’s and why they liked Christmas.

Meredith glanced around the beautifully decorated store. Who could not like Christmas here? She had loved it since sitting on Father Christmas’s knee in the Winter Wonderland when she was five years old and asking for a baby brother. Her innocent request made her smile now, but hadn’t Father Christmas delivered? The following summer, her baby brother arrived, wrapped in a pale blue crocheted shawl, not in pretty snowflake patterned paper as she had imagined.

The sound of the till opening and closing broke into her reverie.

“Good sale?” Merri asked as Sandy rearranged the jewellery display to fill the gap made by the removal of several pieces.

“Four-hundred and ninety-four dollars and change,” Sandy replied. “I can’t believe how much cash we’ve taken today. I’m glad I’m not closing tonight, so I won’t have to count it.”

Merri glanced at her watch. “Goodness, we’ve only got another half an hour to the end of our shift. The day has flown by.”

“We can’t claim to be bored, that’s for sure,” Sandy agreed. “Especially when there’s a gorgeous-looking man on the horizon.”

She cocked her head, indicating a six-foot-plus, dark-haired individual approaching their counter. “This one’s yours,” she whispered, placing a firm hand on Merri’s back and pushing her toward the counter.

Merri faltered as she recognised the child holding tightly to the man’s hand. Right, she thought, remembering how the mom had hustled her daughter past the jewellery counter. So, there’s mom, dad, the kid, and possibly more than one, but she smiled at the child and said, “Hello again.” Then she shifted her gaze to the man she took to be the girl’s father and swallowed at the twinkle in his warm brown eyes. She pulled herself together. Be professional. “May I help you?”

“Yes, you may,” he replied. “My sister was in a hurry earlier and didn’t give Amanda time to buy a gift for her grandmother.”

“Then let’s see what we can do. Would you like to look at silver or gold earrings?”

Amanda shook her head. “I want to see Christmas earrings. Grandma loves them.”

“Got it.” Merri pulled a chair from behind the counter. “You sit here, and I’ll bring you a selection to view.”

She took a black velvet pad from under the counter and carefully browsed through the earrings on display. She frowned as she realised how few Christmas earrings they had in the silver and gold displays, so she moved to the carousel stands and carefully turned them, relieved to see more of a selection. There were tiny green trees studded with different-coloured stones, glittering globes, a pair of wreaths decorated with red bows, a fun pair simulating red and white striped candies, and another pair in the shape of a snowflake. Merri placed them all on the pad and took them back to her young customer, but then had a thought.

“Amanda, while you look at these, I’m going to check something. I’ll be right back.”

Merri raced to the main floor storeroom. She and Sandy had checked a delivery the day before, but hadn’t they left one box for this morning? Merri keyed in her code and entered the storeroom, scanning the area where they had worked yesterday. Yes, there it was, tucked in the corner of a shelf.

She hauled the cardboard container onto the worktable, reached for a box cutter and slit the tape. She removed the invoice and checked it, but nothing was specifically Christmas earrings. She would have to empty the whole box. She tipped the contents onto the tabletop and checked each packet, breathing a sigh of relief when she found three pairs of Christmas earrings. She ticked the removed items off the invoice and hurried back to her counter.

“I’m sorry I took so long, Amanda,” she said, catching her breath. “Here are three more pairs.” She removed them from the packets and laid them on the pad. “What do you think?”

“Oh, I like these.” Amanda pointed at a pair of enamelled snowmen. “But I like these better.”

She picked up a pair of stars made of mother-of-pearl and hanging from gold wires.

“These are the ones, Dad. Grandma will love them. They will go with her white hair.”

Merri looked up at the child’s father, who nodded. “Could you gift wrap them, please?”

“Of course.” Merri turned to Amanda. “Shall I put them in a box?”

“Yes, please.”

Merri opened a drawer and took out wrapping paper and ribbons. Amanda chose plain blue paper and silver ribbon and watched Merri measure and cut the paper.

“Can you wrap a parcel that small?”

Merri grinned at the child and whispered, “Watch me.”

In a few deft moves, she creased and folded the paper, quickly wrapped the ribbon around the small box, and had Amanda hold it with her finger while forming a bow.

“There, how about that?” She handed the small gift to Amanda. “Do you think your grandma will like it?”

“She’ll love it,” Amanda said. “Grandma says simple things are classy, whatever that means.”

“Your grandma sounds like a smart lady,” Merri said. She shifted her gaze to Amanda’s father. “And I’m sure your dad will explain what your grandma means.”

“Thank you very much, Miss Christmas,” he said, removing a credit card from his wallet.

Unsure he was being sarcastic at her suggestion or thanking her for helping his daughter, Merri barely glanced at the card as she entered the sale into the processing machine and handed it to him.

“Would you like a receipt, Mr.–” Merri stopped, suddenly flustered because she didn’t know the man’s name.

“Yes, I would, please, and the name is Boyle. Josh Boyle.”

Merri looked up at him. “Boyle?” she stammered. “As in Boyle’s Emporium Boyle?”

“That’s the one. We prefer to keep it quiet if you don’t mind.”

“Um, yes, yes, of course,” Merri said. Her head whirled. With her name in plain view so that everyone knew who she was, she still couldn’t quite accept that she was talking to one of the renowned but reclusive Boyles.

“And thank you again for helping Amanda.” The smile he gave her warmed Merri right down to her toes. “My mother said you were a good salesperson. She was right.”

Merri’s brow wrinkled. She didn’t know any Boyles until now.

Josh Boyle whispered, “You know her as Mrs. Winter, in Human Resources. She told me to come and see you. I’m glad I did.”

“Dad,” Amanda tugged his hand impatiently. “We have to go. Aunty Caroline said not to be late. If you want to talk to,” she squinted at Merri’s name badge, “Merri, she should come too.”

“What a splendid idea,” Josh said. His eyes twinkled even more as he smiled at Merri. “How about it, Miss Christmas? If you are free, would you accompany Amanda and me to my mother’s Christmas party?”

“Please come, Merri,” Amanda said. “Grandma is lovely, and so is Aunty Caroline when she’s not in a rush.”

“But what about your…” Merri began, unsure how to ask the question uppermost in her mind.

“Wife? Amanda’s mom?” Josh softly supplied for her.

Merri bit her lip and nodded.

“No longer with us, I’m afraid.”

“She died,” Amanda said with all the candour of childhood.

“Well, then,” Merri took a deep breath. “Yes, I should like that very much.”

“The party starts at eight this evening. We’ll collect you at about seven-thirty if that suits you. Perhaps you’d put your phone number into my phone?”

Merri nodded, speechless because her mouth was suddenly dry. He gave her his cell phone, and she tapped in her number, then returned the phone to him.

He slipped it into his coat pocket. “Later, then.”

“Wow,” Sandy whispered in her ear. “Cinderella shall go to the ball. I can hear the uproar when this news gets out.”

“Don’t,” Merri said. “Please don’t say a word to anyone.”

Sandy chuckled. “Alright, I promise. But you must also promise to tell me more about Mr. Dark and Delicious and his daughter after that party. And if the look on your face is anything to go by, you will have a very merry Christmas.”

Merri groaned. “Not if I don’t get a move on.” She glanced anxiously at her watch. “Where’s Dora and Sue? If they are late–”

Sandy gave her a push. “Just sign out and go. I can manage until they get here.”

“You are–”

“Your best friend, and don’t you forget it. Go and have fun.”

Merri quickly hugged Sandy, grabbed her coat and rushed out of the store into a cold, crisp evening. She still couldn’t quite believe that she had accepted Josh’s invitation, but there was no going back. She couldn’t contact him because although she had provided him with her phone number, she hadn’t taken his.

But, she told herself, you don’t want to go back. Amanda and Josh had charmed her, and she wanted to get to know them much, much better. Merri smiled at the thought that, yes, Sandy was right, and she would have a very merry Christmas indeed.

 

THE END

 

 Victoria Chatham

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Hamilton Parking

 

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As I've been fascinated by Alexander Hamilton since my eleventh year, I've always known about his contributions to the founding of the American Republic. However, I've always been aware too that most of my countrymen hadn't a clue who the guy on the ten dollar bill was.  Our nation wouldn't have survived the first twenty years without his financial knowledge. The framework he set in place at the Treasury Department was so carefully thought out and implemented that even his Jeffersonian successor finally decided to just "go with it" because his creation did the job it was supposed to do. 

In short, the original government only functioned because of Hamilton's construction. Jefferson, Hamilton's great antagonist, would never have been able to finalize the Louisiana Purchase, which brought a good chunk of the center of the country, if Hamilton hadn't made the government solvent and also respected as a reliable client among the wealthy European financial markets, which had financed the Revolution. 

However, it was Jefferson who lived long years after the Revolution, and not Hamilton. "History" is written by the survivors/winners, as everyone knows. As a result, the star of this Founder set quickly. I used to take a perverse pleasure in asking people if they knew the identity of the man on the ten dollar bill, and watching them either shrug, or tell me "Benjamin Franklin" or something else equally wide of the mark.   

I wrote my novel back in the 90's, but it was roundly rejected with a lot of "who cares" or "you can't make a romantic hero out of a Founding Father" from editors. Books We Love took it up, though, and so my long labor of love did eventually get placed between covers. In the meantime, however, the brilliant artist Lin Manual Miranda had also been at work on his musical, and so, finally, the name of "Hamilton" made a triumphant return to public consciousness. 

A few days ago, a traveling NYC company brought the musical Hamilton here to my town. The tickets for that performance were being sold at more than twice the usual price, because even though this is not brand new, it is still in vogue, especially here in the country outside the Big City. On my trip to the grocery store, passing through town, I noticed signs over the restaurants that read "Welcome Hamilton." On my way back, I also saw traffic signs, assuring the folks who were coming to the theater that evening that this was the way to "Hamilton Parking." After all those years of obscurity, it tickled me to see my childhood hero's name all over my town, and to know that at least one version of his remarkable story had put his fame back in lights.

What political party of today could claim him? Probably neither, although one in particular would have been anathema to him. After all, he died in a duel with a man who, he firmly believed, wanted to overturn the Republic and crown himself King. 

Aaron Burr, whom he'd called "An embryo Caesar," made no bones about the fact that he wanted to kill Hamilton. No one really knows what exactly Burr, who was usually not particularly easy to rile, had against Hamilton, although they had years of vitriolic political rivalry behind them. To be fair to Burr, the offense that sparked the challenge must have been keenly felt and excruciatingly personal, as he pursued it to that fine July morning, when the gentlemen were rowed across the Hudson with their seconds, to fight in New Jersey where dueling remained legal.  

~~Juliet Waldron

The Major faces his nightmares, in my new release, Outcast Artist in Bretagne, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

Just released! Purchase the novel HERE

Read an excerpt: The Major, a man who loathes Hitler's policies, faces a nightmare from his past.

August stretched out on the bed in his cotton pajamas, hand behind his head on the pillow. When he closed his eyes and drifted into half-sleep, instead of the sweet smile of a blonde girl who drew birds, a woman he probably liked too much, Operation Hummingbird, Unternehmen Kolibri, intruded, again, on his thoughts. He tightened his fingers on the sheet he’d jerked up to cover himself.

Seven years before, in 1934, a purge with mass assassinations had taken place. Hitler ordered the murder of top officials, allegedly to prevent a coup—but he wanted complete power. Göring and Himmler had urged him on, aided by the SS and Gestapo.

August pressed on the knot in his stomach that usually formed when he had these ugly memories. He was a captain then.

Kurt von Schleicher, the former chancellor of Germany, had been a friend of his father’s. Schleicher had dared to criticize Hitler’s government, allegedly working behind the scenes against him. August, alerted by his father, had rushed over dressed as a civilian to Schleicher’s home near Potsdam to warn him, to take him and his wife to safety. Almost immediately after August had arrived men in trench coats drove up, knocked, and opened fire.

August grimaced and closed his eyes tighter. Gunfire, the stink of gunpowder, Schleicher and his wife both murdered. Their bodies sprawled in pools of crimson in the hallway. The men had fired at him, hitting him in the side. He felt the sharp spike of pain, the sticky blood on his hands. He’d fallen to the floor and pretended to be dead. A coward! He should have shot one of them. But he had been outnumbered.


Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

A Frightening Encounter-from my upcoming release, by Diane Scott Lewis

Purchase my novels HERE

In my novel, Outcast Artist in Bretagne, due out in August, I explore a forbidden love that happens to the despair of my heroine, who doesn't need any more complications in her life.

Stranded in France after the Germans attack in 1940, Norah must maneuver her new situation. Will her cousin's husband demand she leave as the food supply wanes? But she has nowhere to go. What about the German commandant? Does he suspect she is a spy because she's English? Or are his increasing intentions of a different sort altogether? 

Why does she find herself suddenly drawn to him? He has secrets that will undermine Hitler's intent to capture all of Europe. Is he a decent man under that dreaded uniform?

Norah's first confrontation with the commandant:

Norah flinched and swung around. A baby-faced soldier in Nazi greenish-gray scowled at her. “What are you doing here?” he demanded in heavily accented, terrible French, two of his teeth jagged like a weasel.

She straightened, chin high, the pad pressed to her stomach. Inside, she trembled. “I live nearby. I was enjoying a walk. I draw birds.” Her French was passable after the year entrenched with her cousin, and her schoolgirl lessons from a decade ago. Her arrival happened only five weeks before the Germans invaded France. A desperate year because of that and for anguished, personal reasons.

The young man pointed at her book and bag, then shouted over his shoulder in German.

Was he alerting his superior? “Please, I’ve done nothing wrong.” She had no desire to come face to face with the Commandant. “You can search me…if you want.” She cringed at that idea.

“I have no choice but to report you.” The soldier shouted again. The officer’s heavy footsteps thudded closer.

He burst through the bushes, tall and broad-shouldered, his expression stern. The two Germans spoke in their guttural language.

Norah wanted to collapse to the ground but refused to show intimidation. Her spine nearly crackled as she held it firm.

The Commandant confronted her, his blue eyes penetrating. “What is your purpose out here at the shore?” He had distinct cheekbones, a handsome face, his lips full; a man of about forty. An iron cross hung at his high collar. “You don’t care to take instruction from we Philistines. Civilians are restricted.”

“I apologize,” she tried to keep the revulsion from her tone, though his near-teasing words —or perhaps a taunt—put her off-balance even more, “I was out for a walk and…I used to walk by the shore. Before—” Before you damned Germans arrived.

“What is in that book and bag? Give the pad to me, so I may inspect what you’re doing.” He reached out his gloved hand, his French excellent.

She hesitated, then handed the book over. “I like to sketch birds. I have a friend who is an ornithologist. We study them. Rather he studies them, I just draw.”

She opened the bag at his order, and the young soldier plowed through it. “I’d appreciate it if you don’t crack my pencils.”

“Show me your Identification Card. What is your name, prowler of the coast?” the officer asked in his clipped, almost raspy voice. He opened and paged through her drawings. “It is only birds, nothing more?”

“I’m Norah Cooper, and yes, it’s only birds.” She pulled out the card residents were now required to carry.

He snatched the card and read the words, perused her picture. Then he handed it back. “Ah, I detected an English accent in your French.”

His continued rough handling of the pages sent sparks along her shoulders. Would she be punished for being English, Germany’s worst enemy?

She reached for her book to mask her panic, the idea she could be interrogated or shot. Her knees wobbled. “Please…may I have—”

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

Apple Peels and Snails to Snare a Husband in the Eighteenth Century, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase my historical novels, click HERE

To celebrate February, the month of love, with Valentine's Day, I delved into the superstitions of the past when a village lass searched for her one true love.

Folklore abounds in the villages of England around the single girl’s search for a husband—as in the eighteenth century marriage was what most young women had to look forward to, or they’d be ridiculed and regulated to spinsters, farmed out as governesses, or forced to live on the charity of their family.

Most of these search-for-true-love customs revolved around the seasons.

 
At the ruined Abbey of Cerne Abbas in Dorsetshire, girls flocked around the wishing-well in all seasons. To obtain their heart’s desire, they’d pluck a leaf from a nearby laurel bush, make a cup of it, dip this in the well, then turn and face the church. The girl would then “wish” for presumably a man she already has in mind, but must keep this wish a secret or it wouldn’t come true.

Other customs included, in Somersetshire on May Day Eve or St. John’s Eve, a lass putting a snail on a pewter plate. As the snail slithered across the plate it would mark out the future husband’s initials.

On another ritual to this end, writer Daniel Defoe remarked by saying: “I hope that the next twenty-ninth of June, which is St. John the Baptist’s Day, I shall not see the pastures adjacent to the metropolis thronged as they were the last year with well-dressed young ladies crawling up and down upon their knees as if they were a parcel of weeders, when all the business is to hunt superstitiously after a coal under the root of a plantain to put under their heads that night that they may dream who should be their husbands.”

Throwing an apple peel over the left shoulder was also employed in the hopes the paring would fall into the shape of the future husband’s initials. When done on St. Simon and St. Jude’s Day, the girls would recite the following rhyme as they tossed the peel: St. Simon and St. Jude, on you I intrude, By this paring I hold to discover, without any delay please tell me this day, the first letter of him, my true lover.

On St. John’s Eve, his flower, the St. John’s Wort, would be hung over doors and windows to keep off evil spirits, and the girls who weren’t off searching for snails in the pastures, would be preparing the dumb cake. Two girls made the cake, two baked it, and two broke it. A third person would put the cake pieces under the pillows of the other six. This entire ritual must be performed in dead silence-or it would fail. The girls would then go to bed to dream of their future husbands.

On the eve of St. Mary Magdalene’s Day, a spring of rosemary would be dipped into a mixture of wine, rum, gin, vinegar, and water. The girls, who must be under twenty-one, fastened the sprigs to their gowns, drink three sips of the concoction, then would go to sleep in silence and dream of future husbands.



On Halloween, a girl going out alone might meet her true lover. One tale has it that a young servant-maid who went out for this purpose encountered her master coming home from market instead of a single boy. She ran home to tell her mistress, who was already ill. The mistress implored the maid to be kind to her children, then this wife died. Later on, the master did marry his serving-maid.

Myths and customs were long a part of village life when it came to match-making.


Source: English Country Life in the Eighteenth Century, by Rosamond Bayne-Powell, 1935.

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund. 

Virtual Writing Conferences VS Physical Writing Conferences by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

 

https://www.bookswelove.com/donaldson-yarmey-joan/

In the time of virtual everything because of Covid, I took part in my first virtual writing conference last year. I was both a panelist and in the audience for some sessions. I have attended physical writing conferences in Victoria, Vancouver, Calgary, and Edmonton and there is a definite difference between the two. In my opinion each has its own pros and cons.

     There is a lot of coordinating and cost for the organizers of the physical conference. They have to find a venue usually a hotel with boardrooms. This allows the panelists and attendees to book a room and stay close to the conference. There are usually guests of honour who have to be paid. Besides monetary costs it takes a lot of time to figure out the panels: subjects, panelists, and the timing of sessions to accommodate writers or editors publishers who are on more than one panel. They also have to recruit volunteers to look after the rooms. These volunteers make sure the moderator runs on schedule, the audience clears out in time for the next one, and there are fresh glasses and jugs of water for each new session.

     There are also costs for the panelists and audience members of the physical conference. If they don’t live in the city where the conference is being held they have to travel which entails gas, hotel, and meals or plane tickets and car rental plus hotel and meals. If a presenter wants to be in the audience of any of the sessions they have to pay the registration fee just like everyone else. There is the also the extra cost of a banquet ticket if one is planned.

     I lived on Vancouver Island at the time and in order to attend any physical conference off the island I had to drive 1.5 hours to the ferry, and to make sure I get on it I have to be there about an hour early or pay for a reservation. Then it is almost two hours ferry travel to Vancouver. So that is four hours. If I am going to Calgary or Edmonton, it is another day’s drive. I could fly which is quicker but I would still have to pay for the ticket and to rent a vehicle to get around once there.

     Like the physical conference it would have taken a lot of time to plan the arrangement of the panels and panelists of the virtual conference. Monetary costs were probably low because there was no venue, no banquet, and no guests of honour.

     It cost me, and everyone else who took part, nothing to attend the virtual conference either as a panelist or an audience member. I had no plane ticket or vehicle gas and parking to pay for, no hotel room to book, and no new clothes.

     The length of the physical conference has to work around the time frame of the panelists and attendees. Unless they take a day off work the first panels can’t start too early on the Friday because of ability to get there. For that same reason, it has to close early on the Sunday so those leaving can start their long drive home or get to the airport in time to catch their plane.

     Because there is no travel involved, the first session of a virtual conference can start around the time people get home from work on the Friday. The only thing everyone has to remember is the difference between time zones. Being on the west coast the morning sessions started very early for me. The evening sessions ended before my supper time.

     When it was time to be a panelist I set my computer up and clicked on the link a few minutes before the session was to start. Pictures of the other panelists showed up on my screen and we visited a few minutes before the moderator started the session. When I was in the audience I clicked on the link and waited for the panelists to show up on my screen.

     Being on a virtual panel, the guests only see a shoulders and head shot of me so I just have to wear a good top and comb my hair. I have to make sure there was no light like a window behind to put my face in shadow. Also, depending on where I was I could have some unexpected interruptions—pets, children, phone ringing.

     Getting ready for a physical conference I have to pack enough clothes for the weekend. If I am on a panel I have to make sure I have all my material with me when I leave home. If I forget anything, I am out of luck. No packing for a virtual conference and all my material will be in my house somewhere.

     At a physical conference there are many panels taking place at the same time which can be frustrating if I want to attend more than one of them. For this virtual conference only one panel was offered each hour so I was able to take part in as many as I wanted. When I finished my panel or the presentation was over I could leave my office and pet my cats, pick strawberries, sit on my deck, or train my chickens to run an obstacle course.

     The downside to the virtual conference is that the only people I see are my fellow panelists. I don’t see the audience expressions so there is no interaction between me and them. I like to watch them to see if they are bored or glad that they came. I am happy to see that ‘ahah’ moment when something I say answers a problem they have been having.

     At both conferences there is time for the audience to ask questions. When answering a question at a physical conference I can speak with the audience face to face, I can judge to see if my answer is making sense. The questions at a virtual conference are typed so I don’t see the person asking. When I answer it I am only looking at my fellow panelists.

     Part of the fun of going to a physical conference is the contact with my fellow writers. We can meet for meals or a drink or have a quick chat between panels. I can walk through the conference centre soaking up the writing atmosphere. I meet readers, talk about books, and get feedback on my own books. It is wonderful when someone comes up to me and tells me they enjoyed a presentation I made or want some advice, or liked one of my books. This does stroke my ego because we writers need to have our egos stroked once in a while. We spend months, years even, alone writing a book, wondering if a publisher is going to like it and if a publisher does, will the readers like it and if they do will they tell us. It is a great feeling to go to the Vendor’s Room and see my books displayed on my publisher’s table. Even better to have someone buy one of mine and ask for an autograph.

     During a virtual conference, there is a Vendor’s Room showing a picture of all the panelists and their books. There is also a chat room where authors and readers can connect.

     There are a lot of differences between the two conferences. Most physical conferences have been cancelled for this year or turned into a virtual conference which is perfect in today’s time of lockdown and social distancing. In the future I am sure they will return as writers and readers decide what they like best: the convenience of the virtual conference or the comradery of the physical conference. I like both and if, in the future, I am able to attend either of them, I will.