Seasons and Stories by Victoria Chatham

 

COMING IN JUNE

It is now officially Spring 2022. In my part of the world, it still doesn’t feel like it. I envy friends in England who have posted pictures of gardens full of colour, from gorgeous golden daffodils to blue grape hyacinths and multi-coloured primulas. I wonder how many authors use not just the weather the seasons in creating their settings.

April has a hopeful sense of the summer to come, but Charles Dickens writes: Spring is the time of year when it is summer in the sun and winter in the shade, which speaks to the duality in this more than any other season of the year.

Writers look for ways to enhance the drama in their plots and the nuances of their characters, either physically or metaphorically. Just as we sometimes use the weather to create a mood or direct the way a scene goes, we can use the seasons in both our settings and in our characters’ perspectives.

I have certainly used the seasons in my books. My character, Emmaline, is abducted on a perfect September afternoon in my first Regency romance. By the time she is rescued and returns home, it is a whole month later, and the trees in the estate park have already turned colour.

In the second Regency, a lot of the book takes place at sea and in Jamaica, but Juliana calculates that she left England in January, and it’s now September. The seasons are not plot lines in either book, but more indicate the timeline.

In One for the Money, Janet Evanovich uses the season to describe Stephanie Plum’s New Jersey ‘hood: During summer months, the air sat still and gauzy, leaden with humidity, saturated with hydrocarbons. It shimmered over hot cement and melted road tar.

In Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, J.K. Rowling writes of fall: Autumn seemed to arrive early that year. The morning of the first of September was crisp and golden as an apple.

In the movie The Winter Guest, set in northern Scotland, the husband of Emma Thompson’s character Frances dies suddenly, leaving Frances distraught. Her mother (in real life and in the movie), played by Phyllida Law, comes to stay with her. The film opens with a shot of the mother walking across frozen fields and with the camera later panning across a frozen sea. Set in any other season but winter, I’m not sure that Frances’ grief would have seemed so soul-deep. The bleakness of the setting seemed to represent the bleakness in her soul and vice versa.

Just as light and shade, time of day, rain or sunshine influence the moods we try to create for our characters, so can the season lead our readers through the seasons of our stories.

Victoria Chatham

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Book Cover release during My Favourite Season by J. S. Marlo

 

J. S. Marlo's BWL Books

A few days ago, I received my new book cover for my upcoming November book release: Mishandled Conviction.  I'd like to thank our fabulous book cover artist Michelle. If I can say so myself, my new book cover is gorgeous!  Michelle, you're awesome!

I will tell you more about Mishandled Conviction next month, so stay tune. Now back to My Favourite Season.

Last week, my little granddaughter asked me what was my favourite season. Without hesitation, I said Autumn. So she asked if it was because it was my birthday. That was a fair question coming from the mouth of a six-year-old girl who'd just opened two birthday cards that I'd received  in the mail that day. As I replied it wasn't because of my birthday, I knew her next question would be Why then? And I was right, except I wasn't sure how to explain why.

For as long as I remember, Autumn has always been my favourite season. I grew up in Eastern Canada where autumn means vivid fall colours. My grandparents had a cottage by a lake and we were there all the time. My most memorable memories are walking in the surrounding forest by myself. I could be gone all day, only coming back when my stomach growled in hunger. The cottages were far and few between, so in retrospect, I don't know how my mother didn't worry about me. I never encountered any strange characters or big animals like bears, moose, or wolves, but I saw wild cats, raccoons, otters, and other smaller animals.

 

 

Nature is full of sounds, and in their midst,  there was a peace and tranquility that I couldn't find anywhere else. It was particularly true in the fall. The temperatures were cooler, the air was crisper, and the sounds and the colours were sharper. Walking in a tapestry of red, orange, and yellow with leaves twirling all around me was magical. In these precious moments, I felt free and carefree, almost invincible. Time stood still and nothing could touch me or hurt me. Maybe it was the innocence of youth...or maybe it was something more...something greater than me.

 

 Decades ago, I moved from the eastern part of Canada to the western and northern part of the country. There are no maple trees here, and to this day, I miss the autumn colours, but to my amazement, the magic didn't die. I still experience that peaceful feeling when I gaze in awe at the northern lights dancing in the night sky. 

Northern lights are more frequent toward the end of September, and though they are mostly green, I've also seen them in their glorious purple, pink, and red colours.

Happy Thanksgiving weekend to my fellow Canadians! Many hugs!

JS

 

J. S. Marlo's Website

Sentimentality. And Raffie Giraffie.

Award-winning book, The Twisted Climb by J.C. Kavanagh

It's been 23 years since my dad passed away unexpectedly. It would have been his 90th birthday the other day and it got me thinking about how I wished he were here to read my books and be part of my new publishing journey.
He was a bit of a curmudgeon, I have to admit. Growing up in Dublin, Ireland, in a building called The Ballast Office on the River Liffey, he had to be tough. So when he came to Canada in May 1957, he believed that he was tough enough for anything Canada could throw his way.
Until the winds of November.
And the arctic cold in December.
And the snowy blizzards in January.
"How in the name of God would anyone want to live here?" he used to say, clenching his teeth.
Now my dad was not of the Kavanagh clan (that's me mather's side), so I'm not sure if the lack of blue blood in his veins made him more likely to feel the cold. Or should that be the other way around?
"Winter in Canada is not fit for man nor beast," he would say in a bitter voice as he scraped the ice off the windshield of the old Volkswagen Beetle.
Personally, I loved winter. Still do. I love the feel of the wind on my face and the ice-cold velvet of snowflakes on my cheeks. As a child, I would beg to be brought outside. We couldn't afford skis but we did have an old toboggan.
"Will you come with me?" I would ask my dad.
He'd look at me with disbelief.
"You want to go out in that?"
I would squirm in my squeaky snow pants and shuffle my ugly galoshes together - you know the kind - where your shoe fits into your boot. The large metal buckle at the top at the top of the boot did nothing to improve its appearance. Style and galoshes were and always will be, from two different galaxies.
So my dad would mutter something about lost opportunities in the good ol' country and then say NO.

Me and my dad, 1983

Looking back, I realize that he didn't have galoshes - only us kids were brave/stupid enough to wear them in public. He had those rubbery half-shoe type of footware that semi-covered your shoes. We lived in an apartment until I was in my teens and to this day, I cannot remember him enjoying a Canadian winter day while outside.
Well, Dad, I overcame a lot of obstacles since you passed. I wish you were here to tell me "good job" and "to put the Irish lilt in Canadian lore." Then I would tell you that winter in Canada is fit for man and beast but NOT ugly galoshes. With a cheeky grin, I'd then blow you a kiss. I hope it goes all the way to you in heaven.

Creative class at the Library

A couple of weeks ago I had the great pleasure of leading a group of children in a creative writing class. These kids were between the ages of six and ten, so they were too young to read my young adult book, The Twisted Climb. Nevertheless, creativity has no age limits and no boundaries - particularly with kids. I gave them three prompts: twin boys, a giraffe, and a glacier. So in the space of 40 minutes, we wrote a story about Raffie Giraffie. It was spectacular! Here's a synopsis of the story:
Twin boys, Nick and Steve, loved to slide down Raffie Giraffie's neck, through the glacier, into a cave and then into the ocean. While they were playing, along came a creature dressed like a giraffe, but it was really a tiger! When one of the boys began struggling in the water, the tiger ripped off his giraffe costume (but left on the long neck and head) and pointed to his shirt. It said, "Certified lifeguard." To the rescue went Tiger, still wearing the giraffe head like a snorkel. They became BCFs (best creature friends). The end.

There are no walls in your mind. Only those that you build.

Enjoy life!

J.C. Kavanagh

The Twisted Climb
BEST Young Adult Book 2016, P&E Readers' Poll
A novel for teens, young adults and adults young at heart
Email: author.j.c.kavanagh@gmail.com
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