Norah is caught forging, will August forgive? Outcast Artist in Bretagne by Diane Scott Lewis

 

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My turbulent couple caught up in WWII hide secrets from one another. He's a German officer who hates Hitler. She's an Englishwoman forging passes to help Jewish families escape France. Enjoy an excerpt when Norah is finally caught.

Norah stood tiptoe on a chair and pulled the documents from the attic, the narrow place she’d dusted the best she could. Giselle was coming over for coffee, and to look at what she had. The mayor’s wife had friends who could distribute paperwork and collect information. She had to trust her. Norah felt a burden lifting from her shoulders at no more sneaking around, no more deception.

Last night, as August slept beside her, she decided this was the best option.

She balanced and went to step down from the chair. A paper floated to the floor. The door unlocked and opened. She sucked in her breath.

August stood in the doorway. “What are you doing up there?” He was supposed to be gone, inspecting the airfield.

The chair seemed to shake with her jolt of emotions. She stepped off, the documents smashed to her chest. Her pulse pounded in her ears. “I’m cleaning up some old paperwork. I thought you’d be at Audierne.”

“The inspection was delayed.” He walked forward and picked up the paper from the floor. It was a sketch of her recreation of the Reichsadler, the Nazi eagle over a swastika, required on travel permits. He held it up. “What is this? Norah, mein Gott. You are forging, aren’t you?”

Her breath came in rasps. “Please. Think of the Jewish children.”

“You lied to me. I thought I could trust you.” The hurt in his face jabbed at her, nearly spinning her to the floor.

“August, I…” She had no viable excuse. “I didn’t exactly lie. I never admitted the truth.”

He took the documents from her shivering hands. “Do you know what would happen if Captain Schmidt discovered this? From you, my fiancée. You would face arrest, even torture. Colonel Burmester would be contacted to implicate me. I could be sent from here to Russia, or elsewhere. How would I find you or protect you? I thought you understood.”

“I’m sorry. I thought only of the children, not what could happen to you.” It made such sense when he spoke it. Her head swirled, knees weak.

He slapped the papers on the table, eyes wide and sharp. “What else have you been doing behind my back?”

“Nothing, I swear.” She leaned on the chair for support; icy fear shot through her veins. “I’ll be careful from now on.”

“You must stop at once.” His glare sliced through her, but pain shadowed it. “Do you hear me?”

She knew she was defeated, and she had planned to give up her work. She couldn’t put him in jeopardy. Her body sagged. She struggled to breathe. “I won’t do it anymore. I was quitting anyway.”

He raked a hand through his dark-gold hair, eyes flashing. “How can I believe you? Who else is involved?”

“I can’t reveal that.” Please don’t insist on it!

“If you’re found out, there’s no telling what will happen.” He gripped her shoulders, his fingers on her flesh painful. “Again, how can I trust you? I want so much to. I thought we had something special.”

“We do. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t doing this when we first grew close.” Her eyes dampened with tears. “That sounds worse, but I was convinced my actions would help people.”

“You deceived me.” He cupped her face, his thumbs caressing her cheekbones, his expression miserable. Then he stepped away, shaking his head. “After I warned you, you continued.” He swept his hand toward the table, forehead creased. “Burn those documents and whatever else is up in the attic. Our lives are at stake.”

She nodded, straining to balance herself. “I will. I swear I won’t do it anymore. I want you safe from retribution. I was reckless.”

He stood tall, the commandant once more, as he reached for the doorknob. His flushed cheeks betrayed his upset. “Norah, I understand why you did it. But you should have told me before this. I cautioned you.” The disappointment on his face was obvious, the hurt in his eyes condemning her.

“I’ll destroy them, I promise.” She hated to do it, yet yearned to embrace him, to hold him close. Her pride, her confusion, kept her from begging that he stay. She must not collapse into a grasping female. “Forgive me.”

“I must return to my office. I’ve much to think about. The risks you took. You were dishonest, so heedless.” Words stern over an anxious voice, August was out the door, shutting it after him. A swift, stormy wind had blown over her, scattering her life like dried leaves.

“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t admit to the truth.” Heart like a rock weighing down her chest, she bent to the hearth, blinking back tears. A sob erupted. She must bring him back to her, make him understand. They still loved one another, didn’t they? But to destroy all her hard work. She felt frozen in place, her world crumbling. It’s not fair! I was doing the right thing. She reached into a basket for the kindling August had split for her, as her soul felt cleaved in two.

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

Biking Inspired My Mystery Novel

 

 

Please visit Susan's BWL Author Page for book and author information

In April 2020, my husband Will and I got e-bikes for an activity to do during Calgary's shutdown for the COVID-19 pandemic. We'd enjoyed regular biking all our lives, but I'd grown tired of struggling up streets in my foothills home city and walking my bike up the steeper roads. 

The previous year I'd tried out an e-bike at a mountain festival and was awed by its instant power and the ease of pedaling up the base of a ski hill. Will and I considered upgrading to e-bikes then but didn't get around to it. Now, with a summer of limited options looming ahead, we checked out bikes at several local stores and settled on a small store close to our home.  

On our second visit I asked the owner/manager why his store was open when most retail outlets were closed for the pandemic.    

"Bikes are considered essential," he said, with a tone of pride or surprise. "We're transportation."

 

I used that line in my new novel, Spring Into Danger. 

That spring 2020 I was busy finishing the third book in my Paula Savard Mystery Series and starting to mull ideas for the fourth. Since Paula is an insurance adjuster, her next case would come from her insurance work. Ten Days in Summer (book # 2) involved a building fire with a suspicious death. Book # 3, Winter's Rage, developed from a hit-and-run collision that killed a woman. A theft case seemed the likely next adventure for Paula. How about a break and enter at a bicycle store? 

Our bike purchases led to several follow-up trips to the store. My front basket kept popping its screws and was eventually recalled for safety reasons. My spring-loaded seat came off whenever I grabbed it to lift the bike. Okay, I probably shouldn't be lifting the bike that way, but it's a habit. 

The store owner gave me a regular seat and ordered a replacement spring-loaded one. Each time we phoned or went to the store to enquire about the order's progress, he'd tell us about delays in the supply chain due to COVID protocols at the Vancouver port and the demand for bicycles causing backlogs in orders. Everyone was out walking or biking that shutdown summer. We witnessed the shrinking bicycle stock in the store. The owner told us people now had to wait months for e-bikes. 

In hindsight I wonder if I enjoyed those store visits as an oasis of normalcy in the midst of the pandemic shutdown. Grocery stores -- about my only other in-person shopping -- often had lineups. This bike store didn't. At the grocery store checkout, customers waited on floor markings spaced safely apart. Grocery shoppers crabbed about others blocking the aisles since we weren't allowed to pass anyone. Nothing like that at the bike store. By summer most grocery store workers and customers wore masks. I saw no masks in our bike store; the bottle of hand sanitizer on the checkout counter went unused. Grocery shortages annoyed me. We already had our bikes and were only missing my spring-loaded seat. It never did arrive. After two years of waiting, we and the store owner gave up. I find my regular seat comfortable.

My story mulling continued. If I set my next novel during the COVID-19 shutdown, an open store, with casual protocols, would give my sleuth Paula a chance to do much of her work on the claim in-person. Having characters meet face-to-face is generally better than phone calls for drama in story scenes, since more can be shown through body language. For the same reason, in-person would be better than having Paula meet story characters on online platforms, which would become her new work method when COVID-19 hit. The book could still feature plenty of Skype and Zoom calls to give a flavour of the times.  

I started writing the novel in fall 2021. So much had changed since the pandemic start that I felt a strange nostalgia for those first months, when COVID was new and frightening and most of us had no clue what lay ahead. I wanted to process that early experience and decided to set the story in April 2020, when the shutdown was in full force. The novel starts with Paula taking on a new claim -- a break and enter at a bicycle store that raises questions. Through her investigations, Paula navigates COVID-19 restrictions, which impact the characters and plot in so many ways that the whole story would change if I removed the pandemic.   

                      

Now we're into a post-COVID world -- sort of. Will and I are still biking, although we've done less each year as other activities reopen. Our biking got off a late start this spring thanks to holidays in the UK and Ottawa. In addition, Will's e-bike developed serious mechanical problems, which required more visits to our favourite bicycle store.      

    

Biking with friends in Banff - the hills are easy on e-bikes 

When My Muse Sings to Me - Barbara Baker

 

Ticket in hand. Check. Suitcase packed. Check. Off to Drumheller, Alberta I go.

If you’ve read the acknowledgements in my books, you know who I’m going to see. And I’m pretty darn excited.

The concert will be in the Badlands Amphitheatre which is a stunning acoustical marvel. The Amphitheatre was established in 1991 specifically for performances of the Passion Play. In 2015 they opened the stage to outdoor concerts as well. 

I’ve sat breathless through many Passion Play performances, but tonight I’m going to rock the night away with my muse. The first time I saw Johnny Reid perform was in 2007. It was a blustery spring day at the Sunshine Village Ski Resort. He sang on a tiny outdoor stage surrounded by snow. A very different venue from today. 

Tonight, the air is warm. The clouds are high. People wiser than me carry in cushions for the rustic wooden seats. The opening performer, Martin Kerr, is awesome and I make a note to add him to my iTunes. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t come back for an encore. After he leaves the stage 2,500 fans hoot and holler for the main act. 

And out comes Johnny Reid. The cheers and his songs echo across the hoodoos. Bodies sway. Mouths move. Hands clap. I am caught up in this perfect place with wonderful friends listening to his familiar tunes. And out of nowhere, a title pops into my head for my next novel. How cool is that?

For those who have never heard him sing, this is how the New York Post describes Johnny Reid - “Take a pinch of Bruce Springsteen, a dash of Bob Seger and enough Rod Stewart to give the mix vocal gravel, and you start to get the vibe of this Scottish-born singer/songwriter.”

After a few songs Johnny Reid walks to the front of the stage and says, “Some of you men look like me father did when me mum dragged him to concerts.” He crosses his arms and puts on a grumpy face. “I hope your night gets a wee bit better.” People glance around (possibly looking for the grumpy old men) and laugh.

 

The songs, the energy from everyone on stage, the spotlight on band members - its captivating. My favourite song plays, and tears roll down my cheeks. Then we follow Johnny's instructions and gestures as he teaches us a chorus to a popular tune. The band starts up again. Johnny starts singing. When it’s our turn, he waves us in, and he stops singing. Our voices are the only ones booming across the landscape. Eerily magical. 

And before I know it, he’s thanking everyone for coming out. He’s thanking Alberta for inviting him to this amazing place. The band and him wave goodbye and walk off stage.

No way.

The crowd stands. Whistles pierce the air. I add to it because, if I do say so myself, I’ve got one hell of a solid two finger whistle. And back they come for one last song. Happy sad sigh. Until next time Johnny Reid. And there will be a next time. 

 

You can contact me at: bbaker.write@gmail.com

Summer of Lies: Baker, Barbara:9780228615774: Books - Amazon.ca

What About Me?: Sequel to Summer of Lies : Baker, Barbara: Amazon.ca: Books

 

 

 

 

 

Tanayia--Whisper upon the Water Excerpt (and more) By Connie Vines #Native American, #First People,

Tanayia-- Whisper upon the Water, First Peoples Series

Prologue

1868

The Governor of New Mexico decreed that all Indian children over six be educated in the ways of the white man.

Indian Commissioner Thomas Morgan said, “It is cheaper to educate the Indians than to kill them.”

1880, Apacheria, Season of Ripened Berries

Isolated bands of colored clay on white limestone remain where the sagebrush is stripped from Mother Earth by sudden storms and surface waters. Desolate. Bleak. A land made of barren rocks and twisted paths that reach out into silence.

A world of hunger and hardship. This is my world. I am Tanayia. I was born thirteen winters ago. We call ourselves N’dee, The People. The white man calls us Apache. 

Chapter One

Only a soft light from the east lit the dirt path I soon would walk. I rose from my blanket and dressed in my favorite buckskins and moccasins. After combing my hair, I stepped from my wickiup and walked toward the center of camp. Women from neighboring Apache bands, dressed in their best clothing, squatted around their campfires, patting tortillas and fry bread. My relations traveled great distances to share my coming-of-age ceremony. I am proud and happy. I smile and call out my morning greeting, ya'atche."

"Many blessings, my child," several replied as I passed.

The sharp scent of crisp dough and the bitter scent of acorn stew floated in the cool air. My stomach grumbled in hunger. Large feasts, such as the one my people prepared today, are no longer common. Grandmother, Ligai Tlenaai- White Moon, however, remembers the long-ago days when her band feasted at each change of season. She told me of times when food was plentiful.....

Greeting the sun

Preparing the feast

Wickieup

Chief Geronimo

Native American Boarding School, 1890s

There were certain things the Apache would not eat. It was taboo for the Apache to eat fish or waterfowl due to their fear water was associated with thunder. Eating bear meat was also considered taboo by most Apache groups.

Traditional foods are still eaten today, but as in all communities, modern fare is the norm.

Fry Bread Recipe

4 cups white flour

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 tablespoon baking powder

Lard or shortening

Directions:

Combine all ingredients. Add 1 1/2 cups of lukewarm water and kneed dough until soft but not sticky. Shape dough into balls the size of a small peach. Shape into patties by hand; dough should be about 1/2 inch thick.  Fry one at a time in about an inch of hot lard or shortening in a heavy pan. Brown on both sides. Drain on paper towels and serve hot with honey, jam, or powdered sugar. If you want an Indian Taco add beans, tomatoes, onion, cheese, and salsa on top.

I hope you enjoyed this month's post.

Please follow my Blog/website and social media accounts:

Blog: http://mizging.blogspot.com

Website:https://connievines-author.com/

Twitter/ Instagram/Facebook/etc. are linked to both sites

Happy Reading :-)

Connie

https://bookswelove.com/products/tanayia?_pos=1&_psq=tana&_ss=e&_v=1.0

Now I interview my hero, who starts out an anti-hero, the German commandant from Outcast Artist in Bretagne, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase the ebook or paperback, click HERE 

I previously interviewed my heroine, Norah, to dig deeper into her character. Today it's my hero (who you'll think at first is an anti-hero) It's fun to talk to them out of the written context of the story. I hope you enjoy it.

Today I interview Major August von Gottlieb, the commandant of Southern Brittany.

Major, I understand that though you're in the German army, you don't care for Hitler's policies?

A tall, handsome man, with blond hair and blue eyes, the Major sits and adjusts his greenish-gray tunic with the Iron Cross. "I came to realize that Hitler is a madman. His policies are getting good people murdered. When I was assigned here, in this bucolic village, I found I wanted a different life. But it isn't so simple to leave the German army. I would be shot as a traitor, unless I plan carefully."

Have you set any of these plans into motion?

"First, unlike so many officers, I refused to starve the population by sending away the food supplies. I make certain the villagers keep their fair share."

Do any of your fellow officers resent this?

"Ja, they do, and are sure to make snide remarks to me. But I am in charge." He rubs his cleft chin, his gaze penetrating. "I was nearly killed in an incident having to do with Hitler a few years back. It's made me more determined."

I see the pain cross his features. Have your superiors complained?

"I was visited by one colonel, but I eased his mind. We need strong workers here to build the special port."

And what will this special port be used for?

His eyebrows rise. "I cannot divulge that yet. It is something I plan to, let's say, take care of so no further damage is done to England or France from this area."

A noble plan. I hear you have a young lady that you're interested in.

"I do. We are both in love." His eyes soften and he smiles tenderly. "She is English, so that is another strike against me. I hope we can manage a future together. I feel such passion for her. But there are many obstacles." He stares off for a moment. "She has had a rough time of it, and I want to soothe her and be a decent man for her."

The villagers have vilified Norah because of her relationship with you.

"I regret that. If I'm not destroyed by the peril to come, my wish is to escape with her to Switzerland and get married. I want to honor her. There are so many secrets and scheming around us." He fists his hand, his gaze troubled. "But I cannot tell anymore than that." Gottlieb stands and puts on his high-capped hat. "I have work to do. I must bid you good day, frau."

Well, thank you for speaking with me. I wish you both success. Hmmm, an officer working from within to sabotage Hitler. I'm intrigued how he will do it, and what needs to be 'taken care of.' Norah had mentioned a weapon in her interview.

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

A Fun and Inspiring Writers' Weekend

                                       Please click this link for author and book information

I'm still recovering from my hectic long weekend at Calgary's When Words Collide Festival for Readers and Writers. After three years of attending the festival online, it was great to see familiar faces in-person, make new connections, and participate in panels in front of live audiences. I also enjoyed spreading the word about BWL and Bouchercon Calgary 2026 at their Merchants' Room tables, which were conveniently located next to each other.  

BWL authors Astrid Theilgaard, Vicki Chatham, and me at the BWL table. 

As usual I especially enjoyed WWC's opening evening keynote addresses. The four Festival Guest Authors were each given twenty minutes to talk about anything they wanted. This year's speeches were intensely personal and brave. Writing coach and international speaker Angela Ackerman shared her struggle with imposter syndrome despite selling almost a million books in ten languages. I'm sure every writer in the room could relate. Stacey Kondla spoke about her stroke, which prompted her successful new career as a literary agent. Nicole Baart, author of "race-to-the finish family dramas," discussed how her need for multiple surgeries during childhood led her to becoming a writer. 

On my seven panels I discussed such topics such as creating characters, writing mental health, fiction in a world with COVID-19, putting your characters in danger, and how to write a series without losing your way (or your mind). About the latter, I confessed my method of combing through my notes and earlier series novels to recall a character's eye colour, age, or divorce date wasn't the most efficient way of keeping track of continuing series characters and suggested authors use a spreadsheet. Fellow panelist Cathy Ace prefers a series bible, which she described as a word document that she searches for a character's pertinent details. Whatever works for each writer. 

At the keynote event, WWC chair Randy McCharles passed the torch (a dragon statue) to the festival's new management, the Alexandra Writers' Centre Society. The AWCS was busy taking registrations for next year's festival in the Merchants' Room. WWC 2024 is already 70 % sold out. AWCS has put together an interesting lineup of Guests of Honour and Special Guest authors. Check their website for updates and to register for When Words Collide Volume Two: Every Chapter Has Another Great Story.

        

Thanks to Diane Bator (above) for organizing the BWL table. Author Layton Park stopped by to chat with Diane and do a table shift. Diane went home with ideas for sprucing up the BWL table next year. Even the Merchants' Room can be inspiring. 

WWC panel with mystery writers PD Workman, BWL author Joan Donaldson-Yarmey, Jonathan Whitelaw, and Cathy Ace. 

                  

I interview my character, Norah. How could she find a connection to the German Commandant? by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase Outcast Artist in Bretagne, click HERE

It is fun to dig deeper into your characters. An interview to let them speak for themselves is always intriguing to write. Here they can talk directly, and answer uncomfortable questions if need be.

Interviewer. "I'm sitting here with Miss Norah Cooper in the small village of Saint Guenole in Brittany. Miss Cooper, you were trapped in France after the Germans invaded, visiting your cousin for personal reasons, and now you just want to go home to England. You're an artist and decided to draw the Major, the man in charge of the occupation. Why was that?"

"He offered me a great amount of money, and I needed to pay my way." Norah brushes a hand through her strawberry-blonde hair in quick strokes. "My cousin's husband threatened to demand I leave. I was eating their food. But I really had no place to go at the time."

"You didn't find this idea with the Major repulsive?"

"Yes, at first. But the Major surprised me." Norah smiles, looking a little embarrassed. "He was very kind, and then I learned a secret about him that really changed my mind."

"And what was that?"

"He hates Hitler's policies. Plus he brought more food to the village after I asked him to." Norah sighs. "He wanted the war to end and live a peaceful life."

"Then an attraction grew between you two?"

"Slowly." Norah gazes around. "When we got to know each other better. I never thought I'd find anyone who cared about me as much as he does. He felt the same after an arranged marriage. His wife died two years ago. And I had my...unfortunate experience."

"Weren't you afraid of being ostracized? Shunned by your family?"

"I am ostracized. The villagers, my cousins. My family in England doesn't yet know. It is very difficult. I went to live in the gardener's abandoned cottage." Norah leans close. "The Major, August, he told me a terrible weapon was on its way. And he planned to disable it so it wouldn't be used against my country."

"I see. Very commendable. Then you fell in love with him?"

Norah smiles again, though it's a little sad. "We fell in love. As crazy as that sounds. I discovered the man he really is, inside. We have a passionate relationship. But I knew it would be perilous."

"Do you have plans for a future?"

"He has to complete his sabotage. I got involved with forging documents to help escaping Jews. We kept secrets. But our love is strong." Norah presses her fingers to her cheeks. "We speak of escaping to Switzerland. But there are so many obstacles. Threats of arrest. Even a firing squad. I still hope we can have our happy ending. Or maybe I'm being naïve."

Interviewer. "I hope you can find a happy ending in the midst of war. Thank you for explaining your situation to me."


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

Brontë Land

 Please click this link for author and book information

In May my husband Will and I spent a delightful day in Haworth, West Yorkshire, UK. We visited the home of the famous Brontë writing family, followed in the footsteps of siblings Charlotte, Branwell, Emily, and Anne, and enjoyed lunch and snacks in cafés with views of the picturesque dales.

Curators of the Brontë Parsonage Museum say the village of Haworth and the surrounding countryside would be recognized by the Brontës today. We took the train and bus from Leeds and walked up the steep high street to the centre of Haworth village. 

Our first stop was the Brontë Parsonage Museum, which is full of artifacts and descriptions of the family's history and the sisters' writing. As children, the girls and their brother Branwell loved making up stories for his toy soldiers and creating imaginary worlds and adventures for their characters. Charlotte named her favourite soldier after the Duke of Wellington, who defeated Napoleon at Waterloo in 1815, the year before Charlotte's birth. The siblings would walk around the dining table developing their tales, which speaks well for the value of writing groups and walking as stimulation. As they grew older, they acquired portable writing desks so they could write in different parts of the house. 

                                           Emily's portable writing desk                                                  

The family history was a sad one. Maria Branwell Brontë died the year after her youngest child, Anne, was born. Four years later her two oldest daughters died, probably of tuberculosis contracted at boarding school. Her son Branwell became a painter and struggled with addiction. He died at age thirty-one. Emily died three months later, at age thirty, and Anne died the following year, age twenty-nine. Charlotte married her father's curate and lived to age thirty-eight, when she died of complications from pregnancy. Her husband remained in the house with her father, Patrick, who died at age eighty-four, having survived his wife and six children. All except Anne are buried in the neighbouring church, where Patrick served as rector for forty-one years. Anne died while recuperating from tuberculosis in coastal Scarborough. Charlotte had her buried there to spare her father yet another funeral. 

                              Brontë burial site in St Michael and All Angel's Church, Haworth 

After the museum, we boosted our mood with lunch on a café patio overlooking the Yorkshire dales. Then we walked up to the moor behind the Brontë home and followed a favourite path of the siblings. We didn't mind that it wasn't Brontë-esque rainy, windy, and cold. Actually, one museum display featured an academic's chart that shows sunshine appears in more Brontë novel scenes than readers tend to remember. 

Then it was time for an afternoon snack in another café's garden. 

The Brontë Parsonage Museum hosts talks, children's programs, and other events through the year. I wish I lived in Leeds so I could attend events like Women of the Wild, which will be held this September. I have a slight personal connection to Haworth. My aunt's family came from the village and my aunt inherited Charlotte's umbrella, which she later donated to the museum. Unfortunately for us, the museum keeps it in storage along with other personal items and clothing, which they only bring out for special exhibits. But my aunt would be glad to know the umbrella was home in lovely Haworth. 

 

                Haworth village viewed from the moor. My hair suggests the day was a tad windy.   

   

        

       

The Joy of The End by Eileen O'Finlan

 

Click here for purchase information

Two of most writers favorite words are "The End." That's not because we don't like writing. Most of us love it. It's because "The End" represents that the first leg of a very long and often arduous process is finally finished. It can take months or even years to be able to type those words. For those of us who write in genres that take a tremendous amount of research before a single word of the story gets written, it may be even longer. 

It is not, however, truly the end for the author. The first draft is just the beginning. Once those glorious words have been typed, the author enters the next phase of the writing process - revisions. The first draft is only that, the first of what could eventually be many drafts before the book is finally done. I completely rewrote Kelegeen at least three times before it was truly finished.

Recently, I typed "The End" on the first draft of my current work in progress, an historical novel to be titled The Folklorist. Upon seeing those words appear on the screen, I felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from me. I would not have been surprised to find myself floating around the room (okay, I would have been surprised, but maybe not that much). 

I knew perfectly well that it was not really the end. I'm now slogging through revisions, fixing problems, looking for any issues with pacing or continuity. Given that The Folklorist has a dual timeline, something I've never written before, it is especially challenging. But I'm up for a challenge, and, honestly, I've been delighted to find that the timelines held together on the first draft much better than I expected. 

So if there's still so much more work to do after the first draft has been completed, why is typing "The End" such a big deal? It's because of what it represents. An entire body of work has been completed. The author who likely had plenty of doubts, writing crises, writer's block, and general hair-pulling moments liberally sprinkled amongst times of pure writing joy, can finally say that a complete story has been written. The obstacles were overcome. "I did it!" may ring through the air.

Yes, there will be things to fix, add, delete, whatever. But a whole story emerged despite the times it threatened to keel over and die. And that is a feeling to which very few things can compare.

                                                        

An Illicit moment, Outcast Artist in Bretagne - WWII heartbreak and forbidden love, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase Outcast Artist in Bretagne, click HERE

It's WWII, and August, the German Commandant, is falling for the Englishwoman Norah. Threats are on all sides. He wants to destroy Hitler, but will Norah destroy his heart? How could they possibly make this work? His attentions will compromise her.

Read an excerpt:

“I realize that.” But August still yearned to know; it had been so long since someone cared—if she cared. “Tell me what is in your heart.”

Norah turned and met his gaze. “I’m not one to mince words. I’m rather blunt, as you’ve pointed out.”

“Then let’s be honest, please.” His throat felt raw. He should let it go, allow her to dismiss him.

She sighed and blinked quickly. “I have feelings I shouldn’t have.”

“Ja. As do I.” Two lonely people, or something more? Silence followed, punctuated by rain and the whistle of wind around the building. Her eyes looked huge, and startled, even in the shadows. A woodland creature; but was he a savior or a predator?

Finally, he said, desperate to say something, “May I see what you’ve done so far on the portrait?”

She smiled, looking relieved by the change in subject. “No, not yet. I want it to be completed first.”

He moved toward her, playfully. “Just a peek won’t hurt.”

She spread her arms as if protecting her masterpiece. “Mais non. I’ll tell you when.”

August took a long step toward her. Fräulein Cooper came forward at the same time. They bumped into one another, her breasts right below his chest. He clasped her upper arms. She stared up at him, lips parted, inviting, yet wary. Past helping himself, he lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers. A tightening started low in his body.

She quivered beneath his hands, but didn’t move away, her breath warm on him.

Thunder boomed and rattled the windows. The rain pounded like drumbeats on the roof. The gunshot sounds from his nightmares faded.

“This is wrong, especially for you,” he whispered into her mouth.

“I know. Terribly improper. We shouldn’t.” She remained in place, her form delicate under his fingers, and kissed him back with a tiny moan.

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

A Good Man Is Hard to Find

                                         Find lots of good men in my books: here!

I love celebrating good men in my novels... whether it's teen-aged Tad Gist of my Linda Tassel Mysteries, struggling with coming of age in a new place, but sure of his love for Linda, or Rowan Buckley of Mercies of the Fallen and Ursula's Inheritance-- a Civil War soldier who changes his son's diapers, to Luke Kayenta of the Code Talker Chronicles, who honors his Diné Navajo heritage, his country, and the woman he loves.

I am so fortunate to have had a great dad. Here is is with his first daughter, my sister Marie... Can you see the delight in his eyes? Marie was born during World War II and he had to wait a long time to meet her.

My children have a great dad, too. Here he is with our youngest...

And again, a few years later...

Our son has taught me there are many ways to be a man. (Happy Pride Month, by the way... I love coming out as an ally of our precious LGBTQ+ children!)

Here's to good men everywhere, may your life be blessed with many...