How My West Was Won by Victoria Chatham

 

AVAILABLE HERE

Recently, a reader asked why I wrote contemporary Western romance when I had previously primarily written Regency and historical romance. My answer was that an editor once told me I was too English to write a Western romance, historical or contemporary. I didn’t necessarily take that as a challenge, but over the years, it became a bit of a niggle, like the proverbial burr under a saddle.

I thoroughly enjoyed writing the Regency and historical romances, but I’ve always believed that writers should be able to stretch their writing muscles and write anything. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Take, for instance, a writer colleague who strayed from her usual Western historical and contemporary romance genre to try her hand at women’s fiction. The resounding response from her beta readers, me included, was that it didn’t work. She has since reworked her premise into an engaging second-chance romance with a cast of more mature characters that works very well and will shortly be available.

My fascination with the West and cowboy life began at an early age. My parents could not understand where my passion for ponies came from, but during those early years, I begged for rides from a neighbour who tethered his pony on open grazing land close to our house. During the long summer holidays in Cornwall, I rode every one of the beach ponies and hung around at the end of the day to ride one back to the stables. Ride ‘em, cowboy.

1941 edition (publ. Random House)

At some point, and probably because I’d pestered my parents, I was given a pair of Roy Rogers cappistols, holsters, and a black cowboy hat. That was when I was six or seven and had no time for dolls, which appeared to be every little girl’s top priority then. I wish I had photographs, but my family owned nothing as exotic as a camera, not even a plain old Brownie box camera. My interest in the West progressed into writing the lurid adventures of Virginia, Girl of the Golden West. What drama! What tales of daring escapades astride her coal-black Arab stallion! Yes, I had read most of Walter Farley’s The Black Stallion books by the age of ten. What other horse could Virginia, with her tangled mane of flaming red hair, possibly ride?

I wrote those stories in pencil on scrappy paper and provided my parents with endless amusement. I didn’t understand what was so funny about Virginia defending her adobe hacienda with her trusty Winchester rifle and wasn’t impressed with their response. I gradually stopped sharing my stories and then stopped writing them. But I still had this interest in cowboys and their culture. Although I read a lot of Regency romances as a teenager, I also read any Zane Gray and Louis L’Amour books I could get my hands on. I appreciated the artworks of Frederic Remington and Charles Russell after I found coffee table books about them in our school library.

After over thirty years of living in Western Canada, I think I’ve absorbed much of the culture I dreamed of as a child. Trail riding in the Rockies, talking to ranchers and ranch hands, the working cowboys and girls, stock contractors, and some rodeo riders over these years all added grist to my mill. That editor was only partially correct. Any story requires some research, and I found I had to do as much for these books as for my historical novels, so being English became irrelevant. Loving That Cowboy was my first contemporary Western romance, then came Legacy of Love, and now, my latest, Loving Georgia Caldwell. So far, I have had no complaints, so maybe, just maybe, it doesn’t matter how English I am.

Victoria Chatham

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Home For Christmas. A short story by Victoria Chatham

 

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“Your sister’s coming home then.”

Marg Nicholls stood, dripping, in the doorway of Hetty Pimm’s shop. Marg had lived in Lower Vale all her life, but the speed news travelled around the community irritated her. She considered it must be the postman who regularly delivered more than the mail to anyone willing to listen. The local grapevine would have expanded from there. Who needed a cell phone when they had a Barry Jones?

“Well, shut the door,” Hetty commanded, rubbing her arms against the wind gusting forcefully into the little shop. “You can use that mop and bucket to clean up your puddle, and there are old newspapers by the door to soak up what you miss.”

Marg looked down at the rivulets of water trickling off her unflattering oilskin mac and green-booted feet and shook her head, which caused more water to fly off her plastic hood. Where else but in the bastion of an English village shop would one be expected to clean up after oneself? Marg took hold of the mop and spread its cotton threads over the floor. One did not argue with Hetty. Her shop had been converted, not very imaginatively, from her cottage’s living and dining rooms, and Marg supposed she still thought of it as her home.

Shelves stacked with bottles, tins, and packets, which, to Marg’s eyes, looked not to have been dusted or changed since her last visit, lined the walls. There was just enough space for a central display stand packed with Mother’s Pride bread, Mr. Kipling cakes and biscuits on one side, and toiletries and cleaning supplies on the other. At the end of the counter, from behind which, Hetty owlishly surveyed all who entered, stood a small cooler holding milk, butter, cheese, and eggs.

Marg knew it was not Hetty’s way of doing business to ask if she could help her customers. The customer had to do the asking, and Hetty would point a gnarled finger to the items they wished to purchase. Cash would cross the counter, and that would be it. No debit or credit cards for Hetty. Anyone who missed the ‘Cash Only’ notice on the door was invited to leave. Marg had no idea how Hetty managed to keep her business going, but the locals were thankful for it as it was the only shop in their small community.

Having purchased the unsalted butter, cornstarch, and waxed paper she needed, Marg left the shop, bending her head against the roaring wind and lashing rain. She threw her shopping bag onto the passenger seat of the old Land Rover and squeezed in behind the steering wheel. The weather reflected her mood, which transferred to the gears as she viciously reefed through them.

The wipers barely cleared the rain from the windshield as the Land Rover laboured up the lane to Hill Farm, which took its name from the slopes rising steeply behind it. Bare, blackened tree branches on either side rattled above her like sabres. Marg peered ahead, steering between every pothole and wheel rut in the gravelled surface. She knew them all.

And into this moisture-laden mayhem, her sister was about to arrive. How could Ruth do this to her after all this time? Marg didn’t even need to close her eyes to see the note she’d received. It was too brief to be considered a letter.

Dear Marg

Kenny and I are in London and would love to come and spend some time with you and John. We’ll travel down on Christmas Eve and stay for a few days. Hope that’s all right. You will have stacks of that delicious shortbread you always used to make, won’t you?

Love, Ruth.

That was it. No return address on the rich but anonymous cream-coloured stationery. No telephone number, text, or email contact.

“On purpose,” Marg muttered. “She knew if I couldn’t contact her, I couldn’t say no.”

Marg parked as close as possible to the utility room door. Holding on to her plastic hood with one hand and the shopping bag with the other, she dashed to the door, thanking heaven that farmers were practical people who expected and provided for extremes of weather. The old rush matting inside the door took the brunt of her wet wellies as she kicked them off. The dogs, Harvey and Beau, brushed their damp, smelly bodies against her in welcome, soaking up the rain from her mac but leaving a swath of their yellow and black Labrador hair. She shooed them back to their beds while she hung up her outdoor clothes, pushed her feet into ratty looking but comfortable slippers and entered the warmth and peace of her kitchen.

Well, it had been peaceful when she left. Now it was something of a battlefield. Her daughter, Penny, sat grumpily on one side of the long, pine table. An antique dealer would describe it as distressed and probably sell it for a small fortune. Penny’s brother, Mark, sat opposite her. Marg’s husband, John, sat in his usual place at the head of the table. He sipped tea from a battered old enamel mug which he refused to replace. Pottery broke. Enamel chipped but lasted longer. End of argument.

Marg knew he disliked the prospect of the impending visit as much as she did. Now it looked as if the children were rebelling too.

“Ask your mother.” John pursed his lips and cast Marg a gloomy glance.

“It’s not fair, Mum,” Penny complained. “I don’t want Mark sharing my room.”

“For heavens’ sake,” Marg snapped. “Who said Mark had to share your room?”

“Well, where else are Uncle Kenny and Aunty Ruth going to sleep if not in Mark’s room? They’re not having mine.”

“I’ll sleep in Pilot’s stable and take the dogs for extra warmth,” Mark said.

“Good idea. That pony would probably appreciate the company.” Marg went to the Aga, where a large teapot sat warming and poured herself a cup of tea. Was it too early in the day to add a tot of whisky? “There’s that foam mattress and your sleeping bag from when you camped last summer with the Scouts. You should be cozy.”

“Oh, wow.” Mark suddenly looked cheerful. “Can I take a flask of hot chocolate and some cake out there with me?”

“Whatever your heart desires.” Marg passed a weary hand across her forehead as Mark scraped his chair back and rushed upstairs.

“You never let me sleep in Lark’s stable,” Penny grumbled as she stood.

“You never asked,” Marg said.

“Bloody Aunt Ruth.” Penny kicked the leg of her chair and stalked out of the kitchen.

Marg recalled when she kicked the leg of another chair, and her mother immediately told her to stop that. At twenty-two, she was old enough to know better.

Her mother’s tears and her father’s temper had flowed and raged for days, ever since her younger sister, Ruth, announced she was going to Australia with her boyfriend, Kenny Parker. Their father raged that she was going nowhere, especially with Kenny, that skinny, spotty, good-for-nothing layabout. Ruth shouted back that she was nineteen and could go where and with whom she pleased, and anyway, they had already got passports and visas. Their flight was booked and paid for, and that was that.

Marg sighed and topped her tea before sitting in Penny’s recently vacated chair. Looking around the kitchen, she realized that, except for a coat of paint and a new backsplash behind the Belfast sink, Ruth would hardly see any difference. It saddened Marg that twenty years had slipped by almost without her noticing.

The early days when she and John were first married were marvellous. They lived in the cottage across the yard, helping her parents run the family sheep farm. One of their shepherds occupied it now. He also helped raise and train their border collies. Autumn, winter, spring, and summer did not mark their seasons. Breeding, feeding, lambing, shearing, and all the other tasks necessary to maintain a well-run farm, did. Marg’s father passed away quite suddenly, leaving her mother in a permanent daze until she, too, gave up her grip on life and peacefully followed him.

Ruth’s letters then had been full of remorse that she had not been able to support Marg and John, but in her heart, Marg knew this was not true. The letters became more infrequent, and when they arrived, they told of endless blue skies, beach, pool, tennis parties, and all the excitement of shopping in Melbourne. There were postcards showing kangaroos and koalas, sheep and camels. Did they have camels in Australia?

Marg wasn’t sure but supposed it must be true for them to be on postcards. Photographs occasionally accompanied the letters bearing the legends, ‘Me at Ayers Rock,’ ‘Me scuba diving on the Great Barrier Reef,’ ‘Me with opal miners.’ Me having a great time. Me having no responsibilities, me obviously not working. Me! Me! Me! Marg supposed all these adventures were because Ruth and Kenny had decided not to have a family, but what was Kenny doing all this time, Marg wondered.

Penny and Mark came back into the kitchen, still bickering. It was suddenly all too much. Marg slammed her mug down on the table, making John and the children jump.

“You listen to me,” she snapped, standing and gripping the back of her chair as if to gain strength from the solid wood of it. “Ruth has been gone for twenty years. She’s not coming back to live here. She’s coming for a couple of days’ visit. The least you can do is be accommodating and welcoming. Ruth’s your aunt, for heaven’s sake. Hill Farm was her home before it was yours. Yes, she chose to leave, just as your father and I chose to stay here and run the farm, and that’s all there is to it.” Marg paused for breath. “Penny, Mark, I don’t want to hear another peep out of the pair of you. And you, John, can stop looking like you’ve lost a pound and found sixpence. Ruth’s my sister. She’s the only family I have outside of you lot. She may never get to come home again, and what chance have I to visit Australia, even if I was invited? Oh.” Marg stopped as something became blindingly clear to her. “You’re afraid I’ll want to go back with her.”

John blustered it was no such thing, and Penny and Mark quickly removed themselves from the kitchen, sensing a disagreement brewing between their parents.

Marg pinned John with a fierce glare. “That’s it, isn’t it? It’s not the fact that Ruth’s coming to stay but that I might want to leave.”

John spread his big hands with their square-tipped fingers down on the table and pushed himself out of his chair. “You’ve got to admit you used to get pretty mopey when you got Ruth’s letters. I knew I couldn’t put a step right for a few days after they arrived. I put it down to jealousy.”

Marg bit her lip, knowing John only spoke the truth. She nodded slowly. “It seemed like she had an easier life than ours.”

“But you don’t know that.” John gripped her shoulder. “And who knows what kind of dance Kenny might have led her? Come on. I’ll help you make up the bed in Mark’s room.”

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

Marg could not quite believe how they managed to pull everything together. For once, Penny and Mark did everything she asked of them without arguing. They fetched boxes of decorations from the attic and arranged the blue and silver tree on its stand. Now, on Christmas Eve morning, everything was as festive and ready as it could be for Ruth and Kenny’s arrival. There was only one thing left to do. Marg didn’t even need her mother’s old cookbook. She knew the shortbread recipe by heart. Beat one cup of brown sugar into two cups of softened butter, then add four to four and a half cups of all-purpose flour. Simple.

She placed the butter and sugar in her mixing bowl and beat it until it was fluffy, then carefully mixed in most of the flour. The dough was too soft, so she added more flour until satisfied with the consistency. Humming to herself, she sprinkled flour onto her pastry board, took the dough and began to knead it. She should have made it yesterday and left it to chill overnight in the refrigerator. Now she could only give it half an hour but filled that time with trimming Brussels sprouts while she waited.

Marg kept a close eye on the clock as she listened for the oven timer. At least the family was out from under her feet while she busied herself with the food preparation. Another glance at the clock had her reaching for the chilled dough. She transferred this to a sheet of parchment paper and rolled it out. When she had an almost perfect rectangle, she placed it on a baking sheet and cut it into finger-sized strips. Using a fork, she pricked each strip several times before putting the tray back in the fridge for another half an hour and then turning the oven on to preheat.

Her mother had made the preparation of Christmas dinner, and all the trimmings look so easy, Marg thought now. She had paid attention and helped her mother, while Ruth always managed to find something else to do and stay out of the way. Marg grinned while taking the baking tray from the fridge and slipping it into the oven. If Kenny had expected a home-cooked meal every evening, she didn’t mind betting he was one disappointed man. The sound of car doors slamming made her look up, frowning. They couldn’t be here already, could they? She wiped her hands on her apron and opened the back door but gasped at the figure filling the doorway.

“Kenny?” She looked up at the well-built man with a tanned face and laughing grey eyes.

“G’day, Marg. Here, take these.” He handed her the shopping bags he carried.

“Kenny?” she repeated, still squinting at him. Of the skinny, spotty youth she remembered, there was no sign. “My Lord, Australia’s been good to you.”

“We made the most of our opportunities, that’s for sure.” Kenny stepped inside. “Hope we’re not too early, but someone’s been hopping around like a shrimp on a barbie since early this morning. Now she’s gone all shy.”

“No, I haven’t.”

Kenny moved out of the way, and tears sprang to Marg’s eyes when she saw her sister. Kenny, she would have passed on the street and not known him, but Ruth, her dark brown hair now fetchingly streaked with grey, she would have known anywhere. The years rolled away as they fell into each other’s arms, hugging each other tightly, words, for now, unnecessary. All the talking and catching up could come later.

Mark and John came in from the yard. Penny wandered downstairs, a little shy but intrigued to meet the visitors. Marg was happy to introduce her sister and brother-in-law to the children. For once, Penny and Mark behaved impeccably. Mark asked Kenny what Australia was like and grinned at the response, “bloody hot, mate.”

Ruth turned her head and sniffed. “Is something burning?”

Marg’s hands flew to her face. “Oh, no.” She raced to the oven, grabbed a tea towel and opened the door. Smoke billowed out. She wafted it away and stared in dismay at the tray.

“Mum,” Penny breathed, stunned at the sight of the blackened offerings. “You never burn anything.”

Marg shook her head as she emptied the tray into the waste bin. “There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.” She looked at her sister. “Sorry, Ruth. I so wanted everything to be just right for your homecoming.”

Ruth stepped forward and hugged Marg. “Tell you what, why don’t we have coffee and then you and I will make shortbread together.”

Marg stared at her. “You? Make shortbread?”

“You’d be surprised at what Ruthie can make.” Kenny pulled out a chair and sat on it. “She’s been writing a cookery column for our local paper for the last few years.”

Marg’s mouth fell open. “A cookery column?”

Ruth nodded. “It’s been quite successful too. But in my last post, I promised my readers a shortbread recipe. Would you please–pretty please– share yours?”

Marg thought of all the times Ruth was MIA when it came to anything in the kitchen. She heard again her mother’s grumbles, the mutterings that Ruth would likely live on fast-food and fresh air, and now, Ruth was asking for help making shortbread. Marg smiled, then started to laugh.

“How can I refuse?” She shook her head. “Mum would be so impressed, and as it’s her recipe, I don’t see why not, but we’ll have to run down to Hetty’s for more butter.”

“Good Lord, is she still running the shop?” Ruth sounded incredulous.

Marg nodded. They collected their coats and left John and Kenny chatting as if they’d only seen each other yesterday while Penny and Mark fired questions at Kenny about life in Australia.

“They can come out for a visit any time they like,” Ruth said quietly as they headed outside. “You and John too.”

Marg paused as she opened the Land Rover’s door. “Ruth, I will do my best to make it happen. But if we come for a visit, I expect you to make shortbread.”

Ruth clambered up into the passenger seat. “I’ve missed you, sis. I’ve missed all this.” She indicated the sweep of the hillside dotted with sheep, the windswept trees and hedgerows, and the lowering grey sky. “But you know what I’ve missed most?”

Marg swallowed the lump in her throat and shook her head as she turned the key in the ignition.

“Family,” Ruth said, raising her voice over the cough and splutter of the engine as it came to life. “Us. I remember all those Christmases when I’d do anything to get out of doing chores, and now I so wish I hadn’t.”

The rain started as Marg pulled up in front of Hetty’s shop. The sisters sat looking at the bow windows on either side of the door, the sturdy limestone walls, and the slightly overhanging roof.

“Hasn’t changed a bit,” Ruth commented as they left the vehicle and stepped across the narrow pavement.

Marg pushed the door open, listening to the clamour of the overhead, old-fashioned doorbell. Hetty looked up from behind her counter. There was no welcoming smile, just her usual owlish look, but Marg was sure there was a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth when she saw Ruth.

“You’re home then,” Hetty said.

THE END

 ​Victoria Chatham

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The Magic of a Horse by Victoria Chatham

 

AVAILABLE HERE

Most people have an interest or hobby about which they are passionate. It could be gardening, golf, quilting or fishing. For me, it is horses. My parents, as non-horsey people, never understood where my passion for all things equine stemmed, but I lay this lifelong love of horses squarely on my father’s shoulders.

After surgery that had nothing to do with war wounds at the end of WWII, my father faced a lengthy recovery period. His occupational therapy of choice was making soft toys for his then unseen baby daughter. He arrived home when I was two years old. I promptly howled at him but was quickly pacified by the beautifully made animals he brought with him—a pink rabbit, an elephant, two dogs, one white and the other black, and a blue felt horse with an arched neck and flowing mane and tail. ‘Horsey’ became my instant love and constant companion.

In the post-war era, we still had door-to-door deliveries, and I quickly learned the sound and names of the vendors’ horses and ponies. At six and seven years old, spending long summer holidays in Cornwall, I knew and rode every one of the beach ponies. At eight years old, I had my first formal riding lesson. At nine and ten, I spent the summer holidays with my grandmother and two cousins who were as horse-mad as me. It wasn’t long before we found riding stables where we worked all summer for our rides. We handled the most bloody-minded ponies imaginable, unaware at the time of the valuable lessons they taught us. When I was thirteen, we moved to an urban area with not a horse in sight, but I read about horses, drew horses, and hand-crafted horses from pipe-cleaners and wool.

 When I was sixteen and contemplating a career, my parents refused to let me leave home and take up the prized working-pupil position I so coveted, which would have earned me a horse riding instructor’s certificate. At eighteen, I left home anyway and worked in hunting stable until marriage and family ended that career. When my daughter, now a teenager, became interested in riding, we haunted our local riding stables. Most evenings after riding, we would go to the local pub, The Ragged Cot. It was here one evening that, after some quick calculations on a napkin, she announced, “You know, Mum, with what we spend at the stables, we could have a horse of our own.”

 My old dream of having a horse resurfaced. If we did this together, then having a horse became financially viable. Between us, we agreed on our criteria. Our horse would have to be of medium height and hardy as, having no stable, it would have to live out. It had to be good in traffic as we had the prospect of a lot of road riding before we got to bridle paths and other off-road tracks. Sex, age, and colour were optional. Versatility for combining our equestrian ambitions was essential. We started scouring the classifieds and travelled all over our county and two neighbouring ones, only to become quickly disillusioned with the vagaries of advertising.

 A horse described as ‘onward bound’ had no brakes. A mare described as a ‘good jumper’ proved it by jumping out of the paddock where we put her several times. After four days of a two-week trial and seeing the probability of numerous looming liabilities, we returned her to her owner. As summer came to a close and we had not found our dream horse, we decided to end our search for that year. Then, in the last week of September, I opened the local paper and was immediately drawn to an advert that read: ‘15hh chestnut gelding for sale. Six-hundred pounds including tack.’

 Right size, great price and, I thought, too good to be true. I put the paper aside but picked up the phone two days later. The young woman who answered sounded breathless, as if she’d been running, and said, “Oh, I’m so glad you called!” Did we know each other? But no, Diana was simply anxious to sell her horse as her wedding to a non-horse person was only weeks away.

“Could you tell me a bit about your horse?” I asked.

“Well,” she began, “his name is Paunt House Royal Lancer, and he’s a full-bred Arab and—”

I stopped her there. I didn’t want a full-bred anything, especially something as exotic as an Arab horse.

“But you must at least come and meet him,” she exclaimed. “He’s a lovely person.”

Now, the concept of a horse being a ‘lovely person’ was a bit beyond me, but I got swept up in her enthusiasm and arranged to meet her and her horse the following Sunday. She said to look for a white-walled house with a red-tiled roof beside a bus stop. We had no trouble following her directions. Paddocks and neatly kept flowerbeds surrounded the house. As my daughter and I walked up the garden path, the front door opened, and Diana greeted us like old friends.

“You’re perfect,” she said as she looked us over. “Lancer is going to love you. This way.”

We followed her around the back of the house, slightly bemused by her certainty that we would be Lancer’s new owners. We stopped at the paddock gate, immediately entranced with the sight before us. Beauty, it is said, is in the eye of the beholder, but here beauty stood almost knee-deep in lush green grass. 

Here was a horse whose coat glowed as brightly as the crust of a loaf of bread fresh from the oven. The graceful curve of his neck and head, the crescent-shaped tips of his ears and the flaring, questing nostrils declared him a true Arab horse, the fabled drinker of the wind. Behind the fringe of his thick forelock, we could see one full, round eye, gleaming with interest, intelligence, and unmistakable kindness.

We stood silent and stunned as he came toward us. His legs parted the grass soundlessly, making him appear to glide rather than walk. His warm and moist, sweet-smelling breath washed over us as he gently nuzzled us in turn. We drank in his greeting and called him ours.

We had so much fun with him for the following four years.We jumped him, sometimes successfully, I rode him in dressage classes and showed him in-hand. He became a much-loved part of the family and was as happy on our back-lawn as he was in his paddock. But then our lives changed and we had to find him a new home, as had Diana. For a while we kept in touch with his new mom, but even though that connection finally faded, the magic of a horse called Lancer never did.

Victoria Chatham

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NB: Images from the author's collection.

 

It's That Time Again by Victoria Chatham

 

AVAILABLE HERE

Dear Reader, 

So much has changed in our world this year, but one thing that hasn't is the will to connect with friends and family for Christmas.

Hey, you might think. It's still a month away. That's all well and good, but with me in one country and many of the aforementioned friends and family in other countries, I need to have my Christmas cards and letters prepared well in advance and this year I would like to include you.

My usual Christmas letter is a bit like the old 'what I did in my summer holidays' exercise in school. It is a round up of the highlights of my year for those with whom I am not in regular contact. I try to personalize each letter, to acknowledge each individual for who they are and what they mean to me. 

Do you still get letters? Real, honest-to-goodness letters? I love receiving them even if many of them are no longer handwritten. I remember watching my mother's handwriting deteriorate over the years. Then receiving cards written in another hand and simply signed 'Eve' once she slid into the grip of Altzheimer's. My handwriting is no longer as legible as it once was after a page or two, so now I type to save the recipient the effort of having to decipher the loops and swirls that spread like cobwebs across a page.

This year has been the maddest of mad years, but there is still so much to appreciate and enjoy. I was lucky enough to have managed to get away to Mexico before the lockdown and have the memories of fun in the sun, tequila tasting and the company of friends. Once back home, I had my own writing to come back to but kept up my social activities where I could. I walked and rode horses during the summer, found places to go where I either hadn't been for a long time or never been before. I had the choice of writing or reading, or some of each and discovered many new authors. My to-be-read list has grown exponentially. 

The Skype and Zoom platforms have enabled me to keep in touch with writer friends, to have taken workshops and webinars with my own writing group and others. In a year that could have been written-off as abysmal I have strengthened friendships, shared experiences, and learnt so much. I am rounding up my year participating in National Novel Writing Month, something I tried once before and failed miserably! This time I focused on the target and know I'm going to make it.

So how was your year? Haveyou  managed to stay in touch with friends and family? Have you been able to rise above the doom and gloom and sense that this too shall pass? What is your hope for next year and beyond? Whatever it is, be kind to yourself and others.

I wish you all the compliments of the Season and a happy, healthy New Year.

All the best, Victoria

My sinuous path to writing by J. S. Marlo

J. S. Marlo BWL Author Page

Many people I meet are curious to know how I became a writer, but I’m afraid the answer often disappoints them—or isn’t quite what they expect to hear.

I would love to say I obtained a degree in English literature, journalism, or creative writing (such a degree would come handy on a daily basis), then wrote and published stories. Instead, I followed a different path, a path I never dreamed would lead to writing and publishing.

As a teen, when I was bored during math class, I scribbled short stories, imagined new scripts for my favorite TV shows, or rewrote the ending of books I read, but without any writing expectations. It was pure fun. A hobby. A secret passion. I believed my path forward was lit with numbers, not words. I wanted to become an accountant, a statistician, a mathematician, or an actuary. I obtained a degree in business and finance, and for nearly twenty years, numbers ruled my world with little room for words.

 Then one summer day, I underwent a routine surgery but developed a severe infection following major complications. I spent many months in bed. To save my sanity, my husband gave me a laptop so I could interact with the outside world.

Well...I found a writing site. At first, I was a reader, then I gathered the nerve (or maybe it was the meds) to post the opening scene of a story. Next thing I knew I started getting comments about my scene, so I posted another one. Writing my daily scene gave me purpose and pleasure amid the pain. What had started as an escape became a torch at the end of a long tunnel, a flame that rekindled that secret passion buried deep inside me. In time, I healed and re-entered the world of the living, but I couldn’t ignore or re-bottle that passion I unleashed. In the following six years, I wrote and shared over two dozen stories—fun stories that served as learning tools for POV, floating body parts, show vs tell, character development...

Thanks to the encouragement I received, I started writing a special story, a story about a female scuba diver who investigates a Ford Model T sunk at the bottom of a lake, a story I kept to myself and showed to no one. After I finished it, I submitted it in a contest sponsored by a new publisher. In my wildest dreams I never imagined it would land me my first publishing contract.

Writing is a precious gift I rediscovered under difficult circumstances, and it changed my life for the better. The journey is ongoing as I write almost every day and sometimes way too late at night. So far, I’ve published eight novels, I’m midway through a ninth, and I’m geared up to start a new romance paranormal series later this year.

So, how did I become a writer? Quite literally by accident.

Thanks for joining me. Have a wonderful day!
JS

 J. S. Marlo's Website

“If music be the food of love”… Tricia McGill

Find Amethyst and all my other books here on my BWL author page

“Then play on.” Please. William S certainly had a way with words. My English teacher at high school had a passion for Shakespeare and even kept a miniature statue of his bust on her desk. Unfortunately for silly young me, I didn’t appreciate his works way back then and was more into soppy romances as my mother called them. William sure had a good idea of what love was all about. “The course of true love never did run smooth” is another of his good lines. Visit this site and see many of his other famous quotes: https://www.brainyquote.com/authors/william_shakespeare

However, this blog is not about him or other playwrights or dramatists, but more about songwriters. I have always wanted to write lyrics, but never possessed a musical bone in my body. I was encouraged years ago by my family never to sing at family gatherings again as I am so out of tune it is not funny. But, I love listening to lyrics when they tell a good story. I am not a fan of modern music unless it be country. I’m a died in the wool country music fan. I love Country music so much, especially when the lyrics almost bring me to tears as they tell of a broken heart or reminisce about a perfect, but poor, childhood much like the one I had.

Elton John is not a Country music man, but his Lyricist Bernie Taupin is a master of telling a story in a song. Add Elton’s music and you have a perfect match. I have many favourite Country musicians but my number one is Alan Jackson. Strangely, I rarely listen to music while writing as I find it draws me out of my story while I am busily singing along. I never listen to the radio while driving (can’t take the ads) but always have my own music playing and probably know the words to just about every top hit that Alan Jackson has produced. I became familiar with his work in my line dancing days. That man has certainly mastered his craft. Anyway, I can sing off key to my heart’s content while alone in the car. When the dogs are with me they often bark and it just occurred to me that perhaps they are telling me to shut up!

Of course, I can’t list all my Alan J favourites but here is just a small selection, and I hope you can see where I am coming from.

Here in the Real World:

Cowboys don't cry, and heroes don't die
Good always wins, again and again
And love is a sweet dream, that always comes true
Oh, if life were like the movies, I'd never be blue
But here in the real world, it's not that easy at all
'Cause when hearts get broken, it's real tears that fall
And darlin' it's sad but true, but the one thing I've learned from you
Is how the boy don't always get the girl, here in the real world

(Sad but so true for lots of people)

House With no Curtains:

We still wear our rings
We still say I love you
We both play the part oh so well
But everyone knows
It's just a sad show
And we're only foolin' ourselves
It's like living in a house with no curtains
The whole world can see what's inside
You can turn out the lights in a house with no curtains
But heartache has nowhere to hide

And here is the chorus to one of my all-time favourites, Small Town Southern Man:

And he bowed his head to Jesus
And he stood for Uncle Sam
And he only loved one woman
(He) was always proud of what he had
He said his greatest contribution
Is the ones you leave behind
Raised on the ways and gentle kindness
Of a small town Southern man

Remember When.

Remember when
I was young and so were you
And time stood still and love was all we knew
You were the first, so was I
We made love and then you cried

Of course, it helps if you also hear the music that goes along with the words, but if you would like to see more of his lyrics then go here: https://www.azlyrics.com/j/jacksonal.html

Kenny Rogers is another whose music I can listen to all day and all night (and often do at night) No one sings a song about unrequited love quite like Kenny.

The words written by Bonnie Raitt to “I can’t make you love me” are probably just about the saddest song of unreturned love, ever, and it has been sung by a few but none make me want to weep for lost love as Kenny can.

'Cause I can't make you love me if you don't
You can't make your heart feel something it won't

Another tearjerker that Kenny sings plaintively is, “Share your Love With me” written by Bobby Blue Bland

It's an ill wind that blows no good
And it's a sad heart that won't love like it should
Oh, how lonesome you must be, and it's a shame
If you don't share your love with me.

While driving back from taking the doggies for a walk in the park this morning, this Kenny favourite played and I realised I just cannot leave it off my list.

Handprints on the Wall: Songwriters Nelson Blanchard and Scott Innes

Days go by so quickly
Summer turns to fall
Seems like only yesterday
That you began to crawl
So don't be afraid to take that step
I'll catch you when you fall
I don't mind if you leave behind
A few hand prints on the wall

If you don’t join me in thinking this is one of the best songs ever written about a father’s love for his child then take a look at this video with Kenny singing that a guy put up on YouTube after the birth of his twins: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nGyzIEPNnd4

I defy you not to be moved.

Okay, perhaps these songs are not always perfect grammatically, but add great music to the words and without doubt they touch the heart, and isn’t that what we all wish with our writing.

Let me finish with the words of Abba:

“So I say,
Thank you for the music, the songs I'm singing. Thanks for all the joy they're bringing.”

How barren the world would be without music—no matter what your preference.

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Stonehenge—Legends and Fact, Tricia McGill

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The authors among us who like to write about past ages, whether it be fact or pure fiction, are universally research nerds. We must love the research entailed in writing time-travels and historicals, or we would never be able to proceed with our work. I’m in the process of re-working one of my older books and this brought to mind the subject of this post, as my characters pass Stonehenge on their journey to the west of England (Circa 450 AD).

Years ago, too many to think about, but let’s say a long time ago, on the way to the west of England with family, we passed Stonehenge where it stood in all its stark glory on Salisbury Plain, Wiltshire. I am ashamed to admit that I took scant notice of it back then as my interest in history was merely budding and it’s likely I had other things to occupy my young mind. From memory, the stones were not surrounded by any restrictions and I vaguely recall we left the car at the side of the nearby road, walked around, and near them easily. Many of the original stones have fallen or been removed by what can only be called vandals. Thank goodness contact by tourists and visitors to the stones has been prohibited since 1978.
http://britannia.com/history/h7.html

Sadly, no one in my family thought to take a photograph so I have no solid proof that I stood beneath these monumental stones and wondered how on earth they got there. This is one question that has puzzled historians for many years. There are numerous theories and a few myths surrounding Stonehenge. Despite its dilapidation and mistreatment by generations of thoughtless people it is still a sight no one visiting Britain should miss.

http://www.english-heritage.org.uk/visit/places/stonehenge/history/

Stonehenge is situated in this vast plain, surrounded by hundreds of round barrows, or burial mounds. Will the mystery of who actually built it, and for what reason, ever be solved completely? Some say it is a sacred place, some say it is steeped in magic, some say it was honoured by the ancient folk who went to so much trouble to build it.

Its construction has been attributed to many different groups, but the most enduring conjecture seems to be the Druids were responsible. But then Druids did their worshipping in forests so why would they go to the trouble to trundle such large stones from miles away when they had no real use for them? Julius Caesar and other Roman storytellers wrote of a Celtic priesthood who might have been connected, but by that time the stones were already about 2000 years old. Then there is the guess that the site was started in the late Neolithic period around 3000BC and carried over to the so-called Beaker Folk who, according to archaeological finds, began to use metal implements.

The mystery of how the giant sarsen stone that weighed as much as 50 tons each got from the Marlborough Downs about 20 miles north of the Plain to their final destination, not to mention the moving of the bluestones, remains today. Modern studies have calculated that at least 600 men would have been required to just get each stone across obstacles on the route.

Around 2100BC as the Bronze Age made its presence felt in North/West Europe Stonehenge was dismantled and rebuilt on a more impressive scale, with two rings. It is thought the purpose was to record the cycles of the sun and moon (with accuracy) at summer and winter solstices. The sheer scale of Stonehenge suggests it was meant for some ceremonial practice.

On site, the sarsen stone had to be prepared to take the lintels along the top surface. The mind boggles at the enormity of this task taking place with none of the modern machinery at hand today. Levers were likely used to raise each stone until gravity ensured it slid into a prepared hole. Then, manpower was used to pull the stone upright. It is estimated Stonehenge was finally completed around 1500 BC.

We must not forget the legends surrounding Stonehenge. Being a romantic, I half believe this one as it involves King Arthur’s Merlin. The 12th century writer Geoffrey of Monmouth in his “History of the Kings of Britain” claimed that Merlin brought the stones from Ireland.

 http://www.britannia.com/history/arthur/geofmon.html

Okay the story gets a bit far-fetched when he claims the stones of the original Giant’s Ring were brought to Ireland from Africa (How? you ask) well by giants of course. The stones were located on Mount Killaraus where they had been used as a site for rituals and healing. King Uther and Merlin arrived in Ireland, arranged for the dismantling of the stones to be transported to Britain (by giants and magic) where they were erected in a great circle. This circle was in memory of 300 British noblemen who were massacred by the Saxon leader, Hengest, around the 5th century.

Speculation and experimentation will go on forever and no doubt there will be new evidence springing up in the future. We should not forget the aliens from another planet theory. As space exploration goes forward in search of a new planet for the human race to occupy, new answers may arise. I’m sad that I will not be here to learn the actual truth. But, who knows, I might be reincarnated by then. I only hope I come back as a scientist or space explorer.

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