January named for the Roman God Janus

 

To find more of my books please click on the image above.

January, named for the Roman God Janus.

January, like Janus, stands at the gateway of the new year. He has one foot still in the departed year  while his other is firmly planted in the new young year. The god Janus was a dual faced figure with one face looking into the past and one turned toward the future and what it may bring. January is much like this Roman god. The threshold of the new year promised opportunity and adventure and so we embrace the forward looking aspect of January. But what is made new has it's origins in what has gone before. With this dual outlook, we can look back on the past year and analyse what we did that was positive and then the things we would perhaps prefer to forget. The forward facing figure reminds us not to dwell in the past but to look forward to what is to come. 

Janus was a god of transition, much as January is the transition from the old year to the new. A gateway god to guard the gateway of the year. January is a  now you see it, now you don't type of month. It blows hot with the ubiquitous January thaw, then it changes over night and the north wind howls with the snow demon's breath while the mercury drops to frigid depths. The flowers of spring and summer hide deep in the earth under their protecting blanket of snow ignoring the fickleness of January weather.

For me, January means the returning of the light, the strengthening of the sun as it makes it slow steady way from the southern skies toward the northern horizons. The light that began its return in late December at the Winter Solstice continues to strengthen throughout January. I'm not saying January is my favourite month...I leave that honour to May and October...but this first month of a new year is always welcome as it heralds new beginnings and the opportunity to shed old habits and emotions that no longer serve me. 

January is also the time of wassailing. The lovely ancient ritual of taking cider (either alcoholic or not) out to the orchard trees and sing to them while sipping hot cider and then offering cider to the trees in the hopes they will provide us with a bumper crop of fruit in the fall. I find it's a magical experience to engage with the nature of the trees and in some small way communicate with them. To stand with one foot in this world and the other in the realm where all things are equal and sentient.

Until next month,

Be well, be happy  

     

Are you an October Person? by Nancy M Bell

 

To learn more about my books go to www.bookswelove.com

Are you an October person? I am for sure. An old friend and author first asked me that. She was an October person, always going out to fight the good fight with all the banners flying in the wind. I'd like to think I'm more than a bit like her.

Aside from that, I have always loved the transition seasons of the year. The miracle of spring after the long  cold nights and short days of winter. But autumn is my favourite. The glory of the maples burning against the vibrant blue of the sky, the last rose of summer blooming into the middle of October- another one who is throwing her banners against the sky and defying the frosty night of the full harvest moon.

I like to write about October people as well, when I was researching Discarded I found Louis Riel and recognized another October person. That being said, things don't always turn out well for October people, but darn we go out when we go with flying colours.

I love the colours of fall, the sepia tones of the dry fields, long grasses whispering in the wind, birds hunting the fallen grains in the shorn crop fields. And the wonder of the wild geese calling into the wind as they begin their journey. It always lifts my heart and for a moment I fly with them, my wings stroking the air.

So to all you October people out there...keep on keeping on!

Until next month stay well, stay happy

    

Falling into Fall by Nancy M Bell

 To learn more about my books click on the link above

It's that time of year again. The sun is making its way south through the skies and throwing golden slanting rays across the land as its position sinks toward the horizon. The air is full of shining motes of light as the sun glints off the dust raised by busy combines bringing in the harvest.

The days are drawing in as the Autumn Equinox approaches, mornings are blessed with the cool bite of what is to come and the grass is rimed with the last of summer's breath.

 

My roses are still blooming right now, the pumpkins are orange, the apples are glowing through the emerald leaves and the garden is getting ready for the winter sleep.  Fall is a time of renewal, much the same as spring.  The busy days of summer are coming to a close, the nights grow longer and wrap us in the comfort of our hearth fire and knowledge we are ready for the coming cold. The long nights gift us with time to spend in pursuits we have set aside for the warmer months. Time to bring out the projects that have been put on hold, time to savour the summer that is past, time for introspective thoughts and time to plan for the coming spring.

Nights through October and November are long and sometimes cold, but without the dark would we really appreciate the return of the light after the Winter Solstice? The slow trickle of lengthening days as January turns to February. For those who follow the old ways, Samhain, Alban Arthuan and Imbolc. No matter what we humans call the turning the seasons, the universe carries on with no regard to our celebrations or worries. I find comfort in that in some odd way. So I'm more than ready to fall into Fall. The short days will get me out of the garden and back into the house where the dust lays thick on my computer. There are stories to write and tales to tell.

Until next month, stay well, stay happy.  

 

What is it about the Moon? by Nancy M Bell

To see my newest release Night at the Legislature click on the image above.

What is it about the moon that fascinates us so? I could spend hours just watching her swim across the sable ocean of the sky slipping through the constellations on her nightly journey. Songs have been written and poems composed, indeed even novels (although a lot of them are concerned with the affect the full moon has on certain shape shifters). There is something about moonlight that evokes magic in the heart and the imagination. Familiar sights take on new nuances when viewed through the lens of moonlight. 

The very fact that the daily tides in the oceans of the world are ruled by the influence of the moon is pretty darn amazing.  That an object floating in the vastness of space captured in the earth's magnetic pull moves literally tons of salt water is pretty magical to me. I know, I know, there is scientific information that explains this, but why get so bogged down in all that science speak when one can fill one's heart and soul with the sheer magnificence of the reality playing out before you as you sit on the shingle of the beach and watch the water creep up the shore little trickle by little trickle. Slowly filling the spaces between the pebbles while the magic fills your heart. Water is a living spirit, the earth's life blood. I often think how wonderful it would be to included in the unspoken communication between the waters and the moon's power to move it.

When I was a kid I would sit under the maple tree by the dock of our cottage where the warm night was a velvet ebony blanket around me and watch the moon rise turning the still water of the lake to shimmering ice with her light. In the complete darkness and silence that was filled with sound it seemed that anything was possible and that the stars were singing to to the moon as she journeyed. Later as I grew older, I sat on my horse in the Rouge valley and smiled as the moonlight woke ripples of ice on the Rouge River at the shallow Durnford crossing. So many small, but important moments in my life have been lit by moonlight.

The moon has always been female to me, regardless of the Man in the Moon stories, and the sun has always seemed male to me. The warrior as opposed to the healer. Both strong in their own way.   

I'm not sure I'll ever really figure out just what it is about the moon and it's light that inspires me and holds me in awe at the same time.   

Until next month, be well, be happy.   

 

Is it Spring yet? by Nancy M Bell

 

To explore more of Nancy's work please click on the cover above.

This is the cover for my next novel which is releasing in April of 2025. Night at the Legislature is the first book in the new collection of paranormal novels being released by BWL Publishing Inc. This collection joins the Canadian Historical Brides and the Canadian Historical Mysteries collections already available.

But now to my point. Is it spring yet? I know, I know,  you're all thinking 'what else could she expect? she lives in central Alberta'. This is the time of year when I get antsy, wanting to buy flowers, bedding plants, bulbs for the garden. Only problem is there is about three feet of snow over my gardens right now and the temperature is in the -20 degrees Celsius. Yup, no digging in the dirt for me for  awhile. Somehow, I always manage to make it through the dark days when the sun is sinking further and further to the south, the hours of daylight shortening with each passing day. It's not Christmas that I look forward to (although that is of course part of it) but the winter solstice. The moment when the Holly King at the height of his reign gives over to the Oak King. 

Slowly, the light returns, the days getting longer and the sun strengthening. Gradually, the sun will make its journey into the northern skies, the sunsets will slant shadows in different directions. Winter will release her strangle hold and the snow will begin to melt, dripping in diamond tears from the trees and the eaves of houses. Creeks and streams will find their voices again as snow melt swells their ranks. The bright chatter and music of running water will fill the air...and finally...the earth will warm enough that snow drops and prairie crocus will push toward the light , followed by daffodils, tulips and hyacinths. The brilliant gold of forsythia will wave beside the pearly grey pussy willows.

But for now, I'm stuck in the middle of February with its frosty nights silvered with moonlight  and starlight. While I watch Orion stalk across the eastern skies headed toward the west as the dawn light approaches. And the jewels of the planets burning in the cold winter skies, somehow more sparkling than in the warmth of summer. Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Venus and if I'm lucky enough to see it before he slips beneath the horizon, Mercury. 

Winter can be spectacular with motes of fairy dust floating in the sunlight as the moisture in the air freezes in the breeze. Snow reflecting the moonlight and starlight. Tall evergreens mantled in heavy frost like hoary giants guarding us.

But, oh spring...spring...the renewal of life, the return of the light...young animals starting their lives, the song of birds growing ever stronger. The return of the hawks and geese and that harbinger of spring the robin. My heart years for spring in the midst of February. So...is it spring yet?

Until next month, be happy, be wise, be healthy 

    

Tom Thomson Book Launch a huge Success! by Nancy M Bell

 

To learn more about Nancy's books click on the cover please.

The book launch at The Purple Platypus Bookstore in Castor, Alberta was huge success. There was tons of fun,  door prizes, swag bags and of course a reading from the book. There was a great turnout with over 20 people joining me in the cozy confines of the bookstore. It's such a pleasure to support and be supported by an independent bookstore. Castor is a small town in east-central Alberta and The Purple Platypus draws patrons from as far away as Red Deer and Wetaskiwin. I'm so happy that the lovely Lynn Sabo agreed to host this book launch. Even though the day outside was a bit dreary, the warm and companionship within was wonderful. 

Not to mention I sold lots of books which was good for me and the store. So win win.

As anice way to cap off the day I got the first look at the cover for my upcoming book Night at te Legislature, a Manitoba paranormal set in the Manitoba Legislature building. This one is the first book in BWL Publishing's news collection The Paranormal Canadiana Collection which will feature a novel set in each of Canada's provinces and territories.

Until next month, stay well, stay happy

 

Fall is coming or is it here? By Nancy M Bell

 

To see more of Nancy's work please click on the image above.

September 2024 is almost half over. Do you think the calendar decides when summer is gone and fall is upon us? I honestly don't think nature pays much attention to our human machinations. I remember an August day back in 1978, I was sitting on my horse having just come out of the wooded valley behind the barn and looking over Bruno Bijoni's  huge bean field. It was only mid August, but as I sat and let the sun fall in slanted beams around me and the breeze sweep across the land to lift my hair, there was the unmistakable scent of autumn in it. It's a hard scent to describe, more experienced than described. It's a mix of dry grasses, disturbed leaf litter under the trees, a cooling of the air moving over the tasseled heads of ripe corn waiting for the reaper and so many other  nebulous but unmistakable nuances.

In my middle years, I so looked forward to the shortening of days, the cries of the wild geese overhead and the whisper of the wind in their pinions as they lofted off the trout pond. Summer was always full to the brim and the dusk of ten pm often found me still teaching a riding lesson, or schooling my own horses. Not to mention the myriad of  chores that spring and summer brings. Haying in June when the weather was always hot and humid, repairing fences, showing horses, braiding manes and tails until after midnight with my own horse always done last after the students. So yes, the shortening days were welcome. A promise of respite and a chance to recharge. 

When I was much younger, fall meant the time we spent at the cottage on Davis Lake in Haliburton was drawing to a close and that was not met with such relief. But oh, the glory of the maple trees burning orange and red and gold against the dark spruce and pine. Their colours reflected in the mirror stillness of the lake. In later years, it was the Rouge Valley that gifted me with the palette of autumn colour as I rode my horse along the well known and loved trails. Even now, so many years later, I can close my eyes and ride down Mosquito Alley, climb Spyglass Hill, look over the flats on the east side of the river from Souix Lookout, ride down the broad avenue that ran along the top of the ridge, the place where I could find  trilliums and lady's slippers in the spring.

Some falls have been open and warm, holding autumn at bay and spreading honey-gold light and heat across the western prairies. Clouds of dust rising into the Alberta blue sky heralding the work of many combines bring in John Barley Corn, wheat, canola, rye and other crops. On those days, fall seems far away and winter even more distant. There is one thing I can always be certain of though, no matter when it arrives, fall will be a'comin' in with crispy days and sharper nights. Jack Frost will paint the trees with colour, although out here in the west it mostly shades of gold and yellow. I trust my nose and my senses rather than the calendar to tell me what season it is. 

Here are some images to get you into the mood.

Until next month, stay well, stay happy.

Update on current Work In Progress ~ When your characters go AWOL by Nancy M Bell

 

to learn more about Nancy's work click on the cover.

The progress on this book has been slow. For awhile, my characters refused to speak to me which was frustrating. I depend on them to carry me forward. I finally figured out why they had disappeared into the Ontario bush of 1917 and refused to come out. 

I was so tied up with historical timelines and who said this and where this other person was at such and such a time that I forgot about the underlying story I was attempting to tell. I finally pulled my head out of the rabbit hole and said "to hell with timeline etc."

I got back to my main character, Harriet Agnes St. George, and turned her loose on Canoe Lake and the Algonquin bush. One of the things which has plagued me is that this is based on actual happenings and Tom Thomson's death has never been fully explained. There are many and conflicting accounts of the events leading up to his death and those following the event. I have been sunk in a conundrum of what to use and what to disregard as not fitting with my storyline.

As this is a work of fiction, both historical and a mystery, I need to have a satisfying conclusion to the mystery. But as there is no clear indication of who the murderer was, or if indeed it was murder and not an accident, it has caused me some pause.

Clearly, I can't say such and such a historical figure was the murderer and to the best of anyone's knowledge, there were no eye witness to the attack/accident. So I have invented Harriet who tells the story in her own words from a unique perspective. I think the reader will find the conclusion and the wrap up of Harriet's story both surprising and satisfying. 

I'm not going to reveal anything more about that. Just say, keep an open mind as you follow Harriet through her journey to discover who killed her friend and fellow artist Tom Thomson.

In closing, just let me say, I hate hate hate writers block and I hate when my characters desert me and then suddenly show up in the middle of the night waking me up with "hey lady, about your story line- how about this...."

Until next month, stay well, stay happy.

Learning to Live Without You by Nancy M Bell

 

To find more of Nancy's books click on the cover

Emily, Shady, Max

Emily

Guapo

Spook, Colleen, Phil, Sunny, Emily in the east pasture

As we age there are transitions in our lives.  The biggest, and latest one, in  mine is that I no longer own a horse. That's not entirely a true statement, I never 'owned' a horse, they more aptly owned me. My earliest memory is of riding a pony and being led around under a shady tree at the Bowmanville Zoo in Ontario. My childhood is filled with wishing for horses, it was a part of me was missing until I started working  at Rouge Hill Stables (Highway 2 and Shepherd Ave). While I didn't own those school horses, I loved them and took care of them I spent every moment I could at the barn. Most weekends I led trail rides from 8 in the morning until 8 or 9 at night. I went to school for a break LOL. 

I got my first horse when I was 17. I loved that horse, still do. He was the horse of my youth, probably the only reason I made it through my teens. Tags was the horse of my middle age and Emily was the horse of my old age. There are countless other horses who have touched my life, and I adore all of them. I remember all of them.  If I work at it I can recall the order of the stalls in the school barn at the Rouge, even though the horses sometimes changed. 

I spent my highschool years on  horseback in the magical Rouge Valley which is now a park. The first gallop on the sandy trail beside the river, crossing at the Durnford Crossing, then down the tree shadowed Mosquito Alley past the Fairy Pool at the end. Then the rest area, then either over the river again and through the apple orchard and up the steep Spy Glass Hill where you could look out over the valley and see the Glen Eagles Hotel perched on the edge of cliff to the west. The hotel is long gone now, but it lingers in my memory. If you went the other way you went up and then along the top of ridge where trilliums and lady's slippers bloomed. 

And through everything there were horses. Always Horses. 

Now, I'm learning to live without them. A part of my heart is missing. I suppose as we grow older we lose things. People, animals, beloved locations become paved over or plowed under. And yet, as long as we remember them, they are never really lost. But the place they occupy in my heart is bit less shiny and new.

I suppose everyone of us has things from our youth and lives that we leave behind as we move forward. For me, it is the privilege of caring for horses. But life moves on and we must therefore move with it. The alternative is to stop living and be engulfed by the past. Tempting as that is at times, I'm not ready to do that yet. There are still windmills I need to go tilting after. And books yet to write. 

Until next month, be well , be happy. 

   

My first horse show. Chum (Cherokee's Luck) I was 16

Guapo

Max

Miley

Gibbie

Emily, Phil, Big Bird

     

The Place that Held You by Nancy M Bell

 

Laurel's Choice releases December 1, 2023

For this and the other books in the series please click the cover. 

It hasn't been that long since Remembrance Day and my thoughts turn to those who went bravely into the unknown and never returned home. Some who came home did so injured both in body and spirit. When I was a child we lived with my grandparents. My grandfather served in WW1 with the engineering corps and his brother, my great uncle lost his life on August 8, 1918 at the Somme. Uncle Joe is buried in France near a small town called Marcelcave. My Uncle Jim, my mother's brother served in WW2 and spent time in a German POW camp before coming home.

There are so many stories that have never been told, and so many we are losing as these brave souls pass on. It is important that we and the younger generations remember those who gave their lives in all the past wars and those who are currently putting their lives in danger to protect us on home soil.

I love the initiative No Stone Left Alone where the graves of soldiers are visited by school children and others. I wish I could visit Uncle Joe way over there in France. But I hold him in my thoughts and I tell them all in my prayers "The Place that Held You is Still There and I remember you.

We will remember you, all of you.

This is poem I wrote for Uncle Joe.

Somme

Sleep

Nancy M Bell 

Crouched and ready we wait,

Dawn is late in coming

And when it does it is shrouded

In mist and fog

It is more than the damp and wet

That sends the shivers over our skin

Anticipation and fear war with each other

Where are the tanks that are supposed to support us?

 Sky and earth merge when we peek over the top

Stitched together by mizzle and mist

Yards away, across the trampled earth

The enemy crouch and wait as we do

Where are the tanks? The support?

Whispers and rumours run up and down the line

Then—suddenly the wait is over

“Over the top, boys,” the sergeant yells

 And we go

Surging out of our earthen burrows

Running, firing blind, blinking in the fog

No time to think, only to run and fire

Ducking bullets whining by our ears

Then—it stops

I open my mouth and spit mud

Blood, hot and cold runs through my fingers

The old guys were right

There is no pain when it happens

Just a mixed sensation of disbelief

And relief…

Even if I die right here in the mud

It’s over:

The fear;

the wet;

the lice;

the killing.

Somewhere my mates are yelling and shots echo

But around me there is an odd silence

A separation from the man-made hell

One hand clutching my gut,

the other somehow still wrapped around my rifle

I let the lark song sing me to sleep.

  

The Witching Hour

 

find my books here

In researching our upcoming book, Spectral Evidence, my co-author Jude Pittman and I are coming face-to-face with a subject that has fascinated me since I twice appeared in theater productions of Arthur Miller's play, The Crucible-- the Salem Witch Trials.

How does the infamous American tragedy connect to a mystery set in Newfoundland of the same 1692 period? Well, the waterways..be they ocean, lake, river, or coastal were the highways of commerce then. Did you know there was a healthy trading network between the cod fisheries of Newfoundland and their American cousins in New England? Our story is of literal cousins, whose connected merchant families are from St. John's, Newfoundland, and Salem, Massachusetts.

Today's Salem is seeped in history.  It's now a small, thriving town that has survived the infamy of its early history of puritan-on-puritan violence, pirates, whalers, murders, a great fire and several Hollywood invasions to become a destinations of thousands of tourists during the month of October. As if making amends for the intolerance of its earlier residents, Salem is also a welcoming home for all, including modern witches, historians, artists, writers, and the LGBTQ+ community.

Spending a witching hour in Salem might mean feeling the darkness gather about you as you tour one of the Witch trial judge's home, of feel a tug as your shawl from the ghost of Dorcas, the youngest of the accused, a 4 year old imprisoned girl said to be still searching for her hanged mother. 

The Witch House, home of Judge Corwin,
where the accused were questioned

Visit the world-class Peabody Essex Museum to hear haunting melodies as you sit under beautifully carved sailing ships' mastheads, and the home that inspired Nathaniel Hawthorne to write The House of the Seven Gables.  There are two (count 'em) pirate museums!

 

The Real Pirate Museum, where I learned what "Matelot" is

There's even a tribute to actress Elizabeth Montgomery, who endeared herself to locals when she filmed the seventh season of her TV sitcom "Bewitched" in Salem.

(Almost) everybody loves the "Bewitched" bronze sculpture!

Yes, research is a rewarding part of this writer's life.  I hope you'll enjoy the fruits of our labor when Spectral Evidence is published next year!

Sneak Peek! Manitoba Canadian Historical Mystery ~ Discarded by Nancy M Bell

 

To find out more about Nancy's books please click on the cover above. Discarded is scheduled for release in September of 2023.

Happy to report Discarded is almost ready. It's been an interesting journey and the more I read and researched the more I realized how much the British have to apologize for with regards to the high handed arrogant way they ran roughshod over the peoples already living in the areas the British colonized. However, this is not the place for political discussions. Just let's leave it at this: Louis Riel was a good man who stood up for his people. We should celebrate him, not villainize him as they did in my elementary school History class.

Discarded, the title, refers to the women who were married to the men who came to settle in Rupert's Land in an arrangment called 'la facon du pays' (according to the custom of the country). Without the help of these First Nations and Metis women many of these men would not have survived the harsh conditions. However, when the settlement grew larger the English and Scots brought women from Britain to Rupert's Land who they married in churches as the Catholic and Presbyterian clergy did not recognize the arrangements of la facon du pays. The women who had sustained the first arrivals were cast out and left to fend for themselves and their children by the men now married to 'more suitable wives'. 

Here is a snippet of the first chapter.

Chapter One

“Marguerite, you must go to him. Etienne needs medicine, the fever is eating him up,” Marie Anne urged her sister.

The younger woman shook her head, wringing out a cloth in cold water to soothe her child. “How can I? The English woman, she is there now, I doubt Miles will even speak to me.”

“He must, Etienne is his son!” Marie-Anne insisted.

“No longer.” The words were bitter. “He has disowned the bebe and me, discarded us like so much offal. Now that his fancy English lady has arrived.”

“Still, Marguerite, you must go and ask. I will come with you. Together we will convince your Miles to either send the British doctor or give us money for the medicine.” Anne Marie pulled the dripping cloth from Marguerite’s hand and threw it on the pounded earth floor. “Look at him! You cannot just let him die. If you won’t go yourself, I will go in your stead.”

Marie-Anne whirled around, grabbing two thin shawls from the back of a chair, and wrapping them around her shoulders. She planted her hands on her hips and glared at her sister. “Are you coming?”

“Yes, oui, of course. I know you are right. It is just my pride that stops me. For how long was I his wife in every sense of the word? If not for me, and you, and others like us, those soft Englishmen would never have survived their first winter. It was our relatives who brought them buffalo and other provisions to see them through, and us who cared for them, chopped wood, carried the water, bore their children…” Marguerite broke off, her throat closing in frustration and sorrow for all that they’d lost. Angrily, she swiped the moisture from her cheeks and straightened her back. “Come, we go. Alexandre! Come watch your brother while I go to your father to ask for help.”

The older boy poked the dying fire one more time before crossing the small room. He picked the sodden cloth up from the floor and wrung it out. After rinsing it with some water from the bucket by the bed, he wiped his little brother’s face.

“Maman, he’s burning up.” Alex looked up at her. “Will Papa come and take him to the doctor? Why hasn’t he come to see us lately?”

“Your papa will not be coming, nor will he take Etienne to the doctor. The best we can hope for is that he will send the doctor or at least make provision for the apothecary to give me some medicine for him. I have tried the best I can with the willow bark, but it isn’t enough.”

“Will Eitienne die like Elizabeth?” Alex glanced at the empty cradle still sitting by the hearth.

“Not if I can help it,” Anne Marie promised. She took Marguerite’s arm and pulled her toward the door. “Put this on against the cold.” She thrust a Hudson’s Bay blanket into the other woman’s arms.

“Oui, yes, we must go. You are right.” Marguerite wrapped the woolen blanket tightly around her, and after one last look at her children, followed her sister out into the bitter wind blowing down the Red River, howling around the eaves of the small buildings and sending snow flying into their faces.

Alex’s last words echoed in Marguerite’s head as she shouldered her way against the wind. “Tell Papa I miss him.” She snorted, as if Miles cared about them anymore. Even little Elizabeth, dead at six months of age, hadn’t moved him to contribute to her burial. It was the English woman’s fault. She was the one who turned Miles against them. Charlotte Windfield, what sort of name was Charlotte anyway? Grief stabbed her for a moment, not Windfield anymore, oh no. Miles married her in the church two weeks ago. So now she was Charlotte Ashmore. Lady Ashmore.

“Marguerite, come on, hurry up.” Anne Marie looked over her shoulder and waited for her sister to catch up.

“Sorry, the wind is stealing my breath.”

“Here, take my arm. It’s only a little way more. Surely Miles will ask us in and let us get warm before we go on.”

The walk from the Metis community to the more substantial homes of the British and Scottish population was a long one on a good day, for the two women walking into the teeth of the northwest wind it seemed interminable. Marguerite pulled Anne Marie to a halt in the lee of the church.

“A moment, I need to catch my breath,” she said, also needing to strengthen her resolve not to do damage to either Lord Ashmore, her erstwhile husband, or the English woman now ensconced in the fancy house just up the street.

“A moment, then. But we mustn’t waste time. Come.” Anne Marie grasped her arm and towed her sister out of the lee of the building into the wind once more.

Marguerite led the way up the path to the front door, pausing before the two steps up to the porch to take a deep breath and straighten the blanket around her shoulders. Head held high, she mounted the steps and rapped loudly on the door. Anne Marie hovered at her side; shoulders hunched against the wind.

“Yes?” Lord Ashmore’s man servant opened the door.

“I need to speak with Miles. Immediately.” Marguerite blinked in light spilling over the man’s shoulder.

“I’m afraid that is impossible. You should know better than to come here where you are not welcome.” He made disapproving noises with his tongue and made to shut the door, his strong London East End accent making it difficult for her to understand him.

“No!” Anne Marie thrust forward and stuck her foot in the door. “A child’s life is at stake. We must speak with Lord Ashmore.”

“Who is it, Gregory?” Light footsteps and the clicking of heels on the polished wooden floor proceeded the voice.

“Nothing for you to worry about, m’am.” He moved to block the woman’s view of the porch.

“I need to speak with Miles,” Marguerite shouted. “His son is very ill.”

“Oh!” Charlotte Ashmore topped in her tracks and took a step back. “My husband has no son. I’m afraid you are mistaken. Now leave this place immediately.”

“I assure you Miles does have a son, two of them in fact, and a dead infant daughter. Now let me speak to him,” Marguerite insisted. 

Until next month, stay well, stay happy.

Nancy

Artificial Intelligence – Can You Program Creativity? By BC Deeks, Paranormal Mystery Fiction Author

Visit B.C. Deeks' BWL Author Page for Book and Purchase Information

http://bookswelove.net/deeks-bc/

Artificial Intelligence, or AI, is a trending topic these days, with applications like ChatGPT and Jasper being touted as replacements for human writers. These applications are models trained on a large codex of text data that can generate responses to questions, summarize long texts, write stories and much more. It is often used in conversational AI applications to simulate a human-like conversation with users—You’ve probably already been chatting with AI if you’ve contacted online Customer Service.

The jury is still out on whether the latest AI language model, ChatGPT, is actually intelligent, as defined by a machine's ability to behave like a human. They are still basically just a computer program designed to respond to text inputs and generate outputs based on patterns in the data they’ve been trained on.

So far, many uses for AI are controversial if not outright negative, including creating malware, Phishing and scamming, and cheating in school by letting students submit papers written by their computers.  A consultancy firm reportedly found that applications written by ChatGPT beat out 80 percent of humans.

In theory, AI can even be used to write a book. But would that book be a good story or just be a distillation of characters and plot from previously published works? If AI does not have intelligence, could it take the data and CREATE a unique and imaginative piece of work the way a human author does.

From my research, I gather AI software can generate a list of book plot ideas, suggest opening paragraphs, and output a batch of character sketches. If an author provided the program with a detailed outline of a story, it might produce a workable first draft of a novel. AI language models seem best suited to generating non-fiction web content or product copy and even then should be proofed and fact checked by the writer. I read an article generated by the Jasper AI application and it contained 7 typos and grammatical errors. The author had clearly not bothered to check the work before publishing.

Getting back to fiction, I don’t think authors will be out of work any time soon. If an AI language model was asked to generate a bestselling novel with a dragon and a wizard in a magical dimension, I believe the key components of a saleable novel would be missing — imagination and creativity. AI models can only pull from what has already been done; not imagine the things that are new and exciting. AI language models are, IMHO, another tool in a writers’ toolbox that might speed up the process of generating the words on the page. I'll admit to using a copy editing software program to help with my revision process for practical reasons. It helps me spot awkward sentence structures, grammatical errors and typos in my manuscript. But at the end of the day, human intervention is required to bring the magic to the story.

For the time being, I’ll be writing REBEL SPELL, book 3 in my Beyond the Magic trilogy, with minimal aid from artificial intelligence. Besides I love writing, so why would I want to give it up?