Garden watching by Priscilla Brown

 

 

Cristina intends her working holiday at a luxury Caribbean resort to be a much-needed man-free zone. Why won't this zany charmer of a pilot get the message? And is he more than he seems? 

Find this contemporary romance at https://books2read.com/Where-the-Heart-is

 

Here in the cool-temperate high country of inland New South Wales, Australia, it's early summer, a period of busy activity in gardens; grass is growing doubly fast, flowers are flourishing. My desk is by a window looking onto the garden. I've considered moving it as at the moment my writing momentum is being hindered by bird-watching. But instead, conveniently disregarding the fact that the lawn needs a haircut, I took my laptop and garden chair outside.

In my garden, one bottlebrush (Callistemon) tree is loaded with vivid  scarlet 'brushes'. and my other bottlebrush shows off those of a deep pink. Apparently these Australian natives were originally named bottlebrush because way back someone rather unimaginatively thought their long conspicuous stamen spikes were shaped like an implement for cleaning a large bottle. These trees in my garden are hosting honeyeating birds, thrusting their long beaks into the blooms to find the nectar. My favourites are the tiny eastern-spinebills smartly dressed with a grey-brown back, cinnamon collar and white bib. Noisy middle-sized wattle birds, striped brown and white with red ear wattles, are sometimes not so favourite as they like to dine on camellia blossoms as well as the bottlebrush.These are only two members of the large  honeyeater avian family. Even the usually seed-eating crimson rosellas (small parrots) enjoy a taste of the bottlebrush.

So much for writing outside!  How lucky I am to have such lovelies sharing my space.

 Enjoy your reading, best wishes from  Priscilla, contemporary romance author 

https://bwlpublishing.ca

 

https://priscillabrownauthor.com 

Say it with flowers...by Sheila Claydon

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Weather-wise, I don't know what the winter of 2020/21 was like in the rest of the world, but in the UK it was cold and wet, and the dreariness dragged on into spring. When the sun should at least have been trying to shine it stayed tucked away behind a blanket of grey cloud, and the rain kept on falling. The outcome, where I live on the northwest coast, was overflowing ponds, puddles everywhere, and, as the weather warmed slightly, lush grass and greenery. No flowers though. Everything was waiting for the sun to break through. Then it did, and my goodness the wait was worth it.

Too eager to show off, many of the plants burst into bloom before their time so that late winter, spring and the beginning of summer plants have been fighting for space all at once. And the growth is like nothing I've ever seen. Everything has doubled in size thanks to all that winter rain so that gardens are full to overflowing with colour and foliage. 

Waking up in the morning and stepping outside into all that beauty and colour makes every minute of the day worth living. Memories of that long winter are fading fast as another and then another plant bursts into bloom. And eating lunch outside under a pergola drooping with roses and honeysuckle, or drinking coffee in our tiny courtyard where the dramatic leaves of hosta provide a backdrop to pansies, pinks, and campanula is an absolute joy. 

In case you haven't realised it yet, I love flowers! My mother was a florist, which probably accounts for some of it at least, and my book Bouquet of Thorns pulls everything together. I know how to care for flowers because she showed me. I know how florists work because I watched her. And when I married I discovered that my mother-in-law was not only a keen gardener but someone who wanted to share her expertise and knowledge, so my garden now pays tribute to both of them. It has flowers that were originally cuttings from my grandmother's garden, there are plants my mother-in-law bought, planted for me and showed me how to care for, and the tubs and displays, while not as beautiful as the ones my mother would have planted, are as close as I can get. 

In Bouquet of Thorns, Sarah is trying to establish her own flower shop. Unfortunately she also has to manage her brother's run down wine bar when he is awarded a travelling scholarship. Working long hours, using the profits from her own business to prop up the wine bar, and trying to pacify her disgruntled boyfriend, she is too tired to think straight as she lurches from one catastrophe to the next. And even worse is the fact that Sean Marlow, with his Viking warrior beard and piercing blue eyes, always seems to be at the bottom of them.

It's a story about love amongst the flowers. What could be better?

Flowers, Past and Present by Eileen O'Finlan

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Click here to visit Eileen O'Finlan's website

I love flowers. I love them so much, I turned my front yard into a garden. I had a white picket fence with an arch installed and a landscaper design and plant perennials inside and outside of the fence. I gave him free reign with only a few non-negotiables. He had to include roses that climb the fence, honeysuckle that will wind its way over the arch, plants that will blossom at different times from spring through late fall so that something is always in bloom, and lots of color. Oh, and low maintenance. That was important because I have health issues and not nearly enough time to keep up with a garden. I'm so glad I insisted on that last point. While I've always loved working in the garden, the advance of ankylosing spondylitis has put an abrupt end to that endeavor. Fortunately, I have a neighbor who has been doing an amazing job at keeping my front yard garden in great shape. Thank you, Wendy!

In Erin's Children, my forthcoming sequel to Kelegeen, readers will meet two characters who love flowers even more than I do. Pamela and Deborah Claprood are the daughters of the family for whom Meg O'Connor works as a domestic servant. Their love of flowers leads them to set up a conservatory in the back parlor where they can indulge not only their love of gardening all year, but also engage more fully in their favorite past time – the language of flowers. 

Known as floriography, the language of flowers has been around for thousands of years but was especially popular during the Victorian era. Each flower has a meaning. It was all the rage to send one another messages through flowers, but it only worked if you were conversant in the language. Pamela and Deborah are fluent. Meg, on the other hand, being practical as ever, thinks it's ridiculous. “If you have something to say, just say it” is her opinion.

I wonder what the Claprood girls would think of my garden. Could they use cuttings from my garden to send messages? What, indeed, does my garden say?

Priscilla Brown muses on writing environments

   She's lover shopping, but her new boss could never be the goods on her wish list. Besides, which of them is really the boss?

For more information and to purchase this recently released contemporary romance, visit http://www.bookswelove.net/authors/brown-priscilla-romance

A few weeks ago I attended a short lecture on the writing lives of four famous authors: Daphne du Maurier, Virginia Woolf, C S Lewis and Ernest Hemingway. The lecturer addressed where they lived, where they actually wrote, their daily routine, and how much their environment shaped their work.

I found myself particularly interested in the influence of the physical environment, and wondered if the stories for which these writers are well known could have been written in different surroundings; not necessarily the location of the plot, or of most of it, but the setting in which the writer is working.I haven't been to du Maurier's beloved Cornwall where she wrote and which clearly had a huge influence, and her writing brought the area to vivid life for me. In contrast, Ernest Hemingway lived in many different places and, interestingly, wrote about Paris and others after he'd left them. My curiosity lay in the outside environment rather than the room and desk where the creative work occurred.

Thinking back to my own writing life, when I started more or less seriously (that is, aiming for publication), I was living in an isolated New South Wales coastal village and attempting short stories. I used to take my notebook to the beach, sit on the sand and scribble ideas, fragments of stories. This physical environment--the sea, usually calm as our village was situated on a large bay, and frequented by dolphins; the white sand beach, its access track fringed with bushes; the tall forest behind the village--all inspired, indeed encouraged, my literary efforts. Most, but not all, of these early stories were set around this locale; a few were published, and others relegated to a hard copy file in case parts could be used in some future work. (Still waiting!)

The physical environment is of course not only about place and the sense of sight. It's also about the other senses. With this littoral environment, the ocean-fresh sense of smell was marked, of salt and of the scent of eucalypts in the forest; salt contributed to taste also--it stuck to lips and found its way into sandwiches. Sounds included the gentle slap of waves, the hum of the sea at night, calls of seabirds, dolphins breaching, bushes rustling in the breeze; the sense of touch was stimulated by brushing against spiky leaves, swimming in the the often cool water, sand tickling bare feet.

Perhaps I should add that this area has a temperate climate, warm summers, chilly winters, and there is bad weather, high winds, rain, storms. In fact, one of my favourite short stories involved a small boat wrecked during a storm.

Moving inland to a small regional town  means that while this particular ambience no longer actively influences my writing, twenty years of living by the sea will always remain in the background, and I 

 recall the experience when required for a story. Now, instead of writing by the beach, I'm finding our

lovely small garden, such as was difficult to establish in coastal sandy soil, fulfils a need for an outdoors creative space. I appreciate its peaceful mood, and enjoy watching honeyeaters and parrots feeding on the Australian native flowers and shrubs. The only drawback is at the moment in winter it's too cold to work outside.

The idea for Class Act developed from several years teaching English to adult speakers of other languages, work sometimes challenging and always rewarding. The setting of Gina and Lee's language school is in a different city and different kind of building, and the plot and characters are complete fiction. (My then Director was nowhere near as interesting as Lee in the story!)

Enjoy your reading!  Priscilla.

http://bwlpublishing.ca 

 https://priscillabrownauthor.com