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.  

 

Striving for Perfection by Victoria Chatham

 

COMING IN SEPTEMBER 2025

Yes, Winnie Hatherall has solved the crime in this, my first cosy mystery. 

However, while hammering my way through the last chapter, I began to slow down as I realised - shock, horror - that I had a major plot hole. Once I started filling that one in, I found another and then another. I don't know how many drafts of a new novel are too many, but I am now on the home stretch. I think.

Reading through my manuscript is more than checking that my I's are dotted and my T's crossed. Have I left red herrings dangling, or have I given them a logical conclusion? Have I created a worthy sleuth, and is my villain too obvious or not obvious enough? Are my characters sufficiently fleshed out to be believable?  Is the plot strong enough? Ah, the aim for perfection.

Perfection is akin to flawlessness, and how often do we achieve that? I once had a lengthy discussion with a well-known Harlequin editor regarding instances of errors in a particular book. Considering how many pairs of eyes would have reviewed it, I was surprised by the number. Her answer was a gentle reminder that we are all human. So, where do I see perfection? Always in nature and especially in a garden.

Of all the flowers I have grown, I have enjoyed roses the best. They weren't always the easiest to cultivate, but I had this lovely deep pink rose that grew prolifically in my garden at Ivy Cottage. Another rose that grew well there was a vivid yellow cabbage rose that rambled over my garage like a weed and frequently bloomed right up until Christmas. 

 

  

It doesn't matter where I go, gardens are a delight to wander through. This year, I again visited Victoria, on Vancouver Island, British Columbia, and although I had missed the cherry blossom, I was in time for the blaze of rhododendrons. These were so prolific in a range of colours from scarlet to various shades of pink, and this lovely shade of lilac. Originating from eastern Asia, particularly the Himalayan region, rhododendrons have thrived in other parts of the world.

One of my favourite gardens to visit is the Botanical Gardens, just south of Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. The garden spans over seventy-nine acres, comprising some manicured and precise flower beds, as well as winding trails through the jungle environment. It is also known for its orchid conservation and propagation, and this yellow orchid was only one of the many varieties on display. 

Leaving the scents, colours, and profusion of perfection behind me, I am now going to step back into the imperfect world of Winnie Hatherall, senior sleuth. Watch out for her in September!

Victoria Chatham

  AT BOOKS WE LOVE

 ON FACEBOOK

 MY WEBSITE

NB: photographs shown here are from this author's collection.

Ivy Cottage by Victoria Chatham

 

AVAILABLE HERE

Many years ago, on a bright April day with cotton wool clouds whisked across a clear blue sky by a strong breeze, I first saw Ivy Cottage. I stood at the entrance of the driveway leading into the garden, where daffodils danced at the feet of a row of cordoned apple trees covered in blossoms. The lady of the house sat on the lawn in the sunshine, engrossed with her spinning wheel, and I felt as though I had wandered through a time-travel portal.

The term 'cottage' was quite misleading, as this three-hundred-year-old Cotswold stone and brick property was actually a five-bedroom house. We made an offer, which the vendor accepted, and in August of that year, we moved in. The garden had to take care of itself that autumn and winter, but as it began to thrive the following spring, I discovered many intriguing things growing spontaneously.

Aside from the fruit trees, there was a large vegetable patch, a raspberry patch, and my favourite—a sprawling wild garden I never touched. Rabbits hid there, foxes used a regular trail through it, and a hedgehog raised her babies there for several years in a row. Bees loved the foxgloves and honeysuckle, while butterflies were drawn to the lilacs and buddleia. Each year, appearing unannounced in a different part of the garden, were poppies, ox-eye daisies, and the delicate and shy fritillaries.  

rhsplants.co.uk

Another annual visitor was the teasel, which appeared in various parts of the garden each year. Known since before Tudor times for its woollen production, the mills in our area purchased locally grown teasels.  

thompsonmorgan.com

The teasels were dried, and their spiky heads were then used to raise the nap on the fabric. This process was known as ‘teasing.’ In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, locally grown commercially harvested teasel crops became a thing of the past due to cheap imported teasels from Spain. My teasels attracted not only pollinators when they came into flower, but once they went to seed, they provided a feast for various birds, particularly goldfinches.

a-z-animals.com

The goldfinches weren’t the only birds inhabiting the garden. We had a noisy wren nesting in an old wall and a robin in the potting shed. Chaffinches and bullfinches, lovely as it was to see them, became spring pests once the fruit blossoms appeared. House and hedge sparrows, blackbirds, and thrushes all came and went, alongside an infrequent woodpecker and an occasional blue jay.

Being a single working mum meant I often didn’t tend to the garden as much as I would have liked. When the grass grew too long, I borrowed a neighbour’s goats to trim it. The only issue with this was that they had to be tethered to a ground peg, resulting in various odd-looking crop circles. It was either that or have the garden completely stripped.

During the ten years we lived in that house, the vegetable and raspberry patches were expanded, and I cultivated various herbs in reclaimed clay chimney pots acquired from a local demolition yard.

pinterest.co.uk

 However, none of this brought me the same satisfaction as my wild garden and all its inhabitants, both flora and fauna.

Victoria Chatham

  AT BOOKS WE LOVE

 ON FACEBOOK

 MY WEBSITE

 

This Pruning Business by Priscilla Brown

 

 

www.books2read.com/Where-the-Heart-Is

A contemporary romance set mostly on a Caribbean island.

The subtropical plants in Cameron's small Caribbean garden are threatening to take over the house. While he has neither the time nor the interest to bother pruning, Cristina's hands are itching to sort it out. Back home in temperate country Victoria, Australia, she loves to spend time tending her large garden with its flowers, bushes and trees. He might have to learn how to help with the pruning...

Yesterday I spent the day pruning. In the morning,  I cut off dead twigs and overlong branches from the two bottlebrush trees to keep them from hijacking the garden path, and trimmed the geraniums who believe it's their right to take over the border. While I was working in the garden and filling the council's green organics recyclable waste bin, I kept in mind the pruning I planned to do at my desk in the afternoon.

Editing my work-in-progress, I am looking for 'dead wood' -- twigs and whole branches. If I 'prune' a scene out, I need to be sure its removal will make a significant difference to the story. The scene where the two main characters, by now well-known to each other and to the reader, are having a nice time at a lakeside picnic reveals itself as a branch. I admit I rather liked this scene, but neither their dialogue nor actions moved the story on, so into the recycle bin. Twigs such as starting paragraphs or adjacent sentences with the same words unless included for emphasis need trimming.

This pruning business, in the garden and on a developing story, is for me satisfying and enjoyable. 

Best wishes, Priscilla

https://bwlpublishing.ca

https://priscillabrownauthor.com 

 

The earth laughs in flowers (quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson) ...by Sheila Claydon

Click here for my books at Books We Love

I haven't had much time to write this year. Instead, sadly, I have been helping friends whose loved ones were very sick, and who have now passed away. It's been a time of sadness and several funerals but, as is always the way when someone dies, the tears have been intermingled with laughter as the good times are remembered. This was especially the case yesterday.

It was the first secular funeral I had attended so I didn't know what to expect. What I got was a day of joy. The music, which was special to the family and the deceased, was joyful, as were the very personal speeches. Nobody wore black. Instead the women were in bright dresses and the men relaxed and tieless, in shirtsleeves. The sun was warm, birds sang and it wasn't at all difficult to imagine the deceased nodding his approval, his wonderful smile wide as he saw all his family and friends together, laughing as they remembered.

And the lovely display of yellow and red family flowers, glowing like a pile of jewels on top of the coffin, made me think of the language of flowers. Red roses for passion,  red tulips for true love,  lilies and poppies for sympathy in death, pink roses and hydrangea for gratitude, iris for faith and hope, lily-of-the-valley for sweetness and purity, they carry so much symbolism. Cultures differ so much too. What might be right for one country can be wrong for another. And it's not just countries, it can even be local. In some places in the UK it is thought to be unlucky to bring bluebells into a house, whereas it is fine in other areas. Tree blossom is a no no too, as is giving anyone a single daffodil. They must always be given in bunches.  Flower lore is endless, as is the pleasure flowers bring.

My mother was a florist, so I grew up with flowers, and although by the time I was a teenager we lived in an apartment, the balcony was still full of flowers from spring through to winter, and her enthusiasm has not only rubbed off onto me, it increases with every year.  Nothing gives me more pleasure than walking around my own garden checking every new shoot, or deadheading blooms past their prime so that others can replace them. And I love the difference the seasons bring. In the early spring everything is either primrose yellow or white, then comes the blue and purple season followed by  shades of pink from the palest rose to the deepest cerise. Later the yellows return, but now mixed with orange and scarlet, then it's the evergreens and a tracery of bare branches as winter takes over...not for long though. In January the first snowdrops appear, as do the hellebores, better known as Christmas roses, and then the pink camellias start to bud.

















Loving flowers as I do is one of the reasons I wrote Bouquet of Thorns. To me, it was like going back in time to when my mother was alive and I sometimes used to help her when she had to build displays or decorate an hotel. One of my fondest and most exciting memories is helping carry boxes and pots of flowers aboard the  ocean liners that used to dock in the port city of Southampton where I was born. It was long before the days of the modern cruise ship and ocean voyages took weeks instead of days. It  was a real event for many travellers and those with wealthy friends were sent off with huge bouquets. Once my job was done I was sent down to the galley where chefs would pile a plate high with food,  and then later sent me home with boxes of chocolates or a special desert which I had to sneak out.

Now, so many years older, I have been a passenger on cruise liners to many parts of the world, but none of them, however grand, have had that old fashioned elegance and grandeur of the ships of my distant past. Happy memories, whether they are of people or of events are so precious, and if they are garlanded with the memory of flowers, then they are even more so.

Priscilla Brown inhabits several houses

Mayor Anna's town and her farm are struggling.

 Is this sexy television entrepreneur financial salvation or major trouble?

Find details of this and my other contemporary romances on

http://www.bookswelove/net/authors/brown-priscilla-romance 

and visit Priscilla Brown at your favourite e-book store

Inhabits all those houses in my head, that is. In my real life, I have just one house, a small house in a small town in New South Wales: the design and appearance of this dwelling, nor any that I have ever lived in, do not appear in any of my novels. Where do I get the ideas for my characters' homes?

In my stories, the only house that owes its presence partly to an existing building is Anna's farmhouse in Sealing The Deal. Some years ago I used to visit this homestead, and my writer's mind stored its appearance, its timber construction and wraparound veranda for possible inclusion in fiction one day.

Other than this, I am not writing about houses I've met. I glean impressions from various sources, including observations while visiting other areas, travelling, magazines, and some of these fragments gel into composite yet incomplete images for my characters to call home.  Such snippets are merely a small part of the final pictures in my head. Imagination personalises the dwelling, ascertaining the size, appearance and location, adding details. Occasionally the character may have a suitable finished place to live when I begin a story's first draft, but usually this evolves as the plot develops. My aim is to create the home, outside and inside, appropriate to the personality and lifestyle of its inhabitant; it should also promote an atmosphere in which the storyline can flourish.

Each of my stories has a notebook, and among pages of scribble I sketch a rough floor plan of the plot's most important house, not attempting to design it anywhere near to scale. I do this to anchor some ideas for the story, perhaps since I don't devise a plot plan, rather let the narrative carry on. In most cases, the original layout needs adjusting to accommodate not only proceeding scenes but the workability of the whole floor. The sketch for Cassandra's cottage in Silver Linings had the bathroom squeezed into a corner with no place for a door, and much too small for the spa crucial for a significant scene; as a result, the kitchen got moved and reduced. (No significant scenes there and not much cooking either.)

When furniture and other objects are necessarily mentioned, their placement and style may or may not be detailed depending on how important these are to a scene; readers may arrange them how they wish. Furniture can suggest a facet of the occupant's taste and lifestyle: colourful or drab, tidy or untidy, overcrowded or short of seats.

The view from the windows may be critical to the storyline as in the ocean panorama from the Caribbean island cottage belonging to Cameron in Where The Heart Is; Cristina must leave the man and the view, but is finding it hard to say goodbye. In Silver Linings, windows are useful to indicate the weather, if it's suitable to go beachcombing on the blustery Southern Ocean beach (or if spending the day in the spa is preferable).


Physical  surroundings are important contributors to a home's overall ambience, and to the 'feel' of a story. Is the dwelling rural or urban, isolated or on a busy street, and how does this particular location affect the character both emotionally and practically? Is there a garden? If so, is it looked after? Anna's caring nature tends to her roses in Sealing the Deal; Cristina's mature Australian garden of flowers and fruit trees contrasts with Cameron's tangle of tropical vegetation.

While the settings of my novels are clear and complete in my head. I try not to over-describe, to allow readers to use their imaginations, thus perhaps feeling they themselves are inhabiting the story.

May 2019 be kind to you. Best wishes, Priscilla

http://bwlpublishing.ca

https://priscillabrownauthor.com