Old Friends & Flowers on Memorial Day

 

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Where to read Mozart's Wife

Perennials are my favorites. I can't claim to be a master gardener, but I do love to put my hands in the dirt and grow things.

Walking around the yard this spring, I'm pleased with all the color. We're past even the latest daffodils here in PA, but it's Memorial Day now and so the peonies are going great guns, as well as the irises and various other plants whose names my brain has misfiled. Perhaps I have forgotten the names, but I know that they come back reliably this time of year and that they have a delicate fragrance that I enjoy when I'm sitting on the porch. 

Many of my plants were gifts but ever so many of the givers are now dead. Each time I gaze at those  plants, blooming away with all their might, I think of the nice folks who shared them with me and I am grateful. 

Emily was one of the prolific givers. An athletic, charismatic red head, she and her equally good-looking husband Ray had a lovely down-a-country-road property. Over the years, Emily, who undertook nothing she did by halves, had turned their surroundings into a show place, with a stellar Koi pond surrounded by and ornamented with plants. There were the expected cattails and water lilies, but the papyrus she brought home from the nursery was a revelation, as I'd never actually seen a living breathing specimen before.

Over the years all the local wildlife found the pond, from deer to leopard frogs and tree toads. These little guys hatched in the water, then climbed, for the next part of their life cycle, into the nearby trees. They filled spring twilight evenings with their sweet quivering choruses. Herons came too, enraging Emily because they didn't just eat the frogs out of the pond, but her enormous Koi. 

We were visiting one night, enjoying their company on the deck--they worked together in their auto dealership and had a big supply of "people are crazy" stories--when suddenly Emily shouted, leapt up and ran, an Amazon screaming curses, towards the pond. It was all explained in a flash, when an enormous blue heron, his long, yellow landing gear still dangling, executed an emergency take-off. I'd never seen one of these big birds so close, and certainly never one with a large, flapping red and white Koi in his narrow beak!

                                                

These peonies came from Emily, who told me a long story about her favorite Aunt Pard, whose flower garden and warm presence she remembered with equal pleasure. These were the old-fashioned kind of peony, no ginormous blooms, but, instead, a fragrance you don't often find in modern cultivars. These peonies were not happy in her yard, but, for some inexplicable reason they loved mine. Consequently, over the years, I've split them many times. Now they perform their brief, bright celebration of May in many groupings all over my yard--and they do smell sweet! 

Today, enjoying the flowers, I remembered this couple, their out doors parties--blazing fires under 60 foot oaks, and barbecue-potlucks that lasted all night, their hunter's venison feasts and the annual trout opening day Bacchanalia begun before dawn, just behind their house on the rushing, brown Quittaphilia. So many laughter-filled, good-company evenings with them! 

Now, astonishingly, these active, vital people are both gone. Like many long-married couples, Ray followed his Em to the grave within 6 months. Although they are no more, I have these lovely peonies to always remind me of them both.

~~Juliet Waldron

Where to buy Mozart's Wife

Yelena, an oysterman's wife caught in the crossfire, by Diane Scott Lewis

  

"Ring of Stone (former title) is an entertaining read, combining accurate historical details with a fast-paced plot and a number of credible characters." Historical Novel Society" Review for Rose's Precarious Quest.

Diane Scott Lewis grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, joined the Navy at nineteen and. She writes book reviews for the Historical Novels Review and was a historical editor for an online press. She lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund. 

To purchase my novels and other BWL books: BWL

Find out more about me and my writing on my website: Dianescottlewis

In my upcoming novel, Ghost Point, my heroine, Yelena, struggles to better her life while her husband, Luke, is in the middle of the Potomac Oyster Wars in 1956. He toils, dredging for oysters on the Potomac River. Does she still love Luke or has she outgrown him? A girl from a higher class family, everyone warned her not to marry a gruff waterman's son.

 After she obtains a bookkeeping job in the local used bookstore, a mysterious man with a foreign accent catches her attention. Is he attracted to her, or after information on her husband's illegal activities? His suave demeanor enchants her. The town begins to whisper that she is leaking evidence to the hated inspector.

She is caught between her wish for a fancier life and her youthful love for Luke. And what about their little boy? He will suffer in the consequences. 

Yelena must choose, tear her family apart and chase the unknown, or stay put and fix the issues with her husband.

The Potomac Oyster wars, between Maryland and Virginia where watermen fired and murdered one another, was a real event in the small coastal town of Colonial Beach, VA in the 1950s..

Sleigh Ride! by Eileen O'Finlan

 

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I can't believe I've lived in New England all my life and I've never been on a sleigh ride. Well, it will have to go on my bucket list. Especially after the fun my characters, Meg, Kathleen, and Nuala had when they indulged in a sleigh ride. Meg, Kathleen, and Nuala are domestic servants in Worcester, Massachusetts in the 1850s. Irish immigrants, they all came from the horrible starvation of An Gorta Mor, the Great Hunger. They were lucky to survive. But now they have new lives in America. It's not all fun. They work hard sun-up to sun-down and then some. But unlike their lives in Ireland, they are able to earn good enough livings to send money back to their families, save for their futures, and partake of an occasional indulgence. Usually it involves clothing that mimics that of their employers. But on a day in February they decide to find out why the children of their employers are so fond of sleigh rides and pool their money to hire a sleigh and driver for themselves. Here's a peek at what happens:

Blankets and foot warmers in hand, the three bounded out the door. Two large chestnut horses trotted up the street, stopping in front of the house. The sleigh driver was the same Irishman who had taken the Claprood girls and their cousins for a ride.

“Where to?” he asked, jumping down to assist them into the sleigh.

“Anywhere you like,” Nuala told him. “We're out for enjoyment. It doesn't matter where we go.”

A flicker of recognition showed on his face as Nuala spoke, her brogue giving her away. “You lasses are the helps?”

“Aye,” said Nuala, “but today we're your passengers.”

Looking at Meg, he furrowed his brow. “Didn't I see you at the Claproods'?”

“You did. I work for them.”

A broad grin spread across his face. “This is a grand thing indeed!”

“What do you mean?” Kathleen asked.

“'Tis the first time I've driven Irish lasses. It's always Yanks that hire me. We're every bit as good as they are even if they don't know it, aye? One day we'll be as successful as them. Then you'll ride in sleighs and carriages anytime you want.”

They all giggled at the thought. Meg wondered if it could really be possible.

“What's your name?” Nuala asked.

“Seamus O'Herilhy, at your service, m'ladies,” he said, with a sweeping bow that from most people would have seemed mocking, but from their countryman held an air of genuine respect.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Seamus O'Herilhy,” Nuala responded. “I'm Nuala O'Flaherty, and these are my friends, Meg and Kathleen O'Connor.”

“A pleasure it is,” he said with a smile before climbing onto the driver's box. With a snap of the whip, the horses were in motion.

For the next two hours they traversed the hills and valleys of Worcester. It was obvious that Seamus knew the city well. They headed northwest to the Tatnuck section. Filled with meadows, pastures, and farmland, Tatnuck appeared like a fairyland. Last night's snowfall covered the landscape like a pristine white cape with a million glistening diamonds. Only where farmers had gone about their chores was the seamless white garment rent by plodding footprints.

Wind whipped their faces as the sleigh sped along, the horses picking up speed in the open fields. Meg gazed wide-eyed at the world of white domed by a clear blue sky. The easy glide of the runners with their accompanying whoosh made her grin so hard it hurt. She'd never before felt such exhilaration.

Nuala nudged her. “Aye, but this is exciting!” she exclaimed.

Meg nodded, the bracing air stealing her breath. She glanced at Kathleen. She, too, was grinning as she peered first one direction then another. The big draft horses kicked up sprays of snow as they ad-vanced, their bells resounding in the brisk air. The sleigh slowed as they crested a hill, then sped up again as it raced down the other side. The friends screamed with delight, falling into a fit of laughter upon reaching the bottom.

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The Narcissistic Villain

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Villains can be a tricky proposition--in fiction as well as in our day to day world.  We all hope we don't become entangled with malevolent people--ones who wish us harm--in real life. "Mad and Bad & Dangerous to know," was said of Byron, who was definitely NOT the kind of man you wanted to enchant your daughter. However, in a story, a villain provides driving force to a plot, and gives the hero and heroine an antagonist with whom to spar.  Inside a book, we are safe; there is no actual blood spilled.

By the way, the gentleman on the spooky cover above is not the villain, although he is a shape-shifter. The villain in Zauberkraft: Black is "a man of wealth and taste" who also happens to be a vampire. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and vampires, certainly, have eternity in which to brood and plot.

Villains can be fun to write--my cohort were brought up on movie theater cowboy serials, thus today, in our most entertainment ready mode, we still enjoy a good melodrama. Here, the white hats win and the black hats are carted off to justice. And what could be more melodramatic than a movie like "The Heiress"? Though this picture was made before I emerged from my mother, it's one of those movies I vividly remember seeing for the first time. I remember long cold Skaneateles winter-frigid afternoons, wrapped in woolens and watching a small Zenith TV. The somber black and white flickering on the screen matched the mood of the frozen world outside.

For anyone who isn't familiar, here's the plot. A naive, lonely heiress falls prey to a narcissistic con man, whose plan is to marry her, drive her mad, and then have her committed so he can assume control of her fortune. At first, he is the caring, genteel lover of whom she's dreamed. He does every little romantic thing for her so that, without knowing anything about him, she accepts his proposal. In modern psychological parlance this is called "love bombardment."  It's the full charm offensive with which the narcissist sweeps his target off her feet.

Next, the husband seduces the parlor maid and enlists her aid in his plot. Then the two of them begin to undermine his wife's trust in her sanity. Every night, he turns down the gaslight in the hall just a little bit, all the while staunchly insisting that his wife's "just imagining" it. The setting, in 19th Century America, where women were easily dispatched to asylums by husbands who had tired of them, smooths the villain's way.

Now, more than half a century later, "gaslighting" is a term with which most are familiar. Now, however, instead of referring to the actions of a single smooth sadist in an old film, it's commonly used by therapists to describe one of the ways in which a narcissist first undermines and then controls his relationship partner. In the real world, the narcissist is a dangerous creature, and lately it seems they are everywhere.

Back to the more innocuous world of fiction, where a narcissistic personality type makes a great villain. The narcissist, it turns out, has a sort of universal playbook. Reliably unreliable, considering only their own advantage, they love nothing and no one. In their world, empathy, or its cousin, sympathy, are incomprehensible, concepts "for suckers." They swallow up the people around them like a black hole. Absolute power, a constant stream of praise from sycophants combined with blind obedience to their whims is a narcissist's dream of heaven.

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Some of the other traits that characterize a narcissist are grandiosity, an excessive need for admiration, disregard for the feelings of others, inability to accept criticism, and an air of entitlement and superiority. They target vulnerable, empathetic people who have something they want; they are masters of manipulation. When they don't get what they want, they become epic bullies, hounding their targets into submission.

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Without really knowing what exactly I was doing or sticking a label on and then writing a character to fit the diagnosis, I have used this type of antagonist in several of my books. In some of these stories, the character is somewhere along the spectrum toward utter self-centeredness.

After all, the true full blown malignant narcissist (at least, as a fictional character) is one who seems constantly in danger of "over the top." There is, after all, a wide spectrum of human behavior and one of the first duties of a writer is to convince the reader that the story is--on some level--believable. So many of my villains are somewhere in the dark gray end of the zone, not irredeemably black.  Still, there are some terrors in these books of mine. 

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~~Juliet Waldron
Website of Juliet Waldron

Characters Speak For Themselves by Eileen O'Finlan

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I just completed my first blog tour. What an experience! Thirteen bloggers over ten days featured Kelegeen with either a spotlight, excerpt, review, guest post, author interview, or what turned out to be my favorite, a character guest post. That's right - twice a character from Kelegeen got the chance to step out of the book and speak their own minds. I had never written a character blog post before, but now that I know how much fun it is, I will be doing many more of them.

My first thought was to let Meg and Father O'Malley "write" the two character guest posts since they are the point of view characters in the novel. I quickly rejected that idea because, well, they are the point of view characters. They've been telling the story, so to speak, throughout the whole book. Why not give two other characters a chance?

My choices? Meg's mother, Deirdre O'Connor and Siobhan O'Toole, Father O'Malley's first love from long before he became a priest. Deirdre, being the wonderful mom that she is, took the opportunity to write about her family, giving a mother's glimpse into each of her kids.

Siobhan is a different character all together. Here is what she had to say:

My name is Siobhan O'Toole and I've been asked to regale you with tales of my part in the story of Kelegeen. You'll not believe it, but I've never stepped foot in the town of Kelegeen. As it happens, I'm not even alive when the story takes place, but that doesn't stop me from having a role in it. You see, I was in love, long before that story began, with a man named Brian O'Malley. In Kelegeen you'll know him as Father O'Malley, but his priestly vocation came after I died. Oh, he's a good priest, he is. Faithful, devout, completely committed to God and his parishioners. He'd have been just as good a husband and father had I lived long enough for us to marry and give him wee ones. We were everything to each other. That's why I couldn't leave him even after I'd died.

You'll be more comfortable calling him “Father” after you've read the book, no doubt, but to me he'll always be Brian, so don't think I'm showing disrespect by calling him by his Christian name.

Brian and I met one night when I was playing the fiddle for my brothers who were dancing up a storm. He thought himself bewitched at first sight of me. I can't say I blame him, what with my long, tangled red hair flashing in the moonlight, me hopping about on a rock while I played a rollicking tune. He came and asked me to dance, so I gave the fiddle to my brother, Quentin, and we danced. From that moment on we were inseparable.

I think Brian was intrigued by the stories, legends really, that he'd heard about my family. The best one being that I had an ancestor who was one of the good people – what you folk would call a fairy. Quentin, being the mischievous sort, told him I was one, as well. He asked me if it was true. He made out like he was only teasing, but I could tell a small part of him actually wondered. I had a grand time with that, I can tell you! I never did give him a proper answer. He may have gone his whole life wondering after it for all I know.

We planned to wed, but it wasn't to be. I'll let the story of Kelegeen explain what happened to me and how it led him into the priesthood. Aye, but the ways of God are mysterious indeed.

When you love someone with all your heart and they love you as much, even death does not fully part you. That's how it was for Brian and me. He talked to me often throughout his life. At times, he believed he felt me with him. Sure enough, he was right. I was always at his side. Always, that is, until he sent me away. But that he did for a noble reason – a reason of selfless giving. He would sacrifice anything for any one of his people including my cherished presence. How could I not love him all the more for that? How could I not do what he asked of me?

Virtual Brainstorming by Eileen O'Finlan

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COVID-19 has shut down a lot of things, but our imaginations needn't be one of them. In fact, recent personal events show that they may be more active than ever.

Before this virus hit, a group of writers met at my house every Wednesday evening to work on writing projects and offer feedback. For several in the group, those Wednesday nights provided a writing lifeline. I hated having to send out the group text announcing the cancellation of our group until further notice. Even though we're not a huge group (on the rare occasion that everyone is present on the same evening, we total seven), with my 93 year old mother in the house, I couldn't take any chances.

Of course, everyone understood. Several had made the painful decision to stay away even before receiving my text. Being a resilient, resourceful, and most of all, imaginative group it took less than an hour for one member to come up with the idea of a writing round robin. One person would write one page of a story, email it to the next person who would add another page then forward it to the next and so on. After two rounds the story would be complete. It might not add up to something publishable, but it promised to be fun and keep those writing muscles toned. I had to bow out as all my writing time is, of necessity, being devoted to the completion of Erin's Children, the sequel to Kelegeen, though I do look forward to reading the finished product.

My non-involvement in the round robin did not mean complete detachment for me, however. In less than a week, I jumped onto a Zoom meeting with fellow writing group member, Jane Willan. Jane is the author of two cozy mysteries, The Shadow of Death and The Hour of Death, the first two books in her Sister Agatha and Father Selwyn Mystery Series. She's currently working on the third in the series as well as a thriller.

Jane and I are searching for both "tried and true" and "unique and new" methods of marketing our writing, so we decided to focus our Zoom session on brainstorming ideas. (For anyone unfamiliar with Zoom, it is similar to Skype). We started by naming what we're already doing: Twitter and Facebook posts, website, newsletter, blogging, in-person talks and book signings, partaking in giveaways, interviews with bloggers and local papers. Currently, I'm working with an organizer on setting up a blog tour.

Then we started thinking about what we could do that we haven't done yet. Podcasts were the first thing to come to mind. It turns out that if you google podcasts along with your genre, you'll find a plethora from which to choose. We both committed to being interviewed on podcasts.

But why stop there? Jane's husband has a vast supply of audio/visual equipment. Why not start our own podcast? Fellow BWL author, Eileen Charbonneau, and I have been discussing creating a podcast. So the three of us connected on Zoom for our first podcast planning meeting. Fortunately, through the wonders of technology it doesn't matter that Jane and I live in Massachusetts and Eileen Charbonneau lives in Vermont. We don't have to be in the same state or even in the same house to make it happen.

YouTube was another marketing option open for discussion. I have a YouTube channel, though so far I've only put up one clip of me reading an excerpt from Kelegeen. Jane and I decided we could make some more YouTube clips. They don't all have to be book excerpts. The writing life offers plenty of topics for discussion. With my sequel being set in Worcester, a video tour showing the sections of the city where much of the story takes place seems another likely possibility. Jane also has some trailers for her two mysteries. Eileen and I would like to follow her lead and make some for our book(s).

Our brainstorming session didn't end there. We talked about the 19^th century coterie of writers that formed the literati in Concord, Massachusetts – Emerson, Thoreau, Alcott, Hawthorne - to name a few. Then we widened the circle of our thoughts to include 19^th century authors throughout New England. Such an abundance! Our region still boasts literary luminaries today. Some, like Steven King, are household names.

We got to thinking about the other authors in our area that we both know personally. Published, yes. Famous, no. This led to a discussion about what it is, besides the obvious (great writing), that makes some authors successful and others whose writing may be just as good or even better, virtually unknown beyond their small circle. 

The answer – marketing! We have to do it ourselves and for most of us it is not our field of expertise. Not even close. If it was we'd be marketers, not authors. Yet in today's world we have no choice. We have to climb that steep learning curve to figure out how to let the world know we're here and we've written awesome books that deserve to be widely read.

But how? This is a question I've been struggling with since the publication of Kelegeen. I sunk a lot of money into an advertising company that has been helping me climb that learning curve for almost two years. “Learn to think like a CEO.” “You are not only an author. You are the CEO of Eileen O'Finlan.” These are mantras they've driven into my brain. They are also concepts completely alien to the way I think. A huge learning curve, indeed.

But I am not alone and that gives me great hope. Eileen Charbonneau remains an amazing mentor for me. Our joint in-person appearances may be on hold for a while, but we are excited about embarking on a new virtual adventure through podcasting. 

Jane and I have committed to working together, mastering the art of branding, learing the ins and outs of marketing, pulling each other up and over that daunting curve so that we can come out on the other side, if not as household names, at least with successful authorial careers. We fully realize it will be a marathon, not a sprint, but we are willing to give it all we've got. If it doesn't happen (but it will – think positive!) it won't be for lack of trying.

Eileen O'Finlan

Jane Willan

Eileen Charbonneau

My Own Personal Research Historian by Eileen O'Finlan

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As any historical fiction author can attest, an enormous amount of research is necessary before and during the writing of an historical novel. That research can include reading primary and secondary sources, visiting historical sites, museums, and the location of the story’s setting. It may also include Internet searches and the use of digital archives. Speaking with experts, such as I’ve been fortunate enough to do while researching my forthcoming novel, is always of great value. It also tends to lead to more research as often the author is given more book titles and websites to peruse.

I consider myself especially fortunate in that I have tucked away in my pocket, so to speak, my own personal research historian. His name is Tom Kelleher. Tom is a professional Research Historian and Curator for Old Sturbridge Village, (OSV, aka the Village) a living history museum in Sturbridge, Massachusetts which portrays rural life in an 1830s New England town. 

I first met Tom when I worked for Old Sturbridge Village. I was a Museum Assistant in the Department of Research, Collections, and Library during the mid-1990s. My position entailed administrative duties to the Director of Historical Research as well as the all other research historians and curators. Along with the secretarial duties, I got to assist with research projects for books and museum exhibits as well as helping curators catalog the artifacts and reproductions. It was an amazing experience with a fantastic group of people.

Tom had already been working at OSV for many years by the time I started. He began as a costumed interpreter, mostly working in the Blacksmith shop and the saw and grist mills. Before long, he knew the whole village and its crafts well enough to fill in just about anywhere. With a Master’s Degree in History and a Bachelor’s in Education, he moved up the ranks to Historian and Curator.

Tom is one of the most brilliant people I’ve ever met in my life. He’s also one of the most capable and self-sufficient. He has a blacksmith shop at his own home. He also does his own coopering, making barrels, butter churns, pails, etc. for gifts or paying customers. He learned to do stone carving so that he could replace the headstones in the Village’s cemetery (not a real cemetery). He was also kind enough to make headstones for my beloved cats when they passed away and I buried them in my backyard. He is adept at tinsmithing, pottery, milling, and any number of 19^th century crafts. He’s sewn some of his own work costumes using his grandmother’s treadle sewing machine. I could go on, but you probably get the point.

Over the years, Tom has created and portrayed many 19^th century characters at Old Sturbridge Village including at dentist, a peddler, an itinerant preacher, and even a phrenologist (yes, he learned to read the bumps on people’s heads, just as the 19^th phrenologists did when it was all the rage.)

Tom’s abilities are a wonder to behold, but they don’t begin to compare with what’s in his head. The amount of knowledge he has in regards to history (and many other things, for that matter) is astounding. I sometimes wonder if he has an eidetic memory. He is especially well-versed in 19^th century American history for obvious reasons, but his Master’s Degree was in European History so he’s got a vast store of knowledge on that as well. In fact, I’m always amazed at what he knows about almost any time period and place.

Tom and I got to know each other very well during the three years I worked for Old Sturbridge Village. Actually, that’s an understatement. We started dating and continued for eight years. We got engaged, almost got married, broke up, and got back together as friends. Tom is probably my best friend in the world and, hopefully, always will be. He is a constant in my life. We were right not to marry, but we were also right to remain friends. Our relationship is stronger than ever today.

One lovely bonus of my deep friendship with Tom is that he is happy to act as my personal research historian. Countless times, I’ve needed an answer that would have taken precious time to look up, if I could find the answer at all. A quick text to Tom and I’ve got what I need in minutes. Here is a sample of some of the texts we’ve shared while I’ve been working on Erin’s Children, the sequel to Kelegeen.

ME: If one 19^th c. person is telling another one not to spend too much money is it okay if he says, “get what you need, just don’t break the bank”? According to Google, the expression goes back to the 1600s, but was it in common use in the 1850s?

TOM: That is fine. Lots of banks broke in 1837.

ME: Did people drink hot chocolate or hot cocoa in the 1850s?

TOM: Yes. Drinking chocolate was the most common way to consume it then. But not cocoa.

ME: Would the man of the house carve the Thanksgiving turkey at the table or is that more of a Norman Rockwell fiction?

TOM: The wife.

ME: Seriously? At the table? The husband led the blessing, though, right?

TOM: Yes to both.

ME: How much did it cost to rent a sleigh and horse for an hour or two in 1851?

TOM: I guess 25 cents is about right. With a driver, make it 50 cents.

ME: Could they have gone for a sleigh ride on a Sunday or would that be against the having too much fun on a Sunday law?

TOM: Not on a Sunday. Sorry. Go to sleep. (Okay, ‘cuz I sent that particular text at 11:00 p.m.)

ME: In what year did most northerners realize civil war [American Civil War] was probably inevitable? Was there a specific incident that made them feel that way? I mean before Fort Sumter.

TOM: Well, people had warned about it since the 1830s at least. But inevitable? No. Even when South Carolina left many thought they could be brought back. Jackson did as much in 1832. When six more deep south states left many thought it could be reversed. When the upper south left many on both sides thought it would be a quick war. The long blood bath surprised most. So no.

This is just a small sample, but it seems as though any history question I have, whether about huge events or the details of everyday life can be answered with a quick text to Tom.

To attest even further to this, when I was speaking with Holly Izard who is the Curator of Collections for the Worcester Historical Museum and a former research historian at Old Sturbridge Village, I happened to mention that I often text Tom with my questions. Holly, who knew Tom years ago when she worked at the Village, said to me, “There are times when I just can’t find an answer to an historical question. When that happens I email Tom. He never fails me. There are just some things I know for a fact only Tom will have the answer to.”

I hear that!

Historian, Curator, and Costumed Interpreter at Old Sturbridge Village,

Tom Kelleher

Day after Turkey

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Day after Thanksgiving here. We've reached the life stage where family lives far away and there are no youngsters nearby. Down to bare minimum family now. A brother-in-law who visits from Maryland. We cook less every year, but it's still too much. Husband & his brother have gone down to Lancaster County to go knife shopping on Black Friday, so here I am--tardy--but here.


Anyone who writes about Mozart has to have a love for opera, and if you've been reading me for even a small time, you know I truly adore this old, peculiar western art form. I'm beginning to break free of the tried and true repertory. (How many Madame Butterflys can you absorb?) The wonderful innovation of Met performances showing at the Movies allows me to go with a fellow devotee to see a performance from NYC of Philip Glass's opera, Akenaten.

Usually, you "hear" an opera more than "see" it. In the case of this production, however, the visual was a partner to the music.  As a result of the one-two punch, the performance stunned us.  Juggling has been added to the staging, and it provided another way to enter into entrancement. This composer is sometimes accused of creating what  has been called "Philip Glass Time," in which the audience is left spellbound. The popular genre this music is most clearly related to is Trance. 

And that's where I'll leave this, because words fail me. I can't do justice to this performance which combines choreography, music of orchestra and voice, and spectacle filled with color and symbolism.

Karen Almond / Metropolitan Opera) as seen in Opera Wire

Nefertiti & Akenaten

Karen Kamensek was the conductor; good to see a woman take the podium and do exactly what the work needed. No outsize stars here, just an astonishing piece of teamwork, craft, professionalism and ART. 

My friend and I were hypnotized. It took us a few minutes to collect our wits and walk with great care out of the theater with all those multi-plex (disorienting!) carpet patterns. Hours had passed; when we finally saw a clock, we were surprised by how late it was.     

Here's a link--barely a minute of your time, if you are curious.
  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rSn_UAquOfw

~~Juliet Waldron

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http://julietwaldron.com/books.htm

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WHEN WOULD YOU LIKE TO LIVE? By Vijaya Schartz

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WHITE TIGER on amazon
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A book can take you wherever and whenever you like. We are bound to the present, and the reality of our existence, but when we read, we can escape and learn about a different time and place. Some of us like to revel in the past, others prefer their entertainment in the future. As a historical and science fiction author and fan, I love both… and to me, they are very similar.

Some readers dream about living in slower times, simpler times… when people worked with their hands, and took the time to plant trees, grow their own food, smell the flowers and bake their own bread. Sounds idyllic, right? As writers, however, we have the responsibility to research the period, discover the truth, and write the reality of those times. The people in those days died much younger. Swords didn’t kill as many as automatic guns, but there was also tyranny, social inequalities, enslavement, exploitation, revolutions, famines, pestilences, the din of battle, the smell of horse sweat and burning homes... vultures swooping over gory battlefields. You get the picture.

CURSE OF THE LOST ISLE MEDIEVAL CELTIC LEGENDS SERIES ON AMAZON

Other readers dream of future times, when we have resolved our petty differences, to explore the confines of space in shiny starships and establish colonies on faraway planets. It also sounds good... until we realize that space is a dangerous, inhospitable place, and we are not alone out there. Our prejudices now apply to other species we call aliens. Our world may have expanded, but the main conflicts remain the same. Competing for essential resources, survival vs. greed… sounds familiar? Except that the stakes are higher, since our weapons can destroy entire planets.

ANGEL FIERCE
AZURA CHRONICLES
ON AMAZON

BLACK DRAGON SET
ON A SPACE STATION
ON AMAZON

 

Whenever and wherever we are, there is good and evil, courage and cowardice, selflessness and greed… and whether it’s a human or an alien world, conflicts will arise. Which is good for us writers, because without conflict there is no story. I’m often told that my imagination knows no bounds, but to me, writing a story is only a matter of logic. I start from what I know from extensive research, then I put myself in my characters’ shoes, sandals, or combat boots. Who are these people? How do they live? What do they want? What do they fear? Who do they love? Then I live their lives in my head, like a 3D movie, and I write their struggles, hopes, defeats, victories, and rewards. 

I have been known to write action, adventure and romance, featuring fierce women, brave heroes, and cats. These are only a few of my latest releases. Find the full list on my website or on my author page at each retailer below:

amazon  -  B&N  -  Smashwords  -  Kobo  

Vijaya Schartz, author
 Strong heroines, brave heroes, romance with a kick
 www.vijayaschartz.com
  

Strange 17th Century Thoughts by Katherine Pym

Buy Here

 During the 17^th century in England an explosion of thought dominated. King Charles II blessed the establishment of the Royal Society after his Restoration and men enthusiastically dove into scientific experiments.

Plague Doctor's Headgear

 For medicine, plague doctors almost had it when they said all dogs and cats must be killed to stop the spread of plague. They just did not realize rats that penetrated wattle and daub walls, women’s kitchens and family bedchambers might also carry the disease. Physicians bold enough to enter a plague house wore protective coverings made of soft leather or canvas when visiting the sick, their bird mask beaks filled with disease preventative spices, the types generally unspecified. One master of his house contrived a system of pulleys and tubes that would bring food and stuffs up to a family, with a blast of gunpowder at the onset of sending or receiving goods. The wise patriarch quarantined his family in their upper rooms and barred their doors in June of 1665. They did not leave for months, even as the plague died down with colder weather. My sources say the family lived to write of their experiences.

Women’s reproductive process provided enthusiastic discourse. If virgins were pale and listless, they had the green sickness, and the only cure, according to a 16^th century German physician, was to have sex. Once they conceived, their ailment would go away.  

Robert Hooke's Microscope

If a woman was sexually active and did not conceive, physicians considered her womb had lost purchase and wandered about her body. One learned fellow declared a female patient came to him complaining of severe headaches. He determined her womb had wandered and lodged in her brain. He performed surgery on the luckless lady, cutting into her skull. There is no evidence she survived.

When one fell into an epileptic fit, the best way to revive him was to bend back their fingernails.

For Science, the Royal Society provided a plethora of opportunities to study nature and how things worked. There were lectures and experiments.

One such experiment dealt a transfusion of blood between two dogs. Samuel Pepys wrote of it in his diary: Nov 14, 16666: “A pretty experiment of the blood of one dogg let out, till he died, into the body of another on one side, while all his own run out on the other side.¹ The first died upon the place, and the other very well, and likely to do well.”  

Boyle's Air Pump

Robert Boyle was a brilliant man, and the intellect behind Boyle’s Law: a law stating that the pressure of a given mass of an ideal gas is inversely proportional to its volume at a constant temperature. He created an air pump, which Robert Hooke enhanced and performed experiments at the Royal Society.

From my novel, The Barbers:

A tubular, metal vat sat on a tripod of sorts, and atop it was a round glass chamber. Inside the chamber a little chick sat on the bottom, looking bewildered. Its beak opened and closed but Celia did not hear it chirp. To see if it was strangely dead, she tapped the glass. Its head moved.

Robert Hooke said, “Air is very important for all creatures to live. See this here handle?”

Celia felt Deeping nod, and she did too.

“The base of it is attached to the metal cylinder. If you turn this forward, it sucks air out of the glass chamber. Watch.”

He turned the handle, and the chick fluttered its wings a little. As Hooke turned the crank, the chick’s beak opened and closed. The poor, little bird sagged to the bottom of the glass, then it fell over, its little chest pumping up and down. Soon, the chick stilled.

Hooke pointed at the glass globe. “The air has been pumped out of the chamber. Now, I’ll reverse the action.”

He turned the handle backward, and the chick stirred. Its chest went in and out, its breathing less labored. Hooke cranked the handle backward until the chick gathered its wits, gained its feet, and perched once again on the bottom of the glass chamber. It looked around, and chirped.”

NOTE: The animals used in most of these experiments died, their carcasses thrown into the muck pile in the street.

~*~*~*~

Many thanks to: The Barbers, Erasmus T. Muddiman by Katherine Pym, Samuel Pepys’ diary, and Wikicommons Public Domain.