Blueprints for Success, The Front Lines of Artist Development - by Musician and Voice Coach Darcy Deutsch

  

Musician and Voice Coach Darcy Deutsch

BLUEPRINTS FOR SUCCESS

Introduction to a series

 

The Front lines of Artist Development

 

The quest for success in the music business is a never-ending journey; a maze ridden path of uncertainty, trial and error. For the developing artist, knowing the steps to take, how to build a presentable image, define a sound, look, style and a presence that represents who and what they are, is a daunting task. Finding people qualified to assist them in reaching their goals can be like finding the proverbial needle in the haystack.

 

Knowing what to do next, with whom and where to attain the correct resources can alleviate much confusion, trial and error.

 

In the issues that follow this introduction, (and I’m not sure how many as the topic is quite profound), I’m going to reflect and deep dive into the concept known as artist development.

When does Artist Development begin?

Artist development begins the moment a person starts taking voice or instrument lessons. This activates a routine of gathering knowledge and applying skills to enhance and make palatable each individual song or performance. The type of instruction received, sets a course.

 

As a voice coach distributing knowledge and methods, I am in a sense, on the front lines of the artist development process. What does or does not happen with an individual while I educate and inspire them vocally, musically and through my experience network, can very well be the catalyst that launches their thirst for stardom or the lead role in the school play. Then again, we possess the ability to likewise steal their dreams. The privilege to share in the personal development of any aspiring talent should never be taken lightly. And those who teach should likewise always be hungry for knowledge.

 

Ultimately, and I believe this to be true; it’s what the client doesn’t know that prevents them from experiencing exponential growth. I have encountered such a scenario innumerable times. A singer comes into my studio struggling with a multitude of issues and in an hour’s time I’ve introduced them to an array of methods and physiology, done a vocal analysis & explained what is or isn’t happening followed by a prescription of simple exercises, enabling the singer to experience as never before that it is possible to achieve - vocal freedom.

 

Voila! The beginning of artist development

Golf and Writing by Joan Havelange

 

Click here for details and purchase information on all Joan's novels

Golf and writing by Joan Havelange        

 

My first whodunit/cozy mystery, ‘Wayward Shot,’ took place in the fictional little town of Glenhaven, Saskatchewan, Canada. The mystery begins on a golf course. I love the game. I’m not a great golfer, but I’m an avid one. And weather permitting, I go out every day.

Before I get into the inspiration for ‘Wayward Shot,’ I’ll share a small anecdote. My town has a personal care home for the elderly who can’t look after themselves. Once a month, each church group in town takes a turn to provide a treat and entertainment. Our group provides angel food cake, strawberries and ice cream. And for entertainment, we hire a country western band.

Anyway, it was May, and our church group had served the cake and ice cream, and as my friend Lorna and I stood watching the old people enjoy their treats and the music. We decided we didn’t want to end our days in the home. (It might have been me, or it might have been Lorna.) But one of us said, “I would rather be hit by a golf ball on the golf course and die than end up here.”

The next day, Lorna and I were out on the golf course. We’d teed off of the number 5 tee box and were walking down the fairway. We looked back, and a young man was standing at the tee-off, waiting for us to get far enough away for him to hit his golf ball. (Number 5 is a dogleg left.) So, we stood back beside a bush on the right side of the fairway and waved him to hit. And he did. But he sliced. And his golf ball whizzed by just inches from me. I looked up at the sky and said, “We were just joking, God.” I guess the moral might be to watch what you wish for.

I don’t think there are a lot of murder mysteries set on a golf course, but ‘Wayward Shot’ is. It is always fun to try different golf courses. On a golf course in a neighbouring town, the inspiration for ‘Wayward Shot’ came to me. At the end of a long fairway was the town cemetery.

My thought was, what if a golf ball hit a mourner? This, my friends, is the teaser for ‘Wayward Shot.’ You will have to read my mystery ‘Wayward Shot’ to find out who the victim is and how and why they died.

Happy reading, and have a great summer.

 

Wayward Shot

When Mabel slices her golf ball into the town cemetery. She and her best friend Violet think the worst that could happen would be a lost ball. That is until they discover a dead body, and it isn’t six feet under. Mabel’s golf ball lays in the middle of his forehead. It’s murder. The ladies take it upon themselves to solve the mystery of the dead body in the graveyard. Using the information gleaned from Coffee Row, a collection of eccentric townspeople. This leads them to investigate golfers and relatives of the deceased. Their investigation frustrates a newly appointed RCMP officer, who does his best to put a stop to their interference. But nothing stops the intrepid detectives. Not the RCMP, a stampede of cattle or even shots fired at them in the dark. They have an uncanny ability to find trouble and dead bodies. Almost getting themselves killed before solving the murders

Canadian Authors--New Brunswick by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

  

https://books2read.com/Romancing-the-Klondike

 

https://books2read.com/Rushing-the-Klondike

https://books2read.com/Sleuthing-the-Klondike

https://bwlpublishing.ca/donaldson-yarmey-joan/

     I am a proud Canadian author of over twenty fiction and non-fiction books in my long writing career. But I am just one of thousands of published writers from this huge country. Canada has had a long and illustrious history of producing world renown authors and books going all the way back to the 18^th century.

     Frances Moore was born in England in 1724. She was a well-known poet and playwright in England before she and her husband, Reverend John Brooke moved to Quebec City in 1763, for John to take up the post of army chaplain. During her time there Frances wrote The History of Emily Montague, a love story set in the newly formed Quebec province.

     The story is told through the voices of her characters by way of personal letters between the two. This is known as epistolary (of letters) type of writing and it was popular during the1700s in Europe. The Brookes’ returned to England in 1768 and the novel was published in 1769 the London bookseller, James Dodsley. The History of Emily Montague was the first novel written in what is now Canada and the first with a Canadian setting. Frances died in 1789.

 

New Brunswick

Julia Catherine Beckwith was born on March 10, 1796 in Fredericton, New Brunswick. Her mother, Julie-Louise Le Brun, was from a wealthy French family that had immigrated to Canada in the 17^th and 18^th centuries. Her father, Nehemiah Beckwith, moved from New England in 1780 and owned a successful ship building business. Julie-Louise had given up her Roman Catholic faith when she married, but Julia spent a lot of her early life visiting her French cousins in Nova Scotia and Quebec. One of her cousins became a nun of the Hotel-Dieu in Montreal.

Her mother’s previous religious background was the source of the idea for her first novel St. Ursula’s convent, or the nun of Canada. She wrote it in Fredericton when she was seventeen and it had complicated plots, romance, suspense, and heroic adventures. It was not to be published for almost ten years.

     In 1820, in order to lessen the burden on her mother after her father’s death by drowning, Julia moved in with her aunt in Kingston, Upper Canada (now Ontario). She married George Henry Hart on January 3, 1822. George was a bookbinder and Julia operated a boarding house for girls. Her novel was published in 1824 by Hugh C. Thomson as St. Ursula’s Convent or, The Nun of Canada; Containing Scenes from Real Life. According to Beckwith’s wishes, the author was listed as anonymous. It was the first work of fiction written by any man or woman who had been born in Canada and the first to be published in what is now Canada. Julia Beckwith is considered Canada’s first novelist.

     Julia and her husband moved to Rochester, NY, in 1824 where her second novel, Tonnewonte; or, the adopted son of America, was published and portrayed as having been written by an American. It, too, had suspense and depth of feeling, but as some critics said it had the same stilted expression and moral overtones as her first novel. Besides entertainment value, Julia wrote to express attitudes toward society.

     By 1831 Julia and George had six children and they moved back to Fredericton. There she contributed to the weekly paper, the New Brunswick Reporter. She also wrote her third book Edith (or The Doom), which was never published.

     Julia Catherine Beckwith died in Fredericton, New Brunswick on November 28, 1867, the age of 71.

 

Raymond Fraser was born on May 8, 1941 in Chatham (now Miramichi), New Brunswick, the youngest of three children. His older sisters left home and his mother died when he as a teenager. He spent a lot of his alone time reading. He attended St. Thomas University in Fredericton. There he played sports in his freshman year and was co-editor of the student literary magazine Tom-Tom in his junior year.

     He worked as a teacher for a year then moved to Montreal in 1965 where he and poet Leroy Johnson created the literary magazine Intercourse: Contemporary Canadian Writing (1966-1971). He was also one of the founders of the Montreal Story Tellers Fiction Performance Group, which put on readings in local high schools. To earn money while writing he worked as an editor, chief staff writer, and a freelance writer for the tabloid newspapers. Fraser’s first book of short stories, The Black Horse Tavern, was published in 1973.

     Raymond Fraser and his wife, Sharon, travelled through Europe during the 1970s. The Struggle Outside came out in 1975 and The Bonnonbridge Musicians in 1978. The Bonnonbridge Musicians was a finalist for the 1978 Governor General Literary Award for Fiction. He finally settled in Fredericton and began writing full time. He also was the Writer-In-Residence at the Fredericton High School.

     Raymond Fraser wrote a total of eight books of poetry and fourteen novels and short story collections, five of which were listed in Atlantic Canada’s 100 Greatest Books (2009). He also received the first Lieutenant-Governor’s Award for High Achievement in the Arts that year. He became a member of the Order of New Brunswick in 2012 and received an honorary Doctor of Letters degree from St. Thomas University in 2016.

     Fraser died in Fredericton on October 22, 2018, at the age of 77 from cancer.

Serendipitous Serenity by Victoria Chatham

 

AVAILABLE HERE

 

Serendipitous: Lucky in making unexpected and fortunate discoveries.

Serenity:          State of calmness, quietness, stillness, peace.

I don’t know about you, but I have always found cemeteries interesting. From ancient moss-covered and mostly unreadable headstones in old English churchyards to the Gothic splendour of Highgate Cemetery in London, the resting place amongst other notables of singer George Michael and Karl Marx, author of The Communist Manifesto, cemeteries can be places of calmness, quietness, stillness, and peace. I make no apologies for the use of a bit of alliteration in the title, as the two brief definitions perfectly describe my recent visit to cemeteries in Victoria, Vancouver Island, British Columbia.

Ross Bay Cemetery

I have visited Victoria several times, and this trip finally made it to Christ Church Cathedral, which deserves its own post. Beside the Cathedral is the Old Burying Ground, and my friend and I picked up a cemetery map showing the various memorials. We toured through the cemetery, stopping at the Historical Marker installed in 1958 to commemorate the centennial of the Fraser River Gold Rush, which has the history of the Old Burying Ground carved onto it.  

As fascinating as each tomb and obelisk was, we were both impressed with the Tombstone Group. The City of Victoria cleared the Old Burying Ground in 1908, leaving some stones in place. One tomb still standing is for Hannah Estes, a black woman born into slavery in Missouri who died in Victoria in 1868. My friend and I were intrigued by Hannah’s story.

Hannah's headstone

A quick internet search found that Hannah was married to Howard Estes, also an enslaved person. At that time, it was common practice for enslaved people to take their owner’s name, in this instance, Scotsman Tom Estes. Hannah and their three children lived apart from Howard, who managed to buy his freedom from Tom Estes for $1,000, but it cost him the enormous sum of $4,000 for his family. They made their way to Canada and eventually settled on Salt Spring Island.

Smooth sailing

We were on a mission to find Howard’s resting place, so we took the ferry to Salt Spring Island. The day was perfect as we drove from Fulford Harbour through the town of Ganges to the cemetery. We weren’t sure what we would find, but we didn’t expect so much history. Yes, we did find Howard’s grave. Although his name is misspelled, it does not detract from the fact that this man did so much to keep his family intact.

Howard's headstone

 There was so much more in this calm, quiet, peaceful place. It was well worth the trip. If you want to know more about Hannah and Howard, I have included the links below. Serendipitous serenity indeed.  

Victoria Chatham

  AT BOOKS WE LOVE

 ON FACEBOOK

 MY WEBSITE

 

 Images from the author's collection.

Links for more information on Hannah and Howard Estes.

https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/british-columbia/salt-spring-island-estes-stark-1.7115501

https://www.saltspringarchives.com/Estes_Stark_Family/

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reaching across time and cultures

As the characters reveal the plots to me (yes, I am often just the recorder of what they say) I'm led to places I'd not expected. Sometimes, I'm thrown back to the past. Other times, I'm exposed to new locations, cultures, and uncomfortable situations. As a reader, you assume the setting, time, and situations are chosen while I'm developing and outlining the plot. In part, they are. In reality, much of the book unfolds for me as I write, much as it does for you, the reader.

In "Strung Out to Die" I had chosen the location, Manzanar National Historic Site, as the setting for this book. The premise, a murder, is a given. The means, motive, and opportunity evolved as I wrote. The other, unexpected side of the book was the tie in to the local Paiute-Shoshone residents on the region. 

After a LOT of research, I found interesting ties to some local legends. The research made me learn, reach, and create some appropriate characters to reveal the legends and their connection to the story. 

A number of readers have urged me to include the Jamie Ballard character in more of my books. For those of you not familiar with him, Jamie is a Navajo Nation police officer who has partnered with my US Park Service investigators on a number of investigations that involve Native culture. It was fun to bring Jamie, a newlywed, back into a book as a cultural advisor. He's an extreme introvert and struggles with social situations. In this case, it was interesting to put him into a situation where Doug and Jill Fletcher give him relationship advice to ease his transition into married life and fatherhood.

In addition to that cultural endeavor, I found myself dealing with the history of Americans, of Japanese descent, who were interred at Manzanar during WWII. I learned a lot about what they endured, while creating a community for themselves. It was fun to tap into a bit of that history, and about the current Park Service site. I enjoyed revealing that history to the readers through my characters.

Another surprise was in the history of the site, in the Owen's Valley of California. Early in the 20th century, the city of Los Angeles needed water and the Owens Valley water was redirected to LA. I slipped that possible motive into the murder investigation. Much to my surprise, a news item appeared after the book went into print. The local Paiute/Shoshone tribe is suing for return of the "stolen" Owens Valley water rights. The case is being handled in the US federal courts. That news made me smile, thinking that I was spot on with that being a regional hot button issue!

Beyond the water rights issue, there is a murder, more mystery, the usual Doug and Jill banter, along with some local intrigue and politics. I hope you'll read "Strung Out to Die". I don't think my Fletcher fans will be disappointed.

For the Jamie Ballard fans, I left a door ajar for the future.

Check it out at my publisher's website 

Hovey, Dean - BWL Publishing Inc. (bookswelove.net) 

on Amazon, B&N, Kobo, or Apple.

Amazon.com : strung out to die hovey

 

Dean Hovey

Musician Byron Fry Shares His Journey in Music is a Harsh Mistress

 

* * *

  

Her Wild Technicolor Carnival Ride

 

     Music is a harsh mistress. She gives and She takes, like any other all-powerful force of nature. I’d have it no other way. But if you’re considering a career on Her wild technicolor carnival ride, you should understand that you don’t choose Her, She chooses you. If you feel like you even have a choice, just thank your lucky stars and call it good, because it means that you can do something else for your living and have an actual life, keeping Her at arm’s length as a passionate hobby. She’ll bring a wonderful presence of grace and beauty into your existence, instead of being the sweaty 300-pound leather and vinyl-clad dominatrix hell-bent on your ruin with an iron-spiked whipmace, which is exactly what some gigs can feel like to those of us who never had a choice at all.

 

     And if She does choose you, you really do have zero say-so in the matter. There’s nothing for it but to obediently join the other helpless drooling victims stumbling and lurching along Her road, hands outstretched toward Her promised land—that glimmering distant shore of musical perfection that never gets any closer, whose golden sands no musician has ever trod. Like all my brethren, I’ve longed to squish that sand between my toes my entire life—just one perfect note, that’s all I ask—but it will never know my footprint. Though We The Hapless know exactly who and what we are, we will never know perfection. She dangles it perpetually, tantalizingly near—close enough to see it, smell it, almost taste it—but always just out of reach. What a damned bitch She can be…and what an impossibly lovely goddess.

 

     And we pay a very real price. It’s typically a poverty-laden life, survived by the teeth-gnashing, bare-knuckled determination that gets you through the darkness to those fleeting moments of light and exaltation that She knows you crave, which can’t be experienced any other way. She’ll give you just enough of a win to get you through your next black tunnel to your next shining fix of validation and its glorious electric joy.

 

     You’d better enjoy surfing on the wild waves She throws you into, because your loved ones won’t. I sometimes hear Her cackling laughter from somewhere in another room as my best laid plans go tumbling into the abyss, nonchalantly tipped off the counter by Her cat. You may think that the most important thing one needs to survive on Her road is talent, but that’s just a prerequisite. We’ve all got that around here. What you’ll really need is a deep and unfailing dark, sardonic sense of humor.

 

     To be on Her road is to know harshness, danger, loneliness, challenge and MANY long years of solitary practice. You’ll get used to sewing your arm back on and healing yourself when you need a doctor, giving gear precedence over decent furniture or a decent car, and the concept of a vacation will be completely alien to you. You’ll spend the winter holidays away from your family and miss weddings and funerals. Your loved ones will neither understand nor approve.

 

     But also on Her road you’ll find the understanding and camaraderie of those of your kind, who do get it. Your musical brothers and sisters will be right there with you even during your solitary practice, because we all know what we all go through. We all recognize it in each others’ eyes, and share the great unspoken inside joke, even if we’ve never met before. We understand each other’s struggles, pain and shining golden victories better than our families and spouses do. And that can only be called some kind of great, shared love.

 

     It’s an uncomfortable truth that many of us never find a happy relationship outside of music, because She simply demands too much. Non-musicians can’t wrap their heads around never being able to call in sick or take a vacation, whereas to most musicians, taking sick days and deliberately taking time off work sounds absurd and alien, professionally dangerous and monetarily frivolous.

 

     I missed my daughter’s sweet 16 because I was in the middle of the ocean on a four-month cruise ship gig. I missed being with my two brothers at my Mother’s bedside when she passed. I walked around for 12 years with three undiagnosed fractures in my neck, causing neuropathic mayhem until it got sorted out by three C-spine surgeries and two more procedures down my right arm, all because I hadn’t had access to what society considers “normal” health care. This sounds like griping, but it’s not: I’m elated to even be alive, and to have the lofty honor of being chosen to be a musician. I just want to make it abundantly clear, in case you or a loved one is eyeing this road as a potential path in life: This is a toll road, and the toll is heavy. Choosing this road doesn’t really even compute, because it makes no sense unless you have no choice. And if that’s you, then you already know who you are.

 

     Depending on the gig, while performing our services we may be tolerated or we may be adored, but as soon as the show’s over, when the meet-and-greet is done and we’re on the road to the next venue, we’re undesirables. Most of us spend so much of our lives feeling the disapproval of society and of family, it’s difficult not to buy into it.

 

     Every great musician I’ve ever known has a bit of that scrappy scavenger just under their shiny, professionally silken exterior—superpower-like performance skills not quite concealing a finely-tuned predatory machine, with a slightly hungry air. And no matter how good our year is going, we’re never any farther than the flip of a card from desperate times. That shadowy figure of fate is always lurking there in the corner—just another employee in Her house, and just as subservient to Her whimsy as you or me.

 

     With all that said, the drawbacks and pitfalls of being a musician are offset by heady and powerful experiences and rewards that are simply unobtainable to the non-musician. One night I played a raging, howling guitar solo in front of a thousand people under a total lunar eclipse while sailing past an erupting volcano.

 

     She gives and takes, She cackles and nurtures, She creates and kills, She gives you little moments of exaltation the like of which very few humans ever experience.

 

     And from my perspective at least, Her wild technicolor carnival ride is well worth the cost of admission.

 --

www.byronfry.com
www.soundcloud.com/byron-fry/sets
www.youtube.com/byronfry

A writer is a reader first...by Sheila Claydon

Find my books here

A writer is first and foremost a reader. Reading is what inspires us. In my book Empty Hearts the heroine  is a TV presenter turned writer. 

My daughter-in-law was complimented the other day when she and her daughter (my ten year old  granddaughter) were staying in a hotel together and the waitress who was serving them saw my granddaughter reading a book. She wanted to know how this was possible when every other child sitting at a table waiting to be served was on an iPhone or a tablet. My daughter-in-law didn't have an answer other than 'she likes to read.'

How did this happen? Is it because we are a book loving family so it's in the genes? Or is it due to the fact that every night before bed she had a story until the day she dismissed her parents, saying she was now old enough to read to herself? Is it because she is surrounded by books? She has a whole bookcase full in her bedroom, another shelf here when she visits me, and a library ticket for whatever country she is in. Currently the family live in Singapore. Previously it was Hong Kong. Before that Australia. All interspersed with long stints in the UK. 

In the UK our local library is good but small. There are reading pods for the children who start a book the moment they arrive, and a garden to play in for the ones needing to let off steam. It offers lots of storytelling activities and every child can take home 20 books at a time. It is not, however, a patch on the libraries she used in Australia and Hong Kong. Nor the Singaporean one she uses now. They are all truly amazing with what seems like miles of shelving and lots of child sized seating areas as well as roomier ones for parents to join in. There are school libraries too, so she's never short of books. 

None of this means she doesn't use the iPad however. It's still one of her favourite things alongside her Nintendo Switch (which means nothing to me!) but she always finds time for her books. 

Now all this sounds as if she has been conditioned to love books and of course it has helped but it can't be the only answer. My other two older granddaughters were treated in exactly the same way as they grew up (apart from living in multiple countries!) and yet one of them never reads while the other one always has a book on the go. So loving books has to come from somewhere inside us. Is it imagination, curiosity, an ability to visualise what the words on the page are saying, or something else entirely? 

My non-reading granddaughter is bright, academically able and can read and spell perfectly well. She passed all her English exams with good marks, then gave up reading. Yet she is much better than the rest of the family at interpreting diagrams, building flatpack furniture from the pictures, ditto Lego and other constructions. She has an amazing memory and can map read like a pro, whereas I can get lost in a carpark! 

So what is it? I only have a sample of three to go by, but loving reading and valuing books really does seem to be something inbuilt. A child who reads is an adult who reads, and who, maybe, one day, become a writer. 

Mind Over Weather by Helen Henderson

 

 

Windmaster  by Helen Henderson
Click the title for purchase information

 

Author's Note: This post was written with a triple-digit temperature and high humidity. The air is cloying.

Escaping the heat has taken various forms. During my youth, a hose or small splash pool provided a cool-down after working in the fields. The basement's concrete helped block out high temperatures making it easier to sleep. In later years, the porch swing at sunset at Grandma's mountain home helped beat back the temperatures. 

As a married couple, my husband and my first home did not have any air conditioning. The loud, bulky fans used to pull heat from the building were replaced by window air conditioners. However, they had their own side effects. Only one upstairs room and half the downstairs was really habitable. Despite the four steps between the bathroom and bedroom, you felt wetter after a shower than before. 

Daytime respite came from slow walks around the grocery store and hanging out at the library. Evenings were filled with sunset walks on the boardwalk hoping to catch some breeze off the bay. The spectacle of people loading their boats onto trailers provided entertainment as did swatting mosquitoes large enough to saddle and ride. (The unofficial state bird was the mosquito.)

Which brings to contemporary summer in the more southern. Surprising, temperatures in our former town are hotter than in the new state. Despite the luxury of central air conditioning and a sunroom to watch the birds flitter from tree to tree, the library is still a favored hangout.

A word of explanation about the post's title. To prepare for an outing into the sauna provided by nature or when a storm knocks out the power, there is still one final way of staying cool -- mind over weather. If you believe the temperatures are colder than they are, then the body reacts accordingly. The following snippit from Windmaster is one of the readings to tell my body, it is not hot outside. It is cold.

 

Ellspeth’s world reduced to the shifting gray shadow that was Tairneach. Her eyes hurt from straining to see through the curtain of snow and rain that almost obscured the stallion. She rode with one foot scraping the rocks on the side of the narrow trail while her other hung over a thousand-foot precipice. One misstep and both rider and mount would plummet to the valley floor. The driving rain stung every spot of unprotected skin like a thousand cuts. Icy rivulets ran off her wide-brimmed hat. They sneaked beneath the collar of the lake seal cloak and ran down her neck. Waterlogged, her clothes sucked every ounce of heat from her body. Only where her legs lay against Cadno’s coat did she have vague feeling. Hours of riding in the howling maelstrom of cold and wet had dulled her mind to anything beyond the need to stay in the saddle...

Cadno’s pace quickened. Ellspeth peered through ice-crusted eyelashes to see what had excited the animal. The brown headed toward a shadow where the rock wall curved back from the ledge. A cave, Ellspeth’s cold-numbed mind supplied after Tairneach disappeared into what appeared to be a pile of boulders. She bounced in the saddle as Cadno trotted into the black maw. The narrow slit opened into a small chamber, then the colt walked into a larger room where the storm didn’t reach. Ellspeth’s sigh of relief at the sudden release from the bruising winds frosted the air.

 ~ I hope you enjoyed the thoughts and cooling pictures. Until next month, stay safe (and cool) and read.   Helen

To purchase the Windmaster Novels: BWL

Helen Henderson lives in western Tennessee with her husband. While she doesn’t have any pets in residence at the moment, she often visits a husky who have adopted her as one the pack. Find out more about her and her novels on her BWL author page.

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 Age of Eighty-eight Keys by Janet Lane Walters #BWLAuthor #MFRWAuthor #Mysteries #romance #Paranomal #Fantasy

 

Another year has passed and though i am only a day older than yesterday, I have also reached the age of piano keys. My son who sings is the one who pointed this out. Makes for some interesting thoughts. Does it mean I must write faster and try to write as many books as I have years. Would be nice but as a typist I am slow.

I have two books on the drawing board. One is the Horror Writer's Demise. A start of a mystery series. The heroine does research for college professors. She has a five- year old son and no man in sight. The hero is a police detective. He also has a five year old son. His wife died two years ago. His sister takes care of his son. The heroine's mother does this for her grandson.

The second is a Regency historical. Actually book two of a three book series about three sisters who have spent part of their life in India. This is the beautiful sister. he loves cloth and designing clothes. Her beauty makes her rather stuck on herself. She marries the son of an earl but he is not the heir. In a carriage accident, her face is cut and she becomes a recluse. Her husband returns to his playboy's life. Then he receives a blow to his ego and h sees what has become of his wife. He must change and bring her into society again.

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When time flies away, by J.C. Kavanagh

The award-winning Twisted Climb series

Order yours here:

https://www.bookswelove.net/kavanagh-j-c/

The past 12 months have been filled with highs and lows. Mostly lows. For over nine months, I watched while my mom weakened and withered away in her battle with lung and bone cancer. Time seemed to stand still. It was agonizing. I was one of her caregivers as it was her wish to pass at home. Three or four days a week I would be at her side, night and day. In March of last year, the doctor predicted two to four months. He underestimated her will to live. 

Mom, circa 1958

My mom, the stubborn Irish woman that she is (was), outlasted his prognosis by an additional five months. She passed in December, at home, and now rests with the angels.

Though grieving, time seemed to pick up speed. In March of this year, we finally found a home. We had sold our home the summer before, but my caregiving duties prevented any thorough searches for a new place. So, for a few months last year, we lived on our sailboat; then, before the winter snow arrived, we found a condo to rent, one in the same city where my mom lived. Was this a high or a low? Well, the high points were exploring the city, attending a Canadian football game (go ARGOS), cheering on the Toronto Blue Jays, and experiencing the incredible vibe at the Scotiabank arena when the Maple LEAFS played. The low? The ever-present helplessness as mom deteriorated. 

But back to this year. Time is flying as fast as the wings of a hummingbird. The days, weeks, months pass like single frames in an old-fashioned movie carousel. Maybe it's true - the older you get, the faster time 'flies.'

Last week, I visited my daughter and her wee family. Except they're not so wee anymore. Where has the time gone?

This is how I want to remember them - little enough to love a
Teddy Bear picnic with me, Nana J.

While I was visiting, we spent time remembering my mom - their 'Nannie.' I hope she felt the love we were sharing in her memory... before time flies away.

If you're looking for a great way to spend time reading an action-packed book this summer, check out my award-winning Twisted Climb series. You'll love them!

Remember to tell the ones you love, that you love them :)  

J.C. Kavanagh, author of
The Twisted Climb - A Bright Darkness (Book 3) Best YA Book FINALIST at Critters Readers Poll 2022
and
The Twisted Climb - Darkness Descends (Book 2) voted BEST Young Adult Book 2018, Critters Readers Poll and Best YA Book FINALIST at The Word Guild, Canada
AND
The Twisted Climb,
voted BEST Young Adult Book 2016, P&E Readers Poll
Voted Best Local Author, Simcoe County, Ontario, 2021
Novels for teens, young adults and adults young at heart
Email: author.j.c.kavanagh@gmail.com
www.facebook.com/J.C.Kavanagh
www.amazon.com/author/jckavanagh
Twitter @JCKavanagh1 (Author J.C. Kavanagh)
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