The Long and Short of it- by Debra Loughead

Not so very long ago, about six years or so, I had a notion to give up my writing career temporarily if not altogether. After four fulfilling decades of creating stories for young people as well as short stories and poetry for a wider audience, I felt as if I were aging out. As if I should step back and make room for newer, younger voices who, perhaps, had more to say than I did and could tell it better. (I’ve always been plagued by self-doubt, as so many writers are.)

I did so reluctantly, but also because my brain was tired and I thought I at least deserved a vacation from living inside a protagonist’s head twenty-four seven. Because it’s not just the sitting down and writing part. You have to live with your characters nonstop, waiting for them to make a move that you never expected as you travel along on their journey; they often wake you at night, and you scribble some notes about them, bleary-eyed by the light of your cell phone.

It’s a huge commitment to complete a novel, and a mix of elation and exhaustion.

So I did it. I took a five year hiatus from writing. During that time I had enough going on to keep me preoccupied. For one, I started a ‘vintage’ journey, since ‘old things’ have been my passion for almost as long as writing has. One of my very first published pieces appeared in the Toronto Star back in 1992 and it was, in fact, entitled ‘Old Things’. The essay was about the value of vintage, and how we should try to respect and cherish venerable pieces from the past that have led rich and functional preloved lives. I’ve always been a collector and conserver of ‘old things’, and wanted to take a step it further.

I started my new life chapter by collecting vintage bits and pieces, enjoyed scouring thrift and antique shops buying cool stuff, until ultimately I was drowning in a surplus of old things. That’s when it was time to pursue another dream of mine. I started an Etsy shop called Happy Old Glass. And I opened a vintage booth at a place called Arts Market in Toronto. I set up shop in a frigid January 2020…and well, who can ever forget what happened in March of that year. Everything was shut down and luckily the landlord ceased requiring rent payments for the many months of closing, reopening and closing again. But it all came back eventually and I continued on my vending adventure.

At first I revelled in the relief. It felt so liberating to be freed from that persistent and unabating surge of words and sentences pummeling your brain while you walk around in a constant daze having conversations with all the characters that have usurped your thoughts. 

But it wasn’t long before my resolve began to falter. Something was missing from my life, something deep and innate and, well, actually restorative. As much as I was able to feel good about my little shop’s motto of ‘reduce, reuse, recycle’, a backlog of unwritten stories and burgeoning words was building up in my brain, practically begging to be unleashed. Although it was less of a burden without the ‘encumbrance’ of a story weighing on my mind and following me everywhere, I was missing the relationships I’d once committed to with the creation of a fictional someone who kept my imagination company all day.

A writer’s got to write, there’s no doubt about it. The pressing urge to commit words to a page is ever present. No matter what you’re doing to distract yourself, there’s always a niggling little voice in your head that keeps trying to lure you back to that chair in front of your computer screen. One that keeps whispering story ideas to your subconscious mind. One that keeps on prodding you, goading you, admonishing you for not even trying. The writing muse is like having a personal trainer living in your brain, constantly badgering you to do better.

So I finally gave in to that mercurial muse of mine because she just would not quit! I’ve closed up my Arts Market booth, but I’m hanging onto my Etsy shop for the time being because I have to try and sell some of the plethora of vintage merch I’ve accumulated over the past five years. Somewhere there’s a story in all this. I’m sure of it, and maybe someday I’ll get to it, since novels about antique hunters are all the rage. Yes, I’m back at my desk again, reviewing novel manuscripts both in progress and completed. And it’s such a relief to unburden myself of all those excess words that were beginning to clog up my brain. It’s almost given me a modicum of hope, as if my well-deserved brain vacation has helped to rekindle that flame.

I’ve always believed that writers never retire. It’s almost impossible, since our buzzing brains just won’t ever allow it. The muse seldom takes a holiday, even when we do!

https://bwlpublishing.ca/loughead-debra/

 

 

A Contest of Wills by Byron Fry

 

Fry, Byron - BWL Publishing Inc.

“No worries m’Love, I got this.” I said to Roni with studied nonchalance, standing in our front yard on a beautiful spring day and looking forward to doing something with my hands, namely the assembly of the shiny new metal two-wheel carriage for her shiny new poop bucket.

A familiar contrivance to those of an equestrian bent whose daily efforts hope to slow a stable’s inevitable descent into an animal waste collection facility, the design of these things has progressed over the centuries from a wonderfully functional large wicker basket with no moving parts to today’s unlikely design: An impressively unnecessary array of powder-coated metal struts and braces, two wheels wobbling on their axles against their cotter pins, an ergonomically-angled dolly-style handle padded with foam rubber to absorb and help spread microorganisms, automatic climate control and gold-plated license plate frames. The actual bucket, for its part, is a large removable heavy-duty plastic affair which will be getting assimilated into the planet’s oceanic life or geologic substrate for millennia after humanity is dead and gone.

Most males know the urge to prove their worth by doing something for their beloved for which the male psyche is naturally wired (as opposed to, say, communication). And those of us who work excessive hours in the digital world understand the human need of returning to analog endeavors once in awhile. It’s hard to name a more analog area of human endeavor than anything that might concern a poop bucket.

Standing in the front yard with the parts heaped at my feet like so much pot-metal spaghetti, I looked down at a badly wrinkled and blurred sheet of instructions in my hand: A single image of the final thing, drawn so poorly it had to be an act of sarcasm, rendered all the more indecipherable by the manufacturer’s having either printed a faxed image, or somehow gotten their hands on a cold war-era mimeograph machine to print the thing. Looking at the picture, it was impossible to tell what tubes were on top of or under, or in front of or behind other tubes, although through a careful codebreaking process of the verbal printed instructions, one could more or less arrive at the most likely concept.

“Are you sure?” Roni asked, no doubt just an innocent offer to handle a task that she thought might burden my day, but a question that nonetheless registered to my ears as “Are you sure you’re competent enough?”

“Yes m’Love, please let me handle it.”

Having been involved for a year in the mid-to-late nineties with the assembly, and very occasionally the designs, of things like computerized impact-testing gear, explosive squib testing apparatuses, electromagnetic levitation devices and laser interferometer sending / receiving modules–most of which was created at the level of things built by NASA and way over my head, but in the service of whose creation I nonetheless learned how things go together at the hands of mechanical geniuses–I’ve since been imbued with an appreciation of designs that are well-conceived and drawn, and not one bit more involved than absolutely necessary.

By the same token, I have an abiding and healthy contempt for the type of tragic comedy I now encountered. To my credit, I welcomed the entertainment value of what surely lay ahead.

“Game on”, I thought. “Joo VEEL be made to BEHAFE!” I said aloud.

My darling Roni was still hovering, so I added “Seriously m’Love, you said you need to get some rest, so go inside and get some rest. Lemme do this.” She proceeded to pull weeds nearby. My wife is no fool.

In the world of competent mechanical design, things are commonly done with fabrication tolerances of plus or minus one thousandth of an inch. More comfortably relaxed designs, for parts where things don’t really matter, might widen tolerances to plus or minus ten thousandths. In aerospace, sometimes things have to be within one micron.

The mechanical design of this thing, such as it was, employed very thin-walled tubing. This was a good thing, because it allowed for quality control specs of plus or minus a quarter mile, the components having been bent to vague angles and crimped to arbitrary degrees at the bore for each screw. It was hard not to visualize the process as having taken place behind a thatch hut with a pair of pliers held by someone dressed in a loincloth and assisted by his dog, a large wicker basket looking on from nearby and chuckling.

Still, I was unfazed and resolute. “Pity the poor thing”, I thought. “‘Tis no match for my codebreaking and puzzle-solving skills, nor my dogged stubbornness. It shall be assembled in short order, and in good form.”

I’ve dealt with this level of design and manufacture before: One gets the holes into the same area code then pulls things together, bending the frame pieces into their intended shape by carefully tightening the chinesium screws while internally chanting the universal assembler’s mantra: “Please don’t strip please don’t strip please don’t strip”.

Amidst a progressively growing assortment of tools and much creative profanity, engaging all of my limbs in what can only be described as a prolonged game of Twister with metal frame pieces, I was able to achieve the capture of those various unwieldy shapes at their various unlikely angles, then somehow maintain them while installing the fasteners.

At long last, while starting to slowly straighten up to stand majestically erect on the battlefield, knee-deep in a chaos of detritus and tools, not even bleeding and having triumphantly bent physics to my will in the name of all that is right in the universe, I was beholding the fruits of my labor and anticipating the presentation to the world of the completed conveyance, when Roni wandered up.

She took the thing in at a glance, immediately pointed and said, “Hey, that piece is on backwards!”

Damn.

A Sister Chicks Story for You

 

In addition to having fun getting reacquainted with Paisley Noon and all the characters from Nokota Voices as I continue to work on the second Forever Fields book... 

Click here to order

It's time for another...

Sister Chicks Adventure!

I am trying to raise my own chickens again this spring. With the price of eggs so high, and my flock dwindling a bit after the weird winter, I figured it was time. So out came the big and clunky Fleet Farm incubator and the various Rubbermaid totes full of all things CHICKS.

I had a rather dismal outcome this first time around. Only two out of ten eggs hatched. Several were not fertilized in the first place. That's not on me. That's on Sherriff Andy, my rooster. Spring has not completely sprung for him, perhaps. Then a few eggs just up and quit by the second candling on day 14 (of 21). The super technical term for these is "Quitters". So I had high hopes for the remaining four. Two dark chocolate brown eggs, and two lovely pale blue ones. 

After much fretting over whether I had the humidity right, and the temperature right, and the candling right, "labor day" came and went. No chicks. Where did I go wrong? Immediately, I believed they all perished at my hand! I could just cry.

My husband said, "You can't take it so hard. It's just nature."

I said to him, "This," and I waved my over-emphatic, over-emotional hands at the Styrofoam box with wires and heat elements and water channels, "is not nature." I drew in a quivering breath. "This is me pretending I'm nature." I let out said breath and finished with, "I don't know if I'm cut out for this. How does a mother hen do it?!"

But he talked me into not giving up just yet. So I re-read EVERYTHING I'd already read and studied several times over! I woke up in the middle of the night to Google questions I hadn't yet thought of. I must have missed something, right? As you can imagine, the internet is littered with a thousand different opinions and a plethora of advice, and of course, most of them contradict each other.

In the end, all I could do was wait.  On day 23 (not day 21 like the books say), the two dark ones hatched! The first one cheered the second one on as she worked her special hatching muscles to break free of her shell. I guess they didn't read the books. Now, these little sister chicks have each other. They are so stinkin' cute, I can hardly stand it. I can't wait to see what funny, sweet, or oddball personalities they develop as they grow and become part of the flock. Their adventure has just begun! 

I'm sad to say the two light blue ones didn't make it, so I think I will try again in a few weeks. I counted it out on the calendar and found that if I start a new batch on Easter weekend, they should hatch on Mother's Day. Wouldn't that be neat!?

Enjoy Sister Chicks To The Rescue!, inspired by my own lil sister chicks. 

Click on the book cover below to go to StoryJumper.com.

Everything that happens in a yoga studio is not Zen.

 

Last month a shared a scene from Bind, my new book featuring three yogis, two police detectives and one damn cute dog. This month I thought I’d give you some background about the plot and the characters. Would love to hear your feedback.

ORDER HERE

Everything that happens in a yoga studio is not Zen. 

Shondra (Woo Woo) Aeron, Lexie Hill, and Charlene Kurtz meet five mornings a week at the Asana Yoga Studio for a downward dog or two, one serene savasana, and a steaming cup of coffee afterwards. They’re not friends, but the theft of a very expensive watch from the gym where their studio is located draws them together – and into a bind of another type. 

To support Kristi Yee, their yoga instructor and co-owner of the gym, the three women offer to help her retrieve (some might call it stealing) financial information from her business partner. Mission successful (albeit with a few hiccups). It doesn’t take Charlene, an auditor, long to determine the balance sheet is not all it appears. Certainly, fencing a very expensive watch would help.

The partner isn’t the only suspect. The watch owner could use some money. He is having a relationship with at least two women, neither his wife. One of those women, who made the affair loudly public early one morning in the gym, has managed to cash in on her relationship. The other woman is unknown, at least initially.

The watch owner’s son, a diehard romantic, is also a suspect. His father and his girlfriend certainly think so. He doesn’t need or want the money, but his girlfriend does. At least he thinks so. He thinks wrong.

The girlfriend is also a suspect. She could, apparently, use money and she does not like her boyfriend’s father. That’s not fair, she detests him. Gym staff are also under police scrutiny as well as Kristi herself.

One conundrum for Halifax Police Detective Michael Terrell: how could someone remove the watch from a busy changeroom locker? Admittedly, the owner lost his key, which he usually does at least once a week, but you’d have to know what locker the key opened or try each locker in the change room. Warriors three to the rescue. Their task, at the request of Terrell (who seems to have a thing for Woo Woo, a reflexologist) is to try and penetrate the inner gym sanctum.

They fail, hilariously. But in their failure comes one undeniable conclusion: whoever stole the watch knew exactly what locker to open and what they would find inside.

Throughout the investigation, professional and posers, a number of other more personal issues arise. Lexie clearly has a thing for a gym employee. (It’s not what you think.) Someone is repeatedly trying to connect with Charlene. She resists. (It’s not what you think.) Every once in a while, Woo Woo gets a message from another world. (It is what you think.)

 

 

BWL Publishing New Releases April 2025

 

Ordinary Lives by Naguib Kerba 

Kerba, Naguib Sami - BWL Publishing Inc.

Everyone has a story. A picture is worth a thousand words, but sometimes one needs words as well. 'Ordinary people extraordinary lives," does just that. I've combined a portrait with asking people four thought provoking questions about themselves. The portrait and their answers are a compelling read about life, its challenges and each individual's journey. At the end of each chapter, each person makes one final observation learned from their journey.

It Wasn't Hard to be Cool in Bygone Days by Eden Monroe

 

https://books2read.com/When-Shadows-Stir

Apparently it was never hard to be cool in the past.

I’m talking about the time before iceboxes and refrigeration were perfected — and obtainable. In other words, the olden days, which is the temporal setting for When Shadows Stir, book two of The Kavenaghs series, 1870-1879.

Major cities benefited first in terms of electronic innovations, because while the majority of homes in urban settings were having electricity installed in the late 19^th century, that luxury was still not available in many rural areas until the 20^th century. So even if there were refrigerators, there wouldn’t have been any electricity to run them.

Nevertheless, just like the generations before them, people found ways to keep their food safe for eating without the use of the conveniences we know today. We’re all familiar with product labeling that warns us to refrigerate after opening, so how was food kept from spoiling in the distant past? According to vermontpublic.org, before refrigeration, food was stored for safekeeping in a variety of ways. Options included smoking, drying, pickling, salting or fermenting.

The cool interior of a root cellar was also used for foodstuffs with high spoilage rates such as milk and related dairy products, and of course perishable goods like vegetables, fruit, meat and fish.

Those who lived in colder climates had the easy advantage of an icehouse where chunks of ice harvested from rivers or lakes during the winter, were stored. An icehouse, or ice pit, was either cut into the ground, or built in a heavily shaded area out of direct sunlight in order to keep the ice intact. The harvesting of ice, initially by way of a long thin handsaw and eventually horse-drawn cutting machinery, was understandably very dangerous work, but the risk was necessary to meet the ever-growing demand.

As set out in vermontpublic.org one enterprising gentleman, Frederic Tudor from Massachusetts, even began shipping blocks of ice to hot climates around the world in the 1800’s, even as far away as India! To maintain the integrity of the ice, it was insulated with straw and sawdust, and kept in warehouses until it could be transported.

The icebox made its debut in 1802, although it would take several decades before it became a mainstream appliance available for mass consumption. Still, it has a pretty interesting history. According to jaxhistory.org, it was a farmer and cabinetmaker from Philadelphia by the name of Thomas Moore who devised the icebox to transport his butter to market. An oval tub with a lid made from cedar wood, it featured a tin chamber inside the cedar box. For insulation, the exterior box was lined with rabbit fur. A patent was issued to Mr. Moore in 1803 for his ingenious invention, and it was signed by none other than President Thomas Jefferson himself.

Once the icebox was refined and found its way into households nationwide, there was of course an even greater call for ice. Aside from an increase in ice harvesting, another occupation was created in answer to this burgeoning industry. Enter the iceman whose job it was to deliver blocks of ice, in the requested size, for the iceboxes of paying customers. A large block of ice (usually about twenty-five pounds) typically sold for well under a dollar, and business was brisk as these uniformed men with their large metal tongs, leather satchels and ice picks made their rounds. It was known as the ice trade, or frozen water trade.

That all began to change with the invention of the refrigerator, a complex machine that eclipsed all other methods of keeping food cold. Its timeline is set out in whirlpool.com:

·         1748 - William Cullen is the first person to observe and demonstrate artificial refrigeration via evaporative cooling

·         1834 - Jacob Perkins invents the first vapor compression system for refrigerators

·         1876 - Carl von Linde patents a new process for liquefying gases used in artificial refrigeration

·         1913 - Fred W. Wolf invents the first home electric refrigerator

·         1918 - William C. Durant begins mass producing the first home refrigerator with a self-contained compressor

• 1927 - The home refrigerator starts to see widespread popularity across the U.S.

And that convenience didn’t come cheap, again according to whirlpool.com. The first home refrigeration units would have been affordable only for the well-to-do. Prices of those early models ranged from $500 to $1,000, and to make that more relatable, today it would be the equivalent of about $6,575 to $13,150.

My father recalled his family’s method of keeping cool what needed to be kept cool on the family farm back in the day in rural New Brunswick, Canada. During the summer the milk and cream stayed fresh by setting the large metal dairy cans in a bubbling spring, ice-cold water coming up from the ground that provided just the proper depth and temperature for chilling. For everything else, especially storage for winter consumption, it was the unheated root cellar located beneath the house. Since hens tend not to lay during the winter, eggs were stored, pointy end down, after having been dipped in melted wax. They were also pickled in vinegar. Turnips too were dipped in wax to preserve their freshness, carrots and parsnips were buried in a box of sand to maintain crispness, and potatoes did just fine in potato barrels. Squash, pumpkin and cabbage also kept well in that cool dry environment. For beets, the tops were removed and stored loosely in damp sand.

Cupboards in the cellar were lined with pickles and jams and anything else from the garden that could be canned, including garden greens. A large stoneware crock held several pounds of dried fish packed in layers of salt, and sides of beef and pork were smoked and hung outside for the winter.

In the pantry upstairs, metal barrels held a hundred weight of flour and sugar each, and other necessities such as coffee, tea, molasses and spices were all stocked up before the roads became snowbound and impassable. In early spring they were equally as difficult because of deep mud from snowmelt.

In When Shadows Stir, it was the more common root cellar where foodstuffs were kept, and that included milk, most often drunk as skim milk because the high-fat cream would be separated and saved to make butter. Once enough cream had been stored and the butter was churned, everyone enjoyed the refreshing treat of buttermilk — the liquid remaining after churning was complete.

It’s also interesting to note that long before there were freezers to store it in, people made their own ice cream. China can lay claim to making ice cream in 618-907AD, while Italy began making ice creams and sherbets in the mid 1600’s. The process of whipping up a batch of ice cream became even easier when the hand-cranked mechanical ice cream maker was invented in 1843 (hubertcloix.com) by Nancy Johnson. During its heyday, well into the mid-1900’s and beyond, many enjoyed the fun of making homemade ice cream with this modern contraption.

My aunt and uncle had one of those old hand-cranked ice cream makers passed down to them and they used it to make a type of pineapple ice cream. Bar none, it was the best ice cream I’ve ever tasted. Period. Full stop.

Modern ice cream makers are easy to come by now, but if you happen to have an antique hand-cranked model gathering dust in the attic, this is how it’s described in ice-cream.org:

“This consisted of a wooden bucket that was filed with ice and salt and had a handle which rotated. The central metal container, containing the ice cream was surrounded by the salt and ice mixture. This churning produced ice cream with an even, smooth texture.”

I’ve been able to determine that rock salt mixed with the ice makes the ice cream freeze faster for a better result, and it must be continually cranked for at least twenty minutes. Some instructions say as long as forty minutes, but the determining factor is how quickly the ice cream mixture firms up.  When the mixture becomes really firm, the harder it is for the handle to turn and your ice cream is ready.

And here’s a homemade ice cream recipe (vaughnbarry.com):

2 Cups Whole Milk, 2 Cups Heavy Cream, 1 Cup White Sugar, 2 Teaspoons Vanilla, 2 Cups Fresh Strawberries (Mashed), ¼ Teaspoon salt.

 

Enjoy!

 Click this link to visit my BWL Author page for more on my books

https://www.bookswelove.com/monroe-eden/

 

Aunt Judy

Before the filles du roi...Desperate to escape her past, Jeanne, a poor widow, accompanies a rich woman to Quebec. The sea voyage is long, one of privation and danger. In 1640, the decision to emigrate takes raw courage, but the struggling colony of Quebec, so far a collection of rough soldiers and fur traders, needs French women if it is ever to take firm root in the wilderness.

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My Aunt, as she was in the 1930's

Hope you don't mind coming along with me for a little family history. And history it now is,  sorry to say. We're all inescapably riding Time's Arrow...

Below is an excerpt from my aunt's obituary. I am her namesake. On the day this blog is published, she would have begun her 98th year. The day following, I will be attending her memorial service. At this time, I will reconnect with members of the family--cousins, and their children and grandchildren. Some, I haven't seen in twenty years, others I have never met in the flesh, only via pictures. 

      

Juliet “Judy” W. (Liddle) Hennessy died Jan. 10, 2025, at home in Yellow Springs. She was 97 years old. She was born March 28, 1927, in Rockville Centre, New York, to Dr. Albert W. and Ruth P. Liddle and joined two sisters, Dorothy and Jean. At the time, her father taught English literature, including Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton and others at New York University. He was recruited by Arthur Morgan to come to Yellow Springs and teach at Antioch College.

Shortly after Judy’s birth, the young family moved to Yellow Springs in a 1925 Model T Ford, arriving and camping in a tent in Glen Helen near the Birch Creek Cascades for several weeks, until lodging was available. When Mrs. Lucy Morgan came to welcome the family to Yellow Springs and Antioch, she left her calling card in the tent flap, as they were out and about.

Somehow or other, I have come the oldest living member of my grandparents' descendants.

My Aunt had all her wits about her when she died, something you can't always say about such old people. When I was born, World War II was still in progress, both in Europe and in the Pacific. My Dad was in Burma. My Uncle Richard, married to sister Jean, was in Europe. Judy was not married yet, because her beaus were away at war. Judy worked at Wright Field (Wright Patterson)  in those days. 

                                          . 

L to R: Aunt Judy, my Mother, Dorothy, & Aunt Jean

The three sisters, Judy, her sister Jean, and my mother, Dorothy, were all still living in their parents' house, a big four square with an enormous maple which shaded the brick patio behind the kitchen. There was an astonishing garden, too, filled with roses, spring bulbs and many other flowers and also--long before our time--native plants, such as Jack-in-the-Pulpit, Ferns, Trillium, Dutchman's Britches, May apples, Trout Lilies and Dog-Tooth violets. Grandpa also grew grapes on arbors, raspberries, rhubarb as well as lettuce and huge, delicious tomatoes. There was a pear tree and cherry trees, too, all benefiting from horse manure from my mother's much loved mare. 

My earliest memories are of moonlight coming through the leaves on that old tree and making patterns on the crib sheet where I was dozing. From the room next door, a large bathroom, I could hear the women of the house talking and bathing. This was a safe place then, and it remains so in memory. 

Here are some B&W pictures from the late 40's and 50's. That's me, the flower girl at Judy's wedding, wondering what the heck the grown-ups are doing? I could tell it was some kind of adult in-joke, and somehow I felt a little embarrassed by this undignified, giggly moment. However, it was clearly the time of breaking into that delicious cake, so of course I was intrigued, especially if this odd behavior meant there's soon be cake for me! 

The groom is my Uncle Leo, a great guy she'd met at Antioch College where she was working, and where he was studying chemistry on the GI bill after tours of duty in the navy, where he served in both WW II and in Korea. He was a favorite uncle, with a legendarily dry wit, and a taste for jazz, both cool and hot. He and my father sometimes went stag to jazz clubs in Dayton. In those days Dayton was a big melting pot, still bustling with factories and employing hosts of workers. Leo became a brilliant chemist, and he had a successful career. 

Homecoming Court picture

At Ohio State, my aunt was on homecoming court as the independent representative, sponsored by the returning war veterans. She graduated with degrees in Sociology and Home Economics, but all she truly ever wanted to be was to be a wife and mother. She worked for some years, however, at Wright Field (Wright Patterson Airforce Base) in Springfield, and at Antioch College, until my cousins began arriving.

This picture is of my first bus trip--off to a department store for shopping and lunch. I remember being lectured by my mother about being a good girl and not causing any trouble, which probably accounts for my anxious expression. However, once I was away with Aunt Judy, there was no worry at all. We had lunch in a tea room at the department store, and I remember feeling rather grown-up. 

My Aunt was very special to me. One memory I have is of staying overnight with Judy and Leo when they lived in a tiny apartment. I have memories of sleeping overnight in a space that might have been a deep closet shelf, proceeded by many cautions not to fall off, but I remember this as a grand adventure. Judy and Leo always made things fun. 

Those happy days when our family lived together in that unique little college town eventually came to an end. My parents were the first to leave, heading to the Finger Lakes area in New York, near Syracuse, where my Dad worked in the then nascent industrial air-conditioning business.  Here's a picture of me, my 6 month old Cousin Kevin and my  Aunt in an upstairs bedroom when they came to visit us. 

~~Juliet Waldron

Write a Novel...It Will Be Easy--And other Fairy Tales By Connie Vines #Connie Vines author, #BWL, #Fragrance #book teaser

Connie is motivated by jewelry or colorful baubles.

 "You should be a writer," my maternal grandmother said while sprinkling the top of the Kolacky cookies with powdered sugar. "My mother. Your babi (bah-bee) was from Bohemia...she loved her romance stories...."

My grandmother, in her youth

The paternal side of the family held another opinion regarding novelists.

My paternal grandmother, born and raised in Texas, didn't voice acetates for my father's cousin, Clarence "Clancy" Carlile, a published author. My grandfather was Clancy's uncle. 

Clancy's first novel contained a gripe/scene featuring breakfast oatmeal.

My grandmother practically spit nails whenever the subject was mentioned. So, I dutifully vowed "never to read "that" novel.

Oklahoma Reservation/ 1938-1942
My father (far left), Clancy beside him. My grandparents are on the far right. 

Of course, I was still an early reader when I made that vow. 

Later, as I transitioned from writing magazine articles and nonfiction to writing Western romance, I recalled my promise to my late grandmother.

Although the book was out of print, I found a copy in my late twenties. My first novel (Lynx) opens in a  "Honky-Tonk" as a nod to my Uncle "Red" Clancy Carlile. 

That is what is known as "Back Story".

Information a reader must know to tie into a current scene or a future plot point :)

This information also hints at "Character Motivation" or an "Inciting Incident".

In this blog post, you can understand how my life influences my writing (though I'm seldom aware of it until it jumps out at me or a sibling points it out).

All this is good, but it doesn't fulfill the title's promise (which is obviously tongue-in-cheek).

My Findings:

1. Writers are often introverts because they are energized by time alone with their minds. They may love being with people, but it tires and drains them. I spent many years feeling guilty because I turned down invitations to "events"

2. I focus on research. Therefore, I allow one day a week to indulge in my obsession. 

3. I'm easily distracted. Therefore, I have to push myself along. 

4. I post reminders (I love sticky notes!) around the house and on my office whiteboard: 

Why I started writing the story in the first place.  

Possible characters/plot for the next book in the series, etc.

5. I set deadlines and reward myself (coffee break or sitting in my garden with my 2 pups). 

 6. Place images representing your goals (future novels, etc) in your writing area.

7. Gather memories and experiences from your life. This will trigger emotions and remind you how much others have influenced or inspired your novels.

8. Though I'm an introvert, I do interact with others. I'm a huge fan of events like "Charmed Writers." We (Members of OCRW) write nonstop for days—well, almost nonstop for days. We log in our time and page count on the Facebook group page and add a mini update/and/or gifs. 

My Charms: Handcuffs, for 6 straight hours of writing. Owl, writing from midnight to sunrise.

 

And believe it or not, the early bird was when I crawled out of bed before sunrise to write.

Updates:

At the moment, I am on my computer writing the first book of my Fragrance and Love Series. 

While I'm not sharing snippets of my work-in-progress, I'm sharing the story that inspired the series!  

 "Gumbo Ya Ya"  "Love Potion No.9" is the second story in the anthology.

*

It is said that the sense of smell is the most intimately linked of all our senses to memory, and I believe it to be true. One whiff of a familiar scent, even one we have not encountered in years, can transport us to a time and place long forgotten, even before we consciously recall the memory.

*

"Don't shake your finger at me, Simone Basso. I know what I'm doing." Persia Richmnd said, holding a pipette to fill a crystal half-ounce atomizer with perfume. The top notes of peach blossoms and bergamot,  and the mid-notes of gardenia, honey and tuberose tantalized... 

The fragrance was New Orleans, culture at its most upscale moments and Mardi Gras at its naughtiest... Ooooh, La La!

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/57681480-gumbo-ya-ya

https://books.apple.com/us/book/gumbo-ya-ya/id1560874874

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1077128

Or at your favorite online Book Seller

Happy Reading!

I hope you enjoyed my post.

Connie

More Links:

http://mizging.blogspot.com/

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Do you know how to breathe to be happy and energized? Most people don’t. - by Vijaya Schartz

Find these books on
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I learned from Tai-Chi that proper breathing technique not only makes for a more enjoyable life, but it can also help you through stress, fatigue, and challenging emotions.

In today’s busy life, sitting at computers, driving to work, taking elevators, getting food delivered, not only don’t we get enough exercise, but it seems we have forgotten how to breathe.

Lung and breathing problems are the most common ailments among mature adults. Even for someone who never smoked, a lifetime of shallow breathing deprives the blood of much needed oxygen, which weakens the entire body, including the immune system.

But there is hope. Healthy breathing at any age increases serotonin levels (which makes us happy). It increases energy levels, boosts the brain power, and benefits the muscles, and all the organs in our body.

Most people breathe from the top of the lungs, lifting the shoulders, or worse, hunched over. Little do they know that the lungs are very narrow at the top, and wide at the bottom. If you only breathe from the top of the lungs, you only use 10% of your lung capacity. But if you breathe from the diaphragm, filling the bottom part of the lungs, you are using 90% of your lung capacity, significantly increasing the amount of oxygen going into your blood.

Simple exercise to train your body to breathe from the diaphragm: 

Lie down on your back (on the floor, a bed, a couch…). Place a hefty book on your stomach. As you inhale, try to make the book rise, and watch it fall when you exhale. If you do this at night before falling asleep, eventually your body will get into that healthy rhythm and keep it all night. In time, your body will relearn to breathe more deeply, and it will become your new normal.

Simple principles:

Breathe from the diaphragm. It provides more oxygen to your blood. If you are not used to it, it might make you dizzy at first. Just sit down. Your brain will quickly welcome the extra oxygen.

Always breathe through the nose. Mouth breathing doesn’t filter the air of impurities, nor does it change the air temperature before it reaches the lungs. And exhaling through the mouth might be too fast for your system.

Never completely empty your lungs. A small amount of carbon dioxide is still needed in the lungs to carry the oxygen to the blood. People who exhale too fast and too completely can go into panic attack mode. In that case, the doctor will tell you to breathe inside a bag. Guess what’s in the bag? The carbon dioxide you just exhaled.

Keep your back straight and shoulders down. You cannot fill the bottom of your lungs if you are hunched over.

These principles only apply to everyday life, they do not apply to special breathing exercises, like prana-yoga, and various meditation methods using the breath to achieve a specific state of consciousness.

And if you need feel-good books to place on your stomach, don’t forget these epic science fiction fantasy series.

amazon - B&N - Smashwords - Kobo 

Happy Reading!

Vijaya Schartz, award-winning author

Strong Heroines, Brave Heroes, cats

https://www.vijayaschartz.com

amazon - B&N - Smashwords - Kobo - FB

A Sticky Situation- by Jeff Tribe

 There is something particularly special about making one’s own maple syrup.

A penultimate Canadian practice Indigenous Peoples generously shared with settlers, it represents the year’s first harvest from a bounteous natural world. Traditionally, Canada’s First People would let the spring’s opening run of sap pass, respectfully viewing it as ‘for the tree’ before tapping into its flow of delicious sweetness.

The ‘how’ has changed over the centuries. One can only imagine the patience and commitment required to make the 40-to-1 transition from sap to syrup using heated rocks. A progression from those determined origins through steel pot and on past multi-pan wood-fired evaporator to gas-powered works of stainless steel efficiency on the back end of reverse-osmosis technology, digital readouts rather than ‘flaking’ off a scoop indicating the magical moment syrup has arrived.

Maple syrup is big business in Canada. According to Quebec industry statistics, that province’s annual production, accounting for over 90 per cent of Canadian totals, contributes $1.1-billion in revenue. Syrup can also be involved in big crime, as proven by The Great Canadian Maple Syrup Heist of 2011 and 2012, a true story stranger in many ways than fiction.

Amongst the ranks of professionals, there’s still room for a rag-tag band of crazies hanging a few buckets on sugar maples to keep family traditions alive. Boiling on a kitchen stove is a thing quite probably done but once given the attendant sweet stickiness. Wiser to get by with a pot or pan over some concrete blocks, a propane-powered turkey deep fryer, naphtha camp stove or upgrade to a customized barrel wood stove and a stainless steel pan inside a ‘sugar shack’ framed out of a former children’s playground set.

Just focus on the end result, rather than input costs and hours of labour required.

Whether producing hundreds of gallons or a few jars for family and friends, the process is essentially the same: a lot of time, a lot of work and one hopes, some amount of quiet satisfaction and enjoyment. In between adding wood to the fire, there’s ample opportunity to ponder the vagaries of the universe or alternatively, enjoy a good book, one might suggest for example, Jay Lang’s ‘Little Blue,’ ‘Brides of Banff Springs’ by Victoria Chatham, or Donalee Moulton’s March, 2025 release, ‘Bind.’

If you listen to enough bubbling sap you might also be struck by the progressive parallels between syrup-making and reading a novel. 

While inserting spiles into trees or opening a book’s cover, there is a general sense of where things are going. However, differences from author to author, title to title or year to year are what makes the experience uniquely interesting. 

Both processes start with a sense of excitement, one tapping trees to begin a flow of sap, the other words unfolding with an introduction to compelling characters and the various factors and forces driving them. The plot and sap both thicken with time, gaining depth and colour, the boiler and reader increasingly engaged in the effort. 

The final stages, culmination of much work which has gone before, are the most crucial. Pushing thickened sap the few final degrees toward syrup is a delicate art, much as an author bringing together disparate plot lines, challenges and conflict into a satisfying conclusion.

And whether straight up in a bowl, over ice cream, enhancing the flavour of good, Canadian whiskey, or alternatively, read from the deck of a cottage, one’s favourite armchair - or in front of a bubbling pan of hot sap - both offer a valuable experience enjoyable in their own right. 

Tribe, Jeff - BWL Publishing Inc.