Tuesday, August 8, 2017

Ghosts by June Gadsby



GHOSTS

I don’t normally watch cookery programmes, but switching on the telly the other day I was caught by a Geordie accent talking excitedly about her book which had just been published. She was one of the celebrities on the programme, young, attractive and had appeared on various TV shows, none of which I am a fan of, so I can’t remember her name except that she was called Vicki something or other.

The fact that she was also a writer encouraged me to continue watching, especially as the interviewers on the show were going a little overboard by her success. Well done, I thought. And good luck to her.

Then it came out and I deflated like a punctured balloon. Vicki spoke with some passion about the idea she had had for her second book and – wait for it – she got together with her agent her publisher, her editor and her ghost writer. The book agreed on and written by said ghost writer was then presented to Vicki so she could tweek it a little so that it sounded more like her writing it.

Money was never mentioned, but I guess it will become an immediate best-seller and pay more than enough in royalties to pay the rent and the electricity bills.

I feel I’d like to say a lot more on this subject, but words fail me. And if I did put my private thoughts on paper it could start a war among real writers and those who employ ghosts to do the work for them.

JUNE [Gadsby]
Artist/Writer
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Sunday, August 6, 2017

Those Lazy, Crazy, Hazy Days of Summer.... by Gail Roughton

Sometimes you can go home again

Summer doesn't always arrive from year to year in the same month in middle Georgia. It's settled in as early as May and frequently it's dug in its claws by June.  This year, it didn't really hit with any great determination until July. Every region has its own definition of summer--we don't think it's hot unless the temperature's either (a) reached the mid-90's in the shade; or (b) the heat index, the "feels like" temperature, is over 100 which, if the heat index is a factor at all, is way beyond humidity, it's "air you can wear". Occasionally it even feels like air you could drink.  And we have had those rare years wherein the actual temperature's already over 100 and the heat index pops it on up to 108+ and rising.

Maybe it's just my age, but this year, summer's made me think of childhood.  I was born in 1954 so for me, clear memories of summer are intertwined with school summer vacations. That was back when school began with the first grade and the age of six, don't you know, nobody'd heard of Pre-K and any Kindergarten was actually pretty much the equivalent of a play group.  I'm not sure the Day Care "business" as such had even been invented, most mothers stayed at home. Never would I say they didn't work (and never would I say today's stay at home parent doesn't work 'cause raisin' kids ain't for sissies), but do you remember the volume of actual manual labor your stay at home mother used to do? You couldn't pay anyone to do that kind of labor. 

There were no clothes driers, so clothes hung on the line and they didn't get there by themselves. Washers with automatic cycles were just coming into vogue and sometimes those wet clothes had come out of the old wringer type tub washers. Refrigerators didn't depend on ice anymore for cooling, though they were still referred to as ice-boxes, but they didn't self-defrost and defrosting the freezer was a once a week event. Ice cubes came out of ice trays, not ice-makers. Ovens didn't self-clean and there weren't very many frozen entrees' around to come out of 'em. Supper was cooked pretty much from scratch, every night.  Including mashed potatoes that came from peeled potatoes, not potato flakes in a box. Wooden floors weren't easy care like today's laminates and such, they had to be waxed, and the standard of care was once a week.  Furniture was dusted every day and polished once a week and I'm not talking about the spray on polish, I'm talking furniture oil that had to be poured and spread on with one cloth and rubbed dry with another.  Red oil for maples and light oak; dark oil for the darker woods. And you'd better believe the kids had those polishing rags in their hands, too. Did I mention that at that time central heat and air was the venue of the extremely wealthy only and that even window unit air conditioners were almost unheard of until at least the late 1960's, so said mothers were doing all this without air conditioners, under ceiling fans with strategically placed box fans adding additional breeze?

We played outside back then, remember?  With other kids. In the heat. I mean, houses weren't air-conditioned anyway, and neither were cars, so it was hardly a big deal. Besides, my home town had exactly one tv channel and daytime tv was soaps and game shows, anyway. Nobody catered to kids with all day programming. Nickelodean and the Cartoon Channel were in the far distant future and Disney was concentrating on Disneyland and movies. Games were board games like checkers and Monopoly, card games like Old Maid, Go Fish and Rummy, or active yard games like tag and hopscotch and hide and seek, certainly not anything you could see on your television screen. The earliest video games were light-years away.

Who'd ever have thought within half a century, sports heroes would actually have to tell kids to "get out and play an hour a day"?  I was pretty much the only child in my own little country neighborhood so I was a bit handicapped on the playmate thing insofar as running in and out of friends houses because my friends lived several country miles away, but since my mother was a force to be reckoned with in both my school's PTA and her Garden Club, and since most of my friends' mothers were too, afternoon visiting between them was standard at least two or three times a week and play dates were frequent, though no one called them play dates then. Our mothers just hollered "Hey, you want to go to Carol's house (or Gail's house or Bonnie's house, whoever) for awhile?" and we bee-lined it to the car. Things were pre-arranged in person during such visits for the next visit because guess what?  Fully half of the folks we knew didn't have phones. We didn't until I was in the fifth grade, I believe it was, and even then, they were party lines with prefixes like Sherwood or Greenview 5-5555.  If you don't know what party lines are--honey, I'm sorry, you've missed a piece of Americana.

We rode bikes, we played soft-ball with makeshift bats and used pine trees and azalea bushes for the bases. Our mothers hollered us over after a couple of hours and fed us hot dogs and chips with marsh-mellows for desert and Kool-Aid to wash it down.  Movies cost thirty-five cents for kids, seventy-five cents for adults, so those play dates frequently involved movies. Macon had an Olympic-sized public swimming pool, admission thirty cents as I recall, and swimming play dates were usually for late afternoon, both to minimize our sun burns and keep our mothers' lounge chairs in the shade.

We didn't have the plethora of products and brands and variations to choose from back then, which cut time off shopping.  Hand lotion was Jergens, cherry and almond blend. Face cream was Noxema. Toothpaste was Crest, Colgate or Pepsodent. Soap was Ivory, Camay, Lux, Palmolive, Dove or Dial. Detergent was Tide or Cheer. Diapers (cloth diapers) and baby clothes were washed in Ivory Snow. Grocery stores and drug stores were open six days a week, usually from some reasonable hour like eight until another reasonable hour like eight, pushed to nine or ten on Fridays and Saturdays depending on the store.  Nothing was open all night (well, I guess in the red light districts probably, but I certainly didn't know anything about those then) and nothing was open on Sundays or holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas except a few convenience stores and gas stations which were two separate business models back then, not a combined mini-mart. And guess what? Nobody died because they couldn't shop on Sunday! Imagine that!

Ah, memories! They shape us, form us, make us who we are. In our retirement years my husband and I have actually resurrected some of those memories and made them our present as well as our past.  This past year, after years of buying toothpaste claiming to perform pretty nearly every service a dentist does, I picked up a tube of Colgate on a whim.  The basic model.  The original.  I loved it.  The flavor threw me back to before school and before bed brushings and guess what? My teeth looked exactly the same and felt much cleaner than the expensive substitute for a dentist brand I'd used for years.  For several dollars cheaper per tube, I might add.  I'd used expensive soaps and body washes for years, but again on a whim, based on nothing but nostalgia (and the fact that it works out to somewhere between thirty and fifty cents a bar depending on the size pack you buy as opposed to the $1.75 per bar price of the brand I'd been using), I picked up a pack of Ivory soap.  Oh, man! I loved it! I loved the smell, I loved the lather, I loved the clean. I loved the memories. I'd never stopped using Jergens lotion, not throughout my entire life, because its Cherry Almond scent is classic and wonderful and to me, the best perfume money can buy. Any lady transported from the early 60's into my bathroom would feel right at home. 

 We almost never turn on the AC because we live in the country with an older, established yard and trees that shade the house.  We have ceiling fans, a big attic fan, and a big screen/glassed back porch. The back door and all the windows are open.  We have a nice shady side yard that catches any breeze stirring where we've placed a picnic table, the site of many board games with our granddaughter. She makes a lot of mud pies on it, too. It's right by the grandkids' swing set, trampoline and small pool, which isn't terribly big but at three feet deep, gets 'em plenty wet. 

We enjoy being outside and go in and out of the house a lot, something that's hard to do if your body's accustomed to a house temperature of below 80, because the shock of walking out into the summer heat will almost make you faint. Come to think of it, that's probably the explanation for why the human race survived before the invention of air-conditioning. It's the constant in and out sudden contrast of cooled air versus natural air that does us in. Without it, sure, it's hot, but it's not knock-me-down-I-can't-breathe hot.

We love the smell and feel of line-dried clothes and never use the drier, which, by the way, is much better on colors and keeps clothes from stretching/shrinking. Nothing smells as good as a line-dried sheet or feels as good as the slightly rough texture of a line-dried towel that releases the smell of sunshine when it gets wet during first use. Sure, hanging clothes out is more work, but I don't mind.  Mostly because I don't do it, my husband's the one who resurrected the clothes line and he's the one who hangs them out. I'll admit I was doubtful about renewing that practice but now I love it so much I'd probably do it myself if he didn't (but don't tell him that). 

Of course, I wouldn't recommend either not using the AC or hanging clothes out to dry anywhere but in the country. A body'd burn alive doing either in any subdivision that had paved roads because concrete and asphalt generate more heat than an oven. But if you don't have your own little bit of heaven in the country, you can come visit in mine. Where everybody knows if your eggs were fried or scrambled before you ever even leave the Scales of Justice Cafe...


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Saturday, August 5, 2017

ABOUT ROSEMARY MORRIS






If I had a pound for everyone who tells me that they could write a novel it would add a worthwhile sum to my savings. At a party, a man whom I met for the first time found out I am a published historical novelist. He pursued me. Years ago, he wrote a text book and now wants to write fiction. I became more and more irritated with his belief that I could give him the means to write a novel and find a literary agent or publisher. Eventually, my good manners frayed around the edges, “There is only one way to succeed,” I said as politely as possible. He obviously thought I have a magic formula. “Write,” I told him, but resisted the temptation to say: ‘And get on with it instead of talking about it’.
Every day of the year, except for Christmas Day, I get up at 6 a.m. With a short break to eat breakfast I work until 10.a.m. On most days, after lunch, at 1 p.m. I work for an hour, then I relax until 4 p.m. then I work until 8 p.m. with a break for afternoon tea.
I am a historical novelist.  During my working day, I divide my time between writing a novel, research, and dealing with business, receiving and answering e-mails, working with on-line constructive critique partners and sending out information about my novels.
Among my other activities related to writing, I attend Watford Writers where I meet published and unpublished writers. Members may read extracts from their novels, non-fiction, poetry etc., and receive useful feedback. If someone chats to me about finding time to write, my advice is to have a routine, whether it is as little as fifteen minutes every day carved out from a busy life, or time set aside to write once a week. The important thing is the routine which separates real authors from would be ones. As I said to the gentleman at the party, the only way to become a novelist is to write.

Sunday’s Child

Heroine’s Born on Different Days of The Week. Book One

Georgianne Whitley’s beloved father and brothers died in the war against Napoleon Bonaparte. While she is grieving for them, she must deal with her unpredictable mother’s sorrow, and her younger sisters’ situation caused by it.
Georgianne’s problems increase when the arrogant, wealthy but elderly Earl of Pennington, proposes marriage to her for the sole purpose of being provided with an heir. At first, she is tempted by his proposal, but something is not quite right about him. She rejects him not suspecting it will lead to unwelcome repercussions.
Once, Georgianne had wanted to marry an army officer. Now, she decides never to marry ‘a military man’ for fear he will be killed on the battlefield. However, Georgianne still dreams of a happy marriage before unexpected violence forces her to relinquish the chance to participate in a London Season sponsored by her aunt.
Shocked and in pain, Georgianne goes to the inn where her cousin Sarah’s step-brother, Major Tarrant, is staying, while waiting for the blacksmith to return to the village and shoe his horse. Recently, she has been reacquainted with Tarrant—whom she knew when in the nursery—at the vicarage where Sarah lives with her husband Reverend Stanton.
The war in the Iberian Peninsula is nearly at an end so, after his older brother’s death, Tarrant, who was wounded, returns to England where his father asks him to marry and produce an heir.
To please his father, Tarrant agrees to marry, but due to a personal tragedy he has decided never to father a child.
When Georgianne, arrives at the inn, quixotic Tarrant sympathises with her unhappy situation. Moreover, he is shocked by the unforgivably brutal treatment she has suffered.
Full of admiration for her beauty and courage Tarrant decides to help,

“A Sweet Treat”
5* Review
By Lindsay Townsend
7th March, 2017

When Georgianne, the appealing, enterprising heroine of 'Sunday's Child' first encounters Rupert Tarrant, she is fourteen. Georgianne thinks even then the tall, blond handsome soldier is the kind of man she hopes to marry one day.
At seventeen, when they meet again, Georgianne is in mourning for her brothers and father, lost in the Napoleonic wars. She is now wary of becoming romantically involved with a military man, despite the limited life that an unmarried woman is forced to lead in the 1800s.
However, as the novel superbly shows, a young woman without a father or brother to protect her interests is vulnerable to predatory males. None is more predatory than Lord Pennington, a truly odious Earl, whose relentless pursuit of Georgianne is aided by the conventions and morals of the time.
Rupert Tarrant meanwhile is haunted by the violent death of his betrothed and is torn between remaining single to grieve and marrying to provide an heir to his recently acquired estate.
That Georgianne and Tarrant should marry - she for protection, he for an heir - seems an ideal compromise. But what chance is there for love to grow between them?
This is a flowing romance, full of intrigue and incident, with rich details of Regency fashion, food and furniture. There are frost fairs and Nabobs, Lord Byron's poetry, kidnappers and ruffians, attempted blackmail and a heroine who can shoot.
The whole convenient marriage trope is treated with tender realism. With their careful treatment of each other and their striving to understand their differing experiences, Georgianne and Tarrant thoroughly deserve their eventual happy ever after.

Links:-

Available as e-publications and paperbacks by Rosemary Morris.

Mediaeval Novel Yvonne, Lady of Cassio

Early 18th century novels. Tangled Love, Far Beyond Rubies,The Captain and The Countess,

Regency novels. False Pretences, Heroine’s Born on Different Days of the Week. Sunday’s Child, Monday’s Child, Tuesday’s Child.

Friday, August 4, 2017

Pillars of Avalon by Katherine Pym & Jude Pittman



KATHERINE PYM shares her cozy life in a Seattle 'Burb' with her husband and puppy-dog. During the summers when it's not raining, they explore the great Northwest. 

PILLARS of Avalon is a celebration of Newfoundland Labrador during Canada's sesquicentennial, or Canada 150. Searching through Newfoundland data, I found Sir David & Lady Sara Kirke, their accomplishments. Sara Kirke is considered North America's first female entrepreneur.    

DAVID and Sarah Kirke live in a time of upheaval under the reign of King Charles I who gives, then takes. He gives David the nod of approval to range up and down the French Canadian shores, burning colonies and pillaging ships that are loaded with goods meant for the French. When King Louis of France shouts his outrage, King Charles reneges. He takes David’s prizes and returns them to the French, putting David and his family in dire straits. 

UNDETERRED, David and Sarah will not be denied. After years, the king relents. He knights David and grants him the Province of Avalon (Ferryland), a large tract of land on the southeast coast of Newfoundland. There David and Sarah build a prosperous plantation. They trade fish and fish oil with English, Europeans, and New England colonists. They thrive while England is torn in two by the civil wars. 

SOON, these troubles engulf his family. David is carried in chains back to England to stand trial. He leaves Sara to manage the plantation, a daunting task but with a strength that defies a stalwart man, she digs in and prospers, becoming the first female entrepreneur of North America. 

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Twitter: @KatherinePym

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