Frozen Pipes (the story behind the story) by J. S. Marlo

 

Undeniable Trait

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Many years ago, I lived in military housing on a northern Canadian Air Force Base. The house, which dated back to... to too many decades ago, was insulated so badly that the pipes running inside the outside wall in the kitchen froze every time the temperature dropped below -20C.

In order to solve my many complaints about frozen pipes before one of them crack and explode, the maintenance plumber made a hole at the back of one of the cupboards and installed a grill so the warm inside air could go into the wall and stop the water in the pipes from freezing. As long as I kept that cupboard door open, it worked, but it wasn't fool-proof below -30C. When it got really cold, I also had to let the water running all night, so the constant flow would prevent freezing. And in case you wonder... yes, there was lots of cold air coming out of that cupboard.

In my newest novel Undeniable Trait, Willow 'Mitch' Mitchell is a plumber, a good plumber who thinks outside the box, just like my military maintenance plumber from long ago. One day she's called to thaw the frozen pipes in the under-insulated trailer rented by the town's new doctor. Here's a preview of Willow and Dr. Zachary's second encounter:

Zachary took advantage of his lunch break to visit the patients’ wing where Susan and her fourth child rested in a double room. Her husband sat on the second bed cradling his infant daughter while his wife slept.

Unwilling to disturb them, Zachary backtracked and bumped into the female guard. “Sorry, Mandy.”

“I was looking for you, Doc.” She smiled a heartwarming smile framed by deep dimples. “The plumber will be at your house in ten minutes. I’m sorry I couldn’t get your pipes thawed any sooner, but there’s no queue jumping, not even for a doctor. Would you like me to go unlock the door?”

He’d never expected special treatment because of his profession. Besides, nobody was home. It didn’t matter when the plumber showed up to fix the pipes.

“Thank you, but the timing is perfect.” Zachary lived five minutes away and his next patient wasn’t scheduled to show up for another twenty-five minutes. “Going home gives me an excuse to enjoy a few breaths of fresh air.”

The breaths of frozen air he took between the entrance of the hospital and his SUV chilled his upper airway. He didn’t mind the cold, but from what he heard on the radio, the Arctic front that had settled over northern Ontario intended to overstay its welcome.

A white utility van was parked in front of his trailer and an individual bundled into a yellow hooded parka and carrying a toolbox knocked on Zachary’s front door.

He pulled into his driveway then rushed outside. “I’m coming.”

The individual spun around and the hood of his parka fell backward, unmasking the plumber’s identity. “Doc?”

The look of surprise on her pretty face matched Zachary’s.

“Willow?” He suddenly recalled their conversation from last night, and her occupation hit him. In retrospect, he should have clued in when she mentioned the toilet tank. How did I miss that? “Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

She raised a brow. “You’re my important client?”

Embarrassment threatened to redden his freezing cheeks. “Client, yes, but no more important than any of your other clients. I had a patient in labor, so Mandy offered to call. I apologize if she tried using my profession to get faster service.”

“I never gave her a chance to give me your name—or your profession. You ended up at the bottom of my list the moment she said nobody was home.” A mischievous smile blossomed on Willow’s lips, wrinkling her eyes. “Are you going to let me in? It’s your fair turn right now, but if it makes you feel better, I could push you further down my list.”

“I like fair.” Amused, he unlocked and invited her in. “How’s your hand?”

“It’s sore.” She took off her boots. “I only had time to change the bandage once since I thawed my first pipe. I’m guessing my crazy day resembles yours at the hospital.”

“Crazy sounds about right.” Yesterday she’d mentioned a hot water tank during her visit, which was another clue he’d missed. “Have you replaced that water tank yet?”

The dubious look she served him answered that question. “I have three more clients after you, then I’ll tackle the tank, assuming no other emergencies arise. So, which pipe froze? The one in the kitchen, in the bathroom, or both?”

“Kitchen only.” It never occurred to him, until now, that shaving and enjoying a hot shower had been a luxury he almost missed this morning. “I shut off the main valve and turned all the faucets on to release the pressure.”

“Good.” She disappeared down the hallway. Moments later, pipes rattled in the walls and water rushed into the bathroom but nothing in the kitchen. Then silence filled the air.

The frozen water hadn’t thawed, but it didn’t sound like any pipes had burst. All in all, Zachary supposed it could be worse.

Willow entered the kitchen where she opened the cupboards beneath the sink. “The insulation in the walls is minimal. If Chester wasn’t such a scrooge, he’d winterize his trailer properly, but since he’s not the one living in it, he doesn’t care.” She pointed a flashlight at the space underneath the sink. “If you bend down, you’ll see there’s a vent on the back panel.”

He knelt beside her. Her shoulder brushed his, prickling his skin. Confounded by the strange feelings she stirred up, Zachary forced his mind to focus on the cupboard. The light shone on a grill covering a large hole. Cold air escaped the opening.

“Who installed a vent there?” From his position, he couldn’t see any dial or knob to close it.

“I did.” She leaned the flashlight in a corner then retrieved a screwdriver from her toolbox and proceeded to unscrew the grill. “To stop the pipes from freezing you need to keep the cupboards open when the temperature drops below minus twenty.”

“Good to know.” The open doors allowed the ambient air to enter the vent and warm up the pipes, preventing them from freezing. That makes sense. “Why do I have a feeling my heating bill will cost me a bundle?”

“Because you’re smart?” A sassy smile played on her lips. “Actually, it’s not fool-proof. Below minus thirty, you also need to let the water run in the kitchen sink, the bathroom sink, and the tub. And don’t forget to open the cupboards in the bathroom as well.”

The continuous flow would stop the water from freezing in the pipes, which meant he needed to pay particular attention to the weather if he worked all night or if he went on vacation. “What about the washer?”

The grill tumbled in the cupboard.

“Those pipes run in an indoor wall.” She plugged in a heat gun, a tool he’d used in the past to remove paint, and she pointed it at the hole. “They’ve never caused any trouble, that I know of.”

“That’s not reassuring me.” No wonder Chester was so eager to sign the lease.

* * *

Undeniable Trait received a 4-star review from Amy's Bookshelf Reviews last week. Click here to read.

Undeniable Trait is available in ebook and paperback. Click here to purchase.

Have a great summer & Happy reading!

J. S. 

 

 

J. S. Marlo's Website

Research on the Porch by Eileen O'Finlan

 

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We've finally entered my favorite season. I wait all year for summer, so when it finally arrives I do all I can to soak it up. It just doesn't last long enough in New England. However, writing, for me anyway, tends to be an indoor pursuit. If I'm working on a novel, I'm at my laptop indoors. If I'm doing research for a future novel I'm usually in my home library, on the internet, or at a pertinent historial site - mostly indoors. This is not condusive to enjoying summer weather. Yet I can hardly take the summer off from researching and writing especially given that I work a full-time job - also indoors. And, frankly, I wouldn't want to.

I think I have hit upon a solution. Recently, on an absolutely gorgeous weekend day, I took the book I'm currently using for research for my next Irish novel out onto my front porch along with my notepaper. I have a little bistro set out there with just enough room to set up what I needed. It was perfect. 

The next book in this series, which will follow Kelegeen and Erin's Children, will be set in Worcester, Massachusetts. Since it takes place during the 1860s the American Civil War will figure prominently in the story which means a lot of in-depth research for me. Fortunately, I love this part of writing historical fiction.

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Although I am in love with my new home library, I think the porch will be hosting me and my research books a lot this summer. After all, it's hard to resist this view...

                                  

...especially when it's combined with the company of my favorite muse:

Autumn Amelia

Thank you, organ donor!

For a fun summer read, 

https://books2read.com/Prospecting-for-Love
 

July is my birthday month, and this year, I had to renew my driver’s license. So I made an appointment, drove to the center and got in the queue. When my turn came, I gave the lady my old license and she asked if my height and weight were the same. “Close enough.” Then she asked if I still wanted to be an organ donor.

It wasn’t the first time I thought that without someone else being a donor, I wouldn’t be here. Back in 2010, I had moved to Tennessee for a new job, and within two months of starting, I was hospitalized for emergency surgery and while in recovery, my blood work came back abnormal  and I was transferred to the cancer center with ALL (Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia). At 60 years of age, I was attacked by one of the cancers most known for affecting children. No precursor, no warning. I had had a thorough physical just before accepting my new job. Now I would be doing eight rounds of chemo, in the hospital more days a month than at home. I couldn’t work or drive; barely ate. My vision was bad to the point I couldn’t write, which was my passion. Many of you probably know the cancer drill.

When I was growing up, I don’t recall hearing of someone with cancer, whereas nowadays, just about everyone has someone close to them affected by the disease, which takes many forms. Perhaps we’re more aware because of modern media methods, or perhaps it’s because the medical field can diagnose sooner and more accurately.

As of June 2024, an estimated 1.6 million people in the United States are living with blood cancer, which includes leukemia, myeloma, Hodgkin lymphoma, and non-Hodgkin lymphoma. Blood cancer is a serious illness that occurs when abnormal blood cells grow out of control and crowd out normal cells in the blood, bone marrow, or plasma. This prevents normal cells from developing and performing important functions. Of that number, an estimated 437,337 people are living with or in remission from leukemia. In 2024, the American Cancer Society estimates that about 62,770 new cases of leukemia will be diagnosed and 23,670 people will die from the disease.

Fortunately, there is a cure for some Leukemia in the form of bone marrow transplants. We don’t often think of our blood as “an organ” in terms of transplants and while donating blood is done quite often, donating bone marrow is a more involved process. The hospital looks for a donor who matches in as many as ten different markers, not just a blood type as you might think. My sisters and brothers and several nephews and nieces volunteered to be tested but there were no matches. My children couldn’t be donors as they had half of my DNA.

Luckily there is the National Marrow Donor Program (NMDP), which operates Be The Match, the world's largest and most diverse registry of potential bone marrow and blood stem cell donors. Be The Match works with a global network of partners to facilitate transplants, including 180 transplant centers and 19 public cord blood banks. It has over 7 million registered donors in the US, and fortunately, through this organization, they were able to find a perfect match and I had a bone marrow transplant in April 2011. The donors are anonymous and all I ever knew was it was a female in her thirties -- a lovely person willing to take the time and go through the extensive process for someone she did not know. That was thirteen years ago. Thirteen years in which I have been able to resume writing and watching my grandchildren grow into their teens. Thirteen years I would not have had without a donor.

So at age 75, when asked if I wanted to be an organ donor, I wasn’t sure much would still be useful, but my answer was a definite “yes.”

 Another Happy Birthday!

Barbara Baldwin

http://www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

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Summer Camp by Julie Christen

 

Niece Elise and Josie the Aussie (2024)                 Order a copy today here!

    I had my niece come stay at our farm for a week. She's ten years old, and this was her second summer at Christen Horse Camp. I never had kids of my own, so I tend to gush a bit on my sisters' and brother's kids. You know, sugar them up and send 'em home. 

    When I was a kid, Mom and Dad did the same thing - they would send each of us kids to stay at Grandma and Grandpa's place for two weeks. We were kind of lucky because both my mom's folks and my dad's folks lived pretty close to each other out in Sheldon and Alice, ND. Two of the tiniest towns you ever will find. But it really had nothing to do with the towns. Our visits were all about life on the farm and experiencing a world so very different from our little house across the street from Little Detroit Lake in Minnesota. And even though we, as a family, traveled out there practically every other weekend throughout the school months, spending time alone - no parents, no little brothers, no older sisters - was a whole other experience.

    Each of us kids got our own week with one set of grandparents. So say I went to Grandma Ruth and Grandpa Richard's (my Dad's Wavra side) place first, while one of my sisters or brothers went to Grandma Olive's and Grandpa Frank's (my Mom's Spiekermeier side). Then after a week was up, we would all meet at the café in Enderlin and swap out. 

    Both places had their own unique features, and we did very different things.  Grandma Ruth's and Grandpa Richard's was a tiny crop farm with an itty-bitty house. The house had a living room and a kitchen/dinette. The only bedroom was in the scary, stonewall basement with the only bathroom and old-time washing machine complete with a careful-or-it'll-crush-your-hands electric wringer. I slept upstairs on the hide-a-bed, thankfully, but I could still hear the snoring coming from down there every night. 

    While Grandpa Richard worked out in the fields every day, I would help Grandma Ruth hang laundry, weed the garden, and bake cookies. She bought the "fun" sugar cereal like Sugar Pops and Froot Loops too. What a treat! She also gave me nice drawing paper so I could mail in a picture to be displayed on the Fargo evening newscast during the weather bit. Made me feel like a celebrity. 

    One of the neatest parts of staying there was playing in the bunkhouses. This farm had no animals (to my dismay), but the old bunkhouses (once used long ago for migrant workers) were more magical to me than Lewis Carroll's wardrobe! They were filled with old toys, clothes, wigs, trunks, and even a creepy mannequin that received many-a-make-over by me. I swear, every time I entered one of the three bunkhouses, I would find new treasures to imagine with.

    Just a short 45-minute or so drive away was Grandma Olive's and Grandpa Frank's farm. They had cattle, pigs, cats, a dog, and chickens! So many outbuildings and haybales to climb around in. Grandma let me feed the chickens the slop pail from under the sink every day. I would collect eggs with her and watch how she handled them. I'd tell her all the names I'd given each one, but I don't think she remembered them. 

    Since Grandma Olive spent so much time in the kitchen getting meals ready for whoever would be coming for dinner or supper, I had a ton of time to go exploring. Into the cottonwood treeline, I'd go. I built forts, identified birds and their songs, hunted for berries, and read my Black Stallion books out there. Bachi the big, fury, wolf-like farm dog and I would wander down shelter belt paths lining the fields and pastures. I'd stir up the freshest cowpies ever on those hikes. 

    In the evenings, we played cards and watched the news. I had my own room upstairs with a pretty poster bed and gauzy curtains that swayed from the open window that overlooked the tidy, fenced-in front yard. I remember listening to the mourning doves as the sun rose and sitting at a little desk to write in my journal.

    Little did I know just how many of all these memories would find their way into my first novel Nokota Voices someday. Reading my own book takes me back to all of it.

    I started my own summer camp somewhere back around 2004. My oldest niece was nine. I remember worrying that she might get homesick, but we tried just a long weekend, and she did fine. Each year after that, I got a little better at entertaining, and she got more and more comfortable staying. Since then, all of my nieces have come for a custom-fit version of summer camp with me.

    We sip coffee and hot cocoa while we read a book out loud on the porch in the morning, and sometimes we do our hair together and try on some make-up. Then we walk Nester the donkey with the dogs. We do a lot of horseback riding and grooming too (lot-o-braids). We go for bike rides and hang out with the chickens learning each of their names. We make crafts, bake, cook, and watch a ton of Heartland. 

    The girls always help with chores: sweep the barn (which can easily turn into a dance party if we crank up the music), scoop the poop, weed the gardens and flowerbeds. They also practice driving the tractor and the riding lawn mower. Sometime, if they're old enough, my husband gives them a ride on the Harley!

    I'm exhausted by the end of the stay, but it's the best tired I could ask for. 

    

Snake Oil by Jay Lang

 

 

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This suspense novel was challenging as if assembling a large puzzle with the pieces all one color, delving into themes of drugs, abuse, and the loss of innocence.

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But it was also a labor of love as the lead character, a university student, struggled to find her strength, (I love it when the protagonist is faced with adversity and instead of curling up in the fetal position, they choose to stand and fight.) A lot of the rhetoric in this book is displayed in a colloquial way, making the characters more relatable. I love to read a well written book, but if the dialogue is too uniform, too perfect, I have a tough time connecting with the characters.

While writing this novel, I was a university student and had access to all of the on campus sites that are mentioned in my story, adding an authenticity to my claims. I think the hardest part I encountered while writing was the drug parts. I’ve never done drugs so research was necessary. Thankfully, I was able to sus out credible resources online to educate myself. The local police department, a resource I use for info from time to time, were also very useful and provided interesting details about current drugs on the street. It’s amazing how informed one becomes after writing a lot of books. From speaking with law enforcement, forensics, fire investigators, coroners, and psychiatrists, I’ve learned so much on my writing journey.

As for the title, Snake Oil, I’ve always been partial to that name. In fact, I liked it so much that while I was designing clothes for rock musicians, I studded the words in antique studs down the leg of a pair of jeans. In this book, Snake Oil is the name of a designer drug. If you get a chance, pick up a copy of this book and please leave a review, I’d love to know your thoughts.

Thanks for reading!

Jay

Dammit. I’m a suspect. by donalee Moulton

 

I've recently been doing a lot of book readings from Hung Out to Die, my first mystery book, which BWL published a year ago. I thought I'd share the scene where the main character, Riel Brava, finds a dead body -- and finds himself a suspect.

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FROM HUNG OUT TO DIE

I’m reaching for the hallway switch when I notice a light three doors down. That’s Norm Bedwell’s office. And that’s unusual. Our comptroller is typically among the last to arrive. Only a fresh honey cruller from Tim Hortons has ever changed his timeline.

I’m running to Norm’s office now, tirade at the ready. The only thing that can prevent the outside security system from working, aside from someone hacking into our server, is if the door doesn’t latch firmly behind the entering employee. A loud audible click lets you know the system is armed, and then you can move forward. Employees are trained to wait for the click; if they don’t, an alarm will sound for two minutes, albeit relatively soft as alarms go. But at this time of day, no one is around to hear it.

It must be Norm’s fault, which may mean the system has only been down for minutes if he just arrived. It’s a question I’m tossing at our comptroller even before I’ve stepped inside his office.

Norm doesn’t answer.

He can’t because he’s swinging from a rope tossed over an open beam (the designer’s brilliant idea), a noose tight around his neck. He’s blue, but not as blue as I believe a dead man should look. This poses a dilemma. I need a few moments to assess my options and identify the safest and most effective course of action. However, I am aware I don’t have the luxury of time. I’ve seen enough Law and Order episodes to know if you don’t call the cops immediately, the delay in time will get noticed, and you’re more likely to find yourself on the suspect list.

Dammit. I’m a suspect.

This realization hits at the same time I’m dialing 911. The perky young woman on the other end asks how she can help.

“I’m in the administrative office of the Canadian Cannabis Corp., and my comptroller appears to have hanged himself. He is dangling from a noose and turning blue.”

“Sir, I have radioed for police; they are on their way,” she says, inhaling to continue with her script.

I cut her off. “Look, I know I shouldn’t disturb anything, but Norm may be alive. I’m going to grab his legs, so the noose doesn’t cut into his windpipe.”

Great, now she knows I understand how hanging kills someone.

It doesn’t matter. I’m going to reduce the pressure around Norm’s neck. His feet are tucked into the crease in my left arm, his testicles on par with my bottom lip. I’m not a small man, 6’2”, and I work out regularly, so I can maintain this, albeit a distasteful posture, for quite some time.

I hear sirens, and it hits me. The police won’t gain access to the building without destroying expensive technology. I explain this to the 911 operator. She is not that interested in the cost of our tech.

“I’m going to get someone to open the gate for the police,” I tell her. “That means I’ll have to hang up. I’m on the third floor of the admin building, inside the only office with a light on. My name is Riel Brava. I’m the CEO.”

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New Releases July 2024

 

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STRUNG OUT TO DIE

https://books2read.com/Strung-out-to-Die

Ranger Grace Watanabe discovers fellow Ranger Erik (Red) Petersen’s dead body tangled in the barbed wire at the Manzanar National Historic Site entrance. The local sheriff’s department quickly decides the death is related to a Mexican cartel who use the nearby highway to smuggle drugs.

Park Service Investigators Doug and Jill Fletcher look for a more obscure motive by focusing on other groups who might be unhappy with the Manzanar site. Finding no obvious suspects or motives, they step back and realize the victim was targeted for an entirely different reason.

The setting for Sunrise Interrupted by Eden Monroe

  

Sunrise Interrupted

In the romantic suspense novel, Sunrise Interrupted, the film set for the fictional movie Retribution, co-starring Alexandra Martel (the female lead), is located on Belleisle Bay, New Brunswick, Canada. That’s also where the story’s male lead, Dr. Beau Remington, has his veterinary clinic, at Hatfield Point, also on the Bay.

I chose this setting for the book because of its natural beauty, along with the fact that most of New Brunswick’s Queens County area holds many fond childhood memories for me. Belleisle Bay, a fjord like arm of the Saint John River, is about as pretty as they come.

Now about the river that created the bay. At 673 kilometres, the Saint John River is the largest river in Eastern Canada, and it’s not like it’s is all ours either. It began life in two separate streams, one in the State of Maine, USA, the other in the Canadian province of Quebec, and joined forces to form the eighty-mile international border between the US and Canada (at that point). It’s also the boundary line between the provinces of Quebec and New Brunswick, but the latter province is where it really comes to life.

The Saint John River was originally known as Wolastoq meaning “the beautiful and bountiful river”, aptly named by the Wolastoqiyik (Maliseet) First Nation – the original inhabitants of the Dawnland area, along with the Peskotomuhkati Native American/First Nation, prior to European colonization. It’s still a cultural centre of the Wabanaki Confederacy. “The Wabanaki people are a group of five First Nations that are geographically located in the Eastern North America.” (asdeast.nbed.ca) However, on June 24, 1604 French explorers Pierre Du Gua, sieur de Monts and Samuel de Champlain found themselves in the area and upon seeing the river, mistakenly assumed they had to give it a name. Since it was the feast day of Saint John the Baptist, they decided it would be fitting to call it Riviere Saint-John or Saint John River. A request was actually filed in 2021 by the Wolastoqiyik to have the traditional name of Wolastoq recognized.

Often called the Rhine of North America, the river is indeed a bountiful waterway in many respects. The Saint John River Valley is lush and fertile, its gently rolling hills home to countless farms and agricultural interests, as well offering some of the most beautiful scenery in the province. Those breathtaking landscapes are certainly befitting Canada’s “Picture Province.”

The river and the people who look to it for an abundant way of life, take time from their labours every year to enjoy seasonal celebrations. There are any number of popular festivals, including, but not limited to: River Jam Fredericton, National French Fry Day, Diner en Blanc (Dinner dressed in white), Rendez-vous des artistes, and the Larlee Creek Hullabaloo.

People on the river know how to have a good time.

But while the locals like to make merry on occasion, the river itself is for the most part pretty laidback, although it does kick up its heels from time to time. Just such an occasion is the surging cataracts at Grand Falls, the largest waterfall east of Niagara Falls with a drop of seventy-five feet. As the river thunders headlong through this deep sheer-faced gorge it provides a prime source of hydroelectric power, the mighty roar of white water properly harnessed for our benefit. (There are three hydropower dams on the river with Mactaquac being the largest hydroelectric generating station in the Maritimes.) And then, somewhat spent it seems from its uncharacteristic show of vigour, the Saint John River relaxes into tranquility once again as it continues eastward, widening as it meanders along.

It’s during this journey to the Atlantic Ocean that it gives us Belleisle Bay. Still with a trick or two up its sleeve, at this point it acts like a glacial valley lake cradled by the St. Croix Highlands of the Appalachian Range that serves as its backdrop. Recreational fishers love this little bay where a days angling could offer up a whole host of goodies -- everything from pumpkin seed sunfish to southern channel catfish, the latter being “a very rare catch in Canada.”

 

 

A small portion of Belleisle Bay at Hatfield Point

 

Stately riverboats once plied these sparkling waters, and the last of the old riverboat hotels is still in operation a little further along at the village of Evandale on Belleisle Bay, known today as the Evandale Resort & Marina.

Onward the Saint John River flows on its way to the sea where it finally empties itself in the world-famous Bay of Fundy – that is unless it encounters a coastal high tide. Then you can literally watch the powerful Atlantic Ocean push this 673 kilometre river backwards to create the phenomenon called the Reversing Falls as it reverses against the prevailing current. Then, until slack tide six hours later, salt water flows upriver an amazing thirty-six kiilometres, under a covering of fresh water to Oak Point. There, having reached the limit of saltwater infiltration, the show is basically over and the river is … well, just a river again. Back down toward the coast, when the tide recedes, the river goes about its original business of outward flow into the ocean. Mission accomplished.

That’s a nutshell look at the Saint John River, and when the movie producers were scouting for a suitable location for Retribution, they chose well. Who better to play such a genial host than this celebrated river.

 

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Journey to the Queen of the Fairies

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A long-time Canadian friend is a shamanic practitioner. She lives with her husband in a tiny house way up the valley of the Ottawa and therefore uses zoom to expand her reach to interested folks. She is learned in the Irish Celtic traditions. The mythology of Ancient Ireland is foreign to me, but she is deep into the stories and characters, which are, about as far away from the European schoolroom- familiar Classical tradition as you can be. 

The Irish origin story was long thought to be little but another product of the famed Irish imagination. That is, until recently. DNA studies have suggested that the traditional tale of an epic journey to a far off island by a tribe of cattle herders is a true one. 

These cattle loving, builders of stone monuments arrived during the Neolithic. Later, the Romans were unable to colonize Ireland--they had enough on their hands with the British, Scots and Welsh!  After the Romans, the earliest Christian monks were sufficiently open-minded to commit some of this ancient oral tradition to manuscript, which is why we have some of these stories today. 

These tell of gods, goddesses, heroes and queens plus a truly outstanding array of monsters and supernatural beings. They have come down to us in a way that the gods of the various ancient Britannic people have not. Much of the Irish story is certainly lost and much is probably garbled by the monkish recorders, but it is fascinating to me how long what is basically a tribal history can be remembered, if it is not intentionally erased by some colonizing power.  

 

My friend is an expert hand drummer. She also teaches yoga and conducts trance journey sessions, one of which I attended on the night of the Summer Solstice. This is a liminal time, like the other moments of transition from one season to another. 

Long ago, these seasonal changes were marked by observations of the "circling sky," --the rising of certain stars, the moon's path and that of the sun--were of crucial importance, first to hunter/gatherers who followed animal, fish, and bird migrations. When agriculturalists came on the scene, they used the same observations for planting and harvests.

It was wonderful to feel that I was about to be part of a timeless ceremony. Although this one happened to be conducted via the internet, it felt authentic. Needs must! And the only thing that has really changed is human technology, for the human emotional brain remains the same. I was simply grateful to be able to join in.

Effective drumming, (like chanting or ritual dance), puts the listener into a non-ordinary state of mind. You enter a space where imagination leads the way. Learning and expectations naturally play a part, for everyone present had their own unique image of "fairies" and how the Queen of this Wild Court might show herself that night. 

We shared afterward, although this was not required. (Nothing is "required" of participants except participation--focus on the drum, and be present.)  When the drum went quiet, we shared. Everyone, it seemed, had gone by a different path to a very different place. Some of us saw "our" Queen of the Fairies; others got lost on the path. 

When we closed our spritual doors and went our separate ways, I walked outside, to watch the sun's setting. This meant, however, that I was facing east. There to greet me, through a hole in the neighbor's prosaic, overgrown arborvitae hedge, was the full moon, magnified because she was still very low on the horizon. 

I live in a tourist town and there is always noise, lots of traffic, street racers, trucks, lawn mowing and general two stroke engine racket. On this night, there was only a miraculous silence, a kind of ambient hum behind. Only the birds were speaking, twittering, as they settled down in twilight. Bumblebees still dangled from milkweed in my garden. To the west, the sun showed a final full disc of molten gold. Under the old apple tree, four bunnies played, jumping over one another surrounded by clouds of fireflies, sparkling as they floated up on every side.

~~Juliet Waldron 

   

Bubble Baths and the Creative Process By Connie Vines #BWL Author Blog #Bubble Baths #The Craft Of Writing

I am not ashamed to admit that I prefer baths to showers.

Nor will I apologize for having a trove of scented bath oils, perfumes, soaps, and lotions. (Which could rival the numbers stored in Cleopatra's 'still undiscovered tomb.')

  Research will show that the psychology of bubble baths is related to the calming effect of warm water and effervescent bubbles. This soothing environment can help reduce stress, promote relaxation, and improve well-being and tranquility.

It also allows creativity to flow. 

Acting as a reality buffer, I can either silence the world's workings or give myself permission to indulge in 30 minutes of "What if..."

I'm not one to surround myself with candles, dim the lights, and sip chilled wine. Why? Because my heroines' quirky humor and life experiences originate with me.  

I'm all in for a bit of free press coverage. 

However...

"Local author's hair catches fire during a wine mishap and drowns bathtub." That isn't what I had in mind.

Music, scents, tactile sensors, colors, fabrics, foods, and even the weather can trigger memories of experiences that enrich the writer's ability to create a story. 

A story readers will love.

Please visit my BWL author page https://bookswelove.net

my Website https://connievines-author.com

Follow me on FB, Twitter, and Instagram.

My books are available online via the BWL webpage, blog, and website. And other online booksellers.

Happy Reading.

Connie Vines

 

How Martial Arts found their way into my novels – by Vijaya Schartz

Preview of my upcoming novel's cover (October 2024)
Find more of my books on my BWL page HERE

Once a Martial artist, always a Martial artist. My fascination with Martial arts started early. I remember being the smallest in my Judo and Karate Club as an early teen, in France, learning the ropes from big men three times my size and weight. It made for good fun when we did David and Goliath public demonstrations, as the teacher pitted me against the tallest, biggest, baddest, strongest man in the club. The spectators cheered when I threw him across the mat.

I practiced other sports over the years, Gymnastics, surfing, skating, etc. But Martial Arts always remained on my mind.

Later, in Hawaii, I discovered Aikido and immersed myself in that discipline. There, too, we did public demonstrations, to show that technique and agility always overcame brute strength. For a 5-foot, one-hundred-pounds girl like me, it was the perfect equalizer. Then I learned to wield the sword, the long pole, the knife, the night-stick, and other weapons.

After many years of daily practice, I became the teacher. With age, I realized I didn’t have to take hard falls on the mat, day after day to keep my skills sharp. I moved to a more peaceful form of Martial Art, Tai-Chi.

But all these disciplines have become part of me, like a second nature. And, of course, this is reflected in my novels. Whether they are Samurai, bounty hunters, rebels, spaceship captains, Valkyries, Amazons, avenging angels, soldiers, or law enforcers, I write strong heroines and brave heroes, fighting for justice, to save the galaxy, or to defend what they love.

If you like action adventure with a hint of romance, check out my science fiction novels. Here are some recommendations. Find them on:

amazon - B&N - Smashwords - Kobo

amazon - B&N - Smashwords - Kobo

amazon - B&N - Smashwords - Kobo

Happy Reading!

Vijaya Schartz, award-winning author

Strong Heroines, Brave Heroes, cats

http://www.vijayaschartz.com

amazon - B&N - Smashwords - Kobo - FB