When is the right time? Tricia McGill

Buy HERE

It’s always best to know when it is time to leave, or when it is the right time to let go of the past. Some people can never make the right decision and there is nothing more pathetic than hanging on to a love that has obviously shriveled and gone, or a treasured possession that simply has been around too long.

Let me explain why I have been contemplating this subject. The other day I sold two gold rings. Not such a great decision you might think. To start at the beginning, I had to meet someone in another suburb where I knew they had one of these stores where you can either borrow money or sell objects—such as gold and anything else of value, so I thought it a good opportunity to take these rings and some other articles to see what I could get for them. Let me explain this store. It is basically what would, in the old days, have been a pawn shop. You know, where they had three balls hanging outside and an old miser inside behind the counter rubbing his hands together at the money he was about to make out of some poor soul who had hit hard times.

Times haven’t changed so much. Believe me, I was astounded and heartsick when I saw the people in there who were trying to get as much as they could (probably to pay debts). One young fellow had two electric guitars and was being told they weren’t worth much. Not sure how much he eventually received. A woman was selling (or pawning) a necklace and a brooch, and looked shocked at the amount she could get for them. But what was worse was the list on the wall explaining what the repayments would be on a paltry loan. One other young man had a pile of payment receipts in his hand and paid a balance so that he could collect his guitar. It was apparently the day for guitarists to retrieve, or sell their treasured instruments.

I digress, as usual. Back to my two rings. One was the signet ring I gave my husband on his 21^st birthday many moons ago, and the other my wedding ring. Now, you might think it callous of me to even consider selling off these treasures. But it wasn’t by any means. My husband was an inveterate bargainer and liked nothing better than haggling over a price of something. Just ask anyone who knew him what it was like to buy a new car or even a washing machine! He would drag me all over the city to get the right price, and I know he would be pleased for me that I got a good price for a ring he barely wore. He wasn’t a jewellery type of person. And the other ring-mine, wasn’t the cheap little one he placed on my finger in that freezing cold church well over 50 years ago. No, this one was my second ring that he brought back from England as a gift after one of his numerous trips home. It was time to part with both.

I’ve been blessed, as I have never had the awful decision to make of letting a lover go when the love had fizzled out. But I made the decision to let my husband go when the time was right. He passed away in November and it wasn’t until the following March that I knew it was time. I woke up that morning and knew exactly where he was going, so rang my sister to tell her I was going to scatter my husband’s ashes. She and a friend came along with me and I took him to a beautiful spot near where he loved playing golf. I chose this place as it reminded us of Cornwall where we both loved to spend holidays. As I scattered his ashes from a clifftop I told him he could stay around or go home to his beloved England. Soon after that he came to me in a dream. The strange part was, he was wearing a bow tie and dinner suit. Now, he was more comfortable in a track suit and I was lucky to get him to wear a tie once a year, if that. He had obviously dressed up for the occasion to let me know he was going and this was goodbye. I am sure he took my advice and went home to London where he came from. He knew it was time to go and I knew it was time to let him go.

As writers we often like to cling on to our characters. It’s a good thing to know when the time is right to let them go their separate ways. Ask any writer and they will probably tell you they had one favorite they just hated saying goodbye to. For me, when I finished Mystic Mountains I just knew I had to continue on to let readers know how the future mapped out for Tiger and Bella. The intention was to continue on with their eldest son’s story, but Remy intervened and decided he had a better story to tell. Same for Travis, I simply couldn’t let his story end after The Laird, so Travis got his chance to tell how his life went. But then I had to let them go too.

I’ve always believed that life is made up of a series of pathways. We come to a crossroads or fork in the road where we have to make the decision which direction to head off in. I thank the Lord that I have been fortunate enough to choose which path to take (or Fate has helped me) and it has always been the right time for me.

Find all my Books We Love titles here

A Trip (literally) back in time-a Cornish Village in Wisconsin, by Diane Scott Lewis

Years ago someone, after I told him my novels were set in Cornwall, England, suggested I visit this village called Pendarvis in Wisconsin, so off we went in the spring of 2015.
Pendarvis was built by the hundreds of Cornish immigrants who poured into southern Wisconsin in the 1830’s to work in the lead mines. They were homesick, so designed small timber and limestone cottages that reminded them of what they’d left behind. There’s even a Kiddleywink (a common word used for the working class and poorer people’s drinking houses) Pub.

Author in front of Pendarvis

But the mining faded away as the mines were exhausted. People went west for the California Gold Rush.

A hundred years later, most of these cottages had vanished. Two men, Neal and Hellum, teamed up to preserve the ones that remained. In 1935 they started reconstructing the buildings, and, in the Cornish tradition, named each cottage: Pendarvis, Polperro, Trelawny.

My husband, George, and I had been to Cornwall, England and toured local cottages. We even stayed in one built as a barn in the 1600’s, then converted to a home in 1750.

We walked through the refurbished Wisconsin version of Cornwall, quite impressed. Furniture from that 19th century time period filled the majority of the dwellings. I fell in love with one cottage and had to be dragged out.

Then the visit turned into a Comedy of Errors. My husband, who is tall by 19th century standards, walked into a low door lintel, knocked himself backwards and scraped his arm on a table. Due to a heart irregularity, George is on blood thinners. By the time we got outside, on our way to the next cottage, blood was dripping down his arm.

He told me to wait and he’d rush to the car for a bandage. Being stubborn, I started up the stone steps toward the next dwelling. In the shade, unbeknownst to me, the step was covered in slippery moss. Not the most graceful of people, I of course, slipped and tumbled into the low shrubs next to the walkway. The shrubs broke my fall nicely. But George had hurried back to pull me out, blood still dripping down his arm. As he danced around, trying not to smear me with blood, and I struggled to rise, we made an amusing sight. Thank goodness we were the only ones there.

If you’d like to learn more about old Cornwall, visit my website, or check out my novel, The Apothecary’s Widow, set in Truro, England in the 18th century. The Historical Novel Society called it “entertaining.”


Click HERE to order.

Source: http://pendarvis.wisconsinhistory.org/About/History.aspx

Diane Scott Lewis writes historical fiction with romantic elements.
Visit her website:
http://www.dianescottlewis.org

Remember the Recipe by Victoria Chatham

BUY NOW

I had it all. Characters. Setting. Plot.

I worked on it all summer, jotting down names, incidents, and snatches of dialogue. I volunteered time with a Riding For the Disabled Group, learning what made a good RDA horse or pony, how it was trained, how riding benefited both mentally and physically challenged children and adults. I shared in the simple pleasures the riders derived from their lessons, and learnt a whole new language from the young man with Touretts Syndrome. Thrilled with successfully negotiating his first jump he let rip with such a stream of invective that even his horse laid its ears flat to its head as if to shut it out.

At the time the details of this book were circulating in my mind, I was working in a bookstore where I was a Jill of all trades. Occasionally I worked in the store but mostly I invoiced books to go to any one of my two hundred (or thereabout) school accounts. The best part though was unpacking new stock. And, in that new stock that fall, was my story. I held the book in my hands and looked at the cover in disbelief. The illustration was one I could have drawn myself. The characters and plot could have been pulled out of my mind. I flicked through it, barely cognizant of my boss asking me what was wrong.

“This is my story,” I wailed, tossing the book onto the unpacking counter. I continued to rant and rave, mostly that I was going to give up writing because what was the point if another author beat me to the punch line, so to speak. My boss wisely said nothing until I’d finished venting. Then he smiled and simply said, “Remember the recipe”.

Recipe? What recipe? What was he talking about? And then it hit me. My own personal ‘Aha’ moment. I had a Victoria sponge cake recipe that never failed. My friend made the best dinner rolls. We swapped recipes but she could never get her cake to rise like mine while my dinner rolls were a disaster. Same recipe, same ingredients, but in another person's hands the recipe had totally different results.

My boss’s analogy was an apt one and was something I shared when I taught Introductory Creative Writing. One of the first questions my students asked of me was how could they make their writing different. In the first class we brainstormed a character, the popular vote decided whether it was male or female; they chose hair and eye color, physical attributes, the character’s strengths and weaknesses, what was their deepest, darkest secret? What did they fear the most and why? What was the character’s family background? What was their biggest ambition? By the end of the first class, we had the character with which they worked for the ensuing weeks. At the end of the course it was always a thrill for me to listen to my students read their first stories, all starting out with the same character, but each and every story being so very, very different.

When I read books today that might sound a little like mine, I look deeper into my own writing to see what I can change to really make it my own. As my boss so wisely said all those years ago, ‘Remember the recipe’.  

Victoria Chatham

 http://bookswelove.net/authors/chatham-victoria/

www.victoriachatham.webs.com

www.facebook.com/AuthorVictoriaChatham