A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words by Victoria Chatham

 

AVAILABLE HERE

I was looking in my files for a particular photograph today and was shocked to see how many I have on my computer.

Time was, with a Canon point-and-shoot, I had to make every shot count because of the expense of having the film developed. Taking a dozen shots of the same object or view on my phone makes ensuring I get one good one easy. I also have a large plastic tub of photographs. Every winter, I intend to go through them to sort them out to create a history for my family, especially as, at some point, if I haven’t curated them, no one else likely will. In that eventuality, someone will have to dispose of them.

We started a new photograph album for a specific year or family holiday in the good old days. We missed some years because we didn’t have a camera and only splurged on the Kodak instant cameras for special occasions. Photography in my family was a bit hit-and-miss until my dad took it up as a hobby. He started with a Canon but soon added an Agfa because he became fascinated with slide photography and thought it was the better camera for that format.

On one visit to my family, my children and I decided to go out for the day on a Bank Holiday, but typically, it poured with rain. It was the perfect time to sort through my parents’ boxes and boxes of photographs and slides. We decided that if we didn’t know who was in a photograph or where it was taken, then it was discarded. With the help of a couple of bottles of wine and lots of memories and laughter, we reduced the total by two-thirds, but we came across some absolute gems.

I take a lot of photographs as part of my research for books. It doesn’t matter if it’s my historical or contemporary books. A legend board here, a costume there, a vista that I don’t want to forget. It is far easier to take a photograph and refer to it later than to write notes on the information and my impressions.

Legend board in the Lagg Distillery, Arran

Rogers Pass, Canada

Museums often permit visitors to take photographs without the use of flash photography. I recently visited the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, England and took many pictures in the Jewellery and Ceramics rooms. These were purely for my enjoyment, but I have shared some of them, too. One of the most fun museums I visited was the Costume Museum in Bath, where my daughter and I tried on a variety of hats.

Thankfully, my daughter likes to keep the old sepia family photographs, so there will be a home for those. But for the rest of them, well – they keep some memories alive for now.

How do you keep your family memories alive?

Victoria Chatham

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 NB: photographs from the author's collection

Writing outside of my comfort zone

 BWL Publishing approached me about completing a Canadian Historical Mystery, envisioned by John Wisdomkeeper, I balked. Being deeply entrenched in my current three series, I was reluctant to leave my comfort zone to take on something completely new and, well, foreign. I was unfamiliar with the Nunavut setting, and I knew almost nothing about Inuit culture or history.

Being reassured that the story would be mine, only restricted by the setting, timeframe, and two characters, all previously chosen by John, I considered the project. Little did I suspect I would start what would be a journey. 

I dug into researching the topic of Nunavut and Inuit culture. While somewhat familiar with Anishinaabe (Chippewa), Lakota (Sioux), and Navajo cultures, I found Inuit culture totally foreign to me. I told a friend it felt like I was writing in a foreign language about a place far beyond my travel experience. 

The deeper I dug, I realized that the Inuit had been nomadic, hunting caribou and seal, and fishing when possible. Even today, their life is challenging, living in far northern Canada near the Arctic Circle with a culture and lifestyle far different from southern Canada or the U.S. Issues I wove into the story.

While Inuit life is often austere, the time chosen by John, 1999, was a period of hopefulness. Nunavut had just been created from Northwest Territories. At that time, the Inuit had a new homeland, governed by themselves, and with leaders prepared to deal with uniquely Inuit issues.

Armed with that background, I forged ahead, writing a mystery around a young Inuit college student returning to Iqaluit (formerly Frobisher Bay, a city established as a U.S. air base during WW2), the Nunavut capital city, at the request of the grandfather who'd raised him since childhood. Christopher Pokaik led me through an adventure of discovery, both of his life, and of the place where a young man of mixed blood tries to determine where he will be happy. One reviewer told me he found it an interesting, insightful, and engaging "coming of age" story. While learning about Inuit culture, the reviewer was drawn into the story of Christopher trying to find himself and his future, while coming to grips with the murder of his grandfather.

It was a journey of discovery for me as well. It took a few weeks of writing before Christopher began speaking to me. I think that's an Inuit trait, warming slowly to strangers. Once we were speaking, he told me his story. He felt frustration, ambition, uncertainty, and emptiness. I felt them all with him as together we traveled across Baffin Island and time.

I hope you enjoy Christopher's story as much as the reviewers have.

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

A tender moment between illicit lovers, Outcast Artist in Bretagne, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase, please click HERE

I hope you enjoy this intimate moment between my characters, after last month's turmoil when August caught Norah with forging material. This scene takes place prior to that. An unlikely romance during WWII.

August kissed Norah’s naked shoulder, her skin warm after their lovemaking. Her lithe body felt natural against his in their mutual musky scent. Crickets chirped through the open window where a slight breeze filtered around blackout curtains, into the dark room of the gardener’s cottage. The moonlight outlined them both. “I love you, mon amour.”

“I love you…so much. And this is nicer on a mattress,” she murmured, her back to him as they snuggled under the sheets on the iron bed.

“You seemed a little agitated earlier; is something wrong?”

She turned and touched his face. “I’m fine now. Can I ask where you got that huge scar on your right side?”

“I was shot seven years ago, trying to warn friends.” He really didn’t want to go into the details, the pain, at this moment. But he was naked, like she was, to be explored in all his flaws. He shoved away those ugly memories, brushed his lips over hers, then traced his fingers down her silky, soft back. “I’ll tell you more later. In the morning, we’ll plan our picnic, and you can meet my stallion, Maler. He might like his picture drawn, then painted.”

“Another handsome portrait. I’d be happy to.” She reached up and ruffled his hair. “Even in the shadows, I like your hair mussed up.”

He smiled. “No military strictness?” Wouldn’t it be ‘freeing’ to not have to wear that uniform each day, which wrapped him in the menace of the Wehrmacht?

She nestled her head on his chest. “My cousin’s husband might ask me to leave their home.”

“Why? What has happened?” His mind immediately went to the rumor of a forger, an inquiry he’d yet to begin.

“He thinks…I’ve been there too long already.” She sounded evasive. Or he read too much into it.

“Is it as straightforward as that?” Here was the source of her anxiety. A shame to have to discuss these things after they’d shared such sweet passion tonight. He did need to find out what she knew. “Is it because you are with me?”

She sighed and ran her fingers down his abdomen. “That’s part of it. I was wondering, though you might object, if I could move in here.”

August closed his eyes, enjoying her touch, but now these other problems pushed in. “You’d be alone, though I could come most nights; unless I leave for inspections. Let me think about it.” He could throttle the damn butcher. He wanted to recapture that languid, satisfied feeling he’d just had. 

“You could provide me with a pistol, for protection,” she whispered.

He grasped her wandering hand. “That is dangerous, too.” Non-Germans weren’t allowed weapons, for obvious reasons. “I would worry about you out here.” But where else could she go? Anywhere close by, without her family, she’d be open to worse scrutiny and hazard.

She kissed his chest, her mouth warm on his skin. “I know how to fire a gun.”

“I’m not surprised.” He pulled her against him and kissed her firmly on the lips. “We should sleep, then talk about this soon. I’ll think of a solution.” Another, more personal question niggled at him. He hated to continue to dishonor her when he felt this intensely about her. He let the question slip out. “Norah, would you marry me? Though as a German officer I might be a threat to you and your people for a short time more."

She breathed in slowly. A few minutes of quiet. “As difficult…yes, I would. We’ll go to Switzerland, you said. You can retire next year?”

“That is my intention.” As soon as he could take his son with them—after graduation—away from the Nazis, and count on his daughters being protected by their husbands.

He kissed the top of her head as he hugged her, holding on to his dream, making it real. He needed her love, though other troubles such as the direction of the war, and the business with the U-boat, kept him from any true peace. But negotiating life was always a challenge. She couldn’t be involved in the clandestine activities in the village—he must believe that. Yet Schmidt was certain to cause problems.

August closed his eyes, trying to drag himself into oblivion. He knew his family wouldn’t be thrilled when he married an Englishwoman. One thirteen years younger, and his mistress. But his love blurred all these battles.

He rested his cheek on her lush, fragrant hair as she snuggled against him. Her name was whispered in the allegations. The picnic—he swallowed a groan; he must question her then.

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund. 

Let's be positive for a change...by Sheila Claydon

Find my books here

I always try to find a link to one of my books when I blog, but this time it is a very weak one! In Remembering Rose (Book 1 of Mapleby Memories) Rachel's one hospital visit to see her grandmother is a very small part of the story. Hospital visits this month, however, are a much bigger part of my and my husband's story. There is also a slight resemblance in that, like hers, they were far from dispiriting.  Most importantly, however, I am writing this piece as a counterpoint to the almost daily negative Press coverage of the UK's National Health Service (NHS). 

My husband, aged 82, has been an avid and very good tennis player for 70+ years.The downside of this  was that he needed a new hip. He wasn't desperate because, with a painkiller, he could still play, and as all his team mates are over 70 these days it was never going to be so physically challenging that he could no longer cope.  He did, however, make a doctor's appointment on the advice of his physiotherapist, who told him the sooner the better while he still had the necessary musculature to help him with his recovery. 

Within a month of that first doctor's appointment he had had the operation and was home. He was operated on only12 days after seeing the surgeon. No 2 year wait, no 7.5 million waiting list, no traumatic tales of delays and less than optimum care. Everything ran like clockwork. The aids and adaptations necessary for his recovery were delivered at the promised time, the nurses, doctors and ward orderlies were all cheerful, caring and dedicated. Nothing was too much trouble and when he attended the occupational therapy clinic to prepare him, he was introduced to other patients waiting for the same operation.  

He was actually playing tennis when I received the call saying he was booked in for 3 days hence so had to attend a pre-operative check later that afternoon. 

We had to be at the hospital at 7.30 on a Sunday morning (yes, some of our medics do work weekends despite what the media says) and by the time I visited that evening he was in bed recovering, and although hooked up to various machines, had eaten a good meal and was very cheerful. The next day he was up and dressed and doing the mandatory physio and the day after that he was home! District nurses turned up when they said they would to tend the wound and remove the sutures, the GP pharmacy sorted out his meds and made arrangements for a post operative check, and now, only 3 weeks later, he's walking unaided up to a mile at a time and no longer needs any special care.

Much of his recovery is down to his general good health and strong muscles of course, so not everyone will be so lucky, but many will be. One of the two lovely surgeons who operated told him that hip replacement is one of her favourite jobs as it gives people their life back, and she is right. And what is even more important is that all of this excellent care was free, including all the the aids and medication. We were prepared to pay privately if, as the daily news seemed to convey, he was going to have to wait years, but when he suggested this to his doctor, he dismissed it, saying let's test the NHS first as I don't think that will be necessary.

There are similar tales. One friend has just had a stent inserted following a mild heart attack. Another is waiting for a new heart valve and has been told she will probably have it done by the end of the month. Another has been given a 3-year open appointment with his surgeon in case the 'wait and watch' treatment he is receiving breaks down and he needs more urgent care. And these are in different hospitals in different parts of the country, so it's not just special where we live. And to top it all, we have just been booked into a local pharmacy for our booster Covid and Flu vaccines. All free. All without any angst or waiting. 

We feel very blessed and we also wish that just once in a while the British Press would report some of these positives instead of making the UK, and especially the NHS, look as if it is going to hell in a handcart. It isn't! 

On a lighter note, here is the short extract of Rachel's hospital visit in Remembering Rose, where her nonagenarian grandma is playing her part as a link between Rachel and Rose, Rachel's long dead great-great-grandmother, who has breeched the boundaries of time itself to stop her great-great-granddaughter making the biggest mistake of her life.

    Grandma was as pale as the pillow behind her head and Ma didn't look much better. They smiled when Daniel and I walked up to the bed though. Ma with relief and Grandma with satisfaction.

    "Rose said you'd both come," she told me, and then closed her eyes.

    I shrugged when Ma raised her eyebrows, and for once I wasn't lying. I had no idea what Rose had told Grandma. I didn't find out for ages either because she wasn't talking. Ma looked at her inert figure in consternation.

    "She seems to have worn herself out calling for you."

    I took hold of one of Grandma's hands. It was warm and I felt a faint pressure as her fingers curled in mine. She wasn't asleep, she was just binding her time. I settled down to wait.

    Ma stayed in the chair opposite and Daniel set off in search of coffee. When he returned with three cardboard cups of questionable liquid he suggested Ma take a break once she had finished hers. "I passed the hospital canteen on my way back to the ward and the lunch smells good," he said.

    I saw my chance. "Why don't you both go? You haven't had a thing since early this morning Daniel, and Ma would probably appreciate the company. I'll be fine here with Grandma until you get back."

    They both looked doubtful, Daniel because he had seen how panicked I was earlier, and Ma because she was worried. "I wish we had never shown her a single photo, let alone tried to persuade her to remember the past. She's done nothing but talk about Granny Rose ever since she saw that picture of her. On her worst days she even confuses her with you, Rachel, so who knows what she'll say when she wakes up and sees you next to the bed."

    I aimed for a suitably understanding expression as I nodded my agreement because I knew that if I didn't Ma wouldn't leave me on my own with Grandma."It's only because I look a bit like Rose," I said, as I wondered how long it would be before Ma and Daniel totally trusted my sanity again. Then I remembered all the times I had seen Rose and spoken to her and I didn't blame them because I wasn't entirely sure how sane I was myself anymore.

    "I suppose so," Ma looked doubtful. She didn't demur when Daniel asked her a second time though. Draining her coffee cup, she stood up and stretched. Then she picked up the large tote bag she carries with her everywhere and followed him out of the ward. Left to my own devices but aware that we didn't have that much time, I squeezed Grandma's hand.

    "You can open your eyes now because they've gone."

    She peered at me through two slits. I laughed. "Did Rose put you up to this?"

    "Rose wanted Daniel, too."

    "You mean she wanted me to realise how much I need Daniel and this was the only way she could arrange it. I suppose she was the one who made me forget to switch on my cell phone this morning too." I was getting better at reading Rose's mind by the minute. I was also beginning to have an inkling about what she was up to.

    Grandma nodded. "She made me promise."

    I frowned. "Well, from now on you can tell her to leave you out of it. If she wants to talk to me she knows where I live."

    But Grandma was too intent on relaying the rest of her message to listen. "Daniel is a good man."

    "I know he is, and so was Arthur. Tell Rose I know she loved Arthur. Tell her I understand."

* * *

    

Time for Redemption by Helen Henderson

 

Fire and Amulet by Helen Henderson
Click the title for purchase information

Reaching the landmark 70,000 words on a work-in-progress is always exciting...and terrifying. It means there are only a few more scenes (or more likely a few more chapters) to write. Then comes the really hard part, developing the cover concept, writing the blurb, and scheduling the book launch events. I don't have to work on the last part until after the new year., but the covers and blurb need to be done sooner than later so that I have some ideas ready to work on when the story is under the tender care of my proofreader.

The components for the cover for the first book in the series were relatively easy. Find a suitable image of a dragon of the correct color and a jewel worthy of being called a dragon tearstone.  

In his true form, Trelleir is rust-colored. When you peer into his dark red eyes, the irises can appear to have flames in them. He wears his dark hair with red highlights, short. Trelleir is slender and tall for a human. But still manages to present the image of a bookworm, someone who is not a threat. He is so striking he is pictured on the cover of Fire and Amulet.

But what about Fire and Redemption? Although Trelleir appears in the sequel, his role is more secondary. So, having him on the cover would not really work. And it might make the two covers too similar and confusing to the reader.

After I type "The End," I need to do more hunting through a graphics database to find images suitable for the fantasy.  Among the items I'll be looking for are an iridescent blue-green dragon and a gypsy wagon.

Note, no dragons were harmed in the
taking of this image. And yes, it is a dragon.
Just not a winged one.

Oh, another possibility for the cover design, but more difficult to find that is free of copyright restrictions is the setting I'm currently living in with Brial and Karst, and Deneas and Trelleir -- the tombs and temples carved out of rock at the world archaeological site, Petra.

To purchase the Fire and Amulet: BWL

 ~Until next month, stay safe and read.   Helen

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