THE FATAL CARROT (Almost)

The best laid plans gang aft awry, or whatever the exact quote is. I had a plan for this October, because I’ve had borderline too many commitments to handle, among them, a plot this year in our town's community garden. I was lucky to get a space in this gold-plated community effort, for once my town decides to do something,  it is all-the-way luxury class. We have an electronic gate, a sturdy fence, and the township supplies aged compost and sturdy raised boxes. We’ve had a chilly autumn, so this senior waited for the stillest and warmest day to finish up. I’d watched Weather World faithfully--predictions from the Wise Men at the Penn State Department of Meteorology. An upcoming Monday and Tuesday would be the last hurrah of Indian Summer, warm and still. Perfect, I thought, as this was the drop dead-week for clearing up.

In the meantime, I was eating vegetables, both my own and those of generous garden plot neighbors. On the day of near-doom, I’d enjoyed a delicious lunch of green peppers stuffed with beans, of Brussels sprouts and bright orange winter squash. I'd finished the meal with a fresh apple—a crisp, yet sugary Empire--fresh from the tree.  The coup de grace to this high fiber orgy was an mid-afternoon snack consisting of a big, crunchy, raw-from-the-garden carrot.

(Oh, and there is a backstory. Significant portions of my gut are gone after a long illness followed by two Trekkian "cut and sew like garments" surgeries.) 

By 5 p.m., I knew I was in trouble. By midnight, the pains were child-birth-big. It was time to head to the ER for the ritual of vein piercing and hydration. Afterward, I was a sad-sack hunk of flesh, still breathing only because of attentive nursing and good old Ringer’s Lactase solution.   Needless to say, I was in hospital during those two perfectly warm days during which I’d planned to make my final harvest, haul dirt, and "put the ground to bed."

Still standing were two four-foot foot plus stalks of Brussels sprout and a bed of kale and one of beets. Only the beets, after my release from the hospital, were still on the menu—at least for the next few months, they said. After that, caution was advised regarding how much fiber I attempt to put through my system.  My kind neighbor was happy to receive the sprouts. The dino leaves of Lacinto kale went into the freezer for some distant dish of Colcannon.

It was sobering to realize that ingesting a raw carrot could, in my case, become a flirtation with death. I'd confused a desire "to live normally,” with what was, in cold reality, possible. Simply "eating what I wanted" had wandered into the Kingdom of Denial. The episode was one of those humbling -- but inevitable -- reality checks that are part of aging.

~Day of the Dead Altar, Smithsonian Museum of the American Indian~

 Juliet Waldron

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B004HIX4GS       Amazon Author Page

http://www.julietwaldron.com                            Website

https://www.facebook.com/jwhistfic                 Facebook Author Page

Vacation, Coffee, and Me By Connie Vines

'A writer never has a vacation. For a writer, life consists of either writing or thinking about writing.'  

From the Urban Dictionary:   

Coffee snob

1- An individual who cares about what coffee or coffee mix drink they put in their mouth. A coffee snob is not okay with Starbucks, or Tim Hotrons, or Dunkin Doughnuts, or McDonald's (including McD's--my clarification)...etc.

2- A coffee snob would rather drink water than drink old coffee. An anal coffee snob will not drink the coffee if it needs milk and anything more than 1 tsp of sugar.

3- A coffee snob supports local roasters and refuses to drink Folgers, Maxwell House, or any other pre-ground non-fresh coffee--including instant.

"Hey, you want some coffee?" 

"What do you have?"

"Instant and Folgers."

"Umm... You got water?" 

"Oh. You must be a coffee snob, huh?"

"Yes, sorry."

While on most family vacations my ‘purest’ stance was a bit of a pain for my two children and husband (who doesn't care what the blend the coffee is as long as it’s throat burning hot).   However, when we vacationed in Louisiana (my husband’s home state), to his amazement, I never once voiced a complaint or dumped a full cup of coffee on the asphalt outside of a fast-food establishment (near the shrubbery—I am not without sensitivity) after being served a cup of coffee.

I savored.  I sipped. I was thrilled the morning I was awaken by the fragrance of hot, rich coffee. My husband and children walked over the Café de Monde at sunrise and brought coffee and beignets (still warm in the trademark paper bag) to our hotel room.

And at that moment, sipping coffee and munching on warm beignets, I became a New Orleans, French Quarter, coffee snob. Think: steaming mug, lazy strains of jazzy trumpets and the scent a gulf breeze, and powdered sugar.

Unless you have been to New Orleans and experienced café au lait, it’s difficult to understand why a cup of coffee could equal such bliss.  Unlike the coveted slice of French bread from San Francisco (yes, it really is unique when dining on the bay), or stone crab in Florida, or Montana huckleberries—these flavors can’t be packaged or frozen, or duplicated. The French Quarter coffee, however, can be purchased in supermarkets, or online. 

However, French Quarter coffee is cut with chicory. 

So what the heck is chicory?  Chicory, the knobby core at the base of an endive plant, roasted and ground (it has a sweet tobacco-smoke aroma) and mixed with coffee. When mixed with fresh ground coffee, the chicory adds that same dried-fruit sweet-sourness to the cup up front, and lightens the body with a "mellowing" effect.

Like countless writers before me I found New Orleans inspiring, magical, and seeped with history.  Jackson Square, a paddle boat ride up the Mississippi, St. Charles Street, surrey rides, walking the Quarter at night, dining, music and talking to residents of the city—it is wonderful to see how the city has re-emerging from the tragic consequences of Katrina.   And like many authors who have visited or lived within the city, a story that’s root inside your physic—a story which demands to be told.

And while I plot and polish my anthology that is set in New Orleans, I listen to jazz on Slacker radio and slip hot chicory coffee from my Café du Monde mug.

My home brew may not quite obtain the ‘perfection’ of a mug of coffee I sipped on vacation in New Orleans, I can console myself with a visit to the Blue Bayou Café at Disneyland when writer’s block nips at my heels.  There, seated at a waterfront table set with: white linen table cloth, china, goblets and ornate silverware, I watch the “Pirates of Caribbean” boat passengers as they float by.  I can hear croaking frogs and the soft strains of jazz trumpets from Jackson Square while twinkling fire-flies enhance my illusion of ‘bayou darkness’.  And for one magical moment, I am back in New Orleans.

Cafe du Monde

Steel Magnolias
Motion Picture
(not taken in New Orleans--this is near my husband's home town)

·        Author’s note: I do enjoy and indulge in Starbucks coffee.

Happy Reading,

Connie

Have we lived before? by Vijaya Schartz

A common belief in most of Asia is that of reincarnation. After we die, the eternal soul reincarnates into another body. Some believe in metempsychosis, reincarnating as animals, often as punishment for bad behavior in our last life, while others believe the evolving soul chooses an unborn child in the womb and bonds with it, to continue its journey toward enlightenment.

In Tibetan Buddhism, when the Dalai lama dies, the monks go in search of their next religious leader, by seeking the children born the closest to the time of the old one's death. As each child grows, he is tested on his memories and knowledge from his previous life, and if recognized as the authentic reincarnation of his predecessor, he is declared the new Dalai Lama.

This ancient idea of reincarnation permeates even the Judeo-Christian culture, as it was still a common belief through the Middle East in biblical times. The scriptures, despite thorough editing, still mention that Jesus told his disciples that John the Baptist was indeed the prophet Elijah, who had died centuries earlier. The doctrine of reincarnation was once recognized as part of the secret teachings of Jesus. In 553 AD, however, at the Second Council of Constantinople, the Roman Church declared this doctrine a heresy. Reincarnation is still a tenet of Orthodox Judaism.

While the body returns to ashes, Christianity still recognizes the soul as eternal, and life as eternal. In the bible edits, the term reincarnated was often replaced by resurrected, like at the end of times, when we shall all return to witness the final battle between good and evil, before the meek can inherit the Earth.

Fun facts:
A popular French Christian name is René, which means "reborn." Until the last century, many families named their newborns after their grandfathers, as it was still believed that most likely the grandfather would choose to reincarnate inside the family to continue his work of leading and protecting it.

Modern philosophers are revisiting the theory of reincarnation with new eyes. Many use regression under hypnosis to search for memories of previous lives and claim to have found irrefutable proof. Having studied in India, I find the topic fascinating. I especially like the notion of Karma and Samsara, knowing that justice will prevail in the end, and we are just at different stages in our personal evolution. Assuming that God is just, such a theory would explain all the inequality in this world.

As a novelist, I couldn't resist writing a story based on reincarnation. If you enjoy exotic settings and provocative ideas, try ASHES FOR THE ELEPHANT GOD. It's about two lovers, murdered in a previous life, who meet again in this life, in India, where their murderess awaits...

Vijaya Schartz
http://www.vijayaschartz.com
http://bookswelove.net/authors/vijaya-schartz/#

Tricia McGill asks: “Don’t you just love the internet?”

There are many downsides to the internet. One being phishers and hackers. I have just received a suspicious email with an attachment stating it is from PayPal. I know they never send emails such as this and certainly not with an invoice attached. Knowing this was suspect I sent it on to them and they are grateful as they like to know of these emails and are in the process of checking if it is malicious.

But, having said this I do love the internet, and one of the main reasons being the ease of researching. This morning I have fixed a faulty cistern in my toilet. How, you ask, did I know how to do this task that most would think is strictly one for a male. When you live alone you have to become adaptable, and the www has helped me over the years in so many ways. I Googled the name of my cistern and the fact that it was leaking and how should I go about fixing it, and lo there was this informative video with step by step instructions. It might have taken me a while longer than a man to fix, but I’ve done it and am proud of this small achievement.

When I began writing long ago I wrote everything in longhand until my husband bought me a typewriter. I taught myself to touch type and in no time had dumped that for a small word processor. Then I graduated to a computer—ah, the joy. In those early days all the research for my books was done at the local library. I’ve always loved research so this was no ordeal and many happy hours were spent there poring over the valuable books on various subjects.

Any writer will tell you that research is essential, whether it be for the day a conflict started in a certain country to what a Viking woman would be wearing on an average day. My initial most intense research was for my Remnants of Dreams. This story starts in 1914 and goes through the two world wars and beyond. There were such things to learn as when the first newspaper was printed, what were the methods of birth control used in the early 1900s or even later into the 50s, what did basic food items cost. Then both wars had to be researched thoroughly. I knew little about WW1 and just a fraction more about WW11. Luckily my eldest sister was a teenager at the start of the Second World War so her input was invaluable. She could put me straight about gas masks, black-out curtains and air-raid shelters in London, not to mention ration books and the thriving black market.

           

This snip from my Time-Travel The Laird proves I had to learn, amongst many other things, all there was to know about the wildlife in Scotland in 1050.

“Why would any man wish to trap or harm a creature as magnificent as the eagle? An’ just where have they gone? Why cannae ye bring them back?” His brows met in a deep frown.

Liz sighed. “I’m afraid it’s impossible. Many families of animals have gone forever from this earth. Do you see many wolves roaming these parts?”

“Aye, we have our share of them, sure.” He looked puzzled.

“Well, the last one will be killed about 1800, and then if you ride these moors you would never see another. Man has made a real mess of things in the future, I’m sad to say.”

“An’ what man is this?” he wondered, snarling with anger.

“When I say man, I mean mankind in general. Not just one person.”

“Aye, I see. In what way have they made a mess, as ye put it?” He was obviously appalled. Liz hid a smile. It was apparent in his interest he’d forgotten he didn’t believe they were from the future.

“Well, he’s polluted the air the ground and the sea. He has blatantly slain many animals, simply for their hide, or their horns, or their innards. Usually for monetary gain. Sometimes simply for the pleasure of the hunt and the kill.”

“This I understand, there is no greater thrill than outrunning yer prey.” Travis grinned.

“Ah, but why do you hunt, Travis?”

“To eat, and feed my kinsmen and family, why else?” He shrugged at what was clearly, to him, a stupid question.

“There you are, you see. You hunt and kill simply to eat, but in the future animals are hunted for a stack of reasons. Food being the last and least of them.”

In researching for my Settlers series I learned so much that I didn’t know about early Australia, and have to admit this was probably my favorite research of all. To think that in a mere 220 plus years we have come—as has America—so far, is incredible.

So, why is the internet such a boon? Now, instead of trotting off to the library when I come up with a fact I need to verify all I have to do is google it and within seconds I have the answer. Perhaps I sometimes yearn for those long ago days when I spent hours in the beautiful surroundings of the library amongst a wealth of knowledge, but think how much time the internet saves us, and how easy it is to access the world’s fantastic array of advice and knowledge. Then there is the added benefit of a video to show us how to go about doing certain things, such as fixing a leaking cistern in the toilet.

All Tricia McGill’s books can be found here: http://bookswelove.net/authors/tricia-mcgill/#

Read excerpts on her webpage: www.triciamcgill.com

To Plot or Not by Roseanne Dowell

That is the question.
Or is it?
I've been asked many times if I plot my books. The answer is a resounding NO! It doesn't work for me. I'm not saying it's wrong. Many writers and hat works for them. Just like everything else in writing, there's no hard and fast rule. Many authors can't write if they don't plot. 

At one of our local chapter meetings of RWA, the speaker talked about plotting  and even writing a synopsis before the book was written. That concept never entered my mind. How can you write a synopsis before the book is written? She suggested if we'd never done that to try it. I figured what the heck,  why not give it a try.

So I did.

I had an idea for a story taking shape in my mind. As usual, I knew the beginning and end. What happened in the middle? I didn't have a clue. Oh, I had a few ideas. I knew there was a secret about my heroine’s birth, and that she’d find a dead body But I had no idea who he was (yes, I knew

it was a male) or why he was killed. 
So I tried plotting. I came up with a few ideas about his identity and even about who murdered him and even why.

I started to outline , and I came up with a pretty good story line. Then, I started writing. For a while, it flowed pretty well. Once my heroine discovered the body, I was stuck. Something didn't feel right. I wasn't sure what it was, but  I couldn't move on. My heroine wouldn't let me. No matter how I tried to write the next conflict, the words wouldn't come.

I was totally blocked. The story sat for the better part of the year without me adding even one word. Every time I opened it, I read it, made a few changes like I always did when opening my story,  and then I came to the part where I was stumped.

I stared at the computer, sometimes for hours, trying to come up with something, anything –even if it was garbage – just to get me past that hump. Nothing worked. 

So I’d move on to something else. I revised several other stories that I’d written a long time ago, then I’d go back to it. The problem was –I was locked into the outline, I didn't know how to make the transition to the next thing. It didn't feel right, wouldn't flow.                                                                 

It wasn't until I was emailing my writing buddy about my dilemma. I needed help and any suggestions she could offer would be most welcome. I told her what I had so far, and where I wanted the story to go. For some reason, in that email, I started to ask what if, which is how I usually write. I threw out a couple of ideas to her and answered them myself. Finally, I was unblocked. I even created a new character and another conflict. I ignored the plot outline and went a completely different way.

That's how I write. I'm what they call a panster (I write by the seat of my pants) I don't plot, I don't outline. At least not on paper. (computer). I write as I go along asking what if, and coming up with new ideas. For me, plotting and outlining doesn't work. I’ll never do it again. I know you're not locked into your outline, but for me, I couldn't get past it. XY and Z had to happen. I was wrong, of course, but by plotting and outlining, my subconscious mind wouldn't let me get past it. At least not until I went back to asking what if in the middle of the story like I usually did.  I had trouble deviating from the outline.  It blocked my creativity. Yes, I should have ignored it long before, but it was too fresh in my mind. It took a year and then some to forget what was on that outline so I could move on.

I guess my whole point is – write the way it’s comfortable for you. For the authors who plot and outline - that works and good for them. 

There is no right or wrong way, there’s only your way. Develop your own style, your own voice, and your own rules. Some authors get up in the morning and sit down to write. Some write later in the day, and still others write in the middle of the night. Again, whatever works best for you. The important thing is to write.

 Check out my books at: 

My current novels are available from Amazon at: http://amzn.to/tnqgR2  

Visit me at my website www.roseannedowell.com or my blog http://roseannedowellauthor.blogspot.com/

The "nerve" of the English Domestic Servant, by Diane Scott Lewis

While we think of servants of the past being much abused (and many were) I found out different in my on-going research. In the eighteenth century, a time when domestic service was seen as easier than toiling in a shop or factory, a poor farmer’s sons and daughters would go happily into this type of work. Even a parson’s family did not look down on the occupation. However, the English domestics thought of themselves as a cut above.

The English servant was quite independent and rarely satisfied with low wages. Instead of being content in the early part of the century with £2 a year, they were demanding as much as £6 and £8. Writer Daniel Defoe wanted to see wages fixed at no more than £5, or soon this rabble would insist on as much as £20.

Lord Fermanagh, when writing to a friend about his butler, who had the audacity to ask for £10, said: "I would have a sightly fellow and one that has had the smallpox, and an honest man, for he is entrusted with store of plate, and can shave, but I will give no such wages as this."

The English servant stood up for himself, giving notice or running away if ill-treated. One servant, after being struck by his master, turned on the man and killed him with a pitchfork.

Foreigners were amazed—since they treated their servants like slaves—to see a nobleman like Lord Ferrers hanged in 1760 for the murder of his steward.

In the earlier part of the century there was a scarcity of women servants, but later, after years of bad harvests, starvation sent many girls into service.

One lady, upon advertising for another housemaid, had over 200 applicants.

If wages were low, servants in a large house could supplement their pay with vails (tips). One foreigner complained after dining with a friend at his home: "You’ll find all the servants drawn up in the passage like a file of musqueteers from the house steward, down to the lowest liveried servant, and each of them holds out his hand to you in as deliberate a manner as the servants in our inns on the like occasion."

One clergyman reported that when he dined with his Bishop, he spent more in vails than would have fed his family for a week.

At least the Duke of Ormonde, when inviting a poor relation to dine, always sent him a guinea ahead of time for the vails.

A movement, rumored to have started in Scotland, was put forth to abolish vails, but nothing came of it.

If servants believed themselves independent, striving for respect, their employers often demanded too much from them for little pay. Mrs. Purefoy advertised for a coachman, who can not only drive four horses, but must understand husbandry business and cattle, plus he’d also be expected to plough. She also required a footman who could "work in the garden, lay the cloth, wait at table, go to the cart with Thomas, and do any other business that he is ordered to do and not too large sized a man, that he may not be too great a load for the horse when he rides."

Servants were derided by their "betters" as being lazy and selfish, especially when they’d leave their positions for higher wages and vails.

Of course, many servants during the eighteenth century—especially in the larger towns and cities—were mistreated and far underpaid, if paid at all.

Still, some servants were honored and treated as members of the family, as shown by this epitaph on a coachman’s headstone: Coachman the foe to drink and heart sincere; Of manners gentle and of judgment clear; Safe through the chequered track of life he drove; And gained the treasure of his master’s love...


To learn more about my eighteenth-century novels, please visit my website:

http://www.dianescottlewis.org


Source: English Country Life in the Eighteenth Century, by Rosamond Bayne-Powell, 1937

The Book That Started It All by Victoria Chatham

I class a favorite book as one I will read and then re-read again and again. The book I have re-read the most is Georgette Heyer's Frederica and I still find it as fresh and as funny as the first time I read it.

Georgette Heyer, 1902 - 1974

Frederica Merriville has one burning desire and that is to see her beautiful younger sister, Charis, introduced to the London ton in order to achieve a suitable marriage. To this end she engages the assistance of a distant cousin, the Marquis of Alverstoke - rich, bored and cynical. Alverstoke gradually succumbs to Frederica's charms, charms of which she is totally unaware as her family has her total focus. Along with her sister, Frederica also oversees the antics of brothers Harry (sent down from Oxford University), Jessamy (determined to be a priest and constantly berating himself as he falls between boyish pranks and high virtue) and Felix (who has a passion for science).

Alverstoke has already been approached by one of his sisters to have a coming out ball for his niece, Jane, at Alverstoke House. On a whim, he agrees to this providing his sister, Louisa, introduces Charis into society. Louisa has no option but to agree but is nearly undone when she discovers that Charis's shining beauty puts her own daughter in the shade. Tender-hearted Charis gets into one love interest after another culminating in her elopement. Jessamy's love of horses interests the Marquis, and Felix's scientific endeavors intrigue him. Harry, being older but not necessarily wiser engages the Marquis in an entirely different way. 

This is one of the best of Heyer's Regency romances. Heyer exquisitely captures the rough and tumble of family life with the social mores of the era, and wraps it into an engaging story with a strong thread of real comedy. The dialogue sparkles as Alverstoke is a perfect foil for Frederica's wit. One family adventure after another captivates Alverstoke's lively mind and, when he finally wins Miss Frederica Merrivllle's hand, it is on the understanding that he accept Jessamy and Felix too.

Heyer wrote her first book The Black Moth in serial form for her brother Boris, a young man in ill health who frequently became bored. Her father, George Heyer, enjoyed the story so much he became instrumental in getting it published and it was released in 1921.  

For many years Heyer took responsibility for supporting her family, publishing two novels a year, one a Regency romance and the other a thriller. Her Regency books sold well, her thrillers less so and were once criticized for having unoriginal 'methods, motives and characters'.

That her Regencies were influenced by the work of Jane Austen there is no doubt.  Austen rarely refers to details such as dress and manners because her writing was contemporary. Heyer, in comparison, included rich detail about fabrics, styles, and décor for her readers to understand the times and settings in which she placed her characters.

Heyer wrote until her death in July, 1974 and at that time had 48 titles in print. She lived out of the public eye, stating that “My private life concerns no one but myself and my family.”

I have read all of her romances and most of the thrillers, but it is Frederica that draws me back every time. This book alone gripped me from start to finish and made me want to create enigmatic characters, sweeping settings and thoroughly satisfying happy-ever-afters. I’m still working at it.

For more information about Victoria Chatham and her books, visit:

www.bookswelove.com/chatham.php
www.victoriachatham.webs.com
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