I am very lucky to be part of a tight-knit group of cardmakers on Facebook. When one of us finds a new-to-us idea, we share links, then challenge each other to attempt the card technique in question.
Recently someone found these fabulous cards, and a video on how to make them. I am talking about Diorama cards.
They are a little fiddly, and they do use slightly more cardstock than a regular card, but they are worth the extra effort for someone special.
This card was my first attempt. I had to watch the video a second time as I was having some difficulties, but it turned out okay in the end.
From the outside, it looks like a regular card, but when you open it, it's a whole different story:
There is so much scope for these cards, and you really could get carried away if you let yourself.
If you would like to see the video instructions, or would like to view a masculine version of this card, go here.
Thanks for looking!
Til next time,
Links:
My website: www.cheryl-wright.com
Blog: www.cheryl-wright.com/blog
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/cherylwrightauthor
BWL website: http://bookswelove.net/authors/wright-cheryl/
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Diorama Card by Cheryl Wright
Multi-published author, Cheryl Wright, former secretary, debt collector, account manager, writing instructor, and shopping tour hostess, loves reading. She writes romantic suspense, contemporary romance, and the occasional comedy.
She lives in Melbourne, Australia, and is married with two adult children and has six grandchildren. When she’s not writing, she can be found in her craft room making greeting cards.
Monday, March 9, 2015
Stephen King: My Favorite Teacher by Joan Hall Hovey
The year was 1984, a lovely summer’s day and I was sitting
in the packed, buzzed audience waiting for Stephen King to appear. To say I was excited is an understatement.
Uncool? Totally. I’d bought my hardcover copy of his book Different Seasons for him to sign. I wouldn’t be denied. I had all his books in
hardcover – Carrie, Cycle of the
Werewolf, Danse Macabre, Salem’s Lot - there would be
many more to come. He was my hero in a time when I was already much too
old to be star-struck. I’ve read that it
is mainly teenagers who are addicted to Stephen King’s work, and I was hardly
that. Though probably immature. I’m at a much more more advanced age now and
that hasn’t changed, and I hope it never does.
Stephen King was the Elvis
Presley of the literary world.
I hadn’t had a novel published yet; that was still a dream,
floating somewhere above the horizon. But I’d written and published some
articles and short stories, enough to make me eligible for a travel grant through
the NB Arts Council to London, England to the writers workshop at Polytechnic
Institution on Marylebone Road, aptly across the street from Madam Tussauds wax
museum. Stephen King would be a
panelist, along with authors P.D. James, Robert Parker and some others. I was eager to hear all the celebrated authors,
but I’d flown all this way from New Brunswick, Canada to see and hear Mr. King.
He came into the large room through the back door and I
swear I knew the instant he did.
You
couldn’t miss the rising buzz of the audience, of course, the shifting of
bodies as people turned to look, but I also felt the change of energy in the
air. On stage, Stephen King joked about his ‘big writing engine’ and I had heard
(within my third eye – yes, it can hear) its power, its purr. Or maybe there’s more to it.
As he talked to us about writing, he spoke about seeing
with that third eye. The eye of the imagination. He told us to imagine a chair. Then he said it was a blue chair. I saw it clearer now. He added the detail of a paint blister on the
leg of the chair. Now I saw it close up,
with my zoom lens. We hung on his every
word. He was funny and brilliant and
entertaining, and we learned. Everything he said was not necessarily something
brand new, but were reminders to pay close attention to details. To always tell the truth in our writing. I even got to ask a couple of questions. And his answers to all our questions were
thoughtful and insightful. I try to pass along a few of those lessons to
my own students.
Stephen King has been teaching creative writing to aspiring
and even established writers for decades, long before his wonderful book On Writing came out. Such a gift to writers that is, regardless of
the genre you write in. I am
gushing. I don’t mind. It’s true. I have been fortunate to have had many highlights in my
life – an anniversary trip to Niagara
Falls with my wonderful husband, the births of my children and grandchildren,
great-grandchildren – a trip to the Bahamas with my eldest son – my own first
novel published and several more after that - and I have to say that that
workshop in London, England, where Stephen King spoke to us about writing, is
right up there. Thank you, Mr. King.
I want to leave you with a quote from an interview with contributing
writing for the Atlantic, Jessica Lahey, published in The Atlantic, Sept 2014.
She asked him if teaching was craft or art.
“It’s both,” he said. “The best teachers are artists.”
Stephen King is an artist on every level. He tells the truth. In his fiction. And in his teachings.
~~
By Joan Hall Hovey, author of The
Deepest Dark
Saturday, March 7, 2015
All in a Day's Work Or How to Make Good Use of a Distraction by Tia Dani
Since there are two of us, wouldn't you think we
could finish a book in record time? Sure, we both have busy lives. We have
husbands, kids, grandkids, housework, other careers and hobbies (well, Tia has
hobbies, Dani just plays) but that's another blog for a later time. Like we
said, we are both fully committed to our writing. So what happens that we can't seem, to finish
a project?
Life happens. Not always in a mundane way.
Take the other day for example. Our plan was to meet
up at Tia's house and not leave until we had completed the next phase of
editing our work in progress. Which, by the way, it is going to be an awesome
blend of the present and past, with elements of paranormal, regression, and
plenty of romance. But when Dani pulled into Tia's driveway she was met with a
frantic Tia waving her arms. She needed help with an unexpected emergency.
The emergency was a baby bird that had fallen from
its palm tree nest near the front of Tia's house. Tia was certain it was an owl
and we needed to find a rescue place quick. Someone needed to come get the bird
before it died. She had already called two places who both told her they don't
take in raptor species. Raptors?!? Aren't they supposed to be those honking,
huge birds during the dinosaur age?
We made several more calls to animal shelters and
finally were directed to a place that would take in raptors. Only problem, they
didn't pick up. We had to deliver.
Twenty minutes later we had packed the back seat of
Dani's car with the make shift cage, which was really a crate with a lid over
the top to hold the tiny ball of white feathers. Off we went with the
directions programed into the GPS system. It took us almost 45 minutes on the
freeway to the exit we needed to take us north to Cave Creek and the bird
hospital.
At this point, we should let you know Dani is not
really fond of birds. Not that she doesn't like them, it's just she's sorta
afraid of them.
When she called her husband to let him know where
she was headed he said, "You are what?"
"Rescuing a bird."
"That's what I thought you said. You have a bird in your car?"
"Yes. We are saving his life."
"Ooookay. Good luck"
Meanwhile Tia is yelping and leaning over the seat, trying
to keep the tiny owl from squeezing through the holes in the grate and jumping
out of the box. Miniature fuzzy feathers are flying everywhere. With all the
commotion we missed the turn off and had to do a U-turn and go back to where
the GPS was insisting we should go in the first place. It was a winding dirt
road with large pot holes. We bounced along making the odd turns, when told by
the voice that seemed quite sure of where we were going. Us not so much.
In the distance we saw a sign and perched on top was
a metal hawk with the large wings spread wide. WILD AT HEART. Yep, we had
reached our destination.
Relieved we pulled in and parked. Not only had we arrived safe and sound, our little owl was still alive. Tia retrieved her precious cargo from the back seat. Dani stayed a safe distance away.
Off we went to find a doctor.
We were greeted immediately and our little guy was taken to be examined.
After a thorough examination we were assured he would be fine. He was wrapped in a warm blanket and placed into an incubator where he would be watched for several days. Then they broke the news to Tia that her baby was not an owl but actually a falcon.
"What!" Tia exclaimed. "It must be an
owl. He's so small and his feathers are white. And just look at his cute little
face. He must be an owl?"
The examining veterinarian assured Tia her bird was
definitely a falcon.
While we were in the critical-care room, a landscaper from the near-by golf course brought in a severely injured hawk.
We were allowed to stay and watch as they examined him, feed him an antibiotic stuffed into a dead baby mouse. (Here's where Tia nearly lost it…Abandoned baby bird fine. Poor dead baby mouse…ugh.)
Who knew?
Once our sweet raptor was snuggled in and sleeping, we were invited to look around at all the wild raptor birds they had in their outside sanctuary. We could stay as long as we wanted. Tia immediately took advantage of their generous offer and pulled along the reluctant Dani outside to see the many different kind of birds.
It was a wonderful day of adventure. Needless to say we didn't get any writing done that day, but we did help save a life.
Which is okay because there's always tomorrow.
And who knows, our little adventure might just end
up in a book someday.
Wild At Heart is a non-profit 501(c)3 organization dedicated to the conservation and preservation of Arizona's native birds of prey. http://wildatheartraptors.org/
To find out more about the writing team Tia Dani and our books visit us at:
https://tiadaniauthor.wordpress.com/
Time's Enduring Love, our historical time-travel is a Books We Love Best Seller.
To purchase click this link.
http://amzn.com/B00EVXABV0
Friday, March 6, 2015
The Happy Place - Gail Roughton
“I need to visit my happy place.” How
often we hear that! But what, exactly, is a happy place? And where is it? “Oh,
it’s all in our heads!” you say. Well, that’s right. And then again—it’s not. We
all carry our permanent happy place with us. See, it’s not limited in location
or the space-time continuum. It can be with you any place, any time. All we
have to do is remember. Remember the place where magic lived, where memories
were made, the memories of things past that shaped us, changed us, molded us,
into the person we are. Where was my place? A
little beat-up, sun-seared wooden fishing dock on the banks of Stone Creek.
I was born in the Deep South in the 50’s and grew up in the early
and mid-60’s. It was a pivotal time in history when the Civil Rights movement, the
Vietnam War, and the space program began to drag even the sleepiest little
Southern town kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. Rowan &
Martin regularly socked it to the country as Laugh-In looked at the news, and
Simon & Garfunkel sang of their brother who had died so his brothers could
be free. None of that made much never-mind to me, though. I was busy following
my Daddy around like a shadow whenever he was home from work. He was a
construction foreman and a master carpenter. On weekends, he’d take me to his
building sites, where I walked on the long light poles of Macon’s Henderson
Stadium when they still lay on the ground and wrote on the chalkboards of schools-to-be
long before students entered their doors. Daddy’s gone, but most of the
structures he helped build still stand, strong and functional, still in use.
That’s rather a form of immortality, don’t you think?
We lived a few miles outside the mid-sized Middle Georgia
city of Macon in a small country neighborhood of only four or five houses, perched
on the banks of Stone Creek Swamp. Readers might recognize the name from The Color of Seven. Stone Creek itself
ran about half a mile behind the house. I guess I was nine or so when our neighbor
“up the hill”, Mr. Emory Scoven, built the dock over the spot where Stone Creek
expanded into a small pond.
Mr. Emory was a retired railroad man who lived with his
brother, sister, and sister-in-law in the house on the hill next door to us. I
ran in and out of that house without knocking, with total impunity. Nobody in
our neighborhood knocked back then. I loved the other residents of that house, Mr.
Will, Miss Lucille, and Miss Ethel, but Mr. Emory? Mr. Emory was a modern day
Pied Piper. Children loved him like lint loves wool. Once upon a time the neighborhood
had brimmed with kids who’d dogged his every step, but in my time, the child
population was down to one. Me. And on summer days when school was out and
Daddy was still at work, I trailed the man unmercifully while he tended the
yards and fruit trees he so loved. If he ever grew impatient or tired of my
company, he never showed it. His railroad tales were better than the fairy
tales of Hans Christian Anderson and the Brothers Grimm.
Late spring and summer evenings were the best times of all.
Daddy came home from work, showered and ate. That’s when we headed out the back
door to join Mr. Emory at the dock and cast our lines into the leaf-brown
waters of the creek. The three of us sat for hours in perfect contentment,
talking or not talking, it really didn’t matter either way, while the corks
from our fishing lines bobbed on the water. It didn’t matter if we caught
anything, either, and in fact, we preferred not to, especially since we always
released any fish caught that evening back into the creek when incipient
darkness forced us back up the trail toward the house. We caught some of those fish
pretty much every day. I learned to recognize them over the course of a summer
because all fish don’t look alike,
not even fish of the same species. They have individual shadowings of color and
irregularities in their gills and fins.
That’s childhood. That’s my happy place. The creek, the
dock, Daddy and Mr. Emory. Sitting cross-legged on bare planking, slapping at mosquitoes
as they discovered my bare arms and legs. Cane poles only, of course, because
rods and reels were useless in the close confines of the creek and its small
pool and would only catch uselessly in the brush and undergrowth of the banks.
I remember the sound of the frogs as dusk fell, and birds
flying low across the pond’s clearing. Sometimes you could see the head of a
water moccasin swimming across the creek further downstream, crossing a safe
distance from the intrusion of the dock upon their territory.
Nothing else on God’s green earth feels like late evening in
the spring in the Deep South. The air feels like velvet, light trembles off the
water, birds fly overhead. The sounds of the frogs and insects make their own
symphony. I have no pictures of that creek and dock to post. Digital cameras
were far into the future. Children don’t think of such things as recording
special moments on film. No matter. There’s no way any camera could have properly
recorded those moments, those men, that place, that time. The photographs are
in my heart. They always will be. I take them out and look at them frequently,
especially when I’m writing.
I know somewhere out there, they’re still fishing together
on the banks of Stone Creek. I love you, Daddy. I love you, Mr. Emory.
Find all Gail Roughton titles at http://bookswelove.net/authors/roughton-gail/
And at Amazon at http://amzn.to/1DZ6Mte
You can also visit at http://gailroughton.blogspot.com
And
Labels:
books we love,
childhood,
fishing,
Gail Roughton,
happy place,
memories,
southern
Thursday, March 5, 2015
Words of Wisdom to Andrew Lincoln, George Clooney, and Russell Crowe from me...by Jamie Hill
There's been much hullabaloo this week over my favorite 'The Walking Dead' character Rick Grimes, actor Andrew Lincoln, shaving his beard in a recent episode of the hit cable series. The beard furor got me thinking, have I ever written a character with a beard? I write contemporary romance, and while I'm sure many heroes in historical romance had beards, I can't think of many in contemporary settings.
Most all of my heroes have what I like to call a 'three-day beard growth'. This works great in fiction, but in real life it's impossible to maintain for longer than a couple of days (depending on the rate of beard growth of course.) Some mens' beards grow quickly and they end up looking like Gandalf or Santa Claus.
This was the fate of Andrew Lincoln's beard in The Walking Dead, I'm afraid. A touch too long there at the end. A clean-shaven Rick was a shock, though that shower scene was pretty hot for regular TV.
Which do you prefer of the many stages of Rick?
I have to admit, I still prefer the three-day growth look. But I like beards! I think George Clooney and Russell Crowe can also rock the beard and to me, they look better as they age.
I might consider giving my hero a beard in an upcoming novel. It'll have to be a fairly closely cropped, neat looking thing. No Duck Dynasty crumb catchers, just enough hair there to tickle.
What's your opinion? Barely there or totally bare? Do you dig beards? I have to admit I do. And if I could offer some words of advice to the actors above I'd say totally keep the beards. These guys know how to rock them.
Jamie Hill ~ Romantic Thrills ~ Suspenseful Chills
Find my beard-free titles at Books We Love: http://bookswelove.net/authors/hill-jamie/
or on my clean-shaven website: http://www.jamiehill.biz/
Follow my 'possibility of a beard in a book' writing progress on Facebook:
Labels:
Andrew Lincoln,
beards,
Duck Dynasty,
Gandalf,
George Clooney,
Jamie Hill,
Russell Crowe,
Santa,
The Walking Dead
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
Henry Hudson, an Englishman, by Katherine Pym
In the first
decade of 17th century, Henry Hudson worked for several merchantmen companies,
both in England and in Holland. His goal was to find the northern route to the
Spice Islands in the South Pacific.
He worked for the Moscuvy Company, England's East India Company, and the Dutch East India Company. These individual companies pooled their resources, made their captains sign extensive contracts, gave them long lists of rules and regulations, then sent them on their way to find the easiest, fastest passage to East Indie ports of call.
The route
south through the Cape of Good Hope was fraught with danger, i.e., weeks of
calm, scurvy, the bloody flux, pirates. Once into the Cape, there were added
dangers of rogue waves that came from nowhere, swamping and sinking a ship to
the depths of the sea.
If it
weren't for the ice that filled the northern regions, that route would be far
easier to navigate. When men sailed north toward Greenland or west to
Newfoundland, these intrepid explorers found a vast ocean so crowded with fish,
they leaped into their boats rather than be netted. They brought home stories
of ling cod, and whale meat/lard. Fishermen sent their ships to these waters,
and the English dinner table began to find new foods that delighted the palate.
Whaling |
When Hudson
worked for the Moscuvy Company, he did not find a Northwest Passage, but
alerted his employers of a place where one could catch many whales. Hudson made a splash amongst these merchant companies. After the Dutch
East India Company (VOC) had so many failures, when they heard of Hudson, they
enlisted his services.
Hudson
promised better things. He was certain the passage could be found. All VOC's previous captains could not find the passage, and the directors wanted to know
how he would go about it.
Henry
replied that he followed Petrus Plancius' theory. Plancius was one of the
founders and cartographer of the VOC, so the directors nodded their approval.
When Hudson offered this theory, Plancius was still alive. He could
be consulted for authenticity.
The theory
was of a temperate, open sea in the North Pole not covered with ice. What
Hudson professed was a mild climate above '74 degrees latitude - the point at
which the Dutch ships had always found their path blocked by ice'. Hudson not
only affirmed to have seen this, he raised the stakes higher by adding the
depth of the sea was so great at this point, the swells could never freeze. In
this temperate area, Hudson declared to have seen a new land with many animals,
sweet grasses wherein the animals grazed. It was a veritable paradise.
Hudson's Route & Final Destination |
Hudson further added if he could go above '83 degrees latitude', he would sail west to the Pacific then south into the warmer seas of the East Indies. VOC demanded more proof, so Hudson sent for Petrus Plancius. The gentleman, an astronomer and clergyman, nodded his concurrence on Hudson's every point. He added the sun's long days and white nights during the summer kept the waters warm enough so that ice would not form. As a result, Henry was given the opportunity to seek a northern route to the South Seas.
Once aboard
ship, Hudson disregarded all instructions by the VOC. He used his own maps and
went northwest through bad weather. Finding the way too difficult, Hudson
tootled south. He expected to find a waterway along the American coast he could
travel to the Pacific. He did not find it, but did find a land rich in
fisheries and game, trees so big they would make excellent ships.
Hudson Arriving at Manhattan Island |
Hudson had
found Manhattan Island. The VOC was not impressed but other merchants were,
which started the colonization of that area.
In 1610,
this time financed by the English merchants, Hudson tried again. He found his
way into what is now the Hudson Bay. The seas were filled with ice. His crew
turned surly, and one night mutinied. They grabbed hold of Henry Hudson and a
few faithful crewmen, put them in a small boat without food, water, or warm
clothing, and sent them adrift.
Henry Hudson disappeared into the night, never to be seen again.
Henry Hudson disappeared into the night, never to be seen again.
Hudson, Set Adrift |
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Many thanks to the following bibliography:
Nathaniel's Nutmeg by Giles Milton, and Wikipedia (Hudson, Petrus Plancius)
Map of Hudson Bay is
licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share
Alike 3.0 Unported license.
The Barbers, a story of science & medicine in the 17th century. https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00I6KOKL6
Labels:
17th Century,
East India Company,
history,
Hudson,
Manhattan,
Moscuvy Company,
VOC
Author of historical novels set in 1660's London with one novel of the French Revolution.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Popular Posts
-
Deadly Undertaking Click here to purchase ‘Tis the season of the year when the transformation occurs from the darkness of winter to th...
-
I tied my manuscript up in an electronic bow and sent the final version off to BWL Publishing. Let me tell you, there were days during...
-
The cover of the Ontario offering for the Canadian Historical Mysteries Collection from BWL Publishing to be released November 2024 To fin...
-
Goodbye winter. Hello spring. Another round of setting clocks ahead is behind us as well as all the rant on social media about why we co...
-
Sometimes I wonder how much one person’s voice can actually help when “fighting the good fight” against what seems like ...
-
AVAILABLE HERE I have a cousin in Australia who loves to travel. She and her husband are currently in Vietnam, and the photographs she share...
-
Happy Belated Birthday, Dear Wolfgang! 261 years young & still delighting audiences... http://www.bookswelove.net/autho...
-
Click here for purchase options for this award-winning series. https://www.bookswelove.net/kavanagh-j-c/ In last month's blog, I told ...
-
Click here to purchase. Winner of Best Historical for 2023 How do I make a German officer during WWII sympathetic? I make him a real pers...
-
Visit Rosemary Morris' BWL Author Page for Purchase Information About Rosemary Morris Since I sat on my maternal grandfather’s k...