Friday, November 27, 2015

CAUGHT IN THE STORM - by Vijaya Schartz

I live in Arizona, near Phoenix, where storms have become more violent over the years. I never used to fear the storm, not in all my years... not even when a micro-burst half destroyed my house over a decade ago. Of course, I was at work at the time, not inside it. But last summer, I was driving on 59th Avenue on a sunny Saturday afternoon, when one of those sudden monsoon storms hit. Within minutes the sky darkened, like twilight in the middle of the day, strong winds, dust, zero visibility, then rain.

Thick walls of water like gray sails waved beyond the windshield, gusty side winds carried large objects across the road and knocked them against hard surfaces with loud bangs. Through the water curtain, I could see car lights in front and in back of me. The wind whooshed like a turbine. The electric poles along the street shook wildly. Lightning hit, close by. Light exploded all around, and thunder cracked and boomed, echoing inside the car, inside my body like a deep drum roll.

That’s when fear set in. My heart beat faster than after running a 10K. Still, I couldn’t panic. I had to think... and fast.

Although the cars had slowed, stopping on the main road with traffic would be suicide. Driving in this chaos would also be suicide as the electric poles swayed dangerously, waving their array of thick power lines overhead. The street was flooding fast. What to do?

Eyes riveted to the right curb that quickly disappeared under the rising tide, I spotted a faint driveway to the side, and remembered it must lead to the DMV parking lot. Following the curb, I managed to get my car off the road and into the wide open space... anywhere. I couldn’t see the white lines on the pavement anyway. Other cars followed my tail lights and parked in a line next to me, as if taking comfort in company. I felt their presence somewhat reassuring.

Were we safe? Not really. There was no safe place to hide from the storm. The flagpole overhead shook dangerously under the gusty winds flapping the flag, and the ropes snapped against it with loud metallic knocks. Garbage cans, branches, and large pieces of debris flew and swept across the open area with unprecedented force. I feared at any moment the wind might lift my little car and throw it against a concrete building.

Then, as fast as it had come, although it seemed to last for hours, the storm moved away, leaving me relieved and shaken at the sight of the destruction. In the last spattering of rain, I could see fallen poles across the flooded street, downed power lines sparking in flood water, traffic lights strewn in the middle of the intersection, and fallen trees.

A few hundred yards south of the DMV parking lot, on 59th Avenue, where I would have been had I not turned, several electric poles had fallen. One had crushed a car, trapping the driver inside, in the middle of a small lake. No way to get to the car to see if the person inside was dead or alive. It was a woman, I learned later on the news. Rescued by the fire department, she was not seriously hurt, but I felt guilty and glad at the same time. It could have been me.

In the aftermath of the storm, all the streets in the area were flooded or blocked by debris, trees, branches, pieces of roofs. People stood on their front porch, staring at their destroyed property, eyes wide, as if wondering how so much destruction could happen in so little time. Emergency vehicles blared their sirens. After many detours and turnarounds, in dangerously flooded streets and bumper to bumper traffic, it was dark, hours later, when I finally reached my small apartment ten blocks away. I was never so glad to hug my cat.

No matter how strong or fearless we are, there is always something or someone stronger than us, and Mother Nature is teaching us lessons at every turn. The memories of this storm will stay with me forever, and I bet they will end up in a book someday.

In the meantime, you can read my latest contemporary romance with a hint of suspense, set in Scottsdale, Arizona, and available in all eBook formats everywhere.

Buy it in all formats here
ASLEEP IN SCOTTSDALE

When Talia runs over billionaire Kyle Dormant with her bicycle in the dog park, she considers their meeting a happy accident. He believes it is destiny, but her physician's mind rebels at such notions. Their budding romance comes to a grinding halt when Kyle won’t wake up from deep sleep... with no medical explanation. Baffled and deeply concerned, Talia digs into his recent past for a plausible cause. Instead, she uncovers dark family secrets. Convinced Kyle's condition was induced, and someone wants him dead, she is anxious to save him, but the closer she gets to the sordid truth… and a possible cure, the greater the risk to both their lives.
Vijaya Schartz
Romance with a Kick

Thursday, November 26, 2015

When is the right time? Tricia McGill



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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 21st 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.
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Tuesday, November 24, 2015

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.”


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

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

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