Monday, September 18, 2017

Like the March Hare, by Nancy M Bell


Laurel's Quest Book 1 in The Cornwall Adventures. For more info click here.

A trip to England sounds like a grand adventure, but Laurel Rowan can’t escape from her true reality. Her mother is terminally ill, and her father needs her to go so he can spend his time at the hospital. On a train to Penzance, Laurel meets a new friend, Coll. On the property of her host, she stumbles upon a magical spring. There she meets the White Lady, who offers her a chance at gaining her heart’s true desire, if only she can solve a riddle.
Pursuing her quest amidst the magic of the Cornish countryside, she is aided by Coll and her new friends Gort and Aisling. They are also helped by creatures of legend and myth, Vear Du, the Selkie, Gwin Scawen, the Cornish Piskie, Belerion the fire salamander, Morgawr the flying sea serpent who does Vear Du a favour, and Cormoran, the last giant of Cornwall. The friends must battle the odds in the form of bullies and confusing clues. Will they emerge victorious? Will Laurel have the courage to solve the riddle and fulfill her quest?


I feel like the March Hare today. I'm late, I'm late! Not enough hours in the day at this time of year. The gardens need to be put to bed and general tidying up outside in readiness for winter. I'm also getting ready to embark on a 20 library tour of northern Alberta starting October 2nd. I'm excited about it and nervous at the same time! Mostly, I worry about it snowing while I'm driving in unfamiliar territory, but I'm also sure it will all be fine. My last stop is on October 17th when I'll be visiting Plamondon and Lac la Biche. The next day I leave for the Surrey International Writers Conference in British Columbia. Rather than flying this year I'm catching a ride with my good friend Vicki. I haven't driven over the mountain passes in a long time so it will be a nice journey. Usually I fly into Abbotsford to avoid the craziness of Vancouver airport so only see the country side from above, and only then if there are no clouds. The mountains are magnificent no matter what the season.

September and October are some of my favourite months. I grew up in southern Ontario where October brings the flame of sugar maple trees massed on hill sides and lining roads with torches of orange, red and gold. The dark green of spruce and pine accentuate the brilliance of Jack Frost's artistry. Here in the west it is more the clear gold and yellow of larch, poplar and cottonwood. Summer's last gifts before the silver white blanket of late fall and winter comforts the sleeping seeds of next spring's growth.

For those of you who might be interested, I have new release coming out in November. Landmark Roses is the Manitoba offering in BWL Publishing's Canadian Historical Brides Collection. It tells the story of a typical Mennonite family in the 1940's farming just south of Winnipeg. I had the distinct pleasure of working with Margaret Kyle, she was kind enough to share her intimate knowledge of the Mennonite community she is a part of. Without her, the book would never have been written.

It's not available for pre-order yet, but should be soon. I love the cover.


See you in October! I'll have lots of tales to tell about my adventures touring the Northern Lights Library System's libraries.

Stay well, stay happy.

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Sunday, September 17, 2017

My First Short Story - Janet Lane Walters


Pursuing Doctor West

 

The short story here is the first one I’ve ever written and had published. I groaned when I re-typed it to put up on the blog and kept myself from making chnges. Showed many amateur mistakes and pointed out to me how far I’ve come. I can’t believe all the It was sentences. That’s a particular thing that bugs me.

 

A Small Smile by Janet Lane Walters

 

Mildred Long stood before the dresser in her bedroom and combed her brown hair. Her round face reflected pleasure in the change in her appearance. I almost look pretty, sue thought but then she looked down at the new white uniform that spanned her and knew she was over-weight and unattractive. She would really have to do something about it.

The changes she had made astonished her. She looked alive for the first time in years. A look of expectancy had replaced the usual dull expression in her brown eyes.

Mildred was returning to the hospital after two days off. She had missed talking to John Brent. He didn’t talk much. He usually listened but it gave her a warm feeling to know someone was interested in her. It had been almost seventeen years since she’d had a friend. John had completely filled the void.

Mildred picked up her coat and glanced around the apartment. It was dingy and she would have to brighten it up. She didn’t want any drabness since John had come into her life. New drapes and slipcovers would work wonders. It was funny that she had never noticed the drabness before. For seven years, she had only existed here. Now, she would have to learn to live.

 

* * *

 

As she walked toward the hospital, Mildred’s thoughts turned to her growing friendship with John Brent. He’d only been a patient for a month but her awareness of him was only two weeks old. A shrill blast of wind made her draw her coat closer.

Two weeks ago, she had been alone in the Nurses’ Station when the call board lit up. Mildred looked up to see who was bothering her. She liked to work nights because they were so quiet.

Mr. Brent. What does he want, she thought. Doesn’t he realize that I can’t give him anything for pain until after twelve thirty? It’s not even midnight.

Stolidly, she rose from her chair at the desk and strode down the hall. Her heavy footsteps echoed loudly. It was her duty to see what Mr. Brent wanted and Mildred always did her duty.

When she reached the door to Mr. Brent’s room, she hesitated. She hated death and he was dying.

Finally, she plunged into the room and spoke in a curt voice. “What do you want? I can’t get you anything for pain yet.” She stood at the foot of his bed, half turned toward the door as if poised for flight.

Mr. Brent smiled and Mildred wondered what he had to smile about. She was healthy and she found no joy in life. Why should a dying man smile like that?

His smile almost made her forget he was dying. It even took away some of the dark emaciating caused by the disease consuming him. His smile was full of youth and eagerness.

“I know I can’t have anything for pain, yet,” Mr. Brent said. His voice was low and friendly. I thought if you weren’t busy, we might talk. It makes the time pass faster when I talk to someone.”

Mildred didn’t want to talk. She wanted to run from the room but she couldn’t think of a good reason to go. “I don’t know what to talk about.”

“Tell me about yourself. I’m interested in people.”

Mildred felt him studying her closely and her hands tightened on the foot of the bed. What for, she thought, you’re dying. She glanced nervously around the room.

“Mrs. Thompson is due on rounds soon,” she said after a glance at her watch. “I’ll bring you something for pain as soon as she leaves.” She turned and fled from the room.

When she reached the Nurses’ Station, Mrs. Thompson was waiting. “How are things tonight?” Mrs. Thompson asked.

“Quiet,” Mildred said. “except for Mr. Brent. He seems to behaving a lot of pain and is having difficulty sleeping.”

“I know,” Mrs. Thompson said. “I wish there was some way I could help him. I don’t know why but he helps me feel more useful than any other patient we have. He makes me feel like I’ve helped him just by visiting him.”

Mildred finished giving Mrs. Thompson a report and then, she moved to the medicine cupboard. As she prepared the hypodermic she could hear Mrs. Thompson’s footsteps fade.

A few minutes later, Mildred entered Mr. Brent’s room and saw that Mrs. Thompson was still there. With astonishment, she noticed the supervisor was holding Mr. Brent’s hand. How can she stand to touch him, Mildred thought. She shuddered. She waited until Mrs. Thompson left before she approached the bed and quickly give the injection. Then she stepped back from the bed like a startled rabbit.

Mr. Brent smiled and asked quietly, “What’s wrong, Miss Long? Are you afraid of me because I’m dying? You picked a strange profession if you are.”

Mildred was startled by his perception. “I didn’t pick nursing,” she blurted. “It was my only choice. I do my job.”

“Yes, you do,” John Brent said. “And very efficiently. But you don’t do anything else… You must be a very lonely person. I’d like to be your friend.”

Mildred looked at him closely. “I don’t know how,” she said and realized how true this was. Something had always held her back from people.

“It’s easy,” said Mr. Brent. “Just call me John and try a small smile.”

A puzzled look crossed Mildred’s plain face. What did he mean by that, she wondered.

John Brent smiled attain. “A smile means almost as much as medicine when you’re ill. It makes you feel as though the person behind the smile cares what happens to you.”

Mildred tried to smile but she found the effort was too much. “I have to go now, Mr. Brent.”

“John,” he said.

“John,” Mildred repeated and she smiled, a small, thin smile.

 

* * *

 

During the next few weeks, Mildred began to respond to John’s interest. She found herself telling him about the seven long years she had cared for her father and the plans she had sacrificed to be a dutiful daughter.

After her father’s death, nursing had seemed like the logical thing to do. She had always wanted to be a teacher but there wasn’t enough money left for a college education. Instead she had become a nurse.

With John’s encouragement, Mildred had begun to try and make friends. She talked to the other nurses and tried to seem interested in them. Their responses pleased her.

Mildred wasn’t sure of her feelings for John. They were stronger than friendship. Although she knew it was foolish, for the first time in years, she began to dream.

 

* * *

 

Another blast of cold air tore Mildred’s coat from her grasp. As she grabbed it and pulled it close, she realized she had reached the hospital. She entered and hurried to Men’s Surgical.

The hall lights were dimmed and Mildred could hear the patients breathing and an occasional snore. The brighter lights from the Nurses’ Station beckoned to her and she resisted the temptation to stop in John’s room. She was almost late.

When she reached the Nurses’ Station, the evening nurse looked up. “Am I ever glad to see you. This has been an evening. Mr. Brent got worse at ten and he’s been on vital signs every fifteen minutes since then. Mrs. Thompson’s sending Bailor up. One of you can special him. He’s unconscious now.”

Mildred grasped the edge of the desk and took a deep breath. She had known this would happen but it was a shock. Oh, John, she thought. What am I going to do now? I’ll be alone again.

Miss Bailor arrived and after report, the evening nurse left.

Mildred turned to Miss Bailor and said, “I’ll stay with Mr. Brent unless you want to.”

Miss Bailor shrugged her thin shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll be glad to stay here.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t like to sit in a room with a patient who’s going out. It’s so depressing.”

Mildred sat up and started slowly down the hall. Never before had the hall seemed so long and so dark. At the door to Mr. Brent’s room, she paused and swallowed back the tears she felt forming.

The sight of him lying so still, propped by pillows and in an oxygen tent brought back the tears. She let them fall. With shaking hands she opened the oxygen tent and took John’s pulse and blood pressure. Then she turned around to write them on the chart.

“Dear friend.”

Mildred wheeled and stared at John. Had she really heard him speak, or had she wished for this so much she had imagined it.

John’s eyelids fluttered open and a smile crossed his pain-lined face. Mildred took his hand and leaned closer to hear what he was saying.

John smiled again and said in a low whisper, “I waited for you. No tears, dear friend.” He closed his eyes.

Mildred felt a slight pressure on her hand and then nothing. The room was quiet except for the rasp of John’s breathing.

“Goodbye, John,” she said and her voice broke. Tears flowed down her face in a steady stream. She managed to smile through them as she pulled a straight chair to the bedside and sat down to begin her sorrowful vigil.

Saturday, September 16, 2017

Prepare for punishment by J.C. Kavanagh

WINNER Best Young Adult Book 2016, The Twisted Climb
Summer is over - at least for school kids - so it's time for the punishment to begin: picture punishment. Let me clarify. Betty White, one of the funniest people on the planet, made a statement on a TV show many years ago that explained the purpose of sharing vacation pictures. It was PUNISHMENT, eye-rolling eyeball-agony, plain and simple. She basically said, "Who cares?" what you did or what you saw or what you were wearing and who gives a fat-rat's bottom anyway? Looking at someone's vacation pictures is just cruel.


Well, prepare for the onslaught.


I had a fantastic summer, thank-you-very-much, and I'll show you just how fantastic it was.
Brace yourself.

 
 
Deer everyday at our campsite, Killbear Provincial Park,
Parry Sound, Ontario
There were no bears this year at Killbear - surprise! But deer came to forage behind our site three times a day, bringing fawn and even 8-point daddy.

 Posing with my sister-in-law on her super-fast Hobie Cat.
 




Before and after the storm pics, Georgian Bay.









Gah - there are more pics - the visual punishment continues....
Below are pics from my sailing vacation throughout Georgian Bay and the North Channel (Ontario) - rated one of the best sailing destinations in the world. The waters are clean and Caribbean-clear. Stunning. Me and my partner, Ian, sail a beautiful Catalina 36 named Escape Route II.

Anchored off Hope Island, Georgian Bay.

Escape Route II, at anchor in
Covered Portage Cove near Killarney, Ontario
 
Delicious pike caught in Baie Fine, close to The Pool anchorage and Lake Topaz.








At anchor in The Pool. The quartz mountains around Killarney are the breathtaking backdrop.
















Overlooking Baie Fine and McGregor Bay. At the top of this 500m climb are the ashes of Stuart Fraser Cork, one of the famous Group of Seven painters. This was one of his favourite painting perches.










 
Posing with the coolest blow-up duckie in Killarney :)










At the Benjamin Islands, North Channel. Note the 'crooked' trees. They grow that way, adjusting to the prevailing northwest winds. These trees are often part of the Group of Seven paintings.





The pain is almost over......





Me and my captain, Ian.


Well, that's it for my eyeball punishment to you. If you made it this far - thank you!


I'm getting ready for three book signings in October so if you're in the Greater Toronto Area - come see me!


Toronto Eaton Centre, Indigo: October 14
Oshawa Indigo: October 21
Barrie Chapters: October 28











J.C. Kavanagh
The Twisted Climb
A novel for teens, young adults and adults young at heart.
WINNER: Best Young Adult Book 2016, P&E Readers’ Award
Twitter @JCKavanagh1 (Author J.C. Kavanagh)



Friday, September 15, 2017

Yoga: Sublime or Ridiculous?


In a way, it had to happen.

As with most things that enter Western popular culture, yoga has entered the domain of the dumbed-down. The two latest trends in yoga practice in America are things called beer-yoga and goat-yoga, which involve asana (yoga postures) while gulping pints of beer or playing with furry farm animals. Poor Patanajli must be rolling in his samadhi!

Part of this trend has to do with the way yoga spread in America: through privately owned yoga studios, who keep searching for new trends to keep their clientele coming. Competition between studios, which seem to have sprung up on almost every street corner, pushes owners to keep expanding their repertoire of services; whether in combining yoga with Pilates (fairly common,) or with Zumba (Brazilian dance) and in many other ways.

Representation of Patanjali, the compiler of the Yoga-sutras
As a way of popularizing yoga, these privately owned studios, often started by brave souls (mostly women) who, in the early days, travelled to India, or studied, at great cost, under well-known masters, were very successful. Playing by the rules of the market, they struggled to find what the public wanted, and by trial-and-error, became successful. Successful business models were built, and the industry flourished.

But the downside of market-based yoga teaching is that it precludes really deep study of the tradition. In my observation, most studios offer classes in hatha yoga, hot yoga, yin-yang or Iyengar. But beyond this, not much else is taught. After all, if the rent has to be paid, the emphasis is going to be on what sells.

Traditionally, yoga is seen as a spiritual discipline, with the ultimate goal being spiritual realization. Yoga was originally practiced in the forests of India, and knowledge was passed, in the teacher’s ashram, from elder to student. The learning would take many, many years.

Ashtanga yoga, or raja-yoga as it is called in the Bhagavad-Gita, is what most in the west understand as yoga, and asana, one part of it, is what is mostly taught in yoga studios. But ashtanga (eight-limbed) yoga, is much more. The eight-limbs include a moral code, contained in the Yamas and Niyamas, Asana (postures), Pranyama (breath control), Pratyahara (sensory transcendence), Dharana (Concentration) Dhyana (Meditation) and finally, the goal of yoga, Samadhi (connection with the Divine.) The Bhagavad-Gita also mentions other yoga systems, such as Bhakti-yoga, a theistic version of yoga based on devotion to the Divine. As can be seen, yoga is a much deeper topic than is mostly understood. Yoga based solely on the body, and not connected to the spirit, is limited.


The yoga market, in America anyways, seems to have reached its saturation. It seems obvious that many studios will disappear. As a yoga practitioner, I hope that those left behind, and the students they attract, will dive deeper into the subject and discover its true essence.

Mohan Ashtakala is the author of "The Yoga Zapper - A Novel" published by Books We Love.

Thursday, September 14, 2017

Clothes and how to wear them... by Sheila Claydon




In my book The Hollywood Collection, I write about clothes and fashion. I do the same, to some extent, in Golden Girl, another book which will be published early next year. Both these books are vintage romance, however. Books that I wrote in the seventies and eighties when I was into fashion and loved buying new clothes.

Oh how things have changed. Clothes! Do you love them or hate them, and I don't mean that in the 'let's get naked sense.' Me? The older I get, the more I hate them...well hate the ever changing fashion of them, and trying to find what best suits me. No, strike that. I know what suits me, it's just that nowadays I have to plough through a whole lot of 'mutton dressed up as lamb' stuff to find what I want.

Then there's the fit. I'm the same size now that I've always been, so how come pants sag and sweaters often have sleeves whose length is out of all proportion to the body shape. Oh, I know. It's because they are designed to be worn by young girls with pert behinds who like to pull their sleeves down over their fingers, and I have to admit they look cute. What looks cute on a teen or anyone under 40 for that matter, doesn't look cute on a woman of more mature years, however. And it's not going to change because the fashion industry is not interested in the older woman, and doesn't design for changing body shapes.

There are solutions of course. Buy expensive or find a really good dressmaker who does fittings and alterations. This is the advice I saw recently in a fashion column that I can't seem to stop reading even though most of the clothes featured are either beyond my purse or things I wouldn't be seen dead in. The same fashion editor also listed which pants give the best fit. Unfortunately I threw the article away without making a note, so here I am, back to square one.

When I was young I loved fashion. It was mini-skirts and long white boots (with matching lip-stick!) in the sixties, flares and stack heels in the seventies, leg warmers, shell suits and sweaters with garish motives in the eighties, pants-suits in the nineties, and so on and so on. I bought them all, loved bright colours and made some terrible fashion mistakes which I fortunately didn't notice at the time.

Now, however, I am much more comfortable in quieter clothes, mostly pants and tops, and shoes that are easy to walk in. They are available of course. Jeans, trainers, sweatshirts and gilets are fine for shopping, lounging around, dog walking, housework, but fashion wise they don't quite hack it, so I have a plan. From now on I am going to wear a uniform of sorts. I know what I like: slim cut pants, longish tops, scarves, boots, and on the rare occasion I wear a dress, something plain brightened up by accessories. I also hate mixing too many colours, so my future uniform will be a mix and match wardrobe that doesn't stray much beyond navy-blue, black, grey/charcoal, and to brighten it, fuchsia , pale blue, emerald green or turquoise, the colours that I know suit me well. I might also go searching for a seamstress who can take the sag out of those pants, unless I'm lucky enough to find some that fit properly. Of course I'll keep the jeans and sweatshirts because the dog still needs walking.

OK, so it might sound boring, but oh the relief. A uniform that I can put on and forget, knowing that while it might not be up there in high style, it is too conservative to ever really go out of fashion. Oh, and I'm going to buy lots of scarves as well. Bright, bright, cheerful scarves.



Go to Sheila's Books We Love author page to see the rest of her books, which are available on:

Smashwords

Also visit her on Facebook and have a chat :









Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Support of my Writing by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey



http://bookswelove.net/authors/donaldson-yarmey-joan/
 
 
My family and friends have been very supportive of me during my writing career. When my first two non-fiction books were published, my parents would look for them in bookstores. If they found them with only their spines showing they rearranged the books on the shelves so that the covers of mine were facing out and could be seen easier.
 
My husband is constantly telling people that I am a writer and where they can find my books. My parents, siblings, children, and grandchildren have come to book launches, sat with me during a book signing, and passed on advertising information about my new books through social media and other means.

When they were younger my grandchildren helped out at some of my launches: acting as doormen by opening doors for customers at bookstores, singing, or playing a saxophone or flute during the interlude before my reading.

I have some friends who buy and read all my books and continually tell me how much they like them.

Thank you to my family and friends for your continued encouragement.

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