Bye Bye, Summer

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Well, after a last week of September with temperatures upward of 90 degrees each day, fall has at last descended. My husband spent a good part of the early day closing the pool. But not before Evie, our mutant springer spaniel, had a last dip and doggie paddle laps retrieving a ball. It feels odd looking out from our screened-in deck over the ugly green pool cover, which looks somewhat like a humongous green mushroom in place of clear water against the blue-tiled effect of the pool wall. It’ll be a while before I get used to the sight. Before the cover comes off, though, snow will transform the mushroom into an enormous cake with white icing.

Fall is an absolutely beautiful season here in southern New England, where the foliage can be breathtaking in colors of fire and ocher, red and fading green. Leaf peepers from out of state or out of area make it difficult to get away for weekend trips, as our favorite inn in Connecticut’s “Quiet Corner” is always booked solid. But why go anywhere when, all around our yard, colors blaze under a crystal blue sky in the last hurrah of summer sun and dry autumn air? Our little veggie garden remains vital, vines heavy with ripening tomatoes; peppers; chard, and herbs. Soon they’ll wither and die in the shortening hours of daylight and chilly nights. But for the next couple of weeks, they’ll continue to ripen.

photo by Tim Brown

I don’t exactly hate autumn. Why should I? The weather’s penchant for perfection rivals only those days in early June when the sun is warming, nourishing; the world is finally green again after a long winter and filled with the fragrance of wild roses. Our garden shows promise in June, and that promise leads to the gastronomic anticipation of perfectly ripened tomatoes, fresh basil, mozzarella, olive oil and a drizzle of a balsamic vinegar reduction. Those promises are only now being fulfilled.

I’ll miss summer. It’s my favorite season and always has been. Maybe it has something to do with those days way back when. As a kid, I hated the end of summer, the conclusion of those active, fun filled days spent outdoors from morning till night (with time out for lunch) and then after supper until dusk transitioned into dark and one-by-one we’d each follow the sound of our mother’s voice calling us home. There were fireflies and fireworks, days and the beach and barbecues, baseball games and cousin parties.

Following my public school days, I spent seven of the next nine years in college and graduate school getting a BFA and an MFA, then four of the next six years either teaching or living in an academic environment. My life from five until fourty-something revolved mostly around a school calendar. I loved having my kids at home all day during their summer breaks when they were young, even with the seemingly endless pool parties, the trails of wet feel and dripping bathing suits through the house, the platters of PBJ and tuna sandwiches, watermelon slices and ice cream cones. My husband, who taught theater in middle and high school, retired last June after 39 years. The end of summer fills me with sadness and nostalgia.

Seasons come and go so quickly these days. That is a drawback to getting older, I suppose. Where does the time go? The kids are grown, the grandson recently turned five, and the zucchinis and summer squash are spent. Soon we’ll have a frost and children in Wonder Woman and Kylo Ren costumes will come around for tricks or treats. 

Thanksgiving will be upon us before we know, and all too shortly afterwards, we’ll celebrate the beginning of a New Year. It’ll be cold for months. Snow will pile up, and I’ll dress in multiple layers, thick, warm socks and sheepskin boots. Spring won’t come soon enough…and then it’ll be fall again 😒

In the meanwhile, I will savor my Caprese Salad with the warm, juicy, delicious taste of summer.

photo from The Pioneer Woman

Recipe for Caprese Salad

2 Large red, vine-ripened tomatoes (preferably freshly picked) thickly sliced

1 ½ Cups balsamic vinegar

10 oz. mozzarella (preferably fresh) thickly sliced

Handful of fresh basil leaves

Olive oil to drizzle

Salt and pepper to taste

Reduce the balsamic vinegar in a small sauce pan for 10 – 20 minutes over medium-low heat until it’s a thick syrup. Pour into a small bowl or cruet to cool.

On a platter, alternate slices of tomato, mozzarella and basil leaves. Before serving, drizzle with olive oil and balsamic vinegar reduction. Garnish with basil leaves.

Enjoy!

~*~

Kathy Fischer Brown is a BWL author of historical novels, Winter Fire, Lord Esterleigh’s Daughter, Courting the Devil, The Partisan’s Wife, and The Return of Tachlanad,  an epic fantasy adventure for young adult and adult readers. Check out her BWL Author page or visit her website. All of Kathy’s books are available in e-book from a variey of online retailers, and in paperback.

Cats Make You Talk Dumb

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This bit of observation came from my youngest when he was somewhere around five. He was angelic, blonde and small for his age, and his remark regarding all the “Tum-tum pusseh-wusseh! Paw-weh-cious puddy! Tum, Sweetie! Come up here'n' be Mommie’s baaaay-beh” stuff that he heard around the house has stayed with me over the years. 

Bast with her kittens, Brooklyn Museum

In those days, the adorable cat to whom we “talked dumb” was a slim, elegant black girly-girl named Bap. Her original (1970's Cool) name was Bast, after everyone’s favorite Egyptian goddess. However, “Bast” was more than two-year old Jesse could get his lips around, so “Bap” he called her and soon the rest of the family was calling her “Bap” too. 

Half a squirrel is better than...?

We’re usually a multiple cat household—“like potato chips, you can’t stop at one.”  These days, we host a mere two. B0B is our gray striped tiger, the terror of the neighborhood wild critters unlucky enough to attract his laser-green gaze and lightning fast claws. Our “joke” this spring was: “B0B! Wipe that bunny off your face before you come in this house!”  I have no idea how there can be another generation after all the body bits I’ve cleaned off the porch, but somehow, after  nine years in residence, he still hasn’t got them all. Astonishingly, somehow, each year, a few wily rabbits survive. Then, in spring, there are the little bodies again, pitiful innocents. 

     

Cat #2 is Kimi, fluffy, blonde, a rescue we were gifted. She arrived as a PTSD sufferer, so for the first few years, we hardly ever saw her. She was variously referred to as “Basement Cat,” “Dementia” or just “Stop that Damned Hissing!”  She showed up to eat, but touching/grooming by her human caretakers was pretty much forbidden—or, when these services were finally allowed, only permitted within a carefully circumscribed set of her own, often mystifying, rules. 

Traumatized Newbie

Then, suddenly, about seven months ago, all this changed. I think it was the daily-imposed-by-me-despite-the-bloody-scratches grooming ritual that finally ground down her resistance to human handling. (Long-haired cats must be groomed, or there will be vet bills you don’t even want to imagine.) She still has  rules about patting, but she’s as likely as not to be over here while I’m busily typing, trailing her fluffy tail seductively along my leg, or standing a little way off, repeatedly calling with her particularly desperate meeeoooow until I am compelled to spend time sitting on the floor to do the dedicated petting she now craves. She’s even jumped up to stand on the keyboard while I’m trying to finish/edit the soon to be published Fly Away Snow Goose —“jes' wike um’s a wee-eel too-woo kitty!”       

Happy Ending

~~Juliet Waldron

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Canadian Brides, historicals from Books We Love

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Writing Around Your Day Job by Connie Vines

It’s a 5:00 world, at least that is what the popular “Vogues” song from yesteryear (1965) tells us.  In 2003, the song was reborn via the movie, “Big Fish”.

Up every morning just to keep a job
I gotta fight my way through the hustling mob

Sounds of the city pounding in my brain
While another day goes down the drain
(Yeah, yeah, yeah) but it's a five o'clock world when the whistle blows
No-one owns a piece of my time

As most writers know, writing hours are made after you complete your day job.  You time is also doled out in little snippets while watching your child’s water polo practice, Harp recital, or while boiling pasta for the evening meal.

For those of us who may find writing until 1:00 AM and having the alarm set for 5:00 AM a bit fatiguing.  It seems we are keeping good company. 

Some of these stories you may be familiar with, others may come as a surprise.
He may be a renowned author of over 50 novels, but Stephen King wasn't always a full-time writer — his time as a high school janitor helped inspire the novel Carrie. King originally threw the first draft of the story in the trash, but his wife Tabitha fished it out and told him to keep going because she wanted to know how it ended.

Before she wrote To Kill a Mockingbird and Go Set a Watchman, Harper Lee worked as an airline reservations clerk in New York. She eventually quit when her friends helped support her financially so she could finally write full time.

He's a well-known author now, but before Nicholas Sparks wrote The Notebook, he worked odd jobs, including selling dental products over the phone. She was a talented science-fiction writer and awarded the MacArthur Fellowship — but before her success as a writer, Octavia Butler worked as a potato chip inspector. She also worked as a dishwasher and a telemarketer, using these day jobs to support her writing. And they really were day jobs, because Butler would get up at 2 a.m. to do her writing before going in to work! Amazing.

She's known as a mystery novelist; Agatha Christie was once an assistant apothecary. She reportedly knew a lot about poisons, which was no doubt helpful as she created the characters of Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple. Just goes to show that you never know what knowledge will come in handy later.


Bran Stoker wrote Dracula while working as the manager of the Lyceum Theater in London, imagining Henry Irving, a famous actor and owner of the theater, playing the vampire himself.

So how about you?  What is/was your day job(s)?

Does your day job get your creative ideas flowing?

I work in the field of education where students, staff, and events give me ideas—or at least creative thoughts.

Sometimes, after a long day. It will take me five minutes to write a sentence.

Five minutes of staring into space until the idea of writing an opening line about how long it took me to think of an opening line popped into my head.

In the grand scheme of things, five minutes isn't all that long. But for a writer, five minutes for nine words can add up.

Writing takes time. A whole lot of time.

I always imagined I'd write my first book in a vacation hideaway overlooking the beach or cabin in the Grand Tetons.   Unfortunately, most first-time authors won't get to live out this literary fantasy.
In fact, circumstances will most likely be the opposite: writing during off-hours, scribbling notes in public, enjoying less sleep than you'd like and slowly losing your mind while trying to maintain personal relationships a full-time job and run a household.

Say you've finally found a quiet hour to yourself. You know you should write, but you're tired from work and are only on season four of “Game of Thrones.” What were once simple choices become tormenting tests of will power and resolution.

As George Orwell famously stated, “Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness.”

In his book “On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft,” Stephen King shared a similar though more concise sentiment: “The road to hell is paved with adverbs.”

So how do I stay on track to complete my novel?

I’ve learned to say “no.”

I also participate online instead of driving to Orange County Romance Writers or L.A.R.A. monthly meetings; I sign-up for online classes.  I miss interacting with other writers, and my plotting group, but talking isn’t going to write my novel.

This doesn't mean you have to say no to everything, but writing is always going to require compromise.

A large part of writing for me is preparing my environment. I like to have a cup of coffee by my side, music playing. I prefer to write from 8:00 to 11:30 PM every other day. On Fridays I write until
2:00 AM, Saturdays after I the gym and running errands.  I’ll write for a few hours, then spend time on other tasks, until about 8:00 PM.  Sunday, unless I have a blog post due/or am on a deadline, I do not write.  I may edit my week's work in the evening but that is the extent of my writing.  This is family time for me.

Remember: If you keep waiting for the perfect moment, the perfect time, you’ll never get anything done.

Pencil in you time to write on your calendar, or task journal.  Honor that time like you do all of your other commitments.

You may find your day job fits in quite nicely into your novel.  After all, if you have life experience, no research in needed.

Happy Reading and Writing,
Connie

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I don't do horror, but I like a little thrill - by Vijaya Schartz

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Let's face it, many books and movies nowadays focus on the scary, the morbid, the deadly, the darkness in people's souls. Some are masterfully written (thank you Mr. Stephen King) and that's well and good for those who relish the genre. Personally, it gives me nightmares. When a hopeless group of people is doomed to certain death by an unknown and unstoppable evil, watching them die one at a time in utter paralyzing fear, panic and dismembering bloodshed is not fun to me. Horror focuses on creating fear... a negative emotion that releases toxic chemicals in the human body.

You can find General KAVAK, "the worst villain in sci-fi history" in the Ancient Enemy series

In my novels, I prefer to focus on hope, and the courage of the brave heroes and heroines who overcome their fears to fight the battle of good vs. evil. Although reviewers said I write "The worst (meaning best) villains in sci-fi history," I do not need a large body count to demonstrate they are bad guys. Usually, one death by elephant, one human sacrifice, or one severed head rolling on the sand is enough to make my point... there are bad people out there, and demons, and things that go bump in the night. But in my books, for every demon there is a loving immortal, a determined human, or a half-angel willing to risk their very life to fight it.

The Archangel twin books, a tale of redemption in the battle of Good vs. Evil

In the world of medieval fantasy romance, I've been accused of writing bloody battle scenes, because I do not sugarcoat the middle ages. As a writer, I want to reflect the truth of the historical period according to my extensive research. In the horror genre, however, I would be considered an innocent babe. My goal is to write an uplifting story with flawed but worthy characters who constantly overcome their fears and limitations to save others.

The Curse of the Lost Isle series depicts the Middle Ages in a realistic way

Call me a boy scout if you like. I just like the good guys to win and redeem themselves in the process. I like action, adventure, and romance in my books, those I read and those I write. I've been accused of mixing genres, and I'm proud of it. So sue me. I live for the thrill of a good story, with heroic heroes and villainous villains, plenty of action and adventure, and a dash of romance.

Vijaya Schartz, author

Romance with a Kick

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All things change—or do they--asks Tricia McGill

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Of late I have been contemplating on how life changes over the years, but really when you come to think about it, apart from their mode of living, choice of religion, color or creed humans are the same the world over. What we mainly crave is someone to love and somewhere to call home. What brought this on was my latest book, Amethyst. This one is set in a small Australian town. Now to be honest I have always lived in a large city or the outer suburbs of one so my background in this story was based on what I learned from visiting friends at some time or another who resided in country towns much like the Yewbank featured in this book.

It got me thinking about my childhood living in a North London street surrounded by city-dwellers and the more I thought about it our street and surrounding area was not unlike a small town. I had an unusual childhood as three families lived in the house I was brought up it. We, that’s my parents, and any of my nine siblings who happened to still be at home, shared the bottom four rooms plus what we pompously called the kitchen but was in fact no more than a scullery. Anyone who has lived in an older style house in London who is around the same vintage as me will know what I am talking about.

So, the middle two rooms plus a small kitchen were rented by my mother’s sister who had two girls, the eldest being a year or so older than me. At the top of the house in two rooms plus two attic bedrooms was my eldest brother and his wife with their son and daughter. As you can imagine because we were all related we intermingled and thought nothing of going up and down and mingling (or interfering) in the lives of all occupants. In those days there was no such thing as childcare, after-school care, kindergarten or crèche. If the mother had to go out to work for financial reasons then either her mother or grandmother would care for the child/children and failing that a neighbor.

Now the reason I considered this was not a lot different to life in a small town is because we knew all our neighbors by name and all their offspring. We kids would all play out on the street or in each other’s back gardens, often disappearing for hours at an end. I can’t recall my mother asking where I’d been or who I had been with, I guess she had sixth sense or knew that anyone we talked to or played with must be all right as they were local. Mind you, she had a few simple rules: 1. Never take lollies from a stranger, especially a man. 2. Never go into the house of someone you don’t know. 3. This one came along when I got older—don’t let a boy touch you. Now, she never went as far as explaining just where he shouldn’t touch you. Oh, and following on from this one was—it’s up to us girls to say no to a boy. Likewise she didn’t explain fully which question we were supposed to say no to. I found out later that none of my four older sisters fared any better with their sex education (guess that has changed fundamentally over the years as now the teenagers seem to know it all) The last rule was that if you got into trouble you asked a policeman for help. I don’t know if it is any different where you live but I can’t remember the last time I saw a policeman on the street, they all drive around in their cars these days.

Our mother was always there when I came home from school or work. If she wasn’t then you knew she was up the local shops. We had an extensive extended family who kept in touch by mail. There was no telephone or email back then, but we always managed to learn when there was a wedding, funeral, birth in the family or any other special occasion and often had parties where distant relatives would be invited. Being such a large family any get together often evolved into a party.

I attended a small church school which still thrives today (I love Google Maps) and knew most of my classmates and where they lived and would often visit them in their homes. Of course there were a few that I was advised not to mix with as someone in THAT particular family had acquired a bad name. But isn’t that the same in every small town—there’s always the black sheep. When our mother passed away in 1964 as the funeral cortege passed along the shopping street someone who remembered her with fondness came out of almost every shop and bowed their heads in respect for a much loved woman.

Another thing that started me reminiscing is that the backdrop in Amethyst is the game of football—soccer as it is called in England, and footy here in Australia. Because we lived a stone’s throw from the old Arsenal football club, my brothers and all the local lads would go off to the matches when they were played at home. We knew not to go out about the time that the match finished as in those days everyone had to catch a bus or train home and there would be a three mile long queue of exuberant or glum men, depending on the outcome of the match, all waiting to get home. But I can’t remember any fights breaking out as they formed an orderly line as they discussed the good or bad day’s football.

Perhaps I sound melancholy when I go back in my mind to those days, but believe me the memories are all fine. Not many people share a childhood such as mine and if they did then we all know how lucky we were. I had an email from one of my nieces in England a while ago saying how she still remembers and cherishes the years in that house in that street and my answer was that it was such a huge part of all our lives that it lives within us and always will.

The pictures are of my old primary school, the church where I was bridesmaid to my sisters and where I got married, and the house where I grew up. All are still there as you see, and there are not many changes since those far off days. There was no tree outside our house and of course probably only one or two cars parked in the street back then. 

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Artsy late-summer in Toronto

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September has been heavy with "arts" in the Sawka household.

The main focus was getting my next novel ready for submission. Mission accomplished. Of course, I never seem take a break. Already I've started working on my next two novels. It really is fun.

That's not to say that I don't take time for other thinks. Last week I took an extremely well deserved break from filming the first comedy skits for my Youtube channel, SAWKA TV.

Of course it will have promos for my BWL novels. Right now we are testing the cameras finding locations and writing scripts for these promos. All is well so far.

Last week Nancy and I attended the Toronto International Film Festival. We saw the amazing documentary called The Judge. The film tells the story of Kholoud Al-Faqih, the first woman to become a judge in Palestine. Turns out we were at the world premier of the movie and she was attending. I was lucky enough to have a photo taken with her.

Yesterday my acting classes started again. It is always a challenge for a novice like me. However, I'm learning a great deal and throughly enjoying it. We work on short scripts from movies and TV and get excellent advice on our technique. This class used very short scripts and at the end we swapped scripts and did a quick cold read. By chance my acting partner and I were handed a scene from the popular show Greys Anatomy. This also happens to be my Wife's favourite show. As for me, well, I usually (always) leave the room.

Story-star Kendra Spark – Growing up with Ghosts

Hello everyone and thanks so much for stopping into BWL today: ) I’m Kendra Spark, the story-star of Unorthodox, a paranormal suspense-thriller with elements of romance and a generous portion of supernatural; ) The story released on September 15, 2017, and I’m as excited about it as S. Peters-Davis is, my author: )

S. (that’s what I call her) asked if I would share what it was like growing up with the ability to see and communicate with ghosts…so here goes…

I honestly don’t remember a time I didn’t see ghosts, mostly because I didn’t know the difference between people alive or people dead, they all looked the same to me and pretty much treated me the same. The first time I realized it was when my mother asked about my imaginary friend. At five years old, I didn’t really understand the word imaginary, other than it meant not real, but Jonny stood right beside my mother. Our chat about Jonny didn’t go so well.

Mom ended up taking me to a few doctors to find out what was up with a daughter who always played with imaginary friends. Thank goodness Grandma Ellie whooshed in and saved the day before I ended up on medication. Grandma knew about Jonny, she could see what I saw.

The thing is, ghosts knew I could see them…I never hid it, so they kept coming around, wanting me to give someone a message or just wanting to talk. They were mostly lonely.

As I grew older it was tougher to chat in public with spirits. I got labeled for being a weirdo and became a bully target. I shut down all “air-talk” and only my best friend, Jenna, knew about my ability. It mostly scared her, so I didn’t talk too much about it with her either, only with my grandmother.

I didn’t have a lot of friends, not even in college, but I loved journaling about my ghost experiences. That was partly why I became a writer…I adored writing out their stories. Plus the fact I was an avid reader and enjoyed losing myself in someone else’s life, especially mystery-suspense romance stories.

Ghosts are part of my life and I’ve finally accepted my ability as something worthy…even though I won’t share this with most people. They don’t see what I see and will never understand, unless they actually know I’m an honorable person who doesn’t lie…like you all now know: )

Thank you for stopping in and hearing all about my ghost sight – about why I do what I do; ) I hope you enjoy S. Peters-Davis’ book about me, Unorthodox, A Kendra Spark Novel – I plan on being in a few more of her stories.

Happy reading; )   

Unorthodox Amazon Link: https://www.amazon.com/Unorthodox-Kendra-Sparks-Novel-Book-ebook/dp/B073MZZPVM/

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About my author:

S. Peters-Davis writes multi-genre stories, but loves penning a good page-turning suspense-thriller, especially when it’s a ghost story and a romance. When she’s not writing, editing, or reading, she’s hiking, RV’ing, fishing, playing with grandchildren, or enjoying time with her favorite muse (her husband) in Southwest Michigan.

She also writes YA paranormal, supernatural novels as DK Davis.

Website – http://suda788.wixsite.com/spetersdavis1    

Twitter – https://twitter.com/spdavis788  

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