Itching To Get Ahead

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The word “itch” amuses me. It is almost crying for a consonant or two at the beginning. Which. Witch. Hitch. Much better.

However, we are burdened with this word; a word that brings back memories and initiates thoughts. In my youth it spent much of its time sharing a sentence with the word mosquito. In summer it somehow managed to dampen a trip to a local Alberta lake by conjuring up warnings about “the itch.” Still, there were other lakes that didn’t carry the stigma or the itch. So, we had a splashing good time.

Our move from the west to Ontario introduced us to the idea that a mosquito bite placed second behind the dreaded black fly bite. What? It seems the black flies in the east are far more aggressive. I cannot remember hearing much less experiencing a black fly bit. Especially one that leaves a looonie-sized itchy welt.

These painful option leave me itching. Itching for more time at our favourite places on the planet. Just yesterday we reminisced about the wonderful days we spent walking the miles and miles of footpaths in England. Stopping to watch the sheep or cattle. Yes, occasionally keeping out a wary eye for a bull among the cows.

Tempting indeed. However, the fine Ontario weather is upon us. Best wait until perhaps October to pop across the pond and enjoy the walks...fish and chips...bitter…peaceful rolling hills of the countryside.

Ghost Stories Now and Then by S. L. Carlson

Ghost Stories Now and Then by S. L. Carlson

Do you believe in ghosts? Should you believe in ghosts? The idea of ghosts has fascinated me my whole life. Ghosts have been around for as long as there have been people.

I’ve never been keen to see one, but I have sensed and heard them. I don’t like to acknowledge them for fear of an introduction. Ignorance-Ignoring is bliss. Still, it’s hard to ignore a mixer turning on and off by itself. So when something like that happens I spin and point my finger to the air, and in my strongest ghost-scolding voice, say, “Stop that! Not funny!”

A house siding contractor went into our basement when we weren’t home. He had no business down there. I only figured it out when we returned and he looked pale, asking if our house was haunted. I laughed and mentioned our doorbell ringing at odd hours with no one there (even when we’re by the door to “catch” anyone). He mentioned a door slammed when he was inside. (Why was he inside, anyway?) Even though there was no breeze, I suggested the wind did it. He said there were no windows opened. Well, yes, there were, but not in the basement! Good, old ghost.

The Great Lakes have thousands of ghost stories, as well they should from the many untimely deaths on them. One told in the Milwaukee Journal, January 24, 1895, is of a man named Bill who died en route to Buffalo. When the ship arrived, the entire crew felt the vessel was now unlucky, so didn’t sign on for the trip over to Cleveland. The mate shanghaied a new crew. As they neared the boat, they pointed to the ship’s mast. The mate recognized the figure as Bill. The new crew, drunk as they were, fled. Finally other crew members came. The ship never made it to Cleveland. It sunk off of Dunkirk with all hands.

One more (of the thousands): On November 28, 1966, the Daniel J. Morrell broke apart in the middle of the night during a storm on Lake Huron. Watchman Dennis Hale was in his bunk when the ship cracked. He grabbed his life jacket and ran on deck in only his shorts. The ship had buckled. He ran back to his bunk for his pea jacket and made it into a lifeboat with three others. As the waves crested the raft, the water turned to ice on them. They lay in the lifeboat. Dennis was in the middle. The other three froze to death in the night. The next day he washed up on rocks, but too far to swim in the freezing water. He started to eat the ice from his pea jacket when a translucent man in white hovered over him and told him not to eat the ice or it would lower his body temperature and he’d die. The following day the same vision occurred. He was rescued, given last rites because he was so near death, but lived. As the sole survivor of the sinking, it took more than twenty years before he told the rest of the survival story with words of ghostly advice.

F.Y.I. There will be ghosts in my book coming out in September with BWL, Escape, War Unicorn Chronicles, Book 2. Find my other books here: http://www.bookswelove.com/authors/carlson-sandy-young-adult/

Getting Through the Rough Times by Victoria Chatham

For writers, writing is usually a compunction, something they have to do, like breathing. Even before I really knew what I was doing, I wrote.

Yes, I’ve joked about my writing with crayons on the wall not being appreciated by my family (for obvious reasons) but making my mark by writing something, somewhere has, for me, always been a tangible expression, like prehistoric handprints on the wall of a cave, of my being here, on this planet, now. The now has shifted considerably over the years from childish drawings and weirdly shaped letters, to short stories about ponies and dogs, to prize-winning essays at school and onwards and upwards.

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Writing, as an art, was something I took up when I learned calligraphy. It came out of an art class where we were encouraged to illuminate the capital letter of our first name or surname. I chose V for Victoria, not H for Hammond as I was then. I liked the look of the letter V, and very early on also liked the fact that Victory and Valor both began with V. They seemed strong words to me then as they do now.

Combining the art of writing with the craft of it was something that came a lot later. Although I loved English classes, both literature and grammar, writing in my family was a serious business. It had to impart knowledge and instruction and, consequently, fiction and fun writing didn’t enter much into my education. However, at age thirteen I read a book whose title now escapes me although I can see the cover clearly. Anyone who remembers Douglas Fairbanks, or maybe Douglas Fairbanks jnr., would recognize the look of the handsome pirate wearing a bandanna, an open-neck shirt and swinging from a rope on some ship or another. If you’ll pardon the nautical pun, it opened up a whole new horizon for me.

I wrote short stories which friends enjoyed and encouraged me to 'send to a publisher.' I showed one short story to a well-respected children's book editor who suggested I submit it to a long defunct UK short story magazine called The Argosy. It was rejected but I persevered. After all, I had many more stories to write. However, my family was far less enthusiastic than my friends so I kept writing mainly for myself. When I started writing novels, erroneously thinking writing chapters would be like writing one short story after another, I very quickly found a whole new world within the writing world. 

But getting stuck in the writing is also part of a writer's life. It happened to me more often than not in the early days but books like Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg helped a great deal. 'How To' books from the Library were replaced with Google searches for ideas to jumpstart my work all over again. Tools like doodling with words and going for walks, listening to music, or washing the floor all got tested.

So, what does keep me going when the words won’t come, or won’t come in the way or order that I want them to? My best tried and true trick is to stop writing. I return to my favorite books, the ones that have left vivid impressions over the years and have had me sobbing my socks off or laughing out loud. My favorite go-to read is Georgette Heyer’s Frederica. I know that when I’m done reading it, I’ll go back to my writing with more energy and enthusiasm and then everything seems to flow again.

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