Solo Writing Retreat by Eileen O'Finlan

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It's time to seriously focus on the sequel to Kelegeen, so I spent the last week of February secluded in a hotel suite in Worcester, Massachusetts, where the sequel will be set, to work undisturbed and undistracted.  I arrived at the Residence Inn in Worcester late on Monday afternoon.  Once I was settled in, I got right to work.  The suite has a great little work area with the most comfortable chair ever – I wish I could have taken it home!

The first hurdle was getting on the Internet.  I was given my WiFi password when I checked in, but getting to a screen that actually asked for it seemed an impossible task.  I finally stumbled upon it, put in the password and I was off and running.  The table is right in front of the windows, so during the day the sunlight helped a lot, which is a good thing since the lighting in the suite left a lot to be desired as did the lack of dish liquid and a frying pan, but I digress. 

I wanted to get as much as I could out of this week, so I made it an early night.  I had not realized just how exhausted I’d been until I tried to wake up the next morning.  Even after my brain woke up, my eyelids refused to open.  I think it was around 11:00 a.m. before I dragged myself out of bed.  Yikes!  Most of the morning already gone before I could even eat breakfast, shower, and dress. 

Assuming, I’d have no problem getting online, I fired up the laptop only to find that I had no Internet connection.  After trying in vain to retrace the steps that finally connected me the night before, I gave up and asked the guy at the Front Desk for help.  He obligingly came to my room and had my laptop online in about two seconds.  For those who don’t know (until then, that included me) when you can’t reconnect to a public WiFi connection, try going to a site called purple.com.  It reroutes your computer to get you back online.  Who knew?  I sure didn’t.  Good thing Front Desk Guy knew.  Thank you Front Desk Guy!

I spent the rest of the day with my eyes glued (not literally – I mean, ouch and yuck!) to Erin’s Daughters in America:  Irish Immigrant Women in the Nineteenth Century by Hansia R. Diner.  Between reading, note-taking, and checking information online, the afternoon flew by.  I did make a point of ungluing my eyes long enough to walk all the hallways on all four floors of the building just to keep my circulation going.  There was little chance of falling asleep at the desk despite feeling like I could nod off at any minute (still in the extreme exhaustion phase) since the air around the desk felt as icy as if I’d opened the windows.  I hate being cold, but, hey, it kept me awake and working.

I went to bed extra early that night, hoping to make up for my late rising.  It didn’t work.  Well, I did get up a little earlier than the previous morning, like around 10:30.  It dawned on me that I needed this week as much to rest as I did to research and write so I decided to stop mentally berating myself for sleeping late and make the most of the time I was awake. 

When I finally finished Erin’s Daughters, it was time for my tour of the four floors.  I remembered seeing photos of various places in Worcester in the hallways of each floor so this time I took my camera.  Meg, my main character, would have arrived from Ireland on a ship and docked in Boston Harbor, then taken a train to Worcester.  I know the current train station wasn’t built until 1911 so I’ve been trying to figure out where the station would have been in my story.  One picture might have given me a clue.  It’s the outside of a building with the words Boston and Albany – New York – New Haven and Hartford – Boston and Maine engraved in the façade.  Hmmm…could this have been the original station?

Research brings both answers and questions.  The more I find out the more I need to know.  So along with my notes I have a growing list of questions, most of which have to do with the who and where in Worcester in the 1850s. 

After checking the website for the Worcester Historical Museum I found that they have a plethora of information on Worcester in the 19^th century.  I gave them a call, only to find I was speaking with a woman who took the online course in Church History that I just finished teaching.  What were the odds of that?  She informed me that the museum’s archivist is an expert on Irish immigrants in Worcester.  Pay dirt!  I made an appointment to meet with her so the last night of my solo retreat was spent writing out those all-important questions I want to ask her.

Oh, and one more thing – Chapter 1 is well underway.  The sequel has officially begun.

Rosemary Morris talks with Janet Lane Walters by Rosemary Morris

To learn about Janet Lane Walters and Whispers of Yesteryear click on the cover above.

Whispers from Yesteryear by Janet Lane Walters is the novel I most enjoyed reading this year. The tale slips backward and forward from 1755 to July 2017. The past cast long shades over the lives of twin girls in their next reincarnation and those of those they knew in the past. The author led me by the hand through the ups and downs of their lives. Engrossed in the twin’s story I finished reading it in less than twenty-four hours desperate to find out how the havoc wrought by a heartless villain was resolved.

Janet Lane-Walters has been writing and published since the days of the typewriter. She has 30 plus novels and seven novellas plus four non-fiction books published. Janet lives in the scenic Hudson River valley with her husband, a psychiatrist who has no desire to cure her obsession with writing.
She is the mother of four and the grandmother of five with two children expected to arrive soon from China. Janet writes in a number of genres - Romance from sweet to sensual and from contemporary to fantasy and paranormal. She has published cozy mysteries and medical suspense. She also has a number of YA fantasies published.

Blurb
Not the children.” Willow Carey is awakened by the remnants of a dream she hasn’t had for years. Today she is to return to Indian’s Sorrow, a house she inherited from her aunt. The inheritance has caused a rift with her twin sister. Her father and stepmother have died in an accident. Though she doesn’t want to go to Indian’s Sorrow, she must take charge of her young half-sister and brother.
Reid Talbot, a man she once loved lives near the house with his family. Now a widower, he lives with his sons. Learning to trust him again is difficult but he also has dreams.
Together, they must learn the meaning of the dreams before the whispers of yesteryear destroy their newfound happiness.



I hope you enjoy this taste of Whispers of Yesteryear.

Chapter One
July 1755

Willow Who Bends stood at the entrance of the Long House and stared at the sky. Though the sun shone brightly, to the west dark clouds gathered and carried the threat of a storm like the one she felt inside. She knelt beside the father of her spirit. Corn Dreamer had raised her and taught her the ways of healing. She prayed he would wake but feared he wouldn’t. Sorrow rode the beats of her heart and threatened to spill in a rain of tears.
"Corn Dreamer, must you travel to the spirit world and leave this one behind?" Her voice cracked and she caught a breath to still the ache in her throat. "The men have taken the warriors’ path in answer to Waraghuyagey’s call. The-Man-Who-Understands-Great-Things speaks for the redcoats, those men who want our help. What have we to do with the ones who fail to live in harmony with the land?”
Not all the pale-skinned men, she thought. A smile crossed her face. There was one who often stayed in the village and sat at Corn Dreamer’s feet to learn.
Near a moon ago, a message had come for Hair of Fire. He had left the Long House and journeyed west. A shiver crawled up her spine. Was he safe? In these days, danger rode the currents of the air the way carrion birds circled a kill.
She returned to her teacher’s side and pressed her fingers against his wrist. What had made him fall into sleep yet not sleep? Why did his heart flutter like humming bird wings and then slow. She wished for a way to rouse him for he would know the answer.
"Corn Dreamer, spirit father, medicine man, this woman is not ready for you to leave. What can this one do to help?"
She closed her eyes and sought among the things he had taught her. An answer arose. "This one must go into the forest to gather fresh leaves and bark."
From her sleeping place, she lifted a bark basket by the carrying strap and left the Long House. As she stepped outside, she heard the children’s laughter and the voices of the women raised in the growing chant. The sound chased her sorrow.
Across the clearing, her sister sat with the ones too young to work how hard she tried, she never remembered more than the cry.
She stepped from the shower. After pulling on a blue terry cloth robe, she stripped the bed and stuffed the damp sheets in the hamper.
What had triggered the dream? With the thoroughness of a pathologist seeking the cause of death, she examined the past few days and found no incident that could be called a trigger.
As she made the bed, she recalled the first time she’d dreamed. She’d been sixteen. She and her twin had been at Indian’s Sorrow visiting their aunt. Willow had always loved staying there. This time had been different. One memory lodged in her thoughts.
"Willow, come here. This is so neat." Brooke had opened the gate at the side of the garden.
Willow halted at the opening. She looked beyond her sister. "Get away from the edge."
"I’m fine." Brooke leaned forward. "The rocks look like a giant’s teeth. Come see."
"I can’t."
Brooke laughed. "Chicken."
"Something dreadful happened here."
"And I thought I was the one with the imagination and you were the logical one." Brooke spun around. "I love this place. Do you think Aunt Willow will leave it to us? She doesn’t have kids."
"I don’t..." Willow had turned away. She hadn’t
with the women. Though born of the same mother and on the same day, she and Willow by the Stream had been raised at different fires. On the outside, they wore a single face as reflected in a still pond, but their inner natures were different. As the first born, Willow Who Bends had been given to Corn Dreamer to learn about the ways of medicine and the spirit world. Her sister had been raised as a woman of the clan.
She drank in the sight of her sister. Soon Willow by the Stream would take a husband. That was good and right, but the change would further separate their lives.


July 2017
Chapter Two

"Not the children!"
Willow Carey jerked into a sitting position. Her heart thudded in her chest. Waves of terror flooded her thoughts. She gulped deep breaths of air.
She stared at the familiar surroundings and wondered why the bedroom seemed alien. Like a shroud, the sheet had twisted around her legs. She tugged it free. Her sleep shirt, soaked with perspiration, clung to her skin. She shook her head to dislodge the fragments of the nightmare that had awakened her. Terror, grief and rage had followed her into consciousness. What? Why?
Once her heart rate slowed, she reached for the alarm clock. Too late to go back to sleep and too early to get ready for work. As the effects of the adrenaline rush faded, her sense of uneasiness grew.
She hugged her knees. Once again, she had failed but she couldn’t remember who or how.
Moments later, she stood in the shower. Warm water washed away the sour smell of fear. The nightmare wasn’t new. Six years had passed since the last time the cry had jolted her awake. Always the same urgency and the same surge of emotions. No matter how hard she tried, she never remembered more than the cry.
She stepped from the shower. After pulling on a blue terry cloth robe, she stripped the bed and stuffed the damp sheets in the hamper.
What had triggered the dream? With the thoroughness of a pathologist seeking the cause of death, she examined the past few days and found no incident that could be called a trigger.
As she made the bed, she recalled the first time she’d dreamed. She’d been sixteen. She and her twin had been at Indian’s Sorrow visiting their aunt. Willow had always loved staying there. This time had been different. One memory lodged in her thoughts.
"Willow, come here. This is so neat." Brooke had opened the gate at the side of the garden.
Willow halted at the opening. She looked beyond her sister. "Get away from the edge."
"I’m fine." Brooke leaned forward. "The rocks look like a giant’s teeth. Come see."
"I can’t."
Brooke laughed. "Chicken."
"Something dreadful happened here."
"And I thought I was the one with the imagination and you were the logical one." Brooke spun around. "I love this place.”

www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary

Captain Kidd & Wooden Ships by Katherine Pym

YA for All Ages London 1665

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Capt Kidd in NY Harbor. It was traditional to have wives & lovers aboard before sailing

Research takes me to different eras and locales. One of those places is on a wooden ship slicing through the ocean's heavy swells. I have several books that describe the building of them, their terminologies, but few mention what it was like living on board. Until now...

Oh, I knew ships were crowded. Cages of ducks, geese and chickens lined the main deck rails. Cows and goats were harnessed to masts. Below decks, the magazine and filling rooms sat close together but the powder room was farther astern. Safety, you know, even as ships sometimes spontaneously exploded.

Capt Kidd's New York home

Seamen would often re-use old gun cartridges that, after a while, would deteriorate to a fine dust, and combined with particles of sulphuric and nitric acids found in gunpowder, a highly combustible substance called ‘guncotton’ would form. This friction of dust and gunpowder would cause terrific explosions, sinking the ship and everyone on board. 

Upward to several hundred men crowded onto a vessel. Captain Kidd, the privateer who turned pirate in the last years of the 17^th century, had one hundred fifty-two men and boys cheek to jowl aboard his ship Adventure Galley. Men had to sleep in shifts. 

Inaccurate renduring of Capt Kidd

The decks were so short, maybe 5 feet ceilings, everyone had to walk in a permanent crouch. Unless a seaman was given express permission from the captain, no fire could be taken below decks, and unless the decks had gun ports, it was damn dark down there. 

“’No man will be a sailor who has contrivance enough to get himself into a jail,’ observed Samuel Johnson. ‘For being in a ship is being in jail with the chance of being drowned... a man in jail has more room, better food and commonly better company.’

“Every available inch below deck was taken up with water-casks, barrels of salt beef, peas, beer; coils of ropes, bundles of extra canvas;” a private cabin or two, depending on the ship’s rate. These cabins were 4x4 feet. No one could stretch or pace. One had to sleep in the fetal position. 

“For landsmen, novices at this naval dormitory, the smell of that sleep chamber was gagging. Their overworked fellow sailors rarely changed their clothes or bathed; to top off the aroma of vintage sweat, toilet hygiene was rudimentary at best. 

“The ship’s head (i.e., toilet) consisted of a plank with a hole in it, which extended forward from the bow; a sailor perched on it, rode it like a seesaw, and, while doing his business, resembled some gargoyle or perverse bowsprit; the ship’s rail might provide the merest amount of privacy. A man attempting to tidy his ass risked a plunge into the sea.” 

Sailor being flogged

Even as existence such as this seemed pretty unpalatable, it got into the blood of men. Once they found their sea legs and learned the ways of the sea, many wouldn’t leave it for all their stolen treasure. If they didn’t like what their captain did, they could always mutiny, throw the offending captain overboard (as the Henry Hudson’s crew did) and sail away into the stormy sunset. 

~*~*~*~*~

Many thanks to: 

Wikicommons, public domain 

The Pirate Hunter, The True Story of Captain Kidd by Richard Zacks. Hyperio, NY, NY. 2002

Tuesday 4 August, 2015: http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/the-london-after-350-years-the-riddle-of-britains-exploding-fleet-is-finally-solved-10438854.html