Monday, May 8, 2023
The brain of an author by J.S. Marlo
Saturday, May 6, 2023
Sophie's Choice by A.M. Westerling - a regency romance excerpt
Click here to purchase Sophie's Choice
Chapter One
Cornwall, England 1805
Sophie slid off her mare, looped the reins over a convenient shrub and
gave the horse a quick pat on the nose. She turned and began the familiar trip
down the little path that meandered through the dunes to end up at the gravel
and shell beach just on the edge of her family’s estate. When she neared the
edge of the sea, she held out her arms and tilted her face to the June sun
before stripping off her bonnet. She tossed it in the air where the breeze caught
it and whirled it about, ribbons and all, before it landed in a frivolous clump
on the beach.
She sat down and removed her riding boots and stockings and wriggled her
toes with sheer delight. Then she unpinned her hair and shook her head so the
chestnut curls spilled over her shoulders and down her back.
“Aaaaaah.” Pleasure spiraled through her. “I have missed this so.” Feeling
a little foolish for talking to herself, she glanced around to be sure that she
hadn’t been heard. It would not do to have the locals gossip that Lord
Harrington’s eldest daughter was daft!
Sophie gathered up the skirts of her kerseymere riding habit and
crunched across the beach to the water’s edge, dabbling first one big toe then
the other in the chilly waves. The gravel pricked against the soles of her
feet, delightful in its intensity and for the first time in weeks she felt alive,
well and truly alive. Not that she hadn’t enjoyed her stay at boarding school, particularly
the time assisting in the school library, but it had been restrictive, to say
the least.
She mimicked the head mistress. “Sophie, you must pour this way, Sophie,
you must set a stitch that way, Sophie, mind that your voice is never raised.”
Mama would be scandalized if she saw Sophie now, poking fun at Miss Smythe and
standing bare foot in the sea.
“Your mama would be scandalized.” A masculine voice interrupted her,
echoing her thoughts perfectly.
She spun around, dropping her skirts into the water. Rueful, she glanced
down for it was sure to leave a stain. Then she raised her gaze to the stranger
before her. And raising her gaze it was for he stood at least a head taller than
her own five foot five inches. Her breath caught in her throat.
He was handsome, to say the least – tall, dark and lean with a rapacious
air about him as if he would pounce on his prey at any moment. Judging by his
burnished cheeks, tousled black hair and the crop dangling from one wrist, he
had also been out riding.
Sophie realized she must look a fool standing there dumbfounded and ankle
deep in water. For once in her life she was completely nonplussed.
“You, you …”, she stammered, managing to wobble her way back on to the beach
without incurring further damage to her habit.
“Yes?” Amusement tinged the stranger’s voice.
Bravado was her best option so she squared her shoulders and jutted her
chin. “I meant to say you’re trespassing.”
“I think not.” He pointed to a marker just off to one side. “I believe
that is the edge of my property. Indeed, you are the one who is trespassing,
Miss…?” The question dangled between
them. When she didn’t answer, he swept forward in an elegant bow. “Allow me to
present myself. I am Lord Bryce Langdon. And you?” Again he waited for a
response and again she declined to answer.
Oh dear, she knew very well who Lord Langdon was. He’d just acquired the
adjacent land. In fact, they were all to meet him this evening for the first time.
However, if word ever got out that she’d
met him in this situation, her reputation would be ruined. Anger at herself for
the foolishness that had brought her here unchaperoned made her tongue sharp.
“You, sir, are an ill-mannered boor.” She spat the words at him. “Only an
ill-mannered boor would compromise a young lady as you have just done to me.”
“I must beg pardon then for I had not recognized you as such.” He
pointed to the ten toes peeping out from beneath the hem of her skirt. “I dare
say your behaviour is sadly lacking.”
“You, you scoundrel, how dare you insult me so,” she fumed. “You, you -.” Her mind went blank, sucked
bare by the devastatingly handsome man before her.
“Wretch?” he suggested, the corners of his mouth
beginning to lift.
Sophie stared at him for a few seconds, watching the devilish grin threaten
to take over his entire face. Her lips twitched and she scowled in a vain attempt
to maintain her decorum. It didn’t work.
Giggles burbled up and burst free and she began to laugh. He joined her,
the sounds of their laughter mingling with the cries of the sea gulls circling
above. Bryce Langdon must be an astute judge of character for he was entirely
correct in his assessment of her. She detested the rules and strictures of the upper
class and it was that rebellious quality that had landed her an extended stay
in boarding school in the first place. There was no point in denying it.
“No, you’re absolutely right. I’m not behaving like a lady. That is,” she
hastened to correct herself, squeezing out the words between giggles, “in the sense
I do not enjoy sewing and such. Much to the dismay of my mother and sisters, I
prefer to be outdoors.”
“And I am no drawing room fop so I see we shall get along famously. You have yet to introduce yourself?”
She curtsied. “Lady Sophie Harrington. We are to meet this evening for
dinner at Harrington House.” A wry expression twisted her face. “Please don’t mention to anyone that you saw
me here today.”
Bryce took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Rest assured, I shall
tell no one. Tonight when we meet, it will be as if for the first time.” His dark
eyes were admiring and warm with promise as he kissed her hand again before
dropping it. “I look forward to seeing you again, Lady Sophie Harrington.” He
said her name carefully, rolling out the syllables as if he savored the
cadence. He saluted her with his crop then turned on his heel.
Sophie watched him walk away, scuffing his polished black boots along
the beach until he disappeared from view. Then she looked down at her hand
where he had kissed it. The skin still tingled and her heart beat a little
faster at the memory of his lips on her skin.
A secret smile curved her lips. Perhaps, she thought, not everyone
thinks I must conform to society’s rules. Perhaps I can be loved just the way I
am? With a light heart she gathered her boots, stockings and bonnet and made
her way back up the little path.
* * *
Sophie handed the reins to Hobbs, the head
groom. He tipped his cap, revealing a thatch of red hair matching the freckles
scattered across his cheeks, before fishing in his pocket for a carrot. He
handed it to her. “Looks as if ye’ve given
Dancer a bit of a ride,” he said.
She held out the carrot and the mare’s lips
rippled across her palm before snagging the treat. “It was a beautiful day for it
and I’m afraid time ran away from me.” That wasn’t really the truth. Her encounter
with Bryce Langdon had left her feeling unsettled and she’d tried to ride away
the feeling. She stroked Dancer’s nose. “You’ll give her a good rub down?”
“Of course,” he replied. “And I should warn
ye, yer mother’s been searching for ye and is in quite a state. Sent one of the
footmen out here to see if you’d returned.”
Sophie groaned. She’d really hoped to make it
to the sanctuary of her room to change before catching her mother’s notice. The
entire household was in an uproar over tonight’s dinner party. Lady Harrington’s
evenings were always a success and invitations to them were highly sought after.
That success didn’t come without a price – Mama ran herself ragged organizing
to the tiniest detail. Every last bit of silver must be polished, every last candle
in the sconces must be replenished and Harrington House dusted and polished from
top to bottom. Her mood wasn’t always the best at these times and the family had
learned to stay out of her way. “Thank you, I shall pay heed.” She patted Dancer
one last time before waving at Hobbs and turning away.
She darted across the cobblestones that paved
the courtyard between the stables and the house and slipped into the kitchen
door. As expected, pandemonium reigned in the kitchen and Sophie knew better
than to interrupt Mrs. Winston, the cook. The woman, red faced and perspiring,
tossed her a distracted glance then focused again on what looked to be buttered
apple tarts.
No sooner had Sophie stepped into the hall
than she heard her sister Leah’s voice. They were three – Sophie, the eldest at
twenty, Leah, two years younger and Catherine, two years younger again.
“You’re in for it,” Leah said, waggling her
finger at Sophie. “Mama’s been looking for you for the past hour.”
Sophie rolled her eyes skyward. As usual, Leah
was her impeccable self, not a hair out of place and her peach coloured muslin
frock freshly pressed and tidy.
Not like Sophie. Despite her attempts to re-pin
her hair, most of it hung loose down her back and the sea water had left damp stains
on the skirts of her riding habit. She bunched them forward so her sister
wouldn’t notice. “We all know how she ties herself in knots when she’s entertaining.”
“Particularly this evening as we are to
welcome our new neighbor, Lord Langdon.”
Whom I’ve already met, Sophie thought and a
frisson of excitement tickled her scalp when she remembered the admiring look
in his dark eyes. “Yes, I know,” she said aloud.
“What do you suppose he’s like?” Leah’s face
grew dreamy. “He’s said to be ever so handsome and he’s unmarried. Do you
suppose he’ll take an inclination to one of us?”
Sophie snorted. “Don’t expect Papa to agree
to us marrying anyone at this time. You know he’s said we’re to wait until we’re
twenty-one.”
“I don’t know why,” Leah pouted. “Abigail
Penner had her season at eighteen and is already engaged to be married while we
are stuck here in Cornwall.”
Where I much prefer to be. “It’s not so terrible. There are shops and tea rooms and a theatre
close by in Truro.”
Leah gave her an incredulous look. “You? What
do you know of the shops?”
Sophie made a wry grimace. She fooled no
one, visiting the shops was not her favourite form of pleasure. She much preferred
outdoor past times such as riding or archery. If she must be indoors, then she
filled her time with reading or sketching. Needlework made her head ache and
her fingers were like sausages on the pianoforte that graced the drawing room. “I’ve
heard tell that some of the establishments are as fine as any that can be found
in London.”
Leah frowned and gave Sophie a push. “You’d
best find Mama.” Her grey eyes were earnest. “Or she’ll have your head.”
Sophie nodded and headed towards the staircase
leading to the upper floors. With any luck she could shed her riding habit and
its telltale stains.
Halfway up the staircase, Catherine flashed
past her heading downstairs, blonde curls bouncing with every step. “Where have
you been?” she threw over her shoulder as she reached the bottom. “Mama’s in a
state and nothing will do but she must speak with you.” She didn’t wait for Sophie
to respond but darted into the library.
To hide, Sophie could only presume, and she
picked up her pace. Mama must really be annoyed with her this time if both Leah
and Catherine issued warnings. She reached the first landing and had her hand on
the railing of the stairs leading to her room on the next level when Lady Evelyn
Harrington’s voice rang through the air.
“Sophie.”
Mama’s annoyed tone couldn’t be ignored. Drat.
Sophie’s heart sank and she cast a longing glance up the stairs. She’d not make
her escape after all. She turned and spied her mother advancing on her like a
square-rigged frigate. Plump and petite, her stature belied an iron will. A few
wrinkles haloed her blue eyes and a few grey hairs shadowed her blonde hair,
but she was still attractive and Papa adored her. She still looked much as she
had when their family portrait was painted soon after Catherine’s arrival. It hung
over the staircase with other Harringtons past.
“I’d ask where you’ve been for most of the afternoon
but I see you’ve been wading.” Her mouth tightened and she pointed to the hem
of Sophie’s skirts. “I can only assume your boots are also wet because I can’t
imagine a daughter of mine being so foolish as to splash about barefoot where
others might see you. And please don’t tell me you went down to the beach. It’s
not safe with all the smugglers sullying our coast.”
Sophie clasped her hands at her waist. “No
Mama, I didn’t go to the beach. I was hot so I dipped my toes in the stream
behind the mill.” Heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks and she hoped she
didn’t look as guilty as she felt over the fib. Thankfully she said nothing about
Sophie riding out without a groom to accompany her so Hobbs must have kept that
to himself.
Lady Harrington sniffed. “More than your toes,
I’d say. But never mind that for now.” She smoothed an imaginary stray hair. “The
Earl and Countess of Blackmore will be joining us this evening, as well as Vicar
Sinclair and his wife and of course Lord Langdon. I have in mind a small entertainment.”
“Entertainment?” Sophie dug her fingers
into her palms. Please no, not the pianoforte. Despite hours at the keyboard, the
fugue by Bach she’d been working on for weeks resembled the screeches of a tom
cat rather than anything musical.
Her mother smiled. “I’m not deaf, I’m not
expecting you to play. I had thought Catherine could accompany you while you sing.
Your voice is more than passable.”
“Sing?” For Lord Langdon? How could she
look him in the face after their encounter this afternoon?
“Yes, sing. I suggest “Greensleeves”. It’s a
lovely piece and your sister has mastered it admirably.”
“Sing Greensleeves?”
“You’ll find the music on the bench. If you’d
been home sooner, you’d have had more time to practice.”
“But -.”
Her mother raised a manicured finger. “There
will be no excuses from you. I intend to make a good impression on our guests, particularly
our new neighbour. I understand he is a barrister of some note.”
“I see.” A barrister. A man who earned his
living. That explained his comment that he was no drawing room fop. A small
burst of admiration flushed her cheeks anew. Most men she knew, including her father,
contented themselves with overseeing the management of their estates. But perhaps
Langdon didn’t have an estate before purchasing the neighboring property. That
would explain his foray into law and if he were as successful as her mother implied,
he’d done well for himself to become a landowner.
“Besides,” continued her mother, “it’s a
good opportunity to practice the entertainment we shall offer once we are in
London for your coming out this Season. We shall host evenings where you will
sing, Catherine shall play and Leah will read her poetry.”
“I don’t want to come out in London. I’m quite
happy here in Cornwall.”
“Nonsense. How are we to find you a
suitable husband otherwise?”
“I don’t fancy being paraded about like a
prize thoroughbred and given away to the highest bidder.” Sophie tried to keep
the petulance from her voice but failed miserably judging by the frown on her
mother’s face.
“Paraded? Given away? It won’t be like that
at all. We’ll find a suitable young man and soon enough you’ll be inclined to
accept his attentions, you’ll see. Perhaps someone like Viscount Weston.” She
slanted a glance at Sophie. “His mother is ever so charming and you could do
far worse.”
I doubt that very much, Sophie thought.
Giles Weston might be considered a catch and she might be able to overlook his
pimpled face and yellowed teeth. However she’d once seen him whip his horse until
the animal bled. That cruel streak she could not overlook. Nonetheless arguing
with Mama would lead nowhere. Once she made up her mind, there was no changing
it. Sophie bit her lip. Best to say nothing.
Lady Evelyn stood on tiptoe and kissed
Sophie’s cheek. “Do wear your lilac frock this evening. It brings out the
colour of your eyes.”
“As you wish.” Well, at least that was one
thing they could agree on. Until now, she’d not had the opportunity to wear her
newest frock. She loved the white silk embroidered flowers along the hem and indeed,
the lavender shade made her green eyes a deeper hue.
Her mother sailed off, leaving a rose scented
breeze behind her and a befuddled Sophie clutching the carved oak railing of
the stairs. Not only was she to reacquaint herself with Lord Bryce Langdon this
evening, she must sing for the man. How was she to do that without bursting into
giggles of embarrassment?
By making sure she sang as well as she
possibly could. After she changed, she’d search out Catherine so the two could
practice as Mama suggested.
Friday, May 5, 2023
Research by Rosemary Morris
Visit Rosemary's Author page for purchase information
Research
I have a file in which I write down
ideas for romantic classical novels. I am drawn to one which I might write in
2025. I have a mental image of a young lady in times past. She has eyes the
colour of bluebells, skin white as lily of the valley and hair fair as
primroses. The comparisons are because she will fit into the story in which a
garden will be a prominent part.
Before I begin writing I complete
intensive research. For this tale I have made notes about robins, because I
love it when a robin watches me work in my organic garden from a short distance
waiting for me to dig up a worm or insect.
The results of a survey declared that
robins are the U.K’s favourite bird. I am always delighted when one visits me
although I know it will defend its territory sometimes at the cost of its life.
I appreciate the little redbreast’s
cheerful song all year round and am amazed because it will sing at night by
light from lamps in the street.
In my garden these small birds have
built nests in the shed, when I left the
door open by mistake, in ivy growing up
railings along my garden and in crevices in trees, and in nest boxes, to
conceal them from cats. Throughout the year I scatter birdseed. I enjoy
watching them hop and fly around my garden even in the coldest weather, when
they are at risk of death from starvation caused by frozen ground and snow that
makes it impossible to feed on worms etc.
During bitterly cold, weather when I
was a young child, I remember chanting The north wind doth blow and we shall
have snow. What will poor robin do then? I was very sorry for robins and
glad because my mother scattered bread outside for them and continued to do so
throughout her long life.
Folk law
It is said that after Jesus’ birth, Joseph gathered
wood to add to the fire and robins fanned it with their wings to keep it
alight. According to folk law, either the Virgin Mary rewarded the little birds
with red breasts, or they were touched by Christ’s blood which gave them red
feathers.
Some people believe that if a robin signifies a
loved one’s visit from beyond the grave. it is a sign that a lost relative is
visiting them from beyond the grave. They are also a symbol of a new beginning
and, or signs of good fortune and good luck. So, it is thought messages from
robins should be taken seriously.
I read that a lady’s Irish mother said a robins
have the souls of loved ones who pay visits to give their love. Her previous
day was special because a month after her father’s anniversaries, two beautiful
robins flew down from the apple trees, settled outside the French doors and
peered in at her through the glass.
Thursday, May 4, 2023
Character Inspiration #2: JOURNEY by Julie Christen
This month I'd like to honor the memory of my friend Holiday who was the inspiration for Paisley Noon's (of Nokota Voices) knight in shining armor. Journey.
He waited…
… for the warm spring sun to thaw the earth.
… to decide that the new kid would be good enough for me.
… to make sure he’d taught me everything, especially the impossible lesson.
After 31 beautiful years (18 as my trail partner),
Tuesday, May 2, 2023
Entitled: Giving your story a name that resonates by donalee Moulton
Visit donalee Moulton's BWL Author page for book purchase links
Let’s talk titles – not king, queen and my
personal favorite, goddess – but the titles that alert readers to what is about
to unfold before their eyes.
I’d like to start by telling you a bit about myself – and my experience with titles. I am a freelance journalist and have written hundreds, actually thousands, of articles for print and online publications across North America and beyond.
One of the things you soon learn as a freelance reporter is that editors write the titles of articles. This is not always the case, but it is usually the case. There are a number of reasons for this, and we’ll discuss those. In a minute.
First, I’d like to share with you the options article writers have when it comes to titles. One, you can come up with a title that you think reflects the article, is clever or straightforward or funny – whatever attribute you think will appeal to readers. If the editor likes it, they may use it. If they don’t, they will write their own. More often than not, they will write their own.
Years ago I did an article on a trademark dispute involving use of the Bluenose, Nova Scotia’s famous schooner. My title went something like this: Ship disturbing trademark battle erupts in Nova Scotia. I thought that was very clever. My editor did not. Well, she may have, but the title she used ultimately went something like this: Nova Scotia businesses barred from using Bluenose name.
On the other hand, I wrote an article on champagne and called it “Liquid Bling.” My editor wrote to say she loved the title, and she used it.
My feeling was it never hurt to include a suggested title, and no one usually knows the story as well as the writer. But good titles take time to craft, and on many occasions the articles I submitted did not have a title. They had a descriptor: Profile of Donald Duck, Article on the pros and cons of ducks vaping, Conference report from Ducks Unlimited. I was leaving the work to the editor.
And here’s what editors are looking for in an article title. (1) Something that grabs the reader’s attention (2) Something that describes what the article is about (3) Something that is not longer that the first paragraph of the article itself (4) Something that makes them want to read the article or shows them why they should
Are you likely to get all that in one title. Probably not. But that is what is behind the words that introduce an article. Often those words are more dramatic or more urgent or more intense or more gripping than the article itself. Indeed, most of the time someone objected to an article I wrote it was the title that set them off.
And I didn’t write it.
Monday, May 1, 2023
New Releases for May 2023 by BWL Publishing Inc.
NEWEST RELEASE
A Glitter Bay Mystery
When Laken Miller moves into the apartment above Vintage Sage, it seems all of Glitter Bay goes crazy, especially when Laken suspects her new home is haunted. Just when she thinks she’s the victim of mass hysteria, she finds her ex-husband’s body in the courtyard.
Can Laken prove her innocence before the local police cuff her with a different kind of glittering bracelet?
Sunday, April 30, 2023
A Walk on the Beach by Eden Monroe
To purchase Sudden Turn click here
The romantic
suspense novel Sudden Turn is set in the fictitious city of Franklin, in the
real life province of New Brunswick, Canada. I know everyone has their own little
slice of heaven, and for me that’s New Brunswick (Nouveau Brunswick), my home
province. So forgive me if I brag a little.
Not that size
matters, but New Brunswick is 72,908 square kilometres of mostly trees, lakes,
etc. There are also plenty of cities and towns, although more than half of us
live in rural areas, me included. But nature can be pretty exciting. Like watching a river run backwards. It’s a
fact! It happens twice a day and you can almost set your watch by it. I’m talking about the mighty St. John
River, often called The Rhine of North America. It does its slow dance through
the province from north to south until it meets up with the Atlantic Ocean and
then things get really interesting. Rising tides literally shove this 450-mile
river in the opposite direction with force, creating powerful rapids. I’ve
ridden those rapids in a jet boat at their peak. Epic!
And speaking about the tidal action of the
world-renowned Bay of Fundy, how about this? You can walk barefoot on the ocean
floor, wet sand oozing between your toes where just six hours earlier you would
have been taking that same walk under as much as forty plus feet of salt water.
That’s about the height of a four-storey building! The tides of course are the
result of the gravitational pull of the sun and the moon on the earth, which
itself is in perpetual motion. The highest tide on record in the Bay of Fundy is
53.6 feet! It’s pretty phenomenal because about 100 billion tonnes of seawater
makes its way in and out of this funnel-shaped bay in a gentle sway during its
twice a day tide cycle. That’s equivalent to the estimated flow of all of the freshwater
rivers and streams on the planet!
There’s also the spectacular Old Sow
Whirlpool in the western passage of Passamaquoddy Bay, an inlet of the Bay of
Fundy. It’s the largest whirlpool in the western hemisphere, second only in the
world to the massive Saltstraumen maelstrom in Norway.
New Brunswick has tidal bores too, again
because of the giant Bay of Fundy tides. One of the best known is found in the
city of Moncton where the incoming wave can reach up to a metre high and rushes
up the Petitcodiac River at about thirteen kilometers per hour. Surfers love
it. It’s a rare natural phenomenon because there are only sixty tidal bores in
the entire world.
Again along our rugged coastline, the
Hopewell Rocks are probably the biggest stone flowerpots in the world. Some of
these amazing sea stacks are as tall as seventy feet at low tide when you can
literally walk among them … or kayak in this most unusual flowerpot garden at
high tide. The choice is yours. The difference is about forty to fifty feet of
seawater.
Moving inland a bit, New Brunswick has
it’s own gravity hill – Magnetic Hill in Moncton where vehicles coast uphill.
It used to be said the land was somehow magnetized, hence it’s name, but it’s
just an optical illusion. There are actually sixty gravity hills in the world,
but perhaps Magnetic Hill is one of the best known. I’m guessing there might also
be more of them. I recall riding a bicycle from Saint John to my parent’s home
on Darlings Island one time and I came to a long stretch of highway that looked
like a steep upgrade. I thought I was in for a lot of heavy pedalling on my old
school bike with no speed gears, but to my surprise I actually coasted the
whole way. It looked like I was going uphill, but I never once pedalled. I’m
serious! The funny thing too is before that highway was twinned many years ago,
there were a lot of fatal crashes along the stretch where traffic from the Fox
Farm Road entered the highway. I wonder if perhaps cars may have appeared to be
further away than they actually were when people pulled out and tried to merge
with the existing traffic flow?
In Saint John, Canada’s oldest
incorporated city, there is a green space like no other, well in this country
anyway because it’s the largest urban park in Canada. Rockwood Park is 2,200
acres in size and was designed by Calvert Vaux, one of the designers of New
York’s Central Park. Rockwood Park is home to an 18-hole 70 par public golf
course, 10 freshwater lakes and 55 walking trails and footpaths, and it’s just
a hop, skip and a jump from downtown. I’ve spent many an hour in this pristine urban
wilderness.
Are you into bridges? No? Well maybe you
will be after this, given the romantic nature of covered bridges. Also called
kissing bridges, you have time for quite a few in our Hartland Covered Bridge.
Built in 1898 as an uncovered bridge, it got its roof in 1922 and is now the
longest covered bridge in the world with a span of 1,280 feet. That’s just
under a quarter of a mile long! In the early days you would be penalized with a
substantial fine if you were caught travelling through it with your horse going
faster than a walk. It was likely a resonance issue.
And of course prehistoric creatures also
once called New Brunswick home and we have our own mastodon, discovered in
1936. There are said to be about sixty such specimens found across Canada, and the
Hillsborough Mastodon is “considered to be one of the most remarkable.”
Speaking about fossils, we certainly
have our share. The farm where I once lived had plenty because many stones found
in that area have some kind of plant fossil embedded in them.
Among the countless fossils found in New
Brunswick is the world’s oldest intact shark skeleton dating from approximately
409 million years ago. That makes it about twice as old as dinosaurs. This
specimen was discovered in the Restigouche River basin. For the scholars among
us, that’s Doliodus problematicus. Say that five times fast.
Now many of you at this point are
probably shouting at your screen. Please! Eden! Tell us how New Brunswick got
its name! Okay, it happened in 1784 in honour of the reigning British monarch, King
George III who was also the Duke of Brunswick. So … New
Brunswick. It’s not exactly original, but it stuck.
And New Brunswick
is the only province in Canada that is constitutionally bilingual, with about a
third of our population speaking French. I love the dual cultures.
If you’re taking notes here’s a couple
of other interesting facts: The New Brunswick Museum is Canada’s oldest
operating museum (that’s where we keep the mastodon and the shark), founded in
1842, and we’re home (in Rogersville) to two of Canada’s only three Trappist
monasteries (one of monks and one of nuns). Also, just off our east coast lies
the province of Prince Edward Island and linking the two provinces is the
eight-mile long Confederation Bridge. It’s not only the longest bridge in
Canada, but the longest bridge over ice-covered water in the world.
Oh and one more thing, if you’re into French
fries, one third of the world’s frozen French fries are produced here. Just
sayin’.
Thanks for letting me go on a bit about New
Brunswick. Nothing but fun here in Canada’s picture province. Come on over!
https://www.bookswelove.com/monroe-eden/
Saturday, April 29, 2023
Catalog Stories
We of a certain age remember (print) catalog shopping, beginning with the venerable Sears Catalog that once sat in homes all across America. "Wish books" folks called them. I remember the excitement when the Christmas catalog arrived from Sears. I could hardly wait to get hold of that, to search for toys that I wanted "Santa" to bring me.
Things got complicated during the 60's when all sorts of catalogs, ones for clothes and for household goods and just about everything else you can imagine, arrived at the same time, the back-breaking bane of postal carriers' lives. But I want to talk about some advice my mother-in-law gave me, back when my husband and I were married students, with spare change for entertainment in short supply. She advised, from her own experience, that one of the easiest ways to get some no-cost reading material was to subscribe to seed catalogs. I found addresses for many within the pages of that required reading for New Englanders, The Old Farmers Almanac.
"Catalogs are free and come in the winter," she said, "and they are filled with color pictures that will cheer you up and remind you that summer will come again." In Massachusetts, back in the 1960's, this was good mental health advice, which I took. Ever since then, January (even, now, December!) brings me catalogs, although at first I didn't even have a plot large enough for a tomato.
I was, however, just as my mother-in-law was, raised by people who gardened. Many people of that generation were not too far away from genuine farming. During the Depression, among some social classes, turning your yard into food was a life-supporting practice. That was the era of the backyard chicken, before we all had to pretend to be Louis XIV.
I've had some large gardens in my time, gardens that fed us through summers with tomatoes, carrots, beans, beets and melons, squashes, (winter and summer) as well as lettuces, herbs and spinach. Husband, kids and I learned to enjoy greens of all kinds. "Greens" is a large topic I'm still exploring. This year, when it warms a bit, I will try to grow Callaloo, which I first enjoyed years ago in the West Indies as soup, cooked up in a rich yard-chicken stock.
I decided last year that in my limited box-garden space I would plant mostly greens. This year, I have some seed "cabbage-collards" already started in the house and lettuce and beets in the ground--fingers crossed because of the on-going Weather Weirding. Our year started with heat and drought during the first three months. Now, when it should be warm, it has reverted to March/April chill. At least, it's begun to rain...
My catalog choices are wider now, thanks to the internet and the advice of granddaughter Rachel who lives and gardens in GA. Southern seed catalogs have become my go-to, and lately I've had more success with these. This is because here, on the upper end of the Atlantic Coastal Plain, summers were always hot and humid, but now they are 100+ scorching, the way they are in the deep South. Over the years, I've switched from the big time seed suppliers to the little guys, who often have heritage and rare seeds. This sometimes leads to disaster--diseases and plant-chewing insects are fiercer than they ever were, thanks to over-use of pesticides and so many invasive viruses/ species entering this hemisphere.
I have learned there is an Insect Apocalypse going on in tandem with all the others--just ask the pollinators, cicadas and fireflies if you don't believe me--but the die-off doesn't seem to be affecting garden pests. A new project just begun is my attempt to grow host plants for birds and the "Good" Bugs, which has meant a whole other set of catalogs in which to browse the bright images and dream. For me, catalogs are still wish books. :)
(And Happy Birthday to Fraulein Gottlieb, too, today. Soon, she dances in the May with her Lover!)
Amazon All My Historical Novels at Amazon
~~Juliet Waldron
Friday, April 28, 2023
When Your Main Character Organizes a Hostile Takeover of Your Novel By Connie Vines #Plotting a Novel", #Surprise Storyline #BWL Insider Author Blog
Here I sit, night 3, in my cluttered office, excitedly plotting my contemporary novella.
I have the setting, the theme, and the plot points, and I'm fleshing out my primary and secondary characters.
And then. Pow! I hear a voice. (Yes, writers listen to voices).
My main character doesn't like her name and is angry because I don't 'get' her. That's a bit combative, unlike the helpful information my characters give me.
She also informed me she liked what I ate for lunch today. (That's a bit creepy π²) FYI, She prepares her salad the night before, storing the toppings and dressing in separate containers.
Kale and Lettuce Salad w/ Smoked Salmon rice croutons and almonds |
Who cares if it's midnight? It's not like I can sleep anytime soon (probably for the rest of the week).
Fresh Start. Sigh |
Chanel, Gavin, and I now listen to Rosanne Cash: Deep Cuts Album.
My Heronie's theme song:" God is in the Roses."
As the music plays on, I find her sharing her internal struggle.
Which is different from what I envisioned. An internal struggle that I didn't expect...it was true, what she said. I really didn't get her.
I like my newest heroine. She made me laugh and cry a little.
Soon, I hope, she will share her name and secrets with me, too.
My current project boards |
My blog post (in progress) |
Chanel (Gavin sent himself to bed πΎ⏰) |
Fragrance is a sensory signature, an extension of your personality, an aura of glamor and mystery, and ultimately feminine.
What are your favorite Christmas scents?
What scent would you select if you could capture a fragrance in candle form?
What fragrance do you wear during holiday events?
What fragrance would you love to try? Why?
.
A gift from my brother and sister-in-law. Yes, I do run on caffeine and often sarcasm. |
Remember, I have yet to answer any of the questions listed above. I'm eager to find out what my readers have to say.
Please share your 'fragrance secrets' (good and bad) with me.
Due to problems with scamming, this blog can no longer allow comments.
Follow me on Facebook to share your choices/ give me snippets of fragrance stories.
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Connie Vines, Author
Author Connie Vines
Find me on the Books We Love Author Page:
https://bookswelove.net/vines-connie/
Book links and more are listed here!
Happy Reading,
Connie Vines
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