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Alberta Romance Writers’ Association – A Love Letter

It was the late 80s when I joined the Alberta Romance Writers’ Association, and I joined for one reason and one reason only.  I was going to write a few of those ‘silly little books’, become very rich and then write the kinds of stories I really wanted to write.  Worthwhile stories, you know, not just formulaic romances.  I mean, how hard could a Harlequin/Mills and Boon be to write?  Boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back.

And therein lies the rub. Continue reading →

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Duncan Chisholm

It’s evening in Canada as I write this.  I’m sitting at my desk overlooking the park as the sun sets, a candle burning in the window, listening to Duncan Chisholm‘s CD ‘Live at Celtic Connections’ and specifically to his tune The Farley Bridge.

If I remember correctly, the first time I heard him perform this tune was at Caputh Church in Perthshire during Dougie MacLean‘s Perthshire Amber Festival in 2016.

I can’t begin to describe how magical a performance it was – the music, setting and location were sublime.

During the early months of Covid, Duncan Chisholm posted a tune every day on his Twitter Feed.  In a time of uncertainty, it was a wonderful way to start the day.

Please – please – check out his music.  You won’t be disappointed.  It is inspiring and truly – truly –  beautiful.

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Memories

I just finished reading the book Ardnish Was Home by Angus MacDonald.  We used to holiday in Ardnamurchan, not far from where the story is partly set.  I say ‘partly’, because it’s the story of a wounded solider and his nurse in Turkey during the Gallipoli campaign in World War One.  Interspersed throughout the story, the injured soldier tells his nurse about life and traditions in his Highland village.

Which got me remembering…

I’m in the process of selling my house, so it’s being kept much tidier and cleaner than normal. Making my bed this morning made me think of my mum.  As someone who never owned a tumble dryer, she ironed everything, and I mean everything;  socks, hankies, shirts, petticoats (or ‘petties’ as she called them), dishtowels, pillow cases, sheets.

She had a unique technique for the sheets.  Naturally, they were always white – and cotton – which had to be folded lengthwise in a particular way after she took them down from the washing line. Then either my sister or myself would take one end while Mum took the other, and we’d ‘pull’ the sheet to get out the worst of the wrinkles.  Once that was done, she’d iron them completely smooth before she put them back on the bed.  Same with the pillowcases.  They were always pristine and smelled of the fresh outdoors.

Nowadays, it’s out of the tumble-dryer for me, onto the bed, and smoothing them as best I can with my hand.  But there are always wrinkles left – wrinkles of which I know Mum wouldn’t approve.

Like the memories in the book, the ‘pulling of the sheets’ is a piece of family history that perhaps only I and my sister remember now.  And yet, although I would huff and puff about having to help Mum, I remember it fondly.  We’d talk, and laugh, and sometimes try to pull each other off balance!

I’m sure Mum learned the technique from her mother, and she, perhaps, from her own mother.

A female tradition, stretching down the generations, to be lost with the introduction of modern technology.

 

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Vera Lynn Died Today.

Vera Lynn died today.

For the generation(s) that don’t know who she was, Lynn was a singer in World War Two, most famous for her song We’ll Meet Again.  There were others songs – including White Cliffs of Dover – but We’ll Meet Again became ‘the’ British song of the 40s and she became known as The Forces Sweetheart.

I was never a huge fan.  Given I was born a decade after the war ended, she was too old-fashioned for me, and World War Two a piece of ancient history.  But my parents loved her.  Dad served in the army while Mum remained on the Home Front, caring for my brother.  They were apart for six years.

Six years.

We’ll Meet Again.

No wonder they loved that song, full of poignancy, optimism and hope.

Noel Coward once wrote, ‘Strange how potent cheap music is’.  Watching a Youtube compilation of Vera singing it throughout the decades, I found the tears streaming down my face. Mum and Dad were suddenly alive in my head and I miss them so much.  Dad has been dead forty years now.  Mum almost twenty.  I have a very clear memory of Mum standing at the kitchen sink in our house in Glasgow, singing it while she washed the dishes, and of standing on Dad’s toes in the dining room as he tried to teach me to dance.

With Father’s Day coming up this weekend, I feel their loss even more keenly.

We’ll Meet Again.

I truly hope we do.

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Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day is almost over here in Canada and I find myself, this evening sitting here, reflecting on the lessons my mother taught me.

I look back on my childhood and think of the magical moments we shared;  of Mum waking me at dawn on May Day to wash my face in the dew; of her standing behind me as we waved my brother off to work in the shipyards, the windows rattling in the wind, the rain pouring down; of her driving me down to the baker’s on Dumbarton Road to get rolls for breakfast; of standing on her toes as she danced me around the kitchen floor; of standing by the window on a Scottish island and gazing out at the full moon; of watching the deer gathering on the hills at dusk.

My mother taught me about the magic in life.

She also taught me about the hard, cold realities.

Mum was widowed at sixty-three, and lived twenty-two years more on her own before she died. Neither of us realised it at the time, but in those twenty-two years, she taught me how to survive the years after my husband abandoned me.

You get on with things. Yes, you cry and rage and grieve, but you get up and get on with things.  You carve out a life for yourself that is yours.

Yours.

Mum, you were and are the strongest woman I ever met.  You lived through World War Two, bringing up a child, my brother, never knowing if Dad would make it home alive.  And you did it.  You thrived. You were the heart and soul of our family.  Dad might have provided the home and support and money in our lives, but you gave us the support and love.  It was you who made sure our clothes were warm when we ventured out on those cold frosty mornings to school.  It was you who provided those ‘picnic’ lunches that I loved so much.

It was you who, after Dad died, walked that beach, sobbing your heart out, but found that inner strength to survive.

It was you who, at seventy-six – yes, seventy six! – years of age applied for your first job in more than fifty years – and got it, driving a jag around London. (And got two proposals of marriage in the process – which you turned down.)

Oh Mum, you were amazing.  You didn’t think you were… but you were.  You are – and always will be –  the heroine, and inspiration,  of my life.

I love – and miss you – Mum.  Every day of my life.

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On Writing

This above all, ask yourself, in the stillest hour of the night:

‘Must I write?’

Delve deep into yourself.

And if this should be affirmative, if you may meet this earnest question with a strong and simple ‘I must’ then build your life according to this necessity: your life, even into its most indifferent and slightest hour, must be a sign of this urge and a testimony to it.

Rainer Maria Rilke – Letters to a Young Poet.

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The Four Ps.

Near the front of my library is a section displaying new books which the librarians believe readers might enjoy. They are shelved under four titles, Plot, People, Places and Prose, and it struck me that is exactly what writers need to ensure is in their each and every manuscript.

PLOT: Michael Hauge says it’s the writer’s job to ‘elicit emotion’ in the reader, so have you structured your plot to achieve that?  If you’re writing a horror/mystery/thriller, have you built in the elements of fear and suspense.  A fantasy?  Wonderment. A love story? Hope, longing, challenges and celebration. A comedy?  Will the reader laugh out loud?

PEOPLE: Are your characters three dimensional or stock?  Have you created well-rounded ‘real’ people who move your plot forward organically by their actions, hopes, fears and choices? Or have you, the writer, moved them around, like pieces on a chess board, to suit your vision of the story?

PLACE: What’s your setting?  Your world? Is it real and vibrant? Have you got the details – eg historical – right? Does your reader feel they are ‘there’. Can they touch, taste, hear, see, smell their surroundings.

PROSE:   I once had the great pleasure to meet the author Maeve Binchy, and now, whenever I read one of her books, I hear her voice in my head in her cadence and description.  Is your voice unique?  Do you show rather than tell?  Is your prose active rather than passive, drawing the reader in rather than holding them at arm’s length.

Get those four Ps right, and you are well on your way to finding YOUR book displayed on one of those library shelves!

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The Royal Pavilion – Brighton

The Royal Pavilion in Brighton has to be one of the most unique and fascinating palaces in the UK. Built over 200 years ago as a seaside getaway for the then Prince Regent – later George IV –  it boasts a stunning Indian exterior and exquisite Chinese interior. Unfortunately, I can’t show you any photos from inside – interior photography is forbidden – but you can find some wonderful images on their website.

One of its more intriguing uses was as a Military Hospital for Indian troops during World War One.  According to a booklet available at the Pavilion, At the outbreak of war, Britain’s army was relatively small: in August 1914 it had fewer troops available than Belgium. The allied British and French forces were outnumbered by the advancing Germans, so reinforcements were brought in from Britain’s colonies.  The first Indian divisions arrived in October 1914. 

The Royal Pavilion ceased to be used as a royal palace during Queen Victoria’s time – she disliked the lack of privacy – and is now open to the public year-round. I can’t recommend a visit highly enough. The palace is a feast for the eyes. (And it also hosts a lovely tea room if you’re looking for a feast for something else.)

Brighton makes for a wonderful day trip from London – it’s only a one-hour train journey and trains depart from several London stations.

 

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The Kelpies

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I’ve wanted to visit The Kelpies, in Falkirk, Scotland, for some time.  Of course I’ve seen photos of them, but wanted to see them for myself.  And then, this afternoon, when I was driving along the M9, there they were in all their glory.

I took the slip road and found my way to Helix Park, got out the car and braved the cold and wind to visit them.

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And it was well worth it.  Designed by sculptor Andy Scott, they celebrate the work horses of the Industrial Revolution, a time when huge horses drew barges along the canals and wagons along rough roads.

Proud and beautiful animals.

Well worth the visit.

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Check out these websites.

Andy Scott

The Kelpies

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Masada

I’ve dreamed about visiting Israel for almost forty-five years, so when I got the chance to visit there recently, I jumped at it.

It’s a funny thing about dreams, especially those you’ve held in your heart for almost a lifetime. In their realization they can go spectacularly wrong, but sometimes…. sometimes… they go spectacularly right.

Travelling alone (I will blog about that at a later date) I joined a ‘Holy Land’ tour of Israel which took us to most of the expected sites – Bethlehem, Nazareth, The Dead Sea, The Sea of Galilee, Jerusalem, The River Jordan – but the absolute highlight of my trip was our visit to Masada.

My knowledge of ancient history is woefully pitiful. I’d heard of Masada – I knew vaguely that some kind of massacre had taken place there – but I wasn’t prepared for the effect it had on me. It truly touched my soul.

Surrounded by desert, Masada is a mountain fortress built by King Herod the Great. (He’s the King Herod who ordered the slaughter of all infant boys when Jesus was a baby.  It was one of his sons, also called Herod, who was king during the time of Jesus’ crucifixion.)

Built with luxury in mind, note the double floor on the steam room and the remaining evidence of frescoes on the walls.

Although his family spent time there, Herod himself never actually visited the fortress, which was built with both protection and luxury in mind. Temperatures in the desert can reach 50+C in summer, but one part of his private palace was built in such a way it catches a gentle breeze rippling up from The Dead Sea.

Most people have heard of Masada from the attack on the fort by the Romans in 72AD. Instructed by the emperor to put down the revolt by Jewish Zealots, the army commander, Silva, had a limited time span to take over the fort.  He knew his army of 6,000 soldiers and 10,000 slaves would not survive the summer heat of the desert in a long siege. So he first created a supply route from Jericho to Ein Gedi to the eight camps that surrounded the base of the Masada. In the autumn of that year he began his siege, with his slaves building a massive earth ramp up the mountainside. Once it was completed, a battering ram was pushed up the ramp to break down the fortress’ wall.

The remains of one of the Roman forts surrounding the fortress at Masada.

With plentiful food and water to allow the Jews to withstand a siege of several years, how was Silva successful?  The slaves building the ramp were Jews who had been captured in Jerusalem. If the Jews in Masada had poured oil, thrown rocks or shot arrows at those slaves, they would be killing their own.  So they had to watch day after day as the ramp grew larger and closer.

The earth ramp the slaves built up to Masada.

Silva breached the walls late one afternoon. Fearful his soldiers might be walking into an ambush in the dark, he decided against entering the fort until the next morning.

Knowing his people were facing imminent crucifixion or slavery, the Jewish leader, Elazar Ben-Yair, called his men together and they decided to die at their own hands rather than be captured. The men killed their wives and children, then a lottery was held – 10 men were chosen to be the executioners of the rest, with one man left to commit suicide once everyone else was dead.

When the Romans arrived next morning, it was to find a place of death – except for two women and three children who had hidden to escape the slaughter. The Romans allowed them to go free.