Only 12 days left until Christmas. I guess that is a bit backwards from the song. Anyway, I have sent a gift to all my newsletter subscribers — a short story. This one is called, A Pink Christmas.
If you have not joined my newsletter list and would like to read the story, just hit the subscribe button in the right hand column.
Wishing everyone a wonderful Christmas season.
Alice
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My writer’s group held a hybrid in-person/on-line workshop this month. Since I’ve missed the company of other writers since COVID changed the way we do business, I went to the in-person part. There weren’t a lot of us in the room, but man, was it good to reconnect. I know on-line offerings use the word “connect” but electronic connections are not at all like human connections. So, before the workshop ever began, I was in a positive frame of mind. Here are some of my takeaways from the afternoon.
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Just finished reading Terror in Topaz, the fourth in the Harriet Gordon series by A.M. Stuart. I’ve written about her other books, here, here and here. All three books were set in Singapore in the early twentieth century.
For this adventure, the author takes us away from Singapore and into Kuala Lumpur. Harriet, one of the main characters, does not like KL and neither did I. 🙂 Which just proves the author did a really good job of portraying this less than salubrious place.
As we’ve come to expect from Ms Stuart, the story is rich with local colour and a conviction that comes from the author’s own experience living in this part of the world. Harriet’s story takes place in 1910, during the period when the British Empire was at its height. So, not only do we have the heat and humidity and mosquitoes of the Far East, we have them while wearing Edwardian clothing and trying to maintain a proper English attitude. Kuala Lumpur, smaller and more insular than Singapore, is particularly hot and sticky.
The mystery plot of this story concerns an infamous brothel named The Topaz Club, but there is plenty of intrigue surrounding the “upper class” English establishment as well. Curran’s mission, to investigate the club, is not as straightforward as it might seem. He learns early in the book that there is no one he can trust — except Harriet, of course. The story leads both characters into dangerous situations and, finally, a fight for their lives.
There are quite a number of sub-plots as well — another love story, family betrayal, an unrelated murder, more murders . . . Oops, don’t want to give away too much.
Anyone who has followed the series knows that Harriet and Curran have had a long and complicated relationship. In this, book four, they finally declare their feelings. So, HEA? Maybe. I know the author is at work on a fifth instalment of the series and I doubt she’ll let our lovers have an easy road. At least, for now, the romance looks rosy.
If you love a little mystery in your romance, or a little romance in your mystery, I recommend Terror in Topaz.
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I’ve been feeding my inner pioneer spirit this week. The long range forecast is for a cold winter. Since I live in a normally mild climate, suggestions of a real Canadian winter have me scrambling. I’ve worked diligently putting the rose garden to bed, pruning and picking up every bit of fungus infected leaf. What a job!
We harvested the last of the apple crop. 
I’ve given away several bushels and am now making apple sauce from the ones with spots. I’ve got my mother’s old colander and pestle.
When I first set up my own household I bought a new one but it was useless. The shape was wrong. The peelings (which give such lovely colour to the sauce) clogged up the holes and I ended by throwing out more sauce than keeping it. When Mom broke up her household, I got the applesauce maker and I’ve been happy ever since.
I’ve seen social media posts making fun of old homemaking skills but I don’t laugh. For me, those skills are a tie to my foremothers. They speak of thrift and inventiveness. They remind me of the hardships overcome by those who came before me. I love quilts that are made from scraps of old clothes or leftover sewing yardages. Modern quilts, with fabrics purchased specifically for this work of art, are stunning and creative. But, I like to think of the frugal homemaker who salvaged usable bits from worn out clothes to make something lovely that would keep her family warm. The news has been filled lately with the amount of wasted textiles in landfills. The women who made quilts new all about recycling long before it became a “thing.”
I feel the same about my applesauce. It’s a great way to use the fruit that has bruises or worm holes. Just cut out the bad parts and use what is good. Maybe that would be a good motto for life — discard the bad parts and use what is good. Part of the “good” has been the gratitude from recipients of my surplus crop. Those who live in apartments, or long-term care no longer have an apple tree at the door, but they have memories. A fresh, hand-picked apple (even and imperfect one) brings smiles to their faces.
Practising these old arts also helps my writing. I can read about peeling apples, but that’s not as immediate as holding the peeler in my hand. I know the pleasure of a long curl of apple peel. I know the pain of a cramped hand. I know the feel of juice running over my fingers. I experience the crunch of a Northern Spy between my teeth. One of the current buzz words for writers is “authentic.” Sowing, nurturing, reaping and preserving the garden add authenticity to my tales of women in an earlier time.
Anyway, I’ve been happy channelling my ancestors this week as frost touched the ground and I held a crisp, red apple, fresh from the tree, in my hand.
What pioneer skill makes you happy?
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In my writing, especially the historicals, setting is important. I spend many hours drawing maps of my fictional towns, showing the placement of a school, a church, a saloon, and the layout of the streets. I find this exercise grounds me in the place and gives me a stage where the characters can act out their stories. Even Lottie, of The Man for Her, who lives on a farm is anchored in place by the town of Prospect.
The setting of my work in progress is not cooperating. This is a contemporary story with a mature hero/heroine love affair. They are both farmers, so the nearby town is less relevant to the story, but it is relevant to me, the author. Until I can nail down the setting to my satisfaction, I have trouble getting the characters to play their roles. Frequently, I have to backtrack to set them in physical spaces, and figure out how they got there from where they were in the previous scene. The result can be disjointed and awkward. I need to find “home” for these characters.
One of the constraints for my setting is the action of the story. My heroine has to live in an area with a big enough population to support a farm-gate market. However, the characters need to interact on a village scale. That is, lots of local gossip, everyone knowing everyone else’s business, the Women’s Institute, church bazaars, stockyard . . . In truth, my setting problems are the same problems that beset market farmers in real life. Live close enough to a city to sell your produce directly and the price of land is beyond your reach. Live in a more remote area and there aren’t enough local customers to make your business thrive. On-line marketing works for book sales and handcrafts, but you can’t sell fresh carrots through the mail.
I always make my settings fictional but usually based on an actual place. I have a regional place in mind, but, for the purposes of the novel, I need to narrow the scope to a single, farming community with a small town at its heart. And, I need a place name. What about Valleyfield? Valleyview? Both of those names show up in my Canadian atlas. Do they resonate? Many real towns use the founder’s name, like Campbellton, or Chesterville, but those names don’t contribute to the story unless the story concerns Campbells or Chesters. I need something more evocative. Meadows? Leeside? Cedar Creek? Plenty? Sweetland?
What do you think, dear readers? I really need to anchor this story on the land. 
Drop your suggestions into the comments section. If I use one of yours I’ll credit you on the title page of the book.
Views: 185
One of the fundamental aspects of writing a novel is developing a cast of characters to act out the story you want to tell. These characters will come from work/play relationships, hobby groups, proximity . . . and family.
Since family is the first and most significant set of characters we encounter in real life, we would expect family to be paramount in the development of a story. Cinderella’s step-mother starts the ball rolling in that fairy tale. A foolish mother, a gaggle of sisters, and a negligent father create the impetus for Pride and Prejudice, while Heathcliff of Wuthering Heights is a terrible dad in all respects.
Yet, despite the seminal role of family in real life, in fiction, especially romantic fiction, the family is often absent. Why? I have a few suggestions.
My list is not exhaustive nor immutable. Clever writers take those tropes and turn them upside down all the time. I’m reading a Jennifer Crusie book where the heroine not only has a family and a best friend, she goes home to mother when her love-life falls apart. The results are hilarious.
“Barbie” has no progenitors yet the movie maker gave her a great life, a journey or self-discovery and a good ending.
Still, I’d bet most of us want to have a happy family, live in a comfortable home, and know where we came from. We want big family gatherings at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and birthdays, and summers at the lake. We’d like “Leave it to Beaver” and “The Waltons” as the backdrop of our daily lives. That’s why “fiction” is fiction. Given a choice, most of us don’t want to go hungry, or fall prey to criminals, or be homeless, or . . . But fiction thrives on a host of calamities afflicting the main characters. At heart, readers are voyeurs. We peer in at the lives of others and thrill to their adventures, ache for their mistakes, long for them to find true love — all from the comfort of our armchairs.
To all my friends in Canada, I wish you a Happy Thanksgiving with wonderful family gatherings.
Views: 331
Most fiction writers are familiar with the concept of plotter/pantser for getting a story onto the page. The term is shorthand for describing those who write extensive outlines (plotter) organizing each plot point, character development, and twist, before beginning the actual writing of the story. Proponents of this method point to its efficiency. Knowing all the important points ahead of time speeds up the writing and lets the author keep a tight schedule.
The pantser (flying by the seat of your pants) has an idea about a story and plunges into the writing, trusting that the plot, character and surprise twists will appear as she tells the story. Proponents of this method say it keeps the writing fresh and keeps the author engaged as she discovers the story along with the reader. Jo Beverley described this method as “flying into the mists.”
Now I’ve heard a new term for someone setting out to write a novel – gardener. The term is attributed to George R.R. Martin.
“I think there are two types of writers, the architects and the gardeners. The architects plan everything ahead of time, like an architect building a house. . . . The gardeners dig a hole, drop in a seed and water it. . . .― George R. R. Martin
Many writers who consider themselves “gardeners” object to the “drop in a seed and water it” analogy. As we all know, writing is much harder than that. Still, the notion of gardening or growing a story inch by inch is a definite contrast to the plotter who lays out every twist and turn before putting pen to paper.
So, here are five principles I’ve learned as a writer who grows her story and keeps a garden.
Visiting a garden centre last week, the clerk behind the counter said “I love this job. I’ve been here five years and I’m still learning more.
For writers, the learning never stops. Read — books, articles, blogs — about writing. Listen to podcasts. Attend workshops. Read widely. There is always more to learn about the art of storytelling.
In gardening, knowing the acidity of your soil, the amount of sunshine it receives in a day, and the drainage it receives helps you to choose plants that thrive in such conditions.
In fiction, the expectations of the genre are key to a successful career. If you write romance, readers expect a happily-ever-after. If you write mystery, you’d better reveal “who dunnit” by the last page. If you write thrillers, we expect justice to prevail. If you disappoint readers in these basic expectations, they won’t buy your next book and they will discourage others from exploring your list. Know your genre. Understand your readers.
I hate thinning my plants. I sew thickly because that’s the way to ensure good germination . Yet when all those tiny seeds sprout, I have to thin to make room for the remaining plants to mature. Did I mention I really hate doing this? It seems so unfair to take a happy little carrot and throw it on the compost so its brother can have more room. But thinning is necessary to produce healthy plants. Hint: sometimes I’ll transplant the extras to my neighbour’s garden so the chore isn’t so painful.
The same applies to writing.
In the first draft, throw down all your ideas, worry about sorting them later, just get it all on the page. Once you’ve written “the end” it is time to start thinning. Some of your best prose may not advance the story one little bit, so it has to come out. If you can’t bring yourself to throw it on the compost, save it in an “outtakes” file. Saving it will soothe your feelings, but, warn you, my outtakes file is full to bursting and none of that beautiful writing has proven useful in another manuscript. However you do it, you must “thin” your seedlings.
George Martin to the contrary, there is more to gardening than dropping a seed in a hole and adding water. Gardeners plant, water, weed, support, fend off predators, till . . . the list is endless. But gardeners also know that the nature of plants is to grow. Even when we are not in the garden, nature is nudging our little seed to produce a perfect, red, ripe tomato.
Sometimes a writer needs to get out of the way and let the story take shape as it wants to. She needs to trust her muse and her instincts. She needs to let her subconscious drive the story, even when she is on her knees digging out crab grass, or staring aimlessly at the clouds. Those random thoughts and sudden inspirations are gold in the writer’s creativity bank.
Gardeners grow flowers for their beauty. They spend money on heirloom tomato plants that don’t produce enough fruit to repay the purchase price. If a gardener were in it just for the money, she’d put down paving stones and buy her produce at the farmers market.
Writers can’t focus on the money alone. Of course we’d all like to have fat royalty cheques rolling in every month. But if dollars is the only motivation, there are easier and more lucrative ways to earn it. Seek the joy in your writing. Can money match the satisfaction of writing “the end” to a story you’ve created from your own imagination? Hours at the keyboard will make your back ache, your shoulders tighten and your bottom spread. Who would risk that for mere dollars? But many thousands, perhaps millions, of people around the world suffer the pain, and discouragement, and loneliness of a writing life because nothing else can match the joy they feel at spinning a tale and sharing it with others.
prize ribbons bring joy to the gardener
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new school scribbler
Here we are in the first week of school already. How did that happen? Where did summer go? When I decided to take a little holiday from blogging I did not expect the break to be so long. So, since school is in, it’s appropriate to write an assignment on what did on my summer vacation?
A trip “home” to see my brothers and their families shaped summer for me. I have not travelled since before COVID and I haven’t seen my family for at least five years. As my generation is ageing, I knew it was time for an in-person visit. The travelling part of our trip did not go well. Planes were late. Our rental car was a wreck. Medications were lost along the way. We arrived at an unknown house in the middle of the night and the house number was invisible. By that time we were so tired we opened the unlocked door and climbed into the empty bed we could see from the hall. We hoped we were in the right house, but if we weren’t we had a “Goldilocks” story to tell in the morning.
After that, things got better. I saw all of my brothers and many of my nieces, nephews and “greats” — two of whom I had never met. Then there was the thirteen year old I’d last seen as a toddler. What a surprise. Intellectually, I know the children have been growing older. I send them notes on every birthday and have their years of birth recorded so I can keep track. But memory plays tricks. Even though the calendar says ten-year-old, my mental image is of a little one taking her first steps.
At the other end of the scale are my siblings. I’m taken aback when I see the aches and pains of old age in my younger siblings. Even though they have changed, I’m certain I’m the same as ever — until I look in the mirror that is. Then I’m convinced it is one of those trick mirrors from the circus and the image I see is not really what I look like. Delusion, denial and disbelief!
Despite the outward changes, our affection for each other remains undiminished. Our family jokes still resonate. I see my father in my brothers’ faces and they see Mom in mine. It is reassuring to know that our essential selves are still there. Since I’m working on a story with an older heroine, I’ve made notes of my family reunion and called it research. 
The rest of my summer was spent gardening, harvesting, and preserving. I made stuff to take to the Fall Fair. I won some ribbons and got shut out in zinnias. I hear the phrase “next year . . .” echoing in my mind and wonder when I’ll get too old for all this. OTOH, so long as I keep gardening, I’ll always look forward with hope. That’s not a bad ambition.
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It’s bird hatching season in my part of the world. (My friend A.M. Stuart lives in Australia and I always do a double take when she writes of cold, wintry days while I’m picking roses.) Anyway, here in the northern hemisphere the baby birds are hatched and learning to fly. On Sunday we found a tiny sparrow sitting on the grass beside the porch steps. He had no injuries and was breathing fine. We couldn’t find a nest, so we put him into a berry box and set him up on top of the hedge away from feline predators and waited. I was astounded –and indignant–that no parent birds were flying about raising a fuss.
However, when I looked up fledgling sparrows I learned that this is normal behaviour and that the parents could be absent for several hours. We tried not to harass the little fellow but we did check on him three hours later and he had gone. I trust he just flew away and wasn’t snatched by a raptor.
This morning I watched the world’s stupidest bird, a killdeer, bring her two chicks out of a safe, fenced field to sit in the middle of the street with cars whizzing by. There is nothing to eat on the pavement but there they sat for what seemed like ages while I watched anxiously from the window. Eventually they completed the trek from the yellow line to the ditch and then onto our lawn. At last check they were happily pecking about under the apple trees — lots of chickweed there.
All of this is a round about way of saying I’m spending a lot more time watching life in my garden than creating stories at my computer. My excuse is that someone has to keep an eye on the little feathered ones.
But we are officially into summer, the season for lemonade, lazy afternoons and beach reads. I just visited my local library and all their suggestions for beach reads were tragedies. The characters in these novels grew and learned from their heartbreak, but that is not my idea of a gentle few hours.
To counter the darkness, I offer my suggestions for a summer holiday reading.
When it comes to easy reads I find myself drawn to “village” type stories. I’ve mentioned The Chillury Ladies’ Choir on this blog, but there are others. Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple stories are usually set in the village of St. Mary Mead. One of the major appeals of Louise Penny’s Inspector Gamache mysteries is the village of Three Pines with its assortment of eccentrics. Maeve Binchy’s Whitethorn Woods is peopled with interesting characters, but it is the village that is at the heart of the story. Romance author Robyn Carr makes use of the village trope in her Virgin River series. I used the idea of place in my three Prospect books.
As an author, I find returning to a familiar setting deepens the writing. Once I know the layout of the town, the folk who live there and the themes of the times, I am free to concentrate on developing my characters, deepening the love story, and adding in sub-plots for the minor characters of Prospect, B.C.
As a reader I like to return to a setting I’ve enjoyed for the comfort of the place. Even though there are a remarkable number of murders in Three Pines, I love the sense of tranquillity and sanctuary Penny evokes when she describes the spot. I also enjoy learning more about the minor characters and how their lives evolve over the course of eighteen novels.
Of course, these suggestions barely scrape the surface of books I love for summer reading. Susan Wiggs, Nancy Warren, Kathleen Lawless, Jane Austen, Alice Munro, Helen Simonson, Helen Humphreys — all of these writers are engaging, accessible and take the reader on a wonderful adventure — and, in my opinion, qualify as a beach read.
In honour of summer, this blog will publish only sporadically over the next two months.
Happy holiday reading.
Views: 168
My book club is preparing for our last meeting before the summer break. As well as discussing this month’s book, we’ll be generating a list for next season’s reading. We have been doing this since 2000, with mostly the same members. Five of us could be considered charter members. We hover around nine members most years so over half of us have been there from the beginning and are still going strong.
Just for fun, I looked back at our previous reading lists. The very first book we read was the best seller of the time, Harry Potter and the Philosopher Stone. I can’t say it was my favourite of all time, but I’m glad I read it just to know what all the fuss was about.
My favourites from over twenty years of book club include
So, a list of 20 from over 200 books read. Ten percent. It is not that I didn’t enjoy the other books we read. Maybe 10% of them didn’t suit my taste. Usually these were books from the best seller lists. 😕
My personal biases are showing here as many of the books on my list are historicals, or women’s fiction, or Canadian authors. The books listed above are not necessarily the “best” books from our reading list, or the most popular, or the ones destined to become classics. What these books did was make an impression on me. I admit, that when I read over the titles on our old lists, some of the books I’d forgotten entirely, even though I enjoyed reading them at the time.
My list of twenty are books that became touchstones for me. Whenever I hear the word “Coventry” the story of its bombing during WWII instantly springs to mind. “Old Square Toes. . .” is about Sir James Douglas. I can’t drive down Douglas Street in Victoria, without remembering the book. I cannot read Charles Dickens in the same way since I read Parallel Lives. That is how I created the list. If the story, or the writing, or the idea has stuck with me, then the book made my personal list.
My friend, Laura Langston, often blogs about the books she is reading, but she doesn’t say if they have become an integral part of her memory bank.
As my readers group considers our next set of books, I’d love to hear of any book you think should be on our list. A book that left a mark on your heart or your mind. Please list it in the comments to this blog.
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