 Someone recently asked me what sparks my creativity. Two major sources of inspiration for me are being with people I love and nature. Last week, I enjoyed a hike through some woods and a day at the coast. I loved it. The hike was fun mostly because I was with our son Bashir, who also writes. We decided that a day in nature would be good for our writing. We headed to a state park. Ridiculously, I hadn’t taken hiking into consideration, although I love it and we were going to a park. Interesting, right? Bashir, of course, hadn't considered not hiking. Of course, he wouldn't. Neither one of us are exactly famous for our sense of direction. We struck off down a path with notebooks, pens, and our phones. No water -- I, genius, didn't think we would spend much time along that particular path. Again, what? I was a little bit of a wreck, to be honest. I was wearing crop pants and no-show socks. Everywhere I looked, I saw poison ivy and poison oak. What had I been thinking? Probably not so much about hiking as sitting beside the river, under the old, live oaks, writing and nibbling on snacks. I have an unreasonable fear of poisonous plants.  Bashir wasn’t bothered in the least. He marched confidently down paths lined with poison ivy while I held my breath. He made his way to scenic overlooks while I hung back doubtfully. He surprised me, too. He knew exactly how to return to the parking lot. He was paying attention to the trails and not focusing solely on groundcover! We finally did get to my lovely setting by the river. A cool breeze blew over the water, leaves drifted from the trees, and we soaked it all in. We talked. We snacked. We wrote. It was beautiful.
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 Happy Medieval Monday! It’s the last week of Daylight Savings – did you know? We have an exciting round of snippets this week from some wonderful books and authors. Check out the Medieval Romance Lovers FB page and enjoy! You can also find us on Twitter, #MedMonFall20. For my nature-themed snipped this week, Deidre and Lachlann are still driving down a pine tree-lined road towards a Christmas tree farm. “Why would I think you’re crazy?” “Sometimes, I think I am. Sometimes, it even seems the better option.” She felt her tension ease. He was going to tell her about his PTSD. “You mean clinically?” she asked gently, keeping her focus on the road ahead. “Yes.” She shook her head. “You’re not.” “But what if I am?” he persisted. “I’ll take care of you.” There was a moment’s silence. “What if I were a fugitive?” She almost hit the brake in the middle of the road. “Are you?” “I’m not sure.” “Excuse me?” “Let’s say I am.” “That’s sort of huge.” She decided to pull off the road before she drove into a pine tree. She parked on the shoulder and turned towards him.  He could never lose her. In the infinite vastness of time – past, present, future, past – he wouldn’t lose her.
Love was eternal. Lachlann had lost his entire family to the plague. He’d lost himself by falling through time. He had to go back, to return to the fourteenth century and try to save his family, save his son. But how could he leave Deidre? He needed her like he needed air. And she needed him. Would she believe him if he told her the truth about himself? Would she reject him since he couldn't stay? Deidre had become a medieval history professor because of a family heirloom -- a medieval drawing of a farmer that she'd loved since childhood. Too bad she couldn't have married him instead of the lying, vicious cheat who had almost ruined her life. Despite the fact that he'd cost her her job, her home, and her relationship with her family, he had failed to destroy her. With a new life in a new city, she'd moved forward. She didn't need anyone, especially another man. But it was impossible to ignore her new neighbor, a gorgeous giant with a strange accent, haunted eyes, and a striking resemblance to her medieval farmer. She wanted to erase the tormented look in his eyes, to make him as happy as he made her. She wished he would confide in her. But was she ready to confide in him? To explain how she’d lost everything – her life, her family, her self-respect – because of her own poor choices? Why did she have the feeling she could lose it all again? Available at Amazon.  Happy Medieval Monday! Better late than never, I hope? This was one of my best Mondays ever, and I've experienced, um... let's just say, "quite a few". But it's never too late to enjoy a little romance, especially medieval romance! Be sure to check out the Medieval Romance Lover's FB page to discover some wonderful books and authors. You can also find us on Twitter, #MedMonFall20. Until last week, I was sharing snippets of conversation as Deidre and Lachlann drove to a Christmas tree farm. We're back on that country road once again. He's trying to prepare her -- and himself -- for the talk they will have in the near future. “We agreed that we both have a lot to tell each other,” she said. “But what I’m going to tell you, what I have to say…” He faltered. “You won’t like it.” Deidre drew a deep breath, her thoughts racing to the DEA agent. Last night, she hadn’t told Lachlann about the strange interview. They’d both been tired, and she hadn’t wanted to ruin the evening. Was he going to confess? “Is it that bad?” she asked. “You might think so. You might think I’m crazy.” Drug smuggling was certainly crazy. Was now the time to tell him about the agent? Slow down, Deidre. First, she should be sure where this was going. Available at Amazon.   “I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.” Anne of Green Gables I agree with Anne! I’ve never tried to grow “fall tomatoes” before and so far, I’m astounded. They’re looking happier than any tomatoes I’ve ever grown. We only have four plants, but they are all bearing fruit. If the harvest is good and the plants continue to do well, I will have to seriously rethink my planting next summer. Vegetables usually die painful deaths by mid-July. I might have to try a new approach. Maybe I'll make the beds cutting gardens filled with heat-tolerant annuals and seasonal herbs. Speaking of weather, we’re looking forward to a cool front this weekend. Daytime temps might be in the 70s. That kind of weather, especially first of the season, is pretty much a major event around here. It definitely is for yours truly. I hope to spend at least one day in the garden. We have a new bed to build and fill with good, organic soil. I hope to also top a few of the beds with the same. Next week, someone is coming out to check and tweak our sprinkler system. Hopefully, by the end of October, I will be free to sow seeds for our cool season garden. And then there are always situations like this:  A gardener's work is never done -- thank goodness!
 Happy Monday? I used to wince at the greeting that was surely an oxymoron. But with Medieval Monday, I know there will be new snippets from wonderful books that will immerse me in romance, history, and fantasy. As if that's not awesome enough, the theme this fall is nature. If you enjoy any of these things, be sure to check out the Medieval Romance Lovers page on Facebook. There you will find authors of medieval romance sharing links to their websites – their beautiful, creative websites -- where they share snippets of their work every Monday. You can also find us on Twitter, #MedMonFall20. This week, I’ve switched from a drive to a Christmas tree farm to a medieval setting. My hero Lachlann has fallen forward in time, but he is every bit a medieval man with a medieval past. Lachlann sat at his desk, seeing not his computer but a broad, empty field, the loch sparkling in the distance. His best friend’s lyrical brogue sounded crystal clear in his memory. ‘“The sun hung midway between heaven and earth, the great loch silver beneath it, as Lachlann An Damh plowed his field.’ That sounds good, don’t you think? Must you do that?” Lachlann stopped in his tracks to glare at Rónán, who sat on a rock, sketching and watching him work. “Must I do what?” “It would be much more picturesque, and my drawing would look a lot better, if you would guide your oxen like any normal tuathanach. But no, you can’t be like other farmers. You have to pull the plow yourself, like one of your beasts.” “At the moment, I have more land than beasts,” grunted Lachlann, straining as he pulled the heavy, wooden plow over a deep rut. “One day, I’ll have more oxen." Available at Amazon.   October in southeast Texas is usually mild-mannered. The days are warm to slightly cool, the air is sometimes dryer. This week, the weather has been beautiful. The garden breathes a sigh of relief -- as does the gardener.  Welcome to Week Three of Medieval Monday! Be sure to check out the Medieval Romance Lovers page on FB to discover some great authors. You can also find us on twitter, #MedMonFall20. As for my snippet this week, Lachlann and Deidre are getting closer to the Christmas tree farm. A lake sparkles in the distance. Lachlann is torn between his feelings for her and what he has to tell her. Lachlann thought he’d been terrified when the earth opened and swallowed him up. He’d been afraid when he’d awoken broken and lost in a strange time and place. But those feelings were nothing compared to the terror that seized him now. What if, when he told her, she rejected him outright? Be it a day or a lifetime, he was going to ruin whatever time they had left together. But he knew that he owed her the truth, especially if he was going to ask for her help. “I have a few questions before I tell you everything.” She raised her eyebrows. “Before?” “Before.” “I’m listening.” “Okay.” He glanced out of his window. A lake shimmered in the distance. “I have a lot to tell you.”  He could never lose her. In the infinite vastness of time – past, present, future, past – he wouldn’t lose her.
Love was eternal. Lachlann had lost his entire family to the plague. He’d lost himself by falling through time. He had to go back, to return to the fourteenth century and try to save his family, save his son. But how could he leave Deidre? He needed her like he needed air. And she needed him. Would she want him if he told her the truth about himself? Would she even believe him? Deidre had never known a man could be as beautiful and tender as Lachlann. She wanted to erase the haunted look in his eyes, to make him as happy as he made her. She wished he would confide in her. But was she ready to confide in him? To explain how she’d lost everything – her life, her family, her self-respect – because of her own poor choices? Why did she have the feeling she could lose it all again? Available at Amazon. "Lord, make me an instrument of your peace." Saint Francis of Assisi Feast October   There are a lot of great books at our fingertips these days – more than ever before. I’ve found myself exploring genres I wouldn’t have considered in the past. I’ve come to realize that classic literature cannot -- should not -- be the standard by which all books and genres are judged. However, there’s a reason certain books and writings are considered classic. Classics often do set standards. They convey timeless messages. They are forever relevant. Lady of Shalott is a poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Written in the mid-1800s, it has been portrayed on stage, in paintings, and performed in countless public and private readings. Author Richard Abbott refers to his book Half Sick of Shadows as “a retelling – and metamorphosis” of Tennyson’s classic which, in turn, was inspired by even older stories and legends. Midway through Half Sick of Shadows, I decided to read Lady of Shalott. Somehow, it was missing from my repertoire, and I was curious. Half Sick of Shadows was so beautiful, haunting, lyrical. How would it compare to the original? The story (for both) centers around a lady confined to a tower. She can’t leave it. She sees everything happening outside the castle walls through a mirror. At first, she is accepting, content, at peace in her tower. But eventually, she grows restless. Tennyson’s version is the much shorter of the two. It’s a poem. Limited in focus, it flows beautifully. Camelot is there, in the background. Sir Lancelot makes an appearance. Half Sick of Shadows isn’t a poem. It’s a novel, albeit a short one, but it flows like poetry. As centuries pass, the lady sleeps and wakes, sleeps and wakes. The descriptions are so evocative and lovely that, while reading, I was as eager and anxious as the lady to see what changes had occurred in the landscape and people while she slept. We become closely acquainted with the lady, with her daily life, her thoughts and feelings. With each waking, she is more aware. The more she learns from the mirror, the more she wants. She yearns to interact with the people she sees, to share in a relationship, until the yearning is unbearable. While Tennyson’s lady clearly lives during King Arthur’s reign, this lady isn’t so bound by time. Her story begins in an earlier century and lasts longer. But there’s something else -- more than that, really, but I’ll tell you just one thing. She has a keyboard. So, bottom line? Lady of Shalott: I’m glad I read it, but I don’t particularly like it. Richard Abbott’s Half Sick of Shadows: I love it and look forward to revisiting it often. It’s unique. It’s timeless and beautiful. It’s a historian’s romantic poem of the ages. It’s a classic. Available at Amazon UK and Amazon.  Welcome to Medieval Monday, Week #2! I am still a crass newbie at this, but I love this time of year and I love medieval romance. If you feel the same, it will be worth your time to check out the Medieval Romance Lovers Page. Highlanders, vikings, French and English noblemen and women – a wonderful treasure box of stories filled with passion, upheaval, and happily-ever-afters. The theme this fall is nature and I’ve decided to continue with Lachlann and Deidre’s trip to a Christmas tree farm in the Piney Woods of Texas. My medieval hero has fallen forward through time, but he is what he is – a medieval, Norse highlander. In this snippet, since Deidre is driving them to the farm, he has time to reflect. The way she touched him… His breathing hitched. Touch. It had been something he’d yearned for all his life, the feeling changing and strengthening as he grew older. Growing up, his family lived in close quarters. They sat close together when they ate. They’d had to if they were all to fit round the table. He’d often slept with his older brothers, his size becoming an obstacle long before his age. His parents and grandparents had been openly affectionate. He’d been used to touch, but Allasan hadn’t. She didn’t like it and had expected him to respect her space. Deidre was always touching him, and it wasn’t always sexual. By day, she showered him with frequent, loving gestures of affection. At night, she snuggled against him as close as she possibly could. And as for sex, her hands were all over him constantly. It grounded him, comforted him, excited him. Her caresses filled a need deep within him. How could he ever leave her? How could he stay?  Available at Amazon.
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Be like the flower, turn your face to the sun. – Gibran Khalil Gibran Archives
October 2020
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