One Year On
This time last year I was mourning the death of my mother at the age of one hundred. Although the last years of her life were impaired by macular vision and hearing loss, she remained mentally alert. When asked how she was, Mum always replied she was amongst life’s lucky ones because she had a lovely flat in a retirement home, good health compared to many others and sufficient money as well as a loving family. ‘Some people of my age,’ she said, ‘have no one and others have families who scarcely keep in touch.’
Mum’s last birthday was on Boxing Day, 2012. She enjoyed her party and took pleasure in her card from the Queen. On the night of the 28th she left her body in her sleep.
I still miss her very much but am not selfish enough to wish she had lived on suffering from ill health.
My nine year old grandson write this moving tribute to her, which the teacher did not dare to read to the class for fear she would cry.
Death
Why do people have to die?
Why can’t they stay with us forever?
When Mum and Dad told me Great Grandma had died
It felt as though all the happiness had been sucked out of the world by a giant black hole.
My heart had completely deflated.
No one can describe death.
If me and my dad and all the people who came for my great grandma could build a ladder to get her down
We really truly would.
Nobody can describe death.
In the church at the funeral, sadness on everyone’s faces,
My heart was in my boots,
It was like despair had taken over.
It was like the world was black.
Tears filled my eyes as people said all the kind things my great grandma had done.
I fought hard to keep them back.
But hearing all the good things she had done my heart filled like a champion weight lifter pushing it up.
Nobody can describe death.
Death creates a big black hole in you but you can fill it up with happy memories of the person that died.
But still…Nobody can describe death.
When he read it to me over the phone, tears welled up in my eyes, but I restrained my grief, remembering a quotation from the translation of The Bhagavad-Gita As It Is by A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada. “As the embodied soul continually passes, in this body, from boyhood to youth to old age, the soul similarly passes into another body at death.
This year I have achieved so much that my mother would have been pleased with. Three of my novels will be published in 2012. I have had two articles, first Baroness Orczy, and then The Scarlet Pimpernel, and a third, Samuel Pepys, will also be published in 2012 by Vintage Press.
I’m fortunate to be able to have children and grandchildren who I love dearly, to write historical fiction and articles and to garden organically. As Mum advised me, I’m counting my blessings.
My garden’s been very productive this year. From the time the rhubarb was ready to eat to now, when I have herbs and vegetables – Swiss chard, New Zealand Spinach, parsnips, turnips, red and green kale, brussel sprouts, – in the garden - carrots, marrows and pumpkins stored in the garden shed, and home grown veggies and fruit in the freezer, I have been at least 60% self-sufficient. The only disaster was the fate of 40 kilos of home grown potatoes stored in Hessian sacks in the garden shed which mice nibbled. They even nibbled the sacks!
Hopefully, 2012 will be happy for all of us, and I wish you all a healthy and prosperous New Year in which all your dreams come true.
Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist
New releases from MuseItUp.
Tangled Love 27th January 2012.
Sunday’s Child June, 2012.
False Pretences, October 2012
http://www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
Monday, 2 January 2012
Thursday, 29 December 2011
Guest Blog - Bekki Lynn: 'Annie and the Young Master
Annie and the Young Master is an erotic historical fairy tale based on the old folk-tale 'Cap O' Rushes'. This is Bekki's re-interpretation of that intriguing fairy story.Blurb:
Banished from her home, Lillian Basford picked herself up and set out to start a new life. When Samuel Wadkins came along and gave her a real-life taste of what her dreams with him had teased her with, she became torn between her life as it was and what it’d now become. [erotic historical]
ISBN: 978-1-4524-3636-4
Excerpt:
She scanned the room, taking in the gowns of reds, greens and blues, even gold, silver and purples. They made her pastel pink dress feel drab. Stepping back to take her leave, her eyes landed on his. He came toward her and she froze. How was she going to escape?
He stopped before her and bowed. “May I make your acquaintance?” he asked. “My name is Samuel Wadkins.”
Manners led her to curtsy. “Excuse me. I can not stay.”
He held his hand out to her. “I’d be pleased if you danced with me.”
His eyes held hers when they met. Lillian could not deny him. With her hand in his, he led her to the dance floor and laid a hand on her waist. She followed his lead easy enough, having danced with her father many times around the house.
“I’ve not seen you before, have I?” he asked.
“Would it matter?” she asked, her eyes lowered, voice quiet.
“Who’s your family?”
“Many questions. Am I to believe you’re in training for service?” she asked, tilting her head to look up at him.
“Forgive me.”
Samuel’s hand tightened on her waist as he whirled her around the floor, stopping to twirl and dip her. He held left her bent over his arm longer than necessary, his eyes penetrating hers. She worried he might see familiarity in her depths. Part of her wished not, part of her was glad to be near him even if she suffered another cold dip in the water to cool her wanting of his body. His eyes began to darken with desire and she shivered. If he laid her out now on the floor and loved her, the onlookers would be forgotten.
He drew her up, saying, “I feel I’ve seen into your eyes before. They’re such a unique blue, between the sky and the night.”
“It’s the lighting, maybe the event,” she murmured. Her heart pounded from both the dance and the desire steadily rising from being near him and remembering what it had felt like to have her body with his.
“I shall like to dance with you all night.”
She didn’t know what to say, but the change in the music temple set them off on a waltz. They glided around the floor as if they were alone. For her it seemed so. Their eyes watched one another as they whirled among others. If his could be trusted, he saw into her soul, the depths of heart. No laughter came from what he saw, but rather his eyes darkened with the same need she'd seen that morning too many fortnights ago.
When the music ended, he drew her close to him. She felt his breathlessness equal hers, from activity she would have believed had she not seen the growing need spread over his face. Was he so easily taken he couldn’t control himself? This thought pricked her heart, but she wanted to believe somewhere deep within him, a particle of him knew she to be Annie. It could wishful thinking or a way to save her heart for the moment, maybe.
He led her toward a table and handed her a glass of punch before guiding her through the nearest open door. She found herself in the night air, welcoming the breeze.
“I used to wonder about these affairs, but then I was sent off to school before I could attend.”
“Is it everything you imagined?”
“Yes, and no,” he said, closing the respectable distance between them. With a finger, he tipped her chin up. “There’s something about you, familiar.” His head bent near her ear and he whispered, “My body claims to know you in ways it desires.”
She swallowed and took a step backward. “Did your school teach you to be so forward?”
“Pardon my bluntness. I’m not normally brash.” He took her glass and set it down on the nearby table. “Shall we?” he asked, extending his arm.
Relieved to return to the dance floor, she wished for the normalcy the night should have had. Maybe know Samuel in an accepted sense of what's proper.
The chimes of a clock reached her. She listened and knew it to be the hour of ten. She must hurry home. Before the music began once more, she reached up on her toes and whispered in his ear. “Blessings to you, Samuel.” Then she turned to leave, but he pulled her back, holding her to his body.
His mouth claimed hers, releasing a hunger she should have kept back. Rather she drank and gave as she’d done that morning many weeks ago. The quiet of the room disturbed her and she pushed at him to let her go. “I have to go.” She ran from the room.
“Annie, wait!”
She heard him, but went for the buggy sitting beside the nearest carriage rather than wait for it brought up.
“Annie!” he called after her again.
Purchase Bekki's books at:
Smashwords, Kobo, Amazon, Lulu, Diesel, Sony, Barnes and Noble.
Tuesday, 27 December 2011
On the Right Track
Like to read a snowy story? I have a short - and cheap - one night stand story out with Decadent Publishing. If you leave a comment on -
http://decadent1nightstand.blogspot.com/
You might win a free copy.
Always driving through life along the straight and narrow, Hollie wants a break from staying within the lines. She hopes a hookup at 1NightStand with a tall fair-haired guy who’s organized and sensible, likes small-breasted brunettes, and can deal with any crisis life throws at him, will jar her from the mundane path she’s been on.
Except what seemed like the perfect plan when she set off, turns into the worst idea ever as the snow falls thickly. Slipping and sliding, her arms numb from clenching the wheel, she becomes frantic to avoid what’s looming in front of her.
Dark-haired Nick is on his way to a party with hopes of connecting with a busty blonde—assuming he’s even on the right road and can dig himself out of a heap of snow before he freezes solid. Too bad he never plans ahead, no coat and no shovel in the car, and soon he won’t even see a road at all, let alone any vehicle barrelling down it.
When two hearts get lost in a snowstorm of what they think they want, can Madame Eve's magic put them back on the right track?
http://decadent1nightstand.blogspot.com/
You might win a free copy.
Always driving through life along the straight and narrow, Hollie wants a break from staying within the lines. She hopes a hookup at 1NightStand with a tall fair-haired guy who’s organized and sensible, likes small-breasted brunettes, and can deal with any crisis life throws at him, will jar her from the mundane path she’s been on.
Except what seemed like the perfect plan when she set off, turns into the worst idea ever as the snow falls thickly. Slipping and sliding, her arms numb from clenching the wheel, she becomes frantic to avoid what’s looming in front of her.
Dark-haired Nick is on his way to a party with hopes of connecting with a busty blonde—assuming he’s even on the right road and can dig himself out of a heap of snow before he freezes solid. Too bad he never plans ahead, no coat and no shovel in the car, and soon he won’t even see a road at all, let alone any vehicle barrelling down it.
When two hearts get lost in a snowstorm of what they think they want, can Madame Eve's magic put them back on the right track?
Wednesday, 21 December 2011
Don't you long for some summer heat?
This time of year is cold and dismal, which is one reason why we all long for the sharp frost and pristine whiteness of snow to be found in the mountain countries of Europe and America. Often we're scheduled to go skiing right after the festive fortnight - it's usually the cheapest time, for one thing, and for another, we're ready for the break before girding our loins for the next bit of hard slog through January and February, the two most miserable months of the year. This year, for some reason we now cannot recall, we've chosen to delay our snow break until the end of January and I feel we've nothing to look forward to for such a long time.Which makes me feel quite nostalgic for France and the heat of summer holidays. The flower perfumes and the shimmery heat of the Dordogne in July and August are hard to beat. We'll go back this summer, but in the mean time, why not settle down with a copy of SHADOWS and let the warmth of summer wrap around you as you read about Melissa and Rory and their budding relationship? They've gone for a holiday to an old water mill in the Dordogne, and though they love it, they're not so keen to discover they're not the only residents. They're not the sort you can ask to leave, either; they've been there for over two hundred years.
Will Rory and Melissa pull together, or will they let the ghosts drive them apart? Check out the link : http://www.amazon.co.uk/Shadows-ebook/dp/B006JBXJRA and discover for yourself!
Jen Black
Tuesday, 20 December 2011
Kick Starting the Muse
I would be a rich woman if I received a pound each time someone tells me, “I could write a novel.” I usually ask why don’t you write it. More often than not the reply is, “I don’t have time.”
Time is the factor which separates writers from would be writers. There is always something which beckons a writer whether it is a mundane task such as doing the laundry, which I should make a start on right now, or accepting an invitation.
I would be even richer if I received a pound each time someone asks, “Where do you get your ideas from?” When the writing is not going well I’m tempted to smile and reply, “From the supermarket.” Actually, that’s not quite as far fetched as it seems. I’ve often overheard partial conversations that trigger an idea or seen a face which seems to step out of a historical era, a Roman soldier, a Norman Knight, a Mediaeval lady, a Franciscan monk, a Cavalier etc.
Potential material to kick start the muse is all around me and in non fiction, biographies and autobiographies. I am a historical novelist so my muse responds to something I read about times past, which must then translate itself onto the computer.
Stephen King wrote. “Don’t wait for the muse. This isn’t an Ouija board or spirit world we are talking about here, but just another job – like laying pipe or driving long-haul trucks.”
So, how have I trained my muse? I have always understood the importance of having a place to write in which my muse and I can settle down. Once it was at a desk in the corner of the living room, today it is the smallest bedroom in the house which I have converted into an office.
After long hard battles my sometimes reluctant muse now understands that I have a regular writing routine. I rise early in the morning, deal with some e-mails, edit the last few pages of the previous day’s work in progress and then write until 10 or 11 a.m. Later in the day I work from 4 or 5 p.m. to 8 or 9 p.m., and sometimes my muse prompts me at night with an idea.
Anyone can establish a writing routine. The important thing is to write for set periods whether they are long or short. For example, if we write half a page a day we will have finished a novel by the end of the year. A bonus is that the muse will respect this and, as the saying goes, knuckle down to work.
My muse stays with me most of the time. When I’m doing housework, gardening or shopping Muse helps me to plot and plan. Recently, while at the health suite enjoying my time in the Jacuzzi, my muse and I have been considering the sequel to my novel, Sunday’s Child. We have been tossing ideas backwards and forwards, rejecting some and building on others. By the time we settle at the computer or the laptop we will have a plot and theme.
Regardless of whether we are published or unpublished, if we are determined, with the help of our muses, we will find the time and space to write.
Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist
Publisher MuseItUp
Tangled Love January, 2012
Sunday’s Child June 2012
False Pretences October 2012
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
Time is the factor which separates writers from would be writers. There is always something which beckons a writer whether it is a mundane task such as doing the laundry, which I should make a start on right now, or accepting an invitation.
I would be even richer if I received a pound each time someone asks, “Where do you get your ideas from?” When the writing is not going well I’m tempted to smile and reply, “From the supermarket.” Actually, that’s not quite as far fetched as it seems. I’ve often overheard partial conversations that trigger an idea or seen a face which seems to step out of a historical era, a Roman soldier, a Norman Knight, a Mediaeval lady, a Franciscan monk, a Cavalier etc.
Potential material to kick start the muse is all around me and in non fiction, biographies and autobiographies. I am a historical novelist so my muse responds to something I read about times past, which must then translate itself onto the computer.
Stephen King wrote. “Don’t wait for the muse. This isn’t an Ouija board or spirit world we are talking about here, but just another job – like laying pipe or driving long-haul trucks.”
So, how have I trained my muse? I have always understood the importance of having a place to write in which my muse and I can settle down. Once it was at a desk in the corner of the living room, today it is the smallest bedroom in the house which I have converted into an office.
After long hard battles my sometimes reluctant muse now understands that I have a regular writing routine. I rise early in the morning, deal with some e-mails, edit the last few pages of the previous day’s work in progress and then write until 10 or 11 a.m. Later in the day I work from 4 or 5 p.m. to 8 or 9 p.m., and sometimes my muse prompts me at night with an idea.
Anyone can establish a writing routine. The important thing is to write for set periods whether they are long or short. For example, if we write half a page a day we will have finished a novel by the end of the year. A bonus is that the muse will respect this and, as the saying goes, knuckle down to work.
My muse stays with me most of the time. When I’m doing housework, gardening or shopping Muse helps me to plot and plan. Recently, while at the health suite enjoying my time in the Jacuzzi, my muse and I have been considering the sequel to my novel, Sunday’s Child. We have been tossing ideas backwards and forwards, rejecting some and building on others. By the time we settle at the computer or the laptop we will have a plot and theme.
Regardless of whether we are published or unpublished, if we are determined, with the help of our muses, we will find the time and space to write.
Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist
Publisher MuseItUp
Tangled Love January, 2012
Sunday’s Child June 2012
False Pretences October 2012
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
Monday, 19 December 2011
A. Faris - 'Last Christmas'
Last Christmas inhabits the same 'verse, where demons mess about with the timeline, witches and vampires police the timeline, and love involves time paradoxes. The heroine, Nadine, is a time agent who has no time for Christmas. She's a jaded and cynical witch, who works on Christmas Eve. On the trail of a time insurgent, she does not expect to find love instead.
Buylink: http://www.decadentpublishing.com/product_info.php?products_id=415&osCsid=qj8n73s2d3h97eef6rhdhf76f1
Last Christmas is also in a print anthology Yule be Mine Vol. 2, published by Decadent Publishing. (Buylink: http://www.amazon.com/Yule-Be-Mine-Seleste-deLaney/dp/1613330286).
Bio:
A. Faris loves stories, be it in the form of prose, poetry, plays, music, paintings. Above all, she loves stories of romance and love. Not surprising then, to find her writing romance. Since being an author is a full-time job for the lucky few, she also works as a translator, proofreader, teacher and Mum (which also includes in the job description ‘cook’, ‘cleaning lady’, ‘driver’ and ‘handyman’).
You can find her at http://afariswrites.wordpress.com/, where she reflects on narratives, occasionally sidetracking into the minutiae of life and, when she has to, indulges in some self-promotion.
Blurb:
‘Tis the season to be merry…
But not when you’re on the trail of a time insurgent, and facing a demon’s servant at every turn.
For Nadine Venus, Christmas is a jinx. Two deaths in the family and an estrangement, all on the blessed occasion, she spends every Christmas alone since. A knock on her door reveals a mysterious stranger, a stranger who kisses sweet, knows her soul and offers his heart with no reservations.
Not everything is as it seems, however, with more at stake than Nadine thinks…
Excerpt:
A quick look out the spyglass showed a tall stranger, with shoulder-length hair that seemed unable to decide between being blond or brown. He hadn’t set off any of the level ten alarms surrounding her unit so, with a shrug, she opened the door.
She managed a glimpse of darkish eyes before she was hauled against the owner’s hard body. A second of lip contact, then, her instincts kicked in. She shoved, directing magic to her palms to lend her the strength needed to propel the solidly-built man away. He landed on his arse, looking surprised, as if he somehow expected a different response after mauling a stranger.
She watched comprehension dawn and he picked himself up from her front step, rueful now. “I knew it.” He eyed her still glowing hands warily. “Would you put that away if I apologized?”
Still suspicious, she kept her hands up. “Well? Where’s that apology?”
His shoulders shifted in some indeterminate gesture. “Four decades haven’t changed you much, Red.” He dimpled briefly, his eyes flicking to her hair with great affection, which made the simple adjective sound sweet. She told herself to resist the impulse to smooth her hair down.
“No, I don’t suppose it would have. You did tell me time passes differently for us.” He sketched a bow. “I’m sorry, Nadine.”
Her heart skipped a beat at hearing him speak her name. Used to the quirks of time-travel, after all her years with the Agency and now the Order, meeting a stranger who knew her did not surprise her. Meeting a stranger who knew her witch name disquieted her; it implied a degree of intimacy she had never granted anyone.
“May I come in?”
A. Faris
http://afariswrites.wordpress.com/
Sunday, 18 December 2011
Kick Starting the Muse
Kick Starting the Muse
I would be a rich woman if I received a pound each time someone tells me, “I could write a novel.” I usually ask why don’t you write it. More often than not the reply is, “I don’t have time.”
Time is the factor which separates writers from would be writers. There is always something which beckons a writer whether it is a mundane task such as doing the laundry, which I should make a start on right now, or accepting an invitation.
I would be even richer if I received a pound each time someone asks, “Where do you get your ideas from?” When the writing is not going well I’m tempted to smile and reply, “From the supermarket.” Actually, that’s not quite as far fetched as it seems. I’ve often overheard partial conversations that trigger an idea or seen a face which seems to step out of a historical era, a Roman soldier, a Norman Knight, a Mediaeval lady, a Franciscan monk, a Cavalier etc.
Potential material to kick start the muse is all around me and in non fiction, biographies and autobiographies. I am a historical novelist so my muse responds to something I read about times past, which must then translate itself onto the computer.
Stephen King wrote. “Don’t wait for the muse. This isn’t an Ouija board or spirit world we are talking about here, but just another job – like laying pipe or driving long-haul trucks.”
So, how have I trained my muse? I have always understood the importance of having a place to write in which my muse and I can settle down. Once it was at a desk in the corner of the living room, today it is the smallest bedroom in the house which I have converted into an office.
After long hard battles my sometimes reluctant muse now understands that I have a regular writing routine. I rise early in the morning, deal with some e-mails, edit the last few pages of the previous day’s work in progress and then write until 10 or 11 a.m. Later in the day I work from 4 or 5 p.m. to 8 or 9 p.m., and sometimes my muse prompts me at night with an idea.
Anyone can establish a writing routine. The important thing is to write for set periods whether they are long or short. For example, if we write half a page a day we will have finished a novel by the end of the year. A bonus is that the muse will respect this and, as the saying goes, knuckle down to work.
My muse stays with me most of the time. When I’m doing housework, gardening or shopping Muse helps me to plot and plan. Recently, while at the health suite enjoying my time in the Jacuzzi, my muse and I have been considering the sequel to my novel, Sunday’s Child. We have been tossing ideas backwards and forwards, rejecting some and building on others. By the time we settle at the computer or the laptop we will have a plot and theme.
Regardless of whether we are published or unpublished, if we are determined, with the help of our muses, we will find the time and space to write.
Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist
Publisher MuseItUp
Tangled Love January, 2012
Sunday’s Child June 2012
False Pretences October 2012
http://www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
I would be a rich woman if I received a pound each time someone tells me, “I could write a novel.” I usually ask why don’t you write it. More often than not the reply is, “I don’t have time.”
Time is the factor which separates writers from would be writers. There is always something which beckons a writer whether it is a mundane task such as doing the laundry, which I should make a start on right now, or accepting an invitation.
I would be even richer if I received a pound each time someone asks, “Where do you get your ideas from?” When the writing is not going well I’m tempted to smile and reply, “From the supermarket.” Actually, that’s not quite as far fetched as it seems. I’ve often overheard partial conversations that trigger an idea or seen a face which seems to step out of a historical era, a Roman soldier, a Norman Knight, a Mediaeval lady, a Franciscan monk, a Cavalier etc.
Potential material to kick start the muse is all around me and in non fiction, biographies and autobiographies. I am a historical novelist so my muse responds to something I read about times past, which must then translate itself onto the computer.
Stephen King wrote. “Don’t wait for the muse. This isn’t an Ouija board or spirit world we are talking about here, but just another job – like laying pipe or driving long-haul trucks.”
So, how have I trained my muse? I have always understood the importance of having a place to write in which my muse and I can settle down. Once it was at a desk in the corner of the living room, today it is the smallest bedroom in the house which I have converted into an office.
After long hard battles my sometimes reluctant muse now understands that I have a regular writing routine. I rise early in the morning, deal with some e-mails, edit the last few pages of the previous day’s work in progress and then write until 10 or 11 a.m. Later in the day I work from 4 or 5 p.m. to 8 or 9 p.m., and sometimes my muse prompts me at night with an idea.
Anyone can establish a writing routine. The important thing is to write for set periods whether they are long or short. For example, if we write half a page a day we will have finished a novel by the end of the year. A bonus is that the muse will respect this and, as the saying goes, knuckle down to work.
My muse stays with me most of the time. When I’m doing housework, gardening or shopping Muse helps me to plot and plan. Recently, while at the health suite enjoying my time in the Jacuzzi, my muse and I have been considering the sequel to my novel, Sunday’s Child. We have been tossing ideas backwards and forwards, rejecting some and building on others. By the time we settle at the computer or the laptop we will have a plot and theme.
Regardless of whether we are published or unpublished, if we are determined, with the help of our muses, we will find the time and space to write.
Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist
Publisher MuseItUp
Tangled Love January, 2012
Sunday’s Child June 2012
False Pretences October 2012
http://www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
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