The Power of the Written Word

While working on a blog post for my other blog, adkinsandwells.blogspot.com, I realized, anew, just how important words can be. They can bring life. They can tare down. They can change your mood. They can hurt your feelings. Words are powerful.

The subject of that blog post is homeschool. Why do I, obstacles I face and how I overcome. I knew what I wanted to say, but when it came time to write my reasons down, I struggled. It’s one thing to think something; clearly another to put it into words. Now that the article is written, my thoughts, beliefs and values concerning homeschooling seem more solid, valid, real. Before, they were just ideas. Now, they are facts. Which brings me to another writing subject.

What makes a good fiction writer? In my humble opinion, a good fiction writer is one who can make you believe what is not real. If you study history, you might know that the first woman to graduate medical school did so in the middle of the nineteenth century. If you aren’t a student of history, then a good writer could convince you that women have been practicing medicine for centuries before that. As an example, I read a book once whose characters had bionic implants. The author wrote like a scientist, and I’m still not convinced it all was fiction. :-)

The trick is to blur enough fact with fiction to create a whole new world. My novel, “A Moment in Time" is a work of fiction. The castle in the book, Glenrevan does not exist outside the pages of that story. I went online and looked up a few names of Scottish castles, played around with the spelling of things and settled on Glenrevan. Sounds authentic, doesn’t it? That’s what I think makes a good writer, someone who can use their words to create something new.

I keep a diary. When daily life gets a little too crazy, I go write in it. When my thoughts are all written down, I relax and can put those frustrations into perspective, because they are no longer in my head; they are real and on paper…figuratively, anyway.

Well, I’m slowing down, ideas aren’t coming to me as fast, and my mind is wandering. About time to stop all this writing and find something to eat. :-)

Happy Tuesday and be sure and come over to facebook.com/sjwellsauthor and like my page.

Do's and Don'ts in the Kitchen

There is an article floating around the internet that gives a list of do’s and don’ts when it comes to people who are blind. It made the rounds on Facebook a while back. So, in the spirit of that article, here are some important things to remember if you have a blind person who makes herself at home in your kitchen.

1. Do not leave pots and pans sitting on a stovetop with their handles sticking out. The blind person will not see them, and this could results in any number of messes and injuries.
2. Eat what she puts in front of you without asking why the box of pancake mix is on the stove. This could result in learning she thickened your beef stew with it instead of using cornstarch.
3. Do label everything, either in braille or using an electronic system, such as Digit Eyes, an app for iPhones. Failure to label items can result in some very interesting combinations, such as blueberry syrup instead of barbecue sauce on your ribs. Just FYI, this did not happen to me; it happened to a friend of mine.
4. Do inform the person who is blind when you leave an open cup with your drink still in it on their counter. Failure to inform them results in a sticky mess and lots of frustration on the blind person’s part. :-)
5. Do not leave sharp objects, such as knives with their points upward in the drainer. Bloody fingers usually aren’t welcome around food.
6. And, last, but certainly not least, do not move things from where the blind person usually keeps them. A person who is blind cannot rely on their sight to know whether the plastic jug contains milk or sweet tea. The funny part is the sighted child who took a bite of her Fruity Pebbles doused in tea, didn’t even realize it until she had tasted it. Ha! The other funny part was when the man of the house poured the contents of the jug into his gravy mixture, thinking it was milk. So, I suppose these are good do’s and don’ts for sighted folks as well as those who are blind. :)

The truth is mistakes and accidents happen to everyone, no matter if they have a disability or not. Best thing to do is laugh it off and try again. Stuffed peppers don’t come out first time you make them? Figure out what you did wrong and try again. When sweet tea and Fruity Pebbles don’t make a good combination, pour it out and get out a clean bowl and find the real milk jug. Your chocolate peanut butter no bake cookies didn’t set up right? Tell your hubby and kids it’s a chocolate blob and eat it anyway. LOL The kitchen sink is down because it needs worked on? Do your dishes in the bath tub. :-) You accidentally pour a bag of dried beans into your brownie mix instead of chocolate chips? Dump ‘em out and try again.

What ever happens, don’t give up. Never quit trying. Maybe, you’re afraid of the kitchen. Maybe, you think you’re a failure at something else. I still say, don’t give up. Laugh at your mistakes, and keep on keeping on. If you can’t see the humor in your situation, pray about it. Some things just aren’t funny. But, laugh about the ones that are, cry over the ones that aren’t, then get up and try again.

Happy Tuesday. :-)

On Reading

Last week we talked about a cure for writer's block. Writing. Practice was my theme. This week, I’m talking about reading. Reading for pleasure, reading to study the craft of writing, reading to find out what works and what doesn’t.

I have another blog that I haven’t been on since 2013. On that blog, which is a lot of venting my joys and frustrations of being a new homeschool mom, I used to interview new authors. One of the questions I used to ask them was “What’s your favorite kinds of books to read?” I was shocked when most of them replied, “I don’t like to read very much.”

What? Seriously? You don’t like books, but you think you’re a good writer? You don’t like to read, but you desperately want others to read what you’ve written?

Faithful readers, just for the record, I love books. I love to be read to, I love to read braille books, and if I could see, I’d love to read print books. I love to tell stories, write stories, hear stories; I love books.

A doctor doesn’t go to school for several years just because there is nothing else to do; they go to learn. A musician doesn’t listen to music because they are bored; they listen to learn. A writer must read in order to learn.

I used to read solely for pleasure. Now, I often can’t finish a book because they are too predictable. I used to love romances, but now I like several genres. For a time, all I read were Westerns. Now, I’d rather watch Westerns on TV. My favorite authors have changed over the years, my favorite styles of writing have changed, but if there is one thing that has stayed the same, it is characters make the story. If I love your characters, I could care less if you are a terrible writer. :) 

Some favorite characters of mine include: Jamie and Clair from Diana Gabaldon’s “Outlander” series, Conner and Reese from Lori Wick’s “Just Above a Whisper”, Lavinia and Belle from Kathleen Grissom’s “The Kitchen House”, Julia and Phoebe from Lynn Austin’s “Fire by Night”, Cameron and Jade from Kristin Heitzmann’s “Free Fall”, Sam and Amy from Peggy Hoy’s “Classified”, Huck Finn from Mark Twain’s “Adventures of Huckleberry Finn”, Laura Ingalls Wilder from the “Little House” books, Tarzan, who needs no further explanation, Clark and Marty from Janette Oke’s “Love Comes Softly” series and many, many more that will not come to mind just now.

As you can see, the characters are as different as night and day, but there is something about each one of them that leaps off the page. I don’t reread books because I forgot the ending. I reread to spend time with the characters once more. Sometimes, I just get in the mood to be with a particular character, and so I download the audio book and listen away. I have even been known to fast forward through parts of the book just to get to the parts where my characters are the most active.

The books that stick with me are the ones I cannot predict. Recently, I read “her One and Only” by Becky Wade, in which a big football player’s body guard happens to be a woman. It was unpredictable, and I finished it. Another unpredictable book that I would have never read if I had known what it was about before listening was “Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe”. But, I didn’t know anything about it before listening, and I found myself laughing and crying to the extent that I thought I was going to wake up my husband snoring beside me in bed. That book talks about lesbians, women’s issues, love, abuse, aging, crime, and it’s seemingly higgledy-piggledy way of jumping from one character’s head to another and one time period to another was what kept me reading. Heads up, faithful readers, you don’t have to agree with a character’s lifestyle in order to enjoy a story.

My point with all this is that the more one reads, the better one will write. Study your favorites. Don’t mimic them, but take from them what you can use. I try to tell how my characters are feeling through the world around them. Here is an example. This is from one of my current works in progress.

[ After saddling the horse, Cam mounted him and led him out into the fresh, morning air. He was leaning down to close the gate behind him, when he heard a voice from the shadows.

"Mr. Delaney? Uh…Cam?"

He paused and scanned the path to the house.

"Miss Rachel, is that you?"

"Yes. I'm sorry for disturbing you, but I was hoping to have a moment to speak with you in private."

Dismounting, he rested a hand on the top rail of the gate and waited as she approached.

Did Rob know she was out here?

"Where's Rob?"

"He hasn't awakened, yet, but I couldn't sleep, and like I said, I wanted a moment with you."

"What can I do for you?"

She reached the fence and gripped the wood, her hand not far from his. Her blue gaze was direct, but her fingers on the fence rail fidgeted.

"I was wondering if… Well, I hoped there might be a way you could…could talk Rob out of…going. You've known him longer than I, and perhaps he would listen to you if…"

Cam forced his eyes from her face…her oh so expressive face and concentrated on the strands of crimson and violet at the edge of the horizon. The tendrils of color would disappear when the sun rose, but for now they stretched between night and day, linking them, yet holding them back from ever touching.

When he looked back she was biting her lip and clasping her hands together at her waist.]

I am curious what you think I’m trying to say. Feel free to comment.

Another key factor in whether a book is good or not is if the reader can identify with the character. An author might have an excellent book, but if I don’t connect with the characters, I won’t read it. This is the reason there are many different authors in many different genres; people are different and so are characters. You have a voice, and I have a voice, and while those voices might be similar, they will never be the same. They weren’t meant to be the same. If you want to find your voice, read, read read, then pray, pray pray. After that, go write, write, write. :)

Do you want to be a good romance author? Read Romances. Do you want to be a good blogger? Read blogs. Journalist? Read news articles. Suspense? Read suspense. Then, take your own experiences, and use them in your next book.

When all else fails, trust in the Master Storyteller. His book is a bestseller, in case you didn’t know. Go read what He has to say. It will change your life.

A Cure for Writer's Block

A few months ago, a young lady asked me what to do about writer’s block. This was on Facebook, and my first thought was, “I have no idea.” LOL Reason I thought that was I didn’t have writer’s block, and my mind refused to think of what life without writing would look like. Since then, I have thought about it and experienced it, and I believe I have come up with an answer. Here goes. Ready?

I was twelve, and I had just started taking formal piano lessons. My teacher and my mom pushed me to “practice, practice, practice”. Figuring I was pretty good at piano already, I practiced my lesson once or twice, then went my own way and did something interesting. Just as an aside, why are we only interested in something when we feel like we don’t have to do it? In any case, the formal piano lessons stopped, and playing the instrument suddenly became something I wanted to learn. The same happened with the mandolin. I was in high school by this point, and thought if I could play the piano and harmonica, surely mandolin would be easy. Um…yeah, well, like I said, I was a teenager. After a few weeks of sore fingers, I put it away and didn’t pull out my mandolin until a couple of weeks ago. Twenty years makes a big difference.

So, what does this have to do with writing? Everything, because if I want to be good at anything, I have to practice. Baking, singing, playing instruments, writing, walking, crocheting, plug in your own skill. If we want to be good at it, we must put time into it. Time to “buckle down” as Mom used to say.

How does one practice writing? I don’t know about anyone else, but I just jump in with both feet. On January 10, 2016 I started a diary. I didn’t necessarily keep track of daily happenings, but I did write down whatever was on my mind. As the year progressed, I noticed I was writing more on my works of fiction. Then, everything stopped. It was November of 2016, a month when most writers intend to put 50 thousand words down on paper. But, I had nothing. No ideas, no characters talking to me, and I certainly couldn’t think of what to write in my diary. I put all my concentration on homeschooling my girls, spent time in reading my Bible and praying and waited.

Then, mid November, I woke up one day with characters jabbering away in my head. what surprised me was they weren’t the characters of my current work in progress. They were characters of a story I had started way back in 2010. I had fought with that story, writing scene after scene, trying to fit them together to no avail. Finally, in 2012, I gave up and began working on what is now my third published book, 'A Moment in Time'. So, to have these characters back in my head, I was ecstatic. For days I wrote and wrote, ending up with about 35 thousand words before I began to slow down. One particular day, I added over 3 thousand words, which is unheard of for me. I do good to get 15 hundred written in a day. Some time in the second or third week of December, the characters quieted down. They’re still in my head, whispering they have more to say. For now, though, for some unknown reason, they aren’t talking.

Just to set things straight, I am currently working on 2 different novels; one takes place in the Old West, the other takes place during the Civil War. Wait, that’s not quite right. Yes, the one takes place during a battle of the Civil War, but it’s one of those stories within a story, so the other part of it takes place in modern times. Clear as mud?

On top of all that, I’m keeping another diary this year, and working on a collaborative project with my friend, Anita Adkins. She asked me several months ago for any children’s fiction that I might have laying around. I sent her some stuff, and now we’re working together on a textbook for students grades 4 to 12 on Unified English braille. We have a blog that will go live on January 19, 2017, and I’d love it if you could go check us out.

There have been days when I would sit in front of my mac book and beg God for words for my works of fiction. I would put on music from the time period I was writing about, look up articles about what my characters would be doing or wearing or talking about, and do anything else I could think of just to try and make myself write. Let me tell ya, dear readers, nothing works. Only 2 things seem to get me to writing; keeping busy and more writing. Teaching my girls, listening to them read, working out math problems with them, doing the cooking, cleaning, shopping, laundry and writing on other things, something about these activities opens up my mind allowing characters to start jabbering. Crazy, I know, but I’ll take it, and I thank God for it all.

Next week, I plan to write about how to practice writing. In order to get good at something, we need to study it. Now, stop groaning and quit rolling your eyes; it's funner than it sounds. :) So, come back next Tuesday, when I'll talk about reading.

And, there you have it; my cure for writer’s block. Feel free to jump in with your comments, questions and tales of your own. God bless, and keep writing.

Excerpt of "A Moment in Time"

ONE

"Is this the one?"

"Maybe," I breathed.

Surrounded on three sides by steep, unforgiving land, the castle perched atop a cliff overlooking the sea. It was breath taking, and I couldn’t wait to go sit at the outdoor cafe that faced the blue-green water. But, the inside of the castle was what interested me now.

Running my thumb along the tiny key in my  pocket, I silently prayed this castle was the one.

We purchased a ticket and joined a group of tourists as they entered the great hall. There was a rack near the door filled with brochures, and I grabbed one, slipping it in to my bag.

"How many does that make?"

Morgan’s question was low, only I heard it, but still I dipped my head to hide my flaming cheeks.

"Uh…today makes five?"

All collected  in three days, but thankfully she didn’t mention that part.

Instead, she nodded toward the head of the line where a man began pointing out the glass cases filled with tapestries, needle work, old dishes, swords, plaids and other sundry antiques one might find in a Scottish, Medieval castle in the highlands.

The tour guide droned on in a thick Scottish accent I was sure he was not used to speaking in, and like school children my sister and I along with several other Yanks, followed behind, oohing and aahing at everything we saw. But, when we reached the middle of the great hall my heart sank; the stairs were all wrong.

Ahead of me in line two little boys began fighting over a balloon, and as you’d expect, the helium-filled latex could not withstand the argument. With a bang that startled everyone, the carefree toy burst, causing both boys to howl in protest.

Know how you feel, lads, I thought.

A nudge on my back made me glance over my shoulder. Somehow Morgan had ended up behind me, and now she was giving me that look, the look that said, "I know, I know, you’re ready to go because this castle isn’t like the one in your dreams."

Guilt made me ashamed of the way I had been acting; dragging her around, feverishly searching for something that probably didn’t exist in real life. This trip to Scotland was a dream come true for us both, and I needed to get my act together.

Straightening my shoulders, I motioned toward the other folks in our tour group and smiled.

"Look," I said, "he’s going to tell more about that tapestry hanging on the wall. It looks interesting. Go check it out."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Now, go. I’m going over here to have a closer look at the fireplace."

It was a huge affair, and I had no trouble picturing a roaring fire in it, the laird and his family sitting in chairs or on stools before it, hoping to catch some of its warmth. Maybe, nearby, a bard would have been playing a harp and singing.

Without thinking, I reached out a hand and touched the stones. They were cool and smooth from the passing of years, and they were also silent. No humming to warn of impending doom, no distant shouts of battle suggesting a passageway through time. Even so, when a cool draft of air wafted around me, I shivered.

I had heard the tales, just like everyone else. Ghosts and time travelers, Scottish stones and fairies, and like most of the population in the twenty-first century, I didn’t believe any of it.

But, if things like time travel and destiny were not possible, then why the dreams? Why was I searching for a place that, to this point, only existed in my head? Why was just being in the "old country" as my grandparents had called it, not enough?

Frustrated, I dropped my hand and stepped away.

"Bonnie," my sister hissed, "quit that and come on!"

I managed to squeeze back into my spot in line but was given the evil eye by our tour guide. I shrugged and gave him a weak smile, but he huffed at me before turning away.

Well, excuse me; I was only interested in the fireplace. Not like I’m going to come back at night and haul it away.

That was the thing about scheduled guided tours; you had to be on your best behavior, like a kid in school. Sure, they showed you all the neat stuff, and they always told you about the local folklore, any battles the family may have fought in, how loyal or not the castle’s owners had been to one king or another, and it was interesting. But, they really frowned when you asked what was beyond the solid oak doors with signs above them that read "Keep Out!" "Staff only!" "Fire Exit!". The other thing that made tour guides lower their bushy brows at you, was when you slipped beneath one of those rope things they use to corden off an area. I mean, those darkened hallways and black pits in the floor just begged to be explored. Besides, even though this castle wasn’t "the one" I might still learn something interesting.

This particular hole in the floor was square and big enough to lower a person down into. I lagged behind, pretending to study a silver platter on display. No one took notice, and I figure that was because the guide was telling a rousing tale about the time Sir Walter Scott had been a guest here.

When the last person in line made the turn in to another part of the castle, I ducked beneath the cord and got down on my knees at the edge of the opening. Someone had nailed wooden boards around it, probably hoping to keep curious folk like me from falling headlong to their death. I laid a hand on one of these boards and leaned down to try and get a better look. It was so black, I couldn’t see anything, so I took out my flashlight from the depths of my bag and shined its beam down in to the hole.

Empty! Now, how do you like that? The least they could do is leave a skeleton or two chained up down there so I could be properly horrified.

I sighed and put my flashlight away, but I wasn’t fast enough at getting free of the area before ole bushy brows found me.

"Perhaps, Madam," he said, dropping quite a bit of his Scottish accent in favor of a cultured, English one, "you would be more comfortable outside, where you will not be in danger of causing serious injury to your person."

My mouth fell open. Was he throwing me out?

Turns out my hesitation was a mistake. He took it for resistance, and I was escorted out very properly by security, who upon hearing that I planned to have tea at the outdoor caffe, left me to my own devices.

Trying to regain my dignity, I placed an order for tea and scones in Gaelic. It backfired, though, because the teenager behind the counter said, "Sorry, Miss, I dinna have the Gaelic. My granny did, but I never had an ear for it. What would ye be wantin’ today?"

I chose a table off to the side and sat down, turning my back on the castle. From here I had an uninterrupted view of the sea to my right and an open lawn just ahead. Except for the conversations, slide of flip-flops and the scraping of chair legs behind me, I was alone.

The raspberry jam and clotted cream were good, but the scones were dry and hard on the bottom. Disappointed, I scooped the toppings off, ate them and longed to be in Grandma’s kitchen, where no one thought I was crazy and where the scones were always perfect. Slumping in my chair, I picked up the paper cup, took a mouthful of hot tea and allowed it to work its magic.

I grew up on tea and scones, learning to prepare them as well as enjoy them. Scots Gaelic had been the language of our grandparents, and even though we had never been forced to learn the language, we had. Orphaned when we were small, Morgan and I had been taken in by our father’s parents who had come to America after World War II.

Pulling my keys out of my pocket, I laid them on the table and separated them until i found the one Grandma had given me just before she died two years ago. It was tiny and silver and reminded me of the diary I had kept under my pillow when I was a little girl.

"When ye go to Scotland to look for the castle in your dream, take this with ye," Grandma had whispered.

"But, what does it go to?" I had asked.

"Ye will ken it, when ye see it."

"Does it have something to do with the dream?"

"Promise me, Bronwen Catherine."

I had promised, and after Grandma's passing, Morgan and I began saving our money for a trip to Scotland. Now here we were, Morgan still grieving the loss of her husband and I had the key and my imaginary castle and no earthly idea what to do next. The strangest part was even in her pain, Morgan was the one connecting, the one who was keeping it together. I, on the other hand, felt as if the threads that held my life together were unraveling.

"What was that all about?"

At the sound of my sister’s sharp tone, I jumped and sat up straight. Dropping my keys into my bag, I tried to look as if I weren't having a pity party for myself.

"I’m sorry, Gan, I just..."

"You just what, Bonnie?"

"Still dealing with jet lag, I guess. Go get yourself a cup of tea. It’s really good, but don’t order any scones. I think there’s going to be a performance of some type."

I nodded toward the grassy lawn where a group of men were gathering, all of them dressed in full highland regalia.

Morgan gave me a long look, then went to stand in line.

While she was gone, I watched the men. They appeared to be comrades, their expressions care-free, their smiles genuine. Using one of the tables to set their gear on, one man pulled out a folder with papers sticking out of it and  unsheathed a long sword, while another man pulled out a small set of bagpipes. Interested, I leaned forward in my seat. A reenactment, I was sure.

"Have ye seen him?" I heard one of them ask.

"No," another answered.

They scanned the crowd, squinting and shading their eyes, until I too turned to see if I could spot...whoever they were looking for. The odd thing was, when I did see him, I knew he was the one the men were searching for. Of course, if I had glanced down at his attire, it would have been obvious he was one of them, but it wasn’t his clothing that grabbed my attention, it was his eyes. Gray and...filled with...something I couldn’t read. He was wading through the busy crowd, creating a path as he passed.

Rather like Moses parting the Red Sea, I thought.

When he saw me, he stopped, did a double take, gave me a most curious stare, raised a black brow then looked me straight in the eye. Altering his course, he came toward me and made as if to speak, but just then, someone shouted, and it caught his attention. He took a step, waved a hand at me as if to say, "stay there" then joined his friends. Only when he walked away did I notice he was carrying a broad sword.

"Wow, would you look at that!"

I glanced over at where Morgan was pulling out a chair and realized she was staring at my guy, too.

"Nice choice, Bonnie,and that Claymore looks authentic. After the demonstration, you should go introduce yourself."

Okay, so it wasn’t a broadsword but a Claymore. I never said Scottish history was my strong point. Gannie, on the other hand was an authority on all things Scottish; A master’s degree’s worth of knowledge lay hidden behind her sad eyes.

"Yeah, right."

"I’m serious!" she said, flashing me a conspiratorial grin. "I’ll keep watch so you don’t do something you’d regret."

"Gan, I don’t just walk up to strange men and introduce myself."

"Well, why not? He almost stopped to talk to you. After all, how do you think Brian and I met?"

"That was different," I said, heart aching at the sorrow in her expression.

"No it wasn’t. He was working behind the counter in the student center, and I walked right up to him and introduced myself. Then, I asked him what his name was. We talked about how gross the cafeteria’s burgers were and the nice weather, and then he asked me out."

The thing is, things like that just seemed to happen to Morgan. They do not happen to me. I’m not as pretty as my sister, I’m not as up-to-date on social graces as she is and if I didn’t know better, I’d think that when God handed out luck with guys, He somehow forgot I was in line.

Well," I stalled, "you and Brian were meant to be."

I didn’t miss the way she swallowed hard; grief was something that never seemed to go away. After a minute, though, she nodded.

"Yes, Brian and I were meant to be, and I believe God has somebody out there for you."

I managed to keep from snorting, but barely.

"Gan, let’s just sit back, finish our tea and enjoy the performance. Then, we’ll go back to the B and B and go to bed. I’m worn out, I feel too grungy to talk to any men, and besides, I’m not in the market for someone new. Remember what happened the last time?"

"Yeah," she said, a pinched look around her mouth, "I remember Drake, more’s the pity. But, Bonnie, that was last year, and not all men are like that...that idiot. You need to start looking at men like any one of them could be God’s match for you."

"Now you sound like an advertisement for one of those Christian dating sites online. Give it up, Gan. I’m on vacation. Remember?"

Her sigh was so loud, I could hear it over the sound of the piper getting his pipes ready, but she said no more about my nonexistent love life and what I should do about it. With a sigh of my own, I sat back and made an effort to pay attention to all the performers, but it was hard. My eyes kept straying to my gray-eyed stranger.

The performance was impromptu, if the expression on the locals’ faces was any indication, but it was superb. One man read aloud from a paper in Gaelic and then translated in to English. It was a poem written by some long dead Scottish author. Then, the man put aside his papers, grabbed a sword and he and my guy went at each other, as if they truly intended on killing one another. But, as vicious as it looked, I knew it was staged. Still, my mouth watered in spite of my vow to give up on men. After the sword play, a third man began to play a small set of bagpipes, and something inside me came to life. I can’t explain it, really, but when I closed my eyes, I could almost see a regiment of highland clansmen, running toward the battle, Claymores at the ready.

Then, into my revery, someone began to sing. Opening my eyes, I stared at my guy in awe.

"O the summer time is coming and the trees are sweetly bloomin’ and the wild mountain thyme grows around the bloomin’ heather. Will ye go lassie go? And we’ll all go together to pull wild mountain thyme all around the bloomin’ heather. Will ye go lassie go?"

A song Grandma had often sang to Morgan and me at bedtime, and I found myself sitting on the edge of my seat, my whole being focused on the man and his voice.

"I’ll build my love a bower by yon cool crystal fountain and round it I will pile all the flowers o’ the mountain. Will ye go lassie go?"

Before the last notes of the song could fade, I was on my feet, my breath caught somewhere in my throat.

There was the sound of applause in the distance, and then our eyes met across the way. A question lingered in his gaze, a question I wanted to answer. I don’t know what he saw in my own expression, but the corner of his mouth tipped up, and he actually bowed. He straightened and then winked. I opened my mouth, but speech was impossible. Then, the crowd surged forward hiding him from view, and I could have cried at the feeling of bereavement I felt.

"Bonnie? Bronwen? Hello, earth to Bronwen!"

I blinked, and time began again. I turned, and the expression on my sister’s face made me feel about two inches tall.

"Hello!" she said. "Not in the market for someone new? Bonnie, that man was flirting with you!"

Flirting? What planet was she on.

"He wasn’t flirting, Gan. He was just singing."

"To you. Bonnie, everyone could see it. He was looking right at you and singing, and you stood up with this look on your face like...well, like you were ready to go lassie go!"

There was a sudden stinging in the corners of my eyes, and I turned away so she couldn’t see.

"Gan, let’s go."

"You’re not going to wait for him?"

Wait for him? So I could make a fool out of myself all over again? Not hardly.

"No."

"Bronwen!"

But, I ignored her and took off toward where we had parked the car.

Hurry! Find her!

But, she was nowhere in sight. By the time he found somewhere private to exchange his kilt for jeans and put his sword back in his car, the table where she and another woman had been sitting was empty. He ran back to the car park, searching each face for those familiar blue green eyes, but she was gone, and he didn’t even know what kind of vehicle he was looking for.

Of course, it would help if he knew for certain who he was looking for. He had his suspicions, but...

With a prayer in his heart he slid in to his own car and drove away.

Lord, that I might find her!

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From Westerns to Time Travel

What makes a writer go from Westerns to time travel? What makes an author choose Scotland rather than the Wild West? The answer is simply that I like to read different genres. Makes sense that I would write in different genres, too. Right?

What started it all? Well, I suppose it had something to do with the countless episodes of Dr. Who and Star Trek playing on my husband's television set. Maybe, it had something to do with the medieval romance I had been reading. Then again, perhaps I was just looking for an escape from the bad weekend I was having. In any case, I dropped into my desk chair that Saturday morning and began to type. The end result is a Scottish, time travel romance from a Christian's point of view.

I say it was a hard weekend, but in truth, the entire week had been hard. I was set to go to a library to talk about writing and to hopefully sell some books. Instead, I had stayed home that Tuesday because my youngest had a stomach virus. I wish I could have been celebrating Valentine's Day, but instead I was cleaning up gross substances from my children, the floors and the beds. All week my girls were sick. Sleep? What was that? I'm thinking it was 2012, which means my girls were about 6 and 4. So, between sterilizing dishes, washing sheets and mopping floors I was needed on the sofa for some tender loving care. By the time Saturday arrived, I was sleep deprived and ready for a break.

"What if," I thought, "a woman goes to Scotland for vacation and ends up in the 15th century? What if she is held at knife point and threatened with death if she doesn't do as she is told? What if..." And, so it went until two years later I had a story that I call "A Moment in Time."

The hero of "A Moment in Time" is Colin McQueen. He's the laird, and he's got some secrets. He is one of my most favorite characters, and it was so much fun writing about him. Bronwen is the heroine of the story, and in some ways she represents me before I met my husband. Putting these two together was a challenge, but it was fun, too. The spiritual thread throughout the book took some doing, but the Lord blessed me with truths straight from His word, and I can't wait to share it with you. Just hop on over to Amazon and get your copy today.

Plans are in the works to get it put into audio, but that will take a few months. I would appreciate your prayers in the meantime. Happy reading, and have a blessed day.

A Day in the Life

I would like to say that my morning begins at 6 a.m. when the battery powered rooster crows. But, since I think I have that non24-hour sleep disorder, my gettin' up times change from day to day. In any case, I start with a hot cup of caffeine and my open Bible. I read some and pray some and try to listen to what God has to say to me.

Depending on how early I got up, I might play on the internet for a while. Sometimes I gather online materials for school work. Sometimes I hop on Youtube for a song or two. But, more often than I like to admit, I scroll a while on Face Book. :) If I'm not online, then I'm throwing some laundry into the washer.

When my girls are up, we do breakfast. When that is finished, I make sure they brush teeth, make the bed and get the table cleaned off. I wish I had another table or desks for school work. For now, though, the kitchen is our school room.

School starts with Bible and prayer. Then it's usually on to math. Sometimes groans accompany them as they retrieve their math books. They say it is their least favorite subject. It's hard for me to keep my groans from being heard, as math was always one of my least favorite, too. Sometimes, we manage to get language arts in before lunch. Other times, we take a quick munching break, then settle down to parts of speech, reading, writing, or spelling tests. Depending on the day, there's time enough for science, history or both before the afternoon blahs set in. lol

I have been known to nap at the end of a full day, but it doesn't happen often. I have also been known to forget about that load of laundry started that morning until almost bedtime, but we're not going to talk about that.

On some days I cook, and on others the girls prepare a  lot of their own meals using the microwave. On occasion, the man of the house has come home to a hot and ready meal, but this is usually more of a surprise than a regular occurrence. After supper, it's usually relax time then bed.

Every day is different, though. Every subject is different. What one child excels at, the other may struggle with. They are always taking turns setting the pencil aside with claims they just have to go to the bathroom. Then, of course, they need a drink. I'm often heard saying, "Just sit down!" lol

Inevitably, I'll get a text or FB message or a phone call. Depending on who it is and what they want, interruptions can last for a couple of minutes to over an hour. I say that, but there are times when I look forward to talking to someone older than eleven. :) Sometimes, this mama needs to talk to someone about something else besides school and kid related things.

And, then there are the times when I need to go to the grocery store or to a doctor's appointment. On those days, we usually do not get any school work done. Our doctor's office is here in town; close enough to walk and be back shortly. But, a ride to the store involves getting a driver. Drivers are subject to their own wants and needs. Therefore, a trip down the road just might take all day. I long for a day when I can pick up and go without relying on someone else.

What I haven't talked about yet is my writing. Where do I fit it in? Well, here and there. Sometimes, I write during math class, but mostly I need to be aware of what each girl is doing. Sometimes, I write while they are reading. Other times, I either stay up late or get up earlier to have time to put words into my stories.

So, there you have it; a typical day in the life of me. This is how it is Monday through Friday. During the weekends, I try not to think of school. If I do, then I'm usually discouraged by the time Monday morning rolls around. :) On the days we don't get much book work done, I try to work on other things like home chores. There are homeschoolers out there with stricter schedules who would probably have a heart attack when reading about my loose schedule. But, since 2010 when I first began to homeschool, I have learned that everyone is different. Sometimes, I get the best of the day, and other times the day gets the best of me. One day feels almost perfect, while the following day feels like a complete flop. Sometimes, I wonder if I'll ever get some me time, while other days I know for a fact that without these girls, I'd go crazy.

It's difficult being a woman who is blind teaching sighted children, but I'm right where God wants me to be. This life is full of challenges, but it is also full of joy. So, with that said, time to go spread some of that joy on the students who aren't doing what I told them to do a few minutes ago. lol