Gold and My Family by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

http://bookswelove.net/authors/donaldson-yarmey-joan/

                                                     Gold and My Family

In the late 1930s my father, Oliver Donaldson, and his brothers, Gib and Albert, made their living by panning for gold on two gold claims on the Salmon River, now called the Salmo River, south of Nelson, British Columbia. In 1980, Dad, my Mom, my husband Mike, our five children, and I went on a holiday to the Salmo River and the site of the former claims. We found the bottom two rows of logs, all that was left of one of the cabins they had lived in and the second cabin, which was still standing, on the other side of the river.

       Under Dad’s direction we all panned the river. The children were quite excited at finding gold to take home. We toured the area seeing the route Dad and his brothers had taken into town to sell their gold and to buy some staples and where they had hunted for deer and picked apples to live on. After the trip, Mike and I had vowed that someday we would return.

       In the spring of 1992, Mike, and I found ourselves preparing for a death and a wedding in our family. At the beginning of that year, Mike’s oldest sister Sallian had been diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer and one of our sons and his fiancé had set a wedding date. For almost five months we visited Sallian, first at home and then in the hospital. I cannot describe the anger, sorrow, and frustration I felt as I watched what the disease was doing to her. She lost weight and the ability to look after herself. During her final month she was hardly more than a skeleton.

       For those same five months I experienced a mother’s delight and happiness as I helped with the marriage plans. I made the cake, watched my son pick out his tuxedo, found my dress, arranged for my hairdo, and planned a mixed shower of friends and family.

       Balancing my life while dealing with the opposing emotions was truly hard.

       Sallian died on May 25 at age 54. On June 27 over 300 people attended the wedding and partied well into the night.

       Like most people it took the death of someone close to me to make me realize how important really living is. I knew Mike and I had to do something adventurous with our lives, something out of the ordinary.

       That summer of 1992 we decided to leave life as we knew it in Spruce Grove, Alberta, and get a gold claim in southern British Columbia, preferably in the Nelson area. We sold our house and quit our jobs. For our new home we bought a used twenty-four foot holiday trailer. I phoned the Minerals Branch of the B.C. government. They sent us a map showing the separate gold claim regions of southern B.C. We picked out three regions, Salmo being one, and I called back requesting more detailed maps of the staked claims in those areas.

     On September 1, we began our journey west. Mike was pulling the holiday trailer with our half-ton truck, which had our all-terrain vehicle in the back. I was in our smaller four-wheel drive pulling a utility trailer with our prospecting equipment and other paraphernalia we thought we might need.

       It took two days of slow travel to reach the Selkirk Motel and Campsite on the side of the highway at Erie, about three kilometres west of the town of Salmo. We set up camp, hooking up to the water and power. We had until freeze-up to find a claim.

       Next morning we were up early and off to the Gold Commissioner’s Office in Nelson where Mike bought a Gold Miner’s Certificate and received two red metal tags, and a topographical map, and was given his recording form. We were hopeful as we headed back to the campsite.

       According to the maps the Salmo River was all staked so over the next two weeks we checked rivers and creeks in the area with little success. But the Salmo River kept calling us and we returned to Dad’s former claim and the remains of his old cabin. Just past it we stood on the bluff looking down on the river as we had done twelve years earlier with my parents and our children. The memories came flooding back: the walk to the river with each child carrying a pie plate to use as a gold pan, finding gold only to discover that we had nothing to put it in, one daughter coming up with the idea of sticking it to bandages, camping near the river.

       But we didn’t have time to linger. We were working against the weather. Mike went over our maps of the Salmo River again and this time noticed that there is a small portion on the curve of the river near the old cabin that was open. Because the claims on either side formed rectangles it was missed by both of them. We found the posts of those claims then hurried to Nelson to confirm that the piece was available. It was.

       It was possible to lay one claim over part of another but the first one had priority for that section enclosed in it. There wasn’t time to stake it that night so we had to wait until morning. We rose early, went out to the river and put one of Mike’s red tag on the post of the claim to the east of ours. Mike took a compass and orange flagging and we began to mark off the distance, tying the flagging to trees as we went. At the end of five hundred yards Mike cut a tree, leaving a stump about three feet high. He squared off the top and I nailed up our final tag with the information scratched by knife point onto it. The claim was five hundred yards by five hundred yards and was called the Donaldson.

       We hurried back to Nelson and handed in the recording form. We were ecstatic. Not only had we located an area on the same river as my father, but we actually had part of his old claim. We went to the river and found a clearing for us to set up camp the next spring. Mike took his gold pan and headed down to the water’s edge.

       I followed and sat on a large rock. As I watched the water flow sedately by, a deep sense of relaxation settled over me, the first I had felt since the beginning of the year. It helped me begin to deal with the fact that I had witnessed Death at work.

       Sallian was the first one in either of our immediate families to die. I had seen the tragedy of death strike my friends but didn’t understand how devastating it could be until it happened to me.

       We spent the winter in our trailer in Vancouver visiting with my sister, my aunt, and some cousins.

       Near the end of March we drove out of Vancouver eager to get back to our claim. We pulled our trailer in and set up a campsite was in the middle of tall pine, birch, spruce, and cedar. We could just barely see the mountain tops to the south. The mountains to the north were higher and made a lovely backdrop to the trees. In the morning I walked through the bush to the river. I sat on a large triangle-shaped rock and watched the water drift by. A partridge drummed in the distance. Birds sang in the trees. I took a deep breath of the cool, fresh air. It was a good place to be.

       It rained just about every day for the next couple of weeks. We sat under the trailer awning and listened to the drops hitting the canvas. Sometimes the awning sagged with the weight of the water and we had to empty it. Sometimes we let it overflow, creating a waterfall.

       Rain or shine it became my morning ritual to go to the river before breakfast. I loved to sit on my rock and stare at the water. Because of the rains and the snowmelt in the mountains the river level was rising each day. Soon I was watching logs and other debris rush past in the torrent. The water dipped over some boulders, and created a backwash when it hit others. The force of the water was mesmerizing.

       One rare sunny day we went for a walk down the road past our camp. I carried my camera. A short distance from camp we saw spring water seeping out of a hole under a large rock in the embankment beside the road. Mike reached in the hole to feel how big it was and found a bottle of wine. It had been opened at one time and then put in there to keep cool. Mike set it back.

       We followed the long, hilly road as it wound its way through trees and past cow pastures. On our way back we encountered a herd of deer. They did some scrambling to get into the bush while I did some scrambling to take pictures. They were faster than me. We reached the spring and Mike decided to set up a water system. He went for a pail and a hose. When he returned he put one end of the green hose into the hole and soon water began to trickle out of the other end. He let it run for a while to clean the hose then filled the pail. Mike carried the pail back to camp. We had fresh water for our camp.

       There was always activity around us. We heard rustling and cracking in the bush and it wasn’t unusual for a deer to trot through the clearing at any time of the day. Birds sang, a woodpecker occasionally tapped on a tree, partridge thumped, and trees scratched and rubbed against each another in the wind. All day and night there was the thundering of the boulders as the whirling river water rolled and bumped them against each other.

       As the days warmed the air became filled with the scents of pine and cedar, sweet wild flowers, and the intertwined fragrances of the bush. Colours sprang up, from pink roses, white dogwood and hazelnuts, and purple and yellow flowers, to the bright green of the ferns. Butterflies flitted throughout the clearing and there was the buzz of flies and mosquitoes and the drone of bees. The few rainy days were humid and the clouds never stayed long. Sometimes the moon at night lit up the clearing and we sat by the camp fire in the soft light.

       With the rains and spring run-off over, the river level began dropping. I sat on my favourite rock and watched the slower, shallower water flow by. The roar was gone. In the peace and tranquillity I was able to think about death. As best I could, I acknowledged that many of the people I loved would probably die before me, though I found it harder to actually accept the fact.

       Mike and I spent time digging dirt from around rocks in the water and working it in the pan. We found enough small flakes to keep us trying.

       But soon our adventure was over and by summer’s end we were back in the real world. We never did find much gold but then, for me, it really wasn’t about the gold.

      Since then I have written two novels about gold and peoples quest for it.

      

Nostalgia by Anita Davison

Nostalgia is defined in the dictionary a wistful desire to return in thought or fact to a past time in one's life, a home or homeland; a sentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place or time.

I feel my venture into historical fiction writing began as ‘a wistful longing’ but more for a time I didn’t personally remember as much as one I immersed myself in voluntarily. I have never lived in Edwardian England but all the images, videos and stories I discovered and devoured with enthusiasm made me want to recreate in my stories.

The pleasant aspects are easy to incorporate, like the beautiful and feminine clothes, gentle manners and a respect for others which sometimes seems lacking in modern day life. Not so much the rudeness of strangers, but the fact a gentleman was expected to act in a certain way.

As a matter of course he would show respect to and be protective of a lady, any lady, not just a relative. He would always doff his hat, offer a seat, or escort a female onto a train etc. Putting aside the fact men regarded women as weak, unreliable creatures with little intellect, their outward behaviour was attractive.

The more cruel aspects of life in the early 20th Century are harder to incorporate into a story without the risk of alienating readers – In one of my books a character who had been universally loved by my readers was suddenly regarded as a heartless, misogynist, condemned for his adherence to the principles of the day.

Then again, an Edwardian man who accepts his wife wants a career and refuses to stay at home all day polishing the floors would have been considered weak and unmanly not to have control of his household. Women didn't run their own lives, even wealthy ones; a difficult view to portray and keep the characters identifiable to a 21st Century audience.

I'm sure I wouldn’t have been so keen to go back to 1900 when I was younger, but now the idea of spending my day in gentle pursuits, arranging dinners and flowers with a bit of embroidery and visits to my dressmaker, taken to and fro by a chauffeur appeals - provided I would be born into the right strata of society to achieve this.

Mind you, my dinner conversation would be frowned on as I would have been an ambassador for politicians like Keir Hardie who advocated a tax be put aside from wages for free schooling for working class children and pensions for the elderly – ideas ridiculed at the time by the ruling class. They would probably have had me bodily removed from Simpson’s dining room for such views – not the main one of course as women weren’t allowed in there – at all.

Perhaps the western world in 2017 is a better place to live after all, especially for women.

I Remember When by Victoria Chatham

For more information GO HERE

I Remember When. . . oh, my. Where do I start? So many memories from my childhood, from any of the many moves we made from one army barracks to another. New homes, new places, new people. Looking back, my life has been a constant flow of change.

But now I live in Canada, and it's this great country's 150th birthday this year. To celebrate that, I decided to pull a memory from my early days in Alberta. There was much here that impressed me, but one of the sights that eluded me was the Northern Lights, about which I heard so much.

They danced all night. If you listen hard, you could hear them. Their colours were so pretty. You would never forget them. It was difficult to believe all I was told. Old timers said they were the result of, or harbingers for, changes in the weather.

I didn't care. I just hadn't seen them. Time went on and the Northern Lights, the Aurora Borealis of legend, remained just that. Living in Calgary, with all the ambient night light, was a pretty sure indicator that I was unlikely to see them in the heart of this great city. However, a late September trip to Fort St. James in British Columbia, changed all that.

We stayed with my late husband's cousin and his family, enjoying their hospitality which extended from their log home into a magnificent back yard backed by a forest of dense fir and spruce trees. The first night there we had a barbecue on the biggest fire-pit I'd ever seen. I am sure it was big enough to have accommodated a whole cow.   I was still at the stage of getting used to the size of everything in Canada.

We ate, drank, talked and, as we did, the afternoon morphed into the evening and before I even knew it, the night was upon us. It may have been the wine I'd been imbibing but the midnight blue sky seemed a deeper, richer colour. I was sure if I could reach out and touch it, it would be as soft and luxuriant as the most expensive cotton velvet. I had never seen so many stars but was able to pick out many including my star sign, the constellation of Virgo, the brightest of which is Spica, often used in navigation.

My husband's cousin pointed out satellites and meteors and talked knowledgeably on the airlines that had routes over that part of the province. Conversation slowed, the fire burned down to a nest of glowing embers, and suddenly bed seemed like a good idea. About to haul myself out of my comfy chair, I happened to look up and could not believe my eyes.

The night had changed from that of celestial slumber to a screen as bright as day. Colours of the rainbow danced their way up and down the sky, shimmering shades of pink and violet, then slashes of

yellow and green. The sky shifted and whirled like a kaleidoscope around me and, instead of being simply being a watcher, I was lifted on that brightly stained tide of motion and became part and parcel of it.

Unaware of the amusement my awe and delight had engendered in the family, I continued to babble goodness-knows-what at shifting shadows around me. A hand on my shoulder urged me to sit forward and pillows miraculously cushioned my back. Someone pulled a toque onto my head and ordered me to put on the mitts plonked in my lap. While I wiggled my fingers into their furry embrace, someone else appeared with a down comforter that was wrapped snuggly around my legs. My husband appeared with an armful of logs and carefully built up the fire. The final touch was a carafe of hot chocolate and a plate of chocolate cookies. After that everyone went to bed and I was on my own with the wonderful palette and panoply that surrounded me.

I have no idea how long I remained awake, watching the constant motion above me, the slip and slide of one colour and pattern into the long glissade of another, as smooth a movement as a skater gliding across a sheet of ice. At some point, I fell into a deep sleep worn out, no doubt, by this new and almost unbelievable experience.

When I finally awoke, thinking that I had had a marvelous psychedelic dream, it slowly came to me that what I had experienced was not a dream. I still had on the toque and mitts. The comforter was still snug around my legs. Someone had stoked the fire flames licked greedily up the new logs. A carafe of hot coffee replaced that of the chocolate and in place of the cookies was a plate of bacon, eggs, and beans.

The welcome my husband's family had shown us was beyond anything I had ever expected but the sheer joy of that Canadian night will never be forgotten.  

I Remember When...by Nancy M Bell

To find out more about this title click here.

The theme for June is "I Remember When..." which seems fitting. Springtime always makes me think of the cottage we had in Ontario in the Kawartha Lakes district. Easter weekend marked the first trip north of the season. It was often still chilly with ice on the lake, but the north country bush never failed to cast its spell over me. To this day I can still hear the crystal bell like chiming of the porous ice pack being pushed by the wind on a sunny April afternoon. Like no music I have heard before or since. Every Friday night we drove two hours from the east part of Toronto, we lived in a smaller community called West Hill. As the season progressed I could watch as week by week the soft pink-green blush of the new born leaves cloaking the rolling hills become lush and green. Barley and wheat sprouted and grew long and graceful, dancing in the wind as we passed. Slowly the fields of green turned golden as August approached. Fields of clover and alfalfa sent their sweet perfume wafting through the summer air before falling to the mower to be stored in hay mows as security against the coming winter.

Most of the happy memories of my childhood revolve around the time spent at the lake. There I met my first boyfriend and received my first kiss at the top of our drive under the maples. My heart yearns to turn back time and relive those soft velvet starlit nights, firey points of lights reflected on the sable water, the bonfire flames leaping highlighting the faces of those gathered there who still live safe in the corners of my heart. Everyone sang, it didn't matter if anyone was off key, it was the unity of the voices lifted together that was important.

I can still name all the little islands in the lake. In front of our first cottage was Blueberry Island, because of course it had tons of blueberry bushes on it, Round Island which was straight out from out small bay topped with tall spruce trees, the small Volcanic Island in Hair Pin Bay, Cat's Island with its 3 big spruce trees, Rocky Island which was more a rocky outcropping from the shore. It was a magical place for a young girl to grow up with.

My early memories even find their way into my poetry. This one is about driving in the dirt road from Norland, Ontario.
Green and Gold Days of Summer

There is a field on the Buller Road
That runs between Norland and the Miner’s Bay Road
In Haliburton County, Ontario
The small pasture sits in the cradle
Of the bend in the road where it meets
The Spar Lake Road.

There used to be a little farm house on the corner
Of the opposite side of the meeting of three roads
From the field.
On Friday and Sunday nights every weekend
In the summer, we would pass this little place

The summer sun would lie like a golden blessing
Across the rumpled grasses where they dreamed
In the slanted light of late evening
Golden dust raised by the tires of passing cars
Hung mistlike in the heavy heat of summer

The scent of crushed grass and sunshine
Came through the open windows
Along with the pungent dry smell of disturbed gravel
Magic seemed to haunt the green and gold pasture

Fairies and other fey creatures danced in the
Slanted rays of the molten setting sun
As you came around a gentle bend and
Down a small incline to where the green and gold
pasture held sway over the encroaching bush

Sometimes a family of deer would be there
Half hidden in the long verdant growth
It holds me enthralled still in memory
Now in the autumn of my years
I can still dream of the Green and Gold
Days of Summer

This one is about my Grandfather (not lake related but he taught me to be kind and to respect all life, not by telling me but by showing me by example)

Grampa P

I was young when you left us
But I remember still your quiet ways
The way you bore the scars of the Great War
That stole your health and your youth
Not to mention your brother, Joe

I have the pencil written letter on crumpled paper
From his captain telling you of his death
You never spoke of it or the war
I can still see you picking shrapnel from your cheek
As you stood at the sink shaving

You taught me by example
That all life is sacred
From you I learned to nurse the sick and wounded
Animal, plant and human
And how to catch a bee in a cloth against the window pane
Carry it to the door and let it fly free again

I was only young when you left us
But thirteen is old enough to remember you
And your ways and your lessons that weren’t meant as lessons
It was just you going about your life
You walk with me still

This one recalls the summers I worked at Rouge Hill Stables near Scarborough, Ontario and the horses I loved.

Forever Young

In my heart I am still sixteen
All grown up, at least in my own mind
My world is taken up with horses
And riding through the Rouge River valley

Though the years have travelled on
I can still name every horse in the barn
In those long ago days
I can still ride the myriad trails
In winter and in summer

I know where the river course has changed
Where the hollow tree stump
Presides over the fairy pool at the end of Mosquito Alley
Where the apple blossoms glow ghostly in the moonlight
Below Spy Glass Hill, even though the Glen Eagles Hotel
No longer perches on the ridge

In my heart I am still that young woman
With the whole world before me, holding destiny in my hands
You, who never knew me then,
See only the lines in my face and the calluses on my hands
Glance past the bright blonde hair now gone silver in the sun

Few of you will look past the limp and the cane
And recognize the spirit unchanged with the passage of the seasons
In my heart I am forever young
And so I will be forever

This one August at the lake.

August Slow
When I was a child
It always seemed that June passed
In impatient anticipation of July
July is remembered
As a jumble of memories and visions
Action filled and swift with movement
Somehow August just happened
One day the frenetic pace of driven July
Just stops
And the lovely slow swim of August begins
Hot August sun baking our bodies
Where we lay supine on the front deck of the boat
Rocked into somnolence by the lake waves
Long August nights draped in black velvet and star fire
Our bonfire blooming brilliant in the night
As we toast marshmallows and taste first love
On the rocks at Green’s Point
Silver dollar August moon turning
The glass smooth lake to ice
And topping the trees with summer snow
The delicious cool touch of deep dark water
That holds us as we float on our backs
And trace the slow circle of the constellations
Liquid silver dripping from our hands
And sluicing over our bare shoulders
While we swim in the silver and black world
Following the argent trail of moonshine
Glittering on the still surface
Our eyes full of moon light silver
And our souls on fire with peace
There is no beginning and no end to us
The water that breathes against our skin
The air that feeds our lungs
The wide black satin of the sky
The star fire and the moon light
The forest that surrounds us
The shine of quartz in the granite rocks
The sleepy presence of fish below us
Harmony and peace cycle through us
In this slow silent August moment

This is written about the lake and the times we sang by the water's edge.

Every weekend we would drive two hours
Through the Friday night sunlight
As the day faded from blue to black
North of Toronto to the lake
We spent long summer evenings fishing
Then going to the dump to look for bears
Later we would gather around the bonfire
The flames reflecting off the black lake water
Family and friends gathered in the circle of light
Setting our marshmallows afire and dousing them in the lake
The mixture of hot marshmallow and cool lake water
Sweet on the tongue
Then, someone, usually Daddy
Would start to sing and the music would echo
Across the still water; hanging in the velvet black
Soon we all joined in, the sweet voiced and the not so much
Daddy always sang Old Shep
And he always cried and so did the rest of us
Wabash Cannonball, Casey Jones, Cheating Heart
So many others that have faded from my memory
Some would say it was a simpler time
But there was nothing simple
About growing up in the Sixties
Or being a teenager in the Seventies
Flower child, hippie
I am woman, hear me roar
Mini skirts, hot pants and granny gowns
It’s cool to have sex. You’ll burn in hell if you have sex.
No, nothing was simple then
It just seems sweeter now to remember
All the faces that were part of the circle in the firelight
More than half of them are gone now
And the rest of us are old
But until we are all gone as well
The circle of firelight will hold us all
In our memories.


My goodness, they should never have gotten me started on this nostalgic bent. I better stop now before I've bored you all to death. LOL

I hope you enjoy my reminiscing. Til next month, stay well, stay happy, stay healthy.

A Day in the Life by A.M.Westerling

When I first saw the title for this month’s post, the first thing that came to mind was The Beatles’ song, A Day in the Life *, from the album Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.

Woke up, fell out of bed,
Dragged a comb across my head  Yes, yes and yes.
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup,  Yes and yes

And looking up I noticed I was late. No. I’m happily retired and too busy to work, thank you very much!

Found my coat and grabbed my hat No and no
Made the bus in seconds flat No
Found my way upstairs and had a smoke, No and no
Somebody spoke and I went into a dream. Yes. I am a writer, after all and inspiration strikes me at the weirdest times. Which is why I always carry a little notebook and pen with me.

Anyway, the first three lines fit my life perfectly, because that’s how I start every morning, I don’t do anything until I’ve had my coffee and toast (I make the toast, my sweetie is the beverage boy as his coffee is way superior to mine!) and read the newspapers. We have three delivered every morning which always leads to a lively discussion. After that, I’m ready to start the rest of my day.

Mondays and Wednesdays, I go to the gym at lunch for spin/yoga/weight group classes, otherwise I will go for a brisk walk in the morning, 2 km or more. Then it’s time to get on with the business of writing. Almost every day, I start with the writing related activities, ie, posts on Facebook and Twitter, updating my website, blog posts, checking emails, etc. etc. That can take up to an hour.

I don’t write every day but if I’m in the middle of a project, I’ll spend at least three days a week at the keyboard after I’m finished with the social media stuff. My daily word count is 1000 words so I’ll write for however long it takes me to reach that. Usually it’s 2 -3 hours and it can be any time of the day, especially the evenings when my husband is out and I have the house to myself.

On days I’m not writing, it’s the usual things we all have to do – laundry, house cleaning, paying bills, running errands. Or you’ll find me out in my garden. 

I really enjoy geraniums and I've discovered if you keep them overwinter, they become the size of small bushes. (Left)

(Right) Hostas in my shade garden. I love the foliage although they can take a bit of a hit during a hail storm. I've been known to run out with sheets to cover them up!

 I also enjoy cooking and trying out new recipes although I will admit I have my favorites and they seem to pop up on the menu frequently. We’re on a bit of a Greek kick right now so lots of Greek salad, youvarlarkia, keftedes, souvlaki and tzatsiki sauce. My favorite recipe for Greek Salad is from Diane Clement's Chef on the Run, Copyright 1982, Sunflower Publications Ltd. 

In the evenings, we’ll either do a bit of shopping or relax with a movie or whatever series that has caught our fancy on Netflix or Masterpiece Theatre on PBS. I adore costume dramas and currently we’re powering our way through Agatha Christie’s Poirot. 

*Songwriters: John Lennon / Paul McCartney

A Day in the Life lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

A Day in the Life by Katherine Pym

 Due to be released July 1, 2017

 Pre-Order Here

Being an author is hard work. Alone work. One sits for hours and transfers their thoughts to paper or the computer. (Don’t forget to save that! Or, don’t let the paper fall to the floor where the dog finds something new to maul.)

Me, if I lived in London during the 17th century

As a result, health problems arise. Stiff neck, sore back. I have to force myself to get up and walk around, return from the 17^th century and look out the window. Go back into my office where the washer and dryer are. Bend over. Try not to gasp when my back twinges. 

While my head’s down at my knees, I think of the main character in Romancing the Stone. 

There’s a pile of laundry at my feet that would rival Mount Rainier. Husband says all he can find are mismatched socks and there are no boxers in his underwear drawer. He’s been wearing the same pair of jeans for a week. The toilet paper is close to the cardboard roll. Should probably change the towels in the bathroom, do the dishes, pick up doggie toys from the floor. Then I hear the garbage truck rolling down the street. Did we put the tubs to the curb? 

The dunking of a scold. Hope she doesn't drown!

I would like to write a parallel universe story, but then I think: I’m living it, now. For hours, I’m in London’s past. Only a jolt of reality swoops me back to the present but here, it’s cold and raining whereas back in the past, the skies were bright with a lovely summer sun filtering through coal smog. 

Blinking, I again see chores to do. But then, I consider doing them equivalent to moving about. Exercise. After all, they say ‘sitting’ is the new smoking. I must keep my body in working order to disappear into the past. Don’t want to turn into stone, with only my eyes moving in the rock face, as if another head – mine – has popped up on Mount Rushmore. 

I let the dog out and follow her since the rain has stopped for a moment. I breathe in the fresh air, so unlike London in the past. The pup runs back to where I stand, her eyes bright. “I’ve done what I needed to do. It’s cold out here.” 

So I let her back in and find my way back to the computer. The laundry is still piled on the floor and the dishes are still in the sink. I sit down to my parallel life in 17^th century London. 

Maybe, I should write a story about the Duchess of Newcastle and her book, the first science-fiction novel ever written, and by a woman, no less. Then, I dismiss the duchess and place my fingers on the keyboard. Soon, I'm lost in 17th century, walking over uneven paving stones or cracked cobbles. Someone in the distance cries, "Sweet tobacco for sale. Fresh from the West Indies. Will keep thee safe from plague and the clap..."

~*~*~*~*~

Many thanks to Wikicommons, Public Domain for the pictures.

A Day in the Glamorous Life of a Writer by Diane Scott Lewis

 

 

Due out in 2018

Here's my typical day. I wake up around seven in the morning, crawl out, stretch and grumble, then hurry to my computer while my personal Barista (a.k.a. my husband) brings me my first cup of coffee. Nirvana!

I go through my millions of emails, most trying to sell me something because I might have purchased an item in the slight ballpark of this item. Especially, it’s books that are pushed in my direction, usually from famous authors already making too much money, so they don't need my help.

 

I critique in my stellar critique groups, (and I appreciate them dearly) and add their critiques to my current WIP. Many give me contradictory suggestions, leaving me so confused—I need another cup of coffee.

 My husband pokes in his head and discusses whether I’m ever going to get out of my pajamas.

 I write on, rush through breakfast, just a protein bar sometimes, since I’m deep in New Brunswick history and don’t wish to leave. I also need to exercise before eating anything, but that’s another story.

 Heading to the kitchen for coffee number three (how dare my Barista have a life of his own) I disparage the dust on my furniture and wish I could afford a maid. When will they invent a self-cleaning house?

 

The dog stares up at me with pleading eyes, and I call to someone-anyone-to take him out.

Back at my computer I surf the web for info on the many cultures that make up New Brunswick. How do I pack these details in without overwhelming the reader? I love my research!

I email with friends, (some I've actually met face-to-face) fellow writers, discussing POV, history, the state of the world. On Facebook I write about how cute my granddaughters are.

It’s afternoon by now and I should eat lunch…and get dressed. On a good day, I manage to do both.

I also write blogs. While trying to add graphics to this one, my computer tells me I don't have the authority to copy the graphics, and to ask the administrator. Clue to computer, I AM the administrator. And I've done this many times before. I Google how to fix the problem; sounds way too complicated and something mechanical might blow up. I'll call the Geeks in the morning. If you see no other graphics: computer won, Diane still scratching her head.

Update: Geeks can't remotely fix the problem. I have to drop my computer off at the far faraway store where they will hoard it for days. How will I survive?

 

The later afternoons are reserved for reading, either research or books for review. Okay, I admit to watching my DVR’d episodes of Law and Order SVU, or anything on PBS.

 If no one is around, I really have to let out the dog.

 Now, mind you, this is a perfect day. On non-perfect days I have to go to doctors’ appointments, renew my driver’s license, pick up drugs at CVS, take the beleaguered dog to the vet, and so on.

 Oh, yes, and give my wonderful husband attention. I’ll make sure he reads this.

I find out from the Geeks that I have to download a new graphics program, mine is too ancient. We'll see if that works on future blogs.

 My chef (who also looks suspiciously like my Husband) serves dinner. He's retired and loves to cook.
 

As night closes in, with a glass of wine, or two, on my dust-covered side table, I think of all the things I need to add to my story the next morning. I'll never get to sleep. The writer’s mind never rests.

For more information on Diane Scott Lewis' books, visit her BWL Author Page.
Or her website: http://www.dianescottlewis.org