The Lady with the Pen – An interview with Inge H Borg


I am delighted to present an interview with Inge H. Borg, a multi-talented lady who writes fascinating novels covering several different genres.  I think an interesting life makes for interesting writing (and considerable charm) and Inge fits this notion.  She graciously agreed to let me interview her:

You are  a lady who knows what she likes and has the Austrian flair for expression and charm.

Diana, thank you for your kind words. Now that my head is bigger, i.e. swelled, I am happy to answer some questions. I really do appreciate my visit with you and your blog-fans here.

In the time that I have known Inge H. Borg (her author’s name) I have learned that she is humorous, wise, understanding, with a spark of mischief.  I also learned, to my surprise, that she was not born speaking English, but learned this terribly difficult language, which she speaks better than I do. 

In the course of our conversations she has let slip facts about her life that hint of travel, of cosmopolitan experiences, with a dash of intrigue.  So let me ask: can you tell us about your life, where you grew up, what you learned and where (schools?  Training?) and what brought you here? 

I am an old Austrian mountain goat (think Heidi), but left home on a long train ride when I was 18 to do the “au pair-thing,” first in London and then in Paris. An opportunity opened up and I worked a year in Moscow at the French Embassy (Talk about intrigues. Perhaps better not.) 

I actually vacationed in Sochi (recently of Olympic fame). This is interesting because I left Russia for a great job at the 1964 Olympic Winter Games in Innsbruck from where I was transferred to Vienna to help prepare for the Tokyo Games; alas, I had to wait for another 8 years before I got there on a tour. 

In Vienna, a new company recognized me as a ‘gypsy’ and sent me to Chicago. After three years, my heels itched and I moved to Boston. Loved that town! However, a former NYC multi-national corporation beckoned and I moved to New Hampshire to join the ranks of “them,” meaning that if you were recognized as one of “them,” the price went up as soon as you entered an antique store 

During another frigid winter, somebody said that I would love San Diego with its good opera and palm trees. That was enough for me…except that my boos cautioned that in California, they were all crazy and young. Heck, I wasn’t even dead yet. Sold my little house, gave the cat away (he rejoined me via American Airlines six months later), and drove my little Opel cross-country. And what a grandiose country it is! 

After I managed to buy a townhouse in La Jolla, that Jewel of the Pacific Coast, I thought I had died and gone to heaven – I also thought I would never leave it. You know what they say! Okay, it was time to come down from my lofty existence, and I searched the Internet for a little house I might like with high ceilings and a garage. Anywhere on a lake. “Anywhere” turned out to be in the Foothills of the Ozarks. I mean, Arkansas. 

Okay. Off I went. This time in an older Volvo and with my old cat. House turned out to be perfect. While I am not right on the lake, I look out over a golfcourse. Alas, once again, it is colder than I had imagined and I dream of warm ocean breezes and tropical islands. Who knows what the future holds. 

Aren’t you sorry now you asked?
Not at all, Inge.  As one who moved a great deal, I admire your adventurous outlook. 

I encountered you for the first time on Goodreads, where you are a Goodreads author.  You had quite a few books to your credit – poetry, humor, intrigue.  Can you tell me about them?
Inge H. Borg’s books, from Mystery to Intrigue to Poetry to heartwarming memories…
 I am glad you touched on some of my books’ ‘traits.’ Probably like most of us, I started out being ‘earnest’ with my outpourings, mainly my poems. 


Then, I discovered that there was this mischievous splint in my soul and I dared to mix some lighter stuff into my writing (and if anyone asks, I will steadfastly deny that any of that stemmed from my own experiences. I will also deny that I sometimes tell a fib). 

How long have you been writing?

I began to concoct fairly good essays rather early mostly to make up for my mathematical ineptitude. (My mother even told the school principal to ‘let it go.’ It was hereditary.) Luckily, the stunned man obliged and let me matriculate with good grades all around.

Tell me about passages in your books of which you are most proud of. 

I feel that the three Prologues for Khamsin, Sirocco and Cataclysm are my most ‘cherished’ passages. They set the mood, introduce foreboding, and even clarify the choice for the titles. But for the sake of not making this interview interminable (people hate that), why don’t I post them separately on my blog. By the way, there is a funny annotation from a native English-speaker after he was told (by me) to leave them alone!

What was it that made you start writing?

You mean, books? Actually, it was a chance suggestion from a colleague at work. I started my painstaking research (no Internet then) in 1991. When I had Khamsin done (all 250,000 words of it), my eager ‘mentor’ offered himself up to be my ‘editor.’ 


The outcome was quite funny (in retrospect). Not to bore you here, I will write another post for my blog as to how that little venture worked out:

 http://devilwinds.blogspot.com/

I have linked to my review of Khamsin.  The happenings of that novel appear in your later ones, most intriguingly.  Tell us about that.

After years of querying agents (surely you remember that painful process), just about two years ago, I happened on an article about Amazon’s self-publishing opportunities. I slashed and burned 100,000 words until I was happy with this Historical Fiction novel about Ancient Egypt. 


The learning curve of figuring out how to format for e-book and print was as steep as my first cover was banal. Luckily, we befriended each other on Goodreads – with the result that you designed a wonderful cover for Khamsin; windswept and foreboding; I can taste the gritty sand between my teeth. You also inserted a winged scarab which I then gave more importance in the novel itself—hence, the Legends of the Winged Scarab series was born; thanks to your inspiration. 


Book 2 – SIROCCO, Storm over Land and Seais a modern-day archaeological thriller that deals with the Golden Tablets from Khamsin. From Cairo to the Kharga Oasis, through the Red Sea. A storm-tossed sailboat in the Med, with action on Cyprus and a devastating sirocco that sweeps over Crete. (Travel, anyone?)

One of the main characters is a powerful fierce Egyptian archaeologist who has vowed to save his country’s heritage from the new Morsi government; and is fired for it. Oh, he always wears a Fedora hat. (Anyone?)

What projects are you working on at the moment in the writing field?

I am working on Book 3 – After the Cataclysm. We now follow those Golden Tablets to an island off Venezuela. I have also given a real ghost ship a new life (they are still looking for it in the Atlantic; I will have a link to its dedicated website in my book). This dystopian novel plays out around 2016 after the eruption of a super-volcano.

You have written about, and worked with, rescued shelter animals and have adopted two beautiful Maine Coon cats. Pasha and Lilliput. Since Pasha  is the more gregarious one, his handsome self is on the cover of his own book.  This obviously plays a large part in your life: tell us about it.

After I retired and moved to Arkansas, I was roped in for an hour or two a week to do volunteer work at a small local animal shelter. You know how that goes.


Within a short time, I had chucked my high heels and silk suits and was scooping you-know-what on a regular basis. My book not only tells of the wonderful cats and dogs we cared for, but of some of my initial hilarious ineptitudes and how I was taught to overcome my lifelong cynophobia; by the dogs, of course. 

Let us pretend that you somehow came into a situation where you could go wherever you wished and do whatever you wished.  Where would you go, and what would you do?

Have a delightful, simply little bungalow in Hana on Maui. There, on my terrace facing the ocean, I would – what else – write the day away. 

If you could go back to any time in history, whether ancient or recent, where would you go?

I often felt that I was born one hundred years too late, and that I would have loved Vienna during the last of its imperial hurrah. Of course, my dream fully assumes that I would have belonged to the privileged few. If, in reality, I would have been a chambermaid or worse, things obviously would not have been so much to my liking. Ah yes, we all have our little illusions about ourselves…I only pray that I do not have them about spewing forth pertinent and interesting words by the thousands.

I am going to be coming by for dinner at your house, Inge.  What would you serve?

How delightful, Diana. I know that you are a good cook. I, however, am an utter disaster in the kitchen. So, if you want meat, I hope you like shoe-leather.

Hm…  Shoe leather…  I think that is called Jerky here.  I like jerky, but perhaps I’ll roll up my sleeves and cook something while you entertain me with sparkling conversation and some Merlot (see below).

I have two menus for dinner guests; after that, understanding friends are either served the same thing, or guests don’t come again. Since one of my menus includes fresh seafood (easy when I lived in San Diego), things are a bit more dicey in Arkansas. Here, the stuff is either frozen or it’s fried catfish. So, I think I’ll serve my failsafe cheese/broccoli soufflé with a nice Merlot (same difficulty goes for wine; this is a dry county and my neighbors and I often lug contraband for the whole street over from the next county); astounding—or  should I say archaic—laws in this day and age. 

But I am sure your blog-fans are not interested my lack of culinary prowess. Hopefully, they’ll want to check out my writing as well as that of other talented Indie authors whom I have featured on my two blogs. 

For my historical fiction, my blog is:

Pasha, that sweet beast, has his own blog where I also feature other authors and their animals.

To toot my own horn, I hope that your readers will check out my various author pages:

Diana, thank you again for having me on your great blog.

It is always a pleasure ‘talking’ with you, Inge, and I think everyone will enjoy the links and the books and getting to know you.  …now, about that Merlot? 

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Khamsin The Devil Wind of the NileKhamsin The Devil Wind of the Nile by Inge H. Borg

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Ancient Egypt is thought of, by many, as the dawn of history. This book takes you to a time that is before history, bringing to life names that we only know from fragments, harking to a rhythm and image that is smoothed and darkened by time. And yet the author makes them human.

This is the very earliest period of dynastic Egypt, a time when the border between history and legend is blurred, when the kings and queens of that land seem to be gods that stepped down from the bowl of the sky and trod the land…

The author states:
At the dawn of the great Egyptian dynasties, before any Pyramids were built and the camel was introduced to the Nile regions, certainly long before the royal title of Pharaoh came into use, Aha rules as the second King of the First Dynasty… H i8s triumph and tragedy plays out centuries before the Greek colonization of the Two Lands… To this day our vague answers are drawn only from relics and mummies of much later dynasties, their cities wrenched from the hot red dust driven into the verdant river valley for fifty days by the Khamsin, the dreaded Devil Wind of the Nile. In Khamsin, the reader is immersed in the life of the fertile Valley of the Nile, as flesh and muscle have been molded back onto those brittle bones…

She molds them well. We meet characters that catch the exotic cadences of the faraway times as we follow the fate of a life conceived in the beginning pages. We watch first one character and then another – the general of the Fourth Army of Amun, who is tender to his faraway wife, lusty with a woman of the desert, and crafty. (And I must remember never to go back to that time and agree to carry an important message…)

And we meet Ramose…

This is a story to savor, written lusciously, with care and enjoyment. I grew to love Ramose, to enjoy his dry wit and his wide-eyed mysticism. The writing is lyrical at times, so rare in a time of utilitarianism, and the Khamsin is in the background, lending its tone to the story.

I enjoyed this – and I rejoice to tell you that Ms. Borg has written another, arising from this but far, far in the future from this story. I think you will enjoy it, too.
View all my reviews

Fifty States of Pray – From Connecticut


My name is Diana Wilder and I am living in the state of Connecticut.   

I saw this blog hop, started by Mark Koopmans  which ties in with a good many things I had been considering over the past year.  I did not see the blog instructions until after I entered the hop.  Residents of Connecticut are sometimes called ‘Nutmegs’.  Drop the ‘megs’ and perhaps you have a good description of me, at least regarding reading instructions first thing in the morning. 

A man I chatted with once, who worked as a counselor, had this to say about past regrets: 




You have to think of your life as a sort of building.  Its construction continues while you live, and each happening adds to it.  Your past is in the lower courses of the building, and no matter how much you may regret it, it is there and without it the building would not be what it is now.  Concentrate on what is being done now: that is all you can do.  And it is enough.

I have dealt with the aftermath of my father’s death over the past year and a half.  His burial was two weeks ago.  During that time I found countless reasons to give thanks that that man had been my father.

Can it be so for us?  That people will count their contact with us as blessings?  I think so, and I am going to do what I can to make it so.  I am also looking at those I deal with using new eyes, seeing who they truly are, what burdens they bear, and how they have touched my life for good.  And if I see no good in an association from the past (I can name two complete scoundrels who seemed to like to wreck people) I will let go any bitterness and pray for them.

It doesn’t take much to spread kindness.  This video (I hope the link works) expresses it very well:
 

I wish everyone on this hop, and everyone who reads the posts, the most blessed and happy of years to come.


http://www.linkytools.com/basic_linky_include.aspx?id=219428

Holiday Best Wishes


I am sending this quick note wish to wish everyone all the best.  Over the past year or so I’ve met so many fascinating, enjoyable and good people, it is only fitting to share good wishes at this time.

 
It’s funny how time seems to telescope as you get older.  My family celebrates Christmas.  I can remember how the month of December seemed to simply crawl by.  I would sneak down to the living room and look at the tree to see if maybe – just maybe – Santa might have misread his calendar.
 
Christmas eve, we left cookies and milk for Santa and a carrot for his reindeer.  Santa always wrote a thank-you note.  His handwriting was a lot like Dad’s. 


I’d go to bed, certain that I was going to stay awake.  I always fell asleep.  Once or twice a blanket that I knew had been folded at the foot of my bed was spread over me.  Obviously, my guardian angel had taken a hand in things.  (Now I realize that I wasn’t far wrong.  I’ll be visiting that particular angel over New Year’s while my sister stays with her over Christmas.)

When the 25th finally dragged around, half the fun was watching my family open the gifts I got them, even as I tore into those I received, myself.  My mother advises me that she isn’t sure why Santa didn’t give me sticks and coal on one or two occasions.

Off to church, singing songs, enjoying the weather, just…happy.  And, looking back, I don’t think the presents had all that much to do with the happiness.

They still don’t.

I wish everyone a happy Christmas, if you celebrate it, and a happy December 25th if you don’t.  I hope 2014 is peaceful, prosperous and full of health and heartsease.


Raising a joyful noise…   Well, at least raising NOISE!


Did I leave anything out?  Oh yes – laughter.  Here is some, with my compliments.  I cobbled it together from a photo I saved and a vintage card.  From me to you: smile!

Celebrating the Small Things – December 20, 2013


It is Friday again, and a time to stop and take stock of the small things we celebrate, often unknowingly.  Thanks to VikLit, who had the idea for this wonderful bl0g hop, we can remind ourselves of the beautiful things in life that make our days just that much more lovely.  You’re welcome to join – head on over to her blog!

Details are at the end of this post.

I remember, years ago, the first time I bought a condolence card for someone.  I write notes now, of course, but I was in 9th grade then (age 13 for non-USA folk) and I wanted to express to someone my regret at her father’s death.  The card showed white roses and it said ‘God gave us memory so that we could enjoy roses in winter’.

Roses in Winter


It was a nice sentiment and a pretty picture.  At that point I had all my grandparents, both my parents, and had never attended a funeral.


The card was well-received.  And it was true.


Memory allows us to enjoy roses on a snowy day.


I realized this anew over the past week.  Memories of happy times, of good parents, of laughter and caring and some scolding – all came back to me.  And (for those who read Proust) I didn’t have to dip a madeleine in my tea…

I was bored, recently, and found myself remembering travels, books, conversations with friends.  In some cases they were better the second (or twelfth) time around.

Relax – it’s just meatloaf with an onion at the ‘wrist’


What would we do without memory?  How would we know where to go?  How would we equip ourselves for each day’s endeavors?  savor a wonderful meal we enjoyed with others? Or avoid the wretched meatloaf served by the corner restaurant?

We wouldn’t even be able to sing along with our favorite songs on the radio.  For our passengers in the car, that might actually be a blessing.

So I am celebrating memory.


(And I am remembering that today is a Friday!  I hope you all have wonderful weekends.)




http://www.linkytools.com/basic_linky_include.aspx?id=179014

My book Covers – Updated


Since Kindle covers are hard to see at the best of times, I’m setting up a gallery of mine in the order of their appearance in my story line:
The City of Refuge,  

the second uploaded was, actually the third one I wrote but the first in the cycle, chronologically.  I recently located its very first appearance in my imagination when I was going through some old notebooks.  I had a notation about an idea for a story – and it grew into The City of Refuge.  One of the main heroes, Lord Nebamun, is one of my all-time favorite characters to write about, and I was delighted to be working with him again in Mourningtide, which was published June 1, 2013.
Mourningtide
This story follows one of the great kings of Egypt during a time of grieving, when he learns too late of his oldest son’s death and has to withdraw to deal with it.  Peace and quiet are hard to find, and Seti, the king, finds himself in a small town of artists on the border of the desert.  At one point he has the pleasure of guarding his own tomb, which is under construction.  More urgently, though, is the fact that marauders are targeting the town.  He trains the town in the art of battle.
Pharaoh’s Son

I hung on to Pharaoh’s Son, the third in the cycle (soon to be the fourth, with its ‘prequel’ set to come out in about a year) for a long time.  It is a lively story, the one I enjoyed writing most, and I had wanted to consider what to do with it.  I concluded that Kindle and paperback were best for it, as for my others.  I ran into my first experience of the delicacy required to handle historical fiction involving characters that actually lived.  In the case of Pharaoh’s Son, the names are real, the characters are my own – though I arrived at some insights into the character of Ramesses II during the course of writing about him.  I now have a strong disclaimer at the beginning of my historical novels.

A Killing Among the Dead
Chronologically, this is the last in the Egyptian cycle – and the first one I wrote.  Egypt was rocked by a scandal of tomb-robbing and desecration in the Valley of the Kings.  It happened toward the end of the XXth Dynasty (the last of the Ramesside dynasties) when Egypt was going into eclipse.  The scandal was far-reaching and implicated some of the great mortuary temples along the Nile.  The story came to life for me, and its main character, Wenatef, is the closest I have come to a true tragic hero in the Greek sense.

The Safeguard 

        Lavinia Wheeler had watched as her world had been torn  apart over the past three years When the Civil War comes to her doorstep, her generosity in opening her house as a hospital brings a change in her life far  beyond any blessing she could have dreamed of or asked for.
          Between dealing with the Yankee-hating townsfolk, her former slaves, a passel of wounded  Yankees, a government that takes a dim view of people who aid the enemy, and a  group of raiders that is ravaging the countryside, Lavinia isn’t sure that she  has time to care for herself, much less fall in love.


I have another Civil War novel underway with the tentative title of Crowfut Gap.  Another, The Bones, has its roots in the Civil War and involves events set in motion then, but it is set in the present.  The Safeguard features two of my ancestors, who appear as Union foragers…

The Orphan’s Tale

 Set in Paris in the autumn of 1834, The Orphan’s Tale is my newest book. 

‘Autumn is beautiful in 1834 Paris. But to Chief Inspector Paul Malet,   raised in a prison by the greatest master criminal in French history  the season’s splendor is overlaid by a sense of gathering danger: something is afoot.

‘When Malet learns that Victoria, England’s young Heiress Apparent, will be traveling to Paris at Christmas for a state visit, all  becomes clear. Her assassination on French soil would shatter the accord between France and England. And war can be a profitable business for those criminals daring enough to mold events to suit their own purposes.’

 This is a trilogy, with the second book set to be released next year.  While the cover for #2 is problematic (do I use the hero’s portrait – in which case I have to find it or the villain’s?  I don’t like the villain.  Decisions, decisions…)  I do have a projected cover for book #3:

Hail and Farewell


I was at Arlington National Cemetery on Friday, honoring my father at his funeral.



Honor Guard at the Caisson.  the riderless horse can be seen at Left

…and they move off to the gravesite.

It was stately, solemn, respectful and celebratory.  Dad would have loved it.  He would have loved it even more if there had been some little children to sit on his lap and have things explained to them, then told a bedtime story.

Let us now sing the praises of famous men, our ancestors in their generations…
There were those who ruled in their kingdoms, and made a name for themselves by their valor…
all these were honored in their generations, and were the pride of their times.

Some of them have left behind a name, so that others declare their praise.
But of others there is no memory; they have perished as though they had never existed;
they have become as though they had never been born, they and their children after them.

But these also were godly men, whose righteous deeds have not been forgotten;
Their offspring will continue forever, and their glory will never be blotted out.
Their bodies are buried in peace, but their name lives on generation after generation.
                                      (from Ecclesiasticus)

Sharing a Little Holiday Joy (flash mob)


This has taken the internet by storm, and it came at a moment this morning when I was feeling overwhelmed.  A good reminder of the Reason for the Season at a time when I, for one, am being bombarded by stories that I find upsetting.

But this reduced me to tears.  I am sharing the beauty.

I’ll be away for a few days.  I hope return to find all well and happy when I return.

Just Plain Ghastly, Awful – Hysterically So


I worked with a fellow named John.  (No fear of him recognizing himself with such a common name.)  I hadn’t thought of him in ages until yesterday when a single word brought him back to my memory and I started grinning.

He was neatly groomed, always impeccable.  Nicely bearded, pleasant to look at – and an complete original.  He sported a statue of the Madonna of Prague in his office and, on the back of the door, had a pinup picture.  Actually, I rather liked him, but you have to take the entire package, and he was an original. 

He loved cigars, loved brandy, loved to speak at length (not, surprisingly, pontificating) on things that were meaningful to him.  He offered to allow me to read his theological treatise on dying (he worked in insurance).  I thanked him with great enthusiasm but said that I had so many projects, I doubted I could give his work the attention it merited.  He beamed and did everything but bow.

Thus John.

He was a wonderful mine of erudite, eloquent gibberish.  I started jotting down his words:


But you have to understand – we have to take the bull by the horns and drive it!

I scrawled that down in a notebook.  And this:

Just because we are taking a muscular stance does not mean that we have to ride that horse to the bitter end and go down with it!

Oh, John, I miss you!  I’m not sure you miss me, though, after that time I zinged you good on the subject of required reports on April Fool’s day.  *sigh* 

Dignity.  Always dignity.

Insecure Writers Support Group, December 4, 2013


Today is the first Wednesday of the month, which means it is IWSG day. The once-a-month blog hop started by Alec Cavanaugh . IWSG = Insecure Writers’ Support Group We share our insecurities and support each other with empathy, sympathy or practical suggestions. 

Check out this bit of writing and see what you think of it:

     Pushing to his feet, The Hero drew a deep breath and lifted an eyebrow, his mouth twisting with disgust as he eyed the scene before him.  The Hero stalked to the doorway.  “So you say,” he growled.  “Speaking for myself only, begging your pardon and hoping that you will take this as it is meant, I must take myself off!  Good day!”

     She clasped her hands at her breast and took a hesitant step toward him.  “Ah, no!” The Heroine  breathed.  You mistook me – or I misspoke – or something – anything at all! – but what does it matter, truly, when you and I have found love and I can indulge The Author’s excessive love of hyphens by putting four in one sentence?”

     His steps dragged to a halt, his eyes lowered; The Heroine  could see the fan of lashes against his brown cheek.  Unwillingly, The Hero turned toward her, raised his eyes, and said, “She has never understood em-dashes and en-dashes…”

     They sighed.

     He spoke again, his voice easing into the thick silence.  “For heaven’s sake, don’t you think The Author has stuffed this passage with enough of those hackneyed, stilted, repetitive word choices that bug her whenever she comes up with them to the point where she ruthlessly blue-pencils them all?  D’you think she might let us go and do something enjoyable now that she’s made her point?”

     “Oh, no,” The Heroine said, lifting her chin.  “She has not yet used a semicolon; that is imperative!”

     “Hey!” The Hero exclaimed.  “Check it out!  She just did!”

     “At last!” The Heroine cried.  “We are free!”

      They turned and looked at the Author. “Well?”

      “Oh, go on with you.,” she said with the hint of a grin. “You’ve made my point for me.”


      This passage contains most of my favorite (for which read ‘deplorable’) habits.  Turns of phrase, punctuation quirks, descriptions.  They’re there.  I have others, but these are the main ones.
      I admit here and now that I have trouble shaking them.  That is, I have no problem taking a blue pencil to them, but they will crop out, do what I may.  (Y’know, Diana, your characters breathe a lot,” said an editor once…) 
      I think most authors have quirks that they have to fight.  Kill them and they come back, rather like the hydra.
      …and that’s another quirk I have: quoting mythology, literary references, things that either make people go glassy-eyed or else run away.
      Vigilance takes care of them, usually, but I’m embarrassed to have them.

 

     I think writers are insecure by nature.  I just picked up Guy Gavriel Kay’s wonderful book, River of Stars, a fantasy of sorts, certainly alternate history set in almost-China of the Soong dynasty.  A scene where a condemned man, dying at the command of a nothing of an emperor because he is loyal to that emperor, is offered a chance to escape and live out his days. 

He thought about his friends, about wind in your face on a galloping horse, about waiting for dawn and battle, the beating of your heart then.  The taste of good wine.  Even bad wine sometimes.  Bamboo woods, the sun through leaves, a bamboo sword.  His mother’s hand in his hair.

   It is beautifully written.  Effortless, with the tinge of poetry.  And of course, I have to compare it to my own efforts.  How can I write that way?  I can’t write that way.  There is no beauty in my writing!  Or so I thought.  After all, if you’re an aspiring writer you have to be not-so-good…don’t you?

Do you?  …well, do you?

I riffled through some things of mine and came upon this scene.  It is toward the end of a story that needs to be written.  The first man nearly betrayed his king.  And now, defeated, he is waiting:

          He stood in the darkened hallway as his son hurried away.
          Heartbeats passed and he heard the change in the sounds around him. A cheer, suppressed, the rumble of wheels, clatter of bronze-clad weapons. More cheers, silenced again.
          A clank…hushed voices. He raised his head, facing the tall, bronze-clad door, and waited.
          A slit in the darkness widened to painful brightness that spilled across the pavement and lapped at his feet. Movement, merely sensed, solidifying into a form and a face that came in from the sun and moved toward him, gaining solidity and substance as it approached.
          He waited.
          The voice seemed to come from the light. “Why?”
          “I do not know.”
          “That is not an answer.” 
          “It is the only one I can give.”
          Silence, poised on a knife-edge of thought. He had the sense that if he chose to wait an eternity to answer, the listener would be there as well, waiting with a terrible patience.
          He raised his eyes, met the dark gaze upon him, and went to his knees. “You have defeated me,” he said. “But grant me this credit: I never tried to fight you.”
          “You considered it and took steps to do so in the teeth of my commands.”
          He lowered his head. “Yes.”
         “And you did not, though you had everything in place to do so. Why?”
          “I could not.”
          The man moved out of the light.  “Why?”
          He could see him clearly now. “You have asked and I have answered,” he said. “Why continue asking?”
          The other folded his arms. “Because I do not like the answers you give, Holiness,” he said. “I want to know how we got to this place from where we were.”
          He looked down at the floor, at his hands clasped on his knees. “End it, Sire,” he said. “I beg you. If you ever held me in regard, end it.”

 

      I am not Guy Gavriel Kay.  Or not just yet, but that isn’t too shabby, considering it’s a first draft.  We don’t read and appreciate our own work nearly enough.  That is a shame, since we are writing to give enjoyment (aren’t we?).  It is not wrong to enjoy your own work or at least, having created something, it is perfectly all right to read it and admit that maybe you do have a spark of ability.

      We’re all a bit insecure in that regard, I guess.  Something to share and work on.

http://www.linkytools.com/basic_linky_include.aspx?id=103850

Review: Hot Flashes & Cold Lemonade


Hot Flashes & Cold LemonadeHot Flashes & Cold Lemonade by Susan Flett Swiderski

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


Wisdom, Tears and Laughter. Pull up a chair!

I encountered this book the first time I read something by Susan Flett Swiderski (who is a very active and enjoyable blogger, among other things). She had a picture of a glass of lemonade with a twist of lemon, with the words ‘Hot flashes & Cold Lemonade’ on it. The photo itself was enjoyable. When I learned that it was actually a book cover, I had to pick up a copy. Being a cautious sort, I checked inside, skipped around the previews, and bought a copy.

The story starts out with a bang. Pearl is driving through her childhood neighborhood, remembering the happy moments, savoring the memories – and suddenly sees her father driving off with a woman who is not her mother. At her childhood home her mother has a couple pithy things to say about her husband and the situation. Reality – the existence of inconvenience, unhappiness and even tragedy – comes crashing down into Pearl’s consciousness. And the story unfolds.

This book is a little like sitting down with someone you enjoy, who can tell a good story and somehow make a laundry list enjoyable. That is not to say that this book is a laugh-fest. it isn’t. It touches a great many serious issues like adultery, aging, disillusionment, but it does so with a smile.

Wisdom and laughter are almost inseparable. Tears are not always tragic. And, sometimes, listening to someone telling a wise, deep story through laughter can stay with you longer than anything you have read to date.

Hot Flashes & Cold Lemonade is skillfully written. The narrative, while very enjoyable, allows the story to move on even as it collects little items to salt in among your consciousness.

I really enjoyed this book and would suggest it to anyone. I hope more are in the works.

…and don’t forget to read the postscript.



View all my reviews