Intuition

Many thanks to everyone who has asked about the progress of the next installment of my Sorcha’s Children series

Dragons’ Flight will feature Brandubh, the light-hearted member of the shifter clan, and Morag, the fiery red sister. The two of them are finding both adventure and misadventure among the dragons and the humans, and I’m having the time of my life trying to get it all written down *lol*

Yesterday I took a break from writing to do a mock-up of a cover. I’m pretty pleased with the result:

If you haven’t joined the fun already, start with Sorcha’s Heart and follow it up with Dragons’ Choice!

Later!!

The blog is cool

Are you one of those people who plan your entire year in the first few days of January? If so, what happens to those plans? Do you carry through (as much as humanly possible…we all know that life has a way of pushing us off onto unexpected trails), or are you one of the multitude who make resolutions only to forget about them a few days / weeks later?

My writing has forced me to discover that the only way to keep resolutions (I will write x number of books in 2012) is to set daily or weekly goals. A whole year’s worth of ambition is too much to hold onto…it’s like having the proverbial tiger by the tail. You’ve got it, but what do you do with it? How do you keep that worthy goal from tearing you to shreds?

But daily goals, even weekly goals, those I can handle. Sometimes they’re closer to a feral cat than a submissive kitten, but they’re still not as deadly as a tiger!

My solution to keeping myself on track has been to found a goals group. Several like-minded writers who report to each other on an ongoing basis about how we’re proceeding with our work. When life pulls me off track, these fellow trench-dwellers commiserate with me, and then help me find the strength to get writing again. Commiseration without encouragement might *feel* good, but it won’t help you in the long run. You need the “atta girl! You can do it!” comments too.

So, whatever your New Year’s Resolutions may be, I suggest you find at least one someone who will celebrate the victories with you, and commiserate and encourage you when you fall down and skin your knees. Moral support is more important than commonly believed!

It’s 2012. Your dreams are out there. GO GET ‘EM!!

Here’s my holiday gift to you…a flash fiction story with magical realism overtones.

I hope you enjoy Best Wishes.

Best Wishes

Star light, star bright …. Bethany stood in the upper pasture concentrating on her wishing star.

I wish I may, I wish I might …. She screwed her eyes tight shut and focused her plea. I need to be loved, send me someone to love.

The star’s afterimage pulsed behind her eyelids, and she knew her wish had been granted. She exhaled, opened her eyes, then raced across the pasture, anxious to prepare for her love’s arrival.

The meadow grass tugged at her nightgown, trying to hold her in the pasture. She pulled free, climbed the stile and skipped across the stepping stones to the garden gate.

Which elements of her life would change when her love arrived? Surely he’d appreciate the cabin’s solid squareness. Her father built it before she was born, a sturdy structure to shelter his family.

Bethany kept her home neat and well-scrubbed. “Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” Mom used to say as they worked side-by-side. When the sickness took Mom, Bethany continued to clean … a memorial in sweat and toil.

She ticked items from a mental list: the cabin — in good repair; the land — cleared for spring planting; the livestock — fat and healthy. She stopped in the enclosed back stoop, unlaced well-worn boots, and left them on the rag rug beside the door.

The cabin greeted her with warmth and light. Bethany crossed the kitchen, caressing the smooth surface of the scrubbed oak table as she passed. The sunny yellow walls and crisp white curtains cheered her; this would be the heart of their home when he came.

She danced through the living room and into the bathroom that divided the cabin’s two square bedrooms. Bethany studied her face in the mirror above the sink. She saw an unkempt young woman with dark, stringy hair and cool green eyes adrift in a winter-pale face. She grimaced. Her twenty-five-year-old body was lithe and firm — working the small farm provided plenty of exercise, but she’d neglected her looks.

Her attention snagged on rough fingers as she watched them comb through her long, dark hair. She pulled them free and scrutinized them. Work-hardened, chipped nails … but scrupulously clean. She sighed. He’d have to appreciate beauty born of hard work.

Still, she could mitigate her neglect with liberal application of the lotions her mother had loved, and her hair would respond to nightly brushing. Bethany resolved to begin her renewal that very night.

*~*~*

The registered letter lay heavy in Bethany’s hands. An attorney from Denver wanted to meet her at Clark Fork’s City Hall on the 18th — a week before Christmas. The letter mentioned John Henderson’s estate. Bethany hadn’t seen or heard from her older brother in over ten years, but the word “estate” choked her.

Her family no longer existed. Dad died before her twelfth birthday. John left home just before she turned fifteen. Mom passed away a year ago last September, and now a lawyer wanted to talk to her about John’s estate. Was this the reason the star promised her love? Because she had no one left?

The morning of the 18th dawned clear and cold. Bethany dressed with care. Despite his defection, John was her only brother and she loved him. She honored his memory with careful grooming. She chose the suit she’d worn to Mom’s service; a slim black wool skirt with a matching, fitted jacket. She pinned Mom�

I’m a great fan of Isaac Asimov. He was one of my favorite writers during my most impressionable years, so it was a delight to find my way to this reprint of his thoughts on The Star-Spangled Banner.

Many thanks to Classical Values for bringing them to light!

*~*~*

NOTE: The following text was rendered via OCR from a scan of the original article appearing in the March, 1991 issue of Fantasy & Science Fiction, on pages 133-142.

Copyright (c) 1991 by Mercury Press, Inc. Reprinted by permission of F&SF.

SCIENCE

ISAAC ASIMOV

ALL FOUR STANZAS

WHEN I was going to college, the United States was not yet out of the Great Depression, and I knew that I was not going to get a job after I graduated in 1939. The only thing I could do was to go on to graduate work, obtain some advanced degrees, and hope that the situation would have improved by the time I was through.

Now the problem was this: In what subject was I to get my Ph.D. (assuming I could be smart enough to get it and could find the money for tuition — for in those days there was very little in the way of grants to help out the impoverished)?

I was hung up between history and chemistry. I thought I could handle either one, but there was no question in my mind that I was more interested in history.

However, practical reasoning entered the field. I said to myself, “If I get my degree in history, then the chances are that if I get a job at all, I will get one in some small college, far away from my beloved city of New York, and that I will be working for a mere pittance with almost no possibility for advancement. On the other hand” (I continued saying to myself) “if I get my Ph.D. in chemistry, I may get a job with a large research firm for an ample salary with lots of room for advancement and with a chance, even, of winning a Nobel Prize, since I am so brilliant a person.”

So I went for chemistry, and eventually, after a four-year delay because of World War II, I obtained my Ph.D. in chemistry in 1948.

The result? I went to work in 1949 as an instructor in biochemistry in a small medical school, far away from my beloved city of New York. I was working for a mere pittance and with no possibility of advancement. (Nor, I quickly realized, was there any chance at all that I would come closer than a light-year or two to a Nobel Prize.) As I frequently say: “There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will.” (Hamlet said that also, and he may even have said it first.)

Chemistry was a big flop in another way, too. I really didn’t like it and I was no good at it (except for being able to learn an encyclopedia of stuff about it, entirely because I can learn an encyclopedia of stuff about anything). What’s more, as time went on, I grew less and less interested in it and, eventually, in 1958, I was fired simply because I was so uninterested in it that I refused to do any research. (I didn’t mind teaching and writing books about it — I loved that.)

Of course, by that time I had another career, that of writing. In fact, my writing career began even while I was in college, when I was deciding what to do with myself — history or chemistry. Becoming a professional writer was a third option, but one that I didn’t consider for even a split-second.

At the time I made my decision, I had sold a story or two, but never in my wildest imaginings could I possibly have believed I would ever do more than make occasional pin-money out of those stories.

And to tell you the truth, for a long time, I never did more than that. By the time I began my work at the medical school, I had written 68 stories and sold 60 of them in the course of eleven years. That was not too bad considering that the major part of my time had to be spent in my father’

Thanksgiving is almost here, reminding me of the many reasons I have to be thankful.

• My family is happy, healthy, and growing!
• I have a job (no small thing in this economy) working with people I like.
• My books are selling well at Amazon *happy dancing*
• I have a long list of stories I can’t wait to write.

All in all, 2011 has been–and continues to be–a very good year.

Thanksgiving itself will be a little quiet this year. Only one of our children will be in the area, but we’re looking forward to a peaceful visit with him.

That’s the thing about family holidays, they’re all about the memories. The ones you’re currently making, the ones that will be made in the future, and the precious treasure of memories of times and people long past.

The Thanksgivings of my childhood will not come again, but I remember them vividly. Days of preparation…once-a-year culinary delights…the family and extended family arriving…the house crammed with people–some well-known, some virtual strangers…the sights…the smells…the tastes…the excitement of having 25 or 30 family members sitting around the table. Snowy white linens, polished silver, gleaming china. Dad presiding over the meal; Mother flushed with pride (and a little exhausted) at having gotten everything ready–all at the same time. Everyone chatting and laughing and enjoying excellent food and equally good fellowship. Okay, perhaps there were a *few* squabbles among the younger cousins, but who could really fight when pie and ice cream were anticipated?

Yep. It was a different era. Not sure I’d want to go back, but I remember it fondly.

Dinner for three will be just as precious and just as memorable…but very different.

However your holiday shapes up, savor the uniqueness that only 2011 can bring…and treasure the new memory. After all, isn’t that what life is? A chain of sparkling moments tied together by love.

I saw this on Facebook and giggled. I even sent it to my two best friends, figuring they’d appreciate the sentiment. They did.

But alas, this is the childish, uncivilized part of my personality. My inner six-year-old who wants what she wants, when she wants it, with no concern for the feelings of others. Fortunately, in real life, my friends are adults. Especially my best friends.

In one scene in Faery Unexpected, my main character wants a “someone’s gonna get it” friend. Though she doesn’t realize it at the time, she’s very lucky to have Roddy instead:

I walked Lexie to her next class, saw her safely inside and then scampered to my locker. With everyone else in class, the hall was empty. I pulled Roddy from my backpack and set him on the shelf in my locker.

“Okay, Roddy. I know you heard everything. I want you to curse that little witch, Danielle. I want her to be sorry she was ever born. Make her hair fall out, heck, make her teeth fall out. I don’t care what you do; just make her sorry she ever thought of getting Lexie in trouble!”

He blinked his emerald eyes at me and stretched, looking for all the world like a miniature golden cat.

“I’m sorry, my princess,” he said. “I can’t do that.”

“What?” I yelped. “What kind of a guard dragon are you? Why didn’t you protect me from her?”

“I’m an excellent guard dragon,” he said mildly. “I know the difference between danger and youthful indiscretion.”

“You call Danielle trying to get me and Lexie thrown out of school a youthful indiscretion?” I sneered. “Well, I call it war! I command you to curse her.”

“I live to serve, my princess,” he replied. “But I refuse to do that which will cause you harm. You must deal with your rival in the mortal fashion.”

“Great,” I said. “I have a guard dragon who refuses to guard me. Fat lot of help you are.”

I stuffed him back in my bag and stormed off to class.

Claire eventually realizes that Roddy is exactly the kind of guardian she needs, but then that’s the point isn’t it? We don’t always recognize what’s good for us, or what will take our lives in an untenable direction. Friends, good friends, help us step away from our anger / hurt / bitterness and focus on the realities of life.

May you have truly good friends, not just friends who will help you get in trouble. If you’re like me, you do just fine in that department all by yourself!

I love mythology. I’m not picky about where it comes from either. I love Greek myths, stories of the gods and goddesses of ancient Rome, Native American legends, even stories from the outback of Australia. But some of my favorites come from my own ethnic heritage: the Celts. Scotland. Ireland. Wales. Each has its unique set of stories, but I love them all.

Some of my favorite epic fantasy has its roots in the Celtic pantheon. Did you read Susan Cooper’s “The Dark Is Rising” series when you were a kid? How about “The Chronicles of Prydain” by Lloyd Alexander? Who knew an assistant pig keeper would be such an engaging hero?

So, in tribute to my Celtic roots, here are a few of the prominent gods and goddesses of the Welsh pantheon:

1. Arianrhod ~ goddess whose name means “silver wheel” (i.e., the moon)

2. Blodeuwedd ~ a maiden of flowers created to be the wife of Lleu Llaw Gyffes

3. Branwen ~ the daughter of Llyr

4. Dewi ~ god who was represented by the Red Dragon, which has become the emblem of Wales

5. Don ~ mother goddess; the Welsh equivalent of the Irish Danu

6. Gwynn ap Nudd ~ god of the Underworld

7. Lleu Llaw Gyffes ~ god who is the Welsh equivalent of the Irish Lugh

8. Llyr ~ god of the sea

9. Math ap Mathonwy ~ god of sorcery

10. Pryderi ~ son of Pwyll and Rhiannon

11. Pwyll ~ he was the Prince of Dyfed and a hero in the Mabinogion

12. Rhiannon ~ the wife of Pwyll

13. Taliesin ~ a renowned bard whose name means “shining brow”

Don’t the names just make you want to go write a story? They certainly inspire me…so I think I’ll toddle off and write about a dragon-shifter named Brandubh.

Happy imagining!

Writers are always chattering on about their muses like they’re distinct personalities. Another being aside from the writer him/herself. I know. I do it too. I think it’s a way of disassociating myself from the less socially acceptable thoughts and actions that make my writing both interesting and a bit, uhm, unsavory. I mean, I couldn’t have conceived of that steamy sex scene, or that ruthless violence…could I?

Nah. Wasn’t me. It was my MUSE. She made me write it! Uh huh. Yep. A writerly twist on, “the devil made me do it!”

Owning the thoughts and feelings written aside, there is something magical about sitting down at the keyboard with only a vague notion of what you intend to write and emerging an hour of so later with a chapter or so of vivid prose. It’s a totally invigorating experience: Wow! Where did that come from? My characters did WHAT?!

The subconscious mind holds an amazing wealth of trivia, turmoil, and ideas just waiting to leap onto the page. And this simmering cauldron of magic, inspiration, and creativity is what writers fondly refer to as their muse.

Some writers (myself included) go so far as to personify their creative subconscious with a name and a form. Mine is Deirdre, and she’s a wood nymph. I’ve ignored her for years at a time, but I’ve always known who she was and what she looked like because we met when I was a small child.

I was nine or ten years old…on a school field trip to Philbrook Museum of Art in Tulsa, Oklahoma. She wasn’t part of a collection, but a piece of statuary from the days when Philbrook had been a private and very posh residence. I loved her immediately and took every opportunity to visit her as I was growing up in Tulsa. In fact, she was so important to me that even though I’d moved from Tulsa to upstate NY in my teens, when my husband and I were first married I took him to Philbrook for the express purpose of meeting her.

Despite my devotion, I’d never had a decent picture of her…until the wonders of Google Search came into being.

Imagine my delight when I FOUND HER!

I contacted the photographer, Bob Smith, and asked for permission to introduce her to my world. He graciously gave it. So here she is, Deirdre, my muse:

Here’s a more detailed photo, also courtesy of Mr. Smith:

I’ve always thought of her as joy personified. If you ever have the chance, visit Philbrook and get to know her in person. As a piece of art, she’s worth it. But remember, as a MUSE, she’s taken…Deirdre is all mine!

My husband and I went to the final Harry Potter movie yesterday. We even splurged for the 3D version, and my personal opinion is: They Outdid Themselves!

The movie was action-packed, tightly scripted, and well-acted. A fitting farewell to a fantasy world that has intrigued me since I bought the first book. So long, Harry. You’ve been a great hero, and have provided me with countless hours of entertainment.

Actually, my journey with Harry may never end. I’m one of those odd critters known as true fans. I own all of the books. I own all of the movies (or will when this last one comes out). AND I own all of the unabridged audio books.

Yep. Harry, like Frodo before him, exhibit such charm for me that I never tire of their companionship. I listen to the entire series of each work at least twice a year. (Daily commutes are easier when shared with old friends.)

So, back to the original topic: the final movie. It’s worth the money. If you’re wavering on whether or not to bother seeing it (after all, you KNOW how it ends!), take my advice and just go. You won’t be disappointed.

True fan that I am, I can almost quote parts of the novels. Trust me. I know every place these last two movies deviated from The Deathly Hallows. But unlike earlier movies in the series, this one didn’t make me cringe. The deviations were well thought out and made sense. And more importantly, they didn’t harm the character motivation. Tears flowed in all the right places and when the movie ended, the entire audience broke into applause. A rarity in movie theaters. I mean, what’s the point? None of the people who labored to provide that magnificent show are present to accept the praise. But the spontaneous applause confirmed that I hadn’t been the only person completely swept away by the experience.

So. Thank you, J.K. Rowling, for a fabulous story, and thank you, Hollywood, for a great movie-watching experience. Goodbye, Harry. It’s been grand.

Newest grandson

I’m rethinking my website, so things may not be exactly what they should be at the moment *lol* Keep an eye on this site, ’cause I have big plans for the future!

In the meantime, here’s a special cutie to admire:

The dog certainly likes him!

Hope to see you soon

…Leafy Sea Dragons, that is *lol*

If ever there was a creature that demanded a fantasy story, this is it. What could you dream up about this little guy?

THE ROARING TWENTIES
A Romance Treasure Hunt!
20 authors, over 20 prizes, 20 chances to win.

Click here to learn how to enter!

September 16-30

This week’s dog puzzle is my very own bull mastiff, Georgia!

Isn’t she a beauty? Enjoy!

I once had a Dalmatian that was nuts about squirrels. All you had to do was say the word and she’d be bounding over the yard looking for the little critters. We quickly learned to refer to them as “S-Qs”–and enjoyed them on other people’s property. Diamond kept our yard pristine as far as S-Qs were concerned. That and airplanes. We never had an airplane land in our yard while that dog was on duty.

Anyway, in honor of our squirrel-loving Diamond, I give you these two cuties:

Enjoy!

No, I haven’t had a rendezvous with a plastic surgeon. My website had a close encounter with a web design guru *lol*

I’ve been wishing I had the resources to pull my website and my blog into closer visual alignment, but alas…I’m unemployed. So when I won a website audit in a contest over the summer I was over the moon! I didn’t really expect the designer to help me do a makeover as part of the audit, but she did! She gave me a few pointers about things that needed tweaking, and then graciously created the background I needed for my site.

I did the physical labor…pulling it all together in Dreamweaver…but without her guidance and that new background, nothing would have happened. Thank you, Ella! You’re a peach!

The rest of you, go appreciate the nice congruity between this blog and my main Flights of Fantasy site!

Cool, huh?

In honor of Fang, Hagrid’s faithful (albeit cowardly) dog in the Harry Potter series, I give you this handsome fellow:

Is that not a face to love? Of course, I’m partial to the mastiff breeds, since my own Georgia is a bull mastiff.

Times are in comments. Enjoy!!

THE ROARING TWENTIES
A Romance Treasure Hunt!
20 authors, over 20 prizes, 20 chances to win.
Click the picture to learn how to enter.
September 16-30

Contest! Contest! Read all about it!

Twenty Romance Authors collaborate on a red-hot Roaring Twenties Treasure Hunt!

Remember! You read about it here first!

Extra! Extra! Contest Starts Today!

Not so much cute as just plain gorgeous!

Beautiful photograph. Be sure to follow the link back and compliment the photographer!

Once a month, a bunch of authors get together and post excerpts from published books, contracted work or works in progress, and link to each other. You don’t have to be published to participate–just a writer with an excerpt you’d like to share. For more info on how to participate, head over to the Excerpt Monday site, or click on the banner above.

This month I’m sharing from my latest release, The Silver Casket.

Cat Logan, a young American with a recent degree in medieval literature, travels to Scotland to discover her Celtic roots. She finds more than she bargained for when a mysterious silver casket (rumored to hold the desiccated heart of a long dead Scottish laird) transports her back in time to the 1400s and the man whose heart she holds in her hands.

Genre: Time Travel/Historical
Rating: Tangy
Book Length: Novella

Available Here!

Excerpt:

Cool stone vibrated beneath her cheek, leaching the warmth from her unprotected face. By the time she identified the faint tremor as footfalls, a buzz of quiet voices had filtered through her dazed mind. People. Help. Whatever had happened, she needed help.

Gathering her strength, she stood and leaned heavily against the wall. Her eyes flew open as sense registered. The wall! It no longer ended at waist height; she leaned against a fully constructed wall in an enclosed corridor!

Her stomach roiled, and she fell to hands and knees, spewing vomit over the stone floor. Disoriented, shaking, and drenched in cold sweat, Cat huddled against the wall.

The owners of the voices arrived. Words swirled around her, bounced off the walls, and pounded her aching head. Men spoke rapidly in an archaic form of Scots-Gaelic that she recognized, but couldn’t follow. Sweat-stench mingled with the acid tang of her sick. She panted through her mouth to lessen the impact of the odor on her queasy stomach. Too tired to do more than lift her head, she glanced around the corridor. Flickering light revealed four broad, shadowy
figures.

God! Where was she? And how had she gotten here? Her shaking arms gave way, and she collapsed in an exhausted heap on the cold stone. Shock pushed her over the edge of the abyss, and she fell back into unconsciousness.

* * * *

Cat woke with a throbbing headache and jangled nerves from a terrifying dream: she’d been compressed, unable to breathe. She pushed the thought away and huddled deeper under the covers, pulling the scratchy sheet over her aching head and adjusting her hips to avoid an offending lump in the mattress. She frowned and opened her eyes a slit. Dim light filtered through a coarsely woven, yellowed sheet. Panic stricken, she threw the sheet aside and, ignoring the sharp pain in her skull, scrambled from the bed. Bare feet connected with cold stone, and memory returned in a rush.

Frigid morning air brushed her skin, and she shivered. She stood in the middle of a stone chamber naked as the day of her birth. Yanking the sheet from the bed, she wrapped herself in its rough, but warm, folds and surveyed the room.

Stone walls and floor, rough-hewn beams supported what could only be a thatch roof. Narrow arrow loops served as windows spilling both sunlight and frosty air into a chamber furnished with a low, wooden bed, a chamber pot, and a rickety table with ewer and basin. A single, crudely fashioned chair stood beside the table.

The door creaked open, and she flattened herself against the wall, hugging the sheet tightly to her breast. The most dangerous man she’d ever seen stood poised on the threshold. Tall, muscular, with long, dark auburn hair, he looked like a warrior prince from a Scottish fairy tale.

Heat suffused her face—and every other part of her body—as his gaze raked her from tousled hair to bare feet. Oh, God! To meet a man like this…wrapped in a sheet!

The Silver Casket by Debbie Mumford
Genre: Time Travel/Historical
Rating: Tangy
Book Length: Novella
Available Here!

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