This beautiful childrenâs book, When Children Ruled the World, by Sena Jeter Naslund, is a gem. From its heartwarming story featuring little Una to its exquisite wood engravings by Joanne Price, this is an instant classic. (Una is a name familiar to Sena’s readers. If you know, you know. If you don’t, go acquaint yourself with the parallel.)
Barry holds our newly arrived copy of Sena’s book.
Oh, and it mentions pine cones! Have I ever said over here how much I love pine cones?
I don’t want to say too much about this slim volume, because I don’t want to give away its glories, but ah, read it if you want a cozy, holiday read.
Full disclosure: Sena is one of my favorite people in the world. Her gorgeous writing is only one of those reasons, but wow can she write! I want so badly to share some of the vivid images found in this book, but I won’t. The discoveries along the journey are part of the fun of reading, aren’t they?
I found myself studying her sentences as I devoured this Christmas cookie, following each word eagerly. Perfect, each! I’m so, so happy this gorgeous book is a part of our world, and particularly, a part of my world now.
Brava, Sena. Brava! This is going on our bookshelf right beside A Christmas Carol. We love it!
Order yours today! It comes wrapped in brown paper just like a gift, and you can only order it through the mail, which I also love. What a thing of beauty.
P.S. Barry and I have had the privilege of meeting Hugo, the bright young grandson to whom Sena dedicated this book. I know he will cherish it just as much as the rest of us do and ever will.
It came wrapped like an old-fashioned parcel from a store. How fun!
Title: When Children Ruled the World, A Christmas Story
By: Sena Jeter Naslund
Wood Engravings:  Joanne Price This book was handset in Cloister Lightface type, printed on a hand-fedC & P , then handbound. Regular edition (paper): Handsewn with a paper wrap:  $28.00 Regular edition (cloth): Handsewn and bound in red Japanese book cloth over boards: $36.00 Send Orders to: Larkspur Press, 340 Sawdridge Creek West, Monterey, Kentucky  40359
MAKE CHECKS PAYABLE to Larkspur Press. For special editions with marbled papers by Debbie Shannon and two-color engravings by Joanne Price, signed by author and illustrator: $175.
I have been staring at a particular wall in our house every time I pass it. Why, you ask? Because I spent part of an afternoon painting that wall!
Previously, I hated that very wall. It was a paneled “accent” wall that did anything but. It was kinda off white with burgundy and tiny designs. Yuck!
For some reason, I have tolerated it the entire time we have lived in this house, sixteen years now. Once the pandemic hit and the world started with the daily Zoom calls, I had to face facts: I could no longer bear that wall behind me on calls.
Side note: if you’re like me and you’re not a fan of the phone, try adding on video. So. Much. Worse. Why, world, why? I’ve grown accustomed to it, but at first…
I have had “paint the dining room wall” on my list now for months. I kept moving it forward. I put “choose a paint the wall or pay” date on my calendar. What I meant was if I didn’t paint it by the date, I would hire our neighbor (a professional house painter) to paint it. But I’m frugal, and I like to do things on my own schedule.
Still, I couldn’t seem to get that wall painted.
The week came, and I chose a date, because I try to follow my calendar. It’s how I get things done even when they are things I don’t enjoy. Especially when they are things I don’t enjoy. (Never underestimate the power of crossing items off a list.)
Reader, I’m sorry to report that the appointed day came and went and I DID NOT paint the wall. Sigh.
So I put on the calendar “PAINT YOUR DAMNED WALL.”
I tried focusing on the new message center I’ll be adding to it, and how I will be able to put my two prints of Victorine in that spot, and how I won’t have to wrinkle my nose every time I passed the wall, but for some reason, I couldn’t make it happen.
Except.
Except when I told the manager of the cafe I often work out of that I likely wouldn’t see her the next day because I was going to make myself stay home and paint, she commiserated with me, having a similar project she has been putting off herself.
When I explained to her what was holding me back, it no longer seemed so difficult. So what that I had to move a few things, find the paint and painting supplies? And as for not wanting to make a mess, hadn’t I been saving those annoying free newspapers they send every week (The very paper at which I once worked! I was halfway there.) for months? So what that I couldn’t immediately lay my hands on the painter’s tape. Couldn’t I simply buy more if I needed to? (I found it, btw.)
Not that I started it on Friday after all. But I did start it (and finish it!) on Saturday.
I did it in stages, another trick that works for me. I stripped the artwork off the wall. I shifted my guitar from its spot by the wall (Yes, I play. Rarely, but I do a tiny bit.). Barry helped me move the furniture.
I located the roller refills, the paintbrushes.
After brunch last Saturday, after Barry and I had spent a fun half hour buying Christmas decorations, after we took a gorgeous fall drive (and I told him to get me home while the caffeine from brunch still had me energized enough to dive in), I rounded up the last of the supplies, put in my earbuds, and closeted him in his music room (because it’s just off the dining room) with instructions to knock and be sure I’d heard him before he exited the room so I wouldn’t accidentally paint him!)
Barry was in his music room for a particular reason: we are going to be part of an opera workshop in February. I’m not sure how much more we’re allowed to say about it yet, but I am so excited to be performing with him. The opera he was in last year was on PBS recently. I’m always so proud of his performances.
So he was learning his music, pounding out notes on the piano while I was listening to The Book Review Podcast by the New York times. (I inevitably don’t get to it until Saturday afternoon.)
I took the project step by step, which is generally the best way to take projects, especially when you’re like me and randomly suffer from anxiety over nothing and everything. I taped the trim. I stirred the paint, did a bad job of it, called Barry in to look at it because I wondered if I’d fetched the wrong can of paint. He stirred it better than I had (oops) and then it was fine. Go figure. (Has a Tom Sawyer and the fence vibe to it, doesn’t it? I promise that wasn’t my intention, but it worked out that way.)
Then I just did it. I just started painting. It didn’t even take very long.
Afterwards, I browsed Etsy for new outlet covers, laughed to see that the ones I wanted cost almost $20 each, and promptly watched a YouTube video on how to decoupage some myself. Now I’m having all kinds of fun deciding what paper to use. (I kinda already know — I’m probably going to use my vintage art postcard collection. I can’t wait to dive in!)
My point is, we all have an unpainted wall. Whatever yours is, I encourage you to paint it. This weekend. After all, now I get to pass mine every day and admire it. I’m going to have a wall behind me on Zoom calls that prettily displays things dear to me. That means a lot.
So go paint your damned wall. Bonus points if you come back here and tell me what yours was. I’ll be here, rooting for you. As always.
I’m pleased to share that an essay of mine has been included in the UK-based anthology, Stay Home – A Year of Writing Through Lockdown, out now. I wrote the essay what seems like a long time ago.
My thanks to the editors at Chasing Driftwood Writing Group for including my essay. Re-reading it, I’m remembering those days in the backyard, drink in hand, listening to Barry play guitar, having him home all the time, which I loved. (As a matter of fact, my husband is mowing said yard as I write. But there will be no drinks tonight, only work for me. And that’s okay.)
Alas, the good times we tried to focus on during the lockdown were not all good. I don’t believe I’ve mentioned here that I lost my sweet Aunt Dorothy to COVID-19 a few months ago. She was my mother’s last surviving sibling, and thankfully I was able to see her four years ago after not having seen her for years (due to distance).
When I was a child, she took me to my first dental appointment and she was a great comfort to the apprehensive child I was that day.
She was fashionable, gorgeous, and funny, despite having the lifelong sorrow of having lost her daughter, Jennifer, when my cousin was just a toddler.
Of course, I am not at all alone in having lost loved ones to this horror of a pandemic, but it sucks.
In the future, this anthology I was lucky enough to be included in could well be research material for those who come after us who haven’t experienced this time.
Proceeds from the sale of this anthology go to fund future projects of the CIC. I am pleased to have been included in it. The initial essay I wrote that ran on their website caused me to pause mid-pandemic and reflect, and I’m grateful for that opportunity.
How are you doing with Delta, and I don’t mean Burke? The crew at my favorite coffeeshop has been hit by it, leaving only one intrepid employee who was away on vacation and so was spared infection, to manage the whole place this past week. This stuff is no joke! Try to stay well.
In Lisbon in 1755, a devastating earthquake changes the city forever. The months just before the event are the intriguing backdrop for Stephanie Renee Dos Santosâ vivid debut novel, Cut from the Earth. Closely examining the overlooked origin of the art of the figura de convite style of tilework, this richly detailed novel both arrests the reader with the sensory pleasures Dos Santos provides and compels the reader to continue on. A stunning blend of intriguing plot and lyrical language, this novel delights.
The figura de convite style of tilework, life-sized, cut-out tiles of figures, welcomed visitors when they visited palaces, and were produced in the 18th and 19th centuries. They are only found in Portugal. Dos Santos says not much is known about the creator of the style, other than the initials PMP. Her novel imagines just who PMP was and what the creatorâs life was like. The mere concept of the novel enthralled me, as I like mysteries, as I like the teasing out of things we have no way of knowing. I was not disappointed!
Even the tragedy that strikes Lisbon is told with such force and detail it is as beautifully described as the tile making. Dos Santos immerses her reader into this world, both the time and place, knowing, like a good conductor, when to ask the horns for more, when to ask the woodwinds to back off. This novel is just stunning.
Interweaving charming scenes of family life with brutal scenes of the other side of society at that time, Dos Santos knows when to apply the pressure and when to relieve it. For instance, PĂȘro and his lovely daughters, Constanza and Isabela, view the display at a bakery shop: âIsabela lingered in front of a pastry shop, its pane filled with golden egg yolk custards and doughy delicacies of barriga de freiras, âbelly of nuns.ââ I find that so sweet and beautiful. The shops they pass are described in such gorgeous depth that you want to really be there. No, you think you are there.
The opening scene gives us this hint of cruelty: âPĂȘro glanced at his own right hand, to the stumped third and fourth finger, his mouth a tight white line.â We know this has been done to him, and we learn just how barbarously it was done.
When the earthquake strikes, it brings tragedy and leaves everything in jeopardy.
Combining rich historical facts and imagination where needed, Stephanie has created one of the most memorable books of the year, one I canât wait to re-read. I long for the next installment.
The story follows her journey of self-discovery and she has to pluck up the courage to leave a man who doesnât appreciate her, rebuild her confidence and be true to herself. Can someone who shies from the limelight, step out of the shadows and show the world how incredible she really is?
Kai is a jaded music producer who has just moved outside of town. Seeking solitude from the stress of his job, heâs looking for seclusion. The only problem is he canât seem to escape the band members and songwriters who keep showing up at his house.
When Kai wanders into the bar and Violetâs life, he accidentally discovers her closely guarded secret. Can Kai help her rediscover her self-confidence or should some secrets remain undiscovered?
International bestselling author and award-winning inventor, Lizzie Chantree, started her own business at the age of 18 and became one of Fair Play London and The Patent Officeâs British Female Inventors of the Year in 2000. She discovered her love of writing fiction when her children were little and now works as a business mentor and runs a popular networking hour on social media, where creatives can support to each other. She writes books full of friendship and laughter, that are about women with unusual and adventurous businesses, who are far stronger than they realise. She lives with her family on the coast in Essex. Visit her website at http://www.lizziechantree.com or follow her on Twitter @Lizzie_Chantree https://twitter.com/Lizzie_Chantree.
I’m a sucker for cafes of all types and those who work there, and for anyone in the music business. I, for one, look forward to reading this delicious book by this author I became acquainted with over on social media.
What are you still doing here? Go get yourself a copy! And tell me (and more importantly, Amazon and Goodreads)what you think.
I met my guest today over on Twitter, where she caught my attention by being a helpful, welcoming presence. When I discovered she was also an aspiring historical fiction writer, I got to know her better, and even shared an interview with her previously here and in my newsletter.
Today, I’m pleased to feature another interview with her to announce her forthcoming debut novel! Please take a read to learn more about our darling Emma. Scroll below for an exciting excerpt of her novel as well.
What inspired you to write DISCERNING GRACE (Book 1)?
Iâve always been a little nosyâI know, I know ⊠curiosity killed the cat! But back in 2001 during one of my regular letter-writing sessions to my grandmother in England, I decided Iâd like to know a little more about our family history from the older generation. Once theyâve passed itâs so hard to find out what kinds of people they knew and the sorts of things they got up to.
So, my darling late grandmother, whom I was incredibly close to, indulgently began answering my questions and documenting memories of her own childhood and stories of ancestors. All it took was for me to read the opening to one of her letters and I just KNEW I had to write a story about it! This is what the letter said, âYour GGG grandmother was only 16 when she ran away from home to marry a sea captain ⊠her family cut her off and she sailed the seas with him âŠâ
Come on! What author couldnât resist a little bit of real-life inspiration like that?
And so, that is how my purely fictional, historical naval adventureâ with a dash of romanceâblossomed. Iâve been thrilled by the journey of writing it and all the research too, but most of all, Iâve loved imagining the incredible courage and fortitude it would have taken my ancestor to choose such a life! Plus, there is my GGG grandfatherâs side of the tale to consider too. As my grandmother put it, they were âobviously a very enlightened couple, and she a very, very liberated woman.â
What was the best piece of writing advice you received when starting out?
To give my main character, Grace Baxter, more agency instead of her being a victim of circumstance. I was pushed to get her to create and direct her own circumstances. This was a bit more of a challenge having a female lead character in the early 1800s because of societal restrictions on women in those days. But I also figured that there had to be pioneering women, even back then, who broke the mould. Since Grace is inspired by my three times great grandmother, who indeed bucked the norm in her day by leaving her well-to-do family in England to elope with an English sea captain and live with him at sea, I felt I had a little more leeway to play with when writing Graceâs character. And besides, whatâs a rollicking romantic adventure without a feisty heroine!
What is your favourite historical era and why? Do you have a favourite historical female? Why?
Iâm open when it comes to reading historical fiction through the different eras, from Jean M. Auelâs prehistoric The Clan of the Cave Bear, to Vikings and Romans, through to later centuries like in Wilbur Smithâs Courtney series. As for writing it, Iâve been so immersed in the 19th century since Iâve been writing my own books, that I have a soft spot for this era. Thereâs a great balance of knowledge and information out there since it wasnât too long agoâsay unlike the ancient Egyptian era. I have huge admiration for historical authors who write about ancient times. The research required for that is mammoth (snigger)!
While there are many well-known historical females, my research unearthed a whole world of unknown women whose stories have not had a spotlight shone on them. These have been my favourite historical females to findâmothers penning journals about parenthood, sisters writing letters to relatives from the other side of the world, wives aboard ships keeping diaries that recorded tiny details of daily life not captured in a shipâs log books. It took me ages to find some resources that spoke about women aboard ships who were not just there to entertain the sailors, but who played a pivotal role in sailing the ship, raising a family aboard, and supporting industrious endeavours. These are some of my favourites:
Seafaring Women by renowned historian, Linda Grant De Pauw
Female Tars by Suzanne J. Stark
Hen Frigates by maritime historian, Joan Durett
She Captains by maritime historian, Joan Durett
What message are you sharing in your books?
The themes in my first novel, DISCERNING GRACE (Book 1), include:
an independent woman
the importance of love over money
appearances can be deceiving
love can conquer all
triumph over adversity
Does each book stand alone, or are you building a body of work with connections or themes between each book?
I love reading a long series where you can immerse yourself into another world and get to know the characters intimately through several books, so it felt perfectly natural for me to write a series too. It has been a joy to evolve my characters from their young and naĂŻve selves in the first book, and mature them through their life experiences in subsequent books. Discerning Grace (Book 1) is out now. The second book is nearly ready to publish, and I have complete draft manuscripts for books three and four.
A movie producer wants to turn your book into a movie and you get to make a cameo. What would you do in the movie?
Ooo, isnât this every writerâs dream!
Due to the nature of my story aboard a 19th century Royal Naval tall ship, there arenât that many female characters, though I could play no role on the ship since I get hideously sea sick!
I would have to stick with a role that is safe on land, so perhaps one of the dinner guests in my opening scene.
You have created images for your main characters, how does that help you write them?
I asked my beta readers to send me images of real-life people who they thought most looked like Seamus and Grace. Those images, along with the descriptions from my book, created the basis for the artwork Iâve commissioned (because I can barely draw a stick man!) They turned out exactly as I envisaged them in my mindâs eye!
It has been marvellous to have them drawn so young and fresh when we first meet them. For the subsequent books in the series, I can envisage the deepening of Seamusâs smile line beside his mouth, or the crowâs feet around Graceâs aquamarine eyes. I donât necessarily speak to my characters, but I do sit and watch them interact and play out scenes in my head (it must look like Iâm staring into space, and not working, when I do this!) I only need to look at their body language in their artwork for an inspirational reminder about how they react physically and verbally to different situations.
Since I own this artwork, Iâve actually created my own Redbubble store called, By-the-Book (yes, like the name of my newsletter), where my readers can grab their own favourite keepsakes.
What do you do for fun? What does a perfect day look like?
In everyday life, Iâm Mum to four teenage sonsâmy men children, all of whom are taller than meâand two cantankerous cats who often thrash it out for a spot on my lap! I live in the perpetually sunny city of Brisbane in Australia. I love building jigsaw puzzles (especially Wasgij, backwards puzzles), playing Candy Crush (my secret shame!), and playing board games with my boysâthough gone are the days when used to I beat them, they whip me soundly now. And I totally suck at Risk! Having raised four rambunctious boys, my perfect day these days constitutes solitude and silence. It doesnât matter where, as long as those two ingredients are present.
BOOK SPOTLIGHT: DISCERNING GRACE by Emma Lombard
Publication Date: 22 February 2021
Print Length: 370 pages
ISBN: 9780645105803
Ebook ISBN: 9781393725831
Genre: Historical Womenâs Fiction
Blurb
London 1826. Wilful Grace Baxter, will not marry old Lord Silverton with his salivary incontinence and dead-mouse stink. Discovering she is a pawn in an arrangement between slobbery Silverton and her calculating father, Grace is devastated when Silverton reveals his true callous nature.
Refusing this fate, Grace resolves to stow away. Heading to the docks, disguised as a lad to ease her escape, she encounters smooth-talking naval recruiter, Gilly, who lures her aboard HMS Discerning with promises of freedom and exploration in South America.
When Graceâs big mouth lands her bare-bottomed over a cannon for insubordination, her identity is exposed. The captain wants her back in London but his orders, to chart the icy archipelago of Tierra del Fuego, forbid it. Lieutenant Seamus Fitzwilliam gallantly offers to take Grace off the fretting captainâs hands by placing her under his protection.
Grace must now win over the crew she betrayed with her secret, while managing her feelings towards her taciturn protector, whose obstinate chivalry stifles her new-found independence.
Uncle Farfar beckoned a young man, the single epaulette on his right shoulder announcing that he was a lieutenant in His Majestyâs Royal Navy. âAh, Fitzwilliam. Just in time,â beamed Uncle Farfar, his face flushed with pleasure. Uncle Farfar was actually Admiral Arthur Jameson Baxter, highly decorated for his successful engagement in Admiral Nelsonâs campaign at the Battle of Trafalgar. He had lovingly endured the childhood nickname Grace had bestowed upon him when she was eighteen months old, and unable to pronounce his name, Uncle Arthur. He had not escaped the deep weathering of a man who had spent his life at sea, and though his face was much rounder these days, Grace thought he still had a kindness in his eyes.
Centring himself between Grace and the new arrival, Uncle Farfar said, âLieutenant Seamus Fitzwilliam, may I introduce you to Miss Grace Baxter, my niece and the delight of my life.â
Grace smiled politely, admiring the shades of gold shimmering across Fitzwilliamâs smoothed-back hair, caught tidily in a black silk ribbon at his graceful nape.
âThe pleasure is all mine, Miss Baxter,â said Fitzwilliam, formally kissing her hand.
âLieutenant.â Grace took her hand back, fingers curling, and Fitzwilliam clasped his own behind his back.
Uncle Farfarâs sharp eyes flicked across the room, and his cordiality shrivelled. âGod save us, see who approaches? Lord Silverton.â
To Grace, Lord Silverton appeared closer to a hundred years old, despite him only being in his early fifties. He was also a childless widower of renowned wealth and lineage. His bulging midriff announced no shortage of good food. He had been a mysterious figure on the outskirts of Graceâs life since she could remember, but no number of years had lessened her discomfort around him.
Grace dipped her head in greeting, lowering her gaze from Silvertonâs beady eyes to the neatly tied cravat at the base of his bulbous, waggling chin. How could any respectable lady willingly draw herself to the attention of this crusty, timeworn creature?
âYour gown is simply delightful, Miss Baxter,â said Silverton. âReminds me of the gossamer wings of a dragonfly.â Silvertonâs obtrusive stare seemed to blacken Uncle Farfarâs mood further.
Oblivious, Silverton droned on, âFascinating creatures! Dragonfly rituals of courtship may seem romantic to those inclined to observe the world through rose-coloured spectacles, but the amazing show of flips and spirals is usually the female trying to escape the boorish behaviour of the males.â
âI cannot possibly imagine how that feels,â Grace muttered, peering impassively around the crowded room. Fitzwilliamâs quick dry cough sounded suspiciously like a laugh, and Grace studied him from the corner of her eye. His face betrayed nothing.
Just then the butler rang the bell. Silvertonâs beady eyes fixed on Grace. âWould you care to dine with me this evening, Miss Baxter?â
Uncle Farfar cleared his throat. âIf you donât mind Silverton, Iâd appreciate my nieceâs company this evening.â Uncle Farfar drew Grace away before Silverton could say anything more, and ushered her into the dining room. Fitzwilliam followed two steps behind with his allotted dinner companion, Miss Pettigrew. Her petite hand curled in his elbow, and her coifed black hair barely met his shoulder. Grace had made her acquaintance only once before, and realised with a sinking heart that she was in for an evening of little to no conversation with the demure creature, should she sit beside her. The stretched table was laid with the snowiest of linen, and set with such precision that even the King of England would have been pressed to find fault.
Uncle Farfar waved at the empty chairs. âWould you care to sit between Lieutenant Fitzwilliam and I, Grace dear? You might need to give me a kick under the table if we bore you with too much naval chatter.â
Grace sank into her chair. âNonsense, Uncle. I do so enjoy your tales.â
Fitzwilliam waited for Miss Pettigrew to be seated as she gave him a simpering smile. A wave of relief washed over Grace at not being stuck with Silverton for the evening. Uncle Farfar clearly had the same thoughts, and he chuckled, âAt least youâre squirrelled with us, away from that pompous windbag.â
Fitzwilliam pulled in his chair, and nodded at Captain Steven Fincham sitting stiffly opposite him like a squat Napoleonic figure. Dark circles beneath Finchamâs bleary, bloodshot eyes gave Grace the impression that he was in poor health, was suffering from the crapulous effects of intoxication, or both.
With the soup course over, Grace eyed the line of footmen entering with platters laden with succulent roast lamb. The thin slices looked perfectly browned on the outside with just a peek of pink inside. Her stomach grumbled at the rich buttery scent of the potatoes being served onto her plate. She intended to enjoy every mouthful. At the sound of cutlery pinging on glass, Grace turned her attention to her father, Lord Flint, who rose with his wine glass raised.
âAs you know, my dear wifeâs partiality to dinner parties ensures they happen with alarming regularity.â A polite smattering of laughter rippled around the table. âBut tonight, we have two guests who deserve our well wishes.â Father inclined his bewigged head at Captain Fincham. âCaptain Fincham and Lieutenant Fitzwilliam will soon be leaving Englandâs fair shores in an effort to expand our great nationâs knowledge of the world.â His crystal cut glass glimmered in the candlelight. âTo a safe and prosperous journey, gentlemen.â
âTo a safe and prosperous journey,â echoed the diners.
Uncle Farfarâs grey head peered around Grace at Fitzwilliam. âWhere are you off to this time, Lieutenant?â
Relieved to be released from Finchamâs melancholy, and Miss Pettigrewâs muteness, Grace widened her eyes, equally interested to hear his answer.
âPlymouth first, to pick up the rest of the shipâs company and fresh supplies, before we sail to Tierra del Fuego,â said Fitzwilliam.
âDamned notorious waters off the Horn of South America, eh?â declared Uncle Farfar.
âAh, yes, the hydrographic survey! I recall hearing of it around the Admiralty.â Uncle Farfarâs eyes blazed. âThe Royal Navy has been around those parts for years, but theyâve few charts to show for it. About time someone had a crack at it.â He inclined his head at Fitzwilliam. âSounds just the kind of adventure a young man like you would relish.â
âIndeed, sir.â Fitzwilliam agreed.
Grace tucked a chocolate corkscrew of hair, that had rebelliously come undone, behind her ear. âWhat a pity you shanât be here for the ball next week, Lieutenant. Mother will no doubt outdo herself again.â Fitzwilliam was about to reply when Lady Flintâs tinkling laughter drew his attention down the other end of the table. Despite numerous suitors declaring that Graceâs natural beauty stemmed from her mother, Grace thought Lady Flintâs shrewd eyes and downturned mouth erased all prettiness. She glanced back at the handsome naval officer beside her.
âYouâll have to pardon me, Miss Baxter,â Fitzwilliam said ruefully. âI find society balls to be little more than an exercise in attaching one unwitting party to another, usually for monetary gain.â
âHear, hear!â Fincham banged the table, jangling the silverware. Miss Pettigrew squeaked with fright. Fincham blustered, âThe oceans of the world are far less dangerous to navigate as far as Iâm concerned.â
Grace laughed. âI quite agree, Captain Fincham. Father had me all but married off to Colonel Dunne until he found out heâs as poor as a church mouse and about to be shipped off to India.â She turned to Fitzwilliam, one brow arching as she whispered from the corner of her mouth, âDull as a butter knife too.â
Clearly amused by her honesty, Fitzwilliamâs shoulders jiggled with silent laughter, and he smirked. Grace had never understood how Father threw her at suitors who were highly suitable on paper but wholly unsuitable in person.
AUTHOR BIO
Emma Lombard was born in Pontefract in the UK. She grew up in Africaâcalling Zimbabwe and South Africa home for a few yearsâbefore finally settling in Brisbane Australia, and raising four boys. Before she started writing historical fiction, she was a freelance editor in the corporate world, which was definitely not half as exciting as writing rollicking romantic adventures. Her characters are fearless seafarers, even though in real life Emma gets disastrously sea sick. Discerning Grace, is the first book in The White Sails Series.
Thanks so much, Emma, for returning to my blog today. I wish you every success with your wonderful debut novel. And readers, if you like historical fiction, do yourself a favor and buy this one now!
I was going to write one last post about Orlando by Virginia Woolf until I saw this gem on YouTube. Itâs quite the fun LEGO-fueled take. Itâs Orlando told in eleven minutes. Enjoy! Iâm not at all sure I can add anything to it.
No, the above isnât an ad. Itâs a screenshot from Orlando to Go.
Our Autumn of Woolf has lost its leaves and unintentionally extended into winter. Because of that, I have decided to hold off on discussing ARoom of Oneâs Own indefinitely. And because Iâm currently using that room of my own to write my third novel, and novels take lots of coddling.
Thank you for being here with me during these last few months. Theyâve been lovely.
Hereâs a little holiday time reading about Mrs. Dalloway, via the New York Times Books Update, just for you.
I know, I know: weâre reading Orlando. But I thought youâd enjoy this piece by Micheal Cunningham, author of The Hours.
Santa brought me an armload of books Iâm eager to taste, but I was in the middle of re-reading Madame Bovary, so Iâve spent Christmas finishing that.
Iâm thinking of giving the whole weekend over to reading. Are you reading today? What about this weekend?
P.S. Hubby and I have been together so long that this year we ended up buying one another the same card! (Yes, I like cards for every occasion!! )
The Great Frost scene in Virginia Woolfâs Orlando is legendary. Iâd be remiss if I didnât share this bit from Simple Gifts, first broadcast way back for the Christmas of 1977. Animated by Tissa David and narrated by Hermione Gingold, itâs a fun holidaywatch.
(Many thanks to Blogging Woolf for bringing this to my attention on her blog!)
Hubby Barry and I shared two original holiday flash fiction stories on our most recent podcast episode on Writing All the Things. Here are the stories if youâd like to take a closer look. Enjoy!
Warning: NSFW.
Cranberry Sauce in the Time of Keto
By DrÄma Drudge
The formerly white kitchen wall is now dotted with red, the semi set globs of sugar free Jell-O slowly making their way down the surface like kids in red jackets on a sleigh flowing down a snowy bank. But it wasnât a child who launched the food at the wall. It was me.
I dump the remainder in the sink, because this batch didnât work out, either. You have to be a special brand of a shit cook to not even be able to get Jell-O to set. True, I tried the speed set, so maybe thatâs where I went wrong, because they can say use X amount of ice cubes all they want and goddamn it, everyoneâs ice trays are different. Specificity, please!
I donât do great with directions, in case you hadnât noticed. All Iâve gotten is a semi set batch, and a semi is never any good, I say.
These keto fiends who swear itâs possible to make it past the holidays with nary a slip havenât met me. I have two gears: good and not-so. Moderation has never been my strong suit. Not that my body hides the fact.
I am wearing a ring of fat around my middle that is thicker than a hula hoop but sways about as much. Okay, I exaggerate, but have you been home for the past nine months with your husband the way I have? Did you know you can freakinâ order chocolate and have it delivered? Did you know you can use your bread maker for, get this, baking bread? And did you further know that nothing tops the smell of bread permeating a house? Warm bread, butter. Tell me you can think of anything else now. I doubt it.
Speaking of the husband, he makes an appearance in the doorway holding his saxophone and I try not to make the same old phallic reference, try not to mention the âsaxyâ saxophonists. We are done entertaining one another. Those charming, sweet things we loved about one another? Gone the way of regular Jell-O, gone the way of that soft, white bread.
So itâs not fair that Iâm blaming the gelatin. Iâm aware. But I donât have to live with it.
Someone once asked if you lived with, say, Barbara Streisand, would you ever get sick of her singing? I know the answer to that.
Maybe one of the reasons I am failing on the Jell-O front (I heat more water, open two brown packs from boxes and dump the gelatin into the metal bowl (It gels better in metal, at least if you donât try speed setting it) and the scent more of raspberry Kool-Aid than anything puffs up (Because I couldnât find sugar-free cranberry flavored; yes, Ilooked.) is because I donât want it.
Cranberry gelatin would not be like cranberry sauce anyway. Cranberry sauce has a peculiar texture that is found nowhere else. If youâve ever had the canned stuff, tell me what youâve ever sunk your teeth into that compares? The outside is almost porous, but if you slice it, itâs sleek and shiny. When you fork into it, youâre still asking yourself if itâs a dessert or a punishment for bad children not deserving better. Itâs not a food that children like or ever ask for. If youâre wondering why, see above.
Then thereâs the color: cranberry colored. Obviously. A blood color. A rich, saturated color. Placental. If someone told you this is what youâre supposed to eat after birth, (pun intended), you would believe them and say it âwasnât so bad.â
Except if youâre me (and youâre not, but imagination is required when reading), you have grown up eating cranberry sauce as both a medicine and as love given to you by your cold, loathsome mother who became Nurse Nightingale when you (I mean me) were sick.
Bitter and sweet, like your mother. Like life turns out to be. It was actually a good lesson to learn.
The color of the set of cups she bought from Sears and Roebuck, the cup sheâd bring me water in when I was coughing in bed late at night to get her attention.
The husband says that maybe if I measured the iceâŠ
The mansplaining alone right now, oh Christ. Enough to make you wish youâd get the ârona. (Oh, thatâs right, Iâm not supposed to joke because itâs not goddamned funny; people are dying. And Iâm aware, okay? I know, but dammit to hell, if Iâm to not feel as if I want to die, youâve gotta give me a release, right?)
A release. Of course. Of course Iâm bringing sex into it, he says, because Iâm all about the sex. Well damn, says a man who plays a sax. Looks like Iâm not the only one who likes peen. What? Iâm joking, joking.
Maybe not a smart thing to say when youâre making Jell-O. Except he didnât throw it on the walls. That was me, all me.
And to be fair, neither of us wants much sex right now. The world is dying, remember? Weâre disinfecting everything, each other, like mo foâs. And Lysol is not an aphrodisiac.
All over the country, the world, families sit down or donât in honor or rejection of the day, either culturally or philosophically repulsed or not; maybe indifferent. Maybe they just want the goddamned ham and cheesy potatoes. Maybe they, like me, want the cranberry sauce. But no, we are the keto nation, trying to better ourselves even while there are those among us ailing and dying. No cranberry sauce for us. Except.
Thatâs how I end up in the car at 11:30 pm, headed to the grocery store, risking health and diet (wearing my mask) to buy a can of cranberry sauce that I will immediately put in the refrigerator because itâs only any good chilled.
And I dare you to judge me.
Hereâs Barryâs painting that is mentioned in the episode.
You sit in the back seat of the Galaxy 500 staring at it like itâs the greatest thing youâve ever seen. Your parents, having angle parked facing the Kroger, have the best view.
âI sure as hell hope that weâre not paying for that in our taxes. This little town already thinks itâs a high-class city,â your dad says.
Your mom pats him on the leg, something that is a mixture of reassurance and calming him down. Turning to you, she sees your excitement. You are sitting on the edge of the seat ready to get out of the car. She shakes her head and that usually would be that. But the music, sweet glorious holiday classics, is playing from the best-sounding hifi speakers youâve ever heard. Like Odysseusâ Sirens, you have to go visit. Maybe even Santa will be inside.
The Kroger, decked in anemic holiday fareâworn out tinsel and an aluminum tree with a strand of oversized lightsâis not exactly boring but doesnât share the pizazz that reaches from across the street. In an act of pacification, your mom grabs a popper of Jiffy Pop from the front display and puts it in the cart. Your smile, although forced, follows the rules for showing appreciation. All of this happens while you look over your shoulder and across the street. Other kids are exploring inside and out. You laugh when the one toddler tries to take a bite out of the white piping. The laugh gets bigger when he goes in for another bite. Your father moves you on. You have to look where you are going for a minute. But the laughter and music keep pulling you away.
âI have to go to the restroom,â you say.
Your father sighs. âOk, but be quick. We donât have all damned day.â
You head toward the back of the store, and then double back through a different isle. You hear your mom and dad arguing about which peanut butter is better (Jiff, you think). You donât hear their decision as you run out the front door and across the street to the wonderland that beckons.
The front yard smells exactly like cotton candyâheated sugar spun into a gossamer spider web of confection. The building also contains the pungent scent of gingerbread. Thatâs not your favorite baked good of the Christmas season (you think it smells almost burnt) but it is fitting for the building. The chimney in back is exhaling a dark smoke that smells like hot chocolate; and the piping smells like frosting with cinnamon. The next thing you know youâve crossed the threshold and are inside.
You are greeted by an elf baring a large mug of hot chocolate with small marshmallows and whipped cream. He extends the mug and greets you. Although the tantalizing hot chocolate might distract others from the elf, you notice how elaborate the costume and makeup are. You nod as you wonder where such small people are from.
âPlease have a seat,â says the diminutive elf as you are guided to an empty booth.
The hot chocolate makes you feel warm and safe. It also makes the world seem more dream-like as if there are no worriesâno fourth-grade tests, no chores, no nuclear bombs, no war in Viet-Nam, no riots in the big cities. This moment is enough. There isnât a past or a futureâjust now.
Who is already seated, you wonder? The interior seems much bigger than the outside structure revealsâseating scores of customers. Do you see anyone from school? No? You look from table to table and note that there are only children. These children look and dress like theyâre from different places around the world (your Indiana town is very farmer white). A laugh creeps out as you think of the Itâs a Small World ride in Disneyland. This feels like the ride with real kids, not animatronics.
A boy comes over and sits with you in your booth.
âWhere are we?â he asks in French. But you seem to understand.
âWeâre in North Manchester, Indiana,â you reply.
How can you understand one another? That is a puzzle. But one that is driven out of your mind as the elf brings you the biggest stack of pancakes youâve ever seen.
âThe liftoff. Iâve lost track of how many times weâve taken off. But we have less than a month to go.â
Goosebumps chase one another down your neck as you hear this. âTaken off?â
The female elf guides you back to your table, noting that itâs safer to be seated during takeoff. All will be explained in due time.
Sitting back down, youâre handed a mint-bark hot chocolate with pepperminty whipped cream. This makes you feel sunny. The light outside the windows goes dark as you note how pretty the twinkling lights outline the knotted-pine walls and are encompass the ten huge Christmas trees in every corner. To you, it all feels like home.
dremadrudge.com 
You must be logged in to post a comment.