Worth and Joel, the hero and heroine of my inspirational WIP, are both voracious readers. Joel, who is hearing-impaired, learned very early in life  to find refuge from his loneliness in books. Worth had little chance to read growing up; her father thought fiction a corrupting influence and a waste of time, especially for women. As a result, books had the charm of the forbidden and Worth read whenever she got the chance. Now that she’s on her own, she relishes the opportunity to read freely. Sharing and discussing books is how the two begin to develop a relationship.

Of course, making my characters bookworms is a bit of self-indulgence on my part. What books will they read, and what will they think of them? The story is set in 1905, and when I did a quick search for notable books published around 1900 many of the titles that came up were unfamiliar. So, I’ve fallen back on some favorites of mine from earlier times.

Joel has a vivid imagination and enjoys stories of adventure in far-away places, so he reads Kim (Rudyard Kipling) and The Virginian (Owen Wister) in his old farmhouse in the quiet Nova Scotia countryside. Worth is more taken with character stories, so she reads Villette (Charlotte Bronte) and convinces Joel to try Vanity Fair (William Thackeray). I might give them both some Dickens to read as well.

Kim and Villette are old friends of mine, but I’ve never read The Virginian or much Dickens, other than A Christmas Carol and Pickwick Papers, so I might have to do some reading as research. Such a burden. Sigh. Do any of you writers out there like to use taste in reading as a way to reveal character? What old books are your favourites?

We lost our cat, Emily, this week at the ripe old age of twenty. This picture is from Wikimedia Commons, but it looks just like her.

In a way, it’s the end of an era. I adopted Emily and her littermate, Patch, when I outgrew student digs and moved into my first nice apartment. Patch passed away three years ago. We loved her, but bless her heart, she wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. She used to do things like get her head wedged in cracker boxes or get stuck between chairs with her front feet on one and her hind feet on the other. Emily was the brains of the outfit. She took it upon herself to come and get me when her sister got into trouble. “Mom, you’d better come quick, she’s done it again.” She missed Patch terribly when we lost her.

Patch always disappeared when company came, but Emily used to screen my dates. If she didn’t like the guy she would ignore him; if she did, she’d climb into his lap. If this bothered him, I knew he wasn’t the one. A man who doesn’t like animals is not the man for me. When I started seeing Everett, Em made it clear that she approved. Everett grew up with cats and took her attention as a compliment. A strong point in his favour.

While we lived in my flat, we used to let the cats outdoors, but we stopped when we moved to our house. There were coyotes in the area. So, when Emily couldn’t be found at bedtime one night, we worried. She missed prowling. Had she managed to sneak out on us? Then Everett looked out the living-room window and saw that his car’s four-way flashers were on. He went out, opened the door and out popped Emily. She’d snuck out earlier when he’d gone to get something from his car, and jumped in. In the dark, he never noticed. Somehow she managed to hit the button that turned on the flashers. She was known from then on as the four-way flasher cat.

I doubt if we’ll have a cat again. With our two rambunctious dogs, it doesn’t seem fair. When we brought Chance home as a pup, the girls put him in his place and they coexisted peacefully, but Echo is a different story. She’s driven to chase anything that moves, and I think she’d hurt a small kitten. If we brought home an adult cat, there’d probably be blood on the ground. I love our goofy tail-waggers, but there will always be a place in my heart for beasties that “walk by their wild lone and wave their wild tail where it so pleases them”, as Kipling put it. Goodbye, Em, and thanks for the memories.

I turn fifty today. Happy birthday to me! I’ve never been one to think much about my age – as my father says, getting older is better than the alternative, and I’m too busy to think about it anyway, but a milestone deserves some reflection.

At heart, I’m the same person I was when I was six. I hated heights, loved animals, had a quick temper and a curious turn of mind then, and I still do. I was a reader and writer then, and I’m a reader and writer now. We learn control, but the core doesn’t change. Time teaches – after all, doing the same thing over and over and expecting the same result is the definition of stupidity – but what haven’t I learned in fifty years?

I haven’t learned to give in. If you look up Taurus in an astrological book, my picture should be there. Just ask my parents and my partner how stubborn I am. The funny thing is, Everett is a Taurus, too, and he’s just as stubborn. Sometimes when we butt heads we end up laughing because it’s really ridiculous how pig-headed we both can be, but I’ve come to think of this as a good quality. Stubbornness equals determination.

I haven’t learned patience. In small things and large, I’m an impatient person. I want what I want and I want it now. The challenge is to channel my impatience toward motivation instead of frustration.

I haven’t learned to dissemble. With me, what you see is what you get. Which may not always be smart in a given situation, but it simplifies life in the long run.

I haven’t learned boredom. I have never been able to understand how anyone can be bored for any length of time in this world, and I never will. I only wish there were more hours in a day to read all the books I’d like to read and write the ones I’d like to write and learn the songs I’d like to play and…and…and.

I haven’t learned true cynicism. At heart I still agree with George Bernard Shaw: life is never easy, but it can be delightful.

Which isn’t a bad place to be after fifty years.

At today’s interfaith service, a Catholic priest brought up the question of why Titanic continues to grip people’s imaginations. There was her sheer size, her opulence and the class structure that opulence represented.  There was the audacity of the claim that she was unsinkable. There were the stories of heroism and sacrifice, with the band bravely playing on while the ship went down, but for me, Titanic‘s mystique is embodied in one story.

Two of the participants in today’s ceremony were granddaughters of a man who crewed on MacKay Bennett, one of the ships that retrieved bodies of victims. This young man, aged 24 at the time, was the one who pulled the body of Titanic’s famous ‘Unknown Child’ into a boat. Overcome, he cradled the toddler in his arms and promised that he would ‘see him in his proper place’. When the little boy was buried in Halifax without a name,  MacKay Bennett’s crew had a brass plaque placed in his coffin, inscribed with the words Our Babe.

In 2001, the grave of the Unknown Child was opened so that DNA technology could be used to try to identify him. All that remained of the body was a few fragments of bone, which had been protected by the brass plaque. Those fragments provided the DNA that led to the child’s identification as Sidney Leslie Goodwin from England. The youngest of a family of eight, little Sidney perished along with his parents and siblings that cold April night, but thanks to the compassion of MacKay Bennett‘s crew – and that one young seaman in particular – he is no longer unknown. It’s this joining of past and present, the bond of caring that extended through time in a way no one could have  imagined in 1912, that makes Titanic fascinating to me.

The Ukrainian settlers who came to Western Canada in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries brought  with them a tradition of hospitality, good, hearty food, and holiday customs that blended Greek Orthodox Catholic Church ritual with folklore. One of the most charming of those customs is the creation of colourful batik eggs. The colours and patterns are added layer by layer using a wax-resist method, resulting in a true work of art.

Historically, people living in the Carpathian Mountains of Ukraine decorated Easter eggs as a way to ensure the triumph of good over evil in the coming year. According to legend, if too few eggs were decorated, an evil serpent would be released from captivity to wreak havoc on humanity. A sufficient number of eggs would serve as a talisman to keep the monster imprisoned for another year.

On my trip to Saskatchewan, my hosts gave me two batik eggs. Unfortunately they are fragile things and both broke years ago. One had geometric designs of white on a dark blue background, and the other had an intricate design in red, black, yellow and white. Whenever I see Ukrainian eggs now, they bring back memories of my visit and the open hearts of my host family.

What’s your favourite Easter tradition?

I stayed with a Ukrainian family on a wheat farm near the tiny community of Donwell. My hosts were almost completely self-sufficient – they grew all their own meat and vegetables, and bought only a few staples. I experienced the delight of fresh cream and brown sugar on raspberries still warm from the sun, of homemade perogies and borscht. As for the landscape, my reaction was very similar to Carl’s. It reminded me of the ocean. The wind, the endless distance. The sky. It dwarfed everything.

I was used to seeing the stars peeking through spaces between buildings, or hedged in by trees. I’d never seen anything like the prairie sky at night. I’d never seen soil so soft you could dig it with your hands, so soft it won’t support buildings more than two stories high. On that trip, I realized how young a country Canada really is.  A fifty-year-old building was a rarity.

I know that if I were ever to live “out West”, I would miss the ocean, but there’s something inspiring in the openness of the prairies, something that helps put things in perspective.  And, while I was there, I fell a little bit in love with a prairie farm boy.

Yes, there’s something about those Western stars.

The smell of her hair, the sound of her breath catching. The warmth against his lips when she exhaled. The images from his dream and the pain of his fall faded as Carl’s senses took over.

To him, a kiss had never been more than a prelude to sex, but none of the few women he’d known trembled when he touched them. None had made him tremble in return. He couldn’t have rushed if he’d wanted to.

He slid his fingers into the silk of Naomi’s hair, tucked a softly curling lock behind her ear and lingered to stroke her there. Pretend – it was only pretend, like she’d said last night, but why not choose a dream over a nightmare?

“Easy, Naomi. If you want me to stop, just say so.”  Hell, she shouldn’t have to say so, O’Neill. You don’t need her to tell you this is stupid.

But Naomi said nothing. Her eyes drifted shut, her lips parted, and Carl’s conscience headed south. It had never been much good at keeping him out of trouble anyway.

He didn’t kiss her full on at first. Instead, he teased the corners of her mouth, first one, then the other. Her lips relaxed, but she still held her body tense, ready to run.

“This will be better if you relax.”

She turned her face away. “I don’t think I can.”

The words came out small and fearful. Carl took Naomi’s hands and twined his fingers with hers. To anchor her, or himself? He didn’t know.

“Don’t think. Just feel.”

He brushed her lips with his again. Her fingers curled, her shoulders stiffened. Then, between one breath and the next, she relaxed. Her mouth opened against his, soft and quiet, inviting him to taste her. That was all it was at first – acceptance, but the sweetness of it made him ache.

Then she started kissing him back.

Oh, yeah.

Maybe this was how nice girls kissed. As if Carl would know. Maybe she’d learned from some beau, or maybe she was a natural, but she took his senses by storm without even trying. 

She pulled her hands away and looked up at him, lips wet, eyes wide. “Ben…I shouldn’t have let that happen. It makes no sense.”

“Does it have to? We’re headed in different directions, Naomi. What difference does a kiss make?”

“You’re right, of course. As long as you see it that way, then there’s no harm done.”

So, for the first time in his life, Carl is hooked emotionally – by someone he knows he’ll hurt, because that’s his pattern. What is he going to do about it?

Stay tuned.

So what is your favourite fictional first kiss?

Writers are always looking for ways to streamline and tighten their writing, and their writing process. This week, acting on the suggestions of a couple of fellow authors, I tried something new – with interesting results.

Julia Phillips Smith is a fellow member of Romance Writers of Atlantic Canada and the  author of Saint Sanguinus, a riveting Dark Age vampire story – says I, who rarely read vampire stories. Julia has a film background, and we’ve had several discussions on the visual aspect of writing fiction. Ann Bartle Stuart is fellow Bluewood Publishing author with two fine contemporary romances, Awenasa Island and Brigadoon’s Guarded Hearts, currently available. We’ve chatted online about overcoming plotting difficulties by looking at each chapter as a separate story, with its own goals, motivations and conflict for each character.

As I began chapter 5 of Deliverance, I decided to see what would happen if I combined elements from those discussions.  I put together a rough chart with goals, motivation and conflict for Naomi and Carl, then on the back of the same piece of paper I sketched out three scenes in a modified screenplay form. I described the settings, noted the characters’ emotions, and put in a few snippets of dialogue as cues. The result was far fromcomplete enough to be acted, but I found writing the chapter much easier with this groundwork done.

I’m a pantser, but this is a level of planning I can handle. It made me think more precisely about what my characters want at this particular point in the story, why, and what they’re going to do about it. It’s easy to see the changes in goals and motivation – and if they aren’t changing, a red flag goes up.

I’ll be trying this again with my next chapter. If anyone in blogland tries it, I’d be curious to hear how it worked for you. Thanks again, Ann and Julia. Writing friends rock!

The phrase also has another meaning for me, in regard to a special place and special memories. When I was growing up in Montreal, my family always came “home” to the Annapolis Valley for our summer vacations. Far from being “home” to me, my grandparents’ house in tiny Kingsport on the Midas Basin was a different world. I was used to city streets, the thunderstorms that rolled over Montreal on breathless, humid evenings, and the smells of the delicatessens and pizza parlours in our ethnically mixed neighbourhood. To go from a basement apartment to a tree-shaded old two-story house with salt breezes blowing in the windows, from riding my bike in the local park to diving off the wharf into cool, buoyant salt water,to explore the mysteries of an earthen cellar and watch sand-swallows swooping in and out of their nest-holes in the red sandstone bluffs overlooking the Basin,was pure magic.

In my childhood,Kingsport was a quaint collection of neatly-kept country houses and summer cottages, most owned by people my father had known all his life. There was a gas station, a canteen and a general store, where the owners had time to chat with a small girl. But time marches on. As the homes were handed down or sold, many fell into disrepair. The wharf blew away in a hurricane, the store and gas station closed.The old order has passed away.

Last spring, early in April, I took a drive to Kingsport for the first time in a few years. Early spring never shows country places at their best. The leafless trees emphasized every sagging roof and rickety porch. I parked by the beach and got out in a cold wind that spit rain in my face. The Basin was an ugly mud colour under the grey sky. I didn’t see a trace of the charm and grace I remembered. After a few minutes I drove away, feeling that it was lost forever.

Halfway home, the sun broke through the clouds and my mood lifted. Of course, the place I knew is not lost. It lives in my heart. And last week, I got an idea for a story set there at the turn of the last century, when Kingsport was a busy shipbuilding port. I’ve got one or two of Dad’s childhood stories in the plot – with names changed to protect the not-so-innocent. My couple, Worth and Joel, will find love like Anne and Gilbert, in a place where winds of hope and memory will always blow.

On a grey February afternoon, with what a former boss of mine used to call a “good old Halifax s**t storm” due to roll in overnight, I’m sitting here casting about for a blog topic. As I mentioned in my last post, I’ve been struggling with a sagging middle in my WIP, Deliverance, and decided to go back to the beginning and add more depth to the characters. So, let’s talk about characters – in particular, heroes who don’t start out as hero material.

Carl O’Neill(above, as I picture him – isn’t Henry Cavill fun to look at?) was the anti-hero in Shattered. Belligerent, violent and reckless, he threw his family into chaos. Carl isn’t a nice man at all, yet right from the start I sympathised with him. He has understandable reasons for his bad behaviour, and he has redeeming qualities: bravery and a quixotic sense of honour. He has terrible judgement in deciding where to place his loyalty, but once placed it isn’t easily swayed. I think that’s why I liked him enough to give him a book of his own.

One thing about starting with such a flawed character – there’s plenty of room for growth. The challenge is to make that growth believable, to stay true to Carl’s flaws and yet still give his heroine, Naomi, a reason not to write him off before he starts to come around. To start with, he’s sick and in her care, but I’ve just finished revamping Chapter 3 and he’s now well enough to start showing his true colours. When he does, how is she going to react?

Being a pantser, I’m not sure. Naomi is about to experience a crisis in her own life. How will Carl respond? He has no idea how to offer comfort to a woman, and he knows it. Naomi has good reasons to be distrustful, not to say frightened, of men. The only thing they have in common is that they’ve both experienced war. In the short time before Carl is well enough to go on his way, I’m going to have to build a connection that’s strong enough to make him want to stay, and her want him to stay – in spite of his flaws. Without making her seem weak or TSTL.

What do you think? Of course all romance heroes worth their salt are flawed, but have you enjoyed a story where a confirmed antihero gradually and believably becomes a hero?