Beauty was unknown to me before I met you,
Until the day I die, I shall not find a thing to beat it.
Hence I have stopped looking and bask instead,
In the memory of the sight and scent of you.
🌸
Tag: lovestory
Tuscany, reading, writing and archery – so much common ground! #RNA
Found this Christmas card in the cupboard when I was tidying at 3am this morning, five months too late to send. It depicts Il Duomo in Milan and when I spotted it, it took me back to my weekend with my travel buddy Hannah last March. I knew she’d appreciate the card – so perhaps you’ll remind me to send it this coming December 🙄
Italy Italy is everywhere it seems .. and a very popular location for romance novels. I give you this link … 💒 … in which you should find the wonderful blog by Angela Petch. A fellow-RNA member, writer and all round kindness-filled lady whom I met and clicked with at last year’s Conference near Leeds.
In this post Angela chats to Daisy James, author of the Paradise Cookery School series and now the Limoncello series, published by Canelo Escape Publishing.
I enjoyed reading about Daisy’s writing day, seeing her summer house where she writes when it’s warm enough. The archery link is something I’ll bring up when I see her next time at an RNA event. (We sat next to each other last autumn at the York tea ☕️)
Perhaps now is the time to submit my Tuscan novel to these guys at Canelo to see if they fancy a little romance/mafia 🖤😅
No. For now, we wait. The manuscript is with the New Writer’s Scheme for its read-through by one of the multi-published authors of romance. Receiving the feedback report will be a double-edged sword; petrifying and exciting! To see what the reader thinks works or not. eeeeek!
Have a great day folks!
The silk kaftan billowed against her bronzed skin..
The silk kaftan billowed against her bronzed skin before Blanche pulled it over her head and let it flutter to the ground, landing on the terracotta tiles in a rippled heap of muted colour. She smiled at her painted toes gripping the edge of the wooden diving board, the one she and her sister had begged Giovanni to build over the pool the previous summer.
She paused, bent her knees and bounced once, twice before springing and folding into an elegant arc. She pierced the water and swam near the dolphins which decorated the bottom, emerging at the far end of the pool. She hung her arms on the smooth, warm concrete which edged the pool allowing her lower body to sway gently. As the water drained from her skin and briefly darkened the stone before evaporating, movement caught her attention. Her two year old nephew was thwacking snails with a toy truck. Snails always appeared around the pool following a rain shower.
‘Vi my lovely, what did the snail do to you?’
‘It made my space gooey. Cattiva lumina!’ His pout returned as he gave it one last bash for good measure.
‘He’s not a bad snail Vi! He’s just come out to find food and drink. We mustn’t kill animals. He hasn’t hurt you has he now?’
Giovanni hovered nearby, talking on the phone which had the longest coil of phonewire Blanche had ever seen. Giovanni had known someone who knew someone who had provided the special telephone cable. There was nothing he could not source.
Ingrid appeared in the pagoda which bridged the back of the house from the pool area and placed a lunch tray on the table. As she watched Ingrid arrange items on the table she allowed the chinking of glass and clatter of cutlery to sooth her the throbbing at the back of her head. Sounds of daily life at the Tuscan vineyard with the family she loved more than anything.
On closer inspection the table top appeared shiny. Aluminium where it should be teak, and the cutlery had morphed into surgical implements. A nurse stood in Blanche’s line of vision, obscuring her view of lngrid. She closed her eyes and turned her head away, preferring to watch the sunlight dance on the surface ripples. She watched aghast as her forearms slid down the edge and her shoulders felt the cool cover of water. Her fingers were the last of her to feel the Italian breeze. An exhaustion wrapped itself around her and although she always swam under water, this time the sinking sensation was accompanied by no urgency to return to the surface. Perhaps a little sleep on the bottom, next to the dolphins she coveted….
Merry Christmas dear Henry 🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄 (#jackvettriano #flashfiction)
When he asked me to dance, I had no notion whatsoever it would become our lives.
We were both nineteen and enduring our first year of University. Well he was enjoying his but I couldn’t bare the lecture schedule which was sparse and scattered without thought through the week, the windows of time between being too short to get away. I wanted to be travelling and was regretting not joining Ruth on her year-out adventure.
So when the quiet boy called Henry asked if I would audition with him, it sounded fun and a contrast to why we were really so far from home. We were instantly accepted onto the course; we had ‘poise’ she said (the funny elderly tutor who still wore the brightest red lipstick in the palette).
Every Tuesday and Friday evening in the old music hall next to the university chapel, she followed us closely, her arms outstretched and her body keeping close to our own as we moved around the parquet floor. Without fail she wore her tap shoes and black knee-length floaty dress,. It was as if she wanted to dance with Henry, or perhaps me.
‘Bravo!’ She would call and as the weeks turned into months, Ms Ketch taught us the dances of her youth while an unexpected connection between Henry and I blossomed. We were entered for a competition and delighted to win it.
It was the first of many spanning twenty four years dancing together. No-one has since held me on the dance floor like Henry could. Many are technically brilliant and we carry out the routine in a skilled fashion, but there is a spark missing.
His finger tips would talk to my spine mid-tango, he would catch my eye during the Foxtrot and no words would need to pass between us before any dance. We just knew how to bring the best out in each other, whatever mood we might find ourselves in.
When Henry died last year, my husband was wonderfully supportive and encouraged me to get back out there. I’m not sure he quite understands though, what it is that I have lost…
💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫
A piece of flash fiction to break up my housework… I keep walking past the December print on my Jack Vettriano calendar and realising I’ve not given you a piece to go with it. Deary me… I am slacking!
(But you should see my kitchen – it’s unusually spotless)
Book Review for Karina Bartow’s ‘Forgetting My Way Back To You’
One thing that can happen during blogging is authors make contact and ask if you’ve time to read their book and review it.
Now, I don’t usually accept these requests as its a huge responsibility and undertaking to agree to read a whole book for someone you may not know by a certain deadline. But Karina had followed my blog and read a few posts and knew I enjoyed a love story. What’s more, she gave me eight weeks’ notice and the word count is approx 54,000 so I accepted the challenge. I read the book in just over 24 hours in the end and really enjoyed the story of Charlee and Hunter.
Blurb:
At one point or another, everybody finds themselves wanting a second chance, whether it be missing the mark on an investment, failing to live up to a certain goal, or letting a true love slip away. It’s very seldom, however, that one receives the proverbial do-over.
Charlee Stoll and Hunter Jett become the modern-day exception. After a decade-long estrangement, the high school sweethearts reconnect when Hunter, fresh off a career in arena football, returns to his hometown. Their reunion catches both of them by surprise, and they quickly recapture the love they once shared. When Hunter begins to rethink his choices, though, tragedy strikes. During a heated confrontation, Charlee’s thrown off a horse and sent into a week-long coma.
When she awakens with no clue who he is, he seizes the chance to right his wrongs, but it proves more challenging than he expects. On top of romancing her, he must overcome her father’s displeasure, another ex-boyfriend vying for her love, and her own mission to regain her memory. Through charm and deception, can he win back her love…before she discovers the truth?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Karina Bartow grew up and still lives in Northern Ohio, USA. Though born with Cerebral Palsy, she’s never allowed her disability to define her. Rather, she’s used her experiences to breathe life into characters who have physical limitations, but like her, are determined not to let them stand in the way of the life they want. Her debut novel, Husband in Hiding was released in 2015 and was well-received by readers. She’s excited about her new love story, Forgetting My Way Back to You, available now from VinspirePublishing.com. She may only be able to type with one hand, but she writes with her whole heart!
To learn more, visit www.KarinaBartow.com
What did I enjoy about it?
It had all the required anxiety-filled moments of will they/won’t they? Plenty of hurdles to overcome but moments when I wanted to shout at her mistrust – the clever result of giving us both their POVs. The characters are believable and the problems they encounter, potentially preventing their HEA, are well dealt with and diverse. I liked Hunter, helped I’m sure by the front cover choice!
The plot is straightforward and nicely followed through to its conclusion. An ultimately uplifting read with some laugh out loud moments provided by a couple of side characters which do not detract from the main storyline.
This novel can be purchased direct from the American publishing company Inspire or
Always there in spirit, in love, in friendship
When I think of what was,
There is a shudder,
An awakening.
Twofold it engulfs me,
Excitement of memories,
Fear of realisation,
That it is no more.
How do we know,
When the last time
Is the last time.
We don’t.
Deleting those lines or chapters during editing can feel like losing a limb!#writingtips #amwriting
Truman Capote apparently said:
“I believe more in the scissors than I do in the pencil”
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)
✂️✏️✂️✏️✂️✏️✂️✏️✂️✏️✂️✏️
We hear this a lot don’t we, from editors and publised authors who have been there and worn the proverbial T-shirt.
They’ve had to lose chunks, chapters and sometime even whole sections of their carefully thought out prose.
But chances are, the overall effect of losing the waffle, the unnecessary description, the side-character’s shoe colour, will improve the reading experience.
And that, right there, is what I hope to give my readers when one day this novel is completed – and edited professionally 👌🏼
I now have 30,000 words and wanted to drop by to share this news with you as I’ve juggled all summer between 22 and 28 thousand words and never seemed to be able to get any more down!
I’ve set myself a goal and a reward at achievement, which is I can only start reading another novel once I’ve typed 10,000 NEW words. 😱 (I know, eeek! But it’s working. I set the goal yesterday and I’ve typed over 2,000 already 👏🏼)
I hope you’re all getting done the things you wanted to get down today xx
