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Thursday, December 5, 2013



Every August, I wait and watch for the new crop of apples. I begin the process of filling my fridge with apples, and proceed to bake apple pies and apple bread. Then I fill my freezer with applesauce. The habit began early.

My parents had three acres in Skaneateles, NY which came with the remains of an orchard. There were seven trees in a row on the eastern side of the house, and I remember the shape and habit of each one well, blooming in spring or illuminated by sunrise. Nearest the road was a classic Golden Delicious tree with low, spreading limbs. It was my particular haunt, because it was easy to climb into. During hot summer afternoons, there were almost-comfortable notches you could get into with a book, but actually, the best thing was just to zone out and watch the ever-changing shadows of the leaves dancing across my skinny arms.   Besides this shapely tree there was also a Schuyler Plum, a Bartlett pear, and a single apple tree each of Rome and Cortland. We had one mystery tree which shed rock hard golden-with-pink-blush fruit very late in the season. To this last, my parents could not give a name until they consulted the local old-timers. This, we finally learned, was a Winter Banana. Although initially “hard enough to shoot through an oak plank”, we found that if you wiped these apples and stored them in a cool place inside a big cardboard box, by early January they would become tasty, juicy and delicious. These heritage apples kept so well, that we often made pies or sauce or even Waldorf salad as late as April. We rarely bought store apples.
Winter Banana

When my husband and I were first married, we lived in Massachusetts and so had plenty of excellent northern apples to eat, and so my craving—after dearth years in the West Indies--was satisfied. The newly developed, sweet and crispy Macoun, glowing in those picture-perfect Massachusetts orchards was a revelation. For work, though, we had to move south. The apples here came earlier, and what I found were of poor quality. At the farm stands, the Macs, Romes and Cortlands, and even the ordinarily good keepers such as Staymen, all too soon in the long southern autumns, became mush.  Friends who lived up north sent me fruit by post, but I was an apple exile--deprived.

Moving again, into Pennsylvania, I hoped to find better apples, but at first, I couldn’t locate them. People here liked Lodi, for they come early, but about all they are good for is a mild, soupy sauce. No, the early greens are not favorites—and don’t even mention the awful saw-dust-look-but-don't eat supermarket Red “Delicious”!  The antique varieties our grandparents knew had been destroyed by subdivisions and marketing. I’ve lived in PA for 30 years now, and that once world-famous Pennsylvania export, the York Imperial--of "Treasure Island" fame--has never crossed my seeker’s path.
Happily, we are returning to a time in which people crave good taste again, and at the renascent farmer’s markets I'm again finding the old favorites.  It’s catch as catch can, depending on weather, rain and whether I find them fresh off the tree. There are some new, tasty varieties—the Ginger Gold, the Braeburn, the Gala, and the magnificent, late season Goldrush.  Among the newbies, I confess to a weakness for Empires and Jonagolds. The older breeds, however, to my old taste buds, will always be tops. My heart leaps when I find a hard, tart Jonathan or a traditional Winesap, or even a Cortland or a Rome, fresh from a good tree. This year, during my  annual apple hunt, I encountered my Holy Grail of heritage apples—Northern Spy—and enjoyed a brief time of rejoicing in each crispy, crunchy, tangy bite.     

Heritage apples/Assorted
~~Juliet Waldron
Historical Novels @ http://www.julietwaldron.com

Monday, October 14, 2013


She changed it to "Debra" after she grew up. I guess there were just too many bad/sad associations with her original birth name. The birth certificate said, "Deborah Holiday." Her mother explained to me way back when I had just married into the family, that the five days she got in hospital after childbirth seemed like a holiday to her. The Waldrons already had two little boys, aged 8 and 4, and, at the time, her husband was away on business.

Debra was at times a difficult person to love. She was smart--although by the time I met her, as         a teen-ager, she'd been convinced by other people that she was dumb. She was pretty and talked tough, but she was insecure. She wasn't as interested in other people -- except theoretically -- as she was in herself, and this led to trouble, both for her and the many who loved her. She was brilliant in her chosen field, Kinestheology, and a trail-blazing pioneer in the field of massage therapy. She dared to study the subject and she dared to practice, too, back in the days when a lot of people thought "massage" meant "sex." She was always brave and always unconventional, a real amazon, a tall woman with long flowing hair and a handsome aquiline nose. In Victorian times, she would have been considered a beauty.

She was a leader in her chosen field. In one of the most despairing times of my life, she gave me a massage and a "realignment of aura." I had been at the end of my rope--the very end--and she took all the pain I'd been keeping in my body and took it away. I could get off that table and go on with my life because of what her hands had done. People talk about it, but she had it--the healing touch. She founded Still Point School of Massage in MA. Although the name and practice eventually became the property of others, schools of that name still teach the blessed work of hands. 

Perhaps it was all the pain she took from the bodies of her patients which sickened her. Perhaps it was her genes, for, like her mother, she fell victim to MS and began the long, slow slide toward disintegration and death. It was a terrible irony for such a vital, strong-bodied person to fall prey to a wasting disease.

Deborah means "bee," and she was a Queen kind of bee. The ancient Hebrew goddess, Deborah--and before Yahweh took over the whole ball of wax, there were Hebrew goddesses--sat beneath a palm tree, dispensing justice. Debra loved to be stage center. She hoped to end her life in a room full of her friends, a sort of exit party. The police came to stop her, but they couldn't stop the progression of her illness and the onset of Death, for spinal stenosis was reaching her brain. Her body had long since ceased to serve her and Debra knew quite well that her mind would be lost next.

Thankfully, Hospice is allowed to help those who are frail and dying in pain. It was clear that Debra wanted to leave this place and begin her journey into Time. She told me she wanted to see her mother again, and trusted that she would, on the other side.

Debra still knew her own body, and she when her time within it was almost over. The good people of Hospice came to the rescue and she died peacefully on June 20, just before the Solstice. I trust she winged her way to the land of cosmic clover and nectar-filled flowers.

"Everything changes; nothing dies."  (The Blue Fox)


See All my novels there...

Bob & The Gollem



Returned from a 4 day road trip—3 of which were mostly road. The cats missed me, but particularly Bob, because he welcomed me home in his usual over-the-top Uber feline way. Hadn’t been in the house again for more than an hour, when I heard keening outside the door. It’s “Tigger’s” wurra-wurra-wurra, deep, and, somehow, both penetrating and nasal. Nasal of necessity, because he only makes this yeowly cry when he has some pitiful victim clamped between his jaws.  Yesterday, amid the blooming daffodils and the greening yard, the red buds getting ready to burst and send the human community into a coordinated allergy attack, was the last day for a poor bunny, probably  little more than a month old.

 I foolishly opened the door and Bob rushed in carrying it, a tiger with head held high, proudly bearing prey. The sad little head and ears dangled on one side of his mouth, the adorable baby legs on the other. I ran to catch him and he dropped it at my feet. When I gathered it up in a napkin, it was still warm and floppy.

“Damn you, “ said I, which was not the response he was looking for, even though I didn’t really push the regret and sadness I felt into the words. After all, he’s not a kid, he’s a cat, and, in his feline way, he truly meant well. I placed the corpse back outside on the porch. Bob followed and lay down beside it. He stretched out, head up, like some Serengeti hunter relaxing with a fresh-caught antelope.
As I gave him a quick stroke, I realized that like the LOTR’s Gollem, he’d brought “master” a lovely present.  As Peter Jackson has it: “Eat them! Eat them, they are young and tender!”

~` Juliet Waldron


Tuesday, August 20, 2013

Winter Fire by Kathy Fischer-Brown


graphic A Few Lines from…
Kathy Fischer-Brown
Winter Fire
"Get back!" he shouted. "The ice won't hold you!"
She whirled around in alarm.
And in that split second, he saw her eyes. Those startled doe's eyes. Zara Grey!
In the next instant, a crack—like a musket shot—echoed through the ravine. She reeled as the ice heaved up beneath her amid an angry surge of black water. And then, her face frozen in a look of surprise, her mouth open in a semblance of a silent scream, she disappeared through the widening breach.
His gaze fixed on the roiling chasm, Ethan hurled himself down the slope. She surfaced—flailing arms and legs, and gasping desperately for air—churning up the black water into an icy froth. She grasped at the splinters of ice.
"Keep your head up!"
Racing along the bank, he ripped off his deerskin jacket and hurled it, along with his rifle and belt into the snow. If she went under again, she'd be trapped. Already the current had taken her, sweeping her like a bobbing cork toward the opposite bank where the ice was thicker.
"Keep your head up!"
But the frenzied movement of her arms had slowed. She gasped at the water along with the air. She could barely keep herself afloat. As if she had made a conscious choice to surrender herself to a stronger power, he saw the spirit drain out of her. An eerie calm settled over her eyes as her gaze met his, then she slipped under again without a struggle.
Without stopping to think, Ethan tore off his shirt and moccasins, and dove through the opening.

Visit Kathy’s website: http://www.kfischer-brown.com
Stop back next week for A Few Lines from… Angel de' Amor

Friday, May 10, 2013


I'm one of the featured authors this week at Books We Love, with interview and an excerpt from my most unloved book, RED MAGIC.


Some twenty-five years ago I worked my tail off to write a full blown, old-fashioned traditional heroine-in-jeopardy romance, but you can see how well that worked out, especially if you check out some of the puzzled/and/or/angry reviews my attempt received.  Caterina is not a heroine to start with. She's more of headstrong child, but she becomes a veritable Valkyrie in the course of the book. Likewise, her husband, the celebrated rake, Christoph von Hagen, who featured in such a studly way in MOZART'S WIFE, evolves into a good husband, although the child bride with whom he's been saddled is often a genuine teen-age pain.

I responded, in my contrary way, to all those I disappointed, by making RED MAGIC the start of a series. The next story, BLACK MAGIC, belongs to tall, dark Goran, the eldest son of Caterina and Christoph, and the fateful encounter he has with an ancient Power which inhabits his birthplace. All of this takes place on the majestic Alpine Heldenburg during the 1820's, when Europe is still bruised and bleeding from the Napoleonic Wars.  Goran, a weary, war-worn cavalryman, has come home hoping to recuperate and to get married, but in Vienna he discovers that his fiancĂ© has eloped with a wealthy, debonair older man, dashing his dreams. I hope to have this story completed before Christmas, and see if another attempt at a popular formula will prove more pleasing.

WHITE MAGIC and GREEN MAGIC are on the drawing board. After all, Christoph and Caterina have a family of handsome sons and beautiful daughters, just as you'd expect. The next two books, however, will be set in the England and Cornwall. In the first, Goran von Hagen's twin sister, Mina, will marry an Englishman and encounter the feisty Little People who believe they are the true proprietors of the family estate.

~~Juliet Waldron

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Of Castratos and Countertenors


“Not often they give us Handel!”  I spoke with enthusiasm to the older gentleman seated nearby as we waited for Met @ the Movies to start. I was excited about hearing this nearly 300 year old piece, but as all he said was “Thank God - no!” I understood he wasn’t as jacked as I was about this afternoon's broadcast.

Giulio Cesare was first performed in 1724. It was a hit in its day and has again acquired traction among fans of Baroque opera.  I was familiar with the music because during the 80’s, when I’d been researching Mozart, I’d acquired a Handel CD called “Arias for Senesimo,” featuring Drew Minter, a countertenor. I knew that in the 1770’s, the young Mozart had written for castratos, who were still a feature of the operatic world. (In case you're wondering: the Italians castrated young male singers in order to preserve their soprano/mezzo range.)   These days, we make do with women dressed as men for such roles, or, more recently, with countertenors, men who are able to sing into a higher range, by using “head voice,” a.k.a.,  falsetto.

 As was usual at the Met @ The Movies, I was the youngest person present, a phenomenon which saddens me.  I sincerely hope that opera, this glorious, arcane slice of Western Civ. is not on its way to the cultural junkyard.  I have to admit that Giulio Cesare is definitely not the kind of opera you’d take a neophyte to hear/see. Not everyone can handle a middle aged man with a beard singing in a beautiful soprano voice. Dramatically, too, this kind of Opera Seria was already considered “old-fashioned” in Mozart’s time, fifty years later. There isn’t a lot of character development or action. The structure of the arias is not complex, either—a statement and a restatement, varied only by the addition of increasingly florid vocal embellishments. (An “Aria of Love,” an “Aria of Rage,” an “Aria of Sorrow.”)  
I admit I spent the next 4 ½ hours watching two fabulous male leads who acrobatically sang, soprano and mezzo, and a marvelous female soprano playing the part of a boy in what is called a “trouser role.” (As I’ve said before, this is not everyone’s scene. ) The multi-talented Natalie Dessay, who sang Cleopatra, performed some astonishing “song and dance” numbers which showed that not only could she sing Handel, but she could dance to him, too, deft as any Broadway hoofer.   

Juliet Waldron

Tuesday, April 16, 2013



Returned from a 4 day road trip—3 of which were mostly road. The cats missed me, but particularly Bob, because he welcomed me home in his usual over-the-top Uber feline way. Hadn’t been in the house again for more than an hour, when I heard keening outside the door. It’s “Tigger’s” wurra-wurra-wurra, deep, and, somehow, both penetrating and nasal. Nasal of necessity, because he only makes this yeowly cry when he has some pitiful victim clamped between his jaws.  Yesterday, amid the blooming daffodils and the greening yard, the red buds getting ready to burst and send the human community into a coordinated allergy attack, was the last day for a poor bunny, probably  little more than a month old.

 I foolishly opened the door and Bob rushed in carrying it, a tiger with head held high, proudly bearing prey. The sad little head and ears dangled on one side of his mouth, the adorable baby legs on the other. I ran to catch him and he dropped it at my feet. When I gathered it up in a napkin, it was still warm and floppy.

“Damn you, “ said I, which was not the response he was looking for, even though I didn’t really push the regret and sadness I felt into the words. After all, he’s not a kid, he’s a cat, and, in his feline way, he truly meant well. I placed the corpse back outside on the porch. Bob followed and lay down beside it. He stretched out, head up, like some Serengeti hunter relaxing with a freshly-caught antelope. As I gave him a quick stroke, I realized that like the LOTR’s Gollem, he’d brought “master” a lovely present.  As Peter Jackson said it: “Eat them! Eat them, they are young and tender!”
~~Juliet Waldron

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

WHAT TIME IS IT? (With apologies to Word Jazz)

Art by Milosaurous

It’s 11:11 p.m. Sometimes it’s 12:12 a.m. Sometimes it’s 3:33 or, maybe, it’s 4:56.  These are clock times which snag my imagination. They happen mostly the dark hours, when I wake up, look at the glowing dial, shake my head and stagger off to the bathroom, or to let the cat out, or to wander around the house for a bit until my old joints unkink sufficiently so I can go back to sleep. I suppose I shouldn’t waste time thinking about whether these readings mean anything, but the problem is that during the 60’s I dabbled in numerology, and that even earlier, sitting on the floor to the off-stage right of a Barbadian bar, I read books about ancient aliens visiting earth, prehistoric collisions with Venus, or African tribes who knew all about the invisible-to-the-naked-eye-dwarf companion of the blue giant star, Sirius. I’ve been soaking in this other-worldly, one-brick-shy-of-a-load content since I was a post war child, with predictable results.

Whenever I wake up I always look at the clock, and because there is usually some variation of what I take to be a “meaningful” configuration, I’ve begun to imagine these are messages—from somewhere, about something. Don’t ask me what, although I’ve spent plenty of nights wondering. Are these omens, messages from a hitherto uncommunicative universe?  
Will the TARDIS land in my bedroom?
Is an escapee from some hideous Lovecraftian dimension with three long fingers and a long snaky snout waiting just behind the door?
Is my ship--long awaited--about to come in?
Or is it all simply a series of unrelated events, just “random chaos ”(as one of my friends has it) which would be, in my experience, business as usual on this particular plane.

~~Juliet Waldron



PARTISAN HEART - Book 2 – Tango of Death Series -Poland 1943-During WW II resistance movements occurred in every occupied country by a variety of means, ranging from propaganda to outright warfare and the recapturing of towns, as well as hiding crashed pilots.
Partisan Heart tells the story of a Gypsy girl who follows her beloved into the forests of Poland and the Ukraine. Their partisan group is willing to risk their lives blowing up train trestles, attacking SS killer squads, and to infiltrate Nazis intelligence to destroy Nazi Germany. Resistance does exist. If nothing else, to die with dignity is a form of resistance. hhttp://bookswelove.net or http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00AZ6VTFE/
“I am a Jew fighting for his people and I’m fighting for your people, too. I don’t need you fighting me.” He opened his arms to her.
Vanya moved into his embrace. After a long silence she lifted her face up to him and took his hard kiss. She responded with urgency and passion. He fueled the fire within her and she didn’t want to stop.
He kissed her cheek, then moved to nibble on her ear lobe.
“I love how you kiss me,” she said somewhat breathless.
He answered with a trail of kisses down her neck . . . lower and lower. She allowed him to pop open the first few buttons on her blouse. He pinned her back against a tree and buried his face into her cleavage. The sensation shook her to the core. She should tell him to stop, but she truly didn’t want him to.
How or when he slipped the remaining buttons free, she couldn’t say.
Find GYPSY SPIRIT Book 1 Tango of Death Series http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009KDY5D6 or http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/241274
Watch for JEWISH SOUL, book 3 of the Tango of Death Series . . . coming soon - Mayla decides it’s up to her to do whatever it takes to find her twin, Vanya, and baby sister, Zilka ~ before the Gestapo sends them to a concentration camp or the SS kills them.

Stop back by March 15 for a blurb by Roseanne Dowell!

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

The Partisan's Wife

I've read this one, and take it from me, this trilogy is the real "historical" deal!


BWL BLURBATHON — Kathy Fischer-Brown
http://illsay.files.wordpress.com/2012/12/fischer-brown_thepartisanswife3-200x300.jpg?w=470The Partisan’s Wife: Book 3: “The Serpent’s Tooth” trilogy
Faced with an impossible choice, Anne Marlowe is torn between her love for her husband and the hope of her father’s forgiveness. As the American forces follow up on their tide-turning victories over the British at Saratoga, Peter is drawn deeper into the shady network of espionage that could cost them both their lives.
“Echoes of great writers from the period abound here, but this modern tale moves fast and is always inventive. The characters, drawn from all classes … are crisply drawn and always believable. I'd recommend "The Partisan's Wife" particularly to any reader who enjoys the period, or a thoroughly researched historical set in any time. You won't be disappointed.” — Juliet Waldron, author of Mozart’s Wife
Available for Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/an4ss64 and in paperback: http://tinyurl.com/9wzmdmj at Amazon.com
Other books in the series: Lord Esterleigh’s Daughter: http://tinyurl.com/bykggat and Courting the Devil: http://tinyurl.com/b7zzots
Check out The Partisan’s Wife book trailer: http://youtu.be/at5BJcKNO_o
Don't forget to stop back on March 9 for Vijaya Schartz

Thursday, February 28, 2013

Abandoned to foster homes as a child, beautiful Charlotte "Charlie" Lawson is steel and velvet on the outside, but on the inside, she's vulnerable and lonely. Even though, deep down, she longs for romance, Charlie decided long ago that she wouldn't give anyone a chance to hurt her again...until sexy, compassionate Damian Westfield makes her believe she can let down her guard.

Everything about Charlie haunts Damian, including her mysterious friendship to his half-brother. It isn't long before Damian's search for the truth opens up Pandora’s Box and he uncovers his family's hidden past. The revelations bring him closer to Charlie. But an act of betrayal will soon force the woman he loves to choose between revenge against the people who hurt her...and trusting him with her heart.

"This is the finest category romance I have ever read. The heroine is a beautiful young woman haunted by her sad childhood in foster homes. The hero is a workaholic businessman who meets her through their half-brother and becomes utterly enchanted with her. The story of how they overcome secrets from the past and their present fears is truly wonderful. You will love this book!" ~ 5 Stars, ERV

"A sensual and moving story about a woman overcoming her past and the to-die-for hero who not only captures her heart, but works hard to keep it. Damian is every woman's dream. Don't miss this story!" ~ 5 Stars, Karen Drogin aka Carly Phillips


Now Available: Pandora's Box by Kat Attalla

Can a blazing new love chase away dark secrets?

Today blogging on Lisabet Sarai's erotic romance site. (And that's Erotic with a Capital "E"!) Glad feminism and freedom to speak freely about sex isn't entirely dead in the reading community.  Some of the reviews this book has acquired have let me know that the church ladies are still with us, and censoriously mouthing off, as eternal.

(Don't go here if you aren't over eighteen, or aren't a grown-up , and that includes the adult holier-than-thous.)


Thursday, February 21, 2013

Mr. Klein

He was my music teacher at Skaneateles High School until my parents' divorce sent me off to the U.K. in the 9th grade. He was funny, witty, tall and rather thin, dressed in khakis, a white button down and a tie. Sometimes he wore a jacket, too, but sometimes, when he was working with his chorus or the band, he rolled up the sleeves. He had a long, large nose, wise brown eyes behind big glasses, and long musician's hands.

As this was back in the 50's, a time of teen angst, I don't really remember as much about him, or how he taught, or things he said, as I'd like to. He thought I might learn to be a vocalist, and though that probably wasn't likely, he cared enough to give me something to work toward, which is important for kids in general and which was very kind to me. The high point of my last year was singing a solo at the Christmas program. Even a few days later, broadcast by a local a.m. station, as one among the offerings of a hundred other high schools, I was proud to hear myself, clear and pitch perfect. If I'd stayed in Skaneateles, I probably would have studied music, simply because he was such an inspirational teacher.

My parents often went out to dance and hear music in Syracuse, and they came across Mr. Klein working another job, as pianist in a locally well-known jazz band. Those were the days when teachers didn't get paid very much, but this was more than just moonlighting. Mr. Klein's brown eyes always lit up in music class when he talked about "Jazz Hot" and "Jazz Cool," which was, according to him, the end point in the evolution of western musical tradition. "Jazz Cool," was, of course, what he preferred--and played.  At the big hotel, he was the featured player: "Pop Klein on the Piano," disguised, as were the rest of the band, behind hip dark glasses. It was, of course, a secret, not something that in those days the school board would have looked on kindly, so my parents swore me to secrecy.

Once, in class, Mr. Klein mentioned something about this other life, telling a story about another musician who was, around supper time, scratching  himself absently and saying "I got spag-eyes." Those not into jive talk imagined a horrible skin disease, but Mr. Klein explained that his hipster friend just wanted to go out for sphagetti.

Nope, I won't ever forget this marvelous teacher, the benign Mr. Klein! I hope he's still around somewhere, and that he has enjoyed the great stream of new jazz which has continued unabated ever since.

~~Juliet (Vandiver) Waldron

After writing her first big byline about a murder, journalist, Susan Weston is plagued with phone calls from the killer.

Available from Amazon at: http://amzn.to/PjLvDp

A.M. Westerling's blurb will appear on Feb. 22nd. Come back and check it out.

Roseanne Dowell

Book releases from http://bookswelove.net/ http://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2/index.php

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Possum Soul/From the Bottom of the Bin

We're at the bottom of the bin, yes we possum are. Sometimes this bothers us, sometimes not. If I can borrow the royal (or insane) "we," I'll talk possum to you. I've been slogging away out here, serving the muse to the best of my ability, writing, and "scribbling, bibbling," as Amadeus had it, for many years now. My life feels like the movie 9-5, as others, newer to the game, vault over my back and climb the ladder to glory. I, instead, scuttle about in your moon lit backyard and hope that some drunken late night kid driver doesn't run me over, just for laughs.

Sometimes the past is larger than the future. This is happening to my cohort right about now. We were born just before the "baby boom," which has been following us around on big loud feet ever since we saw the light of day. At first, we were remarkable, because we were the tail end of the "baby bust." Depression and a World War had left children scarce on the ground, but then, suddenly, we were a cool rarity no longer simply because we were young children. I remember this feeling of sinking popularity, so can relate to old Hollywood actors whose glory days have come and gone.  By the fifties, everybody had a hoard of little brothers and sisters, except of course for me, the lonely only. I early learned that a mysterious Something called The RH factor had removed that possibility, though I'm not entirely certain either parent was interested in more than the one semi-obligatory child.

Sometimes the past is larger than the future. Very long ago--oh, eons--we marsupials were forerunners of that wildly successful line of placental mammals who have taken over this planet. We possum, parent tribe, alone remain in the West, tenderly snuffling about in hedges for bugs. slugs and worms and the lump of cassarole the old woman next door so thoughtfully threw out. We also like persimmon trees, grapes, berries, and fallen fruit in orchards. Sour or slimy or sweet, it's all grist to the old mill. Maybe, after the killer apes have finally blown themselves to smithereens, a few of us, the ancient possum, will still be shuffling about, nosing quietly through the ruins of what is so saucily termed "civilization."

~~Juliet Waldron


Sunday, February 17, 2013




ladyluxCURSE OF THE LOST ISLE, Medieval Fantasy Romance series, by Vijaya Schartz
From history shrouded in myths, emerges a family of immortal Celtic Ladies, who roam the medieval world in search of salvation from a curse. For centuries, imbued with hereditary gifts, they hide their deadly secret… but if the Church ever suspects what they really are, they will be hunted, tortured, and burned at the stake.
Book 1 – PRINCESS OF BRETAGNE (Scotland 806 AD)
Book 3 – SEDUCING SIGEFROI (963 AD Luxembourg)
Book 4 – LADY OF LUXEMBOURG (coming out very soon).
CURSE OF THE LOST ISLE SPECIAL EDITION (contains the first three novels in one download).
5-star review on Amazon – “Edgy medieval, Yeah!”
“Schartz is an accomplished writer, whose pacing, conflicts, and goals are always complex and whose good characters are always likeable, and whose villains are evil incarnate. You have to like her villains as much as the good guys! Mattacks is a magnificent example of this!” – 5 stars – Manic Readers
Find out more about Vijaya Schartz and her books at http://www.vijayaschartz.com
Check this blog again on February 18, to meet author Juliet Waldron.

Saturday, February 16, 2013

BWL Blurbathon

Welcome to the Books We Love Blurbathon.

A sweeping tale of love's triumph over tragedy and treachery in frontier Australia .
A mistaken identity opens the door for Martin Mulvaney to take his revenge on the
granddaughter of his mortal enemy.
An old Scottish feud, a love that should never have happened, and a series of
extraordinary coincidences traps two lovers in a family vendetta that threatens
to destroy their love, if not their lives.

Please check back for more of these Blurbs, some traditional and non-traditional romance, too,
from BWL

Monday, January 28, 2013

Yet Another Reason to Thank the Canadians

(This is a post, a day late, for dear Mozart's Birthday.)

My local Public Radio station has stopped offering the Metropolitan Opera on Saturday afternoons in favor of cheaper and doubtless more popular talk show programs.  I’m sure to be in the minority here—what else is new?—but this, to me, feels like yet more evidence of the decline and fall of western civilization in these United States. I’m probably over-reacting, but I’ve been listening to the Met on Saturday afternoons ever since I can remember. At first, of course, not intentionally listening, but my mother loved the opera, and if she could find a radio station which carried it, winter afternoons, that was the music which soared through our house. I would sit on the floor beside her bed, where she was ensconced with a half-read murder mystery, the ever present cigarettes and a blonde cocker-spaniel , listening to the radio. Here I’d invent my own games and stories, moving toys across the woolen rugs. Opera seeped through my skin, I guess, and I learned composers and famous singers and opera lore simply by being present.  Long winter afternoons, gray and snowy—we lived in upstate New York—it was a perfect way to hide out from the endless inclement weather. The Met came to us in all its high culture glory across Lake Eire from civilized Toronto, the path of least resistance for radio waves.

So now, in a way, I’ve returned full circle to that childhood. I spend hours daily in front of my computer, and, blessedly, at this point, internet radio stations are plentiful. I’ve settled on the CBC for my Saturday afternoon fix of Donizetti, Verdi, Wagner, Mozart, Puccini et al, and it just occurred to me that in a way, I’m right back where I started from, listening to this beloved, hallowed, and increasingly hoary art form, courtesy of the kindly Canadian Broadcasting system.   


Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Possum Tracks Revisited

Why Possum Tracks? Because in the authorial world, that's the creature with which I identify, a small despised creature that scuttles quietly through the night, seeking a few crumbs with which to sustain my ability to create. I mind my business and gather what the others who are more fortunate have discarded, or what they will not consume, the grubs, worms, bugs, of this writing life. I'm not ashamed of what I am. It is necessary for some of us to clean up after the riotous dinners of the much-lauded others.

With sharp claws, I dig after the grubs of truth buried in the dirt of history. I persist; my lineage is ancient. My family lived in Gondowanaland ever so long ago, and my descendants--rare, strange and endangered--still remain in far off Australia, which drifted away from neighboring continents and became lost.

I will speak of the past, of the meaning of writing about history and occasionally about writing, but the last is mostly immaterial since we've all become scribblers in this electronic (and probably short-lived) all-consuming age. I will talk about men and women and about their tangled relations, about love, power, character,good and evil, night and day, and about the small creatures of the earth and the flight of birds, moonrise and set, and about the signs of nature which exist to illuminate and delight even the most dreary life.


~~Juliet Waldron