BOOKS WE LOVE BLURBATHON-VIJAYA SCHARTZ

 

BOOKS WE LOVE BLURBATHON – VIJAYA SCHARTZ

CURSE OF THE LOST ISLE, Medieval Fantasy Romance series, by Vijaya Schartz

http://www.amazon.com/author/vijayaschartz

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 2 – PAGAN QUEEN

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.

BWL Blurbathon

BWL BLURBATHON
Welcome to the Books We Love Blurbathon.

SAVAGE POSSESSION BY MARGARET TANNER
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.
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008EL0FTI


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

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.   

 ~~Juliet

 

http://www.julietwaldron.com

 

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.

http://cronehenge.blogspot.com
http://www.julietwaldron.com

~~Juliet Waldron

TALK NERDY TO ME

A grandchild of mine was accused, some years ago, of being a “Nerd” because she played War Craft, read and reread Lord of the Rings, and got hooked on TV shows like Fringe and the X-Files. I wondered about this label at first, because she’s bright, outgoing and swims in a sizeable pod of friends. Then I realized that although the term “Nerd,” is fairly new, the profile remains the same. It’s an inherited condition, even unto the second generation.

My husband was always neat, even, his mother told me, as a child, a born organizer. The system might not always be apparent, but he will explain it to you, and he will back his preferences with inescapable logic. He built and flew model airplanes through adolescence, and in labeled boxes in the basement, beside his mourned for, obsolete darkroom, are the engines. I have not the least doubt they could be resuscitated.

After we married, he worked as a programmer. For fun, he spent a decade studying Ansel Adams’ Zone System. He could bring a loud party with the latest Stones album and a fresh jug of Mateus to a stand-still in five minutes if given an opening. His photography, as he practiced it in darkroom and with endless test sheets and kitchen table grokkings, was inspired. As a result, we’ve got rafts of wonderful pictures of our growing boys.

As for me, I was an only lonely child living in the country. Nearsighted, (“Lizzie Lens” was the standard ‘50’s joke) it was easier for me to read than to relate to a world of other children I couldn’t quite see. I hung out in my imagination, creating an entire world ruled by dogs; I drew charts of their dynasties. Oddly, the dogs rode horses, and I had a box of plastic and china stand-ins. Later, I cut to the chase and simply sat on the floor and talked to myself. When I was little, this was called “good” behavior. As I grew older and the habit of talking to myself continued, Mother had second thoughts. All of a sudden—or so it seemed to me—telling myself stories all the time was “weird.” In the fourth grade a Bambi fixation drove me to write a play–I guess you’d call it “fan fic” today–which was performed by my class. I’ve always been vulnerable to historical biography. I began with Davy Crocket, but by the time I was eleven, my affections had fastened upon Alexander Hamilton. This was a fairly odd choice for a crush in the age of Elvis Presley.

Next — granddaughter’s parents. Here we have a Nurse Practictioner and a ramblin’ wreck from Georgia Tech who is–no doubt about it– A Helluva Engineer–the kind who devises break-through software and whose basement ceiling is singed by experimental salutes to Ol’ Nick Tesla. So, when this grandchild puts on her “Talk Nerdy to Me” tee shirt and heads out to play Trivial Pursuit or computer games at the local teen hang-out, I feel a warm glow. She’s a member of Our Clan.

.

Two Wheel Fashion

It's funny to watch all the different kinds of motorcycle riders around our neighborhood. Considering it, they're probably pretty much the same anywhere in the US.

Most conspicuous is the Born to Be Wild crowd, each guy in the parade more of an outlaw HD biker than the last, with LOUD pipes and bald head. Sometimes there's a variant where the rider has a pony tail of grizzled gray. You've got to have a skull tat per inch of bared skin, possibly a lit cigarette dangling from lower lip. You've got a doo-rag but no helmet, because that would be chicken. Sometimes there's a woman on the back, wearing form fitting leathers no matter what kind of shape she’s in. She’s often younger and skinier than her “old man.” The joke Teeshirt in this crowd has written across the back “If you can read this, the bitch fell off.”

Nowadays, though, The Bitch rides in own right, all she likes to be dressed in leather. It must be tough on some the boyfriends when these gals show up on a better bike! At her best, she looks like Angelina and wears leathers that match the color of her show-room glittering cruiser.

Now, I shouldn’t ignore the genteel HD/big bike riders, because there are a lot of them. They appear to have money, and they spend it on vehicles—big diesel trucks they might not strictly speaking need are parked in their driveways along with boats, and RV’s. They ride beautifully cared for, fully decked HD’s or brutal BMW's, those luxury vehicles of the m’cycle world. They can be spotted astride machines of pastel colors, sailing our interstates, rigged with travel trailers. They are taking long treks to Florida or to the West Coast, or down Route 66, or across Canada, whatever the dream ride. One thing all big bikes love in common is a parade, sometimes to the annoyance of other travelers.

Second, and less familiar stateside, are the Rocket Boys. In our part of the country, world, so near an HD plant, this is necessarily a smaller group. Rocket Boys seem to cling to the coasts and have a strong presence in sprawling urban areas, like Greater Atlanta. My husband and I belong to this group, although we are geriatric members. I ride behind him and as he’s at heart a cautious fellow, there are no stunts for us. It is thrill enough to accelerate down a winding country road, leaving other traffic behind like a black Japanese UFO. We ride in helmets, jackets and boots—maybe we’d go for the full Rocket suit if we traveled longer or less tamely. My husband and I go quietly, unlike some of our brethren. Noise has never been a preference for us; stealth is always our Grail.