Jennie Marsland's Blog, page 3

The Boys of Summer are Back!

Well, beat the drum and hold the phone - the sun came out today
We're born again, there's new grass on the field
Roundin' third, and headed for home, it's a brown-eyed handsome man
Anyone can understand the way I feel

Centre Field, John Fogerty

The major league baseball season opened last night. I settled in with an Oatmeal Stout and watched the Toronto Blue Jays trounce the Minnesota Twins in a 13-3 romp. I'm born again, there's new grass on the field.

I fell in love with baseball during the two university years I spent in Montreal. The Expos were in their heyday then, with Gary Carter, Andre Dawson, Tim Raines and company. I used to listen to Dave Van Horne and Duke Snyder call the games on the radio and dream of warm summer days, even in the doubtful weather of early April.

I enjoy the speed of hockey, but I enjoy the pauses in baseball. It's a different kind of drama, with the buildup before each pitch, each at-bat like a scene in a novel. It also appeals to the history buff in me, with time for interesting tidbits about games and players past.

Last night's game had all the best ingredients - home runs, flashy defense, speed on the bases, and the right team won! Three cheers for the Boys of Summer!

The first draft of Shattered is DONE!

Liam and Alice have found their happily-ever-after …or rather, they've found each other and promised to rebuild their lives together. Happiness will take them some time. This is definitely a book that has to have an epilogue, just as Halifax did. The above photo shows reconstruction happening circa 1918, and here's a modern street scene where destruction once reigned.





I've found it isn't easy to write about the devastation of a place you know and love, even if it all happened over ninety years ago. The recent tragedies in Japan and New Zealand haven't made it easier, but after all, Halifax's story does have a real happy ending. The human spirit is unstoppable. Now, I have to go back to the beginning and make sure I've done my characters justice.

I wish I could step back in time, just for a day, and see the community of Richmond as it used to be. All the accounts I've read are full of real affection. I think it was a place where I would have liked to live, an unpretentious neighbourhood where people knew each other's dogs and cats and kids, with backyards big enough for a milk cow and a few hens. The Hydrostone District that replaced it – named for the cement blocks used for rebuilding after the Explosion – is attractive, with rows of neat garden homes and a strip of fashionable stores and restaurants, including my favourite French bakery.




It's become a trendy and relatively expensive part of town, but it's less to my taste than the old neighbourhood would have been. Still, the Hydrostone is a testament to the resilience of Haligonians, and so I appreciate it too.

Now back to work.

Folk Friday: Down and Dirty

Surfing Amazon discussion boards the other day, I came across a comment from a reader who said she didn't care for historical romance because 'let's face it – the women back then were hairy and the men stinky.' She was actually praising a historical that she'd picked up against her inclination, but she started me thinking. Just how bad was hygiene in 'the good old days', meaning the mid-Victorian era where I set my stories?

There's no denying that in some places and situations, it was awful. I've read of discussions in the U.S. Cavalry about allowing soldiers water to bathe once a week. For troops on the march or cowboys on cattle drives, washing would not have been a priority, nor would doing laundry. Eww! But what about the ordinary folks leading settled lives?

The wood stove was the heart of a rural home, and those old ranges really were an example of appropriate technology. We used to have one at our cottage, and I loved it. The first person up started the fire, and it burned all day, winter or summer. The stove's boiler provided hot water for cooking, cleaning and bathing.
While getting out the wash tub and filling it for a full bath would have been a production, there were basins and ewers. I imagine most people washed at least once a day.

By the end of the Civil War, doctors had made the connection between cleanliness and health and it had started to filter down to the general population. If a man had done his time in the Army and experienced the discomfort of being truly filthy, I think he'd welcome cleanliness. So, stinky heroes? Maybe at times, but I make my guys wash!

Hairy women? Perhaps, but back then armpit and leg hair was taken for granted. It wasn't until the advent of shorter skirts, sleeveless blouses and sheer stockings in the early to mid 20th century that advertisers set to work convincing North American women that body hair was unsightly. To this day, many European women don't shave. I've also read that, due to the smaller proportion of fat in people's diets back then, women in general had lower testosterone levels and therefore less body hair in earlier times. For facial hair, there were tweezers and, after 1903, safety razors.

The same advertisers have convinced us that all natural scent is a social crime, that we should be scentless or perfumed. We forget what a natural clean smells like. So, I'm not surprised that some readers find the thought of a hero who doesn't use deodorant revolting, but to me the thought of a man who uses aluminum chloride as a substitute for soap and water is worse, and they're out there.

So, when I read historicals, I don't think too much about these things. How about you? Do considerations of cleanliness affect your choice of reading material? Inquiring minds want to know.

And for Folk Friday, here's some classic Willie Nelson with wonderful photos to match. Enjoy!

McShannon's Heart Launch Celebration

Last night I marked the release of McShannon's Heart with a launch party at The Company House, a cosy acoustic music venue in downtown Halifax. Friends and family showed up to help me celebrate: my parents, Everett's cousin and his wife, neighbours and members of Romance Writers of Atlantic Canada, including Tara Macdonald of Charlie Mac Productions, who along with Frances Leary from Bconnected worked hard on publicity for the event. It was great to see Judith James there, and Julia Smith kindly snapped some photos. Here I am signing Julia's copy of the book.



Everett, my DH, and Kathy MacGillivary, friend extraordinaire, provided the music, and I chimed in on a few tunes. It's been a long time since I've played in public, but I felt more comfortable than I expected. I felt even more comfortable off the stage listening to Everett and Kathy float through jazz tunes.



Normally I'm nervous reading from my books, but not this time. I guess I'm slowly getting used to it. I enjoyed sharing Chelle and Martin's first meeting, and the scene from Chance where Beth learns the perils of baking with a wood stove.




I'm blessed to have such a talented partner in life, an equally talented and generous friend in Kathy, and a family that is always there for me. Thanks to one and all for making the evening special.

Catching Up

Haven't posted since Valentine's Day. Life has been crazy. Can't post the details here yet, but when I can, I will.

On the writing front, I'm holding a book launch celebration on Thursday, March 10, from 6 to 8 pm at The Company House, a cosy little acoustic music venue at 2202 Gottingen Street here in Halifax. Officially it's a launch for Heart, but due to the twists and turns of Chance's route to publication I never had a launch for it, so I'll be reading from both. Everett McInnis, my other half, and Kathy MacGillivray, one of my best friends, will be providing the music. I'll probably join in on a tune or two myself if my voice allows – right now I have a cold, so I'm not sure. It should be a fun evening. Tara MacDonald, from the RWAC marketing committee, and Frances Leary from BConnected are helping publicize the event. I can't believe their supportive energy. I'm a very, very lucky author.

News flash – I just finished a telephone interview with Desmond Haas, a fellow author, for his online Romance Radio show! I think it went well, but I'm reserving judgement until I hear the recording. I'll be posting links to the edited sound file when I get them. AND there's a group book signing with RWAC at Chapters in Dartmouth Crossing on March 19. All this good, exciting stuff – and the not so good, stressful stuff – has my head in a whirl.
It also has me thinking about music for the launch party. I'm trying to come up with a few tunes that evoke the characters in my books. Here's what I have so far:

1. She Mov'd Through the Fair: A haunting tune of love and loss, for Martin Rainnie. It's the song I recorded for the trailer.

2. The Patriot's Game: For Trey's best bud, Justin Sinclair. "Come all ye young rebels and list while I sing, for the love of one's country is a dangerous thing." This song is about the troubles in Ireland, but it applies to civil conflict everywhere, with its tragic loss of young lives. Can't find a good recording of this one.


3. Soldier's Joy: For Nathan Munroe. I love Michelle Shocked's version of this tune. War ain't pretty. Soldier's Joy is morphine.

Shaking hands and fingers that do tremble
Soldier's Joy has been a bitter pill
Though in battle, a brave man I resemble
Alone I am a coward without will

Since I couldn't find a recording of her version, here's Earl Scruggs doing the classic Appalachian version.


4. For Trey McShannon: Aaron Copeland's Appalachian Spring. A beautiful, beautiful piece that for me, evokes Trey's love of the simple life.

5. For Beth Underhill: Ashokan Farewell. I love, love, love this piece, no matter how many times I've heard it. For me, it evokes Beth's grace and gentleness, and her underlying strength.

6. Finally, for Rochelle McShannon: I don't know the name of this piece because it isn't titled in the video, but it's lovely and evokes Chelle's wistfulness.

I've missed a couple of Folk Fridays, so I hope this makes up for it. I'll let you know how the interview turns out. And if anyone has any other suggestions for music that suits my characters, I'd love to hear them!

Music is the food of love

There's a magnet on my fridge that reads "If music be the food of love, play on." My mother gave it to us when my DH and I moved into our house. It's a pretty good description of our relationship.

I've told this story on my blog before, so forgive the repetition if you've already heard it. We met sixteen years ago. After a few years of not playing much guitar, I'd decided to take some lessons to get me motivated. I was working at Dalhousie University at the time, and one day I saw a notice on a bulletin board from a guitar instructor looking for students. I called the number, and the rest is history.

By the time my first lesson ended, I knew Everett was not only a fine musician but an excellent teacher – an uncommon combination. It took longer to make up my mind about him as a person. He's quiet and reserved, not the kind of man you get to know right away. We talked mostly about music, nothing personal, but my lessons often seemed to run overtime.

I belonged to the Halifax Harbour Folk Society, and when it was my turn to act as host for the weekly coffeehouse session, Everett agreed to join me. That was a bear of a winter in Halifax, and when we left the pub it had started to snow. Hard. I insisted I'd be okay driving home, as it was only a few blocks. We said goodnight and got in our separate vehicles.

When I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment building, Everett's headlights flashed in my mirror. I'd been so focussed on the road, I hadn't noticed him following me. He bumped his horn and drove off.

I was impressed. He had a much longer drive home. We weren't dating at the time, just beginning to become friends, but he'd gone out of the way to see that I got home safely. That was the night I began to wonder if he might be a keeper. When he stopped charging me for lessons, I knew he was thinking the same way.

We complement each other musically as well as we do in other ways. I can hear lyrics once and, if they affect me, I'll remember them. Everett doesn't remember lyrics, but he can lift the most complicated chords from a recording. He's a true musician, while I'm really more of a poet who likes to sing. We also share an interest in science. Being a creative person, he understands when I glue myself to my laptop to write . He isn't a fiction reader – technical manuals or science magazines are more his style – and he hasn't read my books, but he supports me and gives me my space. We're still playing on.

Colorado Dreaming

I had an amazing, vivid dream last night. It went on for what felt like hours, and at one point I woke, fell asleep again and tumbled right back into the dream.

It all took place in Wallace Flats, with my characters from McShannon's Chance. There was the town, laid out like a set from Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. There was Neil Garrett's saloon, the Bakers' mercantile, and a lovely lake I wish I'd thought to put in the book.

In keeping with the Dr. Quinn theme, Beth looked a bit like an auburn-haired Jane Seymour. As for Trey, he surprised me. He had straight, coal-black, shoulder-length hair (I've always pictured him with shorter hair), a close-trimmed moustache, and a face something like Jude Law's in Cold Mountain, almost fierce-looking. Of course he had deep, molasses-coloured eyes. Sigh. And his beautiful bay stallion, Flying Cloud. Another sigh. The only other characters to appear were a blond teenage boy – a version of Ben Reeves – and a young girl of eight or nine, Samantha (Sam). I have no idea where she came from. Perhaps she sprang from my mental image of Beth and Trey's daughter Chelle. Sadly, no Nathan. I missed him and Lorie.

The only action I remember clearly was a horse race around the lake, which Trey and Cloud won in a thrilling finish. Everything else is hazy, but I woke feeling like I'd spent a wonderful few days with my characters in an idyllic setting, free (After all, I was dreaming!) of the harsher realities of the time. I wouldn't mind going back every night.

Is the universe speaking to me? I hope so. I'm at a bit of a personal and writing low point right now, and I sure could use some inspiration. People of blogland, do you have any dreams to share?

Release Contest and Excerpt

I've had a busy few days, arranging a book launch – tentatively set for March 10 – and generally tending to the stuff that comes up with a new release. Which brings me to one of those things – a contest!

I'm going to keep it simple. I'm always looking for ideas for this blog, so all I'm going to ask in order to be entered in a draw for a copy of Heart is that you comment on this post with a suggestion for a topic you'd like to see here – writing craft, historical, or otherwise – and that you follow my blog. I'll run the contest until Valentine's Day.

I also promised an excerpt, so I'll give you the McShannon's saying goodbye, not to be together again until the third book in the series (out next year if the Lord is willing and the creek don't rise.) Enjoy!

Seagulls skimmed the harbor, their harsh voices at odds with their grace as they dipped and swirled, free as the sea breeze that carried them. Chelle took in a breath laden with the scents of salt water, tar and refuse, pungent and unfamiliar.

If the worth of a thing could be measured by the price paid for it, then freedom was precious indeed.

She'd never seen anything like New York before. She stood on the pier with her father and Trey, watching as sailors and stevedores went about their jobs, their shouts rising above the voices of other passengers saying their own farewells to family and friends. The city loomed in the background, its tall buildings creating a wall of brick and stone as cold and unforgiving as the light of the gray April morning. The scene didn't seem real.
Rory had let her go without saying goodbye. Not a word, not a note.

Through the blur of shifts and changes as they made their way North, Chelle had refused to look back. If what she and Rory had felt for each other was love, it wasn't worth regretting. Truth was truth, even if it broke her heart.

She felt miserably selfish. Everywhere along their route, people had been sober and preoccupied, preparing for what was all but certain to come. What right did she have to waste tears on a man who hadn't wanted her, when the whole country was holding its collective breath, waiting for the first shot to be fired? If Rory could have seen the factories, the thousands of people in the New York streets, perhaps he would have understood why she couldn't stay with him. The war was over before it had even begun. What would become of home, of the peaceful landscape she loved?

The McShannons had been exploring the ship, putting off the moment of parting, but the time had come when Trey had to go ashore. When they couldn't delay any longer, Chelle threw her arms around her brother. She looked into his eyes and knew that this was tearing him apart, too.

He'd be traveling West, alone, through country that could be as dangerous as any battlefield. Her childhood playmate, her best friend. Trey might be capable and strong, but in so many ways, he was still a boy. Chelle didn't want to make this harder for him, but she couldn't let him go. She hugged him closer and laid her head on his shoulder.

"Trey, come with us, at least until the war is over. You can always come back then. Please. If we can't get you on this ship, we'll wait for another one."

"It's for the best this way, Chelle." He lifted her chin and ruffled her hair. She felt him take a deep breath as he fought to control his voice. "It wouldn't be any easier to leave you and Dad after the war, and what about Cloud? He's waiting for me in that stable in Washington, remember? I'd have to sell him and that would take some time, even if I could do it, which I can't. Maman wouldn't want to see us going on like this."

Somehow, Chelle steeled herself and stepped back. She couldn't show less courage than Trey. "You've been the best brother a girl could have. Be careful. Write as soon as you get settled."

"I will. You look after yourself too. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. And so will you." Trey hadn't spoken to her about Rory, but his silent sympathy had done wonders to help Chelle through the days since leaving home. He forced a grin. "Someday you'll be able to visit the finest breeding farm west of Kentucky. Give my regards to Uncle Jack and Aunt Caroline."

Her vision blurring with tears, Chelle watched as Trey turned and wrapped his arms around his father. "Goodbye, Dad. The two of you take care of each other. I'll write as soon as I can. You'd better get aboard."

"Aye." Colin put his hands on his son's shoulders and looked up at him with suspicious moisture in his eyes. "I'm proud of you, lad. Always have been. Remember that, and remember you're your mother's son. Goodbye."

Trey stepped away with a bleak, young smile. He looked like he couldn't speak, and Chelle knew she couldn't. How many years would pass before she saw him again? She followed her father back across the gangway. As the ship started out of the harbor, Chelle pulled her mother's shawl closer around her, stood at the rail and watched her brother's figure dwindle to a lonely gray dot at the end of the pier. The life she'd always known disappeared with him, and at the moment she didn't think she had it in her to build a new one.

In Print...Again!

I picked up my copies of Heart from Purolator this morning. My second book! You can probably see my grin from where you are.

The cover looks better in reality than it does as an image. It has a lot of bright, vibrant color, and it looks good next to Chance on my shelf - as different from each other as blonde, blue-eyed Chelle is from black-haired, dark-eyed Trey. I'll have to pick up a bottle of wine and celebrate tonight. These are the moments that make writing worth it.

Another excerpt coming soon!

Folk Friday: Weird and Wonderful Words

English really is a crazy, wonderful language. This morning, my co-worker in the ESL department arrived with a couple of calendars she picked up on sale last night. One of them gives a new unusual English word each day, and some of them are gems.

Frigorific – Sounds rather vulgar, doesn't it? It means 'to make something cold', as in 'a frigorific blast of wind'. When I relay this one to my DH, I'm sure it will find alternate meanings.

Grok – Huh? Sounds like a noise a bird makes. It means 'to understand profoundly and intuitively', as in 'Margaret Mitchell really grokked character description'. The word was coined by Robert A Heinlein in his 1969 Science fiction novel Stranger in a Strange Land. It's supposed to be Martian.

Acedia – apathy or boredom. This one has its origins in Latin. Acedia is a common condition this time of year, I'd say.

When I was growing up, my family had an elderly Nuttall's English dictionary. It's a great source of old words. One of my favourites is 'slubberdegullion', meaning a mean, dirty fellow. Drat, I should have had Chelle call someone that in McShannon's Heart – but no, the word went out of use a couple of hundred years before Chelle was born.
What writer doesn't love finding new words?

And yes, it's Folk Friday. Since I've started rambling about language, Here's a tune in Scottish Gaelic sung by Nova Scotia's own Mary Jane Lamond. I love her pure, clear voice.
One thing I enjoy about Gaelic music is that the meaning of the lyrics is sometimes at variance with the mood created by the music. This piece is a good example. These songs weren't written as art, they were written as forms of gossip and storytelling for people who had no time or reason to learn to read. At least this one isn't about a grisly murder, as was one beautiful song I heard at a folk club meeting one night. I wished I'd been content not to know the meaning. Enjoy this one!

("Dómhnall Mac 'Ic Iain")

English Translation:

Ma dh'eugas Dòmhnall mac 'ic Iain If Donald son of the son of John dies
Eugaich e an cosnach He'll die employed
Ma dh'eugas Dòmhnall mac 'ic Iain If Donald son of the son of John dies
Bidh sinn air a thòrradh We'll be at his funeral
Ma dh'eugas Dòmhnall mac 'ic Iain If Donald son of the son of John dies
Eugaich e an cosnach He'll die employed
Ma dh'eugas Dòmhnall mac 'ic Iain If Donald son of the son of John dies
Bidh sinn air a thòrradh We'll be at his funeral

Gheobh sinn aran agus ìm We'll get bread and butter
'S càise na banaraich And the milkmaid's cheese
Gheobh sinn aran agus ìm We'll get bread and butter
Uisge-beath' an Tòisich And the Toiseach's whisky
Gheobh sinn aran agus ìm We'll get bread and butter
'S càise na banaraich And the milkmaid's cheese
Gheobh sinn aran agus ìm We'll get bread and butter
Uisge-beath' an Tòisich And the Toiseach's whisky