Diana Gabaldon's Blog, page 29
January 11, 2011
Directions to New Blog
As part of the new website thingy, my blog has become an integral part of said site. To read and post comments to the new blog (it's got all the older posts there, too), you want to go here.
See you there!
Welcome to the New Website!
WELCOME to the All-New, Completely Redesigned, and—with luck—Totally Updated Diana Gabaldon Official Website!
Many, many thanks to the very talented Jeremy Tolbert of Clockpunk Studios (www.clockpunkstudios.com), who did the new design (and guided me through the maze of learning to work with WordPress). And many thanks to the lovely Rosana Gatti, who designed (more than once {g}) the original Diana Gabaldon website, and has run it for more years than I care to count. (Thinking especially of longevity these days, as a) it's my birthday {g}, and b) OUTLANDER (the novel) was published twenty (yes, 2_0) years ago!)
Now, there will be a few spots where I'll add new material, links, excerpts or whatever as we go on, but I think the new site is essentially complete. (There will be a link to a Facebook page, for instance, but that's not quite available yet.) And my blog will now be an integral feature of the website, as well.
I hope you enjoy exploring the new site! Do please let me know—there's a place for comments, below, and on other parts of the site—if you see anything that doesn't work, or have suggestions for things we may not have thought of that you'd like to see. (And you can use the "Follow" links to talk to me via Twitter, if you'd like.)
Thanks,
--Diana
January 8, 2011
And for the Corgi Lovers…
For the Corgi-lovers….the elusive Charlie! (hiding under the coffee-table while being molested by a nosy dachshund)–and also, Elder Daughter with her corgi, Badger.
And now I must be going and adding the finishing touches to the new website!
And for the Corgi Lovers...
For the Corgi-lovers....the elusive Charlie! (hiding under the coffee-table while being molested by a nosy dachshund)--and also, Elder Daughter with her corgi, Badger.
And now I must be going and adding the finishing touches to the new website!
January 4, 2011
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
The tree is undecorated, the leftovers are frozen (except for the chocolate), the pipes froze but luckily didn't burst, the adult kids have all returned to their respective domiciles, and as soon as we all recover from the holidays, Normal Business will resume.
(That's Otis in the foreground, there--my son's pug; the two black lumps just visible behind me are Homer and JJ. Charlie--son's corgi--doesn't like to get on the couch, and a good thing, too; he's under it.)
(Yes, my T-shirt does say, "She Who Sleeps with Weenies.")
December 26, 2010
Christmas in Santa Fe
We started Christmas around 5:30 PM on the 24th, with chipotle corn soup and pork sliders for a quick pick-up supper to sustain us through an arduous evening. Then we filled the family flasks ({ahem} we don't actually use these except on Christmas Eve, but everybody has one, to be filled with the evening's choice of beverage. Laura's therefore was full of Alabama Slammer (a hideous concoction made of Southern Comfort, Amaretto, Sloe Gin and Orange Juice), Sam had Edradour, Doug and Iain (Jenny's boyfriend from Edinburgh) both opted for cognac with a splash of B&B (Jenny chose to nip off Iain's flask), and I _had_ been intending to go with Bailey's Irish Cream (on grounds both that I like the stuff, and that it's a good deal less alcoholic than the straight stuff), but since Iain at this point presented me with my Christmas present--a Very Special bottling of Laphroaig (reputed to be from the notorious cask in which one of the brewmasters drowned, but they bottled it anyway)--I really had no choice)--and set out for Canyon Road.
This is a very steep road, lined with art galleries on both sides, about a mile long. And on Christmas Eve, all the galleries festoon their premises with millions (literally) of farolitos (aka luminarias--paper bags with lighted votive candles inside), lighted crimson ristras (clusters of hanging dried chili peppers--though the ones meant for display are often red chili-shaped lights), etc. The whole town (and not a few surrounding settlements) turns out to walk up and down the road, pausing to sing Christmas carols wherever one is breaking out (the occasion is an invitation to anyone who thinks they can play a musical instrument; they stake out a street corner and haul out the old trombone, accordion, fiddle, or ocarina and have a bash at "Old King Wenceslaus") or--if a kilt-wearer (Doug and Iain both went in full kit) to warm one's knees (or dangly bits, as the case may be) over one of the bonfires lit here and there along the street. All very sociable, especially after a few nips, and you get to see your fellow man attired in Just About Anything you can imagine, and quite a few things you wouldn't dream about after a late lobster supper with horseradish.
On from this to church--where you want to show up when the doors open at 10:30 PM, because it's your only chance to get a seat, the midnight services at the Basilica Cathedral of St. Francis of Assisi being one of the Sights of Christmas in Santa Fe, and thus heavily patronized. Random carol-singing 'til 11:00, then the more formal "Lessons and Carols," featuring readings from Isaiah, interspersed with a longish cantata by Vivaldi and few audience-participation numbers to keep everyone from falling asleep before Mass proper gets underway at (logically enough) midnight.
Midnight Mass is normally a much snazzier production than the ordinary Mass, even though the structure of the proceedings is exactly the same. More music, assorted processions, celebrated by the bishop (complete with mitre and staff), etc., though. This one featured bilingual music (alternating verses and/or phrases in English and Spanish--often switching with bewildering rapidity), the Las Posadas procession (when the santos peregrines (the "traveling saints") who have been going house to house for the last nine days, seeking a place for the baby Jesus to be born, finally come rejoicing into the church and everyone sings, "Vamos Todos a Belen" (Come Everyone to Bethlehem--which we always find funny, because my father was in fact born in a tiny town a hundred miles south of here, called Belen), and a Native American dance (done by Laguna Indians from the San Juan Pueblo, in traditional dress and solemnly waving fans of turkey feathers, while drumming and chanting down the center aisle) for the offertory (they circled the altar, and then the bishop, who seemed somewhat startled), incense, small orchestra (with more kettle drums than you could shake a stick at. You want kettle drums for something as dramatic as Christmas), choir, etc.
Came home under starry skies (very warm here--it was shirtsleeve weather outside today; the boys and Doug were playing football in the street, egged on my Jenny and Laura) and had brownies and milk, then everyone (other than Santa {yawn}) retired. I retired too, around 3 AM, stockings all filled and the dogs kept from investigating them (just to be safe, I put the package of smoke kangaroo jerky up on the mantel).
Was rousted at 8 AM to come and open presents (see attached; the plate was the hand-made gift of Elder Daughter), then puttered pleasantly and made lunch--machaca tacos, enchiladas and tamales, all washed down by quantities of Mexican beer. Spent a pleasant afternoon napping, reading, and nibbling, watching everybody watch football, and trying to induce my new iPad to work ("intuitive," my left foot. Technology is one of the things bad language was intended for. Sufficient poking and muttering, though, and I Have Prevailed). Leftover enchiladas, a handful of Dutch chocolate mints, and a sense of quiet bliss reigns.
It was a wonderful Christmas, and I hope all of yours were likewise!
(Oh, the hat? It's supposed to be a Christmas tree, though I'm told I resembled the Queen of the Universe in it.)
December 16, 2010
Oh–another nice thing online this morning
This being a nice piece in USAToday, doing a round-up feature on recent graphic novels, in which they included THE EXILE, and said nice things about it. {g}
They did misspell Jamie's last name (though they got mine right, for a wonder)–but you can't have everything.
Oh--another nice thing online this morning
They did misspell Jamie's last name (though they got mine right, for a wonder)--but you can't have everything.
Warm rolls with minced pigeon and truffles
(Yes, I really_ am_ working on the new website; have had out-of-town company for the last couple of days, though, and much as I enjoy them, they do take up time in which I could otherwise be going blind typing up descriptions of the seven big OUTLANDER novels....)
I may have mentioned that I get interview requests All The Time? Well, this one came in from the Canadian publicist a few weeks back, with a note saying, "You don't have to do this if you don't want to."
I read it, laughed, and emailed back, "Are you kidding? This is the most interesting interview I've had in months, if not years!" At last, an interview that didn't start out with some variation of, "Soooo....how did you get the idea to write these books?", didn't ask me "whether you've thought of making a movie of these books?", and didn't want to know who I'd cast to play Jamie Fraser!
(You know that feature on my website called "FAQ"? It'll be on the new site, too. It stands for "Frequently Asked Questions," and the point of it to supply answers to the Questions That EVERYBODY Asks Me. You'd think someone preparing to do an interview with somebody would go look at the somebody's website first, wouldn't you? But noooooo......) But I digress.
This interview was from a nice person named Theresa Carle-Sanders, for her food website, www.IslandVittles.com, and she wanted my permission to run a short excerpt from VOYAGER, describing a particular 18th century dish, to accompany a brief interview about the food in my books.
The interview is here
and I hope you'll enjoy both that, and the website, which is drool-worthy.
December 11, 2010
BLOODY MEN
Book Eight
Copyright 2010 Diana Gabaldon
"Stay," he said sternly to Rollo, turning back for an instant. The dog, who had not stirred from his comfortable spot at Rachel's feet, twitched one ear.
William was standing by the roadside, looking hot, tired, disheveled, and thoroughly unhappy. As well he might, Ian thought with some sympathy. William was likely bound for England—if he was lucky—or for parole in some rough lodging somewhere far to the south. In either case, his active role as a soldier was over for some time.
His face changed abruptly at sight of Ian. Surprise, the beginnings of indignation, then a quick glance round, decision clamping down upon his features. Ian was surprised for a moment that he could read William's face so easily, but then remembered why. Uncle Jamie guarded his own expression in company—but not with Ian. Ian's own face didn't show his knowledge, though, anymore than William's now showed more than an irritable acknowledgement.
"Scout," William said, with the briefest of nods. The officer to whom he had been talking gave Ian a brief, incurious look, then saluted William and plunged back into the trudging stream.
"What the bloody hell do you want?" William drew a grubby sleeve across his sweating face. Ian was mildly surprised at this evident hostility; they'd parted on good terms the last time they had seen each other—though there had been little conversation at the time, William having just put a pistol-ball through the brain of a madman trying to kill Rachel, Ian, or both, with an axe. Ian's left arm had healed enough to dispense with a sling, but it was still stiff.
"There's a lady who'd like to speak with ye," he said, ignoring William's narrowed eyes. The eyes relaxed a little.
"Miss Hunter?" A small gleam of pleasure lit William's eyes, and Ian's own narrowed slightly. Aye, well, he thought, let her tell him, then.
William waved to a corporal down the line, who waved back, then stepped off the road after Ian. A few soldiers glanced at Ian, but he was unremarkable, the double line of dotted tattooing on his cheeks, his buckskin breeches, and his sun-browned skin marking him as an Indian scout—a good many of these had deserted the British army, but there were still a good many left, mostly Loyalists like Joseph Brant who held land in Pennysylvania and New York, though there were still some ranging parties from the Iroquois nations who had come down to fight at Saratoga.
"William!" Rachel flew across the little clearing and clasped the tall captain's hands, beaming up at him with such joy that he smiled back at her, all irritability vanished. Ian hung back a little, to give her time. There hadn't been any, really, what with Rollo roaring and tearing at Arch Bug's miserable auld carcass, Rachel sprawled on the floor, frozen with horror, himself lying on the floor pouring blood, and half the street outside screaming bloody murder.
William had pulled Rachel to her feet and thrust her into the arms of the first woman available, who as it happened, was Marsali.
"Get her out of here!" William had snapped. But Rachel, Ian's nut-brown maiden—her brownness much splattered with blood—had pulled herself together in an instant, and gritting her teeth—he'd seen her do it, bemused by shock as he lay on the floor, watching things happen as though in a dream—as she stepped over auld Arch's body, had fallen to her knees in the mess of brains and blood, wrapped her apron tight about his wounded arm and tied it with her kerchief, and then with Marsali, had dragged him bodily out of the print-shop and into the street, where he'd promptly passed out, waking only when Auntie Claire began stitching his arm.
Ian hadn't had time to thank William, even had he been able to speak, and he meant to convey his own thanks as soon as he might. But clearly Rachel wanted to talk to him first, and he waited, thinking how beautiful she looked, her eyes the clouded hazel of thicket and green-brier, face clever and quick as flame.
"But thee is tired, William, and thin," she was saying, drawing a finger disapprovingly down the side of his face. "Do they not feed thee? I'd thought it was only the Continentals who went short of rations."
"Oh. I—I haven't had time of late." The happiness that had lit William's face while he talked with Rachel faded noticeably. "We—well, you see." He waved an arm toward the invisible road, where the hoarse chants of the sergeants rang like the calling of disgruntled crows above the shuffle of feet.
"I do see. Where is thee going?"
William rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, and glanced at Ian.
"I suppose he oughtn't to say," Ian said, coming across and touching Rachel's arm, smiling at William in apology. "We're the enemy, a nighean donn."
William looked sharply at Ian, catching the tone of his voice, then back at Rachel, whose hand he was still holding.
"We are betrothed, William—Ian and I," she said, gently pulling her hand out of his and putting it on Ian's.
William's face changed abruptly, losing its look of happiness altogether. He eyed Ian with something remarkably close to dislike.
"Are you," he said flatly. "I suppose I must wish you every happiness, then. Good day." He turned on his heel, and Ian, surprised, reached out to pull him back.
"Wait—" he said, and then William turned and hit him in the mouth.
He was lying on his back in the leaves, blinking in disbelief, as Rollo hurtled over him and sank his teeth in some soft part of William, judging by the yelp and the brief cry of startlement from Rachel.
"Rollo! Bad dog—and thee is a bad dog, too, William Ransom! What the devil does thee mean by this?"
Ian sat up, tenderly fingering his lip, which was bleeding. Rollo had retreated a little under Rachel's scolding, but kept a yellow eye fixed on William and a curled lip raised over bared teeth, the faintest rumble of a growl coming from his huge chest.
"Sheas," Ian said to him briefly, and got to his feet. William had sat down and was examining the calf of his leg, which was bleeding through his torn silk hose, though not badly. When he saw Ian, he scrambled to his feet. His face was bright red and he looked as though he meant either to do murder or burst into tears. Maybe both, Ian thought in surprise.
He was careful not to touch William again, but stood back a bit—in front of Rachel, just in case the man meant to go off again. He was armed, after all; there was a pistol and sword at his belt.
"Are ye all right, man?" he asked, in the same tone of mild concern he'd heard his Da use now and then on his Mam or Uncle Jamie. Evidently it was in fact the right tone to take with a Fraser about to go berserk, for William breathed like a grampus for a moment or two, then got himself under control.
"I ask your pardon, sir," he said, back stiff as a stick of rock-maple. "That was unforgiveable. I shall…leave you. I—Miss Hunter…I--" He turned, stumbling a little, and that gave Rachel time to dart round in front of him.
"William!" Her face was full of distress. "What is it? Have I—"
He looked down at her, his face contorted, but shook his head.
"You haven't done anything," he said, with an obvious effort. "You…you could never do anything that…" He swung round toward Ian, fist clenched on his sword. "But you, you fucking bas— you son-of-a-bitch! Cousin!"
"Oh," said Ian, stupidly. "Ye know, then."
"Yes, I bloody know! You could have fucking told me!"
"Know what?" Rachel stepped round Ian, looking from him to William and back again.
"Don't you bloody tell her!" William snapped.
"Don't be silly," Rachel said reasonably. "Of course he'll tell me, the minute we're alone. Does thee not wish to tell me thyself? I think perhaps thee might not trust Ian to say it aright." Her eye rested on Ian's lip, and her own mouth twitched. Ian might have taken offense at this, save that William's distress was so apparent.
"It isna really a disgrace…" he began, but then stepped hastily back as William's clenched fist drew back.
"You think not?" William was so furious, his voice was nearly inaudible. "To discover that I am—am—the…the get of a Scottish criminal? That I am a fucking bastard?"
Despite his resolve to be patient, Ian felt his own dander start to rise.
"Criminal, forbye!" he snapped. "Any man might be proud to be the son of Jamie Fraser!"
"Oh," said Rachel, forestalling William's next heated remark. "That."
"What?" He glared down at her. "What the devil do you mean, 'that'?"
"We thought it must be the case, Denny and I." She lifted one shoulder, though keeping a close watch on William, who looked as though he was about to go off like a twelve-pound mortar. "But we supposed that thee didn't wish the matter talked about. I didn't know that thee—how could thee not have known?" she asked curiously. "The resemblance—"
"Fuck the resemblance!"
