N. Gemini Sasson's Blog, page 18

Why we love bad dogs

Last week, I went to the back door to let the dogs in and two of the three who were out came running in faster than usual. They both gave me those looks that said, "We don't know nuffin'." A muffled bark beckoned from around the corner of the house. Another bad sign.

So, since I already had my coat on because we were on our way to the YMCA, I ventured outside. Turns out our dog Mazda (the dirty, squinty-eyed one above) managed to dig herself a hole under the sidewalk next to our garage, piled up the dirt behind her and was stuck there for two hours while my husband and I tried to claw through the permafrost to rescue her. She was not the first to excavate in that particular spot. A half-sister and a niece have made a nice wide cavern that we keep filling up with rubble. I suppose they like the challenge, because then they just dig around it. (On a side note, this is the dogs' yard. Humans are only allowed in to mow and remove doo-doo.)

We thought about leaving her for awhile to teach her a lesson, but it was about -10 degrees with the windchill and we didn't want any of our neighbors calling the humane society on us. For an hour I scratched at the dirt with a tiny garden tool, but I could only dig deeper, not wider. I lured her with bologna, telling her how 'good' she was for every inch she wiggled out, but she could obviously sense the mounting tension in my voice that said, "I could just strangle you." So after 60 minutes of this, she had actually sucked herself deeper inside. Not what I intended.

My husband finally got a sledgehammer and dislodged one of those concrete blocks next to her. Covered in dirt, she went straight into the kennel while we resumed our plans for the day --- two hours late. In reward for her naughtiness, my daughter gave her a bath the next day. I'm sure she made the connection. Digging = bath = bad. Right?

We tell her she's rotten and she grins back at us, but for some odd reason we still love her.

I'll be checking in only sporadically over the next couple of months here, as I'll be having way too much fun in botany or anatomy class. Then, thank goodness, I'll be done with that and back to a normal life - finally!

Meanwhile, I was over recently at Kindle Author doing an interview.

Happy reading,
Gemi

Sample Sunday: Isabeau

Following is a scene from Ch. 3 of my book Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer. Isabella has been away on pilgrimage and has been told by her husband, King Edward II, to take lodging at Leeds Castle. But hostilities between Edward and his barons have risen to an inferno. On this particular day, it dawns on Isabella that everything in her life as about to change:

Leeds Castle – October, 1321

Two swans, wing to wing, their bills tucked to their downy breasts, floated across the lake encircling Leeds Castle. The ripples of their wake broke the mirrored surface in a broadening fan. A bank of white rolled across my view, obscuring the limewashed walls beyond and the helmeted figures that watched us from the crenels of the uppermost towers. Even the sun, climbing toward its pinnacle now, had not chased away the morning mist.

While I had gone to Canterbury and knelt before the shrine of Thomas Becket a week past, Edward had ridden out to the Isle of Thanet—where he met Hugh Despenser. I know this not because he admitted it, but because he went with such haste and purpose that it left me no doubt. While he made to return to London, he ordered me to come here to Leeds Castle, "To befriend and forgive," he had written. And so I came, even though the pretense of my visit was as flaccid as a wet rope. I considered it a diplomatic gesture, if nothing more. This morning, however, I had awoken with my bowels churning. The day, I feared, would not end well. My breath hung trapped in a cloud before me in the damp air. Draping the reins of my gray palfrey across the horn of my saddle, I called my newest squire to me. Arnaud de Mone parted from the rest of my guard, some thirty armed men, and came to stand before me.

"You sent word ahead as soon as we left Canterbury, requesting lodging for us?"

He nodded. Pearlescent beads of moisture shimmered among the golden ringlets of his hair. Although young—and temptingly beautiful—he had, in a very short span, proven himself devoted. "I did, my lady."

"And just now—you asked that we be permitted entrance?"

"I did."

"And what was Lord Badlesmere's reply? They have had ample time to prepare for our arrival. Why have they kept us waiting?"

"Lord Badlesmere is not inside, my queen."

"Then who refuses us?"

"Lady Badlesmere. She says that her husband gave the fortress into her care with firm orders that no one, for any reason, was to be permitted entrance."

"But I am not no one!" I protested impulsively. How dare she? Indeed, I traveled with armed guards, but that was only a precaution. I had not come here to take possession of the fortress, but to engender harmony. That had been clear in my message. Why must even the simplest of good intentions be suspect? Edward had given in to strict demands. Pardons had been issued. The peace may have yet been a fragile one, but it was peace. Trust first had to be a matter of practice before it could become belief. This . . . this disobedience threatened that very premise to the core. If she would not do it willingly, then Lady Badlesmere would need to be forced to open up her home. "Go back to the gate. Tell her that her queen demands entrance and lodging."

Arnaud moved a foot, hesitating. "If . . . if she refuses?"

My mare twitched her ears, as if she, too, awaited my response. "We go back to London. This will be dealt with later." By Edward—who would not likely find it in him to be lenient this time.

He dipped his head in a nod and trotted away. With a detachment of two dozen soldiers, he rode across the narrow bridge of land connecting the mainland to the island on which Leeds Castle sat and up to the gate. A guard appeared at a crenel atop the gatehouse. Arnaud shouted my orders. I could not make out the guard's reply, but it had the terse ring of a warning. Arnaud stood his ground and repeated my demands. The guard disappeared.

A moment later, one of my mounted soldiers behind him snapped back in his saddle, an arrow protruding from his chest. Clutching at the shaft, he uprighted himself. Blood poured between his fingers. He swayed, then slumped to the side, his other hand still entwined in the reins. As the wounded man tumbled to the ground, his horse wheeled around, feeling the sudden yank of its bit. Unable to scramble free, the man threw an arm over his head. But too late. An iron-shod hoof circled through the air and cracked squarely against his skull, shattering it like an eggshell beneath the blow of a hammer.

I gaped in horror, barely able to comprehend what I had just seen.

Then, the air hissed. Arrows sailed above the breaking mist, arced downward and plunged into flesh. Two horses went down, pinning their riders. Another man fell from his mount, eyes wide in death. His party trapped on the narrow tongue of land, Arnaud flailed an arm, signaling retreat. But even as they turned to go without ever having put up a fight, another volley of arrows sang their requiem. The causeway was too narrow to allow them to all flee at once. Corpses clogged the way.

I could not move or speak. A dozen dead or wounded lay scattered before the gate and along the land bridge. One man staggered to his feet and took two steps before he was struck through the neck. Another behind him, his way blocked, leapt into the water, desperate to escape. His head bobbed above the surface, then flew back as an arrow pierced his cheek. Blood sprayed around him. With a drawn-out gurgle, he slipped below, crimson bubbles marking the spot where he had last drawn air.

Trumpeting in alarm, the swans beat their wings and arose in a cloud of white above the silver-dark water. Sleek necks stretched out before them, they ascended, going higher, higher. Above the pandemonium unfolding in the mist. Away from the massacre.

The remaining men cleared the causeway and rounded the lake with a rumble of shouts. When Arnaud came to me, he said nothing, but grabbed my reins and led me away.

My heart thudded in my throat. Hooves clattered around me. Taunts rang out from the castle.

The moans of the dying fell away behind me. But I could not look back.

It had begun.

Happy reading,
Gemi

Sample Sunday - The Crown in the Heather

If you're on Twitter, there's a great way to discover new writers! Just search under #SampleSunday and add any other hash tags you'd like (#historicalfiction, #YA, etc.) to help you refine your search. This will take you to a sample of an author's writing. I'll be checking them out today, retweeting those that catch my eye.

So without further ado, here is my installment from The Crown in the Heather (The Bruce Trilogy: Book I). The year is 1296 and Robert the Bruce is at Lochmaben awaiting the birth of his first child with his wife Isabella of Mar. But as it was back in those days, childbirth was a precarious event. What should have been a joyous event was often bittersweet:

My eyes swept toward the great four-postered bed across the room. On the far side, the old midwife, Alice, wiped delicately at Isabella's white brow with a cloth. And nearer to me, at the foot of her bed, Father Malachi . . . performing last rites.

"Dear God in heaven," I uttered. "No, please, no."

The priest daubed the soles of Isabella's feet with holy oil as he blessed her soul to heaven's keeping. I drifted past him, the iron tang of blood filling my nose and mouth. A great blotch of red-brown stained the sheets on which she lay. Over her bloated belly and bare legs someone had draped a blanket in modesty. Her shift, wet with the slickness of birth, clung to her full breasts in dark, sodden wrinkles.

Stunned, I knelt beside her and took her hand, still warm, in mine. Sweat glistened like a fine sheen of hoarfrost upon her cheeks. The only color in her face was a mask of red encircling closed eyes. Her waist-length hair, once fair and shining, lay across her pillow in twisted, lackluster strands. I stroked her fingers, even as I sensed them stiffening, and bent my head to my forearm.

My Isabella, she cannot be . . . No, no, it isn't possible. This is not right. Did her eyelids not flutter just now? Her chest rise in the slightest of breaths? Was that twitch beneath my fingertips not the faint pulse of blood streaming through her veins?

A wail of lament ripped from my gut, but I clenched my jaw fiercely, trapping the knife of pain in my throat. My hands began to tremble, then my arms and shoulders, until soon my whole body shook uncontrollably.

"Marjorie," came a hoarse whisper.

A long moment later, I swallowed back the hard knot in my throat and looked up through bleary eyes. "What?"

"Marjorie, my lord," Alice murmured, a sorrowful smile on her thin lips. "Lady Isabella's last wish was that you should name the child Marjorie—after your mother."

With quivering fingers, I pushed away tears. But like a fresh cut doused with vinegar, their sting remained.

"If . . ." My voice cracked with grief. "If that was her wish." I glanced at the tiny babe swaddled tightly in the curve of Ljot's arms.

Father Malachi touched my shoulder. "The godparents should be summoned, my lord. If I remember, you chose your oldest brother, Edward. And your sister . . . Mary, was it? I will send to Lochmaben for them. We can perform the christening as soon as they arrive."

Christening? How could I take joy in the baptism of a child in the same week I was to bury my wife? More often, it was the mother who lived and the child who died, as Ljot's did. If only this babe had—

God forgive me. How can I even think such wickedness?

Then I heard the slurp and grunt of my daughter's vigorous suckling and soon her bittersweet cries rent the air.

"Marjorie," I repeated.

Until later,
Gemi

Somewhere, somebody needs your help

In the past couple of years, while I was contemplating whether or not to go the indie route in publishing my books, a very wise voice appeared on the scene over at Authonomy.com. Her name was April Hamilton and she had started up a website called Publetariat as an online community and resource for indie authors. She was among the first to herald indie publishing as a legitimate course for authors and an alternative to the traditional publishing scene. She spent many, many hours on Authonomy sharing information about what self-publishing is and is not. Although most writers there were curious to find out more, a handful of them believed that indie publishing was for those who would never find success anyway and would only ever end up selling to their friends and relatives. April always kept a cool head and never resorted to emotional outbursts,always maintaining the utmost level of professionalism. I quickly got the impression that not only was she very knowledgeable, but also very selfless with that knowledge.

I spent hours on her website and following the links there to learn as much as I could before finally making the brave decision to publish my own books. Without her, and many like her, I may never have done so. Six months into the venture and I'm now earning enough from e-book sales to pay off my monthly satellite internet bill, my phone landline and take the family out for dinner every now and then. It ain't a lot, but it's something and the added bonus is that I can actually call myself a writer because my books are being read by complete strangers.

But back to April Hamilton. This past week, she posted this: Is Publetariat Worth a Dollar to You? To summarize it, she was diagnosed with breast cancer earlier this year, her husband left her and her business went under. Struggling to make ends meet, she is also facing foreclosure. So she's asking for help - a dollar or whatever can be spared, to help her family and the website stay afloat. You can donate at Publetariat via PayPal or purchase one of April Hamilton's books.

I firmly believe that if you do your best to spread good karma that it will one day come back to you. I also realize there are many, many other people and animals in the world who need a helping hand at times. So find someone in need, give up your Double Mocha Grande' Latte for a day and throw your change in the Salvation Army kettle or whatever cause you believe in. I've been eating cheap at A&W lately and shoving my change and spare bills in the Humane Society piggy bank there. Meanwhile, have faith in the Universe, then, that the same kindness will come back to you when you need it. But that good karma has to start somewhere - why not with you?

Merry Christmas!

Gemi

Sample Sunday (#ss on Twitter)

Although I've been brewing a couple of other blog posts in my gray matter, they keep getting delayed by studying and writing a term paper. Next week my college course will be over and I'll be unfettered, so in the meanwhile here's a quick mention for the new Sample Sunday.

If you're on Twitter and are looking for new reading material from indie authors, just search for #SampleSunday or #ss and you'll find oodles of reading samples recommended by other readers and indie authors. The great thing about indie books, particularly on Kindle or other e-reading devices, is that they're usually very CHEAP!

Here's the link to David Wiseheart's (Kindle Author) blog post about it: http://kindle-author.blogspot.com/2010/12/what-is-samplesunday.html.

If you find one you like, feel free to retweet it.

Until later,
Gemi

The second Robert the Bruce book is now available!

After much line editing and finagling of the cover, my second book of The Bruce Trilogy, Worth Dying For, is now available as an e-book on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk (Kindle) and Smashwords (LRF, PDB and epub). Worth Dying For picks up in 1306, where The Crown in the Heather left off:

"One day. One battle. Bannockburn, 1314.
The rise of Robert the Bruce. The vengefulness of James Douglas. And the ruin of Edward II.

Robert the Bruce has known nothing but hardship since seizing Scotland's crown. Parted from his wife and daughter and forced to flee through the Highland wilderness, he struggles to unite a kingdom divided by centuries old blood feuds. The price, however, must be paid in lives and honor.

Falling to temptation, Robert's only means of redemption_and to one day win his wife Elizabeth back_is to forgive those who have wronged him. One by one, Robert must win back Scotland's clans and castles. The one man who can help him purge the land of English tyranny is the cunning young nobleman, James 'the Black' Douglas, who seeks vengeance on those who took both his inheritance and his father's life.

With the death of Longshanks, Edward II ascends to the throne of England. His first act as king is to recall the banished Piers Gaveston. Too soon, Edward learns that he cannot protect the one he loves most and still preserve his own life and crown. To those who demand the ultimate sacrifice, he must relinquish all power. To have his revenge, he must do what his father never believed him capable of_defeat Robert the Bruce on the field of battle."

The print version should be available sometime early in 2011 - but first I'm taking a break from writing and publishing to get up to speed on some college biology in hopes of becoming employable.

P.S. Remember, if you don't own an e-reader, the Kindle for PC and other Kindle apps are available for FREE!

Happy reading,
Gemi

Final Giveaway for Isabeau at Goodreads

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Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer



by N. Gemini Sasson



Giveaway ends November 29, 2010.

See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter to win



Just a quick note to let everyone know that this is the final giveaway for a signed paperback copy of Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer. It ends at midnight on Sunday, Nov. 28th, so hurry on over and check out other great book giveaways at Goodreads!



P.S. I finally won a book myself (yes, I can no longer moan that I never win anything), but I can't mention what it is because it's actually going to be a Christmas present for someone else.



Until later,

Gemi

Fighting hibernation

For the life of me, I cannot understand people who say they love fall. Because fall, to me, means that winter is imminent. I wilt when the first Arctic blast bears down from Canada. Once it drops below 40, forget running outside (I used to be much tougher, but then I got older and smarter and more frail). I sleep with extra socks on and the blankets piled up deep and in the mornings I resist unraveling from my cocoon, because the spouse has the thermostat set to drop to refrigerator temperatures at night. I have more hooded sweatshirts than I have shoes, because one can never wear too many layers. I'd move further south if it was up to me, but you see, the spouse has a high percentage of Scandinavian blood and if it were up to him, we'd be living in International Falls, Minnesota - you know, that dot on the map where all the weathermen in the contiguous lower 48 states point to when they mention the lowest LOW temperature on a winter day?

Snow? Snow is pretty to look at from inside on a day you have nowhere to go to and it does brighten up a drab, muddy landscape beneath gray skies. But it's not runner-friendly, particularly on our country road, which is always the last to get plowed because only ten people live on a five mile stretch of it. I hate driving in snow because I imagine my car careening into the ditch. Proof that as I've gotten older, I've also become more of a fraidy-cat. Worst of all, our 1/4 mile long, uphill, gravel driveway is like an Alaskan off-road adventure whenever the snow drifts. With a coating of ice, driving downhill is a thrill ride that outranks The Beast at Kings Island. Unfortunately, we ruined all sledding opportunities when we put up pasture fence at the bottom of the back hill. If you want to sled down the driveway and don't mind the potholes or the possibility of a concussion when you slam into the cottonwood tree, that option is still open.

Mostly, though, it's that weekend of turning the clocks back that nudges me towards hibernation. By 6 p.m. it's pitch black outside and a half an hour later I'm yawning and ready for bed. This makes it tough to stay up and watch Craig Ferguson (I still haven't figured out how to set the DVD player to record, even though we've had it for five years now). Darkness is sooo . . . depressing.

I need sunlight. At least 14 hours worth per day. I generate energy through photosynthesis, I'm sure. If you ask me, it should be summer 11 months out of the year. I'll allow that one month of winter for tucking in and recharging and holiday shopping, but after that I want to be back outside with the sunshine warming my skin and the gardens bursting with color and the birds chirping away - even that blasted nocturnal mockingbird that camps outside my window.

To combat hibernation (and thus gaining 5-10 pounds every winter), I haul myself to the YMCA for workouts, read the books I've been meaning to read all year, purge the basement of all those 'things' I thought I'd need sometime later and spend waaay too much time on the computer.

This year I'm going to do something totally different - take college courses in Geology and Biology. For fun? you ask. Uh, no . . . although I do find the subjects interesting. Actually I'm trying to renew my teaching certificate, so at some point in the future I can grow up and get a real job. As long as my brain doesn't implode from having to remember how to study, it should make the months pass quickly.

What do you do to make it through the cold season? And is there anybody out there (except you skiers) who actually embrace winter?

Stay warm my friends,
Gemi

Karma Wears Fur

This post has nothing to do with books, writing or publishing. It is of a personal nature, but one which many of you reading this I'm sure will feel an undeniable connection with. And if there hasn't been some special dog who graced your life and enriched it, perhaps it was a cat or a horse or some other furred, feathered or scaled creature.

The picture above is the Australian Shepherd, Eagle Creek's Prima Donna DNA-CP, OA, NAJ, RV-O/OAC-V, JV-O/OJC-V, GV-N/NGC-V, ASCA Hall of Fame Dam #292

The alphabet soup after her fancy registered name basically means she was fast and loved to jump and climb on things - and that she had a few kids who took after her in that department.

Her name really should read: Domino - Loyal, Brave, Devoted and My Hero.

And her story goes something like this:

Almost 14 years ago I got a phone call. It was Domino's breeder. She asked me if I wanted her and told me if I didn't take her, she was going to have to 'blue juice' her. That's breeder-speak for 'euthanize'. We owned Domino's sire, Drum, who back in the day was a multiple Best of Breed winner in the showring and an all-around versatile dog. Nervously, I asked why - because when someone says they're going to put a dog to sleep, you figure it's got to be for serious reasons. "She's dog aggressive. She beat the crap out of her litter sister, and blah, blah, blah..."

My first thought was of my two young children. Did I really want to bring a dog in the house that had aggressive tendencies? I should've said 'no', but I have this inexplicable sense of intuition and on that occasion, I blurted out, "Yes, when can I get her?"

You see, one thing I've learned in over 20 years of being a dog breeder, is that sometimes what an owner tells you about a dog and what is really true about that dog are not necessarily one and the same. The breeder had decided to keep two females and a male from the litter because she couldn't make up her mind who to pick. We had warned her this was a bad idea. Littermates will always establish a pecking order. Sometimes this shakes out quietly; sometimes the fur flies. Especially when said pack is unsupervised by humans. Which was the case in this instance.

When Domino came to our home, she growled once at my husband, was promptly picked up by the ruff and given a stern talking-to, then she went limp as a dishrag. She was smart enough to know she wasn't boss here.

Gradually, I began to trust her. She never once provoked another dog - either her kennel buddies or strange dogs in public. Not only was she not dog aggressive, but she was an absolute mush when it came to children. She cleaned up the crackers they dropped on the floor, yet never stole from their hands or off their plates. She went to nursery school, where I spoke to 4-year olds about how to behave around dogs and fourteen of them took turns dragging her up and down the hallway on leash, tugging her hair and crushing her in bear hugs. She alerted us when strangers came to the house and made a fierce racket to warn them they were on her territory, yet the moment she sensed we accepted them, she let her guard down and begged their attention with dark, intelligent eyes.

At some point I noticed she had a penchant for jumping UP on things. Crates, trashcans, tables and even cars. So I took her to agility class and that is where she found her joy in life. Running agility with her was a bit like driving a Porsche on the Autobahn. That smooth, that effortless, that fast and free. I could actually run the course without saying a word to her. All I had to do was point at an obstacle, turn my shoulders or slow down and she responded.

What I will remember of her is not her titles or her children's titles. It is that in return for me saving her life, she also saved mine.

I rarely speak of this. It's not a day I like to remember, but on this occasion I will. We'd had another dog who, to put it kindly, had a few loose screws. He could be friendly and smart one moment, and reactive and sharp the next. He hated another of our dogs, Pirate. Loathed him. Pirate could've cared less, but Pirate was also not going to let another dog beat up on him. One day, this dog slipped past me into the yard with Pirate. I tried to call Pirate in, but he was afraid to turn his back. When I went into the yard, the fight had already started. And it was an ugly, nasty, to-the-bitter-end kind of fight. I stupidly grabbed the other dog by the scruff, intending to hoist him in the air and literally throw him over the fence. But he whipped around, clamped his jaws down on my arm and would not let go. In his rage, he no longer knew me.

I screamed. It was the worst pain imaginable. Panic consumed me. And then . . . he let go. Domino had sunk her teeth into his neck. I stood up and, my arm dripping with blood from a big gash that exposed tendons, ran inside. My heart in my ears, all I could hear behind me was the gnashing of teeth and throaty growls.

While I rinsed my arm off under the faucet and had my kids call my husband home, Domino had beaten the other dog to the ground and tore a hole in his side the size of a grapefruit. He slunk off into a corner while she kept a watchful eye on him. In the fight, she had broken two teeth and torn an ear, as well as suffered deep puncture wounds.

When I returned home from being stitched up at the hospital, my husband let Domino into the room with me. For several days, she wouldn't let another dog near me, even when I told her it was okay. When we both recovered enough to get back to agility, our bond, our means of communication were stronger than ever. It was like she could read my mind. In a sense, I could read hers, too. Her eyes said what she could not.

Domino is nearly sixteen now, but she hasn't long left. A few weeks ago I noticed a mammary tumor. It grew rapidly. She hasn't eaten for three days. Her breathing is shallow and rapid. What little she drinks comes right back up.

She's in the laundry room within eyeshot of my desk. I check in with her often and run my hand over her fur and tell her what a good, brave dog she is. I compliment her on her speed and jumping ability. Tell her she was a wonderful mother to her pups. I reminisce with her about the good ol' days in agility and all our trips together, getting up before dawn and driving for hours. When I do, I recall her grace and her intelligence, her impeccable manners and her love of children.

Sometimes, I run my fingers over that scar on my arm and think how I have been blessed to know true devotion, have witnessed courage firsthand and just realize how incredibly lucky I have been to have her in my life.

Hug your pet today.

Until later,
Gemi

The Crown in the Heather - Goodreads Book Giveaway

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Goodreads Book Giveaway











The Crown in the Heather



by N. Gemini Sasson

Giveaway ends November 10, 2010.

See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter to win

To mark the upcoming e-book release shortly of Worth Dying For, The Bruce Trilogy: Book II, I've set up a Goodreads Giveaway for the first book in the series about Robert the Bruce, James Douglas and Edward II. To enter to win The Crown in the Heather, just click above.



You must be a Goodreads member to be eligible, but please do browse around. There are tons of great books being given away there all the time. I throw my name in the hat every week or so and I'm still waiting to win one, but there's always hope.



Meanwhile, it's back to the final proofreading stages for my third book. After that, hmm, time to start writing another one???



P.S. Best wishes to all my NaNoWriMo friends out there! Stay sane. I'll try not to distract any of you, but I can't make any promises. I may do some scribbling myself, but I have this paralyzing anxiety about keeping track of word counts, so I'll just focus on putting the pieces together for now.



Happy reading,

Gemi