Liza Perrat's Blog, page 2
March 10, 2022
New Season, New Books!
Spring is in the air in rural France! While I don't mind a bit of winter, it's lovely to finally step outside to warm sunshine instead of cold and fog. When March comes around, I love seeing the new flowers peeping from the earth, hearing the birdsong, and admiring the new baby animals.
To celebrate spring, I'm taking part in a huge book giveaway!
👩🏻👩🏾👩🏼🦳 It’s Women’s History Month! If you haven’t read my novel, The Lost Blackbird you can enter to win it on BookSweeps right now — PLUS over 45 Women’s Fiction novels from a great collection of authors AND a brand new eReader!
It's free to enter so why not give it a go.
Here's the link:👉 bit.ly/WomensFiction-March22
Good luck, and if any of your reader friends might be interested, please share this post with them.
Cheers,
Liza x
Sign up for new book releases and receive a FREE copy of Friends & Other Strangers, my award-winning collection of Australian short stories.
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February 11, 2022
#CarnivalNice 2022
Anyone in Nice today, for the start of the annual Nice Carnival? One of the world’s largest events, along with the carnivals of Brazil, Venice and the New Orleans Mardi Gras, the earliest record of its existence is in 1294 when the Count of Provence, Charles Anjou wrote that he had enjoyed the carnival.
Each year a particular theme is chosen, around which artists create sumptuous costumes, masks, floats and figurines in papier-maché for the colourful day and night parades, and mimosa, lily and daisy flower battles.
Nowadays, this two-week event attracts over a million visitors to Nice. Find this year’s programme HERE.
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December 7, 2021
December 8, Light Your candles!
Tomorrow, 8th December, is La Fête des Lumières (Light Festival) in Lyon, emblem of a popular gathering when the people of Lyon share a spirit of solidarity; the spirit of candles burning on windowsills.
Here's a short article I wrote a few years ago, about the history of the light festival.
The Plague Enlightened by Liza Perrat
‘Protect us from famine, war and plague, Seigneur,” cry the residents of Lyon. The year is 1628. But their plea comes too late. The bubonic plague already crossed the Rhône River in August, terrifying the inhabitants and killing half of them.
By 1643 they are desperate, and pray to the Virgin Mary to return good health to Lyon. Miraculously, the black plague disappears from the city, never to return and the people never doubt their divine protection.
So, how does the celebration of the Virgin Mary’s eradication of the plague become the largest light festival of this modern-day century?
It began on September 8th 1852, with the inauguration of the statue of the Virgin Mary, erected on La basilique Notre-Dame de Fourvière to thank her for ridding Lyon of the plague. Severe flooding prevented the festivities from taking place and the event was postponed to December 8th, and the Lyonnaise people showed their gratitude by lighting candles on their windowsills. As the years passed, this spontaneous jest increased in popularity to become, today, a grandiose festival of light.
During the 1980s, in conjunction with the advent of the ‘lighting plan’, the city of Lyon decided to transform the December 8th festival into la Fête Des Lumières (light festival). Each year, the city’s public places would be illuminated in a different fashion, this coloured symphony of light bathing urban Lyon on the eve of the winter solstice.
My first light festival was in 2002. Anticipating large crowds, we opted for the train into Lyon centreville, descending into the cold night at St. Paul station in the Vieux Lyon. Restaurants lining the cobblestone streets blazed with lights, diners’ chatter and busy waiters. Tantalising aromas of frying garlic, butter and parsley mingled with the fog.
Crossing the Saône River we first glimpsed the illuminations on Fourvière Hill, where the Romans set up camp in the first century B.C. and where, atop the hill, Fourvière basilica was built between 1872 and 1884. Lit up in alternate shades of green, blue and violet, the fortress basilica was transformed into a haunted, spectral tower.
On Place des Terreaux, a group threw and swallowed fire for an enchanted audience, ‘ohs’ and ‘aahs’ echoing into the wintry dark as flames leapt dangerously close to the performers. Then the old stones of the square melted into a cinematic screen of stars and moons. Coloured lights and shapes danced on a stage of renaissance architecture, a bloodied revolutionary soldier crept stealthily across the starry sky, and all sense of dimension was lost.
On Place Paul Chenavard, 15th century St. Nizier church was painted in stripes of dandelion yellow, orange and blue lights.
The temperature dropped, the night thickened with visitors and stall holders cried out: ‘Crepes, saucisson, vin chaud!’.
‘This moving public is at the heart of the festival,’ said the festival’s artistic director, ‘just as it is at the heart of urbanity, each person being a vector of light within the nocturnal landscape.’
At the old printing museum, high on an old stone staircase, children were mesmerised by a mediaeval play of sword–slashing and fierce shouting.
‘The very identity of Lyon is revealed in the light festival,’ said the mayor, ‘through an event that is both a popular event and a tribute to art and architecture through the use of light.
On the stone floor of the Trinity Chapel in Lyon’s 2nd district, 2,000 white glass jars filled with water and blazing oil were distributed in wave forms to create the Equinoctial tide. French baroque music interpreted by three sopranos and an organ accompanied the lighting and extinction of the fires.
The city’s ancient weaving industry and textile production were revived through light projections onto the imposing St Jean Cathedral, invoking the weavers’ mechanisms and gestures. To complete the picture, a green laser beam linked St. Jean Cathedral to Fourvière Basilica.
Since its origin in the XIX century, December 8 has taken on an undeniably futuristic allure. But despite these magnificent illuminations, the Lyonnaise people never forget that the soul of the light festival remains within the beauty of thousands of tiny candle flames burning in unison, on windowsills.
So, since our rural village is located on the outskirts of Lyon, I’d better hunt out those candles and holders, ready for tomorrow! To celebrate this year's light festival, I’m reducing the price of my black plague novel, Blood Rose Angel for a few days to only 99c/p.
1348. As Bubonic Plague makes its first inroads into Europe, medicine, religion, family traditions and love intertwine in a woman’s search for identity and her battle to heal the sick in a world ruled by superstition. Get your copy of Blood Rose Angel HERE.
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http://www.lizaperrat.com/December 2, 2021
Special Christmas Sale WW 2 Novel Wolfsangel
France under Nazi Occupation. Lives colliding unpredictably. One woman’s fatal choice.
Wolfsangel my WW2 French Resistance novel is on sale for only 99c/p for the next few days.
A heart-stopping page-turner of love, betrayal and courage which will leave you shaken and profoundly moved.’ … Karen Maitland. Bestselling author of Company of Liars. Shortlisted: Exeter Novel Prize 2019:' … great pace … moments of high emotion, a pronounced sense of community and a solid sense of place. Engaging and well researched, this is an ambitious novel …' Broo Doherty Literary Agent, DHH Literary Agency
July 14, 2021
Happy Bastille Day!
Today, France celebrates the storming of the Bastille on 14th July, 1789, an important event in Paris during the revolution that had begun two days beforehand. Celebrations are held all over the country, and it is a public holiday.
To celebrate this epic event, I'm running a limited time 99c/p offer of my novel, Spirit of Lost Angels, part of which takes place during the French Revolution.
Extract from Chapter 39 of Spirit of Lost Angels…
More and more people massed around the burning fortress, smoke flapping into the grim sky like a hero’s flag. Whole families streamed onto the streets. They brought their children, their dogs, to see the fiery spectacle.
I watched Aurore, caught up in the dancing, chanting revellers, and still I could not entice her away from that bloody, triumphant scene. I was about to leave on my own when I heard, amidst the din, a voice calling.
‘Come, Rubie.’
I spun around, wondering whoever was addressing me. My eyes scanned the knot of unfamiliar faces, but besides Aurore, I knew nobody. I heard the voice again. ‘Rubie.’
Whoever would be calling me? Still I recognised no one, then I glimpsed the face of a young girl wearing a scarlet dress, and my hand flew across my mouth.
She was some distance away, but I could make out the cinnamon-coloured curls. My own ten-year old face. I could have sworn too, she was wearing a necklace––a small angel carving perhaps, threaded onto a strip of leather. I felt giddy, and held Aurore’s arm to stop myself fainting.
The girl had turned from me and was vanishing into the crowd. I started pushing people aside, stepping on feet, shoving my way through the throng.
‘Rubie, Rubie, wait. Wait! Don’t leave me again!’ I thought I would burst with desire, with hope, and with the fear I wouldn’t reach her.
Like the river in a summer drought, the girl receded from me, further and further. Then she was gone.
Based on historical fact, Spirit of Lost Angels is a riveting testament to the courage of women facing tragedy, betrayal and insanity in a world where their gift can be their curse.
Read Spirit of Lost Angels for only 99c/p HERE
July 5, 2021
Looking for great writing advice?
No matter whether you're a beginner or and old hand, if you're interested in some very good writing advice, look no further than this post from my author friend, Carol Cooper!
June 18, 2021
Advance Review Copies Available!
Hope was left in Pandora’s Box, when all the evils were released into the world.
I'm happy to announce that the third novel in my French historical series, Blood Rose Angel, is included in the Pandora’s Box series, which brings together award-winning and risk-taking international authors in an unforgettable showcase, with five books in each collection. Never has it been more important to collaborate across borders and to use the power of storytelling to express the rich variety of human experience. This has been the main principle underlying our selection and we also chose stories we couldn’t put down, characters we cared about, and writing that stopped us in our tracks to savour a phrase or an observation.
The novels in No Woman is an Island travel through time and space, from medieval and modern France through England in two world wars to present-day Scandinavia. Although very different, they all show the impact on women of events over which they have no control. No woman is an island.
Read the full foreword HERE
Read more about the two collections HERE.
If you devour books and love a variety of literary, thought-provoking fiction, these are for you!
2 COLLECTIONS
10 AUTHORS: 10 EXCEPTIONAL BOOKS
10 ADVANCE REVIEW COPIES AVAILABLE of
No Woman is an Island Publication Date July 20th
Not Little Women Publication Date October
Check out the details HERE and please let me know if you'd like a free advance copy of one or both collections for a review, which does not have to be long or involved. Short and simple reviews are absolutely fine!
I know however, that some of you are not keen on writing reviews, so if you like the sound of the collections, the first one is now available for pre-order HERE.
February 2, 2021
Kobo 40% off Historical Fiction Sale
For any Kobo e-readers, Kobo is holding a 40%-off Historical Fiction Sale and I’ve seen some great books there! Just enter the code HISTFIC40 at the checkout and Kobo will take off the discount. Happy reading! https://www.kobo.com/us/en/p/histfic40
January 19, 2021
The Story of a Painting
One Saturday afternoon, about 20 years ago, my husband and I took a carload of junk to the tip. While we were disposing of everything, an object caught my eye, just sitting there, undamaged, amidst all the rubbish. It was this painting, depicting the courtyard of an old French stone house.
I quickly grabbed the tableau, signed “L. Tor, 1943”. Who was the artist? Was he/she still alive? What a shame this nice painting ended up on the scrap heap. Of course I was immediately inspired to base a story around it. So I dusted off “L. Tor, 1943”, reframed it and wrote a very short story (which I’ve posted below for you to read) based on my imagined origin of this intriguing painting, and the artist.
It’s titled: “A Life Not Lost”, and is less than 800 words, so won’t take much of your time to read. I hope you enjoy it.
But this rubbish tip rescue tale didn't end there, reframed and hanging in my hallway. No, A Life Not Lost, eventually inspired me to write Wolfsangel, second standalone novel in my French historical Bone Angel series that explores the French Resistance groups in this area during the Nazi Occupation of WW2.
Speaking about Wolfsangel brings me to the latest Booksweeps competition, of which Wolfsangel is included. If you enjoy literary, historical or women’s fiction, and would like the chance to win a new E-reader and over 50 books valued at $550, check it out; there are some fabulous books to win!
Entry is free, so why not give it a go? Enter HERE.
A Life Not Lost
The trucks careen into the village, tyres shrieking as the vehicles come to a halt in front of the refuge. Through a crack in the shutters, we watch as men stride inside and drag the children––still too sleepy to realise what’s happening––from their baguette and hot chocolate breakfasts. I feel my heartbeat quicken as they bundle the little ones, like sacks of corn, into the open-ended trucks.
‘Where do you think they take those poor children?’ my wife says, her fingernails cutting deeper into my forearm. ‘Where are they taking all our people?’
‘To camps in the east,’ I say, averting my eyes from the jumble of cries, thin limbs and yellow stars disappearing down the road. ‘Or somewhere ...’
We keep watching as the trucks zoom off, the faces of the little ones fading until all that remains are whiffs of ersatz petrol and puffs of exhaust fumes hanging over the road.
‘It’ll be our family next time,’ I say. ‘No one can escape them. You should go now, Sabine. Go and take our children to safety.’
‘Come with us,’ she says, but I hear the defeat in her voice, as if she has given up trying to convince me. ‘Please.’
‘No!’ I shake my head, angry with myself for shouting at her.
‘I won’t let them chase me from my home,’ I say, more quietly, more determined. ‘The home that has belonged to our family for how many generations?’
Sabine keeps her eyes low, on the floor. ‘I don’t know … I don’t know anything, anymore.’
***
Sabine and the children have been gone a week and still I sit at my window, painting with the urgency forced upon me.
Le Garon––our river––glistens silver-grey through early mist, my brush sweeping a nimbus of gold across the water, for the sun afloat. In the foreground, oak trunks shelter within cloaks of ivy, and branches are brown tangles bearing the green buds of leaves I’ll never see or feel.
For our stone well, I curve an arch of beige above an oval, a dab of rust-red for the flour mill, then dark strokes to delineate square fields of sunflowers with mud-brown eyes. And the hills beyond––where hidden men whisper in codes and blow up trains laden with enemy arms––are moss green, with yellow dots of dandelions.
My brush trembles over the courtyard cobblestones, wavers on the concrete steps rickety with the footsteps of an untroubled past. I choose strong colours to echo my heart that still pulses strong for all they have condemned: rich brown for the oak door, deep green for the shutters to frame the windows. My sky is a patch of vivid blue, with dark specks of sparrows gliding on a freedom not governed by race, politics, or religion.
My arm aches but I don’t stop; can’t stop. I’m hungry, but there is no time to eat. I smile at the irony, for what need is there now to nourish this body? None. Of that, I am certain; as certain as the scarlet red of summer’s cherries, the bleached white of winter snow, the muted pinks and golds of autumn leaves. As certain as one man’s folly.
I scrawl Leo Weiner in the bottom right-hand corner of each tableau, then I rinse my brushes and fold my easel. I gather my paintings and clamber up the stairs to the attic, storing everything behind the panel. Now I am ready.
I don’t have to wait long.
It’s not an open-ended truck that comes for me, but a black Citroën, gliding into the courtyard as if it belongs there. Knee-high boots gleam, click on cobblestones, stomp up concrete steps. Impatient fists thump on the oak door until it splinters, cracks and collapses towards me. They spill through the doorway.
Black breeches boast terror, grey-green helmets speak indifference, skull insignias and red swastika armbands stink of power. The dark muzzle of a pistol spells the end.
They hustle me outside, down the rickety steps and across the old cobblestones. I smile to myself, thinking how many times I cursed those uneven cobbles, tripping me up. Wishing my step could falter, just once more.
As they bundle me into the Citroën, I think about when this madness will be over, and someone finds a secret panel in an attic. I picture that person pushing back the panel and discovering my paintings. I imagine them wiping off the dust, the mouse droppings and the dampness, and seeing my strokes of love; the harmony of colours that blends a river, a well, a house.
A life not lost.
END
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November 3, 2020
Wolfsangel On Sale 99c/p
Back in 1998, I’d not even begun writing novels, but after a very moving visit to the French village of Oradour-sur-Glane, I vowed to myself that one day I had to write about this terrible tragedy.
Photo courtesy of Venetia Hos-EdwardsOn 10 June 1944, Oradour-sur-Glane, situated in the Haute-Vienne Department, was burnt to the ground and 642 inhabitants massacred by a German SS company. After the war, a new village was constructed, but the then French president, Charles de Gaulle, stated that the original village should be maintained as a memorial and a museum.
Photo courtesy of Venetia Hos-Edwards
Photo courtesy of Venetia Hos-EdwardsMany years later, I learned that the countryside area in which I live in France, was a hotbed of French Resistance fighters against the Nazi Occupation. This, and the tragedy of Oradour-sur-Glane, became the basis for my novel, Wolfsangel, second (standalone) story in my French historical series: The Bone Angel.
Wolfsangel is on sale for 99c/p HERE at your favourite retailer for a short time only.
Excerpt:
As we hurried back to the old district of Lyon, I understood that look on Ghislaine’s face. I saw how the Occupation had changed us; how the Resistance had brought together people from every level of society and turned us all — from the aristocrat to the simple farmgirl — into counterfeiters, thieves, and murderers.
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