Phyllis L Humby's Blog: The Write Break with Phyllis L Humby

A Valentine Gift of Memories

 It wasFebruary 14th, and I was waking up in Niagara Falls. Not that I wassurprised, it’s where I fell asleep. Just saying. Hubby and I went away for achange of scene, but mostly to re-connect with friends we don’t see nearlyoften enough. We had a good first evening of food, libation, and catchupconversation. Yes, getaways with long-time friends are always heartwarming.

There’ssomething else I look forward to on these retreats. And I can’t remember a timewhen I didn’t feel this way. It sounds odd because most people don’t sleep wellwhen they’re away, but I LOVE sleeping in a hotel. I always get a great night’ssleep. I know, right? But that’s the way it is with me. I’ve never trulyduplicated the experience at home. No matter how high the thread count is, or thenumber of pillows on the bed, or the quality of the mattress, it doesn’t feelthe same. Maybe it’s the duvet. I’ve had comforters, bedspreads – I lovechenille – but I wonder if I should …. Never mind, I digress, as usual.

So, I wokeup feeling good (naturally) and after stretching, squirming, and positioning mythree pillows, I reached for my iPad. What’s new, I wondered. Just then anemail came through. I frowned when I saw it was from my son. Strange for him toemail me. This can’t be good, I thought. But I was very wrong because when Irealized what it was, it made my entire day. That’s pretty great considering itwasn’t even 8:30 AM yet.

A fewmonths back he’d mentioned an old cassette tape he’d come across. Had hefound it in his childhood memory box? Most likely he rescued it from a junkbox filled with once-favoured collectibles. I’m not sure. Anyway, I did recallmaking tape recordings with him when he was a toddler. The first one we madetogether was when he was two years old and a little chatter box.

The emailhe sent to me on Valentine’s Day was an audio file of one such recording. Now,every parent out there will know how precious it is to hear a recording of yourchild from over forty years ago. I mean, time just stops.

I textedhim immediately. I’m not crying, you’re crying, I joked. I won’t deny howemotional I felt listening to it. Memory overload. I’m sure he felt the sameway. Part of the recording was a conversation – as only a saucy four-year-oldcan converse – with his dad (now deceased). When he told his dad we’d gone rollerskating that day, I cracked up laughing. Oh, I remember that day. A day I hadn’tthought of in…well, forever.

I loved listeningto our duet of a song I’d made up for him when he was a couple of years old. Wesang that song umpteen times on the drive home from his daycare centre. It eventuallydisappeared from my repertoire only to leap back to life when my granddaughterswere toddlers, and I shared the song about their daddy with them.

Our memoryis a funny thing. We couldn’t have every event of our lifetime constantlyactive in our minds. Some hide in the shadows until one spark brings them tolight. Hearing that little rascal’s voice brought it all back. The bedtime stories,bathtime struggles, pets, and discarded apple cores. The journey of oneprecocious little boy.

And we’restill making memories.

 

Road Trip

 

Suspecting it might be our last topless (thecar, that is) tour this year, we took advantage of the warm temperatures lastweek and escaped to the Southampton area for a couple of days. Nothing puts mein a better frame of mind than to head north on Highway 21 through Grand Bend toBayfield and Goderich. It’s my attitude-adjustment area. So I guess that wouldmake Southampton my feel-good zone, and I looked forward to the brief but rejuvenating roadtrip.

I loved travelling along the water and stoppingat our favourite beaches along the way. THAT, my friends, was the best part ofthe trip. My husband snapped this pic in Point Clark.

I’ll share more pictures and memories of some of those beaches later.Maybe when the snow drifts turn to mind drifts and I remember standing at theshorelines of Lake Huron, gulping in the lake air, cool and refreshing,as receding waves suck the sand from beneath my bare toes. Yes, that’s when I’lldig up those photos, slap them on Facebook and say, ‘back in October we ….’

There’s something so comforting about being near the water. I spent a few moments on ‘my rock’ at Bayfield, a beach I frequentedoften for many summers. And in just those few moments of taking in the sights and sounds, I felt the urge to writesomething…anything. Nature has always inspired me. Especially bodies of water.It doesn’t seem to matter if it’s a river, lake, or creek. To be honest, even abathtub of water has cleared minor writer’s block for me.

We’ve always enjoyed visiting Meaford and weredelighted to see the town celebrating a scarecrow festival. Scarecrowseverywhere! Even hanging from lightposts.

An all out effort throughout thetown. Even in the residential areas. 

We stopped downtown to admire the displaysand then headed to the rocky shore of Georgian Bay where I basked once again inthe restorative setting. I believe I left my bum imprint on the rocks of atleast five beaches. So, yeah, it was the most relaxing of tours and the weathercouldn’t have been better.

The evening temperatures were still favourable for astroll along the beach. We walked down to the benches at the end of the mainstreet in Southampton to catch the sunset. Words don’t do it justice and, alas,no pictures. I guess we were too absorbed in the magnificent view. Thatexperience was more satisfying than the chicken alfredo I ordered for dinner. Andeveryone knows how much I LOVE fettucine alfredo.

Here and there were splashes of red along theroad during our travels but it was too early for the trees to have changedcolour. We’ll wait a a couple more weeks for that treat. 

Having lived in the Cambridge area for many years, I will always remember the gorgeous treescape along the roadways in the fall. Yes, great idea! The weather might not be conducive to a ‘topless’ road trip, but I'm sure it will be just as enjoyable.

My Summer Timeout From Writing

 

I enjoyed a refreshing respite from the office this summer. When hubby and I weren't motoring around SouthwesternOntario on fair weather days, we spent time together at home. Mostly he worked in the yard while I watched. I think he prefers it that way. He loves trimming, cutting, and planting, so I leavehim to his pleasure without thought of ‘helping’. He has an incredible greenthumb and I LOVE his garden of robust, colourful flowers, not to mention the picture-perfectvegetables he leaves on the kitchen counter for me to oooh over. His offeringof green peppers and tomatoes became stuffed peppers for last night’s dinnerand it appears I’ll have to dust off my squash recipes soon.

With no writing schedulesor deadlines to worry about, we welcomed long afternoon visits with family, friends,and neighbours.  And I especially enjoyeda fun shopping trip with my teenaged granddaughters. We had a greattime together as they spent their summer wages on the 'must have' apparel forthe new school year. We even took in a movie while we were in London. Youguessed it...Barbie!

And, of course, Ioccupied many pleasurable hours reading. I should say re-reading. Yes, Iplucked some old favourites from my bookshelves. That's a comfort thing, right? Reading your favourite books again? It's like eating mac and cheese or drinking tea with milk and sugar. Anyway, it makes me feel good. It had been forever since I read a Stephen King novel. Noticing that TheGreen Mile had been added to the Netflix movies list urged me to select that particular bookfirst. I admit that after I’d finished the book, I watched the movie again.They couldn’t possibly include everything in the movie, but I was satisfied.

Then I reachedfor To Kill a Mockingbird. Loved it – again. And I'm not sure how manytimes I've read Margaret Laurence's classic, The Stone Angel, but it wasmy next choice after Harper Lee. Then I moved on to Nina George's first book inthe Death Trilogy, The Little French Bistro and, of course, I thenre-read the other two books in the series.

I'm currently captivatedby the first book in Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series. As happened with King’sThe Green Mile, I turned to the film for comparison. I’d only read ahundred pages or so when I spent an evening with Netflix watching some episodesfrom Season One. What a love story! When I’m finished reading The Outlander, I'll return to recently released publications in search of more favourites to add to the collection that I'll reach for again in years to come.

My idyllicsummer was made even better by an invitation to a book club meeting. There’snothing more exciting than meeting readers and answering their questions, andit’s especially interesting to hear their perspective on the storyline andcharacters in Old Broad Road and On The Rock. To make the evening even moreperfect, the members also requested copies of my memoir Hazards of the Trade. What’snot to love about book clubs? A shoutout of appreciation (and a warm hug) to the welcoming membersof all the book clubs who have invited me to spend an afternoon or evening withthem.

It's been a relaxing summer, but now myleisurely timeout has drawn to a close and I’m back at the desk. And that'sokay. I'm looking forward to the business of writing, deleting, writing, anddeleting some more. Because from all that writing and deleting, I'm hoping anew story will emerge.

Hoping you hadsome sublimely memorable hours this summer, too, whether it was reading,travelling, or spending precious time with family. 🥰

Halloween 2022

 

I always fuss over what to buy for handouts. I’ll never forget the year I bought juice boxes, and what my granddaughters said about my handout choice. Juice boxes? Nana, you actually bought juice boxes for Halloween? I thought it was a great idea. I still do. But I didn’t buy them again. If any of you know of a healthy snack that’s an appreciated treat, let me know.

When we lived in the country we didn’t have many children come to the door trick-or-treating. At a discount store I purchased colouring books, crayons, little crafts, and fun toy thingies. I invited the children in to pick out what they’d like. It really didn’t go over as well as I’d expected. Back to the sugary treats.

This year when I bought cans of pop I wondered if kids still drank cream soda, orange crush, and root beer (they do! Root beer is the favourite), bags of candies (next year I won’t get any licorice), wee boxes of smarties, those little chocolate bars – which  I had to re-stock before the 31st  (eyeroll) – and  boxes of potato chips. I second-guessed myself as I put them all out on folding tables in the foyer. I’ll give the smarties and little bars to the toddlers, pop or chips to the older ones. Then I considered giving out a few candies with a can of pop, some chocolate bars with the chips… And so it went.

That night it took only a couple of trips to the door for me to change my mind about everything. This is

My Imaginary Friends

 I miss the people from the pages. Do other authors feel the same about their characters? They must. We get inside their heads, and that’s as close as you can get to anyone. Someone questioned this point, though. Do we get inside the heads of our characters, or do characters live inside our heads? I firmly believe in the former. There were days when I needed to write but, uh uh, their voices were silent. But then my characters were always very much in control. Of everything. It was all I could do to keep up. To a non-writer that probably sounds crazy. Think what you will.

At a book club meeting to discuss the Newfoundland series, one of the members thought it was hilarious the way I pondered – in the same manner they did – how a character might react in a different situation. You talk like you don’t know these people any better than we do. You made them up! I prefer to think of it as giving them life. Whatever. Okay, maybe I do give my ‘creations’ too much lead and that’s why I never know what will happen next. I’m definitely a pantser, not a plotter.

Yes, I miss the gang from Old Broad Road and On The Rock. Who wouldn’t? Sylvia Kramer, especially. It was the whole lifestyle that she’d built for herself in Newfoundland that I admired. We became quite close over the time it took me to write these novels. I might have connected more solidly with Sylvia

Fireside Collections Review: Old Broad Road/On The Rock by Phyllis L Humby

 

A Fireside Collections book review

When 63 year old Sylvia Kramer showed up in Chapel's Cove, Newfoundland she was far from ready to embark upon another love affair. That, however, is exactly what happened. Still in shock over her recent divorce from husband Paul, after what was perceived to be a marriage rooted in love and respect, and estranged from her adult children and grandchildren, Sylvia was broken and in need of an escape. A one way ticket to an east coast destination is what Sylvia seems to need; a place where she would be embraced by warmth and friendliness, eclectic people and unknown dialects, new delicacies waiting to be explored. A healthy dose of the North Atlantic is indeed the tonic that brings new life to Sylvia but evil lurks in all corners of the world and Sylvia is certainly forced to endure her share of the worst, plunging her into a tailspin of depression and doubt and experimentation with unorthodox coping strategies. Old Broad Road and On The Rock by author Phyllis L. Humby is the two part, two novel story of one woman’s will to survive and to make sense of her seemingly senseless world. 

On Route 60, I pulled the truck over and walked to a bench at the shoreline. My breath quickened at the natural beauty of Conception Bay as I gazed across the horizon. The drizzle had ended and the sun was remarkably warm. I removed my jacket to soak up the rays and then stretched my legs out in front of me until I settled into a relaxed position. My eyes grew heavy.   

I could see myself, arms outstretched, walk to the water's edge. Cautiously hop from rock to boulder. The blue sea lapped around my feet. The water crept up my legs past my knees. It stretched up my thighs and circled my hips, the silky surface luring me to its depths. My feet drifted off the rocks. My body submerged into the mysterious wet underworld. The icy water warmed me as I succumbed to the zenith of serenity. 

 (Old Broad Road)

In this two part series, Humby crafts a beautiful story that is masterfully written in the first person. In many respects,

the story has an “Eat, Pray, Love” feel with the main character Sylvia embarking upon a voyage of self discovery and new beginnings.  Though there are some heartbreaking incidents throughout both books that test Sylvia’s resolve,  this amazing piece of Canadiana is more about how love and friendship can conquer all. It is very much a feel good story that the reader just won’t want to put down and the tragic events are just part of that story. Humby also pens beautiful descriptions of an outport lifestyle that would be the envy of any writer. Her descriptions are factually accurate and truly invite the reader to become part of the story. Likewise, the author creates a wonderfully diverse cast of authentic characters that are as colourful as the jelly bean row houses located in old St. John’s. Instrumental to the development of the story and to Sylvia’s own personal development, the characters are funny and joyous, humble and adventurous. They are a wholesome mix of hearty Newfoundlanders (and some “Come From Aways”), a group I secretly wished to be a part of especially when they got together for celebrations and dinner parties.

Old Broad Road and On The Rock by Phyllis L. Humby is the story of one woman’s love affair with a place and with people who are just good for the soul. This book will leave you laughing, smiling, and crying and definitely booking your next adventure to Newfoundland. Phyllis L. Humby lives in the municipality of Lambton Shores, Ontario. She is the author of Hazards of The Tree, Old Broad Road and On The Rock published by Crossfield Publishing.

Book Reviews shared from firesidecollections.blogspot.com

Cathy Marie Buchanan marks anniversary

Cathy Marie Buchanan’s Facebook post this week celebrating the thirteenth anniversary of becoming a published author brought back warm memories for me.

It was during her book signing tour for The Day the Falls Stood Still when she popped into a small local library on an escorted trek around the city. During the author’s impromptu visit, the librarian mentioned my manuscript!

I was at the stage of giving up. Discouraged by query rejections, I was ready to burn the manuscript, convinced I’d never find an agent or publisher. This librarian, who had generously agreed to read my manuscript, felt moved by my novel and must have still been under its spell. Whatever she told the New York Best Selling Author prompted Cathy Buchanan to hand over her phone number with instructions for me to call her. Can you believe it??

Of course I phoned, but not before rushing out to purchase her book. I read it thoroughly and appreciatively, gulped, and dialled her number. During our thirty minute conversation, she offered encouragement and advice. Every writer needs a tribe, she said, or words to that effect. As soon as I got off the phone from Cathy, I contacted the main branch of the library and a bookstore scouting out writers’ groups. I really lucked out. The expertise of seasoned writers in the group I joined became invaluable mentors.

Three or so years later, my novels were gathering dust while I turned my attention to writing short stories, and it was a contest win that placed me as a Fringe Reader at the Eden Mills Writers’ Festival. Yes, that was exciting BUT the most thrilling aspect was that Cathy Marie Buchanan would also be attending as one of the featured authors. Serendipity at its best! It was during the first morning walkabout that I recognized her in the crowd and introduced myself. She knew me immediately and gave me a friend’s welcome. I felt privileged for this opportunity to spend time with Cathy during the festival. She had followed up The Days the Falls Stood Still and was promoting her international best seller The Painted Girls. You can read my review here.

Not only is Cathy a gifted writer, but the subject matter of her books is also captivating. I’m in awe of the amount of research she did for her historical novel Daughter of Black Lake. And The Painted Girls. Well, The Days the Falls Stood Still, as well. But especially Daughter of Black Lake which brings an ancient world to life. Actually, the accounts of her travels while researching would be fascinating reading. Check out the pictures of her research discoveries on her website here.

As a die-hard fan of Cathy Marie Buchanan, I anxiously await her next release.

 

 

Old Broad Road and On The Rock – Inside Scoop

The novels Old Broad Road and On The Rock are written in First Person Point of View. This might account for why some readers associate the protagonist Sylvia Kramer with me, being the author, and her life with mine. But this series is fiction and not based on any drama or characters in my own personal world.

Here are my answers to some of the most frequently asked questions: 

Q: Why was it important for your main character to share your love of cooking?

(throat clearing) I love eating, but cooking…not so much. It’s true that in both Old Broad Road and On The Rock, Sylvia Kramer effortlessly throws together spectacularly delicious meals. One reviewer even warned people not to read these books on an empty stomach. I love it! If you were salivating reading about the meals, imagine how it felt doing the research. Of course, I’d sampled many of the Newfoundland and Labrador delicacies during my vacation there.

Q: How long did you live in Newfoundland?

I’ve never lived in Newfoundland. It was through my several pleasurable vacations in the province that I was inspired to write Old Broad Road and subsequently On The Rock. As a sidenote, I'd never visited Chapel's Cove, NL, which is the setting of these books, until after I'd written them. I'll always remember how I felt standing on Sylvia's beach for the first time. It was a profound and magical moment.

Q: Do you have tattoos?

You're Only an Oddball Until You Find Your Tribe

 

Nine years ago I wrote my first blog post. Reading it now reminds me how it felt to be without a tribe. My tribe. The storytellers. It also brings back the rush of realizing my passion for writing fiction.

Here is an excerpt of the post I wrote as I began my journey as a writer. 

 

All my life I have been the oddball.  Not quite fitting.  Different from the rest−the rest of the family, the rest of the class, the rest of the co-workers.

I was the one staring off into space−lost in thought. It was not that I wasn’t focused.  I was too focused.  Not on what was happening around me, but what was going on in my mind....a whole other world.I am not sure at what age I started recording some of my daydreams.  I suppose the first stories found their way to paper when I was a child living in Sarnia, Ontario and later as a teen, in Cambridge.  Even after entering the workforce, I continued jotting down character descriptions and conflicts.  Detailed note-taking became an obsessive habit. When I returned to Sarnia with a young family, I was still dabbling in a make-believe world.  Faces and personalities emerged.  Happenings grandiose and minute; happenings born of an overactive imagination.As far back as my memory takes me I studied people. Of course, I never considered it studying, but merely a fascination for behaviour and reaction, emotion and energy.  Everyone was different.  If I could interchange all their characteristics and idiosyncrasies, what kind of person could I create?  I could develop a perfect personality but then their lifelike qualities would soon make them imperfect.
Yes, my fascination for people grew . 
My daydreams and imaginings− those minute scribbles on scraps of paper− became involved stories written longhand on yellow lined pads; the kind sold ten to a package to offices−are they still?−long before computers became the norm.  Those yellow sheets were then rolled and secured with elastic bands, and hidden in my cardboard memory box.My writings and story tales were my secret.  Not even my best friend knew.  No one knew.  I must have appeared constantly distracted. 
There was never time to consider writing on a regular basis.  I wrote to ease the anxiety of not writing.  There, I would say, I have scrawled fifty pages.  Of course, it was only temporary relief.  My addiction to storytelling was never truly cured.When I joined the ranks of retirees, I whispered my desire to write.  Write what, he asked.  A book.  That is what I had always wanted.  To create living, breathing characters that made their own way through hardships and heartaches: characters that made choices−some good, some bad− but each having its own consequence.  So write, he said.  Go write a book. 
I questioned why I needed validation.  Did I enjoy writing so much that I felt guilt over time frivolously spent?  Whatever the reason, I had finally revealed my passion.  Go write a book he said.
I wrote.  Words appeared on my monitor faster than I could read them.  Characters took on life: so much so that they took over my story and created their own.  They ignored my development of the plot, seeming to have something different in mind.   
I laughed over their shenanigans and wept when they grieved.  They became important people in my life.  My laptop friends.  I was immensely satisfied when the last line appeared in black and white.  However, I found it was impossible  to type The End.  I hated for it to be over.

'Feel Good' Birthdays

 

In past years, I indulged in the ‘feel good’ things on my birthday. Lingering over a coffee downtown Sarnia always brought memories of when I was a kid waiting in line at The Odeon with my friend Barb. We’d pay a quarter for a movie and then stay to watch it over and over. Good times. And at the end of one summer I spent all my babysitting money on clothes at Pacesetters. Wow, that was a lot of babysitting. [image error]