Emilie Richards's Blog, page 99

Sunday Inspiration: “Make mistakes…”

“I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes.

Because if you are making mistakes, then you are making new things, trying new things, learning, living, pushing yourself, changing yourself, changing your world.

You’re doing things you’ve never done before, and more importantly, you’re Doing Something.

So that’s my wish for you, and all of us, and my wish for myself.

Make New Mistakes.

Make glorious, amazing mistakes.

Make mistakes nobody’s ever made before.

Don’t freeze, don’t stop, don’t worry that it isn’t good enough, or it isn’t perfect, whatever it is: art, or love, or work or family or life.

Whatever it is you’re scared of doing, Do it.

Make your mistakes, next year and forever.”

― Neil Gaiman

Making mistakes is an easy New Year’s resolution, since we all make a multitude of mistakes.

But I like the challenge to “make glorious, amazing mistakes,” to be daring and courageous enough that the mistakes will be miniscule compared to our achievements.

So what mistakes do you plan to make in the year ahead?

 

Fiction Friday: The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle

Welcome to Fiction Friday, my opportunity each week to post an excerpt from one of my own books or those of my friends, present-day or long-departed colleagues.

Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories are still enjoyed far and wide, and this one is particularly delightful. The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle, first published in 1892, opens on the second morning after Christmas, which makes it perfect to enjoy today. It has been retold a number of ways and in a number of places, but even if you’re read it before, enjoy it again. You can finish the story here to see how the mystery deepens and then is (inevitably) solved by Sherlock’s brilliance. I can almost taste the Christmas goose and smell the pipe smoke.  How about you?

Next week we’ll get back to living authors after enjoying Louisa May Alcott at Thanksgiving, L. Frank Baum for Christmas and now Arthur Conan Doyle as our post-holiday celebrations begin to wind down. Next Friday author P.B. Ryan will introduce the first of her new and exciting series–I just found it on Amazon to enjoy on vacation.

***

I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the couch was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very seedy and disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked in several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the purpose of examination.

“You are engaged,” said I; “perhaps I interrupt you.”

“Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one” — he jerked his thumb in the direction of the old hat — “but there are points in connection with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of instruction.”

I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were thick with the ice crystals. “I suppose,” I remarked, “that, homely as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it — that it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery and the punishment of some crime.”

“No, no. No crime,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “Only one of those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four million human beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to take place, and many a little problem will be presented which may be striking and bizarre without being criminal. We have already had experience of such.”

“So much so,” I remarked, “that of the last six cases which I have added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime.”

“Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that this small matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know Peterson, the commissionaire?”

“Yes.”

“It is to him that this trophy belongs.”

“It is his hat.”

“No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem. And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, roasting at this moment in front of Peterson’s fire. The facts are these: about four o’clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man’s hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose.”

******

The story’s just getting good, right? There’s lots more twists and turns to come, though. You can read the rest of the tale (and it’s a fine one) right here.This page also has a spoken version if you would prefer to hear it read out loud.  

I hope you had a wonderful holiday and are now gearing up for a wonderful New Year. To 2014!

The Season of Giving Thanks

In an hour one of my favorite Christmas Eve traditions begins. Our local public broadcasting radio station will gift local listeners with the Festival of Carols from Kings College in Cambridge. I’m thankful that I will be able to enjoy this lovely choir right here in my own home.

In fifteen minutes I will stop for breakfast, delicious muesli faithfully made by my husband every single week. I’m thankful for the time he takes and for a life in which food is always present.

At this very moment I am sitting in my cozy house, working in my study that overlooks a waterway populated by birds and occasionally alligators. I am so grateful that I was gifted to live in this lovely place and to be able to do the things I love most, like write this blog and share it with you.

I am also thankful for my morning paper. In the midst of grimmer news I found an article today entitled 7 Ways Saying Thanks Can Alter your Life.  It’s an article worth reading in its entirety.

Gratitude, it seems, is a mood-booster, a relationship-strengthener, an aid in bouncing back after life’s inevitable setbacks. It’s also good for your grades, for fighting depression, for achieving goals and for elevating your social standing. That last one needs an explanation, I think. According to one study people who are the most grateful also have the greatest capacity for empathy—-which means their friends and colleagues find them more helpful and generous.

I can’t imagine a better use of this day than to remember all the things for which we are grateful. Not because of what gratitude can give us personally, but for what we, as grateful people, can give those around us.

We may or may not believe in a Virgin birth, wise men coming from the east, shepherds visited by angels. But I hope that the spirit of this season, whichever traditions we choose to celebrate, remains with us throughout the coming year. And what better place for that spirit to take root than with a simple “thank you.”

I am grateful for all of you, for your support of my novels, your wonderful comments here, your participation on my Facebook Page. I wish each of you a happy holiday filled with gratitude and love.

 

Sunday Inspiration: “The Work of Christmas”

When the song of the angels is stilled,

When the star in the sky is gone,

When the kings and princes are home,

When the shepherds are back with their flock,

The work of Christmas begins:

To find the lost,

To heal the broken,

To feed the hungry,

To release the prisoner,

To rebuild the nations,

To bring peace among brothers,

To make music in the heart.

(thanks to author and theologian Howard Thurman)

During Advent many of us have been preparing for the hope and joy of Christmas.

Is it time to prepare ourselves for what comes after Christmas? What a wonderful thought.

Fiction Friday: A Kidnapped Santa Claus

Welcome to Fiction Friday, my opportunity each week to post an excerpt from one of my own books or those of my friends and colleagues.

Today we have a special holiday treat, an excerpt from a short story written in 1904 by L. Frank Baum (beloved author of the Oz books). It’s a sequel to Baum’s The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus, written in 1902. That book has been made into a graphic novel, an animated film, and even anime. This addition is well loved, too, and today I’m sharing an excerpt with you. (By the way, Santa also makes an appearance in The Road to Oz, one of the beloved Oz books.) Click on the cover to the left if you want to buy a compilation of both the novel and the short story at Amazon rather than download.

If this tidbit captures your interest, then you can finish the story here. It’s short and easy to read online or to print and keep. Share with your kids and grandkids this week. Like the Louisa May Alcott Thanksgiving story, maybe they would like to take turns reading it out loud with you.

L. Frank Baum probably did more to pique my interest in reading and later writing than any other author. So thank you, Mr. Baum, and I’m glad we can enjoy your Christmas tale today.

******

Santa Claus lives in the Laughing Valley, where stands the big, rambling castle in which his toys are manufactured. His workmen, selected from the ryls, knooks, pixies and fairies, live with him, and every one is as busy as can be from one year’s end to another. 

It is called the Laughing Valley because everything there is happy and gay. The brook chuckles to itself as it leaps rollicking between its green banks; the wind whistles merrily in the trees; the sunbeams dance lightly over the soft grass, and the violets and wild flowers look smilingly up from their green nests. To laugh one needs to be happy; to be happy one needs to be content. And throughout the Laughing Valley of Santa Claus contentment reigns supreme. 

On one side is the mighty Forest of Burzee. At the other side stands the huge mountain that contains the Caves of the Daemons. And between them the Valley lies smiling and peaceful. 

One would think that our good old Santa Claus, who devotes his days to making children happy, would have no enemies on all the earth; and, as a matter of fact, for a long period of time he encountered nothing but love wherever he might go. 

But the Daemons who live in the mountain caves grew to hate Santa Claus very much, and all for the simple reason that he made children happy. 

The Caves of the Daemons are five in number. A broad pathway leads up to the first cave, which is a finely arched cavern at the foot of the mountain, the entrance being beautifully carved and decorated. In it resides the Daemon of Selfishness. Back of this is another cavern inhabited by the Daemon of Envy. The cave of the Daemon of Hatred is next in order, and through this one passes to the home of the Daemon of Malice–situated in a dark and fearful cave in the very heart of the mountain. I do not know what lies beyond this. Some say there are terrible pitfalls leading to death and destruction, and this may very well be true. However, from each one of the four caves mentioned there is a small, narrow tunnel leading to the fifth cave–a cozy little room occupied by the Daemon of Repentance. And as the rocky floors of these passages are well worn by the track of passing feet, I judge that many wanderers in the Caves of the Daemons have escaped through the tunnels to the abode of the Daemon of Repentance, who is said to be a pleasant sort of fellow who gladly opens for one a little door admitting you into fresh air and sunshine again. 

Well, these Daemons of the Caves, thinking they had great cause to dislike old Santa Claus, held a meeting one day to discuss the matter. 

“I’m really getting lonesome,” said the Daemon of Selfishness. “For Santa Claus distributes so many pretty Christmas gifts to all the children that they become happy and generous, through his example, and keep away from my cave.” 

“I’m having the same trouble,” rejoined the Daemon of Envy. “The little ones seem quite content with Santa Claus, and there are few, indeed, that I can coax to become envious.” 

“And that makes it bad for me!” declared the Daemon of Hatred. “For if no children pass through the Caves of Selfishness and Envy, none can get to MY cavern.” 

“Or to mine,” added the Daemon of Malice. 

“For my part,” said the Daemon of Repentance, “it is easily seen that if children do not visit your caves they have no need to visit mine; so that I am quite as neglected as you are.” 

“And all because of this person they call Santa Claus!” exclaimed the Daemon of Envy. “He is simply ruining our business, and something must be done at once.” 

To this they readily agreed; but what to do was another and more difficult matter to settle. They knew that Santa Claus worked all through the year at his castle in the Laughing Valley, preparing the gifts he was to distribute on Christmas Eve; and at first they resolved to try to tempt him into their caves, that they might lead him on to the terrible pitfalls that ended in destruction. 

So the very next day, while Santa Claus was busily at work, surrounded by his little band of assistants, the Daemon of Selfishness came to him and said: 

“These toys are wonderfully bright and pretty. Why do you not keep them for yourself? It’s a pity to give them to those noisy boys and fretful girls, who break and destroy them so quickly.” 

“Nonsense!” cried the old graybeard, his bright eyes twinkling merrily as he turned toward the tempting Daemon. “The boys and girls are never so noisy and fretful after receiving my presents, and if I can make them happy for one day in the year I am quite content.” 

So the Daemon went back to the others, who awaited him in their caves, and said: 

“I have failed, for Santa Claus is not at all selfish.” 

The following day the Daemon of Envy visited Santa Claus. Said he: “The toy shops are full of playthings quite as pretty as those you are making. What a shame it is that they should interfere with your business! They make toys by machinery much quicker than you can make them by hand; and they sell them for money, while you get nothing at all for your work.” 

But  Santa Claus refused to be envious of the toy shops.

******

Don’t forget you can finish the story here.  Have a wonderful Christmas holiday.

We Wish You A Merry Christmas: Booklover Carols Part Six

Booklover Carols have become a tradition here. Okay, stop groaning. You knew this was coming. Every year I create a new carol or two about the publishing world. This year is no exception.

You’ll find links to my previous years’ tongue-in-cheek carols at the bottom. How drastically publishing has changed since I began this tradition. There are carols for independent bookstores that are no longer with us, one for Borders, one tongue-in-cheek look at social media. I had fun reading them, and I hope you do, too.

This year the ” talk of the publishing world,” of course, is the rise in ebooks and successfully self-published authors. These days many formerly traditionally published authors are now publishing their own books with great results. Many others have a foot in both camps. Some, like me, are beginning to put up their backlist (at least the books they have rights to) on line for new readers to enjoy.

So enjoy It’s The Most Wonderful Time of the Year from the perspective of a traditionally published author AND a self-published author. In this instance, of course, The Most Wonderful Time,  is that moment a contract is signed or a book becomes a reality.

With my best holiday wishes.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year (sung to the tune made famous by Andy Williams.)

(from the traditionally published author)

It’s the most wonderful time of the year

With editors joyous

And publishers boisterously shouting good cheer

It’s the most wonderful time of the year  

It’s the hap-happiest season of all

With contracts to savor, each line, clause and waiver

Your agent’s best call

It’s the hap-happiest season of all  

There’ll be books for promoting

Reviews well worth noting

And publisher’s parties so bright

There’ll be covers to sigh for

A few you might cry o’er

Revisions so thoughtful, so right

(and from the self-pubbed author) 

It’s the most wonderful time of the year

No editors rephrasing

Or publishers praising a contract to fear

It’s the most wonderful time of the year  

It’s the hap-happiest season of all

Your books are your own now, to create and to hone now,

Completely your call

It’s the hap-happiest season of all.  

There’ll be ideas worth trying

Without fear of prying

Better royalties, old books and new

Here’s a cover selected

That no one rejected

A book that is yours through and through  

(Everybody sing now!)

It’s the most wonderful time of the year

Whether paper or ebook

The story’s now your book, achievement so clear!

It’s the most wonderful time,

It’s the most wonderful time

It’s the most wonderful time of the year.

*****

You haven’t had enough punishment? Here are the links to previous Booklover Carols.

Booklover Carols Part One

Booklover Carols Part Two

Booklover Carols Part Three

Booklover Carols Part Four

Booklover Carols Part Five

Sunday Inspiration: “Each night a child is born is a holy night.”

For so the children come and so they have been coming.

Always the same way they come, born of the seed of a man and a woman.

No angels herald their beginnings.

No prophets predict their future courses.

No wise men see a star to show where to find the babe that will save humankind.

Yet each night a child is born is a holy night.

Sitting beside our children’s cribs, we feel glory in the sight of new life beginning.

We ask “Where and how will this new life end? Or will it ever end?”

Each night a child is born is a holy night.

A time for singing, a time for wondering, a time for worshiping.

These words by Sophia Lyon Fahs remind us that children and the hope they bring to our world are at the heart of this holiday season.

Each night a child is born is truly a holy night and one to be celebrated with joy and love.

Fiction Friday: Buttoned Up

Welcome to Fiction Friday, my opportunity each week to post an excerpt from one of my own books or those of my friends and colleagues.

Kylie Logan agreed to return this week after I begged.  Her newest Button Box mystery, Buttoned Up,  just came out, and with all the quilters who read my blog, I was pret–ty sure buttons are a special love of many of us.  Personally I love this series, the buttons, the characters, the setting.  I even love our sleuth’s crazy ex, because, well, we’ve all know guys like this one.  If nothing else we can be thrilled that we didn’t marry him.

You can read more about my friend Kylie in previous blogs, but here’s what she has to say about Buttoned Up.

Josie Giancola is one of the country’s leading experts on antique and vintage buttons so it’s no surprise when she’s called to provide one last button for artist Forbis Parmenter’s new show. Forbis is an outsider artist who covers everyday objects with buttons. Thousands and thousands of buttons. This new show of his is focused on vudon, the type of voodoo practiced on the Atlantic Barrier islands where Forbis lives, and the artist has covered vudon ceremonial pieces (drums and altars and even a gigantic–and scary–statue) with buttons. 

Josie joins in the opening ceremony. But as Forbis approaches the art installation, something odd happens. He catches sight of something, screams, “Le button!” and races out of the art gallery. 

What Josie doesn’t know is that the next day, something even weirder is going to take place . . .

And now the excerpt.  Please enjoy.  

******

Within half an hour, I was back at the church. I found Laverne behind her desk in the office next to Reverend Truman’s and as best I could, I explained why I was there. 

“If I could just look around a little,” I suggested. “Maybe I could–” 

“No worries!” She popped out of her chair and led the way down the corridor and to the side door that led into the church. She unlocked the door, opened it, and stepped back to let me walk in first. “I don’t think you’ll find anything,” she said. “Richard and I, we looked around last night before we locked up, but I can see how you’d be worried, about the buttons and about sweet little Forbis. That was mighty peculiar, wasn’t it, the way he took off out of here like the devil himself was on his heels?” 

“Exactly what I was thinking.” Maybe it was some sort of subliminal suggestion, but the moment Laverne mentioned the devil, I found myself drifting toward the Congo Savanne exhibit. The red button I’d brought to finish the work, the one Forbis had dropped when he bolted, was on the floor and I bent to retrieve it, and groaned. 

It had landed back side down, and the contact cement Richard had applied to had it stuck to the floor. 

I stood up. “No sign of the broken champagne glass.” 

Laverne nodded. “Had Bob, our maintenance guy, clean that up before we turned off the lights and locked up last night. Didn’t want to worry about somebody forgetting the glass was here and maybe stepping on it this morning.” She looked over the area and shook her head. “It was mighty odd what went on here last night. You think it has something to do with all these buttons?” 

“I wish I knew.” I looked over the exhibit. The sign that said Press the Button was a little crooked, and I reached to straighten it. When I did, I hit the shell button and the whirring started up from inside the box. “Dang,” I mumbled. 

Laverne and I were on the same wavelength. “Oh, we’re going to have to look at that nasty statue again!” she moaned. 

And though neither of us wanted to, we couldn’t help ourselves. We stood side by side, listening to the whoosh of the hydraulic lift inside the box, waiting for Congo Savanne to make his appearance. 

We saw the button hair first, dark and springy. 

Then the opalescent sheen of the buttons that covered the statue’s forehead. 

Then . . . 

Laverne grabbed my arm and held on so tight, I was pretty sure I was going to have a bruise. Her voice was high, and choked with panic. “Is that . . ?” 

It was. 

As the statue rose, we saw that the petro loa was not alone. There was something tied to the statue. 

Someone. 

Gray suit. Blue high-top sneakers with neon orange laces. 

Forbis’s skin was pale and glazed, like the mother of pearl buttons on Congo Savanne’s face. That is, except for his eyes and his mouth. 

Those had been glued shut with buttons.

******

Buttoned Up is waiting for you at Amazon, B&N, BAM and your favorite independent bookstore.

A Goddesses Anonymous Christmas

This time of year I love to reflect on the past twelve months.  A little soul-searching is usually in order, and the holiday season is a wonderful time to do it.  After all, with the hustle and commercial bustle surrounding  us, either we need spiritual sustenance more than usual, or we’re already more receptive to the genuine message of the season.

This need moves beyond religious boundaries.  Peace on earth, goodwill toward men and women is pretty hard to argue with, no matter what beliefs we affirm.

This week I found myself wondering how the goddesses in my Goddesses Anonymous books would celebrate Christmas.

Some of the goddesses are churchgoers and some are not.  Analiese is a Protestant minister, but Harmony is most likely a Buddhist, although her spiritual path has taken many detours.  One thing all would agree on, though, is the developing Goddesses Anonymous motto.  While the motto deals with ways to help others, I think each goddess would agree it’s appropriate to consider these words at Christmas, too.

Shall we?

Abandon perfection.

Are we wearing ourselves to a frazzle trying to make the holidays perfect for everybody?  Let’s say we’re not really shoppers, but suddenly we’re spending hours in stores or on the internet trying to find the ideal gift for everybody on our bloated lists?  We’re worried about our choices, wondering if we should have gone with Gift B instead of Gift A.  Then, already frazzled, we turn our  attention to the decorating, and the cookies, and the cards.  So many things we absolutely have to do.

Can we let go of just one imperative this year?  Buy cookies or make only the ones we love?  Leave a box of decorations in the attic?  Worry less about the gift choices we’ve made and more about reaching out to the giftee?

Abandon perfection.  Settle for good enough.  Settle for fun-to-do.  Settle for the parts of celebrating that really matter, and maybe then those traditions will come to matter to everybody you love, too.

This weekend my daughter asked me for a cookie recipe we always made together each Christmas no matter what else was happening around us.  I was so touched.  My mother and I had made those cookies together, too.  Now she will make them with her daughters.  One recipe, not a dozen.  A memory across generations.

Welcome reflection.

Are we so busy running from Christmas concerts to shopping malls to holiday parties that we forget to think about what the season means to each of us?  Isn’t this the best time to just sit a bit each day and think about our lives, the months that led us here, the people we love, the goals we tried to set for ourselves?

Welcome reflection.  Light a candle and sit quietly and think about the year.  Consider the people we love and what we can do for them, some gift of ourselves that they might really need.  I’m making a conscious effort  to take ten minutes in the middle of the day to sit quietly and think about my life.  Ten minutes is so little, and yet so easy to overlook.

Nurture connection.

Are we so busy with “things” we’ve forgotten that the holidays are about people, about relationships, about reaching out?  I certainly let myself get too busy, but that’s something my reflection time has pointed out to me.

Nurture connection. What a wonderful time of year to call friends, to write letters, to invite people you want to know better to come over for those storebought Christmas cookies and eggnog.  We don’t have to entertain on a Martha Stewart scale, after all we’ve abandoned perfection, right?  Maybe neighbors would like to help trim the tree or listen to carols or play a board game and chat.   I love to make breakfast, and having friends over to enjoy it with me is a new tradition.

I love thinking about the holidays this way.  This simple goddess’s motto has become inspirational for me. Maybe  it will be a holiday inspiration for you, as well.  

Analiese, Georgia, Samantha, Harmony, Taylor, Ethan, Cristy and Rilla wish all of us a season of reflection and connection without a hint of perfection.

Sunday Inspiration: “No one is born hating another person…”

Nelson Mandela not only changed the world, but he changed human hearts.

He taught us that love can conquer hatred and nonviolence can defeat the terror of violence.

I hope we never forget the man or his message.