COME BACK AGAIN TO IRELAND

In the interest of having this done so no one has to blog backwards, and giving you the HEA, I am finishing up today this spontaneous autobiography which shows one evolution of a writer.  Do you have your own story?  Feel free to leave particulars under Comments.  I think it's always fascinating to read what gave authors their drive to publish.  My muse was instrumental in mine and even though we have a love/hate relationship, I think it's worth it:

I read those books Seph left me, after all.  In the middle of the nights, when I awoke now because it was time to administer another IV, I read them to the accompaniment of the drip/drip of the IV pump.  The house was otherwise silent because my husband was only semi-conscious, being kept alive by the power of those drips, and I needed a book for company.  Nothing too heavy, mind you.  I didn't want to be too distracted in case the dripping stopped...or his heart did.

So I read away the nights:  Johanna Lindsay, Bertrice Small, Laura Kinsale.  There were too many others to name.  They consumed my time and my mind, or what was left of it.  In accordance with my husband's wishes, I had opted to pursue the euphemistically-termed "home death."  The social worker warned this would take a terrible toll on me, but I knew that.  I was a social worker, too.  I told myself I was ready for it.

Dave's heart finally stopped early one evening in March.  Dear friends sat with me as we played the classical music he loved and ate the pizza he loved, too.  We told ourselves that he would have wanted it that way, and I knew he would.  Dave wasn't into mourning.  His little dog lay on the bed with him until the end, and I did too, and then it was over. Just before spring.  Just as Seph had told me it would be.

I wondered if Seph would come to the funeral, but she didn't  She had never been welcome in that house, only sneaking down the flue or through a crack in the window whenever she could get in, and I guess she decided if she wasn't good enough for Dave in life she surely wasn't good enough for him in death.

Now that I had the time for her, I had no muse.

I stayed busy.  There were things to do, many things.  And bills to pay, many bills.  Oh, and I had surgery three times.  Yeah, I had been pretty busy while my husband was dying, too busy to take care of my own health, and I paid the price.  Big time.

Eventually things settled down.  Way down.  There was still no muse, my time was very much my own and I lost track of it.  I lost track of a lot of things.  When I looked in the mirror, I looked just like Seph the last time I had seen her.  Burned.

A strangely haunting tune began whining away in the back of my mind, never quite getting to the front but always there just like those voices my mother had heard.  Uh-oh.  Those voices had nothing to do with Second Sight.  There was a difference between The Sight and clinical depression or worse.  Jeez Louise.  Was I going to end up like my mother?

Well, apparently not if my Nana could help it.  Years before, Nana had told me I would have a hard life.  That wasn't difficult to predict, seeing that I had a mother with essentially untreated bipolar disorder.  They really weren't into calling it that in those days.  Then it was called Manic Depression and treated with Lithium, only Mom couldn't tolerate Lithium because it was hard on the kidneys and she had already damaged hers with heavy alcohol consumption.  Then the doctor recommended shock therapy, but my father said if he wanted his wife electrocuted he could just give her a fork to stick in the toaster.  No electro-shock, though from what I heard of it in later years I decided probably Dad was right.

In any case, Nana had told me when everything seemed to be lost to go to Ireland and I would find my way again.  I was just enough my mother's daughter to listen.  My father's genes protested furiously that I would be wasting my time--not to mention all that money!--but between the sage counsel of my grandmother and the psychotic delusions of my mother I was just wise enough and just crazy enough to get on a plane bound for Ireland, where I didn't know a soul.  Or at least that's what I thought.

That music in the back of my head had been Celtic music, and I knew even before the plane touched down at Shannon that I was home.

Ireland saved my sanity, though at first it didn't seem that way.  At first it was a matter of sitting in The Laurels Pub in Killarney, a wonderful place I remember with great fondness except that I nursed too-numerous mugs of Guinness stout there.  My fault entirely.  I didn't even like Guinness.  Mom had liked rye and vodka.  Oh, man, did she like vodka--which was probably why I avoided it.  But the end result would be the same.  I was avoiding mirrors again because I didn’t like the way I looked.  Unlike my mother, though, I had an innate ability to “just say no.”  So I did.  I started drinking what the Irish call fizzy water--seltzer water--with lime.  And Pepsi with lemon.  And then because my mad escapade hadn't left me with enough money to buy a laptop, I bought a bunch of yellow legal pads a la J.K. Rowling and went to find Seph.  I damn well knew she was in Ireland.  She had to be.  Why else had I come?

I found her in a peat bog.  A peat bog?  Oh, well, I guessed that was appropriate.  And oddly enough--just like me, once I just said no--she looked healed.  She looked...peaceful.  No more drippy lava, no  sparking eyeballs.  She smiled and pointed to the yellow legal pad in my hand and then to a sheep pasture overlooking the Aran Islands and the Atlantic Ocean my grandmother had crossed to get to America.  OK, maybe I would just sit there and try to write.

My pen hit the paper and I started:

"I was the King's daughter once, so many years ago that sometimes now it is hard to remember. Before the tide of time carried away so many things, so many people, it was worth something to be the daughter of a King.

"Our little island nation of Alcinia was not rich, except for tin mines honeycombing the south. It wasn't even hospitable. Summer was a brief affair and fall was only a short time of muted colors on the northernmost coast where my father sat his throne at the ancient Keep of Landsfel. Winter was the killing time and spring was hardly better, with frosts that could last into Fifth-Month. But from the south, where men cut thatch in a pattern like the bones of fish, to the north where rock roses spilled down cliffs to the sea, it was my own.

“One thinks such things will never change, yet all things do."

What the hell?  That was no poem.  I looked up, startled, and there was Persephone, black hair gleaming against her red gown.  Still no lava although her nails were still bright red.  With one of those gleaming, lacquered nails, she pointed imperiously to my paper and said one word.  "Write."

I wrote until I had 130,000 words.  And then I wrote another 103,000 words.  The first book I called, "The King's Daughter."  The second book, its sequel, I named "Heart of the Earth."  And then, like my grandmother, I crossed the Atlantic Ocean to America.

I got on a plane and flew back to America, since unlike my muse's crow and my blackbird I had no other way to get there.  Nana had come by steamer (first class, of course, with her mother's china), but those days were gone.  Now Aer Lingus took me back to New York, where I can't say I was especially glad to be.  The air pollution made my eyes as red as Wench … er … sorry … Persephone’s at her worst.  I did get to spend time at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, hanging out with guys in mail, which almost made it all worthwhile.

I got a computer.  I got an email address which I had to abbreviate from my friends' whimsically-inspired "Miriam's in Ireland."  I tried to get a publisher.  Or an agent. BUWAHAHA!  We all know how easy THOSE are to get.  I didn't know diddly.  I especially didn't know if you tell them you're a poet they run screaming in the other direction.  Our reputation precedes us.

Persephone was no help.  Apparently she had stayed in Ireland.  Finally, since I had concluded writing romance took a high degree of skill and maybe I was missing something, I joined Romance Writers of America and Valley Forge Romance Writers.  Then I got online and an editor found me.  Seriously.  She read my first paragraphs, then my first chapters, then the whole bloody book--in one night--and then she wanted it.

That was The King's Daughter, presently available on my web site www.miriamnewman.com.  The sequel is there, too.

Once I signed the contract, Seph came back.  She really is a wench, but all is forgiven because she brought another nine books with her.  Ten, if you count the one I'm writing now.  It’s set in Norway.  Now do you suppose if I went to Caithness, northernmost point in Scotland, from where a ferry leaves most days for Norway, and I took a yellow legal pad and…

”SEPH!  COME ON!  WE’RE LEAVING!”

Miriam Newman

www.miriamnewman.com

comwww.thecelticroseblog.blogspot.com

THE LONG GOODBYE (PART THE FOURTH)

This is the part where if you haven't figured out that this is an autobiography, you'd do best to scroll down to Part The First to figure it out, assuming you're interested.

Anyway...

Before she left, the now-named Seph did something peculiar.  Before, she had always left me with heaps of  material to read before her next visit, sort of like a teacher giving you stuff for the final exam.  Usually it was something highbrow.  Something on the order of, say, Stephen Vincent Benet's Pulitzer-Prize-winning epic "John Brown's Body," a book-long poetic version of the Civil War, to the accompaniment of something like The Battle Hymn of the Republic to...you know...get me in the mood.  Or if it was a non-poetic book--though that was rare--it would at least be literary fiction.  I remember she really liked Foucault's Pendulum.  My muse had informed me that she had an IQ of 140 and the reading material in my house had darned well better match it, otherwise I was wasting her time.

Whewee.  That's why it was so surprising that she left me a stack of romance novels.  Romance novels?  That was a first.  It really didn't seem like her style, but maybe Pele enjoyed them.  They were singed around the edges as if a volcanic goddess had been at them.  Since they were quite warm to the touch, without further ado I tossed them in a corner and forgot about them.

I have to admit I was lonely without Seph even if it was more peaceful.  Then things began to get a tad scary.  I started waking up in the middle of the nights and it wasn't to write poetry.  I woke up because I felt like I was on a wheel of time turning slowly...slowly...coming to a halt.  With a shiver, I recognized that this had nothing to do with poetry.  It was The Sight.  Yes, folks, I believe in Second Sight.  Why shouldn't I?  My Nana's surname indicated very clearly that we are descended from Druids and all the teachings of the Church aside, we still have it.  The rational part of me has always wanted to deny it, but so many inexplicable things have happened that I can't.  We're weird.  Fey.  We KNOW things.  And I KNEW something, although I wasn't clear exactly what it was.  All I knew was that something was coming and it was bad.

It finally came in the form of a terminal diagnosis for my husband.  Leukemia.  The doctor didn't mince any words.  He could buy Dave some time, but the end was in sight.  I deduced that on her way to Hell and back, Seph must have encountered the Fates, busy weaving our mortal timelines on their immortal looms.  There was no bargaining with those three old hags.  Once they cut your yarn--poof.  That was it.  She knew I needed her, even if she was plenty steamed at me.

She paid a condolence call in November, three months before my husband died, leaving me what I didn't know was a last sonnet.  Not mentioning the books she had left, she gave me a sonnet she called Shadows:

Shadows

The thickened fur upon my slit-eyed cat

Speaks of winter to the attentive ear,

And I must up and pace the room, to hear

This wild autumn's broadside rip and slash

Wrenching the withered apple from the tree,

Tearing my heart to tatters all the while.

And I see the sadness in your smile,

Knowing your easy words are meant for me.

Tell me once more the beauties of the snow,

Tell me that spring will find me strong and sure,

Tell me what things you will.  I only know

That once I loved the slant of autumn sun,

Seeing now only how the shadows come

Sooner and longer than they came before.

COME BACK, LITTLE WENCHIE (PART THE THIRD)

Poor Wench.  She was gone for a really long time.  Years, in fact.  Her memory got buried under slag heaps of laundry, lofty snow-covered mountains of cleaning, metric tons of cooking.  Then there were the interminable dinner parties, entertaining, road trips, sick children, sick parents...not to mention a couple of jobs.  My husband had caught onto the fact that I had a muse and made her thoroughly unwelcome in our house.  There would be no more three a.m. pains with a poem.  Nope.  Not in his house.

Wench caught on.  When I next saw her she was a forlorn creature peeking around corners:

 I had never seen her so reduced.  All she could give me was the occasional  poem whispered in the middle of the night, sort of like two little girls hiding under the covers at a slumber party, whispering so they don't wake up parents.  Poor Wench.  There was no room for her in my house, so she went to Hell.

She finally burst into the house in the middle of the night, in flames, full of fury and spitting righteous indignation.  I recoiled in shock, because this time she was running actual streams of lava.  She was a SOUL ON FIRE and informed me in no uncertain terms that she was not Morrigan, she was certainly not The Wench, she was Persephone the Queen of Hell and I would address her as such.  Apparently Pele's patronage had given her a real jump up in life...or death...or wherever she had been.  Anyway, the most I could hope for was a truce.  I could call her Seph and, like The Terminator, SHE'D BE BACK.  And with that she stormed out, leaving me with the most awful feeling in the pit of my stomach that someday she was going to take revenge on me for banning her from the house.  It was only a matter of time.

SEASON OF THE WENCH (PART THE SECOND!)

The Wench left me alone for several years after the blackbird incident.  She was always extremely fond of birds, as you see from her picture, so I wasn't quite clear about why she was so miffed.  It seemed she couldn't stay away, though.  She put in another appearance about the time I hit high school, though she was a little changed.  The crow was gone and so was the crescent moon on the forehead.  Her fingernails were bright red and sometimes dripped.  I thought she seemed a little smoky somehow, faintly singed around the edges, sort of like an overbaked cookie.  But she was being sweet and had brought a book of poetry, so I chalked it up to imagination.

Poetry it was then...then and for many years afterwards.  My mother had unintentionally abetted my muse's efforts by reading me such classics as Longfellow's "The Skeleton in Armor," about a ghostly knight in chain mail.  Having fallen on his sword for love of Lady Fair (I think she jilted him), the poor guy was doomed to spend eternity clanking around in his chain mail, trying to find her.  If Mom thought his spectre would frighten me, she was sadly mistaken.  I just developed a thing for guys in chain mail.  I'm still afflicted..

The Wench (I stopped calling her Morrigan when the crow left) helped me write sonnets, couplets, quatrains.  I was a talented classical poet, which of course wouldn't help much when that free verse thing took over, but for a time I did really well.  She was proud of my 100% publication rate and of course claimed all the credit.  But we were getting along, so I didn't dispute it or point out that I was the one up at 3 a.m. in pain with a poem while The Wench smoked a joint and got the munchies.  Or was that me?  I forget.  Well, if it was I never inhaled, anyway.

Then I began to notice...oh, dear...nothing was supposed to rhyme any more.  Other people were writing free verse. I was still hearing echoes of Edna St. Vincent Millay and Dorothy Parker, with quite a bit of Yeats thrown in since I was, after all, half Irish.  I was passe.  When I complained, my muse shrieked, scored up my bright, shiny pages of poetry with her drippy fingernails, thumbed her nose at me and vanished.

This time I felt her absence.  I was bereft.  So I got married.  Well, there were other reasons too, of course.  But the fact was that without The Wench hanging over my shoulder and shoving a pen in my hand, I finally had time to notice men and I married one of them.

That was all it took.  She came roaring back, proprietary as hell, and it suddenly occurred to me maybe Hell was where she had been.  That stuff dripping from her nails appeared to be...lava.  Her eyes weren't just smoky this time, they were burning coals.  She positively reeked of sulphur and there were holes burned in the bottom of her knee-high patent leather boots.  I had the temerity to question her (you could tell I was gaining confidence with a husband in the picture) and she peered haughtily down her aristocratic nose, informing me that she had been spending time with another goddess.  Specifically, Pele.  You know, the one for whom they used to throw virgins down volcanoes.  In Hawaii.  But I was in Pennsylvania, where there aren't any volcanoes, and marriage had taken care of that virginity thing, so I wasn't afraid for myself.  I just told The Wench, formerly Morrigan, that I thought she should be careful.  I didn't want her incinerated.  But she was  pretty much bowled over by Pele and didn't listen.

Silly Wench.

SOMETHING WICKED THAT WAY WENT - OR - "HAVE YOU SEEN MY MUSE?" - PART THE FIRST

This morning I had one of those chat loop/Facebook conversations authors sometimes have, in this case with Celtic author Maeve Greyson, who is having a book release. I'll leave it to Maeve to disclose that here if she cares to (did'ja get that, Maeve-me-girl?), but in the course of the conversation it evolved that the heroine of her latest book just gives her fits. The girl gives everyone fits, apparently. It's part of her charm.

The more Maeve talked about her heroine, Ciara, the more she reminded me of my muse.



My muse, otherwise known as "The Wench," appeared when I was five year old and trying to write my first book on my mother's shopping list. Tall, slender, with a crescent moon tattoed on her forehead and a crow perched on her shoulder, she scared the daylights out of me. She looked an awful lot like the Celtic Queen, Morrigan, and I knew this how? Well, because my Nana had read Irish myths and legends to me from the time I gave any indication that I could hear, of course. "You can never start 'em too young" was her motto and so I learned that Morrigan was the Great Queen - a Mothergoddess of the Irish Celtoi - the goddess of war, death, prophecy and passionate love.

War, death, prophecy and passionate love: did Nana have any inkling she was creating a romance writer? Yeah, probably.

Eventually I got used to The Wench hanging around, whispering sweet nothings in my ear. She was the one who helped me finish my first "book," which I recall was about a Hollywood stunt horse outrunning a brush fire in California, saving the life of the handsome actor who rode him in all his films. I think that was around the time I was in love with cowboy actors. The Wench humored me. She seemed to see promise of some sort in me. Sometimes she was even kind...until the day I tried to copy her by picking up a fallen baby blackbird which I named Downy. I fed Downy hamburger and hard-boiled egg yolk on the end of an eyedropper filled with milk, which I cleverly shot down her throat in between bites. I hauled her to Girl Scout camp in a carton so she didn't die of neglect. I let her ride around on my shoulder just like Morrigan's crow, though I took the precaution of wearing a length of shower curtain beneath her. I was obsessed with her, teaching her how to pick through grass for seed in preparation for leaving me someday to make her way in the wild. My mother was convinced I was going to become a veterinarian.

The Wench was pissed. I was envisioning myself as Dr. Doolittle instead of a romance writer. She split.

That was the first time my muse left me. It wouldn't be the last.

TOMORROW: Evolution of The Muse

NEW RELEASE - THE KING'S DAUGHTER BY MIRIAM NEWMAN

I was the King's daughter once, so many years ago that sometimes now it is hard to remember. Before the tide of time carried away so many things, so many people, it was worth something to be the daughter of a King.
Our little island nation of Alcinia was not rich, except for tin mines honeycombing the south. It wasn't even hospitable. Summer was a brief affair and fall was only a short time of muted colors on the northernmost coast where my father sat his throne at the ancient Keep of Landsfel. Winter was the killing time and spring was hardly better, with frosts that could last into Fifth-Month. But from the south, where men cut thatch in a pattern like the bones of fish, to the north where rock roses spilled down cliffs to the sea, it was my own.
One thinks such things will never change, yet all things do.
* * *
Thus begins the narrative memoir of Tarabenthia, born a princess in the land of Alcinia.  When the idyll of her childhood ends, she will defy her father, tipping the balance in a world poised on the brink of destruction and leaving history to judge her as heroine or harlot.

In a time of war, what would you surrender in the name of love?
***
Just released, available in pdf or on Kindle, coming in print:

All digital formats and Print 2/27/12:  http://rebeccajvickery.com/online-store.php

KINDLE: http://www.amazon.com/Kings-Daughter-Chronicles-Alcinia-ebook/dp/B0079JHX28  

SMASHWORDS:  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/132900

LULU: www.lulu.com/product/ebook/the-kings-daughter/18892069

A multiple award winner, top ten finisher in Preditors & Editors poll for Best Romance Novel of 2008, re-releasing in print 2/27/12.

If you're a fan of fantasy historical romance, do not miss this one.

HAPPY ST. VALENTINE'S DAY

A HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY TO ALL!!!

JUST IN TIME FOR VALENTINE'S DAY - STUPID CUPID

For your Saturday morning viewing pleasure!

HAPPY IMBOLC

Today marks the Pagan celebration of Imbolc, in later Christian times known as Candlemas Day.  The Feast of Bride, as it was originally known, was one of the four fire festivals of the ancient Celts, the other three being Beltane, Lughnasadh and Samhain.  The transformation of Brigid the Exalted One--daughter of the Tuatha de Danaan and source of oracles--into St. Bridget I will leave to other tale-tellers.  Suffice it to say that the original Brigid, born in the Wolf Month of February, signified the coming of spring, bringing light into a dark world.  Her feast was timed to coincide with lambing season, a sure sign of new life, and Brigid was always associated with livestock as well as with the bringing of fire.  Her totem animals were two magical oxen and a wild boar which were said to give warning if Ireland was in danger.  And in Scotland, Highland wives invoked Brigid at their hearths.

Today, those wanting to honor the spirit of Brigid should spend the day housecleaning (!) and burning any leftover Christmas greenery, which is exactly what I am going to do when I finish this post.  Tonight I will leave the customary ribbon on my porch for a blessing from Brigid as she passes down my road with her oxen, unseen by mortal eyes.  After that, I may prepare some lamb stew and Bride's cake. 

 Bride's Cake
1 cup sugar
1 cup chopped walnuts
1 cup vegetable oil
1 cup raisins - some prefer golden raisins
1 cup flour
4 eggs
1 tsp. baking powder

Mix all the ingredients together, being careful not to overmix. Pour into a greased and floured 9"x9"x2" square baking pan. Bake at 350 degrees for 20-30 minutes, or until knife inserted in middle of cake comes out clean.  Cool before serving.
  

CELTIC ROSE WRITERS

The Celtic Rose Blog has a new sister:  CelticRoseWriters.  This is a Celtic-genre Yahoo group open to all.  Promo is welcome.  Feel free to join us to chat, with book covers and excerpts, material for our files, just to read, whatever.  Drop in for coffee or tea--oh, sorry, you will have to bring your own--but let us know what you're drinking, even if it's something stronger.  We'll never tell!  Easiest way to get there:  go to www.yahoogroups.com and type CelticRoseWriters in the Search box.  It will bring up this pic of the Cliffs of Moher, where you can click and join!  Please let us know you're there.  Promo is welcome here at The Celtic Rose, too.  Just mail mrmireland@aol.com for permission to post.

COMING FEBRUARY 15, 2012 - "THE KING'S DAUGHTER"

With a fantastic new trailer: 

REVIEW OF THE SNOW BRIDE - BY LINDSAY TOWNSEND

"The Snow Bride" by Lindsay Townsend is the latest ebook release by a very talented British author whose settings range from ancient Egypt to Roman Britain, medieval Europe to Mediterranean locales, but nowhere has her writing disappointed me.

This book set in England during the Crusades is not specifically Celtic, but its depiction of black and white magic, witches and sorcerers, demons and familiars won it a place in my heart and on this blog.  Her name is more suggestive of a lingering Anglo-Saxon heritage, but Elfrida's "magicks" appeal to the Celt in me.  Sir Magnus is the lusty knight of yore and I could not resist him.  Battle-scarred and battle-wise, he is summoned by villagers whose brides--including Elfrida's sister--are being stolen by an evil phantasm--a Forest Grendel.  Although Magnus has long since accepted that his maimed limbs and scarred face make him unacceptable in any woman's bed unless he pays for the privilege, he is nonetheless captivated by the strong-willed white witch who offers herself as bait to the monster in an attempt to free her sister.  Saving Elfrida from her ill-thought-out plan, he falls in with it and in love with her, lending his redoubtable courage and shrewd battle skills to the cause.  I will not give you spoilers about the identity and motivation of the Forest Grendel, but Ms. Townsend's tale of these two lonely people joining forces to track him to his lair is non-stop, rich and lyrical.  Her voice is distinctive, her writing style a delight, and the ending is both satisfying and promising in that a sequel would be possible.

I would classify this novel as sensual but not erotic, with tenderly arousing sexual content which is essential to the story.  I give it four out of five Celtic Roses.  It is discounted until midnight, January 3 at Siren-Bookstrand.

NOTE:  This is an unsolicited review and a copy of the book was purchased by the reviewer.

PROMOTION:

She is Beauty, but is he the Beast?
Elfrida, spirited, caring and beautiful, is also alone. She is the witch of the woods and no man dares to ask for her hand in marriage until a beast comes stalking brides and steals away her sister. Desperate, the lovely Elfrida offers herself as a sacrifice, as bridal bait, and she is seized by a man with fearful scars. Is he the beast?

In the depths of a frozen midwinter, in the heart of the woodland, Sir Magnus, battle-hardened knight of the Crusades, searches ceaselessly for three missing brides, pitting his wits and weapons against a nameless stalker of the snowy forest. Disfigured and hideously scarred, Magnus has finished with love, he thinks, until he rescues a fourth 'bride', the beautiful, red-haired Elfrida, whose innocent touch ignites in him a fierce passion that satisfies his deepest yearnings and darkest desires. 

http://www.bookstrand.com/the-snow-bride

JANUARY 1, 2012 - A (RARE) WORD FROM THE OWNER

I don't make New Year's Resolutions, but in terms of my blog I did try to come up with some new ideas for the New Year and here's one I hope you'll approve.  Just as I am no artist but simply told my husband (who was), "I only know what I like,"--well, so too with books.  I don't read many, don't have time, and I am not a book reviewer.  Still, I know what I like and have often tried to share space here with promotions for authors whose books I enjoy.  To carry that one step further, I'd like to give the occasional review--just my opinion, for what it's worth, unsolicited.  A review from the heart, in other words.  Understand that if I read a book and it isn't my cup of tea, my lips are sealed.  Our books are our children and I will not disparage your writing any more than I would your child.  Some people enjoy that.  I don't.

So know that I may pop in with the occasional review, in this case of books set somewhere in the Celtic world.  If it gives someone an idea for their next read, so be it.  There are no rules on this blog beyond those of good taste and friendship!  So to all my blog friends, may 2012 be for you a year of peace and prosperity.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Wishing you a happy, healthy and prosperous 2012!!!

A SEASON OF LOVE

                               www.thedarkcastlelords.com/season-of-love.htm

Wishing all our readers and contributors here at The Celtic Rose a season of peace, love and joy.

Merry Christmas

I want to wish everyone here at The Celtic Rose a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
I hope 2012 brings you HEALTH, LOVE, and PEACE!!!!

God Bless!
Sarah Hoss

LOVING THE NORSEMAN BY KRIS TUALLA

Perhaps you have already viewed the trailer shown below this one.  "Loving the Knight"  is the prequel to Kris's  historical romance, "Loving the Norseman," shown here.  I have thoroughly enjoyed both books set in the ancient Scottish/Norse world.  I hope you'll get the same pleasure from watching her beautiful videos.

"NORWAY IS THE NEW SCOTLAND" - Books by Kris Tualla

Please enjoy this lovely trailer by Kris Tualla, author of the Hansen Series. For those who love historical romance in the Scottish/Norse setting of old, these are must reads.

THE KING'S DAUGHTER

Just want to share some happy news with my blog family.  This one is really special to me.  My fantasy historical romance, The King's Daughter, has been accepted by Victory Tales Press and will be re-released in February, 2012.  The book will be available in print this time and I will probably put my copy on my pillow and kiss it every night!  Honestly, I'm so in love with this book and hero that it's embarrassing.  What can I say?  It got 5+ reviews out the wazoo, so apparently some other people liked it, too.  If you didn't catch it first time out or want it in print, it will be available in February. 

The book is Book I of the Chronicles of Alcinia, the story of Tarabenthia, born to a dying queen and an ambitious king.  Tia is heir to the throne, but when the idyll of her childhood ends she defies her father, tipping the balance in a world poised on the brink of war--leaving history to judge whether she is heroine or harlot.  In a time of war, what would you sacrifice in the name of love?

Here's a peek at the cover by Laura Shinn:

If you like historical fantasy in settings reminiscent of Ancient Rome and Roman Britain, I hope you'll consider giving this one a try when it's available.  But in any case, enjoy Laura's cover!  :)

SOMETHING FOR YOUR SUNDAY

Just to enjoy...

Happy Thanksgiving

I hope that all of you here at The Celtic Rose had a wonderful, blessed Thanksgiving surrounded by love, family, and friends. May God bless you the rest of the year as well!!!!!

Love,
Sarah Hoss

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

WISHING ALL WHO OBSERVE A WARM, WONDERFUL AND SAFE HOLIDAY FILLED WITH HAPPY MEMORIES.

Glancing Through the Glimmer / Pat McDermott

Greetings to everyone here at The Celtic Rose, and special thanks to Miriam for her hospitality today, the release day for Glancing Through the Glimmer. I'm Pat McDermott, author of the "Band of Roses" trilogy*, romantic action/adventure novels set in an Ireland still ruled by the heirs of High King Brian Boru.

Glancing Through the Glimmer is the young adult "prequel" to this trilogy. Don’t let the young adult label put you off! Readers of all ages will enjoy "Glimmer"—as long as they love Irish myths, adventure, romance, and a hefty wallop of fairy magic. (On Sunday, I’ll randomly choose one commenter to receive a PDF copy of the book. Please leave your email address if you’d like a chance to win.)

So where did the title come from? Glancing Through the Glimmer is a phrase from The Fairy Thorn, an old Ulster poem by Sir Samuel Ferguson that begins innocently enough:

Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning-wheel;

For your father's on the hill, and your mother is asleep;

Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a highland-reel

Around the fairy thorn on the steep.

Don’t listen, Anna! Everyone knows if you dance around a fairy thorn, the fairies will steal you away. Especially in County Galway, the home of Finvarra, King of the Connaught Fairies. Finvarra loves to dance, as American teenager Janet Gleason learns to her dismay.

The Blurb:

In the modern Kingdom of Ireland, few mortals believe in the fairy folk. Without that belief, the fairies are dying. Finvarra, the King of the Fairies, would rather dance than worry—but he must have a mortal dancing partner.

When Janet Gleason’s grandfather becomes the new U.S. Ambassador to Ireland, the sixteen-year-old orphan must leave Boston and her friends behind. Janet is lonely in Dublin and unused to her grandparents’ stuffy social life. An invitation to a royal ball terrifies her. She can’t even waltz and dreads embarrassment. Finvarra’s fairy witch overhears her fervent wish to learn to dance.

Seventeen-year-old Prince Liam Boru loathes the idea of escorting another spoiled American girl to a ball. In fact, he detests most of his royal duties. He dresses down to move through Dublin unnoticed and finds himself on his royal backside when Janet crashes into him. Intrigued, he asks to see her again, and she willingly agrees. Unaware of each other’s identities, they arrange to meet. When they do, the fairies steal Janet away. Liam’s attempts to find her trigger a series of frustrating misadventures. Can he and Janet outwit a treacherous fairy king who’s been hoodwinking mortals for centuries?

The Excerpt - The stunning Cliffs of Howth provide the setting for Janet and Liam’s memorable first date:

The first time Liam slipped and fell, he cursed the rain-damp grass. He blamed his second tumble on his haste to catch up with Janet. What on earth had possessed the girl to run off like that? She couldn’t possibly want to find music that badly.

Music only she could hear.

The third time he lost his balance, he’d swear someone had pushed him, but no one was there. He landed on his hands and knees and cursed again. He might not be a muscleman, but he was far from a clumsy dolt. A lifetime of sports and outdoor treks had surely left him fit enough to climb a scrubby little hillside.

Something strange was afoot.

I’m being ridiculous.

The breeze must have kept him from hearing the music she heard. She’d likely gone after the owner of whatever was playing the tune to learn its name.

Yet the Nose of Howth seemed deserted. How odd for a sunny Sunday morning. Even if Janet had gone off seeking the source of the music, no amount of rationalizing could explain why she’d left so abruptly. The chilling sense that she was in danger had Liam’s heart thumping high in his throat.

Should he call his cousin? If Kevin was still on the pier, it would take him a while to get here. And practical Kevin would surely think Liam astray in the head.

Maybe he was, but something told him he had to find Janet, and fast. Keeping close to the ground as if he were dodging radar, he clambered monkey-like up the hill. This time he reached the top of the rise. Lumps in the landscape surrounded him, clumps of rock and rolling masses of heather and gorse that encircled the level spot where he stood. He knew the place well. Except for the curious lack of weekend hill walkers, nothing seemed amiss.

"Janet!"

He listened hard. A seagull cried in the distance. Otherwise, all was silent. No, wait! Music drifted toward him, a plucky harp tune he might have enjoyed under different circumstances.

Was that what Janet had heard?

Where was it? He turned in a circle, squinting in the sunlight, scanning, straining to hear. When he returned to the spot where he’d started, a jolt of fear set his pulse racing.

A round stone hut had appeared on the highest part of the clearing. Its low thatched roof rose to a ridiculously high point. It resembled a roundhouse, the sort of dwelling that belonged in a prehistoric ring fort.

Or a fairy fort.

Liam swallowed hard. He’d seen replicas of such huts in Ireland’s folk parks. He’d also viewed ruins of the original ring forts, all that remained of the structures built by the mysterious peoples who’d lived and died in Ireland thousands of years ago.

Where had this one come from? Why was it on the Nose of Howth? Liam had never seen it before, nor had he heard of any gimmicky tourism plans for the cliff walk. Of course, he didn’t know everything. Convincing himself that he’d failed to see the hut at first because the sun had blinded him, he ventured toward the structure.

He spotted a doorway and relaxed. Janet was there, speaking to a woman wearing a period costume, medieval or older. That’s what it was, he thought: tourism come to tarnish Howth. How could Uncle Peadar have allowed such nonsense?

Liam called Janet’s name again, but neither she nor the woman showed any sign that they’d heard him. The wind must have carried his voice away. He stalked toward the roundhouse. As he approached, the costumed woman placed a necklace over Janet’s head.

The roundhouse flickered, faded, and reappeared. Alarmed, Liam stopped. This was no tourist gimmick. As his thoughts scrambled for an explanation, the woman grabbed Janet’s arm and pulled her into the hut.

"Janet, no!" His ferocious roar proved useless. Unbelievably, the roundhouse began to dissolve. No longer doubting his horrified senses, he dove at the hut and charged through the disappearing door.

The world around him melted away.

* * * *

A Little About Me:

I’m a Massachusetts native from a Boston Irish family whose music and myths have crept into my writing. One of my short stories earned an Honorable Mention for children’s fiction in the 74th Writer’s Digest Annual Writing competition. ‘Twas a big boost for my confidence! I'm a member of the New Hampshire Writers' Project, the Seacoast Writers' Association, Romance Writers of America, and Celtic Hearts Romance Writers. My favorite non-writing activities include hiking, reading, cooking (check out my cooking blog, below), and traveling, especially to Ireland. I’d love to live there some day, but for now, I call the New Hampshire seacoast home. Currently, I'm working on reuniting Janet and Liam in Autumn Glimmer, the Samhain sequel to Glancing Through the Glimmer.

A Little More:

My Web site:　www.patmcdermott.net

Put the Kettle On (My Writing/Travel Blog):  http://pat-mcdermott.blogspot.com/

My Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/pat.mcdermott1

Facebook page for Glancing Through the Glimmer (feel free to "Like" it!):
http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/www.patmcdermott.net


MuseItUp Publishing Bookstore Page to purchase Glancing Through the Glimmer:
https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2/index.php?page=shop.product_details&flypage=flypage.tpl&product_id=224&category_id=69&option=com_virtuemart&Itemid=1

Kitchen Excursions (My Cooking Blog):  http://kitchenexcursions.blogspot.com/

* * * *

*The Band of Roses Trilogy is currently unavailable. MuseItUp Publishing will publish A Band of Roses (May, 2012) and Fiery Roses (August, 2012) as re-releases. Salty Roses will make its piratical debut in November, 2012.

GOOD THINGS ARE COMING

Be sure to join us on Friday, November 11 when author Pat McDermott will be showcasing a new release.  I'm not giving away the show, just...be here!  :)  Pat is one of my personal favs, not just as an author but as a human being.  Everything she touches is gold, her historical research is second to none, and I know her book will rock.

Please stop in on Friday at The Celtic Rose.

THE HEART OF A CELT

With our modern holiday Halloween approaching, I thought this might be an appropriate time to remember that it found its origins in the ancient Celtic festival, Samhain.  But did you know this was only one of four fire festivals?

"The heart of a Celt is a heart of fire."

This quote from--ahem--one of my own books is as close a truth as I know, because the four Fire Festivals of the ancient Celts still live in our own time...and perhaps, for many of us, in our hearts.

The ancient Celtic calendar reckoned days from sunset to sunset. For this reason most--but not all--festival bonfires were lit as the sun set.

Samhain, our present-day Halloween, was the beginning of winter and also, coincidentally, a festival of the dead when the veil between this and the Otherworld was considered so thin that spirits and mortals could meet. At least in part to prevent dangerous straying, communities gathered around huge bonfires lit on the night of Samhain.

Imbolc, celebrated from February 1 - 2, was considered the beginning of spring. It was and still is the beginning of lambing season; my large animals veterinarian, Missy, spent one semester during vet school in Scotland, delivering lambs.

Beltane later became our modern May Day. Cernunnos, the horned god of Ireland, was held to have died and been reborn on Beltane, which was an unabashed fertility rite. In ancient days, it was also the time cattle were driven out to pasture until autumn. The bonfire lit for Beltane was a mark of joy at the return of the sun...and the return of Cernunnos.

Finally, Lughnasadh was the feast of the god Lugh and celebrated from July 31 - August 1. It was traditionally the time when spirits began to be distilled for the coming year. Even today in the British Isles, many distilleries close for the month of August and reopen on September 1. As you sip a good whiskey from those parts, give a tilt of the hat to Lugh--that is, if you can remember where your head is. After a morning of whiskey-tasting at Jameson's Distillery in Ireland, I couldn't!

The traditions still live in many of us. You have but to scratch the surface to find the ancient Celt beneath.

THE GLADIATOR PRINCE BY MINNETTE MEADOR

THE ANCIENT CELTS OF BRETTANIAI ALBION

There is very little known about the Celtic tribes of Roman Britannia living in the first century AD, except what Greek and Roman historians wrote about them. The Celts themselves had no written language, so their history was passed generation-to-generation and story to story. When the Celts were finally “absorbed” by the Romans, Saxons, and Anglos, very little was left of their civilization, except accounts by their enemies. It is a sobering fact to think that this highly advanced, sophisticated society fell victim to the Roman prejudice that all people not of the empire were barbarians. It could not be further from the truth.

While researching the Centurion series it was difficult at best to find kernels of truth from amongst the stacks of misconceptions. Fortunately, there are several books written that throw some light onto this civilization. Since I research to the book, I do not claim to be an expert; I leave that to the wonderful people who delve deeply into these people’s past. What few things I did glean from the experts was enlightening, to say the least, and much different than I originally thought. This is just a handful of information pertaining to a very short time period (60AD-65AD) in England.

Celts of Britannia were hunter/gatherers for most of their history, who lived off the land they occupied. By the first century AD, Hillforts sprang up around the country. These were royal fortresses for their Kings and Queens. Of the dozens of tribes in Britannia, many had kings or queens ruling them and some had chieftains. The fortresses represented centralized living on the island and were well established when the Greeks and Romans first started trading with them. Yes, I said trading; the Celts of Britain had been trading with the mainland for many years before Rome “invaded.” Around the Hillforts of this time, small farms sprang up and the society was moving from hunter/gatherers to an agrarian base.

Although they did not have their own written language, they learned Latin very quickly while trading with the Romans and Greeks. Many of them traveled the world and visited Egypt, Rome, and other areas just as we do today. Wealthy Celts of this time often had Greek tutors who taught them to read and write. Women as well as men were well-educated, good fighters, and on equal terms with each other. Women warriors fought next to their male counterparts. This was disconcerting to the Romans who felt women were one step above slaves in society. Because of their prejudice, they often underestimated the very powerful queens that ruled many of the tribes. This led to one of the bloodiest battles on Britannia soil between the Celts and the Romans. It was brought about when a local Roman procurator decided that a woman, then queen of the Iceni, had no right to her own land. In many ways, it was the beginning of the end for the Britannia Celts and is chronicled in The Centurion & The Queen and The Edge of Honor.

Unlike the Romans, Celts were allowed to marry for love, though there were some arranged marriages amongst the royals. Likewise, they were much more promiscuous (at least outwardly) than the Romans; sleeping with partners of their choice before marriage was not unheard of. Sex to the Celts was as natural to them as breathing. They didn’t have the taboos the Romans and Greeks had. They were also fiercely loyal to their families.

Most Celts on Britannia followed the Druid religion and worshiped several gods and goddesses. There seems to have been a god or goddess for every aspect of life: the woods, water, thunder, the underworld, labor, fertility, etc. It doesn’t seem they all followed rigorously, but I think they may have been very superstitious; talismans were common among them.

Generally speaking, the Celts of Britannia around this period were articulate, generally well-educated, artistic, with strong familial loyalties and fierce pride in their way of life. When the Romans and Greeks first came to their island, they were friendly and traded freely with them. In fact, the Romans brought them so many wonders from the rest of the world, the Celts found it difficult to turn down the luxuries offered by the Romans. Foods, wines, spices, fabric, medicine, roads, sanitation, and education were strong incentives to form alliances with the Empire, as many tribal rulers did. Since the Romans left them to rule their own tribes with little interference, the tribute they paid in coin and goods to the Emperor seemed small price for the goods provided. Plus, when there was a border dispute with a neighbor (which happened quite frequently), it was common to accept weapons and troops from the nearby Roman garrisons to help quell them. Many Romans stationed on the island also took Celtic brides. However, after the Boudicca revolts, a lot of that changed, and the Celts found themselves struggling to hold onto their lands (see The Centurion & The Queen).

I think the one thing that has struck me is the parallels between the Romans and Celts and the Europeans and Native Americans of this country. Europeans moved into this country and made peace with the native tribes, traded with them freely, helped them fight off their enemies, and then methodically, took over their culture and land by sheer numbers.

I hope you get a chance to read The Centurion & The Queen, The Edge of Honor and now the new stand alone book in the series, The Gladiator Prince to get an intimate look into the contrasts between these two cultures.

On Saturday, September 17^th, I will be hosting a forum called: Life in Ancient Rome - The Gladiator Prince Chat from 11:00am-11:00pm EST over at Coffeetime Romance. We will be talking about everything Ancient Rome and Britannia and I will be giving away a $100 GC to Amazon at the end of the day. Would love to see everyone over there to talk about Celts, Romans, and anything else you’d like to know OR can bring to the discussion.

Thanks so much to the Celtic Rose for hosting me today! Don’t be afraid to ask questions… I am giving away signed copies of both The Centurion & The Queen and The Edge of Honor to one commenter here today, so make sure to leave a comment! Minnette :o)

AND NOW FOR A LITTLE BACKGROUND ON MINNETTE!

Somewhere between thirty and dust...red hair, blue eyes...six kids, one slightly used husband, and any number of pets from time to time... wanttabe hippy... wanttheirmoney yuppie...pro musician and actress for 20 Years... native Oregonian... lover of music, beauty, and all things green. Willing slave to the venerable muse. Minnette currently resides in Portland, Oregon with her husband, having replaced the children with one dog. The dog, Pierre, pretty much runs the show.

AND MINNETTE'S BOOK!

Prince Thane is the last surviving royalty of the Trinovantes Tribe in Roman Britannia, having surrendered to the Romans after the Boudicca Revolt to save his two daughters, whose identities he sacrifices his freedom to protect. He is condemned by Nero himself to become a gladiator, to fight until he dies in the arena. When his two daughters are taken in a slaver's raid, Thane escapes, forcing the daughter of his master to take him to Rome to save his children. Little does he know that the beautiful Syrian woman holds not only the key to his passion, but a secret that triggers a disaster that ignites the world. Will this spoiled willful girl betray him in the end or sacrifice herself to save them all? Book III of the Centurion Series.

links:  
http://www.minnettemeador.com/
http://minnettemeador.blogspot.com

SPECIAL TREAT SEPTEMBER 15, 2011

On Thursday, September 15, author Minnette Meador will visit The Celtic Rose as part of a blog tour for her new release, The Gladiator Prince.  If you love the history of Roman Britain as I do, you truly do not want to miss her article or the excerpt from her new book, which is the sequel to two smashing books, The Centurion and the Queen and The Edge of Honor.  Minnette is a friend, a multi-talented author and the purveyor of great treats!  I know she will be offering something wonderful during her stay, so please visit back.  

FAERIES AND OTHERS WORKSHOP

Below you will see a posting for Sharron Gunn's amazing workshop.  Now, as "mother" of The Celtic Rose, I don't usually go out on a limb recommending classes or workshops, but in this case I'll gladly make an exception.  Sharron is a goldmine of information.  Her class is an incredible value.  If you are at all inclined to want to read and/or write about the Fae, this workshop is for you.  So don't hesitate to sign up.  Every one of her workshops I have ever taken was "the bomb."

Miriam

Faeries and Other Magic Folk Workshop

Faeries and Other Magic Folk 

Instructor: Sharron Gunn w/a Sheila Currie 

Dates: September 7, 2011--October 5, 2011

Registration Deadline: September 6, 2011 

Fee: $10/HHRW members, $20/others 

Click HERE for Registration Form 

FMI: HHRW Campus Coordinator: classes@heartsthroughhistory.com 

Class Description:

Walt Disney would have you believe that fairies are sweet little creatures with wings and wands, helpful entities like Tinkerbell and the Tooth Fairy. Walt was wrong. In Celtic lands people believe it's not wise to go about your business in a manner which offends them--they are very touchy. Dead scary in fact.

Some say the idea of fairies was just too useful to be abandoned. Some say they still around because they are the old gods, the gods of the ancient Celts. They can do what they want. But what changes they have undergone; Lugh, the sky god good at doing many things, became the Luprachan (leprechaun), the little fairy good at only one thing -- making shoes. And guarding a pot of gold.

Fionn MacCumhaill is a giant in fairy tales, responsible for creating the Giant's Causeway in the north of Ireland. And did you know that Highlanders don't believe that ghosts, the spirits of the dead, inhabit the houses (and castles) of the living? Nope. Their homes are 'haunted' by other, equally frightening beings. The definition of fairies is broad, you will learn something about kelpies, selkies, the washer woman of the ford and many other supernatural entities.

The course includes self-quizzes and simple research projects to generate story ideas. Discussion and questions are encouraged, but lurkers also welcome.

Lectures:

What is a fairy?

Dinnsenchus (Hill Traditions) & The Otherworld

Folk & Creatures of the House, Water & Forest

Afterlife & Rebirth

Bio:

Sharron Gunn lives in British Columbia and teaches Irish and Scottish history at the University of Victoria part-time. Of Scottish, French and Irish origin, she was born on the east coast of Canada--some knowledge of the Gaelic and French languages and cultures was inevitable.

While living over eight years in Europe, she studied the languages and history of Great Britain and France. She has a diplôme from the Université de Nancy, France, a B.A. in French and a Masters degree (2nd first degree) in Scottish History and Celtic Studies from the University of Glasgow. She is hard at work on a paranormal set in World War II.

Format: Course is conducted via Yahoo Groups email with lessons and Q&A

For additional information, contact the Campus Coordinator.

Click http://www.heartsthroughhistory.com/faeries.html to register for this class.

HISTORICAL ANTHOLOGY BY VICTORY TALES PRESS

Just about the time Rebecca Vickery asked me to write a short story for her  Historical Anthology, I had been thinking of the poetry I wrote for forty years before I ever published a romance.  Some of that poetry was very romantic and much of it was based on the Irish Bardic poetry of my childhood.  The echo of that style can be heard in the works of Gerard Manley Hopkins, W. B. Yeats and Dylan Thomas, but the earliest written Bardic poetry dates back to about the 6^th century, and the oral traditions of bards greatly pre-date that.  The “Tain Bo Cuailnge”—the Cattle Raid of Cooley—falls into that category and is mentioned in my story, “Deirdre.”  Much of the Bardic writing would hardly be recognizable to modern readers as poetry, comprised as it was of long genealogical records and nearly journalistic accounts of deeds of lords and ancestors.  The ancient tale of Deirdre of the Sorrows, with which I was raised, falls roughly into that category and I had begun to wonder if I would like to undertake my own rendering of the ancient tale in a style reminiscent of Bardic poetry yet written as prose.  Rebecca’s email came right at that time and a new project was born. 

Along with my contribution to the anthology, there is a wonderful Highland romance and two pieces of Americana--one set against the backdrop of the Civil War, the other about the early coal mining days of our new country.  

The anthology is available as an ebook or in print and can be purchased at:

http://victorytalespress.yolasite.com/online-store.php 

 

 

THANKS TO OUR READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS!

The Celtic Rose has now officially been in existence for just over one year, and in that time numerous wonderful friends have posted and readers have responded with more than 4,000 views of the blog.  I am truly touched and grateful and sincerely hope we're bringing a little sunshine to readers interested in all things Celtic.

In celebration, I would like to send an autographed copy of the Historical Anthology collection by Victory Tales Press, in which my short story Deirdre is included, to the first commenter who leaves an email address.  I will use this to contact you for your snail mail addy.

Scroll down a bit and you will see the picture of Deirdre and be able to read a bit about this wonderful anthology.

Like so many authors, I am busy right now preparing to go to the RWA Nationals conference in New York, but I will do all mailings first, and hopefully return refreshed and recharged for another great year at The Celtic Rose.  Oh, and I am presently working on an Irish tale of my own devising, The Legend of M'Rith.  Look for that one later this year.

Fond best wishes to all of you.