Lily Iona MacKenzie's Blog for Writers & Readers

MY BLOG POSTS COMMENT ON SOME ASPECTS OF WRITING & READING.

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Full disclosure:  I started this blog so I would have a “writer’s platform” I could show agents and potential publishers.  But it doesn’t come without a cost, and that is one’s privacy.

The idea of public and private has shifted.  While some people still keep private diaries/journals, myself included, others are blogging their hearts out for all the world to see.  Facebook, Myspace, YouTube, chat rooms, etc., have conditioned a new generation to spill it all on the web, to not hold back.  Some even set up webcams in their houses so strangers can follow their daily routine. (more…)

Meet Evonne Marzouk, today’s guest author:

Evonne Marzouk is an inspirational public speaker and author of The Prophetess. Her work has also been published in Newsweek, the Washington Post, the Jewish News Syndicate, The Wisdom Daily, the Jewish Telegraphic Agency, RitualWell and many other publications. She recently co-authored a chapter on “The Heroine’s Journey” in the book Jewish Fantasy Worldwide (2023) and offers a free printable Heroine’s Journal on her website to empower all women to live their greatest dreams. IG/FB: @heroinewhisperer

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When I picked up Marguerite Duras’ The Lover, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I knew she was considered one of France’s most important literary figures, but The Lover was the first work of hers that I had read.

lovers-1676972_640The back cover claims that The Lover is “an exquisite jewel of a novel,” but it’s my understanding that this work is autobiographical and not fiction. At fifteen, Duras, who was then living in Saigon with her mother and two brothers, started a relationship with a Chinese man twelve years older than she. It continued for almost two years. And while the work centers on the sexual involvement and its repercussions in her life, the narrative also slips in and out of Duras’ dysfunctional family life, where her mother beats her while Marguerite’s older brother cheers on the mother.
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From inside my study, one wall book-lined, the other holding a large mirror that makes the room appear bigger, I sit on the loveseat, listening to Strauss and the waterfall powered by a tiny electric pump. When I’m home, I turn it on, the sound of water like a heart beat in this house, a tangible reminder of what usually is invisible, at least to waking life—water for me representing the unconscious and all that lives there. It also is the source of the books I’ve written, the muse that continues to inspire me to write, daily. (more…)

Fiction writers have been called many things, but magician seems the best description. They dip into the black hat of their imagination and produce an endless variety of characters, situations, images, genres, events, and styles. The effect on readers is nothing less than magical, the reader also becoming a conjurer, assisting in making visible what wasn’t there before. (more…)

Tony Flood spent most of his working life as a journalist, initially on local and regional papers and then on nationals. He was also editor of ‘Football Monthly’, Controller of Information at Sky Television and enjoyed a spell with ‘The People’ before retiring in 2010. In his celebrity book My Life With The Stars, Tony recalls: “My work

as a showbiz and leisure writer, critic and editor saw me take on a variety of challenges — learning to dance with Strictly Come Dancing star Erin Boag, becoming a stand-up comedian, and playing football with the late George Best and Bobby Moore in charity matches.” Tony now spends much of his time writing books and theatre reviews, as well as playing veterans football. He says: “I must be one of the oldest — and slowest — players in the country!”

More details about Tony and his wife and fellow author Heather Flood — andspecial book offers — are available on the websites:
www.fantasyadventurebooks.com
www.celebritiesconfessions.com (more…)

Dreaming Myself into Old Age

October 9, 2023 | By | Reply

Dreaming Myself into Old Age

At the beginning of 2012, in my seventy-second year, I decided to return to analysis so I could explore my concerns about aging and dying. Fortunately, I found Dr. Y, a Jungian analyst who takes Medicare, freeing me to explore my new terrain—old age—without depleting our savings. Dr. Y is a psychiatrist who merges the rational world of science with C. G. Jung’s more esoteric ideas about the psyche. I have feasted on Jung from the time I first discovered his writing in my late twenties. For me, his more mystical aspect overshadowed the scientist. I love how he evokes the multiplicity of things—the magic, the mystery, the many levels to reality including the mythic part. Of course, dreams inhabit the mythic dimension, and I view them as communications from a part of myself that knows more about me than my conscious ego does. (more…)

Meet Robert Archambeau, today’s guest author:

Robert Archambeau possesses the world’s least interesting international identity. Of French-Canadian ancestry, he was born in Rhode Island, raised in Canada, and spent summers in Maine or at his father’s art studio on a lake in the Canadian wilderness. An art school brat, he always felt it was inevitable that he would end up making art, or at least movies, but his fate was grimmer still. After a brief stint as a deck hand and grotesquely underqualified ship’s engineer, he fell in with a group of poets and pursued graduate studies in English at the University of Notre Dame. While studying for his PhD, he ran off to Chicago, got married on a sailboat in Burnham Harbor, and worked as a clerk in a secondhand bookstore. Here, sitting at the long counter in the Aspidistra Bookshop, he wrote his doctoral dissertation on Wordsworth, as well as many of the poems that would make up of his first collection of verse, Home and Variations. (more…)

I’m thinking today of timing—how important it is to success. Timing and perseverance: the two go together. I’m also noticing the seasonal aspect of creativity, how cyclic it is. That too is hard to grasp. I want it all the time. I’m afraid if it isn’t there, it won’t return. But I need to remember that if I pursue my creative impulses, and if they’re in accordance with my abilities, then there will be success. Maybe not financially, though that would be nice. But I’ll experience the satisfaction of achieving what I’m capable of. (more…)

My novel Curva Peligrosa opens with a tornado that sweeps through the fictional town of Weed, Alberta, and drops a purple outhouse into its center. Drowsing and dreaming inside that structure is its owner, Curva Peligrosa—a curiosity and a marvel, a source of light and heat, a magnet. Adventurous, amorous, fecund, and over six feet tall, she possesses magical powers. She also has the greenest of thumbs, creating a tropical habitat in an arctic clime, and she possesses a wicked trigger finger.

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Michelle Cameron is the author of Jewish historical fiction, including Babylon: A Novel of Jewish Captivity, the award-winning Beyond the Ghetto Gates and The Fruit of Her Hands: the story of Shira of Ashkenaz. She has also published a verse novel, In the Shadow of the Globe. Napoleon’s Mirage, the sequel to Beyond the Ghetto Gates, is forthcoming in August 2024.

Michelle is a director of The Writers Circle, a NJ-based creative writing program serving children, teens, and adults. She lives in Chatham, NJ, with her husband and has two grown sons of whom she is inordinately proud.

Visit her online:

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With two new books being published by Shanti Arts, and wondering how best to market them, I’ve been thinking about book festivals I’ve participated in. I realize that, while these events are great for focusing on the many book genres available, I also have concluded that I probably won’t attend one again. A few years ago, I signed up for the Bay Area Book Festival in Berkeley, a relatively new venue at the time. Its first session was in 2015, and it claims to be an international event that draws people from all over the world: “More than 50,000 diverse people of all ages, from urban to suburban Bay Area communities and beyond.” (more…)

Join me and my editor/publisher, Christine Cote, to help celebrate the release of my hybrid memoir Dreaming Myself into Old Age: One Woman’s Search for Meaning (to be released on 9/19/23) and my newest poetry collection, California Dreaming (published on June 27). We’ll explore some of the main themes in both of my books as well as Christine’s work as publisher/editor of Shanti Arts Press. There will be lots of opportunities for Q&A.

In Dreaming Myself into Old Age, I’ve hoped that reflecting on this these later years will help me to better understand and deepen them. Perhaps, in sharing my quest, readers will make their own discoveries, as has been true for me whenever I’ve read about someone else’s journey. But I also believe that aging presents its own mysteries for us to uncover, and that is part of my search as well. Dreaming Myself into Old Age is set within my lifelong pursuit of self-discovery.

According to my editor, this exploration carries over in California Dreaming. She says, “Lily Iona MacKenzie’s unbounded zest for life sings through the poems in California Dreaming. A writer in her bones and a dreamer in her heart, she discovers the poetry in everything—travel, art, music, nature, past and present. Her words and rhythms touch the soul and leave their treasures behind. ‘Listen closely to these poems’ quiet but insistent murmur.’ (Kathleen McClung)

Grab your favorite beverage, find a cozy spot, and join us online for an hour of delving into the mysteries of dreaming and aging!

California Dreaming & Dreaming Myself into Old Age can be purchased from Shanti Arts as well as Amazon and other major outlets. ???

If you like these books, please leave a brief review.

Join Zoom Meeting: https://us06web.zoom.us/j/85890431364?pwd=aHFiMERFM3lZeXI2VzBlSFRXenN4UT09

Meeting ID: 858 9043 1364

Passcode: 613741

I look forward to seeing you at noon on September 23.

Lily Iona MacKenzie

 

With two new books coming out, I’ve been wondering about applying for book awards. Fellow Regal House author Elizabeth Winthrop Alsop came to my rescue with this piece on book awards that she first published on SUBSTACK on August 16. This is an important post for all authors, published or unpublished.

My memoir, Daughter of Spies: Wartime Secrets, Family Lies which came out in the fall of 2022, marks the first time I’ve published with a small independent press. In the three years since acceptance, I’ve learned lots about how much it costs to produce a book, how important distribution can be, and the amount of time and energy that goes into marketing and publicizing a book, no matter if it’s self-published, traditionally published or released by an independent press.

The one thing that has stopped me in my tracks is the number of “come-ons”, scams, and false promises that land in my inbox daily.  These include payment for reviews on Instagram or with “influencers,” (I admit to hating that word), hybrid publishers wishing me to submit my next book, advertising offers, emails encouraging me to submit my book for a festival and so on. Every one of these involve me spending money and, in the end, they will cost me far more than I ever expect to make in royalties. And all of them prey on a writer’s desperate desire to be lifted above others in the great cacophony of modern life where people more and more choose visuals on devices over reading the printed word.

I’ve quoted this figure before but it’s worth repeating. In the US alone, over 4 million new books were published in 2022. (These include both self-published and commercially published books in all formats.) As a comparison, ten years ago in 2013, just over 275,000 books were published in the US.  No wonder writers are desperate and prone to scams and false promises.

The one I’m focused on because I jumped on board are the hundreds of awards. I entered 15 contests, some of which were approved by the Alliance of Independent Authors and some of which were given a caution or negative rating. I was advised by experts in the field such as the knowledgeable and experienced publishing specialist, Jane Friedman, to check how long the contest has been around, to study past winners, to look for a list of judges, to evaluate how important the prize is to members of your book community, and most importantly, to look at contests that are created primarily to make money. In the beginning, I paid some attention to this advice but the lure of a possible award (how could they not pick me?) made me throw caution to the winds.

Here’s the bottom line. I’ve entered fifteen contests and I’ve spent close to $900 on contest fees. I’ve been shortlisted in a memoir magazine contest and been declared a finalist for another book award. In one case I won a Bronze Medal in the Female Memoir division, and in another, I was named a runner up in the Memoir category. None of these “honors” paid me any money. The announcement of my “win” is most often followed by a bombardment of emails encouraging me to pay more for editorial or marketing advice or for a bronze medal on a colored ribbon or to enter more contests or book festivals. I’ve won no mention at all in six contests, and five have yet to report.

However, in many cases, the list of “winners” is truly daunting. I’m convinced that most of the writers who submitted “won” something. In one contest, I counted the finalists, winners, and runners up and came up with 146 entries that garnered some mention. It cost me $50 to enter that contest. If 500 people entered just one of the possible categories (and I suspect there are many more desperate and eager authors like myself), the income off the bat is $25,000. Where does the money go? Who are the judges? Are they paid?  Starting a writing contest seems to have become a profitable business.

Of course, there are reputable contests for writers from PEN awards to the Pulitzer Prize to the excellent listings in Poets and Writers Magazine. If I have one piece of advice to offer to writers interested in submitting to contests, I’d say stick to the reputable listings including the smaller and less well known awards you can find at the Alliance of Independent Authors . Don’t fall into the trap I jumped into. Don’t waste your money on the “for profit” contests that might give you a momentary burst of gratification (see, they did pick me!) but in the end will do little to sell your book or get it to new readers.

Visit Elizabeth’s website at https://elizabethwinthrop.com.

Follow her newsletters on Substrate.

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Stephanie Cowell has been an opera singer, balladeer, founder of Strawberry Opera and other arts venues including a Renaissance festival and an outdoor arts series in NYC. She is the author of Nicholas Cooke, The Physician of London, The Players: a novel of the young Shakespeare, Marrying Mozart, and Claude & Camille: a novel of Monet.  Her work had been translated into nine languages and adapted into an opera. Stephanie is the recipient of an American Book Award.  Her website is www.StephanieCowell.com. (more…)

Writing is such a part of my day that if I don’t get to it, I’m constantly distracted, as if I have a lover I’m thinking about. It’s like a siren’s call, pulling me away. My husband Michael notices it. He comments on me seeming drifty. He’s right. I’m not fully there. The discipline of writing an hour or more a day pulls me into myself and gives me the contemplative part I need. Balance. (more…)

Sooke, B.C.: Wild and Tamed

Fog flirts with the spit of land across the way, clinging at times to tree tops, then lifting mysteriously, appearing again a moment later, threading in and out of the pines. Nasturtiums blow in the breeze, lawn and gardens (vegetable and flower) extending down to the water’s edge, jumbo red and yellow begonias bordering the walkways. Where are we? Sooke Harbor House. Sooke Harbor, the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and Washington State’s Olympic Mountains meets us as we step through the doorway into our room.

A typical August day on Vancouver Island, temperatures in the low 70s, a cooling sea breeze floats through the open balcony door, carrying a whiff of wood smoke from someone’s fireplace (most of the rooms have one) and the salty sea air.

A sky light opens up the vaulted ceiling directly above the four poster king-size bed.  We can see blue sky and clouds, and I look forward to viewing the stars later.

We feel like welcome guests in someone’s house, Canada’s past coming alive in the furnishings:  a well-worn seaman’s chest, old and lovingly used; antique hand-made cushion covers adding color to the all-white duvet on the bed.  A visual delight meets the eye everywhere—freshly picked yellow lilies fill a vase on the mantel, and a maple rocker sits in front of the fireplace where wood wrapped in newspaper waits, ready to be lit, taking the chill off cool evenings and mornings.

My abbreviated journal entry for that day reads “4:16 PM at Sooke Harbor House.  It’s splendid.  Wow!”

Though we’ve chosen one of the lower-priced rooms, it lacks nothing for our comfort—white terry-cloth robes; an iron and ironing board; a hair dryer; plenty of coffee makings, tea, and milk kept fresh in the wet bar.

On previous trips to Vancouver Island, my husband and I always made Victoria our center, staying at the University of Victoria conference center in a park-like setting where accommodations are inexpensive and modest.  This time we wanted to stay at more upscale places, to make lodgings an important part of our holiday experience.

We weren’t disappointed.

But it was difficult to drag ourselves away from the place to explore the surrounding area.  The grounds invite leisurely strolls, and the lounge chairs on our balcony begged to be sat on. So we rested awhile, inhaling sea air and letting our thoughts dissolve with the fog.

Sooke is adapted from T’Sou-ke, the name of the coast Salish people and a species of stipplebacked fish once numerous in the Sooke basin.  The village has one traffic light and little else to distinguish itself.  Yet blue and white signs announcing bed and breakfast accommodations are everywhere, much of the village remaining concealed behind shrubbery.

This is not picturesque Sidney-by-the-Sea,  main street dripping with hanging flower baskets and charm.  But Sooke has its own particular allure.  It isn’t trying to be upscale, something it isn’t.  A fishing village originally, it still feels like one, offering visitors plenty of opportunities to catch cod, halibut, salmon, and other local favorites either from shore or from one of several chartered fishing boats.

That first night we ate in the Sooke Harbor House candle-lit dining room overlooking the water and mountains, one of Canada’s best restaurants and a major attraction for that area.  A lively fire added warmth to the place. We ordered a table d’hôte meal, each dish incorporating figs.  The chefs impressed us with their imaginative approach to figs—they were transformed and transforming.

Almost not recognizable in their original form, the figs became something else.  Never did they overwhelm what they accompanied.  The fig sauce complimented the lamb in the main course, provided a subtle contrasting taste in the soup, gave a new definition for fig in the appetizer, and folded itself into the dessert.

Most people who eat at the restaurant rave about the place, traveling to Sooke just to dine on their haute cuisine, staying at a nearby bed and breakfast when the Inn is full.  (I stopped one day at The Snuggery, an up-scale B&B with views of the harbor that I also can recommend, and chatted with the owner.  He said that Sooke Harbor House had put Sooke on the map.  The many bed and breakfasts catch the overflow from the Inn, or provide accommodations for people who just go there to eat.)  Sooke offers lodgings for every budget.

The chefs had other chances to tempt our palates.  Every morning, a woman brought breakfast to our room.  Each one included a fruit compote, home-made yogurt and blackberry jam, croissants, cereal, juice, and coffee plus a special entree.  The first morning we feasted on oatwheat cakes served with a mix of fresh fruit.  The second morning, we ate poached eggs on cheese bread flavored with herbs, a delicate salmon flavored sauce floating on top.

After gorging on breakfast, we were ready for a good bike ride.  We picked up our picnic lunch from the kitchen, arranged in an insulated back pack, loaded our bikes on the car, and headed for the Galloping Goose trail, the beginning of what eventually will be over 2,000 miles of hiking and biking trails crossing Canada, replacing old train tracks.

The trail actually starts in Victoria, and if we’d been more ambitious, we could have ridden our bikes from Sooke to Victoria in just a few hours.  But we were there to enjoy the countryside, not win a marathon, so we followed Sooke Basin for a time, watching buffleheads and Barrow’s goldeneye riding the swells.  Douglas fir and sword fern line the trail, the Goose dropping down at times into a creek bed, where we stopped and watched the water flow over igneous rock and feasted on blackberries that grow wild everywhere.

Across the basin we could see the hills of East Sooke Regional Park rise out of the water.  If you prefer hiking to biking, East Sooke’s Coast Trail offers a west coast wilderness experience within easy reach of the town of Sooke, considered one of the premier day hikes in Canada.

The ten kilometer trail is rough and winding, a challenging six-hour trip even for experienced hikers, but well worth the effort.  From a bluff of windswept pines, the ocean crashing at your feet, to a dark rain forest at the end of a ravine, to the sea’s edge—the trail takes you over many terrains.  It also lets you view petroglyths bruised into the rock, a style particular to the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

There are other popular trails, one being the West Coast Trail, stretching 77 kilometers from Port Renfrew on the south end of Vancouver Island to Bamfield on the north end.  Another is the Juan de Fuca Marine Trail, a 47 kilometer hiking trail starting at China Beach and extending to Botanical Beach near Port Renfrew.

But we were contented to glide along on our bikes, cruising mainly on asphalt.  After an hour, we chose a picnic bench in Roche Cove Regional Park and eagerly unzipped the forest green pack.  It contained a checkered table cloth and matching napkins, dishes, a small wood cutting board, real silverware, a cutting knife, cheese, rolls, gourmet pasta and salmon salad, apples, a blackberry tart, and two bottles of mineral water.  It was one of the most elegant picnics we’ve had.

A warm afternoon, we returned along the route we’d taken,  following it through Sooke, looking for the potholes in the Sooke River we’d read about, hoping to have a swim.  But we detoured instead to the Sooke Region Museum and Visitor Information Center, forgetting about the potholes, taken back in time to when the first aboriginal people arrived on those shores.

We were impressed with the exhibits, videos, and books that gave us a fuller sense of the early settlers and their lives—a working steam engine, a ship wreck display, forestry exhibits, a nature trail.  A docent (“Aunt Tilly”) showed us through one of the oldest standing buildings on Vancouver Island, a cottage built in 1902, constructed of lumber cut in the Muir sawmill, the first successfully-operated  steam sawmill in British Columbia.  Aunt Tilly, the lady of the house, showed us what a day in her life was like at that time.

Each August Sooke hosts a major annual Fine Arts Show that we had just missed by a few days.  One of the largest juried shows held in B.C., hundreds of talented artists enter.

Of course, we spent time in Victoria too, the only North American city I can think of that hasn’t been taken over by overpowering skyscrapers.  Though the capital of British Columbia, it still feels like a village.  But Sooke is a village, gateway to the southern part of the Island, a combination of the wild and the tamed, providing such a wide range of activities that we’re already planning our next visit.

 

 

Pen-L Press will be publishing my novel Fling in 2015. A wildly comic romp on mothers, daughters, art, and death, the book should appeal to a broad range of readers. While the main characters are middle-aged and older, their zest for life would draw readers of all ages, male or female, attracting the youthful adventurer in most people. Though women may identify more readily with Feather and Bubbles’ daughter and mother struggles, the heart of the book is how they approach their aging selves and are open to new experiences. Since art and imagination are key to this narrative, artists of all ages would find something to enjoy. And because the book crosses many borders (Scotland, Canada, the U.S., and Mexico), it also can’t be limited to a specific age group, social class, gender, or region.

My first fan letter for Fling came from an 80 year-old woman who lives in the tiny village of Christina Lake, B.C. My son, who also lives there, had given her my manuscript to read. She said, “I just wanted to express to you how very much I enjoyed your writing.  I started it and didn’t stop till I had read it all.  I very much like your style and your subtle humor. Thank you for a most enjoyable read. I can’t understand why it hasn’t been scooped up by some publisher. But I know that it will be. In my estimation I know that it is excellent literary work. I am a voracious reader and have been since grade 4. I remember my first book was Tom Sawyer and I have never stopped since then. I go through 4 to 5 books a week.  We are so fortunate here at the Lake now.  The Library staff in Grand Forks come out here every Wednesday. I have become very fond of the young lady who comes out. She provides me with all the award winning books and orders others for me. Again I want to express to you how very much I enjoyed your manuscript.  Have patience my dear….it will be published to wide acclaim I am so sure.” —Joan Fornelli.

Here is a synopsis:

Feather, an aging hippie, returns to her Calgary home to help her mother, Bubbles, celebrate her 90th birthday. Bubbles has received mail from the dead letter office in Mexico City, asking her to pick up her mother’s ashes, left there seventy years earlier and only now surfacing. Bubbles’ mother, Scottish by birth, had died in Mexico in the late 1920s after taking off with a married man and abandoning her husband and kids.

A woman with a mission, and still vigorous, Bubbles convinces a reluctant Feather to take her to Mexico so she can recover the ashes and give her mother a proper burial. Both women have recently shed husbands and have a secondary agenda: they’d like a little action. And they get it.

Alternating narratives weave together Feather and Bubbles’ odyssey with their colorful Scottish ancestors, creating a family tapestry. The “now” thread presents the two women as they travel south from Canada to San Francisco and then Mexico, covering a span of about six months. “Now” and “then” merge in Mexico when Bubbles’ long-dead mother, grandmother, and grandfather turn up, enlivening the narrative with their antics.

In Mexico, the land where reality and magic co-exist, Feather gets a new sense of her mother. The Indian villagers mistake Bubbles for a well-known rain goddess, praying for her to bring rain so their land will thrive again. Feather, who’s been seeking “The Goddess” for years, eventually realizes what she’s overlooked.

Meanwhile, Bubbles’ quest for her mother’s ashes (and a new man) has increased her zest for life. A shrewd business woman (she’s raised chickens, sold her crafts, taken in bizarre boarders, and has a sure-fire system for winning at bingo and lotteries), she’s certain she’s found the fountain of youth at a mineral springs outside San Miguel de Allende; she’s determined to bottle the water and sell it.

But gambling is her first love, and unlike most women her age, fun-loving Bubbles takes risks, believing she’s immortal. Unlike her daughter, Bubbles doesn’t hold back in any way, eating heartily, lusting after strangers, her youthful spirit and innocence convincing readers that they’ve found the fountain of youth themselves in this character. At ninety, she comes into her own, coming to age, proving it’s never too late to fulfill one’s dreams.

Fling, a meditation on death, mothers and daughters, and art, suggests that the fountain of youth is the imagination, and this is what they all discover in Mexico. It’s what Bubbles wants to bottle, but she doesn’t need to. She embodies it. The whole family does.


Sidney-by-the-Sea

Sidney-by-the-Sea

On previous trips to Vancouver Island, my husband and I have driven past Sidney, unaware of its charms.  We always stayed at the University of Victoria conference center in a park-like setting where accommodations are inexpensive and modest.This time we wanted to stay at more upscale places, to make lodgings an important part of our holiday experience.

We weren’t disappointed.

While browsing through the B.C. Tourist Accommodation booklet, I stumbled on Dunsmuir Lodge, located in Sidney-by-the-Sea.  Just 15 miles from downtown Victoria, Dunsmuir Lodge surpassed our expectations.

When we turned off McTavish Road onto the grounds, we were amazed, expecting the usual sterile Best Western style accommodation.   Stone gates framed the driveway, and up we went, winding through Douglas fir, dogwood, and maple trees till we finally arrived at the Lodge itself, set high on the wooded slope of Mount Newton, 100 acres located next to a provincial park.  The building emits the kind of graciousness we’ve experienced in Yosemite at the Awahnee or Lake MacDonald Lodge in Glacier Park, though Dunsmuir is more moderately priced.

Inside and out, elegant, rustic northwest architecture merges with Japanese touches.  Clearly the designer was influenced by Frank Lloyd Wright.  Off the reception area, a tranquil meditation garden awaits with a Buddha enclosed in glass, setting the quiet, peaceful tone for the place.  Scrolls hang from the walls.  The hallways have handsome old French chests from earlier periods, and tasteful wall hangings decorate the rooms, simplicity being the theme.

A non-profit operation that specializes in conferences during the winter and spring months (you might have trouble booking a room from February through May or June), Dunsmuir Lodge can’t advertise as a hotel/motel because it pays no taxes. To the best of my knowledge, the only place where it’s listed is in the B.C. Tourist Accommodation booklet.

If the Lodge could promote itself, you wouldn’t get near it in the summer, and the restaurant and lounge would be constantly packed.  As it is, when I called at 4:00 PM, we got their last available room for that night.

We found No. 302 spacious (every room is at least 300 square feet), tastefully decorated, with a king-size bed, sofa, chair, coffee table, two desks, TV, and two phone lines.  Best of all, a superb view awaited us.  From the huge window we could see the Gulf Islands, the ocean, and the massive jagged edges of the Coastal mountain range piercing the sky.  We also could see Mt. Baker on Salt Spring, the Gulf Island we planned to visit the next day.

The BC Ferries travel back and forth at regular intervals during the day, Salt Spring being the largest of the Gulf Islands.  A warm day, it was perfect for being on the water, and though the ride only took about 25 minutes, being on a ferry always feels more like a journey:  a water voyage has a slight edge to it, the ocean having a hypnotic, mysterious quality.

A woman at the visitor’s center on Salt Spring sold us a cycling map, and we chose a route that led to a beach, rated as moderate, the lowest level.  The islands tend to be hilly, so though we are in good physical shape and ride regularly when we’re at home, we had to work hard to get to the beach and back over the roller-coaster road, a strenuous hour-long ride each way made more taxing because of the heat.

Still, we had some lovely vistas, when we weren’t puffing and pumping, getting glimpses of the sea through groves of trees.  And we found blackberries everywhere, ripe and begging to be picked.

Later, I was grateful for the car to retreat to.  We drove around the whole island, stopping at a pub with a great view of the mainland.  We sat on a deck overlooking the water and ate a late lunch, sipping on Canadian beer.

Between customers, our attractive blonde waitress—whose eyes mirrored the sea—chatted with us about life on Salt Spring.  She loves the Island so much that she pieces together several jobs to make a living for herself and her 16 year-old son.  In addition to working at the pub, she’s a medic and an engineer on BC Ferries.

Very competent, assured, and poised, she knew exactly what to do when my husband decided he needed more protein and chomped on a bee that had burrowed into the neck of his beer bottle.  Of course, the bee retaliated and bit back.  Our waitress quickly appeared with ice and recommended we pick up anti-histamines at the drug store.

The bee sting didn’t stop us from driving up Mount Maxwell, the highest peak on Salt Spring, a grueling drive to the top on dirt roads full of potholes.  But if you persevere, your reward is a breathtaking view of the surrounding islands and mainland.

That night we ate a light dinner outside on the patio of the lounge at Dunsmuir Lodge.  Both the dining room (on the first level) and the lounge (on the second level) have panoramic views.  On a clear night, you can see the distant lights of the ski lift flickering on North Vancouver’s Grouse Mountain. You also can watch planes in the distance, taking off and landing at the airport, their lights resembling giant fireflies.  It’s the fifth busiest airport in Canada because small planes are coming and going constantly.

Instead of the four nights we had originally planned, we stayed six, thoroughly impressed not only with the Lodge but also with the staff, the quality of service we received, and the location.  We had a lengthy conversation one morning with a redheaded Scot who had come to Canada 12 years earlier.  He told us about several local coves where the swimming is good and the water warm.  He swims at Patricia Bay, about 10 minutes from the Lodge.  He said 6:00 PM was the best time since the tide comes in then, the water warmed from the day.  He also recommended Sidney Spit Provincial Park, with the best white sand on Georgia Strait.

Having grown up on a farm in Southern Alberta, I’m partial to pastoral scenery, and this part of the island has plenty, well-maintained farms interspersed with modern houses.  The town of Sidney originally was developed in 1858 as a farming settlement when the Hudson’s Bay Company offered 100 acre parcels of land for a dollar an acre.

Today a dollar might buy you a handful of dirt but little else.  Slightly off the beaten path, and as charming in its own way as Victoria, Sidney appeals to both retirees and young families, baskets of flowers hanging from poles on the main streets, the whole town hugging the sea, living up to its name.

We spent a day just riding our bikes on Sidney streets, following the shoreline.  At noon we ended up at an out-of-the-way bakery and deli where we feasted on cinnamon rolls and chatted with the woman behind the counter.

Semi-retired, she and her husband had moved to Sidney recently, preferring it to Victoria.  They liked the small-town feel and the slower pace.  Rosy-cheeked and energetic for her years, she radiated friendliness and a welcoming feeling that we experienced with everyone we met there.  Several times fellow bikers (one man takes his Spaniel in his carrier everyday) and people working in their yards stopped to chat with us.

One day we stopped at a bus stop to get directions from an 84-year old woman.  We were looking for a place where we could have tea.  She suggested Pelicano’s Café & Bakery.  Since she was going near there, we offered her a ride, inviting her to join us for tea.

She readily accepted, and we were off, hearing the life story of this Scot from north of Edinburgh.  She had come to Canada 40 years earlier, first to the east, Toronto (she found it cold, unfriendly), and eventually to the West Coast.  Her husband, now dead, was an artist and journalist.  She learned library work on her own and did that for years as well as sales work.

Cheery, she believes in living an active life in spite of deteriorating sight, playing nine holes of golf twice a week and dealing stoically with dizzy spells.  She gave us the gift of seeing how to manage old age and its challenges, to not be absorbed by the problems.

Our bike wanderings on another day took us to the Sidney Marine Mammal and Historical Museum.  For over an hour we were rapt, moving from exhibit to exhibit—displays of whale parts, videos, and printed material—one of the best overviews we’ve had of whales.  They also show a video on Greenpeace, highlighting their work saving the whales.  The founder of Greenpeace believes that our treatment of whales symbolizes our relationship with nature itself.

Whale spotting is an everyday thing for Sidney residents, and from land it’s easy enough to see whales swimming by.  But several whale-watching boats also go out to the deeper waters, the skippers pretty much guaranteeing their customers will see one.

Although we made several side trips from Sidney to Sooke, Duncan, and Victoria, we wanted to spend our last evening there.

Since we’d already had had an excellent table d’hote dinner one night at Dunsmuir, we went to the Rumrunner Pub on Sidney’s wharf, a place that captures the town’s character:  It’s warm, cozy, and friendly.

A cool evening, we sat in front of a vigorous fire, watching families strolling past and a little girl trying out her new green tricycle.  Our red-haired Irish waitress, chatty and lively, called her customers “darlin’” and meant it, anticipating their needs.  Sipping a B.C. red wine, we watched the sun set, reluctant to take the Annacortes ferry the next morning that would return us to the mainland.

 

Pen-L Press will be publishing my novel Fling in 2015. A wildly comic romp on mothers, daughters, art, and death, the book should appeal to a broad range of readers. While the main characters are middle-aged and older, their zest for life would draw readers of all ages, male or female, attracting the youthful adventurer in most people. Though women may identify more readily with Feather and Bubbles’ daughter and mother struggles, the heart of the book is how they approach their aging selves and are open to new experiences. Since art and imagination are key to this narrative, artists of all ages would find something to enjoy. And because the book crosses many borders (Scotland, Canada, the U.S., and Mexico), it also can’t be limited to a specific age group, social class, gender, or region.

My first fan letter for Fling came from an 80 year-old woman who lives in the tiny village of Christina Lake, B.C. My son, who also lives there, had given her my manuscript to read. She said, “I just wanted to express to you how very much I enjoyed your writing.  I started it and didn’t stop till I had read it all.  I very much like your style and your subtle humor. Thank you for a most enjoyable read. I can’t understand why it hasn’t been scooped up by some publisher. But I know that it will be. In my estimation I know that it is excellent literary work. I am a voracious reader and have been since grade 4. I remember my first book was Tom Sawyer and I have never stopped since then. I go through 4 to 5 books a week.  We are so fortunate here at the Lake now.  The Library staff in Grand Forks come out here every Wednesday. I have become very fond of the young lady who comes out. She provides me with all the award winning books and orders others for me. Again I want to express to you how very much I enjoyed your manuscript.  Have patience my dear….it will be published to wide acclaim I am so sure.” —Joan Fornelli.

Here is a synopsis:

Feather, an aging hippie, returns to her Calgary home to help her mother, Bubbles, celebrate her 90th birthday. Bubbles has received mail from the dead letter office in Mexico City, asking her to pick up her mother’s ashes, left there seventy years earlier and only now surfacing. Bubbles’ mother, Scottish by birth, had died in Mexico in the late 1920s after taking off with a married man and abandoning her husband and kids.

A woman with a mission, and still vigorous, Bubbles convinces a reluctant Feather to take her to Mexico so she can recover the ashes and give her mother a proper burial. Both women have recently shed husbands and have a secondary agenda: they’d like a little action. And they get it.

Alternating narratives weave together Feather and Bubbles’ odyssey with their colorful Scottish ancestors, creating a family tapestry. The “now” thread presents the two women as they travel south from Canada to San Francisco and then Mexico, covering a span of about six months. “Now” and “then” merge in Mexico when Bubbles’ long-dead mother, grandmother, and grandfather turn up, enlivening the narrative with their antics.

In Mexico, the land where reality and magic co-exist, Feather gets a new sense of her mother. The Indian villagers mistake Bubbles for a well-known rain goddess, praying for her to bring rain so their land will thrive again. Feather, who’s been seeking “The Goddess” for years, eventually realizes what she’s overlooked.

Meanwhile, Bubbles’ quest for her mother’s ashes (and a new man) has increased her zest for life. A shrewd business woman (she’s raised chickens, sold her crafts, taken in bizarre boarders, and has a sure-fire system for winning at bingo and lotteries), she’s certain she’s found the fountain of youth at a mineral springs outside San Miguel de Allende; she’s determined to bottle the water and sell it.

But gambling is her first love, and unlike most women her age, fun-loving Bubbles takes risks, believing she’s immortal. Unlike her daughter, Bubbles doesn’t hold back in any way, eating heartily, lusting after strangers, her youthful spirit and innocence convincing readers that they’ve found the fountain of youth themselves in this character. At ninety, she comes into her own, coming to age, proving it’s never too late to fulfill one’s dreams.

Fling, a meditation on death, mothers and daughters, and art, suggests that the fountain of youth is the imagination, and this is what they all discover in Mexico. It’s what Bubbles wants to bottle, but she doesn’t need to. She embodies it. The whole family does.


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