A Writer Without Ideas?

Is it possible?  Of course it is, but it’s not ideas for books that I’m talking about.

I find myself constantly wondering what to talk about on my blog, thinking that you would only be interested in hearing about the books I write.

I now realise that’s totally wrong, and that perhaps you’d like to learn a little more about me, the person.

I’ll start by telling you that I am a grandmother of six beautiful grandchildren. Their ages range from eight to fourteen, with a set of twins included.

My passion is writing, and my hobby is cardmaking.

My dear friend Marcelle, who is also an avid cardmaker, taught me a new technique this week.  I love it, and I’ve posted a photo of my card below.

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Isn’t that just the most gorgeous design?

I’ll be making more of these beautiful cards in the near future. I make lots of cards for charities and community groups, and this design will be amongst those sent.

BTW, this weekend, lots of BooksWeLove books will be reduced on Amazon. Check out this post on my publisher’s blog to find out more.

 

Thanks for stopping by today.  I appreciate it. A lot.

 

cheryl

Agency Woman by John Logan

Cheryl Wright and Margaret Tanner would like to welcome award winning Scottish author John Logan to our Romance Authors blog. Nice to have you here with us.  Would you like to tell us about your latest release Agency Woman? From the blurb and excerpt it sounds like another gripping read. 
Blurb for Agency Woman:
A lost, wandering and damaged man finds himself drafted  back into the world he thought he had escaped, when the local branch of a  powerful, international Agency needs a mysterious job done in the remote  Highlands of Scotland.
The  new companion who leads him out of disaffected early retirement is a seductive,  young, novice female agent, but could there really be far more to her than there  at first seems?
They  find themselves in a world of natural beauty, mountain and beach, which they  will only contaminate with extraordinary rendition, abduction, bloodshed and  torture.
The  modern bureaucratic world of paperwork and subcontracting will mean that no-one  actually knows which government or country is behind the operation, but one man  will soon remember why he left Agency work like this and why he hates it so  much, even though it may really be love that has dragged him back into it  all.
A  dark, Scottish tale of conspiracy, espionage, murder and terrorism, with an  existential edge, and the spirit of an ancient mountain looming at its  centre.“The  specific character of despair is precisely this: it is unaware of being  despair.”
Soren Kierkegaard

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Excerpt:
The old stories don’t need to be  repeated endlessly. The ancient knights can be allowed to fall from their  horses, lumpenly, and die. Even the horses, though with more grace, may be  allowed to fall over and turn limp on the grass. Thus, in a moment, they are  permitted their release from this arena. Their struggles forever on record, for  perusal later, at a safe distance.

            The woman had that thick, black hair I have always loved. Even her skin  was alive strangely, as though some thick juice was flowing through it, near the  surface, as my eye gazed. Desiring the woman was a normal response. The mind  turns from knights on their horses, towards women with their hair and skin,  easily. The woman’s mind was locked on some course, purposeful, the eyes  directed forward, a rigidity there. I didn’t let that put me off. I kept looking  at her. Then she sensed me and looked back. I had to look away. I chose the  clock, gazed up at it, then mimed the action of raising my wrist, lifting my  jacket sleeve, checking the time of my watch against the time on the clock. I  looked back over at the woman. Now she was sitting on a bench, her legs crossed  neatly. Her shoes were red, scarlet, and that was a small shock behind my ribs,  but it didn’t put me off her at all. Instead, I made a focal point of one of her  shoes. It was possible to look at the shoe without having that sense of trespass  I’d felt when she found me looking at her face. Somehow the shoe was in the  public domain. I committed no violation, no infringement, by looking at the shoe  like this. None that I was aware of anyway. We all must be free, ultimately, to  pick our own objects of contemplation. I could look away from the shoe, to the  clock, or to someone else in the railway station, then I could look back at it.  Occasionally, from the shoe, I could lift my eyes and look at her hair again,  her face, then back to the shoe. This was all permissible, somehow.

            Millions of years of evolution for me to be here now, a biped, with a  central nervous system ending in two close-set stalked predatory eyes, and  staring at this red shoe. And why not? Good enough. Perhaps, later, there will  be something even better than the red shoe to look at. Perhaps not. In any case,  I will be satisfied, having had this interlude, this occupation, afforded by the  red shoe and its wearer.

            Knights and their horses. And their hawks. Now, as I look at her, I might  be hiding, beneath my coat, the tensed body of my hunting hawk. Its head buried  tight in my armpit as it dozes, belly full from some recent kill. I could tear  open my coat, shock the bird into wakefulness, watch as it stared around. I  think the first thing it would see would be that red shoe. The bird would  explode out from beneath my sheltering armpit oxter, cutting through the air, an  arrow born only to plunge its life against that red shoe’s surface, embedding  its razor claws in her ankle that I cannot let myself contemplate. I feel this  imaginary hawk now, suddenly, a warm living thing resting secretly beneath the  flesh of my underarm. Emboldened by the thought of my hawk, I let my eye drift  up from the red shoe to the woman’s ankle. But she senses this. Then I sense her  sensing the change in my regard. She moves abruptly. I flinch and beneath my  armpit the hawk’s eyelids flutter as its dream begins to break.

            I should turn away now, walk off, just to be relieved of this woman and  her red shoe. Myself and the hawk then, alone, walking these streets. That would  make better sense to me. My private thoughts and the hawk’s unbroken dream of  soaring above rabbit-filled fields beneath pink-golden dawn sunlight. Compared  to that freedom, what does the woman or her red shoe signify really? All the  excitement tied up in her ankle is probably just the woman’s natural claws,  digging into me, as though it were her and not the hawk, nestled under my arm,  holding on.

            Perhaps I’m not being ambitious enough, and that is my knightly failure.  Perhaps my aim should be to get free of the woman, her red shoe, her ankle, and  the hawk itself, free of the bird too.

            I look away from the red shoe, deliberately, and let my gaze roam all  around the railway station. Then I look back at the shoe. I can’t deny that  there is something good about being able to let my mind rest on the object, like  a punctuation mark.

            Suddenly, between my legs, beneath me, I feel my whole knightly horse  come to life. A long lance fills the space beneath my right armpit, and my right  hand. The weight of it pulls me over to one side and the woman is restless again  as she senses me lurch. Let her be restless. I have to handle lance, horse,  hawk, red shoe, ankle, all of it. If I can turn now and ride away, without a  backward glance, I think that would score many points for me, in the knightly  realm. The gods of the knightly realm would love me if I could manage a thing  like that. But I can’t manage it, can I? Not yet anyway. Not now. Before I can  be certain though, the gods of the railway station decide everything for me. She  looks at her watch, compares it to the time on the clock, or pretends to in  mime, rises on her twin red shoes, walks off towards a static-bodied train. All  done with perfect courtly precision. And with no backward glance. 

            Or perhaps there is a backward glance, an internal one, one that I could  never see. Perhaps she’s casting a backward glance over her whole history, her  whole past life, as she walks to that train. Perhaps the desert plain behind her  is now littered with the heroes and heroines of her past life, now frozen into  asphalt, fossilised, or turned into Biblical pillars of salt for passing  scorpions to lick away at. Physically though, no backward glance. Not from her,  and certainly not at me, her watcher, her chronicler, so I turn away myself. I  walk briskly towards the railway station’s main exit. I don’t look back either.

 Click here to purchase

Owl Valentine’s Day Card

Can you believe it’s February already?  I am flabergasted, but even more than that, the shops started weeks ago with their Valentine’s Day displays.

I’ve been making some Valentine’s Day cards recently, as I supply a local gift shop with them each year, and they usually sell well.

Here’s a card I finished this morning.

IMG_1071Owls are all the rage lately, and I’ve recently become addicted to them.

If you would like to learn more about how to make this card, click here to go to my cardmaking blog.

 

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