A Room of One's Own

No More, My Heart

2014-06-19T08:58:00.002-07:00

My heart

Indignant

Lay broken at your feet

You didn’t catch it

Though you asked for it to fall

“Come to me” you’d say…

Knowing it had to fight to join you

But you couldn’t wait

Now, here it is

Bruised and torn

It beats and throbs to show that it still lives

Yours to have

But where are you to collect the pieces

And stitch it back together as if it were your own?

Gone

Was it all a dream?

My heart slows

Its soul has fled

Its pulse --

No more

Bare

2014-06-04T12:02:00.001-07:00

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Stripped and bare

I want nothing more than to watch your body

Have you shiver beneath my touch

Your skin smooth beneath my embrace

Let me lose myself in your existence

There is only you

Let me feel your power

Electricity through my veins

Breathing new life into my soul

Come to me

For me

Again and again

~T. Shannon

The Woman Who Writes

2014-06-04T10:48:00.002-07:00

The woman who writes
has a depth of soul
like an abyss...
Dark and frightful at first glimpse
Many turn away
unwilling to stay
Afraid to thumb the pages of her book
It's written in her blood
In her tears and fears
and in her laughter and love
Its sanguine ink soaks through every page
and its subject matter is sage
Beginning in well-worn memories
that last on forever
far beyond her earth bound years

Learn to love her
this woman who writes
She is worth the effort
Within her lies a labyrinth of scars
encompassed by a wisdom and a love so large
it could only be rivalled by the magnitude and complexity of a universe full of stars

She is there for you to explore
To have, to hold, to love
Just be patient and be kind

And of course
dare to step inside

~T. Shannon~

Image source: https://www.flickr.com/photos/93382586@N05/12824408435/

Constant Cravings...

2014-02-04T11:18:00.000-08:00

The Fall

2014-01-01T14:35:00.001-08:00

Black Pool
Deep and dark
I looked once
And almost lost my way

Did you notice--
My fall?
When I lost my breath
And turned away?

Myself, I saved
And carried on
Balanced and stronger
Day by day

I had resisted the pull
Of that dubh linn
As it sweetly tried to steal my heart--
And on my mind, did prey

I wouldn't look
"Don’t look" I cried
Digging my heels into the sand
"Leave me not to betray"

But It was just a look
Just one look
I would never fall...
Let come what may

And then--
I fell

Softly

Gently

Longingly

Into the pitch and sway

~T. Shannon
(*** dubh linn = dove lynn - means black pool in Irish)

Image source: Pinterest
Click here to visit and *like* Pickwick Publishing on Facebook!

Solstice Night

2013-12-21T10:25:00.002-08:00

On this winter solstice night
Light a candle
Let it burn bright

Step outside...
Into the crisp winter air
Feel the freshly fallen snow crunch beneath your feet
Watch the snowflakes flit and flutter
Dancing down from their place among the stars
Laugh at those that fall upon your nose

Look home
The hearth glows
Flickering softly through the windows
Casting shadows
Silhouettes of the love that lives within

Breathe
Take it in
Close your eyes
Think of all that’s come to pass

Be thankful

Without the dark
There would be no light

Know that you will again be warmed by the fireside
Friends and family near

Your candle
Still there
Burning bright
All through this long winters night
And into the light of the dawning New Year

By: T. Shannon

***Don't forget to *like* Pickwick Publishing on Facebook!!!***

Home for Christmas

2013-11-20T11:57:00.001-08:00

The glow from the winter moon
lights a well worn path
and the trees hum a gentle tune
that settles in my past

Homeward bound am I -
my heartstrings join the chorus
Home to find the fire warm
and the love that lights it glorious

Merry is this time of year
even though we are apart
Memories recount the days -
forever in my heart

~T. Shannon

Image source: flickr.com

HELP WANTED - Apply Within ;)

2013-10-16T12:14:00.001-07:00

Pickwick Publishing V. 1.0 (Beta)

WANTED: Writers and illustrators.

Facebook link: https://www.facebook.com/PickwickPublishing

We will be selecting 6 artists and 6 illustrators.

**Please read this message before choosing to send a private message requesting further details about how you may submit your work***

Authors – we want your stories!!!

Remember we are looking for children's stories – don’t worry if you do not have illustrations to go with the story - & Women's lit (or Chicklit ;) ). We will consider some YA stories.

Those selected:

Will have their work published as an eBook and setup so it may be purchased via our eCommerce shop for 1 year (some rules will apply & this will be discussed during our initial consultation.) *** this will include the assignment of an ISBN to your work
Will have their work proofed ***we ask that you please try and edit your work as best you can prior to submission. We reserve the right to return work that has not been adequately edited prior to submission
Will have a profile page set-up just for you
Will gain assistance in marketing your work via the Pickwick website and Facebook (other forms of social media will be added to the roster in time)
Will be provided consultation, inspiration and follow-up to help you further improve your work and get your name out there!

***At this time only those selected will be contacted

This is a $600.00 value!!!

Artists - it's the same for you

6 illustrators will be selected and aided in the set-up of an online portfolio for 1 year.

We hope that your portfolio will help you:

Promote yourself and your work via an online gallery of your illustrations
Make new contacts with Authors (or other publishers) so you may collaborate on future work
Assist you with the sale of your artwork

***Only those selected will be contacted

You will be helping Pickwick set up shop and work out the bugs so to speak :)

We look forward to hearing from you!

***Please send a private message to request further details on how to submit.

Don't forget to *Like* us on Facebook!! https://www.facebook.com/PickwickPublishing

Pickwick Publishing

Starting a business is terrifying.

2013-09-06T13:50:00.002-07:00

Tarafied. Pun intended.

So ya. I have myself all wound up in a state and I want my Mommy. Well. I can't have her and I can't really stand whining from anyone - let alone myself. Nor can I stand being negative or having self-doubt - what good is any of that crap. I'll tell ya how good it is - it's no good at all. Pointless.
Negativity feeds more negativity.

I don't need my Mom here to tell me to suck it up... which is exactly what she would say. She would tell me to get my shit together... literally, that's what she would say - "It's all on you now kid. Mess it up and I'm not there to save you."

I know what I need to do but it's difficult. I don't want to mess it up and that in itself is a paralyzing factor.

I need to hold my head up, be smart, be aware and - carry on.

But it's terrifying!!!

Starting a business is terrifying. There's no safety net and to top it off I can't fail. That should make me feel better... I can't fail... but I'm just telling myself that. What if I do? TERRIFYING!!!

So I'm in a state I am, I am.

It's crunch time. My ability to succeed or fail is in my hands.
I have many supporters - some really great ones - I should be happy! But no = TERRIFIED.

Maybe that's a good thing.

A little terror in your life every now and then might be good... :S It's definitely motivating... and disabilitating... omg = TERRIFIED = TARAFIED (fyi, that's me!!)

In the end though. I know I will be fine and that's the bottom line. I will make it - come hell or highwater.

And supporting me all the way... Wine. Oops, I mean my supportive man... ya that's what I meant. :S

I love you wine... I mean honey :) xo

Joy!!! In a piece of bread :)

2013-09-04T16:01:00.004-07:00

This might sound pretty sad but when you have been eating a gluten free diet for close to a year... biting into a yummy piece of bread that doesn't taste like cardboard with the consistency of cardboard is a pretty awesome thing.
I have bought gluten free bread that isn't so bad, it's just that it costs anywhere from $5 to $10 a loaf! I thought surely I could make it for less. Right? Wrong!
I can bake. I have made great regular bread. When it comes to making a loaf of gluten free bread I have yet to find one that works worth a damn. That is until now.
Today on a whim I found a focaccia bread recipe on Pinterest - actually it was for a focaccia bread pizza. I wasn't interested in the pizza part, I just wanted the bread to go with a pasta dish I had made. I also needed the recipe to be quick... and easy. I didn't think I was going to be in luck as all the recipes I was finding said that the dough had to rise for an hour or so because of the yeast component in the dough.
The recipe I decided on went together in minutes and baked up in 20 minutes - no rising time required. No yeast either. I was a bit skeptical at first but then it came out of the oven all puffed up and golden - and it smelled good too!
Would I do it again - you betcha! I can see that it might make a nice loaf and it would make an amazing pizza crust. For tonight though, it fit the bill as a great accompaniment to our pasta dinner :)
Enjoy!

Gluten Free Focaccia Bread

4 eggs
4 Tablespoons plain yogurt
¼ cup/ 30g coconut flour
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/8th teaspoon sea salt
1 cup/ 112g grated fontina and parmesan cheese

Instructions:

Preheat oven to 375.
Beat the eggs and yogurt in a bowl until well combined.Combine the coconut flour, baking soda, salt and cheese in medium sized bowl.
Add the beaten eggs and yogurt mixture to the dry ingredients and mix until well combined.
Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and spread the mixture in one large or two smaller oval shapes with the back of a spoon or spatula.
bake for 15 to 20 minutes or until lightly puffed and golden around the edges.
Remove parchment from baking sheet and let cool on wire rack.
Yum. Enjoy.

Here's a link to the original recipe: http://gourmandeinthekitchen.com/2012/tomato-olive-thyme-focaccia-bread-gluten-grain-free/ (and you'll get to see better photos than mine!)

An Anniversary

2013-09-03T11:11:00.000-07:00

of sorts anyways. One that I look on with both positive and negative feelings.

One year ago today I went on leave from a job that I wasn't all too unhappy to go on leave from. I left so I could prepare to have treatment for thyroid cancer that same fall.

My treatment was waylaid to January.

Waiting was hard but I knew I would be fine. While I waited I grew to learn with each day that came and went that my Mom would not be fine.

While I sat home trying to remain positive, my job contract ended. Though it could have been renewed, it was not.

Losing that job was a blessing.

I had time to spend with my Mom before she died of cancer in April of this year. I also had time to make my "work" what I want it to be - this is when Pickwick was born.

Pickwick Publishing along with my adventures in writing are bittersweet. The one person who believed in me most is gone and I've shed many tears over that fact.

It has also made me stronger - More determined.

To fail would be letting her down. Letting myself down.

Failure is not an option and I am counting on strength, perserverance and passion to get me through to my goal.

I am also hoping you will help me.

Please support Pickwick Publishing.

If you are a writer, an illustrator or just love a good story get involved! Interact with us on Facebook (*like* us) and follow Pickwick's story as it becomes reality :) - click here to find Pickwick on Facebook

Thank-you

Please enjoy a revised snippet of a novel I am working on below:

In the Hollow if his Hands (c) - working title

Intro:

My parents died.

It was a car accident that took them from me. And though I don’t remember much about it, I was there. What I do remember, I dream about every night. Every night my parents and I sit in our car as it speeds down the highway. Where we’re going, I don’t know. In a flash our faces are overcome with fear and in another flash my parents are gone.

The blue-eyed man comes into focus. He stares into my eyes. I don’t know who he is or why he’s there. I do know I love him. Heart and soul I love him - but why?

Over and over again I'm haunted by my loss. My every move made heavy by the fact that my parents are dead and that the last year we had together is gone from my memory. I want that year back. If I can’t have my parents, then I want the memories that I lost of them. That isn’t too much to ask for, is it?

My memory goes along like a train running along a track, beautiful scenery visible on either side. The train cars full of life as they enter a tunnel. Once inside, everything becomes silent. Everything fades to black. A little while later, with a burst, the train emerges on the other side of the tunnel. Only now two thirds of the train are gone.

What happened in that tunnel? I want to know, yet I’m afraid. What if I don’t like everything that happened? Maybe I’m better off not knowing.

No. I need to know.

I have to know because if I don’t find out my life will be incomplete and an incomplete life would be a waste. Too much of my life had been wasted. That had to change.

I’m in the dream again. Faces are blurred and screaming. The blue-eyed man comes into view, his eyes filled with love, fear and sadness. Why? Who is he to me?

He knows my every inch - my every thought. I can’t make out anything else about him except for his piercing blue eyes. They are so familiar, yet completely unknown.

His embrace is warm and strong, his kisses soft on my lips. He lets go as he’s pulled away. Try as I might, through screams and tears streaming down my face, he would not, could not, return. His silhouette fades out into a bright glaring light as I faintly hear him say, “I love you. Don’t forget.”

I have forgotten. I have forgotten the one person, outside of my parents, who loved me completely. Where was he now? Where had he been for the last 15 years - What was keeping him away? Maybe he was just a figment of my dream, born from my grief and despair.

The dream is a nightmare and I wake night after night to my own screams. I call out to my parents and the mysterious blue-eyed man. No one answers. No one is there. I’m alone in the dark, gripping my blankets tight around me.

The only sound in the room is the pounding of my broken heart.

Chapter 1:

“Mom? Are you there?” Bhreagh Kennedy calls out to the darkness of her bedroom.

There was no response, except for a confused and disgruntled meow from Marzbarz, Bree’s constant feline companion.

“I thank you for you deep concern Marzy.” Bhreagh whispers sarcastically to the cat as she shimmies out of bed. Marz curls himself into a ball, contented once again to fall asleep among the pillows and feather duvet covering the bed. Rolling her eyes and wishing to be able to trade places with her pet, Bhreagh makes her way down the hall to the kitchen.

***

When I was a little girl it was my father who would always put the kettle on. He would swear that a good cup of tea could cure anything from nightmares to heartache, the common cold and everything in between. He was right, a good cup of tea usually did the trick. It could cure anything - if he made it. And, that in itself was the problem. He wasn’t there and I was on my own to cure what ailed me. I did make a good cup of tea, but it was never quite the same as it was when Dad would make. One day maybe I would get the knack. Deep down though, I know I never would.

The true magic to Dad’s cure-all cuppa came not from the tea, its time steeping in the pot or just the right amount of milk added to the cup – that wasn’t it at all – it was the man himself who held the magic. It was his care, his kind words and his joking nature that would turn any problem no matter how small, or large for that matter, into a ray of sunshine. All became right in the world with one of Dad’s brews.

***

Bhreagh sat and pondered her tea before she took her first sip. She imagined her Dad stirring in the milk and placing the steaming cup before her at the kitchen table of her childhood home.

Home - that was a thought! It was thousands of miles away. She thought of her father there at that moment, with her mom by his side. Maybe she could call the house and they would answer. Bhreagh reached for the phone, then realised how ridiculous she was being. They weren’t there anymore and they would never again answer her call.

Bhreagh’s parents existed only in her memory - and her overactive imagination. She often felt that she could still sense them, sometimes even catch a glimpse of them from the corner of her eye. She convinced herself that this was nothing more than a cruel trick of her mind. Regardless, she never stopped looking.

How Bhreagh hated life without her parents in it. When they died they left a hole so large in her heart that she feared it would never heal. The gap in her memory, unseen by the naked eye, was her largest scar.

Wounded or not, Bhreagh had to carry on. What was done was done. Eventually, she hoped, she would feel normal again. Fifteen years had passed since the accident and a new sense of normalcy had yet to settle in. She was losing hope and sadly her heartache was becoming the one constant thing she could count on. It was normal, weirdly comforting in a way, for her to hurt, to feel sad and to never expect much from life. She had become so complacent with things going poorly that she allowed people to walk all over her. Her relationships with men were a disaster, her relationship with her aunt who raised her following her parent’s death was even worse - and work! She could barely hold on to a job for more than a month. She bore the mark of someone who could be walked on and ridiculed.

Through it all Bhreagh pushed forward giving the illusion that she didn’t care how terribly she was being treated - how terribly she let herself be treated. Whatever the case, underneath her mostly emotionless exterior, she did care and she cared deeply. She was a bit of a masochist. She felt that she deserved to feel terrible and to be treated as such. That’s how she had felt everyday since her parents died. Why should she ever expect to feel any different? Besides, to feel happy would mean that she was moving on, away from her parents and their collective tragedy. She couldn’t allow herself to do that. It wasn’t fair. Her parents couldn’t move beyond the accident, why should she? Bhreagh also believed that until she could remember all of the details of her life before the accident she would be stuck living in the past, in the memories that remained. She feared that she would never move forward and even if she could she wasn’t certain that she would want to.

When Bhreagh woke from a coma following the accident, her Aunt Maeve was there packing her bags before flying her to Canada. Bhreaghs Uncle Albert, her fathers brother and her only remaining relative in Ireland, wasn’t considered a good enough choice to look after her. He was a bachelor who jetted off here and there, with a new girlfriend every week. Bhreagh thought he was great but no one else did, particularly her Aunt Maeve. Like Bhreaghs uncle, Aunt Maeve had no children of her own but she was married and because of that she was considered the most capable of looking after her. Between the two, Aunt and Uncle, Bhreagh’s future living arrangements were settled. Bhreagh wasn’t consulted.

It was February when Bhreagh arrived to her new home in Canada. She quickly came to see an ironic relationship between the Aunt that took her in and the country that she began to halfheartedly call home - They were both cold.

***

I struggled to hold back tears as I stared into my cup of tea. I both despised and loved my Aunt Maeve. Above all I missed my parents and I hated not being able to remember that last year I had with them. What had happened in that year? What was said? Did they know how much I loved them before they died? Did they know how much I missed them now?

For years I had hoped that my memory would just return out of the blue, no therapy or prompting required. Then as a result my recurring nightmare would end and be replaced by something beautiful – maybe a dream of my parents enjoying a warm summer day. As the years ticked by, I realised that would never happen, not without help.

Tonight as I sat at the kitchen table sipping my tea I realised something that I had known all along. If I wanted my memories back, my life back, I would have to confront my nightmare head on. The only way I could do that was by returning home - to Ireland. Surely my memories would be there waiting for me. I could feel them calling.

Every time I would wake from my nightmare I felt the need to go home but I would resist. I would tell myself that I didn't need to go, it wasn't necessary. I could find the truth about my past right where I was. In truth I was - I am - afraid. Afraid of what I don’t know. The thought of leaving the sad little life I have created for myself here in Canada only to replace it with something worse in Ireland sends a chill through me. My life has not been perfect but it is what I know.

I could no longer be complacent. Enough was enough, I had to go.

In one decisive move I went online and booked a ticket to Ireland. The plane would leave first thing in the morning. With no turning back I swiftly packed my bags, slipped a sleepy cat into his travel carrier and tiptoed out the door. My fiancé, who lay sleeping on the sofa in the living room in front of the TV, was none the wiser.

***

Bhreagh Kennedy’s days of living in the dark were over. Good or bad, her life was about to change. She stepped out onto the street with a smile on her face. A cool spring breeze played across her cheek as she hailed a cab. She felt strong and confident without a whisper of worry or doubt on her mind. Her decision to leave was right, she could feel it. She was determined like never before to take charge of her life and find what she had lost.

Fluttering, Floating, Fleeting Flies

2013-08-11T16:17:00.002-07:00

By: Tara Shannon
Visit and LIKE Pickwick on Facebook here!!

As I sit here I start thinking – thinking, thinking, without blinking

Can Dragon’s fly?
I think they can
Though I hear they flew off to Neverland.

Butter’s fly-
This I know
They flutter sweetly to and fro.

Butters practice pure persistence
Shimmering in and out of existence
Transforming, shaping and flying high
Then, so softly, landing by

Dragons too, fly about, wings humming in and out
Not as dainty as the Butter,
Who so sweetly flits and flutters
Dragons’ zipper all around - Is it lost or is it found?

What of Dragons and of Butters? Do they dazzle one another?
In this life they may well do and in the next they must do too
They join together in their chorus
Wafting gently through the forest
Singing softly, by the by, a sweet silken lullaby

Here on earth, within my mind they dazzle me every time.
My eyes are open. my book is read
But of them, what can be said?
Can they see me – are they blind?
Are they weary of mankind?

Imagination sparked by fire, igniting passion and desire
I’m captivated; mesmerized
And if I were to surmise, I do believe they’re in disguise
Those fluttering, floating, fleeting flies

These two creatures do bemuse
A quiet question to amuse –
What if fairy tales were true?

I believe.

Do you?

Taking a Chance

2013-07-15T07:37:00.000-07:00

The Abyss...
It's dark and black
I jump in
This is scary you know... the unknown
Taking a chance
Hoping against hope
Not to screw up

It's scary
It's exhilarating
It's lonely

I second guess myself everyday... sometimes by the hour
What if I can't do it?
What if I fuck it all up?
Next minute, I'm back at it
Trudging forward
It has to work
My passion will see me through

Knowledge
Belief, hope... worry.
Love!
Wrap it all up in a wish
A butterfly kiss
Send it to the stars

...Carry on

Pickwick Publishing

2013-07-09T13:32:00.003-07:00

Website to launch this fall!!!
***Like US and follow our Updates @ https://www.facebook.com/PickwickPublishing***

About Pickwick Publishing

Our Mission:

To inspire a love of reading in children; to create a safe internet “enook” where parents will feel comfortable allowing their children to visit and read quality reviewed stories; to provide a source of quality women’s literature; and lastly, though very importantly, to inspire the ongoing creativity of emerging writers and illustrators by providing them a place to showcase their talents, collaborate on projects, gain constructive feedback and to be published.

Why?:

Pickwick has been developed because there is an abundance of talented local Canadian writers, of both Children’s and Women’s literature, who go unpublished.

Traditional publishing houses are swamped by aspiring authors hoping to have their storybook or novel published. Unfortunately many of these works go unnoticed – Why? Because there are just too many and most publishing house’s don’t have the staff to keep up with the demand. The result - many excellent stories go untold… and that is unfair to the writer, the illustrator and to the reader.

How Pickwick will work:

Pickwick Publishing will strive to create a safe and quiet place on the internet where children and their parents can login to discover wonderful new stories. Children and their parents will be able to interact with writers and suggest story ideas and/or to review stories with the intent of making them better.

***All stories and illustrations uploaded to Pickwick will be reviewed prior to being made public on the site to ensure safety.

Emerging writers, the emphasis on home grown Canadian talent, will have a place to publish their work in an e-book format. Hard copy printing/publication and editing services will be an option provided through consultation and external sources.

Writers and illustrators will be able to collaborate and gain feedback from their peers, children and their parents. Together all parties will work to create and publish quality children’s stories and literature.

At the same time that children are enjoying stories created just for them by dedicated writers and illustrators (maybe they are tucked in for a nap or for the night), Mom can log in and access e-books created with her in mind in Pickwicks’ Women’s Literature section.

Whatever your needs as a reader, writer or illustrator of Children’s stories or Women’s Literature, Pickwick Publishing will be there to help make your wishes come true.

May the Road Rise up to Meet You - A Teaser for Father's Day

2013-06-14T11:26:00.001-07:00

It's been awhile since I posted and with good reason... there have been many changes of late both good and very, very bad.

"All things happen for a reason" has been my motto and I can see the benefit of it now. I really wasn't to clear on it before, it was just something I felt would eventually make sense - losing my job and being home these last several months unable to find another job - these were things that weren't making sense. They were making stress. However I kept thinking, there must be a reason. And there was - I was meant to be home.

My Mom passed in later April, not two years since my father's passing. Life will never be the same again.

It was one thing to live without Dad. He had been very sick and when he passed you knew it was a good thing - there would be no more suffering. My Mom, as always, was there to make sure all was right and looked after. Mom was strong, despite having cancer herself. She was living with it and doing well.

Unfortunately, just when we thought Mom was going to have some time to enjoy life we learned that there was another path she had to take. The battle was on and she fought hard to stay here. In the end, as with my Dad, there was relief to know that there would be no more pain.

Her journey, one her family took with her, was over. She carried on without us... until we meet again.

Despite the darkness of the last few months, there have still been a few drops of sunshine falling in through the cracks acting as a reminder that again, all things happen for a reason.

Change is inevitable and we must carry on.

To that end, I have been writing again. My plans for my own business are coming together.

Below is a teaser for something I am working on. It will be the only teaser I post to my blog, the rest I will work on in private, with an editor and some very wonderful friends :) In the end... there will be a book - no wait, a novel :) I am over the moon for that!

Please feel free to let me know what you think.

Mom & Dad

My parents were my biggest fans - always encouraging my writing - Dad especially.

Happy Father's Dad - where ever you are. This is for you.

(***Oh yes... if you encounter an error of spelling or grammar. Don't worry, it will be fixed***)

***

In the Hollow of his Hands (c)
By: Tara Shannon

Intro:

Every night for the last fifteen years, Bree Kennedy dreamt the same dream. A blue eyed man would stare deeply into her eyes. It was as if he knew her every inch - her every thought. She couldn’t make out anything else about the man except for his piercing blue eyes. They were so familiar yet she couldn’t place who they belonged to. Without a doubt though, she knew that she loved the man who owned those eyes. Heart and soul she loved him.

Bree could feel his embrace, his arms strong around her as he began to kiss her. His kisses fell softly on her lips and she became lost in the moment. She wished she could stay in this part of the dream, she loved this part. It was the next part, the part that would soon come, that she feared.

Every night it was the same. Bree’s blue eyed love would let go his embrace and begin to walk away from her. Try as she might, she could never make him stop and turn back around. He stayed one step ahead of her at every turn, always just out of reach. In a whisper she would hear him say “goodbye”, his silhouette fading out into a bright glaring light. His soft voice replaced by the sound of someone screaming, the screech of tires on pavement and a horn blaring loudly. Pure fear would wash over her; the dream was now a nightmare.

Bree would wake to a scream. It was her own. It would escape her lips and steal her breath before falling flat against the darkness of the night. She was awake now and frightened. Gripping her blankets tight around her Bree would listen to the only sound in the room - the pounding of her broken heart.

Chapter 1:

“Mom? Are you there?” Bree Kennedy called out to the darkness of her bedroom.

There was no response, except for a confused and disgruntled meow from Marzbarz, Bree’s constant feline companion.

“I thank you for you deep concern.” Bree whispered sarcastically to the cat as she shimmied out of her bed. Marz curled himself into a ball, contented once again to fall asleep amongst the pillows and feather duvet covering the bed. Rolling her eyes and wishing to be able to trade places with her pet, Bree made her way down the hall to the kitchen.

When Bree was a little girl it was her father who would always put the kettle on. He would swear that a good cup of tea could cure anything from nightmares to heartache, the common cold and everything in between. He was right, a good cup of tea usually did the trick. It could cure anything, if he made it. And, that in itself was the problem. He wasn’t there and Bree was on her own to cure what ailed her. She made a good cup of tea, but it was never quite the same as what her Dad would make. She hoped one day she would get the knack of it but deep down she knew she never would. The true magic to her Dad’s cure-all cuppa came not from the tea, its time steeping in the pot or just the right amount of milk added to the cup – that wasn’t it at all – it was the man himself who held the magic. It was his care, his kind words and his joking nature that would turn any problem no matter how small, or large for that matter, into a ray of sunshine. All became right in the world with one of her Dad’s brews.

Bree sat and pondered her tea before she took her first sip. She imagined her Dad stirring in the milk and placing the steaming cup before her at the kitchen table of her childhood home. Home - that was a thought! It was thousands of miles away. She thought of her father there at that moment, with her mom at his side. Maybe she could call the house and they would answer. Bree reached for the phone, then realised how ridiculous she was being. They weren’t there anymore and they would never again answer her call.

Bree’s parents existed only in her memory - and in her overactive imagination. She often felt that she could still sense them, sometimes even catch a glimpse of them from the corner of her eye. She convinced herself that this was nothing more than a cruel trick of her mind. Regardless, she never stopped looking.

How she hated life without her parents in it. When they died in a car accident, of which Bree was a part, they left a hole so large in her heart that she feared it would never heal. Wounded or not, Bree had to carry on. What was done was done. Eventually, she hoped, she would feel normal again. Fifteen years had passed since the accident. A new sense of normalcy had yet to set in.

Bree was losing hope and sadly her heartache became the one constant thing she could count on. It became normal, weirdly comforting in a way, for her to hurt, to feel sad and to never expect much from life. Bree became so complacent with things going poorly that she allowed people to walk all over her. Her relationships with men were a disaster, her relationship with her aunt who raised her following her parent’s death was even worse - and work! She could barely hold on to a job for more than a month. She bore the mark of someone who could be walked on and ridiculed. After a while she would eventually have enough and explode in anger, running away to find solace or off to find a new job. Through it all Bree pushed forward giving the illusion that she didn’t care how terribly she was being treated - how terribly she let herself be treated. Whatever the case, underneath her mostly emotionless exterior, she did care and she cared deeply. Bree was a bit of a masochist. She felt that she deserved to feel terrible and to be treated as such. That’s how she felt everyday since her parents had died. Why should she ever expect to feel any different? Besides, to feel happy would mean that Bree was moving on and moving away from her parents and their collective tragedy. She couldn’t allow herself to do that, it wasn’t fair. Her parents couldn’t move beyond the accident, why should she?

Bree felt helpless and hopeless. She was helpless at the loss of her parent’s and hopeless because she could not remember a thing about the accident that took their lives, even though she had been there. The injury Bree sustained as a result of the accident caused her to lose all memory of the incident and the year that preceded it. Bree knew that fifteen years ago she had parents, wonderful parents and then in a flash, they were gone. She was alone. Bree woke to her Aunt Reed packing her bags and flying her to Canada during the cold of February. Bree soon came to see an ironic relationship between the Aunt who took her in and the country that she began to half-heartedly call home - They were both cold.

Bree stared into her cup of tea, struggling to hold back tears. She despised her Aunt and she missed her parents. She hated most of all, not remembering that last year with her parents. What had happened in that year? What was said? Did her parents know how much she loved them before they died? Did they know how much she missed them now? Bree felt that if she could retrieve those lost memories, she could gain back that stolen time with her parents. The hole in her heart might fill and she could gain some closure, maybe even some peace.

She was certain that her recurring dream about the blue eyed man was connected in some way to her missing memories, but she couldn’t for the life of her figure out how. Bree also knew that the last nightmarish part of her dream was a glimpse into the crash that stole so much from her. While she didn’t want to know anymore about the crash, she knew she would someday have to relive it if she were to regain her missing year. For years Bree had hoped that her memory would just return out of the blue, no therapy or prompting required. Then as a result her recurring nightmare would end and be replaced by something beautiful – perhaps a dream of her parents enjoying a warm summers day. As the years ticked by, Bree realised that the miraculous return of her memory and the disappearance of her recurring nightmare would never happen. At least, not without some help. If she wanted her memories back, she would have to confront her nightmare head on. The only way she felt she could do that would be by returning home - to Ireland. Surely her memories would be there waiting for her. She could feel them calling to her, pulling at her heart and mind. Every time she dreamt her dreaded dream she woke to the need to go home but time and time again she would resist. She would tell herself that she needn’t return, it wasn’t necessary and she could find the truth of her past right where she was. Bree was afraid. She was afraid of what she might find and of what she might learn. The thought of leaving her dismal life in Canada to find what might be an even more dismal one in Ireland chilled her to the bone.

Tonight though, things were different. As Bree sat at her kitchen table sipping her tea and hoping her problems would magically solve themselves, she realised that she had the solution. She’d had it all along. The answer to her problems was within her, only she could put an end to her constant nightmares. Only she could track down the pieces of her missing year. Enough was enough. Bree knew she could no longer resist the strange pull calling her home.

In one decisive move Bree went online and booked a ticket to Ireland. The plane would leave first thing in the morning. With no turning back she swiftly packed her bags, slipped her sleepy cat into his travel carrier and tiptoed out the door. Her fiancé, who lay sleeping on the sofa in the living room in front of the TV, was none the wiser. Bree’s days of living in the dark were over. Good or bad, her life was about to change. She stepped out onto the street and hailed a cab. A cool spring breeze played across her cheek and a smile formed on her lips. She was determined like never before to take charge of her life and to find what she had lost.

A Novel Idea

2013-04-15T18:57:00.000-07:00

The Synopsis:

In the Hollow of his Hands (c)

By: Bill Patterson

Breagh Kennedy has lost everything but she doesn't know why. In search of answers she leaves her cold life in Canada and returns to her ancestral home in Ireland. Once there she hopes to find what she has lost – but is she really prepared to learn the truth about her forgotten past? When her lost memories come crashing in as ghosts, fairies and a love that knows no bounds - Breagh doesn't know what to believe - but believe she must! Only then will she see that magic really does exist, that fairy tales really can come true and that her life can end happily ever after.

Tick, Tock on the Clock

2013-04-13T19:17:00.001-07:00

Really!? Is that what this looks like. Hmmm.

Tick, tock, tick, tock - and so on and so forth.... and on and on - holy cow this clock is loud!

What kind of sick and twisted turn of events is this?! Why now after all this time does my biological clock have to start ticking? And, it’s not just ticking, it’s gonging! I hear it. I get the point. But there’s nothing I am prepared to do about it. Except maybe get another cat or buy a sweater for my dog. For me, fur babies are where it’s at.

and... I'm ok with that.

I am young enough by many standards to still have a child, or two of my own. The thing is I’m not willing to go through the tests and the procedures required to make it so that I might be able to conceive. Neither is my husband. He already has two children (young ladies) of his own from a previous relationship. A thought out little snip a few years ago put an end to him ever having anymore. Couple that with my comfort thus far in not wanting (I did have a couple miscarriages during a previous marriage) children of my own – we were, and have been, golden.

My motto in life has always been, “what is meant to be, will be”. I have not been meant to have children. There are alternatives I know – adoption or fostering and I suppose I could also (and I can hear some advocating it) leave my husband. It is after all a woman’s divine right, privilege and obligation to produce children into this world. Right? To those who may think this I reply with a resounding; “No way!” I have been blessed, after some trial and tribulation, to find the best man in the world for me and I’ll be damned if I toss him aside for the chance to have a child. I have everything I need in life and I’m happy and I’m grateful. So why can’t I quiet this, of late, incessant gonging inside my head and my heart?

What can I do to stop it?

I need to think of what the real driving force behind my “tick, tock” is and I have to learn not to dwell on what is not “meant to be”.

Deep down I know that my biological clock isn’t ticking because of my own desire to have a child. It is the societally acceptable thing to do but for me that isn’t a good enough. I can hear my Mom’s voice inside my head; “When are you going to give me a grandchild?”; “Well, I guess my end of the family line is going to end with you.”; and my favourite, “It hurts me to think of you being alone when I’m gone.” My heart strings tug to the point of near breaking. However they don’t break because for me, providing a child so that my mother can have a grandchild or having one to ensure that I am not alone or so that I stay young at heart are not good enough reasons to have a child. Maybe I’m just afraid of getting old? Is my biological clock clanging because it sees that soon my belfry will be full of bats and rust?

Having a child is a huge responsibility – one that if I were meant to carry out I would handle with the utmost care. It’s also something I think I would feel a deep need for within my soul. I don’t feel that and if I do it’s buried so deep it’s now impossible for me to know if it’s really me wanting a child or if it’s just an innate survival instinct that’s been built into my DNA.

My mind, at times, is a mess on this subject. Every time I come back to the same conclusion – “What is meant to be, will be.” At this point in my life my having a child will have to come down to immaculate conception. That or some other act of god or whatever metaphysical being one may believe in. If pigs fly, you know I’m pregnant. In any case it will be a newsworthy event. For now, I will carry on with a glass of wine, my sense of humour and maybe a therapist. Heaven knows it’s always nice to have a second opinion, even if they’re laughing while they give it to you.

I'm the one in the back - unamused. HA! Sorry, I'm totally amused. Just messin.

Well! What do you know...

2013-03-12T10:37:00.001-07:00

Seems that the exercise I set myself up for in retelling Jane Eyre chapter by chapter really inspired me! After writing out that last post (pre-soup) the whole outline for my own novel fell into place and splattered all over the place - I literally wrote for hours and in a relatively short amount of time had notes all over the place and an outline. When my spree was over I had 33 small paragraphs representing my novel (including character names and some development). Crazy.

Looking into the story that I wanted to tell, at least the idea that I had, I was able to see similarities/links to my all time favourite - Jane Eyre. So, why not use that novel as my inspiration. Why fight it if it's there. I mean so many authors do that. Stories are told and retold time and time again, especially those written by Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters. Would I have thought to place zombies in the world of Pride and Prejudice, I doubt it - but hey, to each their own.

Now, seeing that I have my own novel to write, I don't think I should post it chapter by chapter with you here in this format. I will post my "work-in-progress" first chapter and little snippets of things here and there like character information or the outline/synopsis. However I need to hone the characters and outline a little bit more before I share.

What's the title - well for the moment I have it as: In the Hollow of his Hands (c) and my inspiration: a farm that looks something like the one pictured above... and if possible I would love to know the source for the above - I would like to contact them. I can't quite make out the watermark in the bottom and searching has has lead me in nothing but circles.

Well, I'm off for now - off to type up the first chapter so I can share it with you soon. ;)

Cheers.

Something a little different - Sweet Potato & Garlic Soup

2013-03-05T13:15:00.000-08:00

I love to cook as much as I love to write sometimes. Especially when I have the time. My plan today was to make a sweet potato soup - I had sweet potatoes in the cupboard and wanted to use them up.

When I get something in mind that I want to make I first look online for inspiration and then - I wing it. And it was a winner!! I will be making this again for sure.

So here it is and I hope you will enjoy it as much as I am right now... it tastes great (smells amazing too) and it will keep both vampires and colds away ;)

Sweet potato garlic soup:
2tbsp olive oil
1 average sized fresh bulb garlic (peeled and smashed)
1 average sized roasted bulb garlic
1 cup onion (diced)
2 1/2 cups chicken stock
3 cups peeled and baked sweet potato
tbsp salt (I used kosher)
1/2 tsp pepper
1/2 cup heavy cream
(*I also added 1/2 tbsp of cornstarch to thicken it a bit)

In a tall sauce pan over medium heat, add the olive oil and then the garlic and sauté for one minute, stirring constantly.
Add the onion, salt and pepper, and cook for five minutes or until tender, stirring occasionally.
Add the chicken stock and potato and brink to a boil, stirring to combine.
Reduce heat, add cream and simmer for ten minutes.
Remove from heat and blend the soup until smooth (this can be done in a blender or using a hand blender).
Adjust seasoning to taste and return to very low heat until serving.

Jane Eyre: Retold - Ch. 1

2013-03-01T14:42:00.000-08:00

Jane Eyre is my favourite novel. I can read it over and over again. Something about the story pulls me in every time. Maybe it's the fact that Jane is the underdog and I can relate to that - most everyone can. She pulls herself up from nothing and becomes a strong, smart and confident woman. The love story also gets me. The prickly, mysterious and intriguing Mr. Rochester... a man brave enough (for the time the story was originally written) to take on a woman who keeps him on his toes - his equal.

For me, Janes' story never grows old. Every film that is made of the story, I've seen - and will see. It's a story that lasts the test of time. It's the kind of story I would love to write myself. And as I try to write my own novel I look to Charlotte Bronte and her novel Jane Eyre for inspiration. Inspiration that comes in splits and splats. It's hard to wrap your head around writing a compelling story that people would want to read... a story that a writer wants to carry on writing.

So, why not try rewriting my favourite novel as a test. I will rewrite a major literary masterpiece, chapter by chapter - all thirty-eight of them... :S Am I crazy. Maybe. Well, yes I am. That really was an unfair question.

I will endeavour to rewrite a chapter a week - modernising the story somewhat, making a few other changes as I see fit and continually editing as I go along.

We'll see - I will see, if I can do this. Stick with it I mean - if I can, then maybe I can get the guts to actually get a crack on my own story when I'm done.

Here goes nothing... *gulp*

***

Jane Eyre: Retold
Chapter One

The rain pounded heavily outside and I knew there would be no chance of getting out of this house on this dismal day. I would be stuck inside with my dreadful Aunt and her even more dreadful children. My only saving grace being that my Aunt very rarely let me socialize with anyone but myself. Hopefully I could sit alone, undisturbed in the library thumbing my way through history and travel books until I was called to dinner. My cousins, Liza, Georgie and John were too good for me according to my Aunt. I might dirty them up with my lower class ways. This was never something that my Aunt would say out loud of course, oh no, she was too much of a lady for that. My Aunts actions were all I needed to know that she despised me. Why else would she not let me near her children and why else would she belittle me at my every turn?

My Aunt was jealous of anyone who had anything that she did not. She even went so far as to be Jealous of her own sister - my Mother. Now by association, she was jealous of me as well. When my Mother chose to marry for love and not money my Aunt rejoiced in her jealousy and hatred of her. She hated the fact that my Mother and Father loved each other, it was something she would never know. She rejoiced because as a result of that love, my Mother was cut off from the family and my Aunt became the heir. A great fortune was to be hers.

When my parents died in a terrible car accident, Aunt Reed had the perfect opportunity to envelope herself in her anger and jealousy. She adopted me into her home and family under the guise that I should (and could) be saved. She made everything look perfect on the outside as she paraded me around to all the social gatherings, while I was made to remain as quiet as a mouse. Heaven forbid I dare say a word as we mingled in "polite society." If I did, I'd never hear the end of it! On the plus side when I did occasionally speak out or fuss, usually because my cousin John was taunting me, my Aunt was able to play up her part as the martyr. She, already a busy mother of three (and now a widow) had taken in a hapless child that was not her own. To all eyes that looked upon her in the town of Haworth, my Aunt was a saint. Behind closed doors and away from those approving eyes, I was the perfect victim. Trapped in my Aunt's cage and there at the ready should she desire to spew her disdain.

Fortunately for my Aunt, I pitied her. She was sad and loveless, which I knew was her own doing and for that I was sad. She might not deserve my love but she had it because I knew she was doing the only thing she knew how. My Aunt had never learned to love. She loved neither herself nor anyone else. I on the other hand did know love and that could never be taken from me. My Aunt and I could have been close and I wished we had. I felt a hollowness inside whenever she would send me to another room. She looked so much like my Mother - how I missed her. However, my Aunt chose to be stubborn and spiteful. She chose, not I. I felt great sadness when she would curse my parents and I. No matter how hard she tried to break me, to destroy the image and love of my Mother and Father, she could not. My ability to remain unbroken seemed only to spur her on and with every cutting word she gave me, I grew stronger, but never harder.

Aunt Reed could have had love and she could have had happiness - she could have followed in my Mother's footsteps. Instead she turned her back on true love and married according to what her parents and her society expected. She married for money and for status. Lucky for her my Uncle was a great man and when he was in this house, life was tolerable. I think he died of a broken heart. He would have loved my Aunt, if she'd only let him. In the week since his death in his room, all glint of life and of love that had existed, vanished. I felt completely alone and I was beginning to be quite at home with only myself to entertain.

I had been living at Gateshead Hills with my aunt and her family for close to a month by the time my Uncle died. A long, patience testing month. Now with my Uncle gone, I wondered how I would hold it together and not scream profanities at the sad little family that remained? More so, how was I not going to punch my cousin John right in the face!? "Patience is a virtue" I would say over and over again in my mind, hoping against hope that it would stick. I feared the inevitable - I would crack.

Crack I did. As I sat in the library that rainy afternoon, imagining myself in the exotic, far off places I was reading about, my cousin John appeared. What happened next happened so quickly I had no time to defend myself. John threw a punch so hard to the right side of my face that I fell off my chair, catching the corner of the reading table with my head as I fell. The room began to spin and become disordered. All I could hear was the faint sound of a laugh coming from John. How I hated him. In that moment I was done, all semblance of patience and virtue was gone. As soon as my body allowed I was on my feet screaming the most vile swear words I could think of as I tackled John to the ground. John cried as he covered his face against the blows of my fists which pummelled over and over again into his head and chest. I even managed to knee him in the groin a couple of times which had him doubling up in pain. How fantastic I thought! What a release!

Then it was over. Aunt Reed's hands were on me tearing me away from her precious son. A look of horror took hold of her face. I continued to scream and cry out as Aunt Reed's trusty housemaid Beth began dragging me down the hall to meet my punishment. A night in the most fearful room in the house. The room my Uncle had died in. I feared that black room. It housed death and death was something that, after the loss of my own parents, I'd hoped to never meet again. Death was unknown and scary. It was as black as the room I now found myself in. With a nod of understanding Beth ushered me into the darkness of my Uncle's room. She shut the door tight and locked it before making her way back to the library. Where I am certain she would have found my Aunt fussing and preening over my idiot cousin John.

I sat with my back against the door. I was alone with death and whatever else it might bring with it. In this house, being alone usually brought me comfort however at this moment fear of the unknown had taken hold of me and I couldn't catch my breath. My eyes darted about the room and they soon grew tired. They fixed themselves on one place, my Uncle's face. He starred into my eyes. The black of the room engulfed me and I passed out. I was not alone.

In Time

2013-02-13T12:51:00.000-08:00

"I'm here." Called a voice, ushering in a presence that filled every inch of space in the room.

"What do you mean, you're here? You weren't invited." My heart began to race. Nervously I fidgeted and looked around.

The response came; "I don't need an invitation dear one. I come when I please and leave when I like."

Every stitch of air was then sucked from the room and the walls began to close in. Suddenly, the intruder was on top of me - Inside of me.

Was I going to die?

Why had it come? What had I done? I didn't mean to encourage it. My heart pounded and my fists clenched in rage. With my back against a wall I began to fight, kicking and screaming as I slid to the floor.

Hands gripped my wrists and I heard voices but couldn't make out what they said. Inextricable fear washed over me. Fight or flight - I knew I had to fight! I couldn't die, I didn't want to die. Not like this, not now.

I had just seen my Mom, we'd chatted over a nice lunch. Where had she gone, surely she must still be here? Why was she letting this happen? Why was she letting this monster attack me?

My heart pounded in my head. Every part of me ached and tears began to stream down my cheeks. Why? Why!?

"WHY!?" I screamed out. "Leave me alone!"

"I can't leave you alone." Came the saccharine voice. Ever so soft and bevelled, it melted like velvet into my tortured ears. "You called me. You wanted me to come. Don't tell me now that this isn't what you wanted."

"I don't want this. I don't! Please leave - Please!" I begged.

Pressure was all around me and the creatures presence was thick as it pressed into me. I tensed and cried. Relief was not coming. I was trapped.

"You are going to die anyways, are you not?" Said the beast. "You're worried over some lump, a scratch and that five pounds you gained this week..." It's voice trailed off as if it were waiting for a response.

"How did you know?" I grew more fearful. What had this thing been doing? Was it watching me? "What do you want?"

"Why, my Dear." The beasts lips brushed past my ear and it's rancid breath filled my lungs. "What I want, is you. You want death... and I can give it to you."

"No!!" I screamed. "No, I don't. I want to live."

"You could have fooled me, dearest." Said the monster. The weight of it was suffocating. Desperate I gasped for air. At first it wouldn't come, I couldn't catch it. The beast wrestled me and I struggled to fight back.

"Give up!" It demanded.

"Never!" I answered.

"You can't even breathe. You're pathetic!" The beast pressed on.

Determined to prove it wrong, I concentrated and managed to suck in a breath. Then another. The monster lessened its grip.

"You see. I can breath." I said indignantly.

"I see." Responded the creature and again its hold on me loosened a little more. "Perhaps you won't die, at least not today." I felt its hold on me disappear and its presence diminish.

My eyes flickered open. Maybe they had been open all along. Whatever the case I once again could see. I sat in the open living space of my parents house. The sun was streaming in through the windows. My Mom was on the floor with me, her hands holding mine. My Dad stood near, holding the phone. They starred at me as worry and fear stained their faces.

"You beat the monster?" Asked my Mother, a smile softening her lips. She brushed a wayward piece of hair away from my eyes.

"I did." I said even though I could still sense it lingering down the hall. Its power was growing weaker by the minute as I was growing stronger. Breath was coming to me more easily now and a sense of ease was settling in. My body and mind began to lighten.

"I'm so sorry!" I professed to my parents.

"No need for that." Said my Dad. "I only wish I could fight this monster for you."

I wished he could too. But he couldn't, this was a battle that I had to fight on my own. It seemed unfair as I was never prepared. The panic always seemed to come without warning and for no reason. One moment I was fine and the next I was trapped in my mind, fighting for air.

In time, I would learn to live with this beast called panic and I would eventually gain the upper hand. In time, panic would just become a minor annoyance and in time, my life would become mine again. ...In time.

The "Good" Cancer

2013-02-08T15:18:00.001-08:00


To read my article in The Purple Fig Blogazine follow this link: http://www.thepurplefig.com/the-good-cancer/ Enjoy - oh and as a side note of some importance... I survived ;) but I knew I would.

A story has only one master

2012-12-21T14:57:00.000-08:00

Almost one year ago to the day I finally finished a book that I just happened upon while scanning the shelves of a local thrift store.

I was just waiting for something to jump out at me as my mind, in truth, really wasn't focused completely on the books. I was focused on memories of my Dad. I was also thinking about the upcoming holidays and how quickly life can change. It was just a couple of months since my father had passed and in that time I had managed to get myself a new job - A job that had so much promise. I was so excited, but just as quickly as the excitement came, it went. Within a week I knew the job was not what I thought it was supposed to be - it was a sham. What was I going to do?! I couldn't go back to my old job - someone else was already hired... I couldn't quit... Who could I talk to? Dad. He would know just what to say, just what to do. He was gone.

Standing there, feeling lost and alone the book I was, and wasn't, looking for appeared. It was called, Ireland: A Novel, by Frank Delaney.

The back cover read:

"One wintry evening in 1951, an itinerant storyteller -- a Seanchai, the very last practitioner of a fabled tradition extending back hundreds of years -- arrives unannounced at a house in the Irish countryside. In exchange for a bed and a warm meal, he invites his hosts and some of their neighbors to join him by the fireside, and begins to tell formative stories of Ireland's history. One of his listeners, a nine-year-old boy, grows so entranced by the story-telling that, when the old man leaves abruptly under mysterious circumstances, the boy devotes himself to finding him again.
Ronan's search for the Storyteller becomes both a journey of self-discovery and an immersion into the sometimes-conflicting histories of his native land. As the long-unspoken secrets of his own family begin to reveal themselves, he becomes increasingly single-minded in pursuit of the old man, who he fears may already be dead. But Ronan's personal path also leads him deeper and deeper into the history and mythology of Ireland itself, in all its drama, intrigue, and heroism.
Ireland travels through the centuries, interweaving Ronan's quest for the Storyteller with a richly evocative unfolding of the great moments in Irish history, ranging from the savage grip of the Ice Age to the green and troubled land of tourist brochures and political unrest. Along the way, we meet foolish kings and innocent monks, fabled saints and great works of art, shrewd Norman raiders, strong tribal leaders, poets, politicians, and lovers. Each illuminates the magic of Ireland and the eternal connection of its people to the land.
A sweeping novel of huge ambition, Ireland is the beautifully told story of a remarkable nation. From the epic sweep of its telling to the precision of its characters -- great and small, tragic and comic -- it rings with the truth of a writer passionate about his country and in full command of his craft."

I bought the book immediately, believing that it must have a message in it meant just for me, from my Dad. (As it turns out, one year on, I could not have been more right.)

The book was a symbol of something lost. Having found it I held it as if it were as precious as a jewel. I had every intention of reading it, absorbing myself in it and just eating it up within a week. In no way did I think it would take me a year to read! It has never taken me that long to read a book. It didn't even take me that long to read The Hobbit - and I really struggled with that one... so much journeying over and through mountains! Sorry to all the Hobbit fans out there... I am looking forward to the movie.

In the year that it took to read Ireland: A Novel, I found that it became a source of comfort. Whenever I picked it up to read it was like hearing my Dad tell one of his grand stories again. It is my belief that this was the plan. My Dad intended that I find this book and he intended it to be there for me while I came to terms with not having him physically here any longer.

The message of the book was clear. Be yourself and follow your dreams - and your heart. Life and your purpose will fall into place. The last line of the book reads: "... a story has only one master." I, like everyone else, am the master of my own story. If I don't like it, I can change it. It's up to me.

What it was I was searching for as I read the book became clear. I had lost my focus and my passion for life and work. I had become bogged down by negativity - my own and that of others. In the past I had been able to shake off negativity and find new ways to be happy, to focus and to be passionate about what I was doing in life. I forgot to be true to myself. I was way off track... Luckily life has a way of getting you back on track - sometimes in very crazy ways. If you listen to your heart and your gut instincts you will be able to figure yourself out. The trick is learning to listen - if you don't, eventually you will have no choice as life can throw some fairly hefty or nasty things at you to knock you back in line.

Through the ups and downs of this past year, I have come to find that even the "bad" things that have happened - my cancer diagnosis, my poor job choice... have been blessings in disguise. Without having to deal with these troubling things, I wouldn't be where I am today. Happy - and, despite having Thyroid Cancer, healthy. I am happier and healthier than I have been in years.

Since beginning this blog a year ago and following my passion to write, I again have focus in my life. I am back on track and wonderful things are happening. 2013 will see the publication of my first children's book, the launch of a new business and... I won a trip (well the accommodation anyways) to Ireland because of my writing (my father's eulogy no less!) How much better can life be?! I can't wait to find out!!

www.pegscottage.com

As for the story about storytelling, Ireland and finding yourself... it seems unfair to keep it locked up. It had a message for me and I got it loud and clear. Now I think it's time that it find someone else to help out...

Cheers to all for a very Happy Christmas and a joyous New Year!!!

Merry Christmas, Kiss my Ass: My Rant of the Day!!

2012-12-16T12:26:00.005-08:00

It's crazy some of the things you end up inexplicably watching on a Sunday morning.

Here's the thing, and I'm going to take a stand here and you can hate me for it if you want to - defriend me or whatever... If being a "Christian" means being judgemental, preachy and rude - then I am not one.

If you are not hurting me I could give a flying *bleep* what you do or what you believe in - black, white, red, yellow, gay, straight, trans or sado-masochistic, 50 shades of grey loving s.o.b., Christian, Muslim or Buddhist - whatever!!! I don't care.

Just be good and kind.

Fact is, you're not going to be good and kind 100% of the time... that's just the way it is. We are human and not perfect. But just do a decent job of trying - and, I can guarantee that whoever is awaiting you in the great beyond - even if it is nothingness - will envelope you without judgement or penalty.

So, to quote the immortal words of Clark Griswald... "Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, kiss my ass. Kiss his ass. Kiss your ass. Happy Hanukkah." and don't forget Kwanzaa and Ramadan - "Hallelujah! Holy sh!t! Where's the Tylenol?" :)

A Wish to build a Dream on - For Lily-Mae

2012-12-06T09:20:00.001-08:00

One early winters night a wish went out that was heard around the world.

A wish is a very powerful thing, especially when it's full of goodness and hope. This wish was exactly that and not one soul who heard it, could ignore it.

Who sent this wish you ask and why? Well, it was a little girl in Ireland whose name is Lily-Mae and her wish is to be healthy and happy.

Lily-Mae is a child, much like many others; She is bright, beautiful and full of life... but unlike other children, she must fight for her life every day. You see, Lily-Mae lives most of her life in a hospital where she is surrounded by her parents, doctors, nurses and sadly, other children who must also fight for life just like her.

Lily-Mae's days, just like yours, are full of tests, appointments and meetings. However they do not take place at school or work - they take place in the hospital.

Lily-Mae and her parents try to live life as normally as possible. They have love and they have hope. Most of all, just like you - they dream!

When Lily-Mae and her parents are fast asleep they dream of wondrous things and far off places.

Lily-Mae dreams of things that you and I might take for granted or have maybe never even thought of. In her dreams she runs, plays and goes on trips with her parents to places like the Zoo or to the Ballet. She dreams that she is healthy and has overcome disease and cancer.

At night Lily-Mae's dreams take flight and she is transformed into a beautiful fairy, dancing pirouettes across the sky!

Tonight when you lay down to sleep, think of Lily-Mae and her parents. Think of how lucky you are... and send out a loving and thoughtful wish that just might make Lily-Mae's dreams come true!!

A Wish for Lily-Mae

Lily-Mae,

we hope and pray

for you to enjoy

each wonderful day!

Across the miles

we're sending you smiles.

Our love to you

in all that you do

Your Strength and courage;

your love and light.

It brings us hope

and sets dreams aflight

Believe, keep faith

and make a wish.

May every dream come true,

for an angel like you.

Lily-Mae

Lily-Mae is battling for her life against Neuroblastoma … a rare and extremely aggressive childhood cancer of the nervous system and is currently in Our Lady’s Children's Hospital in Dublin following surgery to remove a tumour last week.

Lily-Mae’s only hope for survival is immunotherapy but that’s not available in Europe because it’s still on trial. It’s available in the US but it’s very expensive so a trust has been set up to help raise the money needed.

To find out more on how you can donate to help Lily-Mae and her parents please email Madeleine at maxmcdonnell@aol.com. Send whatever you can … a dollar, a euro, a pound … anything. Donations can be made through Paypal with the registered email address being maxmcdonnell@aol.com or, if you don’t have a Paypal account, send Madeleine your email address and she will send you a Paypal invoice with instructions on how you can pay as a guest.Please visit - http://www.facebook.com/irelandandpegscottage?ref=ts&fref=ts for more updates on Lily-Mae and how you may help!!

Slainte!