Author Pamela De Leon's Blog

2011-10-16T04:26:00.000-07:00

The end of summer in the hamlet of Cornwallville, NY with just a tinge of color in mid-september starting to bloom in the trees. Now, mid-October, the trees are peaking and the mountains are beautiful for a Sunday drive.
This farm has long been a point of fascination for me. What I would give to own it and bring it back to life! Wishes do come true, they say.
On the other side of the world be sure to check out my dear friend Rosanna's travel writings from her island of Sicily at rap55.wordpress.com! You will be pleasantly surprised at the wealth of goodies there, from wine making trips to Italian pastries and olive oil production to quaint fishing willages and the ever erupting Mt. Etna. We have a great connection: Edith Wharton took her last cruise in life aboard the Vanidis and they made a stop in Sicily!

2011-08-22T07:17:00.000-07:00

Another farmhouse from the early 1800s saved!
Fortunately for the area around Cornwallville, this farmhouse that was rapidly deteriorating has been saved and now being restored. They have shored up the stone foundation, rebuilt the front porch and currently restoring the back walls of the house. The surrounding lands are certified organic and newly fenced in garden shows an abundance of vegetables!
Because of the economy and the high taxes of NY, many homes are for sale. The prices are unbeatable and for the most part are being bought up by people who live in NY City and come up for the weekends.

2011-08-22T07:12:00.000-07:00

A summer's evening on the hilltops surrounding the village of Cornwallville, NY. The vistas are stunning and a drive there always brings peace to one's heart. The deer were pausing at the tree line watching us from afar. There is perhaps no spot more beautiful than here.

2011-06-30T11:41:00.000-07:00

On the east bank of the Hudson along the River Road we found the gates to what must be an adventure waiting to happen. Alas, my bravado did not allow even me to venture forth. However, I can only imagine the estate that lies yonder closer to the River.

I have had a lull between finishing Ladies of the Edith Wharton Society of Cornwallville and submitting it to an agent and the editing that an agent requests or kindly suggests. Now it is back to the world of Edith Wharton and World War 1.

Per the readers' ( two agents) feedback, it looks like this book is a go! My dream of settling in Cornwallville and experimenting next year by going off the grid as much as possible is becomming more of a reality. After a trip to Paris that is. I must retrace Edith's steps. She was and continues to be a fascinating woman!

2011-05-15T16:01:00.000-07:00

My favorite statuary has survived the harsh winter. Today she shone with an extraodinary patina against a verdant backdrop of Cornwallville environs. "With Christ at the helm, she smiled at the storm."

2011-05-15T06:54:00.000-07:00

The book draws to a close with the law hot on Mattie's trail. Last Sunday my agent received the full manuscript. With 24 hours she got back to me, asking for MY patience since she is innudated with reading manuscripts. I never thought such an agreeable, kind and professional literary agent existed! Today I am heading up to Cornwallville to pick some of my granmother's white lilacs from an overgrown bush by her gravesite. In a few weeks I will prune the lilac bush and leave some fresh flowers, hoping this wet spring up here will keep them watered sufficiently between my visits.

Excerpt:

The Constable, dubious as to the woman’s demeanor and manner of dress, leaned over to take a peek into the front parlor. There was a congenial fire crackling in the fireplace and before it stood Anne, dressed such as a lady from the 1940s, her hair swept up, red lipstick, a dress that reached below her knees with stockings and black heels. In her hand she held a first edition of The Age of Innocence and was in the act of reading silently, calmly turning each page as she caught side of the Constable staring.
“Good evening, Constable. Edi, I thought this was a meeting of women only. Isn’t that why we dressed up in the fashion of your grandmother’s day? ” she innocently questioned as Edi stepped beside the Constable.
“Good evening Constable” came the voice of Rose as she peeked from behind the sofa, standing up and smoothing her own silk dress. “I lost my earring!” she exclaimed happily, while holding another book, this time a copy of Edith Wharton’s The Glimpse of the Moon in her left hand, a beautifully leather bound book. “How about this for a title, Anne? Innocence Under the Moon. Might I ask to what do we owe the honor of such a visit Constable?” she asked, while batting her large emerald eyes.
From inside the kitchen came the voice of Mattie and Elsa, calling out happily to the other women in the house. “Come and get it! The tea is almost ready and the sugar cookies are baked to perfection!”
At that, the Constable turned with urgency, his face illuminated with a strange excitement. Now he had Mattie!
But then he stopped, evidently confused, his hard gaze on the two women. Behind him Oliver, turning just as fast, bumped into him like a clumsy oaf. The Constable stared down the hallway, past the spinning room where once the smell of pectin reigned, to the kitchen. He could clearly see that Elsa, as she prepared the tea tray, stood beside a nicely dressed and coifed Mattie, who laughed and threw her arm around the older woman, both of them outlined in soft glow of the kitchen fireplace that crackled merrily. “This shall be so much fun!” she said as Elsa returned her hug with both arms.
“What the hell is going on here?” said the suspicious and now angry Constable, looking first to Edi and then throwing a look in Oliver’s direction, who said not a word.

2011-05-01T09:31:00.001-07:00

It is with a very CONTENTED heart that I write to say that my Ladies of the Edith Wharton Society of Cornwallville is now complete. I have loved, beyond compare, writing this book and delving into the world of Edith Wharton and Walter Berry, Paris during World War 1 as well as weaving a story that includes the Hamlet of Cornwallville, which is a place that forever holds my heart. This book has been dedicated to all those loved ones I have lost on my father's side who are buried in the Cornwallville cemetary. I also remember my friend Trisha Gibbons, poetess extraordinaire who passed away too soon and to a lovely young lady named Jennifer, who lived life to the fullest with the biggest smile anyone could have imagined while her eyes lit up with the joy of youth and life itself. They are never forgotten and my eternal sense of loss and a longing for the past is a theme that is consistent with the book.

2011-04-24T14:44:00.000-07:00

Such is the view of lands surrounding Cornwallville. Spring has only just arrived up here.

2011-04-24T11:19:00.000-07:00

I am heading to Cornwallville for an Easter ride with the kids. I will stop to pay respects to my Grandmother and since I don't have flowers to leave on her grave site, I will leave a potato! She loved food and cooked the best Easter dinners imaginable when we would all gather at a beautifully set table with the best china and silverware. Afterwards, a nice dessert with "real" brewed coffee straight from the percolater. My grandmother lived for that good cup of coffee.

I am now down to hours on finishing my second book. I never thought I would get to this point. Afterwards, tweaking the last 1/4 and then click that send button to K. Cameron. I love all my characters, Alice Parks, Edith Wharton, Lilly Berry and Edi Mirepoix...! I hope you like them too.

2011-04-20T07:40:00.000-07:00

The last few days of writing before my Ladies of the Edith Wharton Society of Cornwallville goes to the agent. I shall miss my mission that has kept my every spare moment occupied with research, reading and writing. Suddenly I long to get in the car and drive to Cornwallville. Hopefully, in the future, all I will have to do is go out my front door to be there!
Excerpt:
Edi was passing through scenes familiar to her youth but which she had not seen for almost thirty years. Who, she thought, but a native can take such delight in the gurgling streams that continually flow, the mountains that rise with splendor and the dense forest that covers the ground? But, a desolating change had taken place in the village proper. “Thank God Grandmother did not live to witness the decline of the village” she said softly, hoping to be forgiven for even thinking such a thing much less saying it aloud.

2011-03-26T04:38:00.000-07:00

The unpaved roads of Cornwallville are a national treasure and are not to be disturbed, at least that is the intent of locals who do not wish these roads to change. The sound of gravel crunching or wheels catching on snow reminds me of my childhood when all the country roads were as such. Winter is winding down as is work on my second book. With the arrival of spring and the birds singing, the long stretches of dark and cold are slipping away.
Excerpt: Her favorite French poet, one whose verse she had dedicated hours to memorizing, came to mind. “C’est le jour des morts et de toutes leurs ames.” It’s the day of the dead and of all their souls. She began to understand Guillaume Apollinaire, a despairing soul reduced to wretched misery in Sante prison in 1911, wrongfully accused as a member of an international gang intent on robbing France of her art treasures. To have a poet’s heart is to understand the eternal link between a mood and a season which signifies the death of the year, she thought.

2011-03-13T14:45:00.001-07:00

Guest Blog for Hoydens and Firebrands:

Savages, Indians, Squaws and White Men are all names that over time have stirred up much controversy in regards to “polite” usage. When first writing The Savage River Valley, I met with some raised eyebrows and pointed questions on the usage of such terms. Of all the names mentioned, Savage, appearing in the title, is perhaps not as apparent as it seems. Readers initially assume from the title that, naturally, I must mean the Indian. The true meaning of the word remains in doubt throughout the story and I leave it up to the reader to draw her or his own conclusions as to who really is the Savage by the story’s end.
In my book I weave a tale that centers on a modern day woman who is taken back in time to a Mohican Indian tribe in 17th century Hudson Valley, in the area that today is known as Catskill and Leeds. As a first time author I wanted to be careful of the words I used and possible connotations or interpretations. However, the more research I conducted, it was clear to me that Indians was much more widely accepted among experts than I had anticipated, especially my mentor, Mohican expert and writer, Shirley Dunn. My next discovery led me to the fact that Indians themselves referred to the women as squaws and that nothing detrimental was intended amongst the River Tribes by using such a name. In my attempts to stay as historically accurate as possible I did not scratch out the idea of referring to Indian women as squaws but embraced it. It is our modern day usage of the term that leaves us thinking it is a bad thing to say or write.Which leaves the last name-White men or the Dutch in this case. When the Indian world of ancient times ended, the white man, pale faced, speaking a strange tongue, and wearing strange clothes, arrived, and he intended to stay.As we have often changed our own perceptions of the names used in this book, the world of White Feather and his Mohican family is changed and influenced by the traders from some distant spot beyond the horizon, who brought copper bracelets from an unseen land and knives that exchanged hands many times and found their way south. The Indians now faced the challenge of fighting to defend their villages and lands and fire pits, as in time the white men would fight to protect his home, hearth, and fields. Just as the world of the Indians changed, followed by the world of the white men and on and on throughout history, so have the usage of names changed and their perceived meaning.

Friday

2011-03-11T07:01:00.001-08:00

Today is a good day for writing.

2011-03-10T17:40:00.000-08:00

Thirty thousand words are waiting on a flashdrive as a beginning to the sequel of The Savage River Valley. I would love nothing more than to go back to research and writing on the Hudson Valley but first I am posting to Hoydens on FB as a guest this weekend and second I am finishing up my current book Ladies of the Edith Wharton Society of Cornwallville. My love of the Hudson River is a bit overshadowed by my love of the area in Durham known as Cornwallville. This winter has been incredibly long and this from someone who loves a beautiful snowfall, blazing fireplace and the blue hue of the mountains on a winter's day. However, all thoughts are on Book 2 and Spring. The finish of one will be the start of the other.

2011-03-05T05:01:00.000-08:00

Excerpt from Ladies of the Edith Wharton Society of Cornwallville. My goal is to finish the book and off to the Agent by May 1st. (April 1st might prove to be the wrong day for such an undertaking!)....

Other villages that lay within the shadow of the mountains had a pleasing character, displaying a flourishing aspect with neat cottages that formed a picturesque spot.
But with this village, a mere cluster of two dozen buildings, the case was drastically different. In the light of day, there stood the naked and abandoned schoolhouse, furthest point west, across the street from the old Parks place. The ramshackle building which once gave shelter to eighteen students could have been made more pleasant by a few scattered maple trees here and there, but all had been swept away for an earlier mill and the area never reseeded. Now it stood on barren, inhospitable ground. A single tree with a bench in its shade would have given a friendly rural look to the spot, but neither shade nor bench was there. The school mistress, Ms. Simpson, had long ago shut its door for the last time. The bell would never announce the opening and closing of school days again. The barren pot belly stove stood empty of firewood and the blackboard had rusted over from a perpetual leak in the roof. Someone, probably with good but misguided intentions, had boarded up the windows with crude slabs of plywood. The general good spirit with which this hamlet had initially been built was lying dormant, waiting to burst forth with but one kind gesture from one person. The village waited for that one person who was destined to ignite and arouse the feelings of pride once more.

2011-02-26T05:14:00.000-08:00

The patch of empty land before the gates was a striking reminder of the absence of the church. Long ago they had carefully dismantled the whole structure and taken it off to a museum, striving to capture the essence of a country church that would be saved from the ravages of time and the inevitable loss of a congregation. Was there a breach of good faith involved in allowing the church to be hauled away? Edi wasn’t sure but she felt the incongruity of a church yard without the church. Just didn’t seem right.

2011-02-23T05:36:00.000-08:00

The day in Lenox was full of gentle breezes and whispers of wonderful promises to come. If only they would come for me! She was young again, her body ripe with eagerness to enjoy the sweet air of the Berkshires. Happiness such as this she could never refuse. What a refreshing change of landscape!
She could run, skip, let her hair loose and laugh as loud as she like.
It was not winter, at once close and bitterly cold, but rather the softest of springs that ever the countryside had experienced.
“It was only at The Mount that I was really happy” she exclaimed in a satisfied voice. Then she remembered why. She gave a short laugh.
Privacy was one of the first requisites of civilized life. Each room was designed as an exclusive and private domain, a small world by itself. “Yes” she said “that is how I wanted it to be, away from the eyes of others.”

2011-02-13T16:01:00.000-08:00

Excerpt:
The day was soft with varied foliage. Nature was bestowing its last sweet smile upon the land. The mellow feeling of autumn, like the rich taste of an old wine, is the gift of time. Colors, so vivid and varied hung on every tree, filled Edi with more than a mere partiality for the village and its environs. She stopped at the cemetery, its iron gates open to visitors. The stillness of the graves in the crowded abandoned church yard so deeply impressed her that she paused. All the weariness, ceaseless movement of life of those that lay here as tenants of a ground that held the moldering remains of man was replaced by an upright or crooked hewn stone at the head of each humble and peaceful gravesite. She knew that somewhere here lay the remains of her grandmother. Was she, now so absorbed with living, able to walk among the dead?

2011-02-06T17:12:00.001-08:00

February is often thought of as the hardest month up in the Catskills. Today, however, was simply a beautiful and gorgeous day with abundant sunshine and temperatures climbing to almost 40 degrees in Cornwallville. This area continues to inspire my writing as my character Lilly leaves Paris on the eve of WWII and settles here.
Excerpt: The Society
1938
From the beehive oven, fed with dry seasoned wood, the smell of fresh baked loaves of bread pervaded the country kitchen and drifted throughout the downstairs. A large basket of gathered eggs lay on the table. The stainless steel teapot jiggled on the stove over a wood burning fire and began a low hiss rising to a high pitched squeal.
Lilly lifted the pot and carefully poured its contents into a dainty tea set on a plate warmer on the kitchen farm table. The tea hour was a special time she had learned from Edith Wharton years back and even today she continued the tradition. Tradition was the mainstay of her life and she gloried in keeping it up, in her household and in the village.
“Come down for your tea and toast, Annie!” she called up the back stairs that led to the guest bedrooms. Her voice, filled with so much laughter and joy, which when speaking, even in a gentle tone on everyday matters, made so many people happy. She had long ago mastered English but still one could detect a foreign accent.

2011-02-01T06:16:00.000-08:00

On one hundred acres of land, my grandmother Lousie ( Lily) toiled away on her farm from 1940-1950. She regarded this period as the happiest of her life. What remains today in the mountain top meadow is the large barn set in the snowy scene. The house is gone as are the small out buildings, but the spirit of hilltop farming lives on in memory. Although this was referred to as

" Heaven on Earth" by her mother, my great-grandmother (from Hamburg, Germany), the winters were brutal. Often Dee Dee would remember the deep snows and bitter cold, six weeks of being snowed in and an eventual dynamiting of the roads to break through the snow. Today I write of the area in my next book: Ladies of the Edith Wharton Society of Cornwallville. The snow is coming down and I would love to be back up "on the farm."

Excerpt: “Look outside and find a pretty sight to take your mind off things bad” you would say as a last resort and in exasperating tones. Being an obedient daughter (up to now) I look out the window to the back shed. The wood pile does not reach knee-high. I shake my head with a dismal vision of Floyd and Alice Parks on Christmas Day, frozen stiff in our high back chairs drawn up to the cold ashes of a fire long gone out, our hands intertwined in a Till Death Us Do Part pact. Lord knows it takes a long summer to get that woodpile high enough to last until the New Year, much less the entire winter.

2011-01-12T06:27:00.000-08:00

Excerpt:

The horrific events of the battlefield were mercifully left behind, the stark memories dimming, as they slowly approached the city. War at its doorstep had produced a general silence, decidedly so in the thick blackness of night, even though life throbbed solemnly behind shuttered windows. Everyone was cautious. Everyone was afraid. No one walked the streets. The little shops and quaint boutiques were closed and only intermittent lights shone at various spots of the city. Even the Chestnut Roaster had gone home, pulling his near empty cart behind him.

2011-01-08T16:02:00.000-08:00

The mountains around Durham always call to me from afar. There is no denying the desire to be there on any given day in any season. Once there, I never want to leave. The snowfall, freshly fallen from yesterday, covered trees and ground alike- the branches bearing the weight of the snow. The muted colors of blue, gray and white are best seen against a backdrop that includes an old clapboard barn that is painted a deep red, the color best suited for a barn in the days of old. One of the best gifts to give my grandson is to pass on my love for the land. My heart sings when he asks if we "can go to the mountains!"

2011-01-01T07:26:00.001-08:00

The serenity of a winter pastoral scene in upstate New York is at once charming and reminiscent of the past when barns such as this one gave shelter to animals and their winter supply of hay.
A fresh snowfall completes the picture. The early afternoon shadows speak of darkness that will soon fall upon the land at the early hour of 4:30. Each day, however, is on the upswing, gaining another minute of light and the dreary dark days of December will be just a memory. How many more snowfalls until the spring?

2010-12-27T09:54:00.000-08:00

Mikhail Khodorkovsky, the Russian oil billionaire and archenemy of Prime Minister Vladimir Putin, is a pawn caught in a ruthless game. He played for big stakes, initially won, and then lost. Putin was too strong and powerful a contender. I find the case to be fascinating, the man enigmatic and while I love all things Russian including the language and history, I find this to be a sham. Let the man out of prison. Another book in the making?

2010-12-19T08:27:00.000-08:00

The bleak February sun had yet to begin its descent on the far horizon. In two months time the sun would warm and soften the hard, bare ground and the days become far more pleasant but for now the air, still but cold, was fraught with much shouting and gunshots that day. Far ahead Walter could make out uniformed figures scurrying over the pitted battlefield but directly blocking his immediate view was the woman to whom he now spoke.
Edith Wharton, ex patriot American authoress, stood in stoic determination, her keen sight unwaveringly transfixed on the appalling scene before her.
The whole thing was shocking!

2010-11-28T05:59:00.001-08:00

Regardless of houses that were within shouting distance, the Elk and Edi shared this moment alone in a place that seemed far from all other aspects of civilization. Edi shivered, in part from the cold, in part from the magnificence of the animal that lifted its head and looked her boldly in the face. Moments passed.
“I am Edith Wharton’s great granddaughter” she whispered to the night air before softly closing the door.

2010-11-21T06:26:00.000-08:00

Excerpt: Ladies of the Edith Wharton Society of Cornwallville
At four in the morning a chilly and completely unexpected wind blew vigorously through the city streets of the nation’s capital, racing through the darkened alleys, churning up tidbits of garbage, papers and fallen leaves. One dim figure slumped against the brick wall, looking intently at the light glaring from a 2nd floor window, ignoring the sudden barrage of air.
Inside, Edi, fully clothed, sat curled up on the sofa directly under the reading lamp. She held a carefully worded letter with trembling hands, her emotions in a tumultuous upheaval. Of the rare surprises in her predictable, often boring and well ordered life, this was the least expected. On her lap lay one brass key and a thick, deep green leather-bound journal, as of yet unopened.

2010-11-20T03:57:00.000-08:00

A faint odor of fragrant lilacs drifted over the rooms and assailed her senses.
“To come back to this house. It is what I wanted. How did you know?” she whispered fiercely, feeling a pair of arms envelope her within a strong grasp, a tinkling of laughter racing through the empty rooms. It was as if the house sighed then, hearing what it wanted to hear.
She remembered then. Edi heard the different voices of men and women, faint whispers from the grave, and could see the outline of faces. She felt frozen in time, completely engulfed by ghosts from the vanished past.

2010-11-03T17:31:00.000-07:00

2010-11-02T04:34:00.000-07:00

The Mount, open to the public for the last day on Sunday, Oct, 31st, was stunningly gorgeous and a bit chilly! I walked through the hallways imagining Edith in the very surroundings she created with her imaginative eye. The piece d'resistance was of course her library and the collection of her books (partial) that have been restored to the shelves. I spoke to Ryan who said it almost prophetically that " I am more keen, at times, on Edith Wharton's life than on her fiction." Yes, indeed. Now this is the young lady who directed me to The Marne and Coming Home. Pictures to follow!

2010-07-12T04:49:00.000-07:00

Cornwallville was spectacular yesterday as I traveled to the area of Durham as an invited guest of Red Brick and spent a lovely hour talking "history" of the area for my next book. I was then given a tour of one of the most beautiful houses up there which is the house featured in Ladies of the Edith Wharton Society of Cornwallville. I had visions of a farm that could be "working" with sheep in the fields, a huge vegetable garden, herbs growing wildly in the kitchen garden and bread baking in the house. I was in 7th heaven!

2010-07-12T04:45:00.000-07:00

Baltimore Book Festival has chosen The SRV and me for their Sunday exhibit under the author's tent on Sunday, Sept 26th! I feel very honored to be chosen and so happy to attend. I am now working on a video presentation of The Historic in Historical Fiction which will be playing on a screen on my table. Should be an awesome day!

Kingston...

2010-05-23T14:55:00.000-07:00

The Savage River Valley is coming soon to Kingston, Barnes and Nobel! My dream is now complete...I wanted to see it for sale in Kingston! YAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2010-05-18T16:50:00.000-07:00

Oblong Books,Rhinebeck and their buyer Suzanne is a disappointment. However, bright spot is that The Savage River Valley is now at the Barnes and Nobel in Colonie, NY! So, please tell your friends where it is. I encourage anyone who is interested in early life in the Hudson River Valley during the 1600s to take a look! The best review is on Historical Novel Society in their May edition...Gricel is such an accomplished writer herself! I thank her again.

Time to concentrate...

2010-05-16T16:18:00.001-07:00

Millbrook Festival is over and now I have more time to do two things: finish the school year out for a teacher who is a new MOM! and continue to work on Ladies of the E.W. Society of Cornwallville. I spent an incredible two hours yesterday with a regional group of librarians who enthusiastically bought all the copies I brought with me! I told them that while the kitchen is the heart of the home, the library is the heart of a school...I missed my calling because I should have been a librarian! I will be recommending three authors I heard speak/read yesterday in my next blog. Fascinating!

Editing....

2010-05-03T04:46:00.000-07:00

I promised to include a section on what the editor's notes look like when they come back from the first round of editing. I have never seen this on another author's site and thought it might be interesting to see what happens behind the scenes. You can see how I re-worked this section in the book!

I am now working on a new novel Ladies of the EW Society of Cornwallville.
( EW stands for Edith Wharton)...I am fascinated by her life, her choices, her travels and her works. Amazing woman!

Editor's Notes on the Savage River Valley...

2010-05-03T04:37:00.001-07:00

She couldn’t breathe. She clawed at her throat.

She was suffocating! How close they all were in such a confined space.

Oh, what a bitter end to my life, what a bitter hell! The girl sees me, she thought, her head aching with the piercing agony of a million jabbing throbs. How could this be a dream then? For those in front of her all seemed to be real. [the suffocation here seems too intense and well-described to allude to confused claustrophobia]

2010-05-02T15:43:00.000-07:00

Writing, writing, writing.....

2010-05-01T16:40:00.000-07:00

I have been absorbed in a new plot of a new novel that will be classified as comtemporary women's lit( with historical thrown in of course) or as some refer to it " chick-lit". But I have not forgotten my Savage River Valley. Barnes and Nobel's buyer has carefully reviewed the book and notified me that they will be buying copies to sell! What a compliment and truly I have been blessed. I wanted to include a picture of The Hudson that I caught in early April one evening close to where I live. The mist was magnificent and drew me to the banks of the river to take photographs tof scenes that evoke the opening to the Savage River Valley.

2010-04-14T14:56:00.000-07:00

I just couldn't resist adding this picture now that spring has arrived in the Hudson Valley. There is something quite beautiful and unique about the stone wall as it trails from the barn, so that each time I attend a function at Olana it inevitably catches my eye!

I attended a lecture on Flower Arrangements such as one might have seen on a Church dinner table. Interestingly enough, his wife, the beautiful Isabel, arranged her own flowers, after consulting with the gardener on which flowers from the gardens/greenhouses looked best!

Goodbye...

2010-04-09T16:50:00.000-07:00

I think we can safely say goodbye to winter! All my plants are now on the porch (sans African violets) and my seeds from Clermont's hollyhocks are sprouting under their plastic cover. Even the slip from my grandmother's lilac bush from Cornwallville Cemetary is sprouting in a cup of water on my kitchen windowsill. My parting shot of winter was taken at Olana. Enjoy!

Tomorrow I am off to the Empire State Book Festival in Albany at the Base of the Egg! I look forward to hearing opening remarks from the author of Wicked and to my meet and greet session at 11:45. Next time around I will show you what the Hudson looks like in the opening of my book: covered in a moving mist! Also, I will include what actual editing looks like from my editor and how I fixed " his suggestions."

From the mouth of Babes...

2010-03-28T15:01:00.000-07:00

As I go over my first review, ( God Bless Gricel for finding the time amidst graduate studies!) I have to backtrack to the year of production. As the editing wrapped up for the book I was notified that I had to cut 25,000 words for the audio.Gricel would be pleased to know I cut the intro! I will comment on the intro, Clara as the sub-plot, in my next blog, however, as I was loudly complaining about the extra work of cutting for the abridged audio, my daughter had had enough and with her hands on her hips she sternly said "Mother, just think how many people would die to be able to have the opportunity to say I have to cut out text for my book and audio!" I stared at her, at a loss for words, and then it dawned on me. She was right.
In short I never thought my book would even reach a reviewer...but it did:) I am fortunate indeed.

2010-03-24T16:34:00.000-07:00

Green lawns on UVA campus were picture perfect as students sprawled on blankets and basked in the sun on Friday, March 19th. I love this one particular picture from the Festival of the Book for two reasons: one, it reminds me of an event I thoroughly enjoyed with the audience and two, the picture shows the outline of my son Spencer who accompanied me for the first time on one of my author events! I have been priviledged to have my daughter Anya and grandson Andrew with me on previous events in Virginia and New York, and now I can add this picture to the album of good memories!

Aspiring authors....

2010-03-21T13:42:00.001-07:00

Aspiring writers in the audience listened to four authors, myself included, read selections from our novels. They afterwards had the opportunity to ask questions. One excellent question was " How much research do you do before starting your novel?" Our answers varied from one month of intense reading before writing ( Siri Mitchell) to I research as I write (Leonor Hart) to six months of research before writing ( Christine Blevins).
I started off by saying that one day my daughter asked me if I read anything that was not about New York or if I bought any books that didn't have anything to do with NY. My answer was sweet and simple: NO. I researched almost two years before writing The Savage River Valley and continued to do so as I wrote the book, often going back to written sections and adding or editing as I came across an interesting point I wanted to include in the book. There were so many fascinating facets to Indian life in the Hudson Valley during the 17th century that it was not an easy choice of what to include and what to leave out. However, each author agreed that it is a process an aspiring author needs to evaluate for her/himself and what works best. There is no one correct answer but nevertheless I enjoyed the question!

Charlottesville at the Festival of the Book

2010-03-20T05:36:00.000-07:00

College students at UVA broke out their shorts and flip flops as the temperature reached 78 degrees. Meanwhile at Barnes and Noble I joined three outstanding authors in reading selelctions from our novels. Moderator Mitzi Ware guided an attentive audience through our introductions and then opened the floor for questions from the audience. What a fabulous and fun time! And a thrilling moment to see The Savage River Valley on display with other great books for sale. More to come later as I am traveling still. Home to the Hudson Valley soon!

A time in the Past...

2010-03-16T07:36:00.000-07:00

I was taken back abruptly to my days as a college student at Georgetown University yesterday when I read the news that Professor Richard Stites has passed away in Helsinki, Finland while working on research at the age of 78. The man was indomitable in the classroom and driven outside the classroom to his research and book writing. I was fortunate enough to be his student in various classes on Russian History and Eurpoean History in the late 1970s. I remember him walking into the room, larger than life, once speaking Russian to his young son who was with him that day. We listened to his lecture while his son colored with crayons. At one point his son interrupted the lecture with a request from his dad. Professo Stites answered: "Patom"...in Russian meaning "Later". May he rest in peace.

Indications of Spring

2010-03-06T16:33:00.000-08:00

The winter thaw is upon us. Each morning I catch the sounds of new bird calls from the trees around my car. The sun was shining exuberantly today as I traveled to New Paltz and then to the historic site of Clermont, home to the Livingstons. I stood at the front door of the mansion and surveyed the river: sparkling points of light reflecting over the surface. This week I wrote the introduction to Book 2. This introduction opens with Clara awakening in the year 1664. What must happen to take her back to 1625, the end of The Savage River Valley? I relied on my imagination and the Ageless Soul.

A New Start

2010-02-21T16:00:00.000-08:00

I have finally moved all my belongings to a cozy apartment near the historic town of Saugerties in New York. Every morning I wake up to my inspiration right at my doorstep: The Hudson River. A short drive up-hill brings me the glorious view of the Catskill Mountains! I marvel at these sights each and every day and feel so fortunate. After many years spent elsewhere I am happy to be home. Follow me on the journey with Clara and The Savage River Valley. I will take you from the beginning in 1997 to the present and then continue with up-dates on how the sequel is progressing and the exciting events I will be attending in the coming months with The SRV, as well as photos of my journeys to special places in New York. Thank you to everyone who has been unfailing in their support of this journey and book.

Welcome

2010-02-17T16:48:00.000-08:00

Welcome to my blog. I have recently been promoting my novel The Savage River Valley which can be purchased at Amazon.