I wonder how many people have had experiences such as the night my husband and I were awoken because we couldn't breath. There seemed to be a dark presence sitting on our chests, pinning us to the bed. We could both "see" it in our mind's eyes; an angry black blob is the only way to describe it.
For hours we battled this thing, asking for the light forces to remove it from our space. It didn't belong here and the fact that it was actually interfering with us on the physical level is not allowed, in our books.
It finally did leave, but not after having to be ripped apart to make it see that what it was doing was totally wrong.
You see, the house we were renting for the winter was on a jut of land with a tidal river on the east and the open waters of Frenchman's Bay barely twenty feet to our south. And when it rained, we had a small stream run under the house, which was on pillars. This confluence of so much water created a large negative vortex on the property.
Ghosts wearing colonial dress were seen in my kitchen, and perhaps those going back before that time when the Native Americans used it for fishing grounds shadowed the spare bedroom.
When you walked past the guest house, the hair literally rose on your arms. All you felt was death, and worse. There didn't seem to be any way of clearing the house of gremlins, and in the dark, the place could hardly be spookier. It felt as though you walked through air thick and cold with crowds of those who'd passed, but hadn't left. It was a congregation of ghosts.
Some people wouldn't go near the place. Said it gave them the creeps. It certainly didn't look like a haunted house. It was the perfect summer vacation house on the coast of Maine. White clapboard two-story farmhouse with a great covered porch overlooking the ocean. The inside was all shiplap pine ceilings, dark wood paneled walls and wide pine floors. Each window had a view of the water and some amazing sunrises were seen from the bedroom.
But it wasn't lived in on a permanent basis. Many houses on the coast aren't. They remain vacant for most of the year; their owners using them for only a few weeks to a couple months during the year. This allows for displaced spirits to gather and call the place their own. They seem to know a good thing when they see it.
After doing some research, I found that the property once had a Revolutionary War era fort on it, and who knows what went on there. I had crystals everywhere to try and break up the negative energy in the house. Nothing you could do about the outside, though. Just too much area. At the end of our lease, we were happy to move on and leave the place to those who called it home.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
Ghosts and Other Such Unexplainables
We're getting closer to Samhain, the time where the veil between the living and the dead is the thinnest. Every culture has the day named. Some call it All Hallow's Eve, Day of the Dead, or Halloween. Doesn't matter, it's all the same. It does get one to pondering if it's the desire of the masses that makes this occur, or if it's really so. Can thousands of years of belief conjure (pardon the pun) those from the other side to get closer to us? Good and bad?
I believe one can speak with the dead anytime they choose. The trick is to be able to hear what the other side has to say. Most can't clear their minds enough, or get over the disbelief that it can actually happen. I believe and here are some of my experiences.
I was home sick one day and was in bed sleeping. My husband had gone to work, my faithful companion, Sam, a Lab/Chesapeake cross was outside my bedroom catching some Z's. I awoke to what sounded like keys jingling from the living room downstairs. I wondered what my husband, Dan was doing home at eleven o'clock in the morning, but waited for him to climb the stairs to our room.
Nothing.
What was more interesting was that Sam never stirred. If Dan were really home, she would have greeted him in typical dog fashion by running downstairs with her tail knocking over everything not bolted down.
I listened intently, suddenly wide awake. I wasn't facing the door, but had the distinct feeling someone was in my room. I rolled over, but no one was there. My ears were trained on the doorway waiting to see...someone.
One thing I forgot to mention is that I had a waterbed at the time (hey, it was the 80's). I was still watching the door when suddenly they bed sunk on Dan's side. You could actually see the indentation, but no one was there. I did smell chocolate and cigarettes, though.
The hair rose on my arms and I bolted from bed. It swayed a bit as I left it, but there was still "someone" in my bed. Without further adieu, I ran from the room past my sleeping dog and down the stairs.
To this day, I can't be certain who was there with me, but my grandmother was a closet smoker and always ate chocolates. It's what I remember most about her. Could it have been her checking on me in my sickbed? I believe so.
Another of my favorites was just after my mother had passed away. She had always considered her apple pies superior to any other mortal woman's, and she baked many in her time.
I was in my kitchen 300 miles from my childhood home and was making the apple pie recipe that I happen to consider pretty darn tasty, if I do say so myself. I was all alone in the house and the radio was blasting out some mindless rock, which I always listen to when baking and cooking. I remember it clear as the sky is blue. I said to myself, Mom always thought her apple pies were the best, well, I happen to disagree. Mine are much better.
As if she were in the room with me, I saw in my mind's eyes my mother's face glower out from behind what appeared to be a cloud, and she bellowed out, "No they're not!"
I was used to her "checking in" from time to time, but this incident actually made me laugh out loud.
"What are you going to do about it, Mom? Now, mine are the best."
I heard a bit of good-natured laughing from the other side and then she was gone. I smiled, knowing I finally got to say mine were better than hers without making her mad.
I believe one can speak with the dead anytime they choose. The trick is to be able to hear what the other side has to say. Most can't clear their minds enough, or get over the disbelief that it can actually happen. I believe and here are some of my experiences.
I was home sick one day and was in bed sleeping. My husband had gone to work, my faithful companion, Sam, a Lab/Chesapeake cross was outside my bedroom catching some Z's. I awoke to what sounded like keys jingling from the living room downstairs. I wondered what my husband, Dan was doing home at eleven o'clock in the morning, but waited for him to climb the stairs to our room.
Nothing.
What was more interesting was that Sam never stirred. If Dan were really home, she would have greeted him in typical dog fashion by running downstairs with her tail knocking over everything not bolted down.
I listened intently, suddenly wide awake. I wasn't facing the door, but had the distinct feeling someone was in my room. I rolled over, but no one was there. My ears were trained on the doorway waiting to see...someone.
One thing I forgot to mention is that I had a waterbed at the time (hey, it was the 80's). I was still watching the door when suddenly they bed sunk on Dan's side. You could actually see the indentation, but no one was there. I did smell chocolate and cigarettes, though.
The hair rose on my arms and I bolted from bed. It swayed a bit as I left it, but there was still "someone" in my bed. Without further adieu, I ran from the room past my sleeping dog and down the stairs.
To this day, I can't be certain who was there with me, but my grandmother was a closet smoker and always ate chocolates. It's what I remember most about her. Could it have been her checking on me in my sickbed? I believe so.
Another of my favorites was just after my mother had passed away. She had always considered her apple pies superior to any other mortal woman's, and she baked many in her time.
I was in my kitchen 300 miles from my childhood home and was making the apple pie recipe that I happen to consider pretty darn tasty, if I do say so myself. I was all alone in the house and the radio was blasting out some mindless rock, which I always listen to when baking and cooking. I remember it clear as the sky is blue. I said to myself, Mom always thought her apple pies were the best, well, I happen to disagree. Mine are much better.
As if she were in the room with me, I saw in my mind's eyes my mother's face glower out from behind what appeared to be a cloud, and she bellowed out, "No they're not!"
I was used to her "checking in" from time to time, but this incident actually made me laugh out loud.
"What are you going to do about it, Mom? Now, mine are the best."
I heard a bit of good-natured laughing from the other side and then she was gone. I smiled, knowing I finally got to say mine were better than hers without making her mad.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Wench-wear and Shameless Marketing
The New Hampshire Highland Games are one of my favorite venues for selling books, and just pretending to be Scottish. I make no effort to hide the fact that I'm not a Scot, sad as it may be, but some people choose not to believe it, which is fine with me. Some say the red in my hair makes me look like a Scot. Ok.
I had just finished setting up my table of books, postcards, pamphlets, and other pertinent paraphernalia, when my husband rushes over with one of those looks in his eyes. "You have to come see what I found!"
Hey, I game for anything, so I follow him across the expansive parking lot of Scottish vendors. We stop in front of a gorgeous outfit befitting any Scottish wench wanna-be. A black bustier with white gauze peasant blouse over a Robertson tartan skirt. "You need to get this outfit!" he tells me.
I give him one of my own looks. The one that says, really?
"Just try it on," he says, which quickly summoned a perky salesgirl all too willing to get me into the tight-fitting top. It has the true corset styling of rigid heavy fabric and a lace-up front.
"Are you sure I can get into this thing?" I ask, eyeing the tiny-waisted vest. "My Victoria's Secret won't be a secret in this thing," I tell her.
"Oh, no, you can't wear a bra under it, they tend to fight each other."
I then begin to doubt this entire excursion. She (the salesgirl) has no idea what Victoria's Secret keeps in check. But I agree to try it on and endure the measuring before being shuffled into the make-shift dressing room.
Off comes everything (freeing, to say the least in the 35 degree morning), and I slip on the peasant top. Nice. Soft. Loose. Then I put the bustier on over the top. I begin the lacing up process when I hear the salesgirl from the other side of the curtain telling me not to fret over the laces, she'll help me with them. I'm thinking to myself, how hard could this be?
I finish tying the cord at the top, then do a bit of adjusting of the "girls" before showing the world what I would have looked like in the 18th century.
My husband smiles, impressed. We all know what that means.
The salesgirl comes over and begins the torture process of yanking the laces together so this wee bit of vest closes tightly. I find that, like my protagonist, Catrìona, that I'm not thrilled with this fashion. I can no longer breath, and when I tell my masochistic tender she says, "You need to learn to breath from your lungs, not your stomach. You'll get used to it."
Tcha! When hell freezes over, perhaps. Then she cinches the deal by bringing over the mirror. I have to admit, it really did fetching.
Then she tells me to bend over and lift and scoop.
"Honey," I say, "there's no way these babies are getting that much air time. They're just fine where they are right now. I'm working here, not vying for suitors."
She just shrugged like, your loss.
So the salesgirl rings me up and puts my comfortable, loose-fitting, warm sweater in a bag, and I go back to the clan tent. Apparently, wench-wear is very popular with most men. I was looked over a subtly as possible by the clansmen in the tent, all to approving nods.
My husband's job was done there, so he shed his heavy flannel shirt for the custom-made t-shirt he was wearing. Here's a picture of Dan working the crowd. I actually got a couple sales from that shirt! He's such a good sport. That and the fact that he likes the idea of being a kept man. Who wouldn't!
I had just finished setting up my table of books, postcards, pamphlets, and other pertinent paraphernalia, when my husband rushes over with one of those looks in his eyes. "You have to come see what I found!"
Hey, I game for anything, so I follow him across the expansive parking lot of Scottish vendors. We stop in front of a gorgeous outfit befitting any Scottish wench wanna-be. A black bustier with white gauze peasant blouse over a Robertson tartan skirt. "You need to get this outfit!" he tells me.
I give him one of my own looks. The one that says, really?
"Just try it on," he says, which quickly summoned a perky salesgirl all too willing to get me into the tight-fitting top. It has the true corset styling of rigid heavy fabric and a lace-up front.
"Are you sure I can get into this thing?" I ask, eyeing the tiny-waisted vest. "My Victoria's Secret won't be a secret in this thing," I tell her.
"Oh, no, you can't wear a bra under it, they tend to fight each other."
I then begin to doubt this entire excursion. She (the salesgirl) has no idea what Victoria's Secret keeps in check. But I agree to try it on and endure the measuring before being shuffled into the make-shift dressing room.
Off comes everything (freeing, to say the least in the 35 degree morning), and I slip on the peasant top. Nice. Soft. Loose. Then I put the bustier on over the top. I begin the lacing up process when I hear the salesgirl from the other side of the curtain telling me not to fret over the laces, she'll help me with them. I'm thinking to myself, how hard could this be?
I finish tying the cord at the top, then do a bit of adjusting of the "girls" before showing the world what I would have looked like in the 18th century.
My husband smiles, impressed. We all know what that means.
The salesgirl comes over and begins the torture process of yanking the laces together so this wee bit of vest closes tightly. I find that, like my protagonist, Catrìona, that I'm not thrilled with this fashion. I can no longer breath, and when I tell my masochistic tender she says, "You need to learn to breath from your lungs, not your stomach. You'll get used to it."
Tcha! When hell freezes over, perhaps. Then she cinches the deal by bringing over the mirror. I have to admit, it really did fetching.
Then she tells me to bend over and lift and scoop.
"Honey," I say, "there's no way these babies are getting that much air time. They're just fine where they are right now. I'm working here, not vying for suitors."
She just shrugged like, your loss.
So the salesgirl rings me up and puts my comfortable, loose-fitting, warm sweater in a bag, and I go back to the clan tent. Apparently, wench-wear is very popular with most men. I was looked over a subtly as possible by the clansmen in the tent, all to approving nods.
My husband's job was done there, so he shed his heavy flannel shirt for the custom-made t-shirt he was wearing. Here's a picture of Dan working the crowd. I actually got a couple sales from that shirt! He's such a good sport. That and the fact that he likes the idea of being a kept man. Who wouldn't!
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Giving Talks
I'd baked some chocolate-covered shortbead and a single malt whisky cake for a talk I gave last night at my local library. Hey, when you wish you were in Scotland, the least you can do is eat like you were!
Nearly all the faces in the group were friends supporting me and my craft. I talked for almost an hour, reading a few pages from Sightless, then taking questions. The taking questions part is the most interesting. I'm always amazed at the intelligent questions people will ask. They really want to understand the writer's mind.
Why Scotland? was the most challenging question of the evening. It should be easy to answer, and it is for me, but to say it without scaring people in the audience is tricky. I truly feel a connection deeper than just a desire to see the place. How easily I can transport myself to the windswept moors blooming with heather. The rugged mountains, perhaps snow-covered, in the distance. I can literally smell the land, hear the quiet, and feel the peace. Can I do that anywhere? No. But I know I've walked the place and have known its secrets. Its people.
How did I answer it? "I feel Scottish and it has always been a passion of mine."
When I spoke about my screenplay for Eyes of Garnet, which always gets people perked up, a woman said she was very pleased to hear it was written because she could visualized each scene in the book and could clearly see it becoming a movie. Someone else asked if I'd cast it yet, and I told them who I could "see" playing the major parts. Some were pleased, some were surprised, a few thought they'd make a fine character. One never knows.
After I explained what haggis was, and why I won't eat it, we broke for goodies and coffee. The single malt whisky cake was a raging success, as always. I signed a few books and packed it all up again.
Is there another way to get your book "out there"? Yes, and I try to do them all. But reaching out to people one-on-one spreads like wildfire. If they like what they read and hear, they tell their friends, who will hopefully buy your book and pass along that they enjoyed it as well. It's a slow process, but when you're a newbie author, it's the only way to go.
Nearly all the faces in the group were friends supporting me and my craft. I talked for almost an hour, reading a few pages from Sightless, then taking questions. The taking questions part is the most interesting. I'm always amazed at the intelligent questions people will ask. They really want to understand the writer's mind.
Why Scotland? was the most challenging question of the evening. It should be easy to answer, and it is for me, but to say it without scaring people in the audience is tricky. I truly feel a connection deeper than just a desire to see the place. How easily I can transport myself to the windswept moors blooming with heather. The rugged mountains, perhaps snow-covered, in the distance. I can literally smell the land, hear the quiet, and feel the peace. Can I do that anywhere? No. But I know I've walked the place and have known its secrets. Its people.
How did I answer it? "I feel Scottish and it has always been a passion of mine."
When I spoke about my screenplay for Eyes of Garnet, which always gets people perked up, a woman said she was very pleased to hear it was written because she could visualized each scene in the book and could clearly see it becoming a movie. Someone else asked if I'd cast it yet, and I told them who I could "see" playing the major parts. Some were pleased, some were surprised, a few thought they'd make a fine character. One never knows.
After I explained what haggis was, and why I won't eat it, we broke for goodies and coffee. The single malt whisky cake was a raging success, as always. I signed a few books and packed it all up again.
Is there another way to get your book "out there"? Yes, and I try to do them all. But reaching out to people one-on-one spreads like wildfire. If they like what they read and hear, they tell their friends, who will hopefully buy your book and pass along that they enjoyed it as well. It's a slow process, but when you're a newbie author, it's the only way to go.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Maine Writers Blog
Just a quick post for today to let you know to check out my week of blogs on the Maine Writers and Publishers website.
http://www.mainewritersandpublishersalliance.blogspot.com/
Enjoy!
http://www.mainewritersandpublishersalliance.blogspot.com/
Enjoy!
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Ahhh, the Games...
I had a great day at the Maine Highland Games on August 16th. I sold a good bunch of Eyes of Garnet and Sightless; not nearly as many as Diana Gabaldon did at the Grandfather Mountain Games in North Carolina a few weeks ago (she signed and sold 1606!! I could only dream of that notoriety), but I was pleased and that's all that matters.
As with every signing, there are bits of hilarity I need to share, and this was no different. A wonderfully enthusiastic woman who had bought Eyes of Garnet earlier in the summer was preparing to purchase Sightless. From the side of us where a short row of porta-potties was lined up (some called it the MacLoo clan's space!), emerged her husband who had just donned his kilt and he was adjusting it.
"I did just what you told me to do," he said to her. "I left my underwear off."
If you haven't already guessed my reactions to such devious behavior, I burst out laughing. I think it may have been more due to the evil twinkle he had in his eyes when he attempted to look innocent after that statement.
His wife turned various shades of pink and started fanning her face to cool down, and kept looking down in the vacinity of where his sporran should have been.
"We'll be back later", she told me, then exited at a rather quick pace. Her husband followed, but not before he turned and gave us a wink.
As with every signing, there are bits of hilarity I need to share, and this was no different. A wonderfully enthusiastic woman who had bought Eyes of Garnet earlier in the summer was preparing to purchase Sightless. From the side of us where a short row of porta-potties was lined up (some called it the MacLoo clan's space!), emerged her husband who had just donned his kilt and he was adjusting it.
"I did just what you told me to do," he said to her. "I left my underwear off."
If you haven't already guessed my reactions to such devious behavior, I burst out laughing. I think it may have been more due to the evil twinkle he had in his eyes when he attempted to look innocent after that statement.
His wife turned various shades of pink and started fanning her face to cool down, and kept looking down in the vacinity of where his sporran should have been.
"We'll be back later", she told me, then exited at a rather quick pace. Her husband followed, but not before he turned and gave us a wink.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Sightless Release Date
It's finally here! Sightless is out on amazon.com and soon to be everywhere. Its timely release will be just in time for the Maine Highland Games on August 16 in Brunswick, Maine. Since Sightless is written mostly about Maine, it should be an easy sell at the Games.
I plan on getting a leather bound limited edition in a few months for those who like to collect. They really are pretty, but a little pricey to get printed.
I'll be sending around a formal email in a day or two to those who've requested a head's up on the release date. I'm waiting for it to show up on Barnes and Noble and on my publisher's website. I'll be making a link on my site foe easy ordering, as well.
Thanks for all your support through the long months.
Happy reading!
Mary
I plan on getting a leather bound limited edition in a few months for those who like to collect. They really are pretty, but a little pricey to get printed.
I'll be sending around a formal email in a day or two to those who've requested a head's up on the release date. I'm waiting for it to show up on Barnes and Noble and on my publisher's website. I'll be making a link on my site foe easy ordering, as well.
Thanks for all your support through the long months.
Happy reading!
Mary
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