Megan Denby's Blog: Not Your Average Lassie

     It is not yet dawn but I’ve been awake for hours. I run my fingers through curls the colour of a new penny and lean to kiss his cheek. He stretches and yawns then cuddles in close. I flex and relax my toes, the old rocker groaning a rhythm of comfort as I rock my son.     Rosy strands of sunlight glide over the lip of the horizon and stream into the living room.
     Red sky in the morning, sailor's warning.
     The pink slowly fades to light, painting his fair skin golden. He murmurs, milky lips drooped with satisfaction, fingers curled by his cheek.     A sparrow lands on the sill and preens with jerky dips of its beak. Lush notes of lilac waft through the open window, summer fresh on the breeze.     I slip my shirt back into place then stand. The sparrow, disturbed, flicks its tail in annoyance and flits to the shelter of the silver maple.  Nestling my son to the curve of my neck, I breathe his essence, his baby-sweet smell.     I tiptoe my fingers up and down his back, swaying from one foot to the other. I look around the room then settle on the yellowed family photo.     Mom’s smile is tight, blonde waves tucked behind her ears. Dad sits next to her, shoulders stooped; his eyes bleached the blue of an Arizona sky at high noon. I sit on Dad’s lap, legs folded like a colt, mischief leaping from eyes identical to his.  My little sister leans into Mom, her face shyly turned from the camera, her halo of curls a shimmer of pale. My eyes are drawn back to Dad, to the distance in his eyes, to my small hand hidden in his and I feel the sadness, the tightening in my throat, in my chest.       The muffled clunk of the washing machine brings me back and I peer out at the clothesline strung across the back yard. With an outstretched toe, I hook a handle of the bassinette and drag it toward me. Squatting low, I lay my sleeping boy on his back and draw the blanket to his chest. He yawns and stretches and I smile as he thrusts the blanket from his body.  Drawing the netting across the wicker, I gather the woven handles and cross to the sliding doors.      The dewy grass wets my feet as I cross the lawn. My shoulders warm with the heat of the morning sun. I slip into the cool of the old maple and search the latticework of leaves until I find the knobbed branch that sits at just the right angle. I lift the bassinette and loop the handles over the bough, shifting it so that they lodge where limb meets trunk.      I sneak my fingers under the netting and cover him again, pausing to trace the soft of his cheek. A hint of a smile tips his lips and I smile in response, wondering at this beauty that is mine. I secure the netting and pull down on the bassinette again to be sure it is safe.     “I’ll be right back, little man,” I whisper.     I peer around my fenced yard, feeling the quiet. I'm drawn to movement in the dense cedar hedge that blocks the street beyond. I narrow my eyes against the glare of the sun and take a few steps toward the hedge. Uncertainty flutters in my belly and I take another step then leap back as a chipmunk, scolding angrily, darts from its hiding place in the trees.      Feeling a little foolish, I peek once more at my baby. He is lost in slumber, suspended safely above any curious being. The laundry waits. I turn and sprint across the yard, sidestepping a marauding thistle.
     Cutting through the garage, I yank open the basement door and feel my way down the steps, mildew chasing away the summer green. I search above my head until I find the naked bulb and the chain that hangs beside. With a tug, the dark pulls back to the corners and I pad across the cold concrete to scoop up a laundry basket.     Moving quickly, I lift the lid of the washing machine and fill my arms with wet rompers and tiny socks. The telephone cuts the still and I bash my head on the corner of the overhanging shelf. The jug of detergent topples. I make a swipe but it hits the floor, the lid skidding to the corner, blue slime puddling at my toes.     “Damn!” I reach down and slam the bottle upright as the phone blares at me again.     Rubbing my temple, I run to the family room and snatch the receiver from its cradle, stretching the looped cord so I can see out the window.     “Hello?”     “Hi Honey! How’s my grandson?”      “Oh, hi Mom...he’s uh...he’s good,” I find the bassinette and the knot in my belly loosens.     I trace the bump on my head as I pace back and forth in front of the window, my stare fixed on the tree.     “Listen Mom...yah...but I really can’t talk right now... I’m a...” I try to interrupt but there is no break in the monologue. The cedar hedge twitches. Her voice trills on. A branch dips but no chipmunk.     Nothing.     “I just need your sister’s phone number at work, Honey.”     I press my forehead to the cool glass. I look at the bassinette and back to the hedge.     Nothing.     “I gotta call you back Mom...I have to...”     “Sorry Honey, I really need to speak to your sister.” The wheedling tone makes my stomach hurt. “You don’t mind do you, Sweetie?”     I dart a look to the desk across the room, to the drawer that holds my address book. A prickle of heat warms my back. Damn!        “Just a sec.” My teeth bang together as I stretch the cord to its limit. I yank open the drawer and fumble through the mess of papers. I jam the phone between my ear and shoulder and rifle through with both hands.     Damn! Damn! Damn!     I glance back to the window but I only see the top of the tree and a piece of blue sky. The room dims. Clouds scud across the blue. I close my fingers around the book and feel the paper crumple as Mom’s voice singsongs in my ear. Flipping through the pages, I hurry back to the window.     “Okay Mom, got a pen?”      I press my index finger on the number and peer out the window.     My lungs empty. The phone smacks the floor and bounces up, wildly pirouetting through space like a rogue ballerina.     “Honey? Are you there? Honey?”

     He rubs his arm across his forehead. Sweat mixes with the stains on the sleeve of his old work shirt. Embroidered letters above the pocket once spelled his name, but the stitching has long since unravelled.     Peering over his shoulder, he watches the sun’s gradual climb until a red glow creeps over the eastern horizon and bleeds across the sky.     Red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning.     The old litany echoes through his head as he pushes the paper bag from the neck of the bottle and unscrews the cap. Throwing his head back, he takes a long haul, choking a little as the contents burn fire down his throat. It is a fire he knows, a fire he needs. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and caps the bottle. He sits awhile then leans forward and parts a window in the cedar hedge with his hand.     And there she is...as though she knew he was waiting for her.     The sunlight sets her curls afire as she lopes the length of the yard on legs of dancer. He can just make out the smattering of freckles on her shoulders. Muscles wave through her arms as she lifts the bassinette and settles it on a branch.     He crouches low, the stink of his body rising from his collar. He watches her reach into the basket and he feels his own lips tip in response to her sweet, sweet smile. His knee gives out and he slips, landing heavily on his chest. He dare not push the hair from his eyes but lies still and peers through the lank strands.     She stares at the spot where he hides, her brows gathered over pale blue eyes. A chipmunk appears by his head and scolds him with a trilling chip-chip-chip then scurries out the other side and into her yard. She jumps then sees that it is only a chipmunk and her shoulders relax. He admires her long legs again as she sprints back toward the house.     His hands are as weak as a baby’s but he finds the bottle and takes another long pull, his eyes never leaving her until she disappears into the garage. The bassinette draws his bleary stare. He watches as it sways with the breeze. He pictures the child inside.      He waits, listens to his own breath, knows he is wasting time.      He looks over his shoulder but there is little traffic at this time of the morning. A tremor runs through his wasted frame as he caps the bottle and shoves it back into the bag. Setting it aside, he draws a shaky breath then pushes through the cedars.     He presses close to the ground and peers toward the house. Empty windows watch him with dark, knowing stares. His gaze drifts across the back of the house, across the gray stone facade and across flowerbeds in need of a weeding.     He’d had a garden like that once.     He pulls himself to his feet, hunches his shoulders and stumbles forward. Panic takes his breath and he ducks behind a row of lilacs, leans heavily against the tangle of branches. His eyes dart to the house then back to the bassinette.     His heart hammers at his ears. Is it a boy or a girl... maybe a little girl with hair the colour of burnished copper? A vision of another little girl steals into his head. A hunger, so strong it hurts, sweeps through him, a hunger that has nothing to do with the bottle he’s left beneath the cedars.     He sucks a long breath across his teeth, crouches low then rushes forward. His step falters as he lurches from the safety of the lilac and into the open. Sunlight blinds him for a moment before he finds the shade of the maple. He leans against the trunk, feels the shaggy bark bite at his shoulder and waits for his breath to slow. His eyes grow used to the dim and the hanging basket swims into focus.     He glances toward the house.     Nothing.     Wind ripples through the yard and a rushing fills his head as thousands of silver leaves dance on their stems. The breeze brings to him, the cloying scent of oncoming rain and he peers up at the sky. A dark stand of clouds guards the sun; casts an eerie yellow upon the yard.     Red sky in the morning...     His legs, guided by urgency, carry him to the basket. He presses the back of his hand to his mouth then steals a look over the side.     Burnished copper crowns the small head, just as he imagined. The child sleeps, arms flung wide...so beautiful...so innocent. An ache takes hold of his chest and for a moment he cannot draw a breath.     His hand crawls up the side of the bassinette, propelled by the need. Trembling fingers, tipped by dirty, broken nails, push back the netting.

     The phone hits the floor. Mom`s tinny voice follows me from the room. Fear drags me wildly through the shadows. A mewling starts in my throat.     Oh God no...Please, please no.     Cinderblock walls blur. My bare feet slap the concrete.      The man’s image cuts through me...darting eyes...ragged hair...dirty hands.     Dirty hands reaching into the bassinette...reaching for my son.     “Please God...please.”  I stumble up the steps.******     He pauses, notices for the first time how grubby his hands are. He wipes them on his pants then gently draws back the blanket, grasping it between thumb and forefinger.     Blue...a tiny blue sleeper.     It’s a boy...a boy!     He allows the feeling to take him...the exquisite feeling. He gazes down at the face, at the perfectly sculpted lips, the tiny seashell ears...the beginning of a dimple.     A cold wind hits his back. He hears the first drops of rain, the growl of thunder. He slips the blanket back over the small body. The wind snatches the basket and tosses it back and forth. The child’s lids flip open and he stares up at the man with startled bleached blue eyes.     Another gust of wind.     The man stares into the boy’s eyes for what feels an eternity. Then a crack sounds by his ear and he jumps. The bassinette hangs at an angle. He squints at the limb. A split runs the length of the worn bough. The basket rocks to and fro, to and fro. As the man watches the fissure grows, parting the swarthy bark.    With quavering arms, he reaches up and takes hold of the handles.     And the wind blows...******     The door crashes against the wall of the garage and the sob breaks from my throat.     “Noooo!”    Rain drives into my eyes but I can see what I already know. The bassinette is gone. He is gone.    A broken bough lies under the tree. I hurtle across the yard. Thorns bite into my heel as I step on the thistle. Rain peppers my skin.    I pick up the broken branch and spin around.    Where is he? God please! Where`s my baby?    I shove wet hair from my eyes and run to the edge of the maple, into the storm.     And there it is. I can just see it.    The bassinette.     My legs turn to water and I lurch to the lilac bush.     The basket is tucked under the branches.     Time slows and a silence fills my head. I look over the side.     My boy looks up, eyes round, drops of rain tipping the fringe of lashes. His eyes find mine and his lips spread in a toothless grin. His arms flail, the blanket crumpled in his dimpled fists.     I claw at the netting and scoop him into my arms.     I gather him close, hold him too tight. He squirms and I press my face to his hair, feel the heat of my child, the essence of my being; my heart.     “Thank you.” ******     He watches as she cuddles the boy close and a smile feathers his lips. Bending, he finds the bag and tucks it beneath his arm.     Emerging from the cedars, he sways slightly and carefully steps up onto the sidewalk.     Fat drops of rain hit his head, meld into dark patches across his stooped shoulders.     No one notices the old man as he ambles into the storm. Wind blows gray strands back from the worn face and drives hot tears from his eyes...     ...eyes bleached the blue of an Arizona sky at high noon.

A few weeks ago, my friend and fellow author, Keri Beevis, asked me to join the Chocolate Bar Challenge Blog Tour. Having never done a blog tour, I didn't know what to expect. But the topic was chocolate. And books. As the former owner of a gourmet gift basket company and a confessed chocoholic, I have plenty of experience with chocolate. As an avid reader and writer I have plenty of experience with books. So it seemed only natural to participate and of course I would do almost anything for Keri Beevis.

Keri is the UK author of the thrilling Rebecca Angel series. I've read book one, Dead Letter Day as well as book two, Dead Write and I have the utmost respect for Keri as an author. Though we've never met in person, she has become a friend - an author who is always the first to support her fellow authors and someone who can make me laugh out loud every day. To learn more about Keri, visit her website at keribeevis.com.

It was surprisingly difficult to narrow down my favourite books but even more difficult to choose the chocolate bars I like best. But here we go:


1. The Help by Kathryn Stockett

I read this book a few months ago and 'The Help' has become one of my favourites. Set in the 1960s in Jackson Mississipi, the story is told from the perspective of three women: 
Abilean is an African-American maid who cleans houses and cares for the young children of white families.
Minny is Aibilean's confrontational friend who frequently tells her employers what she thinks of them, resulting in her having been fired nineteen times.
Skeeter has always dreamed of being a writer and is the daughter of a prominent white family who employs African-Americans in their fields as well as their household.
As Skeeter becomes a young woman, she realizes African-American employees are treated very differently from the way white employees are treated. She becomes increasingly uncomfortable with the way the African-American maids are treated by their white employers as these very same employers are Skeeter's 'friends'. Skeeter's write instincts take over and she decides to expose the world to the deplorable way the maids are treated. After much cajoling, she persuades Aibilean, Minny and many other maids to tell their story. The book, entitled 'Help' is a collaboration of the privileged Skeeter and the struggling, exploited 'coloured' help. Once the story is published, Aibilean in particular, blossoms and leaves her job as a maid for a new life, hoping to follow in Skeeter's footsteps and become a writer herself.

I chose Lowney's Cherry Blossom. When you unwrap the cherry blossom, it is an unassuming chocolate mound. But when you bite into it, there is a surprisingly, beautiful maraschino cherry hidden within, just waiting to be exposed.




2. Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone by J.K. Rowling


My son received Harry Potter as a birthday gift about fifteen years ago. I read it to all three of my boys and we all became hooked. Though I'm sure it's not necessary to explain the plot, I will briefly outline what drew us in. Harry, a young orphan, is mistreated and tormented by his aunt, uncle and cousin - the Dursleys. At age eleven, he discovers his magical heritage. He is a wizard! He makes close friends and enemies during his first year at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. With the help of his friends, Harry faces and conquers the dark wizard Lord Voldemort, who killed Harry's parents, but failed to kill Harry when he was just a baby. Breaking rules, using a wand, playing Quidditch, fighting evil and the camaraderie between friends is what kept my boys and myself spellbound throughout this book and all others in the series. There are no other books that come close to the Harry Potter series.

I chose Reese's Peanut Butter Cups as they are a 'one-of-a-kind taste experience' and have long since been a favourite of our entire family. As with any of the Harry Potter books, once you have tried them, they are with you forever and it's very hard to stop thinking about them.



3. The Lion The Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis


I received the boxed set of The Chronicles of Narnia when I was about nine years old from my favourite aunt and uncle. It was a heavy read but I persevered and proceeded to eat, sleep and breathe Narnia for months. In 1940 four siblings - Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy - are sent from London to escape The Blitz to live in the countryside. During a game of hide and seek, Lucy climbs into a wardrobe and discovers it is a magical forest in a land called Narnia. The White Witch rules Narnia and has cast a spell that renders the land forever cloaked in winter. With the help of a talking lion named Aslan and many other talking animals, the four children conquer the witch and are crowned Kings and Queens of Narnia. Fifteen years later, Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy, find their way back through the wardrobe and are suddenly children again as almost no time has passed.
I chose Cadbury Crunchie because this sponge toffee, chocolate-covered bar has been my favourite chocolate bar since I was a child and the magical land of Narnia remains a favourite for me today. Crunchie was initially launched in the UK back in the 1930s and the author, C.S. Lewis, was born and lived his life in the UK.

4. Black Beauty by Anna Sewell



This story, narrated in the first person as an autobiographical memoir told by the horse named Black Beauty, had a huge affect on me as a young child. Beginning with Black Beauty's carefree days as a colt on an English farm with his mother, to his difficult life pulling cabs in London, the story finally leads to his happy retirement in the country. Along the way, he meets with many hardships and recounts many tales of cruelty and kindness. The story always related to the kindness, sympathy, and understanding treatment of horses and it is this that stayed with me.
I chose Hershey’s Special Dark Mildly Sweet Chocolate Bar because it is a special blend of rich, velvety dark chocolate and that is how I perceived Black Beauty - dark, velvety and beautiful.


  5. Outlander by Diana Gabaldon
  Twenty years ago I read this larger-than-life story and fell in love with the series and the characters. Claire Randall, the strong protagonist, became a hero of sorts to me. In 1945, Claire, a former combat nurse in England, comes back from the war and reunites with her husband on a second honeymoon. When she touches a boulder in an ancient stone circle, she's catapulted back in time to Scotland,1743. It's here that James Fraser, a young Scots warrior, shows her a passion so fierce and a love so absolute that Claire is torn between her husband in the past and her husband in the present.
I chose Cadbury's Mr. Big because it is the largest sized chocolate bar Cadbury produces. It is made of a long, layered vanilla wafer, coated in caramel, peanuts and rice crisps, which is then covered in the chocolate coating.  It's full of flavour and there's nothing like it. A Mr. Big bar is the length of two "standard"-sized bars and Ms. Gabaldon's books are double the size of standard books as well.
6. Little House on the Prairie, Laura Ingalls Wilder 
  As a child, I adored this series. The book revolves around a young girl, Laura Ingalls and the Ingalls family and their time spent on the prairies of Kansas during the late nineteenth century. At the beginning of this story, Pa Ingalls decides to sell the house in the Big Woods of Wisconsin, and move the family, by covered wagon to Independence, Kansas. The story follows the life of Laura, along with Pa and Ma, Mary, and baby Carrie and the hardships they encounter along the way. Later the book was made into a television series and I never missed an episode.
I chose Nestle Kit Kat, a chocolate-covered wafer biscuit bar, because it was introduced in 1935, the same year Little House on the Prairie was published. The book is a feel-good comforting story that’s been around for years and Kit Kat is a staple chocolate bar that has stood the test of time.

Thank you to the incomparable Keri Beevis for including me in this delectable tour. Now I will hand over the reins to a gentleman who has helped me immensely over the past year and to a lovely lady whom I've just recently met.
Andrew Ives is originally from London but now resides in France. He is the author of several science fiction thrillers, including Sirene, Parallax, Psinapse and Oblique. I know from experience that he gives each of his characters a quirkiness and depth that bring them to life. His writing is technical, educational and flawless and I had the pleasure of reading his creation, Sirene, last year. You can learn more about Andrew from his interview with Keri Beevis at http://keribeevis.com/interview-with-andrew-ives-author-of-oblique/. Andrew will be sharing his Chocolate Bar Challenge on his Facebook Page https://www.facebook.com/AndrewIvesAuthor 
AFE Smith is a fantasy author whose first novel, Darkhaven, is due to be released by Harper Voyager Digital this summer. Reflections of Reality is where AFE blogs regularly. I was sold by her fantastic post on strong women. She is also the creator of many short stories and an all round interesting person. You can join AFE on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/AuthorAFESmith  and enjoy her ramblings on her website/blog at http://www.afesmith.com/
Now I am off to devour a bag of salty chips to counteract the effects of the chocolate I've been consuming for days. Happy reading and writing everyone! 

I awoke with a feeling of anticipation and a sick feeling of guilt - always the guilt. Today we were slipping away to Niagara Falls for some family time and a much needed mental rest for me.  BUT (and this is a big but) my book was not yet finished and my deadline was looming. Like the Angel of Death awaiting my last breath, my self-imposed deadline weighed heavily upon my shoulders.
Then I heard sneezing, followed by tell-tale whining. My 3-year-old son wrapped his arms around my neck when I scooped him out of bed and I felt the unmistakable smear of snot on my cheek as he cuddled close.He was sick.Next I heard his twin sister. "Mama, I'm awake," she called out, her sweet voice oddly distorted.She was sick too.
So, to cancel our trip or not - that was the question. Our hotel was paid for and tickets to Niagara Safari were non-refundable. We decided to take a chance. Amidst sneezing, whining and reams of Kleenex we packed the car.
The 'Street of Fun', Clifton Hill, was a welcome distraction and the fun-house drew nasal shrieks of delight from our heavy-lidded twins. But it was clear they were not feeling well so, after a stroll by the falls, we decided on an early dinner and bed, our fingers crossed that tomorrow would be better. The Rainforest Cafe was on our walk back to the hotel and the kids were instantly mesmerized by the fiber optic star ceiling and the animatronic robots of jungle animals and insects that came to life every few minutes. 
Then our daughter vomited; an endless stream of projectile barf that was truly unbelievable. As restaurant patrons recoiled, our waitress - a bright smile pasted to her face - reassured that this 'happens all the time' and placed giant orange cones around our table to warn of the Danger.
Back at the hotel we gently deposited our sleeping daughter on a bed of towels, an improvised barf bucket close by her head. At 3 am I awoke to the wondrous sound of my son's giggles. He was sound asleep but his infectious laughter rang through the dark room. Weird. Upon investigation, we found he'd wet the bed - flooded it in fact. Not a laughing matter at 3am.
With the bed stripped and fresh sheets tucked in, we settled back in. But for me sleep was done. As I listened to the ancient air conditioner cough and sputter, my mind roiled and I reflected on the last several months.
My book - book two, my sequel, Lost to the Mist - hovered at the forefront. Unfinished pages taunted. The familiar sick feeling started in my stomach and spread through me.
I'd released book one, A Thistle in the Mist, in January. Buoyed by a shimmering cloud of success and without a shred of forethought, I publicly announced the forthcoming release of book two for August - a mere 8 months later.
Had I known how the next eight months would unfold, I would not have made such an hasty vow.
In February my twins came to the conclusion that naps were optional. Gone were my two precious hours of writing per day. I began to sleep, drink and eat in unhealthy doses of panic with furious bursts of forced writing far into the night. My mom came to the rescue and offered to babysit each week for a full day of uninterrupted writing. But a health scare for her and a slew of doctor's appointments quickly nixed that generous offer. March flew past and in April my twenty-one-year-old son moved out and into his own apartment. Before the dust settled, the revolving door opened and my twenty-two-year-old son moved home. With no direction and no job, I worried for his future and helped him put together a resume. The end of April brought my first book signing - a night of success and a renewed focus for book two. A sense of urgency filled me and throughout May book two began to take shape. As before, with book one, thoughts of Meara and the highlands of Scotland were never far from my mind. June brought with it the green of summer and I returned to the lake to pursue my love of dragon boating. I was flattered and excited to receive daily emails from my readers asking for a confirmed release date of book two. I continued to delude myself and strove to complete my book by August. At the end of June a job offer literally fell into my lap - a job that would help my family and lighten our financial worries. This new job included marketing and promotions  and drove a huge dent into the hours I'd set aside to write. I loved the job but agonized over the loss of my writing time. Then a few weeks ago the true meaning of my life lurched into perspective. My twenty-one-year-old son showed up at my door. His face was bruised, scraped and swollen. My heart dropped. I went numb as he haltingly confessed to crashing my car. I'd lent him my car while his was in the shop. My car was gone but my son stood before me. Alive. And he felt so good in my arms. I went to the crash site and stared at the telephone pole that stood just a few feet from where my car had come to rest. In that moment I knew an angel had been sitting on my son's shoulder - and on mine.
In the hotel room, as the air conditioner protested loudly and my family slept peacefully, I came to some realizations.There are things in life you cannot change. I cannot change the number of hours in my day. I cannot change the fact - nor would I - that I have six children who need me each and every day. I cannot change the fact I need a day job to pay the bills. And I cannot change the fact that my deadline has come and gone.
Today I am so thankful to have my family. My car is gone but it can be replaced. My son is still here and he cannot be replaced. The most important things in my life are my family, my friends and my writing. I didn't finish my book on time but I WILL keep writing. Despite my best intentions, I know I have disappointed my readers and I have disappointed myself.
And so I have come to understand I must have been insane - am INDEED insane - to think I could write an entire book in eight months. But as most writers would agree - writing takes a certain degree of insanity. To quote Edgar Allen Poe: 'I became insane with long intervals of horrible sanity.' 
As I embrace the insanity of my life, I'd like to apologize to my readers who have been patiently waiting.
Christmas is my new goal and though I cannot predict what the future holds, I will endeavor to complete my story by then.
Thank you.




  

"Wow, another hundred!" I say as I watch free copies of my ebook A THISTLE IN THE MIST 'fly off the shelf'. But I instantly regret saying it aloud and feel compelled to reach over and rap my knuckles on the wooden table. Have I just jinxed my downloads?

And yesterday when I told my mom I have never experienced writer's block, she grabbed my hand and forcibly marched me over to her dining table to 'knock on wood'.


Mom and I come by our superstitions honestly and so it is natural for me to include them in my writing. As a child I remember my wee Scottish great-grandmother scolding me for opening my umbrella before I stepped outside. She told me I would poke someone's eye out with the tip but I knew by her darting eyes and wringing hands she felt it was just plain bad luck.


My kids know they are not allowed to open umbrellas in the house - at least not in front of their eccentric mother. Another thing we are all deathly afraid of (okay probably just me) is breaking a mirror. SEVEN YEARS BAD LUCK! SEVEN! That's a lot of bad luck and the only way to get rid of the curse is to put the broken pieces in a paper bag and throw them into a river. I've never had to do this and I hope I never do because I pity the person who has the bad luck to step on jagged pieces of my broken mirror when they are
peacefully wading in the creek. 


And watch that salt shaker. Oh my God! Did you spill it? Is it the left or right shoulder? And killing spiders? Good Lord!! Do you want it to rain for days? What are you trying to do to me?

Okay, I'm not completely crazy. Some superstitions are just silly. Is walking under a ladder really asking for something bad to happen? Well I have walked back and forth under ladders and nothing bad has ever happened. Climbing up a ladder, however, seems to be a more hazardous undertaking. Have you ever missed your footing, slipped down a ladder with a loaded paint can, dumped the blue paint on your beige carpet and skinned your nose on a rung? No? Me neither.



And how about black cats? I had a beautiful black cat named Toby when I was a kid. He must have crossed my path hundreds of times and I had a wee kitten that was black as midnight. Neither one of them brought me anything other than a few scratches and lots of cuddles. But the little guy did get hit by a car - maybe I brought him bad luck.

As I wrote A THISTLE IN THE MIST, I came across a Scottish culture steeped in superstition. For instance it is bad luck to have a black cat in a room where a wake is taking place, or to see a funeral procession on the way to your wedding or to cross two knives on a table. On the flip side, it is good luck to place silver in a newborn baby’s hand as it will bring great wealth to them in later life and you must touch iron if you see or even hear evil and if you are a bride you should put a silver coin in your shoe and wear a sprig of white heather.


I am having a lot of fun researching Scotland and its superstitions for my second book but in the meantime I am going to obsess over my free downloads for the rest of the day. Hey look at that! Another hundred - gone for free! FREE! That's right, folks - twelve years of hard work - FREE! At this rate this independent author is going to be loaded in no time!

Seriously, folks, free or paid for, I am grateful to each and every person who takes the time to read my story, send me comments and messages and leave me reviews. After all, that is why I write.

Knock on Wood!

PS Did I mention A THISTLE IN THE MIST is FREE? (May 22 - 24 then it's back up to $2.99!) Download your FREE copy right HERE from Amazon.com or HERE from Amazon.ca or HERE from Amazon.uk

It was 7:15pm - 1 hour and 15 minutes since I had set up my little table. I had sold 2 books to one person. And that person was my old college buddy. Things were not looking good.
My table looked perfect. My books were set at just the right angle. My trusty pen was ready. My welcome sign, that I'd laboured over for two days, was undeniably Scottish. The yellowed photo of my sweet, little great-grandmother added a little ambience and my hair hadn't wilted. Yet.


But I could feel the sweat starting to roll down my back and my smile was starting to quiver. Shoppers politely looked just above my head as they glided by on their way to the racks and racks of jewellery.
My book signing - the night I had obsessed over for days - was here. I sat nestled in amongst sparkling display cases of silver bracelets, rings and necklaces at Silverside, an upscale jewellery store in Port Perry, my hometown. It was Diva Night - the night when scores of ladies were on the prowl, chatting and giggling along with their shopping cohorts. The lovely staff smiled at me every once in a while as they busily served the rush of clients. And I felt invisible.
"Think we can sneak out without anyone noticing?" I whispered past by cardboard smile, to my wife, Jen.
"Don't worry. It's still early," she whispered back, patting my hand under the table.
Then, quite literally, the dam broke.
Suddenly I was signing my books. I was chatting with avid readers. I was talking about my story. I was an author at my book signing! I don't know what changed, but the rest of the evening was a blur of memorable moments.
My old neighbour, the kindest dairy farmer I have ever met, and most certainly on the other side of eighty, drove up from his daughter's home to see me and purchase my story! I hadn't seen him in thirty years and he took me back to a time of innocence and freedom.
As children, my brother, Danny, and I regularly visited Mr. Aldred's milkhouse for some friendly chatter and two pails of milk. The milk was fresh and good and priced just right for our family of six. I remember one wintery evening just after dinner. Mom made tea for herself and Dad and realized we were out of milk so Danny and I were sent on a mission to obtain more milk before their tea cooled. We raced down our long drive and arrived, panting, just before Mr. Aldred left the milkhouse for the evening. With a grin and chuckle he filled our pails and Danny and I hurried back across the highway, mindful of Mom and Dad waiting with their steaming tea. We reached the top of our drive and in perfect, synchronized, slow motion we slipped on the ice, landed on our butts and watched in horror as the milk drained away. I peered back over my shoulder at the darkened milkhouse of our jolly neighbour. He was no doubt settling in for a nice dinner with his family and we had no money left for more milk. Danny and I stood slowly and peered into our pails. We each had about two inches of milk left in the bottom - just enough for tea. With puffs of breath whitening the air before us, we trudged up the driveway and tiptoed into the kitchen where our parents patiently waited. We anticipated trouble and knew we were in for it. Our mumbled explanation was met with silence and Dad's stern face. Then in a hysterical voice, Mom said, "Well, no sense crying over spilt milk!" Even Dad laughed. 
  Seeing Mr. Aldred after thirty years was an incredible moment. Feeling warm and fuzzy, I restocked my books and settled back in my chair. A young girl hovered nearby and circled my table. When at last she made eye contact, I smiled and offered her a bookmark. She grinned and said, "I'm not going to buy your book but I LOVE your boots!" Well, that made me laugh. My boots are pretty cool though I have just about worn them out. An hour before the signing, I sat in my living room while my son crazy-glued the soles back on. After pulling his thumb free of the glue I stood and realized my boot was glued to the carpet. After giddy laughter, I yanked it free, polished them up, confident that no one would notice my boots amidst my shining books.
The rest of the evening sped by with much giggling and signing. Jen sat close and accepted the money and quietly made sure I spelled people's names correctly when I got caught up in conversation. Old faces and new became a blur. I shared a laugh with an old Junior Farmer buddy, hugged teamates from my old ball team and chatted with friends from high school. I laughed with a fellow dragon boater, accepted a tip from my dad and stepmother, smiled for the local paper and listened to a lovely Scottish girl who was sending my book to her mom in Scotland, who was recovering from a bout with cancer. I thanked Port Perry natives, who wanted to support a local author and finally I just about fell off my chair when my Grade Two teacher surprised me. She had read about me in the local paper. I hadn't seen her in forty years but the moment she walked up to the table with her husband, I knew her face. She told me I had always held a place in her heart and her husband revealed she had spoken of me often. Overwhelmed, I was brought to tears.


Needless to say, my debut was incredible. Thanks to Jen, I didn't lose my nerve.
Just after 10pm, we packed up. It was then I realized I hadn't eaten because of my nerves. We headed to our favourite restaurant and after two chocolate martinis and a plate of nachos, I almost slid to the floor under our table. In a state of euphoria and grateful bliss, I climbed into bed and fell asleep with a big smile on my face and copies of A Thistle in the Mist dancing in my head.
I would like to offer a big thanks to Dana Smith, the owner of Silverside and her fantastic staff  for having me as a guest and giving me a place to debut my book! And thanks to the wonderful people who sought me out, reminisced with me and made me feel very special. 
It was best night ever.






   

I am a big believer in jinxing things by being too happy.
But after weeks of writing into the wee hours of the morning and learning the ins and out of social media until my head is spinning, things are finally beginning to come together. And I am happy!
This week I made the trek into our local bookstore and asked the owner if he would consider carrying my book. With a skeptical look, he perused the back cover for what seemed an eternity. Silence makes me uncomfortable so I blurted, "It's a Scottish, historical story. It's loosely based on the life of my grandmother." Slowly, he glanced up over the top of his glasses and with an unmistakable Scottish burr he asked, "It's not like Diana Gabaldon's is it?"
I could feel the heat spread across my cheeks as I mumbled, "Well, it's Scottish and it's historical, but uh, no it's a much faster read than Diana's, or so I've been told."
He fixed me with a piercing stare and said, "I'll take three."
Three? What? Did he say he's taking my book?
Woohoo! My book - MY LITTLE BOOK - was going to be sold in a bookstore. Feeling pretty darn excited, I asked, "What do you think of me doing a book signing?" To which he replied, "Book signings are usually for famous authors  or people who are well known." 
Well, burst my bubble.
I am not famous. I am not well known. But I do want to share my story with my little hometown.
So, feeling very grateful and more determined than ever, my next stop was our local paper where I was thrilled to be given an extremely warm welcome and promise of a little mention in their next issue. My step was a little lighter as I left their office. But still, I thought perhaps I could do a bit more.
So my wife and I approached a friend of ours, one of the most brilliant business women we know, and she graciously agreed to have me do a booksigning in her jewellery store during one of the most popular shopping events in our town - Diva Night! In two weeks, I will be meeting some of my current readers and, if I am fortunate, a few new ones and I will be putting my humble little signature to paper! This is a crazy dream come true and one I am most grateful for!
And the icing on the cake came this morning in the form of an email with the word 'Winner' in the subject line. I was informed by IBD that I had been nominated and had won Indie Book of the Day meaning A Thistle in the Mist will be featured on their website, facebook page and twitter. Wow! 

So at the risk of jinxing myself, I am happy, grateful and so honoured to be in the company of so many other motivated and talented writers. I know that tomorrow someone else will take my place on Cloud Nine but for today I will enjoy it!
Many thanks to the good merchants of my hometown, Port Perry and specifically to Bill Minors of Books Galore and More, Peter Hvidsten and Maryann Fleming  at the Port Perry Focus and Dana Smith of Silverside.

Ugh, Facebook! I've been caught again. Literally busted.
Facebook - you are the bane of my existence, the source of my misery.
Okay, not really. I love Facebook. I'm IN love with Facebook. I've connected with so many old school friends I probably never would have spoken to again and it is really, really great. Facebook is also responsible for my Author Page, the page I check obsessively to catch the latest comment, the latest like.
However, I've recently been reprimanded a few times by some of my readers who feel my time could be better spent working on book two of my Scottish Mist series, A Thistle in the Mist, rather than surfing Facebook, searching for bonnie Scottish castles and landscapes to share on my page. The thing is, they are spot on. As most writers will admit, we are a procrastinating lot and having Facebook and other forms of social media at our fingertips is just a little too tempting.

But how can I keep my readers engaged if I don't update my Facebook page regularly with points of interest and fun facts? Well, I guess the answer to that is I could just buckle down and finish writing my second book. That would engage a few readers, I'm sure. But then if I don't check Facebook ten times a day, how will I keep track of what my friends are doing? How will I tell everyone that A Thistle in the Mist is now available in paperback and how can I check how many 'Likes' I've accumulated?
Speaking of "Likes", I've been sitting at 333 likes for a few days now. It's a number that keeps drawing my eyes. Then an old highschool friend (again, someone I never would have connected with without Facebook) sent me a very cool message.

He told me 333 was a beautiful, angelic number and the true meaning of a triple 3 is that I am completely surrounded, protected, loved, and guided.  All very beautiful, mystical and inspiring. Every time I visit my page my eyes are pulled to the radiance of my 333. Another number that finds me with a regularity that seems beyond coincidence is 11:11. More often than not when I glance at the clock late morning or late evening, it is 11:11. Until my friend, Doug, mentioned the significance of 333, I just thought it was an oddity - much like a lot of things in my life. With my interest piqued, I did a small bit of research and this is what I found. 

11:11 means "the Gateway". It's the doorway to your evolving self. 444 is an angelic realm number for prosperity and abundance. 555 is the number of creating positive change and forward movement and 777 is a very high spiritual number that signifies teaching or learning a more spiritually conscious way of thinking and being. Was it was purely coincidental that Doug brought my 333 to my attention? I'm not so sure.  So, although, I will be sad to see my 333 leave, I am comforted knowing 444, 555 and 777 are equally as beautiful - and something I will strive for.
And I will also strive to limit my Facebook surfing. There will always be a 'better' picture of Scotland, an awesome blog to read, interesting videos to watch and funny status updates to LOL at. But for the sake of my amazing readers - whom I would not be here without -  I will log out of Facebook and step into the world of my Scottish lass, Meara, and try my damndest to write a story worth reading.
I would love you to join me on Facebook and enable my obsession!  https://www.facebook.com/AuthorMegan  Visit my website for news on my second book, Lost to the Mist. http://www.megandenby.com/

I AM A WRITER!


“So, what is it you do again?”
It’s a common question, the ‘opener’ in many conversations; the point where I inwardly cringe. 
I should be shouting to the rooftops, “I’m a writer!” but instead I find myself mumbling, “Well, I, uh, just published my first book.” This is followed by the inevitable pregnant silence, the head tilt and eyebrow raising (perhaps a glimmer of interest?), to which I find myself responding, “Umm, yes, I published it myself. It’s an ebook.” The nodding begins, the eyebrows lower and the lips gather skeptically, leaving me no choice but to explain apologetically, “You can download it on your computer or if you have a Kindle...” The eyes glaze over and my voice trails off. I sense their relief as I change the subject.
So why do I diminish what I have done?  This is the book I have poured my heart, soul and most likely sanity into. This is the book that took me years and years to write. I don’t know. Maybe I get a sense that people are immediately on guard for a sales pitch, or I anticipate the dreaded dismissal of, ‘Oh, an ebook?’, or perhaps I think they may question my credibility given that I did not publish the traditional way and my efforts have not been validated by an agent or publishing house.
Despite my insecurities, the fact is I havewritten, therefore I AM A WRITER!
I’ve worn many ‘hats’ over the years, from dental assistant, to fulltime mom, to daycare provider, to orthodontic treatment co-ordinator to business owner and finally, at long last, I have graduated to fulltime writer. 
My dream has come true and now the job at hand is to believe in my worthiness in this respected profession! 
 A Thistle in the Mist is my debut effort, a historical, romance thriller that came to me years ago and was inspired by the life of my great-grandmother who came to Canada from Aberdeen. It is the story of a Scottish lass and is fraught with twists and turns, murder and betrayal, love and faith; a story that will sweep you from Scotland to Canada and back again.
Meara isn’t thinking about death when she kisses her mother good-bye. But hours later she is, as her fingers slide into Mother’s shattered skull.Feisty Meara MacDonald dreams of wedding the gallant Duncan MacLeod. But Deirdre and Sloan arrive and all that Meara holds dear is snatched away. When she finds herself catapulted from Scotland to Nova Scotia, she must fight her way back to the remains of her family; her heart and soul.



A Thistle in the Mist is currently available in ebook on Amazon and will be available in paperback soon! http://www.amazon.com/A-Thistle-Mist-ebook/dp/B00B2XML88. 

 

'Ask yourself: Have you been kind today? Make kindness your modus operandi and change your world.' Annie Lennox
Scottish Singer Songwriter, Political Activist And Philanthropist

When I was about eight, in Mrs. Beddows grade three class, I remember the new kid. He was there for just a short time. I can't remember his name but there was something different about him. And if there is one thing kids seem to hone in on, it's the 'different'. So he was picked on and I watched and felt bad and felt sick inside. One day as we were getting our coats from the cloakroom closet, someone made fun of the argyle sweater he was wearing. I watched his face, the way it sagged, the way he looked sad and something 'popped' in my head at the injustice. I don't remember exactly what I said, but I do remember asking, in a very loud voice, if they knew how they were making him feel. I don't know if I made that boy feel better and I don't know if I made my classmates feel guilty but I know it got quiet. Then we all put on our coats on and went out for recess. Shortly after that, the boy moved away. 
I have never forgotten this experience, the surprise I felt within myself at coming up against my peers, the sadness on the boy's face. And it came down to a simple act of kindness.

When my boys were little, I taught them to be kind, to stick up for the kid who was being picked on. The most rewarding moments were when my children told me they had made someone feel better or when a mom approached me at the school to tell me my son had stuck up for her daughter when she was being bullied on the playground. Now, with my two-year-old twins, I am trying to teach them kindness. I ask them to look at each other's faces, to see the sadness they may be causing. Often I overhear one of them saying, "It's okay, it's okay," as they reassure one another. Little by little it seems to be working.

I have always tried to practice kindness in my own life, whether it be welcoming a new member to a team, smiling and saying 'Hi!' to a stranger on the street, letting someone, with fewer groceries, in front of me in line, giving up my seat to someone who needs it more or sticking up for the grocery girl who is being embarassed by a rude customer. Any act of kindness is an easy gift to give.  I'm afraid I have no respect for unkind people, people who set out to make others feel bad, who take out their own insecurities or unhappiness by bashing others, gossiping or making the check-out girl feel inferior. It's really not that hard to be kind. When you see someone's face light up as the result of your kindness, how can you not?

And that is why I can't help but infuse goodness, in some shape or form, into each of my characters that I write about. Whether it is my protagonist, who is feisty but kind to those whom deserve it or my villain, who shows a glimmer of softening toward children despite her evilness, I feel it is important to weave the goodness of human nature throughout my stories.
Over the past few months I have come across many writers. I've noticed the ones who are egotistical - the 'book spammers' who leave a trail of links wherever they go. I've met the ones who are downright rude, who have no problem bashing their fellow writers. But my faith has been restored by the acts of kindness shown by many of my fellow authors - all of whom I've never met face to face. Whether it be Buzz, paying tribute to me in his blog, Phil, giving me incentive with his support, kind words and advice or Keri, who makes me laugh and who willingly passes on her great ideas, I have faith there is a little good in everyone! At the end of the day we all remember the person who made us smile, made us feel great and went that extra mile.
And for those of you who are just plain mean, in the words of one of my favourite authors,

“When someone is mean to me, I just make them a victim in my next book.” Mary Higgins Clark

I've been told Canadians say Sorry way too much and we are just too happy and too polite. Well, we have a whole lot to be happy about. We live in a beautiful country and we are very fortunate to have the freedom we do. But come to think of it there are a bunch of things that set Canadians apart. So I just want to say Sorry, but most Canadian stereotypes are true and it's these very stereotypes that have shaped into the person I am today.

First of all the Beaver.


Yes, the Beaver is our national symbol and their pelts were once a lucrative trade in the 1600s. I've had several encounters with this little chap. Our buck-toothed hero always slaps his tale on the water when we get too close to his den while fishing at our cottage. Besides being proud of our Beaver and featuring him on our nickel, Canadians also love Beavertails. Beavertails are gooey pastries that resembles, what else but a beaver's tail. Covered in sugar and icing and cinnamon, it's just just plain addictive.

We say 'Eh' a lot.
I would have to agree with this one. I say it all of the time when what I really mean is 'I know, right?' or 'Ya, I totally agree!' or 'Isn't that correct?'  I think every country has their own version of 'Eh' and in Canada, where we like to simplfy things, it's a whole lot easier to condense four or five words into 'Eh'.

We have no Phones in the great white north.


Really? That's pretty funny but the sad fact is this actually hits home with me. When I was a kid we lived on a farm that lay right on a boundary line between two phone companies. This meant the difference between having a Phone number that connected to everyone else for free and having a long distance number. Of course our house lay just north of the boundary so we had to pay a fee to call just about everyone. With four kids to feed and Scots blood running through her veins, Mom was a bit miserly. She politely asked that we be given the same kind of Phone number as all of our neighbours. The Phone company wouldn't budge but after many battles, Mom won. Kind of. We got our free Phone line. In the middle of our field. Yes - the middle of a pasture field. Only in Canada you say? Probably. Dad built a Phone booth just south of the boundary line. So if my friends wanted to call they had to schedule a time. Then I'd sit in the booth, wait for the Phone to ring and hope they didn't forget about me. They usually did. I was kind of jealous of my little brother. He seemed to be pretty popular and was always heading out to the Phone booth. Then I found his magazines. So forever more we were known as 'the Denbys with the Phone booth in the field' and we were scarred for life. Even now, random people will say, 'Ha, ha, ha, you guys used to have that Phone booth in the field. Ha ha ha. Is it still there?' As a matter of fact it is, ha ha ha and Sorry, but what's so funny about that?

Our mode of transportation is via polar bear, dog sled, snowshoes and Moose.


I guess it depends what part of Canada you live in but I've never ridden a polar bear or sat in a dog sled. I have snowshoed with my dad though and it's very cool, quietly slooshing through the wintery woods, looking for animal tracks and listening to blue jays and white-throated sparrows. And I haven't ridden a Moose but I almost ran one down with my car. As I headed home from a week at our cottage in northern Ontario, my car loaded to the rafters with kids, suitcases and cottage souvenirs like birch bark andsticks with Beaver tooth marks, I crested a hill and had to jam on the brakes. I'm not sure who was more surprised, me or the Moose. But I definitely got up close and personal and it was an amazing sight. I stared at him. He stared at me. The kids were silent. Then this majestic beast turned and galloped off into the trees.

Hockey is a way of life.
True. True. And True. I think you are kind of shunned in Canada if you don't love Hockey. I grew up playing pond Hockey with my brother, whom I ruled by the way. My boys used to skate circles around me on our backyard rink. We played Hockey in the street and just like on 'Wayne's World', Game On could be heard in our neighbourhood every day. I play ball Hockey in the house with my twins now and have scarred walls to prove it. The Toronto Maple Leafs are our national heros and we never miss a game. I've been to a few live games and there's nothing quite like the atmosphere of Leafs fans at the Air Canada Centre. I am a lousy player on skates but give me a pair of running shoes, a stick and a ball and I might even score a hat trick. Yes, Hockey is as essential as breathing to many Canadians.


All Canadians drink Beer.
Canada produces fantastic Beer so it is only natural to consume something this fantastic. I personally don't drink beer but we also drink liquor and wine and they are pretty fantastic too. It's cold up here in Canada. We only have two weeks of summer so we have to stay warm somehow and a frothing glass of Beer or an ice cold rum and coke definitely warms the belly. So that one is true as well.

We put Maple Syrup on everything.
We are surrounded by Maple trees in Canada and everything tastes better with maple syrup on it so why not? Back on the farm I helped my dad collect sap in the spring then couldn't wait to boil it down and taste that sticky sweetness. There is nothing like Canadian Maple Syrup. Except maybe poutine. Ya, poutine is pretty delicious. And back bacon. Mmmm. Back bacon with Maple Syrup.

Everyone wears Toques in Canada.
It is a matter of self-preservation. Body heat is lost through the top of our heads and with an average temperature of -70, forgetting to wear a Toque is like forgetting your long underwear. With so many beautiful colours and styles, we still manage to look great.



Well, there are far too many stereotypes to mention but one thing is certain, I am not Sorry to be Canadian. I am thankful and proud. Like any country we have our quirks and peculiar habits. With a population of thirty-five million people, we don't all know each other. The likelihood of knowing Dave Smith is pretty slim. Actually, though, I do know Dave Smith. Small world. No, we don't all know each other, but we do stand united.

As a writer, I feel the need to incorporate kindness into my favourite characters. But I also don't forget to weave the feistiness of a true Canadian into all of my stories. And so, as a proud Canadian, I leave you with this:



If you would like to see more of my writing, my novel, A Thistle in the Mist, is free today and tomorrow, March 8th and March 9th. Sorry, but Canadians are shameless opportunists too :)  http://www.amazon.com/A-Thistle-Mist-ebook/dp/B00B2XML88 Thanks for reading!