Moday Musings and Mumblings

I'm a child of the sixties, more correctly a teenager of the sixties. A flower child. An aging hippy who is excessively hippy in a different way now, sad to say. But truth is truth. Having grown up in the era I did, I don't easily trust the government or the press. I recall how my generation was manipulated by both. Manipulated AND wrongly portrayed.

For example, we've all heard history books are written by the winners. Right? So we have to research beyond what's spoon-fed to us in those history books.

We're told health care systems in other countries, classified as a form of socialism, are poor with slow available care. Speak to a Frenchman or German and their opinion and personal experiences are vastly different than what the government and news outlets tell us.

I've got this wonderful step-son so like his father--intelligent, humorous, gentle, and great to talk to. Kelly lives in Berlin, working as head product developer for Mozilla. His wife is a native Berliner, having grown up in the Communist sector of Berlin. The part we'd heard was so horribly bad people died trying to escape across or under the wall.

Katrin told us she loved living in Eastern Berlin. She had a legal job, an apartment, security, good medical care. Then the wall was torn down. Gone was her job, the roof over her head, her currency or security, and care provided by the government. But that was Communism, thinks I in surprise. She talked about how hard it was for her and her relatives to find work and housing. She explained communism did not provide everything. What is provided was the opportunity to have everything for those who worked.

I asked if they weren't happy after the wall was torn down. That's what we were told. She scoffed and said she'd gone from a legal clerk on her way to being an attorney to a shampoo person in a beauty shoppe. She and her relatives crammed into a dingy apartment instead of the beautiful apartments they each had before the sides came together.

Calvin and I listened to her talk about her experiences. Frankly, we were in shock. We'd always been told differently by the government and media. Had we been lied to or was her experience an anomaly? Were her memories jumbled bits of truth and fiction? She now owns her own business, a benefit from her knowledge of laws. Our Katrin is an intelligent, hard-working woman. In fact, she's recently had her company go totally "green" to benefit the environment.

I think the best thing Calvin and I have learned from her is a throwback to the sixties and seventies. Don't trust blindly. Ask. Always question. News outlets and news entertainment centers that taint their broadcasts with an inflection of voice or a raised eyebrow or downright shouting should be believed with half a grain of salt. Be your own truth advocate. Read. Research. Question. Heck, question me! Who am I? A 67-year old romance writer with mush for brains as I madly write toward deadline. Have a great week, everyone!

I WONDER, HOW DO FRENCH WOMEN BURN OFF CALORIES? by Vonnie Davis

There are many things I love about Paris -- the architecture, the small neighborhood shops, and the art museums. I enjoyed every minute we spent at sidewalk cafes absorbing French culture. But I really, really enjoyed the bakeries, or boulangeries. Oh, the seducing smells that wafted out onto the streets. 

To this pastryholic, I thought I'd died and gone to whipped creme heaven.

 

As I'd stand, staring into the windows, shop owners would rush out to wipe the drool off their pristine glass.

 

Unlike here in America, loaves of French bread were not bagged, often carried home without benefit of a paper wrapper.

 

We loved buying a pastry or two to eat at a nearby sidewalk cafe along with a cup of espresso.

 

 

Making a choice was always hard. Pastries were virtually works of art, or so my eyes proclaimed as they roamed over the delights in the glass cases and windows.

 

Yet, as I'd enjoy my calorie-rich treat, I'd look at slender French women rushing by, their stilettos creating a stacatto on the sidewalk and I'd wonder...how do French women burn off calories and stay so slender? Perhaps this YouTube video explains that...

http://youtu.be/yEH4Yum4nN4

 

 

EXCERPT FROM MONA LISA'S ROOM:

 

Ten minutes later, Alyson wobbled in front of the cashier ready to pay for the black kidskin three-inch Pradas she wore. As soon as she saw the bow at the back of the heel, she fell in love with the shoes. Gwen called her a “bow freak.” When Niko reached for his wallet, she elbowed him. “Look, as long as they take Visa, I’ll pay for my own shoes.”

“Please, allow me.”

“Absolutely not. I planned on having an expensive birthday meal at the Eiffel Tower Restaurant tomorrow. With all that’s happened today, that plan is ruined, too. So I’m rationalizing since I won’t be paying for my birthday meal, I can pay this ungodly amount for the shoes.”

Niko placed his hand over hers. “I don’t mind. Let me treat you since I goaded you into buying them.”

“Really, that’s not necessary. Even my husband…er…ex-husband never bought me things. I’ve always paid my own way.”

He leaned an elbow on the glass counter and looked at her. “You’re kidding me. He never bought you little surprises? Little treats? A woman like you should be spoiled, treasured—” his voice lowered as he slowly trailed a finger up her arm  “—loved often and well.” Merciful heavens, he was trying to seduce her in a shoe store. Gwen would squeal in delight when she told her about this.

“Down, buster. American women are different than French women. We’re not so easily seduced by glib words or smooth moves.”

His eyebrow arched and his demeanor turned insolent. “You think I’m trying to seduce you?”

Typical male. He touched her almost nonstop since they stepped into Minelli’s. Now that she called him on it, he wanted to deny everything. “I think you’re toying with me, seeing if you can make an old, lonely American woman quiver at your feet.”

“First of all, you’re not old. Second, if you’re lonely, that’s your fault. Third, if I wanted to make you quiver—” he leaned in, his lips against her ear  “—I damn well could.”

 

BUY LINKS:

THE WILD ROSE PRESS (digital) -- http://bit.ly/MonaLisaDigital

THE WILD ROSE PRESS (paperback) -- http://bit.ly/MonaLisasRoom

AMAZON (paperback) -- http://amzn.to/QQZGyD

AMAZON (eBook) -- http://bit.ly/MonaLisasRoomeBook 



MARIE COLLIGAN -- Author

My guest on Vintage Vonnie today is artist and author Marie Colligan. Marie and I are members of the same writers' group--Hillcity Writers. Her debut book, Marcel's Gift, was released the day after Valentine's Day, so she is a "newbie." Not only that, but this is her first guest blogging experience, so be gentle with her as we unwrap this freshly published eBook.

The blurb for Marcel's Gift is:

One heart: two men.

She's found the love of her life, too bad it isn't the man she's in love with. Love is fickle. It comes disguised in many forms.

It sneaked up on Canadian artist, Solange Bernard, like an intangible fog, breathing its magic whispers into her heart--compelling her, bewitching her, smothering her in the enchantment that was Ambrose. Her heart should have warned her when it recognized loves' breathless spell. But she threw off the trappings of guilt and sin and wrapped herself in the shining aura of divine pleasure and discovery with Ambrose.

However, one question loomed with its confounding answer. "How was it possible for her to love two men at the same time...her husband and a priest of the Catholic Church?"

Marie has agreed to answer some questions. Your book takes place in many settings, doesn't it? Yes, my heroine travels to Arles, France for a workshop on watercolors and en plein air painting. While there, she is entranced by both the beauty of the countryside and a handsome stranger she meets.

En Plein Air artists love painting outside, making use of the sun's effects--or chiaroscuro--on objects.

Lovely gardens and arches in Arles.

Other locations in my book include Avignon, St. Remy's and Africa...and, of course, Canada.

Market area of Avignon.

Gardens in St. Remy's

What is your life like away from the computer? Tell us something about your household. Jazzie, my cat, wants to know if you have any kitty-pusses. Life away from the computer is rare. My husband has taken over the duties of grocery shopper and loading and unloading the dishwasher. He even cooks on occasion. He’s a gem. We’ve been married 45 years and I still feel I’m lucky to have found him. But my constant companion when I’m slaving away churning out chapters in the dungeon (what we call our downstairs den) is my rascal dachshund, Ebenezer (Ebbie). 

What authors and genres do you like to read? My all time favorite is Charles Dickens. I’ve read “A Tale of Two Cities” three times. I really don’t have a favorite contemporary author; I go more by the book subject than the author. Love non-fiction stuff written about string theory and the universe(s) by Brian Greene. He makes me feel smart.

Do you enter writing contests? If so, has this been a positive experience for you? I’ve been lucky. This past year I won an Honorable Mention and two Frist Place awards for fiction. 

Do you ever dream of writing in a different genre? MARCEL’S GIFT is a contemporary love story. My WIP (working title “Lady Mirielle’s Flight) is an historical (middle ages) woman’s fiction. (Oy, the research!)

 What part of the writing process brings you the most pleasure? I get the most pleasure from writing when I am totally absorbed in my characters. I want my readers to fall in love with my hero and become my heroine. I just killed off a secondary character in my historical piece, I cried all afternoon. The most angst? P.O.V.

Tell us about your release. Do you have an excerpt to share?

Yes, two in fact.

I pulled the international phone card I had purchased when I arrived in France from my wallet. I scanned the instructions. "Oh no! It's in French," I blurted out loud.

I heard a bit of muffled laughter and looked behind me to the row of parked cars at the curb.

Leaning against a small gray car stood a tall man whose good looks placed second only to some of Hollywood's movie stars. The tangle of his curly, almost black hair—the black of shiny French jet—ringed his handsome face, and his engaging smile could melt any icy heart or change a warm heart into an inferno. My gaze lingered a little too long.

"Pardonez-moi, Madame, may I be of assistance?" He smiled at me.

"Oh, thank you .Yes, please. I can't use my phone card. It's written in French." My note of desperation obvious in my voice.

"Allow me." Still smiling, he took the card from my hand. Our fingers brushed. He inserted it into the slot, never breaking eye contact with me as he pressed buttons and spoke French to an operator. He asked me for the phone number I wanted to call and when I gave him the country code, he stopped. "Not the United States?" His voice caused little ripples in my heartbeat.

"No, it's for Canada."

He completed getting the number, and as he handed the phone back to me, our fingers brushed for just an instant. In one fleeting moment of contact, a sensual tremor washed through me. I had to juggle the phone to keep it from falling out of my trembling hands.

"You will have a connection shortly." His eyes danced with a devilish twinkle as he returned the phone card to me.

What a flirt! Typical Frenchman.

****

It all started with a dream…

Late afternoon…the perfect time for a pastis, the favorite apèritif in this part of southern France

In the warmth of what began as a perfect afternoon in Avignon, had just become a nightmare.

Ambrose and I stared at each other—two frozen spirits—wanting to say so much knowing our days together would end tomorrow when I boarded a plane back to my home outside of Quebec.

We sat close. Our fingers barely touched. Ambrose's powerful eyes looked down into mine perhaps searching for the heart of my innermost thoughts and feelings. My eyes, filled with tears of heartbreak. I looked up into his eyes wondering if the feelings I could not express and the thoughts I dared not admit even to myself, merged with my silent words and were understood only by Ambrose D'Arcy, the broken man sitting beside me.

The words he just spoke couldn't have been sharper had they been etched on the icy steel blade of a guillotine just unlashed, and careening down its course to leave in its wake the splintered remains of my heart.

A refugee tear escaped from my eye and Ambrose, with a gentle, sorrowful smile, wiped away my transgression. He leaned closer to me, head bent, to administer his intended kiss. The kiss I had yearned for and fantasized about for days.

Without thinking, I put my free hand to his chest to repel his advance. My action seemed to surprise him. Immediately, his expression changed from deeply caring to deeply hurt; his gaze begged forgiveness. "I'm so sorry, Solange, forgive me, please."

With great difficulty I spoke. My emotions and my constricting throat, acting in concert, betrayed my mixed feelings of abandonment and grief.

"Let's not start something...we...can't finish." The words filtered through my tears. "But…I want you to know…I will dream all my life of this kiss I didn't accept."

Vonnie, you are an angel. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to celebrate the release of my debut novel, MARCEL’S GIFT, on your blog. Yes, the dream has become a reality. Everyone is asking me if I am excited. Truth be known, I’m more nervous than excited.

I do have a “teaser” on my blog site http://www.mariecolligan.blogspot.com, but the real deal is available on Amazon.com thru Echelon Press.

The buy link is: http://amzn.to/wsC4Ga