Jan's Blog

 RSS Feed

  1. Hello again. Long time no blog!

    Despite 'all', I hope your summer is ticking along nicely...

    We’re having the usual July weather here in Scotland -- plenty of rain. The jokes run something like this...

    I love summer in Scotland. This year it was on a Monday. 

    But, mustn’t grumble, until the end of June, we had lots of lovely sunshine. And it’s the school holidays -- although this year most children have been home since April. Much as they are all little darlings, it can’t have been easy for many mums and dads.

    Not a mum myself, I have four step-grandchildren between the ages of one and six.  Judging from telephone reports and Facebook comments, homeschooling has been fun and frustrating in equal (or unequal!) measure.

    Observing from the safe sidelines, hubby and I are not sure who has been educating who. The other day, out of nowhere, our four-year-old granddaughter announced, in a Shakespearean tone, ‘Tonight, I will feast.’ It tickled me. 

    Anyway, I digress, let’s get on with this month’s goodies. 

    Over the Sea to Die, third in my Izzie Firecracker series, is free this weekend. It’s a romantic comedy sprinkled with plenty of tongue-in-cheek suspense. Oh, and with a touch of the paranormal. It begins in London then moves to the fictional Scottish Isle of Scree and is face-paced and fun. 

    I lived on The Isle of Skye for ten years so there are definitely a few parallels.

    Or you might prefer Second Chances and Zany Romances -- the  Izzie Firecracker four-book series in one bargain volume. It usually retails for £4.99 or your country’s equivalent. But for a few days, I’ve reduced it to 99p via a countdown deal.

    The rain just stopped, and the sun has popped its lovely head out of the clouds.  Time to grab a cuppa and my Kindle and retire to the sun lounger for a wee while. Bliss. 

    I won't leave it so long between blog posts next time.

    Stay happy and healthy.

    Jan xx

  2. Greetings from Scotland!

    I hope you’re okay during these trying times. Even some of the most relaxed people are finding it hard to stay calm. Therefore, I’ve made my Kick Anxiety eBook free until Tuesday 31st March at 11.59 pm PDT.

    Also, I recently released a novelette, I Can’t Go Back to Maplethorpe.  At the moment, it’s just 99p or equivalent. It’s a rom-com set in the 1970s and has a little story behind it...

    In the sixth form, my hubby’s mate, Dave announced, ‘A gorgeous girl has moved in with me.’

    ‘But you live with your parents,’ said my hubby.

    ‘I know. But Mum and Dad feel sorry for her.’

    ‘Why?’

    Dave had met a pretty girl in a disco and invited her to tea the next day. After swallowing a bite of Victoria sponge,’ she burst into tears and said, ‘I can’t go back to Mablethorpe.’

    Turned out the girl hated life in her seaside town and had spent all her spare money on a few nights in London. And whenever someone suggested she should return home, she’d cry and reiterate, ‘I can’t go back to Mablethorpe.’

    ‘So, what happened to her?’ I asked my hubby a few years ago after he told me the story.

    He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

    I know – frustrating.

    So, I changed Mablethorpe (a real place on the east coast of England) to Maplethorpe (a faux seaside resort on the east coast and tapped away on the keyboard as  I Can’t Go Back to Maplethorpe appeared.

    That’s it for now, folks. 

    Stay happy and healthy, and I’ll see you soon.

    Janet xx

  3. A sunless balcony in the South of France,

    1920

    Dearest Rosemary,

    literature-326075_640


    It was a limpid dreary day, hung as in a basket from a single dull star. I thank you for your letter. Outside, I perceive what may be a collection of fallen leaves tussling against a trash can. It rings like jazz to my ears. The streets are that empty. It seems as though the bulk of the city has retreated to their quarters, rightfully so. At this time, it seems very poignant to avoid all public spaces. Even the bars, as I told Hemingway, but to that, he punched me in the stomach, to which I asked if he had washed his hands. He hadn’t. He is much the denier, that one. Why, he considers the virus to be just influenza. I’m curious of his sources.

    The officials have alerted us to ensure we have a month’s worth of necessities. Zelda and I have stocked up on red wine, whiskey, rum, vermouth, absinthe, white wine, sherry, gin, and lord, if we need it, brandy. Please pray for us. You should see the square, oh, it is terrible. I weep for the damned eventualities this future brings. The long afternoons rolling forward slowly on the ever-slick bottomless highball. Z. says it’s no excuse to drink, but I just can’t seem to steady my hand.

    In the distance, from my brooding perch, the shoreline is cloaked in a dull haze where I can discern an unremitting penance that has been heading this way for a long, long while. And yet, amongst the cracked cloudline of an evening’s cast, I focus on a single strain of light, calling me forth to believe in a better morrow.

    Faithfully yours,

    F Scott Fitzgerald