Wordless Wednesday: Gold tiles

Posted on Nov 25, 2015 in news & muse, the world around me, travels, Wordless Wednesday


Aren’t these so beautiful? They make me want to take up mosaic making in a big way. Photographed in Venice at the Biennale.

Wordless Wednesday: Carp-e diem

Posted on Nov 18, 2015 in news & muse, the world around me, travels, Wordless Wednesday


Bad pun, I know. But couldn’t resist! Photographed at the Venice Biennale this summer.

Wordless Wednesday: Symphony in Yellow

Posted on Nov 11, 2015 in news & muse, the world around me, travels, Wordless Wednesday


Photographed this summer in Pompeii. Isn’t that the most glorious yellow you’ve ever seen?

Wordless Wednesday: NaNoing the post its

Posted on Nov 4, 2015 in creativity, news & muse, stuff I like, Wordless Wednesday


One of my favorite kids’ NaNoWriMo outline—she created it out of post it notes. (If a child can do it, you can too!)

Snippet Sunday: Was he to stay?

Posted on Nov 1, 2015 in news & muse, novels & fiction, Snippet Sunday, the Next Novel

Snippet Sunday is a monthly meme organized by Stephanie Dray in which historical authors post six sentence snippets of their novels (and sometimes a little more). For the sake of organization, I’ve decided to post mine on the first Sunday of the month. You can read my previous snippets here.

November’s snippet is a little longer than six sentences. It’s from the Next Novel, which I’m using NaNoWriMo to finish revising. The Next Novel is set in 1851 England and 1837 France; this post offers more details.

Robert glanced up at the clock above the mantel: he’d been listening to Isabelle for just over two hours. While she’d spoken, he’d sensed the years fall away, the rose garden at Weald House blooming anew with spring’s bounty, the birds fluttering about like a storm. He’d even felt the presence of Hugh, with his thick sensual lips and amused gaze; he’d seemed a tangible presence staring at him from across the library. In these hours, Robert had grown far from his physical pain, his worries for his wife, his father’s precarious health. Even the loss of his camera to Isabelle, and Hindlay’s anticipated rage, didn’t weigh as much as it might have.


Isabelle met Robert’s eyes with a frank emotion that startled him. He waited for her to speak, or give some sort of signal. Was he to leave? Or had she more to say?