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[kimludcom]

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[gilberthbolanos]

‘Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone’ is the top national fiction bestseller

‘Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone’ is the top national fiction bestseller

You want to read these days. 1. Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone, Diana Gabaldon 2. Wish You Were Here, Jodi Picoult 3. The Judge’s List, John Grisham 4. The Stranger in the Lifeboat, Mitch Albom 5. Fear No Evil, James Patterson ‘Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone’ is the top national fiction bestseller

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[ladywynneoutlander]

BEES IS DONE! Squeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!

[whatifthisstormends]

He shook the wood shavings into the fire, where they caught at once, curling into brightness and sending up a clean, sweet smoke. I came to stand behind him, watching them burn, and put my hands on his shoulders, warm and solid under my fingers. He leaned his head back against me and sighed, closing his eyes as he relaxed in the warmth. I bent my head and kissed the whorl of the cowlick on his crown. "Mmphm," he said, and reached up a hand to take mine. "Ken, it works the other way, too." "What does?" "The stubbornness of a mind that willna let go." He squeezed my hand and looked up at me. "While we were parted, how many times did ye tell yourself I was dead, Sassenach?" he asked softly. "How often did ye try to forget me?" I stood motionless, hand curled round his, until I thought I could speak. "Every day," I whispered. "And never."

“A Stubborn Mind” #DailyLines #BookNine #AStubbornMind (Outlander series) - Diana Gabaldon

[lulu-tan79]

“Lie down,” I said firmly, and pointed to my lap.

“Nay, I’ll be f—“ “I don’t care whether you’re fine or not,” I said.  “I said, lie down.” “I’ve work to—“ “You’ll be flat on your face in another minute,” I said.  “Lie.  Down.” He opened his mouth, but a spasm of pain made him shut his eyes, and he couldn’t locate any words with which to argue.   He swallowed, opened his eyes, and sat down beside me, very gingerly.   He was breathing slowly and shallowly, as though drawing a deep breath might make things worse. I stood up, took his shoulders and turned him gently so I could reach his plait.  I undid his ribbon and unraveled the thick strands of auburn hair.   It still was mostly red, though soft white threads caught the light here and there. “Down,” I said again, sitting and pulling his shoulders toward me.   He moaned a little, but stopped resisting and lowered himself very slowly, ‘til his head rested heavy in my lap.  I touched his face, my fingers feather-light on his skin, tracing the bones and hollows, temples and orbits, cheekbones and jaw.   Then I slid my fingers into the soft mass of his hair, warm in my hands, and did the same to his scalp.  He let out his breath, carefully, and I felt his body loosen, growing heavier as he relaxed. “Where does it hurt?” I murmured, making very light circles round his temples with my thumbs.  “Here?” “Aye…but…”  He put up a hand, blindly, and cupped it over his right eye.   “It feels like an arrow—straight through into my brain.” “Mmm.”   I pressed my thumb gently round the bony orbit of the eye, and slid my other hand under his head, probing the base of his skull.  I could feel the muscles knotted there, hard as walnuts under the skin.   “Well, then.” I took my hands away and he let his breath out. “It won’t hurt,” I reassured him, reaching for the jar of blue ointment. “It does hurt,” he said, and squinched his eyelids as a fresh spasm seized him. “I know.”  I unlidded the jar, but let it stand, the sharp fragrance of peppermint, camphor and green peppercorns scenting the air.   “I’ll make it better.” He didn’t make any reply, but settled himself as I began to massage the ointment gently into his neck, the base of his skull, the skin of his forehead and temples.  I couldn’t use the ointment so close to his eye, but put a dab under his nose, and he took a slow, deep breath.   I’d make a cool poultice for the eye when I’d finished.  For now, though… “Do you remember,”  I said, my voice low and quiet.  “Telling me once about visiting Bird Who Sings in the Morning?  And how his mother came and combed your hair?” “Aye,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation.  “She said…she would comb the snakes from my hair.”   Another hesitation.  “She…did.” Clearly he did remember—and so did I recall what he’d told me about it.   How she’d gently combed his hair, over and over, while he told her—in a language she didn’t speak—the trouble in his heart.  Guilt, distress…and the forgotten faces of the men he’d killed. There is a spot, just where the zygomatic arch joins the maxilla, where the nerves are often inflamed and sensitive….yes, just there.  I pressed my thumb gently up into the spot and he gasped and stiffened a little.  I put my other hand on his shoulder. “Shh.   Breathe.” His breath came with a small moan, but he did.  I held the spot, pressing harder, moving my thumb just a little, and after a long moment, felt the spot warm and seem to melt under my touch.   He felt it too, and his body relaxed again. “Let me do that for you,” I said softly.  The wooden comb he’d made me sat on the little table beside the jar of ointment.  With one hand still on his shoulder, I picked it up. “I…no, I dinna want…”  But I was drawing the comb softly through his hair, the wooden teeth gentle against his skin.  Over and over, very slowly. I didn’t say anything for quite some time.  He breathed.  The light came in low now, the color of wildflower honey, and he was warm in my hands, the weight of him heavy in my lap. “Tell me,” I said to him at last, in a whisper no louder than the breeze through the open window.   “I don’t need to know, but you need to tell me.   Say it in Gaelic, or Italian or German—some language I don’t understand, if that’s better.  But say it.” His breath came a little faster and he tightened, but I went on combing, in long, even strokes that swept over his head and laid his hair untangled in a soft, gleaming mass over my thigh.   After a moment, he opened his eyes, dark and half-focused. “Sassenach?” he said softly. “Mm?” “I dinna ken any language that I think ye wouldna understand.” He breathed once more, closed his eyes, and began haltingly to speak, his voice soft as the beating of my heart.

*Nothing better than a beautiful Jamie&Claire passage to sooth my heart after the new teaser of Season 3

[william-c-h-g-ransom]

New daily lines featuring Willie's talent for placing himself in the middle of a mess!!

#DailyLines #Book9 #GoTELLTheBEESThatIAmGONE #NOitsnotdone #YESitsgettingclose #IllTELLyouOK ?

William examined his handkerchief critically. There wasn’t much left of it; they’d tried to bind his wrists with it and he’d ripped it to shreds, getting it off. Still… He blew his nose on it, very gently. Still bloody, and he dabbed the seepage gingerly. Footsteps were coming up the tavern’s stairs toward the room where he sat, guarded by two wary privates.

“He says he’s _who_?” said an annoyed voice outside the room. Someone said something in reply, but it was lost in the scraping of the door across the uneven floor as it opened. He rose slowly to his feet and drew himself up to his full height, facing the officer—a major of dragoons—who had just come in. The major stopped abruptly, forcing the two men behind him to stop as well.

“He says he’s the fncking ninth Earl of Ellesmere,” William said in a hoarse, menacing tone, and fixed the major with the eye that he could still open.

“Actually, he is,” said a lighter voice, sounding both amused—and familiar. William blinked at the man who now stepped into the room, a slender, dark-haired figure in the uniform of a captain of infantry. “_Captain_ Lord Ellesmere, in fact. Hallo, William.”

“I’ve resigned my commission,” William said flatly. “Hallo, Denys.”

“But not your title.” Denys Randall looked him up and down, but forebore to comment on his appearance.

“Resigned your commission, have you?” The major, a youngish, thick-set fellow who looked as though his breeches were too tight, gave William an unpleasant look. “In order to turn your coat and join the rebels, I take it?”

William breathed, twice, in order to avoid saying anything rash.

“No,” he said, in an unfriendly voice.

“Naturally not,” Denys said, gently rebuking the major. He turned back to William. “And naturally, you would have been traveling with a company of American militia because….?”

“I was not traveling with them,” William said, successfully not adding “you nit” to this statement. “I encountered the gentlemen in question last night at a tavern, and won a substantial amount from them at cards. I left the tavern early this morning and resumed my journey, but they followed me, with the obvious intent of taking back the money by force.”

“Obvious intent?” echoed the major skeptically. “How did you discern such intent? Sir,” he added reluctantly.

“I’d imagine that being pursued and beaten to a pulp might have been a fairly unambiguous indication,” Denys said. “Sit down, Ellesmere; you’re dripping on the floor. Did they in fact take back the money?” He pulled a large, snowy-white handkerchief from his sleeve and handed it to William.

“Yes. Along with everything else in my pockets. I don’t know what’s become of my horse.” He dabbed the handkerchief against his split lip. He could smell Randall’s cologne on it, despite his swollen nose—the real Eau de Cologne, smelling of Italy and sandalwood. Lord John used it now and then, and the scent comforted him a little.

“So you claim to know nothing of the men with whom we found you?” said the other officer, this one a lieutenant, a man of about William’s own age, eager as a terrier. The major gave him a look of dislike, indicating that he didn’t think he needed any assistance in questioning William, but the lieutenant wasn’t attending. “Surely if you were playing cards with them, you must have gleaned some information?”

“I know a few of their names,” William said, feeling suddenly very tired. “That’s all.”

That was actually not all, by a long chalk, but he didn’t want to talk about the things he’d learned—that Abbot was a blacksmith and had a clever dog who helped him at his forge, fetching small tools or faggots for the fire when asked. Justin Martineau had a new wife, to whose bed he longed to return. Geoffrey Garland’s wife made the best beer in the village, and his daughter’s was nearly as good, though she was but twelve years old. Garland was one of the men the captain had chosen to hang. He swallowed, his throat thick with dust and unspoken words.

He’d escaped the noose largely because of his skill at cursing in Latin, which had disconcerted the captain long enough for William to identify himself, his ex-regiment, and a list of prominent army officers who would vouch for him, beginning with General Clinton (God, where _was_ Clinton now?).

Denys Randall was murmuring to the major, who still looked displeased, but had dropped from a full boil to a disgruntled simmer. The lieutenant was watching William intently, through narrowed eyes, obviously expecting him to leap from the bench and make a run for it. The man kept unconsciously touching his cartridge box and then his holstered pistol, clearly imagining the wonderful possibility that he could shoot William dead as he ran for the door. William yawned, hugely and unexpectedly, and sat blinking, sudden exhaustion washing through him like the tide.

Right this moment, he really didn’t care what happened next.

[Excerpt from GO TELL THE BEES THAT I AM GONE, Copyright 2020 Diana Gabaldon. Many thanks to Beve Danforth Miller for the wonderful bee photo!]

[sassenach4life]

Diana’s Daily Lines - “Go Tell The Bees That I Am Gone” (Book 9)

#DailyLines #GoTELLTheBEESThatIAmGONE #Book9 #NO #No #no #ItsNotFinished #GettingRealCloseThough #NotReallySpoilers #ButThereIsSomePlotinThis

[Excerpt from GO TELL THE BEES THAT I AM GONE, Copyright 2020 Diana Gabaldon.]

The house was modest but neat, a white-painted clapboard with a blue door, standing in a street of similarly tidy homes, with a small church of red sandstone at the end of the street. Yellowing leaves had fallen from a tree in the front garden and lay in damp drifts upon a brick walk. William heard Cinnamon draw in his breath as they came to the gate, and saw him glance to and fro as they went up to the door, covertly taking note of every detail.

William hammered on the door without hesitation, ignoring the brass knocker in the shape of a dog’s head. There was a moment of silence, and then the sound of a baby crying within the house. The two young men stared at each other.

“It must be his lordship’s cook’s child,” William said, with assumed nonchalance. “Or the maid. Doubtless the woman will—“

The door swung open, revealing a frowning Lord John, bare-headed and in his shirt-sleeves, clutching a small, howling child to his bosom.

“You woke the baby, damn your eyes,” he said. “Oh. Hallo, Willie. Come in, then, don’t stand there letting in drafts; the little fiend is teething and catching a cold on top of that won’t improve his temper to any noticeable extent. Who’s your friend? Your servant, sir,” he added, putting a hand over the child’s mouth and nodding to Cinnamon with a fair assumption of hospitality.

“John Cinnamon,” both young men said automatically, speaking together, then stopped, equally flustered. William recovered first.

“Yours?” he inquired politely, with a nod at the child, who had momentarily stopped howling and was gnawing ferociously on Lord John’s knuckle.

“Surely you jest, William,” his father replied, stepping back and jerking his head in invitation. “Allow me to make you acquainted with your second cousin, Trevor Wattiswade Grey. I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Cinnamon—will you take a drop of beer? Or something stronger?”

“What in God’s name are you doing to that baby, Uncle John?” The furious female voice came from the doorway on the far side of the room, and William’s head swiveled toward it. Framed in the doorway, he beheld a blonde girl of medium size, except for her bosoms, which were very large, white as milk, and half-exposed by the open banyan and untied shift that she wore.

“Me?” Lord John said indignantly. “I didn’t do anything to the little beast. Here, madam, take him.”

She did, and little Trevor at once thrust his face into her bosom, making bestial rooting noises. The young woman caught a glimpse of William’s face and glared at him.

“And who the devil are you?” she demanded. He blinked.

“My name is William Ransom, madam,” he said, rather stiffly. “Your servant.”

“This is your cousin Willie, Amaranthus,” Lord John said, coming forward and patting the top of Cinnamon’s head in an apologetic fashion as he pushed past him. “William, may I present Viscountess Grey, your cousin Benjamin’s…widow.” It was almost not there, that pause, but William heard it and glanced sharply from the young woman to his father, but Lord John’s face was composed and amiable. He didn’t meet William’s eye.

So…either they’ve found Ben’s body—or they haven’t, but they’re letting his wife believe he’s dead.

“My sympathies, Viscountess,” he said, bowing.

“Thank you,” she said. “Ow! Trevor, you beastly little _Myotis_!” She had stifled Trevor by stuffing him under a hastily pulled-forward wing of her banyan, evidently pulling down her shift in the same movement, for the child had battened onto her breast and was now making embarrassingly loud sucking noises.

“Er…_Myotis_?” It sounded vaguely Greek, but wasn’t a word William was familiar with.

“A vesper bat,” she replied, shifting her hold to adjust the child more comfortably. “They have very sharp teeth. I beg your pardon, my lord.” And with that, she turned on her bare heel and vanished.

[italianoutlanders]

~ "Emicrania", estratto in italiano con Jamie e Claire da #TellTheBeesThatIAmGone / "Migraine", #DailyLines translated in italian from Tell The Bees That I Am Gone with Jamie and Claire ~ #OutlanderIT ➡ http://outlanderworld.blogspot.it/2017/04/bees-emicrania.html (blog link in bio) . #OutlanderBooks #outlanderbook #outlanderquote #book #quote #bookquote #OutlanderSeries #JamieFraser #ClaireFraser #SamHeughan

[mairi-mia1]

#DailyLines #GoTELLTheBEESThatIAmGONE #Book9 #goingreallywellthanks #yesIlltellyouwhenitsdone

Ian didn’t pretend not to know why she asked.

“Small,” he said, holding his hand about three inches above his elbow. _Four inches shorter than I_… “Neat, with a—a pretty face.“

“If she is beautiful, Ian, thee may say so,” Rachel said dryly. “I am a Friend; we aren’t given to vanity.”

He looked at her, his lips twitching a little. Then he thought better of whatever he’d been about to say. He closed his eyes for an instant, then opened them and answered her honestly.

“She was lovely. I met her by the water—a pool in the river, where the water spreads out and there’s not even a ripple on the surface, but ye feel the spirit of the river moving through it just the same.” He’d seen her standing thigh-deep in the water, clothed but with her shirt drawn up and tied round her waist with a red scarf, holding a thin spear of sharpened wood and watching for fish.

“I canna think of her in—in her parts,” he said, his voice a little husky. “What her eyes looked like, her face…” he made an odd, graceful little gesture with his hand, as though he cupped Wakyo’teyehsnohsa’s cheek, then traveled the line of her neck and shoulder. “I only—when I think of her—“ He glanced at her and made a hem noise in his throat. “Aye. Well. Aye, I think of her now and then. Not often. But when I do, I only think of her as all of a piece, and I canna tell ye in words what that looks like.”

“Why should thee not think of her?” Rachel said, as gently as she could. “She was thy wife, the mother of—of your children.”

“Aye,” he said softly, and bent his head. She thought she might have chosen her place better; they were in the shed that served as a small barn and there was a farrowing sow in a pen right in front of them, a dozen fat piglets thrusting and grunting at her teats, a testament to fecundity.

“I need to tell ye something, Rachel,” he said, raising his head abruptly.

“Thee knows thee can tell me anything, Ian,” she said, and meant it, but her heart meant something different and began to beat faster.

[Excerpt from GO TELL THE BEES THAT I AM GONE, Copyright 2019 Diana Gabaldon]

[And thanks to Amy Bettenhausen for the lovely bee photo!]

From Herself's Facebook page.

We are getting closer to book 9 publication.

[jesuisprest002]

#GotelltheBeesthatIamGONE

#DailyLines #GoTELLTheBEESThatIAmGONE #BookNine #comingalongreallywellthankyou #noIlltellyouwhenitsdone #relax #breathe #gowatchSeasonsOneTwoandThree #thenrereadallthebooks #eatchocolate #itsgoodforyou

The sun was barely up, but Jamie was long gone. I’d wakened briefly when he kissed my forehead, whispered that he was going hunting with Brianna, then kissed my lips and vanished into the chilly dark. I waked again two hours later in the warm nest of old quilts—these donated by the Crombies and the Lindsays—that served us for a bed and sat up, cross-legged in my shift, combing leaves and grass-heads out of my hair with my fingers, and enjoying the rare feeling of waking slowly, rather than with the usual sensation of having been shot from a cannon.

I supposed, with a pleasant little thrill, that once the house was habitable and the MacKenzies, along with Germain and Fanny, all ensconced within, mornings would once more resemble the exodus of bats from Carlsbad Caverns—were there bats there now? I wondered.

A bright-red ladybug dropped out of my hair and down the front of my shift, which put an abrupt end to my ruminations. I leapt up and shook the beetle out into the long grass by the Big Log, went into the bushes for a private moment and came out with a bunch of fresh mint. There was just enough water left in the bucket for me to have a cup of tea, so I left the mint on the flat surface Jamie had adzed at one end of the huge fallen poplar log to serve as worktable and food preparation space, and went to build up the fire and set the kettle inside the ring of blackened stones.

At the far edge of the clearing below a thin spiral of smoke rose from the chimney like a snake out of a charmer’s basket; someone had poked up their smoored fire as well.

Who would be my first visitor this morning? Germain, perhaps; he’d slept at the Higgins cabin last night—but he wasn’t an early riser by temperament, any more than I was. Fanny was a good distance away, with the Widow Donaldson and her enormous brood; she’d be along later.

It would be Roger, I thought, and felt a lifting of my heart. Roger and the children.

The fire was licking at the tin kettle; I lifted the lid and shredded a good handful of mint leaves into the water—first shaking the stems to dislodge any hitch-hikers. The rest I bound with a twist of thread and hung among the other herbs hanging from the rafters of my make-shift surgery—this consisting of four poles with a lattice laid across the top, covered with hemlock branches for shade and shelter. I had two stools—one for me and one for the patient of the moment, and a small, crudely-built table to hold whatever implements I needed to have easily to hand.

Jamie had put up a canvas lean-to beside the shelter, to provide privacy for such cases as required it, and also storage for food or medicines kept in raccoon-proof casks, jars or boxes.

It was rural, rustic, and very romantic. In a bug-ridden, grimy-ankled, exposed to the elements, occasional creeping sensation on the back of the neck indicating that you were being eyed up by something considering eating you sort of way, but still.

I cast a longing look at the new foundation.

The house would have two handsome stone chimneys; one had been halfway built, and stood sturdy as a monolith amid the framing timbers of what would shortly—I hoped—be our kitchen and dining space. Jamie had assured me that he would wall in the large room and tack on a temporary canvas roof within the week, so we could resume sleeping and cooking indoors. The rest of the house…

That might depend on whatever grandiose notions he and Brianna had developed during their conversation the night before. I seemed to recall wild remarks about concrete and indoor plumbing, which I rather hoped wouldn’t take root, at least not until we had a roof over our heads and a floor under our feet. On the other hand…

The sound of voices on the path below indicated that my expected company had arrived, and I smiled. On the other hand, we’d have two more pairs of experienced and competent hands to help with the building.

Jem’s disheveled red head popped into view and he broke into a huge grin at sight of me.

“Grannie!” he shouted, and brandished a slightly mangled corn-dodger. “We brought you breakfast!”

[Thank you for the lovely Dutch bee on coleus, to Maureen Kluivers!]

[cmhoughton]

This interview by Karen (the Site Admin for Diana’s pages on the LitForum and previous CompuServe forum) is split up into two pages.  It’s been ten years since she started her blog, so this interview celebrates that.  However, since the pages took FOREVER to load I will spare everyone the frustration and post them both here.

However, since this is long, I will put it behind a cut:

In celebration of the 10th anniversary of Outlandish Observations, I'm very pleased to bring you my first-ever interview with Diana Gabaldon! Frankly, the idea of interviewing Diana Gabaldon was a little nervewracking for me at first, even though I've known her online since 2007 and we interact almost daily on TheLitForum.com (formerly the Compuserve Books and Writers Community).  I've never interviewed anyone before, and it took me a while to decide what questions to ask. I did my best to come up with questions that are somewhat different from the usual things people always ask her.  I'm just DELIGHTED with her answers, and I hope you'll enjoy them as much as I did! (The photo above is from my first meeting with Diana, at a book-signing in Maryland in 2009.) You've published a number of novellas and shorter pieces in the last few years. What do you see as the advantages of the shorter format, for you as a writer? They're shorter. <g> I.e., I can finish one in much less time than the four to five years it takes for one of the Big Books. Basically, it's a bit of a mental vacation to deal with something that's very interesting, but on a smaller scale--and offers a quicker gratification in completing it. The novellas offer me the opportunity to go explore the byways of minor characters and interesting storylines that lie outside either the temporal or the logistical reach of the Big Books. Do you still write in "pieces" when you're working on a novella or short story, or is it more of a straight-line process? I always write in disconnected pieces, no matter what I’m writing; that’s just how my mind works. (I had one interviewer recently pause for a long moment after I’d answered one of her questions--obviously thumbing down her list--and then say, “I had a lot more questions, but you seem to have answered most of them already, while you were answering the one I asked you.” I apologized <g>, and explained that I inherited my digressive story-telling from my father--he’d begin (usually at the dinner table) with a recollection of someone from his past, and would start telling you a story about them--but every second paragraph or so, something he’d said would start a digression that added social context or personal opinion or associated history or data on location, and then without missing a beat, the story would swerve back onto its main track--until the next digression a minute later.) As I always tell people, “There’s a reason why I write long books; it’s because I like digression.” You've made very effective use of Twitter and Facebook in recent years, and many fans are addicted to your #DailyLines. How has the rise of social media affected the way you interact with your readers and fans? With your busy schedule, where do you find the time? Well, social media has sort of grown up around me. Back in 1985, I first went “online” (a concept that really didn’t exist in the popular consciousness yet) when I got an assignment to write a software review for BYTE magazine, and they sent with the software a disk for a trial membership with CompuServe (aside from government services like DARPA, “online” in the mid-80’s basically consisted of three “information services”: Delphi, Genie and CompuServe), so I could poke into the support forum the software vendors had set up there, and mention it in my review. After writing the review, I had a few hours of free connect time left (in a time when you were charged $30 an hour for using CompuServe—at 300 baud, dial-up), and so I started poking around to see what else was available. I stumbled into the CompuServe Literary Forum. This was not (as people sometimes assume) a writer’s group. It was a group of people who liked books. There were a few writers there, of course, both established and aspiring, but the main focus was simply on books: reading, impact, thinking in response to reading--and it was also just a fertile ground in which enormous, digressive and fascinating conversations could flourish (there was one truly remarkable conversation that became known as “the Great Dildo Thread,” that went on for months…). Anyway, that was where social media (which didn’t exist as a concept yet, though plainly it existed in fact) and I met. The next step was my website, established in 1994 (I think I was the first author to build a website for readers--and my eternal thanks to Rosana Madrid Gatti, who generously did the hard work of making and running the site; I sent her material and she’d post it for me (this was a looong time before WordPress and other blogging software made it possible for anybody to communicate directly with the world online). I did the website mostly in response to reader’s enthusiasm; I got a LOT of mail (regular letters) about the books, from people being complimentary, asking questions, taking issue with various aspects--but all of them wanted to know more: why did Claire do this, where did I find out about botanical medicine, did people really do that…and most particularly--when was the next book coming out. So the website was a means of answering reader questions--both for the readers who had asked those questions, and for the entertainment of other readers who perhaps hadn’t thought of those questions, but would be interested in the answers. The benefit of only having to type an answer once (many people naturally ask the same questions) was obvious--as was the benefit of being able to inform people of pub dates, book-signings, etc. So, knowing the benefits of such a channel, when other channels became available--AOL, for instance--I’d use them, at least briefly, and see whether they seemed helpful. Some were, some weren’t--I never bothered with MySpace, and in fact, it took some time for me to try Facebook (which I still use sparingly; I never go anywhere on Facebook other than my own page, and it’s what they call a “celebrity” page, which means that I don’t take “friend” requests. Nor, I’m afraid, can I read the private messages that people kindly leave me there--at the moment, the page has more than 700,000 members (or whatever you call regular visitors), and if only one percent of them send me messages…that’s 7,000 messages. There’s no way I can even read that many messages, let alone respond to them. Twitter also proved to be very useful; it provides instant access to a lot of people--and more valuable than that, it provides organic replication. If you post something interesting, many, many more people will see it, beyond the people who actually follow you. And it’s very good for making short-term announcements or asking urgent questions, because somewhere in the world, the person who can answer that question is awake and reading Twitter. <g> What's the most challenging, or frustrating, or difficult part of your role as consultant on the TV series? (I understand there are things you can't talk about, but can you comment on this in general?) Well, frustrations are of two types: 1) when a scriptwriter has done something that I think is not consistent with a character’s…er, character, and I can’t get them (“them” meaning not just the scriptwriter, but the production team in general) to change it, and 2) when they’ve shot something absolutely beautiful, in terms of acting, honesty, emotion, etc.--and then cut it out of the finished episode. What's the most fun part? The fun lies in seeing something remarkable evolve from a huge number of component parts, day by day by day. It’s like watching a forest grow in stop-motion time that speeds everything up. Would you be interested in writing another script for the TV show, after BEES is done? Yes, I would. It was a deeply interesting (if occasionally frustrating) experience. Script-writing is a very collaborative process, in which the script writer ultimately does not have complete control over the final product, which may have been rewritten several times by different people. That’s a very different experience from being a solitary god, as novelists are. <g> But it’s a fascinating experience, both in the consultation and writing (and revision and revision and revision…) and in the eventual final result: the filming. Filming is long, tedious, hard work--but very entertaining. As the OUTLANDER TV series approaches its fourth season, we're starting to see many more readers who've found your books as a result of the TV show. Aside from the effect on book sales (which must be considerable <g>), I'm interested to hear what you think about that. Do you find that people who found the TV show first tend to have different expectations, or different reactions to the books? People who’ve read the books first definitely have different reactions to the show <g>, but I don’t think the reverse is really true. I haven’t heard a lot of show-first people express any sense of shock or disapproval as to things happening in the books--they expect to see an expanded version of the story, with a lot more detail and more storylines, and that’s what they get. Many OUTLANDER fans, including myself, have re-read (or re-listened to) your books many, many times. Do you have a favorite author or authors whose books you re-read often, and if so, what is it about those books that makes them stand up well to re-reading? Yes, dozens. Right now, I’m re-reading all of Dorothy L. Sayers’s Lord Peter Wimsey novels, for probably the twentieth time. (I continue to enjoy them, but to be honest, I’m re-reading them now because I can put them down easily in order to work.) James Lee Burke would be another one, though I haven’t re-read his Dave Robicheaux novels as often as Sayers. And then there are Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey/Maturin novels--I’ve read the series maybe three times, but listened to it on audio probably twenty times, at least--the reader, Patrick Tull, is fantastic, and the story always holds my interest while dog-walking or gardening. Like these, all the books I feel are worth re-reading depend on unique and engaging individuals. I like to spend time with these people (and on a lower level, I enjoy seeing just _how_ the author did what they did; knowing as much now as I do about the craft of writing, it’s hard to avoid seeing the techniques in use--a book that can suck me in sufficiently that I _don’t_ notice the engineering is definitely one I can re-read).

Part 2:

I'm not a writer of fiction, but I love it when Diana explains various writing techniques. So I thought it would be interesting to explore this particular one. I was astounded, and very grateful, that Diana replied in such detail! Be sure to click on the links about halfway through this post to read the examples from the text. *** SPOILER WARNING!! *** If you haven't read WRITTEN IN MY OWN HEART'S BLOOD (Book 8 of the OUTLANDER series), you may encounter spoilers below. I was listening recently to the section of MOHB that deals with the Battle of Monmouth. It must be quite a challenge to write a complex series of scenes like that, with so many moving parts and different characters involved. Are there specific techniques that you use in writing battle scenes in particular, to give a sense of immediacy or heighten the dramatic tension? Managing a complex situation in fiction comes down essentially to Point of View.  You have to know whose head you’re in, and stay firmly there. Until you change to a different point-of-view character, that is… Who the point-of-view character is determines what kind of detail will be available to you, and guides the shape and flow of those periods of the text that belong to that specific character. For example (as you mention the Battle of Monmouth section of WRITTEN IN MY OWN HEART’S BLOOD), the first thing I considered was whose viewpoint(s) to use in depicting it.  I’d read several accounts of the battle, including a very detailed step-by-step description provided by one of Osprey’s Men-at-War books, so I knew the general character of the battle:  it was a huge military encounter, involving more than 10,000 troops on either side, multiple commanders, and a ragged, rolling terrain that didn’t accommodate the standard eighteenth-century military formations and positioning At All. (No one chose the ground on which to fight; that particular stretch of farmland was just where Washington’s troops caught up with General Clinton’s troops, who were retreating from Philadelphia with a large number of fleeing Loyalists (and their property) under the army’s protection.) It was also a very long battle, fought from slightly before daybreak until well after dark, on one of the hottest days known (temperatures were estimated--ex post facto--at over a hundred degrees during the hottest part of the day). And it was an indecisive battle: neither side “won”--the British withdrew with their dependents and baggage trains and retired toward New York (which is what they’d been doing when the Americans attacked), and the Americans staggered back to their camps to recover, tend the wounded, and bury their dead. The significance of the battle, though, was subtle but Very Important--the Americans didn’t lose. This discomfited the British extremely, and heartened the Americans to an equal degree, enabling Washington to pursue his campaign. OK, so we have a very complex mess to describe. Obviously, no one person could possibly see enough of the battle to have any idea how it was going, let alone what strategy was in use. So I knew from the start that I’d need more than one viewpoint character, and could then switch among them as needed to give their separate takes on what was happening to them, and the reader would get both the necessary information as to what was happening overall, and the sense of chaos and struggle that marked the day. Obviously, Jamie Fraser had to be one of those characters; he’s a central figure of the story, and he’s a trained and very experienced soldier. So I contrived a way for him to be in command of a sizable (though informal) company of militia during the battle. Militia companies were normally fairly small bands of thirty to fifty men, who signed up for short enlistments and returned to their farms or businesses when the enlistment period ran out, and a great many militia companies joined the American army just before this battle--not all of them were documented, and thus it was entirely plausible for the temporarily-appointed General Fraser to be in command of several. So, Jamie would naturally see combat, both personally and as a commander. He’d be in communication with other commanders, and would know the proposed strategy, as well as specific moving goals as the battle was going on. And he’d be interacting with the soldiers under his command and responding to emergencies.  [NB:  Notice, through these examples, the sort of details that each character is conscious of and how they respond to them.] Example #1 (Jamie in the cider orchard) Then, of course, I wanted Claire. Both because she’d never leave Jamie on a battlefield alone again, and because as a surgeon, she’d have a completely different view of the battle. She’d be handling the wounded who came off the field, in a series of medical procedures/emergencies, but would also have a general sense of the battle as a whole, gained from the things the wounded men told her while she was treating them. Example #2 (Claire tending the wounded at Tennent Church) But we can’t overlook the other side of the conflict. What’s going on, on the British side? Well, we have a choice of POV characters on that side:  William, Lord John, and Hal. I used both William and Lord John (Lord John’s thread has been running through the whole book and the punch in the eye Jamie gave him at the beginning is affecting what happens to him throughout the battle and its aftermath). But while Jamie and Claire are carrying out fairly orthodox roles in the battle--a general in command/soldier on the field and a combat medic at a static aid station on the edge of the conflict--William and Lord John aren’t. William’s been relieved of duty and Lord John is essentially trying to stay alive long enough to reach the British lines. Both of them, in storytelling terms, can drop in or pass through just about any situation I need or want. They aren’t compelled to follow orders or fight through a set conflict; we get a revolving set of pictures of the British side of the conflict and its various personalities from them. And finally, there’s Ian Murray, Jamie’s nephew. He’s a scout for the American side, so is not fighting on the ground, but--like William and Lord John--can occur just about anywhere during the battle. And like William and Lord John, he’s fighting a personal battle (whereas Jamie and Claire are fighting the more usual kind of battle involving troops and military movements). So Jamie and Claire are providing a more or less structured view of things, while William, John and Ian are giving us the smaller, vivid glimpses that add both to the overall picture of the situation and to the encompassing sense of chaos. Or at least we hope that’s what happened… And to close this exegesis <g>--note that each character involved in this battle has his or her own arc within the battle: how they enter the battle, what happens to them, what decisions they make and what actions they take--and finally, how (and how altered) they emerge at the end of the fight. -------------------------------------------- Many thanks to Diana Gabaldon for taking the time for this very interesting interview! I really appreciate it.

It’s always interesting to read Diana’s comments on her own process, and I like what a fan of books she is.  

[yellowfeather84]

Daily Lines - Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone

#DailyLines #GoTELLTheBEESThatIAmGONE #BookNine #yesitsgoingverywell #noitisntfinished #noIdontknowwhenitwillbefinished #yesIlltellyouwhenitis We walked on slowly, pausing now and then as I spotted something edible, medicinal, or fascinating. It being autumn, this required a stop every few feet. “Oo!” I said, heading for a slash of deep, bloody red at the foot of a tree. “Look at that!” “It looks like a slice of fresh deer’s liver,” Jamie said, peering over my shoulder. “But it doesna smell like blood, so I’m guessing it’s one of the things ye call shelf-funguses?” “Very astute of you. Fistulina hepatica,” I said, whipping out my knife. “Here, hold this, would you?” He accepted my basket with no more than a slight roll of the eyes and stood patiently while I cut the fleshy chunks—for there was a whole nest of them hidden under the drifted leaves, like a set of crimson lily pads—free of the tree. I left the smaller ones to grow, but still had at least two pounds of the meaty mushroom. I packed them in layers of damp leaves, but broke off a small piece and offered it to Jamie. “One side makes you taller, and one side makes you small,” I said, smiling. “What?” “Alice in Wonderland—the Caterpillar. I’ll tell you later. It’s said to taste rather like raw beef,” I said. Muttering, “Caterpillar” under his breath, he accepted the bit, turned it from side to side, inspecting it critically to be sure it harbored no insidious legs, then popped it in his mouth and chewed, eyes narrowed in concentration. He swallowed, and I relaxed a little. “Maybe like verra old beef, that’s been hung a long time,” he allowed. “But aye, a man could stomach it.” “That’s actually a very good commendation for a raw mushroom,” I said, pleased. “If I had a few anchovies to hand, I’d make you a nice tartare sauce to go with it.” “Anchovies,” he said thoughtfully. “I havena had an anchovy in years.” He licked his lower lip in memory. “I might find some, when I go to Wilmington.” I looked at him in surprise. “Are you planning to go before the spring?” True, the leaves were still nearly as thick upon the trees as upon the ground, but in the mountains, the weather could turn in the space of an hour. There could be snow in the passes any time between now and next March. “Aye, I thought I’d risk one more trip before winter sets in,” he said casually. “D’ye want to come, Sassenach? I thought ye’d maybe be busy wi’ the preserving.” “Hmpf.” While it was perfectly true that I ought to be spending every waking hour in finding, catching, smoking, salting or preserving food…it was equally true that I ought to be replenishing our stocks of needles, pins, sugar—that was a good point, I’d need more sugar to be making the fruit preserves—and thread, to say nothing of other bits of household iron-mongery and the medicines I couldn’t find or make, like Jesuit’s bark and ether. And, if you came right down to it, wild horses couldn’t keep me from going with him. Jamie knew it, too; I could see the side of his mouth curling.

[iwanttodriveyouthroughthenight]

#DailyLines #UntitledPrequel #BrianAndEllen #ThisisBrianDhu #NOyouarentgettingitanytimesoon#Haudyourwheesht #BonnieLad “Find me the hoof-pick, will ye, son?” His fingers were already prying at the stone, but his mind wouldn’t fix—just the word “son,” and the fear rose up under his ribs. Maybe he’d have _another_ son today, what a strange thought. Or it might be another daughter. Or— “The pick, Willie!” he said sharply, choking the thought before it could take shape. “Ye’re holdin’ it, Da,” Willie said impatiently. He was sitting on the fence, kicking his heels and glancing up at the house now and then. Brian had brought him out to the far paddock because you couldn’t hear anything from the house from here, but Willie’s small red brows were drawn together—_God, just like Ellen’s, Oh, God, please_…and his wee face pinched, as though he was listening hard. “Oh.” Brian gazed blankly at the instrument in his hand, then shook his head to clear it, and flicked the pebble loose with one dig. “Ken any songs, Willie?” Willie concentrated even harder for a moment, but then tilted his head to one side and the other, and started singing. He knew about half of “[ ],” the first verse of “[ ]”—which he repeated several times while trying to think of something else, and a very decent try at the Kyrie from Mass. Brian let the horse go and lifting Willie off the fence, taught him the chorus to “_Ho ro, mo nighean_…” which involved a lot of stamping and clapping, though their clogs didn’t make much noise on the earth of the paddock. This did take their minds off things for a bit, but when they stopped, panting, Willie looked up at him and asked plaintively, “Are we gettin’ no supper at all, Da?” He turned involuntarily to look back at the house. The kitchen chimney stood tall and cold, though there was smoke from the other end of the house, from their bedroom hearth. “I suppose Mrs. MacLaren is busy helpin’ your mam,” he said, swallowing a lump at the word “mam.” He took a deep breath and steeled himself. “Come on, then, _a bhailach_, we’ll go and see what’s in the pantry.” Willie was far too big to be carried, but Brian had a sudden strong urge to pick his son up and hold him tight, taking comfort in the boy’s solid warmth.

(x)

@gotham-ruaidh, DG has been reading your blog. 

[cindyzormeier]

Diana Gabaldon

#DailyLines #GoTELLTheBEESThatIAmGONE #BookNine #yesitsgoingverywell #noitisntfinished #noIdontknowwhenitwillbefinished #yesIlltellyouwhenitis We walked on slowly, pausing now and then as I spotted something edible, medicinal, or fascinating. It being autumn, this required a stop every few feet. “Oo!” I said, heading for a slash of deep, bloody red at the foot of a tree. “Look at that!” “It looks like a slice of fresh deer’s liver,” Jamie said, peering over my shoulder. “But it doesna smell like blood, so I’m guessing it’s one of the things ye call shelf-funguses?” “Very astute of you. Fistulina hepatica,” I said, whipping out my knife. “Here, hold this, would you?” He accepted my basket with no more than a slight roll of the eyes and stood patiently while I cut the fleshy chunks—for there was a whole nest of them hidden under the drifted leaves, like a set of crimson lily pads—free of the tree. I left the smaller ones to grow, but still had at least two pounds of the meaty mushroom. I packed them in layers of damp leaves, but broke off a small piece and offered it to Jamie. “One side makes you taller, and one side makes you small,” I said, smiling. “What?” “Alice in Wonderland—the Caterpillar. I’ll tell you later. It’s said to taste rather like raw beef,” I said. Muttering, “Caterpillar” under his breath, he accepted the bit, turned it from side to side, inspecting it critically to be sure it harbored no insidious legs, then popped it in his mouth and chewed, eyes narrowed in concentration. He swallowed, and I relaxed a little. “Maybe like verra old beef, that’s been hung a long time,” he allowed. “But aye, a man could stomach it.” “That’s actually a very good commendation for a raw mushroom,” I said, pleased. “If I had a few anchovies to hand, I’d make you a nice tartare sauce to go with it.” “Anchovies,” he said thoughtfully. “I havena had an anchovy in years.” He licked his lower lip in memory. “I might find some, when I go to Wilmington.” I looked at him in surprise. “Are you planning to go before the spring?” True, the leaves were still nearly as thick upon the trees as upon the ground, but in the mountains, the weather could turn in the space of an hour. There could be snow in the passes any time between now and next March. “Aye, I thought I’d risk one more trip before winter sets in,” he said casually. “D’ye want to come, Sassenach? I thought ye’d maybe be busy wi’ the preserving.” “Hmpf.” While it was perfectly true that I ought to be spending every waking hour in finding, catching, smoking, salting or preserving food…it was equally true that I ought to be replenishing our stocks of needles, pins, sugar—that was a good point, I’d need more sugar to be making the fruit preserves—and thread, to say nothing of other bits of household iron-mongery and the medicines I couldn’t find or make, like Jesuit’s bark and ether. And, if you came right down to it, wild horses couldn’t keep me from going with him. Jamie knew it, too; I could see the side of his mouth curling.

[sassenach4life]

Diana’s Daily Lines - “Go Tell The Bees That I Am Gone” (Book 9)

#DailyLines #GoTELLTheBEESThatIAmGONE #Book9 #YesthereisaBook10 #NoBook9isntdoneyet #Gettintherethough #NoIdontknowwhenitwillbeout #Thepublishersetsthepubdate #Notme

[Excerpt from GO TELL THE BEES THAT I AM GONE, Copyright 2019 Diana Gabaldon.]

I felt Jamie, beside me, draw himself up a little, as though having made a decision, and he’d told everyone about Sylvia Hardman, a Quaker woman he’d met by chance at her house near Philadelphia, and who had cared for him for several days, his back having chosen to incapacitate him.

“Besides her great kindness,” he said, “I was taken by her wee daughters. They were as kind as their mother—but it was their names I liked most. Patience, Prudence, and Chastity, they were called. So I’d meant to ask ye, Rachel—do Friends often call their children after virtues?”

“They do,” she said, and smiling at Jemmy, who had started to twitch a little, added, “Jeremiah—if thee wasn’t called Jeremiah, what name would thee choose? If thee were to be named for a virtue, I mean.”

“Whassa virtue?” Mandy had asked, frowning at her brother as though expecting him to sprout one momentarily.

“Something good,” Germain had told her. “Like…” he glanced dubiously at Rachel for confirmation, “…Peace? Or maybe Goodness?”

“Exactly,” she’d said, nodding gravely. “What name would thee choose, Germain, while Jemmy is thinking? Piety?”

“No!” he’d said, horrified, and amid the general laughter, people had begun proposing nommes-de-virtu, both for themselves and various family members, with ensuing outbursts of laughter or—once or twice—heated discussions regarding the appropriateness of a suggestion.

“You started it, Da,” Brianna said now, amused. “But I noticed you didn’t pick a virtuous name.”

“He’s already got the names of three Scottish kings,” Roger protested. “He’ll be gettin’ above himself if ye give him any more names to play with.”

“You didn’t pick one either, did you Mama?” I could see the wheels turning in Bree’s mind, and moved to forestall her.

“Er….how about Gentleness?” I said, causing many of those present to burst into laughter.

“Is Ruthlessness a virtue?” Jamie asked, grinning at me.

“Probably not,” I said, rather coldly. “Though I suppose it depends on the circumstances.”

“True,” he said, and taking my hand, kissed it. “Resolve,” then—or maybe “Resolution?””

“Well, Resolution Fraser does have a certain ring to it,” I said. “I have one for you, too.”

“Oh, aye?”

“Endurance.”

He didn’t stop smiling, but a certain look of ruefulness came into his eyes.

“Aye,” he said. “That’ll do.”