October was quite a busy month for me. First, I had the pleasure of visiting Dresden with dear friend and fellow writer Alison Morton. Among other things, we undertook a seventeen kilometre trek through the beautiful Saxon Switzerland National park (yes, I know, very confusing: Switzerland in a German park?) to see the famous Bastei Bridge. Most definitely worth the effort, I tell you.
A week later, I was in London with my sister. A weekend of long, long walks (we averaged 25 k per day) good food and ABBA!
After that, I went to Stockholm for work, and as I was preparing for my next trip, this time to China and Japan, I was struck down by a nasty flu. Today is the first day in six that I wake without a fever—which is also why this newsletter is somewhat delayed.
I don’t like having a fever. My normally very vivid imagination goes on rampage, and one moment I am climbing a mountain while hauling a bag of dead frogs along, the other I am swimming for my life towards a distant island. I’m not hallucinating: I am BORED. Ergo, my brain steps in and offers entertainment. Very discombobulated entertainment…
Also, lying in bed gives you ample time to think, and for some reason I have spent a long time thinking about how finite our time is on this earth. I blame my sister, who despite being some years younger than me told me while we were in London that she hoped for ten to fifteen more good years. Ten to fifteen? I am aiming for at least twenty-five! And even with twenty-five, it is evident that bucket list of mine will need a serious haircut.
These days, death is something we mostly do in hospitals. Many of us have never seen a dead body prior to our own parents, and what was once a normal part of life—we are born, we live, we die—has become draped in fear of the unknown. Many are the people who will say “If I die…” when, in fact, there is no if about it. Personally, I am not worried about death—but I do want someone to ensure the dying isn’t too painful and that I have someone holding my hand as I pass.
What happens after death, none of us know. An old, very devout lady once told my sister that she wasn’t at all worried about the hereafter, nor did she have any ideas as to what it would look like. “But it doesn’t matter,” she said, “because what I DO know is that I will be taken care of as I need to be taken care of.” Whether that was eternal rest or wafting about in celestial palaces—she did not care. She trusted God.
Obviously, if you do not believe in God, then the hereafter is likely a place of permanent rest, of sinking back into the ground to generate new life. Not necessarily a bad thing, is it?
Back to bucket lists and life. Life, this wondrous, wondrous gift that somehow becomes a bit more precious when your horizon no longer is as endless as it is when you’re a child. I am presently the same age my father was when he passed, so yes, I am very aware of the fact that time is running out. My father was an alcoholic with a heart condition, and I am neither, so hopefully I do have those twenty-five years left. But that is not a long time, all things considered.
One of my mother’s favourite maudlin songs was September Song with Frank Sinatra. In retrospect, I have realised my mother had a very dark streak—and a paralysing fear of dying—which is probably why she played this song so often, humming along as her eyes glittered with tears.
I don’t cry when I listen to September Song—but I am reminded again of just how precious life is, how important it is that we fill our days with the people we love, with creating memories, not only for us but also for them, the ones that will still be around once we’re no longer here. This, in turn has me thinking about how I am living my best years. Am I truly enjoying life to the full or is my nose still stuck to the grindstone? More importantly, would I enjoy life more if I didn’t work as much as I do? Hmm…
I think the important thing is to experience life. To walk in a forest clad in gold and russet and not look for the best photo opportunity, but instead just take it all in. Life is not experienced through the lens of your mobile camera. It is experienced by touching, by seeing, by smelling and hearing.
During my recent trip to London I was surrounded by people taking selfies. A practised smile, the mobile held just so and there was a snap of them in front of Westminster Abbey or the Houses of Parliament. But were they really registering their surroundings? Did they understand context and history, did they experience the thrill of standing before a building that for close to a thousand years has been a permanent part of English history? I think not, because creating content often comes at the expense of experience—you’re so busy framing your pic you miss out on actually enjoying where you are. Most of those selfies are about a pleasing visual, a “Look, I was here” tick-in-the-box, without really understanding just where you were.
Very many years ago the famous French philosopher Rene Descartes coined the phrase Cogito, ergo sum. (This was before he travelled to Stockholm at the invitation of Queen Christina only to die some months later due to pneumonia) Cogito, ergo sum—I think, therefore I exist. Today, one could paraphrase that to “I take selfies, therefore I exist.” A rather depressing thought, isn’t it? After all, if we have become so mindless we prefer taking pictures rather than understanding contexts and what lies before us, then we have become an easily manipulated flock of sheep. So, dear peeps, think. Think and reason, think and analyse, think and enjoy the smorgasbord that life lays before us. Think and live. Every day.
Right: time to change the subject, methinks. First of all, I’d like to share a short extract from my FINISHED WIP. Queen of Shadows is finally done and I am rather proud of this labour of love, seeing as I started researching this book back in 2016 or so. But before the extract, just a reminder that further down comes some info on my Christmas giveaway! But first, I give you Alma, who has just witnessed the birth Leonor de Guzmán’s second son in Sevilla (hence the pic above)
“An easy birth,” Mamá concluded a while later.
“Easy?” Doña Leonor croaked. “It is never easy, is it?” She had been transferred back to the bed and reclined against a mound of pillows. “But I have a strong, healthy son, while poor María went through all this pain for a babe the size of a skinned rabbit, and about as weak.” She shook her head. “Poor María.”
Alma bit back a little snort. Everyone knew there was little love lost between King Alfonso’s wedded wife and his beloved mistress. Queen María resented the woman who held her husband’s heart; Doña Leonor hated that the queen was the mother of the future king, while the children she gave the king would forever carry the stigma of being bastards.
“What will you name him?” Mamá asked later. The bed linens had been changed, Doña Leonor was in a clean chemise, and the entire room was suffused in a golden light, courtesy of a veritable forest of lit candles.
“His father will name him.” Doña Leonor stroked the downy cheek of the babe. “I do believe he looks like a Sancho.”
He looked like a piglet. But Alma was wise enough to keep that to herself.
There was a commotion downstairs. Loud male voices, laughter, and then the hasty footsteps of someone leaping up the stairs. The door banged open, and there stood their king, young and handsome, broad and strong. Alma and the other women present bowed deeply. He made a dismissive sound and waved them upright, crossing the room in great strides.
The smile he gave Doña Leonor had something twisting in Alma’s belly. Would someone look at her like that some day? Would strong male fingers gently stroke an escaped tendril of hair off her forehead and then stoop to kiss her there?
Doña Leonor’s hand came up to encircle his wrist. “My love.”
“Tesoro.” There was a husky sound to his voice that had Alma suspecting he was close to weeping. “A son, I have another son!”
“You do.” Doña Leonor held out the babe to him. Big hands expertly cupped the little head, steadied the small swaddled body.
“Look at you,” the king crooned, “so big, so strong.” He grinned, beaming at them all. “Three sons in less than two years!” he exclaimed, and Alma wondered if she was the only one who saw how Doña Leonor’s features hardened, her mouth setting in a grim line.
One of those three sons was the trueborn heir, Infante Fernando, mere weeks old. Alma knew this because Mamá had commented to Abuela that their king clearly went from the bed of one woman to the other, eager to fornicate with his lady love after doing his duty in the marital bed. “One son born in Burgos just after the feast of San Martín,” she’d said on their way here. “I dare say it does not please the queen that he is now here, in Sevilla, to await Doña Leonor’s babe.”
Just as it did not please Doña Leonor to have the king mention the son he had with another woman while cradling the son she had just birthed. Alma did not understand any of this. The king acted as if he had two wives, and while everyone knew the infidel often took more than one wife, a good Christian did not.
Leonor de Guzmán was to give King Alfonso XI ten children all in all—a love story that spanned two decades and caused the queen much heartache and humiliation. My Alma is in for quite the ride through the complicated political landscape of 14th century Castile!
And now, giveaway. I like to get my Christmas give away on its way before the end of November, as otherwise there’s a risk it won’t reach the happy winner before New Year. As always, the giveaway is a mix of books, goodies and some Swedish X-mas stuff. If you want to throw your name in the hat, send me an email where you tell me about a recent occasion when you really felt alive! I had one such experience last week when my dentist drilled too deep—but I hope you will share positive, rather than negative experiences!
With that, I wish you all a great November!
Anna