With all the general housekeeping since I switched gears with the publishing house, I realized I needed to update prices on my trade paperbacks. Usually that sort of thing means a price increase. But I’m really thrilled to let you know there’s been a considerable price reduction! In some cases as much as $10.00 per copy. Isn’t that just a bit of good news?
I’ve also added a nifty feature across all trade paperbacks, called Personalize It. What that means is for $5.00 you can digitally add any personalized message you wish, even have me digitally sign the book for you, and have it drop-shipped from my printer directly to your door, anywhere in the world. That’s just kind of cool, don’t you think?
I use PayPal for my payment gateway, but if you don’t have a PayPal account, that doesn’t matter, because during the payment process you can opt to just use your credit card. PayPal’s a robust, secure payment process which has been around now a very long time.
To be honest I’ve found myself at odd ends, in this weird part of my life, in this weird kind of year. I’ve felt like I’ve been living through a perfect storm. Part of that has now schlepped off to be grumpy and damaging somewhere else. But the constant uncertainty of COVID19, and how our society will evolve as a result of that, hovers there in the background.
It’s been uncomfortable to watch the barn-fire of the United States. I wonder often if this is how Rome’s neighbours felt when they watched that mighty empire dissolve into anarchy and ruin.
So, between aborted (thankfully) elder-care, the shift in the publishing house, COVID19, and the United States, little say a few minor health problems of my own, greeting official senior citizen status (my god, I’m 65?!) it’s been a bit hard to focus on writing anything, let alone any kind of creativity.
What I have fallen back to, as a way of creating order out of chaos, harmony out of disorder, is gardening. I’ve been weeding and planting and harvesting, finding myself connecting with my forebearers. I remember my mother hoeing tomatoes, my step-dad hilling potatoes. Grandma dusting roses, taking cuttings, dead-heading. I remember stories of what a gardener my great-grandfather Arthur Haworth was, and I wonder if my great-grandmother, Alice, remembered the flax farm in Ireland she left behind and the grand house, the title.
And in this manner perspective evolves. The mind stills. The world distills to the sounds of bees, and windchimes, and water splooshing from dragon heads. I think of stories, of characters, and store that harvest for winter consumption.
But in the meantime…
Why not browse my catalogue of stories, do a wee harvest of your own, support a dedicated Canadian author in her endeavours and thereby perhaps share a world, a thought, an adventure.