I fell in love with Brigid many years ago, long before I sipped from her sacred well in Ireland. Long before, trembling, I tied a rag on her prayer tree on the Hill of Tara and begged for help. Brigid is the ancient Celtic goddess of healing, poetry, and metal-crafting. She is my source of strength and inspiration.
First pilgrimage to Tara, Ireland
People venerated Brigid, as Mother Goddess for thousands of years. Much later, in the fifth century, an abbess took her name. Along with her nuns, this Brigid built a monastic settlement in Kildare, which means Church of the Oak. She prayed. She healed. She performed miracles. And in time, the people proclaimed her a saint. Brigid appears in my stories. Even lends her name to one of my major characters.
“And you are?”
“Dylan McBride.” He reluctantly shook the outstretched hand.
The tall, muscular priest was a good head taller and as he pumped Dylan’s arm, the veins in his neck stood out. “McBride. That means, follower of St. Bride. I wrote a paper once on Bride or Brigit, which is her other name. She’s the patron saint of Ireland.”
“Aye, she is. St. Brigit founded thirty convents in Ireland. Her flame burned in Kildare until her nuns were raped and driven out in the Twelfth century.” Dylan cleared his throat and spit sideways into the shrubs. “I’ve written papers too.”
Sunday, February 2nd is Brigid’s day. In the ancient pagan calendar, this marks the midpoint in the Dark Times between Winter Solstice and Spring Equinox for those of us in the north.
Fifteen hundred years after her death, Brigid is still beloved in Kildare. Last year, her devotees marked her death anniversary, and Ireland proclaimed her the first Irish woman to be commemorated with an annual public holiday. Over centuries of strife, her bones had been scattered, but last year fragments were returned to St. Brigid’s Parish Church. If ever you visit Kildare, Solas Bhride is a Christian spirituality center led by the Brigidine Sisters who welcome “people of all faiths and of no faith.”
Brigid symbolizes the divine feminine, the beauty of art, the healing of the sick and injured, and veneration of the land, the trees, the animals, and all sentient beings. If you seek solace in this shifting world of shadows and feel fearful in these tenuous times, look to Brigid. Find a willing tree (always ask first) in a nearby wood and create your own Rag Tree. Tie a ribbon infused with your prayers upon her branches and ask for what you need. She helped me one day in Ireland when I felt all was lost, and she’ll help you too.
Author News
On February 25, I’m launching The Witch Killer. This series rebranding is an incredible journey I’m undertaking this year. Inspired by a talk given by thriller writer, Jonas Saul, on the island of Amorgos in Greece last September, I made the decision to change my pen name and re-release my books updated, reformatted, and re-covered, for a new audience. Of course, now that I’ve opened up to Estrada again, he’s started whispering about book six, which he wants to set in Greece.
It’s a heap of work, but the revitalizing of my books has given me new life. In many ways, I am my books. It’s inspired me artistically and creatively, and given me back my youth—or maybe that’s the Clinique kit I bought in the Black Friday sale. Hmmm …
Here’s a sneak peek at the new print cover for book 1 and a few links to my new self. Please follow me where you can. Alas, I’m a reborn author with few friends;)
Goodreads @183384153-harper-carr to read my latest reviews.
Actually, I listened to James Marsters (SPIKE of Buffy the Vampire/Angel fame) narrate Jim Butcher’s Stormfront, Book 1 of The Dresdan Files. Wow. I was hoping for Marster’s English accent but, alas, I’m impressed, both with his ability to portray Harry Dresden, a casual, demon-fighting American wizard who traverses Chicago’s streets and investigates strange murders, and with Butcher’s masterful writing style.
This is the 25th Anniversary of Stormfront. If you’ve never heard of it, do look it up, crime and urban fantasy fans. There’s a fanpage here but that’s kinda cheating. Dresden reminds me of someone I know intimately. Yep. That’s right.
The Dresden Files
I love how Butcher handles the whole question of technology—whether to use it or not. I hate writing technology, especially because it’s changing so fast it dates your work almost immediately. Although Butcher wrote Stormfront in the days of the VCR, he avoids this sinkhole by making Dresden’s wizarding aura interfere with technology. Harry Dresdan is old school, a brooding bad boy who’s awful good, shy around women, and an intelligent, masterful fighter. And bonus—there are seventeen audio volumes, all but one which have been narrated by James Marsters.
Oh, Lord. Sorry, Estrada. Did you say something? I’m listening to Harry.
I’ve been thinking for some time about starting a podcast called Travel by the Book. The premise is this: I (or one of my writer mates) travel somewhere, and I (or they) read fiction (preferably) or non-fiction (grudgingly) set in or near the travel destination, and the podcast then discusses not only the travel journey, but also the reading journey. Did we fall in love with the setting? How was the place different from the era in which the book was set? Did we notice social change, stunning architecture, a surplus of annoying tourists? How awesome was the food?
First: Amorgos. Why Did I Go?
A cruise of the Greek Islands has been on my bucket list for years, so how could I pass up a writing retreat on one of those iconic islands? Never mind that I’d just sold a house on Vancouver Island, bought a condo in the Vancouver burbs, and moved everything yet again. When I saw Jonas Saul’s Imagine Greece Retreats Facebook post, I was hooked.
“What do you think?” I asked my writer friend. We’d been talking about travelling together, perhaps even hosting our own writer’s retreats. “We should go,” she said. And so it began.
I’d met Jonas Saul in 2018 when he critiqued my first chapter at a Creative Ink blue pencil meeting, while Chris Humphreys, the featured author, lived on a nearby island in British Columbia and belonged to The Creative Academy, as did I. Knowing the presenters, however remotely, made it seem safe. And then there were the photos. Before we even left Canada, Jonas and his charming wife, Greek thriller writer Rania Stone, were answering questions and making us feel at home.
My trip from Vancouver to Toronto to Zurich and finally Athens was a nightmare I hope never to repeat and had nothing to do with them. Story here. Let’s just say, the last night I slept was Sunday in Vancouver, and I arrived at the hotel after midnight Wednesday after spending ten hours on a plane beside a coughing woman.
Athens is a dirty, gritty, glitzy, city, a hot and hectic hodgepodge—beatific faces of gods and heroes, dense clouds of cigarette smoke and diesel fumes, ancient ruins swathed in story and tourists, feeling ever lost and fearful, the sweetest tomatoes ever tasted (what’s with those tomatoes?), making wonderful new friends while searching for benign delicacies in a cluster of cafés, classic relics of an ancient world, sleepless nights where breathing seemed impossible … and then the sea, the port at Amorgos, a mountainous drive of switchbacks, and paradise. Lakki Village.
Lakki Village on Amorgos
I walked into my private room. The balcony doors were wide open, the curtains slow dancing in the salty breeze. After one deep breath, Athen’s smog disappeared. So revitalizing was the air, I left the doors open all night to absorb the golden waxing moon, and there, in the cool darkness, mosquitoes ate my face. These weren’t big loud Canadian mosquitoes. No, these were wee, sneaky, silent, buggers that left welts all over my cheeks, nose, shoulders, and neck. And I’d caught a virus while traveling—actually, it was Stella’s Australian cold pills that saw me through the worst of it.
Nevertheless. I dreamed and journaled.
Lakki Village is an oasis in a brown-hilled goat-herder’s world, its cliff-edges clustered with square white, cobalt-trimmed cottages. The sand beach is soft, the warm, salt waves fierce when they catch you unaware. The air is clean and today the wind is calm. Cats slide by or camp near our table, kneading the trees with soft paws, begging food. One morning I go for more juice and a swift black streak leaps up and steals ham from my plate. There are also dogs—one scary black Doberman mix and several adorable terriers, one of whom I want to stuff in my bag.
I went to every workshop—glorious tutorials held with a backdrop of turquoise Mediterranean Sea. In between, I dreamt of Jason and Odysseus sailing this whaleroad; searched in vain for goat cheese on this island of 25,000 goats; meditated with my muses; soaked up the sun and floated in the warm saltwater pool with new and wonderful friends (Stella!) and explored the nearby village, which I discovered on the final day sold the most incredible gluten free sourdough loaves and imported sheep cheese!
Second: How Amorgos Reminded Me I Love Writing
Each day, inspiration flew from the lips of our instructors—thriller writer Jonas Saul and fantasy/historical fiction author C.C. (Chris) Humphreys—and it landed with me. The first day, Jonas asked, “Why are you here?”
“I turned seventy this year. I either need to break through or give up,” I heard myself say.
Don’t get me wrong. Writing is my vocation. I can’t NOT write. But something was missing in the business of it all.
By the time the week ended, I had a plan. I’d decided on a new pen name to use with my two as yet unpublished Young Adult novels.
“An artist’s name must match their mission,” Jonas said. Indeed. I’d start with my two latest novels and, over time, I’d rebrand my ongoing urban fantasy Wicca thriller series. I spent an hour talking about my new works with Chris Humphreys, where I made changes to titles, synopsis, and the all-important first page. I’d pitch and pitch, and while I waited for that “YES,” I’d write and write.
I believed in me again and the thought made me tremble.
Chris talked “upticks” and “shout lines” and “comoca”— characters with objectives meet obstacles > creates action. Of course, we knew this, but there was something in Chris’s theatrical British voice that made it potent and noteworthy. Chris took us on a metaphorical journey up the mountain—three climbs, three drafts—and left us wanting more.
Other inspiration came from our motley band of International writers, who were some of the dearest people I’ve ever met. Most of us were introverts, our heads heavy with characters and stories, and though we met socially, we secretly longed for time alone to go deep and do what we do. Write and dream and write some more.
Third: What is Destination Reading and Why is it a Thing?
“It’s simple. Before you travel, read books (preferably fiction) written about the place you’re going and then see how it resonates with you.” Like Stella Quinn, My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell (sorry Stella, it’s Duh-RELL) has been a favourite of mine for years. This is a comfort book … a whisper, a giggle, a belly laugh. You can stop and start, put it down and pick it up. It’s a book you will keep on your shelves.
Set on the island of Corfu (1935-1939), it’s the memoir/autobiography of a boy and his free-spirited family. Big brother Laurence Durrell became a rather famous author and Gerry a notable biologist. Unfortunately, one cannot duplicate the experience of a fanatical child naturalist in the 1930s on a geographically different island. While Corfu seemed to be a jungle of exotic plants and creatures, Amorgos was more of a hilly desert studded with hairy goats and surrounded by sand beaches, polished stones, and the most perfect sea imaginable. But it was in Durrell’s book I first learned the “don’t flush toilet paper in Greece” rule. This little passage reveals Gerry’s sister’s reaction to the whole sordid scenario.
I studied Mythos by Stephen Fry. At least, I managed “Part One—The Beginning” mainly because of Fry’s comedic wit, so departed for Greece with hazy notions of the gods and their idiosyncrasies. I’m particularly intrigued by Athena, who will undoubtedly find her way into my sixth Wicca thriller. Anyone who can spring from a crack in her father’s head wearing armour and a plumed helmet while carrying a shield and spear, is a match for my free-spirited Latino magician and coven high priest.
One marble statue of Athena
I took a uni course on Greek Art in 2007, so reread the text, Greek Art by Cambridge journalist and lecturer, Nigel Spivey. This enchanting art history book surveys Greek culture through the ages. It’s a heavy white tome on shiny, thick, paper. Sculptures leap from the page and vivid polychrome images present the ruins as the ancient Greeks might have viewed them. Explore this example of how polychrome is bringing those ruined marbles back to life or watch this.
Speaking of love, this stunning young man caught my eye.
The youth Antinoos of Bithynia, in Asia Minor was the favourite of Emperor Hadrian. After he drowned in the river Nile in AD130, Hadrian had him deified and erected numerous statues, busts, and portraits of him in cities and sanctuaries throughout the Roman Empire AD130-138.
All you need is love …
Finally, I read, loved, and reviewed a Young Adult Romance called Love & Olives by Jenna Evans Welch. Seventeen-year-old Olive is invited to Santorini by her long lost father, an Atlantis-obsessed explorer, to help him make a documentary about his life. Liv meets Nico, a stunning Greek boy in Oia, and they take us on a tour of Santorini.
This book was part of the reason, I took a Sea Jet to Santorini (Thera) after the retreat ended. After all, it was only a half-inch away on the map. I was pathetically seasick on the one-and-a-half-hour journey through gusty seas, and burst into tears when I finally saw my name on a sign in the parking lot—an unromantic introduction to Santorini except for Alekos, the middle-aged transport driver, who tried to revive me by running his water-soaked hands over my face and hair while murmuring soft reassurances.
Though we didn’t make it to Oia, Fira offered fireworks on an inky backdrop, a pyrotechnic display of the erupting volcano that destroyed Minoan culture (1600-1500BCE), a delicious view of the sea-filled crater dotted with cruise ships and yachts, a fabulous café overlooking the sea, clifftop clusters of white-washed hotels, and a bazillion beatific churches. We did visit the eclectic Atlantis Bookstore featured in Love & Olives and saw many of Thera’s artifacts in Athens at the National Museum of Archaeology. I have enough Santorini vibes in my soul to recreate it in my next urban fantasy—in particular, I can envision my hot magician racing and leaping across the white stucco rooftops, perhaps in pursuit of Athena.
Fira, Santorini
Intrigued? Join an active Greek Retreat Facebook group or go to their website and imagine yourself in one of these fabulous photos. Perhaps you too will have a life-changing experience in Greece.
I am a huge Elly Griffiths fan. I’ve read all of the Ruth Galloway Mysteries over the years and enjoyed them immensely. I feel like I know the characters and the archaeology is a bonus as Griffiths does such extensive research into the past. That’s why I picked up this book.
To begin with, whoever formatted this book called it “A Ruth Galloway Mystery” on the inside title page. It’s not. That made me feel tricked. I think HarperCollins could have done a better job of proofing. I’m not sure if it’s part of “The Brighton Mysteries” or something entirely its own. There are a trio of characters who work together as a team of sleuths though only two of them formed the K and F agency because of a) their last names which I honestly can’t remember and b) F and K looked too much like F*K (cute little joke that one.)
Right from the beginning, there are two many names. Our three key sleuths (84-year-old Edwin, the gorgeous Ukrainian Natalka, and her boyfriend and former monk, Benedict.) Then there’s Natalka’s mother who lives with them and her brother who’s gone off to fight in the Ukraine. After that, it became such a jumble I could barely keep up. Also, there is a detective, Harbinder, who seems way too friendly with Natalka.
I started by writing a list of five of their cases—all which have multiple names. It might help you to know that Edwin presents his own list on page 137 (if you can keep it together that long.) The interesting part for me, which may be of interest to you, is that most of the victims are either part of a book club or writers who attended a writing retreat (which Edwin and Benedict attend to do some sleuthing.) I found the retreat particularly annoying. As a writer, I detest (that’s the word) being tasked with writing prompts like “If Only I Hadn’t . . . ” This one is significant to the story. Also, why would I ever want to go to a writing retreat and write with a strange partner. All they seem to do is socialize and eat and they have to prep meals. Yikes! Anyway, beyond the annoying retreat, I really lost interest trying to sort out all of these people who are names minus personalities as it’s the kind of book with no character-building. I stayed with it until the end when, wouldn’t you know, the list multiplies again when their parents start getting knocked off.
I hate giving poor reviews and I wanted to like this book but I’m feeling a little like using “vituperative” language at the moment. Yes, that word is used. Also, the actual motives for the murders seems a little far-fetched. I can’t tell you why as that would lead to spoilers and I hope you’ll give this book a chance. Just because it didn’t work for me doesn’t mean it won’t work for you. Just be prepared to draw sociograms on your bedroom walls. Sorry, Elly Griffiths, please write us another real Ruth Galloway Mystery.
How and why does a Cree become a “bad” Cree. Johns explains in this, her debut novel, but be forewarned. You’ll need to sit back and hold on because this story will catch you like a crow’s claw to the gut and drag you through the elements.
Bad Cree is the story of a beautiful family from northern Alberta and how they cope with life and death. It’s a story of grief, longing, love, and connection with moments so deep, dark, and visceral, one night I dream I’m trapped in a watery shed at the bottom of a black and frigid lake, and my only escape is to awaken. Can you imagine drowning in your sleep while you’re dreaming? Johns can. Still, there are other moments I feel embraced. Like I’m slipping into a soft, warm, vat of mac and cheese or enfolded into an auntie’s loving arms.
When we meet Mackenzie, she’s living in a small bachelor apartment in Vancouver and working at Whole Foods with her Two-Spirited friend, Joli. She’s been estranged from her family for years, since her kokum died. She couldn’t handle “the never-ending lonely that hung in the halls and in every corner” (76.) Then her big sister Sabrina died, and she was unable to go home for the funeral.
Now, she’s plagued by dreams where she appears dressed in whatever she happens to be wearing when she nods off. And she’s bringing things back. First, a spruce branch she’s ripped from a tree, and then a bloody crow’s head. Crows are following her through Vancouver alleys and beaches. Are they allies or enemies? She ignores all of these messages until she starts getting texts from her dead sister. “You know who this is. You’re not listening.” Does that give you chills? It’s only the beginning.
Just when things have reached their desperate peak, Auntie Verna calls and Mack confesses everything. “Am I a bad Cree?” Mack asks. “I think you need to come home” (80) Auntie replies. The two-thirds of the story that follow immerses us in Cree life and tradition in a home filled with aunts and uncles, love and laughter, vats of comfort food, crib and poker, an array of cousins, and of course, Mack’s mom and dad. They live in High Prairie, where Johns grew up. Here they live in relationship with the land and the ancestors, with their dreams and memories.
But what about Sabrina? On one level this is a mystery where Mackenzie, her sister Tracey, and her cousin Kassidy try everything imaginable to discover what happened to Sabrina. Be forewarned: There is a creature, a monster born of greed, and the climax reads like a Stephen King horror story.
Johns says this is a story of generational trauma and magic. Kokum (Mack’s grandmother) was stolen away to residential school, as was Mack’s mother and aunties. This healing from the violence inflicted on them is a burden foisted upon Indigenous families. But there’s also magic afoot here. Johns wants people to know that Indigenous People are more than just their trauma. And there are other big themes. References to the extractive industry and the devastation left behind from oil drilling create ecological grief.
Reading Bad Cree, I’m reminded of Métis-writer Cherie Dimaline’s Emperor of Wild, Maggie Stiefvater’s Dreamer Trilogy, and Eden Robinson’sTrickster Series. In fact, Johns attended Banff Centre in 2019 for a writing residency, where Robinson was one of the instructors. Robinson read an earlier version of Bad Cree (which began its life as a short story) and told Johns to “go deeper and go darker.” This, she has done. The text is stippled with Cree words that mean more than can be explained in simple English. It’s a story teens will devour and adults remember. Johns says she wrote it because there was nothing like this for her to read when she was younger. It’s brilliant—a riveting peek into Cree life and culture that rides the genres of horror and coming of age stories.
Jessica Johns is a queer Cree auntie from Sucker Creek First Nation in Treaty 8 territory in Northern Alberta. Bad Cree, her debut novel, was shortlisted for the Amazon First Novel Award, won the MacEwan Book of the Year award, and is on the 2024 CBC Canada Reads long list. It should have won more. Johns is a visual artist and published poet. She combines all her talents to create a lyrical voice that will pluck you from your easy chair and take you on a journey. Don’t make the mistake of calling it fantasy. It’s not.
The first paragraph is a warning I ignore just like our protagonist, Amy Whey, does when she opens the door to Roux. Perhaps because it starts off so innocently. A group of suburban women are meeting for their usual “Brain-Dead Mommies Book Club.” Twenty plus of them. The club is Char’s creation so she runs things until the night Angelica Roux shows up, sinks into Char’s leather winged chair and highjacks the club. The drinks are flowing, the women gulping and slurring. After all, this is their night away from husbands and kids. Bring on the G and T. Roux suggests they all introduce themselves since she’s new and, before you know it, they’re all figuring out their spirit animals.
Now that’s something I would have been sucked right into.
The dialogue gets raucous, the tone dangerous, and then Roux introduces the game. “It’s like Never Have I Ever, but for grown-ups.” All you have to do is confess the worst thing you’ve done. Except every round changes—today, last week, last month, last year. Ever. And suddenly Amy realizes Roux knows a secret from her past. A big dark secret. The kind that can blow your domestic life to smithereens. “I could feel it leaking into my bloodstream, spreading like a toxin through me.”
So there you have it, and that’s just the cliffhanger of chapter one.
This is domestic noir, a twisted psychological thriller that raises the stakes threat by threat, reveal by reveal. As an added bonus, Jackson draws an extended metaphor throughout. Amy teaches scuba diving and Jackson hurls us into the deep end of the ocean with just enough air to keep going. We find ourselves exploring wrecks, dredging the silty bottom, and keeping perfectly still as the sharks hover. It’s grim. It’s dark. It involves every kind of domestic issue you can imagine: cheating and betrayal, child abuse, rape, kidnapping, drugs and alcohol, manslaughter. Murder.
