Night Callers

Last night I was writing at the kitchen table as usual with the back door open. I heard a coyote howling in the woods. Grabbing my phone, I went out onto the deck and recorded a two minute mainly pitch black video in which I caught the coyote howling and barking three separate times. I also captured a crow disturbed by the noise. By the time I got back inside to review the video, I had the bones of a story in my head. At 11:17PM I began writing that story. At 12:23AM I finished it, including some preliminary corrections and edits. This morning I reviewed the story, made a few more edits, changed the title and it's done- this story is my property. I hold the copyright. It cannot be reproduced without my permission. I post it here for your enjoyment-


Night Callers by Susan Buffum



It was the sound of a coyote howling in the woods behind the house that drew me out onto the back deck. It was fairly dark, only a half moon hanging above the house casting a wan swatch of light across the massive oak tree with its sprawling canopy of green leaves. I checked the time on my phone. Quarter of twelve. The coyote bayed again, a haunting, eerie, ululating cry. I tapped the camera icon, then the video button, and finally record. “Sing to me,” I murmured.

As if in response, the coyote howled again, a longer, more varied version of the first call that had summoned me outside. It stopped. I strained my ears, listening for the crack of twigs, the rustle of debris on the ground that would indicate it was approaching, or wandering farther away. To me, its last cry had sounded just a little nearer.

When I began to think it had moved on, chasing its prey deeper into the woods, the baying began again, this time concluding with a stuttering, strangled sort of barking. It was an awkward way to wind down and I shook my head just as a crow, disturbed from its slumber, rattled a ratcheting protest cry. Otherwise, it was so quiet outside that I heard the flutter of the crow’s wings, the papery shifting of leaves as it flew from its perch in the woods to the big oak just off the deck and gave another cry. I was happy to have his voice added to the video.

The coyote howled once more, sounding closer now. The bird repeated his protest. It was just above me in the high branches. I looked up, straining to make out its black form amid the shadowed leaves, but the wash of moonlight through the branches was weak. The sound of an animal moving in the woods drew my attention back toward the path. I couldn’t actually see the path, but I figured since I’d seen the fox that trotted through the yard each morning on its way home to its den use this path down to the brook that other animals also used it. I hoped to see it, even as an indistinct shadow, moving stealthily across the lawn.

A sound above and behind me made me gasp as I spun around, eyes rising to the roof. My phone camera was still recording. My hand was shaking. Whatever it was up there, it had sounded big. A great horned owl? I couldn’t think of what else could be on the roof.

My eyes strained as I scanned the roofline against the night sky. A smattering of stars twinkled between drifting charcoal-colored clouds. I saw nothing at first, but then something moved again up there. I caught the movement in the corner of my eye, turning my head toward the chimney where I watched, in fascinated shock and horror, as something seemed to grow taller and then separate itself from the mass of the chimney, taking on a form of its own. Behind me, the coyote howled, sounding even nearer now. It had come into the yard. I had missed its arrival, distracted by…by what? What was this thing on my roof? It had tall, sharply angled wings. It was too huge to be a bird, but it reminded me of an eagle, only much larger.

I heard it, talons scratching over the shingles as it came toward the eaves above my head. “Go away!” I managed to croak past the constriction in my throat. It felt as if someone had gripped my neck and was strangling me, but there was no one else out here. Only me. And the coyote. And the crow. And this…this…I didn’t know what!

I caught a glint of dull light in its eye as it cocked its head and regarded me. It had dropped into a crouch about two feet from the eaves. I could actually hear it breathing. I was staring at it, still trying to make sense of it, when the coyote bayed from the lawn, so close that it startled me. I couldn’t stop myself from turning toward the sound, still trying to get the animal on video.

And that was how I missed the thing on the roof as it skittered the last two feet and landed with a jarring thud on the deck just behind me. It was big and it was solid. I shuddered and then tensed, thinking that I was going to die, that momentarily I would be dead. The coyote howled from the sidewalk at the foot of the deck stairs. Something gripped my shoulder. With the coyote still howling and the crow now making its guttural protests from high in the tree, my voice joined them in chorus as I screamed. I was the loudest of the three of us by far, but even with my own voice ringing in my ears, I heard the voice behind me quietly say, “Hush.” I couldn’t seem to control my larynx. It still vibrated, still was making that tea kettle shrieking sound. “I mean you no harm.”

A hand, well, a hand of sorts, came over my other shoulder and took the phone from my trembling hand. I relinquished it without protest as my scream abruptly stopped. I had run out of breath and needed to inhale. I was shaking, my legs wobbling. “Wha…what do you want?” I whispered, my mouth dry and cottony.

“Water and meat.”

“What kind?”

“Cold. Raw.”

I was warm, but I thought it meant cold water. The terrible, lucid realization that to a beast I was nothing but raw meat jolted me and made me take two awkward steps forward. My phone disappeared over my shoulder. I don’t know where the courage to do so came from, but I spun around to confront what had jumped down from the roof and my mind froze at what I could see of it in the dark. It looked part reptilian, part amphibian, part eagle, part dragon, and part human. “Oh, my god,” I moaned, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. Was this an alien being? Had a UFO landed in the front yard without my being aware of it and this alien thing climbed up and over the roof?

Scrabbling noises on the deck stairs made me spin back around. The coyote was coming up the stairs. “Go inside.” I didn’t need to be told twice. As frightened as I was of this beast, it spoke my language. I obeyed, hurriedly let myself into the kitchen which seemed too bright, too quiet. The house surrounding this room took on a strange eeriness, a flesh-crawling, foreboding aura of the unknown in the dark. I hadn’t put any other lights on in the house since I had been writing at the kitchen table, my usual after dinner activity.

The house was too quiet making what was happening on the deck outside the screen door only too loud and vivid. There were scuffling sounds and the coyote snarled. Then it yelped. There next came nerve wracking sounds, as if someone was breaking branches and then wet, tearing, ripping, snuffling, and slobbering sounds that sent me rushing to the sink, my stomach lurching and emptying. I was keening, half sobbing, sick and terrified, dizzy and weak. I clung to the edge of the sink, blinking hard, trying to make the dark fog in the periphery of my vision stop advancing. I did not want to pass out.

“Water,” said the quiet, gruff voice from behind the screen door. I opened a cupboard, grabbed a pitcher, filling it at the sink, carrying it, sloshing and spilling, to the door. My hands were shaking as I released the latch and pushed the door open with my shoulder, just wide enough to slip the pitcher through the gap. I cringed and whimpered as the bloodied, taloned hand… paw… whatever you may call it, gripped the curved handle of the pitcher, taking it from me. I let the door close as I took a step back.

By the light spilling through the screen onto the deck, I stood there watching the beast guzzle down the contents of the pitcher without pausing for a breath. It emptied the last few inches of water over its face, rinsing off gore. Behind it, I could just see the hind legs of the coyote carcass, and a dark, glossy pool around them that I knew was blood.

The sound of glass meeting decking made me jump although it had not been loud. The beast had set the pitcher down with surprising care. Its wings rustled as it turned, crouched down, lifted the dead coyote, and then rapidly descended the deck stairs. I heard it running across the lawn, found myself stepping out onto the deck, skirting the blood and tufts of fur, straining my eyes to make out the large shadowy form as it suddenly rose into the air, having gained momentum and lift. Its wings flapped like the sails of a windmill, that kind of sound. It rose higher.

From the oak tree, the crow also took flight and followed, a big bird looking more the size of a canary compared to the larger, winged creature it shadowed over the treetops as they flew higher still and then over the cliff top of the mountainside I lived on. In mere moments they were gone.

I turned, accidentally kicking the pitcher, knocking it over. Fortunately, it didn’t break. I bent, picked it up, and looked all around for my phone, but I didn’t see it. With a barely suppressed shudder, I slipped into the house, flicked on the outside spotlights, filled the pitcher and used that water to begin rinsing the blood off the deck. It took seven pitchers full of water before I was satisfied that I’d washed away the majority of the reminder of what had just happened. As I reached for the screen door for the last time, something propped against the house reflected a random bit of moonlight. Curious, I went and picked up what turned out to be my phone. I carried it inside, swung the door closed, and locked it, although I was fairly certain that whatever that beast had been, it possessed enough raw strength and power to kick the door open should it return and want to come inside.

My phone was dead. The battery had been nearly drained when I’d gone out to capture the coyote howling. I had intended to put it on the charger after dinner, but hadn’t done so. I did that now and then looked at my laptop sitting on the kitchen table. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to relax, wouldn’t be able to sleep, I knew what I had to do. I rinsed the pitcher at the sink, put it in the dishwasher, washed my hands then sat down and began to type—It was the sound of a coyote howling in the woods that drew me out onto the back deck that night…

The Filing Cabinets

Tonight I opened the top drawer of a four drawer file cabinet looking to see what books I had entered into contests last year...and fell into various folders, pulling half written stories, vignettes, handwritten pages, bits and pieces, and even a poem out and reading them, getting lost in them. The terrible thought that I don't have enough life left in which to finish all these stories nearly set off a panic attack!

I turned around and looked at the four drawer file cabinet across from the one I was digging through. Three drawers are crammed full of stories, some handwritten, some typed on an electric typewriter and not even on any computer in the house, and a few I know have been put on the computer...but they're few and far between. These are stories I wrote for Kelly when she was little, while she was growing up. Some are even older than that.

This all reminded me that someplace downstairs there is a binder full of poetry I wrote when I was in my teens and through my early married life in my mid-twenties, and a binder full of what they now call flash fiction that I wrote in high school and college.

I cannot believe I wrote all this stuff. I cannot quite wrap my head around the mountains of partial manuscripts and writings that I've thrown out through the years- stories I'm never going to be able to write again or even begin to recreate. All of them are long gone. Notebooks and binders and hundreds of reams of notebook paper are probably well rotted in the landfill now since I began throwing stuff out in the 1980's when my writing began to evolve from writing the same characters into different stories over and over again to creating new characters for each new story. In the early to mid 1980's I began writing to entertain other people, not just myself.

I still occasionally find myself writing the same characters into stories that vary somewhat, but that's now more a method of working toward writing them into the right story for them. Life Skills developed like that- a series of stories in which I developed the characters, their relationships, and their back stories. The series of short stories that connect are different from the finished novel, but if you were to track down the binder that they're in someplace in my house and you read them, you'd recognize Remy and Lissa, Flash and Blade, Uncle Max and Janet. The same sort of thing is happening with Garnet and Quella in the Memento Mori series first novel. I've written dozens of versions of their story...and while I've finished the novel once, and nearly finished it a second time, it's still not the exact story I wat it to be, so I'll be writing it again.

Writing is a circuitous journey sometimes as you explore the various paths your characters can take. sometimes it's not so easy to find the right path. You know when you're on it when you get that feeling of satisfaction and completeness after a read through. If you don't get that feeling- then it's not ready for anyone else to read it yet.

I found some pieces and poems my late playwright friend and mentor, Jim Curran, gave me in the same drawer tonight. I wish he had lived to see me develop my skills more, see me publish some of the stories he enjoyed reading in his final years. Although he was Irish, his love of Princess Grace and Monte Carlo and France spiced my writing with a decidedly French flavor. Some of those sweet romance stories that he enjoyed were included in the anthology Auspicious Beginnings (here's an insider tidbit- Kelly named this book!) I was so fortunate to have such a wonderful mentor who encouraged me to write from my heart and soul. His Monte Carlo racing windbreaker is in my closet. Some of his Belleek Irish china is in my china cabinet. My brother snagged these things for me from his estate sale.

It was a nice night to reminisce about my roots as a writer, but a little unnerving to realize that I will never be able to finish everything I've started writing before I exit this world!

Writing Real Characters into Fantasy, Paranormal, and Supernatural Fiction

I have a couple of series I've written where the main characters are witches, warlocks, sorcerers, sorceresses, genetically altered, vampires, werewolves, angels, grim reapers, and soon, but the one thing all of these fantastical beings are is human. They're just like us, only they have some other traits, too.

I'm going to do a series of posts which will be miniature character studies. Today I am going to focus on the general- why do my characters resonate with readers? The answer is because they are real people- flaws, foibles, quirks, good sides, bad sides, and all. They are troubled heroes, struggling heroines, and often just ordinary beings trying to live their lives to the best of their abilities. In two series, The Archetypes and Black King/White Queen, they're also trying to raise their children and keep their families together.

They also all live in the ordinary, every day world you and I live in. They have homes, live in small towns or cities, live in the suburbs, and most f them have jobs. Dr. Giles Talon (the grim reaper in the Talon series) is a Medical Examiner and coroner, plus he works in a hospital as a pathologist. His night receptionist is something more than a struggling young woman trying to find her way in the world. She's not aware of what else she is, but through the currently four book series, she makes discoveries, and grows into her role in this world and the other realms she can access. Romney Sharpe (Black King/White Queen series) is a powerful warlock who is thrown prematurely into the role of guardian of a great magical treasure hoarde when his evil black witch sister has their father killed. She also wanted him killed, but his father managed to save him at the last moment, so now he's a king. Which leads him to claim his queen, the unassuming white witch/druidess, Ivy Greenaway. Ivy's young and not fully aware of her powers, but as queen, she has to adjust, learn, and grow in leaps and bounds which tests her strength, her bravery, and her overall character. Through all their ordeals, Ivy and Romney place great value on family and friends, and home life. In the Amberton Paranormal Investigative Society series a group of ghost hunters in Vermont encounter ghosts, but Tracy Beck encounters a young woman who works at an Inn in Maine who is more than she appears to be. Grayson Cole can communicate easily with ghosts...and it rocks the entire teams world when they discover who and what Grayson really is. She is a being who is art human, part spirit. She can cross through the veil. She is what Dr. Beeler has been looking for, the link between the living world and the spirit world. Yet, Grayson appears to be an ordinary human being in every other aspect, so the struggle now will be- will Beck allow Dr. Beeler to exploit her, or will they keep the truth about her a secret while they study her? Book three will explore all that.

In Out, vampires work for city government, sell cars and real estate, deal in antiquities, design clothing and many other normal everyday jobs. They have co-existed among living human beings for centuries. Only recently have they begun being outed by radicals who feel they are abominations, monsters, and should all be destroyed. They struggle to co-exist in the world with humans while they are being hunted and slain by those who are intolerant of them, and admired and entertained by those who don't see them as evil beings. Irina is thrown into the chaos swirling around vampires when Adrick choses her to be his queen. Irina's father belongs to one of the societies sworn to protect citizens from vampires. And Adrick has a powerful enemy who wants to destroy him, which places very human Irina's life in danger.

J. Rand Beresford had a terrible experience during a camping trip with friends when he was fourteen that changed his life. He was attacked by a werewolf and was the sole survivor, yet he can tell no one what really happened during that fateful weekend. He flees his home town immediately after graduation and it's not until a few years later that a young woman makes the discovery that J. Rand is living in Europe and has made a name for himself as a maker of amazing mechanical clock towers. His father is a clockmaker, but not these types of clocks. J. Rand is drawn home when the powerful werewolf who transformed him starts attacking the young girl's family and friends. J. Rand knows he'll kill her because the werewolf knows him, can read him like a book and knows his heart belongs to her.

Very real life characters with paranormal, fantastical, and supernatural powers just trying to make their way in the world you and I live in...those are the types of characters I write.

We'll look at other characters in future posts.

Bizzy Writing

It's actually been over five months since I've sat down and written more than ten thousand words.

I decided to set Garnet and Quella aside after reading a second, nearly complete manuscript and not being able to decide if I like the completed one or the almost completed one better. Both have a few issues I need to address.

Therefore, I went on a prowl through the files on my laptop and found a story I'd begun well over a year ag, maybe even as far back at 2017. I read the 53 pages I'd written back then, did some proofreading and editing as I went, and have been writing more of the story. As of this morning I was on page 90 (single spacing, spaces between paragraphs at present)...approaching 40,000-something words. I though it might be a novella, but it's to the point where it's writing itself and I'm just coat-tailing along for the ride.

This one is about a young woman from a dysfunctional family, loaded with anxiety and low self-esteem, but determinedly plodding ahead in life on her own, hiding a damaging incident from her middle school days. When violence erupts in her home, she lands in her older sister's now estranged boyfriend's apartment as she's quickly and heartlessly thrown out of her family's home. He's "the devil himself" according to her father, has been used by her sister to support a lifestyle she wants, but isn't interested in working for to attain on her own, and who has had his eye on Cathy's younger sister since he started dating her, and now she's finally old enough. Charlotte is all hands off, but he's not going to give up on her.

She's a realtor. There's a house on the market they both want, only she can't afford it, but he can. When the under contract sale falls through and the house comes back on the market, Charlotte finds herself showing her strictly platonic "roommate" the property, writing up his offer, discovering his prequalification from the bank is more than adequate to get him the house. Deeply disappointed, she tells him the house is his when the buyer agrees to his offer.

Meanwhile, Charlotte's quietly made preparations to leave the area, finding a job several hundred miles inland, locating a small apartment there she can afford. He's taken aback that she's so upset about the house that she's pulling up stakes and leaving. And then the rug is pulled out from under her feet when a murder-suicide occurs, but it's the catalyst that turns the tide of her life...

You'll have to read this little seaside romance later this year to find out what happens.

Spent Some Time Being a Twit-Wit Tonight

I tend to ignore the fact I have a Twitter account. I'm not saying who ruined Twitter for me but it all became pretty much a farce and I just wanted to distance myself from the bad taste certain tweets left. But, I was reminded that people Tweet daily and follow certain people, and I have followers n Twitter that have probably been wondering what cave I've crawled into. Tonight I posted some artwork and updates about books on Twitter, biting the bullet, biting my tongue and getting back into the game.

I also spent an hour listing some new art prints in my etsy store, BicycleCityArtworks. I added some birds, cats, and dogs. Currently I have 50 art prints offered and will be adding more as time allows. (I love how I can go into work and step into one medical assistant's room and view all my artwork thumbtacked to the walls. She has an entire art gallery in her small work space. I, meanwhile, have one print (currently the little black bear cub) at my desk. I change the art at my desk every couple of weeks.

I haven't given up on writing, I just needed to catch up on things and get these aspects of my life back on track. I'm also preparing for a busy weekend with the Poetry and Images awards (my Raucous Raven pen & ink drawing inspired three poems) on Saturday at 1PM at Blue Umbrella Books downtown (during a weekend full of downtown activity as Westfield, my hometown, celebrates its 350th anniversary (founded in 1669). There is a WhipCity Wordsmiths meeting at 3PM at the same location despite all the other stuff going on and the fact there will be altered traffic patterns and tremendous difficulty finding a place to park!

Meanwhile, I'm having an RA flare that's pretty bad...stiffness, joint pain, balance issues, tendon pain, and overwhelming fatigue...but, as usual, I keep going. I will not let this subdue me!

Oh! And today we had ZERO rain!!! The sun shone! The sky was blue! It was warm out- just like I remembered spring being! Hooray!

Wearing Two Hats- Author & Artist

Last September for International Art Drop Day, I slapped the dust off my artist's beret and drew two different black squirrels after an eighteen year hiatus from pen & ink drawing. Since September 2018 I've written two books, have a third that needs to be formatted and should be ready later this year for publishing, and just this past weekend started a new novel that's once again different for me as it's part mystery, part suspense, part psychological drama, and part police procedural. The title is The Scrapbook. The premise is that a woman goes missing in a small town, leaving no trace behind. Her family, including the primary narrator, a teenaged young woman about to graduate from high school, are left reeling. Ten days after her mother's unexplained disappearance, Caroline Parker buys a scrapbook and begins assembling everything she collects from among her mother's possessions such as receipts, dry cleaning tickets, movie and other event stubs, etc, family pictures she chooses from a shoebox full stored in a cabinet in the family room, scraps of paper with cryptic notes she discovers in her mother's desk, and other things she comes across as she tries to make sense of her mother's disappearance and come to grips with the thought that someone may have kidnapped her and even killed her. Or has her mother simply walked away from her life in Beaman Heights? Caroline struggles to make some sort of sense out of the sudden chaos that has erupted in her life as she tries to move forward into her adult life as a college student. Taken as a whole, her scrapbook is a collection of the detritus left behind in the wake of her mother's sudden vanishing act, but within the pages of the scrapbook, Caroline begins to see something sinister emerge that will turn her world upside down.

Well, that's the premise anyway.

Meanwhile, I have agreed to do several events as an artist beginning June 8th with the Dewey House Summer Social here in Westfield, MA, an event to raise money for the historic Dewey House. I'll also be showing my pen & ink art prints at the Veteran Classic Car show in July at the Westfield Fairgrounds. And in the autumn I'll be at the Fall Family Fun event at the American Inn in Southwick, MA.

I gave a talk after a nice luncheon at the Senior Center here in Westfield last Wednesday afternoon, having been invited to speak about my art and my books by the local book club. It was a wonderful, intimate lunch with ten lovely ladies who listened to what I had to say and then asked questions and told a few of their own stories. Each lady received a copy of Life, Death, Love, Cats & Dogs, an anthology of light romance stories in which there is a cat or dog character that plays matchmaker. Each book club member also received a pen & ink art print of a black squirrel art print titled Acorn. Acorn was the image chosen by Boy Scout Troop 109 to be placed on one of the fourteen 350th Anniversary commemorative wooden nickels geocached in various locations around the city of Westfield as Westfield celebrates another milestone anniversary this year (the city was founded in 1669). I also made 11 unique double-sided black squirrel keychains containing mini art prints. One print is a 2x3 inch version of Acorn. The other print is a limited edition black squirrel silhouette placing the last two letters in the city's name on a map of downtown Westfield. I have the 11th keychain on my bag.

This weekend, on the 18th, the month long Poetry and Images Contest held in April winds up with the announcement of the winners at each of six locations. A piece of art was displayed at each downtown location and aspiring poets were encouraged to go and view the art and ten write and submit their poem inspired by the artwork. I had Raucous Raven displayed at Blue Umbrella Books. Three poems were written and submitted. A winner has been chosen.

Also on the 18th, after the Poetry and Images event, the WhipCity Wordsmiths will meet at Blue Umbrella Books. In June of 2019 the Wordsmiths will celebrate their second anniversary as Westfield's author/writer social & support group. The group now has 55 members with attendance varying from 8 to 30 members at any given meeting, and members staying in touch via a private WhipCity Wordsmiths facebook group page.

Articulture2019 came and went on May 3rd and 4th with some inclement weather affecting attendance, but overall it was a really nice event with 13 of 14 authors in attendance, many of them WhipCity Wordsmiths, including Bram Stoker Award winning horror author Tom Deady, award winning YA and adult fiction author Melissa Volker, award winning historical author and fiction author Katherine Anderson, historical and fiction author Gerald W. McFarland, historic children's author Ayden Rogalski (who is himself just 10-years old and has four books published and another about to be published), children's authors Rhonda Boulette and R.W. Thompson, mystery author Glen Ebisch, fiction author Judith Foard-Giucastro, thriller/suspense author Claudia Turner, and me, plus detective/crime author Edward Farrell, and local historian and author Bruce Cortis. Wordsmith Jacqueline Sears was unable to attend the event and was missed this year.

It's a little exhausting at times, but I am enjoying wear two hats-my artist's beret (although not in public!) and my little, black, flat cap that I've worn for several years now as an author. I like keeping busy!

Articulture Has Come and Gone

This past weekend was Westfield's (my home town) big cultural arts event. This was the first year I attended as both an author and an artist. I am also a board member, so was actually at the church, this year's venue, on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. It was fun being there to see all the artists and authors come in to set up and prepare their displays. I'm the board member responsible for lining up the authors for the past three shows. Each year I've been striving for a good mix of genre and age group level authors...and this year was the best mix ever. Children's, YA, adult, with historical nonfiction, historical fiction, thriller, suspense, crime, mystery, horror, paranormal, fantasy, literary fiction, children's, general fiction, werewolf, witch & warlock….thirteen authors covered a wide spread of genres.

I enjoyed walking around looking at the artist's wrk. I do realistic pen & ink drawings of wildlife, birds, and domestic animals. I also do commissioned pet portraits. It was fun to see photographers, and a variety of different mediums displayed.

However, the very best art of this event happened on Saturday when a young mother brought her young son to my table. He was excited to talk to me about his own art work and his favorite author, Dave Pilkey, the author of the Captain Underpants series, which my daughter read when she was in elementary school. This cheerful, articulate boy told me he was dyslexic, just like his favorite author is. He knew all about Dave Pilkey and how he was made to sit out in the hallway because he couldn't read. It was there that he drew pictures and dreamed up what would later become Captain Underpants. Having a learning disability is not disabling if you strive to do what you love to do and find ways to work around it. Clinton was very enthusiastic about his own drawing and desire to write. I fully believe in supporting and mentoring our creative children. Fortnately for him he has a supportive mother and he made his first step into his writing future by talking to me because I can provide him access to the WhipCity Wordsmiths for writing support, advice, encouragement, and assistance.

I was a nice event. I liked that people I know from the book shop came to visit and show their support. Some friends and family members attended. And I met loads of new peple, and made some important contacts too. I sold two books. They were sort f lost in the middle of the table amid all the art offerings, but people found them.

Already planning ahead for 2020!