By Rosemary Lord

“Remember, remember the 5th of November,
With gunpowder treason and plot.
I see no reason why gunpowder treason,
Should ever be forgot.”
So begins the English children’s rhyme. Back in 1605, when Frenchman Guy de Fawkes tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament, his plot was discovered, and he was stopped. And each November since, the Brits celebrate their victory with ‘Guy Fawkes Night’ or ‘Bonfire Night.’ The children make a ‘guy’ – a dressed-up scarecrow figure that looks like Guy Fawkes. They take their effigies around the streets (usually in a cart or pram) asking for “A penny for the guy!” collecting money to buy fireworks.
The evening festivities include huge bonfires, in your own garden or in community squares, with informal fireworks displays, chestnuts and potatoes roasted on the fires and hot cocoa to drink. A fun winter evening for all ages.
November is a busy month.
The Hindu celebration, Diwali: The Festival of Lights, is November 12th this year. It is a Hindu new year celebration to say goodbye to the negative and welcome the positive for the year to come. It is a five-day celebration of the triumph of light over darkness, where candles and lights abound, children with sparklers, music and dance (Bollywood style) delicious food and henna tattoos.
A more somber but very heartfelt event is Remembrance Day in England on November 11th.
It commemorates the Armistice of 1918, signaling the end of the First World War. In England, Australia, and Canada – the Commonwealth countries – people wear a red poppy in respect. At 11 am – the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, at the Cenotaph in London, the guns fire a salute, broadcast throughout the countries, followed by two minutes silence. The buses, trains and traffic stop. The River Thames and various spots like Trafalgar Square are covered in red poppies in the tribute to the men and women who served in military and civilian service in World War I, World War II and later conflicts. The poppies are a reminder of the red poppies that grew in Flanders Field where so many perished and are buried.
In America, November 11th is Veteran’s Day: a time to thank and pay tribute to all the men and women who have served or are serving in the military. A grateful nation decorates their homes and gardens with the American flags, and as they pay homage to the veterans, they celebrate with barbeques and patriotic concerts. Coffee shops, restaurants, shops, pay homage to the veterans with welcome signs in the windows and gifts and special discounts. Flags are proudly displayed everywhere. It is a National Holiday.
So, with all this pageantry and celebration going on you might ask, what has this to do with writing? Well – for me, it’s the inspiration. As a historian and writer, I just love to write about these amazing points in history. I think the human angle to these great events gives us rich sources of personal encounters, heroic actions, missed opportunities for mayhem and miracles. Finding a personal account of someone who was there, an eyewitness. I like the idea of using actual historic events and traditions as a backdrop. And when we delve into the real-life stories, we uncover real people; from the big heroes to the ordinary folk just trying to survive the challenges of everyday life. We discover fascinating tidbits of human nature that raise our stories to make something very special.
And November ushers in the winter months, when we turn our clocks back, the days are desperately shortened, with darker mornings and a chill spreads around us. (Unless you’re living in Australia, of course). We dig out that cozy, thick wool sweater, heavyweight sweatpants, fuzzy slippers and we’re ready to sit at our computers with a mug of something hot. The empty page beckons and away we go: off to write another best-seller!
Every November I promise myself that in these ensuing long, dark evenings I will get a lot more writing completed.
And the winter season presents even more back-drops for our mysteries, romances, horror stories or science fiction. Holiday themed novels are always popular. Christmas stories are especially fun to write and popular – except you’re not allowed to call them Christmas stories anymore. So, that’s a fun writer-challenge: how to write about Christmas without using the word Christmas! But I digress…
Another really good challenge for some of us during the winter months is… decluttering the computer files. I didn’t say it was fun challenge, did I? But it is surprisingly therapeutic.
I discovered this need, after spending almost an hour trying to find a file I had just been working on. You see, I couldn’t remember exactly what I had labelled it. If you add a ‘the’ or start with a date, you have to know where to search. (Sometimes, learning Greek seems easier than mastering computers!)
In this quest I discovered dozens of files in a foolishly labelled folder “Assorted writing.” Lesson #1: NEVER file anything under “Assorted” or “Miscellaneous”.
That was another file: “Miscellaneous” with ‘2022’ added for supposed clarity! Didn’t help. I learned the hard way.
Despite the fact that my hunt for my file was lengthy and tedious, I discovered a few gems of old, forgotten, partially written tales and story ideas. Hmmm.
And so I resolved to declutter (there’s that word again!) my files and create a comprehensive labeling and filing system. One that I could remember! A Herculean task, I realize. But one that I can work on during the long, dark, winter evenings.
It’s either that – or I’m diving back under the duvet –and reading my kindle in the dark, where no one can find me!
What’s your plan for the winter months ahead?



Three days later Allan and I bid ahoj to Prague and boarded a train bound for Poland. After an overnight stop in Katowice, the largest city in the region known as Upper Silesia, we took a cab to the nearby city of Bytom, the hometown of my father and his entire family. Back then Upper Silesia was part of Germany, the city known as Beuthen. As I walked along the streets, I tried to picture what his life must have been like. I gazed at the people who passed, wondering if I’d see any signs of familiarity in their faces.
Entering into the first camp, with its ARBEIT MACHT FREI (“Work sets you free”) sign over the entrance gate, I wondered how I would react, or feel. I’m still not sure, to be honest, other than the eerie familiarity of what I heard and saw – from decades of studying photographs accompanied by written accounts, of documentaries and movies filmed on location, and stories I’d heard from survivors, including my father. For many, the trip was a history lesson. For me, it was akin to visiting the cemetery; I lost an estimated ninety members of my family there.
After a brief break, the tour continued to nearby Birkenau. Unlike Auschwitz, which to me felt small and claustrophobic, Birkenau is huge. You’ve seen it in many movies: a long low building with railroad tracks leading to a central tower, open at the bottom to allow trains to enter with their human cargo, like a gaping maw ready to devour all who arrive. Alongside and beyond the entrance, what seems like miles and miles of barbed wire fencing surrounds a huge open area interspersed with low barracks and guard towers. In the distance I could see different tour groups traversing the grounds, and for one brief moment I pictured them in the striped uniforms and hats of prisoners.
Prior to abandoning the camp in January 1945, days ahead of the advancing Russian forces, the Nazis burned the meticulous records they’d kept of all who were brought to the camps and blew up the gas chambers. Only piles of rubble remain. Many, many piles. They left behind the prisoners too weak to continue; the rest (including my father) went on a forced march from one concentration camp to the next, always trying to stay ahead of the Russians, whom they rightfully feared more than the other Allies. It took several more months until my father was liberated, but at least the Americans freed him. Had he stayed behind in Auschwitz, he would have lived the rest of his life under the thumb of the Soviets. After what I saw in Bytom, I’m grateful he had the strength to wait.


Since most of my fiction these days is cozy mystery, I’ll use examples from that genre. Let’s say we have two characters, Curtis, an art collector and one of the suspects in my novel Venus Rising, and Amy, a librarian intent on solving the mystery of a painting at the center of the book’s mystery.
My intent in this post is to once again highlight a side trip on the trickily winding writing-road. Nonetheless, I can’t imagine life these days without writing. And consequently all this thinking stuff—starting with a negative revelation has led me to a new enthusiasm for writing. Writer, or “want to be writer”—the winding road I’m always jabbering about is tricky, but well worth it. And for me, writing what I like to read is definitely going to be an uphill challenge! Though so glad to have actually started my latest.
NAMES in stories are important in that they have to “fit” the characters, the era, the country, and even class in which they live. You wouldn’t name a society woman, Buster. (Well, unless there was a right good reason for it.) Also, a native seamstress of New Delhi probably wouldn’t be called Manuela. So how do you find those perfectly fitting monikers?




As you read this, I’ll be at Bouchercon, a mystery writers’ conference that’s in San Diego this year. I attended Bouchercon in Minneapolis last year. And it’s my second writers’ conference in 2023. I was at the Romance Writers of America conference in July in Anaheim.
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