Hard to believe that summer is slowly coming to an end, but the signs are here. Leaves are slowly starting to turn red, a sure sign that fall is getting closer every day. I can’t complain. Summer has been good to me, although the storms did take down a few trees. I’m hoping fall and winter will be good ones, too.

August 7 question – Do you use AI in your writing and if so how? Do you use it for your posts? Incorporate it into your stories? Use it for research? Audio?

If you had asked me this a year ago, I would’ve said no, never, but in the past few months, I’ve come to see and understand a different side of AI. Do I use it in my writing, apparently I do. I use spellcheck, find synonyms, look up information, and use the text to speech function to read to me since I find it easier to pick out errors if I both hear and see them. I’ve tried tthe speech to text side of it, but I’m not impressed. You might say that I think through my fingers and my mouth can’t keep up.

My cover artist has embraced the use of AI in her covers and the new ones are gorgeous. I had AI make me an illustration for a blog post last week because I couldn’t find what I wanted in my own pictures or those that are free to download, so I may use that function again.

But do I use it to actually write, to generate ideas, etc.? Abosolutely not. My content is 100% human thinking. The stories and characters I create in my mind are 100% my own. I give birth to them, nuture them, then let them have their heads and craft the stories they give me. Will I ever have to resort to AI for the actual writing? I hope not, because when I run out of ideas, it’ll be time to shut down the computer for the last time.

Check out other responses here: https://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/p/iwsg-sign-up.html

Wow! August is here already. It’s been a busy summer with home renovations, but I’ve still managed to get some writing done. This week, the authors of Tuesday Tales are writing to the prompt, HOT.

He shook his head. “And again at her hotel in Inverness.” He repeated what Marina had told her about locking herself in her room that night. “I should’ve admitted the truth then. Now, it may be too late. She may not believe a thing I say. There’s something else.” He told Nathan about the notes and the dead rat, ending the conversation about the missing three hours she claimed she’d slept on a bench in Edinburgh.

“Bloody hell. This is a hot mess, isn’t it now? I’m glad someone is taking those threats seriously, but those lost three hours in Edinburgh make no sense. Surely someone would’ve roused her—the police, another tourist—” Nathan stopped and glared at him. “Were you in Edinburgh at the time?”

“No. I went from London straight to Inverness.”

“Then she can’t accuse you of drugging her or what have you, but I’ll wager she was nowhere near that bench for all of that time.” He stood. “I don’t like this, Jerome. It feels as if you’re being set up, although for what, I’ve no idea. Let me make a few inquiries—see where James was while she was in Edinburgh. Ewen told me why her letter almost missed her. It was misaddressed from here. Only someone in his office could’ve done it. He blamed a temp, but I have my doubts. I mentioned earlier that James was raised by his Aunt Mary. The woman went to her grave swearing she was the rightful heir to Fraser Hall, born on the wrong side of the bed, but the heir, nonetheless. The old laws didn’t recognize the rights of those born out of wedlock, and when you get right down to it, Marina was also born on the wrong side of the sheets, although her father did claim her as his own. MacNish is a good lawyer. It’s quite possible that he has no interest in Marina and simply wants her fortune. There are three ways to get it: petition the courts, marry her, or see her dead. Be careful.”

Jerome nodded. None of those options appealed.

Thanking both Nathan and Nadia for their hospitality, he left their home and headed back to Fraser Hall, still not sure what to say to Marina, but aware of the danger of lying. If only he could ask the stones, but it seemed as if they had turned their back on him, too.

That’s it. Come back next week for more. Don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales.

Back in 1996, I challenged my English class to write a poem based on a disaster. While I can’t share theirs with you, I can share the one I wrote. The disaster I used was the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City on April 19, 1995. Little did I know an even worse disaster was only five years away on September 9, 2001.

“What a marvelous day,” she says with a grin,

Looking out her window, thrilled with her news as,

Second by second, life continues to tick

For the secretary at her desk, as the hands

On the bomb meet, in a lovers’ caress.

A hush. Time ceases to exist. The bomb lives,

Life ends. Humanity’s ultimate cruelty wins.

No baby for the young wife on the third floor,

No happiness, no regrets; love and laughter destroyed.

“Why?” scream the hearts of families, friends, and lovers

Of one they will never again see, hear, hold, or kiss.

The future, a lifetime of possibilities gone.

No warning, no reason. Amidst the debris of bricks and steel,

A husband left behind shudders, wishing for death,

Anything to ease the burden of facing destiny alone.

A shocked world sits in grim silence watching,

Held prisoner by the gruesome electronic screen,

Creature feeding on agony and despair,

Unfurling the outrage and sin.

And as the soul in purgatory gets its release,

Earth swallows the leavings.

Nothing more to see.

That’s the end of the poem and yet, for all those who have lost loved ones to terrorism, it’s just the beginning of long, lonely futures. Unlike writing a novel, a poem can capture one moment without worrying about the rules and conventions of writing.

Enjoy the coming week.

Well, just like that July is almost over. Soon, we’ll slip into the dog days of summer. How have you enjoyed yourself? Have you traveled or did you indulge in a stay vacation? I’ve done a bit of both.

This week, the TT authors are working with the word prompt, COLD. I’m continuing with Listen to the Stones and moving toward the ending. Enjoy.

Once again, Jerome silently cursed the fiend who’d murdered Bronagh. She would’ve known what he had to do, but she’d taken the knowledge to the grave.

After Marina had walked away with James, Nadia had asked her husband about the gentlemen’s agreement, but top notch solicitor that he was, Nathan had looked his wife in the eye and had claimed lawyer-client privilege, not revealing that he was the client. She hadn’t been impressed, but since they had to get home for Jerry’s feeding, she hadn’t argued the point. Still, he would wager Nathan had a long evening ahead of him since Nadia had avoided them both, giving them the cold shoulder since they’d gotten back to the house.

He stood. “If I’m going to make it back to the Hall for dinner at seven, I suppose I should get going.” He looked James in the eye. “Do you think she knows it’s me?”

He didn’t have to explain who she was.

Nathan rolled his eyes. “Are you serious?” He finished the pint he’d been nursing for the last hour. “Of course she knows it’s you. Why else would she have said it the way she did? The bigger question is how did she learn of it? She said Ewen had mentioned it, but I never said a word to him, so it had to have been Angus. Of course it could be Aunt Maeve. She was privy to everything that went on in that house. My money is on MacNish doing it. It’s the perfect way to discredit you and make his suit the better option.” He chuckled. “Did you see the look on his face when she spoke? He was as surprised as we were. I have no doubt he didn’t expect Lady Fraser to lay down her hand like that. So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to have to come clean and tell her the truth. What else can I do?”

“Well, unless you’re ready to tell her everything, choose your words carefully; otherwise, she’ll think you’re mad. There’s no shame in being a bestselling author, nor is there anything wrong with being inspired by trees, water, or stones. The problem is when you claim they speak to you and that the tales you weave are the stories they tell you. And when you tell her that, will you also admit you’re the man who frightened her at the airport in London?”

That’s it. Come back next week for more. Don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales.

Long before I decided to write short stories and novels, I tried my skills at writing poetry. My eldest son was diagnosed with schizophrenia in his second year of university. If you know anything about mental illness, then you know that the patient isn’t the only one who suffers. Once released form the hospital, he left. We didn’t know where he was and that’s when I wrote The Voice.

No matter where I go, no matter how I try,

I cannot escape ti; it’s part of me.

It threatens my sanity with what if and why,

It’s never really satisfied, the voice deep inside.

Did I do my best? Did I do all that I could’ve done?

Would he have stayed if I had tried to understand?

Did I love him too much, smother him alive?

It’s not really forgiving, the voice deep inside.

How do I know if I made the right choice?

How do I live with the fear and the doubt?

Will he ever be happy? Will he be satisfied?

It’s not really comforting, the voice deep inside.

Like a leech, it sucks away at my self-esteem,

Leaving me once more alone and confused.

Will he call? Will he write? Is he safe?

It’s never quiet, the mother’s voice deep inside.

After a difficult decade, our son accepted his illness, received treatment and has been able to get on with his life. Today, he owns his own web design business, works as a tutor for the local college, and is an Elder in his church. He has a strong, supportive group of friends. If you want to see a sample of his work, check out my website. https://mhsusannematthews.ca/

Mental illnesses like schizophrenia, now referred to as a spectrum disorder, can’t be cured, but for those lucky enough, like my son, they can be controled. We are truly blessed.

Have a great weekend!

My bathroom is almost finished. The new white vanity has been delayed, but this one will be going in my husband’s bathroom come September when we complete the second part of our bathroom upgrades.

I love it! I’ve taken a bath and a shower in my new tub, used the jets and the mood light, and relaxed. What a thrill it is to soak in hot water once again. While it’s going to be a tight fit for my son, my husband is looking forward to soaking in it, too, especially after curling this winter.

Here are a few more pics.

And did you guess the theme of the decor? If you said lighthouses and the ocean, you would be correct.

We went from this

to this in eight days!

Pretty impressive!

Good morning. I don’t know what the weather is like where you are, but summer is definitely here this year, with plenty of hot, sunny days. The humidity is high, but so far we’ve escaped the thunderstorms storms that have threatened our area. We got rain form the remnants of Beryl, but it wasn’t as bad as they’d predicted, just enough to ensure the flowers keep blooming.

This week, the TT authors are writing to the word prompt TOUCH. I continue with Listen to the Stones as we wend our way toward the climax. Enjoy.

Marina exhaled a sigh of relief. She and James would have tea, but thankfully, he would be gone before Jerome arrived home for dinner. The last thing she needed at the moment was the two of them, circling the ring like boxers in a match, one without a referee.

After James’s comments earlier on magic and the stones, she was more confused and frustrated than ever. Great-uncle Angus wouldn’t have left her the estate if he didn’t believe in her destiny, and yet James was firmly convinced there was nothing special about her and insisted she agree to that idea and not let herself be carried away by what he termed the nonsense of others.

What had he said? He only believed in what he could prove and what he could control. Could she confirm that she had some kind of magical ability? No, but she couldn’t disprove it either, since like her great-uncle, she was convinced that something was going to happen at Halloween, something her dreams had been predicting even if she didn’t recall them all.

After her little speech in the restaurant earlier today, things might be awkward between herself and Jerome. In all fairness, because she knew the world wasn’t black and white but tinged with gray and because of her sudden doubts about James’s intentions, she should give Jerome a chance to defend himself. If he had a satisfactory reason for keeping what he’d done from her, she would accept it, but unless he told the whole truth—not a portion of it or a version of it—she wasn’t going to forgive him, nor would she let him get close to her again.

Tonight would be their last night alone in Fraser Hall. The first of her guests would be arriving tomorrow afternoon. Unless he gave her a reason to trust her, cozy dinners in the games room watching the World Series would be over.

She sighed. So why did that thought sadden her?

James reached over and touched her arm. “Wool gathering?”

She smiled, the lie ready. “Actually, I was thinking about the guests coming tomorrow. I hope I’m up to the task.”

He patted her hand, that smirk still in place. “You’ll be fine. Just remember what we discussed and don’t let anyone turn your head.”

Easier said than done.

That’s it. Come back next week for more. Don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales.

Halfway through July! How are you doing? Has the weather been kind in your part of the world? I hope so.

This week’s word prompt is BREAD. I’m continuing with Listen to the Stones.

James reached for her hand. “I realize that some of what I’ve told you today was unsettling, but to me, it’s all quite logical. Almost all of our Christian traditions have their origins in pre-Christianity. Think of it. A missionary arrives here to find a fierce, pagan tribe. Why wouldn’t he use whatever he could to his advantage? The stones were here, older than the island’s current occupants. No one knew who’d built them, so why not strike a little terror into the hearts of the savages occupying this land by implying that his God had turned their non-believing ancestors to stone? Within a generation or two, he’s given the credit in the folktales of the day. History is recorded by the victors.”

She frowned, not at all comfortable with the way he was twisting things. The idea that a man of God would deceive people that way in an effort to save their souls didn’t seem right.

“I suppose it makes sense, but that seems more like a twenty-first century rationalization to me.”

He shook his head. “Is it? The Bible itself lays the groundwork for such a thing by recording the way God turned Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt for daring to disobey him and look back. Take Jesus. He’s a man, whose not only the son of God but God himself—the very belief depicted in St Ronan’s cross. He turned water into wine, fed thousands with just a few loaves of bread and some fish, cured the sick, raised the dead, and rose from the depths of Hell to rule at the right hand of God, who is himself. You call them miracles. Do you not see how some would see that as akin to magic and the energies wielded by a powerful sorcerer?”

Marina nodded. “You’re well-versed in the Bible.”

“My Aunt Mary was a believer, a deeply … committed woman. We are all products of our environment, our thoughts and beliefs fed to us by what we’re told and what we learn on our own. Those lessons are often brutal and hard to ignore. Perhaps I’m a bit cynical, but in my life and profession, I’ve learned not to trust my senses and believe in only what I can prove, what I can control. We’ll make a great team, Marina. I know it.”

She smiled. Would they? Suddenly, she wasn’t quite so sure.

That’s it. Come back next week for more. Don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales.