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As part of the Sudden Storm (wasn’t that the title of an old soap opera? Or was it “The Gathering Storm”? My parents both worked in the school system (principal and teacher, though not the same school) and so hired a housekeeper who would be there for the couple of hours between our arrival from school and our mother getting home—her name was Annie Mae, and she was wonderful. She also watched soap operas while ironing, which is how I come to know that…) — <ahem>.

Anyway, someone on another site had posted a link to an article from tvinsider, which I gather quoted Matt Roberts as saying that when I say no they (the production people) listen to me and don’t do things that I strongly disagree with. <cough>

That’s what caused me to write the Following, just by way of explanation and exegesis, because most people know nothing about the hows and whys of television (there’s no reason why they should, after all).

Hence my reply:

Dear X—

Well, naturally he’s not going to say in public that they ignore my advice (and objections) when it suits them, though very plainly they do. <g>

People who work in show business are, as a rule, very circumspect in what they say, because there’s a really strong probability of it showing up in print (and what shows up will not necessarily be what the quotee actually said, either. Often things are paraphrased, and paraphrased (or condensed) in a way that is actually at odds with the original statement).

I try not to do that, either: a) I actually like the show’s production people, and believe that they are in fact usually <cough> doing what they think is the right (or necessary*) thing, and b) I’d quite like to keep on working with them. They do, by contract, have to pay me a consultant’s fee; they don’t have to send me scripts or talk to me, let alone invite me to write the occasional episode.

And c) I have enough experience with the media (thirty-three years of it, in fact…) to understand i) how it works, and ii) how it doesn’t.

Let me just observe that in thirty-odd years of being interviewed about my books, I have seen exactly three interviews that were accurate. (I don’t accuse the interviewers of deliberate messing-aboutness; a lot of it is just minor carelessness (they read my Wikipedia page—which is Totally Not Accurate to begin with, since I have neither the time nor interest to visit it every day and correct the nonsense people put in there—and use that as background; or they ask me minor things (like where I got my various degrees) and—not realizing that there are THREE state universities in Arizona, and all three of them include “Arizona” and “University” in their names—and I have two degrees from one of these institutions (Northern Arizona University), but worked for twelve years at one of the others (Arizona State University)—they more often than not default to the one university (University of Arizona) with which I’ve never had the slightest relationship.)

None of that’s at all important; it’s just a very minor illustration of how easy it is for a print version of a verbal interview to end up implying something different than what the person actually said (or meant). And it’s counterproductive to all concerned for there to be an appearance of serious disagreement among the people associated with a show. (This is why actors, directors, etc. seldom bad-mouth each other (or the show’s production), regardless of whether there’s actual friction. And usually, there’s not.)

* “necessary” – NOT infrequently, there are actual unavoidable physical reasons for the show doing something in a way that ideally, they wouldn’t have. For instance, I’m seeing a good bit of email from people who live near Monmouth, complaining that while EVERYONE knows (and it’s certainly part of the historical record) that the Battle of Monmouth was fought in the summer and was remarkable for the heat of the day, the show has arbitrarily decided to shoot it in winter, ferGawd’ssake, and how could I “let” them do that?

O. K. There’s no reason why most TV viewers should know anything about the mechanics of television production, and most of them don’t. However, part of said mechanics deals with the shooting schedule.

(This is one of the reasons for shooting two episodes as a block; so that dates and locations can be shuffled in case of need.) A shooting schedule normally proceeds from Episode One onward. The only (well, normally) reason why episodes would be shot out of sequence would be in case of an important location that covered more than one episode—hence the show spending a couple of months in South Africa, in order to shoot pieces of Season Three.)

So the Battle of Monmouth falls at the end of Season Seven. They’re filming it in Scotland. The end of the season is in fall; it’s frequently Very Cold, but it’s seldom hot, and when it is, it’s unpredictable. There’s no economically/physically reasonable way of making a whole battle look like it’s having heat-stroke, and–given that the people who know it was hot during the battle number maybe a couple of hundred at most—and the fact that the heat does not really affect any of the characters they’re using—they just let it be cold. I mean, producing a show is always about picking your battles (“battles” used in the broadest sense, meaning encompassing weather and locations, and unpredictable availability of cast or resources).

Now, returning to Matt <cough>—we get along very well, and always have. I visited the (hugely expanded) studio sometime last year (last year is a Complete Blur, for assorted reasons), and had a long, congenial chat about a whole lot of things, among me, my husband, Matt and Maril. We talked about Claire’s parents (my POV being that they’re dead <g>, but if Matt wanted to do a storyline about them in the Prequel, it was OK with me (he did, and it worked brilliantly—the actors are wonderful!)).

In the course of this long and very far-ranging conversation, we discussed things I was doing in Book Ten and what other projects I might have in mind, no matter how far out (I do, of course, have the Prequel Book (1) in my TBD pile—and no, it won’t have Claire’s parents in it; they’re dead.) Repeat after me:

“The books are the books and the show is the show.”

Master Raymond was mentioned (I don’t know by whom), and I said that a) I do have pieces of the book about Master Raymond, but that’s about #4 in my stack—meaning I write down stuff when it comes to me, but b) I’m not actually working in a regular way on that novel.

As this was a conversation, rather than a Meeting, I then mentioned casually that I had at one time considered doing a second graphic novel, and IF I HAD (WHICH I BLOODY DIDN’T AND I’M NOT GOING TO**), it might have included something about Master Raymond and what—if anything—he might have done following his visit to save Claire’s life at the hospital.

OK. This is the way I work; I don’t sit down and type out a detailed timeline of things I might write over the next ten years. I don’t work with an outline, and I don’t write in a straight line. I get ideas, and some of them come with words, and if they do, I write them down. If they don’t, but seem interesting in some way, I just remember them—sometimes (as I work on other things, usually), one of those will drift back into my mind, and this time I see a possibility, or a faint relationship with something else.

** I’m not going to write a second graphic novel because a) I have way too many other things that I’d rather write first, and b) the first one was OK, and fun to do, but not very popular—owing in part to ignorance on the part of the audience as to what a graphic novel was (this was a number of years ago, and my readership is largely a lot older than the normal readers of graphic novels). We had a lot of people who bought it and were Displeased to find that it was “a comic book!!” (This, in spite of my insisting that the Amazon listing include page shots…) Even more of them were Very Displeased that the artist had somehow failed to read their minds and draw their perceived version of Jamie or Claire. However…

One of the things I liked about writing a graphic novel was that it gave me the opportunity to tell parts of the story that the book didn’t. See, one of the benefits of a visual medium (being comic books, TV or video games) is that you can have multiple points-of-view operating at once. You can’t (normally) do that in regular text. (You can do it sequentially, of course, but that’s not the same effect.)

So THE EXILE isn’t told solely from Claire’s point of view; it includes POV’s from Jamie, Murtagh, Dougal, Geillis, etc. Consequently, there are bits of the story that aren’t in OUTLANDER at all, or that explore what Someone Other Than Claire was doing at the time.

That was interesting, and that’s what caused me to think about Master Raymond. As noted above, I do intend to write a book ABOUT HIM. If you follow my Facebook page and my website, you will have seen a few bits of it (my little meditation on Halloween— “In the cold time, when the spiders die… Sometimes I think I see it, too.”— is from that book.) There’s a little more, below…

Anyway, as I said, that book isn’t on top of my mental pile, but ideas still show up, and I tuck them away in some mental crevice, from which they peek out now and then, like curious moray eels… And one of those was my thought as to whether Master Raymond might have intervened in some way that we didn’t see, after the nuns ejected him. I have not written a word about this, and quite possibly never will.

OK. You aren’t going to see any of those thoughts in Book Ten, because they don’t belong there. If you ever do see them (and they aren’t even developed thoughts; just what I call kernels), they’ll be in Master Raymond’s own story (should I live that long…).

But the bottom line here is that No, Faith isn’t/wasn’t alive in the Outlander novels, she’s not going to be, and neither Claire nor Jamie will ever think so. William will not ever have Moral Qualms over having unknowingly had sex with his half-niece (though it’s interesting to see how many people think that possibility is Just Horrifying… I mean, really; what’s more wrong about having sex with a prostitute who’s related to you than one who isn’t, as long as no children result?).

Repeat after me: The books are the books, and the show is the show…

OK, the Master Raymond excerpt is on another computer, so I’m going to stop here; will put that up later. But I hope this settles at least some of the dust surrounding that gentleman…

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Selected Comments From My Official Facebook Page:

Gwen Eyster commented:

As a long time book reader, I love the occasional shock of the show when I have either forgotten something or a change has been made. Agreed on thinking this must be the most *exhausting* aspect of a career, when you’ve made as much of an impact as you have. I belong to a few Outlander groups and find them amusing most of the time. It’s funny to me how UP IN ARMS people get.

Thank you for always explaining what you do for our understanding, Busy Woman.

I (Diana Gabaldon) replied:

I was born with a strong “teacher” gene. <wry g> If people ask me a question, I do my best to answer it.

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Amy Vater Haas commented:

Thank you for taking the time to even answer this person.

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Judith Lucas Teaster commented:

Whew! I never realized what you have to go through trying to explain things to readers. I agree, the books are the books and the show is the show. I enjoy both (but prefer books). It’s all fiction, an escape from our lives and I love them all!

I (Diana Gabaldon) replied to Judith:

I don’t actually have to explain things to the readers <g>, but I was born with an ineradicable “teacher” gene. I can’t help telling people things if I know them.

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Theresa Bishop Williams commented:

Just wow!! I’m so dizzy reading this and I cannot even imagine your brain!! I’m currently re-reading “The Space Between” thinking I remembered reading that Master Raymond was looking for a lost girl thinking perhaps it could be Faith but you’ve laid that possibility to rest with this post. I so enjoy the novellas and am looking forward to reading book 10, “Blood of My Blood” and Master Raymond’s book should either of us live that long… you’re one month older than me.

I (Diana Gabaldon) replied to Theresa:

That’s from a novella I wrote, called “The Space Between” (It was originally written for an S/SF anthology, but is also presently available in the book SEVEN STONES TO STAND OR FALL, or as a stand-alone ebook, both on Amazon.

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Jo Anne Mitchell commented:

I was curious about that little tidbit in the show regarding Faith. Just thought the show was wanting a little more dramatic effect. And yes, the book is the book and the show is the show. Truly I much prefer the books. But the show is entertaining. 

I (Diana Gabaldon) replied to Jo Anne:

Well, yeah, they definitely do stuff just for a momentary thrill. <wry g> Sometimes it works better than others…

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Marti Sawyer commented:

I’d say, “I love you,” but that would be weird, right? You are an amazing and remarkable writer and human being.

I (Diana Gabaldon) replied to Marti:

That’s always a kind and lovely thing to say to someone. <smile> Thank you!

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Kathy Aderhold commented:

You’ve said it before that things in the show aren’t always necessarily how you wrote the book. I love your books and have read them all at least 3 (maybe 4) times. But shows rarely follow the books exactly. I think it will be fun to explore how they work out this Faith angle on the show. And I do not think it sacrilege that “that wasn’t in the book.” I hope people can get over that.

I (Diana Gabaldon) replied to Kathy:

There’s a LOT of stuff in the show that isn’t in the books. <g> And vice-versa!

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Robin Schachter commented:

As always, spot on. I am tickled that I have had the pleasure to meet and hear you speak a number of times, and can so clearly hear your voice in this Facebook post, <coughs> and all. Thank you for sharing your thoughts on the current kerfuffle. Never a dull moment with us lot! Wishing you long stretches of less hectic writing time this year.

I (Diana Gabaldon) replied to Robin:

People often say that to me. (That they can “hear” me when reading something I wrote.) I never know whether this is a compliment or not, but tend to assume the best, in the interests of a peaceful mind…

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Ava Reyna commented:

But if anything you are okay with what Starz has chosen to do? I love the books and even not watched the show but have been told to do it so I probably will watch it one day.

I (Diana Gabaldon) replied to Ava:

Well, I appreciate the immense thought and effort that goes into the show, always. Most of the time, I also like (and frequently love) the results. Now and then… not so much, but that really describes life as a whole, doesn’t it?

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Nikita Carelle commented:

Exactly. It was too cruel to let William be with his niece and to let Jaime and Claire be this long without their child and furthermore have their grandchildren grow up in a brothel. It’s just terrible and absolutely cruel to create that world for them. I couldn’t see you writing that at all.

I (Diana Gabaldon) replied to Nikita:

Nope, definitely didn’t.

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Lottie Gilpin Guhle commented:

The upheaval on the fan pages is quite remarkable. Some of the various theories are quite out there. I suspect the cliffhanger will be resolved without much ado in season 8. I’m glad we have your stories and the tv writers, while likely well paid, are just not as talented or creative. They’re skills are to keep is guessing and talking, which they do quite well. This season’s finale is much like the dramatic trailers that show Jamie or Claire dying or dead. I try to appreciate the show for being a tv show and understand why they make the choices they do. And I’m so thankful to have the actors and their personas that I envision while reading (rereading multiple times) the books.

I (Diana Gabaldon) replied to Lottie:

Well, writing for TV is a different skill set than writing novels (I’ve done both, so I know <g>).

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Beatriz Castaneda commented:

It amazes me how many people don’t understand the books and the books and the show is the show. If you are someone who needs the show to follow the books exactly then perhaps the show is not for you. Let the show runners do their thing and Diana Gabaldon do hers and life will be more enjoyable.

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Mary Undeutsch Downs commented:

This whole post from you Diana is just one more example of your amazingly brilliant ability to craft a narrative. Any of us who have read the books, (Once twice or dang it three times!!) realize there is absolutely no way to translate that into a show. They’ve done a fantastic job-no doubt-but it will never have the depth and breadth and vast research you did that is so incredibly evident in your telling of this story. I have no earthly clue how you managed it. I’m just thankful you did it. (Now I do think Sam Heughan totally nails Jamie-right down to the tapping of a finger or hand when the situation dictates!!)

Thank you so much for this. God bless you. If you’re ever in Louisville, the bourbon is on me!!!

I (Diana Gabaldon) replied to Mary:

Might take you up on that. <g> I usually drink single-malt Scotch (well, when I drink Strong Liquor — normally, I drink mimosas and/or white wine/champagne), but I do like bourbon…

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Katie Marie commented:

I admittedly haven’t read Go Tell the Bees. So when I watched the last episode of this most recent season, I was shocked. My flabbers had been gasted. I scoured interviews and articles hoping to find some glimpse into a book I haven’t read without stumbling into any spoilers, but alas, I could not find anything relating what I watched to what I could potentially read. Everyone was as stunned as I was.

But I remembered your phrase, repeated a couple of times in this post: the book is the book, the show is the show. I had to chant it to get it to sink in and stick. I was aware that since season 8 is the last of the television series, producers and writers were BOUND to take creative liberties. I just had to remind myself, that much like Game of Thrones, the book series isn’t finished and changes will be made by the powers that be.

At the end of the day, though, one question sticks out to me most of all, Ms Diana: assuming you’ve watched every episode since the very beginning, how do you prevent these creative liberties and this TV show from directly (or perhaps INDIRECTLY??) effecting your own story line? As you’ve stated before, you don’t have a particular timeline or outline that you follow as you write, so how do you keep them separate??

Yes, yes, the book is the book and the show is the show… but by all means, how are you able to shove aside the “real life” version of Outlander in order for the version in your mind’s eye to play out as you would like??

I (Diana Gabaldon) replied to Katie:

I know my characters. <g> And all the books up through WRITTEN IN MY OWN HEART’S BLOOD were already written when the show began.

Besides that, I’ve worked on set and written a number of scripts for the show myself. I certainly know the difference.

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Tina Buckham commented:

Books always lose some of their magic when put to film, they also gain something ( mostly a new audience). Those without the patience or desire to read get introduced to a world and perspective they would have otherwise missed and that is a fine thing. Getting it close is practically impossible. I think the only time I thought it even came close was with The Shawshank Redemption and that was interpreting a rather short story ( and it probably made a difference that I saw the movie first).

Write what you write with the magic you have ( don’t make cows eat daisies though) have the show use the magic it can and don’t get too hung up on people not knowing the difference.

Thank you for sharing your gifts with us … after all that first draft could be collecting dust in a drawer if you hadn’t had a certain amount of guts and luck and then what would I read when it’s -12 here? Thank you

I (Diana Gabaldon) replied to Tina:

Must cows not eat daisies?

Tina Buckham replied to Diana:

… they really don’t ..

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Genny Philip commented:

What happened?

I was just reading your intriguing story on the genesis of Master Raymond when my phone suddenly flipped to this page.

I’ve always wanted to know more about Master Raymond and wondered which century he was from and how old he really is and if he is more than a time traveler.

Sunrise and sunset are magical times indeed and are perfect for the creation of spells and magical changes. I always feel other worldly at these times for they offer more than the change of light.

Im not fond of snakes, but I do hope that the snake has eyelashes. I once held a pet snake in my hands and was surprised to discover that his scales felt like feathers.

I can’t wait for the book to come out

I (Diana Gabaldon) replied to Genny:

Snakes don’t have eyelashes—or even eye-lids—but they do have a special scale over each eye that protects it—that scale is shed, along with the rest of the snake’s skin, which might (possibly) be where the expression, ‘The scales fell from his eyes’ came from?

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Heidi Brown commented:

That was all very interesting. But I have to tell you Diana – there are definitely more than 200 people that know that the Battle of Monmouth was held in summer in intense heat! I’d say at least a few thousand! I live about 15 minutes away from there and considering that New Jersey is the most populated state in the country, you can imagine at least a few thousand!

I (Diana Gabaldon) replied:

Well, yes, but I’m assuming all those people aren’t watching the show.

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Krista Rucker Carroll commented:

Just curious since you don’t write using an outline, when Outlander was first created, did you know how it would end from that early on? Did you have certain events that would happen in the story written down and then wrote around those events? Not a writer at all (a banker actually, pretty boring stuff Ha) but very curious your thought process when creating.

I (Diana Gabaldon) replied to Krista:

Heck, no. I wrote OUTLANDER for practice, never intending to show it to anyone. But Things Happened <cough>, and I got a very good literary agent, who got three offers for the book, so held a little auction—and the winning publisher said (he later told me) “Trilogies are very popular these days; do you think she could write three??” Being a good agent, he said, “Oh, I’m sure she can,” and I walked away with a three-book contract.

Visit my Writer’s Corner (What I Do) webpage at:

https://dianagabaldon.com/resources/what-i-do/

There you will find links to my blogs and essays about my writing and the publishing process. Including my writing process blog entry from 2016.

Bjarnheidur Jóhannsdóttir replied to Krista and I:

I must say that with my ADHD brain could probably never get my head around sorting the bits, if I created this way, but I find it a very interesting way of writing and I think also it helps the story lines (there are multiple in DG work), become more variable and unpredictable, which is pleasing for the reader.

Also the sensory elements of the texts, describing scents, colors, sounds etc are something I enjoy for the first time in my reading life. Because they support the reader’s connection to the voice/persona in the story, the atmosphere and the flow, rather than just being there for a decorative reason, as they very often are in novels.

Posted on January 22, 2025 2:01 PM No Comments

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I said I’d post my enchilada recipe today, but time got away from me, in the rush. If there’s no time to make them for tomorrow, there’s always New Year’s!

ENCHILADAS

My father was always one to recognize both merit and shortcomings. Consequently, while he was often generous with praise, all his compliments came with a “BUT…” attached. “This is wonderful, BUT…”

In fact, I remember only three unqualified compliments from him. Thirty years ago, he told me that my swimming stroke was perfect. Twenty years ago, he told me that my children were beautiful. And on Christmas day, two weeks before he died, he told me that my enchiladas were as good as his. (I have witnesses!)

Christmas Day was the last time I saw him. But he’ll always be with me, in the pull of water past my arms, in the faces of my children—and in the smell of garlic and chile, floating gently through the air of my kitchen.

Enchiladas Recipe

For them as don’t know, an enchilada is an item of traditional Mexican food, composed of a tortilla (mostly corn tortillas) rolled into a cylinder around some type of filling (traditionally cheese, but can be anything from chicken or beef to spinach, mushrooms, and seafood, particularly in nouveau Southwest or turista restaurants), covered with spicy sauce, and baked.

The traditional (cheese) form requires:

    garlic
    olive oil
    flour (a few tablespoons)
    vegetable oil (or other light cooking oil)
    white or yellow onion
    cheddar cheese
    corn tortillas
    tomato sauce
    red chili (in any usable form; puree, frozen, powdered, or already mixed with the tomato sauce, which is my preferred variety; I use El Pato brand tomato sauce, which has the chili already in it)

I’m not giving quantities as such, because you can make enchiladas in any quantity—but if you’re going to the trouble, you might as well make a lot of them. (They freeze well, though the tortillas will degrade when frozen and give you enchilada casserole, rather than discrete enchiladas.)

As a rule of thumb, a pound of cheese and twelve tortillas will make about a dozen enchiladas; sauce takes about one to one-a-and-a-half cans of El Pato, and about three-four Tablespoons of olive oil. I almost always use three cans of El Pato, and end up with 2 1/2 – 3 dozen enchiladas.

All right. For starters, mince four or five cloves of garlic finely. Cover the bottom of a heavy saucepan with olive oil (about 1/8” deep) and sautè the garlic in the oil (the bits of garlic should just about cover the bottom of the pan). Cook until the garlic turns BROWN, but be careful not to burn it.

Turn heat down to low (or pull the pan off the burner temporarily) and add flour a little at a time to make a roux (paste about the consistency of library paste). Add the El Pato (or plain tomato sauce) and stir into the roux. Add WATER, in an amount equal to the tomato sauce (I just fill up the El Pato cans with water and dump them in). Stir over low heat to mix, squishing out any lumps that may occur. If you used plain tomato sauce, add chile to taste (or if you use El Pato and want it hotter, add extra chile).

Leave on very low heat, stirring occasionally, WHILE:

1) heating oil (I use canola oil, but you can use any vegetable oil, including olive) in a small, heavy frying pan. Heat over medium heat, and watch it as it gets hot; if it starts to smoke, it’s too hot—turn it down.

2) grating cheese

3) and chopping onion coarsely.

At this point, the sauce should have thickened slightly, and will cling to a spoon, dripping slowly off. Turn off the heat under the sauce. (If at any time, the sauce seems too thick, stir in a little more water.)

Now put out a clean dinner plate for assembling the enchiladas, and a baking dish to put the completed ones in.

With a pair of tongs, dip a fresh corn tortilla briefly (just long enough for the oil to sputter—2-3 seconds) into the hot oil. Let excess oil run off into the pan, then dip the now-flexible tortilla into the sauce, sort of laying it back and forth with the tongs to coat both sides.

Lay the coated tortilla on the dinner plate (and put down the tongs <g>). Take a good handful of cheese and spread a thick line of it across the center of the tortilla (you’re aiming for a cylinder about two fingers thick). If you like onions in your enchiladas (I don’t, but Doug does, so I make half and half), sprinkle chopped onions lightly over the cheese. Roll the tortilla into a cylinder (fold one side over the cheese, then roll up the rest of the way, and put the enchilada in the baking dish. (They won’t have a lot of sauce on them at this point.)

When the baking dish is full, ladle additional sauce to cover the enchiladas thoroughly, and sprinkle additional cheese on top for decoration (I also sprinkle a few onions at one end of the baking dish, so I know which end is onion). Bake at 300 degrees (F) for between 10-15 minutes—until cheese is thoroughly melted—you can see clear liquid from the melted cheese bubbling at the edge of the dish, and the enchiladas will look as though they’ve “fallen in” slightly, rather than being firmly rounded. Serve (with a spatula).

The method is the same for other kinds of enchiladas; you’d just make the filling (meat, seafood, etc.) as a separate step ahead of time, and use as you do cheese (for chicken enchiladas, brown diced chicken slowly in a little oil with minced garlic, onion, red and green bell pepper, and cilantro (coriander leaf)—bell pepper optional, and in very small quantity).

It usually takes me a little more than an hour to do three dozen enchiladas, start to finish. Once the sauce is made, cheese grated, etc., though, the assembly is pretty fast.

Happy Holidays!

NB: The photo (which I just took) is just for atmosphere; the green chili does NOT go in the enchilada recipe! (It’s Christmas, so I’m making both enchiladas and green chili.) Maybe tacos for New Year’s….

For a few other recipes I’ve shared, check out my Recipes webpage.

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Posted on December 24, 2024 7:30 PM 6 Comments

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Today is the Fourth (and final) Sunday of Advent. The waiting is almost over, but the anticipation is still to be enjoyed. The final candle (since we’ve used the other labels) is Peace.

Peace is one of those things that you can’t really define (not that people don’t, but—like love—it has depths and shimmering facets of meaning), but you know it when you encounter it. Hence the Biblical quote, “The peace that passeth understanding.”

Peace often comes and finds you in the midst of Things (like realizing you’re leaving for the journey to another city for Christmas in two hours, and you haven’t yet wrapped the presents that you need to drop off at FedEx on the way…), and we often don&rsquol;t realize that this happens because we carry peace with us, all the time.

Peace is part of our nature, just as we’re part of nature.

Now, I’m a biologist by training, and am also one of those people who (as my father disapprovingly said (manymanymany times), “have your head in the clouds!” (Like this was a bad thing…) Yep. Also on the ground.

Rocks come and find me, and it’s rare for me to come home from a walk without a rock in my pocket. So a few days ago, I was walking with Lucy the dachshund, to whom “walk” means “sniff everything in sight, pausing occasionally to pee on it”, and as usual, glancing over the ground we were walking on, which—being a desert front yard in Scottsdale, was mostly crushed granite. But in the midst of this layer of pinkish rock was the little gray visitor you see in the photo above.

This is a tiny survivor of a volcanic explosion that took place many miles away. Plainly, it’s a rock—but one that’s been through Stuff. It’s been melted by the heat of the Earth’s core, and blown far abroad, with those little holes the scars left by the violent gasses that propelled it.

What could be less peaceful?

And yet, there it is. Basking in the sun, resting among strangers.

No matter what’s happened to it, it remains what it is. It carries peace, because peace is its nature—as it is ours. Wait, and listen for the peace that lives within you to whisper your name.

Merry Christmas!

-Diana

EXCERPT from BOOK TEN (Untitled), Copyright © 2024 Diana Gabaldon

William washed his face—it was thick with stubble, but no point in trying to shave without mirror or soap—and made his way downstairs.

The smell of food reached him at the top of the stairs and drew him down like a mosquito scenting blood, single-minded in his voracity. And a good thing, too, he realized as he entered the kitchen. He was so hungry that he’d suffered no hesitations regarding his welcome.

In fact, while everyone at table turned to look at him, all the faces bore smiles, whether shy or broad, and he bowed to them, smiling back.

“Good morning,” he said, and the smallest girl—Amanda, that was her name—giggled and pointed her spoon at him.

“Your beard looks like Grand-da’s!”

A ripple of stifled amusement ran round the table, but before he could think of something to say, Mother Claire rose and took him by the sleeve, showing him to a place on the bench beside Frances, who looked up at him demurely.

“I hope you thl-slept well?” she said. Her cheeks were pink, but she met his eyes straight on, and he felt a slight jolt; her eyes were very much like Jane’s.

“Immensely well, I thank you,” he assured her. A trencher appeared before him, piled with toast and bacon, and Amanda’s brother—James? No, Jeremiah, Jem, that was it, a tall, red-haired boy, skinny as an oak sapling—shoved a pot of strawberry jam across the table.

“What do we call him?” the boy asked, turning to his grandfather. “Uncle Billy?”

William choked slightly on the mouthful of beer he’d just taken. Frances, Claire, and the three little girls all giggled, and he thought Fraser might have done as well, were he capable of making such a sound. As it was, Fraser kept a relatively straight face, and replied, “Not unless he asks ye to. ‘Til then, ye can call him Mr. Ransom, aye?”

William cleared his throat.

“You may call me William for the present, if you like,” he said to Jem. “I haven’t had a great deal of practice in being an uncle, as yet.”

“Don’t pester your uncle,” Mother Claire said, setting down a dish of succulent, glistening sausages, smelling of sage and onion, in front of William. “Let him eat.”

He ate like a ravening wolf, listening to the conversation with one ear, but making no effort to join it. His cup was filled—and refilled—with the very good beer, and he finished the meal replete—well, stuffed like a goose—and wondering whether he might go find a tree to sleep under for a bit.

“I’ll be goin’ to and fro on the Ridge today, fettling my tenants,” Fraser told him, brushing crumbs off his lap. He handed a fragment of toast to the big bluetick hound who had been waiting patiently by his feet, and rose. “D’ye want to come with me?”

“I—yes. I suppose so,” William replied, taken aback at the invitation. He remembered Mac the groom saying “fettled,” with regard to grooming and feeding horses, but he supposed that Fraser merely meant that he proposed to tell his tenants that he would be gone for some time, and arrange for payment of rents to some factor.

Fraser nodded.

“Aye, good. I’ll say you’re my son, though most of them will ken it already, after yesterday.” He cocked a brow in question. Was that agreeable to William?

That made his full stomach drop another inch or two, but he nodded back.

“Of course. May I take time to shave?”

“Aye. Use the soap and basin in my room. It’s the one in front, on the left as ye go up.”

The room was large and pleasant, the window opened for air, but screened with muslin to keep insects out, and the diffused light gave the room a pleasant, quiet feel, like being inside a cloud, despite the muffled racket from the kitchen below. William found himself breathing shallowly, aware of the unfamiliar, intimate scent of the room. The bed had not yet been made, and while the thrown-back sheets were clean, they held the faint, disturbing musk of recent bodies.

If the intimacy of the Frasers’ bedroom was disturbing, the intimacy of using Mr. Fraser’s shaving soap was more so. It was soft, white Castile soap, and smelled of olive-oil, but also of coriander and what he thought was marjoram, and… could that possibly be geranium-leaf? He hadn’t seen or smelt a geranium plant since he left England, and it gave him a brief sense of dislocation, a vivid sense of his Aunt Minnie’s conservatory, redolent with foreign flowers and writhing exotic greenery.

The thought made him feel more settled in himself. No matter what the future held, he still had both a past and a present, and those must be sufficient to keep him in countenance for what might come.

Refreshed and clean-shaven, he came downstairs, ready to see exactly what “fettling” might involve.

[end section]

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Click to visit my Book Ten webpage for information on this book, and to read more excerpts from it.

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This excerpt from Book Ten (Untitled) was also posted under the temporary title of “Castile Soap” on Saturday, September 30, 2023.

This blog entry was also posted on my official Facebook page on Sunday, December 22, 2024.

Images of the rock and the flower arrangement are mine.

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Posted on December 22, 2024 1:33 PM 4 Comments

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This is the Third Sunday of Advent. People and sources differ as to whether this particular candle should be “Joy,” “Love,” or “Peace,” but the Catholic Church has historically called this day “Gaudete” Sunday—which means “Rejoicing.”

Are we rejoicing that Advent is nearly over, and Christmas is coming? Or panicking because we’ve just thought of three people for whom we haven’t yet found presents, and omg, we haven’t touched the Christmas cards!? Oh, wait… yes, yes we did mail the cards!

Could be any (or all) of these things; a word like “Rejoicing” covers a lot, but in the end comes down to simple happiness—and I think that this is always because of Love. Love of God, the Love of Christ, and Love of each other. Love that reaches out and gently touches us, Love that inflames and comforts the soul. Gaudete!

-Diana

[EXCERPT from BOOK TEN (Untitled), Copyright © 2024 Diana Gabaldon]

He’d slept like a log last night, though, worn out from his journey, plied with good, hot food and as much alcohol as he could drink. His memory of going to bed was confused, but he was lying now on the floor of an empty room—he felt the smooth boards under his hands, something warm over him. Light filtered through a burlap-covered window…

And quite suddenly, the thought was just there in his mind, without warning.

I’m in my father’s house.

“Jesus,” he said aloud, and sat up, blinking. All of the day before came flooding back, a jumble of effort, sweat and worry, climbing through forest and cliffs, and finally seeing a large, handsome house emerge, its glass—glass. In this wilderness?—windows twinkling in the sun, incongruous amid the trees.

He’d pushed himself and the horse past fear and fatigue, and then—there he was, just sitting on the porch. James Fraser.

There had been other people on the porch and in the yard, but he hadn’t noticed any of them. Just him. Fraser. He’d spent miles and days deciding what to say, how to describe the situation, frame his request—and in the end, had simply ridden right up to the porch, breathless, and said, “Sir, I need your help.”

He drew a deep breath and rubbed both hands through his disordered hair, reliving that moment. Fraser had risen at once, came down the steps, took him by the arm. And said, “You have it.”

“You have it,” he repeated softly, to himself.

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Click to visit my Book Ten webpage for information on this book, and to read more excerpts from it.

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This passage was also included in a longer excerpt titled “Need Your Help,” posted on Friday, February 10, 2023.

If you like, you may leave a web comment in the form below. I love to hear from readers and fans of the tv series. Note that your submission will be public. All comments are moderated, which means that myself or my Webmistress approves them; your comment will not appear immediately as it would in social media. This may take a few hours or a few days. Thanks!

Posted on December 15, 2024 12:30 PM 1 Comment

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Today is the Second Sunday of Advent.

Today/tonight, we light the second candle in our wreath. Customs around the world vary as to which candle carries which meaning and when it’s lighted, but where I am right now, the second candle is called “Joy.”

The nature of Joy is elemental. You can’t really plan for it to happen (though you may hope), and often are surprised by its appearance in an unlikely place or time.

Joy is a comet—often unexpected in its coming, but the tail of its memory stretches long in a spray of light across dark skies.

[Excerpt from BOOK TEN (Untitled), Copyright © 2024 Diana Gabaldon]

“What are you thinking?” I asked. “I know it’s about William.”

“Oh, aye?” Jamie glanced at me, mouth curled up at one side. “And what do I look like if I’m thinking of William?”

“Like someone’s handed you a wrapped package and you’re not sure whether it’s something wonderful, or a bomb.”

That made him laugh, and he put an arm around me and pulled me in close, kissing my temple. He smelled of day-old linen, ink and hay, and the dribble of honey that had dried down the front of his shirt like tiny amber beads.

“Aye, well, one look at the lad and ye ken he’ll explode before too long,” he said. “I only hope he doesna damage himself doing it.”

“Or you.”

He shrugged comfortably.

“I’m no very breakable, Sassenach.”

“Says the man with four—no, five bullet holes in his hide, to say nothing of enough surgical stitching to make a whole crazy quilt. And if we start counting the bones you’ve cracked or broken…”

“Ach, away—I’ve never broken anything important; just the odd finger. Maybe a rib, here or there.”

“And your sternum and your left kneecap.”

He made a dismissive Scottish noise, but didn’t argue.

We stood for a bit, arms about each other, listening to the sounds outside. The younger children had fallen asleep under bushes or in their parents’ wagons, their happy screeching replaced by music and the laughter of the dancers, the clapping and calls of those watching.

“He came to me,” Jamie said quietly. He was trying to sound matter-of-fact, but he’d stopped trying to hide what he was feeling.

“He did,” I said softly, and squeezed his arm.

“I suppose there wasna really anyone else he could go to,” he said, off-handed. “If he canna find his grace, I mean, and he couldna very well talk to anyone in the army, could he? Given that….” He stopped, a thought having struck him, and turned to me.

“D’ye think he knows, Sassenach?”

“Knows what?”

“About—what he said. The… threat to Lord John. I mean—” he elaborated, seeing my blank look, “does he ken that it’s no just a canard.”

“A— oh.” I stopped to consider for a moment, then shook my head with decision. “No. Almost certainly not. You saw his face when he told us about what Richardson was threatening. He’d still have been scared—maybe more scared, if he knew it wasn’t an empty threat—but he wouldn’t have looked the way he did.”

“Anxious? Angry?”

“Both. But anyone would be, wouldn’t they? Under the circumstances.”

“They would. And…determined, would ye say?”

“Stubborn,” I said promptly, and he laughed.

“A bomb for sure, then.”

The air had cooled with the setting of the sun. Now it was full dark and the mountain breathed, a lithe sense of spring in an air filled with night-blooming flowers and the resins of resting trees. It would be different on the coast. Still fresh, but strong with fish and seaweed, tar and wood and the tang of salt in everything.

I might have one more mountain night like this, maybe two or three, but likely not more. I breathed deep, resolved to enjoy it.

“When?” I asked.

“If it were up to William, we’d already be gone,” Jamie said, drawing me closer. “I told him I must think, but meanwhile, preparations would be made; no time will be wasted.” He glanced toward the window. “With luck, Brianna and Roger Mac will have him drunk by now; he’ll sleep sound. He kens he’s safe,” he added, softly. “Or I hope so, at least.”

“I’m sure that he does,” I said, also softly, and rubbed his back, the scars invisible under his shirt. His children, his grandchildren. If only for a moment, here, together, in the place he had made.

There was a break in the music, though the air was still full of talk and laughter. That died down now, though, and there were a few moments of silence before the faint sounds of a guitar drifted up from the distant bonfire. Then two voices, one rough and one smooth, weaving a song.

    Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
    Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme….

My heart squeezed tight and so did my throat. I’d never heard Bree and Roger sing together. They must have done this before, though, in private; perhaps as an exercise to strengthen Roger’s voice.

We stood in silence ‘til the song was over, listening to magic. I looked up at Jamie’s face, soft in the candlelight, his eyes far away. He didn’t hear music, as such, but I knew he felt the song anyway.

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Click to visit my Book Ten webpage for information on this book, and to read more excerpts from it.

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This passage is part of a longer Book Ten excerpt titled Dialogue: “The Three Musketeers,” a webpage in my Writer’s Corner (What I Do) section. The art of writing dialogue is explored, too. Posted on October 25, 2023.

This excerpt is also related to “A Bomb In The Hand,” posted on March 31, 2022.

Lucy is experiencing Joy by digging in the image above.

If you like, you may leave a web comment in the form below. I love to hear from readers and fans of the tv series. Note that your submission will be public. All comments are moderated, which means that myself or my Webmistress approves them; your comment will not appear immediately as it would in social media. This may take a few hours or a few days. Thanks!

Posted on December 08, 2024 8:10 AM 3 Comments

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What’s on my mind? Well, turkey, natch…

but not far behind is <gasp> CHRISTMAS!

To wit…

I was chatting with Barbara Peters (owner of the fabulous Poisoned Pen bookstore), who tells me that if you plan on giving (or acquiring for yourself <g>) a new, signed/personalized OUTLANDER book (any or all of them) for Christmas, the cutoff dates—this means that orders placed after these dates below can’t be guaranteed to arrive BY Christmas (you’ll certainly get them, just not for sure before Christmas)—are:

December 16th, for U.S. orders, and

December 3rd or December 4th for foreign orders (owing to longer shipping time).

The Pen normally carries ALL my books (also oddities like the new Outlander trivia game—yes, I’ll sign those, too) in all available formats. And yes, I’ll personalize books (there’s no extra charge for that) if you like. [Personalize means I will write a short message, such as ‘To Jill,’, and also sign my name.]

Click on the link below to visit the Poisoned Pen’s online store and their stock of books by me (The Pen’s store webpage and other links will open in new browser windows):

https://store.poisonedpen.com/browse/filter/t/Diana%20Gabaldon/k/author

The Pen also has a webpage with news about my books that they sell, including those signed by me:

https://store.poisonedpen.com/browse/diana-gabaldon

You pay only the price of the book plus shipping. The Pen ships to addresses around the world.

Again, there is no charge for my signature.

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Mysteries, Book Chats Online, Author Events, and Other Pen Things… Oh, My!

Nor do you need to limit your Christmas book-gifts to my work. <g> Check out what else the Pen has to offer on their home page:

https://poisonedpen.com

If you live near Scottsdale, Arizona, check out the Pen’s calendar of in-person author events!

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Contact the Pen

If you have any questions, or would like advice on a gift you wish to buy, contact the friendly staff of the Pen by email at:

sales@poisonedpen.com

Or call them during the business hours listed on the Pen’s home page.

Merry Christmas!

-Diana

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This blog entry was also posted on my official Facebook page on November 24, 2024.

Please leave a comment below if you wish. Be aware that comments are moderated by myself or Loretta, my Webmistress. So it may take an hour or two, or even a day or two to appear. Note that these web comments are publicly displayed. <g>

Posted on November 22, 2024 7:28 AM 3 Comments

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Whew… just back from a working cruise down the Danube (and getting up in the middle of each night on the river in order to write a script for the Prequel, needed in two weeks. Luckily, I made it. <g>). So—just in time for a brief excerpt in honor of Jamie’s birthday tomorrow (and a quick “Happy Birthday!” to Sam Heughan, whose birthday is/was today):

EXCERPT from BOOK TEN (UNTITLED), Copyright © 2024 Diana Gabaldon

[Jamie and Roger sitting outside the malting shed, discussing Jamie’s imminent departure to find Lord John.]

“Are you afraid?” he said. Jamie gave Roger a sharp look, but shrugged and settled himself before replying.

“Does it show?”

“Not on you,” Roger reassured him. “On Claire.”

Jamie looked astonished, but after a moment’s contemplation, nodded slightly.

“Aye, I suppose it does. She sleeps wi’ me, ken?” Evidently Roger’s expression didn’t show complete comprehension, for Jamie sighed a little and leaned back against the wall of the malting shed.

“I dream,” he said simply. “I can mind my thoughts well enough whilst I’m awake, but… ken, the Indians say the dream world is as real as this one? Sometimes I think that’s true—but I often hope it’s not.”

“You tell Claire about your dreams?”

Jamie grimaced briefly.

“Sometimes. Some….. well, ye’ll maybe ken that sometimes it helps to open your mind to someone, when ye’re troubled, and some dreams are like that; just saying what happened lets ye step back from it. Ye ken it’s only a dream, as they say.”

“Only.” Roger said it softly, but Jamie nodded, his mouth relaxing a little.

“Aye.” They were silent for a few moments, and the sounds of the wind and the local birds kept them company.

“I’m afraid for William,” Jamie said abruptly. He hesitated, but added, in a low voice, “And I’m afraid for John. I dinna want to think of the things that might—might be done to him. Things I may not be able to save him from.”

Roger glanced at him, trying not to look startled. But then he realized that Jamie didn’t avoid things, nor the mention of them. He had simply accepted the fact that Roger knew the things that had been done to Jamie, and exactly why he might fear for his friend.

“I wish I could go with you,” he said. It was impulsive, but true, and a genuine smile lighted Jamie’s face in response.

“I do, too, a Smeoraich. But the folk here need ye—and they’ll need ye a good deal more, should I not come back.”

Roger found himself wishing that Jamie would avoid some things now and then, but reluctantly conceded that things must be said now, no matter how uncomfortable. So he answered the question Jamie hadn’t asked.

“Aye. I’ll mind them for ye. The family; the weans. And all your bloody tenants, too. I’m not milking your kine, though, nor yet looking after that damn sow and her offpsring.”

Jamie didn’t laugh, but the smile was still there.

“It’s a comfort to me, Roger Mac, to ken ye’ll be here, to deal wi’ whatever might happen. And things will.”

“Now I’m afraid,” Roger said, as lightly as he could.

“I know.” Luckily Jamie didn’t expand on this, but turned to practicalities.

“An Deamhan Gael can mind herself,” he assured Roger, referring—Roger thought—to the White Sow. “And wee Frances will take care for the kine. Oh— as for Frances herself— ”

“I won’t let her marry anyone until you come back,” Roger assured him.

“Good.” Jamie let out his breath and his shoulders slumped. “ I think I will. But the dead ha’ been talking to me.” He caught Roger’s lifted eyebrow. “Not—well, not only—my own dead. That’s often a comfort to me, should my Da or Murtagh or Ian Mor come by. Once in a long while… my mother.” That made him shy; he looked away.

Roger made a small noncommittal sound and waited for a moment, then asked, “you said, not only your own dead…?”

“Ah.” Jamie straightened up and set his feet solidly in the dirt. “The others. Men I’ve killed. Sometimes killed for cause. Others—in battle. Strangers. Men who—” he broke off and Roger saw his whole body tighten. Jamie looked away, down the path that led to the lake, as though something might be coming. The feeling was so strong that Roger looked too, and was relieved to see no more than a small covey of quail dust-bathing under a bush.

“Jack Randall came to me, two nights ago.”

Roger’s stomach contracted so suddenly that he said “Oof!” out loud. Jamie stared at him, then laughed.

“Aye, that’s what I said, too,” he assured Roger. “A few other things, besides, but I wilna repeat them wi’ Jemmy in earshot.”

There was a long pause, filled with birdsong from the trees that shaded the malting shed, punctuated by the distant cries of ravens.

“I suppose,” Roger said at last, “that it doesn’t matter what you said to him—but what did he say to you? Did he speak?”

Jamie looked down at the ground, and Roger could see the pulse beating at the side of his neck.

“No. He just laughed.”

[end section]

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Visit my official Book Ten (Untitled) webpage for more excerpts from this book.

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And Many Thanks to CO Petersen, who made this photo of a flying raven and allowed it to be used under a Wikimedia Commons license!

If you like, please leave a comment below. Note that your text will be public on the web. Comments are moderated, which means that myself or my Webmistress have to approve them, which may take a few hours or a few days. Thanks!

Posted on May 01, 2024 7:00 AM 56 Comments

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A Happy and Blessed Easter (or other spring festival/contemplative occasion or feast involving eggs…) to you all!

HAPPY EASTER-EGG!

[Excerpt from (Untitled) BOOK TEN, Copyright © 2024 Diana Gabaldon]

They stopped for the night near a small creek, having passed the afternoon in silence, and made camp and ate, with no more than the occasional grunt of inquiry and acknowledgement while sharing out the last of the cheese, hard-cooked eggs, and soaking the last of the rock-hard journeycake in the last of the cider.

Finally, William cleared his throat, and Fraser looked at him, one bushy brow cocked.

“We’re following them, aren’t we?”

“There’s only the one road,” Fraser pointed out. “I’d prefer they not be following us. And they’ve at least a day’s head start, thank God.”

“True. But still.”

“Still?”

“That prayer,” William blurted. “To Saint Michael. ‘Defend us in battle.’ That wasn’t for the—the dead man and his sons; you said a prayer in Gaelic when we buried them.”

“Aye. It’s called “Soul Leading”— ye say it for a person who’s killed unexpectedly and maybe didna have time to consider his soul and set his mind for the journey onward.”

“Oh.” William found that oddly… not reassuring; there was nothing reassuring in the events of the day—but perhaps… consoling? The notion that one might actually be able to do something for a dead person, other than merely disposing of their remains, was novel, but somewhat comforting. Still…

“So the prayer to St. Michael. Was that for the family, too?”

Fraser made one of his subterranean noises, with what William thought was a tinge of humor.

“No, that one was for us, a bhalaich.”

It was nearly dark, and Fraser picked up one of the sticks they’d gathered, broke it in pieces and added them carefully to the fire. The flames swarmed the dry wood and flared high, throwing the man’s face into planes of light and shadow, tinted red.

“I ken ye’re a bonny fighter,” Fraser said casually. “Saw ye on the battlefield, aye? And I’ve seen the way ye move, and handle your sword.” He shoved the last piece of wood into its place and straightened up, turning to William.

“A battle’s not a war, ken?” he said quietly. He turned his head and lifted his chin, indicating the silent ruin in the darkness high above. “That’s war.”

[end section]

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Visit my official Book Ten webpage to read other excerpts that I have released so far, plus information about this new book that I am currently writing and researching.

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Photo above and its cropped version are mine, of bees working in my citrus trees. You can see the tiny oranges already forming at the base of the flowers’ pistils. (Click on either version to enlarge and see the details.)

This blog entry was also posted on my official Facebook and X/Twitter pages on Monday, April 1, 2024.

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Posted on April 02, 2024 2:22 PM 13 Comments

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Tonight is the Vigil of Easter, a service where we hear readings from the Bible regarding God’s deliverance of His people (e.g., the flight from Egypt and the path through the Red Sea), the reading of the Passion (the description of Jesus’s condemnation and crucifixion), and the Resurrection. Catechumens (the people who wish to become Catholics and have been taking instruction) will be baptized, and others confirmed. It’s a time of mingled sorrow, hope and joy—the coming of Easter.

For the moment, I thought I’d post the following snip from BEES (the chapter titled “Metanoia”), as it’s rather apropos. (Tomorrow, I’ll post a new excerpt as an Easter egg. <g>)

[Excerpt from GO TELL THE BEES THAT I AM GONE, Copyright © 2021 Diana Gabaldon]

A stack of these broadsides had been left on the breakfast table; he’d caught a glimpse of one headline as Germain had gathered them up and tapped the pages tidily into order before putting them in his bag:

THE TRIAL AND EXECUTION OF HENRY HUGHES Who Suffered Death on the Twelfth of June, Anno Domini 1779 At the County Gaol, Horsemonger Lane, Southwark For violating EMMA COOK, A Girl Only 8 Years Old

No stranger to the excesses of the daily press—the things Fergus printed were in fact not that different in character or intent from the tabloid papers of his own time—he had been struck by one factor peculiar to this time: to wit, the fact that the condemned men (and the occasional woman) were always accompanied by a clergyman on their journey toward the gallows. Not just a private pre-execution visit to give prayers and comfort, but to climb Calvary alongside the condemned.

What would I say to him, he wondered, if I should find myself called to accompany a man to his execution? He’d seen men killed, seen people die, certainly; much too often. But these were natural—if sometimes sudden and catastrophic—deaths. Surely it was different, a healthy man, sound of body, filled with life, and facing the imminent prospect of being deprived of that life by the decree of the state. Worse, having one’s death presented as a morally elevating public spectacle.

It struck Roger suddenly that he’d been publicly executed, and the milk and French toast shifted at the sudden memory.

Aye, well… so was Jesus, wasn’t He? He didn’t know where that thought had come from—it felt like something Jamie would say, logical and reasonable—but it flooded him at once with unexpected feeling.


It was one thing to know Christ as God and Savior and all the other capital-letter things that went with that. It was another to realize with shocking clarity that, bar the nails, he knew exactly how Jesus of Nazareth had felt. Alone. Betrayed, terrified, wrenched away from those he loved, and wanting with every atom of one’s being to stay alive.

Well, now you know what you’d say to a condemned man on his way to the gallows, don’t you?

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Be sure to check out “Ticks and Things,” my Easter blog post from 2023. It contains an excerpt (with a minor spoiler) from Book Ten.

Photo of thunderstorm in the desert copyright © Diana Gabaldon.

If you like please leave a comment using the entry box below. Know that these comments are public, i.e., can be read by anyone on the web. Comments are moderated* to weed out spam, so it may take a few hours or a few days for your comment to appear. (*Moderated means that my Webmistress or I have to go through the comments manually and approve them.)

Posted on March 30, 2024 11:40 AM 5 Comments

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Originally posted on April 7, 2023.

A VERY HAPPY EASTER, RAMADAN MUBARAK, and CHAG KASHER VE SAMEACH! I hope everyone (of whatever belief) has had a wonderful time this weekend/season with family, friends and rejoicing in the spirit of life.

I was of two minds about posting this particular excerpt—it is a slight spoiler—but it seemed particularly appropriate for Easter.

[Excerpt from UNTITLED BOOK TEN, Copyright © 2023 Diana Gabaldon]

In which Jamie and William are crossing a patch of wild land. I’m not telling you where they’re going or why. <g> (NB: Things in square brackets are places where something—like a particular bit of Gaelic—will be filled in later.) And “crined” is not a typo; it’s a Scots word, meaning “shrunken” or “crumpled”.

Jamie felt the crawling and slapped a hand hard over his ribs. The slap numbed his flesh for a moment, but the instant it passed, he felt the tickle again—and in several places at once, including his—

“[Gaelic curse]! Earbsa!”

He ripped the flap of his breeks open and shoved them down over his legs, in time to catch the tick crawling toward his balls before it sank its fangs in him. He snapped it away with a flick of a fingernail and jerked the collar of his sark up over his head.

“Dinna go through the bushes!” he shouted from inside the shirt. “They’re alive wi’ ticks!” William said something, but Jamie didn’t catch it, his head enveloped in the heavy hunting shirt. His skin was afire between the sweat and the crawling.

He yanked the sark off and flung it away, scratching and slapping himself. Ears now free, he heard the next thing William said. Clearly.

“Oh, Jesus.” It wasn’t much more than a whisper, but the shock in it froze Jamie with realization. By reflex, he bent, arm stretched out for his shirt, but it was too late. Slowly, he stood up again. A tick was trundling over the curve of his breast, just above the cutlass scar. He reached to snap it off, and saw that his fingers were trembling.

He clenched his fist briefly to stop it, then bent his head, picked off three more of the wee buggers on his neck and ribs, then scratched his arse thoroughly, just in case, before pulling up his breeks. His heart was racing and his wame was hollow, but there was naught to do about it. He took a deep breath and spoke calmly, without turning around.

“D’ye see any more of them on my back?”

A moment’s silence, and a let-out breath. Crunching footsteps behind him and a faint sense of warmth on his bare back.

“Yes,” William said. “It’s not moving, I think it’s dug in. I’ll—get it off.”

Jamie opened his mouth to say no, but then closed it. William seeing his scars close to wasn’t like to make matters worse. He closed his eyes instead, hearing the shush of a knife being drawn from its sheath. Then a large hand came down on his shoulder, and he felt his son’s breath hot on the back of his neck. He barely noticed the prick of the blade or the tickle of a drop of blood running down his back.

The hand left his shoulder, and to his surprise, he missed the comfort of the touch. The touch came back an instant later, when William pressed a handkerchief below his shoulder blade, to stop the bleeding.

A moment, and the cloth lifted, tickling his back. He felt suddenly calm, and put on his shirt, after shaking it hard to dislodge any hangers-on.

“Taing,” he said, turning to William. “Ye’re sure ye’ve none on ye?”

William shrugged, face carefully expressionless.

“I’ll know soon enough.”

They walked on without speaking until the sun began to touch the trees on the highest ridge. Jamie had been looking out for a decent spot to camp, but William moved suddenly, nodding toward a copse of scrubby oaks near the top of a small hillock to the right.

“There,” he said. “Cover, we’ll have good sight of the trail, and there’s water coming down the side of that gravelly bit.”

“Aye.” Jamie turned in that direction, asking after a moment, “So, was it the army taught ye castrametation, or Lord John?”

“A bit of both.” William spoke casually, but there was a tinge of pride in his voice, and Jamie smiled to himself.

They made camp—a rudimentary process involving naught more than gathering wood for a fire, fetching water from the rill and finding stones flat enough to sit on. They ate the last of the bread and cold meat, and a couple of small, mealy apples pitted with the knots of insect chewing, and drank water, as there was nothing else.

There was no conversation, but there was an awareness between them that hadn’t been there before. Something different to their usual polite awkwardness, but just as awkward.

He wants to ask, but doesna ken how. I dinna want to tell him, but I will. If he asks.

As the dark deepened, Jamie heard a distant sound and turned his head sharply. William had heard it too; rustling and shuffling below, and now a chorus of grunting and loud guttural noises that made it clear who the visitors were.

He saw William turn his head, listening, and reach down for his rifle.

“At night?” Jamie asked. “There’s a dozen o’ them at least. And if we killed one without being torn to bits by the rest, we’d leave most of it to the crows. Ye really want to butcher a hog just now?”

William straightened up, but was still listening to the pigs below.

“Can they see in the dark, do you know?”

“I dinna think they’d be walkin’ about now, if they couldn’t. But I dinna think their sight is any better than ours, if as good. I’ve stood near a herd o’ them, nay more than ten yards away—upwind, mind—and they didna ken I was there until I moved. There’s naught amiss wi’ their ears, hairy as they are, and anything that can root out trubs has a better sense o’ smell than I have.”

William made a small noise of amusement, and they waited, listening, ‘til the sounds of the wild hogs faded into the growing night sounds—a racket of crickets and shrilling toads, punctuated by the calling of night birds and owl-hoots.

“When you lived in Savannah,” William said abruptly. “Did you ever encounter a gentleman named Preston?”

Jamie had been half-expecting a question, but not that one.

“No,” he said, surprised. “Or at least I dinna think so. Who is he?”

“A… um… very junior undersecretary in the War Office. With a particular interest in the welfare of British prisoners of war. We met at a luncheon at General Prevost’s house, and then later that evening, to discuss… things… in more detail.”

“Things,” Jamie repeated, carefully.

“Conditions of prisoners of war, mostly,” William said, with a brief wave of the hand. “But it was from Mr. Preston that I discovered that my father had once been governor of a prison in Scotland. I hadn’t known that.”

Oh, Jesus…

“Aye,” Jamie said, and stopped to breathe. “A place called Ardsmuir. That’s where I first became acquainted—” He stopped, suddenly recalling the whole truth of the matter. Do I tell him that? Aye, I suppose I do.

“Aye, well, I met your father there, that’s true—though I’d met him some years before, ken. During the Rising.”

He felt a sudden prickle in his blood at the memory.

“Where?” William asked, curiosity clear in his voice.

“The Highlands. My men and I were camped near the Carryarick Pass—we were lookin’ out for troops bringin’ cannon to General Cope.”

“Cope. I don’t believe I recall the gentleman…”

“Aye, well. We—disabled his cannon. He lost the battle. At Prestonpans, it was.” Despite the present situation, there was still a deep sense of pleasure at the recollection.

“Indeed,” William said dryly. “I hadn’t heard that, either.”

“Mmphm. It was your uncle, his grace, that was in charge of bringin’ the cannon, and he’d brought along his young brother to have a, um, taste of the army, I suppose. That was Lord John.”

“Young. How old was he?” William asked curiously.

“Nay more than sixteen. But bold enough to try to kill me, alone, when he came across me sittin’ by a fire with my wife.” Despite his conviction that this conversation wasn’t going to end well, he’d started, and he’d finish it, wherever it led.

“He was sixteen,” Jamie repeated. “Plenty of balls, but no much brain, ken.”

William’s face twitched a little at that.

“And how old were you, may I ask?”

“Four-and-twenty,” Jamie said, and felt a rush of such unexpected feeling that it choked him. He’d not thought of those days in many years, would have thought he’d forgotten, but no—it was all there in a heartbeat: Claire’s face in the firelight and her flying hair, his passion for her eclipsing everything, his men nearby, and then the moment of startlement and instant rage and pummeling a stripling on the ground, the dropped knife glinting on the ground beside the fire.

And everything else—the war. Loss, desolation. The long death of his heart.

“I broke his arm,” he said abruptly. “When he attacked me. He wouldna speak, when I asked where the British troops were, but I tricked him into saying. Then I told my men to tie him to a tree where his brother’s men would find him… and then we went to deal wi’ the cannon. I didna see his lordship again until—” He shrugged. “A good many years later. At Ardsmuir.”

William’s face was clearly visible in the firelight, and Jamie could plainly see interest war with caution, while the lad— Christ, he’s… three-and-twenty? Older than me when…

“Did he do it?” William asked abruptly.

“What?”

William made a small movement of one hand and nodded toward him.

“Your… back. Did Lord John do that… to you?”

Jamie opened his mouth to say no, for all his memory had been focused on Jack Randall, but of course…

“Part of it,” he said, and reached for his canteen on the ground, avoiding William’s eye. “Not that much.”

“Why?”

Jamie shook his head, not in negation, but trying to organize his thoughts.

“I made him,” he said, wondering What’s the matter wi’ me? It’s the truth, but—

“Why?” William asked again, in a harder tone of voice. Jamie sighed deeply; it might have been irritation, but it wasn’t; it was resignation.

“I broke a rule and he had me punished for it. Sixty lashes. He didna have any choice, really.”

William gave his own deep sigh and it was irritation.

“Tell me or don’t,” he said, and stood up, glaring down at Jamie. “I want to know, but I’m not going to drag it out of you, God damn it!”

Jamie nodded, his immediate feeling of relief tainted by memory. His back itched as though millions of tiny feet were marching over it, and the tiny wound burned. He sighed.

“I said I’d tell ye whatever ye wanted to know, and I will. The Government outlawed the possession of tartan. A wee lad in the prison had kept a scrap of his family’s tartan, for comfort—it wasna likely that any of us would see our families again. It was found, and Lord John asked the lad was it his. He—the lad, I mean—was no but fourteen or fifteen, small, and crined wi’ cold and hunger. We all were.” Memory made him stretch out his hands toward the fire, gathering the warmth.

“So I reached over his shoulder and took the clootie and said it was mine,” he finished simply. “That’s all.”

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Please visit my official Book Ten webpage to read more excerpts from this book.

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Photo courtesy of the Center for Disease Control.

This excerpt from Book Ten was originally posted on my official Facebook page on April 7, 2023. And on Twitter/X.

Many thanks to Donna Andrews for letting my Webmistress, Loretta, know that this excerpt was missing from my website! In Loretta’s defense, April 2023 was a during a difficult time for her (healthwise).

Posted on March 29, 2024 4:01 AM 18 Comments