• “The smartest historical sci-fi adventure-romance story ever written by a science Ph.D. with a background in scripting 'Scrooge McDuck' comics.”—Salon.com
  • A time-hopping, continent-spanning salmagundi of genres.”
    —ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY
  • “These books have to be word-of-mouth books because they're too weird to describe to anybody.”
    —Jackie Cantor, Diana's first editor

Anunciation – Fourth Sunday of Advent


2020-12-20-advent-wk4-DGThis is the Fourth and final Sunday of Advent. It comes to us with a deep sense of annunciation; the surety of a great promise that will be kept. We turn inward now again and listen to the great silence of the night, preparing our hearts for what awaits us in the light.

The lantern bobbed along, moving away from me. I stood still, following the blob of light with my eyes. Every few feet he would stop, then continue, and a slow flame would rise up in his wake to burn in a small red glow. As my eyes slowly accustomed themselves, the flames became a row of lanterns, situated on rock pillars, shining into the black like beacons.


It was a cave. At first I thought it was a cave of crystals, because of the odd black shimmer beyond the lanterns. But I stepped forward to the first pillar and looked beyond, and then I saw it.

A clear black lake. Transparent water, shimmering like glass over fine black volcanic sand, giving off red reflections in the lantern light. The air was damp and warm, humid with the steam that condensed on the cool cavern walls, running down the ribbed columns of rock.

A hot spring. The faint scent of sulfur bit at my nostrils. A hot mineral spring, then. I remembered Anselm’s mentioning the springs that bubbled up from the ground near the abbey, renowned for their healing powers.

Jamie stood behind me, looking out over the gently steaming expanse of jet and rubies.

“A hot bath,” he said proudly. “Do ye like it?”

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” I said.

“Oh, ye do,” he said, grinning at the success of his surprise. “Come in, then.” He dropped his own robe and stood glowing dimly in the darkness, patched with red in the glimmering reflections off the water. The arched ceiling of the cave seemed to swallow the light of the lanterns, so that the glow reached only a few feet before being engulfed.

A little hesitantly, I let the novice’s robe drop from my arms.

“How hot is it?” I asked.

“Hot enough,” he answered. “Dinna worry, it won’t burn ye. But stay over an hour or so, and it might cook the flesh off your bones like soupmeat.”

“What an appealing idea,” I said, discarding the robe. Following his straight, slender figure, I stepped cautiously into the water. There were steps cut in the stone, leading down underwater, with a knotted rope fastened along the wall to provide handholds.

The water flowed up over my hips, and the flesh of my belly shivered in delight as the heat swirled through me. At the bottom of the steps, I stood on clean black sand, the water just below the level of my shoulders, my breasts floating like glass fisher-floats. My skin was flushed with the heat, and small prickles of perspiration were starting on the back of my neck, under the heavy hair. It was pure bliss.

The surface of the spring was smooth and waveless, but the water wasn’t still; I could feel small stirrings, currents running through the body of the pool like nerve impulses. It was that, I suppose, added to the incredible soothing heat, that gave me the momentary illusion that the spring was alive—a warm, welcoming entity that reached out to soothe and embrace. Anselm had said that the springs had healing powers, and I wasn’t disposed to doubt it.

Jamie came up behind me, tiny wavelets marking his passage through the water. He reached around me to cup my breasts, softly smoothing the hot water over the upper slopes.

“Do ye like it, mo duinne?” He bent forward and planted a kiss on my shoulder. I let my feet float out from under me, resting against him.

“It’s wonderful! It’s the first time I’ve been warm all the way through since August.” He began to tow me, backing slowly through the water; my legs streamed out in the wake of our passage, the amazing warmth passing down my limbs like caressing hands.

….

The walls of the cave were of smooth, dark volcanic rock, almost like black glass, slick with the moisture of the spring. The whole chamber looked like a gigantic bubble, half-filled with that curiously alive but sterile water. I felt as though we were cradled in the womblike center of the earth, and that if I pressed my ear to the rock, I would hear the infinitely slow beat of a great heart nearby. We were very quiet for a long time then, half-floating, half-dreaming, brushing now and then against each other as we drifted in the unseen currents of the cave. When I spoke at last, my voice seemed slow and drugged.

“I’ve decided.”

“Ah. Will it be Rome, then?” Jamie’s voice seemed to come from a long way away.

“Yes. I don’t know, once there—”

“It doesna matter. We shall do what we can.” His hand reached for me, moving so slowly I thought it would never touch me.

He drew me close, until the sensitive tips of my breasts rubbed across his chest. The water was not only warm but heavy, almost oily to the touch, and his hands floated down my back to cup my buttocks and lift me.

The intrusion was startling. Hot and slippery as our skins were, we drifted over each other with barely a sensation of touching or pressure, but his presence within me was solid and intimate, a fixed point in a watery world, like an umbilical cord in the random driftings of the womb.

I made a brief sound of surprise at the small inrush of hot water that accompanied his entrance, then settled firmly onto my fixed point of reference with a little sigh of pleasure.

“Oh, I like that one,” he said appreciatively.

“Like what?” I asked.

“That sound that ye made. The little squeak.”

It wasn’t possible to blush; my skin was already as flushed as it could get. I let my hair swing forward to cover my face, the curls relaxing as they dragged the surface of the water.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to be noisy.”

He laughed, the deep sound echoing softly in the columns of the roof.

“I said I like it. And I do. It’s one of the things I like the best about bedding ye, Sassenach, the small noises that ye make.” He pulled me closer, so my forehead rested against his neck. Moisture sprang up at once between us, slick as the sulfur-laden water. He made a slight movement with his hips, and I drew in my breath in a half-stifled gasp.

“Yes, like that,” he said softly. “Or… like that?”

“Urk,” I said.

He laughed again, but kept doing it.

“That’s what I thought most about,” he said, drawing his hands slowly up and down my back, cupping, curving, tracing the swell of my hips. “In prison at night, chained in a room with a dozen other men, listening to the snoring and farting and groaning. I thought of those small tender sounds that ye make when I love you, and I could feel ye there next to me in the dark, breathing soft and then faster, and the little grunt that ye give when I first take you, as though ye were settling yourself to your job.”

My breathing was definitely coming faster. Supported by the dense, mineral-saturated water, I was buoyant as an oiled feather, kept from floating away only by my grip on the curved muscles of his shoulders, and the snug, firm clasp I kept of him lower down.

“Even better,” his voice was a hot murmur in my ear, “when I come to ye fierce and wanting, and ye whimper under me, and struggle as though you wanted to get away, and I know it’s only that you’re struggling to come closer, and I’m fighting the same fight.”

His hands were exploring, gently, slowly as tickling a trout, sliding deep into the rift of my buttocks, gliding lower, groping, caressing the stretched and yearning point of our joining. I quivered and the breath went from me in an unwilled gasp.

“Or when I come to you needing, and ye take me into you with a sigh and that quiet hum like a hive of bees in the sun, and ye carry me wi’ you into peace with a little moaning sound.”

“Jamie,” I said hoarsely, my voice echoing off the water. “Jamie, please.”

“Not yet, mo duinne.” His hands came hard around my waist, settling and slowing me, pressing me down until I did groan. “Not yet. We’ve time. And I mean to hear ye groan like that again. And to moan and sob, even though you dinna wish to, for ye canna help it. I mean to make you sigh as though your heart would break, and scream with the wanting, and at last to cry out in my arms, and I shall know that I’ve served ye well.”

The rush began between my thighs, shooting like a dart into the depths of my belly, loosening my joints so that my hands slipped limp and helpless off his shoulders. My back arched and the slippery firm roundness of my breasts pressed flat against his chest. I shuddered in hot darkness, Jamie’s steadying hands all that kept me from drowning.

Resting against him, I felt boneless as a jellyfish. I didn’t know—or care—what sort of sounds I had been making, but I felt incapable of coherent speech. Until he began to move again, strong as a shark under the dark water.

“No,” I said. “Jamie, no. I can’t bear it like that again.” The blood was still pounding in my fingertips and his movement within me was an exquisite torture.

“You can, for I love ye.” His voice was half-muffled in my soaking hair. “And you will, for I want ye. But this time, I go wi’ you.”

He held my hips firm against him, carrying me beyond myself with the force of an undertow. I crashed formless against him, like breakers on a rock, and he met me with the brutal force of granite, my anchor in the pounding chaos.

Boneless and liquid as the water around us, contained only by the frame of his hands, I cried out, the soft, bubbling half-choked cry of a sailor sucked beneath the waves. And heard his own cry, helpless in return, and knew I had served him well.

[end section]

We struggled upward, out of the womb of the world, damp and steaming, rubber-limbed with wine and heat. I fell to my knees at the first landing, and Jamie, trying to help me, fell down next to me in an untidy heap of robes and bare legs. Giggling helplessly, drunk more with love than with wine, we made our way side by side, on hands and knees up the second flight of steps, hindering each other more than helping, jostling and caroming softly off each other in the narrow space, until we collapsed at last in each other’s arms on the second landing.

Here an ancient oriel window opened glassless to the sky, and the light of the hunter’s moon washed us in silver. We lay clasped together, damp skins cooling in the winter air, waiting for our racing hearts to slow and breath to return to our heaving bodies.

The moon above was a Christmas moon, so large as almost to fill the empty window. It seemed no wonder that the tides of sea and woman should be subject to the pull of that stately orb, so close and so commanding.

But my own tides moved no longer to that chaste and sterile summons, and the knowledge of my freedom raced like danger through my blood.

“I have a gift for you too,” I said suddenly to Jamie. He turned toward me and his hand slid, large and sure, over the plane of my still-flat stomach.

“Have you, now?” he said. And the world was all around us, new with possibility.

[Excerpt from OUTLANDER, Copyright © 1991 by Diana Gabaldon.]


Related Blog Entries:

Rejoicing in 2020 – Third Sunday of Advent, posted on Sunday, December 13, 2020.

The Second Sunday of Advent – 2020, posted on Sunday, December 6, 2020.

The First Sunday of Advent – 2020, posted on Sunday, November 29, 2020.


This excerpt also appeared on my official Facebook page on Sunday, December 20, 2020.

Rejoicing in 2020 – Third Sunday of Advent


2020-12-13-advent-wk3-DG-2Today is the Third Sunday of Advent, called “Gaudete” (“Rejoicing”) Sunday. This is where we pause in our solemn reflections, light the third candle of our Advent wreath (which is pink) and realize with joy and wonder what this process is leading to: the fulfillment of hope and promise in the greatness of love.

I did wonder just how Roger proposed to follow Captain Cunningham’s act. The congregation had scattered under the trees to take refreshment, but every group I passed was discussing what the Captain had said, with great excitement and absorption—as well they might. The spell of his story remained with me—a sense of wonder and hope.

Bree seemed to be wondering, too; I saw her with Roger, in the shade of a big chinkapin oak, in close discussion. He shook his head, though, smiled, and tugged her cap straight. She’d dressed her part, as a modest minister’s wife, and smoothed her skirt and bodice.

”Two months, and she’ll be comin’ to kirk in buckskins,” Jamie said, following the direction of my gaze.

“What odds?” I inquired.

“Three to one. Ye want to wager, Sassenach?”

“Gambling on Sunday? You’re going straight to hell, Jamie Fraser.”

”I dinna mind. Ye’ll be there afore me. Askin’ me the odds, forbye… Besides, going to church three times in one day must at least get ye a few years off Purgatory.”

I nodded.

“Ready for Round Two?”

Roger kissed Brianna, and strode out of the shade into the sunlit day, tall, dark and handsome in his best black—well, his only black suit. He came toward us, Bree on his heels, and I saw several people in the nearby groups notice this, and begin to put away their bits of bread and cheese and beer, to retire behind bushes for a private moment, and to tidy up children who’d come undone.

I sketched a salute as Roger came up to us.

“Over the top?”

“Geronimo,” he replied briefly and with a visible squaring of the shoulders, turned to greet his flock and usher them inside.

Inside, it was noticeably warm, though not yet hot, thank God. The smell of new pine was softer now, cushioned by the rustle of homespun and the faint scents of cooking and farming and the messy business of raising children that rose in a pleasantly domestic fog.

Roger let them settle for a moment, but not long enough for conversations to break out. He walked in with Bree on his arm, left her on the front bench and turned to smile at the congregation.

“Is there anyone here who doesna ken me already?” he asked, and there was a slight ripple of laughter.

“Aye, well, the fact that ye do ken me and ye’re here anyway is reassuring. Sometimes it’s the things we know that mean a lot in part because we ken them well, and understand their strength. Will ye be upstanding then, and we’ll say the Lord’s Prayer together.”

They rose obligingly and followed him in the prayer—some, I noticed, speaking it in the Gaidhlig, though most in variously accented English.

When we all sat down again, he cleared his throat, hard, and I began to worry. I was sure that his voice was better than it had been, whether from natural healing, or from the treatments—if something so simple and yet so peculiar as Dr. MacEwan’s laying-on of hands could be dignified by the name—I’d been giving him once a month—but it had been a long time since he’d spoken at length in public, let alone preached—let alone sing, and the stress of expectation was a lot to deal with.

“Some of ye are from the Isles, I know—and from the North. So ye’ll ken what lined-singing is.”

…..[going through the Psalm]

More voices, a spreading confidence, and by the third phrase, we were sharing Roger’s happiness, moving into the words and their meaning.

It was a fairly short psalm, but they were having such a good time that he went through it twice, and stopped, finally, wringing with sweat and flushed with heat and effort, “Even life for evermore!” still ringing in the air.

“That was good,” he said, in a croak, and they laughed, though kindly. “Jamie—will ye come read to us from the Old Testament?”

I glanced at Jamie in surprise, but apparently he was ready for this, for he picked up his small green Bible, which he’d brought along with him, and came to the front of the room. He was wearing the best of his two kilts, with the only sober-looking coat he possessed, and taking his spectacles from the pocket, put them on and looked sternly over the tops of them at the boys in the back, who instantly ceased their whispering.

Evidently satisfied that the stern look would suffice, he opened the book and read from Genesis the story of the angels who visited Abraham, and in receipt of his hospitality, assured him that by the time they came again, his wife Sarah would have borne him a son, “…. Therefore Sarah laughed within herself, saying, After I am waxed old shall I have pleasure, my lord being old also?”

He glanced up briefly at that line, and his eyes met mine. He said, “Mphm,” in the back of his throat, looked down at the page and ended with…“Is any thing too hard for the Lord? At the time appointed, I will return unto thee, according to the time of life, and Sarah shall have a son.”

I heard a tiny snigger from somewhere behind me, but it was instantly drowned by the final verse: “Then Sarah denied, saying ‘I laughed not:’ for she was afraid. And he said, Nay but thou didst laugh.”

Jamie closed the book with neat decision, bowed to Roger and sat down beside me, folding away his spectacles.

“I dinna ken how people can think God doesna have a wicked sense o’ humor,” he whispered to me.

[Excerpt from GO TELL THE BEES THAT I AM GONE, Copyright ©2020 by Diana Gabaldon.]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rDT-fZTJl3Q


Related Blog Entries:

The Second Sunday of Advent – 2020, posted on Sunday, December 13, 2020.

The First Sunday of Advent – 2020, posted on Sunday, November 29, 2020.


This blog entry also appeared on my official Facebook page on Sunday, December 13, 2020.

The Second Sunday of Advent – 2020


2020-DG-2nd-Sunday-AdventToday is the second Sunday of Advent. Whether we live in peace or in times of chaos, uncertainty and danger, we need someone to trust, to love, and to trust to love us. We light our second candle tonight in that trust, knowing that Love awaits.

[Excerpt from OUTLANDER, Chapter 15, REVELATIONS OF THE BRIDAL CHAMBER. Copyright © by Diana Gabaldon.]

“Are you all right?” he whispered. His fingers brushed my wet cheek.

“Yes. I’m sorry to wake you. I had a nightmare. What on earth—” I started to ask what it was that had made him spring so abruptly to the alert.

A large warm hand ran down my bare arm, interrupting my question. “No wonder; you’re frozen.” The hand urged me under the pile of quilts and into the warm space recently vacated.

“My fault,” he murmured. “I’ve taken all the quilts. I’m afraid I’m no accustomed yet to share a bed.” He wrapped the quilts comfortably around us and lay back beside me. A moment later, he reached again to touch my face. “Is it me?” he asked quietly. “Can ye not bear me?”

I gave a short hiccupping laugh, not quite a sob. “No, it isn’t you.” I reached out in the dark, groping for a hand to press reassuringly. My fingers met a tangle of quilts and warm flesh, but at last I found the hand I had been seeking. We lay side by side, looking up at the low beamed ceiling.

“What if I said I couldn’t bear you?” I asked suddenly. “What on earth could you do?” The bed creaked as he shrugged.

“Tell Dougal you wanted an annulment on grounds of nonconsummation, I suppose.” This time I laughed outright.

“Nonconsummation! With all those witnesses?” The room was growing light enough to see the smile on the face turned toward me.

“Aye well, witnesses or no, it’s only you and me that can say for sure, isn’t it? And I’d rather be embarrassed than wed to someone that hated me.” I turned toward him.

“I don’t hate you.”

“I don’t hate you, either. And there’s many good marriages have started wi’ less than that.” Gently, he turned me away from him and fitted himself to my back so we lay nested together. His hand cupped my breast, not in invitation or demand, but because it seemed to belong there.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered into my hair. “There’s the two of us now.” I felt warm, soothed, and safe for the first time in many days. It was only as I drifted into sleep under the first rays of daylight that I remembered the knife above my head, and wondered again, what threat would make a man sleep armed and watchful in his bridal chamber?


“The First Sunday of Advent – 2020” is a related blog entry and WRITTEN IN MY OWN HEART’S BLOOD excerpt that I posted on November 29, 2020.

This blog entry was also posted on my my official Facebook page on December 6, 2020, the Second Sunday of Advent.


Image of Advent candles by Diana Gabaldon © 2020.

The First Sunday of Advent – 2020


Advent candles for first Sunday. From Diana Gabaldon.Today is the First Sunday of Advent. Advent is a four-week space in time, during which we draw aside from the world in preparation for the light of Christmas.

Whatever we suffer in grief, illness, fear, anger, in longing for home, for love—Advent offers us respite, a refuge, a small place of rest, repentance, reconciliation and peace.

A time to be still and listen to our hearts.

[Excerpt from WRITTEN IN MY OWN HEART’S BLOOD, Copyright © 2014 by Diana Gabaldon.]

“Are ye all right, Sassenach? Is it bad, then?”

“No,” I said, and wiped my eyes hastily on a corner of the sheet. “No—it—it’s fine. I just&,dash;oh, Jamie, I love you!” I did give way to tears, then, snuffling and blubbering like an idiot.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to get hold of myself. “I’m all right, there’s nothing wrong, it’s just—”

“Aye, I ken fine what it’s just,” he said, and, setting the candle and pot on the floor, lay down on the bed beside me, balancing precariously on the edge.

“Ye’re hurt, a nighean,” he said softly, smoothing my hair off my wet cheeks. “And fevered and starved and worn to a shadow. There’s no much of ye left, is there, poor wee thing?”

I shook my head and clung to him. “There’s not much of you left, either,” I managed to say, mumbling wetly into the front of his shirt.

He made a small amused noise and rubbed my back, very gently. “Enough, Sassenach,” he said. “I’m enough. For now.”

I sighed and fumbled under the pillow for a hankie to blow my nose.

“Better?” he asked, sitting up.

“Yes. Don’t go, though.” I put a hand on his leg, hard and warm under my hand. “Can you lie with me a minute? I’m awfully cold.” I was, though I realized from the damp and salt on his skin that the room was quite hot. But loss of so much blood had left me chilled and gasping; I couldn’t get through a sentence without stopping to breathe, and my arms were permanently goose-pimpled.

“Aye. Dinna move; I’ll go round.” He came round the bed and edged carefully in behind me. It was a narrow bed, barely wide enough to hold us closely pressed together.

I exhaled gingerly and relaxed against him in slow motion, reveling in the feel of his warmth and the solid comfort of his body.


“Elephants,” I said, drawing the shallowest possible breath compatible with speaking. “When a female elephant is dying, sometimes a male will try to mate with her.”

There was a marked silence behind me, and then a big hand came round and rested assessingly on my forehead.

“Either ye’re fevered again, Sassenach,” he said in my ear, “or ye have verra perverse fancies. Ye dinna really want me to—”

“No,” I said hastily. “Not right this minute, no. And I’m not dying, either. The thought just came to me.”

He made an amused Scottish noise and, lifting the hair off my neck, kissed my nape.

“Since ye’re no dying,” he said, “maybe that will do for the moment?”

I took his hand and placed it on my breast. Slowly I grew warmer, and my chilly feet, pressed against his shins, relaxed. The window now was filled with stars, hazy with the moistness of the summer night, and I suddenly missed the cool, clear, black-velvet nights of the mountains, the stars blazing huge, close enough to touch from the highest ridge.

“Jamie?” I whispered. “Can we go home? Please?”

“Aye,” he said softly. He held my hand and the silence filled the room like moonlight, both of us wondering where home might be.


This blog entry was also posted on my my official Facebook page on November 29, 2020, the first Sunday of Advent.

Image of Advent candles by Diana Gabaldon © 2020.

Scotland’s Treasures – Virtual Gala


Scotland-treasuresSeptember 29th, 2020 from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. (Eastern Time or EDT in the U.S.A.) — is the first Virtual Trust for Scotland/USA Gala! (i.e., it’s the first time they’ve had to do it virtually—it happens every year, normally in New York, but physically.) It’s a fundraiser to help support Scotland’s natural and cultural heritage, and includes a live auction.

They’ve asked me to share the link with you all (below), and note that while the usual donation asked is $150 (which will, among other things, sponsor a puffin), you can go ahead and register without donating. The website for the event is:

https://ntsusa.org/about-us/celebration-gala/

You do need to sign up before the event on the website. If you don’t want to donate, click the box that says “No, thanks” when it asks for a credit card number.

   -Diana

From The Scotland Treasures Website

From the National Trust for Scotland Foundation USA website:

Each April, The National Trust for Scotland Foundation USA’s A Celebration of Scotland’s Treasures gala raises thousands of dollars to support the conservation of Scotland’s natural and cultural heritage. Because we were unable to gather in New York this spring – our milestone 20th anniversary year – due to the coronavirus pandemic, we missed the opportunity to raise vital funds on behalf of the National Trust for Scotland.

Committed to helping the Trust weather this time, we are delighted to host our first-ever virtual event and invite you to join us here on Tuesday, September 29, for an evening of special performances, updates from Scotland, and a live and silent auction. Moving our celebration online will allow us to highlight more of the Trust’s work on the ground in Scotland – especially at sites like Glencoe and Culloden that hold special meaning for Americans.

The highlight of the program will be the virtual presentation of the Great Scot Award by New York Times best-selling author Laura Lippman to Scottish crime novelist Denise Mina, author of Conviction and The Long Drop.

Proceeds from A (Virtual) Celebration of Scotland’s Treasures will support the international campaign to Save Our Scotland. This year, the Trust is expected to lose over $35 million in earned income from the closure of our historic sites due to the coronavirus pandemic. Together, we can ensure the future of the Trust and its irreplaceable natural and cultural treasures.


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From The Front Lines


GoFundMe Campaign for Paxton Gate PDX Employees

Laura-in-gear-cropHere is a small, offbeat request from the front lines.

At right, this is Eldest Daughter, Laura Watkins, OR Nurse—whom you may know better as the author of TALES FOR GULLIBLE CHILDREN on my Methadone List, who said:

“Hey Mom, you’re probably being deluged with requests to donate to laid-off workers’ funds right now, but if you could maybe tweet this one, it would really help the furloughed crew at Paxton Gate PDX, which is that super cool natural history shop we went to the last time you were in town:

https://www.gofundme.com/f/paxton-gate-portland-employee-relief-fund

“It’s a small thing, but it’s important because it’s a magic place, and we need to know there still is magic in the world right now, and keep a place for it to happen.”

So here it is. Laura’s right that there are a LOT of very worthwhile donation requests (and I answer the ones I can), so I thought I’d put up her request.

If you’d like to learn more about Paxton Gate PDX, the store, here is their home page:

https://paxtongate.com


Floral Print Road Warrior

Heck-On-Wheels-cropMy daughter Laura also asked me to send a big Thank You for all of the kind comments of support for her and the other healthcare professionals dealing with the ongoing crisis.

And thank you for the kind efforts of so many of you who are making non-surgical masks for people who need to go out in public. In Laura’s words, “One of my friends hooked me up with one, resulting in a grocery-getting look that I’m calling “Floral Print Road Warrior.” Image at left.

Fashion rules!


Making Masks!

If you sew and would like to make masks, Dr. Jeanne Schneider (a friend of my Webmistress) shared this website below which has free patterns you can use to make masks for yourself and your family, and/or to share with health professionals and others who need them:

https://www.craftpassion.com/face-mask-sewing-pattern/

Happy Sewing!


More Masks

2020-04-DianaGabaldon-masks

At right, this is actually a contemporary piece—it’s a bronze by an artist named Hib Sabin, and is called “Raven Mask (Large).”

We’ve always called it the Plague Doctor, though, for obvious reasons…


Information in this post also appeared on my official social media accounts.

“The Iconic Stable Scene – Ep. 506″


Jamie and Claire in the stable.“Better To Marry Than Burn”

Now, overall, I liked Ep. 506 (of the STARZ Outlander TV show)—especially Jocasta’s heartbreaking final words with Murtaugh—Maria Doyle Kennedy is fabulous (and Duncan LaCroix was right there with her)! Parade Magazine asked me what I thought of the iconic stable scene, though, and so I told them what I thought.

I know a lot of people found it arousing and enjoyed it, and that’s great—I’m all for people liking the show in all its manifestations <g>, and people being people, they’re going to like different things.

That being so, let’s respect each other’s opinions—and I’d like to hear all of them!

So—what did y’all think of 506? (And have you ever eaten grasshoppers or locusts? I have. Once…)

Read “Outlander Fans Get the Sex Scene They’ve Been Hoping for, but Diana Gabaldon Thinks They Might Not Be Satisfied,” by Paulette Cohn for Parade.com. Published on March 22, 2020.

Passage From the Parade article featuring Episode 506::

“As for Jamie and Claire’s fight—and I suppose you would have to call it makeup sex, though as played, it was more or less a continuation of the fight—this is one of those ‘iconic’ scenes from THE FIERY CROSS,” Gabaldon tells Parade.com exclusively.

“Those are the scenes that book readers particularly value, and spend months hoping will be included in the show. The book fans will be happy that it is included.” However, the more nitpicky fans might be distracted. “I’m afraid it’s one of those situations where they’re so provoked by the omissions and changes that they may forget to be thankful.”


Remember that if your response below (web comment) is approved, it will be posted PUBLICLY online for anyone to see.

Outlander Season 5 Premieres!


Vogue-Roger-Brianna-wedding-peekSo—premieres are upon us! We all had a wonderful time at the New York Season 5 premiere on February 11th, and will doubtless have a great time tonight in Los Angeles!! [Both premieres were special events planned by STARZ.]

My husband and I had a great time last night in L.A., celebrating our 43rd/48th anniversary (43 years legal, I mean, but we’ve been together for 48 years.)

Meanwhile, here are a couple of clips from the Good Morning America show this week, the first interview with Caitriona and Sam, and the second with Rik and Sophie. Hope you enjoy them—and I’ll let you know tomorrow (February 14) what-all happens at tonight’s premiere! (Look forward to seeing as many of you as possible!)


Above: Interview with Sam and Caitriona on GMA. (Youtube video)


Above: Interview with Ric and Sophie on GMA. (Youtube video)


Outlander Season 5 Debuts On STARZ on February 16!

In Season 5, Jamie Fraser must fight to protect those he loves, as well as the home he has established alongside his wife, Claire Fraser, their family, and the settlers of Fraser’s Ridge.

In the U.S.A., Outlander Season 5 will debut on the STARZ cable network and streaming channel on Sunday, February 16. The first episode is titled, “The Fiery Cross,”, and this season is mostly an adaptation of my book with the same name.

In Canada, Season 5 will also debut on Sunday, February 16, but on the W Network.

Outlander Season 5′s first episode will be available in Australia on Foxtel’s Fox Showcase channel on Monday, February 17th.

In the United Kingdom, the first episode of Season 5 will be available on Monday, February 17th on Amazon Prime (U.K.)

See my Where/How To Watch webpage for more details.

Other providers around the globe will be added when known. Please contact your local cable or streaming provider for more information.


The image above is from episode 1, season 5 of the Outlander TV series. Courtesy of STARZ.

No BEES Publication Date Yet!


Note: This blog entry is outdated and from January, 2020! BEES will be published on November 21, 2021 in the U.S.A. and U.K. More information.


Dear All—

BEES-no-cover-yetGeez. Spend the day in a car driving from California to Arizona, and all Hell breaks loose…

On the Amazon websites (in the U.K. and various other countries!) there is a page purporting to give a release (or publication) date of October 20th, 2020, for GO TELL THE BEES THAT I AM GONE (with a rather gloomy-looking cover) and providing a link for pre-orders—

NO, IT ISN’T TRUE!!! (but I’ve certainly been getting a lot of apologetic email from publishers…)

First off:

  1. NO, the publication date for BEES of October 20th, 2020, (or the 15th, as another Amazon site had it) is NOT CORRECT!

As I told you, the U.S. publisher (who decides the pub date) tells me they aren’t even going to think about a pub date until they have the whole manuscript in hand. (Which they don’t, though it’s only a matter of weeks now…)

  2. While the Amazon page for BEES popped up on amazon.co.uk (Amazon’s website for the U.K.), amazon.fr (Amazon’s website for France) and amazon.de (Amazon’s website for Germany), and probably a few others I don’t know about, all the announcements pertain to the U.K.’s release of what’s called an “English export edition”:

The English (original) version of the book is allowed to be sold in other countries, by the U.K. (or U.S.; I think both Random Houses in the U.S.A. and U.K. get to do export editions, but maybe to different parts of the market—it’s been a long time since I read the small print in the contracts—I do read a contract before signing it, every time, but I don’t normally need to review them). So all of this kerfuffle surrounds the U.K. export edition—not the translation editions into other languages done by the German, French, etc., publishers.

  3. Not only is the pub date not correct (it can’t be, because there isn’t one yet), the cover is not the one that will be on the book. This was an early design, which I didn’t really like.

  4. Apparently, all the erroneous Amazon pages were posted accidentally—and automatically—by what’s being described as “a systems glitch.” You know how it’s possible to set up tweets and Facebook posts ahead of time, so they’ll post automatically at a set time? It works something like that. It’s common for a publishing company to set up a dummy page for a book and add information as available, then when there IS a pub date <ahem>, set the page to go live for pre-orders. You can see that the erroneous page is missing a few things—like the author’s name….

  5. I’m assured that the erroneous pages have all been taken down. So—apologies for the kerfuffle, but I repeat (again…) —

I’LL TELL YOU when the pub date is known. And it’s not been set yet.

Once a publication date is set, it will be immediately posted here on my official web pages, including on my official GO TELL THE BEES THAT I AM GONE webpage, (bookmark it, please) and on my official “home” web page. For those who use social media, of course I’ll post the news on my official accounts there right away, as well.

Thanks!

-Diana


This blog entry was also posted by me on my official Facebook page on January 15, 2020.

Brief Explanation of How Publishing Works


2020-01-04-GCarroll-bee-crop.jpgFor Those Kind People who keep urging me to “release the book!” (as though I’m keeping the manuscript in a cage in my office)… a Brief Explanation of How Publishing Works (on the purely mechanical side):

Well, as my husband (who has certainly had enough experience by now to Know) says, “To a writer, ‘finished’ is a relative term.” And it truly is. The first ‘finished’ is the most important <g>—when you have the Whole Thing in your hands. No feeling like it! (Though giving birth isn’t far off…)

[NO! I haven’t finished writing it. Dang close, though.]

After that though… I wrote up all the phases of production, some years ago, in a vain effort to explain to the many-headed just why the fact that I’d finished writing the book didn’t mean it would be on their bookshelves the next day/week/month. I won’t do the whole list here (I have work to do tonight), but in essence, the manuscript goes from me to two editors—one in the U.S., one in the U.K.—both of whom have been reading what chunks of the book I’ve finished already (so as to get a jump on things), but who will immediately start reading from the beginning, after which both of them will give me their separate comments and notes (there are always spots where a scene or part of a scene has been accidentally repeated, so that’s where we—because I’m also reading it from the beginning—catch that kind of stuff and resolve it). I’ll have been having my own thoughts as to anything I want to change, so will be messing with the manuscript with all three sets of input in hand.

2015-diana-workingAt right, I am at home in my yard, working, in 2015.

When that’s done, the book is ‘finished,’ again—that is, it’s ready to go to the copy-editor. This is a wonderful person (at least I hope she’s still in business and available to do it for me again; she’s done the last three or four books for me, plus several Lord John ones) whose thankless task is to read the manuscript One. Word. At. A. Time, and catch any difficulties along the way: typographical errors, inconsistencies (in names, ages, times, whatever—and there will be a number of them, owing to the size of the book and the way I write), incongruities (there’s still a page in OUTLANDER—which was copy-edited by a, um, person of somewhat lesser talent, let us charitably say—where a maid brings in the tea-cups but carries out the brandy glasses at the end of the scene. Fortunately no one has ever noticed this), logical holes (she checks the distances between actual places and will let me know if it’s really possible to get from point A to point B in three days or whatever), timeline issues (did the Siege of Savannah happen before or after the Siege of Charleston (only it was still being called “Charles Town” at that point, so we need to change all the “Charleston’s”), and imposes ‘house style’ (meaning that Penguin Random House has its own conventions regarding things like whether numbers are given in digital form or spelled out, whether we do or do not use Oxford commas, etc.) throughout. She’s usually doing this under hideous time-constraints and I sent her a bottle of Really Fine Whisky last time.

But then, I have to read the copy-edited version and ‘reply’ to it, i.e., there will be a number of marginal questions or comments that I need to answer and either address or dismiss. This is ungodly labor (and also being done under a major time-constrant), but Very Necessary.

THEN the manuscript goes back and is corrected according to my last-minute corrections and insertions (I almost always realize that two or three vital bits are missing, and hastily write those scenes and insert them with the copy-edit correx), and comes back to me (AGAIN!) as galley proofs. These are, as you doubtless know, the pages of the book, printed just as it will (we hope) appear on the shelf, but on loose, unbound sheets. This is where we catch disjunctions in the formatting (very rare, but they do happen), any (we hope) minor nits that everybody has so far missed (and there is no book in existence that goes to press without errors, believe me), misspellings of the Gaelic (compositors can not get a grasp on Gaelic words, no matter how carefully I print them, if they’re inserted as corrections or additions. This is not helped by the fact that I don’t speak Gaelic and don’t always know if something is misspelled), and any truly last-minute insertions (there’s a clause in my contract that says if I change more than 10% of the text during the galley phase, I have to pay for the extra type-setting. This contingency is Remote).

I’m not mentioning any of the book design or the messing-about-with-the-cover issues, because I mostly just have to give an opinion on those, not actually do the work. But it all takes time.

Let it be noted that we did ALL of the above within five weeks, for each of the last two books. This drove everyone to the verge of insanity (and was terribly expensive), and we Really Don’t Want to Do That Again (any of us!), which is why you aren’t getting a pub date until the manuscript is by-God Finished.

[NO, it isn’t finished yet. Don’t worry—I’ll tell you when it is!]


And thank you to Grace Carroll for the lovely bee photo!

Related Information: In August, 2013, I created a flow chart of what happens to a book after I write it and it goes to my publisher, titled “What ‘Finished’ Means To An Author.”

This blog was also posted on my official Facebook page on January 5, 2020.