A Room with a View ~ Raine Rochelle

Do the conditions in which you write make a difference to your stories? I’m sure someone somewhere has undertaken a lot of painstaking research on the matter resulting in an abundance of analytical data. My thoughts on the subject? Maybe. 

I live in a small cottage, which is a barn conversion, on a large farm. My rooms have thick, wooden beams on the ceilings, some of which still contain old hooks and chains, etc, which must have originally served a purpose. Now, though, they come in extremely handy when hanging my Christmas decorations, and offer some good conversation pieces for my visitors. (see below)

My L-shaped writing area surrounds a window, as I prefer natural light to work in, and a view to gaze at while plotting or procrastinating. Just outside the window is a small courtyard with a stone wall lining a field on one side. The field can be seen through the metal fence, as can the far-reaching countryside beyond it. A large horse chestnut tree over hangs the wall, its seasonal blossoms falling like snowflakes, and later the conkers gleaming from their broken shells as they lay strewn across the courtyard. Right now, it’s huge, hand-shaped leaves are thick and luscious; a deep green colour that I know will change with the seasons. I love trees, and this one is very majestic and beautiful.

Further in the distance the countryside gives way to the rolling hills that cradle the area. Hills I keep promising myself I’ll climb one day, but haven’t yet got around to doing so.

It’s easy to imagine cowboys riding over the undulating terrain, and horses grazing in the lush fields and lowlands. In actuality, the farm is arable, with crops taking up the fields that aren’t left fallow for the season, and there is more likely to be sheep on the hills, although, in some places away from the farm, horses are left to graze on the pasture. Being near the Welsh border means we get our fair share of rainfall, which gives the grass and crops a lush, greenness which isn’t quite as prevalent in other areas.

In all, although not strictly necessary, I think living so far out in the country makes writing cowboy romances an easy choice, and, although imagination and creativity can carry a writer a long way, I think the inspiration that comes from this area definitely helps my stories. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I love writing them.

Raine x

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08NCHVJGQ 

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Meet Racine Weston from No Luck At All

Since I’m not releasing a novel or short story this year, I thought I’d introduce you to Racine Weston, my heroine from No Luck At All. Racine is very sweet-natured and my easiest heroine to write. Once she opened her mouth, she took over the story. In her own words, find out more about her:

Hello. I'm Racine, the youngest daughter of wealthy and respected Boston doctor, Donald Somerfield, and his socialite wife, Katherine. Mama hated me from the moment I was born. She had it in her mind that Papa wanted a son, and when I came out a fourth daughter, she blamed me for that mishap. She swore she would not jeopardize her figure and looks again to bear papa another child, moved into her own bedroom, and handed me and my care over to the servants.

My toddler years, I found it unbearable to not have Mama's love and acceptance. My sisters, Valeen, Victoria and Valerie did. Mama would fuss over them, take them shopping and plan parties for them. She did none of that with me, which made me try all sorts of ways to gain her approval, none of which worked. I only earned her 'rolling' of the eyes, a stern lecture on how I was disobedient and very unladylike, and words of how no one would ever like me. I was unlovable.

I found that last part hard to believe. Papa loved me and spent as much time with me as his doctor duties allowed. Even the servants seemed to enjoy my company. Then one day, on a whim to make mama happy, I went to her flower garden to pick her some flowers. A stray dog leapt out from under the bushes and attacked me. His paw clawed my cheek and Papa had to stitch three deep cuts. When the bandages were removed, I had three long, red, ugly scars. Papa swore they would fade in time, But I knew that wasn't true. Every year, they got bigger, more noticeable--this was proven when I overheard my sisters beg Mama to keep me hidden from their friends. They said I was hideous and would scare away the other girls.

After that, I took to spending a lot of time in my room, alone. The maids took pity on me and taught me how to sew. Sophie, our cook, taught me how to prepare delicious meals. My skills flourished under their guidance. Even Papa was impressed with the curtains I sewed for his den.

The years passed and I reached an age where Papa insisted I attend the dinner parties he held for his interns. I wanted nothing to do with socializing and retreated to my room on those occasions. One night, Papa ordered me to attend a dinner. Grudgingly, I did, and kept to the shadows most of the evening until one man asked me to dance. I wanted to decline his offer, but his warm smile drew me to him as his hand drew me out of the corner. I'm thankful I didn't refuse him, for that night I met and fell in love with the most handsome, heavily muscled, kind hearted man to ever exist―Creel Weston.

Creel courted me relentlessly. He took me to the park, to dinner, and for strolls around Mama's flower gardens. He told me he loved me and wanted me to marry him. Part of me believed him. The other part was unsure, until he stood beside me at the altar, said his vows, and gave me a ring. I've never been so happy, and then that happiness disappeared as before my eyes Creel went from warm and caring to a cad on the eve of our wedding.

I don't know what brought about the change in him, but I have a good idea. Somehow, he came to the conclusion he can’t bear looking at me and my hideous scars for the rest of his life. Though he'd never once commented on them, I gathered the preacher joining us together for all eternity sparked feelings in him he never knew existed. I can’t blame him―I am ugly. But I can hope for some semblance of comfort and accord between us. I thought I had found that after Creel and I hashed out some misunderstandings. But now, an old friend from Creel's childhood claims he loves her. After replaying some events over and over in my mind, and pitting Amy's beauty and refinement against my scars and lack of elegance, I fear she is right in that Creel loves her and not me.

No Luck At All is the 3^rd book in the Weston Family series and available for purchase at Amazon:

www.amazon.com/dp/B0064R6NVI

Weston Family Series:

Luck of the Draw  www.amazon.com/dp/B0063VOS4E

Lady Luck  www.amazon.com/dp/B0063WCXO0

Bring Me Luck  www.amazon.com/dp/B00OP5PT2U

The Kitchen Sink

courtesy of: canadaplumbingservices.com

If I were to survey 100 people on what they thought was the most important room in the house, most would answer with the kitchen. We cook in the kitchen. Eat in the kitchen. And with today’s technology, some of us watch television, check email and scroll through Facebook while in the kitchen. It’s the one room in the house where family and friends gather to gossip and catch up with each other’s lives. The kitchen is also the most renovated/upgraded room in the home. If I were to also survey those same 100 people and ask what they thought was the best invention for the kitchen, votes would be split between the stove and the refrigerator, with maybe a handful picking the sink.

Modern kitchen sinks come in various sizes and materials. Some are porcelain, others stainless steel, and some are round bowls of colorful ceramic tiles. A faucet turns the hot and cold water on and off, making it easy to wash dishes or fruits and vegetables. But less than two hundred years ago, washing dishes was a laborious chore.

Courtesy of: www.erudit.org/revue/cuizine

City homes in the 1800’s had one room for cooking and washing dishes. Farm houses had one central room combining the parlor, kitchen, and bedroom. In each dwelling, the sink was nothing more than a wooden basin set on a table or a bench. Water had to be hauled into the home from a nearby pond or stream, heated on the stove and then poured into the basin to wash dishes. Afterward, the dirty water was tossed out the front door into the street or fed to the pigs. Many homes collected rain water in a barrel, but some homes had the ability to catch rain water with basement or rooftops cisterns, and the ability to dispose of the wastewater through underground brick or wood box drains.

courtesy of: pinterest.com

With the incorporation of a rough sewer system in major cities, the kitchen sink transformed from a wood basin to a shallow wood or stone trough set on table legs or inserted onto a window sill or the top of a cabinet. (The cabinet style is referred to as a dry sink by antique dealers.) In the beginning of its use, the trough held a basin, but water still had to be hauled in from outside sources. As plumbing technology advanced from using hallowed out logs fused together with iron hoops to lead and copper piping laid out in ditches, homes could now fit a wood or iron pump to the end of the trough and connect to the piping system. City folks tapped into the city’s public system while farmhouses tapped into their own ponds or springs.

courtesy of: www.brownstoner.com/blog

Eventually, the wood or stone troughs were replaced with factory built sinks of enameled cast iron, granite, steel, and slate. These sinks were sealed with a glaze of white enamel and could be sterilized and easily wiped cleaned. Drains came onto the scene shortly after and attached to the sewer system so the wastewater wouldn’t have to be hauled outside and dispelled. Faucets were added, and the sink became a permanent fixture in the kitchen.

courtesy of: pinterest.com