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What’s on my mind? Hmmm…. Well, I was reading through a chunk of ABFAWGO (hey, at least it’s a pronounceable abbreviation. If you want to call the book BLESSING or WARRIOR, though, fine by me…), and came to this sentence:

“I took the bottle and poured a bit more whisky all round; this was clearly going to take some time.”

Beastly Microsoft Word naturally popped in with its Helpful Suggestions, to wit:

That as I’m making a comparison (it thinks), I should change “whisky” to “whiskier”.

Mm.  Hmm…

And (obviously), I should change “round” to “rounds”, with the comment, “check whether the noun should be singular or plural.”

I mean, “whiskier” is at least mildly funny, though both its assumption that I’m making a comparison (on the basis of the word “more”, I suppose) and its (haha) ‘correction’ are silly.

But on what basis (I wonder) did it conclude that the word “round” is a noun? (I mean, it can be, as in rounds of ammunition or rounds of dough or rounds of boxing, etc.—but in the context of this sentence? (Hint: machines don’t usually grasp the notion of context, which tells you all you need to know about the folly of listening to one while you’re writing….)

Yes, I realize I can turn this little pest off, but I take a lot of pleasure in shouting, “You IDIOT!” at it, while ponking the key to blow its latest stupid suggestion into the ether. (Why, no, I don’t have an anger-management problem; I manage it Just Fine, thank you…)

The photo above, btw, is posted as a matter of general interest, though I suppose it could be used to symbolize my general opinion of Microsoft Word (yes, I’ve tried Scrivener; it doesn’ t think the way I do). Many of you may never have seen—or known what you were looking at—when stepping carefully over something like this, so I thought you might enjoy knowing what it is—to wit:

SNAKE POOP

I realize y’all think I must live in a snake pit, and I admit that it’s been an unusually active spring in terms of the local inhabitants of the Suborder Serpentes, but I very seldom encounter noticeable excreta, and this is a particularly fine specimen, as it clearly shows the odd nature of snake excrement: to wit, snakes don’t have anuses. Nor do they have bladders. They have one opening (called the cloaca), through which they do all their business, including sex and giving birth.

You see the white thing? This is actually part of the poop (and how you know for sure what you’re looking at); the urinary part of a snake’s excrement is excreted along with the ordinary fecal part (the brown stuff), and is called “urates” (which might be useful someday in a Scrabble game, you never know).

I was entertained to find this, not only because it’s a fine specimen, but because it solidifies Lucy’s and my opinion that the large gopher snake we encountered in the propane corral a few weeks ago, is a) still in residence and b) undoubtedly keeping cool in the dense shade under the propane tanks.)

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Selected Facebook Comments:

Diana commented:

I was born with a very strong “teacher” gene. <g>. If I know something, I can’t help telling it to people.

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Diane R. T. said:

Hmmm so wondering if in the book the speaker uses the word whiskier instead of whisky because maybe he/she is intoxicated a bit. And then just laughs at the use of.

Diana replied:

Oddly enough, I also wondered briefly whether there might be a use (Elsewhere…) for “whiskier,” that thought coupled with my indignation that Beastly Word would suggest an “improvement” that isn’t even a legitimate word.

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Stacie B. said:

If you need an even better opportunity to call Ai corrections blasphemous names install Gramerly and have Microsoft open. They rarely agree on anything.

If I’m not fully awake I get thrust down the grammar rabbit hole!

Diana replied:

Wouldn’t touch Grammarly with a ten-foot pole. I don’t want interference while I’m working.

[Note from Diana’s Webmistress: For those who don’t dive into tech stuff, Grammarly is a “free” app, which is promoted on its website as “the trusted AI assistant for everyday communication.” (“AI” = “Artificial intelligence.”) ]

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Pamela M. said:

As I told you years ago in Surrey, thank-you for giving me the zoology/botany science part of my life back. I love these observations you share.

Diana replied:

I’m thrilled that you found that part of yourself again!

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Visit my official webpage for A BLESSING FOR A WARRIOR GOING OUT (Book Ten of my Outlander series of major novels) to access more excerpts from this book, and information about it.

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Photos above are © Diana Gabaldon.

This blog entry was also posted on my official Facebook page on Wednesday, May 28, 2025 at 5:47 a.m. (Central Time).

Posted on May 28, 2025 9:20 AM No Comments

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Well, first things first—

A Very (slightly ex post facto…) Happy Birthday to Sam Heughan! When he was first cast to play Jamie Fraser, I noted that he was born on April 30th, while Jamie’s birthday is May 1st—one on either side of the Beltane fire.

Beltane is the Celtic fire festival that marks the beginning of summer, so plainly a time of good omens. As it turned out, it was indeed a time of good omens for All Things Outlander, so it seems an appropriate time to offer up two bits of (what I assume will be) further Good News. One on either side of the fire, as it were…

The newly recorded audiobook of OUTLANDER, recorded by Kristin Atherton (the lovely actress who played the “mature” version of Jenny Murray in Season Seven), was released just yesterday, and I’m pleased to see that so many people already are excited about it and delighted with the quality.

(This in no way denigrates the wonderful Davina Porter, who has read all the Outlander novels, through GO TELL THE BEES THAT I AM GONE. Davina has retired, but all of her recordings will remain available, alongside the new ones.)

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The Title of Book Ten

And on the other side of the fire (aka May 1st)… I thought I’d let you know what the title of Book Ten is (so we can stop calling it Book Ten, which is slightly boring…).

First, A Word of Warning: THE BOOK IS NOT FINISHED. IT HAS NO PUB DATE (because the publishers wisely won’t set one until they have the full manuscript in their eager hands).

I AM STILL WRITING IT.

YES, I DO KNOW HOW IT ENDS.

NO, I’M NOT TELLING YOU.

NO, YOU CAN’T ORDER IT YET, BECAUSE THE PUBLISHERS DON’T HAVE PAGES SET UP FOR ORDERS BECAUSE THERE IS NO PUB DATE AND BECAUSE I HAVEN’T TOLD THEM WHAT THE BOOK IS CALLED.

Until now. <ahem>

The title of Book Ten of the OUTLANDER series (and yes, this is the final book of the main series, though there may be other companion books and side stories, depending on how long I live…) is
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[spoiler space for people who don’t even want to know the title, but couldn’t help reading this far]
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A BLESSING FOR A WARRIOR GOING OUT

(NO, that doesn’t mean Jamie’s going to die. It’s not a death blessing, it’s the Blessing of St. Michael, said for a warrior about to go and do something important and possibly dangerous. There are quite a few people in this book who qualify for that blessing, believe me…)

It seems only reasonable to append a small sample from near the beginning of the book, but I know that not everyone wants to read bits and pieces, preferring to wait for The Whole Thing. Ergo, here’s another chunk of spoiler space:
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[Excerpt from A BLESSING FOR A WARRIOR GOING OUT, Copyright © 2025 Diana Gabaldon]

Only a few people had noticed William’s arrival. The post-wedding revelry was well underway, and most of the guests were gathered in clumps near the food tables, talk and laughter rising and falling in volume as the wind shifted in the trees.

One of those who had noticed was Fanny, standing at my elbow.

“A Dhia,” she said faintly. Oh, God.

I couldn’t have put it better myself.

Jamie rose slowly from his chair on the porch—not using his stick, I saw—and drew himself up, eyes fixed on William.

William himself was still on his horse, the two of them mud-spattered, windblown and breathing hard. I saw his throat move as he swallowed, evidently preparing to repeat what he’d said a moment before.

Sir—I need your help.

But Jamie was moving, going down the steps. I could hear his left knee crack with each step, but he didn’t flinch or limp. He reached William and put a hand on his arm.

“You have it,” he said simply. “Come in.”

[end section]

William came up the steps after Jamie, his hat tucked under his arm. His face was still set in lines of anxious determination, but this relaxed for a moment when he saw me. He paused, and a tinge of warmth touched his eyes.

“Mother Claire,” he said. “I hadn’t—though clearly I should have—expected you.” His glance flicked past me, taking in the open doorway behind me, the fine, heavy door and the long, broad hallway beyond, lined with Brianna’s sketches and paintings.

“I know,” I said, smiling. “It gives you a bit of a turn, when you see someone out of place, so to speak.”

The corner of his mouth twitched briefly.

“So to speak,” he said, at once acknowledging and dismissing the circumstances in which he had been accustomed to seeing me: As Lord John’s wife. And as quickly as it had come, the warmth disappeared and his jaw set again. Jamie was waiting at the door of his study.

William had just set foot on the threshold when Fanny spoke behind him.

“Will-yum?” she said, her voice clear but uncertain.

He turned to look back, surprised, but then smiled and stepped back on the porch, reaching to take her hands.

“Frances,” he said softly, looking down at her. “There you are.”

“Here I am,” she said, smiling up. She’d blushed when he turned to her, but her brown eyes sparkled. “Shall I take care of your horse for you?”

“Oh.” He glanced down the steps; the horse, a big, muscular bay, was munching grass beside the path, his reins carelessly looped over the hitching rail. William glanced at me, and I made a tiny nod in Fanny’s direction.

“That’s most kind of you, Frances,” he said, and squeezed her hands briefly before letting go. “His name is Trajan and I’m sure he will be as grateful for your welcome as I am.”

She turned at once and skipped down the steps, glowing. William looked after her, the smile still on his face.

“I nearly said, ‘How you’ve grown, Frances!’,” he remarked, sotto voce, to me. “But that wouldn’t have done, would it? I always hated it when Papa’s friends would say that to me.”

“It would have gone over like a lead balloon,” I assured him. “She has, though. And her speech is nearly perfect now.”

I glanced over my shoulder; Jamie had gone into the study. “And—er—how is Lord John these days?”

“I wish I knew,” he said, face and voice both suddenly bleak. He took a deep breath and walked past me down the hall.

I didn’t know whether I ought to be present at whatever conversation he was about to have with Jamie, but neither of them had shut the door, so I walked quietly in and went at once to the cupboard where the visitor’s tray was kept, a plain pewter object, but equipped with several shot glasses, a bottle of fairly good whisky and a jug of water.

Jamie met my eyes but didn’t say anything as I set the tray down. He put a glass in front of William, poured a dram and said casually, “Aye, so?”

“It’s concerning my f—    It’s Lord John, sir.”

“A Dhia,” Jamie said, with somewhat more force than Fanny had used. He drew a deep breath through his nose. “Where is he? And sit down, my lord,” he added, nodding to a chair.

“I don’t know.” William sat down, adding, “Don’t call me that,” then adding a hasty “if you please, sir,” as an afterthought.

Jamie raised one brow.

“Do ye ken where his lordship may be, Mr. Ransom?” he asked politely.

“No! Goddamn it, if I knew where he was, I would have got him back by now!”

The outburst startled us all, including William, who pressed his lips together.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said stiffly. “I—have been searching for… his lordship… for some time—for months. I am somewhat…” he made a brief gesture indicating emotional disturbance, lack of sleep and/or deep fear, and Jamie nodded.

“Dèrangè,” he said, in good French. “I expect so. I suppose it wouldna be helpful to ask where ye saw him last?”

“No,” William said dryly. He’d nearly got himself back under control, though, and helped the process along with a slug of whisky. “Though for what it”s worth, I last saw him in the drawing-room of his house in Savannah, on [date]. Later in the day, after I’d left, he received a written message, and whatever it said, it apparently caused him to go immediately to the docks. The cook told me. She was present when he got the message,” he added, “but she didn’t see what it said or whom it was from.”

“Did he tell the cook he was going to the docks?” I asked, and he shook his head.

“No. But he did go there. A whelk-seller on one of the quays said she’d seen a fair-haired man in a good coat, with a soldier’s queue, who’d asked her if there was a ship called “Palace” in the harbor.”

“But if you didn’t know he was going to the docks, why did you look for him there?” I took the bottle and poured a bit more whisky all round; this was clearly going to take some time.

Willie gave me a slightly odd look, as though he might ask me to leave the room, but instead took another mouthful and swallowed it.

“Are either of you familiar with a man named Percival Wainwright? Or, for that matter, the Chevalier St. Honorè?”

Jamie looked blank, but I felt a light, cold touch on the back of my neck, like the caress of a ghost.

“Yes,” I said. “Lord John mentioned him once or twice. He was John’s… step-brother, I think he said. His name isn’t Percival, though; it’s Perseverance. And—”

“Perseverance?” Jamie leaned forward, interested. “A Quaker, is he?”

William cleared his throat and looked down.

“Definitely not,” he said.

“He’s dead, though,” I told Jamie, and William looked up at me.

“He is now,” he said.

[end section]

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Visit my A BLESSING FOR A WARRIOR GOING OUT webpage for information on this book, and to read more excerpts from it.

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This blog entry was also posted on my official Facebook page on Thursday, May 1, 2025.

If you like, you may leave a web comment in the form below. I love to hear from readers. Note that your submission will be public, i.e., anyone on the World Wide Web can see and read it. 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!

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Posted on May 01, 2025 10:00 PM 16 Comments

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A Happy Easter (and peaceful Passover) to everyone!

(This was one of those semi-accidental/semi-metaphorical photos—showing how the Light touches our everyday things, and makes even the smallest and most trivial aspects beautiful. So may God touch your life.) Click on my image at right to view a larger version.

So… descending to the beautifully trivial <g>—what did y’all make for your feasts? We do Italian food for Easter (Mexican food is for Christmas): I made Drunk Chicken Pasta Salad, deviled eggs and brownies, and our son brought his astonishing spicy lasagna (it’s astonishing that you can get up from the table after eating it, rather than just sinking into a blissful stupor right there…).

And at the other (non-trivial) end of things—I woke up from my evening pre-work nap to hear that Pope Francis has died. This is of course a solemn time, but not of mourning: Francis lived a very long and fruitful life, and is now with God who called him to that work, and has now called him to eternal life. On Easter Sunday.

What special dishes did you make or share this Easter with family and friends? Share below if you like.

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Click here for my Drunk Chicken Pasta Salad recipe, which I posted in 2009.

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Love to hear from you here and on my official Facebook page!

Posted on April 20, 2025 8:00 PM 8 Comments

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Well, it’s March 6th. This is my anniversary—not of marriage—but of beginning to write a book. I knew from the age of eight that I was supposed to write books; I just didn’t know how.

I have had people ask me whether I regret not getting an English degree and starting writing sooner, instead of <ahem> wasting time on all those science degrees. (Really, people will say anything to someone they see as a Public Figure…) I actually never thought about that for a moment, and in retrospect, the answer is a solid “No”. I use every single thing I know or have learned when I write novels.

And with all due respect to people who do get English degrees, take writing courses, etc… if it helped you write, it was the right thing to do. Speaking personally—I actually have a more or less accidental minor degree in English (I have three: English, Chemistry and Music — you had to have one minor to graduate), and the only two classes in that minor that taught me anything at all useful were the two that required you to actually write something on a regular basis.

( A minor required 26 hours, and as I played in the University Band (where I met Doug, so definitely worthwhile <g>), the Orchestra and the occasional small group (French horns are kind of in demand, because not that many people want to play them), I pretty much had that minor in the bag without doing anything extra. I was planning to go to grad school, though (in Marine Biology) and figured that a Music minor wouldn’t impress anybody—and taking just the required English courses (actually, I tested out of most of them—I mean, what was the point of taking English 101? I learned grammar and how to diagram sentences in the fifth grade (well, frankly, I learned grammar from reading books, but they don’t let you test out of anything in the fifth grade…) gave me an easy second minor, and I did Chemistry for the sake of my resume.)

Then there’s life, of course (cf Doug (and one previous fiance), jobs (the most memorable was a post-doc appointment where my main job was to dissect gannets (HUGE seabirds, with a nearly six-foot wing-span. They eat squid. This means the gannet’s body fat (which stores the various compounds from the food they eat) smells like concentrated essence of Dead Squid, especially when you put it in a drying oven for several days)), marriage, kids, houses, aging parents, births, deaths, and a number of Good Dogs (to say nothing of four horses, twenty-seven rats (don’t ask…) and a turtle who lived in the bathtub for several years.)

So basically, that’s how I prepared to write a book. <g>

Oh—and I started writing OUTLANDER when I turned 35, because Mozart was dead at 36. (On the other hand, he started at three. RIP, Wolfie.)

So—an excerpt from Book Ten (no, I’m not telling you the title just yet), in honor of my anniversary as a novelist:

Excerpt from Book Ten (Untitled), Copyright © 2025 Diana Gabaldon

[This is early in the book, with William conversing with Jamie during their preparations for setting out, expressing some surprise at Jamie’s choosing Roger to manage and defend the Ridge in such controversial times (he’s heard about the incident of Lodge Night, from Ian.)]

“But—I can’t say I know the Reverend MacKenzie well, but he is clearly a—a man of God. You’re sure he’s capable of handling…” William waved a hand toward the narrow window above the bookshelves, indicating the Ridge and all its tenants, crops, servants, animals….

Jamie gave him a faintly amused look.

“Aye, well. At least most o’ the tenants willna think he’s likely to collect a few men and come along by night to set their house ablaze or hang them in their own dooryard.”

“And they think you would?” William blurted.

“They’re no sure I wouldna,” Jamie said bluntly. “Ken this is a new-built house?” He lifted his chin, indicating the massive ceiling beams overhead, the wood raw and yellow, with small fragrant beads of oozing, half-dried sap along the edges. William stared at him.

“Mind, it wasna the tenants who set fire to the last one. It was the neighbors—from Brownsville—who dragged me and my wife out of our home and tried to hang her and deport me to Scotland. But it was some o’ my own tenants who tried to kill me later—in Lodge, no less—” He stopped abruptly, looked at William, then tapped his fingers on the desk; casually, but in a noticeable pattern.

“No,” William said in answer. Papa had explained Freemasonry to him, but had never suggested that he join a Lodge.

Fraser nodded, and went on.

“This was nay more than three years ago [ck dates], ken. I dealt wi’ the matter and there’s been nay bother since. I let some o’ them come back, for the sake of their wives and families—and because Harriett McIlhenny blackmailed me, the conniving auld besom—but those that left are likely still alive, and bear me a black grudge if they are.”

“Why the devil did they want to kill you?” William asked, because it was the only straightforward question he could think of. His head wasn’t exactly spinning, but he could hear the blood beating in his ears.

Fraser looked at him thoughtfully, and his fingers drummed softly on the table—though obviously as an aid to thought, rather than a Masonic identification.

“Lad,” he said finally, “I’m a Highlander and a Papist. And a rebel, twice over. I ken ye know that, but ye maybe dinna ken that there are folk—and not only Englishmen—to whom my existence is a mortal offense.”

“Jesus. And—Mother Claire may be in danger, too—because of you?”

That, strangely enough, made Fraser laugh.

“No, lad,” he said, shaking his head. “She can manage that on her own account. She’s known through all this neck o’ the woods—and a far piece beyond—as a conjure-woman. And to some folk, a healer who can cast folk into a deep sleep, or reach inside them to cure their ailments, is plainly a witch, and ye ken what the Bible says about that.”

“What… you mean ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’?”

“Aye, that.” Fraser raised a thick red eyebrow. “Were ye taught your Bible? I ken neither Lord John nor his brother are what ye’d call godly men.”

“They’re soldiers,” William said shortly.

“So am I, lad,” Fraser said mildly. He stopped, though, and leaned back a little, regarding William thoughtfully.

“Ye dinna like it when I call ye ‘lad,’ do ye? Shall I call ye William? Or Mr. Ransom?” His lips twitched, but the knot between William’s shoulder blades relaxed fractionally.

“William will do.” He was—had been, for weeks—all too conscious of the last time he’d been obliged to ask James Fraser for help. Furious with his own helplessness when Fraser betrayed—he thought—hesitance at his request, he’d snapped, “Don’t bother—I’ll do it myself!”

To which outburst Fraser had replied levelly, “If ye thought ye could, lad, ye’d never have come to me.”

That objective assessment had burned at the time—it burned now, too. But Fraser had been right, then, and he was right now, though sufficiently courteous as not to mention the fact.

William could only hope that things would end better, this time.

[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 was also posted on my official Facebook page on Friday, Marcj 6, 2025.

An earlier version of this excerpt was posted under the temporary title, “William Will Do,” on September 4, 2023.

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Posted on March 06, 2025 10:22 AM 18 Comments

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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.

If you like, you may leave a web comment in the form below. I love to hear from readers. 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 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 No Comments

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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