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Coming Next: Lost Bride (A Highland Passage Novel)

Writing, Writing Update

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His future is her past, and their love is lost somewhere in between.

Lucy Buchanan has been jilted. When her groom arrives at the altar and announces the wedding is canceled, she flees into the woods. (It was either that or the Hudson River.) Hearing well-meaning but unhelpful bridesmaids approaching, she ducks into a stone chamber and emerges on the other side, where she’s about to be trampled by a horse.

She’s rescued from danger by Rory Munro, the valiant but troubled son of a wealthy Highland laird. At first convinced that she’s dreaming, Lucy begins to realize that she’s stumbled into 1746 Scotland and must find her way back through what Rory calls the “fairy cairn.” In the meanwhile, she might just be falling in love.

Betrayed years ago, Rory is certain he’ll never love again. Then a lost bride awakens the trust in his heart that was broken. If Lucy leaves, she’ll return to a time when his future is her past and their love is lost somewhere between.

The Highland Passage novels are stand-alone books that can be read in any order.

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Full-Time Writer Here!

Writing

As of June 23, I will be retired from teaching, and writing full-time! After a couple of weeks of detox from job stress, and a celebratory trip to Scotland, I’ll return to begin the next chapter with some exciting and ambitious, but doable, plans for a number of books I’ll be completing over the next few months. Stay tuned…

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Notes from my Journal

Travel, Writing

I came across my Moleskine journal from last summer, and this took me back to that day—my first day back in Edinburgh, Scotland. I’d slept part of the night and awoken on New York time. So I went for a walk very early in the morning, and I wrote:

Friday, August 11. 2015

At eight in the morning, the Princes Street Gardens smell sweet—a vague scent of flowers and grasses I can’t name. The rubbish collectors are out picking up trash left on the grass and walkways. I’ve never been here before at this time to see it. I tip the solid wooden bench aright and sit down as a workman calls up to his friend at street level. The accent, as always, charms me as he answers the other with that Scottish upturned inflection, “Fuck yourself off!”

Only one other person (non-worker) is here—an artistic sort in Doc Martens, holding a notebook and writing. (Another writer.) The Waverley speakers announce arrivals and departures in an unintelligible blur as a train pulls away, and I wish I were on it. I should come here again in the morning, while the city is only beginning to waken.

Why I Write to Music—

Writing

—and why I studied music, and my kids study music, and why school districts that cut music are run by [expletives deleted].

J.L. JARVIS