Dublin, Paris, the Irish and the French

Tweet

By Norma Hopcraft

Dublin was just okay after the beautiful architecture of Paris. Dublin was gritty and reminded me of NYC. 

But the Dubliners are so nice! I stepped off the bus from the airport, completely disoriented, not knowing which way was which. I asked an older gentleman to point the way to the street I needed. "Let me help you, pet," he said with a twinkle in his eye and a mischievous smile. He got me oriented and then said, "You just go like t'at, and you'll be fine, love!" 

So kind and charming, the Irish! No other stranger could get away with calling me "pet" and "love"!

I was at Dublin Castle and asked the man at the information desk, "Where's the Beatty Museum," which is on the same large grounds. He was a little Irish man leaning on a cane. 

“If you’d like, I’ll show you the secret door so you don’t have to go all the way around,” he said in a marvelous brogue.

“I love secret doors in castles!” I said.

I found on this trip that I was liking the Irish but not Dublin that much -- scooters and bikes whizzed in every direction, stepping off the curb was to risk your life, buses coughed by constantly, and the architecture just wasn't beautiful like it is in Paris.

A young French guy was handing out headsets at Christ Church Dublin. He said he likes Dublin better than Paris.

“Why?”

"It’s vibrant. There’s music everywhere. And the people are so nice.” 

Yes, whereas the Parisians are so glum, I admit it. Complaining is a national sport in France. But the buildings in Paris are far more pleasing to the eye than the gritty thoroughfares of Dublin. 

I have the answer: Let’s take the cheery Irish on another one of their diasporas (America, Australia, the Caribbean), only this time we'll ask the Parisians to leave and put the Irish in their place. 

Voilà! The perfect city! 

Compare for yourself:

The Louvre and the Seine by moonlight.

The Musée D'Orsay and -- guess what?

L'Institute de la France.  Can a city be this beautiful?

Now for Dublin:

The bell tower of Trinity College. Not bad.

The Dublin riverfront at the River Liffey.

The riverfront in late evening.

Looks like the set for an Irish movie.

What do you think? Which city would you prefer, and why? Comment below!

The Glories of French Libraries

Tweet

"I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library." -- Jorge Luis Borges.

I've always loved reading, books, libraries, and writing. 

From the moment I realized that little black marks on a page could form pictures in my mind, I wanted to be a writer. I loved that experience, even if it was just "See Sally run," and I wanted to create that experience for other people. For me, it's all about the joy of communicating with each other with images made of words.

As I kid, I read every spare second. I read the toothpaste tube, the Cheerios box, the Rice-A-Roni carton, just for something to fill my voracious appetite for words.

Now I make a point of reading widely: some science, particularly about the stars and about the tiniest particles. Lest you think I'm a total nerd, I also read favorite mystery writers (nothing very gory, please) and classic novels (Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters being favorites). I push myself to read poetry--I prefer stories, but poets say the most with fewest words, a good habit for prose writers too.

I love books and have a pile in my reading corner. One must have a chair, a lamp, and a book. There are a number of folks who say you also need a cat in your lap, or a dog at your feet. I don't have a cat now, but I have happy memories of Ninja, a Siamese. I bought him fresh out of my divorce, splurging on him when I could have gone to a shelter and gotten an American cat. When the owner named her price, I sat in stunned silence. Then she brought the price way down. 

Really, one ought to practice stunned silence. It works.

And I love libraries. I own one cocktail table book, and it's about the world's most beautiful libraries. I've been in a few of them now, but not yet in the Library of Congress, which is stunning.

Here's that quote again, because its worthy of being repeated: "I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library," wrote Jorge Luis Borges.

I agree. In Paradise I will also compose music like Bach, do the high jump like an Olympic athlete, and write novels even better than Jane Austen. In heaven, I will be published to critical and popular acclaim! My dream for 30 years, still waiting for it to come true. Maybe in Paradise.

There's a beautiful library in Paris where I wrote The Paris Writers Circle ten years ago, when I lived in Paris for a year. I commuted to it six days a week. It's called the Bibliothèque Historique de la Ville de Paris. BHVP for short.

I've explored other historic libraries in Paris. In my 2019 trip, I worked on my next novel in The Richelieu, The Arsenal, and The Mazarine.

This November 2025 trip to Paris, however, I made a new start on writing that novel. It's about a set designer, and a fashion designer wanna-be, sharing an apartment in Brooklyn and working in Manhattan (I don't do the Bronx, Queens, or Staten Island :)

I had written almost half in 2019 and recently decided to start absolutely from scratch. Every chapter written fresh. 

It's going well, thanks to the guidance of story consultant Lisa Cron's book. She says each character has to have a third rail. I had read that each character should have a visceral desire and an inner struggle that blocks her. But Cron brings those two elements together and says each character should have a third rail with two sides to it: the want and the misbelief that blocks it. 

I love the way she integrates the character struggle! My first couple of re-written chapters are electro-magnetically charged!

Now I'd like to share pictures from the BHVP. It was built as a mansion for a duchess in the 1500s. The United States has nothing like this:

Here are the gates, on Rue Pavée in the neighborhood known as Le Marais.

Do you often see a facade like this in the U.S.?

In the corner, the door to Paradise, the library.

This is the workroom. It's silent even though it's full of people. Everyone is focused on their work. It's the most marvelous place I've ever been in to write. I love, love, love it.

More of the facade.

The opposite corner from the door to Paradise.

A detail of the beams in the work room. Every day I asked for a seat "under the angels, because I work better there." That I said it in French (after looking up the word for beams), tickles me.

If you enjoyed this post, would you tell me in the Comments, below? I'd love to hear from you!

Would you share this post with a friend? Copy and paste the URL above and email it off!

Thank you!

A Story from my journalism career

Tweet

By Norma Hopcraft

Down the right hand column of this blog you can see my three new covers for the Tricia Maguire romantic suspense series.

Tricia Maguire is a feisty, funny young widow and journalist who takes big risks to find the stories that will lift her from her small Central Jersey newspaper to The New York Times.

She takes risks and lands in precarious situations. Just as I did when I was a reporter in Central Jersey.

I'll allow that she takes bigger risks than I ever did.

Here's the story:

Even though I didn't take the risks my character does, sometimes I was really scared.

At one point I was given an assignment to go to a fur salon in Central Jersey and interview the owner. His neighbors kept complaining—to the police, and when they did nothing, to the newspaper I worked for—that he was training pit bulls in his backyard. He had a full-length leather suit with thick gauntlets and targets for the dogs to attack -- the whole set-up for training dogs to attack intruders.

So I went on the assignment, not too concerned, thinking I’d interview the owner amongst the mink coats. Instead, he led me to his break room in the basement – where six pit bulls were hanging out!

He said they would be fine. I didn’t want to admit that I was scared out of my mind with this arrangement. But I couldn’t let my editor down. I wanted to fulfill my assignment. I was ambitious to do well at the newspaper.

So I stepped into the break room. The dogs ignored me. Thank God. In retrospect, I should never have taken that risk.

My character Tricia has the same desire to fulfill assignments—and not just that but a burning desire to rise in the journalism world. In my novel Envy Kills, she interviews an ex-con who has a German Shepherd on a leash—and then he lets go of it. She takes even bigger risks than that in the story. Both you and I can enjoy her tale from the comfort of our armchairs.

Click on one of the covers to the right to order your book today. Envy Kills went live today, and reviews are in:

"I love it! It's fun! It's a page turner!" -- Val J.

"Deep, rich, with interesting, believable characters -- and I'm an English major!" -- John M.

Next up: Photos from Paris, where I'm staying with friends and enjoying the City of Light.

Back to the Sahara desert for a beauty fix

Tweet

 By Norma Hopcraft

In desert camp I laid in the sand that night for a while to soak in the vast display of stars, sharp and clear, with the Milky Way a cloudy streak across the apex of the sky. So many billions of stars in just one galaxy, and there are an estimated 2 trillion more galaxies. That's up from an older estimate of 100-200 billion because of the Hubble and Webb space telescopes.

I left the night-sky vista reluctantly when the desert chill drove me into my tent. I was grateful to crawl between clean white sheets, with a soft blanket above, and then the rough camel-hair blanket. I was overnighting in a tent in the Sahara desert. It was beyond my wildest dreams.

The desert was beautiful in morning light.

Camels were still with us, some nestled into the sand overnight. I believe that the Tuareg tribesmen, les hommes bleus, who guarded the camp overnight, used them as their mode of transportation to get to their jobs.

The temperature is about to go up with the sun.

I couldn't get enough of these exotic (to me) creatures.

A panoramic view of the desert, ending with our mode of transporation back to civilization.

Our driver, whose name I regret forgetting. All the Tuareg drivers displayed an infectious joie de vivre. Their music does to (look into downloading some Tinariwen, Grammy-award winning Tuareg musicion). Tuaregs are a specific ethnic group within the larger Berber people of North Africa, who are known for their nomadic culture and distinct Berber language, Tamasheq.

"Berber" comes from Roman times and means "barbarian" or "foreigner." The Berbers refer to themselves as Amazigh, or "free people."

Here's yours truly in blue.

Our SUVs took our group back to town, perched precariously at the edge of the dunes, in a scene that's at least 1,000 years old--except for the SUV on the left edge.

In town, a tower inscribed with Berber designs.

Our bus headed away from the parched region into the High Atlas mountains.

News from the crossroads of beauty, adventure + creativity!

Tweet

 I'm whisking you away from the Sahara desert temporarily to share some news! 

 I've been writing away at the crossroads of beauty, adventure, and creativity. And I've emerged -- with a new novel! Here's the cover! Subscribers to my blog are the first to see it!

Envy Kills. I had fun writing it, in hopes that you would too as you read it. 

"Meet Tricia Maguire. What fun!" says Readers' Favorite. 

 "She's feisty but funny, holy but horny, nosey but nice." 

An ambitious young widow and journalist, Tricia dreams of romance and children with Justin Hardy, and a leap from her small New Jersey paper to The New York Times. But she's fighting more than deadlines -- her weight, her biological clock, her envy, and the scars of a disastrous first marriage that left her wary of men. 

When a shocking murder rocks the local museum, Tricia investigates with daring. Every suspect hides a darker motive than the last. A chase through a swamp. A gunfight in a solarium. An unstable killer. And in the end, Tricia discovers that envy does indeed kill. 

Will she achieve her Times-worthy ambitions -- or finally choose love? Can she make peace with herself before her battles consume her, despite her spiritual leanings? 

A witty, suspenseful mystery steeped in the grit of noir Central Jersey. 

You can preorder the ebook at a short-term price of $1.99. Paperback available soon.

Just think! A mystery in noir Central Jersey, in time for Halloween! Perfect! 

Praise from early readers just came in: "It's got really interesting, believable characters. Really well written -- rich, deep, interesting." -- John M, an English major 

"I'm loving it! It's fun!" -- Valerie J. 

Preorder Envy Kills before the price goes up! 

I hope you enjoy reading the novel as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Life-Changing Moment & Desert Camp!

Tweet

By Norma Hopcraft

My life changed radically during a long day on the bus crossing Morocco's dry southeast region.

We passed a man walking. The most recent hamlet was three miles behind us and we didn't pass another hamlet for five more miles. 

And the tumblers in my mind spun like crazy. 

I finally saw with utmost clarity that I was very rich. 

This man couldn't even afford a bicycle. Meanwhile I spun by on a bus, having been able to afford a plane ticket from America and this tour.

And one of our guides had told me that poor Moroccan girls go to Saudi Arabia and other oil-rich Arab countries to become second and third wives. In spite of the resentment of the other wives that they have to live with, they consider this a big improvement in life--at last, enough food.

I live now thanking God for the level at which I live. No matter that it's not as extravagant as some other people's. I have a bicycle in the garage and enough food on the table.

After a long dusty journey, and our camel ride and 4x4 drive across the desert dunes, we arrived at our desert camp for the night.

At the edge of the desert camp was a rest area of sofas, cushions, and rugs. The rest area led to the desert.

Our group walked out to watch the sun set over the dunes.

When the sun goes down over the Sahara, it's a big relief.

A caravan heading to their night camp.

An animal leaving his mysterious signs in the desert.

A Tuareg man, un homme bleu, passing us as he heads to his camp.

We stayed in tents (with running water). My bed had what I believe to be a camel hair blanket.

The dining tent. Tuareg men served dinner. We were within walking distance of the border with Algeria. There's a lot of tension between Morocco and this country. We were told not to go near.

 

Mystery and Beauty of the Sahara Desert

Tweet

 By Norma Hopcraft

The Sahara is a dry plateau not necessarily covered with sand dunes, Aziz, our group's guide, told us. In fact, he insisted we were not in the Sahara yet.

But for the last full day we'd been bussed across a dry plateau. When we had stepped off the bus for a break, our footsteps sent up puffs of dust. We'd been parched even though drinking lots of bottled water. 

Then we came up to some sand dunes. I got my first camel ride, my first 4x4 drive on sand dunes, my first night ever out under the desert stars.

In my opinion, we were in the Sahara. You can decide for yourself from the pictures.

The sand dunes ahead of us said "Sahara Desert" to me. I was there, in my opinion, in this mystic desert, the setting of thousands of stories.

A troop of camels rested on dry ground from their labors carrying tourists.

My first ever camel ride! What a hoot--I had to hang on tight while the camel got lurchingly to his feet.

Tuareg tribesmen handled the camels. They traditionally dress in blue robes.

A profile of my camel. I admired the sand-filtering fringe on his ears and his eyelids.

Some people rented ATVs to go out onto the barren dunes, in the distance.

My shadow, hanging on for dear life on the rocking camel, trying to fire off some shots without blurring.

Our Touareg guide helped me with this shot. Looks like I do too much sitting and writing ...

Camels are tall! I was way up in the air. The gait of a camel is uncomfortable, and so was the saddle. I couldn't imagine crossing the whole desert like this, day after day. 

When we got back from our 30-minute camel ride, both the camel and I were relieved.

Our driver of the 4x4 took us out to our desert camp for an overnight. He was dressed in the traditional blue bubu (robe) and turban that doubled as a scarf. The Tuareg are known as "Les Hommes Bleus du Sahara". They are renown as fierce warriors. They also live in a matriarchal society. The women are in charge. I saw one man in blue veil himself with his scarf, covering his nose and mouth, as a sign of respect for women when I passed him in a narrow passageway.

Our driver took us over sand dunes like a roller coaster. He was playing Tuareg music on the radio, an artist named Tinariwen. This musician won a Grammy for World Music. His genre is known as "Desert Blues," and it sounded great as we swooped through the Sahara. He's available on Apple Music and probably Spotify. I play his music all the time, now that I'm back from Morocco. He's a great favorite.