Miguel de Cervantes and William Shakespeare are considered to be two of the greatest writers in the history of world literature, and not only were they contemporaries, but they died on the same day - April 23rd, 1616. In Catalonia, an autonomous region in NE Spain, April 23rd is celebrated as both the Day of the Book (in honor of Shakespeare and Cervantes) and the Day of the Rose because it is the day we celebrate the patron saint of Catalonia, Sant Jordi (see previous post for more about this).

Please join me on a photo tour of Barcelona on this special day.....

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What do Miguel de Cervantes and William Shakespeare have in common? They are considered to be two of the greatest writers in the history of world literature and, not only were they contemporaries, but they died on the same day - April 23rd, 1616, which is recognized in Catalonia, an autonomous region in NE Spain, as the Day of the Book.

In Catalonia, April 23rd is also the Day of the Rose because it is the day we celebrate the patron saint of Catalonia, Sant Jordi. The story goes that as the dying dragon's blood touched the earth, a red rose appeared which Sant Jordi then presented to his rescued princess. Sound a bit like St. George? You're right, because St. George is Sant Jordi in the Catalan language.

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In bleak midwinter 2002, I moved to rural Lancashire, in northern England, an incongruous place for an American expat. The first months were so oppressively dark, I felt I was trapped inside some claustrophobic gothic novel. But then came spring in a tide of bluebells and hawthorn. The wild Pennine landscape cast its spell on me.

I live at the foot of Pendle Hill, famous throughout the world as the place where George Fox received his vision that moved him to found the Quaker religion in 1652. But Pendle is also steeped in its legends of the Lancashire Witches.

In 1612, seven women and two men from Pendle Forest were hanged for witchcraft. The most notorious of the accused, Bess Southerns, aka Old Demdike, cheated the hangman by dying in prison. This is how Thomas Potts describes her in The Wonderfull Discoverie of Witches in the Countie of Lancaster:

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Within minutes of becoming a grandmother at 58, I realized that my take on my new role in no way resembled a Hallmark greeting card. I didn't know exactly what sort of grandmother I would be, but I was fairly certain that I would not turn into some sweet, silly, sexless, cookie-baking, compulsively knitting stereotype.

Because I'm a writer and and writing is how I make sense of my life, I started taking notes. There was plenty to write about. For one thing, I had no idea how I fit into the new order. It seemed as if my newborn granddaughter, Isabelle Eva, was mine but not mine--emphasis on the not. I knew her parents loved me, but how much did they want me around? How much did I want to be around? And how best to cope with the five other grandparents, all vying for the attention of one small infant?

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I have a problem with twins. Nothing personal, you understand. In fact I have a pair myself and two more beautiful, wondrous children it would be hard to find (I may be biased here).

No, my problem is with twins in literature. And the problem is that, in books, no-one is ever just a twin. No, being a twin is always a plot device. If you are reading a detective story and someone mentions that they have a twin, look no further for the killer. If your taste is for lighter fiction and a character has a twin, brace yourself for hilarious romantic complications. Phoebe and Ursula In Friends are prime examples. In a comedy, you are bound to kiss your boyfriend's twin brother; in a crime novel, your long-lost twin is very likely to kill you. Incest, yes. Mistaken identity, yes. Good and evil, yin and yang. Yes, yes, yes.

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As a child I was utterly possessed by the past which came to me in books; it seemed somehow a better, more orderly place where I could be myself and live a fuller life. "....to come back to where we started and know the place for the first time," says the great poet T.S. Eliot in his Four Quartets. Is it that time is an illusion, that in some way outside of our small sphere people float freely between ages?

Some historical writers feel they are called by the past; some feel they actually lived there. Do we re-imagine former lives, or somehow, deep inside us, do we remember them? While researching my latest novel on Monet, I got teary finding a street in Paris where he lived when twenty-five, when no one wanted his paintings and when he first fell in love. I sensed his hope and despair.

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