Mary Balogh

Growing Up in Wales

I grew up in post-war Wales as Mary Jenkins. It was in many ways an idyllic childhood even though Swansea, my home town, had been heavily bombed during the war, rationing was still on, and material possessions were few. If anyone knew how to stretch a penny to do the work of two, it was my mother.

My sister, Moira, two years older than I, was my constant playmate and soul-mate. We both have a hard time convincing people who did not know us then that we were almost inseparable yet never quarrelled. Our few dolls became our family. They had names, personalities, histories. We used to lie awake in bed at night--until our mother would call up, promising dire consequences if we did not stop talking--inventing stories about our dolls' antics. On summer days Mam would construct a tent out of blankets, string and clothes pegs attached to the clothesline and the garden fence, and we would play "house" all day. The neighbours must have cringed when we took our dolls for walks in the strollers Dad made for us, complete with solid--and excruciatingly noisy--wooden wheels.

Moira and I both used to fill notebooks with stories. We read voraciously--especially every book of Enid Blyton'swe could get our hands on when we were younger, the classics when we were a little older. We both used to say that we wanted to be authors when we grew up, though the word we used then was authoress. We both fulfilled our dream, though we both financed it with careers as high school English teachers.

Our mother, Mildred Jenkins, was and is a homemaker and gave us a life of marvellous security. She has always excelled at numerous crafts, most recently exquisite lace-making. In the days of our childhood she used to sew all our dresses and knit all our sweaters while we did the same for our dolls. Our father, Arthur Jenkins, was a painter and sign writer at the time when the latter was still a skilled manual art. He was a gentle, patient, widely loved man. Our favourite game many evenings was combing his hair, buttoning and unbuttoning his waistcoat, and covering him with shawls when he must have been exhausted after a day's work.

Settling in Canada

I had a very good education thanks to parents who emphasized the importance of school and career at a time when many people were still saying that education was wasted on girls. I was fortunate to be young at a time when there was employment in almost any field I might have chosen. I wanted to teach and travel, and came to Kipling, Saskatchewan, Canada, on a two-year teaching contract. But at the end of the first year I had a blind date with a man named Robert Balogh and found a tall, sharply dressed, blue-eyed Adonis standing in my landlady's kitchen when I came down from my room on the fateful evening. We were married a little over a year later.

Robert used to farm but now rents his land to his brother and nephew. He is an ambulance driver and coroner.

We have three adult children. Jacqueline, married to Larry Wiesner, lives in Kipling and is studying and training to be a nurse. She has three children: Matthew, Shianne, and Jayden. Chris is a musician and works as a guitar technician and tour manager for various bands. In 2000 and 2001 he has been working with the AC/DC world tour. Si, married to Kristian Harper, lives in Los Angeles, where they are both employed in the music industry. Si is also studying architecture at university.

Kipling is a small farming community (population 1200) in the middle of the Canadian prairies. Winters are long and hard, though the prevailing blue skies and sunshine often make a winter wonderland of the outdoors. Walking with Robert along our street one morning last winter, looking at the bare tree branches of the park laden with hoar frost against the blue of the sky, breathing in the clear, crisp air, it came to me in a flash--this was heaven, right here, right now. Contrary to popular myths about Canada, we have very hot summers.

Making Dreams Come True

Wanting to be an author is a dream; wanting to be a teacher is an practical goal. The goal I could and did work toward. Then, of course, marriage and motherhood intervened to take more and more time off my hands. Sian was six years old before I felt I had enough time to take up an evening hobby--writing!

I was addicted to the novels of Georgette Heyer, whom I had discovered only a few years before while working my way through a Grade XI reading list during a maternity leave. I cannot adequately explain how enchanted I was, how transported into a world I had experienced before only through Jane Austen. I knew that if ever I wrote, it was that romantic world of Regency England that I wanted to recreate.

And so A Masked Deception got written in longhand at the kitchen table while home and family functioned around me after the supper dishes were done. Finally, at the end of 1983, three months after I had started it, the manuscript was ready to be submitted. But where? And how? I knew nothing about the publishing world and nothing about any writers' organizations. To say I was a greenhorn would be to flatter me. I picked out the publisher I thought did the best job of Regencies, found a Canadian address inside the cover of one of the Signet books, and sent my manuscript there with a brief covering letter. The Mississauga address was a mere distribution centre! But incredibly someone there read the manuscript, liked, it, wrote to tell me so, and sent it on to New York. Two weeks later I had a call from Hilary Ross, offering me a two-book contract. Sometimes it pays not to have a clue what one is doing!

And so the dream became reality. A Masked Deception was published in 1985 and I won the Romantic Times Award for best new Regency writer that year. Since then there have been numerous Regencies, historicals, and novellas, and more awards too.

My first five books were written longhand and typed into an ancient typewriter. The First Snowdrop was the first book to be written into a computer--an all-in-one dinosaur of a machine that had me in transports of delight. I could actually go back and correct typing errors! I could make wholesale changes without having to rewrite the whole thing. Best of all--and I still have not quite recovered from the novelty of this--when I was finished, I could press a key (no mouse in those days!) and the printer would do the typing for me while I put my feet up and relaxed--or washed another load of dishes, or marked another set of essays...

Finally, in 1988, I was able to retire from teaching after twenty years in order to devote myself to my dream career. And as the children grew up and left home and empty bedrooms behind them, I was able to set up my own study and surround myself with all my books and finest treasures.

Let no one ever say that dreams cannot come true. They can with vision and effort and a little luck--well, perhaps a great deal of luck.

When I am not Writing

I am a voracious reader. I read anything and everything--fiction, non-fiction, classics, blockbusters, you name it--provided it can hold and sustain my attention through the first fifty pages. I used to plod dutifully through every book I started, but that changed after I suffered through Moby Dick a number of years ago. Life is too short and there are too many unread books out there for time to be wasted on what does not entertain me in any way at all. My favourite reading-associated activity is the monthly meeting with the book club to which I belong. There are eight of us, and we get together to discuss a book we have all read. We all suggest possible titles, and so we get to read all sorts of books we would never have dreamed of reading otherwise. I have discovered some gems.

I love music. This is hardly surprising, of course, when I grew up in Wales, most famous for its music. If you have not listened to a Welsh male voice choir, you have missed one of the most emotionally satisfying experiences of this life. I wrote a great deal about Welsh music in my historical Longing, most quoted by readers, I believe, as their favourite of my books. I am a member of our community choir.