New Employers

Her first impression of Alane Gylmyn was not promising. He was a tall, thin man with a shock of black hair falling into a white face with two wide, staring eyes—almost comical—and a drooping chin. He looked alarmed to see a pretty young woman standing on his doorstep, looking up at him with a nervous, but obviously determined, face.

“May I see Madam Gylmyn, please?”

“Why, why, yes of course. May, may I get your name please?”

“Alyssum Bourne, from Saltersgate.”

“Saltersgate, you say. You’ve come quite a long way then?”

“Yes, sir, I have. May I hitch my horse?”

“Of course, yes, please let me help you.”

Cecily smiled for the first time in days as the awkward young man took Grane’s reins from her hand and led him away, leaving her to go inside alone.

The house was pleasant, whitewashed, simple. Though this was presumably the home of a “fallen” family, it was far and away more modern than Cecily had ever seen, even in Granton Castle. A small fireplace was set into one corner of the room with a tidy row of ornaments gracing the mantle and a neat little fire burning away inside. The simple chairs, doors, and tables were all immaculate, the rugs on the well-swept floor had been painstakingly straightened, and even the shafts of sunlight shining through spotless windows had the decency to be an impeccable white. This room, and presumably all rooms beyond and above it, was utterly irreproachable, trim, and orderly. Cecily ran her finger along the top of a tiny side table and wondered why this family needed a maid, when she looked up to see that a gray figure had silently appeared in the room.

“Good morning. Are you here to answer for the position?”

Cecily locked her quivering legs and got out the words, “I am here to apply for work as a maid.”

The woman was obviously a close relation to the man who had opened the door, they had both been painted with the same unflinching brush. This person (whom Cecily would soon learn to call Muire) was spare of frame, very pale, and dressed in the most efficient manner possible. She sat down in one of the hard wooden chairs and gestured for Cecily to take a seat. What followed was a battery of questions, delivered in a clipped and decisive manner, that made the cottager girl from Whitcrowe squirm helplessly in her seat.

When the interview ended Cecily remained seated, looking at Muire’s bowed head as the woman scribbled something on a thin sheet of paper, silent as the grave. Finally, she raised her ashy eyes to Cecily’s face and folded the paper, running her fingernail down the fold so that it flattened in a perfect half. “I will have to see what Mother has to say.”

As soon as the words left her mouth a door opened to reveal a dark hallway beyond, and the figure of a bent little woman. This woman was also thin and white, but with the tiniest spark of color in her crinkly cheeks; she walked with the aid of a gnarled stick, but it didn’t seem to inhibit her movement much because she hobbled rapidly over to Cecily as soon as she saw her and leaned in close with her bird-like face. “So this is our new maid, Muire? Quite pretty, isn’t she, I wouldn’t have believed it. Didn’t think God made girls like that nowadays. So pleased to meet you dearie, what did you say your name was?”

“I, I didn’t. It’s Alyssum—”

“Ah, alyssum. That’s the sort of flower you put in rockeries isn’t it? Lovely name dear, our garden used to be bursting with alyssum, that is until Muire pulled it all up and put in those dreadful weedy things.”

Muire Gylmyn looked like a candle wick that’s just been doused with cold water, practically dripping with outraged self-importance and all but glaring at her mother from behind lowered lashes. Cecily felt like congratulating the garrulous old woman.

Soon Cecily was ensconced in a rather more comfortable chair and sipping strong black tea while Madam G rambled along, relating the entire family history back to the time of the Campaigns. Muire had gone to visit some ailing relative, Alane was curled up in a corner with a book half the size of a horse, and a third sibling, Deirdre, sat across from Cecily with a half-finished quilt in her lap. Deirdre was slightly plumper than the rest of her family, but came equipped with some of her sister’s clean practicality. There had been another sister, Cecily soon learned, a woman named Eithne who had made a very nice match about a month ago and then gone away to raise chickens in the Fornaway Islands. 

Medieval Houses, a photo by stevecadman on Flickr.

Music and Writing

I love listening to music when I write. In fact, music is what stimulated much of my creativity for the plot of Beast and Beauty. When I'm cleaning, walking, or sitting in front of an unfinished manuscript, music--especially movie soundtracks--get my mind moving in unconventional ways. I have a playlist that I set to shuffle, and if a song with winsome strings and a heartsick melody comes up then I'll contemplate a scene that involves those same feelings in my characters. If the next track is rhythmic with a pounding bass that anticipates danger then I'll turn my thoughts to an especially frightening or perilous scene. Music helps me feel what my characters are feeling, and get inside their hearts and heads to discover what the circumstances are that make them act the way they do.

Here is a tiny sampling of some of my favorite "inspirational" songs. They have helped shape my story and I am forever grateful to the marvelous composers. Maybe they'll spark something in your creativity as well!

A Dialogue Dilemma

I've been having a rough time trying to decide how to write realistic, believable dialogue for my "medieval" fantasy characters. I wonder if I should make their language archaic and flowery, or more palatable to the modern ear. I don't want to sound pedantic, but am afraid that if the words coming out of my characters' mouths are too modern, it will seem anachronistic. I'm not sure that I'm capable of writing absolutely "authentic" dialogue, anyway!

For example, how do I get the point across in this passage of dialogue, staying true to the setting but also using vocabulary that is readable?

   “Cessy, are you happy here?”

   “I think so.”

   “You don’t sound very sure.”

   “Perhaps it’s because I’m not really sure what happiness is. Is it adventure? Is it greatness? Is it meaning? Is it love? Is it contentment? Is it wonder? Is it skill? Is it a little bit of everything? How can I tell if I’m happy if I hardly know the meaning of the word?”

   Alis gave a low, husky laugh. “I’m afraid that there isn’t a set definition, dearie. It’s different for everyone. I was happy with your father, happier than I had any right to be, but he would have driven another woman half mad with all his quirks and follies. That was my happiness—my home, my friends, my daughter. Your happiness may be very different indeed.”

I asked a fellow authoress her opinion of my predicament. Betsy St. Amant from the Scribble Chicks blog says this:

This is a tough one. The same rule sort of applies here as to dialect, such as someone who speaks with a strong southern accent, or any accent, etc. You don't want the dialect to be so strong and in every sentence so the reader gets frustrated and puts the book down. The way experts advise handling that is to introduce that character with a slightly strong first sentence. Then the next scene, tone it down to maybe two or three dialect words. Then from then on, only one per scene or so. Enough to remind the reader of their accent so they can "hear it" without bombarding them with it to the point of having to wade through dialogue.  

Your question is similiar though not identical. Could the same rule somehow apply to your situation? Maybe start a little archaic and flowery, and immeidately tone it down and keep it subtle as the novel progresses? If you set it up the way you want it, then you can trust your reader to continue to "hear it" and understand as they go.  

This is probably going to be a trial and error type of situation. I'd recommend trying what I suggested and having a reader or friend give you their honest opinion as to how it flows.Also, think about what YOU like - because you're a reader too. When you read a medieval fantasy novel, do you like reading poetic dialogue that might take you longer to comprehend but is true to the times? Or would you rather get on with the story?

What fantastic advice! I'll try my best to implement it.

What is your opinion of this dilemma?

women talk, a photo by hans s on Flickr.

The Gift

Half an hour later she arrived at the cottage to find her mother. “That bag over in the corner is for you, dearie. It was brought by a pageboy from the castle this afternoon. He said it was a gift.” Cecily didn’t notice the anxious, halting tone in her mother’s voice. She immediately hurried to untie the thin cord that bound the shapeless bag. When it fell away she gazed upon a single rose in full bloom—deep, rich purple in color— in a delicate glass vase. The petals were absolutely perfect and gave off a deep, rich, honeyed scent. “Cessy, it’s beautiful! Do you know who gave it to you?

   “It’s one of Lady Mallkyn’s prize roses, the ones she keeps in her private garden that no one is allowed to touch.”

   “Did she send it to you then?”

   “Oh no, of course not. It was—one of her friends. I…did a special service for her.”

   “Ah, I see. I gift of gratitude.”

   She smiled, thinking that, yes, it was something like that.

Deepa vali, a photo by An& on Flickr.

"Welcome to Roseburn Hall."

Things had obviously been left alone for a good long time. The air was stale, and had the damp and musty smell of a place long shut-up. Thick layers of velvety dust covered every surface. Spiders had had their way with the nooks and crannies. Dead insects were piled up against the walls. Either this family has employs as many servants to keep the house as they do gardeners to tend the gardens, or Rivens has not been telling me the whole truth. Cecily leaned toward the latter possibility.

Mystery Corridor, a photo by flattop341 on Flickr.

Beyond the entrance hall with its vast windows, the house was almost completely dark. It seemed that every other window in the place had been tightly shuttered in an attempt to block any light from entering. Cecily walked slowly through silent corridors, up winding staircases, into parlors, studies, and a library. In that last room she stood looking around her for a long time, mutely wondering at the fireplace with a mantelpiece higher than most cottages, and carved with larger-than-life sculptures of men and women dancing. The chairs were large and heavily carved; a fly buzzed around a tall window—not shuttered this time—hung with heavy green drapes. Cecily wandered over to a small inlaid table beside one of the chairs and picked up a goblet that had been carelessly left there. Something struck her about the glass, but she had to stare at it for several moments before she realized what it was. It isn’t dusty.

   
Leaving the library, Cecily noticed a few more things that did not belong in a completely deserted house: a dirty plate on a table in the hall, a pair of boots sitting at the top of the stairs. And yet she also found a dead bird lodged in a tarnished metal vase in the dining hall. She kept walking up, down, and throughout until she was completely lost, then finally opened a door into what had once been a bedroom.

   
Then her first suspicions were confirmed. The room was nearly bare, and what little furniture was left was cheap and old and swathed in white sheets like burial shrouds. She opened more doors up and down the passageway, and each one was the same. Some rooms were completely vacant. As she climbed more stairs she found that the rooms grew barer with every level, and the top floor held hardly anything at all. Her manner was calm and deliberate, but her hands were shaking and her mind raced. There is something not quite right about this place. It’s open, and it’s obviously been lived in by somebody. Why are so many things missing? Why is it shuttered? Why does no one care for it, and yet there is someone who drinks from goblets, eats from plates, and leaves their muddy boots lying about.

  
Cecily turned from the last room at the end of an especially long corridor and went back the way she had come, trying to ignore the strange figures in the tapestries that seemed to move as she walked. Climbing down a flight of steps with the sounds of her own footsteps echoing off the bare walls, Cecily suddenly stopped halfway down. Perhaps it was merely the effect of the echo, but she was almost certain that she had heard a second set of footsteps in the distance. All was silent however, and so she proceeded.

  
Three featureless rooms and one servants’ passage later, Cecily realized that she had no concept of where she was in the great house. The shuttered windows let in no sight of the grounds to give her an idea of direction, and all the corridors blended together into an incomprehensible maze. Trying to calm her racing nerves, Cecily picked up her pace and began walking faster through the rooms—not quite running—and tried to remember that Rivens was just outside, outside that window perhaps, and that there was nothing to be afraid of.

   
Even as she reassured herself, she realized that the echo of her footsteps was not moving as quickly as she was. There was a delay of several seconds before the echo quickened its stride. Forgetting her comforting thoughts in a rush of blood to her heart, Cecily gave a stifled cry and ran with all her strength through a music room, a room hung with green, a hall with a painted ceiling, and down one or two flights of stairs before she found herself on the wrong side of a door that refused to open. Nearly crying in frustration and growing terror, Cecily wrenched at the handle and banged loudly on the door, frightening a pair of doves that had taken up residence in the rafters above her. There was absolutely no doubt of it now. Her “echo” was still walking—and not crying or pounding—swiftly and steadily through the maze of passages toward her. Silent with helplessness, wondering what kind of person could live in a house like that, and throwing desperate prayers up to Heaven, she waited with her hand on the door handle, her back to the other entrance. The rapid movement of feet suddenly stopped. She kept perfectly still, though she could hear the sound of heavy breathing and knew that her shadow was in the room. Suddenly a smooth, low voice said,

   
“Welcome to Roseburn Hall.”

Character Sketch: Cecily Lockton

CECILY LOCKTON:

Physiology:

1. Sex – Female.

2. Age – About 18.

3. Height and Weight – Medium height and slim.

4. Colour of hair, eyes, skin – Long, straight black hair; brown eyes; clear, tanned skin.

5. Posture – An eager slump, as if looking forward to something.

6. Appearance (Good looking, obese, lean, pleasant) – Gorgeous and refined. Definitely the town beauty.

7. Defects – She might be called too-tanned.

Sociology:

1. Class (lower, upper, middle) – Very low, a cotter.

2. Occupation (type of work, attitude towards work, income) – Farming and housework in the castle.

3. Education (type of school, level of education) – Nothing. Can’t even read.

4. Life at home (parents, siblings, earning power, parents separated, divorced, character’s marital status, children) – She lives alone with her widowed mother, whom she adores. They barely make it financially, but are very close to one another.

5. Religion – Believes in God, but has trouble trusting Him.

6. Race, Nationality – Ummm, yaah.

7. Place in community (head of a club, respected, wanted) – She’s a beautiful girl who thinks herself a step above the Whitcrowe provincials. Needless to say, this attitude earns her something of a reputation as a proud girl, too big for her britches.

8. Political affiliations – Dislikes bowing and scraping to authority, but deals with it all right.

Psychology:

1. Sex life, moral standards – Always had high standards, but when push comes to shove she’s longing for something serious—in or out of marriage.

2. Personal premise, ambition – She longs for a life that means something. She wants to accomplish great things, to be great. She longs to love a man with similar hopes and dreams—to create things, use imagination, and do meaningful work.

3. Frustrations, disappointments – She’s aggravated at the “village yokels” she’s grown up around. She longs for something grander and deeper, which she can’t ever seem to find.

4. Temperament (easygoing, pessimistic) – She’s friendly, and kind-hearted, but she knows her mind and doesn’t appreciate being crossed. Very independent.

5. Attitude towards life (resigned, militant) – Life is something to be seized and created. It should be a wild adventure.

6. Complexes (obsessions, inhibitions, superstitions, phobias) – She’s got a major problem with pride, and likes to take charge of things. Something of a control-freak.

7. Extrovert, introvert – Definitely an introvert.

8. Abilities (languages, talents) – She is a fine gardener.

9. Qualities – Loving, devoted, friendly, kind-hearted, ambitious, passionate.

10. I.Q. – Rather high.

Dippin' Into the Ale....

“Bess, have ye seen to that duck? Good gracious, child, ye’d burn the whole supper if I let ye!”

   Bess practically skipped over to the fire where a plump bird was sizzling on a spit. She turned it once or twice in a preoccupied sort of way and Luveday noticed with annoyance that there was a dreamy sort of smile spread across Bess’s entire face.

   “And what’re ye grinnin’ like a little idiot fer?”

   Bess laughed. “Ah, Luveday, my only wish in the world is that everyone could be as happy as I am right now.”

   “Hmmph,” she said, as if Bess had absolutely no right to be happy at all. “Been dippin’ into the ale, have ye?” She made a guttural slurping noise in the back of her throat that seemed to signal disgust. “Girls is all the same these days. Think that love is all about butterflies and pixie dust.”

   “Surely you had your own love when you were young, dear?”

   Having a servant girl call her “dear” was probably the last straw.  Luveday creamed the Brussels sprouts with a ferocious arm and muttered something under her breath about cheeky little chits. Bess giggled to herself as she replayed the afternoon with Ronnie in her mind for the fortieth time, and the ill-fated duck caught fire. 

Character Sketch: Bess Walpole

BESS WALPOLE:

Physiology:

1. Sex – Female.

2. Age – About 18.

3. Height and Weight – Short-ish and plump.

4. Colour of hair, eyes, skin – Curly blonde with small blue eyes and clear skin.

5. Posture – Comfortably straight.

6. Appearance (Good looking, obese, lean, pleasant) – Sweet, charming, girlish.

7. Defects – She thinks herself a bit too plump.

Sociology:

1. Class (lower, upper, middle) – Very low, a cotter.

2. Occupation (type of work, attitude towards work, income) – Farming and housework in the castle.

3. Education (type of school, level of education) – Nothing. Can’t even read.

4. Life at home (parents, siblings, earning power, parents separated, divorced, character’s marital status, children) – Her parents are married rather happily, though they have their problems like anyone else. She lives with them and her two brothers.

5. Religion – Christian in a modest, unassuming kind of way.

6. Race, Nationality – Ummm, yaah.

7. Place in community (head of a club, respected, wanted) – She’s the “all-American-girl-next-door”, well-liked by the laddies.

8. Political affiliations – Doesn’t mind the Earl so much; it’s just the way life is.

Psychology:

1. Sex life, moral standards – Rather high standards, but she does like a good cuddle.

2. Personal premise, ambition – Nothing much. She wants to be a wife and mother, work hard and enjoy life.

3. Frustrations, disappointments – She’s very easygoing, but when tries to keep Cecily on the right track. Definitely dislikes Jevan.

4. Temperament (easygoing, pessimistic) – Like I said: easygoing. And optimistic on the whole. Shy-ish.

5. Attitude towards life (resigned, militant) – Pleasantly oblivious. Doesn’t ask much.

6. Complexes (obsessions, inhibitions, superstitions, phobias) – She’s a bit superstitious (who wouldn’t be with a mum like Gracia?), but nothing beyond that.

7. Extrovert, introvert – A quiet extrovert.

8. Abilities (languages, talents) – She can balance crockery on her head.

9. Qualities – Extremely loyal, kindhearted, and loving.

10. I.Q. – Mid-range. 

Can You Help Me?

Secret Garden Steps, originally uploaded by llamnudds.

I'm on the hunt for inspiration: through pictures. Do you think that you could give me a few links to pictures of "secret gardens"? If so, you would earn my eternal gratitude! Here are a few examples:

Entrance to my secret garden, originally uploaded by tibchris.

The secret garden, originally uploaded by edbrambley.

Strawberries

Planted Strawberry in Pot, originally uploaded by Limerick6.

"Here, taste this." He turned his head to a suspicious angle, then slowly opened his mouth. Cecily plucked a berry from the small bush, rubbed it on her skirt, and popped it onto his tongue. 


He bit down and gave a strange smile. "What is it?"


"A strawberry! Surely you've eaten strawberries before."


"Of course, but I don't recall any of them tasting like this. It's the most wonderful thing I've ever eaten. "


"What? Does it taste like dirt and rain and insects?"


"No, like the closest thing to eating something alive."

Cecily gave a small laugh that said, surely I should expect this by now. "You are the strangest fish I've ever met."


"And do you like strange fish?" If he had been able to look he would have been looking at hard at her face, trying to interpret the curves and lines. As it was his sightless eyes were aimed in the general direction of the lake where the sun's last rays were just disappearing from the water's surface. 


"Very much so."

A Cloud of Witnesses....

It's fantastic to have a circle of fellow "writing-fiends" gathered around you. The companionship is amazing because a cluster of Writers is not like an affinity group of "piano tuners", "gym-goers" or "arborists" (or at least I imagine not, despite having never been any of these): being a writer seems to me more like being a man, a woman, or an African-American. It's an identity that goes beyond a hobby and into the way our brains work and the strange things we do to our lives. Being a Writer is more than a pastime, it's a lifestyle.


I love sitting around with my Writer pals and having heated discussions over characters, plot-twists, favorite authors, and the frustrations and joys that come with opening your vein and putting it all on paper. I could jabber on for hours about my ideas and brainstorms, and it's fabulous to have someone who knows that feeling to bounce it all off of. It's the lovely presence of audience, interest, and appreciation--not to mention the "lightbulb moments" that sometimes get kickstarted in that kind of atmosphere. 


That's why I would highly recommend any Writer to join a club or support network of some kind--on the internet or in the real world--where you can be criticized, awed, and inspired. There's really nothing like it. 

Introducing Roseburn Hall

Old Photograph Tyninghame House Scotland, originally uploaded by Tour Scotland Photographs.

   Seven years ago all the lights in Roseburn Hall had gone out for the first time in a century. There had always been at least one candle—in the window of the porter’s lodge—burning through the night to beckon guests and warn away strangers. Seven years ago all of the windows went dark. There had always been a throng of serving women in clean white aprons to polish the expensive tables and keep flowers in vases. Seven years ago the fine furniture was left to molder in dusty corners.

   The few servants that were left had scurried through the last steps of departure, wringing hands, saying choked farewells, and laying flowers at a fresh tomb—like a temple to the past. Doors were shut and bolted tight, wagons clattered away, and an air of disuse settled down on the great house almost immediately. 

   The lady of the hall was dead, her only child had been sent to live with family, and so the ancient home of her family was destined to fall into ruin unless someone should come and take up residence there. Not likely, for all its wealth and grandeur. It was remote, reserved, and there was only one person in the world now with a right to it.

   And so it stood for years, its weary stone rebuffing the wind, slate tiles defying the rain, shutters fighting off the mildew. The gardens catapulted into activity, reclaiming all the clean-cut paths and statuesque shrubbery with nature’s own wild landscape. To the eyes of the world the Hall was still and solitary, wholly abandoned. 

To Be Original....

Wordsmithing is such a tricky thing. One moment I feel wonderfully original--creative phrases and metaphors flow from my fingertips onto the keyboard and everything goes smoothly. Then I'm afraid it's going too smoothly--that I'm just recycling stock phrases and tired cliches gleaned from other authors.

So what is it? 

Am I using too many adjectives, am I using too few? Are "became a blur", "pointed looks", "no longer paying attention", "blinked furiously", "clearing the cobwebs", "the figure straightened", etc. all just over-used, meaningless phrases? Is my "well balanced" sentence structure falling into a mind-numbing pattern?


Alas, self-doubt would seem to be the writer's constant companion.

Why?

After pelting uphill and downhill and breakneck speeds, not talking but only trying to keep their seats and their breaths, they finally stopped at border of the forest. All three were panting, inhaling deeply and calming their jumpy nerves. Jevan slipped off the horse’s back and held up his hands to help Cecily descend. Together they looked out at the noonday landscape, and then she turned to him. There was that wild look deep in his eyes—a look that bespoke ambition and a man who knew himself, an her. Reaching her fingers up to brush his cheek, Cecily leaned in and touched her lips to his, and he responded.

   

Buttercup beauty, a photo by jillyspoon on Flickr.

It was a little different, though, she thought. Different than last time. There was passion, yes, and it felt so right, but was it only her imagination that there was the smallest hesitation? She pulled away from him and heard his voice, like water running over a deep blue, “Cecily, you are the first woman I’ve ever loved.”

   
“You are the only man I will ever love.”

   
“And what am I to say to that, dearest?”

   
“Jevan, when will we be married?”

   
The cold look entered his eyes, the look she almost feared every time she saw it. It was a look of distance, of backing away and into shadows where she couldn’t reach him. “Jevan?”

   

Fatality in the Rain

The Rain-Collecting Road, originally uploaded by ashleigh290.

Since you're obviously reading this, you need to know that this scene (this entire subplot) is no longer a part of the story. I included a snippet here, though, as it is one of the scenes that was hardest to cut. Enjoy!

_______________________

   
A cart was rattling rapidly down the street, the farmer was impatient to get home. Rain had been washing the world into a giant mud puddle for the past four days, and this street (nothing more than a narrow dirt track that caught the runoff from every other street in town) was becoming nearly impassable.

Most of the townspeople were sitting inside their warm, brightly-lit homes—the tall imposing ones that only well-to-do merchants could afford; the kind that seemed to lean in to touch each other over the street, blocking out the light. The farmer sneered at the tall houses as he passed under them, and was drenched with a bucketful of water from one of their rainspouts for his pains. Cursing and shivering, hunching up his shoulders against a world that hated him, he neglected to see a small child playing at the edge of the road. It was a little girl with golden hair, a red dress, and small white fingers that were making two wooden dolls fall in love.

The farmer did not see her. The horses did not see her. All they saw was the mist of rain that fell like a sodden gray blanket on the air. The girl did not see the cart or the pounding hooves of the horses. All she saw was her dolls. The only one who saw anything and everything was a woman with strands of wet, gray hair who stood at the other side of the street.

Silencing the Babble

Though I've rarely delved deep into writing advice, it seems as if I am always hearing snippets of advice from out of nowhere: Show, don't tell. Strong dialog sells. Don't get into too many people's heads! Adverbs are the devil incarnate. Write what you know. Write what you don't know. Eliminate all passive voice. Pay attention to rhythm, sentence length, the tone of your voice. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. It's that old adage: a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.

Anne Lamott writes about a lovely little radio station called KFKD (not going into what that stands for). It is constantly bombarding the airwaves with negative vibes, criticism, and self-doubt. Authors can tune in at any time to hear the lovely strains of despair and defeat. I hate that station, but for some reason my brain's internal dial feels compelled to turn there.

I don't trust myself to write well. I never think I'm good enough. I probably need to be an mathematician: a job where when you're done, you're done. You don't have to wonder if you did a "great" job or not, it's not subjective. But the creative side of me balks at that. It wants to create something so beautiful that it sings, so different that it touches people and makes them want to imagine. Something that must necessarily be subjective.

I know that if I'm going to write I'll have to silence that stream of hate-speech targeted at my work. I have to suck it up and turn off KFKD radio, then glue my fingers to the keyboard. I'm like so many other authors: I love having written, it's the writing part that gets me.

But I can do this. I can work in peace. 

I can wait to criticize until I've actually written something.

Excerpt: An Act of Creation

Much of the book takes place around gardens, and Cecily is an avid gardener. Don't ask me why, personally I find it a bit of a stretch to work in my own little cottage garden, even though I usually enjoy it when I do. 


Cecily's accomplice in the garden-realm is Old Rivens--the sweet, wrinkled, devoted, stubborn-as-a-mule old servant. Together they revitalize an overgrown estate garden.


___________________________________________

   Their most recent project was to plant several small saplings they had been carefully cultivating for months to replace a stand of dead and dying pines. They worked side by side in silence for hours, digging into the loamy forest floor with their shovels. Cecily broke the lull by accidentally sloshing Rivens with a bucket of water. They had a good laugh about it, then a few minutes later Cecily noticed a dreamy, reflective look in his eye. Sure enough, in a moment he said, “I s’pose I will be washed and buried long before this little thing is full grown.”

   Cecily fitted another sapling securely into its hole in the ground and began filling in around it. “Yes, and so will I, like as not. But what does that signify? We aren’t doing any of this for ourselves. We’re doing it because it will be done. It’s an act of creation. Do you remember what the vicar of Whitcrowe used to say? That there was a reason that God started it all in a garden.”

   “Yea, I remember it. He was right on that count, even if he weren’t quite right on some others…”

   Cecily gave a little laugh and finished tamping down moist earth around the roots. “I agree.” 

The Novel

Beast and Beauty is a book that began as a NaNoWriMo project. I was not overly ambitious and didn't exactly expect to finish a 50,000 word novel in one month, but I did intend to start a book and finish it. An interesting new concept for me.

Maybe you're like that. You have a book or two inside of you but you've never had the "time", "expertise", "training" or just plain guts to carry it through.

This was a story that blossomed gradually, feeding off my imagination and growing from several different sources. At the moment I am only about halfway through writing it and the story feels like Beauty and the Beast meets The Phantom of the Opera. It is a fantasy love story with a moral--but there's little magic, not your typical romance, and no preachiness. It could end up being in a genre by itself.

I love fantasy, mystery, adventure, suspense, historical biographies, and much more. My writing style is still evolving, and may look completely different in a couple of months. But that's part of the adventure, isn't it? I'm finding out who I am as a writer, and maybe you'll come along for the ride.

I'll post excerpts, expound on things I'm learning, post quotes from great authors, etc. I'm longing for feedback, so if you're interested in reading a portion of the book feel free to contact me!

Cheers,

Abigail