Touched by the Past

Photo by Dimitri Vervitsiotis

I'm off and running with my new project. A lot more planning went into this than any other project. My Elizabethans were set in a period where I was already an annoying font of knowledge (not counting confirming dates of choreography and specifics about the 17th Earl of Oxford's inheritance.) My New Orleans story required some Google Earth and some research into Voodoo, but beyond that, I already had a healthy understanding of the pre-Civil war history of the city and recent experiences there in regard to the vibe of the culture.

Touched by the Past, while based on my childhood experiences on the woodland property of the hotel my family owned in Ireland, has required tons of research. From the native species of flora/fauna, tectonic activity and layers of sediment in coastal, South-West Ireland, limestone sink holes, and seasonal wild flower growth, I've buried myself in unexpected research. I thought I had this one in the bag, that my experiences would give me the knowledge base to write this story, but no, I had no prior knowledge about the stations of rank within the Garda, Ogham script, or the equivalent price of a pint of milk. When we lived there in the 80's we had it delivered in glass pints and had to scoop the cream off the top -- is it still like that? I entered into this project with a false sense of security. Reality was hard to swallow and frustrating; I was ready to be writing and ended up mired in research.

That said, I'm making good progress. Just for fun, here is my first 381 for your reading/critiquing enjoyment. I value any feedback you are willing to give.

Tendrils of blue electricity glowed and crackled, hovering over the misty earth. Reaching with fingers of light, it sought her out. Gillian watched, mesmerized, unsure if she should run away or give herself to the power one more time. Fear and excitement paralyzed her and all she could was watch as the living lightning snaked closer, a pulsing stream of incandescence, kinking and curling as it crawled.

All she had to do was show herself, take two steps into the open, and it would touch her, filling her with its earthy energy and memories, knowledge of things she had no right to know. It was tantalizing and, she shivered, scary. Really, really scary. Whenever it happened, she never knew if she would ever find herself again. Then that last time…

Gillian blinked in the early morning light, the memory of the old dream fading as reality settled in. No longer the thirteen year old girl hiding from some fantastical floating light, she knew better now. Experience of years, too many years, schooled her in the harsh realities of life. There was no magic in the forest and never had been; her dreams were based solely on the over-active imagination of a child.

The last time she’d stood here, holding her breath in anticipation at the lower mouth of the woods on the once paved carriage path of long dead aristocrats, she’d been a child in tears about leaving Ireland. Now, a thirty-five year old widow with a daughter in college, she didn’t feel any different. The wood before her was just as dark and ominous, and lush and beckoning, as it had been all those years ago.

Her Wellingtons squelched as she shifted within the sodden indents of the manicured lawn. She tucked a stray wisp of her blond hair back under the bandanna and straightened her gloves, ready to work. With a resolute nod, she stomped forward through the wet morning into the shade of the trees. She had nothing to fear here. She was an adult, experienced in forestry and ready to respect the biodiversity that lay before her. The forest would be her friend once more, if not on a magical plane, then on a basic, fundamental one.

She came to save it.

This is currently my desktop wallpaper. As I created it, I found myself using more images of landscape than of people. It made me realize how the forest itself is a dominant character.

Touching the Past

It's official. I'm working on my new project.

"But wait," you ask, "haven't you been working on that for a month or so?"

Yes. Sigh. I've been doing the research, laying out my characters, and procrastinating about really starting. Sure, I wrote the first chapter --but I wrote this with the understanding that I probably would end up throwing it out when I got halfway through the project because feedback would finally convince me that I hadn't started the story where the story starts (because I never learn).

What makes me serious now? Well, I know this is silly, but I have a Pandora station all set as my writing soundtrack. I also, finally, know what my male lead looks like. What else? I've finished the research that gives my entire reason for using Ireland as my setting validity, so now I can start applying the story. (Side note: I'm using Pinterest as a mode for collecting my data. It's very visual and much better than my Word.doc cut/paste of URLs.)

And I have! I'm only about 4k words into the manuscript, but the story has everything it needs to grow at this point.

On that note, I should get back to writing. Liam is walking Gillian home, but she really doesn't want him too -- or does she? (she does, but she wishes she didn't, just in case you wondered)

BTW: Touching the Past is a temporary title. I needed something. It had to be sexy/suggestive, but also touch on the mystical elements in the story. 

Countdown to RWA 2013, Atlanta

As soon as I paid for the conference, I was all ready to go. You'd think I was about to embark on a luxury cruise or something by the way I'm looking forward to it. It's really not like me to WANT something like this. I mean, I'm socially awkward. I have to push myself to be outgoing. I can fake it, but the stress that comes a long with that is bad for my digestion. Still, I can hardly wait for July. It sounds like it's far away, but really, four months is nothing. Seriously, I feel like Hallowe'en just happened (I think I may have missed Christmas by blinking).

That said, it's not unreasonable for me to look at evening gowns for the awards ceremony, is it? Or buy a new purse that I don't plan to use until the trip? Maybe make a Pinterest board dedicated to online shopping for fabulous things ranging from formals to suits to tee-shirts that say creative/professional/edgy/mature-but-not-too-mature isn't taking it a step to far at all, but good planning.

Clothing, of course, isn't the only concern. Packaging (myself) matters, but I have to be able to deliver. Maybe now is a good time to start revising my one-page, proposals, etc... instead of the weeks before like last year. Last year did teach me that it was great to have my promotional pages, but that I didn't  need nearly as many as I brought. This year I'll have four completed novels, maybe five, ready to sell. This year I'll also have the experience from last year, so maybe be less spastic during pitch opportunities. Who knows?

Last year the conference was in Anaheim, which significantly cut down on cost for me. Atlanta is going to be pricey, but I consider the conference an investment in my career. Last year I felt like I had finally joined the professional community of writers, like it wasn't just a hobby. I didn't get a contract out of it, but the experience was wonderful and necessary for my growth.

This year I have a different product, a sexy paranormal, which means a potentially different agent and publisher pool from those I stalked over my Tudor historicals. I guess it's time to start my preparation.

Are you going to the conference?

Recycled Post: You Know You Write Historical Romance When...

I just came across this post, originally aired 5/31/2011 and decided it deserved to be re-shared. I added some of the original reader commentary.

You Know You Write Historical Fiction When...

1. You find yourself using "anon" in everyday conversation.*
2. You have words like "bumroll" and "farthingale" added to your spell-check's dictionary.*
3. You actually own a bumroll or farthingale.*
4. You programed auto-correct to change all "qe" to "Queen Elizabeth." *
5. You cannot stand perfectly good period movies because of the fabric choices.
6. You have become more lax about food sitting out because, hey, five hundred years ago there was no refrigeration.
7. You find yourself inserting interesting historical facts that have nothing to do with your story and feel like you are doing your readers a disservice when you delete the unrelated history lesson later.
8. You cannot stand reading a perfectly good historical romance because of the fabric choices (and, in a disappointed rage, may or may not have written a strongly worded letter to the author about his/her responsibility to the reader to portray their era with accuracy).
9. You understand why many authors do not touch on anything to do with hygiene.
10. You think nothing is wrong with having a beer at breakfast.

Just in case you wondered what a bumroll was.

Feel free to expand upon this list.

Sidenote: This post could also be titled, "You Know You Take Renaissance Faire Too Seriously When..."

* I write Elizabethan historical romance. Please feel free to insert whatever era appropriate terminology to make this relevant to your writing.

end original post .....................................................................................................................

Thank you to Kathleen and Mary for adding the following points:

Kathleen said... I love #8! OK, how about these:

11.You make up all sorts of reasons about how your widowed heroine is actually a virgin.

12.You figure out plausible excuses to explain why your widowed heroine (who is not a virgin) might respond like a virgin in a love scene.

13.You suspend reality to make every virginal heroine's first time fabulous and multi-orgasmic.

Interestingly, I can only think of sexual examples. Hmmmmm.... should I be worried?

I think #9 needs this add-on: "Not only do you understand, you agree and ensure that your main characters take more baths during the course of your story than most people of their era took in their lifetimes.

mary said...

OK, how about this:

You know the years each swear word came into common use.

You insist on capitalizing "she" when it refers to the Queen.

You know more about the laws of the 16th century than the ones today.

Am I on the right track?

 And Laura added a comment about her genre, mystery.

Laura M. Campbell said...

It's funny how serious writers take their genre and craft. I'm a mystery writer and I'm doing research on serial killers and I like to point out their is a distinction between psychopath and sociopath. I also know a thing or two about finger prints and trace evidence. The things swirling around in my head could make for a frightening story. 

Fan Fiction for Romantic Friday Writers

Romantic Friday Writers Prompt:  Write up to 1000 words of prose or poetry from famous lovers in famous stories from the past, recent or distant.

I love this idea. For some reason, the first couple I thought of was Titania and Oberon  I had all sorts of ideas, then started with the idea of writing it in verse... then I realized I was putting too much into it and the fun would be gone. Next was the super obvious Lizzie and Mr. Darcy. They needed to get it on -- but then I felt like I'd be messing with something sacred.

Thank goodness inspiration hit in a timely manner. Below, I give you, at 1050 words, Mr. Bennet from Pride and Prejudice and his first meeting with Mrs. Bennet (née Gardiner). Because there were no first names within the story, I improvised. Enjoy.

In Which Mr. Bennet Meets Miss Gardiner

 “Good Lord, she is enchanting, isn’t she William?”

William Bennet turned to look the direction his brother indicated, and saw nothing but a cluster of debutants giggling.

Charles did all but point with his flute of champagne. “Beyond the virgins, next to Lord Foxley. How much do you think she costs?”

William saw her then, her unpowdered gold ringlets piled high, still scarcely reaching Foxley’s nose. A petite little thing, a pocket Venus, she couldn’t have been older than eighteen. Her clothes indicated money, but there was an innocence to her, unjaded and honest, that set her apart from the rest of the ton. Something was different about her. Sipping his wine, he asked, “What makes you think she’s for sale?”

“Look at the way she laughs, she reeks of merchants. No gentleman will wed her, but there is already speculation at Whites about who will be the first to bed her.”

“Then those men are not gentlemen.” William tugged on the points of his waistcoat. “It is barbaric to plan the ruin of a young woman based solely on her connections or lack thereof.”

“Ah, William, so full of righteous fury at the injustices of the world. I’m surprised you came tonight if you despise all your peers so heartily. You might find these events more pleasurable if you did your thinking with,” he gestured crudely, “another head.”

William willed the tension from his jaw. He would not rise to his brother’s baiting. Bowing just enough to be polite, he excused himself.

He was here to find a wife. He didn’t have the fortune to attract a titled woman, nor the romantic inclinations to woo one. Really, women were befuddling, a riot of emotions that he could never understand. Still, as the eldest son, he must marry and sire a son lest the entail pass to Charles who would do nothing but drink it into ruin.

A slap on the back broke him from his thoughts. He looked up to find Foxley grinning at him like a fool.

“Miss Gardiner, allow me to present you my dear friend William Bennet.”

Lost in his thoughts, he’d walked straight towards them like some lovesick fool.

“Your servant, ma’am,” he said with a bow, “I…”

Whatever he’d been about to say was lost, gone, the moment his eyes met hers. Though her face was in calm repose as a lady’s should be, her eyes were smiling, laughing, as if daring him to laugh with her. A deep brown, fringed in long, dark lashes, they were a stark contrast to her blond brows and hair. Remarkable.

“I fear your beauty has quite undone my friend,” Foxley continued, plucking a fresh flute of champagne from a passing server. He took Miss Gardiner’s almost empty glass from her fingers and handed her the new one.

“My Lord, I really should not have another. The bubbles go straight to my head.” She smiled, looking up under her lashes, her eyes flashing with amusement.

“I insist,” Foxley crooned. “It is, after all, your debut upon the ton. Make the most of it.”

“William, there you are!” A shrill voice assaulted him from behind as his mother slapped him in the back with her fan. “Why are you dallying with your friends when you should be finding a wife?”

Foxley snorted, too gauche to pretend not to hear, but Miss Gardiner just smiled at him softly and took a sip of her champagne then set it on a passing footman’s tray.

“Mother, allow me to make you acquainted with Miss Gardiner. I have just found out that this is her first ball. Miss Gardiner, this is my mother, Mrs. Katherine Bennet.”

“Your mother did not host a ball in your honor then?” Somewhere in the last ten years, his mother had lost her understanding of tact.

“Father wouldn’t hear of it, but Mother was able to gain this invitation and so,” Miss Gardiner spread her gloved hands before her, “here I am.”

“And who are your parents, child?” His mother hedged closer, pushing him aside with her panniers.

“Jacob and Margaret Gardiner of Hampstead Heath.” Miss Gardiner explained, holding her chin with confidence despite his mother’s scrutiny. “Father is a banker…”

“A banker’s daughter!” His mother stepped back as if burned. “How on earth did you gain entrance to Lady Spencer’s ball?”

“Lady Spencer is my aunt, Mrs. Bennet.” The young woman’s polite words held an edge, though her eyes continued to smile.

William hid his own smile when his mother did not respond. She could hardly give the cut direct to the hostess’s niece no matter her unfortunate parentage. He cleared his throat and held out his hand, “Miss Gardiner, would you please do me the honor of joining me in this dance?”

She slipped her gloved hand into his and gave a curtsey, “Of course, Mr. Bennet. You are too kind.”

#

Her laughter danced along the breeze ruffling the oil lamps suspended on the terrace. Her hand snug in the crook of his arm, he fought the urge to hold her closer still. He laid his hand over hers and noted the fair skin of her arm above her glove, beneath the fall of lace at her elbow, dust over with goose bumps.

“Are you cold, Miss Gardiner? We could go inside.”

“Not at all, Mr. Bennet, but I thank you for your concern.” Turning her face up to him, she bit her lip, drawing his eyes to her sweet bow of a mouth.

“If it is not bold, I would ask you to call me William.”

She looked away as a rosy blush covered her cheeks. “Not too bold, William,” she whispered his name. “And you may call me Elizabeth, if you wish.”

“Elizabeth,” he whispered her name in turn then pulled her hand to his lips and placed a chaste kiss on her knuckles. “May I call upon your father on the morrow?”

She gasped, happiness clear in her eyes, then stilled herself once more. “Yes, William. I will tell him to expect you.”

His mother may well die of apoplexy and Charles would label him a fool, but William didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, they could all go to hell so long as he could gaze into Elizabeth Gardiner’s fine eyes.

#

Naming the Baby

Well, in this case, the new book. It's another paranormal, but the paranormal is a benign force, not helpful nor harmful except in that it drives my main character sort of nuts.

The premise:  Gillian, 35 year old widow with a daughter in college (she was a teenage mother) moves back to her childhood home in Ireland to pursue her education and interns at a historic home, now hotel, to help preserve the wooded property. As she works, memories of strange happenings haunt her -- things she dismissed as her imagination. Eventually she realizes that the images she is seeing come from the memories of the forest itself. The forest, so relieved to have an outlet, bombards her memories, some meaningful, some not (they're trees, they don't classify things the way humans do). The information overload gets worse when the forest jumps into a self preservation mode and Gillian has to figure out what the land is trying to tell her.

I'm working in druids, Vikings, and more mundane menaces, like murders and waste disposal. Along the way, Gillian's uncanny connection with the land makes someone nervous, someone who doesn't want his corruption known. Gillian also discovers the woman she is now, no longer defined by her teenage behavior, and has a journey of self (and some sex -- it is romance).

My initial title was Residual Memory, but that sounds a little Sci-Fi. I need something a little sexy, Irish, and creepy. A friend (just now, as I was typing this blog) suggested the term 'knowing,' which I like. It can be deep and transcendental or have a sexual connotation.

Possessing Karma (the book that is now in edits) is about a woman named Karma who gets possessed, but also about the karma that eventually gets to the cocky, abusive, sexual sadist, pre-Civil war plantation owner ghost. I don't love this title, but it works for now. I do like the double meaning and I think it's got a sexy edge to it (important in romance genre).

As for my sentient trees watching you? Not a clue. Feel free to offer suggestions, silly or serious. Even writing this has been helpful for me getting into a good writing vibe. Maybe inspiration will strike.

Finish it Already!

This week I surpassed my estimated word count for Possessing Karma, and I'm not done. I'm in the final, KABOOM scene, but I'm not done. I'm really struggling, actually. It may just be self sabotage or the muses not speaking, either way it's frustrating.

I seriously only have a half a chapter to write, then the denouement. I keep going back and inserting details so that the bread crumbs are there and the consistency is, well, consistent. Problem with all the fine tuning is that I'm not moving forward. Sure, I'll have less to do in revisions, but I would rather be able to say that I'm finished with the first draft.

I keep dinking around with my query, with my pitch, with games on Facebook, when I should be focusing on getting the work done. I know what I'm going to write, I just need to write it. In fact, I've already started the musing process about my next book, I'm that done, mentally, with Karma. It's frustrating. Even now, what am I doing? I'm blogging about not writing when I could use this time to write.

In fact, I will. I have 20 minutes before I need to leave for work. That will be twenty minutes of writing forward.

Ready.
Steady.
Go.