The My Lord and Spymaster cover is up at Amazon.
So pretty.
As soon as I finish the galleys of MLAS, I shall try to get that cover onto the blog.
(This is not trivial if you are as technologically ham-handed as I am.)
The cover artist for both books is Judy York. Her website is here. You can see the Loretta Chase 'Lord Perfect' cover right on the front page of her Romance section. Cool, yes?
I'm not sure ... could that Loretta Chase cover possibly be the same model -- Nathan Kamp -- as the Spymaster's Lady cover?
Nathan Kamp has a site here if you want to, y'know, look at some abs for a bit.
When I'm writing and I get stuck, I click to Lolcats. Here.
Nothing seems impossible after a few dozen lolcats.
I wouldn't be surprised if N.K.'s abs turned out to have the same aspects of transcendence.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Out-take from The Spymaster's Lady
Someone asked how Grey reacted to Annique getting her sight back. The first time he saw he with her eyes working, was he startled?
Or what?
This is an out-take from the working document of The Spymaster's Lady.
(Annique is called Anneka in this draft.)
This bit of story, in Grey's POV, didn't make it into the final draft.
***
Doyle's smuggler contacts passed word that Anneka would be landed in Dover. She was easy enough to spot on the docks. But he was expecting a blind woman. She wasn't blind.
Grey stood in the shadow of a tavern doorway and studied her. Her eyes were definitely working. It was Anneka Villiers he was dealing with, so he had to ask himself if he could possibly, possibly have been wrong about her eyes.
But no one on earth can control the dilation of the pupils. She'd been blind.
More than that, today a kind of wonder clung to her that said the light of her eyes had been taken and returned to her. She looked from coiled ropes to the peeling, rocking boats to a herring gull perched on a bollard and collected the sights into herself like a farm girl putting eggs carefully into a basket.
In the middle of all that noisy, fish-filled squalor, she stood and grinned. Her face transformed itself to the cheeky, blazingly-alive Gypsy boy he'd seen juggling in the town square in Bruges. The light inside her was brighter than sunlight glinting off the sea. For the first time he realized how shadowed she'd been the whole time he'd known her by fear and exhaustion and blindness.
Was she carrying the plans? He didn't see how. He'd bet she wasn't carting a spare handkerchief under that hideous dress. Too bad. It would have been easier for both of them if she'd had the plans on her.
She pulled a shabby black scarf around her countrywoman dress and started into town. It was the first mistake he'd ever seen her make, that clothing. Nothing on earth could make her look a farm girl.
She walked like a dancer through the filthy streets. Like a fire flickering. None of the sailors lounging along the quays or on the doorsteps of brothels called after her. They'd buy a black-haired Irish whore tonight and dream about Anneka, but not one of them thought Anneka's quality was within his reach.
The next hour was busy. He wasn't the only man waiting for her at the dock. Somebody else had been alerted by the same smugglers. There were rats on her trail. He set his men to picking 'em off as soon as they showed themselves. But he had only three agents with him and God knew how many people were after Anneka Villiers this warm fall afternoon. She didn't spot them herself for a while, too busy enjoying life to be properly careful of it.
She was in the market, smiling at some oranges, when she noticed the cut-throat who'd been shadowing her for a block and a half. It was pure joy to watch her slide into the crowd, smooth as slicing water, and vanish.
He sent Fletcher to deal with yet another thug who was lurking among the chicken coops and he took off after Anneka.
He was in time. Barely.
She was cornered in an alley, squared off against five times her fighting weight. Duval and two of his bully boys. When he got there, she'd reduced one Frenchman to a whimpering welter of blood. She was having less luck poking a hole in Henri. She couldn't get close. The Frenchman had a reach like an ape.
So he took care of Henri for her. He didn't break his neck. Anneka kept leaving the bastard alive for some reason and it seemed polite to defer to her judgement. All he did was bounce him off a wall and, hoped, crack one of his shoulders. Then Anneka put a knife into Duval – his arm, not his throat. That was enough to send the pack scurrying.
She sagged against the wall, breathing hard, pale as parchment. If he'd come into that alleyway five minutes later ... the thought of her, bleeding her life out in this dim, ugly squalor, hit like a body blow. She was game enough, and a clever fighter, but she lacked edge. He clenched his hands into fists to stop them shaking.
If she were his agent, he wouldn't let her off the front steps without a backup.
*****
Or what?
This is an out-take from the working document of The Spymaster's Lady.
(Annique is called Anneka in this draft.)
This bit of story, in Grey's POV, didn't make it into the final draft.
***
Doyle's smuggler contacts passed word that Anneka would be landed in Dover. She was easy enough to spot on the docks. But he was expecting a blind woman. She wasn't blind.
Grey stood in the shadow of a tavern doorway and studied her. Her eyes were definitely working. It was Anneka Villiers he was dealing with, so he had to ask himself if he could possibly, possibly have been wrong about her eyes.
But no one on earth can control the dilation of the pupils. She'd been blind.
More than that, today a kind of wonder clung to her that said the light of her eyes had been taken and returned to her. She looked from coiled ropes to the peeling, rocking boats to a herring gull perched on a bollard and collected the sights into herself like a farm girl putting eggs carefully into a basket.
In the middle of all that noisy, fish-filled squalor, she stood and grinned. Her face transformed itself to the cheeky, blazingly-alive Gypsy boy he'd seen juggling in the town square in Bruges. The light inside her was brighter than sunlight glinting off the sea. For the first time he realized how shadowed she'd been the whole time he'd known her by fear and exhaustion and blindness.
Was she carrying the plans? He didn't see how. He'd bet she wasn't carting a spare handkerchief under that hideous dress. Too bad. It would have been easier for both of them if she'd had the plans on her.
She pulled a shabby black scarf around her countrywoman dress and started into town. It was the first mistake he'd ever seen her make, that clothing. Nothing on earth could make her look a farm girl.
She walked like a dancer through the filthy streets. Like a fire flickering. None of the sailors lounging along the quays or on the doorsteps of brothels called after her. They'd buy a black-haired Irish whore tonight and dream about Anneka, but not one of them thought Anneka's quality was within his reach.
The next hour was busy. He wasn't the only man waiting for her at the dock. Somebody else had been alerted by the same smugglers. There were rats on her trail. He set his men to picking 'em off as soon as they showed themselves. But he had only three agents with him and God knew how many people were after Anneka Villiers this warm fall afternoon. She didn't spot them herself for a while, too busy enjoying life to be properly careful of it.
She was in the market, smiling at some oranges, when she noticed the cut-throat who'd been shadowing her for a block and a half. It was pure joy to watch her slide into the crowd, smooth as slicing water, and vanish.
He sent Fletcher to deal with yet another thug who was lurking among the chicken coops and he took off after Anneka.
He was in time. Barely.
She was cornered in an alley, squared off against five times her fighting weight. Duval and two of his bully boys. When he got there, she'd reduced one Frenchman to a whimpering welter of blood. She was having less luck poking a hole in Henri. She couldn't get close. The Frenchman had a reach like an ape.
So he took care of Henri for her. He didn't break his neck. Anneka kept leaving the bastard alive for some reason and it seemed polite to defer to her judgement. All he did was bounce him off a wall and, hoped, crack one of his shoulders. Then Anneka put a knife into Duval – his arm, not his throat. That was enough to send the pack scurrying.
She sagged against the wall, breathing hard, pale as parchment. If he'd come into that alleyway five minutes later ... the thought of her, bleeding her life out in this dim, ugly squalor, hit like a body blow. She was game enough, and a clever fighter, but she lacked edge. He clenched his hands into fists to stop them shaking.
If she were his agent, he wouldn't let her off the front steps without a backup.
*****
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Good-bye Jess. Hello Maggie
I sent off the copyedits for My Lord and Spymaster on Tuesday.
This means I'm basically done with it. MLAS is about kicked out of the nest. Soon it'll be out there soaring on its own ... or fluttering on the ground making sad little chirrups waiting for a cat to come along and jump on it.
What lies ahead for MLAS ...
In New York they're taking those copyedits apart and putting them into electronic form, ready to make the galleys.
They'll send the galleys back to me. I'm not supposed to change stuff in the galleys, except typos, but I've picked out two places where I want to make bitty, bitty little changes. Ten or twelve words added in one place. One word changed in the other.
Then I send the galleys back and I'm done.
I've started blocking out the story for Maggie. I have a possible outline. Who is Maggie? What does she want? What does she need? What will she do to get it?
This means I'm basically done with it. MLAS is about kicked out of the nest. Soon it'll be out there soaring on its own ... or fluttering on the ground making sad little chirrups waiting for a cat to come along and jump on it.
What lies ahead for MLAS ...
In New York they're taking those copyedits apart and putting them into electronic form, ready to make the galleys.
They'll send the galleys back to me. I'm not supposed to change stuff in the galleys, except typos, but I've picked out two places where I want to make bitty, bitty little changes. Ten or twelve words added in one place. One word changed in the other.
Then I send the galleys back and I'm done.
I've started blocking out the story for Maggie. I have a possible outline. Who is Maggie? What does she want? What does she need? What will she do to get it?
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Tech Top -- Words, words, words ...#1
I got an interesting comment off-Board, talking about some of the particular language of the book.
It was Franzeca Drouin, Eloisa's research assistant, who brought these to my attention. Her website is here, and very cool. If words interest you, go check it out.
What it is...
when you're writing along in 1800 there's just lots of words that haven't been invented yet -- clairvoyant, scientist, kiwi fruit -- and you want to avoid these words, as a general rule,
because lots of people know these words haven't been invented in 1800 and you don't want to annoy these people
because some of them are, like, librarians and they will come after you with pitchforks.
So, anyway,
Sometimes you make mistakes, even with all your attention engaged and making an honest effort to do the research.
(The main research being the OED and Partridge's Dictionary of Slang and Grosse and the loverly loverly Googlebooksearch feature and, of course, just generally using your noggin.)
And sometimes, you deliberately use a word that hasn't been invented yet.
(When you do that, you have to be prepared to duck and run for cover and somewhere there is a minor demon writing this all down in a book and he puts a black mark next to your name and giggles. )
And sometimes you make choices between a couple possibles.
Let me look at just the first couple that were brought to my attention and talk about what I did with them and why ...
Here they are, the first three of a dozen or so ...
************
p. 18: "sock" while making her cosh; ("cosh" itself in that sense is 1869; perhaps your researches brought it closer to the beginning of the 19th Century.) I would recommend "stocking" instead of sock; as she probably would be wearing stockings, not socks, and socks seems to have a more specialized usage.
p. 24: "driveway" too American suburbia; try "carriage way" or just "drive"
multiple places, including pp 52, 249 and 252: "bedroom"--yes, kind of okay timewise, but "bedchamber" is older, and sounds, I think, more authentic, without making things more confusing.
****************
sock --
now this is just a typical example of the kind of problems that beset me and probably beset everybody else who writes Historical Romance , which is rather a lot for a word like sock to do, isn't it?
The word 'sock' was in used in 1802 in what is essentially its modern meaning. (It's in Milton and in Samuel Johnson's dictionary and I have an 1840 ref to knitting a 'child's sock'.)
The word 'stocking' was also used in 1802, and was a hundred times more common than sock. Stocking is the word Grey and the others would have called what Annique was wearing.
Stocking, at the time, meant anything from filmy silk to bulky knitted wool.
Now obviously the meaning of the word 'stocking' changed drastically in the twentieth century. To a modern American, 'stocking' generally means a wispy nylon object.
So I'm faced with a word that's been in continuous use -- 'stocking' -- which is what they would have actually said, but whose meaning has drastically changed (for an American.)
And the word sock which was current in the time, but rarer, and whose meaning has not changed.
So, anyhow, in one of those unsatisfactory compromises we make, I called the things on Annique's feet stockings about everywhere, but one time I called them 'socks' so the reader would get a better idea of what they looked like without me going to the trouble of describing them.
Using the word 'socks' once is me telling modern American readers that these are thicker than what she thinks of when she hears the word 'stockings'.
Hinting, ya know.
Lots of this kind of compromise goes on when we're picking what words to use.
"driveway"
Which happened in the line -- "The road you seek, the driveway to the Sisters of the Orphans, is opposite."
AAARRRRGGGGHHHH.
Technically, the word existed. It wasn't even rare.
But I was wrong to use it.
Just wrong.
Because it 'sounds' wrong.
It sounds modern and American suburbs, even though it is authentic.
Ouch.
"bedroom"-- and the comment was -- yes, kind of okay timewise, but "bedchamber" is older, and sounds, I think, more authentic, without making things more confusing.
In the timeframe, 'bedroom' and 'bedchamber' are both commonly used.
It looks like bedchamber is about 40% more common.
I picked bedroom throughout because it avoids the 'ye olde historical novelle' sound. And it's more American without being unauthentic.
and finally cosh --
Here is where I admit to cheating. The first use of 'cosh' is long after my period.
For simplicty, for clarity, to avoid odd circumlocutions, because I am weak ... I used a word outside the time period and I did it deliberately
(Le sigh)
Rumbled.
It was Franzeca Drouin, Eloisa's research assistant, who brought these to my attention. Her website is here, and very cool. If words interest you, go check it out.
What it is...
when you're writing along in 1800 there's just lots of words that haven't been invented yet -- clairvoyant, scientist, kiwi fruit -- and you want to avoid these words, as a general rule,
because lots of people know these words haven't been invented in 1800 and you don't want to annoy these people
because some of them are, like, librarians and they will come after you with pitchforks.
So, anyway,
Sometimes you make mistakes, even with all your attention engaged and making an honest effort to do the research.
(The main research being the OED and Partridge's Dictionary of Slang and Grosse and the loverly loverly Googlebooksearch feature and, of course, just generally using your noggin.)
And sometimes, you deliberately use a word that hasn't been invented yet.
(When you do that, you have to be prepared to duck and run for cover and somewhere there is a minor demon writing this all down in a book and he puts a black mark next to your name and giggles. )
And sometimes you make choices between a couple possibles.
Let me look at just the first couple that were brought to my attention and talk about what I did with them and why ...
Here they are, the first three of a dozen or so ...
************
p. 18: "sock" while making her cosh; ("cosh" itself in that sense is 1869; perhaps your researches brought it closer to the beginning of the 19th Century.) I would recommend "stocking" instead of sock; as she probably would be wearing stockings, not socks, and socks seems to have a more specialized usage.
p. 24: "driveway" too American suburbia; try "carriage way" or just "drive"
multiple places, including pp 52, 249 and 252: "bedroom"--yes, kind of okay timewise, but "bedchamber" is older, and sounds, I think, more authentic, without making things more confusing.
****************
sock --
now this is just a typical example of the kind of problems that beset me and probably beset everybody else who writes Historical Romance , which is rather a lot for a word like sock to do, isn't it?
The word 'sock' was in used in 1802 in what is essentially its modern meaning. (It's in Milton and in Samuel Johnson's dictionary and I have an 1840 ref to knitting a 'child's sock'.)
The word 'stocking' was also used in 1802, and was a hundred times more common than sock. Stocking is the word Grey and the others would have called what Annique was wearing.
Stocking, at the time, meant anything from filmy silk to bulky knitted wool.
Now obviously the meaning of the word 'stocking' changed drastically in the twentieth century. To a modern American, 'stocking' generally means a wispy nylon object.
So I'm faced with a word that's been in continuous use -- 'stocking' -- which is what they would have actually said, but whose meaning has drastically changed (for an American.)
And the word sock which was current in the time, but rarer, and whose meaning has not changed.
So, anyhow, in one of those unsatisfactory compromises we make, I called the things on Annique's feet stockings about everywhere, but one time I called them 'socks' so the reader would get a better idea of what they looked like without me going to the trouble of describing them.
Using the word 'socks' once is me telling modern American readers that these are thicker than what she thinks of when she hears the word 'stockings'.
Hinting, ya know.
Lots of this kind of compromise goes on when we're picking what words to use.
"driveway"
Which happened in the line -- "The road you seek, the driveway to the Sisters of the Orphans, is opposite."
AAARRRRGGGGHHHH.
Technically, the word existed. It wasn't even rare.
But I was wrong to use it.
Just wrong.
Because it 'sounds' wrong.
It sounds modern and American suburbs, even though it is authentic.
Ouch.
"bedroom"-- and the comment was -- yes, kind of okay timewise, but "bedchamber" is older, and sounds, I think, more authentic, without making things more confusing.
In the timeframe, 'bedroom' and 'bedchamber' are both commonly used.
It looks like bedchamber is about 40% more common.
I picked bedroom throughout because it avoids the 'ye olde historical novelle' sound. And it's more American without being unauthentic.
and finally cosh --
Here is where I admit to cheating. The first use of 'cosh' is long after my period.
For simplicty, for clarity, to avoid odd circumlocutions, because I am weak ... I used a word outside the time period and I did it deliberately
(Le sigh)
Rumbled.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Technical Topics -- The Uses of Research
I was looking at 1815: The End and a Beginning by John Fisher for another reason, and came across the following:
"In April, Sir Humphrey Davy, already famous for the discovery of new elements such as dedededum dedum, returned to England. Even then scientists regarded themselves as above politics and Davy, after being awarded a scholarship by Napoleon for his researches into explosives, had been touring the Continent with his assistant Michael Faraday on a laissez-passer from the Emperor himself ... " (from the work cited above, page 114.)
When I read it, I remembered I had read this before, long long time past.
That was part of the reason Grey pretends to be a German Professor of Physics when he's stopped by the gendarmes near the coast. ... Because Napoleon was in the habit of giving free passage to scientists to travel from place to place. The 1815 book is one of the refs to it.
Here's one of those examples of how background reading wanders into what we write. I couldn't have put my finger on all the thirty or fifty times I'd come across refs about Napoleon giving free passage to scientists. I didn't consciously think ... 'Grey will pretend to be a scientist because of yada yada from this particular book.'
But it was inside me when I needed it.
"In April, Sir Humphrey Davy, already famous for the discovery of new elements such as dedededum dedum, returned to England. Even then scientists regarded themselves as above politics and Davy, after being awarded a scholarship by Napoleon for his researches into explosives, had been touring the Continent with his assistant Michael Faraday on a laissez-passer from the Emperor himself ... " (from the work cited above, page 114.)
When I read it, I remembered I had read this before, long long time past.
That was part of the reason Grey pretends to be a German Professor of Physics when he's stopped by the gendarmes near the coast. ... Because Napoleon was in the habit of giving free passage to scientists to travel from place to place. The 1815 book is one of the refs to it.
Here's one of those examples of how background reading wanders into what we write. I couldn't have put my finger on all the thirty or fifty times I'd come across refs about Napoleon giving free passage to scientists. I didn't consciously think ... 'Grey will pretend to be a scientist because of yada yada from this particular book.'
But it was inside me when I needed it.
The books
Somebody asked ...
Book #4, (if I ever write it,) will be Doyle and Maggie's story. Set in France and England in 1792. Adrian will have a strong secondary role. I might give some walk-on parts to my old friends. (TBA)
The Spymaster's Lady is the story of Annique and Grey. Set in France and England in 1802. Adrian and Doyle have secondary parts. Giles Tarsin has a walk-on. (release January 2008. Berkley)
My Lord and Spymaster is the story of Jessamyn and Sebastian. Set in London in 1811. Adrian plays a secondary part. Doyle has a walk-on. (release July 2008. Berkley)
Her Ladyship's Companion is the story of Giles Tarsin and (jo tries to remember here) Melissa ... It's been a long time. Set in Cornwall in 1816 or 1818 ...? Adrian plays a secondary part. (release 1983. Avon)
Book #4, (if I ever write it,) will be Doyle and Maggie's story. Set in France and England in 1792. Adrian will have a strong secondary role. I might give some walk-on parts to my old friends. (TBA)
The Spymaster's Lady is the story of Annique and Grey. Set in France and England in 1802. Adrian and Doyle have secondary parts. Giles Tarsin has a walk-on. (release January 2008. Berkley)
My Lord and Spymaster is the story of Jessamyn and Sebastian. Set in London in 1811. Adrian plays a secondary part. Doyle has a walk-on. (release July 2008. Berkley)
Her Ladyship's Companion is the story of Giles Tarsin and (jo tries to remember here) Melissa ... It's been a long time. Set in Cornwall in 1816 or 1818 ...? Adrian plays a secondary part. (release 1983. Avon)
Monday, January 21, 2008
St Odran's in Spymaster's Lady
As to the St. Odran of Spymaster's Lady.
(cough)
This Saint Odran might be the one here , who, I should think, would be the patron saint of taxi drivers and those who are killed while being mistaken for someone more interesting.
But, on the whole, I think it is the Saint Odran (or Odhron or Otteran) of Iona, here or here.
What it is ...
The site where St. Columba wanted to build a chapel was infested with demons. Awkward, that. These could only be exorcised by burying a holy man alive. St Odran volunteered.
After three days Columba decided to dig him up to ask for news about Heaven.
St. Odran said -- "There is no wonder in death. Heaven is not as it is said to be. Hell is not what it is said to be. The saved are not forever happy. The damned are not forever lost."
... so St Columba had him buried again. Or at least, that's how one story goes. A lesson for us all.
I'm reminded of T.S. Eliot
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
(cough)
This Saint Odran might be the one here , who, I should think, would be the patron saint of taxi drivers and those who are killed while being mistaken for someone more interesting.
But, on the whole, I think it is the Saint Odran (or Odhron or Otteran) of Iona, here or here.
What it is ...
The site where St. Columba wanted to build a chapel was infested with demons. Awkward, that. These could only be exorcised by burying a holy man alive. St Odran volunteered.
After three days Columba decided to dig him up to ask for news about Heaven.
St. Odran said -- "There is no wonder in death. Heaven is not as it is said to be. Hell is not what it is said to be. The saved are not forever happy. The damned are not forever lost."
... so St Columba had him buried again. Or at least, that's how one story goes. A lesson for us all.
I'm reminded of T.S. Eliot
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Ferret Fur Flying
I was into ferrets before they were cool.
Kedger's the name of Jessamyn's ferret.
Excerpt from My Lord and Spymaster:
The Kedger's head popped up over the roof line. He poured toward her, carrying something in his mouth. She accepted a button. A little spit and a quick polish on her sleeve revealed it was brass. Amazing what Kedger came up with, even on a roof.
"You're going to make us rich if you keep this up." To please him, she dropped it in the sack. He sniffed after it a minute, then climbed up her arm to investigate her braids. Sniff . . . nibble . . . tug . . . tug.
"Anything in there I should know about?"
The Kedger responded with a comment on women who bounced ferrets around in burlap sacks.
"Sorry, mate. I'll be more careful next time."
He chirruped, still grumpy.
"Are you going to pull all my braids out, or just that one?"
He'd made his point. He took his place on her shoulder and dug his claws in, stretched up tall, and pointed his nose to the wind. South, he ordered.
Kedger's the name of Jessamyn's ferret.
Excerpt from My Lord and Spymaster:
The Kedger's head popped up over the roof line. He poured toward her, carrying something in his mouth. She accepted a button. A little spit and a quick polish on her sleeve revealed it was brass. Amazing what Kedger came up with, even on a roof.
"You're going to make us rich if you keep this up." To please him, she dropped it in the sack. He sniffed after it a minute, then climbed up her arm to investigate her braids. Sniff . . . nibble . . . tug . . . tug.
"Anything in there I should know about?"
The Kedger responded with a comment on women who bounced ferrets around in burlap sacks.
"Sorry, mate. I'll be more careful next time."
He chirruped, still grumpy.
"Are you going to pull all my braids out, or just that one?"
He'd made his point. He took his place on her shoulder and dug his claws in, stretched up tall, and pointed his nose to the wind. South, he ordered.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
A Lull in the Revisions
Whew ...
I'm just lifting my head up from the computer here. The revisions of My Lord and Spymaster are in New York.
Of course, now I have all these new revisions bouncing around inside me that just HAVE to be done.
I'll take the day off, pay bills, wash the kitchen floor, take the dog for a long walk, pay bills, think about getting a website, watch I, Claudius that I got from Netflix and it's been sitting around for three weeks, answer my email from several kind folks who have mailed me here, pay bills, think about My Lord and Spymaster some more, oh ... and pay those bills I've been tossing in the wood box on top of my desk.
Then tomorrow I'll go work on revisions some more. I'm just not pleased with MLAS. Wish I had more time .
I'm just lifting my head up from the computer here. The revisions of My Lord and Spymaster are in New York.
Of course, now I have all these new revisions bouncing around inside me that just HAVE to be done.
I'll take the day off, pay bills, wash the kitchen floor, take the dog for a long walk, pay bills, think about getting a website, watch I, Claudius that I got from Netflix and it's been sitting around for three weeks, answer my email from several kind folks who have mailed me here, pay bills, think about My Lord and Spymaster some more, oh ... and pay those bills I've been tossing in the wood box on top of my desk.
Then tomorrow I'll go work on revisions some more. I'm just not pleased with MLAS. Wish I had more time .
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Historical Research and Spymaster's Lady
Writing about spies, one does wander into military matters, rather as cooks lead us to eggs and Olympic swimmers leave their trail of chlorine and damp towels.
I didn't study battles and weapons and armies on the march, per se, because I'm not wildly interested in that sort of thing.
My spies, though, are.
So I had to know something or sound like a fool.
Fortunately, there's any amount of primary source material on life in Napoleonic armies. Memoirs. Diaries. Harry Smith, for one. And there are pictures. Give me a picture of soldiers eating dinner around the fire over any number of battlefield maps and tactics.
Mostly though -- when I needed a military or weapons detail, I'd go looking for that specific bit. There's many downloads of antique guns in the innards of my computer.
As to the medical details ...
Anneka at work on the bullet arose from a desire to have her do important, useful, heroic and at the same time at least vaguely plausible things. Taking out a bullet falls into this category.
Let me just mention the balance of power in the book, because it's something I gave a LOT of thought to, in writing.
At this point in the story, we have her in a position where she should be entirely powerless.
I'm trying to show that her real power -- her ability to affect events -- continues strong as ever.
That day, Grey shows his power by keeping her from running away.
She shows hers by chosing to save a man's life.
Who has the real power that day?
As to the operation itself, I have a Masters in mammalian physiology. I've done a fair amount of small animal surgery, so I come to that scene with a 'feel' for how this would work. And I ran the final draft of the scene under the eye of a physician who hangs out at Compuserve Books and Writers who's kind enough to advise writers on medical things.
I didn't study battles and weapons and armies on the march, per se, because I'm not wildly interested in that sort of thing.
My spies, though, are.
So I had to know something or sound like a fool.
Fortunately, there's any amount of primary source material on life in Napoleonic armies. Memoirs. Diaries. Harry Smith, for one. And there are pictures. Give me a picture of soldiers eating dinner around the fire over any number of battlefield maps and tactics.
Mostly though -- when I needed a military or weapons detail, I'd go looking for that specific bit. There's many downloads of antique guns in the innards of my computer.
As to the medical details ...
Anneka at work on the bullet arose from a desire to have her do important, useful, heroic and at the same time at least vaguely plausible things. Taking out a bullet falls into this category.
Let me just mention the balance of power in the book, because it's something I gave a LOT of thought to, in writing.
At this point in the story, we have her in a position where she should be entirely powerless.
I'm trying to show that her real power -- her ability to affect events -- continues strong as ever.
That day, Grey shows his power by keeping her from running away.
She shows hers by chosing to save a man's life.
Who has the real power that day?
As to the operation itself, I have a Masters in mammalian physiology. I've done a fair amount of small animal surgery, so I come to that scene with a 'feel' for how this would work. And I ran the final draft of the scene under the eye of a physician who hangs out at Compuserve Books and Writers who's kind enough to advise writers on medical things.
Dialog and Accents in Spymaster's Lady
Early on in writing, I knew I was going to have my folks speaking French for half the story and English for the other half.
How to handle this?
I didn't want anybody's internal 'voice' to change in the middle. That was just a non-starter. No can do. The character HAS to sound like himself.
So I gave everybody their 'native voice' from the start. Whether they're speaking English or French, their voice stays pretty much the same.
Picking what the voice would be took a little head-scratching.
Grey speaks and thinks in standard English. This one was easy.
Adrian is also standard English, but he has the slightly formal register of someone who speaks completely fluent, accentless English, but as a second language.
Now Doyle gave me hours and hours of agonizing.
Doyle mostly chooses to speak Cockney-with-a-bit-of-rural dialect in English. But what to do with him in French? I couldn't have him speak 'standard English' when he was in France and then suddenly go Cockney the minute he set foot in England, could I?
(thinkthinkthinkthinkthink)
So I wrote him as Cockney all through. And I described him as having a Paris-argot-with-a-bit-of-Breton dialect, which would be the equivalent.
This is a weird choice. Sometimes you just have to pick something and go with it.
Annique's voice is French in cadence and word choice, of course.
My major problem was always deciding 'how much' to do this. Enough to make the point. Not enough to intrude. On revision, every line was a conscious decision that called for a bit of twitchy adjustment.
Her spoken language when she first lands in England is the most 'French' she gets. I'm trying to show her 'translating' in her head for a chapter or so.
As to creating Annique's voice... Mostly, it just comes natural. That's the best way I can put it.
This is what Annique 'sounds' like in my head.
This is how I hear her. I do speak workaday French.
Especially in revision, I'd 'parallel write' -- thinking of both the English and French of the sentence and shifting the words to give it a French cadence.
And I spent a long time listening to French folks speak English and dissecting how they sounded.
But by the time I came to write Annique, I had the voice inside me. It's not translation. It's the old 'voices in my head' that is either madness or being a writer. (Or, of course, both.)
How to handle this?
I didn't want anybody's internal 'voice' to change in the middle. That was just a non-starter. No can do. The character HAS to sound like himself.
So I gave everybody their 'native voice' from the start. Whether they're speaking English or French, their voice stays pretty much the same.
Picking what the voice would be took a little head-scratching.
Grey speaks and thinks in standard English. This one was easy.
Adrian is also standard English, but he has the slightly formal register of someone who speaks completely fluent, accentless English, but as a second language.
Now Doyle gave me hours and hours of agonizing.
Doyle mostly chooses to speak Cockney-with-a-bit-of-rural dialect in English. But what to do with him in French? I couldn't have him speak 'standard English' when he was in France and then suddenly go Cockney the minute he set foot in England, could I?
(thinkthinkthinkthinkthink)
So I wrote him as Cockney all through. And I described him as having a Paris-argot-with-a-bit-of-Breton dialect, which would be the equivalent.
This is a weird choice. Sometimes you just have to pick something and go with it.
Annique's voice is French in cadence and word choice, of course.
My major problem was always deciding 'how much' to do this. Enough to make the point. Not enough to intrude. On revision, every line was a conscious decision that called for a bit of twitchy adjustment.
Her spoken language when she first lands in England is the most 'French' she gets. I'm trying to show her 'translating' in her head for a chapter or so.
As to creating Annique's voice... Mostly, it just comes natural. That's the best way I can put it.
This is what Annique 'sounds' like in my head.
This is how I hear her. I do speak workaday French.
Especially in revision, I'd 'parallel write' -- thinking of both the English and French of the sentence and shifting the words to give it a French cadence.
And I spent a long time listening to French folks speak English and dissecting how they sounded.
But by the time I came to write Annique, I had the voice inside me. It's not translation. It's the old 'voices in my head' that is either madness or being a writer. (Or, of course, both.)
The date of Spymaster's Lady
Spymaster's Lady takes place in August and September 1802, during the Peace of Amiens.
I'll just mention that, historically, Napoleon fired Fouche as Chief of the Secret Police on September 12. Nobody knows quite why ...
Maybe it was because these Albion plans went missing.
(g)
I'll just mention that, historically, Napoleon fired Fouche as Chief of the Secret Police on September 12. Nobody knows quite why ...
Maybe it was because these Albion plans went missing.
(g)
Where I am. What I'm doing.
. . . Besides desperately working on the revisions of My Lord and Spymaster.
I'm a guest blogger over at Julie Quinn's site right now. I've indulged myself talking about some of the writing and technical details of Spymaster's Lady. I'll drag back any lengthy and interesting post and copy it here, eventually.
And Michelle Buonfiglio will have me on her blog at LifetimeTV, Romance Buy the Book on January 16.
I'm a guest blogger over at Julie Quinn's site right now. I've indulged myself talking about some of the writing and technical details of Spymaster's Lady. I'll drag back any lengthy and interesting post and copy it here, eventually.
And Michelle Buonfiglio will have me on her blog at LifetimeTV, Romance Buy the Book on January 16.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Looking for a Nest
I've decided to break down and get a website.
Like, a real website.
Haven't done it yet, you understand, but at least I'm thinking in that direction.
And gathering information.
After the New year I might actually do something.
Like, a real website.
Haven't done it yet, you understand, but at least I'm thinking in that direction.
And gathering information.
After the New year I might actually do something.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
A Summer Country
What I need is a Summer Country.
You go in through one of these interdimensional portals, with Britt, your dog, at your heels.
A shimmer surrounds you. And there you are.
The sun is directly overhead in the blue sky. It's warm, but you just know it's going to cool off, come evenings. Cool off to sweater temperature.
The fields on either side are full of humming bugs and smells that send Britt coursing in the tall grass, tail flagpoled, nose to the ground. A dragonfly flits ahead of you. You follow the path down to the lake.
The cabin is gray wood, weathered by god-knows-howmany-years. Just one room. A big screened porch looks out over the rocks and the smooth water. The wicker chair has blue flowered cushions on it. There are loons out on the lake, and tonight the geese will fly over.
Britt clickclicks across the wood floor behind you, then finds the waterdish next to the sink. You put your laptop on the desk at the window. The plug on the extension cord looks funny when you pick it up, as if it were shifting. But then it's just the ordinary American two-prong. You know the electricity will be right, in the same way you know it'd be right for anyone else who came here, wherever they came from.
Lord knows how that half-sized refrigerator works. It's uncannily silent. There's tupperware tubs of food, upper shelf and lower, all topped with white labels. The writing is all caps, each letter drawn, not written, as if somebody didn't use this alphabet often. In the door of the fridge, bottles of coke are lined up -- the old green kind of bottle that they don't make any more.
The bed in the loft has feather quilts.
You know, however long you stay here writing, it'll be two o'clock on Thursday afternoon when you climb back up that hill and walk through the portal again.
You let Britt out to explore -- there's nothing in these woods and fields that can hurt her -- and sit down and start working.
You go in through one of these interdimensional portals, with Britt, your dog, at your heels.
A shimmer surrounds you. And there you are.
The sun is directly overhead in the blue sky. It's warm, but you just know it's going to cool off, come evenings. Cool off to sweater temperature.
The fields on either side are full of humming bugs and smells that send Britt coursing in the tall grass, tail flagpoled, nose to the ground. A dragonfly flits ahead of you. You follow the path down to the lake.
The cabin is gray wood, weathered by god-knows-howmany-years. Just one room. A big screened porch looks out over the rocks and the smooth water. The wicker chair has blue flowered cushions on it. There are loons out on the lake, and tonight the geese will fly over.
Britt clickclicks across the wood floor behind you, then finds the waterdish next to the sink. You put your laptop on the desk at the window. The plug on the extension cord looks funny when you pick it up, as if it were shifting. But then it's just the ordinary American two-prong. You know the electricity will be right, in the same way you know it'd be right for anyone else who came here, wherever they came from.
Lord knows how that half-sized refrigerator works. It's uncannily silent. There's tupperware tubs of food, upper shelf and lower, all topped with white labels. The writing is all caps, each letter drawn, not written, as if somebody didn't use this alphabet often. In the door of the fridge, bottles of coke are lined up -- the old green kind of bottle that they don't make any more.
The bed in the loft has feather quilts.
You know, however long you stay here writing, it'll be two o'clock on Thursday afternoon when you climb back up that hill and walk through the portal again.
You let Britt out to explore -- there's nothing in these woods and fields that can hurt her -- and sit down and start working.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Fall
Got a cord of wood delivered today. The cat comes and sits on the woodpile exactly where I want to stack logs and does her innocent blinky-eyes ... 'Moi? In your way?'
It's pitiful when you go stack firewood to duck the rewrites.
I simply cannot pin this new scene down. I'm thrashing and wuggling.
Maybe I will bring my H&H face-to-face and let them slug it out a bit.
Maybe I will put everybody on a ship and leave for China.
In other news ... I have the cover sketch for My Lord and Spymaster. Lovely work, but not just blatantly representative. Heigh-ho. Marketing remains a mystery.
It's pitiful when you go stack firewood to duck the rewrites.
I simply cannot pin this new scene down. I'm thrashing and wuggling.
Maybe I will bring my H&H face-to-face and let them slug it out a bit.
Maybe I will put everybody on a ship and leave for China.
In other news ... I have the cover sketch for My Lord and Spymaster. Lovely work, but not just blatantly representative. Heigh-ho. Marketing remains a mystery.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Technical Topic -- Building Secondary Characters
In building your secondary characters, a lot depends on how many words you have to work with.
If you're writing 80K words, you're not going to have time to give your secondary characters much attention.
Make sure their role is defined, put 'em in a funny hat so the reader can tell 'em apart, and work on your main plot line.
If you're writing 120K words, you likely need those secondary characters to come up with at least one subplot that is all their own.
This is big character development country here, because you have to motivate action. In this case, at least one secondary character must be as deep, complex, fully-realized and alive as your protag.
OK. Let' say you have 'writing room' enough that you need at least one fully-expanded secondary character.
How do you develop these secondaries?
It's not just a matter of choosing random, interesting aspects of these guys and tossing them into the story.
You pick and choose the aspects of the secondary characters as carefully as a bride chooses the flowers her bridesmaids will carry.
Let me be didactic here (... even though it isn't really this simple and other folks mileage will vary ...)
Every secondary character exists in your story to interact with some aspect of your protagonist.
So the first step in 'unflattening' the secondaries is to determine why they are in the manuscript.
Cuteness? Wisdom? Damsel-in-distress? Validation for the protags values? Antagonist and counterpoint to his values? Reward? Redeemer or redeemed? Comic relief? Threat? Tempter?
(See how each of these possible 'secondary character' aspects exists in terms of what the secondary is to the protagonist?)
Your secondary character is not just a microphone to hold the other half of a dialogor a plot device that gets kidnapped so the hero can be heroic.
Your secondary character allows the protag to express some part of the theme of the story.
Remember how Christopher Smart said cats were instruments for children to learn benevolence upon?
Your secondary character is an instrument for the protag to learn something on or do something with or be something to or avoid something about or validate something from -- and that 'something' is one of the themes of the story.
So when you start 'unflattening' your secondary character, you first decide what he is doing for, with, or to your protag.
Let's say your secondary character is an instrument for the protag to learn benevolence upon. Secondary Character One is the protag's testy, unpleasant, unpredictable Aunt Myrtle, of whom he is very fond. Those are her traits that relate to the protag, and we do not care how Myrtle's sister or bridge group see her or that she grew up in Crete or that she swims laps every morning at the 'Y'.
When we are 'building Myrtle', we consider the character traits that make Myrtle testy, unpleasant, unpredictable, and yet worthy of love
because this is how she 'fits with' the protag.
Where do these traits come from?
How are they related to one another?
How does she express them?
And that is how we unflatten Myrtle.
Adding in memorable idiosyncracies for your secondary is not in any way wrong.
Tell us Myrtle is a gourmet cook if this colorful bit of whimsy comes up.
But mostly we want to look at the set of Myrtle traits that intimately relate to the protagonist's dilemma. This lets us deepen and expand the secondary character in the most useful direction. This provides us with just that list of characteristics most likely to move the action. These are the character traits that slide naturally into the ongoing narrative.
Putting this in (mercifully) brief form --
We expand the secondary character by asking ourselves how she affects our protagonist.
We look at what she is that delights, annoys, frustrates, or challenges him.
If you're writing 80K words, you're not going to have time to give your secondary characters much attention.
Make sure their role is defined, put 'em in a funny hat so the reader can tell 'em apart, and work on your main plot line.
If you're writing 120K words, you likely need those secondary characters to come up with at least one subplot that is all their own.
This is big character development country here, because you have to motivate action. In this case, at least one secondary character must be as deep, complex, fully-realized and alive as your protag.
OK. Let' say you have 'writing room' enough that you need at least one fully-expanded secondary character.
How do you develop these secondaries?
It's not just a matter of choosing random, interesting aspects of these guys and tossing them into the story.
You pick and choose the aspects of the secondary characters as carefully as a bride chooses the flowers her bridesmaids will carry.
Let me be didactic here (... even though it isn't really this simple and other folks mileage will vary ...)
Every secondary character exists in your story to interact with some aspect of your protagonist.
So the first step in 'unflattening' the secondaries is to determine why they are in the manuscript.
Cuteness? Wisdom? Damsel-in-distress? Validation for the protags values? Antagonist and counterpoint to his values? Reward? Redeemer or redeemed? Comic relief? Threat? Tempter?
(See how each of these possible 'secondary character' aspects exists in terms of what the secondary is to the protagonist?)
Your secondary character is not just a microphone to hold the other half of a dialogor a plot device that gets kidnapped so the hero can be heroic.
Your secondary character allows the protag to express some part of the theme of the story.
Remember how Christopher Smart said cats were instruments for children to learn benevolence upon?
Your secondary character is an instrument for the protag to learn something on or do something with or be something to or avoid something about or validate something from -- and that 'something' is one of the themes of the story.
So when you start 'unflattening' your secondary character, you first decide what he is doing for, with, or to your protag.
Let's say your secondary character is an instrument for the protag to learn benevolence upon. Secondary Character One is the protag's testy, unpleasant, unpredictable Aunt Myrtle, of whom he is very fond. Those are her traits that relate to the protag, and we do not care how Myrtle's sister or bridge group see her or that she grew up in Crete or that she swims laps every morning at the 'Y'.
When we are 'building Myrtle', we consider the character traits that make Myrtle testy, unpleasant, unpredictable, and yet worthy of love
because this is how she 'fits with' the protag.
Where do these traits come from?
How are they related to one another?
How does she express them?
And that is how we unflatten Myrtle.
Adding in memorable idiosyncracies for your secondary is not in any way wrong.
Tell us Myrtle is a gourmet cook if this colorful bit of whimsy comes up.
But mostly we want to look at the set of Myrtle traits that intimately relate to the protagonist's dilemma. This lets us deepen and expand the secondary character in the most useful direction. This provides us with just that list of characteristics most likely to move the action. These are the character traits that slide naturally into the ongoing narrative.
Putting this in (mercifully) brief form --
We expand the secondary character by asking ourselves how she affects our protagonist.
We look at what she is that delights, annoys, frustrates, or challenges him.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Cleaning out the Blog again
I went back again and swept out old messages and made the blog tidy.
The blog has been my writing progress ... sometimes day-to-day writing progress ... on two manuscripts. Is there anything more self-involved and narcissistic than a writer talking to herself about the minutia of writing? This can't be interesting for anyone.
So I've gone through and deleted about 100 post, all of them full of fascinating stuff like me agonizing over how to increase narrative drive in Chapter Seven. I don't say that what is left is all that enthralling, but the stuff I've pulled is considerably duller.
Some of the messages I pulled had comments attached. Sorry to delete those comments.
The blog has been my writing progress ... sometimes day-to-day writing progress ... on two manuscripts. Is there anything more self-involved and narcissistic than a writer talking to herself about the minutia of writing? This can't be interesting for anyone.
So I've gone through and deleted about 100 post, all of them full of fascinating stuff like me agonizing over how to increase narrative drive in Chapter Seven. I don't say that what is left is all that enthralling, but the stuff I've pulled is considerably duller.
Some of the messages I pulled had comments attached. Sorry to delete those comments.
And she's back ...
The manuscript of My Lord and Spymaster has been turned in to the editor. Yeah!
I was gone for three months.
Now I have time to do some blogging again.
Also Yeah!!
I was gone for three months.
Now I have time to do some blogging again.
Also Yeah!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)