15-day Challenge Day 6 and 7: Favorite Genres and Current Project

I am agreeing with Abigail Hartman when she says that picking one genre to write in can be "damaging to the mind and doom the author's writing to tedious repetition." Like any other thing in life, you ought to use moderation in your favorites. One can not survive on one kind of food only. One cannot have a well-formed mind if the mind is only fed on one kind of book or one subject. And so it is with writing. One genre only can quickly reduce the flavor of your writing to stale crumbs of half-baked inspiration trying desperately to be an elaborate Charlotte Russe or some other stunning dessert. That being said, I will name my favorite genres to write, and what I like about them:

15-day Writing Challenge Day Six: What is your favorite genre to write in?

Light Historical Fiction: this is what I'm terming novels as that are not dealing with historical events, but are set back in time. Using history as your setting, rather than what moves your plot along. A Mother for the Seasonings fits this category well. It's set in a British settlement in East India during the Victorian Era, and while I tried my best to be historically accurate with what was going on during that time, the kids don't encounter much history.

Historical Fiction: This is researched, thought out, careful writing that has to deal closely with historical events and people. My newest idea is going to be a French Revolution historical fiction, and I am in the stages of researching and planning and loving it to death. :)

Poetry: Is this a genre? I guess it is. I love poetry. It comes to me quite often with a resounding "SMACK!" and I'll have written something passable. A phenomenon, really, as the words seem to write themselves. What moments. If only prose was as easy as poetry is for me most of the time.

Satire: I will admit, I love satire. I love Mark Twain's tongue-in-cheek, biting words. But a little of satire goes a long way, and I have to be careful in selecting who I show my bits to. I actually am quite a hand at poking fun at our conservative/homeschooling foibles and follies. :P *smiles at Marybelle*

Short Stories: Until about a month or two ago, I had never been much good at writing these. I found it hard to fit a beginning, a plot, and an end into a few short pages. But I've found that when the writing bug has bitten and my main novel isn't agreeing, it's a great way to liberate inspiration.

15-day Writing Challenge Day 7: What is your current writing project?

Aha. Puddleby Lane claims my attention at present. I am not the writer who works on two projects at a time--I can't fathom how that can make for a very cohesive novel...hopping back and forth from plot to plot as if you were playing one-man ping-pong? Strange indeed. I know most of you have heard enough about Puddleby Lane, but for any new-comers I shall do a blurb:

"In her fourteen years of life Cora Lesley hasn't met with much that she'd call adventure. Beyond The Accident, there hasn't even been anything worth writing down as her "life story". That is until the stock-market crashes on October 29, 1929 and Cora and her sister's family lose everything. They are forced to leave their cozy home in the Mid-West to move to a shabby seaside town. Does Puddleby Lane hold a promise of adventure? It seems so. The discovery in the Other House and the mystery cloaking it, the budding friendship with the three year-round inhabitants of the town, Captain Boniface and his queer home, The Bonny Addie, and even the change of scenery all point to new experiences for Cora. But when calamity touches the family and a shadow falls across Puddleby Lane, the question arises: Will Cora, Maggie, and the children be force to go through yet another storm, or

will this new set of adventures teach them to lean more than ever on the Everlasting Arms?"

There you have it. I am at 139 pages right now, and about half-way through the plot. I'm estimating it to be about 300 pages long by the end. Plenty long enough for a light historical-fiction novel, I believe. Anyway, that's all for now, folks!

15-day Challenge Day 5: Least Favorites

Day 5: Who is your least-favorite character you've written?

Dear oh dear. Can I have a least-favorite-character-I-kind-of-like? No? Well this shouldn't be too terrible hard, as I introduced about a dozen horrid women of all sorts in A Mother for the Seasonings. Of course some of the women were nice, but I had to get rather creative with reasons why all these women would simply *not* do for a mother for the Pot O' Seasonings. :)

There was Lorraine Simms, the dried up, wizened, vixen of an old woman. She certainly was a pill.

There was Widow Tabitha McLurrin who was.....dead.

There was Madame Chantolle Vervay, the "half-gypsy and whole villain" (to quote Miss Pole of Cranford) who the children discover is a fortune-teller by her trying to read Fennel's palm. Actually, one of my favorite scenes with Basil being a protective older brother is at this moment. He slaps the woman's hand away, yells at her, picks Fennel up, and flees the place. It's rather triumphant. ;)

Then you had Mrs. Joan Pringle, the rather slatternly, poor woman who you never met but heard enough about from her horrid triplets to serve you for life.

And of course we can't forget Sali, the native cook who has a love/hate relationship with the children, (especially Dill) and in the end runs off with the butcher man. :P

But of the reams of characters, including the women could possibly have stood for a mother in a pinch (Bessie Hartwell, Mother Ana Vassilieva, Miss Cynthia Lowell, Nellie Stevens, and Miss Lilly Piccalo) the most horrid, evil one of them all was Artemesia Arulia Annabelle Watkins. I shall explain her in Basil's words:

"...A moment later I was pleading earnestly with Miss Artemesia Arulia Annabelle Watkins. Her regal beauty egged me on to complete the proposal without a flaw.

'We really haven't a mother of our own, and we need one terribly, so we were wondering if you wouldn't like to marry Papa.' I finished and my shoulders slumped. It was not as easy as you would think, trying to explain our business to these women. None of them seemed to understand the thinking behind it. It was a perfectly simple idea that even Fennel could understand. Why did women have to be so complicated?

Miss Watkins smoothed her flaxen hair with a lily-white hand and adjusted her locket so that it rested exactly in the center of her white collar. Her eyes glinted like a python's do before it coils around its hapless prey. 'I don't think I'd mind marrying your father,' she simpered, 'But gracious, there are so many of you children.'

I didn't know what to say to this. I exchanged a quiet glance with Rosemary. She appeared just as kerflummaxed as I, as Papa would say.

'There aren't...so many of us,' I said. 'Mrs. Perkins has twelve children. We're only five. Won't you reconsider?'

At the reference to Mrs. Perkins and her twelve children Miss Watkins opened her eyes wide and said in a bitter tone, 'I would call Mrs. Perkins irresponsible. Still, I might be able to reconsider if you all were sent away. I'm sure your father could have no objection. Boarding school is always an option...Yes...that would be just the thing...' A look of greed crossed the no longer lovely countenance of Miss Watkins....

Miss Watkins sat back in her chair, imperious. She might have been made of stone for all the interest she showed in us children. One hand clasped the arm of the chair as if it were gold and she a dragon protecting it.

I wanted to shout that we withdrew our proposal. That we took back everything we had said, but the words would not come. This woman, this dragon, had us in her grasp, and I feared she would not be easily deterred from her object."

See? Hateful woman. That is why I allowed the Seasonings to be the naughtiest they've ever been in the following scene. :) Well, company's here and I've got to go! ~Rachel

15-day Challenge: Day Three: First Times, and The Bird Woman

15-day Writing Challenge Day Three: {First Times}

Oh mercy. You had ask this, didn't you? I must admit that until I was at least twelve, I hadn't the slightest inclination toward being a writer. Well...I had dabbled in poetry. Ahem. I can recall one very silly verse that I blush over now.
"I think my favorites books
Are Where The Sidewalk Ends
Or Where the Pigeon Flew...
How about you?"

Oh puh-leese. This is *so* utterly ridiculous. I believe it was an attempt at a tribute to Shel Silverstein...but I'm sorry. I never ever ever had or have since heard of a book called Where The Pigeon Flew.
And then there was Molly Ann McGee and something about bugs in candy or sweets...? *Unpleasant Shiver* When I was twelve I moved on from there to my first novel: A Year With the Manders, for lack of a better title. I can assure you that anything that is possible in the way of illness, accidents, calamities, scrapes, and confusion happened to the two main characters. *Slumps on desk and pounds head*. Really, it was a horrible hash of vague remembrances of Anne Shirley, Laura Ingalls, and my own budding sentimentality. Of course I had a French girl in there, and since I didn't know any other French names, she was christened Antoinette. :P There was something about Scarlet Fever (a must for any self-respecting novel, I then thought) and a death...or two....and an attempt at mystery...and a week home alone, and various other silly adventures. I had no concept of plot or characters or anything, and I prefer not to recall it.
It really wasn't until my Seasonings story that my writing took wings. :)
*Phew* glad that terrible "first-time-phase" is over. :P Now you may read a little vignette about my morning at the market and a lesson I learned...

"The Bird Woman"
By Rachel Heffington

It's noon at the Saturday farmer's market. I've been here selling our produce and baked goods since seven, running off of a twelve hour day of preparation, four hours of sleep, and a slice of zucchini bread. Not much to go on.
I start zoning out, trying to ignore the intense pain in the bottoms of my feet, the stiffness of my back, and the all-too honest reality of the fact that the day's not over. It's been a good day, despite my exhaustion. Most of the baking we slaved over yesterday has sold. Many of the gorgeous flowers in the five-gallon buckets lining our stall have been wrapped in wet paper and carted off by proud little girls, polished moms, or comfy grandmothers.
In my half-comatose state I hear Dad peddling the remainder of our baked goods: "Ma'am, please step over here. I've got something for you--something I'm sure you've never tasted. Italian herb bread made with fresh herbs, not dried. The flavor's unique--much stronger than what you've ever tasted." He pauses, sample plate in hand and gestures to me. "It's a new thing Rachel's trying. She's modest, but she makes a great loaf of bread."
I muster a smile, commanding the corners of my mouth to curve up. I've heard the spiel so many times I could quote it backwards, forwards and upside down. I blush each time I hear it, for my personality is not that of a salesman. I would quietly offer samples, and quietly sell the loaves here and there. But I have to hand it to Dad--we're almost sold out, thanks to his efforts.
I drag my donkey-ing thoughts back to the market, rattling off a string of information to a wondering customer. These people are blessings--if we didn't have them we'd never sell anything--but they have to be educated. Many don't know an apple from a cucumber.
Over the morning I've become adept at managing to appear interested in the stories our customers have to tell. They've ranged from the strange--"I'm gluten intolerant so I can't have any baked goods. If I wanted to commit suicide I'd walk through a bakery eating everything, then run across the street to a pasta shop!"--to the downright weird--"Your kidney filters a half-cup of blood every hour."
I wonder, through a haze of vague thoughts, why that piece of information is necessary to relate to an exhausted seller of vegetables, but I remember just in time that my job is to be pleasant and helpful. I straighten my back and tuck the loose strands of hair back into my sagging up-do.
The last customers have dwindled away toward the other stands, onto more engaging company. The napkin covering the sample-plate flutters off, and for the hundredth time this morning I replace it, pinning it down with a crumb-spattered knife. I glance at a man's watch as he fingers through our basket of cayenne peppers, red as the blood filtering through my kidney--strange thought, that. I grimace and try to corral my thoughts into something worth thinking. Only a couple of minutes have inched by. Still the better part of an hour to go.
And then I see her.
If I had not bothered to look down I would have missed her completely--a tiny old woman, frailer than frail, and only attaining the towering height of four feet with the help of a pair of black high-heels. They always remind me of the Wicked Witch of the West, only cheerful and spry. I don't know her real name--I call her the Bird Woman.
Her keen blue eyes open wide as she approaches, and a real smile lights my face as I catch sight of her lime-green ankle socks. Lime green, and ankle socks? On a little old lady who is nearer ninety than anyone I've seen for a long while?
"I like your sign," she says in a chirruping voice, like a merry little cricket. "The Lord is good."
At first I am confused, and then I recall our farm's verse: "Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good."
Dad understands first. "He is good indeed. If He wasn't, we wouldn't be here."
The Bird Woman's eyes twinkle. "If He wasn't, I wouldn't have these!" She shakes a bag of peaches bought from a stand down the way and laughs. Such a chirping, dry, sparrow-like laugh I've never heard.
I grin and uncover the sample plate, letting the napkin blow across the table. "Would you like to taste a Welsh cake?"
"Now what is a Welsh cake?" She pricks her way along the table in her patent-leather heels and stops at the canister of Welsh Cakes. Her head barely reaches the top, and I can just see her round blue eyes.
"It's a sort of cross between a shortbread and a tea-cake...it's great with coffee or hot tea." I give the description with more enthusiasm than I've felt all morning. The Bird Woman is such a novelty.
"And do they keep well?"
"Yes, they do well if you keep them in foil."
"Oh!" It's more of a chirp than an exclamation, and she flutters a little to the side. She pulls a little wallet from some pocket in her lime-green shirt and lays it on the counter. Her gnarled fingers, decorated with several gold rings extract a few bills from the inside. She flicks through them like a finch picking through a pile of crumbs. "One, two, three! I'll take three dollars' worth!" Her eyes crinkle up and she giggles and cheeps as she hands the bills to me.
As I dole her cakes into a paper bag and hand them across the table, I feel a queer sensation as if I was feeding seed-cakes to a little starling. The Bird Woman tucks the cakes away, smooths her white, wavy hair and flutters off to the next stand. As I watch her departure I realize I'm still smiling. The Bird Woman has reminded me of a most important truth. The Lord is good.

Indefinable, and Day 2 of Writing Challenge

To begin with I give you Day Two of the 15-day Writing Challenge! :)

Day Two: Your Favorite Male Author

Why, oh why, oh why must these question be so difficult?! I cannot choose just one favorite male author. It's a physical impossibility, I think! :P But I suppose I can limit it to two:

1. Charles Dickens--his brilliancy never ceases to amaze me. The masterful way in which he sketches the foils and idiosyncrasies of his characters and Victorian society is stunning. He has a wicked sense of humor...he's entirely quoteable. :) And I can say I know him pretty well, having made my way through several of his novels:

Little Dorrit

Bleak House

Nicholas Nickleby

The Chimes

The Cricket on the Hearth

The Christmas Carol

Great Expectations

Barnaby Rudge

A Tale of Two Cities

And David Copperfield, which I am almost 1/2 way through. :)

2. Close second behind Dickens is C.S. Lewis because....he's amazing. His writing says the things my heart longs to find words to say. I have never read a more beautiful allegory than The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. Some of the times I yearn for Heaven most is when I'm reading the ending bliss of The Last Battle. It's beautiful, and reflects the relationship Lewis had with his Lord and Savior. :)

And now I find I must leave you on a bit of a sober note, for last night I was pen-slain. Ahem. ;) I read something that completely challenged my opinion of my own writing and caused me to wonder if I was a writer after all. The only remedy for that was, I felt, to write about it. And so I did. :) You can read the musings of my bewildered pen below. And though I am not quite so gloriously dismayed this morning, I thought I'd let you read it, that it might encourage or sympathize with one of my dear readers. ~Rachel

“Indefinable: a confession of beauteous pain”

By Rachel Heffington

I sit down to the computer and pull my chair closer to the desk. It is a new writer’s blog—new to me, a least—which I am visiting. Scrolling through the recent posts, my heart warms to this author. “She has good imagery and technique,” I think in my settled, complacent mind. I click on a page marked “writing” and prepare to read a cute paragraph or two about her literary endeavors—something like the page I have on my own blog.

I read her descriptions, then settle myself in to scan through her sample chapter. The first words capture my attention. Beautifully written, neatly-turned sentences.

All at once the sheer talent of this author hits me with blinding force. Her descriptions are perfect, her imagery flawless. I am captivated by the bewitching flash of her turns of phrase and my heart aches with…a feeling indefinable.

Indefinable, why? Because I have realized, with shocking, white illumination that my pen, my mind, my imagination is too feeble to even define the sensation, let alone attain such splendor.

The hour’s work I had been so proud of yesterday shrivels, pales, and wizens into a shabby child’s picture-book challenging a leather-bound, gilt-edged novel. I shrink from this realization as one does from a celestial light.

This writer’s words are beautiful, and yet painful to me. Like one who tremblingly steals a glance at a sight too lovely for mortals, I continue to read the singing lines, the shimmering prose.

How can I ever think I am a writer after seeing such an example? My heart throbs at the thought that my beloved passion already has one who can serve it better than I myself can.

And yet, the pain is purifying; it has touched the deepest chords of my heart, and evoked a melody pregnant with longing. Longing to be a better writer, longing to spin such webs of enchantment over my readers.

I can see I have only dabbled on the surface of the great depths this writer has dredged. My words are pretty and quaint, hers beautiful and knowing.

I will never be such a writer, will I? And yet a few drops of the purifying light cling to my heart like the fairy-lamps of the fireflies in the many-hued dusk. The ache her words awaken is not a new ache. I am familiar with the sensation, for it keens in my chest when I gaze on the evening sunset cupped in the hands of the pines—a goblet of golden light spilling onto an azure cloth in the banqueting hall of the heavens.

This writer has done what I have not yet managed to do: She has found words in which to liberate the beauty on wings of passionate expression…

Her pen has cut deep. It has shaken the very foundations of my craft and shown me how very transient my writing is. It has caused me pain and made me question my fitness as a writer.

And yet it is strange. I cannot despise her for it. No indeed. The wound is like gold thrown into a furnace, that the dross may be purged. And perhaps my wondering heart may take comfort in the imagery: my writing and talent may be, in some part, valuable. But I must welcome these cuts to my pride, these wounds in my flesh, that the gold will emerge from the wondrous pain a purer and lovelier piece of craftsmanship.

15-Day Challenge: Day One: Favorite Character

Well, I have resisted the urge to dive into this blog event since I hadn't even heard of it till it was already well underway. But when I saw that Katie was beginning today I thought, "Why not make it a duo and at least I won't be alone in my tardiness?"
So today I begin Lerowen's 15-day Writing Challenge! :)

Day One: Your Favorite Character You've Written

This is going to be rather a difficult question for me, as I've never been able to efficiently pick favorites of anything- Animals, colors, books, movies....characters. I stand there making things difficult by actually thinking about the question, and I end up with a long list and nothing definitive. But I have to say that I constantly come back to the black-sheep characters. The people who are contrary, difficult, untidy, and utterly lovable. Of course I love my good characters. My leads and the characters one is supposed to love.

But no matter how hard I try to make them my favorite characters, often they aren't. That being said, I must choose one favorite character from my stories teeming with people. My choice? The character that holds a special place in my heart and is unforgettable, even after their story is edited to pieces?

Dill Vervain Octavius Seasoning

One cannot help loving this fellow, the fourth child in the family of A Mother for the Seasonings. He's bluff and cheery. He's the middle child. He's wonderfully frank and loves a good meal. He's roguish, he has a dimple (or two) and brown eyes. There is a refreshingly preposterous side, yet he's desperately loyal to his father and family....most of the time. Dill is the perfect mixture of man and boy. He doesn't fit in the typical Victorian-era qualifications for the perfect child. He's always coming out with something unexpected, and he uses slang. I enjoyed writing Dill so much that I was rather sad to see him go. I had to worst possible time trying to pick *one* scene with Dill at his best...but it had to be done. Witness this moment as Basil, the eldest, is watching his siblings get ready for one of the outings in their mother-hunt. :)

“Why in the blue blazes do we have to wear our best?” Dill glared at Rosemary as she took his “special occasion” suit from the bureau.

“Because Dill, we must look ship-shape for Miss Watkins today.” Rosemary unbuttoned his nightshirt and helped him wriggle into the tight suit.

“I look like a mushroom.” He frowned and gazed with a fierce eye upon his reflection in the mirror on the bureau door.

I resisted the urge to laugh. The comparison, though odd, fit Dill to a “t”. His cream-colored knickers, buttoned tightly down to his knees, were met by white stockings. A pair of suspenders suppressed his belly, strangled in a starched white shirtfront and collar edged with lace.

I smoothed my own dark suit with a complacent smile. Boy, was I glad to have graduated from those nonsensical clothes.

“Well, if you do look like a mushroom, it certainly isn’t anyone’s fault.” Rosemary pulled Dill towards her. “Let me brush your hair.”

“Must you?” Dill moaned and flopped in a chair.

Rosemary brushed and pulled Dill’s rakish curls, coaxing them into a dubious state of tidiness. His appearance gave me the fleeting impression that he looked like a lopsided dandy.

“There. You look fine.” Rosemary dampened her fingers in the basin and tried to flatten the last stubborn curl.

Dill raised his eyebrow and sighed.

I leaned against the bureau. “Truly, Dill. Miss Watkins will have no heart to refuse us after she sees you.” Whether Miss Watkins would accept the proposal out of sheer admiration for Dill’s appearance was doubtful in my opinion.

“Don’ forget your hat, Dill.” Fennel skipped up to him and placed a white sailor with long blue streamers in his hands.

Dill groaned as Rosemary clapped it on his head.

“That’s it. I look like a hideous mash of Tom Sawyer and Little Lord Fauntleroy. I can’t go visiting in this.”

Ah. That's my Dill. Gotta love him. :) ~Rachel