Backward Glances...

I love [and I think I always will love] the sensation of going back and reading a book you're done writing. Age seems to blunt the rough edges and mellow the sharpness of editing until you can scan through the pages of your novel thinking, "Well done indeed." :) It's grand, really, and something that should only be indulged in periodically so you don't get used to the feeling. :) You find bits of gold that you had only seen as another hunk of rewriting, and you can rest in the fact that until the editor tells you otherwise, your story is whole and complete. A Mother for the Seasonings is that way for me. Enjoy some backward glances at my first child! :D

  ........We children sat down to divide the three pomegranates. At first it was easy enough. We each had a half, but after that, we fell to arguing over who should eat the last piece.

“By virtue of my position, I really ought to get the privilege.” I said, taking possession of the fruit.

“The oldest people always get everything,” Dill said, “and I’m not in any sort of an important position. Can’t a fellow get a privilege for being `the least of these?’”

“I’m the middle child, I ought to get the extra half,” Angie said.

“Well, I’m da’ youngerest here. An’ I’m still hungry,” Fennel said.

                                   ~A Mother for the Seasonings 

.......At last, rounding a bend in the road, we came upon an ancient India rubber tree at the foot of a hill. The thick, dark leaves rattled merrily as a wind swept through the treetop. It seemed to usher us up the sloping grade to the Huntington House. For, at the top of the ridge, standing like a king atop a throne, was the massive, white, building.

An awed silence enveloped our group for a full five minutes. Finally Fennel spoke. “It looks like a castle Rosie, see the towers?”

Rosemary smiled. “It surely does Fennel. My, what a grand house.”

“The paint’s peeling off the porch pillars.” Dill observed. “And they let the ivy grow up onto the balcony. Now it looks like an old man with a scraggly beard.”

 “Not a bit of it, Dill.” Angie scoffed. “This house is what you call ‘picturesque.’”

“I’ve never called it any such thing,” Dill argued.

                              ~A Mother for the Seasonings

             Angelica routinely spent the sermon studying the people around her. I craned my neck, trying to see who it was this time that had so absorbed her attention. Deacon Clemmens’ wife sat directly in front of Angelica. So that was it. Angie had told me many times of a mole that Mrs. Clemmens had on her neck.

            “It’s the most fascinating thing, Basil,” she always assured me. “It’s just the shape of Africa.”

            For an instant, I was possessed with a powerful curiosity to see the much proclaimed mole. 

                                            
                                        ~A Mother for the Seasonings

The next morning, despite my assurance that all would be tickety-boo, I felt we should do penance in some way for our behavior. I scoured my mind for some appropriate punishment. Starvation perhaps? But Dill would never agree to that.

                            ~A Mother for the Seasonings

We followed behind our sister, and a couple of very old women immediately took Fennel captive. I tried to stifle a chuckle. They definitely looked the type that would stare a little child out of countenance and feed her peppermints periodically to make up for it. I knew the kind all too well. The memory of my own childhood, in that respect, was not so long forgotten.

                       ~A Mother for the Seasonings

Beautiful People: Basil Seasoning

Since many of you wish to get better acquainted with the teller of my tale, A Mother for the Seasonings, let me give you a glimpse of Basil in action:

"I ran out to the group in the guise of a perfectly welcoming host. “Hurry along, Miss Watkins,” I said, taking her arm.

“I am going just as quickly as I wish to, Master Seasoning. It does seem to take an eternity to get to your house.”

Rosemary trotted ahead and beckoned to us. “Faster, Miss Watkins, there’s a dear.”

As we approached the house, the barking of the dogs could be plainly heard.

Miss Watkins turned visibly pale. “Are the dogs fastened tightly?” She pulled her arm out of mine and twisted her handkerchief into a knot.

I affected a casual air. “Oh yes. We made sure to tie them up securely. Especially after what happened last time.”

“What happened last time?” Miss Watkins stopped and turned to me.

Rosemary tilted her head to one side and shook her head sweetly. “Oh nothing much. Only that Deacon Cloddham visited last week, and although her arrived with all his fingers, he left with nine.” Her brown eyes had never looked more sincere. “You had better hold your hands high in the air so the dogs don’t think your gloves are pieces of meat.” She nodded at the smart salmon colored gloves Miss Watkins wore.

Even I was shocked by Rosemary’s tales—she was usually so mild, and I shook my head at her audacity.

We entered the gate an odd procession, but the spirit of mischief had firm hold of me by now. Miss Watkins held her hands above her head, and, for Angelica’s benefit—for I knew she would be watching out the front window—I held out my arm like a rapier, as if we were holding this woman hostage at sword-point.

Hot anger at the bare idea of Miss Watkins being our mother urged me to greater heights. I have no idea what fiend of inspiration made the others act their parts so well, though perhaps it was a kindred feeling to mine, but even Fennel suggested that we had better dash to the front door in case one of the dogs broke loose.

At this, Miss Watkins gathered up her trailing skirts and ran to the door, arriving with her bonnet tilted over one ear. We crowded the walk behind her.

“Is your father at home?” Miss Watkins’s ivory complexion was flushed an uncomfortable shade of red.

“He isn’t yet, but he will be.” A fluttering sensation rose in my chest.

I gave Miss Watkins my arm and led her through the house to the table, which looked lavishly elegant. Angie’s roses lent an additional charm.

Fennel gasped. “Basil, those woses are full of—”

I clamped my hand over her mouth and pulled out a chair for Miss Watkins.

She sat down and plastered a smile on her lips. “Will your father be home soon?”

“Yes, but we usually eat without him, why don’t we begin?” I bowed my head and said a blessing, mentioning nearly everyone of our acquaintance in Cape Farsight, and dwelling on the heathen in the far reaches of the world. I hoped rambling on in such a way would bide us some time before Papa came home. At last I was finished, and I lifted my glass. “To Miss Watkins.”

The others followed my example. “To Miss Watkins.”

The subject of the toast managed a cold smile and put her glass to her lips. She promptly choked on the liniment-flavored tea.

I stole a glance at Angie, but her face registered no emotion beyond polite surprise. She kept her eyes on her plate and ate her own food in silence. That little minx was a fine actress, I had to admit.

I needn’t explain the next few minutes very deeply. Suffice it to say, Angelica and I had done our jobs well. The food was thoroughly uneatable, and the fat green worms, not contented with their rose-petal beds, had tumbled into Miss Watkins’s salad, completing her disastrous meal.

Our guest rose, her whole body trembling. Her jaw was clenched, and her eyes glittered. They were pools of golden malice. I shrank involuntarily from their gaze.

“Children, I reject, I despise, I spurn, your proposals. I would not marry a man who fathered such brats if he were a king. Good day.” Miss Watkins turned on her heel and slammed the front door as she left our house."

 Ah yes. My dear Basil.

1. Do they have any habits, annoying or otherwise?

Basil’s habits are of a neat nature…the other Seasoning children tell me that he often stands before a fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, legs spread apart.

2. What is their backstory and how does it affect them now?

Basil shares the same basic backstory with the rest of his siblings: They had a mother, beautiful and young, who they loved very much. She and Capt. Herb Seasoning were fervently devoted to one another. But when she gave birth to Fennel, Victoria Seasoning died, leaving Capt. Seasoning a widower with five young children. Ever since Basil has felt a deal of responsibility for his family.

3. How do they show love?

Basil’s manner of loving is to ruffle Angie’s hair or pinch Fennel’s nose. He is a thoughtful person and likes to see women well-dressed, so he is liberal with his compliments, which pleases Rosemary, especially. As far as other fellows go, Basil is a typical man. His expressions of satisfaction and approbation are most often given in a slap on the back or a grin.

4. How competitive are they?

Basil is not what most people would call competitive—he has enough trouble already keeping Angie and Dill from killing each other. But as the oldest child, and a son at that, Basil makes sure he keeps his place as alpha-wolf in the pack. He’s a peacemaker, not a ring-leader, but he takes the lead often as a “captain” for the girls, as he expresses it to Dill.

5. What do they think about when nothing else is going on?

Shoes and ships and sealing wax and cabbages and kings, I’ll warrant. Basil is a typical boy who is curious about things. He likes nothing better than to go to work with his father, training new recruits for the British army. I suppose soldiers, sailing ships, exploration, and adventure stories figure largely in his mind. He is (happily) not at that age where any thought of girls, beyond his sisters, comes into play. I would not know what to do with him if he fell in love rather than his father! Yet Basil is aware enough to have a good eye for a wife for his father. It is he who has the final say in the Mother-Hunt visits.

6. Do they have an accent?

Oh yes, indeed. Basil has a stout, healthy British accent, and uses exclamations of peculiar Englishness as liberally as a Democrat.

7. What is their station in life?

Basil Seasoning is the eldest son of a prominent man in the settlement of Cape Farsight, India. Captain Herb Seasoning is an important figure in the training of the new recruits and brings home quite a pretty penny. The Seasonings are the Society children of the Cape. They are wealthy and rather spoiled with little to vex and much to please them. I cannot vouch for the statement that they are refined…though Angie is kept busy striving toward that end. But the Seasonings haven’t let prosperity turn their heads. The children are more at home talking to Dharma, the seller of trinkets in the market, than they are sitting in an OLAF tea-party. (Oh. And do let me explain OLAF—it stands for Old Ladies Against Fun, and is made up of all the Society wives of Cape Farsight)

8. What do others expect from them?

His father expects Basil to be his right-hand. He depends upon this eldest son more than he realizes. The other children instinctively look to Basil for guidance, letting him take the hits when something goes wrong, and the glory when it goes smashingly. His character is well-formed and noble for a mere boy of thirteen—I suspect because of his early sorrow and the way the children have had to “scramble up” on their own, Capt. Seasonings being such a busy man.

9. Where were they born, and when?

Basil Andrew Cyrus Seasoning was born on a bright morning in November. It was early summer, as India is in the Southern Hemisphere, and all the world smiled as it heard his first cry. Basil has that effect on people—he sooths and pleases them, and makes everyone feel at ease.

10. How do they feel about people in general?

Basil likes people, but he doesn’t like pretense. He hates false friendliness and social ladder-climbing. Having been brought up in a home where frankness is key, Basil neither understands, nor enjoys cold, conventional cordiality merely for the sake of being polite. If People in large will be themselves and leave all posturing at the door, you will find him your fast friend.

Beautiful People: Angelica Seasoning

I have decided to link up with the Beautiful People monthly event created by Georgie and Sky. I've done it once before, and I shall do it now. This event is designed to help you get to know one of your own characters better, or to introduce your readers to a character and let them get to know him/her. Without further ado I shall introduce you to my other favorite character in A Mother for the Seasonings:

Angelica Seasoning

1. What is your character's full name?

Angelica Isabelle Geraldine Seasoning. (Yes, I have a penchant for long names. :P)

2. Does her name have a special meaning?

No. Beyond the fact that she and all her sibings are named after herbs, and they all have four names.

3. What is her biggest accomplishment?

She would vow that her biggest accomplishment was finding her family a mother. She is convinced it was partly through her own doing that there is a Mrs. Seasoning by the end of the book. She also takes delight in bossing and fixing up her siblings enough so they are fitting for an OLAF tea-party, as she ever is.

4. What are her strongest childhood memories?

As Angie is only 11, she still has much of her childhood before her. However, some of her best memories are of when her mother was still living and would tell them stories. Now, however, she likes looking back on the adventures of the Mother-hunt, many of which were of her own design.

5. What is her favorite food?

Lemonade, lemon ice, lemon-custard tarts, etc. Lemons agree with Angie's personality. She's spunky, tart, bright, and beautiful, with a little bit of punch to her.

6. Does she believe in love at first sight?

Well, do you, Angie? Yes, of course you do, for if one has an armful of roses to give to a lady, love will naturally follow. A batch of custard tarts wouldn't be taken amiss either.

7. What kind of home does she live in?

A bungalow in a British settlement in East India. It's a tidy, low, cool house furnished comfortably. After all, one's father isn't a commanding officer in the British army for nothing.

8. What does she like to wear?

Her sailor-dress with the pleated skirt. It puts her in high good humour anytime she wears it, which is a mercy after some of the escapades.

9. What would she do if she discovered she was dying?

Laugh, stick out her tongue, and proceed. Dying doesn't bother Angie. She has no regrets, for she's always lived life to the fullest, and is not one to get down in the mouth over something that happens to the best of us.

10. What kind of holidays or traditions does she celebrate?

Christmas, Easter, Guy Fawkes day, May Day, and many another merry English holiday. Also various expeditions and rendezvous with their Derry-dock town.

What do your other characters have to say about her?

Dill says she's his best friend and worst enemy all rolled into one. Rosemary says she's a dear but needs a strong hand to tame her. Basil has a soft spot for this wild sister and obeys her unquestioningly. Aunt Regina loves her to pieces, and appreciates her frank good will.

If she could change one thing in her world, what would it be?

At the start of the novel she longs for a mother. At the end....? Perhaps a bit more adventure?

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 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

A Mother for the Seasonings: A description and an excerpt

For some time I have been meaning to satisfy my readers' curiosity and give you a back-of-the-book blurb about A Mother for the Seasonings. For what good is a post about The Seasonings if you poor people don't give a hoot over who they are or why in tarnation we care about them! ;)

So without further ado, I give you an introduction.

Basil, Rosemary, Angelica, Dill, and Fennel, the children of a widowed British officer, love their life. With a doting father, plenty of money, vivid imaginations, and the run of Cape Farsight, what more could they want? It would seem they need nothing else. Until the children decide to find a wife for their father and a mother for themselves. But how to go about it? They can't tell their papa their scheme--that would ruin it. And they can't ask for help from the OLAF. (Old Ladies Against Fun) But faint heart never won fair lady, so to speak, and the children will not be daunted. They'll simply do the courting on their own.

Thus begins a hysterical, touching, adventurous, bitter-sweet, whirl-wind summer of visiting prospective mothers. But things do not go quite as planned. Something always seems to get in the way of complete success. It could be Miss Lorraine Simms who, to the children's shock, is old enough to be their grandmother and bitter to boot. It could be the beautiful Ana Vasselieve who has taken her vows a moment too soon and exits the abbey, a nun, just as the Seasonings arrive.

Whatever the reason, none of the women are the right fit for such a family.

Will they ever find a mother? Will this ache ever go away? And will they get through the summer without ruining the Seasoning reputation?

Written from the oldest son, Basil's perspective, and set against the vivid backdrop of British East India during the Victorian Era, A Mother for the Seasonings is sure to make you laugh, cry, and hope for a happily ever after.

There you go! :D What do you think? Would you read such a book? Let me know! :) Oh yes. And here is an excerpt to tempt you further. :)

"By the following morning I had had sufficient time for my anger to rise against Dill. Wounded pride fed the flame of irritation in my heart. I sulked in the icehouse, fanning the flame until it roared into a wildfire of indignation.

If Dill had not opened his mouth and proposed to Sister Ana, we would never have been humiliated.

Since when had I given the authority for anyone else to do the proposing? True, Angie had helped me along now and then, but what did that matter? Dill had gone too far and made fools of us in front of a whole abbey full of nuns.

What would be the best way to punish this mutinous behavior? After all, I was the oldest child, and since I couldn't quite bring the issue before Papa, I had to deal with it myself...Inspiration struck at that moment. Dill's pudding! I jumped up from the sawdust floor and ran into the house. I skidded to a stop outside the parlor door. I peeped through a crack and beheld Dill putting together a jigsaw puzzle on the floor.

I cleared my throat and stepped through the door. "Dill, I need to talk to you."

'Oh? What about?' He squinted at a piece and placed it in the center of the puzzle. His coolness irked me.

"About your behavior yesterday afternoon. You humiliated us, you know. A real man would never have proposed to a nun." I crossed my arms and tapped my foot on the floor, waiting to see how Dill would take my words.

"I suppose I did," he said in even tones.

"I've decided to take away your pudding and treacle."

Dill gave no sign that he had heard me. He turned the puzzle pieces over with a studied air. My anger swelled.

"I'm taking it away," I said, "for a solid week."

Dill sat up and stretched. "I suppose I did cause a fuss. Very well, Basil, you know best."

I stared at him, incredulous. I had expected a fight, or at the very least a frantic protest. But here Dill sat agreeing with the cruel and unusual punishment as if I had merely remarked on the fineness of the weather.

Was he feeling quite well? I peered at his rosy face, wondering what malady possessed him.

Dill met my gaze, his eyes searching mine. "Well, isn't it about time we got on with the visiting? I'll call the girls."

Dill exited the room, leaving me silent and not a little bewildered. I shrugged. There was no use trying to fathom what his submission meant. It only worried me...

'Miss Piccalo will be right with you." The maid dropped another curtsey and left us to the mercies of the slippery chairs.

I thought a word of caution in order. "Remember, we aren't proposing unless we really think we want Miss Piccalo for a mother. And this time I'll do the asking."

I shot a glance at Dill, but his face was turned toward the walls of the regally decorated room.

Chocolate brown and gold-striped paper met walnut wainscoting halfway down the walls. The trim of the doors and ceiling was gilded, and even the drapes in the deeply set windows were a rich sugary color. Tall curio cabinets filled with beautiful shells and figurines stood on either side of the ornate doors. A large plush rug bedecked with brown and red roses occupied the very center of the room. My feet sank into its velvety depths.

'Isn't this a wonderful way to live?" Angie gave a delighted little bounce that sent her sliding to the floor. "Oh mercy." She scrambled back upon her chair as the sound of light footsteps approached.

A moment later Miss Lily Piccalo appeared, looking cool as cream in her white gown. Her light brown hair was coaxed back from her face and she smiled at us warmly before sitting down.

"How are you children doing?" She perched herself like a dainty bird on a horsehair chair and folded her hands in her lap.

"We are quite well. Thank you," Rosemary answered.

"The weather is quite warm today, isn't it?" Miss Piccalo fanned herself gently with a paper fan.

I nodded and fidgeted with my tie. "Yes ma'am."

At this point I discovered that visiting a person alone was much different that visiting with a grown-up. I couldn't for the life of me think of what to say next.

Rosemary smoothed the ribbons on her hat and bit her lip.

"Did you enjoy your trip to Europe?" Angie asked.

Miss Lily leaned forward in her chair. "Oh yes, ever so much. I filled dozens of notebooks with sketches. It was absolutely lovely."...

Shortly, the maid appeared with a large stack of sketchbooks.

"You may each take one and look through it." Miss Piccalo took Fennel upon her lap. "If you want ot hear about any of the places, just ask me. There were so many interesting things to see and do. To tell you the truth, I was just thinking that I'd like to tell my adventures to someone who was truly interested in hearing them."

We all laughed at the funny little confession, and Miss Piccalo's easy manner soon put us at ease.

For the next hour she showed us her sketches and told us wondrous stories of lands where real kings and queens ruled, where the native people were as fair as ourselves, and where the climate was so cold that snow stayed on the mountain peaks till the middle of July.\

At last, when the conversation was drawing to a close, I telegraphed 'the question' to Rosemary. She nodded ever so slightly.

I cleared my throat. "Miss Piccalo, I have an important question to ask you."

She smiled. "Yes?"

"You see, Miss Piccalo, we haven't had a mother for years. Our own mother died, you know. Papa has seemed very lonely ever since then, and we've all gone a bit wild without a woman in the house. In short, we would like to ask you if you will marry Papa and become our mother. I know you'd be happy."

"Children, I...cannot agree to your proposal without knowing much more. Would your father be a kind husband? Is he a Christian? Would I be comfortable? Is he financially stable?" Miss Piccalo seemed to be talking to herself, her eyes fixed on some place distant. Her cheeks flushed with excitement.

Rosemary touched her hand with an appealing expression. "Papa is a wonderful father--I'm sure he'd be a kind husband."

Dill popped the last half of a tart into his mouth. "Yes, he is a good father...at least when he remembers to give us supper."

"Your father forgets to feed you?" Miss Piccalo looked quizzically at Dill's round face.

"Yes. And then Angie and Fenny have to dance in the market for money so that we can buy food." Dill smiled. "And if you come, you'd better bring all your clothes. You're lucky yesterday was laundry day. We might have had to visit in our underclothes because we only have one set of clothes each." Dill paused for a moment, leaving us dumb and in a great state of shock. I could not believe my ears.

After taking a sip or two of lemonade, he continued. "As for being a Christian, I suppose he is, but most Sundays he stuffs bits of cotton in his ears so he can't hear the sermon and spends the collection dime on whiskey."

Angie found her voice at last. "Dill Vervain Octavius Seasoning!"

She took a breath after delivering the long name, but Dill used this pause to continue his string of absurdities.

"As for being comfortable, I'm sure you would be fine if you didn't mind a mattress as thin as an old man's hair. We all have to use our mattresses for ten years, because Papa says he can't afford a housekeeper, much less new mattresses."

I wanted to protest at the top of my voice and defend papa, but the lies were so absurd that I could only sit there gaping like a fool as Dill's falsehoods grew into a new and horrible reputation for the Seasoning name..."

Hope you enjoyed that! Let me know what you think! Should I do any more excerpts? Oh yes! and stay tuned for the first of hopefully many author interviews, coming soon! ~Rachel

Hints for Writing Historical Fiction

I thought that since I've learned a little about writing historical fiction (or fiction set back in time) in my writing experience, I'd share a few tips with you. Not that I necessarily know a lot, but it's what I write, so I've learned some things along the way.

1. Read a book either written or set in the era you're using
This is extremely helpful, as you will be able to gather information such as clothing popular in that era, words, politics, literature, celebrities, etc. Do take caution when reading fiction *set* in the era and not written in it, because the author didn't necessarily do his or her research. I found this hint extremely helpful when writing The Seasonings, because it is set in the Victorian Era, and I've read extensively and done extensive research on what this era had to offer so I was pretty immersed in the literature of the day.

2. Research colloquialisms, terms, sayings that the people used back then.
You should be able to find a treasure-trove of colorful language. (In the best possible way) Expressions that have long been buried and forgotten. Some of my favorites are:
"Saints above!"
"Blooming barnacles!"
"That's all a bunch of who-struck-John."
"Bully"
"Lawful hearts"
And many more. They just add a certain snap and color to your novel that would be entirely missing if you stuck to modern language. (Sorry everyone, but as a writer, I groan over texting language. It's so....cold and utilitarian in my opinion.)

3. Get out of the Slough of Insipid Language
"Nice," "Very," and "Suddenly" are pretty much goners. Especially the first two. Mark Twain has a marvelous quote regarding "very," but I don't think I'd quite like to quote him, as he uses a word I *don't* recommend. ;) Scour your brain and thesauruses and dictionaries and other books for strong adjectives. I promise you it's worth it. Only, do be careful. Some words have changed meaning over time, a good example being the word "gay" which used to be a sweet little word meaning "cheerful, brightly-colored, happy, etc." You probably want to nix that word in your writing, though it is historically accurate, as you are writing for a modern audience.

4. Research your setting
There is nothing more disappointing than cracking open a "historical fiction" novel and finding it could have been set in New York City today with very little change.
I wrote The Seasonings as being set in a British settlement in East India. Along the way I ended up doing more authentic research. I had started with The Little Princess, Homeless Bird and The Secret Garden being my authority on India, (and more specifically) British-occupied East India, but that wasn't going to cut it. Once I did my scouring, learning the customary foods and clothing, the topography of the land, etc. my story gained a lot of color. By the way, I don't recommend doing as I did and using only a couple of fictional books as your guides to life in your setting. It made for some pretty rough descriptions at first.

5. Be accurate
If you are truly writing a historical novel, this is perhaps the most important tip I can give you. History is defined by real people and real events. I'm sorry, but you can't change the date of battles or deaths of key historical figures or anything. Your writing will pretty much be discounted by anyone who is brushed up on their historical facts. For instance, in Puddleby Lane I needed to be careful I started my story in the proper time of year and time of month so that the crashing of the stock market would be at the correct time.

6. Make your characters' names eye-catching.
The way too over-used names of today should be tossed out when you go to start your historical novel. Do a Google search, or if you're a purist, scan through some census or parish records and find some names that haven't been used to pieces.

Hope these ideas helped! Anyone have any more ideas or suggestions? :) -Rachel

Case Closed- A Mother for the Seasonings Finished!

Yesterday I accomplished one thing every author wishes to accomplish. I finished final-editing A Mother for the Seasonings! :) This last and final edit was done using the critiques from my dear critique group partners, and my own taste. I reflect over what this process has been like and realize how far I've come. I have done a total of six edits on this book- Six! After three edits I sent out copies of The Seasonings to family and friends for them to comment on. I felt pretty good about my book at that point.

Ahem.

Then I took their feedback and edited it, then edited each chapter before putting it up for critique in my online group. And it is there that I learned....how much I still needed to learn.

My punctuation was atrocious.

I told instead of showed everything.

So with the help of these fellow-writers I embarked on a rewrite, and just finished yesterday afternoon. I printed the book off- all 207 pages of it, and put it in a notebook. It is finished. I have promised myself that I shall not change a word of it until I very gruff publisher with a very round belly and very bristly whiskers tells me I have to. ;) One very good piece of advice a critique-er gave me is this: There is such a thing as Over-Editing. You don't wish for your book to feel stilted and to lose it's flow. So I am done. I am forcing myself to let The Seasonings rest in peace. :P And I thought I'd post the epilogue for you here. Okay, so it *is* a spoiler, but if the book is never published, I'd love to know you got to read at least the very end. Tell me what you think! :)

Epilogue: Two Years Later

The summer heat pulsed like a volcanic heart outdoors, but inside our bungalow was cool and silent. Almost too silent. I longed for the usual daily noise attending our family. The laughter and chatter—even Angie’s piano-practice would have been a welcome relief compared with this quietude.

We children were gathered in the parlor, alone once more—and yet not alone. A mysterious bustle sounded in the dark hallway. The quick, light step of a woman and the low voice of Dr. Simms. A door closed gently, followed by a muffled groan.

Fennel put aside the book she was reading. “Will Mama be tickety-boo?”

“Of course, Fenny.” I pinched her nose and poured myself a glass of lemonade. But I was more than a little worried, myself. We had already lost one mother in childbirth. Would our new Mama be taken as well? Oh Lord, let her live. If it be Your will, let her and the new baby get through this time.

“You’d better not pinch me, Basil.” Fennel interrupted my thoughts.

I pinched her nose again. “And why not, goosey?”

“Because when I’m a young lady pinching me will be a fearful impro…impro..”

“Impropriety?”

“That’s right. Mama said gentlemen never pinch ladies. She told Dill just last week.”

A muffled moan drifted through the wall.

Rosemary shifted and sighed. “Oh, when will this waiting be over?” She knit her brow and toyed with a paintbrush and watercolors. Months of Mama’s gentle training had turned her into quite a young woman.

“I don’t guess it can be much longer.” I smiled at the growly depth of my voice. Two years had been sufficient time for my voice to drop an octave.

Dill joined my side. His head was almost level with mine now. “I’m hungry, Basil. Can we please rummage up something in the kitchen? I’ve been starved for weeks! Ever since Mama went into her confinement and Sali left us for that butcher-man.”

I thumped him on the shoulder. “Don’t you ever think of anything else besides food?”

Dill grinned complacently. “Not when there’s a crisis like this. Say, you and I have had our own room for a two years now. Why can’t we make some improvements? Install an icebox or two and some cupboards.”

“Dill Vervain Octavius Seasoning.” A tall girl sat down at the piano and tossed her golden hair. It was the Angie of old, only grown a foot taller and prettier than ever. “You will never learn to eat only at mealtimes, will you?”

She played a measure or two of some music on the piano and paused. A new sound had reached our ears, even above the music.

“Did you hear that?” Dill asked.

“Oh, is it the baby?” Fennel jumped from the window seat and threw open the parlor door.

We waited in silence. I bit my thumbnail. Ten minutes passed at a turtle’s pace.

At last I heard a door open and the set of light footsteps coming down the hall. A pale, pretty nurse entered the room. She curtsied. My heart leaped to my throat and I leaned forward, trying to anticipate the news, whether good or bad.

“If you please, Maister Seas’ning, the doctor says y’may come in now. All of you.” The nurse smiled, and curtsied again, and I knew all was well.

With a collective squeal, the girls pushed past me. Dill and I, unable to act the part of sober-minded gentlemen followed them at a breakneck pace. We slid to a stop at the door of Mama and Papa’s bedroom and tip-toed in.

Mama lay on the great bed and Papa stood beside her, stroking her golden hair. He turned when he heard us enter and motioned for us to come closer. I peeked at Mama over Papa’s shoulder. Although there were deep circles under her eyes and little color in her cheeks, a light shone through her face, making her more beautiful than ever before. I stepped closer to the bed and the others crowded around me.

In Mama’s arms, wrapped in a pink blanket, lay the tiniest person I had ever seen. Her eyes were shut tight and her dark hair was damp and fuzzy.

The girls gasped and reached out to touch her tiny hands and ears. Dill’s eyes grew rounder, but he poked the blanket and grinned.

“Golly, she’s awful red, isn’t she?”

He said it loudly, and the baby, startled by the sound, let out a tremulous wail. Dill shrank back and turned red himself.

Mama kissed the baby and laughed at Dill. Her laughter tolled softly like the bell in the silver rattle the OLAF had sent for this new little person.

“Don’t worry, Dill. She’ll soon grow accustomed to living in this lovely family,” Mama said.

The baby quieted, and Papa picked her up and placed her in my arms. It felt right, holding the warm, soft bundle. I hadn’t held a baby since Fennel was born. I looked at Fenny, now a big girl of nearly seven, and a lump rose in my throat. The baby wriggled and opened her rosebud of a mouth to yawn.

“What’s her name?” I asked.

Mama looked at Papa, her blue eyes luminous and overflowing with tender love. He nodded.

“Her name is Lavender,” Mama whispered. “After the lullaby.”

Papa stroked Mama’s hand. “Lavender Victoria Regina Seasoning, but we’ll call her Lavvy.”

I held the little baby and rocked it in an awkward, manly fashion. Lavvy. It fit her well.

“Well, Miss Lavender.” I pinched the tip of her nose as gently as I could. “You’ve come to live in quite a family.”

Lavvy moved a hand and stretched her tiny fingers, while snuggling deeper into her blanket. When she opened her eyes for a brief second, I could see they were the exact color of Mama’s. Blue as a summer sea.

I brushed Lavender’s velvety cheek with my finger and smiled to myself. She had evened things out, in a way. There were six of us children now. Fenny was a big sister, and Mama and Papa had a baby to bring their hearts even closer together, if that were possible. I thanked the Lord to the very depths of my heart for this new sister.

“Oh, let me hold the dear thing,” Rosemary said.

She took Lavender from my arms and cradled her in her own. Angie touched Lavvy’s tiny toes and Fennel tucked the blanket in tighter around her. I looked at Papa and returned his beaming smile with a satisfied nod.

It was impossible to have found a better sort of happily ever after.

The End

So there you go! :) What do you think of that as an ending? Oh! And to keep my reputation, I must remind you....Enter "A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words" contest! :) -Rachel