"Let's see...who will be next?"

I believe I've heard of a species of writer that has their work so carefully plotted that when they are done with one book they immediately begin on another, complete the process again, and so on. This species is unrelated to me. I think I missed out on the Spartan gene somehow. My style is much more...organic. I usually have two or three projects going at once. I work on all of them for the space of a week or so and suddenly one will take off and pull me with it. For instance, where have Cottleston Pie and Scuppernong Days gone? Good question! They are still very much alive, but Fly Away Home took over and raced with me to the finish line. Now that I'm through with Fly Away Home and am in the editing process with it and The Scarlet-Gypsy Song,  I am nosing about for which project will fly away with me next.

There  are four on the table at present:

Scuppernong Days

Find Her

Cottleston Pie

Au Contraire

I am not certain which I'll devote my entire creative-power to just yet. Cottleston Pie is a for-fun book that may not every be pithy enough to have publishing allure so I am doubtful I'll push hard for that, though I love to work on it. Here are the other three with their "Sales Handles", genre, and a picture from each. Which would you like to hear more about?

-Scuppernong Days-

A vow to rescue his sister. A tumble into intrigue, piracy, and traitorous waters. A promise to come home. It is up to young Nicodemus Murdoch to tie the three together and emerge alive.

Genre: Mid-grade historical/action-adventure novel

-Find Her- 

He has staked his life on a promise to "Find Her"...it would help if he knew what to look for. Find Her follows Griff Durbin--a young American in the 1920's--on his world-wide chase to find out what he's looking for...and where it's got to.

Genre: YA action/adventure

-Au Contraire: a novel of the French Revolution-

 Spoiled, petted Corinne Garnier has spent her life in mockery and contempt for the aristos. When a sleight-of-hand trick exposes her aristocratic blood, her ambitious cousin vows to hunt her down and execute her at the guillotine like any other duchess of the Revolution. Will Corinne stoop to accepting mercy at the hands of the people she has vowed to hate?

Genre: YA historical fiction


I am off to camp for a week without internet or my computer so I'll be thinking about these stories a bit during the stay. It'll be interesting to see which snags me first. I am excited about all three and would--if I could--work on them all together. Unfortunately, I work best devoting my entire life to one at a time. Each has great potential.....

Scuppernong Days has characters you feel deep sympathy and connection with, and a deal of great derring-do. Every kid has wanted to run off to sea--admit it.

Find Her is just such an improbable plot and Griff is going to be such a cool guy...a master in a long line of espionage experts...

And then Au Contraire (which I've mentioned before, though you didn't have the title)...the strength of the plot excites me as well as the sweeping drama of the time and the horrible crux Corinne finds herself at...

Ah yes. No lack of inspiration with these three clamoring in my head for proper time and exposure!

...before we sink: july's snippets

Here are July's snippets--as I'm off on the campaign trail all month I haven't had time to write--all the same, enjoy these few tastes of Scuppernong Days. :)

Nick scrubbed at the decks all morning. After an hour or so, pink blisters rose on his palms and protested against being rubbed further against the stone, but Nick dared not rest. Salem-town—even when Nick squinted his hardest—was not even a dark smudge on the horizon. There was nothing now but the sea; and Nick blessed it for being blue and smiling this first leg of the voyage.

-Scuppernong Days

“Didn’t you hear the whistle, lad? It’s time to eat.”Nick scrambled to his feet to see Mr. Nesbit looking much different than he had on the docks. The first-mate had discarded his common clothing and now wore a waistcoat of a violet hue and a long yellow feather in his hat. He wore also a skirted coat and a pair of dark woolen breeches buckled under his knees with bright silver buttons. “Didn’t you hear me, lad?” he asked again. “It’s time to eat. Go to the galley and wait your turn.”

-Scuppernong Days

“What time is it, senior?” Nick asked.“Amaranto. Call me Amaranto.” The Spaniard spoke with only a trace of an accent that floated through his words like the elusive fragrance of curry in a lamb stew.

-Scuppernong Days

Nick pulled away from Amaranto’s heavy hand. “Elliott said I was to be prepared for keel-hauling at three o’clock. Please, sir, let me go!”A ribbon of laughter rippled through the knot of sailors. Amaranto tossed back his head and laughed the heartiest. “Did he now? The little pícaro.”Fisher rolled his eyes. “Never did I see a worse varmint’n that Elliott. Fancy this new little chap pleading to be let go for a keel-hauling!” He broke off into louder laughter than before, and even Black-Swan swiveled her head about and bared her teeth as if joining in the general amusement.

-Scuppernong Days

He liked Cook—there was something oddly comforting in the benign appearance of the fat little man. He wore a buttoned shirt of a reasonably white shade rolled up to his elbows. His hair was non-existent, his eyelashes so light as to give him the appearance of being albino, and his cheeks very pink. He had a soft little under-chin too that Nick considered the crowning point in making Cook look like a very sedate Yorkshire pig.

-Scuppernong Days

"...don’t ye be worried about Cap’n Reynolds. I’m sure we’ll see ‘im someday before th’ ship sinks.”Before the ship sunk? That wasn’t a particularly cheering proposition. Nick decided to ignore the remark and instead lifted the wash-tub in his arms and staggered out the galley door with it. He dumped the lukewarm water over the edge of the ship and watched it rejoin the sea from where it had once been. It fascinated him, the way water never finished its business—it was always going somewhere, from one end of earth to another; never resting.                                                                                                -Scuppernong Days

Faces of The Scuppernong

Welcome to the many faces of Scuppernong Days. In the future you will hear a deal about them, I'm afraid. :) This is by no means an exhaustive list, but it does serve to give you an idea of what the characters in this book look like.

Imperia Murdoch

Elliott

Cook (in stolen regimentals? ;)

Amaranto

Bianca

Jacob

Mr. Lightwood

Fisher

Doctor Merrit

Mr. Nesbit

"...pert robin red-cheeks"

"Legend says, when you can't sleep at night, it's because you're awake in someone else's dream."

(a quote I found online--not my words :)

Can you guess who this pretty little thing is? Yep. Do you love her as much as I? <3

Nick dropped his feet one by one onto the wooden planks of the floor and crept to the pallet in the corner where Imperia slept. “Imperia?”

She was awake in an instant and smiled at him. “Leaving, Nick?”

He nodded; there was a catch in his throat that blocked everything he’d meant to say. He scratched his nose and shifted from one foot to the other.

“Will you write to me?” Imperia asked.

“Often as I can. And you write to me, on your honor.”

Imperia raised a small finger and made a cross on her chest. “On my honor—and as often as I find a penny for postage.” She smiled at him—a moon-beam smile, Nick thought. Just as white and translucent as the light of the moon.

Various introductions aboard ship

A couple weeks ago I hit a wall with both Fly Away Home and Scuppernong Days. I possess a hideous talent for knowing where a story needs to go, and having no idea how to get there. But while I laid Fly Away Home on a shelf for a little while, I've been slowly pecking away at Scuppernong Days. I knew I needed to get Nick off shore and onto the ship and then the plot could begin. I did just that, and was surprised to meet one character in particular. Don't ask me why I was surprised--I just was. I knew I wanted a second cabin boy aboard Scuppernong, but I hadn't expected to find...well...him. Meet Elliott.

Okay, okay. I know there's no way this is 18th century garb, but who cares? :D

Nick squinted against the brilliant white light reflected into his eyes from the broad canvases that caught the wind and swelled like a grey goose’s breast. He stood, fascinated, but received a sharp blow on his back.

“Watch it, won’t you?”

Nick dodged the possibility of another blow as a boy slightly taller than himself shoved past. “Sorry.”

“Lookit—what’s your name and what are you doing on my ship? I’m the cabin-boy hereabouts.” The boy crossed his arms. His tone was blunt, but whether the boy was angry or not, Nick could hardly tell. His face registered nothing but disgruntled curiosity.

“Nicodemus Murdoch, sir.” Perhaps he oughtn’t to have put ‘sir’ after answering, but it was pure habit.

The formality seemed to appease the boy and he uncrossed his arms with a noonday shadow of a smile. “Mine’s Elliott.”

“Elliott what?” Nick asked. The boy crossed his arms again and his eyes were round. Nick wondered what he’d said wrong. He’d only asked a simple question.

“Just Elliott, Master Nicodemus Murdoch,” the lad said. He stared at Nick from his vantage point of two inches’ extra height, and sniffed with great contempt. Then he nodded toward a lithe, dark man carrying a keg on his shoulder. “That there’s Amaranto—he’s a Spaniard.”

Nick stared. He’d never seen a Spaniard before—he was more than a little disappointed to see the man wore none of the bright clothing of the matador that he’d assumed every Spaniard wore abroad or at home. Amaranto was clothed instead like all the other sailors in an open-necked cotton shirt and loose pantaloons.

Before Nick was finished looking, Elliott grabbed his arm and dragged him to the bow of The Scuppernong. Elliott pointed to the rigging on the foremast where several men perched like gawky birds on the yardarms, loosening some ropes and tying others. “Them up there—that’s Simon and Fisher and Jacob.”

“Does everyone have only one name of their own?” Nick asked.

“Aye. You didn’t expect sailors to have the luxury of addressing each other like gentlemen did you? Everything’s on short commons aboard ship. Th’only ones as get extra names is Captain Reynolds and Mr. Nesbit and Mr. Merrit. The bo’sun, Mr. Lightwood too, only most of us drop the formality. You don’t know a barebones thing about sailing, do you?” Elliott asked with another derisive sniff.

I just met him myself so I don't know a deal about him yet, but I do know that he believes he's superior to Nick (and nearly everyone else.) He uses titles of respect sparingly, and will often be heard to reference the first mate as "Old Nesbit," though I suspicion he'd not be so bold if confronting the first mate himself.
He picks on Nick once he finds that his new colleague knows next to nothing about sailing...

Nick’s hackles rose at this slight upon his upbringing. “I do too know a deal about sailing.”

“Then you’d know that we cabin-boys go through a keel-hauling every afternoon at three of the clock.” Elliott’s face was a handsome one, and he looked very virtuous indeed as he rested his hand for a moment on Nick’s shoulder. “Be sure ye be ready for it.”

This threw Nick into a state of some confusion. What was keel-hauling? Nick knew enough about ships to know that a keel was a long beam running length-wise down the ship’s belly—like a great long spine. But what did that have to do with a cabin-boy’s duties? Not to appear ignorant, however, Nick shrugged. “Of course. Any good ship has keel-hauling at least once a day.” It might have been a lie, and Nick felt his face grow pink. He hoped keel-hauling fell under the category of mopping and scrubbing and sweeping, in which case he was innocent of deliberately breaking a commandment.

But I don't think Elliott's all bad. Hee-hee. We'll see about that! I'm not certain of anything at this point! (Only I'll give you a hint of a character I love already. His name is Hans, he's Norwegian, and he looks like this:)

:) (only he's always smiling, and he doesn't have spiky hair.)

the business bits we like to overlook ;)

I have not had much time for writing recently--life has caught me up in its talons and while it's all glorious and beautiful and hot and sticky and summer-y, it's left precious little time for actually thinking about plot and characters, phrasing and grammar. That is my little excuse, and I beg you to take it.
Otherwise I will have to do something terribly drastic like...like...like...never mind. I couldn't think of anything drastic enough. ;)

Among the many project ideas and actually-accomplished-projects has been the all-consuming business of reorganizing and going through our bookshelves. I took plenty of pictures of my book collection (before, after, and favorite bits. :) so that you may see. It will have to be in another post though because I don't have the pictures uploaded to this computer yet. Be patient, y'all. ;) I was in raptures because I got to visit with all my beloved old friends, and literally throw out (or Goodwill) the chunks of paper that don't have a spot in my memory because they weren't worth it. ;) I felt powerful. Yes, I'm a bit of literary snob.

Though I haven't written any more of Fly Away Home since resigning from the Crusade, I have been working on a pin-board that may give you a bit of an idea of parts of the rest of the story. :) Yes, yes I know that's not a legitimate form of research... ahem...

Yes, I know I haven't been writing and really haven't felt that much like writing, but I've been indulging in reading. It had been a slightly forbidden pleasure for so long--I would forgo the pleasure of reading in order to get in my word-count--that I am quite giddy with the sensation of gobbling book after book. :)

Oh! In other news, who wants to help name some of my newest characters? I won't promise I'll use all of your ideas, but I need some names for the crew of The Scuppernong. Most specifically:

2nd mate
ship's cook
ship's doctor
boatswain
a half dozen particular sailors who will figure in the plot
second cabin-boy

Oh! And besides a few minor adjustments (like putting back a few of the "about me and my writing" pages) the new blog design is done! Vote on how you like it at the poll on the sidebar. And thank for any suggestions you might have for sailing-folk names. :)

Au Revoir, Inky Ones! Have a loverly evening. :)

they know not for what they listen

"It is said by the Eldar that in water there lives yet the echo of the Music of the Ainur more than in any substance that is in this earth; and many of the children of the Iluvatar hearken still unsated to the voices of the Sea, and yet know not for what they listen." -J.R.R. Tolkien

It can be hard to write emotions in any sort of fiction. Emotion is so colorful and yet unseen. So gossamer-threaded and yet shadowed. But it is seldom harder to write than in children's fiction. Because, let's be frank: children can't put words to their grief or anger. They only know that it hurts and it aches and tears momentarily cool the burning passion raging in their breast. But often children find expression for their emotions by other means, and it is up to the writer of children's fiction to familiarize themselves with the ways a child may view the world, and to write their emotional scenes in this way so that the children reading the novel may identify with the characters.
Take Nicodemus Murdoch, nine years old, and hero of Scuppernong Days. His mother died of the fever, and his father at sea. How does he process it all?
First in memories...

But now that he had arrived at the real site of it all, he felt very much ten years old. Never had the tall-ships seemed so massive—hull and masts and yardarms penciled insidious black against the grey morning fog. When Nick had visited the docks as a younger lad he’d felt king of all Salem, seated as he was on Father’s shoulder. The sailors had looked up at him then, their jovial, sun-crisped faces tilted at Father—six feet tall—with jolly recognition.
“What say you to a pint of rum, Sam?” they might ask. Or, if the day were fine: “How ‘bouts we row out to the harbor and see what the India Queen brung in?” And Father would laugh down his briny, brawny laugh and shake his head. “I’m spending the day with my first mate.” First Mate. That’s what Nick had been to Father in those happier times before.

....then in association.

It must be a very great and powerful God who had made the oceans. Nick wondered what language they spoke—what words the Lord had used to tell them this far they could come, but no farther, and here their proud waves must stop. It was a great thought—so great it made Nick feel too small and insignificant, so that he had to whistle his jaunty tune again to remember himself by. Still the sea kissed green against the dark bulwarks and Nick could see it down the cracks in the dock from his vantage of the coil of rope. That same water that slapped quietly against the piling might have come from China. It might have come from China or beyond, perhaps to a place yet uncharted. It might have come from father, from the place it had burbled around his head and shoulders and finally swallowed him up.
Then Nick knew why he had never taken Imperia to the harbor, and why even now he drew his feet closer to him, high up on the coil of cordage far as he could from any latent spray of the brine.

Yo-ho-ho and all that

On Monday I got the privilege to go to Norfolk and visit the OpSail and Harbor Fest in commemoration of the bicentennial of the War of 1812. I got gobs of research done for Scuppernong Days. It was a blessing straight from God, that just as I needed lots of ideas and facts and knowledge about sailing ships, 51 of them sail into a harbor nearish-by! We almost missed it (second to last day!) but everything worked out so that I got everything I needed, and even more. I research partly by listening, partly by looking, and a great deal by absorption. I spent the day on sailing ships. It'll help far more with my writing than sitting and reading a whole book on sailing would ever do. :) I also indulged in a deal of people-watching, which is one of my absolute favorite sports. I overheard so many funny conversations, including one between a woman and an Indonesian sailor who had been sailing since January to get here.

"Are you homesick?"

"No! I wanted to see world so I joined de Navy."

 (at least he was honest. :) 

Very hard at work researching, as you can see. ;)

Ahhh... that's more like it. :)

Sarah and I on the Godspeed.

^ The salt-breeze-intoxicated Authoress posing for her personal photographer in front of Information. ;)

It was a fabulous jaunt and I am so filled with a ripping, tearing thirst for travel that it isn't even funny. :D Or maybe it is slightly comical, seeing as I am entirely broke and couldn't buy a tram ticket, let alone a pass to the West Indies. But all in all I had one of the most exciting, fabulous days I've had in a long time. There were enough memories made to last me a life-time. (and to exhaust 7 pages of a letter to a friend. *smiles at Felicity*) This is by far my favorite manner of doing research!

It does rock about so.

I am joining up with Rosamund Gregory in her Character's Letters blog event. Rosamund had the bright idea to do a sort of beautiful-people event in first person, that we might get inside our characters' heads better. This fits perfectly in with my ideas for Scuppernong Days, as I was already planning on having a few letters to and from Nicodemus Murdoch thrown in here and there. So without further ado, Nick's first letter a'sailing to Imperia. He writes in a boyish, scattered hand on kitchen-paper--all he's been able to scrap since being hired on The Scuppernong for a cabin-boy. There are blots here and there because of the rolling of the ship, but over all he keeps things tidy...for a ten-year old boy:

My Imperia,
        I am finally sitting down (on a keg of pickled herrings) to write to you. I know I promised I'd write more often but it's harder than I expected, being a cabin-boy. Garrick--the ship's cook--keeps me busy running errands all over the ship for him. But he's a good enough fellow and he's kind to Black Swan. Black Swan is the ship's cat--you'd love her, Imperia. She is sleek and fat from all the mice she eats in the hold. She's fat, too, from all the kittens inside her. At least that's what Nesbit says. Nesbit is the pilot and knows ever so much about stars and the ocean-paths. He's my favorite aboard ship--he knew Father, Imperia! Fancy that. I was pleased to hear it, and I think he was pleased to see me. His eyes crinkled up like leathery moons and he smiled.
There are lots of first-rate chaps on the Scuppernong but this paper isn't long enough for me to tell you all about them. They'll have to wait for another letter.
I go to bed every night thinking of you. I pray too--I pray that you'll have enough to eat and warm clothes to wear, and that the Blackbird Woman will be kinder. Here's what's left of my pay--it isn't much but if you save it you can buy something pretty for yourself--a doll, maybe, or a hair ribbon. When I make our fortune you'll have all the dolls and dresses and ribbons money can buy and I will buy you a pony--one finer than the bay you admired so much at the fair last May Day. So wait for me, Imperia, and don't worry if I don't write often. I will write when I have something to tell you and when the ship is still enough--it does rock about so. But I'm not sea-sick and that is fortunate indeed. I was so afraid I would be and then I'd disgrace Father's memory and the whole Murdoch name, as we've always been sailors. You know.
Save my letters and someday when the Scuppernong comes back into harbor you'll be waiting for me on the wharf and I'll pour a whole pile of gold into your apron.We'll go directly to the inn and buy hot mince pies, as I'll be hungry for food of that sort--I'm already hungry for food of that sort, having nothing but salt-pork and biscuits for the past fortnight. Write if you get a chance and remember always that I love you.
I am your loving brother,
                    Nick