"Fraulein, you are obviously many things, not the least of which is repetitious."

I do not want to let slide all the questions you asked me a couple of weeks ago, so I think I'll just go ahead  and answer them all in this post! They are not particularly philosophical questions, so a line or two in answer to each will certainly be adequate and probably less confusing for you readers than trying to devote an entire post to a single inquiry. Got it? Okay.

Bree asked: "To which character in The Baby to you feel most sympathetic? To which can you most relate?" Though there are several characters to whom I feel much sympathy, I believe The Queen would be the one who garners most from me. You want to hate her simply because she's the whole reason a child was stolen, but you just can't. She is the sort of woman who would not have been royalty if she hadn't had a brother ambitious enough for both of them, and though she rules well, she is a little bewildered and only comes out of her bewilderment when in the presence of her baby, the Prince of Crissendumm.
I can most relate, probably, to Jamsie or Smidgen; both are trying to keep the scraps of their family together, both are finding certain aspects of that responsibility a challenge, both have a lot at stake. I can relate not because my family is falling apart, but because if it ever came to that, I'd feel like the responsible party. I can also relate to Starling, though, as far as longing for certain things that seem impossible, and going about the Palace making odd observations and remarks. That is not to say that these three are my favorite, but that I can most relate to them. I think at present The Admiral is my absolute favorite, and now I've got Elisabeth on board with me in that respect which makes me happy.

Bree also asked: "What age-range are you aiming for with this book?" Technically speaking, it is for ages 12 and up. Jamsie and Richmond, the principle characters, are thirteen and twelve respectively (I think? I forget now) so it is a little young to be classified as Y/A fiction. But it's not mid-grade fiction - the themes and complexities are a little advanced for middle-schoolers, I think, though I saw recently that middle-schoolers were being required to read The Scarlet Letter. I mean, honestly? You'll soon tell me that Bleak House is required reading in kindergarten. I have always enjoyed "children's" books, so I think identifying with one age-range (while easier for marketing) lessens the value that an all-encompassing range would have. I think that many readers in many age-ranges will enjoy The Baby. The side-characters are, for the most part, out of their teens, so there are plenty of adults to interest older readers.

And: "Who is The Baby, or is that Top Secret?" The ambiguity of The Baby's identity is purposeful and inevitable. You will have to wait to read the book for a full explanation.

And: How long is the project currently? (and how long to you expect it to be?) Currently, The Baby is a sorry little 21,000 words long. I still have much of the plot to write, but it is not going to be a hefty book. I hope to reach 70-80,000 words.  Lots of work to do. *sigh*. I have been busy with plotting and detailing, but there has not been over-much writing going on. The trouble with building word-count for me seems to be all the alleys I could go down with my fascinating side-characters, and knowing me, I have to be careful not to give them too much of the stage. (good luck with that.)

Esther asked a mash of simple questions that I can answer quickly:

1. Are the Baby, Jamsie, and Richmond the only earth-folk in Crissendum at the moment? One can never be quite sure, can they? The thing is, the citizens of Crissendumm often visit this world, but this world is rather ignorant of the existence of their world, so apart from tumbling down The Puddle or another portal, people seldom go there.

2. In whose household is Starling? The Queen's household. At the start of the book, Starling is an unfortunate undermaid's undermaid.

3. How old are Jamsie, Richmond, Smidgen, and Starling? Jamsie is thirteen, almost fourteen; Richmond is twelve, almost thirteen. Smidgen never exactly tells us his age, but I'd warrant he's in line with Richmond. Starling is sixteen, but very small for her age.

4.  Falling into Crissendum is apparently simple enough, since your characters did it accidentally. Is it as easy to fall out? Does the puddle go both ways? There are several portals in and out of Crissendumm. One would be sailing off the edge of the world, because in Crissendumm, this is still possible. Another method is stepping in the arch formed by the Nodding Twins, two ancient willows. This dumps you out somewhere in a wood in America and is a mischievous way, because you're never sure which wood. There are other ways, like stepping through a certain reflection of a reflection into the Hall of Mirrors in the Palace of Versailles, which can be a bit awkward. The portals are all marked on the globes made in Crissendumm, and are common knowledge. It is a rule with the portals that they can only work one direction each trip, so you have to exit by a different portal; this keeps traffic to a low. Imagine banging into someone careening down one way while you were shooting up the opposite direction? Road-kill in such instances would be difficult to clean up. 

5. Who is this John character? John Brady is Leona's love interest, and Leona is Smidgen's sister. John is a teacher at Whiskin's Abbey at the beginning of his contracted term of four years, and thus tied to life as a monk for the interim. 

And for the very last question, Bree asked if I could give you a proper introduction to Crissendumm. I shall refer all of you who are curious to Crissendumm: A World Inside a World where I explain lots and lots about this strange place. I hope my answers satisfied you, and thank you so much for asking; I love to delve into the whys and wherefores thereof. :)

Character Pieces: Starling

Now that I am in town for a few weeks I have been working hard at my non-fiction project. I find, however, that I feel stunted if I'm not working on my novels. And when it gets down to bare basics, I'm a child at heart and I can't help but write children's stories. That's why The Baby (Thrice Removed) is getting more space and time than the other projects I had going on. In an attempt to get to know the characters of The Baby, I looked up some character-building writing exercises which I always enjoy but seldom actually do. I am planning on doing various Character Pieces to help familiarize you (and myself) with the cast of The Baby. I found a couple of really great ones that I hope to do later on, but the one I went with was:

In the First Person perspective, write a scene of the first hour of your character's day.

The character I chose for this exercise is one you've not met yet. One neat bit of trivia about this novel is that at least three or four of the characters are built off of two particular dreams I had that were peculiarly vivid and that made me think at the time, "Gosh, they need a story." Today you get to meet Starling. Her dream was one of the strangest dreams I've had yet. All I know is that I was going down through a peculiar castle that was all twisty and odd and I ended up in a cobbled kitchen with bookshelves that looked terribly unsteady and leaned out from the walls. There was a queer mess of dirty dishes, pots and pans, stacks of teacups, and books on the shelves, and sitting in a pile of rags with an absorbed determined look on her face was a girl of about fourteen. She had very little time to spare for me because she wouldn't leave off running her finger up and down the pages of a book, trying to teach herself how to read. She didn't know how in the world to begin and she was frustrated almost to tears, but the creature was determined. Somehow she was having to cram lessons in to odd cracks because she wasn't supposed to be learning how to read. I don't recall what my purpose was in the dream and it had no conclusive end. All I know is that is how Starling was born.

source // The Baby pinterest board

In looks, Starling is stunted. Think Young Cosette advanced six or eight years. Her costume in the dream was very very similar, and she was "all over with smuts". As I learned, she's an under under undermaid and is a terribly obscure but eventually important piece of the Castle of Crissendumm. Anyway. I just started writing with that exercise, and I've posted the bit here so you can all get to know Starling:

I dreamed I was not a under-under-under maid any longer, but a princess. I had a nose that turned up in a delicate point and a dress that crinkled when I walked, and long golden hair.

I was enjoying that dream.

“Thump.” Something hit me crack in the belly and the dream disappeared. I wasn’t a princess no longer. I was just me--Starling--and my stomach hurt. I screwed open one eye and saw Cook across the room. On my belly was Charlemagne, the cat. He’s fat and I’m puny--it hurt when Cook lobbed him at me like that.

“Get your lazy buns out of that bed, girl!”

I screwed both eyes shut, wishing the dream hadn’t gone away. I bet princesses didn’t get a cat in the belly every morning. Charlemagne was tired of just sitting there and decided to help Cook wake  me up by pushing on my cheeks with his claws out.

“Owgeroff!” His fur muffled my protest and I scrambled up in bed, shoving him off the edge with my blanket and put a hand to my cheek. It came away with little streaks of blood.

“Ain’t there a law ‘gainst Child Aboose?” I asked.

“Child Abuse?” Cook’s  face twisted in her ‘You Stupid Oaf” look. “Of course there’s a law ‘gainst it.”

“Then I ought to tell someone you beat me,” I said, trying to remember if I was in trouble with any of the constables and if so, who I’d tell instead.

Cook’s face was very red and I bet she had been drinking all the cream off my milk again. “I don’t beat you.”

“You throw cats at me,” I said.

“That’s hardly what you might call beating.”

I rolled off the cot and pulled my flimsy petticoat off its hook, snagging the fabric and widening the tear. I looked at Cook through the hole. “So it ain’t beating. But it hurts all the same.”

“An’ well it should if you’re such a lazy clot.” She flopped onto my nail-keg and it disappeared under her. Her fat little legs stuck out on either side and she swung them till she looked very much like one of the black beetles I turn on their backside while sweepin’ the hearth.

“I like this room,” she said after a bit. Her eyes were roving around and looking at everything and my fingers shook so I couldn’t do my buttons. She might see my Letters.

I cinched the rag of an apron around my waist. I could pull it tighter each day and I didn’t even have to wear a corset--when you’re fed off of crumbs and dribbles you’re never what they call Plump. “‘Course you like it,” I mumbled.

“What’s that?”

“OF COURSE you like it,” I said, and shoved the board I used for a shutter away from the tiny window. Early light seeped into the room and puddled on the floor, making a safe wall between me and Cook. “Know why you like it? ‘‘cause it’s mine and you don’t like me to have anything nice.”

Cook lumbered up from the nail-keg, for all the world like a great, heaving cow and the red in her face started to mix with bits of purple. “What are you sayin’?” She crossed the floor and came up evil-close to me.

I filled my lungs with breath and held it a moment, then it let it out, choosing my words with care. “I’m sayin’ you’re a mean, cross old woman and you’re jealous of an undermaid’s undermaid’s undermaid.” I folded my arms across my flat chest and glared at her. Later I’d pay for my words and then I might care, but for now I liked just looking at the old fool and watching her fish around for words like an overfed pigeon in a worm-garden.

“Starling-chit,” She grinned a grin like Charlemagne’s after catching a mouse, and fidgeted with the strings of her veskit. “This room is my room now. You’ll sleep in the dairy-house tonight.” With a sniff she whipped out of the room and left me half-dressed, starin’ after her.

I weren’t so very worried--I was joggled from place to place every couple of weeks because somehow Cook always liked where I slept best. The dairy was a new thing, but maybe after a few weeks she’d want to trade places again, and that heifer would finally be where she belonged. I stuffed my straw-colored hair into my cap and--after being sure no one looked on--took the Announcement from its hiding place and puzzled over the symbols that I prayed would someday make words for me.