...This is it. This is Goodbye.

I had debated within myself over whether I ought to post the death scene of The Character. I thought not, and then I decided I would. I decided I wouldn't, and then I made up my mind over again to go ahead with it. So girls, you are now the privileged readers of a piece of writing very new to me. It spun itself out of my head only two nights ago, so it is fresh and young to the ways of the world--deal gently with it, but please tell me what you think of this pivotal scene. Oh, and I realize that it begins in a strange spot--it was difficult to know what to give you to lead up to the real piece. :P Please tell me your reaction to it initially, and whether it is too melodramatic. Actually, let me just describe Frank for you real quickly so you can get acquainted with the victim. :P

Frank Williams--28 years old, wife to Maggie, and father to Tucker and Dot. Ever since Cora came to live with his family, Frank has been father, brother, and friend to her. He's cheered her when she's down, given her courage when she's afraid, teased her just a little, loved her a lot, and generally has been the glue that's kept Cora together. Ever impulsive, Frank moves his family to Puddleby Lane so he can work on the railroad, but Cora only loves him the more for his boyish enthusiasm. He's charming and roguish, loving and tender. And when he's gone, it hurts. Deeply.

(Scene begins inside coffee-shop in Leastone) 

          Their voices faded as Cora’s attention focused on the mass of townspeople milling around a group of begrimed, wild-eyed—and bloody—men. “Ann Company!” Cora knocked the table behind her over in her haste. Ann Company, Nat, white cloth napkins and pocket-book sequins blurred in one massive obstacle between her and that group of people. She tore herself from Nat’s gentle touch and dashed out of the coffee-shop. Cold air struck her full in the face like a slap from an unseen hand. Cora stumbled over a frozen rut in the muddy road as fear swept her forward toward the crowd. She could see into the mob now, and what she saw sent fingers of terror winging across her skin.

Those men—those in the center of the group—wore the same denim cover-alls Frank wore when he worked on the rail-way bridge crew. He was there today, Cora knew. Whatever fate had befallen those workers, Frank must be a part of. Her body did not feel like her own as she neared the mob.

“What happened?” She heard a woman say—the voice was icy, immobilized, and fearing. Then Cora realized it was herself that had spoken. She repeated the question, hardly recognizing the sound of her voice, yet feeling her lips move. The crowd parted briefly and she caught sight of the crude stretcher, borne by four of the grimy, muddied men. Instinct told her to turn back, to shelter herself from the truth, but Cora could not take her eyes off the stretcher and the man’s form crumpled upon it. The mob swallowed the vignette as hastily as it had flashed it, and Cora was left on the edge of the crowd again.

Fainter than her own heart-beat, Cora heard Ann Company’s call for her to come away, and Nat’s deep voice seconding the command, but it was no use. Fear spurred Cora to action.

“Let me through!” she yelled, and stamped her foot with hysteric impatience as the teeming mass before her paid no heed. “I will look! I will!” she cried, and as she reached up to brush her hair out of her face, she felt her tears, warm and wet against her chilled hands. It was the cry of a stubborn child, thwarted in his purpose, but Cora had to know.  By some miracle she passed through the spheres of the crowd—first the interested, chaotic hum of the outer ring, then the pinched, sorrowful faces of the middle ring, and finally to the stunned core. Some hands strived to hold her back, others pushed her forward, but through it all Cora was of a single purpose:

To find Frank, to know he was well and whole, was her whole world. She stumbled into the center, directly in front of the stretcher-bearing men, and she searched each face hungrily, longing for a familiar feature in any of them.

A man with a red-stained bandana tied around his head and a deep gash on his cheek seemed to be the leader of the group. His eyes stared dully ahead as he bore his sad burden.

“Please, sir, where’s Frank Williams?” The voice that spoke now was hoarse as a raven’s and twice as foreboding. Frightened, Cora put a hand to her throat and tried again. “Tell me he’s okay. Just tell me!”

The man shook his head, jaw clenched. The gash deepened.

“He’s fine. I know he is. He’s gotta be okay.” Cora was reaching hysteria. The red on the man’s bandana flowed a vibrant, ghastly crimson against the white of the cloth. Cora’s stomach knotted and twisted till she thought she’d be sick. “Just tell me he’s okay,” she whimpered. A heavy, heavy hand descended on her shoulder, and a voice echoed dully the agonizing cry in her own heart:

“Dead. Wouldn’t leave th’bridge till th’last man was out of th’way…I’m sorry, Miss.”

 Dead. Dead. Dead. Cora pushed past the well-meaning but clumsy man and approached the crumpled figure on the stretcher. Knotted around his head was the handkerchief she herself had marked. How they had laughed over the little daisy she’d stitched in the corner. It had been so white—every petal dainty and pure—and now stained with the crimson tide that would not stop. Trembling in every fiber of her being, Cora touched Frank’s dark hair, caked with mud, and traced the noble lines of his forehead. The noise of the crowd—the weeping, the questions, the chaos—faded in the face of this great sorrow to a distant hum, no more threatening than the far-away traffic at that old stop-sign on Beaumont Street.

A pair of hands tried to remove her from the scene.

“Leave me be!” she screamed, tears coursing down her cheeks and dropping on Frank’s clay-streaked face. The stretcher-bearers stood in respectful silence, and the crowd ceased talking. Silence, like the heaviest of sentences descended on the scene. Cora laid herself over Frank’s poor body and buried her face in the homespun cotton of his shirt. His denim coveralls scratched her cheek, and the brass buttons pressed, cold against her hot tears. Her soul keened with murdered joy as a longing for one of Frank’s bear-hugs overwhelmed her senses. The faint scent of Bay Rum after-shave still clung to his neck, and Cora breathed it in. This was it then. This was goodbye.

“Goodbye, Frank…I love you,” she whispered, stroking his cheek with a trembling hand.

Heart screaming for the familiar reply, the jaunty, “Back at ya’ Corie,” Cora kissed him with quivering lips and spread the coffee-shop napkin over his still face.

 She dropped, then, into Nat Dartmore’s waiting arms and wept as she had never wept before.

...The Spanish Inquisition Pt. 2

My very helpful [ahem!] editor, Henry B. Baxter gave me the next batch of questions today. He neglected to  categorize the questions and thus left that to me. So bear with me if this is a bit of a whirlwind answer session! :D
I guess I'll address the pre-writing, mid-writing, post-writing questions. Ready?
Ashley asked, "Does she handwrite any of her novels before transferring them to the computer/ a word document?" Once upon a time she did. But then she discovered her pen was not capable of keeping up with her brain, and her fingers were, so she switched medias. But in all seriousness, now and then I do find solace in the scratching of a pen's tip against a sheet of lined paper. That is my favorite way to write, I just don't find it practical.
Ashley also asked, "Has she ever tried to write mystery or Sci-fi?" :D  Don't mention this to my sister, Sarah. It makes her go mad with rage. But yes, I started a mystery set in the Great Depression...and got myself so entwined in the mystery I never did find my way out. I abandoned ship after 100 pages. :D Okay. Don't blame me. Who can keep track of details when your villain has an alias inside an alias, maybe even inside an alias? It just doesn't work so well. :P

Katie S. dived right in with a bing-bang-boom sort of Spanish Inquisition: 
1. Do you keep a daily writing schedule? How long, or how much, do you write a day?
2. How extensively do you plot-n-plan your stories before you begin writing them?
3. Do you edit while writing, or keep the writing and editing processes completely separate?

Answer 1. HAH! Oh. Ummm...sorry about that. I amused me that you thought I could be that good. ;) I write something every day, but I have no schedule. I ought to have a schedule. In a distant day in the past I did have a schedule. But I am currently flying by the seat of my skirt. It's a pretty wild ride. I have actually been seriously contemplating getting up an hour earlier to write.
Answer 2: My plot-n-plan varies from novel-to-novel. For The Seasonings I did not research, bare-bones plotting, and found myself missing that important element in the writing process. For Puddleby Lane I started on a whim, kept on on a whim, and never stopped to rethink it...until now. :P But we're overcoming our differences and moving on on a whim. Maybe that's why it's such a whimsical story. I did, however, write a little blurb to keep me going. For this newest novel I am doing a great deal of research, and thus a good deal of pre-plotting. Plus the plot, not the characters, came to me first this time.
Answer 3. I prefer keeping the writing and editing completely separate. I find that my brain and emotions don't work well with constantly back-tracking. I need to work the story out and give myself permission to write things I know I'll cut out. It's just the way I work.

Abigail Hartman asked me about my preparation and whether I did character sketches, researching, and all that fun jazz. :) Yes and no. It depends. Generally I just start writing with a vague idea of a plot and give the story a chance. It either sprouts wings and flies, or flops by chapter 5 or so and I know it wasn't To Be. But this time around I am indulging in "All that jazz" and finding it much to my liking.

And last but not least, Abigail also asked me, "What did happen to Puddleby Lane?" I distanced myself from it for two months and decided I would lay it aside and focus on researching and plotting my French Rev. novel. I did that for awhile and decided to take a good-bye peep at P.L.....and you know what? I discovered it was not so terrifying as I thought. We began our reconciliation by my killing off The Character. Now that's what I call good relationships. :P

Now girls, my editor is still available for questioning. Go ahead and ask whatever's on your mind and I'll finish up with a third Answer Post soon! :)

At Long Last...

I have overcome my terror of my W.I.P. Yes, after a long absence--too long--from Puddleby Lane, I summoned my courage to write a little. I was determined, come Cora's reticence or Ann Company's dreaded cliches, I would thrash out a bit, however small, of the story. Here's what I came up with. Not the worst thing ever for having been silent on the subject for over two months. :P Don't judge it too harshly, as this is entirely first-draft work here. :)

“Y’wanna walk from here? Might be a bit more distinguished,” Ann Company said. Cora winked at her friend as they clambered down from the cart and landed on the slatted sidewalk in front of a blue-painted house. Ann Company’s skirt swished around her legs with a fine rustling, and the sunlight played on her hair till it looked like dancing firelight. They had worked for an hour that morning replicating the elaborate style Maggie designed. It would be worth it, though, when they walked down Main Street.

“Ready?” Cora’s chest felt tight with excitement. Ann Company nodded, lifted her chin, and set off down the board-walk with her smooth, even pace. Cora ran her gloved fingers along the tops of the fence, bumping up and over each picket. She hung back on purpose, wanting to savor this moment of victory for her protégé.

Ann Company paused for a moment before the door of the chandler’s shop, then threw a faint smile in Cora’s direction. Cora hastened to join her, and together they ducked through the low doorway into the nautical shop. The interior was dim and cool and smelled of tar and brass. Cora shivered at the change from sunlight to cellar-light.

A thin, sharp little man perched on his stool, frail yet grounded as if he were a twig grafted to a stump. His lifted his eyes to the pair and his thick brows, like twin caterpillars, worked their way up the twig.

“Can I help you ladies?”

Ann Company threw back her head and laughed her Puddleby-laugh. “Don’t y’recognize me, Zeb?”

A glimmer of recognition flared in the man’s pale eyes and his mouth worked as if he chewed on a lump of tobacco. His Adam’s apple bobbed once or twice before a thin, husky voice forced itself between his slit of a mouth. “Ann Company, that you?”

“It’s me, Zeb.”

“Don’t hardly look like ye’self with all them doo-dads on ye.” The caterpillars worked harder and slid down the twig, hiding the pale eyes from view.

“It’s Miz Cora’s doin’.” Ann Company stepped to the counter and tossed her pocket-book on the wooden countertop. “But I can assure you it’s me. I’m here t’get that rope Pa ordered, and them fishin’ hooks.”

Zeb brushed the palms of his hands against his leather britches and sighed. The caterpillars wriggled up and down now in a worried sort of fashion. “If’n this here De-pression don’t start lookin’ up real soon there won’t be no chandlery for your Pa t’buy his ropes and fishin’ hooks from.”

Ann Company put her hands on her hips and stared at the man. Cora dropped her eyes and studied her gloves, brushing flecks of white paint from the wooden fence to the floor. All was quiet in the chandler’s shop for a moment. Then Ann Company spoke in a voice brisk as a breeze off the bay.

“And what makes you think this Depression won’t start lookin’ up? You ain’t lost yer faith, have you?”

Cora lifted her head, invigorated by the quiet strength in her friend’s tones.

 Zeb’s caterpillars slumped, chastened for the moment. “Now Miz Comp’ny, don’t you be ridin’ my back. Feller can’t be blamed fer feelin’ the e-ffects of this De-pression, can he? I’m only bein’ the mouth fer what all them hidin’ behind their religion are thinkin’.

Ann Company removed her gloves, and pulled each finger right-side out, keeping her eyes fastened on the chandlery-owner. “Then you’re a coward, Zeb. At least some of th’folks are tryin’ to be brave and not complain. Like Miz Cora’s family here. They lost their house and ever’thing they owned back in Illinois and moved all th’way out here, but I don’t hear Mr. or Miz Williams pulin’ about it.”

Cora felt the blood mounting to her cheeks as Zeb’s caterpillars pleated themselves in disconsolate puckers and his pale eyes took stock of her. His mouth worked again, and a stream of amber-colored juice sang into a brass pot on the floor at the corner of the counter. Cora drew herself up to her full height and looked Zeb in the eye. He grunted and un-grafted himself from the stump of a stool. With stiff motion, almost wooden in its creaking gait, he jerked over to a wall covered in skeins of rope and yanked one from its hook. “How much did ‘e want, Ann?”

“Twenty-five yards of th’ three-inch, and eleven of th’one-inch.” Ann Company grabbed Cora’s hand and squeezed it.

Grousing under his breath, Zeb measured the rope yard by yard, pulling pieces the length of his arm, doubling the rope, and repeating the motion. The caterpillars had returned to their “at-ease” positions, and Zeb stared at Ann Company as his hands fed lengths of rope to the growing coil looped over his arm.

“How long’d it take t’get ye cleaned up?”

“Then y’like it?” Ann Company’s green eyes flashed triumph.

Zeb’s caterpillars zipped up the twig and hung, suspended by invisible threads, at the fringe of hair capping his head. “Didn’t say I didn’t. But ye’re lookin oncommon tidy t’day. Tell me true now. How long’d it take?”

Cora couldn’t stand it any longer. “I think Ann Company looks simply lovely whatever she wears. Why, we hardly did anything to her except give her a bath.” Cora put her hand to her cheek and quailed inwardly. Clumsy, clumsy tongue! Why had she mentioned a bath in front of this stranger…and a man at that? Hot blood coursed through her cheeks.

Zeb’s mouth worked again, but this time Cora suspected he was trying to keep from laughing. She wrung her hands and contemplated ducking into the huge round of rope coiled next to a case of Captain Livvy’s Deck Soap.

“And I s’pect ye’re one a’thems that never complain ‘bout this De-pression? One a’them Williamses.”

Cora shook her head. “No. I mean, yes. I mean, not truly. I’m Mrs. Williams’ sister. And I do complain more than I ought.”

One of Zeb’s caterpillars disengaged itself and slid back into place. He leaned forward and Cora heard his knees creak like an aged tree in the forest twisted by a perverse wind. “You and I’d probably get along real well if ye’re th’ complainin’ type. Ain’t that right, Miz Comp’ny?”

Ann Company slapped Zeb with the back of her hand. “Quit yer bedevilin’ and finish up with m’rope. We’ve got a sight of errands t’run and I cain’t be bothered with you.”

Zeb’s second caterpillar settled in place beside the first, and his arms continued with their pulling, doubling, and wrapping. The rope was soon cut and hoisted onto the countertop beside a packet of deep-sea fishing hooks.

“That be all?”

Ann Company nodded. “And if’n you’d get Nat t’haul it over to Eulalie and th’wagon I’d ‘preciate it. I’d not be wantin’ t’get Miz Williams’ fancy dress smirched with grease from those ropes.” She smoothed the blue skirt and smiled in spite of herself.

“Wait a spell till Nat gets here. I know he’d be a’wantin’ t’see ye all purtied up.”

Cora smiled at the rich color that flooded Ann Company’s face. So that was it! Ann Company tossed a few silver dollars into Zeb’s waxy palm and tossed her head. “I ain’t waitin’ fer anyone. Me an’ Miz Cora are goin’ winder-shoppin’. Good bye.”

Ann Company swept out of the chandler’s shop, tugging Cora behind her. The bells of the door jangled behind them as if the shop were begging for one last look at this new Ann Company.

“Where are we going next, Ann Company?” Cora asked, having to trot to keep up with the hearty pace her friend set.

“We’re goin’ straight to t’the hat-shop and I’m a’buyin’ myself a real hat like this’un I’m wearin’. Can’t be lookin’ shabby now they’ve seen me like this.”

Cora laughed. “Come off it, Ann Company. You’ll always be the same beautiful woman, fancy clothes or not.”

“For sure, Miz Cora?”

“Undeniably. Come on. Let’s get some coffee.” Cora pushed Ann Company into the coffee-shop, having set eyes on a young man who was gazing in awe at Ann Company from the opposite side of the window. A young man who, if she were not very much mistaken, must be the Nat whom Zeb had mentioned.

Water-weak or Invincible?

My recently christened editor, Henry B. Baxter, was kind enough to forward some of your questions to me this morning. I was so pleased at his report of the response to a question-and-answer post so far. You can add your questions for me here: A Grand and Glorious Thingamajigger. :) I decided that I had better start answering some of these questions as they come, so as not to overwhelm the public with answering them all at once. That being stated, Henry B. Baxter tells me londongirl was first with her questions:

If someone was to write a Historical novel, what advice would you give them? (and) Is there any books or websites that you have found useful?

Let me start by answering the first question, as that has several points to it. The first piece of advice I would give a budding author in this genre is: "Do your research." It sounds dull, it sounds prosy (especially when the fantastic plot is swirling around your brain and the last thing you want to do is read up on the politics of the day) but in the end it will make the difference between water-weak literature and a book worthy of a Newbery Medal. I had to learn this lesson the hard way with my Victorian-era novel, A Mother for the Seasonings. My critique group partners told me (and none too gently) that they could not picture my setting in their minds. The characters and plot were happening in a void. It could have occurred any time, anywhere and been changed not a bit. Sure, hearing that hurt. But it was one of the best things for my writing experience. It taught me just how important suitable descriptions and correct information are.

I hate to say it this bluntly, (and I'm facing this daunting wall in Puddleby Lane) but it doesn't matter how amazing your plot and characters are--if you tell the reader your story is set in, say the Great Depression, if that setting does not influence your character and the events in the story, you've lost the whole point of historical fiction. I like to think of Historical Fiction as a way to learn history through literature. That being said, your facts need to be strong and true, and presented in a masterful way so that the reader doesn't feel like they are reading an encyclopedia. They are learning something as they live the story alongside your character. You must hide the pills of reality in the jam of fiction in such a way that the reader craves the pills and will go on from your book with an enhanced desire to learn about the time period. You can't achieve this by bending the plot. I'm sorry, but it's true. It isn't enough that you tell the reader your tale is set in a certain era. Timely descriptions of dress, speech, culture, will be your best friend when it comes to making the historic world come alive. There is so much potential in book set in times past. Do not be content with informing your reader of facts. Bring your Public through the trenches with German bombs whistling overhead. Shove them in the midst of the whirling mob storming the Bastille. Lock them in the Tower of London with Mary, Queen of Scots. It'll make all the difference in the world.

As for the second question: Is there any books or websites that you have found useful? I would have to answer: The internet in general. I can't tell you how helpful it is to be able to bring up a page of 2,000 French women's names, or an entire archive dedicated to fashions of the day. With a click of my mouse I can read up on whatever historical event I am writing about. It's amazing. As for writing help in general, I have found that the best way to get a hold on what good writing is, is to read good writing. As Benjamin Franklin said, "If you want to write things worth reading, read things worth writing." It's simple, but it's profound. Fill your mind with quality writing, and your pen will unconsciously learn. But we all need a little further instruction now and then, and for that, I must concede that I have found James Scott Bell's Revision and Self-Editing priceless. Seriously, it's a must-have for any aspiring writer.
Beyond these resources, I will tell you that if you are brave enough, hand a copy of your manuscript to a person you know to be a good judge of literature, and have them tell you exactly what they think of it. It will not be easy to hear them picking your brain-child to pieces. But you know what? A lot of the time, they'll be right. And then sometimes they will be wrong, and you can put your little "baby" back together and move on. I can tell you from personal experience, though, that an unbiased opinion is worth a whole lot more than any timid changes you would choose on your own to make in your novel. :)
I hope this answered your questions, londongirl, and thank you so much for asking them! Mr. Baxter, I would appreciate your continued assistance in collecting the queries. Thank you.

A Grand and Glorious Thingamajigger

In keeping with the tradition rumbling my corner of the world, the tradition properly begun by...Jenny and followed by Abigail, I have decided to have my own question and answer Thingamajigger. :) You may here and now leave me a comment asking me anything at all about my writing, novels, processes, or even entirely random questions. Is there something pinging around inside your brain? "Why does she complain so much about uninspiration?" "Why does she capitalize things when they aren't supposed to be capitalized?" "What in tarnation happened to Puddleby Lane?" "Who is the protagonist of your newest novel? Jeanclaude or Tremaine?" [Yes, I confused someone with that one.] Something of that nature. I will do my level best to answer the questions honestly and as clearly as I can. Please leave me a comment with any (or all) of your questions and I will answer each and every one. :) I want to write about things you want to read about, so if you want an answer to a why or wherefore thereof, have at it, girls!

You may address all queries to my Editor, below.

Oh. And do me a favor and help me name him. ;)

November For Me...

Will be a normal month. I realize that by saying what I'm about to say, I could discredit myself as a writer. ;) That confession being made, I will move on.

I am not going to be participating in NaNoWriMo.

It's out! Let me now explain the reasons as to why I am not participating in this exciting project! :) First off, last year I hadn't the foggiest idea what NaNo was...I reckoned it had something to do with Narnia. :P Silly me. :D So below are my list of excuses and explanations:

• I don't write well under intense pressure. Something I need to change? Maybe. Something I can change in a day? Nope.
• I don't have a plot plotted for a whole novel that I could use in NaNo.
• This year my life doesn't have the margin, and doesn't need the stress of fitting 50,000 words into one month.
• I don't want to set myself up to fail, knowing that I am [practically speaking] not ready for this challenge.

There. You see? Four pretty good reasons why NaNo isn't for me this year. It sounds amazingly fun. I wish I had the time and margin to do it. I wildly applaud you girls who have managed it. I will follow the windings of your pen to the utter ends. But I'll just be an on-looker this time around. :)

(Correction: NaNoWriMo wannabe. ;)

Absolute Nonsense!

This is what happens to my literary prowess when I've got a 40's Vintage-hairstyle Tutorial on the brain. I was waiting for pictures to load and picked up my pen and began to scribble:

"Requiem"

By A. Mourner

Gerbilrat Gillisplug,

King of Mice

Pinched his tail

in block of ice.

Squeaked and writhed

in sordid pain,

Got unstuck,

then stuck Again.

Wriggled, squiggled,

shrilled and squeed,

Till his tail

at last was freed.

Danced around

till frosty dusk,

screamed until

his voice was husk.

All his subjects

came to view

Gerbilrat's great

"ACH-ee-Choo!"

For he'd caught a mouse-y plague

And he died from tummy-ague.

And this decree his

Sad Death spawned:

Never pinch your tail

In Pond!

I told you! It is nothing but the keenest sort of nonsense my pen has ever leaked out. Good heavens. What a confession to make to the wide wide world. I ought to be ashamed of myself. Pity is, I kind of like it. ;)