The fickle art of Pouncery

“But we must stop and think,” Bertram said, collecting the scraps like a grave-robber, “If Pouncing is the same as making loud sorts of noises.”

“Great snakes—what do you mean by that?” Adelaide squirted a spray of orange-peel oil onto her hand and painted a face on the polished table-top with it.  “Father said most specifically not to make loud noises. Is Pouncing a noise? No, of course it isn’t. So we aren’t disobeying. Anyway, ten o’clock is too late for any nanny to sleep, no matter how new she is.”

-The Scarlet Gypsy Song

In sitting down in earnest to begin editing The Scarlet Gypsy Song I am discovering things about this book and these characters that I'd forgotten about since I finished the book back in the spring. For one thing, I gave myself a pain in the neck with POV problems...attempting the all-seeing-eye and then abandoning it in favor of something less confusing. Argh. 
But the Macefields are a group with talent, class, and some good old Victorian swag. In one of the earlier chapters I happened upon a dissertation on the fickle art of Pouncery by none other than the imps of the family: Adelaide and Darby.

Darby slammed the window shut and wandered to the mantle-piece, hands balled up inside his trousers pockets. He eyed the clock—ten-fifteen. That was it. “Are you lot coming or not?”

Adelaide bounced to her feet and grabbed Charlotte’s arm so she couldn’t protest. “We’re coming!”

Bertram grinned and raked the last of the toast-scraps into his pocket, then picked the littlest twins up like two sacks of potatoes and carted them out of the nursery with the others. They tip-toed down the hall and gathered at Miss Woodruff’s door.

“Shall we give her the Bully Scamper, or the Gollywhumper?” Adelaide asked. Pure delight sparkled on her face at captaining a rumpus again.

Darby felt the way she looked: they had been too good since running Miss Perdue off, and he felt like an old saint. “The Gollywhumper.” He wriggled with anticipation. “Creeping in and then jumping scares ‘em a whole lot more than busting through the door.”

“Right. Well then, here’s how it’ll be. We’ll creep in, and—Fergus and ‘Genie? You two remember to keep quiet. We’re not hurting Miss Woodruff, only Pouncing her, so don’t go and wail over it, huh?”

There it was that we got a lesson in How to Pounce. Let's review the steps and rules of this mysterious childhood art--you might just want to try this at home sometime.

1. Don't hurt your victim

2. If you want to perform the Gollywhumper you must creep then Pounce.

3. If you want to perform the Bully Scamper eliminate the creeping and go straight from nothing to Pounce--the quicker the better with this one.

4. A Pounce is not a noun, it's a verb. Therefore "pouncing" cannot be classified as a noise, and we are safe from Mr. Macefield taking us by our shirt collars and locking us in the Conservatory for the afternoon to Think About What We've Done.

Well, there you have it. Many thanks to Darby and Adelaide for coming up with the League of Pouncers. May we all live to a ripe old age and never have trouble with our knees.

Introducing my Lad....

It is with great pleasure that I introduce you to....The Highland Laddie. Aye, you heard that right. I used some of the money I had collected over the summer and bought myself a laptop! Originally I had thought to name it--him, rather--The Italian Prince. But then I began to think about the fact that I've never been into Italian-things (except Dean Martin and "Mambo Italiano"...and my cousin's lasagna....and cannoli....) and of course what came to mind next was Scotland. Because if it has always been a fond dream of mine to...

Well...nevermind that.

But suffice it say, I love the accent, the culture, the music, everything! And by naming this computer The Highland Laddie it even has its own song if I happen to lose it:

"Oh where, tell me where, has my highland laddie gone?

Oh where tell me where has my highland laddie gone?

He's gone with streaming banners where noble deeds are done

And it's oh in my heart that I love my laddie well."

See? Perfect. So everyone? Meet Laddie. I am so excited about the ease of writing with this new computer! Finally I have a place of my own wherein I can spin my dreams and stories and tales and things without fear of being interrupted! My heart is full of the blessing of it. The Lord totally worked everything out: from letting me go down to GA to work for a month and make a  bit of money, to leading my cousin to this computer (which was an amazing deal, being refurbed and all...) Everything had God's hand on it which makes me smile even broader. No more having to cram 1,000 words in the hour between 6:30 and 7:30 in the morning before Daniel wakes and needs his computer for work! And did I mention that Laddie has amazing speakers? 

I'm listening to my High Kings pandora station at 47% speakers and it's almost too loud. *happy sigh* So here's to long life and happiness for Lad, inspiration and creativity for me, and an equal share of happiness and blessing for the rest of you!

It's a wrap! -Or- "When I crossed the finish line!" :)

This morning at 9:00 a.m. exactly I typed the very last words of Fly Away Home. I had been writing for two and a half hours straight, and it felt like a flash--that beautiful, dizzying momentum one builds at the end of a tale. I am going to miss Callie and Mr. Barnett so so so much....thankfully that friendless-ness will be postponed a while because I know I have plenty of editing with which to hobnob with them in the weeks to come. I am so blessed by this story. So pleased with the characters, the plot, the tensions, the message...it's a real accomplishment for me. So. In celebration I thought I'd give you a quick Ten Random Facts list about this new-born book!

1. It will be receiving a new name: not sure what this will entail, but Fly Away Home is already a movie so I am renaming the book.

2. First Word: "I'm"

3. Last Word: "Coffee"

4. Favorite Side-Character: Dirigible. He's just a random dude that popped in unexpectedly toward the end of the book and I love him.

5. The book actually ends with the same line that the short story that inspired the book ends with: "...how about coffee?" *smile* :)

6. Total word count: 59, 755 words

7. There was a major plot-shift at the half-way point that definitely hiked up the LOCK appeal.

8. Mr. Barnett and Callie have their own form of verbal sparring (quite literally a form) that occurs multiple times, including in the last scene. :)

9. The theme-song for the book is "Beyond the Sea" by Bobby Darin

10. All the specifically named guests (besides Mr. Barnett, Callie, and one other couple) that go on the yachting outing are real celebrities from the early 1950's...including a special appearance by David Nelson of "Ozzie and Harriet." :)

Yep. Just like a tap.

In honor of Sherlock and my very intense day of interrupted writing, I created this. Enjoy and relate. You're welcome. ;)

the story behind the story.

It goes without saying that I like stories. I live, breathe, eat, and dream them as do most writers. So of course I am monstrously curious to hear what inspired a certain tale or scene or character. The story behind the story if you will. The frustrating thing is, most people seem to be tight as oysters over the telling of those stories. I don't know why. Or else they say they can't remember. So to satisfy any of your back-story fans, I will attempt to give you a tale on what inspired certain things. If you have any questions about people, characters, stories, etc. that I have not touched on but you've been wondering about, just leave a comment and I'll see if I can't tell you about them as well.

A Mother for the Seasonings-- The plot popped into my head as I washed dishes one afternoon. Agatha Christie said it first and ever since I've held true: dishes are conducive to inspiration. My mind was taking its usual twining path through thought-land thinking of Nothing. Then somehow I started to laugh to myself over a queer idea. "Wouldn't it be quaint if someone named all their children after herbs?" And from there things started to spring up: the children sounded British but they weren't proper and they didn't live in England. Where then? India. And on and on it went till I found myself with a book that makes me smile still.

Cottleston Pie-- Of course we all know where the name came from, but the main character, Simpian Grenadine popped out of absolutely nowhere. The cousins were over and playing volleyball in the back yard. I sat on the porch steps not feeling like playing when some of the younger ones came over. We began chatting about some silliness and suddenly I was sending them off on an adventure to find Simpian Grenadine who could only be killed with the sword: Ruby Elixir. Then Ruby Elixir became Simpian's sword, and he--in turn--became the boy-who-was-Allister, and then we happened to fix on Cottleston Pie as the perfect name for his hideaway, and voila.

Calida Harper--the name "Calida" means "warmth" and it had very inauspicious beginnings. Because Fly Away Home is based off of the short-story "How About Coffee," I knew the main character must be named Harper. Then I started to search for a name that would prove a paradox to her character. I was flipping through my baby-names book (I'm fond of the 'C' section for some reason) and out tumbled Calida Harper. That's all there was to it!

Imperia Murdoch-- Imperia was another character who needed a name. Because of the time-period (early-mid 1700's) I wanted something old-world without being Puritanical. I am dead-tired of names like Mercy, Patience, Prudence, and all the rest of them. Then I found the name Imperia and knew it fit her. Sweet, regal, vunerable...Imperia is the center of Nick's world.

Scuppernong Days-- This was a book that gave me a title before a plot. I was peering out the window at something or other in the middle of cleaning up for the evening and my brain raised a word I'd not thought of in years: scuppernong which--immediately being followed by 'days'--demanded a story. Then Scuppernong started to sound like a sailing ship but had enough whimsy about it that it had to belong to a child's story, and then I found myself with a plot of treachery and high-seas teetering on the waves of mental capacity. I have not delved into this as far as I ought to, but I plan on taking it up immediately after Fly Away Home is finished.

The Scarlet-Gypsy Song-- As you can see, most of my work just tumbles onto me. I seldom have to go after it with a club....at first. {successful plot-spinning must be chased down after the 20k mark} The Scarlet-Gypsy Song had the queerest start you could ever think of, considering what a convoluted tale it turned into. Again, I was just going about minding my own business (I believe I was upstairs putting a book away at that moment) when a single line popped into my head: "There was Nannykins to begin with..." which was quickly followed by "..but she had a bad knee and left for the North." and then I felt a sudden and desperate urge to know whom Nannykins was and who came after her and why they came and then I had Cecily Woodruff and after her a world-swap and...well...you may read the rest in the oracles of the Gildnoirelly.

Mr. Wade Barnett-- "Sit by my side and let the world slip. We shall ne'er be younger.' Of course I saved the best for last--what do you take me for? Of course his character was shadily outlined in "How About Coffee" but his character--or at least appearance--got a huge boost and bolt by watching Roman Holiday starring Gregory Peck. I fell in love with this man with the deep brown eyes and the slow, throaty voice. I had to know more about him, and he presented himself at a time when I had {and have} no tangible man to love. Therefore I was able to pour all my affection into making him a hero worthy of my deepest regard. I think the biggest inspiration for me when I write him is envisioning his eyes. Even Callie admits that she's hardly considered his person...she never looks past his eyes because his gaze holds you there and questions you, turning you softly hither and thither... yes. I like him very much.

Never try to beat a lobster at his own pinching-game.

“Callie…will you please sit down and stop staring at me like a specter rising out of a grave?” He brought a chair to me and rather forcefully pushed me into it. “Now start over and I’ll try to understand you.”

I held my head high—queen that I was—and my cheeks burned hot. I would not stoop to repeat that strange and revealing torrent. I had already said too much—shown my wounds too deep—and all I could hope for was that he had listened to none of it. He stood again and brought me a cup of tepid coffee.

“We have no cream or sugar,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

I stared into the black, oily depths of the cup and thought of the irony—I’d never known a thing to be so alike my own soul.

“Why don’t you pause and reflect for a moment?”

“On what?” Bitter, coffee-stained tones.

“On this hurlement de rage.”

“I don’t speak French, remember?”

“The deuce you don’t. Please, Cal—quit acting like a hydrophobic raccoon; I’m half frightened at that vicious sparking of your eyes.”

“It was you who started it.”

“How?”

“By talking about your…your stupid yacht!”

“You don’t have to go, Callie. I thought you’d enjoy the chance to relax with some of the people we’ll have you friendly with someday.”

His humble, cautious tone somewhat tamed my umbrage. I stirred the lukewarm coffee with one finger and dropped my head. All the fire dwindled out of me and left only a smoldering coal. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Splitting.”

“Exploding, rather. But all is forgiven and forgotten.” How easily he said those words—yet I knew he meant them and it was no flippancy. “Callie—I won’t make you be a guest at my yachting party.” His gaze was steady and brown—corduroy breeches with a teddy-bear sheen.

What's this? Disappointment? Callie—what is up with you? You practically shrieked at him that you didn’t want to go.

“But as your boss I am assigning you to work the party. You’ll have all the privileges of a guest, but I expect you to earn your keep. There—does that please the rabid vixen?”

“Does it please her? Gee, Mr. Barnett! You are fabulous!” I actually tipped over my coffee, dashed over to him, and gave him a hug. The lapel of his woolen jacket was rough against my cheek, and his chest solid. My arms dropped limp as soon as I realized what I had done, but Mr. Barnett only laughed and his eyes danced like the ‘netted sunbeams’ in Tennyson’s poem.

“Callie Harper—make sure you don’t show the public this upsy-down side—they might take you for the charmer you are and then it would be all up with us.”

“What is that supposed to me?”

“Nothing and everything in particular.”

I bit my lip and my cheeks flamed again—this time with excitement. “Then while we’re playing at riddles, may I ask a question?”

“Prying, gentle, direct, or merry-go-round?”

“All of the above?”

“Then shoot.”

“Are you any different than everyone else?”

Mr. Barnett sat down on his desk with a hand on each knee. “Jove, She’s turning philosophic on me.” His quick gaze traveled to my face and lingered there. “I could answer that each of us is created differently. But that would not satisfy you.”

“It would not.”

“Methinks you are driving at something a bit more insinuating.”

“Perhaps.”

“You are wondering whether I am like the common rabble…whether I behave like them in every respect. The fact that you ask the question belies a reluctance to believe it…why then, Miss Harper, do you wish it to be untrue?”

I wrapped myself in a hug and turned from him. “And I thought I was the one doing the digging.”

“Never try to beat a lobster at his own pinching-game.”

-Fly Away Home

Rattling o'er the bogs

"I cut a stout blackthorn

To banish ghosts and goblins,

In a brand new pair of brogues

I rattled o'er the bogs

and frightened all the dogs

on the rocky road to Dublin."

{"The Rocky Road to Dublin"}

There comes that moment in every writer's current project when you realize you've got yourself stuck in a rut and there is precious little you're able to do about it.

Except write on.

I came to a spot like that in Fly Away Home and am just now getting out of it. It's not that there are gaping plot-holes. It's just that between one major event and the next I was....floundering. The events were not inspiring me. It felt cliche. It felt forced. (And perhaps it was) But the main thing was that I just needed to take a deep breath, make my thousand-word goals, and press forward. I am out of the mire now and liking the view.
That is the important thing: I'm out of the fess-pit that was my un-inspiration and into the fresh air once more. That whole floundering spot will probably have to be re-written. Actually, I'm sure parts of it definitely will not stay till the end. But I can edit them out. The success is that I made it to the next big event and now see my way to where the weak, low spots are. I won't be getting into that morass again because now there is some foothold that I can rebuild or renovate.

Don't give up when you get in those swamplands. You may feel like you'll never get out of the Dead Marshes or that you are a terrible writer and aren't worth an ink-splatter. In actuality, the writer--much like the person on their way through life--is best proved in the muck and mire. If you give up you were write: you will still be a weak, spindly, cellar-grown author. But the real author is the one who navigates the quicksand, pulls himself up with everything he's got, and stumbles on till one day he reaches the track again and sees how far he's come.

Write on and on and on and sooner or later you'll get there.

 It's as easy {and as difficult} as that