A little bit of pixie-dust. :)

My first experience with world-building happened sometime around the age of 8. My brother and sister and I went through a stage of being wild over cartography, spies, and anything that remotely resembled a map. Especially a secret one. Somehow we decided each to make a map of his own "country" and not show anyone else. The "not-show-anyone-else" lasted all of about one afternoon before the politics began....Before I had thought of my map as a very sophisticated, elaborate, and elegant country of monumental importance....in some way unknown to me. Daniel showed Sarah and I his elaborate country which we were humble enough to admit was far better than ours. His looked real. But mine had some good points, I thought. And Sarah was attached to her world too. The solution? Daniel was generous enough to offer a truce: Tape them together, add a fourth sector to make it even, and rename the country. So easily done with one is 8.

While going through a rigorous, terribly exhausting, and rather frightening emergency-cleaning of my room, I found a stack of old letters and scribblings from my childhood. The maps were there, along with a key that had me laughing aloud....I've grown up so much since then. Oh so much. Ah...those good old days...

My original country was named "Dremla"

Later we changed it to "Shatinia". I thought that was an epic and awesome name for a made-up country....for an eight-year-old.

Daniel's half of the map was written in a scrawling, stratchity hand which made it all that much more mysterious and therefore legit.

Here are the funniest of descriptions, complete with the childish spelling...

Leprocahn Lake: there are some pretty twisted characters there so beware. hint: always wear green.

elfboats: Very friendly, good place to rent boats if you are planning an ocean attack.

goblins cave: kind of dark, but the glitter of treasure lights it up. hint: if you're in need of money go here. (they stole most of it so chances are some of it was yours.)

Countess Vameerals Mansion: She loves red and black. She's pretty friendly. hints: if you don't like bats don't visit. Be careful what you drink.

witches woods: The witches some times get an attack of spells so check the magic forecast before you visit. Goblins have tunnels here.

It tastes Parisian.

Since I am bound by other duties to leave you until next Wednesday, I thought I'd occupy your fancy with a piece from the opening of Au Contraire. Yes, I know I'm generous. (According to that queer give-and-take that happens when we authors share our bits and get as much pleasure giving them out as you do receiving them.) Have a lovely week, all of you. (And for heaven's sake, if you're old enough to vote, please do.)

***

Fourth of Brumaire,

 Year One of the French Republic

“It is hardly an unknown fact that you are a coquin,—a rogue—Desquette.” The young speaker tossed back her long curls with an impatient hand and smiled at Desquette. “There is no need to pretend you are virtuous.” A general murmur of laughter warmed through the crowd gathered around the young lady as she stood at the mantel, one hand poised on the shelf, toying with a miniature of some long-guillotined aristocrat.

“If we haven’t virtue, have we anything?” This question from a woman of mature countenance sitting somewhat to the side—her eyes obscured by shadow, her mouth a thread of scarlet.

“La, Citoyenne—virtue is outdated. A whim of the aristos. Pray, do not speak of virtue here.” The young lady’s lips curved in a haughty smile and her cheek dimpled. “Desquette wants nothing to do with virtue—‘twould spoil all his fun, and he’s vowed to live for nothing else. We cannot afford to have him die just yet.”

Another general laugh, and the coquin, Desquette, rose from the red chaise-lounge and came to the girl’s side. In his hand he held a slender glass filled with pilfered wine; this he raised and commanded the room’s attention. “Are we to allow Citoyenne Corinne Garnier the pleasure of handing out all the bon mots?” The young man gestured to the girl and winked. “I think not. Some of us still have able enough tongues in our heads. Corinne, my love, your regime is up—sit you down and let another guillotine our wit.”

“Gladly would I lay my office aside if I was sure another could perform it as well as I,” Corinne said with a curtsy. “But there are precious few executioners the job could be trusted to. You are so stiff-necked.” She curtsied again, her dove-colored gown brushing the floor, took the glass of wine from Desquette’s hand, and wandered to the back of the long room.

“I suppose you know you are clever, Corinne?” The smooth voice at her elbow no more startled than displeased her.

She turned with a smile and put her hand into that of the tall, slender fellow who lounged against a pillar. “Renaud!—you are late again.”

“I arrive at precisely the right time.”

“By whose reckoning?”

“My own.”

Corinne removed her hand and fingered the silk rose at her waist. “That is where you make a grave miscalculation—everyone at Les Salon Des Patriotes knows I am queen and my word is law.” She pressed her lips together and watched the quick play of thunder in Renaud Tremaine’s eyes. And what if she had misspoken and called herself a queen? Sure and she was vexed at the slip, but worse things had happened and Renaud could never accuse her of sympathy with the aristos. “Renaud, for heaven’s sake. Would you send me to the guillotine for a remark like that? Bah. What a fool you are.” She shrugged and the air in the parlor—away as they were from the fireside—wrapped clammy fingers around her bare shoulders. From the velvet-swaddled windows came the sound of a small hard rain. It scratched with the nails of a hundred tiny rodents, and Corinne was glad of a sudden for the warm, cloistered salon on the Rue de Faubourg Saint-Honoré. A fine apartment it was, she admitted, though it had belonged to some of the bloody aristos they hated so well. Renaud had once held scruples against living in the same rooms and breathing the same air as a traitor. But even he now appeared perfectly comfortable as he leaned against the pillar, eyes closed and arms crossed. He always had been exacting in the extent of his patriotic tastes. Corinne sighed. “Would you be better pleased if I told you I was the Robespierre of this parlor?” If she had meant the question as sarcasm, her dart missed its mark and dropped, harmless, on the marble floor.

“Of course I would rather have you a Robespierre than a Capet.” Renaud’s eyes flickered to hers in a quick, keen question then fell smoldering beneath his lids again.

“Do you doubt my faith?” Corinne asked, and this time poured derision in her tone.

Renaud pushed himself from the pillar and took her hand again. Corinne marked how pale those supple fingers were—how blond and bright and beautiful her cousin was in that terrible lightening-fire way he had. No wonder men gathered to him as moths to a lantern—Nature had marked him as a leader since birth and destined him for great things. This reckoning of Renaud Tremaine softened Corinne’s heart a bit. She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it, letting him fondle her hair with his free hand.

His mouth tipped. “Do I doubt you? Never I. You are too sensible, too enlightened—too like myself—to be anything apart from me and my beliefs. But take a care that you think before you speak. I never say a thing but I’ve thought it over ten minutes past and gone through it twice and again to be sure it is what I meant.”

Corinne kissed his hand again with her soft lips. “You are good to me, Renaud; so kind and patient when my very presence is irksome to you.” The tone was gentle and purring, the words humble, but Corinne laughed wickedly within. Renaud knew as well as she that he could no more exist without her than she without him.

He laughed aloud and teased audible laughter from her into the cool darkness of the parlor. “You thought I was angry with you, did you not?” he asked.

What had he wanted her to think? But Corinne only turned her back to Renaud and tossed a flutter of slender fingers over her left shoulder. “Angry? With me? By all the wrongs in the Cahiers, I don’t see why you should be. Don’t give yourself airs and think that your opinion of me matters a whit.” She paused, half in, half out of the lamplight, and looked at Renaud, wondering if he believed her—nay, if she believed herself.

“Where is our salonnière? Citoyenne Corinne—where have you gone to?”

“They call you, Citoyenne,” Renaud said. His restless fingers straightened his cravat as his dark eyes held Corinne’s in an understanding gaze.

“They can wait—have you anything more to say to me?”

Renaud smiled, and it seemed to Corinne like sunlight breaking from a thunderhead over the Champ de Mars. “If you are not going to drink the wine, may I have it?”

Corinne glanced down at the glass from Desquette and felt swift anger rise in her throat. Why she was angry she could not tell, only that she was. “Take it, with my pleasure,” pushing the goblet into Renaud’s hand, “I have no use for Capet-liquor.”

***

Well, how do you like my new child? I am predisposed to love him superfluously.

A corrupt-tempered mood.

I stumbled across some character-notes from this past summer. Notes about people I met through the season whom I had the foresight to describe a little, that I might use the memories later in formulating new characters....here are some of the entries:

Rather shabby, lumpy, pale clerk with limp moustaches who is kindhearted, dull, and rather hopeless. His daughter works at the coffee shop downtown, of which he's rather proud and mentions often.

Old woman who is 1/4 negro and whose husband holds a prejudice against the race. He always uses the "N" word, but "he's the first to stop on the side of the road if one is broken down." She wishes she had the funds to do a blood tests on her husband and see if he has any negro blood. Husband wears an eye-patch.

Old, blind woman whose mind is still very sharp and who calls herself the matriarch "who doesn't do anything."

(during one particularly trying afternoon this summer, I vented to myself in third-person.)

Every point was countered with a remark of a dismally cankerous nature, inconvenient to the point of frustration and boiling indignation. Anything said was bound to be parried and disagreed with and so, valuing her own composure of spirits over the beauties of conversation, she purposed to say nothing at all....

....Being in his presence felt a deal like being locked in a dryer. They tumbled about, haphazard, from one subject to another and got in royal tangles at every turn. She felt her patience, like a left sock, disappear somewhere in the cavern of his thoughts, never to be heard from again..

(my coworker was fond of singing and anecdotes...)

...Was this how it felt to be in a musical? She'd always thought it to be a pleasant idea, but now she was not so sure. One couldn't say a thing without him striking a pose, raising a finger, and relating one anecdote or another from the hoards he had collected over the years for just such an occasion. Drat brilliant people, she thought. They drowned your own thoughts in the fury of their intellect. He was a genius cast in a variety show, and she was his audience--held captive by the single fact that if she did not put up with him, she would not receive her paycheck.

Is constantly making up new and ridiculous salutes for D. Reads favorite parts of Shakespeare aloud from the computer screen. Prints the words to songs I'm singing so I won't have to hum.  :)

In more recent news, a dear woman from our church brought her grown son with her. He is mentally challenged, but the most precious fellow. He's got a memory like a steel-trap and reads the dictionary for fun. Our dog scared him, however, and put him in a sour state of mind...

His Mother: "Well aren't you in an ill humor!"
Bill: I am not in an ill-humor. I'm in a corrupt-tempered mood!"

Of course I had to write that down in my writing journal. I mean, it's brilliant. I am intent upon using it someday, though perhaps in a different context. :) People-watching and listening and observing is a huge way to grow your knack for writing characters. Keep track of these things! It's hilarious to read over later on.

"Of some other metal than earth."

Leonato: "Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband."

Beatrice: "Not till God make man of some other metal than earth."

-Much Ado About Nothing

It seems that romance is as much a virus in the online world as it is in reality. In my everyday life people have been making matches of themselves at an alarming rate. I foresee many weddings in the next year or two... *feels dazed*... And the plague, as I said, has not limited itself to reality. It's crept onto the blogs beginning with Mirriam and quickly followed by Jenny with their respective posts on romance and How To Write It. I was not intending to follow suit. Not at all. But then I was looking through my copy of the screenplay of Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing and came across Beatrice's vow and then I thought of something I've been meaning to write about and since it slightly aligns with the topic touched upon by Jenny and Mirriam, I'm giving it to you.

I bring up the topic of your Hero.

If there is one error Jane Austen and Elizabeth Gaskell made (perhaps) it is that their heroes are so....heroic. Let me rephrase that. Their heroes don't really have any obvious flaws. (Their female leads do....funny.) We women love Mr. Darcy and Mr. Knightly and Mr. Thornton and Roger Hamley. The only problems with those men are that two are misunderstood, one is a little critical, and one is a little blind. I love these fictional fellows as much as the next girl, but the transition from paper-to-reality is detrimental.

As humans we are all hopelessly flawed without Christ. There is no way a one of us would say that we don't have any faults.

Why, then, do we write characters who can boast near-perfection?

People say that fiction is a way to meet people where they are, take them along a fictional journey, and bring them out at the other end changed in some way. But how can you relate to a character and a journey that has nothing to do with your own life? Sure, a perfect man would be amazing, but I'm not a perfect woman so even if there were perfect men I wouldn't be the best help-meet to one of them.

One thing I've noticed is that Male Leads written by male authors always have plenty of faults...
Jean Valjean
Capt. Jack Aubrey
David Balfour
Benedick
Bilbo Baggins
Eustace Clarence Scrubb
Ebeneezer Scrooge
All of these men are flawed, and yet we identify with them. Why is it that women are the only ones who will write perfect men into fiction? It's strange. If a man portrayed his fictional men as archangels, the feminists would throw back their heads and howl, "UNFAIR!" but we women will create our own Mr. Darcy's and Mr. Knightley's and defy anyone who would point out their unrealistic points. The men aren't the ones crazy about Pride and Prejudice. Obviously they don't find perfect men realistic and honest enough to bother reading about. We don't write perfect women characters, do we? No. Our women all have bad tempers, or resentful hearts, or scabby pasts, or hidden fears--things that make them real. It's because we're easy on ourselves and aren't trying to boast perfection because we know we don't measure up. Then why do we hold men to a different standard?

Though this post is somewhat rambling, it does have a main point: I'd caution all writers to make sure that your male "hero" in your story has his own flaws. You don't want a one-dimensional character. You don't want a perfect man that will drive away other men from reading the book.

Look to the men in your life. The men around you. Look to your brothers and fathers and pastors and neighbors. Your uncles and the guy down the street. Goodness--look to Taylor the Latte Boy if you must, but let's cast aside the Perfect-Man syndrome.

It's not going to help women to idealize Mr. Darcy's perfections, only to find they can't be satisfied with a single real man. It's an age-old problem that even Shakespeare addressed when he wrote Beatrice's refusal of marriage:

"Not till God make man of some other metal than earth."

Till she reaches Heaven, perhaps? Ah--but then it will be too late. Better to conform our ideas of fictional and earth-men to the mold we have here and now. Men made in the image of God, flawed as we all are, reaching upward to Christ a little more each day, denying their flesh and seeking Him.

After all, despite what Jane Austen might say, that's the true definition of heroism.

Chomping at the bit.

I may have been silent and-or insipid on this blog the past couple of weeks, but I have good excuse. I decided to role with Au Contraire and have been up to my elbows in research and plotting. Exciting thing is, I tried a new method of plotting because plot-strength is something I've made a goal of recently. The method? After I had the bare-bones idea of Au Contraire (The basic plot outline), I went through and named all the chapters, devoting a certain amount to each phase of the plot. From there I researched historical events along the time-line of the story and plugged them into the basic plot, then built further plot twists and arches along those historical under-pinnings. I'm really really excited about this, and feel more prepared than I have for most of my novels. I have 3 detailed pages of outline to my name which will definitely keep me on track when I feel uninspired. Of course there is wiggle-room for plot changes, new characters, etc, but I think this method is going to prove extremely helpful. Would you like a sneak-peek of this novel via the chapter-names?

Oui?

I had hoped so. I will tell you not to put too much stock in what the names mean--I purposely did not title them obviously. But do they pique your interest?

1. Parlor of Patriots

2. "A bas les aristos!"

3. The song of Marseilles

4. Flicker-by-night

5. Ring-around-the-Rosie

6. A Death of ideals

7. Guilt-gems

8. Visage of Offense

9. The Gulf Torn

10. Nor Hell a Fury

11. The Hound

12. Self-same Dust

13. Tete-tete

14. Ruse de Guerre

15. Belly to the Ground

16. Vive le Roi

17. Doubt Thou the Stars are Fire

18. Vogue la Galere

"Business, my darling--as usual."

Because we all need a little cat + Vivian Leigh to brighten our day.

Of course it always is business right when you were hoping for a bit of Something Else. But, my dear people, we must have business--if we didn't there would be no commerce, and if no commerce than no economy and if no economy than we'd be America and--oh dear. I had not meant to go that far.

*Ahem.*

I wanted to alert all of you to the fact that The Anne-girl is having a The First Annual Scribbles Conference on her blog and I was chosen as one of a group of writers who are "Convention Speakers." If you would like to read my post on The Vividry of Commonplace People (otherwise entitled, characterization), follow this link. And if you'd like to read my answers to some questions put to me by some of you (perhaps) you can click on the question below...

"How do you describe scenery without sounding like a travel-guide?"

Incidentally, Jenny wrote up a post that so perfectly coincided with my thoughts on A Severe Mercy that they felt one and the same, so go and read that, please. You'll not regret it.
Adieu, my friends! I am deep in the throes of historical research for Au Contraire and am finding out more and more about Corinne Garnier and Renaud Tremaine--you must forgive me my abstracted state of mind. Keep your eyes and ears peeled for a Parisian excerpt in the near future, and in the meantime I will leave you with my current favorite "toast":

"If it's half as good as the half we've known, here's Hail! to the rest of the road!"

Nothing but parchment...

Abigail reminded me of the fact that there are such things as Character Letters in this life, and a much-needed thing they are, too. In fact, I believe it is safe to say that Character Letters are the perfect venue through which to familiarize yourself with your characters' voices when you get a tad out of touch with them. Or when you are wanting to get in touch with them, which is me in the case of Au Contraire. Thus I give to you a letter written by Corinne Garnier to her cousin, Renaud Tremaine. It has little bearing on the plot, and only serves to give you a feel for her character. She writes:

"My cousin,
       Perhaps you have scores of demimondaine who would address you as their "esteemed, beloved, magnificent Citoyen Tremaine", but though I might be an enfant terrible, you at least have the satisfaction of knowing I am entirely truthful. Of course a mistress would pamper and esteem you. But I do not esteem you any more than you esteem me. We have a perfect knowledge of our characters, you and I, and it seems to me that we are matched; en pantoufles. I do not call you noble or honorable. You do not call me a lady. We would be, both of us, en brochette-cooked on a skewer-if we were succumbed to the scrutiny of the aristocratic standard. Thank God that is not so and we've effectively silenced all such scrutiny--neither of us could survive the slight to our vanity it would be to be held to such a flame--we are nothing but parchment writ over with fierce, fiery script. Some a bit less ambitious than we would say our imaginings are nothing but folie a deux--a clinging to a delusional ideal. But, my dear cousin, here is the fun of it--they shall be the ones left pale and listless by and by while you and I swing higher on this glorious wave of Revolution.
      You will doubtless smile with your greatest condescension when we meet this afternoon. I feel in the highest of high spirits: viva la republique! and all that. I am lively enough to start a bread riot, only I am tired of bread. Perhaps a gateau riot would be more to the point. If we could demand an allay in cake-prices, what a glorious repartee that would be to that demimonde, Marie Antoinette's command to "let them eat cake." You have always been plagued by staircase-wit--store that one up for a later date and remember to thank me afterward.
     Sometimes, Renaud, I feel a queer idea in relation to you. I feel that we are so alike that I have but to look into your face and see my own soul--if we have souls yet, which many doubt in these wonderfully forward-thinking days. Do you have a soul, Renaud? Somehow I doubt it in your case as well as mine--and I am not sure whether to feel gaiety or terror over the idea. Come to me early this evening. I want to be mocked and taunted and mock and taunt in return and cease with everything soberminded. D'accord?
              Your chiton-fille,
                                Corinne Adele Garnier