Dancing in the Minefields

"we went dancing in the minefields//we went sailing through the storms//it was harder than it seemed//but i do believe that's what//the promise is for.."

-Andrew Peterson "Dancing in the Minefields"

We take great pride in saying how much we love writing and how we are called to be writers and many things of that nature. Sometimes I wonder if we understand what we have just said. As with many things in our current culture, our understanding of "love" has fallen prey to what C.S. Lewis aptly described as "chronological snobbery":

Barfield never made me an Anthroposophist, but his counterattacks destroyed forever two elements in my own thought. In the first place he made short work of what I have called my "chronological snobbery," the uncritical acceptance of the intellectual climate common to our own age and the assumption that whatever has gone out of date is on that account discredited. You must find why it went out of date. Was it ever refuted (and if so by whom, where, and how conclusively) or did it merely die away as fashions do? If the latter, this tells us nothing about its truth or falsehood. From seeing this, one passes to the realization that our own age is also "a period," and certainly has, like all periods, its own characteristic illusions. They are likeliest to lurk in those widespread assumptions which are so ingrained in the age that no one dares to attack or feels it necessary to defend them.

In current terms, to "love" something means that you have a certain fondness for it that--momentarily--absorbs you. If you really "love" something (or someone), you have that fondness for it to the exclusion of many other pastimes and/or people. You might think that, by this definition, you do love writing. As do I. But here's the thing: our chronological snobbery has totally eradicated the true meaning of love. The popular definition excludes the roots of the thing: it makes void all the rich impulses of honor, dedication, fidelity, service, choice. Shakespeare mused: "Is love a fancy or a feeling?" --neither, I'm bound to say. Of course one cannot justly compare the love of a pastime (like writing) to the love of people, but I am permitted to take poetic license and point out the shadowy similarities. 

Inspiration is like romance: it comes and it goes and you can't keep it past its departure date. At some point in a marriage, the warm-fuzzies will fade (at least for a time) and if your love was built off of romance (as too many are) you will find yourself quite out of love. If your concept of being out-of-love includes booting the thing that fell out of love with you, then you'll find yourself with a divorce on your hands. We see this everywhere. In the same way, you begin to write a new novel with great excitement. The plot and characters were made for each other. You just know this time it will work out. You write multitudinous blog posts on how awesome it is to be a writer, you interview your characters, and the whole darn time you're waltzing along without an idea of the commitment involved. See, like romance, inspiration will fade. By the fifty-thousand word mark you will probably be quite disenchanted and ready to "divorce" this novel.

Now we come to the cross-roads of those who truly love writing, and those who are content with being dilettantes. 

"He scribbles some in prose and verse,
  And now and then he prints it.."

Proper love for something requires a choice to be faithful to that person (thing) even when the romance (inspiration) fades or temporarily disappears altogether. It is a choice, not an overwhelming, mystic thing. It is the husband who doesn't care that his wife is out of humor and refusing to speak to him and leaving the dishes undone. It is the writer who feels like doing anything but getting up at six in the morning and writing her one-thousand-word quota and yet hauls herself out of bed and does it anyway. It's a commitment--a promise--and we have to realize the cost.

Are we willing to "love" writing, knowing what it takes?

This is the main difference between published authors and unpublished. Between "writers" who begin a dozen stories and finish none, and the writers who keep at it and mound up full-length stories in their Microsoft Word files. This would be my number one piece of advice to a budding, beginning writer: you won't always feel inspired, and you won't always love your book. But if you truly love writing you will write blindly, knowing that even if you won't, you must. You must because you've promised, and it's time to take a dance through that minefield.

Snippetty-Snip: The best of the Spring

We all know I had little time to write and what time I might have had, I spent otherwise. I did, however, manage to write a bit this Spring, and I have every intention of disciplining myself so that I shan't have to look at you with hands spread, saying: "I got nothin' for ya, man." These, then, are the best of the Spring:

***

They squeezed through the wrought iron rails—to use the gate was a sign of weakness—and paused on the gravel walk.

-The Baby

Her voice had in it the offended dignity of a cat who has fallen off a garden wall.

-The Baby

“You, my little blighted toadstool, are in Crissendumm.”

-The Baby

...on the fourth day the ground that had been flat began to slope upward and the going got a bit more beaten-trackish with little footpaths scarring the face of the hillsides between banks of tangled twigs that would have been elderflower in the summertime.

-The Baby

The valley below was definitely Populated. Huge houses--each looking as if it could be a castle with a little coaxing--hung back toward the valley-rim, sending instead a long, straight drive to meet the coming world. There were orchards--bare now, but promising--and shorn wheat fields, and potatoes turned up in harrows from a late crop. Here and there a horse or two grazed alongside congregated bits of dirty white that proved to be sheep upon careful inspection.

-The Baby

“We’ll take lunch at Darrow-Dwelling,” the Admiral said. “Ahhhh, T-O-A-S-T A-N-D T-E-A--that’s th’way to spell Darrow-Dwelling, your majesty.” He tugged the brim of his weather-rusted hat in Jamsie’s direction.

-The Baby

“Thruppence t’pass,” the gatekeeper said. He was a round man with a nose like a conch-shell, and wore a cap with ‘Porter’ printed on it. Jamsie smiled and waved at him as the Admiral dug in one of his vest pockets for coins.

The Admiral looked up a moment later with a sorrowful expression. “Th’Fleet stole it again.”

“Stole what?” Richmond asked.

“My money. They like shiny things--anything shiny at all. And they’re always pinching my coins. I can’t pay. I’m afraid...” he sniffed and cast a sad eye over the hedge. “I’m afraid there will be no Darrow-Dwelling for us. No T-O-A-S-T A-N-D T-E-A. And no castle for you, either,” he said generously, as if to give them a part in his complete misery.

-The Baby

"..in my realm--in England--we have many places this nice.” She hoped it wasn’t a fib--she’d never been twenty miles past London.

-The Baby

“If Auguste Blenheim the Pig had not stolen my birthright, Dear Lord, would I be half as patient as I am?” I gestured to the window--open because there was neither glass nor shutter to close out the dripping weather. “And would my constitution be half as hearty as it is, if Thou had not given me such chance to test its limits? No, don’t answer that, My Lord, for I haven’t the temper this morning to hear the answer.”

-Lady Alis (the temporary moniker of a short story)

The first thing to do was try to find Father’s certificate of death, naturally.”

“But thur weren’t any!” Ellen protested.

“Precisely.” I scooped the tiny, curled tea leaves into the silver bobber and dropped it into the teapot. “There was never one filed. Not a single Bickersnath Carlisle in the whole Kingdom of Ashby has ever died, according to the Records.”

“They moost be a healthy race, them Bickersnaths,” Ellen observed. The excellent woman stirred the porridge and raked a cone of sugar with the tines of a fork overtop.

“Mmm. That, or everyone but my alleged ‘father’ had a gentler christening.”

-Lady Alis

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.

In which I present The Oasis

This, my hearties, was the Music Room.

Since Daniel moved out and his band hasn't been practicing, and no one else in the family has occasion to play one of his six guitars he left, it's been rather a lame catch-all room that everyone likes to forget about because it's so garbage-y. I don't know why it's taken me so long to happen upon the idea, but I suddenly thought to myself, "Oh golly. Why don't I turn this into an Author's Lair?" So yesterday I snapped that Before Picture, and after an hour and a half of hard work, I present to you, The Oasis:

The Window faces West. :)

I left the keyboard in there even though I don't play the instrument. I thought that it would be a nice, inviting nod to the fact that this used to be a music room, and that my sisters (who do play) are welcome to hang out as I write. :D I was surprised to find that I actually had plenty of things lying about with which to decorate the walls, and had a lot of fun organizing everything to my utter satisfaction. This is luxury, I tell you.

There is a corner simply for reading:

And on one side of the bookcase you have Audrey Hepburn smiling sweetly at my ambitious 101-item Bucket List.

This is the wall that contains all my inspiring quotes, pictures, and things. You'll see there an uncompleted watercolor illustration the Seasonings (throwback, what?) and then a sketch of a ship which was given to me by Wyatt Fairlead to prove as inspiration for Scuppernong Days which I have promised him WILL be written one day. It just needs massive plot overhaul. I have left the space directly above the desk empty so that I can pin up whatever bits of things I gather for current WIP's.

And my very convoluted desk set up currently contains a laptop with the screen cracked so I plug it into a monitor and type on one while looking at the other. I am used to it now, but it is rather like patting one's head while smoothing one's belly at first.

And this, people's, is my new muse:

He was already nailed to the top of the bookshelf, and I thought it would be sad to take him down so I gave him a headdress. I think his name should be Adolphus. 

Now, to get back to writing. 

Pay Up, Globe-Trotter

"Where HAVE you been?" Their voices were cold, accusing, and I knew I was in for it.

"I've been....I've been..."

"Don't say busy," the Larger One warned, his breath coming in chilly-looking puffs from his over-red nostrils.

"I was about to say gone," I corrected. "I've been gone, that's what."

"Ohhhh. Gone." Their eyes commiserated with one another as if to say, 'That's no excuse at all, but I suppose we must take it.' "Well, next time at least tell us."

I nodded, relieved that All and Sundry hadn't booted me off the blogosphere and blotted me out of their minds. "Next time I'll tell you."

"Is that a promise?" the Larger One inquired.

"It is."

"And your word is good?"

"It is good."

"Then," he said, "I suppose we must forgive you."

-Pay Up, Globe-Trotter (an unofficial series of reprimands to Myself from Me)

I have been globe-trotting once again and instructing 130-some students in the mysteries of Political Involvement as Youth in America, and shepherding their hearts toward Christ, and buying more Wodehouse and Machiavelli and a bit of Shakespeare to balance it out. I did forget to tell you I was leaving, but you see, I didn't think there was much purpose in posting about writing when I hadn't been doing it in practice because that is called Deception in most nations and is generally frowned upon. I have, however, been doing a lot of Conversation and much Converting. I have found a mutual Wodehouse-Lover quite by accident when we were lolling about my brother's apartment and said Lover of Wodehouse made fun of me for adoring Scotch accents and then promptly remembered The Coming of Gowf, which he then proceeded to read amidst much chuckling from me and the rest of the assembled company. Then, after having taught kids how to be a lobbyist (or, rather, how to discern whether you ought to take money from a particular lobbyist or not) I lobbied feverishly to convince the very wise and learned minds of Jeremiah Lorrig & Co. of the worth of Winnie-The-Pooh. I could hardly believe that anyone of so broad and genteel a mind could have managed to grow up and entirely escape an acquaintance with A.A. Milne. I remedied that by having another unacquainted friend read us a bit. They laughed even harder than they did over Gowf. I think I have converted them. This pleases me.

As far as the production of Writing, it has been very slow in practice, but productive in the fact that I've been thinking and reading a great deal, and my store of expendable-matter is now finally filling back up. I'd quite drained it a month or two back. I failed to mention to you that beyond my novel-writing, I am also going all-tackle into a non-fiction book that you can read about in this post. I am excited about this very different way to use my talents that will, hopefully, be fruitful. It is a project I need to read myself, and thus I sort of have fallen into having to write it as well.

In addition, I have been rummaging up all sorts of peachy ideas for Fly Away Home-themed this-and-that which you might be able to buy someday. I will keep you updated on all things pertaining to that. I am in the process, actually, of making some rather large decisions. (Don't get too excited, I haven't been offered any contracts.) In other news, I would like to do a plug for two friends. First off, Mirriam Neal:
She is releasing her pro-life, gripping, threatening, victory-claiming novel, Monster. I was so excited to hear that this novel was finally coming out because by Jove! I read the first edition and cried. It is such a good story. Dark and terrible at moments, but so full of light in the end! It's a book I think every American needs to read since we are facing large decisions about the preciousness of Life. Please buy a copy when it comes out. You can read more about it here.

Also, my details-loving friend Rachelle Rea (whose work I totally recommend, as I've experienced its healing scourge) has started in as a freelance editor!  I may or may not have mentioned her already, but of all the beginning-editors I know, Rachelle has the credentials. She's done unofficial editing (but professional quality) for several years, and if you're needing an extra brain to coincide with your own when it comes to judging your book, please give her a chance! In closing, (because Alfredo-sauce-making calls) I will leave you with this Cleverness of Wodehouse which I happened upon on the drive home. It says it's about portrait-painters, but I swear he meant Aspiring Novelists:

"A portrait-painter, he called himself, but as a matter of fact his score up to date had been nil. You see, the catch about portrait-painting--I've looked into the thing a bit--is that you can't started painting portraits till people come along and ask you to, and they won't come and ask you to until you've painted a lot first. This makes it kind of difficult , not to say tough, for the ambitious youngster."

-Carry On, Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse

P.S. How would you feel about another contest?

Exclusive Author Interview with Penelope Wilcock

I was so thrilled when Penelope Wilcock agreed to help me conduct an interview on this blog! Recently my sister-in-law-once-removed-ish friend, Rebekah, ordered the first three books in the Hawk & Dove series for her personal library but sent them to my house so I could read them. When I was finished and told her how much I had enjoyed them, Rebekah ordered the next three, which are now sitting upon my shelf waiting for time to be read. You can find the details about the first three books here if you aren't so fortunate as to know anything about them. I hadn't even heard of the series before Rebekah posted a gripping quote around Easter time on Facebook and I demanded to know if I could borrow the book. At any rate, the Hawk & Dove series centers around the lives and relationships of a monastery in the medieval period of England. The authenticity of Penelope's voice was part of what made the books so lovely...and when I asked her about it, her answer was just as delightful! Read the following interview and you'll see what I mean. :) (my questions are in bold, Pen's answers are not, and any side-comments I make are italicized)

How are you doing on this lovely May day?

Enjoying the sunshine here on England’s south coast. Our garden is a haven of birdsong and roses, herbs and wild flowers.

You live in England and have a garden? Lovely! It's a dream of mine. 

Have you always been a writer, or is this a relatively recent foray?

I have written stories since childhood, but my first published book (1990) was The Hawk & the Dove, the short novel that began the series of that title.

How did you get the idea for your Hawk and Dove series, and do you remember where you were when it came to you?

Yes, indeed I remember. I have five children, who were all born within six years. When they were little, their father worked hard to take care of us all so I could be the home-maker for our family. A musician, he taught school by day and often worked in the evening teaching adult education classes, and playing or conducting in orchestras or dance bands. So I spent much time alone at home with little children – and though their company delighted me, still in a way I felt lonely. In a rather solitary childhood, I had always invented imaginary friends, and it occurred to me that I could do so again. Once I invented my band of characters and began to tell myself stories about them, I wondered if they might be worth sharing – if others would enjoy the stories too. The first three novels were written while my children slept or played, and the subsequent Hawk & Dove novels came much later, when I decided to revisit the series for fun after seeing it run for twenty years without ever going out of print.

What a neat story! I love it when books grow out of a interesting case and not because someone is originally a writer by profession.

Through the series I personally grew very attached to Brother Tom, and Peregrine. Were those men based off of real people you have met?

I feel as though I have met them, but the reality is they came into being by themselves with no help at all from real life.

Do you work better in silence and solitude, or do you prefer company of some sort, be it music, a pet, etc?

I work, and live, mostly in silence and solitude.

What do you drink while writing-- coffee? tea? lemonade? nothing?

Nettle tea. And sometimes Earl Grey.

What inspires you?

As a person, I am inspired by the ocean, woodlands and hills, beautiful architecture, music, and by light of every kind – starlight, sunrise, wood fires, candles, moonlight, sunset, and the light that shines from all living beings. In my life I have been significantly inspired and influenced by St Francis of Assisi. As a writer, I am inspired by human interactions that I observe randomly wherever I go.

Initially, was it hard to sell the idea of a book about a quiet, undramatic community of monks to agents and/or publishers?

Not at all. Our lodger at the time worked for a publishing house, and took my manuscript to the office. He left it on the desk of a commissioning editor who read it and loved it. There followed twenty years of happy professional relationship working with the same editor. Then I married him. After that it got harder because he can no longer commission books from me straightforwardly, as I am now his wife. They have to pass various tests-by-committee.

Haha, that's so funny. And what a blessing that you actually had a publishing-house employee living with you...definitely handy. And now an editor as a husband? Very nice. ;) 

The stories in the books are presumably actual accounts passed down from mother to daughter through hundreds of years till the "present day" when they reach Melissa. Is Melissa at all based off of you?

Ah, no. Remember I said I have five children? I thought they would enjoy to see their lives in print, so the modern-day frame tale is a kind of digest of our home life at the time, with some real family anecdotes. My second daughter’s second name is Melissa.

Makes me wonder about Cecily. I have a five sisters of my own and I had to laugh every time I read a bit about Cecily...it sounded so much like Anna!

I love the presence of Light all through your books, and the way you unashamedly present the Gospel, yet I never felt that your style is preachy or stifling. Do you think it is because the books occur in a church-setting and the subject is perfectly natural, or did you take pains to make certain you were not doddering along?

I like to think it is because Jesus is real, and my experience of Him is real, and if I write about that honestly my readers will catch a glimpse of the wonder of His presence in my life.

Well said! This is how I hope to come across in my own writing.

You portray medieval monastic life quite vividly and accurately--what were your research methods, and how long did it take you to grasp the era? 

At different times in my life I have lived and worked with both monks and nuns, and monastic spirituality has substantially influenced my own practice of Christian faith. And then I was greatly blessed to study at the University of York (I read English), where I walked every day through the ancient streets and worshipped at beautiful York Minster. During that time I got to know some of the Benedictine monks at Ampleforth, and I lived in an interdenominational lay community. My studies included the literature of the Middle Ages – Chaucer and so on – and I learned about the structures and language of those times.

Absolutely fascinating! It must have been so neat to read English in such an historic place...I think your story is the most authentic of all "research" methods I've yet to come across. This made me smile.

Who is your favorite character in the series?

I change my mind about this. Hard to say. I have a soft spot for Brother Cormac. I think you haven’t yet read books 4, 5 & 6, have you? A character is developed in those books whom I have come to love dearly.

They are on my shelf! Cannot wait to "make friends" with this fellow!

I won't spoil the series for anyone who hasn't read them, but we know that a certain beloved character is dispensed with in the third book--was this a hard decision for you to make?

I have worked as a care assistant in various places where chronically and terminally ill people are nursed, and as a hospice chaplain. In the third Hawk & Dove novel, The Long Fall, I wanted to give a voice to those hidden lives. In many novels and dramas, it is the doctors and nurses who are the stars, the people they care for having merely supporting roles. I wanted to give back centre stage to people who had been pushed by illness to the margins of their own lives. The character you refer to offered to be the one who would make the slow, painful journey.

What is your number one tip for aspiring writers?

What most people call “writing” – tapping out words on a keyboard – is but the end of a long process, the tip of the iceberg. Writing is holistic; it includes listening, thinking, dreaming, exploring, imagining. So, when people ask you: “Are you writing at the moment?” always say, “Yes.” Refuse to feel guilty in the long empty dream-time of gestating a book, when you feel restless and uneasy and have nothing down on the page as yet.

Again, well-said. Thanks for acknowledging those "awkward" stages of "in between books"!

And would you like to give us an entirely random piece of advice, writing-related or otherwise?

You can have two. Never walk backwards in a grocery store. Eat ripe peaches in the bath.


Hahaha! Thank you so much, Penelope, for your time, your words, and those two priceless pieces of advice at the end. They made me laugh aloud. :D Everyone else, if you'd please thank Ms. Wilcock for dropping by and visit her at Kindred of the Quiet Way, I am certain she'd be pleased to say hello! And don't forget to check out the Hawk & Dove books...they are going down on my personal favorites list. :)

Everly,

       Rachel

And the fanfare of trumpets: TUM TA TA!

After over-much hemming and hawing and not-really-knowing what I'm doing and how to do it, I have settled onto two writing projects. One is Top Secret, and the other is entitled, The Baby (Thrice Removed). On this blog I may refer to it alternately as "The Baby" and as "Thrice Removed". Either one is correct. This story is best defined as "whimsy". It's not quite fantasy, besides occurring in another world, because so far I haven't come across anything that couldn't occur here. If it is fantasy, it's of the Alice in Wonderland  variety. But the thing remains, the book starts in London when The Baby goes missing, and involves a tumble down a puddle, and a surge out of a pool of water, and suddenly you're in Crissendumm trying to convince the Royal Family that The Royal Baby is actually your Baby and you'd very much like to take it home now. It's rather a mess, and I love Jamsie and Richmond and The Baby already, and here is a gobble of Chapter Three for you to forage through and judge.

From The Baby (Thrice Removed) by Rachel Heffington, Chapter Three

Richmond had finished retching up the horrid puddle-water, and pulled his wits together enough to sit up and realize—with a profound sense of relief—that Jamsie was beside him. “You still alive?” he whispered through the dark.

“Barely,” Jamsie said. Her voice had in it the offended dignity of a cat that has fallen off a garden wall.

“What was that?”

“A puddle, stupid.”

“It wasn’t a puddle.”

“Was too.”

“Jamsie! A puddle is a shallow bit of water.”

“Says who?”

Richmond hugged himself, feeling the cold now that he was mostly alive. “Do you realize what bosh it is to sit here arguing about what that thing was?”

“Do you realize you began it?”

Richmond sat in the dark and shivered alone. It would have been much more comfortable to scoot over a bit and shiver with Jamsie, but knowing women, she’d take it to mean he was apologizing—which he most distinctly was not. A dark wind whished along the banks of the whatever-it-was they’d come through, and it seemed to Richmond that it was what most books liked to call an “ominous” breeze. He wished he someone had thought to put a streetlamp somewhere about. Had they fallen straight out of London-town proper into the country surrounding? They certainly had to have come a long way for that to happen—the nearest farm was a thirty minute drive in a cab. What a shoddy business—one moment a fellow is walking along in the park looking for The Baby, the next he’s down a puddle-hole, the next he’s throwing up the water (and lunch besides) and for toppers, the night’s as black as…shoe polish. “Jamsie?” A trickle of terror—or could it be water?—crawled down Richmond’s back. “It’s dark.”

“I know that.”

“It wasn’t dark a minute ago when we fell.”

Richmond listened to Jamsie catch her breath, hold it, and let it out. “We were falling for a long time. It could have got dark,” she finally said.

Richmond shook his head. “Not that long—we’d have drowned. We tested last summer at the Pools, if you recall, and neither of us could hold our breath longer than forty-five seconds. Jamsie—where are we?” He needed to know. His head was upside down and backward without geography in its proper place. He even felt an odd, urgent desire to panic. Nonsense. A Balder—especially a male one—never panicked. It was against the Code.

Richmond was still making up his mind whether to panic or not when a form stepped away from the blackness of the night around them and became a blackness of its own. Richmond stood at the same time Jamsie did, and they stumbled into each other. Jamsie’s hand clamped around his own, and Richmond felt a centimeter taller and a smidgen braver. The black form was still and midnight-silent.

It neither moved nor spoke, and yet Richmond was certain it wasn’t a…what was that word? Ah yes—a figment of the imagination. A figment of the imagination wouldn’t make Richmond’s stomach wrench like it was doing presently.

The wind muttered again, and tattered pieces of black flung out on either side of the Thing’s body. A cloak, Richmond thought. He must be an assassin. He was more curious than frightened at that thought. An assassin was at least human—not a banshee. He’d rather die at knife-point than be…digested by a creature.

Jamsie’s hand tightened over his and Richmond cleared his throat.

He took a step forward. “Excuse me.” Richmond didn’t want the Thing to think him impolite, but he wasn’t certain if it was a “sir” or a “madam” so he thought it better to leave that part off. “Excuse me, who are you and are you up to any mischief?”

“Mischief?” The form’s voice was black as crows. “What is mischief but a dashed good joke tried on the bally wrong person?”

Richmond eased his weight from one foot to the other and licked his lips. Jamsie’s face was twisted into a sailor’s knot of confusion. This wasn’t how Assassins acted--really, now. “Excuse me, but who are you, and would you mind stepping into the light so we can get a good look at you?”

The Thing moved a step closer and Richmond and Jamsie stumbled back. “There is no light, which is how I like it.”

Jamsie elbowed Richmond and he realized what a blunder he’d just made. The Thing--whatever it was--now knew that they couldn’t see well in the dark and it apparently could. That put them on all sorts of wrong footings. “But what are you?”

“I am Admiral of The Fleet,” it said.

“You mean like ships?” Jamsie had popped up on the other side of Richmond now, and he could see her face, still quizzical.

“No,” The Thing said. “Like birds.”

“Oh, I see,” Richmond said--only he didn’t, quite. “Er, listen.”

The Thing stepped forward with a rustling like taffeta, and before he could help himself, Richmond put his hand out and grabbed hold of a cold, slick arm; he shivered. The Thing glanced down at Richmond’s hand which was just a pale, white-looking blob outside of his jumper-sleeve, and then back at Richmond’s face.

“Don’t touch me,” it seethed, and seemed to grow larger.

“Sorry.” Richmond patted the arm. It felt like--why, it felt like feathers! “What sort of an Admiral did you say you were again?”

“Admiral of the Fleet.”

“But you can’t have a fleet unless you’re speaking of ships.”

The Thing raised one side of its cloak. “Can’t you?”

“I can’t,” Richmond said in a voice that hung just barely above a whisper.

The Thing raised the other side of its cloak, and Jamsie’s fingers tightened around Richmond’s shoulder.

“Then again, maybe you  can have a fleet made up of something else. If you want it,” Richmond hastened to add, stepping backward at the same time.

He tripped. Over what--a root, or Jamsie’s foot--there was little certainty. But what was certain was that in an instant Richmond was on his backside, having landed hard on something tubular and metal. “Ow!” Then he ripped the thing out from under him with a frisson of excitement wriggling up his backbone. “Jamsie--my torch! I’d forgot!”

One flick of the thumb later, and The Thing’s precious darkness was spoiled. In fact, the gleeful beam of Richmond’s battery-powered torch showed that mysterious, inky form to be the most curious conglomeration of things he’d ever seen: There were a dozen crows--wings outstretched--clinging to the shoulders of a frail, peeved-looking old man as if trying to cover him. There was a long top-hat of the Abraham Lincoln variety, and a blanket of the Wild-Indian Variety which looked a deal smudged with soot as if the old man had been busy attempting to dye it black.

“You’re a...a...”

“A what?” The man’s croak was so sudden, his crows flapped off and away, leaving him even frailer-looking than before.

“Well, you’re a person!” Jamsie finished off.

Richmond went up and touched the man’s arm again. It was still cold and slick, but Richmond now saw it was because his shirt was made of crow’s feathers like some people were accustomed to wearing chainmail. He shone his torch in the man’s eyes to see if he would squint--he did.

“Ey, whaddyer doin’ that for?” the man complained, stumbling back a step. “If you want to talk, come where it’s dark.”

“We like the light,” Richmond retorted. “We’ll stay here, thank you.”

“Have it your way, you bally kid.” The man eased himself to the ground and stretched two spindly legs before him. He wore bright green garters and striped stockings which lessened his generally dismal appearance.

Richmond tossed Jamsie his torch and settled on the banks of the pool in a pile of last year’s dandelions. A pinch of fluff went sailing away into the darkness on  a sudden wind. “Can we start by saying our names?”

“Have it your way,” he repeated, only this time the man sniffed at the end with a great deal of Suffering.

“I’m Richmond Balder and this--this is Jamsie.”

The man held up his palm against the brilliant stream of light Jamsie directed at his face. “I like jam. With toast especially. I don’t get much toast these days.”

Richmond chuckled. “Her name isn’t Jam. It’s Jamsie, which is just what we call her. Her real name is--”

“Richmond, you wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh come on, Jamsie. It’s not awful.”

“It is.”

She sniffed and adjusted the torch so it shone in his eyes.

He threw his arms across his face. “Ow--get off it, would you?” She was being such a girl.

“Only if you stop trying to tell people my real name.”

“Fair enough, your Highness.”

The Admiral of the Fleet shifted and cocked one eye at the pair of them. Richmond felt as if he’d said something he shouldn’t have, and it bothered him to not know what he’d said that was so interesting.

“Is she--” the man stuttered, “I mean, are you...”

“Yes?”

“Are you part of Them?”

“Of whom?” Jamsie asked in a very confused voice.

“Of the Highnesses?” He hissed the last part and looked around in visible apprehension. “Please don’t tell me you’re truly a Highness.”

“What the blazes do you mean?”

“I think he’s cracked, Richmond.”

“Do you, now?” Richmond rolled his eyes and yanked the torch from Jamsie’s hand, flicking it off. Darkness enveloped them again, and he could almost feel the Admiral relax till he was just a form in the darkness again.

“Ay, that’s better by heaps,” the Admiral croaked.

Richmond assembled all his thoughts in martial order before speaking next: “Am I right in thinking we aren’t in England?”

The Admiral twitched his shoulders in clear dismissal of the idea. “You, my young friend, are most certainly not in England. England is out t’other end of the Puddle.”

Richmond rose and stretched, keeping his back to the puddle so he wouldn’t have to see the cold, reptilian glint of the moon-sliver on its surface. “Then would you mind very much telling me where we are?”

I hope you enjoyed this bit of Thrice Removed, and please stay tuned for an exclusive Inkpen Authoress interview with British author Penelope Wilcock! It is a really neat one, so please come back and check in tomorrow to hear about how Ms. Wilcock's real life experiences have prepared her to write about a medieval monastery! :)