Raven-Black and Serpent-Gold

Then the memory of her sixteenth birthday rose in her mind and blocked out the pleasant thoughts with a shadow dark as a raven’s eyes—and there was nothing blacker than that. For it was on that anniversary of her birth that Randolph Fitz-Hughes arrived, handsome and dark and coarse with his raven-black and serpent-gold raiment billowing about him. He had come to buy her freedom with a pledge: The princess of Scarlettania for the safety of her country.

Fitz-Hughes knew his own strength—he had set his sights on the Princess of Scarlettania, and he would make her the Queen of Gildnoir—of his own dark, wild, forested country—if not by her will, by the blood of her people.

~The Scarlet-Gypsy Song by Rachel Heffington 

(Yes, this is the working title of my newest story.) I wanted to introduce you to the villain of The Scarlet-Gypsy Song: Randolph Fitz-Hughes.He is handsome and powerful--the ruler of a dark kingdom bordering the homeland of Cecily Woodruff--her beloved Scarlettania. 

"...Fitz-Hughes began pillaging the outer reaches of Scarlettania, spiraling inward, slowly but surely like a python wrapping its coils around its prey."

Because Cecily would not marry him, Fitz-Hughes has declared war on her country. She will be his bride, or it will mean the death of her people. He is arrogant, ruthless, bold, and swaggering. Of course when concocting a villain, one must stop and consider "Why?"
"Why does he desire Cecily?"
"What is so unique about her?"
And my answer for Fitz-Hughes springs from a very simple cause--one that has been reenacted throughout our world's history time and again: He desires her because she is the one thing he does not have. His lust for power and prestige has been immersed in ruling the country of Gildnoir. There is nothing left for Fitz-Hughes to win there, and so his roving eye rests upon the beautiful Cecily, Princess of Scarlettania. When he has won her, he will have her country under his thumb as well.
I am looking forward to writing more scenes with Fitz-Hughes. As of yet he has just been introduced through Cecily's memories of the events that transported her here, to our world. I can't wait to write him as himself in all his horrible, leering beauty. Ah yes. My pen shall be busy indeed.

S.O.S. To Dell, Apple, Toshiba, Microsoft, and Others

Dear Dell, Apple, Toshiba, Microsoft, and Others. The main characters in this drama are me: The Ever Hopeful and my brother Daniel: The Realist.

Ahem. I digress.

               It is a well known fact that a serious authoress finds a keyboard and computer much better company to her thoughts than a pen, despite the dreadful prosy nature of technology. So this authoress, finding that every time she wished to work on her story, someone of her family happened to be checking emails or doing bills or doing bills or doing bills, this authoress, Rachel the Ever Hopeful, decided to become a paleontologist. For those of you who are a bit rusty on your sixth-grade learning, a paleontologist is One Who Digs Up Dinosaurs.
            Yes, Rachel the Hopeful decided to become a paleontologist and hunt up one of the ancient brontosaurus-like computers--relics of an age when Windows 94 was cutting edge. :P She wondered how hard it could be. The computers must work, and her needs were simple: a keyboard, Microsoft Word of some nature, and a hard-drive to save her writing on.
So Rachel the Ever Hopeful traipsed up two flights of stairs to her attic, tripped over some coat-hangers, waded across piles of junk, and found the bones of what Had Been a working computer.
         "Aha!" she thought, Hopeful to the end. She gathered the skeletal beast into her arms and turned around to see her older brother, Daniel the Realist gaping at her.
          "What?" she asked. "Dad said I ought to find one of these to use for my writing."
            Daniel the Realist, owner of a Toshiba laptop (Which Rachel loved to gaze at) and an iPhone (which she was still a little scared of), continued to gape. "But those things are...are..."
            "Dinosaurs?" Rachel the Ever Hopeful chirped. "Yes, they are, but I'm sure I can piece something together."
            The look of disgust on the Realist's face was comical. He was obviously not a lover of history and dinosaurs. He hadn't the spirit of a paleontologist about him, and suddenly Rachel the Ever Hopeful realized how very little she knew about this sort of dinosaur, and how little this sort of dinosaur seemed to wish to be resurrected. She had not a penny to her name. She knew her father and mother had not much more than a penny to their name. Certainly the dinosaur would see the predicament and respond in kindness? But Rachel the Ever Hopeful could not be daunted. The lure of a place for her own writing egged her on. She hauled the very heavy dinosaur down the stairs..all three pieces of it, and set it down on the ground.
Rachel the Ever Hopeful tried to understand all of the cords going on, but found it impossible without the help of her cousin, Matthew the Realistic Patronizer. He reminded her she had no mouse or keyboard.
         Rachel the Ever Hopeful crept into Daniel the Realist's bedroom and unplugged the mouse and keyboard from his desktop. She held her breath and plugged them into the back of the dinosaur. In the darkness of the Reading Nook, Rachel the Ever Hopeful's face fell. The dinosaur wheezed and groaned and squeaked like nothing she had ever heard. It was not a Promising Sound. The computer booted up, hauling itself to it's feet. When the screen finally appeared, it was covered in scratchy rainbows, and sent Rachel the Ever Hopeful a message that a Dell keyboard and mouse don't correspond with an ancient, prehistoric Gateway dinosaur.
           And so it was the Rachel's hope died, and she gave in to the idea that she would have to scribble in between bills and emails, unless a Computer Manufacturer looked upon her with a sparkling eye. :)

So there you have it, dear computer companies. I don't suppose any of you would care to adopt an aspiring authoress as a Christmas good-will, anti-BAH-HUMBUG project? If you do, you may email your inquiries to theinkpenauthoress@gmail.com. Thank you so much for your kind consideration of my plight. ;)
               I am Yours Respectfully,
                                  Rachel Heffington

The Man With The Gun...a powerful weapon

A famous man, sometime, somewhere said that when your plot is dragging, bring in a man with a gun.
Some authors take this literally. A man and a gun. Bing-Bang-Boom, you're dead. That can be extremely effective in the right place. But the man-with-the-gun syndrome can be used figuratively, and to great effect in other places. I can think of two right off the top of my head:

• Description
• And Humor

In the description category, the-man-with-the-gun would be presented in an entirely unexpected comparison. If you were trying to describe golden hair, you might not even use the word "golden", or the word "sunshine", or the word "silk" or anything else that is at all common. You might say something like... "her hair was bright as a canary's wing" or "the color of a mirror-flat lake when the sun sets it on fire." Something that your reader is not expecting and probably would never think of if you didn't guide her.
Now for humorous man-with-the-gun. I love using it in this category. I like drawing the reader in and suddenly banging them over the head with a surprise that leaves them laughing and a little dizzy. It's the naughty child in me, I suppose. :P Here are a couple examples from my recent project:

        "Darby frowned and plugged his other ear, so as to hear better. Still, he could catch nothing but an occasional word.
      "From the ad...children...second Tuesday...credentials...blueberries."
       Blueberries? Darby growled in disgust. It gave more irritation than satisfaction, hearing these gnats of conversation."

        "The children and the newcomer faced each other, and for the first time in their brief acquaintance, they got a good look at one another. No words were spoken, but volumes were said, and the Feeling grew larger and stronger until Adelaide blushed, and Bertram quivered. Charlotte chomped the end of her pigtail, Darby plucked his rubber-bands like the strings of a lyre, and Eugenie and Fergus played hot-potato with a black-beetle that had somehow found its way into their possession."

"The littlest twins clambered onto the bed beside her, and showed their prettiest dimples when she did not push them away as Mum did, but gathered them into her lap and actually gave them her locket to play with. It was a beautiful locket—golden and etched with fantastical swirls like the writing on the cover of a story-book—and Eugenie put it into her mouth directly."

I got into the habit of doing it by getting so tickled when I would read such a thing in a book that I would laugh out loud and find my sisters staring at me strangely. I learn well by example, and pick up bits and pieces of other authors' brilliancy. :) So bring in your man-with-a-gun, either figuratively or literally, and try it out when your writing is feeling stale. It's *so* much fun!

New Pen-Spatterings

Some samples of a new story I've been toying with recently...I have a Feeling in My Bones about this one. It has children. Naughty children. And when a story has naughty children, a nanny who may or may not be a princess banished to this world, and adventures to be had in another land,  I am in my element. :P This new tale doesn't have a name yet, and I am enjoying it immensely.

"There was Nannykins to begin with, but she had a bad knee and left for the North. Then there was Miss Perdue who, when she was not sleeping was cross, and when she was not cross, was dozing near the fireplace with her apron flung over her face. Of course the children meant well—who would hint otherwise?—but they got rather into the habit of making loud noises just so—“Bam!”—and giggling when the apron flapped like the sail of a clipper ship in a gale." ~The beginning to this untitled story

"Mr. Macefield sighed, and rasped his chin once more. “No…no, I suppose it does not matter. Only now I shall have to spend another three weeks looking up a nanny for you when I could be making us wealthy.”

It was a favorite pastime of Mr. Macefield’s—making them wealthy, I mean. Not that he ever succeeded with more than the usual success, but it kept him occupied and happy enough, and the Macefield children lived under the general impression that all fathers spent hours in their studies, scribbling things to get wealthy." ~Ibid.

"The truth was Mrs. Macefield had a horrid case of what is generally known as Nerves. If it rained, she was ill. If it shone she was ill. If the children made more noise than usual she was ill. If her favorite horse did not win the races, she was ill. And, since it is a general maxim in life that things will not always go the way we wish them to, it is safe to say that Mrs. Macefield was nearly always ill." ~Untitled Story

“Hallo! Who are you?” Darby asked, tugging the brim of his cap in the manner of a coal-bargeman, and offering a small hand to the person on her rear amongst the flowers. The young lady allowed herself to be dragged to her feet by Darby and Bertram, who had since recovered himself.

She brushed off her skirt and tried to pin up her wealth of hair. It was useless—like trying to pin up great quantities of brook-water, or something equally rippling and beautiful." ~Ibid.

"I am Cecily Woodruff, and I have come to be your nanny.” She said it, not in the usual manner of nannies coming to be interviewed and hoping to be accepted, but as if she were doing them an extreme favor." ~Ibid.

Inkpen Poetry Day: "Carmen Ante Domum"

"Carmen Ante Domum"

(Song Before Home)

 By Rachel Heffington

Home is just over the next green hill

And my journey's last mile before me still--

Home before, and the road behind,

And a balancing moment within my mind...

Home, 'tis so pleasant to know the place

Remembers me still with its homely face.

Home, with her orchards and fields and her lane

Beckoning me with her smiles again.

But the Road, gypsy-mile'd and wild and free,

With echoes and wind-voices calls out to me:

"Remember the paths we have tread, you and I;

The lure of unknown and a clear, open sky!"

Pausing, I stand with the Road at my back,

And stretching before me the dear, homeward track.

A kiss to the journey, a laugh to the wind,

And onward, my heart full of wistfulness send.

The Dance of the Sword--a call to valor

Have you ever found an idea for a book and been terrified by it? The inspiration for a book that you feel needs to be written, but you don't think you have enough talent to write it? You know, way deep down in some corner of your inmost being, what it would take, and yet you don't know how to express it?
Professor Bhaer's advice to Josephine March is particularly appropriate in such moments:

 "Jo, there is more to you than this, if you only have the courage to write it."

I think a lot of times we don't have the courage to write the thing that needs to be written. We let ourselves drift along with easy writing--scribbles, fun scenes, short stories--but we can't, or won't write anything else because we aren't brave enough.
I think it really does come down to that in the end, and we have one choice: Bare our swords, push our hair out of our faces, lift our chins, and thrash it out. Thrust and parry, swing blindly, but remain determined to be the victor. Courage men! Courage! It does not have to be an immaculate fencing match. It won't be immaculate at first. It might have more of the claymore than the rapier about it, but I stand firm in my opinion that eventually, if we only have the courage, we'll hit upon it. We mightn't recognize it at first, but we will...we will. Our feet will learn the dance of the duel, and our hands will tighten upon the hilt. We will no longer be babies, fighting with wooden swords, but soldiers trained in war. We will win, and we will disarm our opponent, Doubt. And when that moment comes, we will know what it means to be a writer who has written from the depths of her soul. The battle will fade in the glorious sensation of victory, and all those wounds will be forgotten in the balm of triumph.

"The day may come when men's courage fails. But it is not today!!!!"

~The Return of the King

I need that sort of courage for my the ideas presently swarming my mind...I don't know how to write any of it, but I have a feeling that someday, somehow, I'll become a mistress of my sword.

Inkpen Poetry Day: "The Conquistador's Lament""

To make you laugh...

"The Conquistador's Lament"

 By Rachel Heffington

"Oh, to have a seniorita

Waiting for me in my casa

As the sun of dear Hispania

Speeds me home-a, fast an' fasta'

And to have the seniorita

say 'twas me her heart was for-a...

I would give all of my galleons

For a girl who I adore-a.

But I'm lone and lorn and wasted

In this colony in Flor'da

With not a single lady

Who would dare to cross the borda'.

I have doubloons by the thousands

And jewels by the score-a,

But I'd throw it in the ocean

For one girl who I'd adore-a.

I would tear my silken waistcoat

And rend my lace cravat-a

And burst my diamond buttons

If I thought 'twould help the matta'

But it's useless-truly useless

For the dreary thing is sure-a:

America has pinned me

And there's no one to adore-a!"

Backward Glances...

I love [and I think I always will love] the sensation of going back and reading a book you're done writing. Age seems to blunt the rough edges and mellow the sharpness of editing until you can scan through the pages of your novel thinking, "Well done indeed." :) It's grand, really, and something that should only be indulged in periodically so you don't get used to the feeling. :) You find bits of gold that you had only seen as another hunk of rewriting, and you can rest in the fact that until the editor tells you otherwise, your story is whole and complete. A Mother for the Seasonings is that way for me. Enjoy some backward glances at my first child! :D

  ........We children sat down to divide the three pomegranates. At first it was easy enough. We each had a half, but after that, we fell to arguing over who should eat the last piece.

“By virtue of my position, I really ought to get the privilege.” I said, taking possession of the fruit.

“The oldest people always get everything,” Dill said, “and I’m not in any sort of an important position. Can’t a fellow get a privilege for being `the least of these?’”

“I’m the middle child, I ought to get the extra half,” Angie said.

“Well, I’m da’ youngerest here. An’ I’m still hungry,” Fennel said.

                                   ~A Mother for the Seasonings 

.......At last, rounding a bend in the road, we came upon an ancient India rubber tree at the foot of a hill. The thick, dark leaves rattled merrily as a wind swept through the treetop. It seemed to usher us up the sloping grade to the Huntington House. For, at the top of the ridge, standing like a king atop a throne, was the massive, white, building.

An awed silence enveloped our group for a full five minutes. Finally Fennel spoke. “It looks like a castle Rosie, see the towers?”

Rosemary smiled. “It surely does Fennel. My, what a grand house.”

“The paint’s peeling off the porch pillars.” Dill observed. “And they let the ivy grow up onto the balcony. Now it looks like an old man with a scraggly beard.”

 “Not a bit of it, Dill.” Angie scoffed. “This house is what you call ‘picturesque.’”

“I’ve never called it any such thing,” Dill argued.

                              ~A Mother for the Seasonings

             Angelica routinely spent the sermon studying the people around her. I craned my neck, trying to see who it was this time that had so absorbed her attention. Deacon Clemmens’ wife sat directly in front of Angelica. So that was it. Angie had told me many times of a mole that Mrs. Clemmens had on her neck.

            “It’s the most fascinating thing, Basil,” she always assured me. “It’s just the shape of Africa.”

            For an instant, I was possessed with a powerful curiosity to see the much proclaimed mole. 

                                            
                                        ~A Mother for the Seasonings

The next morning, despite my assurance that all would be tickety-boo, I felt we should do penance in some way for our behavior. I scoured my mind for some appropriate punishment. Starvation perhaps? But Dill would never agree to that.

                            ~A Mother for the Seasonings

We followed behind our sister, and a couple of very old women immediately took Fennel captive. I tried to stifle a chuckle. They definitely looked the type that would stare a little child out of countenance and feed her peppermints periodically to make up for it. I knew the kind all too well. The memory of my own childhood, in that respect, was not so long forgotten.

                       ~A Mother for the Seasonings

The Heath, Part One

If my calculations are correct, and I think they may only be a week off, [if that] it appears that there are five weeks till Christmas. That being so, and The Master of Delgrade Heath being five chapters long, I will post one chapter every Friday night until Christmas. Be on the lookout for the installments, and don't judge my poor little pet too harshly--I give my Christmas Tales the distinction of being entirely spontaneous and unedited. :P
Without further ado, may I present for your enjoyment, Part One in The Master of Delgrade Heath.

Chapter One: The Master of Delgrade Heath

Apple trees, arms naked and skeletal and shaking in the wind, hedged the yard on the southern side. It would not do for anyone heading up the road to be able to see into the yard. Why, Lisette could not decide. It was not as if there was anything to hide. Beyond those apple trees there was only a stony expanse of tepid ground, cobbled now with frozen lumps of mud and clay. A half-dozen stubborn weeds clung to the cobbles and quivered under the harsh embrace of the cold wind.

Bare and cold and severe, all of it. Lisette sighed and her breath made a dismal fog on the window pane. The patch shrank, whiter and whiter, then disappeared altogether as if it were afraid of being reprimanded for smirching the otherwise spotless panes. Lisette pressed her fingers to her temples and turned from the bleak aspect. Christmas as Delgrade Heath would be dull indeed. She wandered to the piano and ran her fingers over the yellowed ivory of the keys, not daring to strike a single note, lest. Mr. Delgrade or his housekeeper hear.

Delgrade Heath had not always presented such a tiresome picture. Lisette recalled, in some vague corner of her crowded memory, a week during the summer of her fifth year when she and Mama had come to this countryside. There had been fruit on the apple-trees then, and grass in the yard. The barn housed a milk-cow and a new litter of kittens. And it was not only in the outdoors that they change had been visible. The spirit of the house had been lighter and airier but now—Lisette plunked a jarring chord on the piano out of defiance and turned to see how the household would take it.

From the adjoining parlor came a fluttering, flouncing sound like pigeons’ wings, and a stout grey-silken figure bustled through the door.

            “Lisette Allenham? Is that you making noise?”

Lisette frowned, a dark glint shimmering in her eyes. “If you mean to ask if I was playing the piano, then yes ma’am. I am guilty. Lock me in the stocks if you will.”

Gardenia O’Talley stroked her grey silk and shook her head till her stone-colored curls bounced. “I don’t understand why you can’t see Mr. Delgrade needs perfect peace and quiet. You who claimed to be so adept at nursing ought to be able to comprehend something that simple.”

Lisette stood, hands folded with placid resign, but heart thundering. “My charges,” she murmured, “usually want to be made well.” Without giving Mrs. O’Talley a chance to reply, Lisette stormed out of the room. Her boots made indignant retorts on the spotless black and white tiles, daring the echoes to awaken and share her frustration. “I don’t see how one is to accomplish anything if the patient doesn’t wish to live.”

            She cast a glance at the grandfather clock standing sentinel in the corner near the curving stairwell. Three twenty-eight, and two minutes till Mr. Delgrade would be expecting her presence in his boudoir. She rummaged through the apothecary cabinet in the dark, beeswax-scented alcove, and brought forth a bottle of lavender oil. If he didn’t have a headache she knew she would by the end of an hour of reading in a room lit by a single greasy candle.

            In accepting the position of nurse at Delgrade Heath, Lisette admitted she had not expected her services to be so little desired. She had had difficult patients before but none who flouted her authority with such constant and pointed displays of perversity. The Delgrade Heath of her childhood had sounded like the ideal place for a young lady, worn out with hospital work, to recover. Of course there was Mr. Delgrade to attend to—but how much trouble could a wealthy old gentleman be?

            Indeed, how much trouble could he be? Lisette almost laughed at the question now. Trouble! It began the moment she had arrived at the Heath. Mrs. O’Talley took her heavy woolen cloak and eyed her travelling dress.

            “I’m afraid you’ll have to change into something a bit more formal before you see Mr. Delgrade.”

            She had felt her blood rising. “I was not aware Mr. Delgrade was well enough to care about such matters.”

            Mrs. O’Talley, all stone and propriety from the tips of her square, block-like boots to the stolid contours of her figure, had granted her a cold smile. “Mr. Delgrade is always well enough to care about such matters. You cannot stand in his presence for a minute bespattered as you are with mud and grime and who knows what.”

            Lisette Allenham was not accustomed to being spoken to in such a way. “I will not change my dress just to please Mr. Delgrade. However, I am weary and untidy and I will change my attire only because I wish to.”

            “No need to be haughty, Miss Allenham. We don’t flaunt airs and graces here, I’ll have you know.”

            Ah, but they did. Mrs. O’Talley’s every movement, glance, word bespoke an air of Propriety. But Mr. Delgrade was worst of all—The sentinal’s chimes sounding the half-hour jolted Lisette back to the present. She tucked the bottle of lavender oil into her pocket, then checked her reflection in the hall mirror.  Crisp white blouse neatly tucked into her crimson skirt, white apron tied around her slender waist, hair tucked beneath her nurse’s cap and hardly a curl escaping. Mr. Delgrade would have to be pleased for she couldn’t, and wouldn’t do any better.

            Lisette took the stairs one at a time, trying to extend the precious moments before she would have to be locked away in that horrid sickroom with Mr. Delgrade, reading from one the endless Encyclopedia Britannica. She passed through the long, dark corridor, brushing past one of the relics of Mr. Delgrade’s life before his illness. Lisette had never seen a house more filled with artifacts and oddities. At first they had beguiled the weary hours of watching away, but gharish masks and gawking idols make for gauche companions when the shadows come out, and now she turned with a shudder from the ghostly touch of a South Sea Islander’s beaded headdress.

            Mr. Delgrade’s door was before her now. Lisette put a slender hand to the knob and bit her lip, drawing deep breaths of the cool dark air before interring herself in the sepulcher-like aura of the sickroom. She stepped over the threshold and surrendered herself to the perpetual gloom.  The old question surfaced in her mind: “How much trouble can a wealthy old gentleman be?” That was the other thing that had put her relationship with Delgrade Heath on a new footing. For Mr. Delgrade was not an old gentleman at all.

            Lisette approached the wing-chair near the fire and cleared her throat quietly. A wan, pale hand beckoned her forward. Lisette took a seat on a low bench near the hearth and turned her eyes to her master. All the benefits of wealth and rank had wasted in the person of Cyril Delgrade. He possessed all the graces of beauty, talent, and wit in a perverted state, and Lisette despised him for it.

            It was his eyes that she had noticed first. Eyes that, in another man and another life could have been warm and jovial, flickered with an unhealthy, fitful light. They were ever changing, ever vigilant eyes that seemed to notice everyone and everything closely. Mr. Delgrade’s chin, if tempered by an active life would have shown him to be a confident, reliable young man, but was instead set in a constant, defiant square. The figure, if encouraged ever so slightly, showed promise of being strong and supple, but under the influence of pampered illness had relaxed until Mr. Delgrade was nothing but the a sculpture of what might have been, a portrait of dissipated youth and vitality.

            “Late again Miss Allenham? And how do you expect an invalid to live if his nurse will not administer his physic on time?” Mr. Delgrade’s mouth curved in a half-smile. It was the one part of his wasted face that had not been changed by ill-humor.

            Lisette stood and fingered through the host of glass bottles crowding the side-table. “It is not the nurse’s fault that the clock in the hall is three minutes tardy. One might suppose the patient would speak to his housekeeper rather than berate his nurse.”

            “Has the old O’Talley vexed you again, shrew?”

            Lisette ignored the question put forth and turned to Cyril Delgrade. “I had heard you were a gentleman. I was also told this was a fine house. I see you are a liar as well.”

            “Aha! This fire is warmer than that you stand by. Come throw sparks at me and see if you can light any flame of indignation in this piece of kindling before you.” Mr. Delgrade laughed, delighted at causing anyone to feel a sliver of the sourness plaguing his every moment. He motioned to Lisette to bring the bottle she held in her hand. “So you do not count Delgrade Heath a fine house? Tell me why if you will, Miss Allenham.”

            It was less a request and more a command, but Lisette poured the medicine into a spoon with a steady hand and held it forth. “Perhaps in form, the Heath may be considered fine. But everything in it is twisted and cold with no more heart to it than the stones it was hewn from. Yes, there is elegance, but no beauty. There is provision, but no comfort. It is less a home than some hovels I have entered.”

            Mr. Delgrade lounged back in his chair, his midnight-blue smoking jacket a painful contrast against the pallor of his skin. “Ah but she is sharp on you, Old Beauty,” he said, casting his eyes about the room as if caressing a beloved pet. “Still, what care I if she thinks it is less than the slums she came from? Miss Allenham was not bred to fine tastes. We must forgive her for that.” The Parthean shaft leaving his bow, Mr. Delgrade took the spoon from Lisette and swallowed the contents, then tossed it on the tray at his side. It clattered against the other accoutrements of silver with a sound like tiny bells.

            Lisette clenched her fists, a sudden desire to strike this man almost overcoming her composure. When she was again mistress of her emotions, Lisette spoke in a low voice. “As I was not employed here to discuss architecture, and as you seem to have done with the topic, may I begin our reading?”

            An impatient gesture was the only reply, so Lisette moved to the ornate cherry-wood shelves on the left side of the fireplace. Her fingers caressed the embossed titles of the books. Ivanhoe, Shakespeare’s Sonnets, Bleak House… if only Mr. Delgrade’s tastes followed her own, these long afternoons in the sickroom would pass on swifter wings. Like a mule following the same track it had long practiced, Lisette’s slender fingers passed these lighter pieces of literature and found the resting place of the dusty encyclopedias. In the three weeks she had been at the Heath, they had made their way to “D”. “Devonshire” would be today’s topic if she was not much mistaken.

            “Shall I light the candle for you, Miss Allenham?” The drawling tones drifted from the darkness of the patient’s corner.

            “As you please, sir. It makes little different, the candles are so poor. Mayn’t we even use one of the white tapers?”

            “And deny me the pleasure of seeing you squint and stumble like a sort of quaint mole? Never!”

            Lisette smoothed her skirt as she sat down. Her position at Delgrade Heath was so peculiar; she was still unsure what she thought of it. It was fraught with trouble and vexations, yet the salary this sick man paid was worth far more than she could get from any other nursing position. Perhaps he was ignorant that the common wage now was nearly half the price his thin fingers moved the pen to write on her weekly check. Nevertheless, Lisette knew she earned every penny of it. She ought to be paid an inheritance every time she held her tongue in the face of Gardenia O’Talley’s all-encompassing “propriety.” She shook off the idle musings and turned the pages of the encyclopedia. A musty, ticklish smell like damp leaves rose from the insides of the book as if the words were rotting from their long days of solitude. As Lisette turned her gaze upon her patient, her mind flew to the creatures they had read about under “Caves” in volume “C” of the Encyclopedia. Blind, white creatures, sickly and lethargic from growing in the darkness.

            “Excuse me Mr. Delgrade, but I must give you my professional opinion.”

            “On what topic? My house? Ah, but I didn’t know they were letting women into the bricklayer-departments these days. What is the world coming to?” The mouth curved again into a teasing smile, but the eyes were languid as ever.

            “I was only thinking what an improvement it would be for you to sit in the sunlight for an hour or two each morning. Stay in this tomb and you’re like to turn into one of those newts or frogs I was reading to you about last week.”

            Mr. Delgrade picked at the gold-stitching on his cuff-sleeve and shook his head. “The blind leading the blind, eh?”

            “I am perfectly serious, Mr. Delgrade.”

            “And seriousness does not become your face, Miss Allenham. You are not so pretty you can spoil what looks you have by frowning. Get along with the reading and we’ll have done with it.”

            This was her moment. Lisette summoned her most winning smile and leaned toward the ill gentleman across from her. “Then you are wearied with the encyclopedia too? Let us pretend I am your nurse on the literary field as well—I prescribe a daily dose of Shakespeare to vary the monotony.”

            “Can’t abide the man with his everlasting tragedies and poisons and daggers.”

            “But he wrote comedies as well, you know.”

            “He wrote nothing that could remotely amuse me, Miss Allenham.”

            “Because you refuse to be amused, Mr. Delgrade.”

            “Que Sera, Sera, Senorita.”

            Lisette pressed her lips together, than cast her eyes on the page. “Devonshire. County of England. Principle trade—oh really, Mr. Delgrade, must we?”

            “I don’t care.”

            “You  are the most provoking patient it has ever been my duty to care for.”

            “And you will now say you hate me, I suppose?” The dark eyes glimmered, daring her to try.

            “Frankly, I despise you, for you shut out anyone and anything that could ever possibly cure your despondency.”

            Mr. Delgrade laughed bitterly and put a glass of wine to his lips. He then swirled the contents of the glass, his eyes focused on the depths of the draught as if seeking something therein. “Despondency—is that what the doctors have labeled it? Funny, they told me I suffered from chronic--”

            “I was not only trained in medicines, Mr. Delgrade,” Lisette said. She took a breath to quell the fountain of memories welling up in her mind, then continued. “And I have not lived one-and-twenty years to mistake what is emotional for what is physical. A heart complaint is much harder to cure, but it is only impossible when the sufferer refuses the treatments.”

            “And now you will preach to me, Miss Allenham? For shame. I thought a nurse was supposed to make her patient feel better, not weary him with her everlasting piety.”

            “As you wish sir. On to Devonshire, then?”

            He stopped her with a motion of his sickly hand. “That is almost worse than the preaching. I am in a talkative mood today, and you shall serve me best by hearing me out.”

            “Yes sir.” Lisette smoothed back her hair involuntarily, making sure she was as neat as Mr. Delgrade could wish. He was in a strange mood and seemed fussier than he’d been since the first day they’d met. “I am ready to listen, sir.”

            Cyril Delgrade shook a heavy lock of black hair from his eyes and crossed his arms. In the silence following, Lisette could plainly hear the rattling of his lungs whenever he drew breath. Mr. Delgrade may have had an emotional complaint, but his health was by no means robust. Indeed, Lisette’s trained eyes looked with secret misgivings at the hectic color mounting in his cheeks and the brightness of his gaze.

            “I have not always been the wreck and ruin you see before you now, Miss Allenham.”

            She nodded, wondering if a reply was required to the confession her employer made.

            “There was a time, not too distant when I was as full of health and good intentions as you. Ah yes, do start and give a shudder, for look at the goblin I’ve turned into, and see that you don’t follow suit.” He tapped one long finger against his chest repeatedly, each tap a death-blow to the vigor so long behind him.

Lisette folded her hands in her lap, waiting in the awful silence for the continuation of the story. What a queer man Mr. Delgrade was—sometimes, even now, she thought a part of him wanted to live, to regain, somehow those lost years. But the next moment the present Mr. Delgrade would return in full form, careless and defiant, weary and sullen.

“They all thought I’d turn out as fine a man as my father was—I believe you knew him, Miss Allenham?” An almost friendly light shone from his dark eyes, and Lisette smiled encouragement at him.

“I knew him for one week of my life as a five year old girl. He was a very fine man indeed.”

“And I am not much like him, am I?” Her patient’s brow was crumpled as if in mental pain over some great loss.

“Not very, sir.”

“No, not very much at all. I believe I was born to be a failure, Miss Allenham. I killed my mother, you know.”

Lisette could not suppress the horrified gasp that broke forth at his words. He waved a hand at her, impatient and disgusted. “Not in that way, you goose. She died when I was twelve from the same disease she nursed me to health from, and I believe my father looked at me askance thereafter.”

“But it was not your fault.”

A rueful smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, and for the first time in their whole acquaintance, Lisette thought she detected a hint of some nobler sentiment than self-pity in his hollow eyes. “No, perhaps not. But we often become what others think of us. I grew up feeling like a murderer. I crept through this house with an anvil of guilt on either shoulder, and the housemates shunned me. I was sent off to school again, and soon after received word that my father had died. Delgrade Heath was shut up and I remained abroad.”

Lisette twined her fingers through each other, compassion for her patient coursing through her heart with painful precision. It would be best not to speak at all, lest she break the spell seeming to hang over Cyril Delgrade. He was a different man, at present. Softer and nobler, somehow. What had ruined such a promising man?

“You are probably wondering how I turned into the monster I am at present?”

Lisette shifted in her seat and cleared her throat. “I do not require any satisfaction on that point, unless you are entirely willing to give it. Remember, sir. I did not request your confessions. I am only a listener.”

The words broke the spell and the color faded from Mr. Delgrade’s cheek. The light left his eyes and his brows brooded again over the caverns of his eyes. “You are right. It is not important, and furthermore, it is not what Mrs. O’Talley would call ‘propriety’ to speak of those days gone by. Tell me, witch, what you have done to me to make me tell you such things?”

“Really sir, I would have been happier to read the Enclyclopedia.”

“Devonshire is more entertaining than the Death of the Dashing Delgrade, eh? But don’t answer that. I have only left to thank you for enduring my ramblings. And do set that picture straight. It’s been torturing me this half-hour.”

Lisette rose and tidied the room without speaking. Compassion fought within her heart for the place disgust held. It was as if a corner of the curtain of gloom surrounding Delgrade Heath had been lifted and she could see the tiniest bit of what had enacted this great change at the estate. It was a frightening, somber change, and she wondered if her heart could bear the strain of Knowing. 

What's in a Name?

How important is your character's name to you? Truly. Now think about it for a second. If you stripped away "Cora Lesley" from Cora Lesley, would you have the same girl? Or how about Dill Vervain Octavius Seasoning? Could he exist in the same form if he was named *shudder* Thomas Johnson?
Think of the people you know, and try to rechristen them. It just doesn't work, does it? It would seem their whole personality, as you know it, would change in an instant. I recently watched Sherwood Pictures' newest film, Courageous. While enjoying the film very much, I left the theater unable to recall the name of a single character...well, except Whats-his-name. :P It was perplexing for me, because though the characters were strong and I could talk about them per their personalities, the names simply did not fit. They were not memorable enough to stick with me past tossing the popcorn carton in the trash. And it has bothered me ever since.
When we, as "creators" of characters, give them a name, we are giving them half of their personality. Half of what makes them different from every other character in the wide wide world of literature. A name is a double-edged sword. It immediately sets one apart from the mass of people, and lets on a little bit of the characters personality. Charles Dickens was a master of choosing names that reflected, in some way, the person himself. Think of the host of characters peopling his novels:
Miss Betsey Trotwood-one immediately pictures a bustling, officious, stiff, but goodhearted woman.
Ham Peggoty--without a vestige more of thought that I would usually give line in a book, I knew Ham Peggoty was a bluff, honest, likeable young man with a country air about him.
Abel Magwitch--I don't know about you, but this is a convict's name and nothing else.
Estella Havisham--Cold, starlike, beautiful, unattainable--the name says it all.
Philip Pirrip, or Pip--I love the name Pip. A boy named Pip simply could not be all that bad. :)
I could go on, but I trust you get the point. The naming of a character, like the naming of a ship or the christening of a child, is a bit of eternity at the tip of your pen. (Relatively, in the case of the ship and the character) Make it worth your while. While I do not advocate excessively strange names, even in fantasy/sci-fi stories, or wild spellings like Kiylea (for Kylie), I like to make my names work for me. I am not a touting myself as a mistress of all naming ceremonies by any means, but I am patient with naming my characters. If a name does not fit, my character might be nameless for a scene or two. I try different names on my people, and if by the morning I am having trouble recalling what it was I named the character, I know it isn't right for them.
Here are some of the names in my tales:
Dharma--an Indian merchant and friend of the Seasoning children
Sali--cross, stout, Indian cook, sometime friend of the Seasoning children
Basil Andrew Cyrus Seasoning--he, and his siblings, rattle their four-digit names off like a catechism, but they give them distinguishment.
Miss Lily Piccalo--lovely, airy, rich, and sweet young lady who might have been the perfect mother, were it not for Dill's...ahem...Lies about certain family members.
Tuck and Dot Williams--Properly Tucker and Dorothy, this brother and sister duo are the essence of adorable childhood. Tuck gives one the idea of rather a Huckleberry Finn character, slightly tamed, and Dot is the perfect word to describe a baby so round and plump and rosy.
Flounder, Ann Company-- I have written her such to better show her name, spun up by her eccentric, Dickensian father. The name immediately sets this lass up to be a wild-card.
Gardenia O'Talley--Superfluous in everything, but especially her airs of Propriety, the O'Talley is stiff as starch, self-important, and no fun at all.
Nan Thrushwood--This name grew onto the character as naturally a morning glory twines up a trellis. It completes the picture of the plump, rosy, robin-like crofter's daughter who flies into the wintry darkness of Delgrade Heath and turns life upside down.
Cyril Delgrade--A cold, heartless, withdrawn name that perfectly fits the master of Delgrade Heath...that is, until... :)

See? Anyway, what are some of your characters' names? Are names important to you, or is it just a queer fancy of mine that the proper handle on a thing gives you a tighter grip? I challenge you to take a second look at your names and make sure they are working for you, not painting a picture of blandness over a sparkling personality. :) ~Rachel

L'histoire est racontee...the tale is told

I have long maintained that when I get a truly good idea--inspiration for something that was meant to be written--the project almost writes itself. True, it needs some coaxing along now and then,  but the projects that write themselves are my lovelies. We have had no falling-outs, no quarrels, and we part good friends. :) The Master of Delgrade Heath is such a lovely. I finished it this morning while making breakfast. [No, life as a stay-at-home daughter does not stop just so I can write my novels. ;)]
It clocked in at 17,045 words, and 42 single-spaced pages. It wrote itself in four days. The words literally flew from my fingertips, and I felt as if I were merely the machinery that enabled the story to be written. It played itself out before me with an ease that was delightful. Ah, my beloved Christmas Tales, you are such ducky-dears! *hugs to my various manuscripts*
I rediscovered how much I love writing in this story. I allowed everything to end happily. No one minds a little bit of cliche at Christmastime. ;) The first word was "Apple", the last "Heath". In fact, I am so happy about this particular Christmas Tale, and it was so obliging to me, I thought I'd let you read the end of the story. Enjoy!

            "Mr. Delgrade held out his arms and she (author's note: "she" refers to Nan Thrushwood--the recently discovered daughter of Mr. Delgrade) came to them, and father and child wept together. Lisette slipped away to the window, and stared out through the pane onto the blue and silver tapestry of moon and sky. Her heart ached with a keen longing. A longing for a place in this world. She knew that her services at the Heath were no longer needed. Nan was the only cure Mr. Delgrade needed, the only treatment his illness would require. If his convalescence continued at this same rate, it would only be a few short months until he would be entirely well again. She would leave after Christmas, she decided. It would not be proper to stay any longer than her professional skills were needed. But the thought shook her heart with the force of a gale, and she could not stay the emotions that poured tears down her cheeks and jerked quiet sobs out of her throat. She would leave the father and daughter to themselves, and pack her things quietly. She turned, and tiptoed across the carpet, but the hem of her dress caught on the fireplace tools and knocked them over. She froze as Mr. Delgrade’s voice, warm and whole, fell upon her ear.

            “Miss Allenham, where do you think you are going?”

            “To my room, sir.”

            “To your room? We are in this together, I’m afraid, Miss Allenham.”

            “Sir?”

            “Has our teacher dismissed us yet? How do we know she hasn’t more lessons to teach us?” Mr. Delgrade put Nan to the side with gentle hands, and rose, slow and unsteady in body, yet sure of himself. Lisette stood, immobile, at the fireplace. Mr. Delgrade advanced, and Lisette wished she could flee the room, but his presence commanded her to stay. He reached her side, and picked up one of her cold hands.

            “Miss Allenham, will you stay with us?”

            Lisette wept bitterly. “I cannot sir. You know I cannot. You will be well and you will not need me anymore. There are other ill folk in the world who need a nurse. I must leave you.”

            “Must you?” He tipped her chin with his finger, and she could not withdraw her gaze from the light in his eyes. “After all, Miss Allenham, it was you who showed me first what a prison this darkness was. It was you who suggested the cure. I must be selfish just one moment longer and tell you that if you leave us…if you leave me, my heart will again be as ill and despondent as it ever was. You have taught me love, and to see beauty again. I would have you at my side until the world is no more. Lisette, my love, will you stay?”

            She felt Nan’s warm, plump hand slip into her own, and with Mr. Delgrade’s eyes imploring her to answer, she echoed the child’s words. “I never expected a family for Christmas.” The intensity of the love in his eyes warmed her through. She rested her head on Mr. Delgrade’s shoulder and stroked his cheek with her fingers. “I will, stay, sir," she whispered.

            And if there are angels who sing yet over the field on Christmas night, they were crowded in glorious realms across the moorland, rejoicing over the Master of Delgrade Heath."

Snippets of Story, as borrowed from Katie. ;)

          "Lisette approached the wing-chair near the fire and cleared her throat. A wan, pale hand beckoned her forward. Lisette took a seat on a low bench near the hearth and turned her eyes to her master. All the benefits of wealth and rank had wasted in the person of Cyril Delgrade. He possessed all the graces of beauty, talent, and wit in a perverted state, and Lisette despised him for it.
           His eyes, that, in another man and another life could have been warm and jovial, flicked with an unhealthy, fitful light. His chin, if tempered by an active life would have shown him to be a confident, reliable young man, but was instead set in a constant, defiant square. The figure, if encouraged ever so slightly, showed promise of being strong and supple, but under the influence of pampered illness had relaxed until Mr. Delgrade was nothing but a sculpture of what might have been, a portrait of dissipated youth and vitality."
              ~The Master of Delgrade Heath

       "Has the O'Talley vexed you again, shrew?"
        Lisette ignored the question put forth and turned to Cyril Delgrade. "I had heard you were a gentleman. I was also told this was a fine house. I see you are a liar as well."
        "Aha! This fire is warmer than that you stand by. Come, throw sparks at me and see if you can light any flame of indignation in this piece of kindling before you." Mr. Delgrade laughed, delighted at causing anyone to feel a sliver of the sourness plaguing his every moment. He motioned to Lisette to bring the bottle she held in her hand. "So you do not count Delgrade Heath a fine house? Tell me why, if you will, Miss Allenham."
        It was less a request and more a command, but Lisette poured the medicine into a spoon with a steady hand and held it forth. "Perhaps in form, the Heath may be considered fine. But everything in it is twisted and cold with no more heart to it than the stones it was hewn from. Yes, there is elegance, but no beauty. There is provision, but no comfort. It is less a home than some hovels I have entered."
          Mr. Delgrade lounged back in his chair, his midnight-blue smoking jacket a painful contrast against the pallor of his skin. "Ah, but she is sharp on you, Old Beauty," he said, casting his eyes about the room as if caressing a beloved pet. "Still, what care I if she thinks it is less than the slums she came from? Miss Allenham was not bred to fine tastes. We must forgive her for that." The Parthean shaft leaving his bow, Mr. Delgrade took the spoon from Lisette and swallowed the contents, then tossed it on the tray at his side. It clattered against the other accouterments of silver with a sound like tiny bells."
          ~The Master of Delgrade Heath

          "Excuse me Mr. Delgrade, but I must give you my professional opinion."
           "On what topic? My house? Ah, but I didn't know they were letting women into the bricklayer-departments these days. What is the world coming to?" The mouth curved again into a teasing smile, but the eyes were languid as ever.
           "I was only thinking what an improvement it would be for you to sit in the sunlight for an hour or two each morning. Stay in this tomb and you're like to turn into one of those newts or frogs I was reading to you about last week."
           Mr. Delgrade picked at the gold stitching on his cuff-sleeve and shook his head. "The blind leading the blind, eh?"
            "I am perfectly serious, Mr. Delgrade."
             "And seriousness does not become your face, Miss Allenham. You are not so pretty you can spoil what looks you have by frowning. Get along with the reading and we'll have done with it."
 ....       "Then you are wearied with the Encyclopedia too? Let us pretend I am your nurse on the literary field as well--I prescribe a daily dose of Shakespeare to vary the monotony."
             "Can't abide the man with his everlasting tragedies and poisons and daggers."
              "But he wrote comedies as well, you know."
               "He wrote nothing that could remotely amuse me, Miss Allenham."
                "Because you refuse to be amused, Mr. Delgrade."
                "Que Sera, Sera, Senorita."
             ~The Master of Delgrade Heath

I have given you quite a dose here of my Heath, and I hope you enjoyed it. :) I decided that this story shall be given my second youngest sister for Christmas, and she is not on the computer much, so it is safer to post a bit now and then about this latest Christmas Tale. What do you think of it so far?

The Master of Delgrade Heath

I wrote 4360 words today...(I believe that was the W.C.) 4360 words of a gift for someone. I don't know who it is for, but I know that it is my yearly Christmas Tale, and it will be a gift for a friend or family member. That is why I can't disclose too too much information about this work in progress. I have grown to love my Christmas Tales. I let myself go to reckless abandon in writing them. The first was Fairfax and Cloves. It was nothing amazing, but I had fun writing it, I thought as little as possible about rules and regulations, and I wrote for the fun of writing and the joy of giving that fun to someone else. I have been in great need of writing such a piece recently, and so while I wasn't even sure I'd attempt a Christmas Tale this year, I have found I am attempting it and having good success so far. I wish I could tell you all about it in my new flush of authorship, but I cannot. All I will say is that I am going with the working title: The Master of Delgrade Heath. He looks something like this, "a sculpture of what might have been" as the main character, Lisette Allenham tells us.

 

I feel a deep compassion for this wretched man, and I am pleased to say that as Authoress, I have planned a happy ending for him. But it will take many words and a Christmas miracle of sorts of change him from the self-centered, ill man he is to what he was meant to be. Will his nurse, Lisette Allenham have anything to do with his reformation?

We shall have to see. I think so. And then again, I am not sure. There is very little decided in only 4,000 words. However, I know one thing. I like Cyril Delgrade, despite his cynicism and wasted youth. He has a soft side to him that I am discovering, and a biting wit. I like Lisette Allenham. She is faced with the perplexity of trying to cure a man who does not desire to get well. She's a strong woman, but she doesn't understand Mr. Delgrade. And...I've gone and told you more than I meant. Ah well. This will end up being a good Christmas Tale. I've got a feeling in my bones, and my bones are seldom wrong. After Christmas I will be able to post it for you, as it is not to be too terribly long a story. And have I mentioned I like this tradition of writing a story each Christmas? ;) Perhaps when I am an old woman I shall have quite a volume of stories laid up. Sing ho for The Master of Delgrade Heath, eh? :) And sing ho for the kind of cozy reading that is meant to beguile a winter's afternoon! ~Rachel

The End of the Inquisition

Hey Everyone! I write this post from a hotel room in a shady hotel in a shady section of town in a shady sort of spot in a state that is generally beloved by me. That being said, I will say that the purpose of being here is perfectly sound and I am well in body and spirit. But as this has nothing at all to do with writing, I will keep along with the finishing-up questions in my Spanish Inquisition. Ready?
1. What is the best place, in our Writer's opinion, to write at? Hmm... Henry B. Baxter, doth she mean in my writing Utopia, or in reality? In my perfect world, I would have a desk, worn and beautiful, cuddled up to a casement window, trimmed in white that looks over a cottage garden. The window would be cracked open and a faint breeze, scented with summer would wander inside and ruffle my hair. I would have my watercolors pinned to the wall to remind me of my other artistic attempts. Now, stepping back into reality, I would have to say that the best place to write is anywhere one can be alone. I can't do the whole people-looking-over-my-shoulder thing, as I have already stated. Somewhere near a window, preferably.

2. Do you ever listen to music while you write, or do you like complete silence, or a nice din from the kids? Haha! Music on softly, ideally 40's or 50's music or soundtracks. :)

3. What do you write on? (As in, do you use Microsoft Word, Google docs, etc.) I use Microsoft word. :) A very old version that I am doing my best wishing to replace. :D

4. When do you write most? (i.e. Winter, Summer, evening, morning?) Winter definitely due to gardening and other responsibilities the warm season demands, and probably in the afternoons. That's when we usually take our "free-time."

5. Do you like writing better dressed, ready for the day, with your hair up and everything, or in your pj's? Ah! Dressed and ready by all means--my brain works better on such terms, and I feel like much more of an authoress.

6. How many writing notebooks do you have currently? Two that are strictly writing. Beyond that I have scraps of paper all over creation that house my brain dribbles. ;)

7. Do you keep a journal or diary? If so how often do you write in it and what format do you use? I do have a journal and I write in it...a several times a month. In seasons where there's a lot going on, more often than that. :) I used to write in a log format...you know, list-form. But then I decided to go all out with the details, and since then my diary has been ever so much better. :D

8. What is your favorite kind of tea? [YAY!] I would have to say P.G. Tips and English Breakfast are vying for the top position, then Black Currant in second place and....Earl Grey third. :) Tea is my one weakness.

Thanks so much for all the questions you girls asked! It was so much fun answering these little inquiries, and I hope I answered your questions to your satisfaction. If anything wasn't clear enough you know you can email me anytime. ~Rachel