Titles

As many of you know, the working title for my current MS is Magic & Mayhem. I love the alliteration, the way it gives a sense of being a historical novel (tying in with books such as Sense & Sensibility or Pride & Prejudice, for example), and that it conveys the idea of what's happening in the book without giving anything away. Perfect title, right?

Except. All of the sudden lately, I've been seeing a flood of blank & blank titles all over the place. And if there's one thing I hate, it's looking like I'm following a trend (see my other post where I mention my annoyance with many of the similarities between the Crawley sisters and my protagonist's family - I swear, I wrote mine before I ever even heard of Downton Abbey!). Not just because of hipster tendencies, but because I don't want to give a false impression of my book. As a story, it doesn't fit neatly into any genre or follow any current trends. So I would hate to lure somebody in by the title, only to have them irritated when the story reads so differently from other similarly-titled works.

So the question becomes, do I hope that by the time I have this edited, edited again, proofread, formatted, and finally published, that the blank & blank titles are less popular? Except I'm shooting for a late spring, early summer publication, even with all the work that needs to be done, so that really isn't a lot of time. Do I hope that people will be amused by the subtle Jane Austen/Elizabeth Gaskell reference and miss out on the other, more popular new titles that follow that path?

Or do I go for a different title altogether? I had been playing around with a few ideas before settling on Magic & Mayhem:

Murder of a Manservant (excuse me while I fall asleep)

Of Magic and Men (except that it's equally about men and women, and "Magic and Humankind" really sounds dull)

A Magical Mystery (booooring!)

Magical Mayhem (not bad. But not tremendously riveting)

In thinking about it just recently, as well as perusing old Victorian and Regency novel titles, I've come up with a few more:

Murder at Little Oaks (sounds like Nancy Drew - now, Nancy meets magic WOULD be a fun idea to explore sometime, but that's not this story)

The Portland Papers (since much of the story's plot revolves around needing to recover stolen papers, this one isn't too bad. I don't like that it doesn't give any hint of the magic, though.)

The Apprentice (possible, since my protagonist is a magic apprentice. Still kind of dullsville, though.)

Such Stuff as Dreams (not bad - it is Shakespeare, after all, who also provided the title for one of my short stories, so there's some continuity there. It is a little vague, though.)

Sigh. Maybe I should just hire someone to title my books for me ...

Quick! Grace! Write out a title for Mummy's book!

Magic & Mayhem, Background

I am mostly writing this to help me remember. My brain is terrible at holding onto these details.

In the spring of 2011, I was querying my completed MG fantasy, and researching and outlining a YA fantasy, as well as working on a children's fantasy. Plenty of projects, especially when one considers that I had two toddlers at the time, one with whom I was starting preschool at home, the other of whom was potty-training.

And yet ... I hated all my projects. Every time I re-read them, they seemed grimmer and more bleak. I have never been a dark writer, and I couldn't figure out why what I was writing was so gloomy (I did find out soon afterward that I was on my way to a nervous breakdown, and though I was never diagnosed officially, I'm pretty sure I also had a mild case of depression - if not that, then at least severe despondency).

So one night, I tossed aside all my projects. Put away my research books. And I decided to write something for sheer fun, without even caring if it got published or not.

I've always adored Tommy and Tuppence (Agatha Christie's creations), and any other male-and-female teams of adventurers/mystery solvers. Kate and Thomas, Cecy and James from Wrede and Stevermer's Regency fantasy series also come to mind.

I decided to write an adventure story set in the 1920s, mostly because (thanks to LM Montgomery and her Rilla of Ingleside) I've always been fascinated by WWI and especially the between-war period. It would have to be in England, of course, because anything that an Anglophile writes for fun is going to be set in Great Britain. And just for some extra amusement, I'd throw magic into the mix. I knew I wanted a gentleman-and-lady team, like Tommy and Tuppence, except I wanted the lady to be the steady, practical one, and the gentleman to be the one who worked more off his impulses and instincts. I love turning tropes on their heads.

I had a few false starts, but eventually my characters and I came to an agreement about their personalities and roles, and the story sprang to life under my fingers. I set aside the research for that YA fantasy. I put the finished MG fantasy aside to look at and revise at a later time. I forgot completely about the children's fantasy.

Most importantly, I had fun. I remembered why I loved writing. I even bought the first season of Downton Abbey (I had steadfastly resisted getting sucked in up to that point) as "background research," and was hugely amused and somewhat miffed at some of the parallels between those characters and mine.

Maia and Len and all the rest took over my writing life. And I did not resist. The story that I started just for fun, with no thought of eventual publication, eventually became the story I am planning on publishing this spring or summer, whenever I finish the last bit of polishing. It spurred me to write If This Be Magic & The Traitor and the Spy, two short stories set in the same universe but featuring different characters.

Just a few short weeks ago, I sat down to do something else entirely, and suddenly the entire plot for a prequel unrolled in my brain. I frantically scribbled down the outline and started working - again, just for fun! - on a rough draft of that. That story is now spurring me to hurry up and finish editing Maia and Len's current tale so I can work undisturbed on that one.

And just recently, I've started thinking about those three abandoned stories again, and wondering if I can give them another shot, make something less-grim of them.

The moral of this story is obvious - write for love, not for business. But I'm not recording it here as a moralistic warning to myself or anyone else. I'm writing it because it inspires me, that my best work to date sprang from writing for pure pleasure, and it helped to bring joy back into my life when I was in a very dark place. Just as the darkness in my personal life had been affecting my writing, when I started writing determined to just love it, that bled over into my personal life, and helped to bring me through that bleak tunnel.

I'm not even going to attempt sending Magic & Mayhem, Maia and Len's tale, to a traditional publisher. Everything about this story has been personal, and I think the publishing part of it should be as well. I'm going to have it professionally edited, of course! But I'm not going to risk losing some of its joy by dealing with queries, rejections, changes, frustrations, and all the rest involved in traditional publishing.

An unprofessional decision? Yeah, probably. But being unprofessional was what brought this book to life. I'm not going to change that now. I have an entire career ahead of me to be professional in. I think I can afford to indulge my whims a little right now, before that career takes off.

Maia and Len are utterly unconventional. Their creator ought to be, as well.

Influences: Agatha Christie

As a kid, I had pretty bad problems with nightmares. The tabloid pictures of the infamous "Bat-Boy" scared me so badly I couldn't walk through the checkout line at the grocery store for years. Years.

So it may come as a surprise that I adore mysteries. However, I don't read the really gruesome stuff. I mostly love the mystery writers from the Golden Age - Dorothy L Sayers (LORD PETER FTW!!!!!); Anthony Berkeley; Margery Allingham (Campion may start out as a pale imitation of Lord Peter, but quickly develops into his own charming self); Josephine Tey; Ngaio Marsh; and I've been trying to read Freeman Wills Croft for years but only just recently found ONE of his books free for Kindle so I'll finally be able to give him a chance ...

And of course, the queen of them all, Agatha Christie.

The first Agatha Christie I ever read was The A.B.C. Murders. I know, an odd pick for someone prone to nightmares! I should have started with Tommy and Tuppence. Still, it was better to start with that one than with And Then There Were None, which was my other choice at the time. And amazingly enough, though I didn't dare put it down before finishing it (for fear the serial killer would come after me before I learned his/her identity, duh), I didn't get any nightmares from it. Just extreme fascination.

David Suchet IS Hercule Poirot. No one else comes close.

I quickly fell in love with the fussy little Belgian detective Poirot, and with the masterful way Christie wove her stories and her characters so intricately with each other. It wasn't long before I'd read every Christie book that my mother owned, and had moved on to the library, and then onto buying them for myself. At this point in my life, my Agatha Christie collection has spilled off my bookshelves, and I am now stacking the books on top of each other because I've run out of room for them anywhere else.

Some are less brilliant than others; some recycle the same plot under a different guise (as Dame Agatha herself slyly informs us in the person of Mrs Oliver, the most beautiful self-insert ever created); some are implausible; some frankly impossible; all of them are a delight to read. I started out a die-hard fan of Poirot, grew into a Tommy and Tuppence fangirl, and at this point in my life am firmly Team Marple. Murder at the Vicarage is one of my favorite stories of all time, and who can help but love the opening to The Body in the Library?

"But the worst is so often true."

(While on the topic of Mrs Oliver, her indignation at the assumption she bases all of her characters on real people, as well as her description of how she does come up with her characters (in, I believe, Hallowe'en Party), is so exactly along the lines of how I feel and the way I work that it never ceases to astonish and gratify me, every time I read it. And whenever I read now about authors who DO blatantly base characters off of real people, I wonder how on earth they can do so and still feel that the character belongs to them.)

Much of Maia, the MC of my 1920s adventure fantasy, is inspired by Virginia Revel of The Secret of Chimneys, as well as Bundle Brent, Anne Beddingfeld, Frankie Derwent, Tuppence herself, and others of Christie's "plucky girl sleuths." I think I love Virginia especially because she is older and has already HAD adventures, and yet is eager for more ("Oh Anthony! How perfectly screaming!" she says upon revelation of the hero's Dark Secret), and Anne for her impulsive yet essentially practical outlook on life (the way she cheeks Lord Nasby into giving her a job is priceless). "Let's have an adventure" is pretty much what my outlook on life has always been, and it's mostly thanks to Christie (well, CS Lewis shares some responsibility for that).

This image of Tommy and Tuppence is sheer delight

Agatha Christie truly is one of the greatest writers of all time, and while I've come a long way from that young girl delightfully shivering as she read about Poirot and Hastings tracking down an alphabetical maniac, I will never outgrow my pure enjoyment of her books. What better tribute can I give?

Back to Normal (or something like that)

Just back from a long weekend at my parents' house up in the northernmost reaches of NY state. We had a 3rd birthday party for Grace - a bunch of my aunts and uncles, cousins, my gram, and a few friends came up for the afternoon on Saturday, and we had a wonderful Beatrix Potter-themed party, accompanied by party hats decorated with animal ears and tails; a phenomenal obstacle course ("Peter Rabbit's Garden Maze") designed by my dad; dozens of balloons blown up by Carl and one of my uncles (they were wheezing all day afterward); an egg hunt ("Jemima Puddle-duck's Egg Search"), and lots and lots of food. We went through gallons of lavender lemonade: I spent half the day making refills.

Then we had a cookout for anyone who wanted to come back that evening, followed by a campfire and guitar music provided by two of my cousins (listening to my two twelve-year old boy cousins sing, in their beautiful sopranos, "Folsom Prison Blues" was probably the highlight of the night).

Sunday we lazed around and recovered from the party, had another campfire for just our family and Gram (she lives just across the driveway from Mom and Dad, on shared property, which is really nice), my parents gave Grace her birthday tricycle (we'd figured if she'd gotten it at the party, she would have forgotten everything else, so we saved it for the next day), and then Monday we packed up and drove back home. And nobody got carsick, even on the windy roads through the Adirondacks with the sun beating through the windows!

All in all, a weekend made of win.

Meanwhile, I've been working on some short stories and novellas, trying to teach myself brevity in writing (HAHAHAHAHAHA), and I'm also working on a detailed outline for an MG fantasy novel, to be written at some point in the future after I've finished all my current projects (again with the HA). I've set aside this summer for the shorter pieces, and come fall, I'll start work on the next edit of my Maia book (working title, Magic and Mayhem). The plan will probably fall to pieces within a month, but I like at least starting out with one - it makes me feel so organized.

And in other news, my not-yet-five-year-old decided this weekend was a good time to stop with "Mamma," "Papa," "Mommy," and "Daddy," and is now simply calling Carl and me Dad and Mom. It is so weird. I really must be getting old - my baby is three, and my big girl is calling me Mom!

Blue February

I haven't had much chance to think about blogging lately. Between a trip out to Massachusetts to visit Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary (Carl had been thinking Wheaton or Trinity, but after visiting GCTS, we're pretty sure it's Boston, not Chicago, for us in the next year), sick children, an online defensive driving course to cut our insurance costs, and trying NOT to think about my 30th birthday coming up in less than a month* ...

My head's been whirling. Oh, and I started editing the 1920s adventure-fantasy (that story is in desperate need of a title). Y'know, in my spare time. Which might explain why I'm only crawling through the editing process.

And in the midst of sickness, the littles have been impossibly cranky this month - this week especially they've had me tearing at my hair. Which proves to me that no matter how mild the winter, by the time February rolls around, we're all more than ready for spring. I recognize this crabbiness - it's the winter blues for sure. Joy buried her head in my chest this morning after getting up and refused to open her eyes or mouth for an hour straight, nodding her head when asked if she was sad and shaking it when I asked if she knew why. She's better now, but she still has no idea why she was so miserable this morning. A little while ago Gracie sprawled full length on the hall floor upstairs and gave herself over to wailing, again, for no reason. Winter blues indeed!

Right now the littles are having hot chocolate and I made myself extra-strong coffee; we will attempt kindergarten with Joy and give Gracie her alphabet flash cards to play with later; then they will play in the bathtub longer than they need to get clean; this afternoon I will let them watch their Beatrix Potter video while I attempt to get some writing or editing done - Mummy needs to tend her own needs as well as everyone else's, after all.

How is your February going? Has it been a happy winter for you, or are you ready for spring, too? Do you garden? I'm hoping to start a container garden this year for some veggies and herbs - tomatoes, lettuce, and peppers; thyme, basil, and marjoram. Yum!

*I'm really not freaking out about 30 - 29 was actually a lot harder for me to come to grips with - but it's still a big milestone, and I don't really have time to think about it with everything else right now, so instead I'll just wait until two weeks before and then start thinking about nothing else. Carl, if you're reading this - small birthday gifts every day from March 1st to 14th are perfectly acceptable.

My Story, My Child

Last night I printed out the first draft of my older-young-adult historical-adventure-fantasy (seriously, don't you think I could pick one genre sometime?) so that I can look at it in physical form and mark it up for the changes I want in the second draft.

As page after page (151 single-spaced, to be exact - oy) flew from the printer, I looked at them and shook my head.

This would be so much easier if it was a collaboration, I thought. I could hand off this draft and the few notes I've already sketched out for needed changes to my writing partner, and sit back and let him or her do this next step. Then I could just polish up his/her work for the next draft!


But even as I thought it, I shook my head. Nope. Not my way. This story is my baby, mineminemine. And while there have been times when I've wished I could hand my kids off to someone, like my parents, for a few years and get them back when they are, say, eight or nine, I always knew in my heart that if a fairy godmother waved her wand and gave me that chance, I wouldn't take it. Even though my parents might do a better job, having had more experience, I still need and want to do the raising myself. It's hard work, and not fun a lot of the time, but the reward is so much greater at the end.

And so it is with my stories. The editing process might not be a lot of fun always, and it is loads more work than getting the initial idea down on paper (or computer), but even if I had the chance, I wouldn't hand it off to someone else to do. For better or for worse, this is my story. Someone else might write it better, but in the end, I am the one who has to tell it, in my own way.

Someday I might do a collaboration project with another writer. And if that happens, I am sure it will be its own uniquely rewarding experience. But for now, for this ms at least, I have to go it alone.

Just as knowing that even if I had the chance I wouldn't let someone else raise my kids (though seriously, if we lived close enough, I would NOT mind at all letting Mom and Dad watch them once a week - could I call them my beta parents?) is part of what makes me a parent, so knowing that this is my story, to tell in my own words, even with all the work involved, is part of what makes me a writer.

Happy December!

So, I didn't think I was going to do it, but ...

I made my November writing goals! With one day to spare: I wrote the last word of the first draft of my 1920s fantasy-adventure Tuesday night. And then I jotted down the main areas that need work in the next draft.

So, that is one first draft finished, and one final draft finished. I had hoped to get the first draft of my MG fantasy finished as well, but I kind of guessed that wouldn't get done. I'm writing that draft by hand, which takes way longer than typing.

And today we started Advent - our first activity of the month was "listen to Christmas music," which we are ALL enjoying (I should mention that Carl is out of town today - he gets sick of Christmas music much faster than the girls and I). And I snuck in some holiday M&M's, because what's the point in starting Advent without a bit of candy?

I'm also hoping to bake some cookies throughout this next month. What are some of your favorite Christmas cookie recipes? We have the typical sugar cookies for frosting, of course, and Carl likes cappuccino crinkles, and if the smell doesn't gag him I'll probably make peanut butter cookies (Joy has informed me that are her best favorite) ...

But I'm always in the market for good new recipes!

Has your December started well? Are you getting excited for Christmas? And please, leave me a note with your favorite recipe or a link to it!

Creeping Toward Christmas

Three more days to finish my November writing goals! Three more days before we start our Advent activities! Three more days before I finally get to start listening to Christmas music!

Only three days left in November ... how did that happen?

Growing up, my family never had Christmas traditions centered around any special days - we sometimes had an Advent calendar, but not always. Some years we got our tree early in the month, some years not until Christmas Eve. We did have traditions around Christmas Eve - Lis and me shopping with Dad, going to Grandma and Grandpa's church for the special service, opening one gift each before going to bed, and listening to the rustling of tissue paper downstairs as Mom wrapped all our stocking gifts.

When Carl and I got married, we decided we wanted to implement a few more (flexible) traditions, such as always decorating on the first weekend in December. We aren't always able to pull it off (such as when we move right before Thanksgiving and don't even know where all our Christmas decorations are!), but we get our tree and start the decorating as close to that weekend as possible. This year, I'm starting Advent activities with the girls - we're getting little envelopes that I can put notes in with each day's activity - and some days, instead of an activity, there will be little candies in the envelope. If the girls enjoy it as much as I think I am going to, we'll probably try to make this another tradition.

First, though, I am going to push myself hard to get those last 5,000 words done on my 1920s ms before December 1st. I would be so pleased if I could accomplish at least one of my November goals!

Do you have special holiday traditions? Did they pass down from your families, or are they ones that you started after forming your own family? Did you accomplish (if you had any) your November writing goals?

Libraries and Death Traps

Thank you all, again, for your kind words on my last post. You brought a lump to my throat more than once.

We're still at my parents' until Tuesday morning; Grandma's memorial service is Monday. We're looking forward to having much of the clan gathered together for it. Even though funerals are sad, we always manage to have something of a good time just because we're together. Some of the aunts and uncles have only met my littles once or twice, so I'm happy (and slightly nervous) to introduce my small people to the larger family.

We also had Joy's fourth birthday party today; I can't wait to put pictures up on here from it. It was a woodland butterfly fairy tea party (originally, it was going to be a bird and flower and butterfly theme, but it evolved. These things happen), and even the three men involved (my husband, father, and brother-in-law) wore butterfly wings. O yes, they did. They all love Joy very much. They are also all very secure in their masculinity.

And my sister and I made sure to get them blue wings. Pink might have been carrying things a little too far.

And for a first, Joy only got one book for her birthday (and that from Carl and me). Usually books make up the bulk of her gifts. I'm sure she will get more once she receives her package from Carl's aunt, a librarian in Maine. She always sends lots of book for birthdays and holidays. We are always very happy to see presents from G-Auntie.

This is the book we got for Joy:

No, wait. Wrong one. This one:

thanks to a recommendation from Rockin Librarian (thank you!). I'm excited to see what stories Joy concocts from the illustrations.

Meanwhile, my mom, sister and I are all sick (watching the two of them trying to tack up sheets and white lights while simultaneously hacking and blowing their noses would have been funny if I weren't trying to slice vegetables without sneezing into them), and I am starting to go a little bit crazy from not writing at all in the last week plus - not since coming up here last Thursday. Family is more important, hands down, no questions asked and no regrets ... but writing is such a part of me that I'm starting to feel starved for it.

And my characters are starting to haunt my dreams. Plus last night I dreamed that I had to scale a rickety ladder and swing from a rope to get into a library's second story, not to mention crawling along the outside of the roof and breaking through a window (and was I ever pissed when I got inside and saw an escalator that led to main lobby, and I realized the librarian at the desk had sent me up the death trap way for, apparently, a lark, and then the escalators shut down because the library closed and I had to come down the same way and I DIDN'T EVEN GET TO CHECK OUT MY BOOKS), which I think is indication that my subconscious is telling me to not neglect books so much.

Or, you know, it could have been the rum in the tea last night. Whatever.

(Almost worse than the horrific ladder (I have a good head for heights, but I have always always hated ladders, and swinging from a frail rope to try to reach a roof window is not my idea of fun) was that I had found a brand-new, just-discovered Lloyd Alexander book in the children section (downstairs) and when I didn't get to check my books out, I had to leave it behind. LLOYD ALEXANDER, newly-discovered book!)

I am working on the MG rewrite, but of today, Maia of the 1920s fantasy-adventure has been chatting to me, reminding me, impatiently, that I left her in Grave Danger and she needs a chance to Prove Her Worth. She is most definitely not a helpless heroine, and she doesn't like being left a victim without a chance to take on the villain herself. So I think I need to get back to her soon. She gets very crabby when left alone for too long.

And now if you'll excuse me, I have some rum-and-tea and a box of tissues calling my name.

And some pictures of three men in butterfly wings to upload onto my computer.

YA, Or Not

As I was working on my 1920s WIP the other day, I realized something important.

This is not a YA story.

The heroine and the hero, you see, have already come of age. Yes, the heroine is nineteen, but she is fully self-aware. The hero is in his mid-twenties. Both have lived through the War, both came of age during that time. This story is more about moving from young adult to fully adult, in the heroine's case, and in the hero's case - again, he's already adult, and he is more learning just some good, healthy life lessons (like, don't underestimate women - particularly one woman in particular!).

So. This puts me in a quandary. Either I make some major changes - changes that would alter the entire story (set it before the War, when they are younger? Make the house party one hosted and attended by parental figures, instead of heroine's personal friends? Keep it after the War and just have them live through it, instead of being personally involved? Somehow this is starting to sound like Muppet Babies or the like - take characters already established and just drop them in age) (did I seriously just make a Muppet Babies reference in this post?), OR I drop the entire idea of YA and just accept that this is an alternate-history adventure-fantasy, end thought.

I'm leaning toward the latter. Except I'm starting to panic, because everything that I've looked up in reference to agents and marketing etc has been YA. Are there other stories like this out there? Is there even a genre for alternate-history adventure-fantasy? (Outlander? I've never read any of the stories, but I have a vague idea those are somewhat similar) Do I go for the fantasy genre or the adventure/mystery genre? Do I cut out the fantasy along with the YA and just have it be a historical adventure?

So many questions. One of these days I'm going to write something uncomplicated.

How boring will that be!

Have you ever gotten halfway through a project and realized it's not what you had originally planned? Which is more important to you, sticking within your genre or sticking with your characters and plot? Do you think an alternate-history adventure-fantasy would have a market in the adult crowd? Did you watch Muppet Babies as a kid?

Dialogue Difficulties

I love writing dialogue.

I can write pages and pages of nothing but dialogue. Not even anything else interspersed between, just "..." he said. "..." she said. On and on, for miles. I took advantage of this with my first novel (which reads like a rip-off of every major fantasy novel ever written and therefore will never be seen in public): I wrote the first draft as though it were a play, just dialogue with occasional "stage cues." For the second draft, I went through and added to the dialogue, filled in the pencil outline with colored ink, so to speak. It worked well enough for that story, because it was so unoriginal, but I've never been able to make it work since.

So now I strive very hard to add body language, scenery, scent, emotion, everything that one needs, in between the dialogue. Sometimes I still get carried away, though, and realize that I've completely ignored plot development for half a dozen pages while I let my characters have a marvelous meandering conversation. Which is lifelike, true, but most likely boring and frustrating for anyone but myself to read. Then I have to go back and prune it down, insert clues to the plot and/or character development into the dialogue so that it has a point.

Part of the difficulty for me is that it is through conversation we get to know people - how they think, how they feel, how they react in any situation. Since I write mostly character-driven stories, rather than strictly plot-driven, conversation seems the best way to show my characters, rather than just telling the audience what they are thinking, feeling, etc. However, it is the unspoken actions, as much as the spoken, that reveal a person, and that is where I struggle.

Compare:

"I don't like being told what to do," Maia said.
"I don't particularly care whether you like it or not," Aunt Amelia replied.
"You are being unreasonable," Maia said.
"That is irrelevant," said Aunt Amelia.

Or:

Maia folded her arms across her chest and tried to appear as stern and immovable as her tiny aunt. "I don't like being told what to do."
"I don't particularly care whether you like it or not." Aunt Amelia was superbly indifferent to Maia's attempts at intimidation.
Maia uncrossed her arms and stamped her foot, forgetful of the dignity of her nineteen years. "You are being completely unreasonable!"
"That," said Aunt Amelia, a smirk lurking at the corner of her mouth despite her best efforts, "is irrelevant."

Well? Which one shows the characters better? Then add some scenery at the end:

The bees blundered drunkenly from flower to flower, unaware of the battle of wills that was raging in the center of the garden. The heady scent from the early roses tickled Maia's nose and increased her irritation with her aunt. How dare she ruin a beautiful June day like this, with the sun shining and the fluffy clouds darting playfully across the azure sky, with her unreasonable demands? It was enough to make even a saint lose her temper - and Maia was no saint. Nor did she have the wisdom of Athena, despite the marble statue looming over her shoulder that suggested otherwise.

It's not perfect, and I know many other writers could do far better - but it's getting there. Another half-dozen novels, and maybe it will come more easily to me!

Do you prefer to write dialogue or scene settings? What are some of your pitfalls you have to combat in your writing? Have you ever written a novel that was cookie-cutter imitation of whatever is popular in your particular genre? If it was fantasy, did it have a character who was half-elven? (Mine did!)

A Meeting Fraught With Meaning

This excerpt is from the 1920s story - still untitled - that I started the other day. It features the meeting between my no-longer-boring heroine, and the hero. I have no idea if this scene will carry over to the final draft, as this story is still very much in rough draft mode, but I thought it fun enough to put up here, even in its unpolished state. It amuses, me, at any rate!

&&&&&

The man standing before her was tall. That was the first thing Maia noticed. At five foot seven, she stood taller than most women, and this man loomed even over her. She noted that he had a very determined chin, as that was at her eye level, and then she took in the rest of his appearance.

He certainly didn’t look stodgy. He was, in fact, quite handsome as he stood there in his elegant evening dress, his light brown hair scarcely rumpled at all despite the press of bodies all around. Of course, standing head and shoulders above most of the people there might have helped with that. 

“How do you do, Miss Whitney?” His voice wasn’t stodgy, either, despite the polite-but-bored tone. He had a pleasant baritone, a rich, deep voice that put Maia in mind of brown velvet, or a smooth claret.

“Very well, thank you, Mr Davies,” she replied. She held out her hand, and was absurdly pleased when he shook it instead of kissing it. It was a real handshake, too, not one of those limp affairs so many men gave to ladies. His hand curved around hers securely, very nearly covering it entirely.

“Well,” Maud said brightly, “I’ll just leave the two of you to get acquainted, shall I? I must go greet some more guests. Maia, love, we’ll chat more later. Len darling, do make sure you get out to dance at some point, won’t you?”

With that, she vanished, leaving Maia feeling neatly manoeuvred.

“Quite the social butterfly, isn’t she?” Mr Davies said, eyes travelling across the sea of people.

Maia stiffened. “Maud is a splendid person. She was one of the best nurses we had in France.”

Mr Davies glanced sideways at her. His face creased into a slight smile, and Maia saw why Maud called him sweet. “I meant no offence. Being Daniel’s wife requires Maud to be a social butterfly, I imagine. She does her job well.”

Maia unbent as well. “Sorry to take you up so quick. It can be very irritating to have people always making assumptions about one, simply because of one’s social class. One reason, I suppose, why my sister has become a Socialist.”

“And are you a Socialist as well?”

“Goodness, no,” Maia said, thinking of how desperate she was to hire competent staff for the house. “Though I do admire many of their ideals, I’m afraid that they are all terribly impractical for real life.”

To her surprise, he laughed at loud at that. His laugh was as lovely as his speaking voice, ringing out above all the chatter. “Very true! Miss Whitney, I’m afraid I’ve been quite shamefully lax in my duties. Can I fetch you a drink?”

“Thank you, that would be lovely,” Maia said.

“I will be right back, then.”

Maia was impressed at how the crowd parted before him, without anyone seeming to even be aware of moving out of his way. As the people filled in the gap behind him, they started to press closer to her, as well. Instinct told her to get out before she couldn’t breathe, but she couldn’t just leave, not after sending Mr Davies to get her a drink. It would be rude to go now, to not be here when he came back.

Maia wondered if she was invisible as people swirled closer and closer, dancing, shouting, laughing, and smoking. It was the smoking that did her in finally. By the time Mr Davies returned, she was white with a green tinge and having a hard time breathing.

“Good lord, are you ill?” he inquired. If Maia had had the energy she would have shot him a disgusted look. Of course she was ill; was he blind or just stupid?

“Here you, take these,” he said, hastily passing off the two champagne glasses on a nearby dancer. The chap looked surprised, but didn’t question the unexpected gift. He downed one and handed the other to his partner, who made short work of it.

“Come with me,” Mr Davies ordered Maia. He took her arm very firmly and led her across the floor, weaving through the swirling couples until she was dizzy as well as nauseous. Just as she was afraid she was going to completely disgrace herself by being violently sick all over his tail coat, they made it to the french windows. Without letting go of her arm, Mr Davies unlatched one, led her through it to the terrace, and closed and latched in behind them.

Maia’s head started to clear as soon as she was out in the fresh air. She stepped away from Mr Davies, sinking into one of the little chairs Maud had scattered all along the terrace.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be fine in a moment. I think it was the heat and the crowd.”

“Why didn’t you just leave, then?”

“I didn’t want to be rude,” Maia stammered. Even though his face was shadowed, she could see the incredulous lift to his eyebrows. Her cheeks heated.

“Pardon me, but that seems rather foolish, don’t you think?”

Now it was anger as well as embarrassment that lent colour to her face and strength to her knees. Maia surged up. “Perhaps some people do think that good manners and common politeness are foolish. I do not happen to be one of those people.”

The abominable man chuckled! “I stand corrected,” he said, his voice thick with amusement.

Maia’s head was beginning to throb. “I shall be quite all right now. You may return to the party, if you wish.”

“Thank you,” he said with a bow. “I believe I shall.”

The minute he was gone, Maia’s legs began to tremble again. She sat back down.

“‘All this self-sacrifice,’” she told herself, “‘is a sad mistake.’”