Looking Backwards

I've been looking at the statistics for this blog, and selected some of the year's most-visited posts for your delectation.

My Favorite Girls Dressed As Boys - romance edition.

Nifty Stuff That Ought To Be In Romance Novels.

Normative Heterosexuality and the Alpha Male Fantasy.

Georgette Heyer Recommendations.

The Intricacies of Marriages of Convenience.

Online Promotion - Is It Worth It?

The Romance Formula Myth.

Erotic Journeys and Bodice Rippers.

Where's the Sexual Line in Shapeshifter Romance?

Writers Never Run Out of Blog Topics.

Visiting Leah Braemel's Blog

I'm a guest today over at Leah Braemel's Blog, chatting about some of my writing goals for the new year.

Setting and Characterization Through Food

This post was originally written for the Romance Junkies blog.

I love food, both eating it and reading about it, and that interest sometimes translates into my work. I use food for several different purposes, most notably to establish setting and to deepen characterization.

My book The Moonlight Mistress is set in the early days of World War One, and there are scenes set in Germany, England, and France. Not only did I take into account local cuisines of those places, and what people might ordinarily eat in 1914, but what might be available to eat in the specific situations I was portraying.

For instance, in an early scene, two characters are trying to escape Germany. They stop in a small town and buy "sausages, cheese, fresh bread, a thermos of strong coffee, and bottled beer and lemonade," even though the French character would really rather have croissants. This idea is revisited when they've arrived safely in France: "She could really have croissants, with thick creamy butter and clots of strawberry jam." In fact, they get buttered rolls and an "omelette…dense with soft cheese and thin ham and fines herbes," subtly giving an impression of safety through plenty of good, fresh food.

So far as characterization goes, the character Crispin likes a particular kind of chocolate, "nutmilk choc," and it appears several times, as a gift from his sister and when he shares his favorite with others. This is a fairly simple use of food as characterization.

I got a bit more complicated with a werewolf character, Tanneken. Her appearance, a small woman in widow's weeds, contrasts with her sometimes savage werewolf nature. I tried to show these contrasts through the ways she eats while in a tea shop, and also show that she has recently been through a terrible experience.

For example: She...ate a madeleine in one bite, then another. She chewed, swallowed, and said, "You will not lock me up. I would kill you first." She took one of the cream pastries and studied it a moment before popping it into her mouth. She's very hungry, but also somewhat detached from the everyday business of it. Her words are at odds with her behavior.

The waitress set down their plate of sandwiches. Madame Claes took one and popped it into her mouth. She did not appear to take any pleasure in the food, Pascal noted. She simply ate it for fuel, like a soldier too long in the field. The point of view character picks up on the above and learns something about her.

"I prefer to strike directly whenever I am able, since my government will not allow me to be a soldier. Even though I can rip out a man's throat in less than a heartbeat." She picked up the last remaining madeleine and nibbled on it, delicately. And, here, the contrast between manners and words is even more direct.

Food detail also works wonderfully as contrast between the actual situation and what the characters feel. A conversation about afternoon tea takes place in a shell hole, while the two soldiers are under bombardment: "What was tea like at home, when you were a boy? Cucumber sandwiches and little cream Napoleons? Or beans on toast?" We learn much more about the characters through this seemingly innocuous discussion than we would if they had simply continued to talk about the military situation.

I'm only sad that my book is set too early in the war for me to include ANZAC cookies. Which are delicious.

Did You Know Bach Had a Father?

I post this section from Patrick O'Brian's The Ionian Mission because I love it for what is says about Bach (Johann Sebastian) as well as about Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin.

O'Brian was an incredible writer, and I think this passage shows it.

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'[London Bach] wrote some pieces for my uncle Fisher, and his young man copied them out fair. But they were lost years and years ago, so last time I was in town I went to see whether I could find the originals: the young man has set up on his own, having inherited his master's music-library. We searched through the papers - such a disorder you would hardly credit, and I had always supposed publishers were as neat as bees - we searched for hours, and no uncle's pieces did we find. But the whole point is this: Bach had a father.'

'Heavens, Jack, what things you tell me. Yet upon recollection I seem to have known other men in much the same case.'

'And this father, this old Bach, you understand me, had written piles and piles of musical scores in the pantry.'

'A whimsical place to compose in, perhaps; but then birds sing in trees, do they not? Why not antediluvian Germans in a pantry?'

'I mean the piles were kept in the pantry. Mice and blackbeetles and cook-maids had played Old Harry with some cantatas and a vast great Passion according to St Mark, in High Dutch; but lower down all was well, and I brought away several pieces, 'cello for you, fiddle for me, and some for both together. It is strange stuff, fugues and suites of the last age, crabbed and knotted sometimes and not at all in the modern taste, but I do assure you, Stephen, there is meat in it. I have tried this partita in C a good many times, and the argument goes so deep, so close and deep, that I scarcely follow it yet, let alone make it sing. How I should love to hear it played really well - to hear Viotti dashing away.'

Stephen studied the 'cello suite in his hand, booming and humming sotto voce. 'Tweedly-tweedly, tweedly tweedly, deedly deedly pom pompom. Oh, this would call for the delicate hand of the world,' he said. 'Otherwise it would sound like boors dancing. Oh, the double-stopping . . . and how to bow it?'

'Shall we make an attempt upon the D minor double sonata?' said Jack, 'and knit up the ravelled sleeve of care with sore labour's bath?'

'By all means,' said Stephen. 'A better way of dealing with a sleeve cannot be imagined.'

...

Now when the fiddle sang at all it sang alone: but since Stephen's departure he had rarely been in a mood for music and in any case the partita that he was now engaged upon, one of the manuscript works that he had bought in London, grew more and more strange the deeper he went into it. The opening movements were full of technical difficulties and he doubted he would ever be able to do them anything like justice, but it was the great chaconne which followed that really disturbed him. On the face of it the statements made in the beginning were clear enough: their closely-argued variations, though complex, could certainly be followed with full acceptation, and they were not particularly hard to play; yet at one point, after a curiously insistent repetition of the second theme, the rhythm changed and with it the whole logic of the discourse. There was something dangerous about what followed, something not unlike the edge of madness or at least of a nightmare; and although Jack recognized that the whole sonata and particularly the chaconne was a most impressive composition he felt that if he were to go on playing it with all his heart it might lead him to very strange regions indeed.

During a pause in his evening letter Jack thought of telling Sophie of a notion that had come to him, a figure that might make the nature of the chaconne more understandable: it was as though he were fox-hunting, mounted on a powerful, spirited horse, and as though on leaping a bank, perfectly in hand, the animal changed foot. And with the change of foot came a change in its being so that it was no longer a horse he was sitting on but a great rough beast, far more powerful, that was swarming along at great speed over an unknown countryside in pursuit of a quarry - what quarry he could not tell, but it was no longer the simple fox. But it would be a difficult notion to express, he decided; and in any case Sophie did not really care much for music, while she positively disliked horses. On the other hand she dearly loved a play, so he told her about....

[from pp.47-48, 154-155 of The Ionian Mission, Patrick O'Brian].

Charlotte Mew, "The Cenotaph"

The Cenotaph

September 1919

Not yet will those measureless fields be green again
Where only yesterday the wild sweet blood of wonderful youth was shed;
There is a grave whose earth must hold too long, too deep a stain,
Though for ever over it we may speak as proudly as we may tread.
But here, where the watchers by lonely hearths from the thrust of an inward sword have more slowly bled,
We shall build the Cenotaph: Victory, winged, with Peace, winged too, at the column's head.
And over the stairway, at the foot--oh! here, leave desolate, passionate hands to spread
Violets, roses, and laurel, with the small, sweet, tinkling country things
Speaking so wistfully of other Springs,
From the little gardens of little places where son or sweetheart was born and bred.
In splendid sleep, with a thousand brothers
To lovers--to mothers
Here, too, lies he:
Under the purple, the green, the red,
It is all young life: it must break some women's hearts to see
Such a brave, gay coverlet to such a bed!
Only, when all is done and said,
God is not mocked and neither are the dead
For this will stand in our Market-place--
Who'll sell, who'll buy
(Will you or I
Lie each to each with the better grace)?
While looking into every busy whore's and huckster's face
As they drive their bargains, is the Face
Of God: and some young, piteous, murdered face.

-- Charlotte Mew

Rumi, "Love Is the Master"

I've always thought this poem would be a great background or theme for a romance novel.

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Love is the Master

Love is the One who masters all things;
I am mastered totally by Love.
By my passion of love for Love
I have ground sweet as sugar.
O furious Wind, I am only a straw before you;
How could I know where I will be blown next?
Whoever claims to have made a pact with Destiny
Reveals himself a liar and a fool;
What is any of us but a straw in a storm?
How could anyone make a pact with a hurricane?
God is working everywhere his massive Resurrection;
How can we pretend to act on our own?
In the hand of Love I am like a cat in a sack;
Sometimes Love hoists me into the air,
Sometimes Love flings me into the air,
Love swings me round and round His head;
I have no peace, in this world or any other.
The lovers of God have fallen in a furious river;
They have surrendered themselves to Love's commands.
Like mill wheels they turn, day and night, day and night,
Constantly turning and turning, and crying out.

--Mowlana Jalaluddin Rumi

Father Christmas, 1914

Christmas, 1914: Father Christmas putting presents in soldiers' boots.

Be Like a Bug

"All that energy we expend to keep things running right is not what's keeping things running right. We're bugs struggling in the river, brightly visible to the trout below. With that fact in mind, people like to make up all these rules to give us the illusion that we are in charge. I need to say to myself, they're not needed, hon. Just take in the buggy pleasures. Be kind to the others, grab the fleck of riverweed, notice how beautifully your bug legs scull."

--Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life

Alas, Poor Wallis

I'm on vacation until the new year, but I set up some blog posts anyway. There will be a slight lack of introspective musings on writing and genre in them, but hopefully some entertainment value.

Behold one of the most amusing examples of dialogue I have ever read.

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"Wallis," said Maturin. "I am happy to find you here. How is your penis?" At their last meeting he had carried out an operation on his colleague in political and military intelligence, who wished to pass for a Jew: the operation, on an adult, had proved by no means so trifling as he or Wallis had supposed, and Stephen had long been haunted by thoughts of gangrene.

Mr. Wallis's delighted smile changed to gravity; a look of sincere self-commiseration came over his face, and he said that it had come along pretty well, but he feared it would never be quite the member it was.

--Patrick O'Brian, The Fortune of War

Excerpt from a War Nurse's Diary: The Retreat

In The Moonlight Mistress, it's mentioned in passing that Antwerp fell to the Germans. Here's a first-person account about that event which I didn't get to use in my novel (yet!).

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Excerpt from A War Nurse's Diary: Sketches From A Belgian Field Hospital (1918):

"We felt in taking these buses that we were no longer robbing the Marines. Many of them were with us; many more were dead and had no use for them. It was now 3 P. M. on Thursday. As soon as the five buses arrived we commenced loading them up with our wounded. Those who could sit up were placed on top and the stretcher cases lay across from seat to seat inside. We formed a long procession, for there were five private cars as well. My car was the first to get loaded, and 1 was put in charge of the inside passengers. Shall we ever forget the loading up of those cars? They tried to save all the theatre instruments. What an eternity it seemed! Just sitting still, with the guns at last trained on to our locality.

One of the young doctors ran upstairs for his kitbag; half-way up, the wall suddenly collapsed, revealing the next house in ruins. He left that kitbag behind! Even to the last minute patients arrived, chiefly British. Just before we started a tall Marine in a navy jersey and sailor's cap was helped in. He sat in the corner next to me. All his ribs were broken down one side, and he had no plaster or support. Opposite me were two Tommies with compound fractures of the leg. 1 placed both legs on my knees to lessen the jolting.

The Marine suffered in silent agony, his lips pressed tightly together, and his white face set. 1 looked at him helplessly, and he said "Never mind me, Sister; if I swear don't take any notice." Fortunately, they had pushed in two bottles of whiskey and some soda-syphons; I just dosed them all around until it was finished. Placing the Marine's arm around my shoulders, I used my right arm as a splint to support his ribs, and so we sat for seven and a half hours without moving. Then another nurse took my place and I went up on top. During the first part of the ride I bethought me of that tube of morphia, and it came in very useful, as I gave each of those poor sufferers one or two tablets to swallow.

How can I ever describe that journey to Ghent of fourteen and a half hours? No one but those who went through it can realize it. Have you ever ridden in a London motor bus? If not, I can give little idea of what our poor men suffered. To begin with, even traversing the smooth London streets these vehicles jolt you to bits, whilst inside the smell of burnt gasoline is often stifling, so just imagine these unwieldy things bumping along over cobble stones and the loose sandy ruts of rough tracks among the sand-dunes, which constantly necessitated every one who could, dismounting and pushing behind and pulling by ropes in front, to get the vehicle into an upright position again, out of the ruts. When you have the picture of this before you, just think of the passengers---not healthy people on a penny bus ride, but wounded soldiers and sailors. Upon the brow of many Death had set his seal. All those inside passengers were either wounded in the abdomen, shot through the lungs, or pierced through the skull, often with their brains running out through the wound, whilst we had more than one case of men with broken backs. Many of these had just been operated upon.

We started from the Boulevard Leopold at 3 in the afternoon. We arrived in Ghent at 5.30 next morning. For twenty-four hours those men had had no nourishment, and we were so placed that it was impossible to reach them. Now that you understand the circumstances, I will ask you to accompany me on that journey.

Leaving our own shell-swept street which seemed like hell let loose, we turned down a long boulevard. From one end to the other the houses were a sheet of flames. We literally travelled through a valley with walls of fire. Keeping well in the middle of the street we constantly had to make detours to avoid large shell-holes. At last we arrived at one of the large squares near the Cathedral. That appeared to be intact, whilst the Belgians had taken Rubens' and Van Dyck's famous pictures and hidden them in the crypts.

Every sort of vehicle in existence filled that square. It would have been possible to have walked across on the top of the cars. The only way to get out of Antwerp was across the Scheldt by a pontoon-bridge made of barges with planks between. It would not bear too much traffic, so the authorities let the people and vehicles cross one by one, still looking at passports.

For one and a half hours we stood there waiting for our turn to come. Just after we were safely over a shell struck the bridge and broke it in half.

From Antwerp to St. Nicolas is about twenty miles. It was the Highway of Sorrow. Some people escaped in carriages and carts, but by far the greater number plodded on foot. It was now 5 P. M. on an October evening; there was a fine drizzling rain; it was cold and soon it was dark. Along that road streamed thousands, panic-stricken, cold, hungry, weary, homeless. Where were they going? Where would they spend the night? Here was a mother carrying her baby, around her skirts clung four of five children, small sisters of five or six carried baby-brothers of two years old. There was a donkey cart piled high with mattresses and bundles and swarming on it were bedridden old men and women and babies. Here was a little girl wheeling an old fashioned cot-perambulator, with an old grey-bearded man in it, his legs dangling over the edge. Suddenly a girl's voice called out of the darkness, "Oh Mees, Mees, take me and my leetle dog with you. I have lost my father and he has our money." So we gave her a seat on the spiral stairs outside.

Very soon all the ills that could happen to sick men came upon us. The jolting and agony made them violently sick. Seizing any utensil which had been saved from the theatre I gave it to them, and we kept that mademoiselle busy outside. All along the road we saw little groups, weary mothers sitting on the muddy banks of a ditch sharing the last loaf among the family. After some time of slow travelling we came to St. Nicolas. Here the peasants ran out warning us, "The Germans have taken the main road to Ghent and blown up the bridge." So we went on by little lanes and by-ways across the sanddunes and flat country that lie between Belgium and Holland.

We were very fortunate in having with us a Captain of the Belgian Boy Scouts. He knew the way and guided us. Soon the order went forth from car to car, "Lights out and silence!" Later on we saw the reason for this; across some sloping fields by a river we saw the tents and glimmering lights of the Germans. We passed very few houses, as we avoided towns and villages; any habitations we saw were shuttered and barred, for the people hid in terror expecting every one who passed to be the dreaded enemy. All this time our men were in torture, constantly they asked "Are we nearly there, Sister? How much longer?" I, who was strong, felt dead beat, so what must they have felt? One weary soul gave up the battle and just died. We could not even reach him to cover his face as he lay there among his companions.

From St. Nicolas I was faced with new anxiety. Where were our friends who went to Ghent with the first convoy of wounded? Had they taken the main road and fallen into the hands of the Germans? I thought of all the tales I had heard of the treatment Englishwomen received at their hands. At any place where people were visible we anxiously inquired if three buses had passed that way earlier. We could get no satisfactory answer.

Soon we began to meet the first detachments of the Expeditionary Force. In a narrow lane with a ditch on one side lay an overturned cannon whilst a plump English Major cursed and swore in the darkness. Then a heavy motor lorry confronted us; one of us had to back till a suitable place came in the narrow lane where we could pass. Later on we met small companies of weary Tommies, wet and footsore, who had lost their way. Our Scout Captain warned them to turn back, telling them the Germans had by now entered Antwerp, but they did not believe us. Even had they believed us, they had their orders to relieve Antwerp, so to Antwerp they went, never to return.

At last that weary night came to an end. For some hours I had been relieved by another nurse, and sat on top in the rain and cold. The medical students were so worn out that they lay down in the narrow passage between the seats and slept, oblivious of our trampling over them. Before dawn we entered the suburbs of Ghent."

The Pronoun Problem

If you haven't read it yet, check out this article in the LA Weekly: Man on Man: The New Gay Romance. Some of the arguments will be familiar to slash fans, but I was impressed that they interviewed Constance Penley, among others.

One of the problems unique to writing homosexual erotica is pronouns. How do you distinguish he from he or she from she without repeating names or resorting to "the other man" or similar awkward constructions?

I've found paragraphing to be a good way to delineate one character from another while avoiding attribution. Sticking to one point of view throughout is also useful, because then the non-pov character is seen by the reader as other automatically.

Here's an example. I used paragraphs here, as well as Travis's pov. All feelings described thus are experienced by him.

Travis closed his eyes, already tired again. "Ohhh."

"Not hurting you, am I?"

"No...," Travis said in a low voice. Will was massaging his foot. The sensation was indescribable; a little longer and he would be moaning with sheer physical gratification.

Will shifted to better reach Travis's foot. "You looked like you could use this."

"Your hands are warm," he noted, muzzily.

"Your foot's cold," Will said, running his callused thumb from heel to arch.

"Cold all over," Travis said. He closed his eyes tighter, to concentrate on Will's fingers gently rubbing his toes. Little swirls of pleasure seemed to caress his calves, his thighs, and even higher.

"We could work on that, too," Will said. Travis' eyes fluttered open, then Will continued, "Don't you have any socks?"

This next method, single pov, was a little less successful. I still had to stoop to "her partner" at one point.

In this example, I didn't paragraph as much, but tried to move clearly from a section of one character's action to the other's.

"You could've come back earlier," Laurel grumped, pulling her face out of a flannel-covered pillow. She stared with narrowed eyes as Zondra stripped out of her post-midterm club clothes, the silver lycra pungent with sweat and cigarette smoke. With a flourish, Zondra whipped out her hair sticks; curls deluged down her bare back. Flinging her arms wide, she waited for applause.

"I'm sleepy," Laurel said. "And I have rounds in the morning." But she licked her lips.

Zondra knelt beside her on the bed, her muscular thighs like a perfect ski slope. Laurel began to sit up, deciding she needed to sink her teeth into that luscious flesh, but her partner leaned over and pressed her facedown again.

In this example, I avoided too much switching back and forth between names with descriptive action; since I stayed in Mariamoni's pov, I didn't need attribution for the action - it's clear who's feeling the sensations, and who's causing them.

Trude's mouth came down on hers, wide and wet and warm. She sucked at Mariamoni's lips as if they were small candies in the flavor she desired above all others. Mariamoni had never realized how slick and hot the interior of a mouth could be, nor how sweet. ... She tugged restlessly at her bonds.

Trude gradually shifted position, bringing their bodies closer together. Mariamoni welcomed her warmth and weight, especially the pressure against her bosom, that created a certain deep, pleasurable ache. Her limbs ached, too, with yearning to wrap herself around Trude, a yearning that could not be satisfied.

Looking at these examples made me realize how long it's been since I've written any short fiction!

Related post: Making It Good.

Robert Frost, "War Thoughts At Home"

War Thoughts at Home

On the back side of the house
Where it wears no paint to the weather
And so shows most its age,
Suddenly blue jays rage
And flash in blue feather.

It is late in an afternoon
More grey with snow to fall
Than white with fallen snow
When it is blue jay and crow
Or no bird at all.

So someone heeds from within
This flurry of bird war,
And rising from her chair
A little bent over with care
Not to scatter on the floor

The sewing in her lap
Comes to the window to see.
At sight of her dim face
The birds all cease for a space
And cling close in a tree.

And one says to the rest
"We must just watch our chance
And escape one by one
Though the fight is no more done
Than the war is in France."

Than the war is in France!
She thinks of a winter camp
Where soldiers for France are made.
She draws down the window shade
And it glows with an early lamp.

On that old side of the house
The uneven sheds stretch back
Shed behind shed in train
Like cars that long have lain
Dead on a side track.

--Robert Frost (January 1918)

Robert Frost, "Not To Keep"

Not to Keep

They sent him back to her. The letter came
Saying... And she could have him. And before
She could be sure there was no hidden ill
Under the formal writing, he was in her sight,
Living. They gave him back to her alive
How else? They are not known to send the dead
And not disfigured visibly. His face?
His hands? She had to look, and ask,
"What was it, dear?" And she had given all
And still she had all they had they the lucky!
Wasn't she glad now? Everything seemed won,
And all the rest for them permissible ease.
She had to ask, "What was it, dear?"

"Enough,"
Yet not enough. A bullet through and through,
High in the breast. Nothing but what good care
And medicine and rest, and you a week,
Can cure me of to go again." The same
Grim giving to do over for them both.
She dared no more than ask him with her eyes
How was it with him for a second trial.
And with his eyes he asked her not to ask.
They had given him back to her, but not to keep.

--Robert Frost (1923)

Nifty Werewolf Books

If you have a chance, check out Werewolves At Home, a webcomic tie-in to The Moonlight Mistress.

This is a list of werewolf books that I've liked a lot or had recommended to me. Suggestions welcome!

Benighted (alternate title: Bareback) by Kit Whitfield is one of the most original werewolf novels I've ever read. There's a romance, but this isn't a romance novel (so don't expect a happy ending). If not for the werewolves, I would call it mainstream or noir suspense. The world of the novel is filled with werewolves, and on moon nights the only ones who can police the lunes are "barebacks," humans who through a genetic accident cannot change form. Lunes lock themselves up on moon nights, or are supposed to make their way to designated shelters, but what about the children with no oversight? The drunks who can't find their way to a lockup? The lunes who like running free and don't care if they hurt someone?

It's also a novel about minority oppression, from the first-person pov of a bareback who works as a sort of lawyer for those involved when lunes attack humans. When the book opens, she's slated to defend a lune who bit off a bareback's hand, and she's pretty sure it wasn't strictly an accident.

Blood and Chocolate by Annette Curtis Klause. This one's Young Adult. Interestingly, the heroine is the werewolf; she is wrestling with her love for a human boy, and whether he can accept her wolf-self.

Kitty and the Midnight Hour by Carrie Vaughn. This urban fantasy series is still going on, and I'm still enjoying it - recently, Vaughn added some new plot elements that I think gave the series new life. What I like best about it is Kitty's radio show, which despite its supernatural discussion topics, feels absolutely real to me. I also loved, in the first book, Vaughn's take on pack dynamics.

Alien Taste by Wen Spencer is not quite a werewolf novel, but it sort of is at the same time. It has some really wacky stuff in it, nothing like anything else out there, and I recommend it for that reason.

Finally, Lycanthia or Children of the Wolves by Tanith Lee is fantasy, and thick with gothic atmosphere and her complex, unique prose. I didn't actually like the protagonist much, but this is a great read for when you're bundled up in a blanket, occasionally staring out a snowy window.

Related post: Spooky Book Recommendations.

Insta-Love

What are your feelings on Love At First Sight?

Usually, I can't believe in it. If it happens in a story, usually I don't want to read any more. If the characters already know what they want, before I've seen anything of their characters, what's the point? Why should I care?

I don't need to know a lot about the characters to find them interesting. Even one tasty fact can give me a handle, such as "wounded veteran of the Napoleonic Wars" or "penniless bluestocking." But I want the characters to know more than that about each other before they decide they're in love.

If insta-love happens to one character but not the other, then I'm more interested. That situation gives isntant conflict: he's fallen in love with her, she doesn't care he exists, or vice versa. He wants what he can't have. That makes sense to me, in life as well as in story.

Or one can play with the insta-love. I've seen that done well, for example if the heroine is smitten by the hero's unbelievable good looks, but then he does something obnoxious and she falls out of love with him, only to learn that her father has secretly engaged her to marry the guy...again, the conflict.

It's the same for me when reading erotica, or even more so. Some readers don't want to waste time on the, umm, preliminaries when reading erotica. Insta-love (or insta-lust) is a way to get on with the erotic portion of the story. Conflict might well burgeon later, but starting the story with a sex scene can quickly get a reader's attention, and then the writer can accomplish characterization through her characters' behavior during the sex scene. That's tricky, though, and not everyone can pull it off.

The more I think about it, the more I realize the only way I can accept insta-love is if it causes more story problems than it solves.

Related Posts:
How To Make the Mating Instinct Work, by Crystal Jordan.

Why I Love the Marriage of Convenience Plot.

Grit Under My Boots

If I'm reading a historical novel, or for that matter, a science fiction or fantasy novel, or a romance, or any other genre, I want to feel the grit underneath my boots.

Even in a shiny futuristic city where everyone wears white because nothing is dirty, I want to see the dirt. Because the dirt has to be there somewhere. Someone has to be cleaning up that shiny city. Maybe it's robots. But somebody takes care of the robots, or the robots have artificial intelligence, and I want to know how they feel about their role in making the city shiny for the humans.

Or in a historical, I want the dirt. If the story's about rich people, I at least want hints of what their servants do and think, and how the rich people think about those issues. I understand the story's not about that, but I still want to know, just enough to fill the place in my brain that suspends my disbelief.

If I don't get the grit, or even the hint of grit, I feel the lack. The world isn't real to me, and thus the story can't be true. By "true" I mean that it speaks to me, that there is a truth to the story I can feel deep down. A story with truth is honest. It doesn't ignore the realities of our world: gender discrimination, racism, classism, human rights. Even in a book that's meant to be an escape, I want to know it's possible, in the imaginary world of the book, to address those issues. If they're ignored too completely, it's like the door of an enclave slamming down: you're not allowed in here.

It's All in the Details

This post originally appeared at Lust in Time.

My new book from Harlequin Spice, a historical with werewolves, is titled The Moonlight Mistress and it's out this month. I've been amusing myself by going through my copy and re-reading my favorite moments, many of which are bits of historical detail. I love the tiny bits best.

See, I am a total geek and really love research for its own sake. It grieves me that I don't have time to read every one of my research books cover to cover…I buy rather more research books than I really need, and some of them are only peripherally related to the topics of my novels, but they're all just so interesting! And that's not even counting the books I check out of the library.

Just in case some of you readers are research geeks as well, here are my favorite World War One historical bits from The Moonlight Mistress and where I found them. I think that often the most interesting details, that give the greatest sense of realism to the narrative, are not the most major. It's the tiny, unusual facts that stand out for the reader.

The novel's opening line is "There were no trains to Strasbourg." And this is absolutely true. When the first declarations of war were flying back and forth, all sorts of daily activities were affected. I pored over Lyn Macdonald's 1914: The Days of Hope, which is a collection of first-person accounts placed into chronological order. One of those accounts, from the very day Germany declared war, mentioned in passing that there were no trains to Strasbourg. I couldn't shake that bit of information from my head; something about the specificity of it, and the narrator's shock that things were not as they should be, perfectly summed up for me the feelings of a character who's just found out they are stranded. I never considered using another opening.

"Best of all, there was a shower…with brass fittings on three walls in the shape of lily blossoms, and tiled in green-and-white patterns like lacework." Though I took liberties with the decorative elements, this idea of this period-appropriate shower originated in one I actually saw, at Casa Loma in Toronto; the real shower actually had six taps at three different levels. As a side note, the fancy ducal stables in The Duchess, Her Maid, The Groom and Their Lover were based on stables I saw at Casa Loma.

The extensive section on the arrival of the British Expeditionary Force in France, and the subsequent battle and retreat, was mostly drawn from first-person accounts in Macdonald's 1914 with some fragments of information coming from several more general accounts of the First World War, including John Keegan's The First World War and, to a lesser extent, Paths of Glory: The French Army 1914-18. The fate of the regiment's boy trumpeters – to be left behind when their regiment sailed to war – came directly from the first-person accounts, as did the information that bandsmen might be assigned to be stretcher bearers. More than one account mentioned that many of the soldiers had new, ill-fitting boots. Even the crops growing in the fields the soldiers passed were all noticed by contemporary observers.

Many of the quotidian details about the lives of the British soldiers I drew from Tommy: The British Soldier on the Western Front 1914-1918 by Richard Holmes, including small economic facts such as this one: "…Lincoln owed Hailey a guinea sixpence, enough for a new overcoat."

Finally, most of the information about the hospital where Lucilla goes to work were extrapolated from The Women of Royaumont: A Scottish Women's Hospital on the Western Front and several other volumes about or written by British nurses and VADs. After taking the basic information, that there were hospitals staffed almost entirely by women, I blended details from different sources to suit my purposes, combining occurrences and locations. For instance, "She managed a greeting in Hindustani; her phrases were limited, but efficient" was drawn from a first-person account by a nurse who served on a hospital train, in Diary of a Nursing Sister on the Western Front: 1914-1915. Shipment and supply problems at Royaumont led me to include this bit of detail: "Tanks of nitrous oxide were procured, but some of the tanks of oxygen needed to mix with it had leaked and arrived empty, and had to be replaced."

I could go on, but I think I've made my point. At the start of a project, you never know what details you might need and which sources might have the best details, so it's best to check out a wide range, and to pay close attention to everything.

Related Posts:
Historical Detail in Fiction.
Synergy in Writing and Research.
Reading for the Writer.

Visiting Harlequin's Paranormal Romance Blog

I'm a guest today at Harlequin's Paranormal Romance Blog on "Werewolves in World War One? Why Not?" It's about why I chose those two elements, and also a little about werewolf sex.

Siegfried Sassoon, "In the Pink"

In the Pink

So Davies wrote: 'This leaves me in the pink.
Then scrawled his name: 'Your loving sweetheart, Willie'.
With crosses for a hug. He'd had a drink
Of rum and tea; and, though the barn was chilly,
For once his blood ran warm; he had pay to spend.
Winter was passing; soon the year would mend.

But he couldn't sleep that night; stiff in the dark
He groaned and thought of Sundays at the farm,
And how he'd go as cheerful as a lark
In his best suit, to wander arm in arm
With brown-eyed Gwen, and whisper in her ear
The simple, silly things she liked to hear.

And then he thought: to-morrow night we trudge
Up to the trenches, and my boots are rotten.
Five miles of stodgy clay and freezing sludge,
And everything but wretchedness forgotten.
To-night he's in the pink; but soon he'll die.
And still the war goes on--he don't know why.

--Siegfried Sassoon, The Old Huntsman and Other Poems, 1918

Siegfried Sassoon, "Secret Music"

Secret Music

I keep such music in my brain
No din this side of death can quell;
Glory exulting over pain,
And beauty, garlanded in hell.

My dreaming spirit will not heed
The roar of guns that would destroy
My life that on the gloom can read
Proud-surging melodies of joy.

To the world's end I went, and found
Death in his carnival of glare;
But in my torment I was crowned,
And music dawned above despair.

--Siegfried Sassoon, The Old Huntsman and other poems, 1918

The Dreaded Novel Synopsis

I recently came across some old correspondence from the first time I attempted to write a synopsis. It was for a novel I'd already completed, a novel which never sold. As I prepare to write a new synopsis for the second book in my contract, I decided it was worth reviewing.

A friend of mine, a nonfiction writer, read my first attempt at a synopsis, and described it this way: "it reads like you showed up one day for a final exam after not attending a single one of the classes." I felt the same way, but I described it as, "no juice! There is no juice in this!"

My idea of a synopsis was, you're supposed to give an encapsulated version of the book, a potent dehydrated powder--add prose and BING! A novel! My friend's idea was that the synopsis would be more like, "I made some yummy pie. Do you want a slice?" She described a synopsis as getting across the feeling of what it would be like to read the actual book.

And, as I learned on further inquiry, she was correct. I now pass on what I learned about synopses from three helpful friends: Sherwood Smith, Ashley McConnell, and Rachel Manija Brown.

The synopsis is not a dry retelling of the book in neutral prose. Nor is it an Exciting! Advertisement! With Soundtrack! The tone of a synopsis should fall somewhere in the middle.

The synopsis tells the story of the book--the whole book, big reveals and all, you have no secrets from your editor--and it shows that things happen and in what order. It introduces each major character briefly and vividly. It presents the major problems the characters have to solve. And it makes the editor want to read the book.

Write the synopsis in the style of the book. This, for me, is the most difficult thing. At this point, I have written two synopses, one for the unsold novel and one more for Spice, for The Moonlight Mistress. (For The Duchess, Her Maid, The Groom, and Their Lover, I submitted an outline and sample chapters, no synopsis.) Of the two, the second is far superior, and I think that's due to it being written before I'd written the novel.

Writing the synopsis first meant I wasn't distracted; I wasn't trying to include all my favorite bits of the novel in the synopsis, relevant or not, because those favorite bits didn't yet exist. I just had to outline the story and make it interesting, which was easier because I was also trying to interest myself. And for me, that worked.

Even if a synopsis is not required for submission, it's still worthwhile to write. It helps you to figure out the most important elements of the story, which helps in the writing or, if that's already done, the revising. Also, if the book sells, you will need a summary of the book for marketing, publicity, the art department, your website, anyone who asks, etc.. It's best to just get it done.

Does anyone have synopsis wisdom to share?

A Writer's Brain Radio

Ever wanted to know what goes through a writer's mind as she's writing? Look no more!

Is this sentence too long? It's the opening sentence, it's too long and confusing, and the reader will stop reading and never read my book!

If I cut it into two sentences, does it turn into blah utilitarian prose and the reader will be bored and stop? Was it stylish in the first place, or does it just have too many dependent clauses?

I don't know what I'm doing. But they gave me money, so I must be able to do something.

F*** it. Just leave it. I clearly can't tell any more. Keep going.

Oh, look there, crap, I did that thing again, where I didn't break the paragraph at the important place. Insert paragraph mark! There! Something accomplished!

Or should the paragraph mark go one sentence earlier?

AGH!

You loser, stop dithering and put some more words down.

Oh, look, someone wearing a nice pair of boots just walked by.

Words! Write words!

Come on. One hundred words and you can stop. Well, two hundred. No, really five hundred.

Etc.

The Romance Formula Myth

Romance readers know there's no formula for romance novels, but a lot of other people seem to think there is, something like, "First kiss on page three, problem arises pages fifteen, first kiss with tongue page eighteen, hero falls in love page seventy-two."

This idea's been around for a long time, and it's still around, and romance writers still get asked what their "formula" is. Even writers who don't write romance will say, "of course, those are based on a formula." Anyone who's read even two romance novels ought to know that it isn't true.

The "formula" myth makes me want to scream.

All genres have certain elements that must be included in the story or else the story isn't part of the genre. That doesn't make genre formulaic.

I think the reason for this myth is that if you can say something is written by formula, you can dismiss it and feel justified in doing so. You can say "anyone could write that, if they had the formula." You're saying the novels are created mechanically, without art. Therefore you don't have to think about them in depth, and can end the conversation right there.

To me, this ties in with the idea that men create art while women do craft, an idea which is still alive and well in our society today, and not only in relation to writing.

If you're in a rebellious mood, like I am, check out Guerilla Girls.

Visiting Lust in Time

I'm visiting today at Lust in Time and blogging on where I found some of my historical details, so please drop by!

Victoria Janssen Interviews Herself

I thought it would be fun to interview myself, using the questions from Inside the Actors Studio.

1. What is your favorite word?

Song.

2. What is your least favorite word?

Moist.

3. What turns you on?

Beautiful voices and kindness and intelligence.

4. What turns you off?

Arrogance, especially when there's no real strength behind it.

5. What sound or noise do you love?

Renaissance polyphony, sung by a few clear voices.

6. What sound or noise do you hate?

The crinkling of chip bags in a quiet room.

7. What profession other than yours would you like to attempt?

Writing as a full-time profession.

8. What profession would you not want to participate in?

Corporate...well, anything, really.

9. What is your favorite curse word?

Damn!

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates?

"The choir's rehearsing over there, and they need another alto."

Siegfried Sassoon, "To Any Dead Officer"

To Any Dead Officer

Well, how are things in Heaven? I wish you'd say,
Because I'd like to know that you're all right.
Tell me, have you found everlasting day,
Or been sucked in by everlasting night?
For when I shut my eyes your face shows plain;
I hear you make some cheery old remark--
I can rebuild you in my brain,
Though you've gone out patrolling in the dark.

You hated tours of trenches; you were proud
Of nothing more than having good years to spend;
Longed to get home and join the careless crowd
Of chaps who work in peace with Time for friend.
That's all washed out now. You're beyond the wire:
No earthly chance can send you crawling back;
You've finished with machine-gun fire--
Knocked over in a hopeless dud-attack.

Somehow I always thought you'd get done in,
Because you were so desperate keen to live:
You were all out to try and save your skin,
Well knowing how much the world had got to give.
You joked at shells and talked the usual 'shop,'
Stuck to your dirty job and did it fine:
With 'Jesus Christ! when will it stop?
Three years ... It's hell unless we break their line.'

So when they told me you'd been left for dead
I wouldn't believe them, feeling it must be true.
Next week the bloody Roll of Honour said
'Wounded and missing'--(That's the thing to do
When lads are left in shell-holes dying slow,
With nothing but blank sky and wounds that ache,
Moaning for water till they know
It's night, and then it's not worth while to wake!)
. . . .
Good-bye, old lad! Remember me to God,
And tell Him that our Politicians swear
They won't give in till Prussian Rule's been trod
Under the Heel of England ... Are you there?...
Yes ... and the War won't end for at least two years;
But we've got stacks of men ... I'm blind with tears,
Staring into the dark. Cheero!
I wish they'd killed you in a decent show.

--Siegfried Sassoon, Counter-Attack and Other Poems, 1918

Moonlight Mistress Excerpt - Secondary Characters

Moonlight Mistress is out NOW from Harlequin Spice. In this scene, Hailey is carrying a message to Meyer and Daglish, who are on leave in Paris. Note there's been a change to this excerpt to protect a plot detail.

#

The road to Paris was in awful shape. Hailey clung desperately to the zouave piloting the motorbike and tried to ignore the fragments of cold mud whipping his cheek and splatting on his goggles. Periodically, the rear wheel would skid in a puddle and the bike would be knocked askew, sometimes careening far enough to one side that the zouave's boot would scrape through mud; he would shout in French, right the machine with a disconcerting jerk, and off they would speed again, weaving in and out of various ambulances, lorries, and the occasional horse-drawn wagon. Aside from trains, Hailey had never traveled so fast in his life, especially not balanced half on a seat and half on a saddlebag.

Traffic grew heavier as they approached Paris, necessitating that the zouave slow down. Hailey fumbled the envelope from his jacket pocket with gloved hands and checked the hotel's address once again. Inside was a scribbled note from Captain Ashby, dated a mere two days before, with details of their irregular mission for the French. It definitely beat being back with the battalion, laying a railway in the rain.

The zouave left him at the Hotel Lutetia with a cheery salute and more incomprehensible attempts at English, then rattled off, his scarlet trousers flapping in the wind. Hailey found his handkerchief and wiped most of the mud off his face before swathing it in his muffler, hunching his shoulders against the cold, and trudging across the hotel's cobblestoned courtyard.

Inside wasn't much warmer than outside. The concierge was also wrapped in a muffler, and the end of his nose looked distinctly red. He at least spoke some English. Hailey was able to make herself understood once he unbuttoned his coat to display his uniform, and pointed out the names he wanted in the register.

Meyer came down to meet him, closely followed by Daglish. They looked clean and warm and well-fed, and he was startled by a stab of jealousy. They in turn looked startled to see him. Hailey dug out the letter, bundled in with the other papers he'd brought. "Got some important news."

Meyer and Daglish exchanged a glance. Meyer said, "You look chilled to the bone. Come on up to our room."

Once climbing the staircase, it became evident to Hailey that the two officers were clean and he was not. It wasn't the mud so much as the fact that he hadn't had so much as a wash since he'd left Sister Daglish, and before that, it had been weeks since he'd had a real bath. He'd been hoping for one on leave, when he could get some privacy; maybe there'd be a chance of one before they had to leave Paris. Though there might not be time. He'd likely need to scrape the dirt off himself with a knife. Twice.

The door of their small room had barely closed behind them when Meyer asked, "What is it?"

Hailey couldn't stop himself from smiling. "Ashby's alive!"
He wasn't prepared for Meyer's knees to go.

Daglish grabbed Meyer before he could hit the floor and eased him onto the bed, where he sat staring at Hailey as if he were about to weep, but grinning, too. Daglish looked at the neatly printed list Hailey held and said, puzzled, "Is that my sister's handwriting?"

#

c. Victoria Janssen 2009

Order from Amazon.com.

More excerpts.

More Snippet Saturday:
Vivian Arend
Moira Rogers
Ashley Ladd
Anya Bast
Jaci Burton
Kelly Maher
Lauren Dane
Leah Braemel
Mandy Roth
McKenna Jeffries
Sasha White
Taige Crenshaw
Shelli Stevens
Shelley Munro
Eliza Gayle
Jody Wallace
Juliana Stone
TJ Michaels

Regencies and Amish Romance

What about the Regency Romance appeals, in the past and now? Here are some thoughts. I'm not sure I entirely agree with myself on every point, if that makes sense...but I'm going to ramble on anyway, going one way and the other.

I think there's a difference between historical romance novels that are set during the Regency period and the Regency Romance, a sub-genre that I've heard people say originates with the novels of Georgette Heyer. When I speak of the Regency Romance, I really mean the novels published by Signet from 1974 through 2006 and those that are similar to them. (Here's a page with authors and titles and here's another.)

The Signet Regencies are about the length of category romances. The vast majority, like Georgette Heyer's novels, have no explicit sex and instead focus tightly on the courtship between the heroine and hero. The historical events going on around the couple aren't usually deeply explored unless there's some reason for the couple to be involved in the event. I don't remember many where that happened (but if you know of examples, please comment!). An example might be Carla Kelly's One Good Turn, in which the heroine survived terrible events following the battle of Badajoz. The reader's given enough information to know what happened to the characters in relation to the battle, but the battle's root causes and results aren't explored in depth because it isn't necessary for the romance.

Thus, if you're reading a Regency, you don't have to know much about the details of the period to follow the story, so long as you understand the basic concept that courtship was constrained by etiquette. Distinctions of social class, for example, might be important to the story if the hero owns a factory and the heroine is the daughter of a duke. The writer gives historical detail to the reader that is sufficient for the story's purpose, just as when a writer presents elements of worldbuilding in a fantasy novel. But the historical element is secondary to the Regency Romance's story. For the most part, these novels do not go beyond parks and drawing rooms.

I could argue that the historical detail in a historical novel is always secondary to the story, otherwise it would be nonfiction. But in the case of the Regency Romance, I think the historicity is deliberately seconded to the courtship. Historical detail is added value, but the constrained courtship story could very easily be told in any number of settings.

So why Regency? Is it because Georgette Heyer made the period popular? Because the constrained social roles of the characters are comforting/reassuring because the reader thus knows what to expect? Or because the men might be wearing really tight pantaloons? What do you think?

And now, the "traditional" Regency Romance is rare. These novels had a good market for quite a while. Were they replaced by historical romances set during the Regency, which because of longer length had more scope for a wider range of relationships, including sexual relationships? The continued success of Mary Balogh, and an influx of excellent new writers such as Tessa Dare, argue that the historical period remains popular. It's just the format that has shifted from category to single-title.

But I think there is still an audience for stories similar to the traditional Regency romance. I am thinking about the current interest in Amish romances, here discussed in the Wall Street Journal and Time Magazine and The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. These novels have romance without showing explicit sexual relationships, and show life constrained by etiquette. Are these popular among non-Amish readers because the setting feels like Fantasy, another world that one can imagine is simpler than ours?

Incidentally, reprints of Georgette Heyer's work are proliferating right now. Is she taking back the market she founded?

Blackadder Goes Forth

Rather than summarize the British dark comedy series Blackadder Goes Forth for those who've never seen the series, I'll provide a link to the detailed Wikipedia page. It's set on the Western Front in 1917, and starred Rowan Atkinson. A comedy set in the trenches? Why, yes. It does work.

Fans of the American television show House, M.D. should note that its star, Hugh Laurie, played Lieutenant George in Blackadder Goes Forth.

I was already interested in World War One (probably from reading too many Peter Winsey mysteries) when this series aired, but the events explored and parodied in this show cemented my interest, and three or four years later I began to research the period seriously.

Every episode criticized the British High Command's methods of pursuing the war; other episodes addressed the limited lifespans of military airplane pilots, the desperate lengths to which soldiers would go for entertainment, and bizarre plans for escaping the trenches from which, even in the final episode, there was no real escape. Throughout, there's a strong message of peace, and despite the dark events, that's what makes me continue to enjoy it.

Melchett: Field Marshal Haig has formulated a brilliant new tactical plan to ensure final victory in the field.
Blackadder: Ah. Would this brilliant plan involve us climbing out of our trenches and walking very slowly towards the enemy?
Captain Darling: How could you possibly know that, Blackadder? It's classified information!
Blackadder: It's the same plan that we used last time and the seventeen times before that.
Melchett: Exactly! And that is what is so brilliant about it! It will catch the watchful Hun totally off guard! Doing precisely what we've done eighteen times before is exactly the last thing they'll expect us to do this time! There is, however, one small problem.
Blackadder: That everyone always gets slaughtered in the first ten seconds.
Melchett: That's right. And Field Marshal Haig is worried this may be depressing the men a tad. So he's looking for a way to cheer them up.
Blackadder: Well, his resignation and suicide seems the obvious choice.
Melchett: Hmm, interesting thought. Make a note of it, Darling.

--"Captain Cook"


[Blackadder is informed that a German spy is stealing battle plans]
General Melchett: You look surprised, Blackadder.
Captain Blackadder: I certainly am, sir. I didn't realise we had any battle plans.
General Melchett: Well, of course we have! How else do you think the battles are directed?
Captain Blackadder: Our battles are directed, sir?
General Melchett: Well, of course they are, Blackadder, directed according to the Grand Plan.
Captain Blackadder: Would that be the plan to continue with total slaughter until everyone's dead except Field Marshal Haig, Lady Haig and their tortoise, Alan?
General Melchett: Great Scott! Even you know it!

--"General Hospital"


Black Adder IV: Goes Forth

Visiting Smutketeers for an Interview

I'm being interviewed today by The Smutketeers, so please drop by! One of the questions they asked me was my dream movie cast for The Moonlight Mistress.

And yesterday's winner of a copy of the book is Lapis! Congratulations!

Happy Book Birthday, Moonlight Mistress!!!

Leave a comment about your favorite werewolf book or movie, and tomorrow morning I'll choose one name randomly to win a free copy.



The Moonlight Mistress

Read some excerpts, and more about the book, in these posts.