Basic Regency Etiquette

With every society, culture, era, there are certain rules of etiquette, and the Regency was no exception. Today I'd like to give you a few basic rulse of etiquette that I've recenlty been reading in, What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickes Knew by Daniel Pool--literally a must have for lovers of the Regency! I have of course added my own commentary.

A Gentleman's Rules of Etiquettte:

1. If passing a lady--whom you are only slightly acquaitned with--while out in about in town or at the park, do not tip your hat unless hse first acknowledges you. Do not speak to her unless spoken to. Boy, this certainly does give a woman a chance to issue the cut direct, does it not?
2. Going up the stairs--men first. Going down stairs--ladies first. Hmm... I would have thought the opposite, so said gentleman could catch her when her corset-wearing-short-breaths cause her to faint from the exertion.
3. When riding in a carriage with a lady who is not your wife, sister, mother or daughter--do not sit next to her! Also be sure that you are sitting in the seat facing backward. Also, take care not to step on her dress. I do like to break the rules and have my ladies sit directly next to her unmarried beaus--and have their limbs touch.
4. A gentleman never smokes in the presence of ladies. Wish this rule were true today!

And now, A Lady's Rules of Etiquette:

1. If a lady is under the age of thirty and/or unmarried, she should never be alone with a man she is not related to without a chaperone--unless of course he is escorting her to church or the park early in the morning.  I can imagine many a lady confessing her sins once she arrives at church.
2. Never wear pearls or diamonds in the morning! How obscene to seen doing such! I wonder if emeralds, rubies and sapphires are acceptable?
3. Never dance more than three times with the same gentleman at a party. I love to break this rule too!
4. Do not give someone the cut direct unless absolutely necessary, and when you do, make sure it is with an icey stared, perhaps even a stiff bow. Ooh, I can see many a lady doing this to some handsome, yet thoroughly rakish men.

Do you have any Regency rules of etiquette you care to share?

Cheers,
Eliza

Eliza Knight is the multi-published, award-winning author of sizzling historical romance and erotic romance. While not reading, writing or researching for her latest book, she chases after her three children. In her spare time (if there is such a thing…) she likes daydreaming, wine-tasting, traveling, hiking, staring at the stars, watching movies, shopping and visiting with family and friends. She lives atop a small mountain, and enjoys cold winter nights when she can curl up in front of a roaring fire with her own knight in shining armor. She writes Regency erotic romance for Carina Press. Visit Eliza at www.elizaknight.com or her historical blog, History Undressed, which was recently mentioned in a feature article in The Wall Street Journal. www.historyundressed.com

The Devil of Jedburgh

My latest Scottish romance released this month, so I thought I'd share a short excerpt... Arran doesn't know that Breghan is his intended bride, yet, and she's still in two minds as to whether she should keep on running...

   ’Twas said he’d not only buried six wives, but their blood was on his hands.
   “How many wives have you had?” she demanded outright.
   “None yet.”
   His eyes met hers once more and she caught herself searching for the truth in that direct gaze. Another rumour without substance? Or the devil giving her what she most wanted to hear?
   Most wanted? I must be losing my mind to think I care either way.   Disgusted with the both of them, Breghan spun away and ran to the spot where she’d discarded her shoes and hose. She quickly rolled the thin wool up her legs and donned her shoes. Hair prickled her neck and she knew his stare had followed her.
   She turned to face him with a firm smile in place. “What made you choose McAllen’s daughter?”
   “The lass has certain qualities I require in a wife.”
   “You—you’ve met her?” Breghan tensed inside and out. Had he seen her someplace before? Did he know exactly who she was? Had he being toying with her all this time?
   He shook his head. “Her reputation precedes her most favourably.”
   Where there should have been only relief that he didn’t know who she was after all, came a sudden thrill.
   Her virtues had been extolled?
   Leave be. What does it matter anyway? No answer will sway my mind.
   Her mouth defied her resolve. “What exactly did you hear of her?”
   “The lass has twelve brothers,” came the flat reply. “Each one over six foot tall and built like a boulder.”
   Confounded, she waited for more as she watched his face eagerly. “Go on,” she said to his silence. “What other qualities caught your interest?”
   “None that come to mind,” he said with a shrug.
   She was starting to hate that shrug.
   And she was thoroughly dismayed with herself. That thrill had come from more than a desire to be acknowledged as a worthy individual.
   What had she expected to hear? That he’d fallen in love with her from afar, from an imaginary picture painted by romantic fables of her beauty and gentle nature? An excuse to stop worrying, stop running, to believe that Arran Kerr could truly be a husband who’d cherish her?
   “You want McAllen might on your side,” she said dully.
   His eyes creased at the outer edges and his lips twitched suspiciously.
   When he erupted into a guffawing laugh that had him bent double, her brows crossed. This man seemed to swing between moods like a pendulum without any apparent cause. She folded her arms and glared at him. “Are you laughing at me?”
   “N—no, lass.” He started to come up, then fell into another bout of laughter. “’Tis just the idea of a Kerr wanting anything from a McAllen.”
   “You want McAllen’s daughter.”
   Her reminder sobered him at once and he unbent with a straight face. “I willna dispute that.”
   Breghan tapped her foot impatiently. “You’ve still not explained why you chose her above all others.”
   If she could uncover some foul motive, she could convince her father of his error in judgement and all would be forgiven.
   “You’re mighty curious for a castle lass.”
   “I’ve served the young mistress for many years,” Breghan said quickly. “Naturally her fate remains my concern.”
   “McAllen’s daughter is your mystery lady?” Serious now, he gave her a long, absorbing look. “Very well, lass, I suppose I do owe you a boon after…” He shrugged.
   “You stabbed me?” she offered.
   “I’ve ridden alongside McAllen many a time,” he told her. “Most often Tristan, Kyle and Callum were there, sometimes Thomas and James. I knew McAllen had twelve sons, of course, each as strong and towering as the next. It was only when I attended our Queen Mary’s wedding feast at Holyrood, however, that McAllen mentioned a daughter. I admire the man his prolificacy and even more I admire his lady wife. So when McAllen hinted at the merits of a union, I found no reason to stall negotiations.”
   Breghan raised a hand to interrupt. She knew very well that Arran hadn’t met her mother at Holyrood in July. “From where do you know McAllen’s wife?”
   “I don’t. I admire the lady for bearing a dozen strapping sons and living to see them grow.”
   Finally, he was beginning to make sense.
   Breghan’s mouth fell open in disgust. “You don’t know the Lady McAllen. You’ve never seen her, never met her. The only thing you admire is her ability to produce a pack of hearty sons and you hope the daughter is made from the same stock.”
   “Aye,” Arran stated without a blink.
   “You don’t seek a woman to tend your home? To see to your comfort?”
   “I have servants for that.”
   “Someone to keep you company by the fire at day’s end? Someone you can laugh and talk with?”
   “There’s more ’an fifty men at Ferniehirst at any one time, lass. I’ve all the company any man could need.”
   Breghan’s voice grew faint as her throat went dry. “Someone to share your worries with?”
   “A man takes care of his own troubles.”

 

By this time, understandably, she's decided it would be better for everyone concerned if she can just get Arran to change his mind...

  The roasted hares were laid side by side on a blanket of fresh leaves. Breghan didn’t refuse when he sliced a generous portion for her. She’d eaten nothing since the previous night.
   In between bites, she chose to inform him, “In all your haste, didn’t you stop to consider why McAllen’s daughter reached the grand age of nineteen without any offers of marriage?”
   He gave her a blank look.
   “The daughter runs to fat,” she declared. “She is mean tempered and as ugly as a wart. ’Twould be an awful trial to beget your heirs on her.”
   “My wife should certainly be buxom to carry my offspring. Besides, I prefer my woman with a bit of flesh to hold on to.” He tore off a juicy leg and ripped into it with a hearty appetite.
   “She has a small forehead, a sharp nose and no chin at all,” Breghan went on. Once she was done, he’d consider it a blessing to find his brood mare had fled the pasture.
   “If her appearance isn’t to my taste, I’ll douse the candles before climbing into bed at night.” He shrugged those massive shoulders.
   It was confirmed.
   She hated that noncommittal shrug.
   “She has a vicious tongue that none can escape. Everyone from kitchen servant to castle lord falls foul to her scathing rants.”
   “If I canna keep her screams sweet in bed, I’ll keep her mouth busy elsewhere.”
   Breghan had no idea what he meant by that, but everything else was perfectly clear. Arran Kerr had no interest in his bride’s character or looks. Only one thing filled his mind and she refused to play third party to a union between this man and her womb.
   She was back to believing he’d buried six wives. He was clearly capable of using one up and then going on to the next. “Do you plan to spend any time out of bed at all?”
    “If McAllen’s daughter is half as bad as you say, then no, at least not with my wife.”

... you can read more about The Devil of Jedburgh here and thanks for stopping by

The Felling Mine Disaster

As I write this, there's a bit of dust-up on the internet and on morning talk shows about a father who discovered his daughter had been disrespectful to him in a Facebook post and responded with his own special brand of retaliation. This may seem like a bit of a non sequitur, but it got me thinking about the Felling mine disaster.

Two hundred years ago this May, a mine explosion in a coal mine in what was then County Durham, England, killed 92 miners. Even today, coal mining is a hazardous profession; reportedly, there were over 6000 coal mining deaths in China in 2004 alone. Dangers to miners include the collapse of mine walls and ceilings, oxygen deprivation, and poisonous gas, not to mention the risk of developing “black lung,” a lung disease caused by chronic inhalation of carbon dust. But the most devastating danger to miners occurs when firedamp—flammable gas which can accumulate in pockets in a mine—ignites and triggers a coal dust explosion.

Miners have known about firedamp for centuries, and such explosions are still a serious risk, but at the beginning of the nineteenth century, coal mines were truly scary places. They were naturally dark, and lamps required an open flame. One safety strategy was to employ a brave miner to deliberately introduce a candle into gas pockets to ignite the gas before it could accumulate in heavy concentrations. He was called a “monk” because he performed this operation swathed in wet blankets in the (probably vain) hope the blankets would protect him from the resulting explosive flashes.

The Felling mine explosion, May 25, 1812

The Felling mine disaster occurred when firedamp ignited and the resulting coal dust explosion sent a devastating blast throughout the mine and up its two mine shafts, the John pit and the William pit, named after the Brandling brothers who owned the colliery. The disaster was such a shocking and violent occurrence that it prompted two young innovators, engineer George Stephenson and scientist Humphry Davy, to separately design safety lamps for use in mines. Stephenson went on to become the “Father of Railways,” building the first public railroad in the world, and Davy went on to a baronetcy and the presidency of the Royal Society, though their lamps ignited a conflagration of a different kind when Davy erroneously assumed that Stephenson had stolen his idea.

But the aspect of the Felling mine disaster that haunts me most is the list of victims, now inscribed on a memorial at St. Mary’s churchyard in Heworth. The blast was especially deadly because it occurred as one shift of workers was relieving the other. Of the 92 miners—three-quarters of the mine workforce—who perished in the blast, 36 were under the age of 18; 27 were under age 15. Victims Thomas Gordon and Michael Hunter were only 8, and two other boys, Thomas Craggs and George Reay, were just a year older.

Child labor in the mines.

It’s a chilling reminder of the kind of life children often led before the advent of child labor laws over the next hundred-plus years. In 1842, the Royal Commission report on Children in the Mines found that “while from eight to nine is the ordinary age at which employment in these mines commences,” in some cases “Children are taken into these mines to work as early as four years of age.” These children typically worked shifts of twelve hours—sometimes as many as eighteen hours—doing dirty, backbreaking, and in many cases life-threatening work. The report came out in May, and was so shocking that by August 10 Parliament had passed the Coal Mines Act, prohibiting female labor underground and requiring boys in the mines to be a full ten years old.

Ten years old, and that was the improvement.

You might mention that to your teenager the next time the topic of household chores comes up—or think about it yourself the next time you feel frustrated because your otherwise-responsible teen isn't behaving in the most grown-up manner. Nowadays, kids are kids, and sometimes that's a good thing.

Alyssa Everett is currently awaiting word as to the fate of her debut regency, A Tryst With Trouble, while Dorchester Publishing reorganizes and reassesses its product lines. Her second regency, Ruined by Rumor, will definitely be coming out from the lovely Carina Press on May 21. She hopes you'll visit her website and follow her on Twitter, where she promises not to spam you relentlessly.

Bohannon and Lilly: When You're Hot, You're Hot

Two of my favorite characters, Bohannon and Lilly, are from the AMC series, Hell On Wheels. Actually, this post is supposed to be about word-of-mouth and how that is the singularly most important thing a product can have, whether it is a TV series or book. I don't watch TV much and how I got hooked on HOW was a friend of mine told me I had to watch it.  Why?  Because of the character, Cullen Bohannon. She was right! I watched and I was hooked. Of course, I told everyone I knew how terrific this series was. I even recorded the marathon and loaned it out. New fans were created and we are all awaiting the 2nd season now.

Word-of-mouth is an elusive thing. It is not anything tangible that a writer can acquire through ads or blogging or anything else. It happens or it doesn't. About 80 percent of the books I've read have been due to recommendations from my friends. The others I read because I liked the story line. But I discovered Jeffery Deaver, Greg Iles and Shanna Abe, all through word-of-mouth. And, word-of-mouth spreads easily. I have recommended these authors to several other readers. So, if you like a book, be sure to tell someone, not just write a review. They are not the same as a verbal recommendation to a friend. Maybe it has something to do with sharing and the excitement that comes with sharing something you enjoyed.

And speaking of sharing something I enjoy, I will share a clip of Bohannon and Lilly.  First, a little background for those who don't know the story. Bohannon is an ex-Confederate soldier whose wife and son were murdered by Union soldiers. He is tracking down these men and killing them. He's very blunt and violent and he's not always heroic, which is what I love about this character. He's not John Wayne. He has a dark side and is generally feared by most men. Of course, I don't know of a woman watching the show that doesn't love him. The actor in the role is from Tennessee so his Southern accent doesn't sound fake.

Lilly is from London. She was out West with her husband when Indians attacked their camp. A warrior killed her husband. In return, Lilly broke off the arrow stuck in her shoulder and shoved it through the warrior's neck. Now, that is my kind of heroine! She continues to show spirit and courage as she decides to stay in the camp town of Hell on Wheels and rather than become the railroad baron's mistress, she sets up her own tent. Now, this is partly because she likes Bohannon, I think. There has only been a hint of romance with longing looks in the series so far but the tension between the characters is terrific. The big question is: Are they destined to be together?  What do you think?



If you want to see some clips from the show, click to watch and there are other links to vids that follow.

Thanks for stopping by!

Patricia Preston

Anne of Cleves, you look nothing like your Facebook picture.

I’ve heard it said by historians that some of the fascination with the Tudor period comes from the works of the artist Hans Holbein the Younger. Through his portraits, we see and relate to the key players in the drama of Henry VIII’s life as real people because they were portrayed realistically in their portraits. Or were they?

 Let’s face it, the concept of Photoshopping isn’t new, it has a long history stretching all the way back to ancient Egypt, where very few realistic portraits of the Pharaohs exist. Instead, most art from that era portrayed the god king as young, strong, handsome and powerful. The Armana period excluded, there wasn’t a pot belly or receding hairline to be found. The Romans produced more realistic busts of individuals, which helped me when I was trying to describe Caligula in my latest release, Mask of the Gladiator, but there was still an element of perfection in the representations.

A few thousand years later, and Henry VIII was faced with choosing a bride based on what we might call a profile picture. Poor Anne of Cleves. Some historians say Holbein painted her dress with a lot of zing to take attention away from her plain features. Others say it is a true likeness and she isn’t the “Mare of Flanders” Henry made her out to be.  Either way, one gets the sense from reading the historical accounts that the portrait was the modern day equivalent of the high angle, turned to the side snapshot we took five years ago and is now our profile picture.  Do we look good in the picture? Sure. Is it an accurate and faithful representation of what we really look like? Um, well, maybe not, but then, the futures and fates of countries aren’t entangled in the way we look.

Bundle Me, Baby!

When I write and read historical romance, I tend toward highly sensual, even erotic stories.  That’s just personal taste, and yours may be quite different from mine.  Given my preference, I naturally have an interest in sexual mores and practices from past eras.  I often come upon surprises like bundling.

Bundling was a practice popular in the Puritan times and the 18^th century in the northeast and Amish areas of this country.  It involved allowing couples to share a bed during courtship.  The young man would spend the night at his intended’s family’s house.  The two would remove their outer clothing, and the girl’s mother would wrap each of them in separate blankets on a bed that was divided down the middle by an obstacle like the bundling board or bundling sack.  The young people would then spend the night together talking and getting to know if they were compatible.

There were several practical benefits of the practice.  In Colonial America, houses were far apart.  In order to visit the woman he was courting, a young man would often have to slog long distances through snow and other bad weather.  It was only natural for him to spend the night.  Not only were beds in short supply, but houses were cold and firewood and candles too dear to allow for long hours spent in leisure after supper.  Bundling together for heat while passing a pleasant time with the person you intended to marry made sense.

There was even a biblical basis for bundling in the story of Ruth and Boaz, (Ruth 3:6 and 3:13) in which the couple laid together all night on the threshing floor and later became husband and wife.

An anonymous ballad of the 1780's explains the rationale for bundling.

Nature's request is, give me rest,
Our bodies seek repose;
Night is the time, and 'tis no crime
To bundle in our cloaths.
Since in a bed, a man and maid
May bundle and be chaste;
It doth no good to burn up wood
It is a needless waste.
Let coat and shift be turned adrift,
And breeches take their flight,
An honest man and virgin can
Lie quiet all the night.

(From the website of Colonial Williamsburg http://www.history.org/foundation/journal/holiday07/court.cfm)

I remember hearing about the practice of bundling when I was a teenager and thinking “They could get away with THAT?”  I knew darned well that a board or sack wouldn’t prevent young people from getting to each other if they wanted.  I ask you:

Sure enough, Washington Irving wrote in his History of New York "that wherever the practice of bundling prevailed, there was an amazing number of sturdy brats born . . . without the license of the law, or the benefit of clergy . . .” (Quoted in © 1975 - 1981 by David Wallechinsky & Irving Wallace "The People's Almanac" series of books.)  Of course, only couples who were seriously courting, with their parents’ permission, were allowed to bundle.  Marriage between the two was only a matter of time.  A baby who made his/her appearance “early” wouldn’t cause a terrible scandal.

Maybe we ought to reinstate the practice…for consenting adults, of course.

Alice's website
authoralicegaines@yahoo.com

Where were you?

There are a handful of events that for good or ill (more often for ill, unfortunately) are unforgettable. I’ll never forget where I was when I heard about the Challenger disaster--I was in 9th grade, and they announced it over the intercom during 4th period Alabama History.

I found out about the 9/11 attacks when I was awakened by a phone call from my parents, who were supposed to be flying into Seattle for a visit later that day. Mom said, “All flights have been canceled.” Assuming she meant all flights out of Birmingham, I asked if there’d been some kind of storm or problem at the airport. She told me there had been a terrorist attack and to turn on the TV.

And most recently, last spring I was waiting for dinner at Red Robin with my husband and daughter. Mr. Fraser and I were checking Twitter on our phones, as internet addicts are wont to do, when tweets started to buzz with the news that President Obama was about to “address the nation.”

It sounded ominous, so we speculated about possible war with Iran or North Korea. I also worried that it might be something like a hideous cancer diagnosis for either the President or the First Lady, and that he might be stepping down and handing the reins to Vice-President Biden because of it--ever since I lost both my parents to lung cancer, my mind goes to the C-word in a hurry.

Instead, of course, the big news was the death of Osama bin Laden. We’d figured it out from Twitter before one of the TV feeds in the restaurant switched from sports to the news--which was neither captioned nor audible in the noisy restaurant, so Mr. Fraser and I leaned over the booths to tell our fellow diners what was happening as soon as we heard their baffled concern. Eventually, the headline at the bottom of the screen said something like, “Bin Laden death confirmed,” and the line cooks, most of whom would’ve been in junior high on 9/11, started cheering and stomping their feet.

We were home by the time the president actually spoke, so Mr. Fraser and I stood together our den--somehow it seemed too solemn a moment for lounging on the couch--and listened.



In the time period I write about, there was plenty of momentous news, though of course it rippled through the world much more slowly. I imagine if I’d been born in 1771 instead of 1971, I’d remember where I was when I heard about the French Revolution and Trafalgar and Waterloo, to name a few. So, when I recently read a collection of first-hand accounts of Waterloo in The Hundred Days (compiled and edited by Antony Brett-James), I was intrigued to find a chapter about how the news reached France and Britain. I was then flabbergasted by the following account by Mrs. Boehm, the woman hosting the ball the Prince Regent was at when Wellington’s messenger arrived:

That dreadful night! Mr. Boehm had spared no cost to render it the most brilliant party of the season; but all to no purpose. Never did a party, promising so much, terminate so disastrously! All our trouble, anxiety, and expense were utterly thrown away in consequence of--what shall I say? Well, I must say it--the unseasonable declaration of the Waterloo victory! Of course, one was very glad to think one had beaten those horrid French, and all that sort of thing; but still, I always shall think it would have been far better if Henry Percy had waited quietly till the morning, instead of bursting in upon us, as he did, in such indecent haste; and even if he had told the Prince alone, it would have been better; for I have no doubt his Royal Highness would have shown consideration enough for my feelings not to have published the news till the next morning.

...After dinner was over, and the ladies had gone upstairs, and the gentlemen had joined them, the ball guests began to arrive. They came with unusual punctuality, out of deference to the Regent’s presence. After a proper interval, I walked up to the Prince, and asked if it was his Royal Highness’s pleasure that the ball should open. The first quadrille was in the act of forming, and the Prince was walking up to the dais on which his seat was placed, when I saw everyone without the slightest sense of decorum rushing to the windows, which had been left wide open because of the excessive sultriness of the weather. The music ceased and the dance was stopped; for we heard nothing but the vociferous shouts of an enormous mob, who had just entered the square, and were running by the side of a post-chaise and four, out of whose windows were hanging three nasty French eagles. In a second the door of the carriage was flung open, and, without waiting for the steps to be let down, out sprang Henry Percy--such a dusty figure!--with a flag in each hand, pushing aside everyone who happened to be in his way, darting up stairs, into the ball-room, stepping hastily up to the Regent, dropping on one knee, laying the flags at his feet, and pronouncing the words “Victory, Sir! Victory!”

The Prince Regent, greatly overcome, went into an adjoining room to read the despatches; after a while he returned, said a few sad words to us, sent for his carriage, and left the house. The royal brothers soon followed suit; and in less than twenty minutes there was not a soul left in the ballroom but poor dear Mr. Boehm and myself.

Such a scene of excitement, anxiety, and confusion never was witnessed before or since, I do believe! Even the band had gone, not only without uttering a word of apology, but even without taking a mouthful to eat. The splendid supper which had been provided for our guests stood in the dining-room untouched. Ladies of the highest rank, who had not ordered their carriages till four o’clock a.m., rushed away, like maniacs, in their muslins and satin shoes, across the Square; some accompanied by gentlemen, others without escort of any kind; all impatient to learn the fate of those dear to them; many jumping into the first stray hackney-coaches they fell in with, and hurrying on to the Foreign Office or Horse Guards, eager to get a sight of the List of Killed and Wounded.

I first read that account nearly a month ago, and it still boggles my mind every time I re-read it. I can understand that it would suck to put down the kind of money it would take to throw a ball for the highest of London’s elite and have it all go to waste. But to still resent it, years later (her account is from 1831), when it was abundantly clear just how important Waterloo was? And the way she seems to focus on breaches of propriety above all else--Henry Percy was dusty, and he shoved people out of the way in his haste to reach the Prince Regent. One might almost think he was bearing critical news for his country’s acting head of state or something! Not to mention those ladies running out in their muslin gowns and slippers, with or without escort, all because they had brothers or sons or sweethearts with the army and wanted to know if they were still alive. How shocking! And lest you think her reaction is somehow typical of her time, the behavior of her guests belies it. Also, all the other accounts sound remarkably like what happens now in those moments we all remember--normal social barriers breaking down, everyone turning out into the streets to talk it over, etc.

(The painting illustrating this post is David Wilkie’s Chelsea Pensioners Reading the Waterloo Dispatch, which the Duke of Wellington commissioned at a cost of 1200 guineas. I think it’s a more typical reaction than Mrs. Boehm’s, don’t you?)
--------------
Susanna Fraser writes Regency romance with a focus on the Napoleonic Wars. The Sergeant's Lady and A Marriage of Inconvenience are available now from Carina Press.

Where are the REAL stories?

As you probably know (or may not!) I run a review blog called "Speak Its Name" which aims to list (and one day--hollow laugh) have reviewed all the gay historical fiction that there is out there.

It's a growing and healthy genre, from the handful of authors who were writing it when the blog started in 2007, there are now going on 100 authors who have tried it or are regular authors. There are books from just about every era now (if not every country) from (believe it or not) cavemen to the cut-off period which I cheekily upped from the Historical Novel Society's cut-off of "50 years ago" to "pre-Stonewall/Wolfenden report" which takes it all the way up to 1971.

But the interesting thing is, is that though there is a positive deluge of the stuff and most of it is good, nearly all of it concerns original characters having adventures in a past time.

Now, there's nothing wrong with that of course, but it surprises  me that--with the wealth of real-life gay men scattered throughout history, that there's not more stories regarding them. After all, much of the backbone of historical novels can set itself against the books of Jean Plaidy and the like when people wrote about the mildly fictionalised lives of kings and queens. I was raised on these books and I say: Where are gay equivalents? Why aren't people writing about all these fascinating people who managed to be gay--some notoriously so?

Of course, there are exceptions. If you persue "The Lists" (print/ebook, ebook only) you will find a smattering of "real life" characters. Some of course lean heavily on supposition. William Shakespeare is a popular subject. It seems that no original gay character can enter Tudor London without getting ambushed by either the Bard of Avon or the naughty Mr Kit Marlowe. Oscar Wilde is also a popular chappie, and there are quite a few books about him, although many (such as the series by Gyles Brandreth) are alternative history, where Wilde becomes a sleuth.

Philipa Gregory even dipped her toes in gay historical fiction. Her "Earthly Joys" is about the famous gardener John Tradescant the Elder who (in her book) ends up falling for the betwitching First Duke of Buckingham who was almost certainly bisexual and King James I's favourite. However attractive this book is--and I thoroughly enjoyed it, I had to stretch my imagination to breaking point to believe that the handsome Buckingham would have been even mildly attracted to Tradescant. But who knows? Perhaps he really was.

First Duke of Buckingham

George Villiers - First Duke of Buckingham

 

Tradescant

John Tradescant - not as handsome as Phillipa Gregory would have you think!

However - what I'd like to see is some damned good novels about real people going through times that we knew actually happened. The trouble is that there's so much been lost. Families who destroyed letters and diaries that would incriminate their sons as to their sexual preferences. People like Byron whose diaries were burned by order of his publisher. Oh! The loss of what they must have held! But there is a fair amount of information about gay characters--and more books are being written yearly (see the non-fiction section of The List) so if someone were to write something about Nijinsky and Diaghilev (why oh why hasn't someone done this already?) or Michelangelo - I'd certainly be standing in eager line waiting to snap them up. I do know an author who is working on a labour of love regarding Ivan the Terrible and his boy toy, but goodness knows when that will get done, (although it's going to be fabulous, I know!)

I mean, look at the Douglases. By that I mean Bosie and his brother. As far as I know (please please correct me if I'm wrong) but there's no book with an account of Bosie's experiences. And as for his brother? It's almost unknown that Francis Douglas who was older than Bosie, was somehow entangled with his boss, The Duke of Rosebery and a near-scandal ensued. Francis was granted a title by Rosebery and only 18 months afterwards (was it a pay off perhaps?) Francis was killed in a "hunting accident" although whether it was suicide, accident or something darker (seeing as how Rosebery was married into the Rothchild family...) Yes yes, supposition, but it's far less Wilde (excuse the pun) than Oscar as a detective!

Those devilishly handsome Douglas Boys (Bosie, left, Francis, Right.)

The Douglas Brothers, left-Bosie, Right, Francis

And when you think about it, one suddenly has a glimmer of sympathy (perhaps) for Lord Queensbury whose two sons were both involved with powerful older men. No wonder he went ballistic when Bosie went the same way.

Anyway - come on, authors! Where are the books about E M Forster? Wagner and Mad Ludwig? Siegfried Sasson? Clifton Webb? There are hundreds of subjects to choose from and only a handful of existing books. It's not right.

And if you don't, I may have to do it myself.

Further reading: Queers in History | Rictor Norton | Famous and Gay | List of Gay Men throughout History

Erastes is the penname of a female author living in Norfolk, England with 3 cats and a mad dog. She writes gay historical novels and short stories with gay themes from many genres. Her two books for Carina are: Muffled Drum (Austro-Prussian War) and A Brush with Darkness (coming out in March, which is set in 19th century Florence) Her website is www.erastes.com and she can be found easily on Twitter and just about everywhere else.

Special Valentine's Day Continuation of LADY SEDUCTRESS'S BALL

Valentine’s Day is 20 days away… Ah!!! That leaves less than three weeks to prepare!  Chocolates, flowers… a special date!  But what if you lived in Regency times? What would you do then? Today I give you a special treat… A short continuation of LADY SEDUCTRESS’S BALL--Tristan and Olivia celebrate Valentine’s Day together for the first time since exchanging vows…

Oliva sat upon the satin embroidered chase, Tristan had purchased for her bedroom, and stared out the window at another somber winter day. Snow covered the grounds nearly a foot deep, and ice crystals dripped in frozen lines along the branches of the trees at Knightley Manor. They hadn’t been able to go outside for nearly three days and she was beginning to grow antsy.

Tristan was in his office working on paperwork, and she’d lazily slept in, with nothing better to do.

She leaned her head back on the chaise. What day was it? How long until spring? She yearned to go out in the sun.

With the realization of what day it was came another revelation—tomorrow was St. Valentine ’s Day.

She bit her lip and drew her brows together. Did Tristan celebrate St. Valentine ’s Day?

Oh, what did it matter? They could start a new tradition, and she certainly needed a distraction from the ensuing boredom of remaining indoors while her husband worked. Not that their nights were boring—they were anything but. Passion filled Knightley Manor when the sun went down. Tristan knew exactly how to make her scream with delight, writhe with pleasure.

But the days were reserved for his work, and anything she might care to do. Away from the city, left little on the list when a foot of snow covered the grounds.

She alighted from the chaise and dug around in her trunk of ribbons and bobbles. She would make him a card, and she’d plan a lovely dinner. Could she entice him to come out of his study for the day? She nibbled the tip of her finger. It was worth a try!

Taking the ribbons and beads with her, she left her chamber in search of their housekeeper. It was time to seduce her husband away from his work!

*****

The following day, mid-morning…

Tristan leaned back in his leather arm-chair, seriously considering tossing every bit of correspondence into the fire. He did not want to be working. He wanted to be in the arms of his Olivia—the woman he still could not believe was his wife. He was a lucky man. Fate had seen to that.

A whisper of paper caught his attention. What was that? He leaned forward, looking around his desk. Had something fallen? His gaze fixed on a colorful beribboned paper in front of his library door. Someone had slipped it underneath.

“What in Hades?” He stood from his desk and marched over to pick up the creation.

Olivia’s jasmine and vanilla scented perfume wafted from the paper. Ribbons tied in bows with little bobbles dangling from their ends edged the sides.

Written on the center was this…

The rose is red, the violet's blue
The honey's sweet, and so are you
Thou are my love and I am thine
I drew thee to my Valentine
The lot was cast and then I drew
And Fortune said it shou'd be you

~Gammer Gurton's Garland (1784):

A smile instantly etched his face. He wrenched open the door expecting to see Olivia standing on the other side, an impish smile on her face, but there was no one there. But there was another note…

Meet me in the drawing room…

He sucked in his breath. His wife had planned a seduction! His blood raged through his veins, and elation filled him. If anyone had ever told him he would be this in love, he would have laughed in their faces. With quick steps, he made his way to the drawing room.

But instead of Olivia, there was another note beside two glasses of champagne, almonds dusted with cocoa and sugar and his favorite honey cakes. He picked up the note.

My love,

Do you know what day it is? It is the day of love—St. Valentine’s Day. Today we celebrate our love. Partake in the champange and treats while you wait in our special spot.

 

Your ever-loving wife,

Olivia

Their special spot?

Tristan racked his brain… Then he knew exactly where she wanted him. He sat down on the chaise longue. Took a long sip of bubbly champagne and waited. Within minutes, Olivia crept into the room. She wore a silk wrap, and her hair was down around her shoulders just the way he liked.

“My seductress has arrived,” Tristan drawled. He leaned back, his gaze raking over her.

“Mais oui, and I plan to show you on this special day exactly how much I love you, in the very spot we made love for the first time as man and wife.”

Slowly she untied the length of silken cord and let the wrap drop in a pool around her feet. Tristan thought his heart might stop beating. She wore a knee-length nightrail made of light pink lace and silk—more lace than anything. Her flesh peeked through the lace, teasing him, igniting his ardor.

He blinked. Swallowed. Then beckoned her to come to him. Olivia took dainty steps, her hips swaying enticingly.

“Happy Valentine’s Day…” Tristan said slowly as he slid his hands up her bare thighs.

“Oh, my love… You have made my life complete.” Olivia sank onto Tristan’s lap, her thighs straddling his hips.

Their gazes locked for several moments as emotions and desire heightened, thickening the air. But he could wait no longer. He claimed her lips in a searing kiss, his tongue gliding inside to taste the sweetness of her mouth.

And I leave the rest to your naughty imaginations J

*****

Eliza Knight is the multi-published, award-winning author of sizzling historical romance and erotic romance. While not reading, writing or researching for her latest book, she chases after her three children. In her spare time (if there is such a thing…) she likes daydreaming, wine-tasting, traveling, hiking, staring at the stars, watching movies, shopping and visiting with family and friends. She lives atop a small mountain, and enjoys cold winter nights when she can curl up in front of a roaring fire with her own knight in shining armor. Visit Eliza at www.elizaknight.com or her historical blog, History Undressed, which was recently mentioned in a feature article in The Wall Street Journal. www.historyundressed.blogspot.com

Invitation to Pleasure

As the wife of the elderly Earl of March, Olivia Covington has never known the intimacies of the bedroom. Though her curiosity is piqued by the shocking whispers of society ladies, she is too wary of causing scandal to indulge in an affair. But Tristan Knightley, Earl of Newcastle, tempts her to throw off propriety.

Tristan wants Olivia for his own, and has sworn off all others until he can rid himself of the obsession. He is sure once he has a taste, he will tire of her, and can return to his rakish existence. Unable to wait to have her in his bed, he invites her for a tryst at Lady Seductress's Ball...

24,000 words

Available now at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Carina Press and other e-tailers.

Breaking the Rules

Also known as editor pet peeves and reader déjà vu. You know the ones I'm talking about, usually to be found in the opening of the story.  Like where the heroine's studying her appearance in the mirror, describing her golden tresses and baby blue eyes to herself, or opening with the weather ala 'It was a dark and stormy night' or that dreaded dream sequence... Uh, oh!! I didn't...did I?

Um, but in my defence, I never intended to keep it. This is how the story came to me, everything, from the characters to the plot to the ending, it all started with this dream. So, I told myself, I'll write it down for reference and delete it later. But the time was never right... I'll just keep it there a little longer, and then I shrugged and told myself my editor was sure to put a bold red line through, I'll leave the hard work up to her. To my surprise, and secret delight, my little dream stayed untouched and I became that author, the one who broke the rules and got away with it :)

So... what are your pet peeves and are there exceptions where you've seen (or made) it work? Or maybe never even realised it was a pet peeve, you were so caught up in the story, and only thought about it later?

Here's a peek at my little streak of rebellion...

There must have been a hundred of them. Black-hearted Kerrs with mud-streaked cheekbones, matted braids falling down naked chests dark from dirt and sun and hair. But the eyes. Black as night, black as their hearts, black as the devil’s soul.
Breghan ran faster, tearing through the summer-thick foliage. She could hear them rapidly closing in. The high-pitched grunt was neither human nor animal.
Branches rustled at her left, then at her right. Stubby fingers reached for her, scratching, clawing, poking, until all that remained of her gown was shredded ruins.
And then they went for her hair and face.
“No,” she screamed, swatting in every direction before she fell to her knees and covered her face with her arms. “Leave me be. Please, please… let me be.”
The cruel fingers fell away.
The grunts stilled.
Breghan swallowed her sobs, slowly lifting one arm, then the other, afraid to look and afraid not to.
The leader of the pack stood there.
A shudder trembled through her. The stories were all true. He stood at least seven feet tall, blocking out the sun with his width. What she could see of his face was horribly disfigured, the skin puckered and mottled red. This one’s eyes were not black. No, the Kerr’s eyes were blood-red and burning bright with the wild rage of a fire-spitting demon. Only one of his names was the Devil of Jedburgh.

Regency Prophecies

Now that it’s 2012, a great deal of attention, much of it tongue in cheek, is being paid to the prophecies of Nostradamus and to their New World counterpart, the Mayan calendar. But did you know that during the late Georgian period and into the regency, headlines were gripped by similar prophesies of the imminent end of the world? One English prophetess even claimed at the interesting age of sixty-four that she was pregnant with the Messiah.

The end of the 1700s were a time of great change, with events like the French Revolution and the rise of radicalism leading many to think in apocalyptic terms. In 1791 a former naval lieutenant named Richard Brothers began preaching that an angel had warned him of the fall of Babylon, otherwise known as London. According to Brothers, God told him in July of 1791 that he had intended to "punish the world with desolation" but had "suspended his judgment for a time" as a personal favor to Brothers: "I pardon London and all the people in it, for your sake: there is no other man on earth that could stand before me to ask for so great a thing." But this was only a temporary reprieve. God still planned to destroy all the nations and make Brothers the Ruler of the World at sunrise on November 19, 1795.

Brothers believed that the descendants of the ten lost tribes of Israel were living in western Europe, and it was his personal mission to identify these "hidden Jews" among the British people so that they could return to Jerusalem to live in post-apocalyptic peace and righteousness. Brothers concluded that he himself was a descendant of King David through James the brother of Jesus, and thus was "nephew of the Almighty." Following the last judgment, he would rule over Israel and work miracles like Moses, using a rod he had fashioned from a rose bush.

Richard Brothers, self-proclaimed Moses and Ruler of the World.

Seized with millennial zeal, Brothers wrote the king, his ministers, and the speaker about his intention to share his dire predictions, which included the death of King George III and the overthrow of the British monarchy. He also asserted his own God-given right to the throne, and claimed in his 1794 pamphlet that God had so far spared the king and his family only due to his personal intercession. Given the revolution taking place in France, British officials had had enough. In 1795 Brothers was arrested for treason. One of his followers, a member of the House of Commons, brought the case before Parliament, and was able to have Brothers privately institutionalized in an insane asylum. Though some of Brothers’ prophesies came true—he warned, for example, of the violent death of Louis XVI of France—most of his followers deserted him when November 19, 1795, came and went, and God inexplicably failed to destroy the wicked and elevate Brothers to global supremacy.

Many of Brothers’ followers transferred their allegiances to a new voice crying in the wilderness, the prophetess Joanna Southcott. The daughter of a devoutly religious farmer, Southcott was born in Devon in 1750. She lived most of her life as a member of the Church of England and worked for years as a maid and as an upholsterer, but in 1792 she began hearing voices and jotting down verse prophecies in a form of automatic writing. She tried turning to the Methodists and then to other Dissenters, but they rejected her. She then approached a Church of England clergyman named Pomeroy, who received her kindly but remained unconvinced, despite the accuracy of several of her predictions. Pomeroy was particularly concerned by Southcott’s belief that she was the “Bride of the Lamb” mentioned in the biblical book of Revelation, "a woman clothed with the sun and the moon under feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars." When Southcott published her prophecies, Pomeroy was horrified to find himself cited as a sympathetic authority, and burned many of the writings she had given him.

Still, Southcott’s ministry prospered, especially when she began issuing (some said selling) “seals,” paper tokens given to her followers in recognition of their status as believers. In 1809 the possession of one such seal by a con-woman and convicted murderess, Mary Bateman, proved a brief black eye on Southcott’s ministry, but after she received a legacy from one of her followers in 1812, Southcott was able to devote herself with even greater energy to her divine calling.

Joanna Southcott, who believed the birth of her child would herald the End of Days.

In October, 1813, sixty-four year old Southcott was told by her prophetic “voice” to prepare for her wedding. The voice added in 1814, “This year in the sixty-fifth year of thy age thou shalt bear a son by the power of the Most High.” The news fit Southcott's vision of herself as the Bride of the Lamb, since the book of Revelation promised, "And she brought forth a man child, who was to rule all nations with a rod of iron: and her child was caught up unto God, and to his throne. And the woman fled into the wilderness, where she hath a place prepared of God, that they should feed her there a thousand two hundred and threescore days."

Southcott announced her impending blessed event to her followers, saying her baby would be the “Shiloh” mentioned in the biblical book of Genesis and his birth would usher in the End of Days. A number of medical men even confirmed the pregnancy. Though Southcott’s disciples greeted the news with great joy and showered the supposed mother-to-be with gifts, the general public remained skeptical. In a letter to his friend and publisher John Murray, the ever-snarky Lord Byron called Southcott “this new (old) virgin of spiritual impregnation,” adding, “I long to know what she will produce; her being with child at 65 is indeed a miracle, but her getting anyone to beget it, a greater.”

Though Southcott originally expected the birth in July of 1814, no baby appeared. Eventually she and her followers settled on October 19, 1814, as the joyous date. October came and went, and still no baby. By November, poor Southcott was coming to the awful realization she had been mistaken, telling her friends, “Now it all appears delusion.” After making a will declaring that she had been deceived by the Devil, she returned all the baby gifts and went into a rapid decline, dying on December 27. Though Southcott had requested her body be kept warm for four days after her death in case she should be resurrected, at the end of that period she was autopsied and buried.

With no Shiloh, the thousand two hundred and three-score day countdown to the end of the world was put on hold. Though Southcott left behind a sealed walnut box of prophecies with instructions that it be opened at a time of national crisis, and then only in the presence of all the bishops of the Church of England, it was eventually opened in 1927, and with only a single bishop present, the suffragan Bishop of Grantham. It proved to contain little more than books and souvenirs, the 56 objects including an ivory dice cup, a broken horse pistol, a 1796 lottery ticket, and an embroidered nightcap.

Yet a stubborn group of Southcottians, the Panacea Society, refused to give up hope. They claimed to have the real Southcott box, and promised that Shiloh would be born and the Day of Judgment would arrive in the twenty-first century. They even predicted the year.

2004.

Alyssa Everett's debut regency, A Tryst With Trouble, is available now for pre-order from Amazon. Her second, Ruined by Rumor, is due out in May. She hopes you'll visit her website and follow her on Twitter, where she promises not to spam you relentlessly.

Once Upon A Time: Where Villains Rule

Once Upon A Time is a terrific series is about cursed fairy tale characters who are living in modern times without any memory of who they really are. The show goes back and forth between past and present to give you a view of who the characters are and what has happened to them. And, the fairy tales all have their twists. There's no HEA.

The Evil Queen is a great villain. The kind you love to hate. The actress does a great job at portraying the queen as quite a bitch. Yet, in regard to the character, there appears to be a reason for her hatred and desire for revenge that has not been revealed yet.

 A big plus to writing a villain is not to make them totally evil or heartless. She does seem to want to love her adopted son, even though she's not capable of overcoming her selfishness. As a writer, I think, she does need to suffer a defeat soon. A villain shouldn't win all the time. Just as you want to see the hero win, you want to see the villain fail. To me, the best stories have the heroes and the villains suffer defeat and recoup before the end. We all know a story almost always ends with a villain's destruction. In this series, Emma, the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming, who is the heroine, will win. So far, she holds her own with the Evil Queen but the more episodes I watch, I realize that isn't enough. Your hero should claim a bit of victory, so the reader  and in this case the viewer cheer his success and anticipate the villain's retaliation. You don't want your reader to become frustrated because the villain never loses until the very end of the book. For one thing, they may skip to the end.

So far, the Evil Queen/Mayor of Storybrooke remains undefeated. I think viewers are hanging on, waiting for her fall.  She needs to stumble soon.

If you are watching this series, what would you like to see happen to the Evil Queen?  And is Mr. Gold going to turn out to be a good guy or the villain? I'm not sure.

Patricia Preston 

Food in Fiction

Today we're privileged to have talent Carina Press Author Julia Knight visiting the blog and talking about her latest release, The Viking's Sacrifice.

Over to you, Julia.

 I hit a bit of a quandary in my latest book. It’s a story about Saxons and Vikings in the 9^th century, and obviously in a historical, you need to really be grounded in the ‘when’ of the story. How to do that? I found two ways, but the one I’m talking about today is food. Because, let’s face it, Vikings didn’t eat ready meals or Big Macs, but subtly showing what they did eat, how and why, working it into the story (in moderation—I don’t list recipes, honest!) really helps to show what is different, that we aren’t in modern times any more, and also, food is something that is a reflection of the society it’s in, in many respects—the rituals of food, such as Christmas dinner, and all its worldwide variations.

For instance, did you know that Vikings often measured wealth in cows? Their word for money actually derives from their word for cattle. Not because of the meat. Despite my mental image of Vikings wolfing down large slabs of meat and quaffing ale all year round, beef, mutton etc. were seasonal. Your Viking would calculate how many animals he could feed for the winter, and during Bloodmonth would slaughter the rest. As dairy products were more prized than meat, each cow slaughtered was an economic loss, almost an admission of failure if you will.

So if they weren’t eating roast beef every night, what were they eating? Dairy produce, mainly. Not milk as such, but things they made out of milk. Cheese—they used the whey to pickle meat—butter, buttermilk and something I’m meaning to actually make for myself. Skyr—a not-quite-yoghurt, not-quite-soft-cheese often sweetened with honey.

All of which comes as a bit of surprise to my Saxon heroine, but it did help ground us in the ‘where’ of the story. It also made me very hungry when I was researching!

Anyway, as recipes seem to be popular in romance blog land, here we have a recipe for skyr, which is still popular in Iceland. It probably won’t turn out exactly the same—to make skyr, you need, er, skyr—but I’m told it’s a reasonable likeness. As it uses skimmed milk, it’s low in fat (useful in the post Christmas ‘OMG where did my waist go?’ fug). The slightly less healthy, but tastier method of eating it includes topping with honey, or you can mix with fruit. And it sounds easy enough even I wouldn’t get it wrong!

10 l skimmed milk, preferably not pasteurised
8-9 drops OR 1 1/2 tablet rennet
10 g skyr, for the bacteria starter. If not available, use 1 tbs live culture sour cream or buttermilk.

1. Heat the skimmed milk up to 86-90°C, and cool slowly for about 2 hours, down to 39°C. Stir a little scalded milk into the starter to make a thin paste and mix into the milk with the rennet (if you are using dry rennet, dissolve in a little water before adding).

2. Close the cooking pot and wrap in towels or a thick blanket. The milk should curdle over a period of about 5 hours. If it curdles in less than 4 1/2 hours, the curds will be coarse, but if it curdles in more than 5 hours, the skyr will be so thick it will be difficult to strain. When the milk is curdled, cut into the curds with a knife. When you can make a cut which will not close immediately, then you can go on to the next stage.

3. Line a sieve or colander with cheesecloth or a fine linen cloth and pour in the skyr. Tie the ends of the cloth together over the top and hang over a bucket or other container so the whey can drip off. If the skyr-making has been successful, there will be little whey, and it will not float over the curds, but will be visible along the edges of the sieve and in the cuts you made into the surface. You can judge the quality of the skyr from the appearance of the curds when you pour them into the sieve. If the skyr is good, it will crack and fall apart in pieces, but should neither be thin nor lumpy. Do not put a layer thicker than 7-9 cm into the sieve. Keep the sieve in a well ventilated room, with a temperature no higher than 12° and no lower than 0° Celsius. The skyr should be ready to eat in 12-24 hours.

4. The skyr should be firm and look dry when ready. The whey can be used as a drink, to pickle food, or as a replacement for white wine in cooking.

The Vikings’ Sacrifice is available now from Carina Press, Amazon and all good e-book retailers. You can find out more about Julia’s books at http://juliaknight.co.uk

A New Year and a New Release!

Happy New Year everyone!  2012 is starting out with a bang for me. On January 30^th, Mask of the Gladiator, my novella set in ancient Rome will be released. In honor of this momentous occasion, I’ve pulled together a few fun historical New Years facts for your reading pleasure. So grab a noisemaker and raise a glass of champagne to New Years and new books!

Are you still lamenting that at the stroke of midnight you did nothing more than watch the ball drop on TV? Well, if you were living in early ancient Rome, you’d still have time to plan a big bash since New Year fell on March 1^st.  The move to January 1^st didn’t take place until 46B.C. when Julius Caesar introduced a new solar-based calendar.  While his calendar solved a number of time-based math problems which led to date drift, it didn’t solve them all. One day, this would lead to Britain being out of whack with the rest of Europe but more about that later.

Speaking of moveable celebrations, Wep-renpet was Ancient Egypt's New Year.  The feast date was calculated based on the rising of the star Sirius and the annual flooding of the Nile and could vary from year to year. Judging from tomb paintings and a few choice papyri passages, it seems the Egyptians rang in the New Year by partying like it was 1999 B.C.

While on the subject of parties, people in the Middle Ages partied like it was 999. January 1^st marked the Feast of the Circumcision which the common people celebrated as the Feast of Fools. During this celebration, which had its roots in the old Roman Saturnalia, people mocked the church by appointing a Lord of Misrule and behaving very badly. The Parisians were the worst behaved of all, and because of them, the annual celebration was banned in 1451. Is it any wonder New Years is so closely linked with champagne?

And, like the year, we come full circle back to the Julian calendar.  At one time, Britain marked the New Year in March while the rest of Europe pulled out the party hats on January 1^st.  The disparity began in 1582 when the protestant Henry VIII refused to switch to the newly updated, fresh off the Guttenberg printing presses Gregorian calendar.  This decision, coupled with date drift, resulted in the New Year falling in March. Realizing it was no fun partying alone, Britain finally relented and adopted the Gregorian calendar in 1751.  

I hope you enjoyed this brief trip through historic New Year celebrations. While you’re opening and hanging up your new calendars, don’t forget to mark the January 30^th release of Mask of the Gladiator. Until then, have a great January everyone!

Please, don't tell me what your character is thinking

I judge a lot of contests for aspiring romance writers.  In fact, it’s a rare time of year that I don’t have a computer folder full of entries to read, some for a second time.  Over and over, I find the same weakness, and it’s something that I don’t hear addressed often in craft lessons.  Luckily, it’s one that often can be easily avoided.

 Before I launch into the words of wisdom that will make your scenes compelling and your characters memorable, let me remind you of the One True Rule of writing fiction -- there are no rules.  The only absolute in writing is that there are no absolutes.  If what I say below doesn’t make any sense to you, feel free to ignore it with my blessing.

Here goes:  Please don’t tell me, your reader, what your characters are thinking and feeling.  I’d rather you show me.  Aha, “Show, don’t tell.”  We’ve all heard this advice, and it applies here.

Whenever you write something like, “she thought, wondered, mused, pondered,” or other verbs that describe how a character thinks, you may be telling what’s going on in her head, rather than showing it.  For example, I often see passages like, “She hoped her make-up had survived the long flight so that she’d look her best when she met her new boss.”  Here, the author is telling me what’s going on in her heroine’s head rather than show it.  How about the following, instead?

“She glanced in the small mirror, but it didn’t do much to reveal how her make-up had survived the long flight.  And with no opportunity for major work on her face, she’d have to do the best with what she had.  Darn.  Her stomach was already in knots.  She’d just have to lift her chin and give her new boss the most confident smile she could muster, under the circumstances.”

I submit that that shows someone hoping her make-up is up-to-snuff for the meeting with her new boss.  You’re showing what’s going on in her head rather than telling it.

Similarly, “What, she wondered, was he thinking?”  If we’re in the character’s head we’d better know who’s doing the wondering.  In fact, we’d better be wondering right along with her.  “What was he thinking?” gets the same point across and with more immediacy.  “She wondered what was in the treasure chest” is better as “What could be in the treasure chest?”  The first reports to us about her wonder.  The second allows us to wonder along with her.

The same general principle applies to showing versus telling emotions.  When you tell us the character is angry, hates someone, loves someone, is grieving, you take us out of their feelings and prevent us from experiencing them directly.  For example, “She hated the hurt look in his eyes,” might be better as “Hurt filled his eyes.  Pain so deep, it cut into her.  Still, she couldn’t look away.  She’d caused him that pain, and she’d have to take that knowledge with her.”  Note that at no time have I mentioned her emotions.  The emotions are there, but if I’ve done my job, the reader experiences them directly instead of having them pointed out.

Similarly, “The loss hurt so much.  She’d miss her beloved grandfather for the rest of her life,” isn’t as convincing to me as “She stood near the hearth, staring at the chair her grandfather had always occupied as he’d read stories to her.  First, sitting in his lap, then at his feet, and finally as an adult in her own chair next to his.  This room would always resonate with the sound of his voice.  In fact, if she stood very still, she might hear it even now.”

I’ll share a little secret from my psychology training that I find immensely helpful in my writing.  In general (but not by any means always), when you ask someone to explain their behavior, they point to the environment around them.  For example, if you ask a spendthrift friend why she just spent thousands of dollars on a purse, she’ll likely say something like, “It’s perfect.  Just like the one my favorite movie star carries.  I had to have it.”  If you ask a careless driver why she just went through a red light, she may very well say something like, “It was really yellow.  Honest.”  If you ask someone why she cheated on her taxes, she’ll probably tell you something like “Everyone does it,” or “What are the chances I’ll get audited?”

Here’s an example from my book Always a Princess that, I hope, will illuminate what I’m talking about.

 “But that doesn’t make any sense.’ He barely kept himself from shouting, took a few breaths, and tried to calm himself. Although any reasonable person could hardly remain calm in these circumstances. As heir to the earldom of Farnham, he was the bloody catch of the whole bloody season, but for some bloody reason he wasn’t good enough for a guttersnipe like Eve Stanhope. If she was a guttersnipe. He still had no bloody idea who she was.”

 You’ll notice that my hero realizes that he’s shouting and that he’s not calm, but then, he attributes his anger to the situation he finds himself in and to the heroine‘s behavior.

 You can’t always use these techniques, and sometimes, there’s no other way to convey what’s happening in your story than to simply say, “He was furious” or “She couldn’t make heads nor tails of what he was saying.”  I do think, however, that we can all make our writing stronger by trying to get as deeply into our characters’ heads as we can.

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