Meredith Allard's Blog, page 17

Writing Historical Fiction: Who Was the Woman of Stones?

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For a while, I justified my lack of productivity during these odd times by saying that nearly every writer I know has said that he or she has been having trouble concentrating. I decided that well, things are just too weird right now and it’s interfering with the creative process. Then I read that Zadie Smith wrote a book of essays during the lockdown, which completely blew my theory.

I have only just started feeling productive again, and it’s not necessarily because things are better. I live in a state (Nevada) currently seeing an upward surge in COVID-19 cases, and wearing a face mask everywhere has become the norm, for me and for nearly everyone else I see in the grocery store. But I have been getting some work done, finally. Not as much as Zadie Smith, but then Zadie Smith is awesome and would finish a book of essays while the rest of us stare at the wall.

One thing I have completed is the revisions of my story set in Biblical Jerusalem, Woman of Stones. In some ways, Woman of Stones is the most challenging story I’ve written because it’s set in a time and place that seemed so foreign to me when I began my research. If you read the original version of Woman of Stones I’m not sure you’ll see much of a difference, to be honest, but I can see the changes and I think the book is stronger for them. As the years have passed I’ve become a better writer (I hope) and I felt the prose needed an upgrade. My “no extra words” rule applies more now than it did eight years ago.

If you’ve read Victory Garden, my novel of World War I and the Woman Suffrage Movement, and you think that’s a change of pace from the Loving Husband Series then Woman of Stones may as well have been written in Greek. In fact, if it had been written during the time it takes place—2000 years ago—it might have been written in Greek.

One of the glorious things about writing historical fiction is that inspiration can come from anywhere at any time. My inspiration for Woman of Stones began when I read Anita Diamant’s lyrical historical/Biblical novel The Red Tent. I was blown away by Diamant’s novel, so much so that as soon as I finished it I read it again. I loved Diamant’s poetic prose, her stream-of-consciousness storytelling, and her creative imagining of a Bible story from a woman’s point of view. A Bible story from a woman’s point of view? Cool. I loved the way Diamant made Dinah’s story come to life and I wanted to do something similar in a story of my own.

One of my favorite stories has always been the one about the woman caught in adultery. I love it because of the lesson–whoever of you is without sin, cast the first stone. It’s a lesson I have to relearn nearly every day of my life. I, perhaps like some of you, can be quick to cast stones without looking at my own actions, my own intentions, my own priorities, my own mistakes.

Then I wondered…who was this woman? How did she come to be at that place at that time? Having read The Red Tent, I began to imagine a story for her. That’s all the novella is—my imagining a story for the woman.

Woman of Stones is a study in memory. I’m fascinated by memory, how we remember, what we remember, who we remember, what we forget, whether intentionally or not. I tapped into the stream-of-consciousness narration in Diamant’s novel, and I love that poetic fluidity in Toni Morrison’s novels as well. The novella became a first-person narration from the Woman of Stones herself. We follow her from her humble beginnings in Nazareth, to how she came to live in Jerusalem, to how she struggled on various levels. She tells her story as she remembers it. Sometimes she remembers in linear order, and sometimes she doesn’t. Her memories are fluid, jumping from here to there and back again as she struggles to make sense of her life.

While it is a difficult story at times, it has a positive message about forgiveness and love, traits we could all use a little more of these days.

Woman of Stones is now available as an ebook at Amazon for 99 cents. It will be available through KDP Select through September 17, 2020. The paperback will be available at Amazon and other retailers beginning Wednesday, 6/24/20.

What I’m Reading

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Reading has always been a solace to me, these days perhaps more than ever. Here’s a bit of what I’ve been reading lately.

After much anticipation (on my own part, as well as many others around the world), Hilary Mantel finally released The Mirror and the Light, the conclusion of the Thomas Cromwell Trilogy. As someone who writes historical fiction, I’ve looked to Mantel as a mentor for my craft, even if she doesn’t know it. Whenever I begin a new historical fiction project, I reread her novels to remind me what historical fiction at its best can look like.

I was so excited when I finally bought The Mirror and the Light, but being the Mantel fan I am I decided to reread Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies before I read the last book just to remind me of the brilliance of the first two books (and to keep me up to speed as to where Cromwell’s story left off). It took me a while to get through all three books since they’re long, which is not a complaint. Who said that if a book is good it’s never long enough? Jane Austen? I’m glad I read all three books together because it’s easier to see Mantel’s genius as seeds she planted in Wolf Hall come to fruition in The Mirror and the Light. While there shouldn’t be any spoilers here (most people who read the trilogy know that Cromwell ends without his head), The Mirror and the Light is fascinating in showing Cromwell’s downfall. How could someone who rose from nothing and nowhere become King Henry VIII’s most trusted adviser? And then lose that trust almost as suddenly as he gained it? Again, there shouldn’t be any great surprises. We see it happen to Cromwell’s mentor, Wolsey, and we see it happen to others. All three books are magic in their own way, and if you love historical fiction then I cannot recommend the Thomas Cromwell Trilogy highly enough.

Which of these book choices don’t belong? If you chose Naomi Ragen’s An Unorthodox Match then you are correct. I had this book on my kindle for a while and after the heavy lifting of the Thomas Cromwell Trilogy I wanted to read something lighter. I’m surprised at how much I liked this book. I’ve been reading a lot about Judaism lately, both fiction and nonfiction. It’s not that that I’m suddenly Jewish. I’ve always been Jewish. Maybe it’s the times, maybe it’s getting older, but I’ve become interested in exploring Judaism from different points of view, and that includes reading novels about Jewish characters. There’s a lot to like about Ragen’s novel. I liked the fact that An Unorthodox Match is written from several characters’ points of view. I liked that it wasn’t a story about who is good or who is bad, but just about people doing what they believe is best at the time. And I liked the love story between Leah and Yaakov—even if the cover designer needs to find a different occupation. Seriously, don’t let the cover scare you away. It’s a sweet romance about how people from different worlds can find their way toward each other despite the odds. This is the first book I’ve read by Naomi Ragen and I’ll be back for more.

When It Rained at Hembry Castle Chapter 3

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I’ve been trying to think of something to post that might cheer us up a bit. I know I certainly need it. I immediately thought of Hembry Castle, my Downton Abbey inspired novel set in Victorian England, since it’s my funniest novel, or so I’ve been told. I’ll leave it to you to judge.

Here’s Chapter 3. Enjoy.

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In south-central England near the River Enborne are the North Hampshire Downs where the chalk hills rise and the green land rolls and the coral-colored field poppies, pink orchids, and yellow buttercups sprout haphazardly around grazing sheep and a startled deer or two. If you listen, you can hear skylarks singing and woodpeckers pecking in the plentiful trees. If you’re traveling from London, you’ll pass first through Slough, then the tall-tree woods of Bracknell Forest, and further on you’ll pass villages like Woolton Hill, Burghclere, and Highclere within the surrounding region of Staton. In the sprawling countryside of the North Downs you’ll find the village of Hembry. You’ll know you’re in Hembry when a farmer, or the postmaster, or the vicar tips his hat to you. As you continue into the village, the cottages bid you welcome with open doors and fires at every hearth. You’ll pass the plots of land cultivated by the tenant farmers, and the farmers’ families will wave as you pass. 

Over there is the village pub, the Staton Arms, and over there is the post office—the center of village life where everyone congregates, most to gossip, others to insist gossiping is wrong though they may have overheard a tidbit or two they feel obliged to share. If you want to know what Mrs. Montrey said to Mrs. Kents about the burgundy dress with the embossed sleeves and the blooming flower at the high collar that Lady Staton wore at the latest village fête—the one held only a month before the 8th Earl died—then you should stay close to the post office. According to Mrs. Montrey, her ladyship’s dress featured the newest fashion—a protruding bustle at the back—and how does one ever sit in such a contraption, Mrs. Montrey wondered? When you’ve had your fill of village chatter, you’ll cross the common square where the afore mentioned fête is held and arrive near the stone church, the sun-bleached one commissioned by the first Earl of Staton. And there, on the highest hill, is Hembry Castle. 

In 1596, Blackfriar’s Theater opened in London, Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice was performed for the first time, and Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth named Horace Meriwether the first Earl of Staton for his role alongside the Earls of Essex and Nottingham when British forces destroyed 32 Spanish ships and captured the city of Cádiz. Immediately, on the vast gift of land Her Majesty most graciously bestowed upon him, the new Earl began building a home worthy of his title. He was lucky, Horace Staton, formerly Meriwether, since he began his life as your lordship with wealth—his family had made their fortune as shipbuilders in Southampton—and his country seat was impressive from day one. The house had changed quite a lot over nearly three centuries. The castle’s fortifications—the stone walls, the keep at the center, the towers on the four corners, the outer curtain wall—were knocked down by the fourth Earl when he became convinced that the first Earl’s fear of barbarian attack was largely overrated. Now, the Countess’ Garden is built over what used to be the moat. Now, the castle features had largely disappeared, though a fragment or two could be found in the parklands so the name Hembry Castle remained. 

Edward Ellis admired everything he saw as he walked at his usual brisk pace through the village of Hembry. He enjoyed wandering the winding roads, nodding at the friendly, curious faces, laughing at the gossip in the post office, watching the sheep loiter, and admiring the green patchwork farms dotting the landscape. You could hire a wagon (driver included) to take you up the hill, but Edward preferred to walk. It gave him a chance to take in the country scenery along with the quiet calm that can only be found in nature and birdsong—two things Edward missed when he was in London. He was born and had spent the first half of his life in Hampshire, in Portsmouth, and he loved the sweeping hills of the northern part of the county as much as he loved the southern coastline. It was a steep climb toward the castle, but Edward didn’t mind. He loved the green pastures that stretched as far as he could see, and the closer he came to the great house, the more clear its features became, the more he was struck by its steadfast stance, like a patient parent watching over its children. 

On the outskirts of the grounds were the follies, the decorative mock castles (more reminders of the house’s earliest incarnation), and the Greek temple façades, which made Edward chuckle with their extravagant uselessness. He passed the rotunda and the statues from Ancient Greece and Rome, added to the family’s collection by previous Earls. He stopped to admire the rainbow spray of colors in the Baroque-style Countess’ Garden, then walked the tree-lined avenue toward the house. He marveled at the dignity of the old place, how the sand-colored limestone blended gracefully into the green hills, the winding river, even the sky above. The exterior of the castle was as eccentric as some of the Earls who had lived inside. The pitched roof pointed skyward with seventeenth century gables while the south-facing exterior was designed in the Palladian style by renown architect William Kent. Edward paused to admire the Corinthian columns, the cornices, the triangular Tympanum above the entrance. He stepped toward the door, changed his mind, and walked down the slope to the other side.

Jemima was the newest housemaid at Hembry Castle, and she screamed in a manner most unbecoming when she dropped a silver tea service and sent the pieces clattering to the floor. Fortunately, the empty pot bounced so there was only a splash of tea that she and Ruth, another housemaid, had to wipe away. They giggled nervously as they glanced for the housekeeper, but when they realized Jemima’s clumsiness had passed unnoticed, their giggles became laughter. 

“You’re a lucky one,” Ruth said as she wiped away the remnants of her ladyship’s tea. “If that pot had been full it would have been a disaster to clean up.”

“At my last place the butler could hear anything from anywhere in the house, though it was a much smaller house, of course. He loved to dock our wages for time wasted, and he was such a mean old brute he would have considered this time wasted.”

“Housemaids are under the housekeeper’s orders.”

“Supposed to be,” said Jemima. “The butler and the housekeeper were always arguing about his ordering her staff around.”

Ruth gathered the tea things and set them back on the tray. “You don’t need to worry about that here.” She winked at the cook, Mrs. Lainie Graham, who had come to see what all the racket was. “Our butler and housekeeper get along quite well.” 

“Most of the time,” Mrs. Graham said.

Ruth carried the tray and Jemima followed with the wet cloths, setting them down in the washing sink in the scullery. Mrs. Graham was so busy with the pigeon pie for that afternoon’s luncheon—slicing the ham, melting the butter, beating the eggs, and laying the puff pastry over the mixture in the baking dish—that she hadn’t noticed the girls admiring her work.

“Something smells good,” Ruth said. 

“The family’s having a few guests for luncheon,” Mrs. Graham explained.

“I thought they were still in mourning,” said Jemima.

Mrs. Graham wiped her hands on her apron. “It’s nothing fancy, her ladyship said. Just some friends of his lordship and Mr. Frederick’s for a simple meal. Her ladyship isn’t very happy about it, I gathered, but his lordship said his father liked to have friends nearby and he wouldn’t have wanted the family sitting around like wet sacks feeling sad all day.” 

“His lordship never did like mourning,” Ruth said. “God bless him in Heaven. I do miss him.” 

“Who is ‘her ladyship?’” Jemima asked. “His lordship never married.”

“He isn’t married yet,” said Mrs. Graham, “though I fear he may be soon enough. Since there’s no wife, his mother remains Countess for now.”

Ruth leaned closer to the cook. “Is his lordship going to speak out?”

“There’s been some chatter about Lady Lily Carter-Marsh as the next Countess of Staton, but I don’t think anything is settled yet. I don’t think it will ever be settled for him, poor soul.” She checked her menu, then stirred the suet and candied peel for the baked plum pudding. She shook her wooden spoon at Jemima. “You should hear the rumors they spread about his lordship. Mr. Lannow, Lord Tilling’s valet, told us. They like to say his lordship is quite the ladies’ man. Of course his lordship doesn’t help matters, traipsing off to who-knows-where with his band of merry men like he’s Robin Hood, disappearing for weeks at a time. His lordship is suspected of having female companionship in London, if you know what I mean. That’s why he disappears as often as he does, they say, to visit her in Covent Garden. They say he sends her money too.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “They say there’s a child. But you listen to me—there’s no truth in that.” She winked at the plum pudding as she pressed the mixture into the baking pan. 

“Mr. Lannow should know what his lordship is up to,” said Ruth. “After all, his lordship and Lord Tilling are friends.” 

“What else did Mr. Lannow say?” asked Jemima.

“That his lordship goes about with the Prince of Wales.”

“I don’t know,” said Ruth. “His lordship doesn’t seem the type to involve himself with such a crowd. His other friends like Mr. Hough aren’t from aristocratic families.”

Jemima spun across the kitchen floor, her hands out as though she were dancing with a gentleman. “His lordship is so handsome, isn’t he? His eyes are a little small, and his face a little long, but there’s something about him that makes him so pleasant to look at. He has such a nice smile. Is he as kind as he seems?” Jemima swooned at the thought. “He asked my name my first day. I don’t think my last employers knew my name the whole year I worked for them.”  

“Yes, he is every bit as kind as he seems,” said Ruth. “His brother, Mr. Frederick, seems much the same, though the goodness must have skipped over Mr. Jerrold. He’s too much like his mother.” Ruth pressed her hands over her own mouth, stopping herself from saying more, though the downstairs walls stood stoic as ever, used to such gossip. 

“Rachel said she was dusting the sitting room this morning when she heard his lordship and her ladyship arguing,” Jemima said. “Rachel said her ladyship told his lordship she wants him married by the end of the Season.”

“She’s been saying that for five-and-twenty years,” said Mrs. Graham. 

Jemima curtseyed, dipping toward the floor in the manner of a great lady. “I should be most happy to marry his lordship.”

Mrs. Graham threw her flour-covered dishtowel into the air. “The likes of you, married to the Earl of Staton! Whoever heard of such a thing?” 

Jemima stood with some difficulty from her curtsey and straightened her apron. “Why isn’t he married already? Has his heart been broken? Is he pining over someone?”

“Who knows what goes on in other people’s hearts?” said Mrs. Graham. 

Ruth leaned toward the cook. “I know that smirk, Mrs. Graham. You look that way whenever you know something other people don’t. What do you know?”

“I get the meals around here prepared on time. More than that, I don’t know.”  

Ruth peeked into the servants’ hall where the footmen Henry and Colin sat at the table drinking tea and eating sandwiches. She sighed as though she wanted to join them. “Come Jemima. We have a lot more to get through today.”

They were startled by a knock at the downstairs door. Outside Jemima found a good-looking young man of average height and slim build with chocolate-brown hair that fell over large hazel eyes, more gold than brown or green, that seemed to take in everything at once. The young man smiled. 

“Good afternoon. I’m here to see my grandparents.”

“Grandparents?” Jemima glanced into the hallway. “There’s no grandparents here, sir.”

Jingling keys grew louder. “I believe here comes a grandparent as we speak,” the young man said. 

Mrs. Mary Ellis, the housekeeper at Hembry Castle, appeared. Edward Ellis took his grandmother’s hands with the greatest affection. 

“What are you doing down here?” Mrs. Ellis asked. “You’re a guest today. You should have used the front door.” 

“I wanted to see you and Grandfather before I went up.” 

Mrs. Ellis kissed her grandson’s cheek. “You look so handsome today, Neddie, but a little thin. Aren’t you eating? Don’t they pay you at that newspaper? Heaven knows you work hard enough for them.”

“They pay me well enough, Grandmother, and yes, I’m eating.” He sniffed the air. “If luncheon tastes as good as it smells, I’ll be eating plenty.”

Mrs. Ellis opened the door wider so Edward could step inside. “Come in and sit down. I pressed and ironed the clothing you sent ahead and they’re laying out in my sitting room, though you have time for tea and a chat before you change. Jemima, close your mouth and tell Mrs. Graham my grandson is here. Ask her to send Frannie with some tea.” 

“Yes, Mrs. Ellis.” Jemima smiled at Edward as though she agreed with the housekeeper—her grandson was looking rather handsome that day. A stern look from Mrs. Ellis and the maid scurried away. 

“Is she new?” Edward asked. “I don’t remember her.”

When Mrs. Ellis entered the servants’ hall the footmen stood until she acknowledged them. She gestured for Edward to sit at the table. 

“As a matter of fact, she is new. She’s never worked in a manor like this before, so she has a lot to learn.” Mrs. Ellis looked at the whitewashed walls decorated with paintings of Queen Victoria in various stages of her life—from young ingénue to fleshy widow. The sunlight cast pink-yellow shadows on the wall, leaving the tea-drinking footmen under two spotlights as though they were on the stage. It was, Edward noticed, the only color in the room. “I can’t complain, though. I know what those first months in a big house are like. I remember when I first came to Hembry more than 40 years ago. I was lucky that my sister would watch your father when I couldn’t have him down here.” Edward shrugged, and his grandmother didn’t press him. “Fortunately for me, your grandfather had already been here some time so I had an easy enough adjustment. But there’s so much to learn in a big house like this.”

“And you learned it quickly, my dear.” 

Edward marveled at how his grandparents hardly changed as the years passed. Augustus Ellis, butler for one of the most respected families in England, was a medium-statured man like his grandson, his slim frame hunched forward, Edward guessed, from his perpetual downward-looking stance, as though he were always trying to sneak up on something that needed improving upon, his round, wire-rimmed spectacles dipping from the tip of his nose. Edward’s grandmother had grown stouter through the years, and her hair was more white than gold now, but she still had that motherly smile that put everyone at their ease. With the appearance of Mr. Ellis the footmen stood, and again, after acknowledgement, they sat.    

Edward nodded at the footmen. “Being in service is similar to calisthenics, isn’t it? Sitting and standing, sitting and standing.” 

Henry Horrocks, the peacock of a first footman, was about to respond though he stopped after a swift kick under the table from Colin Pratt. 

“Yes, it is, sir,” Colin answered. 

Clattering was heard from the kitchen, and then Mrs. Graham bustled into the servants’ hall with a tray of tea and cakes. “Ned! Let me have a look at you.” She put the tray on the table, then her hands on her hips as she squinted at Edward. She was a tall, broad woman, Lainie Graham, with her sharp eyes and dark hair swept haphazardly under her cook’s cap. She nodded with approval at what she saw. She poured some tea and handed Edward the cup and saucer. 

“You didn’t need to do this yourself, Mrs. Graham,” Edward said. “You should have sent one of the maids.” 

“I wanted to see you before you disappeared upstairs.” 

Edward sipped his tea. “You don’t have to stay, any of you. I know you’re busy.”

“I think everything is settled for the moment,” said Mr. Ellis. “I wanted a moment to speak to you before you went upstairs, Edward. There’s something I need to tell you.”

“It sounds serious, Grandfather.” 

“Not too serious, I hope. But I do want you to know that Mr. Frederick discovered that you’re my grandson because I told him so. At the time I didn’t think anything of it, but I realize now it may have been a lapse of judgment on my part. If I did wrong, I apologize.”

“If I weren’t your grandson, then apologies may be in order, but as it stands…”

“Thank you, Edward, though I feel I ought to explain. I knew Mr. Frederick had agreed to take over the editorial duties at the Daily Observer, and in a burst of pride I blurted out the fact that you worked at that same paper.” Mr. Ellis gave a hard stare in the direction of the footmen, both of whom appeared not to notice anything but the tea cups in their hands. “I’m very proud of the work I’ve done for this family, Edward.”

“As you should be, Grandfather.”

“Your grandmother and I have put our all into Hembry Castle, and we consider it an honor to be in service for such a respectable family. And yet I understand how a young man like yourself, who has chosen a different path in life, might not want it known by his employer that his grandparents are in service for said employer’s family. You needn’t acknowledge me in front of the others upstairs. In fact, it wouldn’t be proper if you did.”

“Grandfather, as you carry off every fine detail of this luncheon to perfection, as you always do, I’ll point to you and say loudly enough for everyone in the castle to hear, ‘That great man is my grandfather. I learned my work ethic from him. I learned how to work hard, take pride in my work, and always perform to the best of my ability from him, and from my grandmother as well.’”

“Thank you, Edward, though I don’t know how well the family will take to such a display of familiarity between us.” He nodded, his butler’s duties overtaking his family feelings. “Now if you’ll excuse me. Henry and Colin, I believe luncheon should be attended to?”

The footmen marched single-file up the stairs. “Henry and Colin will get everything in order,” said Mr. Ellis, “but I should be there to supervise.” 

“Of course, Grandfather.”

“Perhaps you should reenter at the front door. You’re an invited guest of Mr. Frederick’s, after all.”

“Mr. Meriwether is perfectly aware that I’m your grandson. I doubt he’d be the least surprised to see me coming from down here.”

Mrs. Ellis looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “You ought to change, Neddie.”

Edward disappeared into his grandmother’s sitting room, emerging a quarter of an hour later in his freshly pressed coat and trousers, wing collar shirt, and blue and green plaid waistcoat. Mrs. Ellis tied her grandson’s cravat into a fancy-style knot, then reached into her apron, pulled out two repoussé cuff links, and slid them into place. “Your grandfather and I thought these would look nice.”

“Are these Grandfather’s?” 

“They were a present from the 8th Earl. We know it’s only luncheon, but still, how often do you dine with the family?”

Edward admired the gold at his wrists. “Thank you, Grandmother. I look as fine as the Earl of Staton.”

Mrs. Ellis led Edward to the staircase. “Are you ready?”

“You sound like I’m about to be sacrificed to the lions.” 

“There’s a whole other world up there, Neddie, one I hardly understand and I’ve been here a long time. You already know Mr. Frederick is a good man, and his lordship is much the same. Her ladyship is…her ladyship is…”

“I’ve heard she’s quite deaf.” 

Mrs. Ellis turned her sternest expression onto Jemima, who was yanked into the kitchen by a disembodied arm.

“Is she deaf?” Edward asked. “I thought it was more of a selective hearing.”

“You’ll see for yourself soon enough. Just remember that Mr. Frederick wants you here, his lordship is happy to have you, and that’s all you need to know. Your grandfather will be there to help you.”

“Will I need help, do you think? After all, I have eaten luncheon before. Perhaps not upstairs, but I am familiar with the meal. Will I be dragged away by my ear for using the wrong fork or for speaking to someone on my left when the Countess is looking to her right? Besides, I thought luncheon wasn’t as formal as dinner.” Edward brightened. “Will Miss Meriwether be there?”

“Do you know Miss Meriwether?”

“I met her briefly at the newspaper office.”

Mrs. Ellis eyed her grandson with the observant look he inherited from her. “Yes, Miss Daphne will be joining you for luncheon. I understand her ladyship has big plans for Miss Daphne.”

“I’m sure she does.” 

Mrs. Ellis pointed at the staircase. “All right, then. Up you go.”

“I feel like I’m being dropped down the rabbit hole.” 

“In this case Wonderland is upstairs.”

Edward grinned as he climbed toward the Wonderland of Hembry Castle.

Cheap Entertainment For Homebound Days

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All righty then…

As a highly sensitive introvert (and an INFJ, in case you were wondering), I feel a bit odd these days for all the same reasons as many of you. My favorite days are when I don’t leave the house, but there’s something different about choosing to stay home and having to stay home.

Still, keeping ourselves, our loved ones, and our neighbors safe is our first priority right now. If you’re like me, you’re looking for ways to fill the hours. Reading has often been a comfort for me, so we’ve lowered the prices of all my ebooks to 99 cents. I hope you find something to read that will entertain you during these homebound days. The price changes are now available on Amazon and they will appear on other online retailers throughout this week. We’ll be republishing Woman of Stones, my historical novel set in Biblical Jersusalem, soon and that will also appear on all online retailers at 99 cents.

I wrote about the 1918 flu epidemic in Victory Garden, which takes place in New York City and Washington, D.C. during the years 1917-1922. One of the strangest parts about writing historical fiction is seeing history repeat itself, which it often does. You know how it goes. The more things change, the more they stay the same. One of the lessons learned from the 1918 flu epidemic is the necessary step of social distancing. While social distancing is a challenge to many of us for a number of reasons, now is the time for us to band together and do our part–for ourselves and for everyone around us.

On an unrelated note, I’ve been humbled by the response my article about being a hearing-impaired introvert for Introvert, Dear has received. For years I never mentioned the fact that I struggle with hearing loss. I never wrote about it. Only a few people who knew me knew. I’ve loved seeing the comments on the website and it’s been a thrill to receive emails from others experiencing something similar. It just goes to show that whenever we feel we’re the only ones in the world going through something, there are others experiencing something similar. Thank you for your comments on the article. Keep them coming!

Stay safe. Wash your hands. If you’re social distancing, let me know what you’re doing to pass the time. We could all use some tips right now.

What It’s Like Being an Introvert With Hearing Loss

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I know this is a different topic than I usually write about here, but I wanted to share an article I wrote for the fabulous website Introvert, Dear. Introvert, Dear has been one of my favorite websites for years, and I’m honored that they allowed me some space to share my particular conundrum–being an introvert who doesn’t hear well. Yes, as an introvert I love my alone time to read and think, and I may do a little writing from time to time… But there are times when I struggle because even when I’d like to interact with others it can seem ridiculously difficult because of my hearing.

If you’d like to see the article on their website you can view it here. Enjoy.

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Socializing is far more difficult because I can’t always hear what is said. At times, I feel isolated from the world — not by choice, but by chance.

I wasn’t familiar with the word introvert until I was in my thirties, and it wasn’t until I read Quiet by Susan Cain that I realized I wasn’t as odd as I thought I was. I’m still odd, just not in the way I thought. For me, my difficulties with engaging socially have been compounded by the fact that I don’t hear well. I have the double whammy of being an introvert with hearing loss.

What Did You Say?

Sensorineural is a hearing loss best described as nerve damage of the pathways from your inner ear to your brain. Conductive is another type of hearing loss caused by problems with the bone that conducts sound through your ears. I have both sensorineural and conductive hearing loss. I remember when an ENT saw my audiogram, he exclaimed, “Wow! I’ve never seen this before!” Which, generally speaking, is not what you want to hear from your doctor.

Until a few years ago, the technology for hearing aids for my particular problems didn’t exist. I now have a bi-cross hearing aid, which takes sounds from my right side, where I have no hearing, and transfers it to my left side, where I have moderate hearing loss. But my nifty new hearing aids aren’t perfect. Sometimes they fail, as they might for anyone who wears them.

Introverts love solitude, introspection, and reflection, and they need time to recharge after social situations. Imagine being an introvert with hearing loss. The difficulty of managing social situations is magnified tenfold because I cannot always hear what is said to me. Even when I’m recharged and ready to engage with others, I often don’t — because of the challenges presented by my hearing. 

An Introverted, Hard-of-Hearing Teenager

When I was a teenager, my girlfriends spent hours chatting on the phone, but being both introverted and unable to hear well made that rite of passage unavailable to me. I was all right hanging out with one or two friends, but as soon as there was a group, I’d go home. When I did hang out with the crowd, I stayed close to my one or two friends. I was the quiet one who preferred to be alone in her room reading or writing. I still am, come to think of it.

College was hard for me for different reasons. In an Introvert, Dear article, Jana Louise Smit discusses how quiet people are often considered stupid. Our education system fails every introvert that has ever sat in a classroom. For some reason, educators believe that students need to talk to learn. No thought is given in either K-12 or university classrooms to the introverts who learn from quiet contemplation or solitary reading and writing. Susan Cain does a brilliant job covering this topic in Quiet.

Class discussions work well for some students, but not all students. Sometimes I’d lose track of the conversation. In one class, the professor decided that everyone should respond to the discussion. I had a hearing aid fail and didn’t hear most of what was said. I did what I always do in such situations, which is to wait until I can pick up the thread of the conversation.

Suddenly, everything stopped. I could tell by the professor’s body language and the students’ downcast gazes that something had happened — but I had no idea what. After class, my friend told me the professor had announced we weren’t continuing with the class until every person added to the conversation.

She was referring to me.

I hadn’t contributed because I couldn’t hear, and she was…what? Offended? She embarrassed me in front of everyone without considering why I might not have spoken.

As an introvert, especially an introvert with hearing loss, I learn by observing. Even introverts without hearing loss learn a lot by observing. I also learn by writing things out. I learn by quiet contemplation. I never lost out on learning because I didn’t always participate in conversations. I learn differently, that’s all.

Those Closest to You May Not Understand

 Even among friends, it can be hard. I have a couple of friends I’ve known for nearly ten years. They both know I have hearing loss. They both know I’m introverted. I remember the afternoon I sat with one friend, crying because someone had laughed at me because of my hearing loss. My friend was kind and sympathetic.

Yet this same friend was annoyed with me when I wouldn’t attend a gathering at her house. I loved visiting her when it was just two or three of us, but spending time with strangers, struggling to make small talk, struggling just to hear is too exhausting.

This same friend was distant toward me again when I didn’t attend our mutual friend’s retirement party. I’ve had to learn to forgive people for not understanding what it’s like to be me.

I’ve Had Many ‘Pretend’ Conversations

I can’t tell you how many conversations I’ve had where I couldn’t make out a single word the other person said. It’s amazing how far you can get mimicking the other person’s facial expressions and nodding. When a cue is missed, I say, “Oh, I thought you said (fill in the blank with whatever seems appropriate)” and the conversation I can’t hear continues.

If I were less introverted, I might have learned at an earlier age to be truthful about the fact that I can’t hear. How many honest connections with people have I missed because I wasn’t having a genuine conversation?

Isolated Not by Choice, But by Chance

Someone who is introverted may be alone but not feel lonely because we “quiet ones” enjoy solitary time. But there have been times when I wanted to socialize more and didn’t. There have been times when I felt isolated from the world — not by choice, but by chance.

Like some other introverts, I don’t consider myself a shy person. I enjoy talking to people and getting to know their stories — when I can hear them. Introversion is not synonymous with shyness, as Susan Cain points out.

Allison Abrams from Psychology Today wrote that introverts “…most simply have a lower threshold for small talk and superficialities. They prefer to conserve their energy for meaningful interactions that stimulate them, rather than shallow ones that drain them.” With my hearing loss, however, it can seem as if every interaction is draining since I have to struggle to simply make sense of what is being said.

Connections have been made between hearing loss and introversion. Roberta K. Ness for the Houston Chronicle wrote about how older men tend to check out in social situations due to their declining hearing. Most people would check out when it’s hard to hear. I know I do.

Ness also points out that isolation caused by hearing loss has been shown to increase depression and even accelerate dementia. Despite the challenges, being an introvert with hearing loss doesn’t have to be the end of all social interaction. 

What Can Be Done for Introverts With Hearing Loss?

While there is no one-size-fits-all solution for introverts with a hearing loss, here are a few tips I’ve discovered over the years:

1. I focus on what I’ve accomplished.

While I struggle with self-doubt like anyone, I’ve still achieved many things that I’m proud of. My hearing loss and introversion have never stopped me from achieving my goals. Once I set my mind to something, I get ‘er done.

2. I focus on what I do well.

Some introverts find their creative expression through writing, as I do. I find great joy in creating worlds with words. Since it’s hard for me to take part in social gatherings, I share my thoughts and feelings, my experiences, and my imaginings through the written word.

I’ve had to accept that I’m most comfortable at home reading and writing. I put myself down for years because I rarely wanted to go out where I knew hearing would be a struggle. Finally, I’ve accepted that I prefer to be alone or in the company of a few people. This is who I am, and that’s okay.

3. I’m more honest about my hearing loss.

For years, I would never tell anyone I couldn’t hear well. Quite simply, I was embarrassed. Finally, I started saying, “I wear a hearing aid and I can’t hear you.” People can be more understanding than we sometimes give them credit for. 

With my new hearing aids and my willingness to be honest about the fact that I can’t hear well, it’s easier to get through conversations. I don’t need to mime back people’s expressions. I can hear, talk, and connect. And that is a good thing.

How To Start a Story

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This is how I begin writing a historical story, or any kind of story, really.

First, I notice when I have ideas that might become a story. The ability to recognize potential story ideas is a skill that most writers learn at one point or another. We all have random thoughts that float through our minds at any given time of the day, but for fiction writers these ideas are necessary for our sanity because they give us something to write about. Not every idea will become a short story or a novel, and there’s nothing wrong with playing around with different ideas to see if they sing to you. For a project to become a novel the writer has to be so in love with the idea that it becomes more painful not to write it than to write it. Not every idea will become a project. But you need to give yourself the freedom to experiment and see which ideas are just passing through, perhaps on their way to someone else, and which ideas have latched onto your heart and plan on sticking around. If an idea keeps you up at night, or if it keeps itching away at you during the day, then that idea may well be a keeper. 

Second, I daydream. Daydreaming is necessary for fiction writers—for most artists, really. Or at least that’s what I tell people when I spend hours staring out the window, or at the wall, or anything else nearby. Sometimes, only occasionally, I may talk to myself. I don’t answer so it’s fine. For me, the daydreaming period is as important as the hours I spend actually writing the book. I need this time to allow myself to get a feel for who the characters are, how they respond in various situations, what it felt like to live during their time periods. Without imagination there is no land of make-believe, no living, breathing people to inhabit our stories, no sense of the time or the place where they live. 

Next, if I’m still compelled by these characters after spending some time living with them in their worlds, at that point I’ll begin brainstorming my ideas for the story. I allow my imagination the run of the house during this time. Sometimes I’ll do a mind map of my various ideas for the story, filling up my page or screen with any and all ideas that come to mind. Sometimes I’ll do bullet points. Other times I’ll write out my ideas in my journal. However I brainstorm, I’ll write down what I think I know about the characters, what I think I know about the time period, and any story ideas I have so far. Notice I said what I think I know about the characters and time period because I’m continuing to learn about them throughout the writing process. This is also where I’ll do my preliminary research into the era. This first toe-dipping into the historical period allows me to picture my characters during this time and sometimes, as I learn more about the people and events of that era, I come up with new ideas about the characters and the plot of the story. 

At this point, I’ll write an outline. You see all these quizzes online—are you a plotter or a pantster—and we’re supposed to fit neatly into one box or the other. If you’re not familiar with the terms, a plotter is a writer who plots out the story from the beginning and a pantser is someone who “flies by the seat of their pants” and goes with the flow, writing whatever part of the story they feel like without any plan. Most writers, I would venture to guess, fall somewhere in between. I certainly do. The logical part of my brain needs structure, at least to begin with, so I write an outline where I bullet point what I think will happen in the story. Again, I said what I think will happen because more often than not my outline changes as I continue writing. I’m not worried about a chapter by chapter breakdown at this point. I want a general feel for the story. More than the beginning, more than the middle, I’m looking for the ending of the story that makes me sit up and say yes, this is what this story is about. In other words, what I’m looking for first is the ending. Odd, probably, but for me, if I know how the story ends then I can create a map through the beginning and middle that brings me to where I want to be. Through trial and error and fried brain cells, eventually I’ll hit on the last line of the novel. Once I have that last line I can begin to construct a road map that will lead me, and the readers, through. A different way may work better for you. I know many writers who prefer to be surprised by the ending. I know many writers who work on the beginning first because it gives them a solid basis for the rest of the story. As with everything else to do with writing, experiment, try, fail, try again, and discover your own best way of uncovering your story.

Once I have a general outline then I’ll do my best to break down what I think I know about the story into a chapter by chapter outline. Even as I’m writing the chapter outline I know my ideas are fluid and the outline will change as I continue learning more about the characters and their stories. But you have to start somewhere, right? Once I have my chapter outline, then I’ll write my first draft.

I hate writing first drafts. There’s a reason why Anne Lamott and Ernest Hemingway refer to them as shitty first drafts. They are, in fact, shit. There’s also a reason why Dorothy Parker said, “I hate writing but I love having written.” As painful as it is, I know I have to push through the first draft because without it there’s no second draft and definitely no final draft.

Down Salem Way Giveaway

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To celebrate the release of all four books of the Loving Husband Series for the first time as a box set I’m giving away five paperback copies of Down Salem Way. All you need to do is fill out the simple form below. The giveaway is open internationally. Winners will be announced on Monday, February 3, 2020.

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And here is an excerpt from Down Salem Way where Lizzie encounters Reverend Parris and the ailing Betty Parris and Abigail Williams. Enjoy.

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These are the events of the day as related by Lizzie, which she repeated to me as soon as she arrived home. Lizzie is a keen observer and not much escapes notice of her attentive eyes. 

The rains have stopped and the floods have dried enough to make the roads passable so Lizzie decided to bring firewood to the Parrises. I helped Lizzie and Patience load the smaller of our two wagons with the chopped wood. Since she was headed to the Village anyway, Lizzie thought to bring some firewood and candles to her father and Mary. Patience hitched Bethuda to the wagon, and together they drove along the Ipswich Road, past the chandler, the wheelwright, the cobbler, and the inn. 

When they arrived near the Farms, Lizzie stopped at the parsonage since twas first on her way. Lizzie settled Bethuda near some wet grass outside. The horse doesn’t seem to mind the cold, used as she is to frigid winds, and the bay mare munched to her heart’s content. Patience gathered some firewood in her arms and followed Lizzie to the parsonage door. I have seen the Village parsonage and tis a respectable two-story dwelling about fifty feet long by twenty feet wide. 

Lizzie knocked at the door but no one came. She stood, listening, and since she heard voices inside she peered through the window. Twas smaller inside than Lizzie expected, smaller than our house, certainly. The front room was dark with the lack of firelight but there, in the corner farthest from the window, was one small bed containing one small girl, and there, in another corner, was another small bed containing a slightly larger girl. Lizzie saw Reverend Parris standing between the two beds, his head turned upward, whilst his wife sat near the bed of the smaller girl, wiping the girl’s brow with a cloth. Nine-year-old Betty Parris’ head flopped to the side, her arms still, so much so that Lizzie was afeared she was too late. In the other bed was 11-year-old Abigail Williams, Parris’ niece. Parris turned toward the window, saw Lizzie’s concerned face, and he nodded at a dark-skinned woman to open the door. 

As soon as Lizzie stepped inside she shivered, but not from cold, she thought. “Good day, Reverend Parris,” she said. 

Parris condescended a nod in her direction. “Mistress Wentworth.” As he turned he noticed the chopped blocks of wood in Patience’s arms. “The Lord has blessed us with firewood this day.” 

Lizzie knows Reverend Parris to be a determined man, powerful in his beliefs and firm in his actions. But something in him is changed. Perhaps tis his arguments with the Villagers. Knaves and cheaters, Parris calls them, and they call him worse. Lizzie remained near the door, searching for some understanding of the scowling man. His strong features are etched into a permanent mask of cantankerous impatience, his brow pressing down and his chin pressing up as though his face means to disappear altogether. He turned a smirk onto Lizzie, but his gaze softened when Patience shifted the weight of the wood from one hip to the other.  

I have not taken much notice of the Reverend’s wife, but Lizzie describes her as frail. Twas an interesting scene, Lizzie said. Both Reverend and Mistress Parris hovered over their nine-year-old daughter’s bed so that Lizzie could see only strands of sweat-soaked hair near the top of the quilts and a hand as translucent as ice. The dark-skinned woman swept between the beds, stopping now and again to peer anxiously at Betty.

Across the room, also covered by several quilts but with no worried faces hovering over her, was Abigail Williams. Whether the Parrises had already given Abigail their attentions and were turned now to their daughter, or whether they did not care as much how Abigail fared, Lizzie did not know. She saw the sand-brown hair, also sweat-soaked, and the translucent skin, and Lizzie felt a motherly urge to tend the girl. Mistress Parris approached Lizzie with a bowed head and prayerful hands.

“Blessings on you, Mistress Wentworth,” Elizabeth Parris said. She looked toward her daughter. 

Parris’ hair fluttered as he shook his head. “Christ hath placed His church in this world, as in a sea, and suffereth many storms and tempests to threaten its shipwreck whilst in the meantime He Himself seems to be fast asleep.” In that moment, Lizzie sympathized with the man Father calls the opposite of King Midas since everything Parris touches turns to shite. Parris is not an accomplished man. He did not finish his studies at Harvard College. He did not make a success of the family sugar plantation in Barbados. He did not succeed as a merchant. When he returned to the clergy the only parish that would have him was Salem Village, a hamlet of farmers, cantankerous farmers at that. Other reverends had been run out of the Village parish before him, so Parris must have known what he was taking on. In that moment, with his daughter and niece laying ill, perhaps even dying, Lizzie understood why Parris might think God had turned His back on his family.  

In two long strides, Parris stood near his niece’s bed as though deciding what to do with the girl. A quick movement near the cauldron brought Parris’ attention to the dark-skinned woman.

“Tituba!” Parris’ voice boomed. “Take the wood! Light a fire so we can have some warmth in this house. Have you such thick hide you cannot feel the cold?” 

Tituba did as she was bid. After she set the firewood aside, she lit the fire in the usual way, sweeping the cold ashes into the center of the hearth, laying the kindling and a triangle of logs over the ashes, then touching the flame of a lit reed round the kindling. With some encouragement, the flames  blossomed and Lizzie stepped toward the warmth. Parris took two more long strides, this time toward the fire where he stared into the licking blaze. 

Mistress Parris gestured toward the growing heat. “Look, Betty. Mistress Wentworth has brought us wood. Would you like to sit by the fire?” Betty showed no sign of understanding. 

Lizzie stood near Abigail, still alone, her body limp and her eyes dark against her pale complexion. At first, the girl stared at the white winter sunlight streaking through the window. Then she gazed through Lizzie as though Lizzie was not there. Lizzie’s urge to tend Abigail dissipated under the strength of the girl’s glare. Whilst the Parrises tried to spark some life in their daughter, Lizzie backed toward the door. 

“I’m sorry to see your girls so ill,” Lizzie said. “Please let us know if there’s anything else we can do.” 

“You’re very kind, Mistress Wentworth,” said Mistress Parris. “We do miss seeing you about the Village. How is your husband?”

Parris scoffed. “The merchant? He is busy working for Profit, not the Promised Land. He is worried about Gold, not God.”

Lizzie thinks Parris is strict with his flock since he hands out public punishments for minor infractions and noncomformists are beaten into submission. But Lizzie says Mistress Parris has always been kind to her. From the day the Joneses arrived in Massachusetts, Mistress Parris offered Lizzie what helpful tips she could about how to make a life on the Farms. The Parrises have been here but two years themselves.

Mistress Parris’ lips pulled thin as she turned her eyes to the floor. “Tis good to see you, Mistress Wentworth. We appreciate the firewood more than you know.”

Tituba opened the door. As Lizzie walked past the threshold the ailing girls barked like dogs. Lizzie stepped back inside, unsure what to do. Mistress Parris wiped tears from her cheeks with an unsteady hand, but a glare from her husband dried her eyes. 

“I’ll return with more firewood soon,” Lizzie said. “I hope to find the girls well when I return.” She looked again at Abigail. The girl’s eyes were closed now, her body prostrate once again. Then, as if pulled upright by a puppet master’s string, she jerked into a sitting position and began mumbling. What the girl said, Lizzie could not tell, but the straight back of Reverend Parris, and the worried mouths of Mistress Parris and Tituba, said enough. When Betty sat up in the same puppet-like manner, also mumbling, Parris stood stone-still between the two beds, looking from his daughter to his niece to his daughter again, his face blank.

Researching Historical Fiction

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How I research historical fiction has changed a lot over the years. When I first started researching historical fiction I would check as many books about my chosen era as I could carry from the library, take meticulous notes, color code my notes with highlighters (blue for information about foods, pink for information about fashion, etc.), return those books and check out another pile, and so on until I had enough information to begin drafting my story. As I was writing, I knew exactly where to look in my notebook for the information I needed. If I were writing a dinner scene, I could easily find my notes about what foods people ate then. Pieces of information I referred to often, important dates or events that I kept mentioning, were written on index cards, also color-coded, for easier access.

These days I don’t do all my research before I start writing. Now I do some preliminary research by reading generally around my topic and then I outline my novel. Usually, through the process of deciding the progress of the story, I realize that specific bits of information I’ll need and then I’ll search specifically for those bits. I still use libraries for research, but I do a lot of my research online these days through library websites and scholarly articles that I can access through my university’s library website. To organize my information (for food, clothing, political life, historical figures, and anything else I’ll need) I create different folders on Scrivener where I type my notes along with annotations about where I found the information.

On a side note, I wonder if we’ve lost something by going digital. I have writer friends who still take notes the old-fashioned way—by handwriting them—and I wonder if they aren’t onto something. I won’t bore you with the details, but there’s research that says that we tend to learn better if we handwrite something. We certainly learn more by handwriting than cutting and pasting information. Yes, it takes longer to write something than it does to type it (at least it does for me), but if you really want to learn the information then you might consider taking notes the old-timey way with pen and paper.

Completing my research on an as-needed basis saves me hours of research I’ll never use in the story. That’s not to say time spent researching is wasted time. Even pieces of information that don’t find their way into my narrative are still valuable since it gives me new background into the story I wouldn’t have had otherwise. And sometimes those pieces of information end up in different stories. That’s especially true if you write different novels set during the same era. I did a lot of research into the Salem Witch Trials when I was writing Her Dear and Loving Husband. Since the novel moves back and forth between present-day Salem and Salem in 1692, I didn’t use all the research I gathered about the era. When I wrote Down Salem Way, the prequel to Her Dear and Loving Husband, I was able to incorporate a lot of that research into my new story.

I have an odd habit of writing historical fiction set in eras I know little or nothing about. I came up with story ideas about the Salem Witch Trials, the Trail of Tears, Biblical Jerusalem, New York City and Washington, D.C. during World War I, and the American Civil War, and for each of those stories I had to learn the history to write the novel. I don’t mind when it happens that way, though. I often get ideas for the plot from my research, so the research helps to make my novel even richer than it might have been without the historical background.

When It Rained at Hembry Castle was a different experience. Due to my love for Dickens and years of reading about the Victorian era, I was writing about a time I was familiar with. When I began writing Hembry Castle I realized that I could include aspects of my favorite TV show, Downton Abbey, to bring the story to life. The hero of Hembry Castle, the aspiring young writer Edward Ellis, became the focal point of the story, along with his love interest, Daphne Meriwether, but then I decided to include upstairs and downstairs elements of life during the Victorian era as well.

In order to write this novel, I started with the author I know best—Dickens. I’ve read all his novels, many more than once, some more than twice, so I started with the one I knew had the most in common with the story I had in mind for Hembry—Our Mutual Friend. From there, I went back to a few favorite books about the Victorian era—What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew by Daniel Pool and The Victorian City: Everyday Life in Dickens’ London and Inside the Victorian Home: A Portrait of Domestic Life in Victorian England by Judith Flanders. I had read those books previously but reread them for a refresher course. While reading about the Victorian era, I discovered a new favorite historian, Ruth Goodman, who impressed me with the fact that she doesn’t just talk about Victorian clothing, she makes it and wears it. She’s tried out many elements of living in the Victorian era, which gives her work that much more authority. Her book, How To Be a Victorian: A Dusk-to-Dawn Guide to Victorian Life, is a must-read for anyone interested in life during the Victorian period. I also read The Writer’s Guide to Everyday Life in Regency and Victorian England From 1811-1901 by Kristine Hughes. Edward Ellis is loosely based on a young Charles Dickens, but I didn’t need to read anything specifically for that since I’ve read pretty much every biography about Dickens. It was nice to be able to use the information I had in my head for a change.

I realized that I needed to learn more about what the upstairs/downstairs world looked like in the 1870s. To my surprise, it wasn’t so different from the way it’s portrayed in Downton Abbey, which begins in 1912. While I picked up a lot about manor house living from watching Downton, as many fans of the show have, I felt I needed more specifics so I read Up and Down Stairs: The History of the Country House Servant by Jeremy Musson. I gleaned some great information from that book, and it provided a strong background for me so I could see how the country house servant evolved over the years. The upstairs/downstairs world isn’t part of our culture in America the way it is in England, and I wonder if that accounts for Americans’ fascination with Downton Abbey—it’s a glimpse into a lifestyle we weren’t familiar with.

As I stumble through my first draft of the story I get a sense of what information I need. As I was writing Hembry, I realized that if Edward was a political journalist then he would know politics (obviously). I needed to read about the political climate of the time, but it wasn’t too hard since I knew what I was looking for—events in British politics in 1870. I remember learning about Gladstone and Disraeli in a history class about Victorian Britain, and it was nice being able to put that knowledge to use as well.

I also realized that I needed information about Victorian etiquette. There were such specific rules for every aspect of life, and since part of Daphne’s struggle in the story is to learn to live in this upstairs/downstairs world, she had to learn those rules. I found The Essential Handbook of Victorian Etiquette by Thomas E. Hill, which was written for Americans during the Victorian era, but after a little digging I discovered that the rules were essentially the same in Britain so I used that book as my primary reference. I had a lot of fun writing those scenes because Daphne is rather amused by her grandmother’s nitpicking about how her manners aren’t refined enough for Society.

I was lucky enough to be able to visit England twice for research as I was writing Hembry. Most of the London locations in the story were chosen because they were places I’ve visited myself so I had seen what I was describing. I stood on the Victoria Embankment near the Houses of Parliament watching the Thames roll as Edward does. I’ve taken some of Edward’s walks through the city. Many of the buildings are different (I’m pretty sure The Gherkin wasn’t around in 1870), yet some of the buildings are the same, which is amazing to me. Here in Las Vegas buildings are imploded if they’re more than 20 years old.

In many ways, researching When It Rained at Hembry Castle was the easiest work I’ve done so far as a historical novelist because it was set in a time I was already familiar with. It’s always magical to me when I start to see how I can take this knowledge of history and weave it into the story I have in mind. What is even more amazing is when the history leads the story in directions I had never considered before. That, for me, is the joy of writing historical fiction.

Witches in Historical Fiction

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Witches and witchcraft are popular themes in novels, especially historical fiction. I’ve done more than my fair share of reading and writing historical fiction set around witches, witch accusations, and witch trials. The key to remember, at least with three of these novels, is that while the characters are accused of witchcraft, they aren’t necessarily witches. The one that stands out in this crowd is Daughters of the Witching Hill by Mary Sharratt, where Mother Demdike and her granddaughter Alizon do indeed seem capable of casting spells.

Daughters of the Witching Hill

I was drawn to this book because it’s about a witch hunt in Pendle Hill that took place in late 16th and early 17th century England. Sharratt’s narrative style caught me from the first page. The novel has an interesting premise.  What if those accused of witchcraft were actually witches who interacted with familiars? Sharratt’s main characters, Mother Demdike and her granddaughter Alizon, may suffer the consequences for their knowledge of magic.

The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane

I enjoyed reading this one because it’s similar to the Loving Husband Trilogy in that it goes back and forth between the past and the present. I read this while completing my own dissertation for my doctorate, so I could relate to Connie, a history graduate student, very well. Connie is working on her graduate thesis when she begins to have visions of a woman who was condemned for being a witch since she used healing herbs in Salem in the 1690s. Connie must unravel the mystery behind Deliverance Dane and her physick book to save herself and others.

The Witch of Blackbird Pond

I loved this book when I was a teenager and I still love it. Though Speare only wrote three books for young adults, each of the three are classics. More than any other book I read when researching Down Salem Way, The Witch of Blackbird Pond pulled me into life in a 17th-century Puritan colony. One of the things I had been struggling with was finding what day to day life in Puritan New England looked like. The Witch of Blackbird Pond helped me uncover that daily life in detail. Also, the main character, Kit Tyler, grows a lot during this story, as strong protagonists do.

Down Salem Way

I couldn’t have written Down Salem Way without reading the previously mentioned novels. Yes, it’s important to research the history when you’re writing historical fiction, but often other historical novels will bring the past to life in a more visceral way than nonfiction history books. Even though Daughters of the Witching Hill and The Witch of Blackbird Pond weren’t specifically about the Salem Witch Trials, they still dealt with how and why someone might be accused of witchcraft. The general story of what happens to Elizabeth Wentworth is already known to readers of the Loving Husband Trilogy. Uncovering the specifics of how and why Elizabeth is accused of witchcraft was the joy and the challenge of writing Down Salem Way. Reading other historical novels about similar times and similar circumstances helped to get my imagination rolling toward the answers.

If you’re writing historical fiction, by all means, yes, research the history behind what you’re writing. You must do that, or else why write historical fiction? But don’t forget to read other novels set during similar eras. Often the creativity of fiction will prompt your imagination to soar.

Christmas With the Wentworths

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Since this post was so popular last year I thought I’d share it again. Here’s Chapter 10 from Her Loving Husband’s Curse.

Happy holidays!

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A December storm broke over Salem, swinging the skeleton branches of bare-backed trees, dropping buckets of snow here and there—along the wide lawn of Salem Common, on the roof tops, covering the wooden House of the Seven Gables, hanging icicles from the Salem Witch Museum and Witch House—leaving Essex County a winter landscape fit for a North Pole postcard. The bay was flat and gray, reflecting the blotted sky and heaving clouds. It was Christmas Eve, and everywhere was decorated with Santas and reindeer and snowmen. Christmas lights, red lights, green lights, blue and white lights, rainbow lights, brightened the storm-darkened streets.

Sarah sat by the diamond-paned window in the great room watching the snow fall. Cinnamon-scented candles burned on the kitchen counter, and pine wreaths with red glass balls decorated the walls. The Christmas tree—Grace’s first, and James’ too—stood tall and green in the corner near the kitchen, decorated with rainbow lights and garland. The whole house glowed comfort and warm. Sarah thought of her favorite holiday song, “Silent Night,” and she hummed it, the lyrics fitting her mood: “All is calm, all is bright…” She thought of Grace, asleep in her crib, her golden curls framing her face like an angel’s halo. “Sleep in heavenly peace…” Grace was so like her father. Sarah smiled, and when she saw her reflection in the window she laughed out loud. She could see her own joy reflected back to her. 

Life doesn’t get better than this, she thought. 

The cauldron had been removed, leaving a screened-off fireplace, and a low fire burned, sending warmth into the great room. She turned on the radio and holiday music filled the space, the mellow tones of Bing Crosby’s voice lulling her. She checked the basket beneath the Christmas tree and saw that she had wrapped all her presents, for James and Grace, for Olivia and Martha, for Jennifer and Chandresh, for Timothy and Howard, for Jocelyn, Steve, and Billy. She would see them all the next night, Christmas night, when they would gather together in the wooden gabled house to celebrate. She went into the kitchen and checked the apple pies in the oven, then stirred the soup on the stove, crinkling her nose and closing the lid as quickly as she could. She realized she would do anything for her husband. When she heard the squeak of the front door as wood scraped against wood, she smiled. No matter how many times she saw him again, it was special.

[image error]Photo by Rodion Kutsaev from Unsplash

“Hello.”

“Hello yourself.”

She threw her arms around James’ neck and pointed up her chin. He kissed her, then brushed a few stray curls from her eyes. She took a step back, examining him, wondering. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

“I want to know how you know Chandresh from the Trail of Tears. I want to know what happened. And don’t you dare tell me another time, James Wentworth. I’ll scream loud enough to wake all of Salem if you tell me another time.”

“Another night?” 

Sarah wasn’t amused. “Is it something bad? You shouldn’t be afraid of telling me something bad. I’m not that fragile, James. Chandresh told me you helped his family. Tell me how you met him. Tell me what you saw on the Trail of Tears.”

“It’s a long story.”

“We have time.”

James sighed. “You win,” he said. 

“I always do.”

He went into the kitchen and made a pot of her favorite tea, Earl Grey. She sat on the sofa, watching him while he moved easily through the slick, modern kitchen. He wasn’t concerned when she remodeled, and he wasn’t upset when the cauldron was removed. “My life is now,” he said when the workers arrived to carry the heavy black pot away. “I don’t live in the seventeenth century anymore. We could get rid of it all, Sarah, the house and everything in it, and it doesn’t matter. You’re my home now.” As he brought her some tea, cream and two sugars the way she liked it, she realized she was amazed by him. He was so strong in every way.

She sipped her tea while he paced the great room, to Grace’s bedroom, to their bedroom, and back. He often paced when he spoke about the past. Finally, he said, “What would you like to know?” 

“How did you meet Chandresh?”

“Chandresh lived near me when I lived in the Smoky Mountains in the 1830s.”

“The Trail of Tears happened in 1838,” Sarah said.

“Yes.” 

“I thought you were in London in the 1830s.”

“I was, until 1837, when I came back here. I returned to London in 1843.”

“That’s when you tutored at Cambridge and met Dickens.”

James nodded. “When I returned in 1837, I came here to Salem for a while, but it was too hard. I kept wandering to Danvers to see the Rebecca Nurse Homestead, and I’d go to the Old Burying Point to spit on Hathorne’s grave. Not that I told Nathaniel I did that, though I suspect he wouldn’t have minded very much.”

“You knew Nathaniel Hawthorne?”

“I can’t say I knew him well. He was so shy he hardly said a word in company. If he said a complete sentence he was talkative that night.”

“There’s so much I want to know about you. But tell me about Chandresh.”

James stood near the window, looking at the mesh-like snowflakes fluttering down from the clouds. “He and his family were pushed off their land with the others.” His fingers tapped his legs as though he were typing out frustrated words. “It was more than losing their land. It was the unfairness of it all.”

“Unfairness shouldn’t surprise you.” Sarah patted the sofa, and James sat beside her. He leaned his head against the cushion and closed his eyes. His gold hair fell away from his face, and Sarah remembered why she was so taken when she saw him the first time, the very first time, in 1691. Sitting across from her at the supper table, he looked so thoughtful, so kind. So beautiful. And it was true. He was all those things. She stroked his face from his temple, down his cheekbone, over his lips, to his chin. He opened his eyes and smiled. 

“What was I talking about?” he asked.

“Chandresh.”

“Right.” He closed his eyes again. “You were here in the 1690s. You know what the Europeans thought of the natives.” 

“They thought the natives were inferior. Uncivilized.”

“European society centered around owning land. The more land you owned, the wealthier you were, the higher you were on the social ladder. But the native people didn’t believe in owning land. They believed land was meant to be shared. They worshipped nature, and they believed in a great spirit that created all life, and they believed all life was interconnected—the people, the rivers, the animals, the trees.”

“They believe all life is interconnected. They’re still here.”

“You’re right,” James said. “Then, the Europeans couldn’t understand the natives, their way of life, their way of thinking. The native people lived in the natural world, but the Europeans needed to separate themselves from nature. They built dams, cut down trees, built fences—this is mine, that’s yours over there. The native people’s creation stories emphasize having respect for all living things, not dominion over them. When the settlers realized the natives didn’t believe they owned the land, that made it easier to take it. It took years of wrangling, but finally the United States government got the land concessions it wanted from Cherokee leaders and pushed the people west to Oklahoma in the 1830s.” 

“Was Chandresh forced to walk?” 

“He was, along with his whole family. Nunna daul Isunyi, the Cherokee called it. The Trail Where They Cried. Chandresh didn’t know me when they began walking. He couldn’t see me then.”

“He couldn’t see you?”

“That part comes later.” James sniffed the air. “What is that? Not cookies?”

“Oh no.” 

Sarah rushed into the kitchen, slid on the heavy cooking mitts, and pulled the browned apple pies from the oven. She turned off the burner and moved the soup pot to the cool side of the stove. James stood behind her.

“What is that?” he asked again. 

“When I was writing the menu for Christmas dinner I remembered making blood soup when we were first married. I made blood pudding then too, but that’s a sausage and I didn’t think you’d like that as much. I found a recipe online, and…” 

“And…?”

“I used some blood from one of your bags and added some spices.” She opened the lid and dipped a ladle into the soup. “Can you eat it?” 

He leaned over the pot and inhaled deeply. “It smells good. I’m going to try some.” 

Sarah pulled a bowl from the cabinet and ladled in some soup. She grabbed a spoon from the drawer and set the bowl and the spoon in front of James as he sat at the table. He looked eager to try it, which pleased her. When he brought the spoon to his lips, she watched his face. 

James nodded. “It’s good, Sarah. The spices are different, but I like them.”

“Really?”

“Really. This is the first normal meal I’ve had in over three hundred years. Thank you.”

When James offered her a bite, Sarah wrinkled her nose.

“It’s all for you,” she said.

“You used to eat blood soup.” 

“I used to eat a lot of things I find disgusting now.” 

He ate a few more spoonfuls, nodding at each taste. “It couldn’t have been too pleasant making this.”

“I’ll do anything for you, James. I’ll even make you blood soup.”

[image error]Photo by Annie Spratt from Unsplash

Suddenly, James sat still, his head to the side, listening. Sarah knew his preternatural mannerisms well enough by now to know he heard something she couldn’t.

“What is it?”

“A smug, self-satisfied shuffle about five miles down the road.” James shook his head. “Geoffrey.” 

“What about him?”

“He’s here.”

As if on cue, Geoffrey knocked an offbeat tune on the front door. When Sarah stepped away, James grabbed her arm. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“To let Geoffrey in.”

“Why?” 

“Because I like him and I’m not leaving him outside on Christmas Eve.” 

“You like him?”

“He’s funny.”

Geoffrey’s voice boomed through the door. “That’s right, James. I’m funny.”

“You’re not that funny,” James said.

“I’m funny enough.”

Sarah opened the door, and Geoffrey bowed. “Good evening, little human person. How is the littlest human person tonight?”

“Good evening, Geoffrey. She’s fine. She’s sleeping.”

“Very good. One night I’ll come round whilst she’s still awake. I’d like to see her again.” He dropped onto the sofa and stared at the Christmas tree as though he had never seen one before. “Bringing the outdoors indoors. And it’s all sparkly like. Interesting.” Then he sniffed the air. “What’s that?” He skipped into the kitchen. “It’s… it’s…” He stood near the stove and sniffed the soup, closing his eyes while he savored the acrid aroma.

James pulled the bowl toward him. “My wife made it for me.” 

“What is it? You must tell me.”

“It’s blood soup,” Sarah said. “I made it for James for Christmas. Would you like some?” 

Geoffrey sat next to James at the table. “Let’s have a go.” 

Sarah pulled a bowl from the cupboard, ladled some soup into it, then set it in front of Geoffrey. 

“You can celebrate Christmas with us,” she said.

“Did you really make this for James for Christmas?” 

“I did.”

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“That’s rather nice, actually. I forgot how pleasant it was to have a wife, someone soft and warm who thinks about things like Christmas and soups one might like to eat. My wife always went on about little things she could do for my comfort. She was quite the little homemaker she was.”

“I didn’t know you were married,” Sarah said.

“Oh yes. My Becky was plump and pretty, just the way I like them, but it was a very, very long time ago. Nothing to concern ourselves with now, though I seem to be thinking of her more and more these days, especially when I’m here. All the memories…” He looked at James and sighed.

“Try your soup, Geoffrey,” Sarah said. 

He took a spoonful and nodded. “This is excellent, little human person.” He emptied the bowl in two bites and eyed the pot on the stove. 

“Would you like some more?” Sarah asked.

“Please.”

While Sarah filled his bowl, Geoffrey eyed James with an odd intensity. “When is your birthday, James?” he asked.

“Why do you care about my birthday?”

“I was just wondering when your birthday was, that’s all. You needn’t be so huffity-puffity over a simple question.” 

“His birthday is April 19,” Sarah said.

“How old are you?” Geoffrey asked.

“I’m more than 300 years old,” James answered. 

“More than 300? Heavens, you’re old.”

“I’m younger than you.” 

“That’s true enough.” Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed. “How old am I?” 

“How do I know how old you are?”

“When were you born?” Sarah asked.

“I haven’t a clue. It was ages ago.”

“Did anything special happen the year you were born?” 

“Don’t encourage him,” James said.

Geoffrey tapped his temple as though he were trying to jolt open some long-gone memory. “I remember Mother saying she named me Geoffrey Charles because I was born the same day as the future King Charles the First. Then there was something about the East India Company being granted a royal charter the month after I was born. She said she thought of naming me Geoffrey Shakespeare since I was much ado about nothing.”

James kept his mouth shut. He opened his laptop and searched the Internet. “1600,” he said. “King Charles the First was born on November 19, 1600.” 

Geoffrey grasped Sarah’s hands and danced with her around the great room, swinging her around, arm in arm like an elegant line dance. He stopped dancing and looked over James’ shoulder, his eyes squinting at the words through the glare of the flat computer screen. “What is that with the words on it?” 

“It’s a computer,” James said. “How can you be in the twenty-first century and not recognize a computer?”

“I am in the twenty-first century, James, I am not of the twenty-first century. I came of age in the days when bookbinding was an art. I am appalled at the state of what you call literature these days. In my time, we didn’t have electronic doodahs like iPigs. I prefer hardcovers that hurt your back when you carry them. That is a book. Though I suppose reading on a Snook is better than not reading at all.”

“On a Nook, Geoffrey,” said James.

“Whatever. It’s all nonsense. I’m from a courteous time when we had more eloquent forms of communication.” 

“Town criers.” 

Geoffrey turned toward James, his hands on his hips, his eyes slits, his lips pursed in annoyance with his vampling. “Do not mock a perfectly acceptable form of communication. A clean, simple way to get information, that. The town crier arrived, said his bit around town, and left us be to act on or ignore the news as we saw fit. You can’t pretend you don’t know things these days. Information is everywhere. When that story about vampires being real gets out it’ll be around the world in sixty seconds, let alone sixty days.” 

“Who’s putting out a story about vampires?” Sarah asked.

James shook his head. “Don’t pay any attention to him.” 

Geoffrey looked at James, at Sarah, then James again. He shrugged and tapped the laptop keys like a little boy trying to play the piano. “So what else does your magic box say about London in the seventeenth century? What else happened when I was born?” 

James swatted Geoffrey’s hands away, typed seventeenth century London into the search engine, and scrolled through the results. 

“Well? What does it say?”

“I don’t know,” James said. “I haven’t gotten there yet.”

“When did you start speaking like an American with that ridiculous accent?” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“You’re English.”

“I most certainly am not English.”

“You were born in London.”

“In 1662. A lot has happened since then, you know, a little something called the American Revolution.” 

“Oh that.”

“Oh that?”

“A little misunderstanding turned into a major blowout because you children couldn’t be bothered to pay your taxes.”

James glared at Geoffrey. “I think it had something to do with taxation without representation.”  

“Are you still blowing that old horn?” Geoffrey’s frustration showed as two pink spots on his white-blue cheeks. “You know perfectly well that whole taxation without representation shtick was a ruse. You had representation through the colonial legislature, yet you only paid one twenty-sixth of the taxes we paid. We were just trying to recoup some of our losses. You children were expensive to care for, needing protection from the natives over here and whoever else over there.” 

“There wasn’t enough representation. Our votes wouldn’t have counted for anything.”

“Aha!” Geoffrey hopped from foot to foot, pointing at James, the glee everywhere in his bright eyes and wicked smile. “Finally, after more than two hundred years you admit you had representation. Taxation without representation my patooties.” Geoffrey paced the great room, propelled by his agitation. “You know the real problem? You didn’t care about the tax levied on tea. You cared that we undercut the price of tea from the smugglers. Surprise! Most of the colonial leaders were smugglers! And let’s not forget that the English agreed to stop stealing land from the Indians. That wasn’t good enough for you greedy, land-hungry colonists.”

“Don’t you dare call me a land-hungry colonist,” James said. He stood to his full height, eye to eye with Geoffrey. “I did everything I could to help the people after their land was taken. I even slunk as low as you.” He stopped short, unable to continue. Sarah didn’t know.

“I know what you did,” Geoffrey said. When Geoffrey saw the shocked expression on James’ face, the way James looked at Sarah to see if she noticed anything odd about the turn of their conversation, he backed away. He whispered so only James could hear. “She doesn’t know?” James nodded. “You keep a lot of secrets from your little human person.” James nodded again. 

In a voice loud enough for the neighbors to take part in the conversation, Geoffrey said, “I think you need to write an essay admitting how you wayward American children had representation through the colonial legislature, there, Professor Doctor James Wentworth, and get it published in all those boring scholarly journals only academics read. It’s about time we get that story straight.”

“I think you should go around Massachusetts as a town crier and shout it out at all the public buildings,” James said. “You can start at Faneuil Hall in Boston. You can leave right now.”

“I think…”

Sarah pushed her way between them, arms out, keeping them on separate sides of the room like a teacher breaking up a fight on the playground. “Boys,” she said, “please, let it go. It was a long time ago.”

“Listen to your wife,” Geoffrey said. “She’s smarter than you.” He walked back to his corner by the kitchen. “What about you, Missy? When did you start speaking with that ridiculous American accent?”

“I was born in Boston,” Sarah said.

Geoffrey pointed at Sarah’s head. “You were born in Boston.” He pointed at her heart. “But you were born in England.” He looked toward the kitchen. “Can I have more soup?” he asked. 

James shrugged. “Help yourself.” 

After Geoffrey left, James stood outside making sure the annoying creature was gone. He looked perturbed, James, as if Geoffrey were an unfortunate relation you have to deal with maybe on Thanksgiving and Christmas or Easter, and then you don’t think about him the rest of the year. When James walked back into the house, Sarah took his hands. 

“I don’t understand why you invited him to our wedding if he annoys you so much,” she said. “He thinks you’re friends now so he stops by sometimes.”

James shook his head. “I don’t understand it myself. I’m appalled and fascinated by him at the same time. I hate him for abandoning me after he turned me, yet I feel drawn to him, connected to him, like he has some answer I’ve been looking for. Perhaps it was the note.”

“What note?”

“After he came here the first time he left me a note saying he hadn’t abandoned me the way I thought he had. He kept track of me, he knew everywhere I was, everything I did, but since I was doing all right he stayed away.”

“Maybe he thought he was doing the right thing. Maybe he thinks creating vamplings is like being a mother bird who pushes her young from the nest—that’s how you help them fly.” 

James shook his head. “There are other ways to help vamplings learn to survive. You help them by being there. Teaching them. Letting them know they’re not alone in the world.” 

“Like being a parent.”

James smiled. “Yes,” he said.

Sarah brushed some stray gold strands from his eyes. “Geoffrey’s a link to your past.”

“I suppose he is.” James looked at the pot on the stove. “How about more of that soup?” 

“I can do that.” Sarah ladled more soup into his bowl and set it in front of him “Look how normal we are,” she said. “A husband and wife together on Christmas Eve, the husband eating soup, holiday music in the background, a fire in the hearth, our daughter asleep in her crib getting ready for her first Christmas. We’re just like other families.”

“We were visited by Geoffrey and you think we’re like other families?”

“All families have a crazy relative. It’s mandatory.”

“Geoffrey a relative? God help us.”

James finished the soup and licked the spoon. “That’s one thing Geoffrey was right about,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“You’re smarter than I am.”

Sarah smiled. “I know,” she said.

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