Meredith Allard's Blog, page 24

Character Inspiration: Sarah Alexander and Elizabeth Wentworth

[image error]Fans of the Loving Husband Trilogy are familiar with Elizabeth, the greatest love of James Wentworth’s life. She is the woman he sees across the dining room table in Salem Village in 1692, and her beauty and warmth capture his heart forever. But where did the idea for Elizabeth come from? And who came first, Elizabeth or James’ future love, Sarah Alexander?

To answer the second question first, trying to figure out who came first, Elizabeth or Sarah, is like a chicken and the egg question. On the one hand, you think the chicken had to come first because how can you have an egg without a chicken to lay it, but then you think it had to be the egg because where would a chicken come from if there wasn’t an egg to hatch from? You can’t have Sarah without Elizabeth. They’re too intertwined. Chronologically, Elizabeth was first since she married James in 1691, and James and Sarah married in 2011.

Writing the novel was more complex than following the chronology. My initial concept for Her Dear & Loving Husband was for it to be a completely modern novel. In my mind, Sarah came first. The bigger story that includes the Salem Witch Trials didn’t come to me until I decided where to set the novel. Once I decided to set the story in Salem and include the witch trials, then Elizabeth appeared. Are Sarah and Elizabeth exactly the same? Not quite. Obviously, they share similarities, but Elizabeth lives in the late 17th century; Sarah lives during our times. The differences between them are the differences you might expect from people who live in different centuries.

Sarah was easier to conceptualize since she’s a modern woman. I can’t say that there was any one major inspiration for Sarah. For most of the characters I write, I imagine a favorite actor in the “role” of the character, which gives me a sense of mannerisms and speech cadence. For example, for John Wentworth, James’ father, I imagined one of my all-time favorite actors, Sir Patrick Stewart, as John, which gave me a very clear vision of how John would sound as he spoke, what he looked like, and how he acted. I didn’t have a particular actress in mind for either Sarah or Elizabeth. They were completely figments of my imagination, which can work as well since I can allow my imagination to run wild. While we’re on the subject, I didn’t have a specific actor in mind for James. Every other character in Her Dear & Loving Husband had a well-known actor in the “roles.” Call it my Loving Husband dream team. But the three leads—James, Sarah, and Elizabeth—were all from my own imaginings.

[image error]Elizabeth is more of a mystery in Her Dear & Loving Husband. We see her in snippets throughout the novel, and we have some sense of her personality, and we see how close she and James are so that we undertand why James was so devastated by her loss during the witch hunts. But we don’t learn a lot about her. She’s there in the background, a shadow that haunts both James and Sarah, but by the end she’s relegated to her role as a memory. My inspiration for writing Down Salem Way came from the fact that I felt like there was more to explore about James and Elizabeth’s experiences in Salem in 1692. I wanted to know Elizabeth better. I wanted to see more of James and Elizabeth together, happy, content in their lives together, and I wanted to examine how it all fell apart, through no fault of their own.

Character inspiration can come from anywhere. It can come from books, movies, TV shows, music, people you know, favorite actors, or your imagination. My imagination was my main tool for creating both Elizabeth and Sarah. What I’ve learned from this experience is that you can go home again—at least when you’re writing fiction. I wanted to explore Elizabeth a little more, and now I’m able to do that through writing Down Salem Way.

You can see the first sneak peek of Down Salem Way here. It’s written diary-style from James’ point of view. I’m enjoying writing as James. It’s time he had his chance to share his side of what happened in 1692.

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Sneak Peek: Prologue, Down Salem Way

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20 December 1691

My life has only just begun. Is that not odd? I am nine-and-twenty years old and did not know who or what or why I was until I met my Elizabeth.

How did I know she was the one for me? In truth, I cannot say, but knew I did from the instant I saw her. Twas but three months ago, over the supper table where we were gathered with friends from the Village where Elizabeth and her father and sister had recently arrived from England. I noticed her the moments I walked in I saw her floating gracefully about the simple wooden cabin, making sure everyone’s mugs and bellies were full, caring for her younger sister, tending to her father. And then our eyes met and my life on earth made sense to me. I wanted to know Elizabeth, and when I discovered that she wanted to know me, I knew why I was brought forth on this earth—to love and cherish this woman.

I am not a religious man. I believe in God, I believe in His mercy, but I do not believe our lives are predestined, mapped out for us before we are born. I do not believe we have to forgo earthly joys in pursuit of some unknown Paradise in a mysterious afterworld. I believe we make our own fortunes through our work, our families, our friends, and elsewhere. I can devote my heart and soul to my wife and still do good and be good to those I love on earth and those I love in heaven. I listen to Reverend Noyes in the meeting house on a Sunday and his brimstone and hellfire sermons do not prompt my piety. There is a lot of brimstone and hellfire here in Salem, but I let it pass over me. If this is what others believe, that is all and well, but I believe in a God of compassion.

I’m certain I sound like an old married man though I have been married but this week past. Though my father is one of the wealthiest men in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, my wife is a farmer’s daughter, and she decided that our wedding would be a simple affair with family and a few friends. My wife, beautiful no matter her clothing, looked ethereal in the brown silk that matched the brown silk of the wisps of her hair that fell from her coif and the brown silk of her soft eyes. My father presented us with the best food and drink money could buy—spiced hard cider, fish chowder, stewed oysters, parsley-flavored mussels, roasted game birds, red pickled eggs, succotash stew, bearberry jelly, rye bread, maple syrup candy, nutmeats, my wife’s bride cake, and my father’s favorite, the Indian pudding with dried plums and West Indian molasses.

For myself I was all of nerves, trembling and stumbling, not from fear but from disbelief that Elizabeth Jones was about to become my wife. I forgot to tidy my hair or my clothing prior to the wedding, and I’m sure I looked like a rumpled roll of bedding tossed from the last ship to dock from England. I had to run to my own wedding, smiling, happy, impatient to create a life with the woman I love. It has been cold this December, but Elizabeth decided we would be married after the harvest months so that my father-in-law, a farmer, and our other friends from the Village could join in our joy. The magistrate recited the vows. My wife and I exchanged rings. My father bought us the rings, for, though rings are unpopular here where any earthly adornment is considered vain, he says that the thin bands represent eternity, which is as long as I shall love my wife.

“I shall never leave you ever,” I said to my blushing bride, and she promised me the same. My father brought us to our new two-story, two-gable house, one of the larger homes in Salem Town, his wedding present to us. When Elizabeth and I were finally alone, I was tongue tied. I had been dreaming of this moment from the very first time I saw her, but there I was in the great room staring into the kitchen where she appeared to be examining the larger cauldron hanging from the center of the hearth. I thought if she spoke first then she might alleviate the awkwardness. Finally, I laughed, and she laughed, and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is where I’m supposed to be, in my beautiful home with my beautiful wife, and there was nowhere else in the world for me.

As I sit here looking through the diamond panes into the fading daylight I see my Elizabeth sitting in her chair by the heat of the hearth, her feet up on the tapestry-covered stool, a book in her lap, the flickering flames illuminating her peach-like complexion, her lips parted as if she had bitten into berries that stained her full mouth red, her dark curls falling down her back, her hair loose since it is just we two in the privacy of our home, her thin linen shift covered by a shawl to protect her from the cold that still filtered between the diamond panes of the windows. She looks from her book to me and smiles, and I know that all is well in the world. As I write this she stands, places her book on the chair she had been sitting on, and walks to me. She is placing her warm hands on my shoulders, and with the knuckles of her thumbs and forefingers presses the tight muscles of my neck and shoulders into submission. I exhale and lean back into her kneading hands, allowing the relief they bring me body and soul.

I thank God every night for this woman. Who am I to have such good fortune? Tonight, I, James Wentworth, am a content man, a joyous man, a grateful man with my loving, radiant wife beside me.

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5 Books to Read if You Love Fantasy Romance

[image error]One of the fun things about reading is that once we discover a new genre we love we go on the hunt to find similar books. Since I love historical fiction, it’s relatively easy to find more to read since I’m interested in most eras of history. I love novels set everywhere from Ancient Greece to the Jazz Age. As an author, I’ve written books set in Biblical Jerusalem, the American Civil War, World War I and the women’s suffrage movement, the Salem Witch Trials, the Cherokee Trail of Tears, the Japanese-American internments during World War II, and the Victorian Era. It’s fair to say I have varied tastes as a reader and writer of historical fiction.

Fantasy romances were another matter. After I wrote the Loving Husband Trilogy I stayed away from other fantasy romances because I felt like I needed to extend my horizons as a reader and a writer. Then recently I discovered Outlander (novel and TV show), and I fell in love with the fantasy romance genre all over again. Like any other reader, I scrambled to find other books that gave me that same magical, historical, romantic feel.

Here are five books for lovers of fantasy romance:

[image error]Outlander—As you probably already guessed, Outlander is at the top of my list. Outlander has everything I love—fascinating historical descriptions of 18th century Scotland, a fast-moving plot, a genuine love story, and a hunky male lead. There are eight books so far in the series, and as of this writing I’ve read the first two. All of the books are at the top of my TBR pile, and I’m looking forward to reading them all. Definitely start with Outlander. It really does set the tone for the overall story.
[image error]A Discovery of Witches—This was published around the same time Her Dear and Loving Husband came out, and I think I was afraid to read it because it sounded similar in many ways to my own story of a vampire professor. I’m glad I finally picked it up. I’m nearly finished reading A Discovery of Witches, and I’m ready for Book Two. This first book in the All Souls Trilogy also talks about history (how can you have a conversation between a witch historian and a vampire professor without discussing the past?), but my understanding is that in Book Two there’s a time travel element where Matthew and Diana visit Matthew’s past. Like Outlander, there’s history, magic, and a great romance in A Discovery of Witches.
[image error]The Time Traveler’s Wife—Here’s another romance with the mystery of time travel. This is a story of a great love that continues despite the many obstacles in Henry and Clare’s way (it’s hard when the man you love suddenly disappears). But Henry and Clare are committed to each other, and in a way the problems associated with Henry’s time traveling only serve to strengthen their love.
T[image error]he Mists of Avalon—I read this last year, and I absolutely loved it. It is a magical retelling of the story of Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, and it’s told from the women’s point of view. While there are romances (this is based on the legends of the Knights of the Rount Table after all), the emphasis here is on the magic of the faery world, the priestesses of Avalon, and the emergence of Christianity. This is part of a series, and though I’ve only read The Mists of Avalon, there are other books to enjoy if you love the first one.
[image error]Her Dear & Loving Husband—You didn’t think I’d leave my own James and Sarah off this list, did you? The fantasy in this book, and in the whole Loving Husband Trilogy, comes from the magic of vampires, witches, werewolves, and ghosts. The romance, of course, is between vampire James Wentworth and human Sarah Alexander, and their love spans more than 300 years. There’s also history thrown in through accounts of the Salem Witch Trials in 1692. I talked in this post about how I see my books as romantic rather than romances, but if you’re into heartwarming love stories, then Her Dear & Loving Husband may be right up your alley.

I said this was going to be a list of five books to read, but each of the novels on this list is part of a series, so there’s actually many books here to help you quench your thirst for more fantasy romance.

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Watching the Witch Trials: The Crucible and Three Sovereigns for Sarah

To get into the flow of life in the Massachusetts Bay Colony while I’m writing Down Salem Way, I just rewatched The Crucible, which is a story I love. When I was teaching American literature, one of my favorite lessons was when we read and watched Miller’s work because there’s such depth to the story and it provided much for us to think and talk about. When I rewatched The Crucible, it was helpful seeing the period costumes, the wooden houses, the horse-drawn carriages, and the farming because it helps me visualize what I’m writing about.

[image error]It’s important to remember that Miller’s play is an allegory where the witch hunts represent the finger-pointing madness of McCarthyism where no one was safe from accusations of Communism. For anyone familiar with the events of the Salem Witch Trials, it’s easy to say that The Crucible is more fiction than fact. However, the point of the play is not to illuminate the real-life events of the witch hunts but to make a point about how easily we turn against each other when it suits our purposes. The names of those involved in the witch hunts are true and the general events are based on fact; the specifics of the play, however, not so much. Abigail Williams was 11, John Proctor in his 60s, and I feel  confident saying that he looked nothing like Daniel Day-Lewis. To know about the Salem Witch Trials and allow for the way it’s presented in The Crucible, you have to accept Miller’s story for what it is—a parable about how vulnerable we are to our own weaknesses. Miller was a master at dialogue—there is not one word out of place—and Proctor’s speech at the end (where he cannot sign a false confession) sums up perfectly why so many of those convicted of witchcraft wouldn’t falsely confess despite the fact that confession would save their lives.

[image error]If you use Amazon , you’re familiar with those lists of “If you like this, you’ll like this…” Sometimes I find those lists annoying, but the day I watched The Crucible another title popped onto my TV screen—Three Sovereigns for Sarah. I wasn’t familiar with this movie starring Vanessa Redgrave, but in a way the 1985 film is the perfect companion piece to The Crucible since Three Sovereigns for Sarah is also about the Salem Witch Trials. The main difference is that Three Sovereigns is based more on factual accounts; in fact, much of the dialogue in the film comes directly from transcripts from the trials in 1692. Three Sovereigns is about three sisters caught up in the horror of the witch hunts—Rebecca Nurse, Mary Easty, and Sarah Cloyse (played by Redgrave). Rebecca and Mary are hung after their witchcraft convictions, while Sarah survives, barely, because she was jailed away from the others due to the prisons in Salem and Boston overflowing with suspected and convicted witches. Twenty years later, seeking to clear her sisters’ names, Sarah is given three sovereigns, one for each sister, meant to appease her loss under such tragic circumstances.

Watching the film version of The Crucible does give a sense of life in Salem in 1692, but really I watch The Crucible for the pinpoint perfect dialogue and the message within the story (and, yes, for Daniel Day-Lewis). Watching Three Sovereigns for Sarah gives a more accurate account of what really happened during the witch hunts. As someone currently writing about the Salem Witch Trials, both The Crucible and Three Sovereigns have played a role in helping me bring Salem in 1692 to life.

[image error]On the literary side, I’ve downloaded The Scarlet Letter, the classic from Nathaniel

Hawthorne (a descendant of Salem Witch Trial magistrate John Hathorne, Nathaniel having added the w to the spelling of his surname to avoid a direct connection to his decidedly unsympathetic ancestor). The Scarlet Letter is not about the witch hunts, but it is about life in Puritanical Massachusetts, which will also help me get a feel for the time. I’ve also discovered a documentary about the Salem Witch Trials from the History Channel, and I’m looking forward to the new perspective that will bring.

I look at it this way: I get to watch TV and read classic literature and call it work.

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Excerpt: Chapter 3, Her Dear and Loving Husband

CHAPTER 3

J[image error]ames Wentworth arrived on the campus of Salem State College a half an hour after dark. He parked his black Ford Explorer in the parking lot off Loring Avenue near the Central Campus and walked past the Admissions Office and the bookstore, stepping out of the way of a student speeding toward the bike path. After he walked into the library he paused by the door to watch the young people studying at the tables, searching the stacks, hunching over the computers, so raw and fresh they still had that new-car smell. They had so much ahead of them, James mused. The world was exciting to them, adventures waiting to be had, dreams to be discovered, loves to be found and lost and lost and found. The students in the library were naïve, yes, but that would be tempered by experience and learning. Some of them thought they already knew everything they would ever need to know, but James had compassion for them. We think we know it all, but we never do, no matter how long we live.

Class that night was lively. These students had opinions and they liked discussing and debating, which kept the energy high. There is no worse class than when there were thirty silent students who wanted nothing more than to listen to the professor speak for fifty minutes and leave. That night’s class was an independent study seminar where the students chose which work of literature they would focus on. Usually, James found, the young people were predictable in their choices—Dickens, Shakespeare, Twain, Thoreau—but that term the students were more creative. One was studying Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray about the cursed man who never ages, a story James thought of often. He was amused by the choice, and curious.

“Why The Picture of Dorian Gray?” he asked.

“Staying young forever?” Kendall said. “How cool is that? I mean, don’t you want your hair to stay blond, Professor? You want to turn old and gray?”

James shook his head. “On the outside Dorian stayed young-looking and fresh-seeming, but on the inside he became decrepit in ways no one would guess. His physical body didn’t age, but the catch was, as the years passed, he grew more depraved and detached from human decency.” James looked at Kendall, a Junior about twenty years of age, her sandy-brown hair slung back in a ponytail, wearing a blue and orange Salem State College t-shirt with the Viking logo. Her expression hadn’t changed.

“Dorian looked young, Professor Wentworth. Isn’t that all that matters?”

“A youthful appearance is certainly valued in our society, but don’t you think there could be problems always looking the same while you grew in knowledge and experience?”

“But looking young forever would keep me out of the plastic surgeon’s office.”

“Fair enough,” James said.

“I mean, my sister is twenty-five, and she’s already getting Botox.”

James sighed as he surveyed the classroom, admiring the bright, fresh faces, and he wondered how many others were convinced they looked old when they were oh so very young. He scanned the list in his hand and his eyes grew wide. He pressed his wire-rimmed eyeglasses against his nose as he looked at Trisha, sitting front and center, a bright student, one of his hardest workers, and he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at her choice. He wouldn’t have guessed it of her.

“Why did you choose Bram Stoker’s Dracula?” he asked.

“Because I love that genre,” Trisha said. “I love the idea that there are supernatural beings so extraordinary out there walking unnoticed among us. Since we’re not looking for them we don’t see them, and when we do see them it might be too late.”

“Do you believe in vampires?” he asked.

“Of course not. That’s silly.”

“Yes,” he said. “That is very silly.”

“Besides, even if there were really vampires no one would believe it. It just doesn’t seem possible.”

“You’re right. Let’s hope we never have to find out.”

Levon Jackson, another bright student, an ice hockey player touted as a potential NHL draft, patted Trisha’s shoulder and shouted a loud “Amen!”

James sat on the edge of the instructor’s desk at the front of the room. Levon was one of his favorites that term, in two of his classes, and the young man so rarely shared without raising his hand. Though James insisted from the first day that students didn’t need to raise their hands, this was college, not kindergarten, Levon was always respectful, polite, waiting for James’ attention before he spoke.

“Amen to what, Levon?” James asked.

“Amen to let’s hope we never have to find out. Who wants to learn there’s some nasty old vamp lurking around somewhere?”

“There’s nothing to find out,” said Jeremy, who had aspirations of doctoral school at Harvard. “Who wants to waste time on make-believe?”

“Vampires could be real,” Kendall said. As other students laughed and hissed, she turned her scrunched face to the class. “Why not? Stranger things have happened.”

“How can something be dead and alive at the same time?” Jeremy asked.

“I’m not saying it’s true,” Kendall said. “I’m just saying it’s possible.”

Levon slapped his large hands over his ears, his palms flat against his head. “I don’t want to hear any more about vampires!” James couldn’t tell if he was joking.

Jeremy smirked. “You must cover your ears a lot, Levon. Everyone everywhere is talking about vampires. Vampire movies. Vampire television shows. Vampire books.” Jeremy’s fingers went to his temples and he shook his head from side to side. “I am so damn sick of vampires.”

James watched his students with a mixture of amusement and caution. He didn’t want to stifle the conversation, and he wouldn’t quell their questioning, but he didn’t like the turn the conversation had taken. Levon turned his desk so he could look Jeremy in the eye. He wasn’t intimidating, James noted, only serious.

“My pastor says there are evil spirits, minions of Satan, all around us, especially at night. He says they seek innocent souls to prey on, and if we’re not careful the evil will consume us.” Levon looked around the room, one student at a time, without a hint of sarcasm. “I know there’s evil in the world. Maybe it’s ghosts. Maybe it’s witches. Maybe it’s vampires. Maybe it’s the Devil himself. Whatever it is, I don’t want any part of it, and I don’t want it anywhere near me. Evil like that needs to be destroyed.”

“Do you really believe that?” Jeremy asked.

“I do.”

The students argued amongst each other, some louder than others. They were so caught up in their opinions they didn’t notice as James moved from the desk to the window. He unhooked the latch and pushed the glass up, letting in a cool blast of air, the combined scent of the salty sea and the storm dropping soon. Suddenly, the shouting voices stopped. James heard the silence, but he didn’t turn around. He watched the tree leaves sigh and weave from their branches. He watched the moon hanging in wait overhead. He wasn’t trying to be dramatic. He was waiting for the right words to come.

“That could be dangerous,” he said finally, “making judgments and deciding where, or if, others have the right to live.” He was talking to no one in particular, to the windowpane, the trees, the night breeze, his own furrowed brow. “People have lost their lives because of such judgments.”

“What that is, Professor, is a loaf of bullshit,” said Jeremy.

The class laughed.

“It isn’t,” said Levon. “I don’t want anything to do with any vampires. I don’t want to see anything about them. I don’t want to hear anything about them. They’re evil.”

Silence fell over the class again. James turned from the window and saw twenty-five oh so very young faces waiting for him to make sense of it all. That was how class often went. James offered some topic of discussion based on their reading, the students would discuss, or argue, and then James would share some insight that tied the pieces together. Then the students left with some new knowledge that hopefully they’d remember, some lesson they’d carry all their lives, or at least until the next midterm. James wished they would take more responsibility for forming their own opinions, but he was the professor, after all, the one with the college degrees paid to profess his knowledge to classes of impressionable minds. But that night the class had a different feel. He didn’t know if the students could sense the shift, but he could. For the first time, he didn’t know what to say.

Timothy Wolfe, a dark-haired, pale-skinned student, stood up in the back of the class, a flash of anger in his black eyes. James gave Timothy a warning glance, but Timothy didn’t seem to see him. Rather, James guessed from Timothy’s glint, that he was being ignored.

“Why do you assume vampires are evil?” Timothy asked.

The other students turned around, surprised, as if they had never noticed Timothy before. And they probably hadn’t. He was always so quiet, never answering a question or offering an opinion, staking out his usual seat in the back near the door, bolting as soon as James dismissed them. James stood back, his arms crossed over his chest, watching Timothy’s every move as the boy walked toward Levon, the ice hockey goalie, looking like David challenging Goliath.

“Timothy…” James said, caution in his tone.

Timothy jabbed a frustrated finger in Levon’s direction. “I mean, if vampires were real, which they’re not, but if they were, everyone thinks they’d be evil. But not everyone is the same.”

“There can’t be any such thing as a nice vampire,” Levon said. “They’re bloodthirsty, angry devils who’d suck the life right out of you. Who knows how many people they’d kill. Probably one a night.” Levon stood, his athlete’s physique towering over Timothy, who looked too small, too fragile. “Vampires are the way they are, and they all belong in one category: villain.”

James looked at Levon. For the first time that night he was annoyed with the young man. “You don’t believe that people, human or otherwise, can overcome their violent tendencies?”

“I don’t.”

“No matter how much they want to change? No matter how resolved they are? Are we victims of some predetermined destiny? I knew some people who thought that way once. They weren’t a pleasant group to live around.”

“I think if you’re mean you’re mean and if you’re not you’re not.”

“You’ve been watching too many horror movies,” Jeremy said. He didn’t try to hide his disdain. He closed his textbook and shut down his notebook computer. He looked at the time, at the door, at the window. Then he began texting on his cell phone. James didn’t stop him.

“If I knew a hot vampire like Edward or Bill I’d give them as much of my blood as they wanted,” Trisha said. She giggled, and so did the girls sitting next to her. “They could bite me anytime.”

James looked at the clock on the wall. “Time’s up,” he said. “See you next week.”

As the others filtered single file from the classroom, Levon turned to James. “No hard feelings, Doctor Wentworth?”

“Of course not, Levon.”

Levon smiled, a flash of white brilliance, and he extended his hand. James stepped behind the instructor’s desk, sliding his hands into the pockets of his khaki trousers.

“I’m sorry,” James said. “I have a cold and I don’t want you to get sick. You have a big game tomorrow night.”

Levon pointed out his folded arm instead. “All right, elbow bump.”

James laughed, and they touched elbows.

“Good luck tomorrow night,” James said.

“You coming to the game?”

“I’d love to but I can’t. Midterms coming up, you know. Maybe next time.”

“You need to get out more. I never see you out with the other professors, and I never see you around town. You never go to the games. Are you married?”

James was startled by the suddenness of the question, and he tried to set his expression. He didn’t want Levon to see how shocked he was, but the look on Levon’s face told him he had not been quick enough.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Levon said. “I was just wondering if you had anyone waiting for you at home.”

“Not anymore.”

“Too bad. You’re a youngish guy, what, about fifty?”

James shook his head. “You young people think everyone older than you is fifty. I’m thirty, Levon.”

“All right, thirty, even better. From the way the girls giggle about you, you must be okay. They all have a crush on you.”

“They do not.”

“They do.” Levon threw his backpack over one shoulder. “You should find a friend before it’s too late, Doctor Wentworth, you know, a nice lady. That’s all I’m saying.”

James sat on the edge of a student desk, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the young man in front of him.

“You’re right,” James said, laughing, like the fact that he kept so much to himself was the biggest joke in the world. “Not about finding a nice lady. I did that once. I mean about getting to a game. I’ll come soon. I promise.”

Levon seemed satisfied with that answer. As Levon left the classroom, James saw Timothy loitering outside. By the time James stepped over to talk to him, Timothy had disappeared. James looked down the hallway and heard the boy’s quick-time steps crossing the pavement of College Drive. He knew he would have to talk to Timothy about that, again, soon. It didn’t help anything to have him disappearing like a slight-of-hand trick. James went back into the classroom, packed up his book bag, and left campus, not as quickly as Timothy, but fast enough. It had been a long night.

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James and Sarah: A Love Story

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I talked in this post about how my initial concept for Her Dear & Loving Husband was a romance between a vampire and the love of his life. Once I decided to incorporate historical fiction through the Salem Witch Trials, the love story between James Wentworth and Sarah Alexander took on another, deeper layer, one even I hadn’t anticpated.

On the surface, Her Dear & Loving Husband sounds like a traditional romance—the big, strong vampire finding the woman he loves. But what I ended up with what was Diana Gabaldon refers to as a “non-romance romance” (which is how she describes her Outlander books—check out this interview with Vulture). After all, the romance genre has very specific expectations. Here are a few tips about how to write romance from Jennifer Lawler:

Follow the formula:

A hero the reader loves and a heroine the reader sympathizes with

A believable conflict

A happily ever after

Focus on the emotional payoff
The love relationship must be front and center
Convey physical attraction

To me (and admittedly, I haven’t read many romance novels) romance novels are about sex. Girl meets guy (or girl meets girl or guy meets guy). Girl and guy are immediately attracted to one another and instantaneously fall in love. They have some problems, and great sex, along the way to their happily ever after. The end. I know that’s a simplistic view of romance novels, and I know that not all romance novels are the same, just as not all historical novels are the same. For the few romance novels I read, I never believed the characters were in love. I believed they were in lust. I believed they were crazy attracted to each other, but I didn’t buy the love part. Maybe some of you out there are lucky enough to have known at first glance that you were in love with someone. For the rest of us, love takes times. It takes patience and understanding, and yes, it may be triggered by physical attraction, but real love, the kind that lasts, needs room for growth. By the way, there’s nothing wrong with books about sex. I’m no prude (I’ve read 50 Shades of Grey). But as for me as an author, writing about sex isn’t that interesting. It’s what leads to the sex that I find fascinating.

I did have to stand my ground in order to write Her Dear & Loving Husband the way I thought it should be written. I had a beta reader for Her Dear & Loving Husband, a romance novelist, and she wanted me to turn the story into a more traditional romance. She wanted me to turn James into an alpha male. For those of you who may not know, an alpha male in a romance novel is a dominant character who is essentially Mr. Bossypants. I’m guessing my beta reader wrote her male romance characters as alpha males. For me, turning James into an alpha male didn’t feel right for my story. The beta reader wanted me to turn James into an attorney who crusades for women who have been victimized and/or abused. No. Really, no. James is a literature professor. That’s who he is. James is strong, physically and mentally, but he has the soul of a poet, and that’s what Sarah, the librarian, finds so alluring. It takes time for them to get to know each other. James, though living in the human world, has to hide that he’s a vampire. Sarah, though living each day as normally as she can, tries to hide from her vivid, frightening nightmares about the Salem Witch Trials. It takes time for James and Sarah to let down their guards, but once they see past the protective walls they’ve placed around themselves, they realize that they are right for each other, for many reasons. This is where their true love begins.

I no longer saw Her Dear & Loving Husband as a romance, which is just as well since following formulas doesn’t really work for me. As soon as I’m expected to do something a certain way I rebel and find a way to make it my own. I understood that I was writing a love story, not a romance, and I allowed myself to tell the story of how James and Sarah fell in love the way I felt in my heart the story needed to be told. While there are certainly elements of a romance in Her Dear & Loving Husband, I always refer to my novels as romantic rather than romance. For me, and for many of my readers, James and Sarah are the kind of couple you root for. You root for them to find each other, and you root for them to stay together. What else could you want from a love story?

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Researching Vampires and Salem for Her Dear and Loving Husband

When I’m writing fiction I know that anything can serve as inspiration. Television, movies, music, books, and travel all help me generate story ideas. For a story like Her Dear and Loving Husband, which goes back and forth between the past and the present, I had to learn about what life was like in Salem in the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1692, but I also needed a sense of what life looked like in Salem, Massachusetts now.

Understanding present-day Salem was an easier task. Though I hadn’t visited Salem while writing Her Dear and Loving Husband (the Salem trip didn’t come until I started writing Her Loving Husband’s Curse), I used Salem websites and Google Earth to help me get a vision of what today’s Salem looks like. You can read about my trip to Salem here and here. Seventeenth century Salem was  harder to grasp. Of course, there are many accounts of the Salem Witch Trials, but not a lot about the specifics of people’s day to day lives.

Not only did I have to understand Salem and the witch hunts, I also had to have some sense of what it meant to be a vampire. All authors who write about anything fantastical–vampires, witches, werewolves, mermaids, time travel, whatever–get to define the boundaries of their magical worlds. That’s why world building in fiction is fun. Anything goes as long as we’re able to make the world believable for our readers.

Here are some of the resources I used to help me write Her Dear and Loving Husband:

Books

Nonfiction:

 [image error]The Salem Witch Trials: A Day-by-Day Chronicle of a Community Under Siege by Marilynne K. Roach

Six Women of Salem by Marilynne K. Roach

Death in Salem: The Private Lives Behind The 1692 Witch Hunt by Diane Foulds

Vampire Forensics: Uncovering the Origins of an Enduring Legend by Mark Collins Jenkins

Fiction:

The fiction I read for Her Dear and Loving Husband was mostly vampire fiction since I wasn’t familiar with vampire novels except for Twilight. I wanted to see what other authors had done with their paranormal characters to get some inspiration for my (usually)  daylight-avoiding James.

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The Twilight Saga by Stephenie Meyer

Dead Until Dark (Sookie Steakhouse Book 1) by Charlaine Harris

Interview With a Vampire by Anne Rice

Dracula by Bram Stoker (who can avoid this classic when writing about vampires?)

The Passage by Justin Cronin

Once Bitten by Kalayna Price

The Crucible by Arthur Miller

Television and Film:

[image error]The Crucible by Arthur Miller (yes, I read and watched it)

True Blood on HBO–as it turns out, True Blood was the biggest inspiration for Her Dear and Loving Husband

The Twilight movies

Bram Stoker’s Dracula with Gary Oldman

 

Music:

Music was a challenge for me with Her Dear and Loving Husband. Although I didn’t include any music in Her Dear and Loving Husband, it was always there for me in the background, and I listened to music while writing. I usually listen to music from the historical era I’m writing about to help me get in the right frame of mind, but since I was writing about the Salem Witch Trials then I was researching Puritans in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. In such a stern society that placed all its hope in the afterlife, music played little role other than church hymnals (if even those since I’ve read conflicting accounts: some say they sang hymnals, others say they didn’t because even church music represented too much of an earthly pleasure). I discovered some hymnals that were popular in England in the 17th century, but the Puritans left England because they wanted to purify what they believed was the Catholic influences on the Church of England, so I doubted those would be popular in Salem Village. I’m looking again for music while I’m writing Down Salem Way, so maybe I’ll uncover some new information.

[image error] As for present-day Salem, well, that would be the same music I was listening to. I imagined James, with his classical tastes, would listen to  the great composers like Mozart (my personal favorite) and Chopin so I listened to some classical music, which I normally do anyway. Sarah, I imagined, would have more modern tastes, so I listened to my own current faves. I have eclectic music tastes, so I listened to everything from The Beatles to Hootie and the Blowfish to Josh Groban to Kings of Leon (like I said, I have eclectic tastes).

I talked in this post about how I used Pinterest and travel to help me write When It Rained at Hembry Castle. Though I didn’t use either for Her Dear and Loving Husband, I use both now for every new novel and I highly recommend making boards for your books on Pinterest. I have a board for the Loving Husband Trilogy now, and if you’d like to see it you can visit it here. There’s also a board for Down Salem Way. If you can travel to the place you’re writing about, then do. It makes all the difference, as I learned when I was writing Her Loving Husband’s Curse and finally made it to Salem.

I wasn’t familiar with either vampires or the Salem Witch Trials when I started writing Her Dear and Loving Husband. Learning about both helped me write the story about eternal love I saw so strongly in my mind’s eye. Reading these books, watching these shows and films, and finding music that inspired me while I was writing gave me fuel for the fire that Her Dear and Loving Husband sparked in my heart.

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Excerpt: Chapter 2, Her Dear and Loving Husband

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You can read Her Dear & Loving Husband for free. Click on the photo for booksellers where you can download a copy.

Thursday night Sarah was slow with her steps, savoring the town. She turned from Washington Street and wandered between Front and Derby, past the old-fashioned Salem Marketplace where people window shopped through the narrow lanes, gazing at the painters and sculptors in Artists Row, imagining what it must have been like living there centuries ago. She continued to the watery expanse of the bay where the breeze blew lazy laps in the water, postcard perfect along the natural coastline beauty. Rising above the water, towering above the sailboats, was the 171-foot-long, three-masted ship the Friendship, an emblem of Salem. She saw the white lighthouse, waiting patiently, beckoning sailors home. She stepped onto Pickering Wharf, a harborside village of gray-blue buildings with white trim, the hubbub of local seafaring activities, and she paused to admire the slick boats parked in neat little rows. She breathed in the wholesome air, exhaled, and relaxed. She felt comfortable, as if she had found a childhood friend after many years. More than anything, she loved the peace she felt. Her thoughts had been congested so long, the ten years she spent in Los Angeles, to be exact, and with every step she took she felt her muddled worries clearing away, lifted from her shoulders by the sauntering wind.

The Witches Lair, Jennifer’s mother’s shop, was located on Pickering Wharf, tucked in alongside the clothing, gift, and antique boutiques. Sarah arrived before everyone else since she was still on an L.A. schedule where you had to leave an hour early to get through the traffic to get anywhere on time. A tinkling bell rang as she pulled open the door, and when she walked into the shop she said hello to the woman behind the counter and glanced around. The Witches Lair was a perfect name for the store since it was stocked with any accoutrement a witch or wizard might need: altar supplies and incense, aromatherapy oils and diffusers, cauldrons and tarot cards, crystals and gems, and books about subjects ranging from the kama sutra to kabbalah and from magick and spells to dream interpretation. It was dark inside, with dim overhead lights and flameless candles in the sconces on the walls, the shadows adding to the mystical ambiance.

Sarah paused by the bookcase, searching the titles. She was intrigued by one, about dream interpretation, and as she scanned the back cover she wondered if the information inside could help her unravel the dreams that plagued her. There were nights when the images were so intense that when she woke up it took some time to distinguish between the scenes in her head and the reality in the world outside. With the book forgotten in her hands, she remembered her latest nightmare, the one that staggered her awake the night before. She was so lost in thought she didn’t notice the older woman beside her.

“Would you like a psychic reading, dear? I can read your palm, or perhaps you’d prefer a tarot card reading?”

“Oh no.” Sarah returned the book to the shelf. “I’m waiting for Jennifer Mandel. We work together at the library and she invited me here tonight.”

The woman clasped her hands together, and she smiled in warm greeting. “You must be Sarah. I’m Olivia Phillips, Jennifer’s mother. Welcome to the Witches Lair.”

Olivia looked like a fortune-telling gypsy with her hoop earrings and peasant-style skirt. Her steel-gray eyes and the wisps of silver in her close-cropped red hair were striking. Sarah and Olivia shook hands, and Sarah gestured at the store around her.

“Your shop is fascinating. I’ve never seen one like it.”

“Shops like these are a dime a dozen around here. Everyone in Salem thinks they’re a psychic or a mystic or touched by the supernatural somehow.” Olivia waved her hand in a firm dismissal of those who would think that way. “Jennifer tells me you’re new to Salem.”

“That’s right.” Sarah began to explain about her divorce, but Olivia held up her hand.

“You don’t need to explain, dear. I have four ex-husbands myself. But why Salem?”

“I’ve always felt drawn here. When I was growing up in Boston I asked my mother to bring me to the Halloween festival, and we lived so close, but somehow we never made it. My mother always had one excuse or other to skip the trip. Just the thought of this place made her shiver.”

“Has your mother ever been here? There’s nothing to be afraid of, at least not for over three hundred years. These days it’s more of a tourist town than anything.”

“I’ve told her that, but she still won’t come. I thought she’d want to know more about our ancestor, but she’s not interested.”

“Your ancestor?”

“When I was a girl my great-aunt told us that someone in our family died as a victim of the witch hunts, but my aunt didn’t know anything else about the woman, not even her name. I started working on my family tree when I was in L.A., and I thought if I were here I could do more research at the Danvers Archival Center. At least I’d like to know her name.”

“A mystery to solve. I love it.” Olivia looked at the book Sarah had slipped back onto the shelf. She watched Sarah, her face fixed, like a detective gathering clues where no one else thought to look. “Jennifer tells me you have dreams.” She took Sarah’s hand and patted it in a motherly way. “Would you like to tell me about them?”

Sarah shook her head. She had never told anyone. Nick, her ex-husband, knew, but only by default. He would yell and bitch and moan whenever she woke screaming in the night, clenching her jaw tight until the bones popped in her ears, her muscles like sailors’ knots. He told her she was weak for giving into the internal heckling, but they were her dreams. She couldn’t control them. They would have their way with her, picking and pulling at her, though she didn’t want them to. Because of Nick’s impatience, and her own disappointment with how easily she was jolted awake by the clear-as-day images, she kept her dreams a secret from everyone else. Instinctively, she felt she could trust Olivia, that Olivia might be someone she could confide in about the teasing games her subconscious liked to play when she was sleeping and defenseless, waking her with nervous, earthquake-like tremors. She had the clothbound notebook where she recorded her dreams there with her in the Witches Lair, in the canvas bag hanging from her shoulder. She could have pulled it out to show Olivia. But she didn’t. She shook her head again.

“Whatever you wish, Sarah. Just remember, I’m here should you change your mind. And my friend Martha, you’ll meet her tonight, is excellent at dream interpretation. She’s an expert at past-life regression as well.”

“You’re very kind, but you don’t need to trouble yourself over it.”

“But dreams are our subconscious whispering truths in our ears, Sarah. You should pay attention. You’d be amazed at what you could learn.”

Olivia gripped Sarah’s hand tighter and led her past the bookcases and displays to four cubby-sized rooms separated from the rest of the store by black velvet curtains.

“Come. I’ll give you a reading for free. Any friend of Jennifer’s is a friend of mine.” Sarah tried to protest, but Olivia wouldn’t be swayed. “Really, dear, everything will be fine. Perhaps I can help you understand your dreams.”

Sarah relented, telling herself she didn’t believe in psychics, extrasensory perception, mysticism, or anything like that, so the reading didn’t matter. And she did like Olivia. There was such unconditional warmth in the older woman’s manner. Besides, in a tarot reading didn’t they just pull three cards from the deck and make guesses about your life based on the pictures? She would humor Olivia, pretend to be startled by the revelations, then join Jennifer and the others.

Olivia pulled aside the curtain to the cubby on the end, fringed with more black velvet. Inside there was only enough space for a small round table covered with white linen and two folding chairs while a candle and spiced incense burned on a shelf. Olivia sat in the chair behind the table and gestured for Sarah to sit across from her. She took Sarah’s hand and looked at her palm.

“Have you had a psychic reading before?”

“Once, when I was in college. I was taking a religious studies class and one of our assignments was to have a psychic reading and write about our experience.”

“And what was your experience?”

“She seemed very young, the psychic, just college age herself, and I wasn’t impressed with her predictions since everything she said was generic and could have applied to anyone.”

Olivia dropped Sarah’s hand to study her. Again, that detective seeking clues look. “What did she say?”

“I was getting ready to move to Los Angeles where my fiancé had a job in the film industry. She told me moving away would be a mistake because L.A. was not my home. She said my husband was not my husband and I was not who I thought I was.”

“Who do you think you are?”

“I’m Sarah Alexander.”

Olivia was in deep thought as she considered.

“Yes, well, let’s see what else we can learn.”

Olivia took Sarah’s hand again and stared deeply into her palm, as if her eyes were x-rays and she could see through the layers of skin past the veins, the blood, and the muscles to the truth within. Her eyelids shuddered as she went into a trance. Her head bobbed in a rocking motion, and she breathed loudly, exhaling from her mouth and wheezing in through her nose. Sarah became nervous when Olivia seemed to expand to twice her size, though it must have been the flickering candlelight playing tricks on her sight.

“Yes,” Olivia said, her voice a whisper. “Yes, I am beginning to see. You are hard to read, there are many layers to you, but I am beginning to see.” She was silent again, though she kept nodding. Sarah’s head began to bob along, like when you’re on a boat and your body sways in time with the rhythm of the waves.

“Who you are is not yourself. The secret to the puzzle is there. The other psychic you saw was very good. Very good. She could see that who you are is not yourself. Yes, I can see that he will find you. He is here and he will find you.”

“Who?” Sarah asked.

“He will. The one who is waiting for you. He has been waiting for you for oh so very long. You will be afraid. He is not what he was. You will find your way home again.”

Sarah tried to pull away, but Olivia kept a tight grasp. Sarah leaned forward, not breathing, struggling to understand what Olivia was saying because her words sounded like they should make sense but they didn’t. Suddenly the black velvet curtains scraped against the rod as they were tossed aside, and Sarah jumped. Jennifer, in a flowing black robe, stood in the fluorescent light shining in from the store, one hand on the curtains, her other hand on her hip.

“Mother! I asked Sarah to come to the Harvest Moon ceremony to introduce her to some people. We’re about to start.”

Olivia pulled away from Sarah, covering her face with her hands until her breathing slowed. The overwhelming psychic who had expanded to twice her size was gone. When she opened her eyes she looked as she did when Sarah first saw her in the store, friendly and motherly. After Olivia composed herself she smiled.

“I’m sorry, Jennifer. I lost track of time.” She stood up from behind the table and pulled the curtain aside for Sarah. “I hope I didn’t frighten you too much, dear. I should have warned you that I go into a trance when I’m in tune with the spirit world.”

“I wasn’t frightened at all,” Sarah lied.

“Good. Now did I say anything that made sense? Sometimes when I’m with the spirits I begin speaking in tongues and no one can understand what I’m saying.”

“She’s a great psychic,” Jennifer said. “Her clients don’t understand her half the time, and she can’t help them because she never remembers what she says.”

“I’m in a trance, dear. What do you remember from your trances?”

“Nothing. Just like you.”

Olivia turned to Sarah. “Did I say anything that helped you understand your dreams?”

“No,” Sarah said. “Nothing.”

“I’m sorry. Perhaps we can try again another time.”

Sarah looked through the store to where the sliding glass door was open. In the courtyard outside she saw a grotto with rose trellises, scented lavender shrubs, and a cherub water fountain spitting in an arc in the air. There was a covered altar set against the brick wall and about twenty people in black robes mingling while drinking tea and eating cakes. Sarah stopped suddenly, her feet leaden, as if there were iron chains around her ankles.

Jennifer grabbed her arm. “What did my mother say to you? Sarah? What did she say?”

Sarah looked at the people in the grotto and realized she didn’t want to go out there.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t feel well. I think I should leave.”

“What did you say to her, Mom?”

“I don’t know, Jennifer. I wish I could remember.”

As Sarah walked home, passing the same historic sights she had seen on the way, she was oblivious to everything but Olivia’s reading. She was unnerved by the whole experience, seeing what had happened to Olivia, hearing that someone, some man, was going to find her. Olivia didn’t say what would happen once she was found, and frightening visions flashed behind her eyes, images of being stalked. Attacked. Or worse. Slowing her steps, forcing herself to think logically, she reminded herself that she didn’t believe in psychics, extrasensory perception, mysticism, or anything like that. She didn’t understand why Olivia’s words struck her so deeply.

Once Sarah was home she was exhausted, though she wasn’t afraid any more. Being away from Olivia, away from the cryptic message, helped her feel better. Sarah knew she wouldn’t be getting another psychic reading any time soon. Olivia brought up too many uncomfortable emotions, and Sarah had moved to Salem seeking peace. She didn’t need the headache of illogical puzzles in her life then.

When she woke up at three a.m., she turned on the light by her bed, grabbed her clothbound notebook and a pen, and wrote about the dream that had tapped her awake. This was a pleasant vision, one she was happy to write down, unlike some of the more frightening nightmares she had been having. It was hard to write those down even with the lights on. But this one she was glad to remember.

 

I am sitting at a table surrounded by people who look like they should be part of a Thanksgiving Feast tableau with their modest Pilgrim-style clothing, old-fashioned manners, and antiquated way of speaking. There are pumpkins, pies, roasted game birds, and mugs of ale set out on the table. I am included in this gathering, the people seem to know me, and I seem to know them though no one looks familiar—everyone’s face is a blank slate. A girl about ten years old is talking to me like she is my sister perhaps, showing me her cloth doll and telling me how her doll helped with the sewing, the cleaning, and the cooking. She asks what I did that day.

“The same as I do most days,” I say. “I went to the spring to get water this morn. Then I milked the cows and gathered eggs, and later I shall finish spinning yarn.”

She puckers her adorable cherub-like face. “Did you know I asked Father if I could help him this day?” she asks.

“Did you?”

“Aye. I am no longer a babe in long clothes. Now I wear upgrown folks’ clothes, and I asked Father if I could help with mending the fences and reaping the rye. He said nay! He said I am too small and a girl at that.”

“Father is right,” I say. “You needn’t worry over such things. ‘Tis grueling work. Best to let the men have at it. Besides, the sickle is dangerous. You could lose a finger or even your arm, and I am not enough of a seamstress to sew it back for you.”

“But I want to help! What if the harvest isn’t gathered before the weather turns and we have nothing for winter?”

“That won’t happen,” I say. “Father has always provided well for us, and he shall continue doing so even in this new land we now live in.”

“I shall be the greatest soap maker in the village, and I shall make enough money selling my soaps to buy my own horse and plow. Then Father must let me tend to the upgrown folks work.”

“Shall you make some soap for me? I am in need of it.”

She laughs. “Of course I shall.”

She is a sweet girl, so even tempered for one so young, and she clutches my hand as if she needs my attention more than anything in the world. I am certain now that this must be my sister and I love her for her tenderness.

That is when I notice him. He is sitting across the table from me, down to my right, the man with the halo hair. I cannot see his face, it is a blank slate like the others, but I can tell that he is looking at me, shyly, wanting to speak to me but perhaps it is not appropriate that he does so in this place at this time. I do not think he knows me, or I know him, yet, but I can feel that we want to know each other. I am enchanted.

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Summer Reads—2017 Edition

It’s always a shock to my system when summer vacation ends and it’s time to head back to school. As a student and a teacher, I know how lucky I am to have summers off, so I’m always grateful for the time. Like so many of you, I read a lot during the summer, and this summer I read a variety of books, both fiction and nonfiction.

I realized in May that I was feeling stifled creatively. I wrote in this post about how I had been feeling disconnected from my writing self. I couldn’t settle my mind to any writing project. I was having trouble separating what I wanted to write from what I thought I should be writing, which led to a lot of creative dissatisfaction. I was drawn to rereading Natalie Goldberg, who always helps me find my writing center when I lose it, and Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird. I also reread The Artist’s Way, but instead of reading it cover to cover as I did the first time I’m going through the 12 weeks of lessons. Here are the books I read that helped me to get excited about writing again:

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Another nonfiction book I read was The More Beautiful World Our Hearts Know is Possible. I had seen the author, Charles Eisenstein, on Oprah’s Super Soul Sunday, and I had a feeling I would enjoy the book. If you’re having trouble accepting the state of the world today, then you might get a lot out of this book, as I did. I love Anne Lamott’s books (see Bird by Bird above)—I love her humor, her insights, and her observations—and Hallelujah Anyway: Rediscovering Mercy was also an important book for me.

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I read a lot of nonfiction, but the historical fiction I read was outstanding. The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller is simply great literary historical fiction. It’s a retelling of the story of Achilles from The Iliad, but it adds a twist, and Miller’s prose is simply gorgeous.

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Finally, finally I read Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. I wrote about my experience reading that book here. Now I could kick myself for waiting so long to read it. I had said that since I don’t get Starz I wouldn’t be able to watch, but then a few days later I discovered that Starz was having a free preview weeks so I got to watch Seasons 1 and 2, which were fantastic. I know Season 3 is coming up soon, but I’ll have to wait for the next free preview week to see that one. It’s okay. It will give me time to read more of the books. So far I’ve read Outlander and Dragonfly in Amber. I love what I’ve read in the Outlander books so far. Gabaldon is a great writer, which adds so much depth to the stories.

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I’ve also been reading about the Salem Witch Trials as I’ve been writing Down Salem Way. The Marilynne K. Roach books are rereads for me since I used them as sources for Her Dear & Loving Husband, but The Devil in Massachusetts by Marion L. Starkey is a new find for me. I’m reading it now and I’m enjoying the way Starkey weaves together the events of the witch hunts into a narrative, so much so that it reads like a novel.

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So that’s how I kept busy this summer. Not one stinker in the bunch, which is a pretty neat trick when you’ve read a lot of books.

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Historical Fiction Inspiration: Anne Bradstreet

[image error]While researching historical fiction, occassionally I’ll stumble onto a fact, or an event, or a person that helps to bring my story to life in a way even I hadn’t envisaged. This is what happened when I discovered Anne Bradstreet while writing Her Dear & Loving Husband.

As with most things to do with my writing, I discovered Anne Bradstreet by accident. I was thinking that since James and Elizabeth lived in Salem in 1692 during the witch trials, and since James is the bookish type who left his studies in Cambridge to follow his father to the Massachusetts Bay Colony, he would likely spend his free time reading. What would someone read by the light of their hearth in 1692? As I searched for popular literature during the late 17th century, I happened upon the name of Anne Bradstreet. I was surprised that I had never heard of Bradstreet. I have two degrees in English literature, and while I certainly took American literature courses, I don’t recall taking any early American literature courses, and I don’t recall being introduced to Bradstreet’s work, which is a shame since Anne Bradstreet is a poet literature students should know.

Bradstreet was born in 1612 in England to a wealthy Puritan family, and in 1630 she emigrated with her family to the Massachusetts Bay Colony. The family lived in several places around Massachusetts, including Salem, and her father and husband were both instrumental in the founding of Harvard College. She was the mother of eight children, a wife, and a poet at a time when the first two were considered all a women need be in this world. Bradstreet wrote honestly about the conflicts she experienced as a result of her various roles. Bradstreet not only wrote poetry, she wrote great poetry, and she became the first English person in North America to be published. It’s rumored that King George III had a book of her poetry in his collection. According to the Poetry Foundation, Bradstreet’s poems express her difficulty in resolving her conflicts between the pleasures of sensory and familial experience and the promises of heaven. Puritans were meant to subdue their attachment to this earthly world, but in her poetry Bradstreet shares her deep, abiding connection to her husband and children.

Bradstreet’s earliest known poem,”Upon a Fit of Sickness, Anno. 1632,” adheres to Puritan values:

O Bubble blast, how long can’st last?

That always art a breaking,

No sooner blown, but dead and gone,

Ev’n as a word that’s speaking.

O whil’st I live, this grace me give,

I doing good may be,

Then death’s arrest I shall count best,

because it’s thy decree.

Her poem “Contemplations” is considered by some to be one of her best:

Then higher on the glistering Sun I gaz’d

Whose beams was shaded by the leavie Tree,

The more I look’d, the more I grew amaz’d

And softly said, what glory’s like to thee?

Soul of this world, this Universes Eye,

No wonder, some made thee a Deity:

Had I not better known, (alas) the same had I

Bradstreet loved life on earth, and her hope was “for heaven was an expression of her desire to live forever rather than a wish to transcend worldly concerns. For her, heaven promised the prolongation of earthly joys, rather than a renunciation of those pleasures she enjoyed in life” (The Poetry Foundation).

Bradstreet wrote many of the poems that appeared in the first edition of The Tenth Muse between the years 1635 and 1645 while she lived in Ipswich, 30 miles from Boston. Bradstreet dedicated her work to her father, Thomas Dudley, who educated her, encouraged her to read, and appreciated his daughter’s intelligence, no small accomplishments in the 17th century when women were not valued for their intelligence.

After I started my research on 17th century literature and discovered Bradstreet, I read her poems and I was impressed with the depth of feeling she shared in her work. Since she was a Puritan, I would have assumed that her work would be all about praising God and dreams of a joyous heaven, and she certainly shared that sentiment in much of her poetry. But then I found the poem that would help me shape the love story I was writing: “To My Dear and Loving Husband”:

If ever two were one, then surely we.

If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.

If ever wife was happy in a man,

Compare with me, ye women, if you can.

I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,

Or all the riches that the East doth hold.

My love is such that rivers cannot quench,

Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.

Thy love is such I can no way repay;

The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.

Then while we live, in love let’s so persever,

That when we live no more, we may live ever.

Bradstreet was concerned with God as dictated by her Puritan values, but she also loved her dear husband, there beside her on earth, and she took great joy in him. As soon as I read the poem I knew it could serve as the missing link I had been searching for. This poem represents what my story is about, right? Two people who are so in love that even death cannot separate them. And it even provided me with the story’s title, Her Dear & Loving Husband.

This is the kind of synchronicity—a meaningful coincidence—that makes writing the greatest thing on earth as far as I’m concerned. There’s a moment where these disconnected pieces of a story come together through some random discovery, and suddenly everything makes sense, the picture comes together, and I can finally see the story I meant to write in the first place. The discovery of Anne Bradstreet and her poem “To My Dear and Loving Husband” provided me with a way to connect the dots between James and Elizabeth in the past and James and Sarah in the present.

Much of the information about Bradstreet shared here was found on the Poetry Foundation website. If you’ve never visited the website, the Poetry Foundation is a great resource for information about poets and their poems. For more information on Anne Bradstreet, or to read her poems, visit the Anne Bradstreet page at the Poetry Foundation.

 

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