Meredith Allard's Blog, page 25

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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Excerpt: Chapter 1, 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.

Sarah Alexander didn’t know what was waiting for her in Salem, Massachusetts. She had moved there to escape the smog and the smugness of Los Angeles, craving the dulcet tones of a small town, seeking a less complicated life. Her first hint of the supernatural world came the day she moved into her rented brick house near the historic part of town, close to the museums about the witch trial days, not far from the easy, wind-blown bay. As the heavy-set men hauled her furniture inside, her landlady leaned close and told her to beware.

“If you hear sounds in the night it’s ghosts,” the landlady whispered, glancing around to be sure no one, human or shadow, could hear. “The spirits of the innocent victims of the witch hunts still haunt us. I can feel them stirring now. God rest them.”

Sarah didn’t know what to say. She had never been warned about ghosts before. The landlady peered at her, squinting to see her better.

“You’re a pretty girl,” the old woman said. “Such dark curls you have.” She still spoke as if she were telling a secret, and Sarah had to strain to hear. “You’re from California?”

“I moved there after I got married,” Sarah said.

“Where’s your husband?”

“I’m divorced now.”

“And your family is here?”

“In Boston. I wanted to live close to my family, but I didn’t want to move back to the city. I’ve always wanted to visit Salem, so I thought I’d live here awhile.”

The landlady nodded. “Boston,” she said. “Some victims of the witch trials were jailed in Boston.”

The landlady was so bent and weak looking, her fragile face lined like tree rings, that Sarah thought the old woman had experienced the hysteria in Salem during the seventeenth century. But that was silly, Sarah reminded herself. The Salem Witch Trials happened over three hundred years ago. There was no one alive now who had experienced that terror first hand. Sarah wanted to tell the landlady how she believed she had an ancestor who died as a victim of the witch hunts, but she didn’t say anything then.

“Yes, they’re here,” the landlady said, staring with time-faded eyes at the air above their heads, as if she saw something no one else could see. “Beware, Sarah. The ghosts are here. And they always come out at night.”

The landlady shook as if she were cold, though it was early autumn and summer humidity still flushed the air. When Sarah put her arm around the old woman to comfort her, she felt her skin spark like static. She rubbed her hands together, feeling the numbness even after the old woman pulled away.

“It’s all right,” Sarah said. “I won’t be frightened by paranormal beings. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

The landlady laughed. “Salem may cure you of that.”

For a moment Sarah wondered if she made a mistake moving there, but she decided she wouldn’t let a superstitious old woman scare her away. She thought about her new job in the library at Salem State College—Humanities I liaison, go-to person for English studies, well worth the move across the country. She saw the tree-lined, old-fashioned neighborhood and the comforting sky. She heard the lull of bird songs and the distant whisper of the sea kissing the shore. She felt a rising tranquility, like the tide of the ocean waves at noon, wash over her. It was a contentment she had never known before, not in Boston, never in Los Angeles. She was fascinated by Salem, looking forward to knowing it better, certain she was exactly where she needed to be, whatever may come.

 

Sarah’s first days in the library were hectic since it was the start of an autumn term. She spent her shifts on the main floor, an open, industrial-style space of bright lights, overhead beams, and windows that let in white from the sun and green from the trees abundant everywhere on campus. Across from the librarians’ desk, a combined circulation and reference area, was a lounge of comfortable chairs in soothing grays and blues where some students socialized using their inside voices while others stalked like eagle-eyed hunters, searching the stacks or the databases.

By Wednesday afternoon, as she saw the short-tempered rain clouds march across the Salem sky, Sarah thought she would have to buy a car soon. After driving and dodging in nail-biting Los Angeles traffic for ten years, she liked the freedom of walking the quiet roads from home to work, watching in wonder as the leaves turned from summer green to an autumn fade of red, rust, and gold. But she had been living in the sunshine on the west coast for ten years, and she had forgotten about the sudden anger of New England thunderstorms. They could appear just like that, a crack of noise overhead, then a gray flannel blanket covered the sky as fast as you could blink your eyes, water splashing all around, wetting you when you did not want to be wet, and she was caught unprepared. She held out her hand and shook her head when she felt the drops splash her palm. Jennifer Mandel’s voice sang out behind her.

“Need a lift?”

“Please.”

Sarah wiped her palm on her skirt, grateful once again for Jennifer’s assistance. Jennifer had been the head librarian at the college for five years, and she had taken Sarah under her wing, showing her where everything was, introducing her to the rest of the staff, answering her questions. There was something almost odd about Jennifer’s intuition—she always seemed to know when Sarah needed her, like a clairvoyant magic trick. They sprinted to the parking lot, trying to avoid the sudden splats of rain soaking their thin blouses through, and they clambered into Jennifer’s white Toyota, laughing like schoolgirls jumping in puddles. Jennifer drove the curve around Loring Avenue to Lafayette Street, the main road to and from the college.

“Where were you before you came here?” Jennifer asked. “You’re obviously not used to the rain.”

“I worked at UCLA.”

“A small town like Salem must seem dreary after living in the big city.”

Sarah looked at Jennifer, saw the compassion in her eyes, the understanding smile, so she said just enough to make herself understood. “I’m recently divorced.”

Jennifer held up her hand. “You don’t need to explain. I have two ex-husbands myself.”

They drove quietly, letting the sound of the car’s accelerator and the rain tapping the windshield fill the space. As Sarah watched the small-town scene drift past, she thought it might not be so bad to drive in Salem. Everything back east, the roads, the shops, the homes, was built on an old-time scale, narrower and smaller than they were out west. But here people slowed when you wanted to merge into their lane and they stopped at stop signs, so different from L.A. where they’d run you over sooner than let you pass.

“Why don’t you come over tomorrow night?” Jennifer asked. “We’re having a get-together at my mother’s shop.” She leaned closer to Sarah and whispered though they were alone in the car. “I should probably tell you, and I’ll understand if you think this is too weird, but my mother and I are witches.”

Sarah studied Jennifer, her hazel eyes, her long auburn hair, her friendly smile. “You don’t look like a witch,” she said.

“You mean the kind with black hair and a nose wart that fly around on broomsticks? We’re not that kind of witch.”

“You’re Wiccan?”

“Yes, I practice the Wiccan religion, among other things. I’m the high priestess of my coven. I’m also licensed to perform weddings here in Massachusetts, in case you ever need someone to preside over a wedding for you.”

Sarah laughed. “I just got divorced. I won’t be getting married again any time soon.” She paused to watch the drizzle slip and slide on the windows. “I’m surprised there really are witches in Salem.”

“Ironic, isn’t it? The city known for hanging witches is now a haven for mystics.” Jennifer shook her head, her expression tight. “Is this too much information? I don’t usually tell someone a few days after I’ve met her that I’m Wiccan, but you have a positive energy. You don’t seem like someone who’s going to assume I’m a Satanist who loves human sacrifices.”

“I don’t mind. I’m just surprised. I’ve never known a witch before.”

“There are all sorts of interesting people you could meet around here.” Jennifer nudged Sarah with her elbow. “So will you come tomorrow night?”

“I don’t know, Jennifer.”

“You don’t need to participate in the rituals. Come make some friends. I think you’ll like the other witches in my coven. They’re good people.”

A Wiccan ceremony did sound odd, Sarah thought, but she had always been fascinated by different religions and cultures. Librarians had to keep learning—a healthy curiosity was a job necessity. And it would be nice to know some people in Salem, even if they were witches.

As they continued down Lafayette Street, Sarah saw the sign for Pioneer Village and she added it to her mental to-do list. “I haven’t had a chance to see much of this part of town since I’ve been here,” she said.

“How about a quick tour then?”

“What about the rain?”

Jennifer turned right down Derby Street. “I’ve lived here my whole life. A little water doesn’t bother me.”

Jennifer drove down one tree-lined street, then down another street, and another until Sarah didn’t know where she was. Though Witch City was small, Sarah was still learning her way around. She tried to gauge her surroundings and saw the tall, white lines of the Peabody-Essex Museum close to the brick, colonial-looking Salem Maritime National Historic Site. As she watched the history flip past, like a stack of photographs from time gone by, she noticed a house she thought she knew though she was sure she hadn’t been down that way before. The house had wooden clapboards, diamond-paned casement windows, and two gables on the roof. It was old, though it didn’t seem to be a museum as the other old buildings were.

“What is that house?” she asked. “It looks familiar.”

“James Wentworth lives there.”

“Do you know him?”

Jennifer’s answer was stilted, as if she considered each word, weighed it, measured it, decided yes or no about it, before she let it drop from her lips. “He teaches at the college. He—his family—has owned this house for generations. It’s over three hundred years old, one of the oldest standing homes in Salem.”

Jennifer slowed the car so they could get a better look as she drove past. “Does it still look familiar?”

“Yes. Even that crooked oak tree in front seems right. I can picture the man I dream about standing in front there kissing me.”

“What dreams?” Jennifer gripped the steering wheel more tightly and her eyes brightened. “My mother’s friend Martha is great at dream interpretation. She’s done a world of good for me.” She winked at Sarah. “And you dream about a man? Is he a good looking man?”

Sarah pulled her arms around her chest, wishing she could take back her casual reference, afraid she had already said too much.

“Do you have a lot of dreams?”

“Yes,” Sarah said. But that was all she could manage. When Jennifer had waited long enough and Sarah had to offer something more, all she could say was, “It’s not a big deal. I just thought I knew the house from somewhere.”

“A lot of houses around here look the same,” Jennifer said.

Sarah looked at the houses, the tall, Federal-style ones, the Victorian ones, the brick ones, the modern-looking ones. Suddenly, as they drove around the green of Salem Common, the rain cleared, the sun brightened, and the clouds flittered away across the bay.

“That must be it,” she said.

She lowered the car window so she could smell the wet air. Though she missed the rain when she lived in Los Angeles, at that moment she was glad to see the serene blue reflection of the northeastern sky again.

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

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FAQ–The Loving Husband Trilogy

[image error]Here are some of the most frequently asked questions I receive about The Loving Husband Trilogy so I thought I’d have a go at answering them here.

1.Did you always know James and Sarah’s story would be a trilogy?

I did. From very early in the idea gathering process I knew the connection between James/Elizabeth/Sarah and I knew the ending as we find it in Her Loving Husband’s Return. The further I went into mapping out the story, the more I knew I wanted to cover several different historical periods. In order to keep the story as I saw it a manageable length, I split it into three books. I once said as a joke that I wanted to avoid writing a 900-page tome that would send readers screaming for mercy. I wasn’t too far off. The combined page count of the Loving Husband Trilogy is 818 pages.

2. How long did it take you to write the Loving Husband Trilogy?

It was four years, almost exactly to the day, from when I first pressed fingers to the keyboard typing out ideas for Her Dear & Loving Husband (in April 2009) until Her Loving Husband’s Return was published (in April 2013). It took two years for me to write Her Dear & Loving Husband since it took time for me to find the narrative thread. The plot was more complex than other novels I had written, weaving the way it does between the past and the present, and it took time for me to work it out.

I read about these authors who publish three, four, five books a year and I’m amazed by them. When all is said and done, it takes me between one and two years to write a book. Keep in mind I’m not writing the whole time. I have to live with an idea in my head for a while before I ever start writing. I have to kick the idea around, soften it up, pull it here and tug it there to see if there’s anything in those odd daydreams. I kicked the idea around about the vampire missing his long-dead human wife for about six months before I ever began writing. Once I start writing, it can take anywhere from six to eight months for me to have a draft I’m happy with, and then the revising and editing process is intensive because I’m persnickety about how the words read on the page. The revising and editing process takes me about three to four months.

3. Do you have beta readers?

Her Dear & Loving Husband wouldn’t be the story it is without the help of a critique extraordinare who became my beta reader. I saw the love story between James and Sarah so clearly in my head, but I was having trouble articulating it on the page. With the beta reader’s sharp eye and finely tuned comments, I was able to finally write the story I meant to write in the first place. Once I figured out what I was doing with Her Dear & Loving Husband, writing the next two was a much easier process.

Here’s a Loving Husband Trilogy F.Y.I: The original title of Her Dear & Loving Husband was The Vampire’s Wife. The beta reader suggested that The Vampire’s Wife was too much of a giveaway about the story, so after stumbling across Anne Bradstreet’s poem “To My Dear and Loving Husband” I changed it to Her Dear & Loving Husband. The revised title has the same idea as the original, but it takes more digging to figure out what it means. And I love that the poem was able to serve as a connection between James and Elizabeth and James and Sarah. Things like that make me happy.

4. Was Outlander or A Discovery of Witches an inspiration for Her Dear & Loving Husband?

No, which surprises even me now that I’ve finally read Outlander (now working my way through Dragonfly in Amber). I haven’t read A Discovery of Witches yet, but it’s close to the top of my TBR pile. I talked in this post about the similarities between Outlander and Her Dear & Loving Husband, so I understand why I get this question now. Any hunk named James—whether he’s from 18th century Scotland or 17th century England—is fine by me!

5. How do you come up with story ideas/characters?

For the story ideas, something—a news story, something I’ve seen in film or television, something I’ve read—captures my imagination, grabs hold of my brain cells, and won’t shake loose. I have a lot of ideas that float through my brain at any and all times of the day, but the ones that become novels are the ones that latch on and won’t let go. The Loving Husband Trilogy was born from reading Twilight, watching True Blood, and reading a number of other vampire novels. Victory Garden was inspired by a news report that said women weren’t voting in high numbers and I was reminded of a story I read about women who were arrested and force fed for fighting for the right to vote. Woman of Stones came about because I’ve always loved that story from the Bible: “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,” which to me is the secret to peace on earth. When It Rained at Hembry Castle was born from my love of Dickens and my fascination with Downton Abbey.

As to the characters, those are more of a mystery to me. I don’t know how to explain how I come up with characters except to say that to me, the characters are already there, inherent in the story, and it’s up to me to figure out who they are and what role they have in this tale I feel compelled to share. The characters and the story are too intertwined—I can’t separate them one from the other. When I started imagining this vampire mourning his long-dead human wife, that vampire was James, even if I didn’t always know his name.

6. How do you research the history in your fiction?

I know we live in the Internet age, but I’m still a fan of the old fashioned way of researching. I enjoy going to the library, searching the stacks, and weeding through the books to find exactly what I’m looking for. It’s no surprise to me that Sarah from The Loving Husband Trilogy is a librarian. One of the nice things about the Internet is that I can do some my library research from home. I still like to take my notes by hand. That’s a personal preference, but I feel like I absorb the information better that way. I do like that we’re able to access whole books on the Internet, and Google Books has become a strong resource. I love the Internet for on the spot research, like if I realize I need to know what might have been served at a meal in the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1692, though I often cross reference the information with several websites. I do my best to make sure the information I share in my fiction is accurate.

By the time I started writing Her Dear & Loving Husband in 2009, I learned that the purpose of historical fiction is for the history to illuminate the fiction, not for the fiction to illuminate the history. If you want to illuminate the history, write nonfiction. Paragraphs of facts that have nothing to do with the story, or that detract too much from the plot, slow the story down. As a result, I learned to do general research on the historical period for my own knowledge, but in my writing I’ll only use the historical bits that make sense within the story. In other words, Her Dear & Loving Husband isn’t a treatise on the Salem Witch Trials; instead, details of the witch hunts are used to help illuminate James and Sarah’s story.

7. Do you believe in paranormal elements, reincarnation, Wiccans? What do you think happens after we die?

I’ve had a lot of questions about whether or not I believe in the supernatural elements of the James and Sarah books. I don’t believe in vampires or werewolves. I don’t think it’s so much about believing in Wiccans since they’re really there. There are many all over the world who consider themselves Wiccan. Do they have magic powers like Jennifer and Olivia? I know Wiccans cast spells, and I’m not one to judge whether or not their spells work.

As for reincarnation…I certainly don’t know. I believe that human beings are composed of body, mind, and spirit. I believe we’re more than our earthly experiences and five senses show us. I believe our souls go on after our human bodies die, and I think it’s possible that those souls go on to be reincarnated into new life. That’s what my Buddhist friends believe.

The Loving Husband Trilogy is fiction, and the reason I love writing fiction above all else is because it allows me to explore the possibilities. Reincarnation may or may not happen—I certainly don’t know one way or the other—but writing these books was my way of wondering aloud what ghosts, vampires, and witches might look like if they were real.

8. Geoffrey? Really?

Geoffrey is a recurring character in The Loving Husband Trilogy, for those of you who don’t know. I’ve had this question asked a few different ways, and it always makes me smile. I can’t say too much for those of you who haven’t read Her Loving Husband’s Return, but it shouldn’t be too much of a surprise for James and Sarah fans to learn that there’s more to James and Geoffrey’s relationship than meets the eye. The clues are there, mainly in Her Loving Husband’s Curse. A couple of you have written to me to say you figured the mystery out before it was revealed at the end of HLHR. Well done! I love it when readers read with an eye for detail.

9. Will there be a Book Four? Pretty please?

When readers first started asking this question after Her Loving Husband’s Return was published, my answer was “Probably not.” I felt James and Sarah’s story had been pretty well wrapped up in Her Loving Husband’s Return and I wasn’t sure there was anything left to say. Plus, I had other stories poking me in the ribs with pointed sticks until I wrote them down and set them free. After That You Are Here and When It Rained at Hembry Castle were released I started wondering if there was more to say about James and Sarah.

I realized that there had to be more to James and Elizabeth’s experiences in Salem Town in 1692. Has James really come to terms with what happened during that inexplicable madness? Thus, Down Salem Way was born. I have no publication date for you right now. I can tell you I’m researching it and writing it, and the story has finally started to click so that I can see how it’s all going to play out. If you’re dying for any new James and Sarah you can get, you can follow the progress of Down Salem Way on wattpad.com. I’m posting new pieces on Wattpad as I write them. These aren’t revised, edited chapters. These are first draft meanderings fresh off the press, so to speak. But, yes, Virginia, there will be a fourth book. After that, who knows?

10. When/why did you start writing historical fiction?

Like most things about my writing, I started writing historical fiction by accident. I knew since high school that writing of some kind was in my future, though I didn’t know myself at that time what kind of writing it would be. At first I thought I’d be a journalist, but one high school journalism class showed me the “Just the facts, Ma’am” style of news writing didn’t work for me. In college, I turned my attention to screenwriting. I took a number of screenwriting classes, and I even worked for a film production company.

Around this time, I watched Ken Burns’ PBS documentary about the American Civil War, and I had an inkling of a story I wanted to tell about how brothers, brought up in the same family, could come to fight on opposing sides in a war. When I sat down to write the screenplay, I realized, at about page twenty, that the screenplay format was too small for what I wanted to write. Screenplays are blueprints for directors, actors, set designers, costume designers, directors of photography, and the many others necessary to make a film. There were times when I worked in “The Industry” when I felt like the screenwriter was the least important person there. I didn’t want to write a blueprint. I wanted to describe exactly what the characters were wearing. I wanted to go into detail about the room they were sitting in. I wanted to get into the characters’ heads and wonder why they made the choices they did. In order to do that, I needed to write a novel. Thus, my journey into historical fiction had begun.

11. What other books have you written?

My other books can be found on the My Books page.

The only common denominator in my books is they’re all written by me. Other than that, each book is completely different from the ones that came before (except for the Loving Husband Trilogy, of course). I write about whatever I’m fascinated with at the time, which is why my subjects are so varied. After I’ve finished Down Salem Way, I’m writing a memoir about what writing has meant to me. Then I’m writing the last installment of Hembry Castle, and after that will come an historical novel set around the Oregon Trail, an idea I’ve been kicking around for some time.

I love hearing from my readers. Keep the comments and questions coming to meredith(at)meredithallard(dot)com or contact me through my social media networks. You can find the links on the right sidebar. You guys are the best!

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Historical Fiction Review: The Song of Achilles

Are you looking for a great literary historical read this summer? Here’s my review of The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller for The Copperfield Review. 

By the way, we’re looking for readers who love to review historical fiction (you know who you are). If you’re a fan of historical fiction, check out Copperfield’s Submission Guidelines for how to submit your historical novel reviews. We’ll even pay you a bit (yes, it’s a little bit but it’s still a bit) for your trouble.

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[image error]Written by Madeline Miller

Published by HarperCollins Publishers

Review by Meredith Allard

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This is simply an outstanding piece of literature. Miller’s simple yet lyrical style pulls you effortlessly into the poetry of the Iliad. Here we focus on Achilles through the eyes of Patroclus, the young prince who is banished from his land for accidentally killing another boy and he is taken as a companion for Achilles. Patroclus and Achilles become partners in every way, and The Song of Achilles is really a love song between the two men. This isn’t simply an attraction between Patroclus and Achilles. This is a deep, abiding love that transcends death.

If you’re familiar with The Iliad (which you do not need to be to enjoy this book), then there are few surprises here except perhaps for the scope of the relationship between Achilles and Patroclus. There is no twist-filled ending: the fate of the two men has been sung about throughout the centuries. Still, Miller ends this tale in a way that is perfectly heartbreaking, bittersweet, and right. Despite war, broken promises, and the loss of all one holds most dear, there can still be peace in the end.

This is not a retelling of the entire story of The Iliad. This is one version of one story as told through the eyes of the man who knew Achilles best. I’m looking forward to reading more from Madeline Miller.

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Excerpt: Prologue, Her Dear and Loving Husband

[image error]I am looking lovingly into the eyes of a man, though I cannot see his face because it is featureless, like a blank slate. We are standing in front of a wooden house with narrow clapboards, and there are diamond-paned casement windows and a steep pitched roof with two gables pointing at the laughing, hidden moon. I am certain I hear someone singing sweet nothings to us from the sky. From the light of the few jewel stars I can see the halo of his hair, like the halo of an angel, and even if I cannot see his eyes I know they look at me, into me. I stand on my toes, he is much taller than me, and I point up my face and he kisses me. As the warmth of his lips melts into mine, making me weak from the inside out, I feel my knees give from the thrilling lightness his touch brings. I know the face I cannot see is beautiful, like the lips I feel. His hands press me into him, clutching me closer, closer, unwilling to let me go. I grip him with equal strength, wishing he would carry me inside, yet I cannot bring myself to break our embrace.

“I shall never leave you ever,” he whispers in my ear. I promise him the same.

I do not know how I have been so fortunate to have this man in my life, but here he is, before me, wanting me. I am overcome with the joy of him.

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Salem Before, During, and After the Witch Trials

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James’s House (Sorry…the John Ward House)

I loved visiting Salem, Massachusetts while I was writing Her Loving Husband’s Curse, the second book in the Loving Husband Trilogy. Imagine my surprise when, behind the Peabody-Essex Museum, I encountered the John Ward House, which was built in 1684. Long, brown wooden slats. Diamond-paned casement windows. Steep, pitched gabled roof. Is anyone else thinking what I’m thinking?

This is James’s house!

I felt like Sarah when she sees James’s house for the first time: I knew this house though I had never seen it before except in my dreams. This was one of those strange life-imitating-fiction moments I encountered a number of times while visiting Salem. And, like Sarah, I had to touch the scratchy wood for it to sink in that the house was really there. I took picture after picture so I could prove to myself later that James’s house was real and I had stood in front of it. I half-expected to see Sarah walk through the front door.

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Pickering Wharf

From there I walked to Pickering Wharf, which also plays an important role in Her Dear & Loving Husband since that’s where Olivia’s shop, The Witches Lair, is located. The Witches Lair is the type of shop you see occasionally with psychic readings, tarot cards, amulets, crystals, and books of spells. While Olivia and her shop are fictional, there are many psychic shops in Salem, and there is at least one psychic with her own shop in Pickering Wharf alongside the boutiques and restaurants. Located at the edge of the bay, the gray-blue and beige-toned buildings look out into the stretch of water, and there’s the Friendship, the three-masted ship—just the way I described it, thank goodness. I ate lunch at Capn’s, wandered around the shops, watched others eating at the tables outside taking advantage of the sunny summer day, took pictures of the Salem Maritime National Historic Site. Pickering Wharf is peaceful, calm, and beautiful.

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The garden at the House of the Seven Gables

I hung around Pickering Wharf for a while, then walked down the block (everything in Salem seems to be down the block from everything else) to the House of the Seven Gables, made famous by the novel from Salem’s favorite son, Nathaniel Hawthorne. From his cousin, Hawthorne learned the story of the old house, and from there came the inspiration for his story. The house is every bit as grand as you would expect. Larger than James’s house (excuse me, the John Ward House), the house has seen a lot of history since it’s one of the oldest buildings in the Salem area. Passed from one family to another, made bigger, rooms and gables added, along with that secret passage made famous in the novel, the house was turned from a personal residence into a museum. I felt myself pulled back in time as I toured the rooms and looked at the furniture, the wall hangings, and the clothing. Outside the house is the garden, a burst of pinks and purples, and as I admired the flowers I saw the sea stretching out to the horizon, one of the most scenic sights in Salem. I even met two friendly cats wandering about greeting visitors. There are other buildings on the grounds, too, including the red house where Hawthorne was born. Hawthorne was born a few blocks away, and the house was moved to its current location in the 1950s. It’s a humble house since the Hathornes (the original spelling) were not a wealthy family.

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The cat at the House of the Seven Gables

I described the museum in Her Dear & Loving Husband. It’s an important moment for James and Sarah. They’re still tentative in their relationship at this point though they want to know each other better. On Halloween, James takes Sarah to see the house, and they see the gables, the garden, the Hawthorne House. He shares his knowledge (and James knows a lot about Salem in days gone by). They become more attracted and attached as they stand there together. I am glad I was able to stand there as well. Of all the sights I saw in Salem, I think the House of the Seven Gables was my favorite.

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Salem State University

In Her Dear & Loving Husband, James Wentworth has inserted himself into the human world as much as he can. If he wants to seem human, I decided, then he would have a job. What job? English literature is the only subject I can discuss with any intelligence, so James became an English professor. An odd job for someone of James’s paranormal disposition, but, as James himself says, any job besides Grim Reaper would seem odd for him. I wanted his love interest, Sarah, to work at the college, too, since it’s easy for them to run into each other if they work together. She became a college librarian. I did a search for colleges in the area, and there was Salem State College.

While on the campus I stood in front of Meier Hall, the School of Arts and Sciences, where Sarah spies on James while he’s teaching his Romantic Poets class. It’s one of my favorite scenes in the novel. The university is larger than I imagined, or at least more spread out. It’s a beautiful campus, fresh-looking, clean, and the green of the grass and the new trees make it an inviting place to be. Of course, I wasn’t taking or teaching any classes, which may have led to the fact that I found the campus peaceful. The summer school students may not have found it as inviting as I did.

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A settler’s house from 1630s Salem (then Naumkeag) in Pioneer Village

Right across Lafayette and down the block, in the state park near the bay, is Pioneer Village. More than any place in Salem, walking onto the grounds of Pioneer Village is like falling into a time warp to the 17th century. The Salem Witch Museum and the Witch Dungeon Museum were interesting, but I didn’t feel the pull of the 1600s in the museums. I felt like a 21st century tourist looking at scenes from the 17th century. At Pioneer Village, you walk into meadow-like grounds of overgrown grass, weeds, trees, front yard gardens, and historically accurate replicas of the homes of the earliest settlers to the area. The costumed docents walk you around, explaining everything, answering questions. Pioneer Village was the closest to a complete immersion into the past I found in Salem.

I visited Boston too. I didn’t have a lot of time there, but I walked the Freedom Trail, led by a knowledgeable, costumed guide with a great sense of humor and more than a passing resemblance to George Washington. I ate lunch at Faneuil Hall and saw what was perhaps the highlight of my trip—the hotel where Charles Dickens stayed during his trip to Boston in 1842. I also snapped a picture of the building that housed Dickens’s U.S. publisher. Maybe not as exciting to non-Dickens fans, but I thought it was pretty cool.

How much did visiting Salem add to the Loving Husband Trilogy? Everything. It wasn’t necessary for me to visit since I wrote Her Dear & Loving Husband without setting foot in Massachusetts, but there was so much more depth in the descriptions of Salem in the last two books in the series because of my visit there.

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