V.R. Christensen's Blog, page 5

What’s next?

I’ll tell you.

I have just a few stories left to write in my Sixteen Seasons series, a few are written already and just need to be cleaned up. I think I have one more to write that is connected to Cry of the Peacock, and one to do that is connected to the third book, Gods and Monsters (excerpt one), and one more, I think happier, Christmas story. Once those are complete, I’ll remove the series from publication and publish them as a collection in one volume in autumn 2014.

That previously mentioned third book I will begin final edits on in September, with an anticipated release date of April 2014. I’m really looking forward to that. I really believe it’s my strongest work yet and I’m looking forward to rounding out the series. Those of you who’ve read Moths and Peacock will know it’s not a series in the traditional sense, but rather one connected by a common theme. In Gods and Monsters (excerpt two), however, the three books connect through common characters. I’m really excited to get working on it again. It really is my favorite of the three.

And then…? I think I’ll try something a little different. But I mean to be quiet about that, at least for the time being. Suffice it to say, it will not be historical.

Work on the house is waiting for some money to become liquid. At the moment there isn’t much more than peeling paper and paint and paper selection, which I will get to soon. I promise.

For now, however, I’m enjoying the rest of my summer and getting ready to roll up my sleeves and get back to work writing, rewriting, and getting that last book out there.

Keep your eyes peeled in the mean time for a series of promotions I have coming up. I’m planning on having one book free every month until Gods comes out. Exciting stuff! At least I think so.

 

R.I.P., my darlings

The omitted first five chapters of Cry of the Peacock have been reworked into a short story. See below for links to this FREE bonus material.

I believe it was Stephen King who said that writing never gets easier. This is both absolutely false and entirely true. As I gain experience and practice, as I allow my editors (and my readers, too) to teach me, I find that forming stories, the plotting and characterization, grows much easier. But there’s something about having been published and having faithful publishers, editors and readers, that makes one grow a little lazy. I no longer want to kill my darlings. I see no reason why my 185,000 word book must be 150,000 or fewer words. I do not like to kill my darlings. They are, after all, my darlings!

(Excuse me a moment while I weep.)

The truth is, making big cuts is a LOT of work. And while there is the incentive of making the work more concise, every cut has consequences. One omission creates a domino effect, chapters and scenes must be rewritten. Motivations change. Characters have to think of different things to say and different ways to say them.

It hurts cutting out those words. It really, really hurts.

Because I’ve been working on Cry of the Peacock the longest, I think it was the hardest to edit. Those darlings were family members, and to excise them was a little like sending a child off to college. Or worse…

But the fact is, because those words, those scenes and lines of dialogue had been there so long, I had decided they belonged even when they ceased to do so. Reworking of the story meant that other scenes were doing the work those old scenes had done, and were doing it in a more natural manner.

Still, some of what was cut out in those final edits was my finest writing. But then…they were my darlings, so of course I think so. For my own pleasure perhaps more than anyone else’s, I offer here a few of those deleted scenes. If you’ve read the book, you will see that they are no longer necessary. If you haven’t, I hope it intrigues you.

First however, an anecdotal note. Cry of the Peacock has been read by many, many beta readers in the form of Kentridge Hall. I liked that title, but in the end it changed with the renaming of the major characters—which, for the record, I did not want to do. It was necessary however, because a certain author, who I shall not name, got it into her head to name her characters Edward and Bella. Yes, that’s right. Once upon a time, Arabella Gray was Isabella Hampstead. And Ruskin Crawford was Edward. *sigh*

Have you ever considered renaming your children? No? There’s a reason for that.

The first offering is what I call The First Library Scene, where Abbie, anxious for some more thought provoking reading than Lady Crawford has so far provided for her, discovers an abandoned library, where the old and lesser used books of the house are kept. She quickly discovers she’s not alone.

 

She stood before the door. Tapped lightly (very lightly) and turned the knob. The door swung open without a sound, and she was soon inside and searching the shelves with ravenous curiosity. Only the books were so old, the room so dark, she found it a challenge to distinguish the titles. She crossed to the windows and drew the curtains open, sending clouds of dust to dance across the rays of sunlight that now entered the room unhindered.

“Good grief! Was that really necessary?”

Abbie started and turned, and discovered James sitting in a far corner of the room, half concealed in the recesses of an immense wingback chair and blinking in the light. It seemed she’d awoken him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone was here. I did knock.”

“The light reading is kept in the music room, you know.”

“I know where the light reading is, thank you,” she said, bristling. “But, as it happens, it isn’t light reading I want.”

He examined her a moment in silence. “Perhaps you want Aristophanes in Greek,” he said at last.

“Who’s to say I don’t? Not you.”

He arose from his chair. She did not like the faintly predatory look in his eye any better than the patronizing tone of his voice.

He approached, stopping just before her and looked at her very pointedly before raising his gaze to the shelves just above her head.

“Here we are,” he said and pulled down a well-worn leather volume. He opened it, scanned the pages for a moment, and then began to read.

                          She lives on apples and cheese

                             Yet she got herself appointed

                         Heiress to an estate

                              Way out there in Hamp—”

“That’s not what it says,” she objected and tried to take the book. But he held it away from her, and with an eyebrow raised, challenged her to prove it did not. At last he turned the volume so she could see it. It was, indeed, in indecipherable Greek.

“I expect you miss your sister very much,” he said, closing the book and replacing it on the shelf. “Pity she couldn’t come with you.”

“And would you have treated her with any less contempt than you have so far treated me?”

“Contempt? I wouldn’t call it contempt. Doubt, perhaps. Scepticism.”

“In my abilities?”

“I couldn’t care two figs about your abilities, Miss Gray. Perhaps a better word would be suspicion.”

“Suspicion? What can you possibly suspect me of, Mr. Crawford?”

He gave her a sideways glance and returned to his chair, putting his feet up on a nearby table and taking up the book which he may or may not have been reading, in the near darkness before he had fallen asleep.

“You seem not to have heard me, Mr. Crawford, so I’ll repeat the question.”

“I heard you. What do you think I would suspect you of, Miss Gray?”

“I haven’t the faintest clue.”

“Let me help you, then. Imagine, for a moment, someone in my position—”

“A rich, spoiled wastrel and a rogue? I suppose that’s easily enough done.”

His gaze narrowed for a moment. “Well-bred, well-educated and born to privilege is the way I would prefer to put it.”

“I’m sure you would.”

“And expected to preserve the traditions and accepted protocol of our set.”

“I don’t know what any of this has to do with me.”

“Imagine you,” he continued, “from a sphere decidedly lower, having no claims upon us that I can possibly imagine, and yet here you are! How did you manage it? What kind of avaricious schemer must you be?”

“I was invited to come, Mr. Crawford, in case you’d forgotten.”

“Yes, yes, the invitation was issued,” he said and waved it away. “But you sought it, won it somehow. Admit it. Owing to your skill, I suppose, you wheedled your way in. Congratulations on a job well done, but don’t make the mistake of thinking yourself one of us just because you have learned to look and act the part. Go back to your people, Miss Gray. Lay aside your contemptible ambition and go back where you belong, before you find yourself in deeper water than you can swim.”

“Am I a threat to you somehow?”

“A threat?”

“Yes. I cannot account for your contempt unless you somehow consider me a threat in some unimaginable way. Do you, Mr. Crawford?”

“Not in the least! I’m simply trying to mitigate the damage you are sure to cause when your schemes fall through and all you have left is your embarrassment, of which the family, if you insist on pursuing your aims, must share.”

“You don’t know what my aims are. Or you’ve decided them for me, in which case, perhaps I should thank you, as I hardly know them myself just yet. I thought we would have a shared interest in those I have dared to form, but I can see that I was wrong.”

“A shared interest? In what possible way?” he asked and laughed condescendingly.

“And you speak of embarrassment, Mr. Crawford. It seems a trifle hypocritical to me to be speaking of the embarrassment I must no doubt cause your family, when you are the one in the habit of daily shaming them.”

“You know me so well!”

“I know enough. Your reputation is no secret. I’ve seen with my own eyes how your kind make a game of life and death. You have your fun and leave the mess for someone else to clean up. Ruined women, fatherless children, hearts broken and lives and dreams dashed. And why? Because you can? Because somehow you have the right to make spoils of other people’s lives? Because you have the money and station to protect you where another man, and any woman, would have to step up to their responsibilities? All I want from your family, Mr. Crawford, is the protection they offered to provide. And you would cast me off? Why? For no other reason than that I am inconvenient to you? You are inconvenient, Mr. Crawford, not to me, but to those whose happinesses you trifle with.”

James did not answer her, but the look in his eye was almost fierce.

“Is everything all right here?” Ruskin said as he entered the room. “I thought I heard voices,” he said to Abbie as she turned to face him. “Is something the matter?”

“James and I were just having a little difference of opinion.”

“Between brother and sister,” James added.

Ruskin cast James a warning look, then turned once more to Abbie. “Where is your companion?”

Suddenly she was conscious that she had not behaved quite correctly. She had evaded her maid, to be discovered in close conversation, alone, with James. She did not even know that the library was a room in which she was welcome to visit. She hadn’t been forbidden from it, but Ruskin’s manner when she had been discovered here before was not entirely inviting, at least as far as the room was concerned.”

“I was just looking for something to read.”

“There isn’t much here, I should think, that you would find of interest.”

“No, that’s what James said,” she answered with the slightest hint of irritation.

“What I mean is,” he added, “there isn’t much here to interest anyone. James’ abandoned attempts at scholastic achievement are kept here. Books we no longer use for managing the estate. Census records, tax and tithe records, family records, that kind of thing. Of course you’re welcome to any of it. I would just be surprised if you found anything here worth reading.”

“She seemed rather taken with Aristophanes.”

“Certainly not with your translation of it,” she interjected. “Perhaps I’ll just go see what the music room has to offer.” She turned to go.

“You needn’t, you know,” Ruskin said, stopping her.

She turned back again.

“At least, it is not unthinkable that you should have your own room to read in. If you want it that is.”

She looked at him, unbelieving.

“It’s a small thing, Miss Gray, that we might do to make you more comfortable. You should have a room of your own, safe from interruption,” he added with a meaning glance in James’ direction, “and all the reading you should wish.”

“Do you mean it?” she asked him.

“The idea pleases you?”

“Good Lord!” James said and raised his book once more.

“It pleases me very much,” she answered. “Though I hope it won’t be an inconvenience.”

“None whatever.”

James laughed out loud and threw his book aside. “You’re always so insufferably polite, Russ.”

“You think I should be more like you, do you?”

“I’m sure Miss Gray values honesty. You should tell her you had hoped to have this room as your own.”

“Is this true?” she asked him.

“Once, perhaps.”

“And no longer? Why? Not because of me?”

“No,” Ruskin said. “You are my consolation.”

“Steady on, old man. Don’t put the cart before the horse.”

The look Ruskin turned upon his brother now was almost murderous.

“What I meant,” he said, and then, relaxing his features as he turned them upon Abbie, “was that it would be a comfort to know it was going to a good cause. I had once thought to have it for my study. I like the idea of your having it much better. It will take some doing, I’m afraid, to put it in any kind of presentable state. You will be patient?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good,” he said and looked quite pleased, which, in turn, pleased her very much. How kind he was next to James’ insolence! “I’ll leave you then,” he said, “so that we might begin right away.” He bowed, then called after him, and without looking: “James!”

James cut an exaggerated bow in his brother’s direction, but Ruskin had already gone. He started after him, but then stopped at the door. “I do not know how you do it, Miss Gray, but perhaps it would be worth the time to study your methods.”

“What can you mean?”

“You came in here for a book. You leave with a library. Monarchs could learn a thing or two from you, I should think. If you’ll excuse me,” and with a smug smile, he turned to go.

“As you have so adroitly pointed out,” she said stopping him.

He did not turn around.

“. . . I place high regard in the virtue of honesty, so, let’s be honest with each other, shall we?”

He turned then, and bowed his head. “By all means, Miss Gray.”

“I know now what you think of me and why. I should perhaps take it as an example of what others will no doubt think as well. I was wrong to believe I could overcome such prejudices. Likely it will make no difference, but perhaps you should know that it was only as a last resort that I finally agreed to accept your family’s very generous invitation. I am now in a position to be envied by some and despised by others. However, I come to you reluctant, expecting nothing, hoping for nothing but the protection your family was so good as to offer me. It is not my intention to repay that kindness by disgracing myself or causing embarrassment or disappointment to those who have been so good as to think kindly of me. But I am not without hope that I can live up to expectation, however far beyond my own it may be. It’s true I was not born into this world, and so have no right to it, but neither am I so removed from it as you suppose. Do not forget that my mother was once a neighbour of your own—”

“What?” he asked, actually demanded, and looked, for the moment, stunned.

“Of course you knew that.”

“I—” But he said nothing more, and so Abbie went on before she lost her nerve entirely.

“My mother, as it may very well surprise you, was in no way proud of her connections. She walked away from her family, happily left her former life behind her. She never spoke of her history or gave us any reason to believe she regretted her choice. So while you are no doubt suspicious of me, you must believe me when I say that I have my own misgivings in respect to what my future here may hold. You’ve made it sufficiently evident that you do not welcome me here, and I take it very seriously as a warning of obstacles to come. Had I anywhere else to go, any place safer, any place more likely to ensure my protection, regardless of my own personal ambitions, you may rest assured—”

He held a hand up to stop her. “You’ve said quite enough, ma’am,” and he turned and left the room. But not without nearly bumping into Sarah. He avoided her, without a word, and was gone.

 

Omitted illustration, by the incomparable artist, and fellow author, B. Lloyd.

 

The second offering takes place as Abbie and James are returning from touring the estate. Originally it had been my intention to have Abbie revisit her old home at Oak Lodge. The necessity for this scene grew questionable over time, though it still seems to me something she might very much have liked to do, had she been granted the opportunity. You’ll be able to see how I had to rework James’ finding of Mariana’s photograph. I almost like this better. Alas… Sacrifices had to be made, and in the end, I believe Cry of the Peacock is a far better book than Kentridge Hall ever was.

They had reached the copse of trees which divided the Holdaway estate from Whiteheath, before James spoke again. Oak Lodge had just come into view, and Abbie was looking at it longingly. And was conscious of doing so.

“Would you like to stop?” he asked her.

She hesitated a moment, not unsure of her answer, but of her companion. “Yes,” she said. “Very much.”

They descended the hill, where the cottage was nestled quite comfortably in the little hollow of land. They arrived at the door and dismounted, yet Abbie hesitated at the front door a moment.

“You don’t mind?” she asked him.

“I don’t mind,” he said and tried the door. It was fastened tight.

Abbie produced the key, concealed within a potted plant, and entered the cottage.

*   *   *

James, his curiosity high, alternately examined the quaint interior and her reunion with it. Her things, packed and crated and boxed, remained where they had been left.

“I thought Sir Nicholas was going to see that it was all put in storage,” she said to him.

“It’s safe enough here.”

“Until there are new tenants.”

“I’ve heard no talk of letting it again.”

“So it will just sit?”

James shrugged and watched her as she looked around, afraid, or so it seemed, to touch anything at first. And then, tentatively, as if none of it were hers after all, or had ever been, she drew her fingers across the surface of a nearby table, draped in a dust cloth, then a stack of pictures covered similarly. Her hand lingered, then pulled the cloth away, revealing the portrait of a woman not unlike Abbie.

“Your mother?”

“Yes.”

“I see where you get it, then.” He shouldn’t have said it. It was snide remark, nothing more than a thought spoken aloud, but he was a fool for thinking it at all.

“Get what?” she asked.

He chose not to answer her, but she, as women are so often wont to do, would not leave it alone. “What is it you discern from the portrait, Mr. Crawford?” she asked him, an air of disdain creeping into her own voice now. She was quite the defensive little thing, wasn’t she? “Perhaps it’s apparent from my mother’s image, how out of place in your world I must by birth and circumstance be.”

She was speaking sarcastically, of course, for it was no mean painting, this, but one commissioned by an apparently skilled artist. The frame alone was likely worth a small fortune. Save for the humbleness of the cottage itself, which was veritably a palace next to that which they had just left, the evidences of her family’s former wealth were everywhere to be seen. The few visible furnishings were of the finest construction. The unsealed crates, which here and there sat open, contained an enviable collection of leather-bound and gilt edged books. The household appointments, from the papers and curtains and upholsteries, showed a taste that was highly cultivated. Such does not happen by chance.

“Because of my family’s embarrassment, am I utterly to be despised?” she said now.

“I never said, nor did I mean to imply, anything of the sort. You cannot help your history, of course. It’s your plans for the future that concern me.”

“That’s what you saw in the portrait? My plans?”

He simply shook his head and turned away.

“Do you mean to explain yourself, Mr. Crawford?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I don’t.” If she had been playing coy, the flirt, the inveterate charmer, she would have taken his meaning already and used it to her purpose. She had not, and he found it curious.

He turned again to watch as she fingered the books that lay in a nearby crate. “Perhaps it was my appreciation for Greek prose, then?” she said and took up one of the books, veritably thrusting it at him. It was Aristophanes, indeed, though an English translation. Which would explain how she knew what The Frogs did not say.

“You know, I think that must have been it,” he said, and could not resist a mirthful smile. She’d made her point, it seemed. And cleverly at that. He laughed then and her look of defensive irritation faded. She smiled, shook her head, and, at last—thank heaven!—let the matter go.

Oh the irony! For it seemed, after all, it was an easier thing for her to do than for him. Abbie continued on with her tour of the house, while he stayed behind. He would allow her her privacy. It was her home, after all. But that meant he was left alone with the portrait, and he found, to his dismay, he could not quite keep his attention from it. The image watched him as he lingered behind, observed him as he examined the home Abbie’s mother had chosen over that in which she had been born to reside. He felt a little like an intruder, and the only way to relieve the feeling that she watched him was to watch her in turn. He was occupied thus when Abbie returned.

She greeted him with a questioning look, but said nothing as she stood at the room’s entrance.

“You take after her,” he said. “That was what I meant before.”

She looked at him a moment, creased her brow and crossed the room to place yet another book and a few photographs inside one of the crates, and then to cover them with protective straw.

“My brother . . .” he began but stopped. Again, some things were better left unsaid, but it seemed she still suspected that his meaning yet disguised an insult.

“Yes, Mr. Crawford? Your brother . . . ?”

“He warned me—”

“Warned you?” She was on the defensive again. He certainly wasn’t doing a very good job of redeeming himself, if that’s what he meant to do. He wasn’t sure he did, after all.

“Yes,” he answered, and tried again. “He said you were uncommonly fair—a stunner, I think, was the word used–” He did not go on, regretted saying anything at all, and rubbed his head in his discomfiture.

She appeared surprised, shocked even, but quickly rallied with a dismissive laugh. “I don’t believe Ruskin said any such thing.”

“Again, you misunderstand me, Miss Gray. It wasn’t Ru—”

“Here!” she said, interrupting him, she retrieved one of the newly placed items from the crate and presented it to him. “My sister doesn’t look so much like our mother as I do, but she is, I believe, what is generally considered very beautiful. There isn’t much comparison.”

He blinked, but his gaze did not leave the photograph. He still felt an idiot for saying anything. “You may be right,” he said in an attempt to lighten the mood, and then glanced to gauge her reaction. It was not what he expected. “I didn’t mean it quite like that. You needn’t cry. Please don’t.”

“It isn’t that at all.” She offered a helpless shrug of her shoulders. “I miss her.”

It was time to go, but he didn’t know what to say. She turned away from him.

“I’ll be outside when you’re ready,” he said and left the house, to sit on a bench in the little garden, and to consider the unexpected results of one afternoon’s sojourn. And to contemplate the little photograph that was still in his hand. That of a fair faced angel. Abbie’s sister. He had somehow forgotten there were two.

Great day, what had he been thinking? That he was going to harm this girl? Make her regret she’d come? Cause her greater misery than she’d so far suffered? He rubbed his face and looked across the Downs. Her land as much as his. He blew a breath of self-chastisement, and patiently continued his wait.

He too was in need of a little quiet contemplation.

If you are interested in more deleted scenes, I’ve reworked the first five, now omitted, chapters of the book into a short story, available at the moment on Amazon and AmazonUK. (It should be free on these websites. If not, try downloading it from here instead.)

 

 

Treasure in the attic!

Ok, well, it’s not treasure, exactly…

But I did spend part of the Memorial Day weekend cleaning the attic. Unfortunately, when the house went into foreclosure, everything from the attic, letters, trunks and trunks of memorabilia, photographs, books, was sold or thrown out. I went to the estate sale, and I did buy a couple of small things. Needless to say I regret now that I didn’t buy more, or that I didn’t go through the piles and piles of trash as it sat on the curb waiting for the trucks to come.

I had no reason to expect anything at all to be left in the house.

 

This is the view, looking toward the front of the house, as you come up the attic stairs.

Looking slightly to the right as you come up the stairs.

Still looking toward the front of the house, but standing opposite the stairs.

Turning right upon coming up the stairs.

 

Now the attic is huge, as perhaps you can see. And upon moving in, I just put all the boxes I knew were going to be in the way up there. But the thing is, I can’t see what I have. All my art and framed photos, all my decorative objects have been in boxes for so long, I don’t remember what I have or how it will fit. So, during these last cool days before the summer heat begins, I unpacked the boxes and placed the items on the shelves in the cedar-lined storage room. The framed artwork I stacked neatly against the rafters. I made sure all the other items up there were neatly organized and placed in strategic location for easy finding later.

Cedar lined closet in the attic.

It was as I was vacuuming up the dust that I found it. A photograph. It’s not in very good condition, but I consider it a treasure anyway. Is it a member of the Day family, who owned the house since 1917? Or is it a remnant from the original family, who built the house in 1897? I’d like to know, and I hope to find out.

Of course this find made me hungry for others, so I went and got my flashlight.

And look what I found!

It’s a flashlight!

I also found a rather decrepit looking collar, ages old and moth eaten, but it’s kind of a fun find, nonetheless. At least I think so. Perhaps there’s other stuff somewhere, fallen behind mantles and whatnot. I don’t expect to find much else. It doesn’t mean I don’t hope to do, nevertheless.

Little White Liar

My short story for June is up and available! This is another of my more humorous ones, similar in many ways to Blessed Offense. This is another in the collection I’m putting together of loosely themed seasonal stories. It’s also the last, at least until autumn, that I have already written. Which means I need to be getting back to work, doesn’t it?

Prejudice comes in many forms. For Madeleine Woodson, it is the handicap of child’s eyes, which have not yet learned to see the man who has grown up beside her. Will she learn her mistake before it’s too late?

Yard work and the quest for hot water.

 

Like the previous (and original) owners of our house in South Carolina, the owner of our new house was a naturalist. I think it just means they didn’t have the inclination to do yard work, but the official statement seems to be “all nature should be allowed to live (and grow) to the full measure of its creation.” When the house went into foreclosure it was overrun by ivy and wisteria, similyx, and shrubbery of all kinds. Mulberries and hackberries were growing right up against the house, scraping their branches against the windows, and, in some cases, breaking the glass. Once the foreclosure company took it over, they did clear out much of the ivy and wisteria and other climbing vines, and even some of the weedy trees. What was left, however, were about 50 100 year old boxwoods. At one time they must have been planted as a sort of border, because they are about twelve feet away from the house and fenceline. And there’s still a ton of ivy, some has grown so thick that it’s begun to form tree-like trunks. There remains a cedar tree growing against the back side of the house and it leans on the phone line. That tree has to come out, but I’ll have to hire it done. On each side is a dogwood tree. They’re clearly very old, and really quite charming, only one of them has a huge hole in the middle of the trunk where it’s rotting itself out. The trees probably need to come out. The have bloomed however, and for now, it seems they are staying.

A month into our residence here and we are still without hot water. My neighbor who is a plumber offered his opinion. He didn’t think it should be a complicated matter, but he had to look into the code before he could give us an estimate on the installation of a water heater. The water previously was heated by the boiler, which has not really worked for five or six years (during which time the previous owner was still in residence.) I wasn’t sure where we would come up with the extra money. We had some set aside for emergencies, but then, after all, perhaps this was an emergency. About that time, our landlords from the place we were renting, returned our entire deposit, which I wasn’t expecting them to do, so right there we had the money for a water heater. Or so I thought. So I bought one from Lowe’s website.

In the mean time, we’re trying to get a loan to update the systems, and even though I know (pretty much) who I would hire to have the work done, we have to get multiple estimates, and they have to be from contractors. I find this so annoying. Nothing stresses me out more than talking to contractors. I found an electrician and a plumber I can trust. Why do I now have to deal with contractors? So we asked around and got several recommendations.

The first came, and I felt pretty good about it. He seemed to be a good guy, and he used the electrician we had already decided we liked, and so that was no big deal. He had a plumber, too, whose name I’d heard as reputable, and his heating guy was one of the ones I’d already spoken to, but had yet to get an estimate from. So far I wasn’t too worried.

With a good friend, I began tackling the overgrown ivy in the front yard. Two days of hacking and digging and chopping and pruning, and I had the front near the curb cleared out. We even found an old sign that had been put up and covered over with ivy. I decided to leave it. I liked it. And I rather liked the ivy that was trying to take it over. The trunk (for lack of a better term) had wrapped itself around the sign in such a way that to take out one would be to take out both. But I found it charming, and so left it. I’m hoping the ivy will grow back just enough to frame the sign.

The next day the second contractor came, and every job I wanted him to do was 10x more complicated than I had intended or felt it should be. Instead of just updating the electrical service, the whole house needed to be rewired or the insurance company wouldn’t accept it. I knew this wasn’t true. And we do intend to rewire what we can, bit by bit, but for now, it’s about having adequate service. When it came to the plumbing, it was all just so complicated. The plumbing was all over the house (in reality, the bathrooms are stacked above the kitchen and powder room, the asbestos would have to be dealt with (it’s an unfinished basement-yes the insulation should be updated, but that’s another thing we can do in time) and as far as installing a water heater… Well it just doesn’t get more complicated. The water heater would have to be vented up the chimney (which we had hoped to be able to restore for use with gas coal baskets in the fireplaces) and up to the roof top. A chimney cap would be required, and it would no doubt run us thousands of dollars, but it HAD to be done! My husband came home about that time and asked the gentleman what he thought, and he said it was all just so complicated he could hardly wrap his head around it. Not a good sign in my books. He looked at the repairs on the house, the paint, the landscaping. Just so much to do! True, but he was only there for the systems. Seemed pretty simple to me. But I was discouraged about the water heater.

And where was that water heater? I hadn’t yet heard from Lowe’s about delivery? I called them. It seemed I had ordered a special order model, and it would be there in approximately three weeks. Three weeks?!?!? I can’t wait that long for hot water! I cancelled the order, they connected me with the local store, and I purchased one they had in stock.

I knew by now I needed to call water and gas to see if I truly did have gas running to the property. We could find no meter, but since there were still gas jets and outlets in the walls from years gone by, I knew there had been gas at one time. And there were gas lines under the house that fed to the fireplaces on the first floor. The question remained, however, was there still a gas service to the property?

In the mean time, a third contractor came out and thought the venting for the water heater should be simple. But all these differing opinions were confusing me. My neighbor checked with the inspector and it turns out that a regular water heater would need to vent through the chimney, but a high efficiency could go out the wall.

Was the one I ordered from Lowe’s high efficiency? Uh…no. So I went into the store and cancelled that order as well.

By now I had made up my mind that the boxwoods in the front had to go.

Water and gas came and showed me where the meter had been. Under the house! No wonder we couldn’t find it. I had never thought to look under the house. The guy told me to go ahead and have the plumbing done for the water heater (and my gas stove) and they would test the lines, and if the lines were sound, they’d set the meter where it had been. If they were not, they’d redo the lines and set the meter outside.

And then the third contractor came. He seemed reliable and honest, and came with high recommendations from more than one friend. He also used the same electrician we liked, and the plumber we had, by now, been hearing so much about. The plumber came, and he really seemed to know his stuff. He said it had to be a power vent model, and it could go out the side of the house, only not out the nearest side, since there was no place that was four feet from a window and not blocked by the chimney. He could vent it out the other side of the house, though, and that would not be too big of a problem. His estimate came in at roughly $1,900, which was a bit more than I had hoped to spend, but the price included a water heater, so I figured I could do it. The money I had set aside for the installation would pay for the water heater, and the money we got back from our previous landlords, which I had intended to use for the water heater, would pay for the installation.

He arrived the following Tuesday as promised and began running the lines. Wednesday I had the day off and looked forward to the finished product of his labors. Though of course I wasn’t sure how long it would take to set the meter. Wednesday he didn’t show. Turns out the water heater didn’t come in. Thursday, however, he was there, and had arranged for the inspector and the city to come out and set the meter. I was excited to say the least. I was looking forward to a good long soak in my clawfoot bathtub that overlooked my neighbor’s blooming cherry trees. The plumber (wise man that he is) cautioned me not to hold my breath about having the meter set that day.

Water and gas came, and what ensued was a heated argument between five of their representatives about where the lines were and whether they had been disconnected, and where was the gas, and what FOOL told me they could just set a meter under the house??? My plumber was interviewed. I was interviewed. The answers were found lacking. The gentlemen argued some more. They would have to do some digging to locate the lines, and if they had to re-lay them and set a meter outside…well, I still had four or five boxwoods blocking the path. I assured them, that, if required, I could take them out that night. “But you have to get the ROOTS and all,” they insisted. I assured them I could. They told me it would be hard. That I should tie them to my car and pull them out. (I have a Volvo. It ain’t happenin’.) But my plumber, wonderful man that he is, told them he had witnessed my boxwood removing efforts and assured them I was up to the challenge.

That is a first, I’m telling you. I’ve *never* in my life had someone back me like that.

So back to the water and gas. Well, the next day they came out, dug about the sidewalk and found the old lines. The next three days it poured down rain, while we waited for the state engineers, or whatever, to come mark the utilities. At last and at LAST they came, a week later, to block off the street, cut into the pavement and reset the gas lines. It took them the better part of the day, but in that ONE day, I at last had hot water AND gas to my stove!

Talk about deprivation. I think I’ve done my camping for the summer. If only I didn’t have to go on that blasted Trek reenactment a month from now. Ah well. At least I can say I’ve had some practice.

The house is ours! Now what?

 

I’ve been waiting to move for so long that most of my stuff was already packed. Still, there was a LOT to do. More than that, there was a lot to learn. Because of the terms of our purchase, we had waved the right to have our purchase contingent upon an inspection. Fannie Mae feared when we realized all that had to be done to repair the house that we’d back out. They were likewise reluctant to allow us to have one at all, contingency or no contingency. No matter. I’ve done this before and I knew pretty well what we were getting into. Besides which, we had three weeks to be out of our current house. There were no other options for us but to move forward. Still, I really wanted to know if the systems were working. The power was on so I knew it worked, but was it safe? The water had been turned off for some time, so whether it was working properly was anybody’s guess. And heat? Was there heat? It was late March, so the question of whether heat was necessary was nominal. The question of hot water was not. I can live without heat. I can’t live without hot water.

Oh how I’ve learned to love the taste of my own words! (Could someone pass the salt?)

Instead of hiring an inspector, we decided what we needed were some reputable professionals in electricity, plumbing and heat. But, the house, not being quite ours yet, we needed permission. I could get into the house, that wasn’t a problem, but I did want to abide by the rules (whatever they were), and so, after some arguing and haggling, we at last got them to agree to let us call in the experts. The first to appear was an electrician, and one I liked and trusted (SO hard to find). I think I’ll hang onto him. He told us what we needed to know about the fuse box. Yes, I said FUSE box!

We knew already that we would have to upgrade. The insurance demanded it, and yet it would be a couple of months before we had the money to do that. I needed to know that it would be safe for the duration, and how to put in fuses, where to buy them, what sizes, all of that.  He told us that so long as we did not use higher than 20 amp fuses, we should be safe. He was concerned, however, by the fact that we have a 60 amp service but a 120 amp fuse box feeding off of it. He said it wasn’t safe, nor was it hooked up to any kind of code (the sub-panel is wired improperly) but as we are not huge electricity consumers, as long as we’re careful, we should be just fine.

With that done, the next person to call in was the heating specialist. We have a boiler, so that means before we can call him in we had to have the water turned on and the house dewinterized. Again, the sellers dragged their feet, but at last it was done.

And to our slight chagrin, we immediately saw several leaking pipes. The worst of these did not appear to be a big deal. Clearly it had been leaking previously and as the water was draining onto the back porch, I decided not to panic. I called the boiler man first.

Yes, we have a boiler. It isn’t ancient, but by no means is it new. I needed to know if it worked. If it wouldn’t heat the house (radiators) would it at least heat my water? The man believed it would. In fact he’d worked on the boiler before when the house was owned by Mrs. Day. It was oil fueled, and there was even oil in the tank. He got it running for us, and sure enough we had hot water! But in order to conserve fuel, he suggested we disconnect the thermostat so that the boiler wouldn’t be heating the whole house while we weren’t living in it.

So it was time to move on to the plumbing. Our neighbor, as it turns out, is a plumber. Why did I not know this? So I called him up and begged for help. The longer the water was on, the more leaks appeared. And by the time we were actually living in the house, it became apparent that we had some serious plumbing issues. The first and foremost was that leak on the back porch. It took taking down the porch ceiling to get to the problem, revealing a knot of repaired drains and supply lines simply crumbling apart. The leaks had been running for so long that one of the joists had rotted through. The pipes weren’t salvageable and no one wants to risk a clawfoot tub falling through the floor, and so our dear plumber/neighbor/friend cut out the bad spot and put a cap on it. We were down to 1 1/2 bathrooms. No biggie. We just left 1 1/2 bathrooms, and while it’s certainly not the ideal, I can live in almost any kind of deprivation for a limited period of time.

(Where did that salt go?)

So now it was time to tackle the kitchen, because I simply cannot live in this kitchen. The potential is here, and I see in my head what it could be. Mustard yellow and terracotta walls, soapstone countertops, rescued oak cabinets from the extinct textile mill on the river, Dan River Mills, an island and these really cool pendent lights I found at Lowe’s. But at the moment…it’s frightening. The only works space is a cast iron sink over an aluminum cabinet that is completely rusted out. We bought a slab of laminate countertop (as a temporary fix), a large stainless steel sink, and those rescued oak cabinets we picked up for a steal at the local antique store, and decided I could put it all together on my day off. Yeah. Right. It took me nine hours, and by the end of the day, I had a sink that wouldn’t quite lay flat against the countertop. I hate those stupid clips you have to screw on. They simply wouldn’t hold onto the particle board substrate and kept slipping off to go flying across the kitchen. My hands were so tired, I couldn’t twist another screw, and I finally gave up. And the faucet I had unhooked, which was, by all appearances, a wall mounted one, turned out instead to be piped up from the floor and through the backsplash of the sink, so I had to cut notches out of the new countertop in order to put it back in. And the hot water pipe was leaking. Fantastic. I’m not proud of my work, but as I said, it’s temporary, and I’ll redeem myself when the whole thing is finished for real.

 At last closing day came, and we began what turned into a two week move. Why was moving two states away easier than moving across the street? With my job, I really didn’t have the time I needed to pack everything as I should, and so many, many trips were made across the street. My books were packed, and we did have a lot of furniture and heavy items, so we rented a truck to make the work easier. We had help from friends to move, and I promised them I’d hire someone to move my piano. It turns out I could find no one to do it, so after renting another truck so that we could retrieve the last of our stuff from our house in South Carolina, we decided the best thing to do was beg a few more friends (the brawny ones) and have them put my piano on dollies and wheel it down the street. So that’s what we did.

The first week in our house (without heat) it snowed. Yes it did. I’m so OVER this winter!

The first week in our house, that cap on the back porch came loose and shot off into the bushes around midnight one night, spraying the neighbor’s house. They rang the doorbell until we woke up and I, in my pajamas, in the middle of the night, went out to turn the water off at the curb. The next morning I texted my neighbor, the plumber, hoping he could spare some time after work to help us get the water back on. He came right away, that very morning, and recapped it.

A few days later, the pipe in the half bath burst and flooded the basement. So we were down to one bathroom. Oh the joy!

And guess what? Turns out that our boiler only heats enough water to last a few minutes. Not enough to fill a tub. So I’m certainly eating those words. It’s now been three weeks and the plumber is here today to install a new hot water heater at last! I’m so glad we have such good friends here who let us use their shower. In exchange, we make them meals. I hope it’s a fair trade. It feels like such an imposition.

BUT, despite the lack of heat (it’s been in the 70′s lately) and the leaky pipes (so far we are holding steady with one bathroom) and the fact that I don’t really have any hot water to speak of, I’m so happy to at last be in a house of my own. I really do love this house! It has some amazing spaces and details and it’s so nice to be in a house where there’s room to move and we’re not always tripping over each other. My daughter, who has had to share a room with her two brothers for the last year and a half, is really enjoying having her own room. It happens to be the largest room in the house. Lucky her!

Attached to our room, through the bathroom, is a delightful sunroom, with windows on three walls. Just outside, our neighbor’s cherry tree is blooming and it is simply heaven up there. The cats love it too.

Book Cover Reveal ~ Greenwood Tree

I’m so excited about this! I’ve been waiting for this book for a long time. Greenwood Tree is one amazing concoction of Historical Fiction, Mystery, Fantasy and suspense. It is Agatha Christie and something else all in one. It’s pure imagination at it’s very finest. B. Lloyd is a talent to be reckoned with. She’s my beta reader, my editor, my illustrator and my friend. And I’m so pleased to see this wonderful book at last available. (Or very soon to be, at any rate.) And to celebrate it’s imminent release, I have permission to give you a peek of the cover.

But first…

A taste!

‘Well, what do all mysteries have?’ said Aunt Isobel. ‘Money, mistresses, and murder.’

1783 – and Lichfield society is enthralled by the arrival of dashing ex-officer Orville; he charms his way into the salons, grand houses and even a great inheritance from extrovert Sir Morton.

1927 – and detective writer Julia Warren returns to her home in Lichfield to work on her next novel. Initially she hopes to find plot material from the past and set it in the present. Aunt Isobel, while making preparations for the annual midsummer ball, has managed to root out an old journal from 1783 which might prove a source of inspiration. Once Julia starts reading her ancestor’s journal she becomes absorbed in solving the mystery surrounding officer Orville. Detective fever takes over, and she moves from reality to legend as events from the past seem set to re-enact themselves in the present, and she finds herself unravelling more than just the one mystery. Who was Orville? Who was the agent, Oddman, set to spy on him? And who is helpful Mr Grenall ?

Pagan gods don’t walk away just because you stop looking at them. The Gronny Patch sleeps. Perhaps it dreams. Or perhaps not …

A complex, multi-layered story unlike any other, full of whimsy, horror, and mystery, shifting between the centuries and from source to source, until all the threads are finally drawn together by the imperturbable Miss Warren.

Want more?

Take a peek at the trailer!

And now…

A little about the author!

A Bustle attached to a keyboard, occasionally to be seen floating on a canal …

After studying Early Music in Italy followed by a brief career in concert performance, the Bustle exchanged vocal parts for less vocal arts i.e. a Diploma from the Accademia di Belle Arti di Venezia.

Her inky mess, both graphic and verbal, can be found in various regions of the Web, and appendaged to good people’s works (for no visible reason that she can understand).

At present exploring the mysteries of Northumberland, although if there is a place she could call true home, it would be Venice…while the fields of Waterloo hold a certain resonance for her as well…

More here :

http://about.me/B.Lloyd

& here :

http://lloydanon.wordpress.com

For those who enjoy Twittery:

Do drop by @AuthorsAnon

as she enjoys a chat

(Warning: Please expect occasional bouts of nonsense).

 

 

And now…

The cover!!!

Are you as excited as I am?

It’s not too early to order a copy!

 

Amazon UK (pre-order) (hardcover) http://www.amazon.co.uk/Greenwood-Tree-B-Lloyd/dp/1909374563

(paperback) http://www.amazon.co.uk/Greenwood-Tree-B-Lloyd/dp/1909374571/ref=tmm_pap_title_0

Amazon US (pre-order) paperback: http://www.amazon.com/Greenwood-Tree-B-Lloyd/dp/1909374571/ref=tmm_pap_title_0

http://www.amazon.com/Greenwood-Tree-B-Lloyd/dp/1909374563/ref=tmm_hrd_title_0

Waterstones: http://www.waterstones.com/waterstonesweb/products/b-+lloyd/greenwood+tree/9610637/

Pre-order page on the publisher’s website : http://www.greycellspress.co.uk/pre-order-our-titles/

Finding the House

It started with a sign:

Estate Sale

I wanted to see the house. It was run down, it was shabby looking, had been allowed to fall into disrepair. But I wanted to see it. And so we went.

It was the third day of a three day sale, and all the good stuff had been taken. I wasn’t there to buy anything, not really. I simply wanted to see the house. I suppose it would have been nice to see what had been there, how it had been furnished, that kind of thing, but I had waited for the crowds to dissipate. I had a feeling this would be a meaningful experience.

I should perhaps rewind just a bit and explain something about this journey. We had a house, a beautiful house in South Carolina—a 1918 Colonial Revival that we lovingly and painstakingly restored. We weren’t finished when my husband decided he couldn’t stay with his current employer and so began looking for work elsewhere. We had decided not to move, not till the house was done, so when he got a job offer in Virginia, and accepted it, I was both unprepared and discouraged. It meant he would leave and I would remain to get the house ready. It took another year and a half before we could join him. The separation, to put it lightly, was Hell.

Part of the problem was, obviously, that we were trying to sell our house during the worst real estate slump in history. Part of the problem was that there was no alternative for us but to remain. We could not rent in Virginia—or we thought we could not—for a price we could afford, with three kids, a dog and seven cats. We tried several times to buy, but each time it fell through. I think we tried six or seven different properties, mostly foreclosures, but for various reasons, they turned out not to be viable options.

We at last decided on a property, which must by necessity be temporary, to buy and move into. We moved in, but at the last minute, the loan fell through. I have to say I was relieved. I hated the house, though I liked the neighborhood. It was a historic neighborhood, one of two, once prominent streets, that border Sutherlin Mansion, the last capital of the Confederacy. The neighbors were friendly and watched out for each other. Many of the city’s prominent historical preservation folks live around here. And the houses, both run down and restored, are beautiful.

So we went to the estate sale. I fell immediately in love with the place. There was so much light and charm to the house. It was exactly the right

Books I bought at the estate sale.

size. And while it had not been updated since the 60’s, it had been owned by the same family, if not since it was built, then certainly for the last 90 years or so. I could see what the house was meant to be, and I knew I could make it so again.

I had to have this house.

So I asked one of the auction people if they knew the situation. I was informed that the house had gone into foreclosure. I was at once hopeful and anxious. The house we were living in (across the street) we had been renting for the last year and a half since the loan fell through. It was still on the market and might, at any minute, be sold. Foreclosures sometimes take years to go through. Sometimes, not often, they go through a little faster. We didn’t have years, I knew that. But if it were available sometime in the spring…it might just be possible.

I kept my eyes peeled. The Day house can easily be seen from our little, rundown rental property, and you’d better believe I watched it. I watched when the men came to winterize it, to clean out the remaining memorabilia of one woman, and one family’s long residence in the house (how I wish I’d had the courage to dig through those garbage bags they had piled out on the street). And I watched as they cleared the vines away and revealed even more of the faded and sad exterior. They were preparing it to go on the market.

I also watched the internet. I found a notice stating that the house would go up for auction on December 18, on a Tuesday, before Christmas. There would be no showing. It was a cash only sale. They were hoping to get the $70K owed, but it being an auction, who knew. I felt it would not sell. I could not buy it, not for that price. Not on a Tuesday in December for cash. I sought advice. I took a lot of ibuprofen for my stress headaches. I was told it would certainly sell. An investor, someone, would buy the house.

It did not sell.

I continued to watch. And then one day a sign appeared on the door. It was just a letter saying the property had gone into foreclosure, and that a certain real estate company would be representing it. I called the man. He had no information on it. Not yet. But he took my name and told me he’d call me back in a couple of weeks.

A couple of weeks went by. I heard nothing. About a month later an ad appeared in the paper, along with a sad looking picture of the house. There was no price, no MLS number. Just: “Needs major repairs. Seeking offers.”

I called the real estate agent once more. He didn’t have a price yet, but would get back to us.

I continued to wait.

And then, at last, we were allowed to see it. I’d seen it already, of course, but I wanted to see it again, I wanted to get my name on the list, I wanted to be the first on the list of interested buyers. And there was a price. They wanted $31K.

Holy cow! This might actually happen.

We went to see the house. Major repairs. I find this a relative term. Our house in South Carolina, when we bought it, had been owned by one family since it had been built. It had outdated electrical, sketchy plumbing, peeling paint, a porch that needed replacing, a kitchen and bathrooms that needed updating. No heat. What are major repairs? This house was in exactly the same condition. We could do this.

Only how much would we need to borrow? 50K? 70k? 100k? We still own a house in SC. It limits us a great deal. But I was determined to make some kind of offer. My parents had offered to help us out if we needed it. 30K was hardly anything at all. But houses had sat, were sitting, on this street, for less than that. There was a precident to ask less. And if I could borrow the cash… Maybe 20K was not so bad an offer. We decided to do some research. We would find out just what we could do and we would make an offer.

The following day we had to be out of our house in order to allow the agent to come and show it. We got up, it was snowing. We prepared to leave.

We own an outhouse!

The man who greeted us was not the agent, but a home inspector. An offer had been made and accepted. If the inspection passed, we would have 45 days to be out of the house. There was no choice now but to move forward on the Day house. There was no alternative but to offer cash. A loan would take 60 days at least.

So I called my parents, and they came through. We made the offer. And waited.

It was rejected.

My migrains returned.

We made another offer.

It was countered. They wanted the asking price. Another offer had also been made. That other offer had been countered with the same. Was it a matter now of who accepted first? Was it a matter of who made the best offer? Did the fact that I had made contact with the selling agent FIRST, that I had made my offer FIRST, that the house was MEANT to be mine count for anything? We accepted the counter, but offered a couple thousand more (though I didn’t know how we’d come up with the money).

We waited.

I took more ibuprofen. Sometimes chased with acetaminophen.

I did a lot of praying.

And at last out offer was accepted. They accepted their counter, and told us (does this happen anywhere else but in the South?) that we did not have to offer the extra couple thousand, that their counter of the asking price was sufficient. The house was to be ours!

I truly believe the Lord works in mysterious ways, and though I rarely wax religious, this is not the first time that a property came to us by truly providential, even miraculous, means.

The house does not have adequate electricity. The plumbing leaks. The boiler works, but does not heat enough water to bathe in. There is no heat.

But it’s my house. Mine! And I’m so grateful, and so excited. This is going to be one gorgeous house!

There are butterflies in the stained glass. Can you see them?

And something else of passing interest . . .

We live on property that was once owned by a man named Holbrook. It may not mean anything to you . . . yet. I wrote a book a few years back. Five or six years now, I suppose. The hero’s name? Daniel Holbrook. Coincidence? A sign. Whatever it is, I think I’ve come home!

Release day is here!

After nine years of hard work

Cry of the Peacock

is now here!

Available for Kindle and all other digital formats. Paperback also available.

Hardcover coming soon!

(Click cover for an excerpt)

After the death of her father, Abbie Gray finds herself the recipient of an offer to assume a place within her wealthy landlord’s family.  She’s sceptical of the motivation behind such an extraordinary invitation, but having nowhere else to go, she accepts, though reluctantly.  While she is being groomed according to the ideals of society and of the eldest son, heir to title and fortune, the younger brothers, suspicious of her motives, attempt to expose her as a mercenary and an upstart.  But when they discover that her mysterious past is disturbingly connected with their own, they are brought to reconsider.  David, the elder of the two, is forced to ask himself some very hard questions about integrity, liberty and honor, and what it means to be worthy of the title “gentleman”.

To celebrate,

Of Moths & Butterflies is FREE

this weekend only!

Grab your copy quick!

What is it about Roger and Claire?

I have had numerous requests to continue their story. Really, I thought I’d said all there was to say. Yes, I left it hanging, only . . . not really. I implied where it would go. Roger would have to prove himself, and Claire would have to trust him. And Claire, being an extrovert in contrast to the introverted Imogen, would certainly be able to do that. Sooner or later.

I even had one reader base their review of Moths on the answer to the question of whether the next book is about them. It’s not. It isn’t about anyone involved in Moths. That will come with the third book, but really . . . a theme, and a few minor characters, are all that tie the three books together. (And some rather amazing graphics.)

So what is it about these two that either makes people love Moths or hate it? They are just two minor characters. That is all.

What is it about Claire and Roger? How does their story end? And does it end happily? And you know . . . it got me thinking.

Last year I had a goal to write a short story a month. I didn’t quite make it, and so this year I’m filling in the gaps. It’s Lent. “A season of bright sadness.” What a beautiful expression. What a beautiful idea! And Lent, if you think about it, is such a wise and beautiful holiday. Give up something, sacrifice it, in remembrance of Him who sacrificed himself for us. I like it. And what a better world it would be if we all learned to bridle our passions, to give up those things that poison our lives.

What would Roger have to give up? And would his sacrifice be enough? Can he ever truly win the trust and unadulterated affection of the woman he loves?

I hadn’t thought there was much more to tell of Roger and Claire. It seems I was wrong.