Cynthia Sally Haggard's Blog: Cynthia Sally's Blog, page 71
November 21, 2019
Interview Questions 4: Answered by Cynthia Sally Haggard
What hours do you write best?
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As I am in the process of conquering diabetes without pills, I have a flex schedule around my exercise routine. That means I often find myself writing in the early afternoon, after lunch (my main meal of the day) in the local cafe. It is good to get out of the house to someplace where you can really focus.
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Character Bio from Farewell My Life by Cynthia Sally Haggard: CARL FLESCH
Carl Flesch was:
[image error]Carl Flesch (1873-1944)
A real person who lived from 1873 to 1944Most famous violin pedagogue in the 1920s and 1930sBorn in Hungary, Taught in Berlin (1922-1923), the Curtis Institute (1924-1928) and Berlin (1929-1934) Grace’s violin professor at the Hochscule Für Musik in Berlin in 1922My violin professor’s teacher in Berlin in 1929
My violin professor Nannie Jamieson studied with him in 1929 in Berlin. She remembered Yehudi Menuhin giving his debut that year at the age of 13…
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November 19, 2019
Interview Questions 3: Answered by Cynthia Sally Haggard
Can you name three writing tips to pass on to aspiring authors?
[image error]Meditation provides powerful benefits & can change your life…
Develop a meditation practice to help you deal with the inevitable criticism you will encounter. I find that meditation helps me to keep grounded and calm even when my feelings have been hurt by someone’s unkind words.
Approach writing as a craft. Work at it every day. Go to conferences and take classes.
Keep an open mind. It may be that getting an agent and publishing with one of the big publishing houses is not the best way to get your work read.
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Character Bio from Farewell My Life by Cynthia Sally Haggard: ANITA BERBER
Anita Berber was:
[image error]Anita Berber (1899-1928)
A real person who lived from 1899 to 1928Erotic dancer in 1920s BerlinBreakfasted on rose petals swirled in chloral hydrateNotorious for naked dancing and androgynyFeatures in VOLUPTUOUS PANIC by Mel Gordon and THE SEVEN ADDICTIONS & FIVE PROFESSIONS OF ANITA BERBER also by Mel Gordon Died at the age of 29 from either severe tuberculosis, or substance abuse
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November 17, 2019
Interview Questions 2: Answered by Cynthia Sally Haggard
Do you have a day job? What do you do?
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I am a landlady. Not a bad occupation for a novelist:)
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November 16, 2019
Trivia Sunday 1: Farewell My Life by Cynthia Sally Haggard
Everyone knows Miley Cyrus is the wild child in the music business. But she read your book and wants to let you know that it changed her life for the better. Why did your book give Miley a new lease on life?
She learned that Grace’s discipline of being with her violin (or anything) for five hours a day gave her the steel to meet new challenges.
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Interview Questions 1: Answered by Cynthia Sally Haggard
What first inspired you to write or who inspired you?
I began writing fiction seriously in the Fall of 2004. At that time I was making the transition from research scientist to science writer.
Realizing that my writing needed work, I brainstormed about what I could do to get away from jargonated academic prose. I decided to take classes in fiction writing.
[image error]Cottage in Bernal Heights, San Francisco California
After seeing a flyer in Craig’s List, my footsteps led me to a tiny cottage in the quaint neighborhood of Bernal Heights, San Francisco. The cottage may have been shabby chic, but the teaching was amazing.
I took two classes, Introduction to Fiction: You Can’t Build a House without Foundations taught by Junse Kim, and Introduction to the Novel, taught by Otis Haschemeyer, a Stegner Fellow.
Otis opened his class by telling us that we had to produce the first five pages of our next novel. Bemused, but ever the good student, I complied. I have never looked back.
I spent the next seven years writing my first novel Thwarted Queen, which I self-published in October 2011.
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November 15, 2019
Character Bio from Farewell My Life by Cynthia Sally Haggard: ANGELINA
Angelina is:
[image error]Angelina (played by Gina Lollobrigida)
33 years oldGrace’s MotherColorfulFiery TemperLoathes Mr. RussellFormer member of the DemimondeLives a life that requires her to fib…
Demimonde is a euphemism for all the people who weren’t “respectable” such as dancers, sex-workers, prostitutes…and actresses. In the French, it means “half-world.”
I am very fond of Angelina, although she isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. I like strong women who can stand up to men…and rebels!
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November 14, 2019
Novel Excerpt 1: Chapter 33 – End of Farewell My Life by Cynthia Sally Haggard
Russell had no intention of acceding to von Kleist’s request. He couldn’t afford to alienate Wilson still further by engaging in risky, undercover activities whose outcome was unclear. But as Grace abandoned him yet again to that too-quiet mansion near Savignyplatz, Russell found himself reconsidering. Nearly a week had gone by, and Wilson still hadn’t said anything and likely never would. Count von Kleist must know Il Cazzo, so perhaps his little scheme would bring Russell closer to Grace. Not seeing his wife was the worst thing that could happen to Russell as it robbed him of the power of persuasion. If only he could talk to her, she would forgive him, as she had done so many times before. Also, he missed his children, more than he’d thought possible. Their constant chatter, the debris they left in their wake, were former annoyances he now longed for.
[image error]Count von Lietzow’s villa at Kladow, near Lake Wannsee, Berlin
And so Russell found himself four days later on a Sunday afternoon in late September, in a chauffeur-driven limousine, escorted by von Kleist to a villa on the outskirts of Berlin, the home of his dear friend code-named Taube, or Dove, who had Czech relatives. Taube must be the code-name for a woman. As they drove along, Russell tried to picture Frau or Fraülein Taube.
“How old is she?” he asked von Kleist.
“She?” Kleist smiled faintly. “She is a lady in her fifties.”
Russell resumed his ruminations. Frau Taube was probably a matronly lady, her figure thickened by child-bearing and too many marzipan confections, sweet breads, and Kaffee mit Sahne. He tried out one or two Czech phrases in his head:
Good afternoon. Dobré odpoledne.
I am pleased to meet you. Rád tě poznávám.
Lovely weather for the time of year. Jsme s krásné počasí na ročním období.
He glanced out the window. It was a glorious afternoon, the trees changing color, their leaves glowing in the sunlight. As they turned south near Pichelsdorf to edge around the western side of Lake Wannsee, through Gatow and Hohengatow, multi-colored leaves drifted lazily down as cooling breezes came off the lake. Finally they came to Kladow, a pretty village with a church. Nearby, up a winding drive stood a pale green stucco villa, pavilion-like, very much the summer house, a Sanssouci in miniature. They exited the car and entered the foyer, which was palatial and ornate.
A stocky man with iron-gray hair turned his head, and Russell found himself looking into a pair of icy blue eyes.
He recoiled. What was he doing in the home of his arch-rival?
Carl von Lietzow gave him a feral smile. “At last, the industrious Herr Russell has spared enough time from his busy schedule to come to my door.”
Of course he’d been expecting him. Russell glared at von Kleist who smiled back. He had fallen into a neat trap.
“Let me introduce my friends and comrades-in-arms: General von Witzleben, and Obersleutnant Oster.”
Merda. It never occurred to him Il Cazzo could be involved in the Oster conspiracy.
“I gather that you have gone to a great deal of trouble to meet them,” continued von Lietzow. “But I know them all personally. You had only to ask, my dear fellow.”
Russell glared into their smiles.
“What would you like?” von Lietzow snapped his fingers, and a flunky scurried forward.
“Nothing,” muttered Russell.
“Oh come now, my good fellow,” remarked von Lietzow, smiling. “You need a little something to relax the nerves. We are not the Borgias, you know.”
Russell stiffened. How dare Il Cazzo cast slurs upon his Italian heritage! How dare he suggest—Russell’s cheeks prickled as his face drained of color. What was he suggesting? Surely he didn’t know about Grace’s mother—
“You seem upset,” remarked von Lietzow. “I have just the remedy. How about a little Armagnac from Condom? I am told it is one of the best.”
Russell glared again. When the brandy arrived, he pursed his lips to take the smallest of sips. Il Cazzo was right, it was excellent. But how had he managed to acquire such a luxury?
“Why a cleaning lady?” asked Oster, an annoying grin plastered across his face.
Russell remained silent, his cheeks warming.
“You do realize there are laws in this country against men dressing as women?” Il Cazzo gave him a wolfish smirk.
Russell drew himself up. “I have diplomatic immunity. My war record is superlative. I received the Congressional Medal of Honor—”
“You are not at the American Embassy,” remarked Oster, smiling.
“If we reported this to the Gestapo…” said Il Cazzo.
Russell froze.
Il Cazzo laughed in his face. “Come! Let us sit down so that we can chat more comfortably.” Between them, they herded Russell to a sofa that was penned in by a coffee table. Il Cazzo sat down next to him, putting his boots upon the white marble table-top.
“I know you do not believe me, Herr Russell, but I am a gentleman. As a proud Prussian aristocrat, I do not allow my guests to be—how do you put it? Ah yes, to be roughed up.”
The others chuckled.
“But we wish to warn you,” said von Witzleben. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“We cannot be responsible for the consequences,” said Oster.
“Believe me, you do not want to make the acquaintance of the Gestapo,” remarked Il Cazzo, smiling.
Russell’s hands shook as he contemplated the white marble table. It was a handsome piece veined with gray. The Geheime Staatspolizei or the German Secret State Police was known for its brutality. It had the authority to investigate treason, espionage, sabotage and attacks against the Nazi Party. Of course these conspirators were not going to report him to the Gestapo, they must live in fear of it every day themselves. They had just been playing with him, and he hadn’t understood because he was worn down with exhaustion. He should never have come here—but where was Grace? Peter?
Von Kleist sat on his other side. “I have a commission for you, if you are interested.”
Russell rose to his feet. “I am not interested in your games. I wish to speak to my wife and son.”
“All in good time.” Il Cazzo bared his teeth into a smile. “First, we would like your assistance.”
“It is a pleasant task, I assure you,” remarked Kleist. “It concerns a lady.”
Russell’s cheeks flamed. He was utterly in their power, and that lava-like fury he curbed with an iron bit so that it only emerged during those dark hours when his head touched the pillow and he could not sleep, that fury threatened to erupt as he realized they would not stop in their efforts to humiliate him.
“Her name is Mabel Phelps,” said Oster.
Russell winced. How did they know about her? Did they know about that indiscreet meeting in his office?
“We want to know if she is a double-agent,” said von Witzleben.
Russell picked up his goblet and took a long swallow of his brandy. “Why me?”
“Well,” drawled Il Cazzo, “your English is good—”
“And we have reason to believe that she…fancies you,” remarked Oster.
Russell bit his lip. Dio Cane. Someone must have given them a thorough report.
“A little harmless flirtation, eh?” Il Cazzo zigzagged his eyebrows as he raised his brandy glass.
“But—”
“Why not invite her out for coffee, you know, that sort of thing?” remarked Oster, with a smile that would have been charming if the fellow were not so irritating.
“What happens if I refuse?”
“I think you know the answer to that,” replied General von Witzleben.
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November 13, 2019
Welcome to my new Facebook Page!
I started this page as a venue to discuss my books, the writing life, and to show how I go from a kernel of an idea to a finished book. Click here and enjoy!
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