Stanley Michael Hurd's Blog: Scrawls and Screed , page 2

New directions

Hi everybody,

It’s been two weeks now since I finished Darcy’s Tale, and I’m already starting to jones about writing something new. What I’d like to ask for is your thoughts on my Colonel Fitzwilliam; do we like him? Does he seem like a guy you would like to know better?

I’m not looking for plot ideas, because, honestly, I have never yet gotten a plot to roll out the way I thought it would. Darcy was different, of course, since I had to make him conform to Miss Jane Austen’s story, but all of the side stuff changed without notice. For example, I originally thought Bingley would be Darcy’s sounding board for his troubles, and the one to show him the error of his ways. In hindsight that would have been difficult to pull off, within the constraints of the original, but that wasn’t why I changed course; the characters and plot just took off in another line, and I followed along.

Another thought would be Captain Wentworth. I have a lot of insight into him as a man and a fighter, and I can empathize with his position in regards to Anne Elliot. It would mean a good deal of study into the Napoleonic Wars, but I enjoy that sort of thing.

Then of course I might just set off on a new character completely, one unrelated to Austen, but still in the regency period. Any thoughts on all of this?

Thanks so much.

Stan

Vol III scheduled completion

Hi everybody,

Final update: It's out - I finished early. Hope you like it. Darcy's Tale, Volume III on Amazon

I have been receiving quite a number of questions regarding the completion date forVolume III: The Way Home. So far, it looks good for mid-August. The book is largely complete, in that the story stretches from beginning to end, although there are one or two thin spots, and a couple of letters yet to be written. Unless my world blows up, another month ought to do it.

7/20 Update

I am now pretty firm on a release date of August 17! :-)


Stan

P.S. By the way, be sure to comment on the two latest extracts, even though I have already toned down the Epilogue section I posted; the more feedback I get, the less uncertainty I feel, and the sooner I’ll be able to let go of the darn’ thing. :-)

let's try again

Ok, since I think I short-changed you guys with my last snippet (but I would still very much appreciate your comments on it), here is a letter from Darcy to Georgiana while Darcy is in London, waiting until Bingley manages to propose to Jane.


Grosvenor Square
Friday, September 26

Dear Georgiana,

I have returned to London to wait until Bingley should have had time to secure his future with Miss Bennet; I deemed it best done without the hindrance of my overbearing personality being quite so much in evidence. I doubt it will take long, however; the two principals involved seem as likely to connect as any couple I have ever witnessed, just on the strength of Bingley’s esteem alone; but I am persuaded that Miss Bennet cherishes a deep regard for him, as well. Indeed, I am sure that, now the discouraging influence of my fearsome features is removed, Mrs. Bennet will be able to contrive ample time for the two lovers to be alone to get the job done with admirable efficiency.

So, I am sure the light of tender love triumphant shines by now on Bingley’s schemes of domesticity; I left him two days ago, and I cannot imagine it would take him longer to declare himself: he was never one to be reticent in making his feelings known. I expect to hear from him almost hourly to declare his profitable addresses. In spite of my way of talking, Dearest, I am very pleased for him, and wish him every joy in his married life; I am certain he will be happy, and in their mutual goodness I see much to value, and a most favourable prophecy of felicity.

There is little going forward in Town just now, and I am catching up on some reading. After our discussion with Miss Elizabeth Bennet in July, I have been tasting poetry by our modern authors; this afternoon I read The Castaway, by Cowper: have you read it? It is dark, though moving: the tale of a man swept overboard at night, far out at sea; its metaphor found harbour in my heart, and I have turned to this missive, my own link to light, land, and beauty, to distract me and release me from its power. I understand the author was a man given to fits of insanity—what does this say about me, I should like to know? I shall trust your regard for me to be sufficient evidence of my being of sound mind, however.

You will, I know, wish to hear of Miss Elizabeth Bennet; she is well, and asked after you particularly, and on more than one occasion. But I confess that it is nearly as much for her sake as for Bingley’s that I have removed to London—knowing of her younger sister’s condition before her marriage, as I do, my presence could not but inflict some measure of discomfort on her. Of course, she knows nothing of my involvement latterly in the business, which would be much worse, but still, it must be bad enough, and so I have distanced myself from her. I can only trust to time, to let her present suffering amend itself to a degree that will allow her to see me without painful recollection. How much simpler our lives would be if we could regulate our brains to the extent that we could forget whatever we chose to. Imagine the bliss of forgetting all pain and embarrassment. These are the scars of the soul, and I cannot but imagine that it would be more beautiful without them. Well, having now given that more thought, I see I am wrong; the soul of the babe is not more beautiful than that of the adult, except in the beauty of the promise it holds for the future. The soul is formed, and informed, by everything in our lives, including, certainly, all of our trials; pain and mortification must be the price of a beautiful soul: the natural trimmings and prunings, if you will, that create the majestic beauty of the mighty oak. I do not believe that an oak raised in a hothouse would be nearly as picturesque as the forest patriarch which has withstood all the tempests and droughts Nature could throw against it.

Well, there it is, I suppose; we must weather our storms, and persevere through straitened circumstances, and grow slowly into beauty. I must, at least: you, it seems, have somehow managed to by-pass the requirement for trials and travail, having arrived at perfection quite naturally in earliest adulthood. Your trials demonstrate the beauty of your soul, whilst those by which I am afflicted must labour still to shape mine. Perhaps that is simply the difference between men and women—those of my sex must toil, and struggle, and fight with the world, before we are moulded into our correct shape, whilst your sex finds it more spontaneously and benignly within you. Perhaps, as you are the bearers of life, you are necessarily and innately more sacred and serene, and we men are drawn to that immaculate purity in order to soothe and correct our own great imperfections. I do not know, Dearest; but surely a man without a woman must suffer the more in this life before finding tranquillity and repose.

I do apologise; the residue of melancholy left behind by Cowper does not seem to have left me completely. Be assured, Dearest, I am not so desperate as it may sound; I find that my new susceptibility to poetry affects me more strongly than I have any idea of whilst I am reading it. Then, I am more conscious of the scansion and rhyme scheme, the author’s use of imagery and diction—a dozen things. But afterwards, as I revisit it in my mind, the impact is felt the more for being free of such critical thinking.

Best I turn my attentions to something rather more mundane and purposeful; there is a letter from Stevenson, which will no doubt occupy my mind to better effect than poetry. Therefore, adieu, Dearest. I remain,

Your affectionate Brother,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Another snippet

Since Kellea asked, here is a little snippet from Vol. III. It is Christmas day, nearly three months after Darcy and Elizabeth’s wedding, and the Gardiners are at Pemberley for the holidays (no guarantees it won’t be rewritten before I’m done, though).


Epilogue


Elizabeth left her dressing room and went in search of her recent acquisition; she found him seated in the breakfast-room, quietly reading the paper along with her Uncle Gardiner. The two men rose as she entered, and she was kissed first by her uncle, then more spiritedly by her husband.

“I worry about your husband, my dear,” said her uncle as he seated himself and lifted the paper again. “His colour is off, and he does not eat enough to suit me: I fear you may be over-taxing him—in his duties as host during Christmastide, I mean.”

Elizabeth sat down on Darcy’s knee and stole a bite of toast from his plate. “He is keeping up his strength quite well, I assure you, Uncle,” said she, with a contented smile. “You may trust that I am quite attentive to his needs, and his strength.” Her relation cocked a reproving eye at this, but chuckled good-humouredly. Elizabeth rose and went to her place at table; Reynolds brought her a cup of tea, murmuring a “Good morning, Ma’am.”

“Good morning, Reynolds. Is your back at all better?” she asked with concern.

“Yes, thank you very much, Madam. That plaster was a vast help, and I slept well for the first time in weeks; amazing.”

Elizabeth patted his arm, smiling up at him. “I am so glad; it always worked for my father.”

“Yes, Madam; thank you again.”

“Where is my aunt?” she asked Mr. Gardiner.

“She is somewhere about,” he said. “She finished breakfast and, tiring of watching the two of us read and dawdle, she went off in search of occupation.”

“It will be time for services before too long,” Elizabeth pointed out.

“Yes, my dear, I am sure she will not have forgotten Morning Service on Christmas Day,” Mr. Gardiner said wryly.

“Gardiner,” Darcy spoke up from behind his paper, “have you any idea where my wife got this notion that no one is capable of running their lives without her help?”

“Certainly not from my side of the family,” he said. “Yet it seems unlikely to have come through my brother Bennet: perhaps my sister had outside help.”

“I shall throw something at you in a moment,” Elizabeth warned him.

“And where did she pick that up?” queried her uncle.

“Ah…that comes from my side,” Darcy admitted. “I throw things: pillows, and rolls and such; and my aunt has been known to throw a spoon with deadly accuracy.”

“Charming,” said Mr. Gardiner wryly.

“Is not it?” put in Elizabeth with pleasure. “I do adore these little habits of the ton; it gives one so much more latitude of expression in daily life.”

Excerpt from vol III: Darcy fights a footpad

This was fun for me to write, since I teach fencing and the martial arts. It’s just how a fight always works out in your imagination, but never in real life; which, of course, is why they call it fiction.

The set-up is that Darcy has gone to London in search of Wickham and Lydia, and acquired some assistance in the form of one Sergeant Cooper, through the good offices of Colonel Fitzwilliam. Cooper is a seasoned fighting man, given to whistling when things are going his way. Having found out from Mrs. Younge that the couple was in St. Mary’s parish, Whitechapel, the two men go there to search for them.

*****

They were to spend some hours in this manner, searching the close and weary dens south of the high street; it was getting on in the afternoon when they crossed Whitechapel and proceeded up Osborn. It was there they encountered their first incident of note: as the gloom from the setting sun became darker, Darcy suddenly found himself set upon by two men; the first, wielding a knife that missed being a sword by inches only, stepped out directly in front of him; he was wiry and quick of movement, holding his weapon with practiced ease. The second, a hulking beast of a man, got between Darcy and Cooper, obviously intent on delaying Cooper from coming to Darcy’s aid.

When Darcy had been up at Oxford, he had, along with most young men of his class, taken lessons in the sword at a salle d’armes in town. Darcy had enjoyed the exercise a good deal, but there had been one individual whom Darcy could never abide, who was most devoted student of the rapier; rather than undergo the aggravation of practising daily with this disobliging individual, Darcy had turned to the single-stick. His pleasure in the art had given him application, and, by the time he left, he was more than proficient. At the time it had all been rather for his enjoyment and convenience, but now it turned to a material advantage, as a walking-stick differed from a single-stick only by the lack of a guard. He had the reach on his assailant by at least a foot, and addressed his blade en garde in third almost with amusement.

The footpad, seeing that Darcy had no intention of yielding easily, lost a good deal of his initial enthusiasm and swagger; he began circling Darcy, looking for an opening. Darcy took a quick scan of the footing around him, and noticed as well that the crowded street had become suddenly empty. From behind him, he could hear Sergeant Cooper was giving out as good as he got; his cheery whistle told Darcy there was little to worry about from that quarter. The man before Darcy, waving his blade sinuously in front of him, made a tentative lunge to test Darcy, but his distance was faulty, and he came within reach of Darcy’s arm; Darcy took his blade in fourth with a riposte volante to the left, which he carried down to low line, cutting back hard across the kneecap with the brass tip of his walking stick. As the man cried out, Darcy administered a soporific that quieted his cries: a solid coup de taille montante that caught the man on the left angle of the jaw, bringing his adversary an instant, relieving sedation, temporarily putting him beyond the pain his knee, and now his jaw, would know for weeks to come.

Darcy spun now to his rear, executing a passe avant to reach the other two, and finished with a heavy blow to the sinews on the larger man’s heel just as he set his weight on that foot to leap at Cooper; while the timing of this manœuvre was entirely fortuitous, the results were both impressive and satisfying: instead of vaulting forward at Cooper, the man’s leg gave way under him directly; as he fell, his skull came down on the curbing with a resounding crack, and suddenly all was still. Cooper looked from the man on the ground in front of him, to Darcy, then to the other man where he lay motionless, his knife still in his grip, and finally back to Darcy; he gave a low-pitched whistle and rubbed his cheek in wonder. While astounded at his good luck and the ease of his victory, Darcy met the sergeant’s gaze impassively—though he held his features in check with difficulty; his elation at having the whole engagement go so perfectly, as thoroughly in his favour as any he had ever imagined as “Dirks Darcy” in the woods at Rosings, made him want to dance about and wave his fists in the air. Such a very un-piratical display would, naturally, rob his performance of much of its effect, so he contented himself with a little twirling flourish as he brought his stick back to its proper place under his hand. Cooper went to the smaller man and, kicking the blade from his hand, reached down and retrieved it; he offered it to Darcy, who declined with a gesture. The sergeant tucked the blade into his belt at the back under his coat, and, with a new degree of respect, gestured for Darcy to precede him.

A mild rant on a review

One of the reader’s reviews on Amazon complained that volume II was boring: just a record of the life of a Regency gentleman. This, I assume, is about the views we have of him at Pemberley and in London, deciding what to do about Georgiana and the dinner, taking care of Sayers, the builder’s son, deciding the fate of Haydn the footman, etc. The reviewer missed a couple of important points, though, I believe. First, Austen tells us that this is who Darcy is, when Elizabeth thinks: “As a brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people’s happiness were in his guardianship!” But from my standpoint, it was more important to show how he could have the gall to mess with Bingley’s life; it wasn’t arrogant meddling, it was who he had to be, as Darcy of Pemberley—just part of his normal, daily life. As I would be hard-pressed to justify doing something like that myself, I had to figure out how Darcy, for all of his intelligence, awareness, and good intentions, could do so without feeling like the worst sort of meddler.

The dinner at Grosvenor Square was about Georgiana’ growth, and his attempts to help her along. Miss Hartsbury’s ball was about how he was dealing with his low spirits, and Bingley’s, and his good-hearted stab at helping out a girl having a bit of guy-trouble. The rest of London was devoted to his interactions with his family, and, of course, Miss Chesterton, all of which help us to understand who Darcy is as a man on the emotional level.

OK, that’s off my chest: I just didn’t like the feeling that the reviewer thought volume II was nothing but filler; and, of course, you can’t start an argument like that directly with someone who is expressing an honest opinion, but I did want to get my two cents in somewhere. Anyone else feel like throwing theirs in? It would be most welcome, I assure you. :-)

And our mystery guest is...

So, Into Kent is out, and early reviews are promising – at least they’re not telling me I completely wasted their time and money. But I’m waiting for someone to recognize Miss Chesterton: she is a Lady who, to my mind, always needed taking down a peg—and who better to do so than our Darcy?

Volume II is nearly upon us

The second volume is almost ready. I’ve been doing little else since the beginning of October, and I am satisfied, I guess; it’s just that I never believe these things can have any value or interest to other people, somehow. My writing is a hobby: no one has paid me to do a book on a given topic – I just set off on my own to write what pleased me, so whatever I came up with was ok. But now there are thousands of people who have read and judged my first book, and I cannot but hear their voices as I prepare to release the second. I suppose that is inherent to being a writer, but it is new to me, and I’d hate to disappoint.

As for Darcy, he feels right, I think: having gotten him from Netherfield to Kent and back to London, I like the journey. Spots, I know, some will like and some will dislike, and I wish I could iron out those pieces so they would be universally acceptable, but that is not possible; so, I will simply have to push forward as I have in the past.

The letters are the last element to work on, and when they are done, always supposing the cover to be complete, the book will be set to go. I will probably give in to the urge to go through it once more, looking for…I’m not sure what. Reassurance, I imagine; to make sure that I’m not kidding myself that it is worth the read. I felt the same way before releasing volume I, but then, at least, I knew that if it was no good no one would be disappointed but me.

But I am anxious to move on from here, and get to volume III. I anticipate some fun with Wickham, as Darcy finally figures out how to deal with him. I expect the letters between Darcy and Elizabeth will be challenging. And Bingley will play a big role in that volume, I should think…Well, only one way to get there: I’m off to write.

Have a good day, all.

Stan

Real books

Today is a kind of big day for me: I just pulled the trigger on the paperback version of Darcy’s Tale; it will be available online within a week. This may not strike others as being a big deal, as the thing was already written and released, after all—but for me, a physical book is something special. Books have always been a huge part of my life, and sitting down with a good book is certainly one of the best things life has to offer. And I relate to a book differently than I do a screen: I like the feel of it in my hand, and somehow, the words just hit me with more meaning. It’s a more intimate experience, and with each turn of the page you feel that you are that much more deeply engaged. You see how far you’ve come, and how far there is to go; toward the beginning you wonder about all the possibilities that have been hinted at, and toward the end you wonder how things will wrap up in what is left.

I have books I have been rereading for 40 years. They are old friends, comfortable and well-worn—sort of the way I am beginning to feel. We have gone through a lot together: they soothe me to sleep at night, keep me from boredom, and distract me when needed. I remember reading a copy of one of the Nero Wolfe mysteries the morning of my wedding, much to my mother’s amazement (and disgust, if truth be told).

And now, I have made one of my own. I am anxious to get one in hand because I like Darcy’s Tale, and I think it will be another old favorite in time. It needs to be left fallow for a little while, since I have, by necessity, read it all too often in the last year. But I hope that, in future, I will be able to cross back and forth between P&P and DT, reading each bit of the story from both sides, and, I hope, enjoying how Elizabeth and Darcy keep missing each other’s meanings. I began writing DT with that sort of in mind: that DT could be laid down next to P&P and seamlessly read along side it.

So, Hurray for Books! May they never lose their appeal, or their place.

Fan fiction

I was just taking part in a discussion on the Jane Austen group page, and I found myself attacking fanfiction. Very odd sensation. I then had to try to defend, to myself at least, why I am doing what I am doing. When I began Darcy’s Tale I had no thought of publishing – I just had to write it. I have often used writing to fill empty hours on the road, sitting in one hotel room or another, but this was different. Aidan’s work had set me off somehow, and, well, I guess my esteem for Darcy as a man had been challenged in a way; I felt that he had come off poorly, and the situation needed correcting, in justice to him. Looking back in light of my current commercial activities and the postings on the group blog, it seems an “arrogant presumption”. At the time, though, my interest was very limited in scope: Darcy had been misrepresented, and I could not be satisfied with leaving it at that.

When the first volume was pretty far along, some of my friends and family read it. It was their encouragement, I think, that made me first think of publishing it. First, though, I wanted to get some less biased opinions, so I posted the first three chapters on a fanfiction blog site. They were very flattering in their response, and my thoughts of publishing got a boost. And, if you are reading this, I guess you must have agreed with those other Janeites to some degree at least; I thank you. But this still remains, for me, one thing in life that can sit outside of the deadlines and “good-enough-is-good-enough” mentality that drives most of our careers. I can work on it until I am satisfied, not until some external trigger forces me to publish it.