Lelia Eye's Blog, page 5

A Summer in Brighton

 

We are excited to announce the publication of A Summer in Brighton! It is not part of a series but is instead a standalone work.

It can be found here as a trade paperback or here as an ebook. We appreciate your support!

 

A Summer in Brighton

Elizabeth Bennet decides not to travel with her relations to Derbyshire, the home of her rejected suitor. Instead, she accepts an invitation to go to Brighton, home of the famous sea baths and circulating libraries.

Though Elizabeth expects a relaxing summer in which she experiences the attractions of a beautiful city in the company of a dear companion, she finds so much more, including the friendship of a mysterious widow whose motives are difficult to discern.

But Elizabeth also makes a painful discovery when she learns that gentlemanly manners can disguise immoral habits and a hatred so intense as to drive a man to do anything to make his despised enemy suffer. The arrival of the man whose attentions she had spurned only serves to discompose Elizabeth and make the situation even more volatile. Can Elizabeth find true love amid such turmoil?

A Summer in Brighton – Publication Announcement

We are pleased to announce the upcoming publication of our new novel, A Summer in Brighton. This is our second joint effort, following on the heels of our duology, Waiting for an Echo, and it will be published on September the 27th. Like all of our previous novels, it will be available on Amazon as of that date.

Elizabeth Bennet decides not to travel with her relations to Derbyshire, the home of her rejected suitor. Instead, she accepts an invitation to go to Brighton, home of the famous sea baths and circulating libraries.

Though Elizabeth expects a relaxing summer in which she experiences the attractions of a beautiful city in the company of a dear companion, she finds so much more, including the friendship of a mysterious widow whose motives are difficult to discern.

But Elizabeth also makes a painful discovery when she learns that gentlemanly manners can disguise immoral habits and a hatred so intense as to drive a man to do anything to make his despised enemy suffer. The arrival of the man whose attentions she had spurned only serves to discompose Elizabeth and make the situation even more volatile. Can Elizabeth find true love amid such turmoil?

For the first time, A Summer in Brighton is available for pre-order in advance of the publish date. It can be found here. Once the paperback is available, we will provide a link to where it can be purchased. Here is a short excerpt from the first chapter.

* * *

While Lydia and Kitty continued to bemoan their fates, speaking incessantly about redcoats, Brighton, their father’s intractability, and anything else which crossed their minds, Elizabeth looked upon the situation they were facing with a philosophical turn of mind. The regiment was leaving—and with it, Mr. Wickham—and she welcomed the return of the peace and quiet they had enjoyed before the militia had so completely upset the balance of their lives. It was, therefore, a surprise to be invited to Brighton herself.

Since the previous winter, Elizabeth had made the acquaintance of the new wife of the colonel of the regiment. Mrs. Forster was a woman only a little younger than Elizabeth, and in her, Elizabeth found a bright and enthusiastic young lady who looked up to her in the manner of an elder sister. Their first few meetings had resulted in several interesting tête-à-têtes, allowing a confidence to grow between them which had become a most delightful friendship. And though Lydia had apparently attempted to ingratiate herself with the young woman while Elizabeth had been away in Kent, Elizabeth had resumed her friendship with Harriet upon her return as if they had never parted.

Still, close though they had become, Elizabeth had not expected an invitation to stay with Harriet in Brighton, and for a time, she had thought of refusing despite her desire to continue her acquaintance with her new friend. She had just returned from one extended trip, after all, and while the tranquility of Brighton was alluring, she also felt a strong desire to avoid Mr. Wickham.

However, her subsequent discussions with Mrs. Forster convinced her to accept the invitation. The woman was a sensible companion, after all, and regardless of Lydia’s fanciful imaginings of never-ending balls and parties, Elizabeth knew that she would not necessarily be required to be in the company of the officers with excessive regularity. Besides, the opportunity to visit new locales and meet new people was too enticing to pass up. Though she hated to acknowledge it—even to herself—Elizabeth was also aware that the ability to avoid the trip to the North Country with her aunt and uncle was a motivation which weighed upon her mind.

Now, it must not be said that she wished to shun her relatives, for nothing could be further from the truth. No, it was the fact that due to important business on Mr. Gardiner’s part cutting short the length of their northern tour, they would be spending time in his county and staying very close to Pemberley itself! Given the unpleasant scene at Hunsford and the way she had misjudged Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth was eager to avoid any further meeting with him until she had settled her own feelings. She did not think it likely that she would meet him, for surely Derbyshire was a large county, but Brighton appeared to be a much safer option.

The reaction of her family upon hearing the news was predictable, with the loudest opinion being voiced by her youngest sister.

“But Mama, it is so unfair!” exclaimed Lydia the evening the invitation came to light. “Lizzy gets all the amusement, and the rest of us have none! She went to Kent. She has been invited to Brighton! I am Mrs. Forster’s friend and have as much right to be invited as she does. Why can I not go?”

Lydia’s petulant whine was echoed by her sister Kitty, who sported an identical expression of frustration upon her face.

“Shall I point out the fact that Mrs. Forster has not invited you?” queried Elizabeth.

“Oh, hush child,” snapped Mrs. Bennet. “Lydia merely speaks the truth; you have had more than your fair share of amusement. I believe we should send Lydia in your place.”

“And how do you propose to do that, Mrs. Bennet?” interrupted the voice of her husband. “For Lydia has not been invited, and Lizzy has, though I must own that I am loath to part with my Lizzy again so soon after her return.” This last he said with a smile at Elizabeth, which she returned with equal affection.

“I am sure Mrs. Forster will be vastly pleased to modify the invitation for our Lydia,” said Mrs. Bennet. “She is so close to our youngest after all.”

Elizabeth knew Mrs. Bennet to be overstating the level of friendship subsisting between Lydia and Mrs. Forster, if her words were not indeed an outright falsehood. Harriet had told her in confidence that she considered Lydia to be a shameless flirt, and Elizabeth suspected that regardless of her mother’s schemes and whether or not Elizabeth was ultimately allowed to spend the summer in Brighton, no such invitation would be extended to Lydia.

This new proposal by the Bennet matron was not agreeable to one of her other daughters.

“But Mama!” protested Kitty. “I am as close to Harriet as Lydia, and I have even more right to go, as I am two years older!”

“Nonsense, Kitty!” cried Mrs. Bennet. “I am sure you cannot truly appreciate a trip to Brighton, as you are not nearly so handsome as Lydia nor so agreeable in company. I should think it would be better for you to join your aunt and uncle on their trip to the North Country. Yes, that would do very well indeed. You, Kitty, should go with your aunt and uncle, while Lydia should go to Brighton!”

“Mrs. Bennet, that will be enough,” said Mr. Bennet quite firmly. “You will not impose upon either the Forsters or the Gardiners in such a manner.”

“But Mr. Bennet—”

“No, Mrs. Bennet, I have heard enough!” said her husband, rising from the dinner table. “There will be no further discussion of this matter. If Elizabeth so desires, she shall accompany the Forsters to Brighton, and if the Gardiners wish to take one of our other daughters, then they shall choose which one.”

Mr. Bennet then left the room, surprising them all. Rarely had he raised his voice in the past; he was generally more disposed to laugh at his wife’s excesses than to be angered by them. Something in his wife’s manner—whether it was her insistence on challenging him or the impropriety of her plans—had apparently touched a nerve.

With a huff and a glare at Elizabeth, Mrs. Bennet threw down her napkin and stalked from the room in high dudgeon. After a moment, Lydia followed her mother’s example, but not before leaving a parting shot directed at her elder sister:

“You are very selfish, Lizzy, to be keeping such amusements to yourself. It is not as if you could attract anyone other than Mr. Collins to be your husband.”

And with that, she flounced off. The sound of her stomping up the stairs and a louder noise of the door slamming as she entered her room echoed back down to the parlor in her wake.

“I do not know what shall be done with Lydia,” commented Mary. Her voice contained the familiar superior quality she used when she was trying make a point. “As the great Dr. Fordyce has said, ‘Remember how tender a thing a woman’s reputation is, how hard to preserve, and when lost how impossible to recover; how frail many, and how dangerous most, of the gifts you have received; and what shame has often been occasioned by abusing them!’ I am truly afraid that Lydia, in her shameless flirting and insistence on exposing herself in every forum, shall lose that which is most precious.”

Mary then continued to eat her dinner, unconcerned and seemingly forgetting the words which she had just spoken. And Elizabeth, though by now her middle sister’s tone of voice and overly self-righteous words caused to her to almost automatically roll her eyes, could only agree with what had been said. Lydia required a firm hand to check her behavior, lest she expose the entire family to the severest of censure.

“Lizzy,” began Kitty hesitantly, “I . . . I wish to apologize for my behavior.”

Elizabeth stared at her, wondering if this were truly Kitty she was seeing before her.

“I should not have spoken so,” continued the girl, visibly screwing up her courage. “I should not follow Lydia as I do, but it is difficult. Mama and Papa have no time to spare for me, and you and Jane are so much older and immersed in your own concerns. I know I should not behave in such a manner, but Lydia can be great fun, and I do so enjoy spending time with a sister.”

In a moment of clarity, Elizabeth suddenly understood Kitty. Mary was usually considered to be the forgotten Bennet sister, and much was made of her lack of beauty and her ability to moralize with little provocation. But Kitty was every bit as forgotten as Mary. It could not be easy living in Lydia’s ebullient shadow, especially since Kitty rarely received any notice from her parents.

Clearly, Elizabeth had been remiss in her conduct, particularly where it concerned her younger sisters. Kitty was starved for attention, and Mary was made to feel inferior to the rest of the family. They both could use some guidance from their elder sisters, for they would certainly not receive it from their parents. Neither Kitty nor Mary was beyond assistance, as she feared Lydia was rapidly becoming.

She shared a glance with Jane—who had clearly come to the same conclusion—and turned her attention back to Kitty, who was staring down at her plate, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“I thank you for your apology, Kitty, but I believe I owe one to you as well.”

Kitty’s eyes rose to meet Elizabeth’s, marking her surprise, and Elizabeth could also feel Mary’s expressionless gaze upon her.

“In fact, I believe I owe both you and Mary an apology. I have not given either of you the guidance of an older sister as I should have. I have been as remiss as Mama and Papa, and for that, I apologize. Perhaps I should not have agreed to this trip. Perhaps I should—”

“No, Lizzy,” cut in Jane. “You should go to Brighton. I know you enjoy spending time with Mrs. Forster.” The look in Jane’s eyes made Elizabeth wonder if her sister knew something of her desire to avoid seeing Mr. Darcy. “Maybe our aunt and uncle will take either Mary or Kitty with them. I shall remain here. Perhaps I can reason with Lydia.”

Elizabeth looked at her sister. She knew the Gardiners would enjoy having Jane with them, but it was true that at least one sensible sister should remain with the Bennet daughters who did not go. It seemed particularly important now that Elizabeth and Jane had realized the need to give Mary and Kitty guidance.

After what had happened with Mr. Bingley, it might be beneficial for Jane to leave Hertfordshire once more. Yet Elizabeth wondered if Jane still held on to the vain hope that Mr. Bingley would return and that all would be well. She knew otherwise, but she could not bear to hurt her sister by imparting her knowledge of Mr. Darcy’s interference. If Jane were to learn the truth, it would only bring pain. Should Jane somehow be reunited with Bingley, however, then he could tell her the whole of it. But if he was not to return, then there was no good to be found in divulging the secret.

As for the possibility that Jane would be able to curb Lydia’s behavior, well, Elizabeth doubted that there would be any success on that front. But Jane could certainly provide support to Mary and Kitty. Perhaps it was not too late to extract Kitty from Lydia’s yoke, and perhaps Mary could move from moralizing to holding slightly more lively conversation. Elizabeth and Jane had shared confidences to the exclusion of their younger sisters, and that needed to be remedied.

It could be that the parting was indeed necessary. Elizabeth smiled at her sisters. “Very well. I shall go to Brighton. But I am not going for the chance to pursue men in red coats. I fancy I have seen enough of their kind for a lifetime.”

“You must tell us all about it when you return, Lizzy!” said Kitty eagerly. “I understand the sea bathing there is splendid!”

“I shall tell you all about it, Kitty, provided that you mind Jane while I am gone and try not to follow Lydia when she misbehaves.”

“If Mama convinces Papa to let Lydia go to Brighton, do you think she will let me go, too?”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “I am fairly certain Papa has already made his final decision on that subject, Kitty.”

Kitty sighed, looking downcast. “I wish I had been invited to Brighton.”

“You have enough time for adventures yet,” said Elizabeth gently. “In a few years, I am certain we shall be begging to hear tales of your travels.”

Kitty smiled. “Thank you, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth turned slightly. “Mary, I was playing the pianoforte, and I seem to be having great difficulty with the fingering of a run. Would you perhaps be able to assist me?”

Mary hesitated. Perhaps Elizabeth was not being subtle in the least, but at last Mary agreed that she would be pleased to help her sister with the instrument.

Jane smiled warmly and caught Elizabeth’s eye. Elizabeth smiled back at her.

Their actions were belated, to be sure, but at last they were working to improve the situation with their younger sisters.

Free eBook: Thorny

Read book one of Lelia Eye’s Smothered Rose Trilogy for free for a LIMITED TIME in exchange for your honest review. You will also be entered into a monthly drawing for a chance to win prizes such as a Kindle eReader or an Amazon gift card! To download the book, please go here. Thank you for your support!

The One Year Anniversary of Acting on Faith

Today is the one year anniversary of the publication of my first book Acting on Faith. As such, I thought it would be appropriate to post a little muse on the last year, my impressions on how the past year has gone, and perhaps a bit of a statement on where we’re going from here.

When I first put the book up for sale a year ago, I was not certain how it would do and did not know what to expect. I do distinctly remember, however, my wife asking what I hoped to achieve, and I remember telling her that I hoped to make $100 a month at least. My rationalization was that with more than 300 million people on this continent alone, there must be at least 20 people a month who would enjoy reading my scribbles!

The reality exceeded my expectations by a great deal. Acting on Faith went on to sell almost 1500 copies in that first month alone, and over the course of the entire year, has sold over 3000 copies. I think that’s pretty good for what is essentially a niche product!

Of course, more than the money aspect of the publication, I was looking to build a bit of a name for myself. I’m sure the vast majority of book readers out there have no idea who I am, but the fact that I’ve successfully written and published several books can only be of benefit down the road, when I move into more mainstream literature.

Since then I’ve released Open Your Eyes about two months ago, and the two volume Waiting for an Echo duology was published with my collaborator, Lelia Eye. The Waiting for an Echo series was not nearly as successful as Acting on Faith, we believe due to a reluctance of a lot of readers to buy multi-book stories. Lesson learned. I think that we got caught up in common wisdom that most publishers don’t want a book from a new author which is more than 100K words. Of course, I published Acting on Faith at about 172K words, and it’s done pretty well, and I think, moreover, that as these books are sold online through an on-demand publisher, the length is not nearly as important as it would have been in the past. Had we the opportunity to do it over again, we would have published it as a single book.

I think the main thing that I’ve taken from the past year, is that I now have a pretty good idea of how to go about publishing a book. Unfortunately, I’ve also found out that the publishing is the easy part. Posting a Pride and Prejudice variation is fairly simple, as people who like that kind of book will buy it. With fantasy fiction, I think we will end up having to do a lot more marketing.

As anyone who has followed the site will note, Lelia has just released her solo fairytale effort The Smothered Rose trilogy. I would urge for anyone who has any interest in fairytales, or in fantasy fiction for that matter, to give it a shot. It’s an engaging little tale which uses some themes from some well known fairytales, and blends it all together with more than a dash of fantasy elements thrown in for good measure. It’s truly worth your time!

As for future works, I see The Smothered Rose as the beginning of our move away from Pride and Prejudice related works, and into the realm of fantasy fiction, which is where both Lelia and I really would like to play in the future. That’s not to say that we will not go back to Pride and Prejudice. As I’ve told several friends, I enjoy writing in Jane Austen’s world, and as the books are generally not too taxing, either from a writing or plotting perspective, I will continue to write them as the fancy strikes. In fact, I am about one third finished another one, and Lelia and I have another joint one in the writing phase, and another currently planned to be released at about Christmas next year. So fans of Pride and Prejudice variations won’t see us disappear any time soon.

But the fact of the matter is that Pride and Prejudice, while fun, is essentially a niche, and as I want to write for a living, it will not get me to where I want to go.

For the near future, we have a joint trilogy that we’re working on, tentatively entitled Earth and Sky. It’s fantasy, and the rough draft of the first book has been written. I’ve also shared it with a number of people so far, and have gotten some pretty good comments back. Several others are also in the process of reading, and I hope will provide even more feedback. The current plan is that the final two books will be written in the next three months or so, and we’ll be looking for a publisher in the meantime. If we can’t find one, then we’ll go the self publish route, and will release the first book some time next spring.

In addition we’ve got ideas for many other fantasy sets in various stages of development. The first of these is probably no less than a year away, and likely even more than that.

So things are definitely in the works, and we’re looking toward bigger and better things. Thanks to all of those who have given feedback, support, or have taken the time to have a look at our writings. It means the world to us!

Stay tuned. We’ll be putting some information up in the next little while concerning our future works.

Smothered Rose Trilogy by Lelia Eye

I am pleased to announce the publication of the Smothered Rose Trilogy. This trilogy is unrelated to Pride and Prejudice and is written in an entirely different style. It is an adaptation of fairy tales such as Beauty and the Beast, Cinderella, Snow White, and others.

The first chapter of book 1 is included at the bottom of this post.

Book 1, Thorny, may be found here as a paperback and here for the Kindle.
Book 2, Unsoiled, may be found here as a paperback and here for the Kindle.
Book 3, Roseblood, may be found here as a paperback and here for the Kindle.

I appreciate your support!

 

Thorny, Book 1 of The Smothered Rose Trilogy

“You’re nothing but an ugly old witch. I wish I could leave this flock and go back to hunting and being surrounded by pretty things and attended upon, as is my right. I hate the life of a shepherd.”

“You would prefer, then, to be the wolf?” she asked, waving her hand about in the air. “Very well. You can have what you want . . . and your outward appearance shall reflect your inner heart. As you wished it to be, so it shall be.”

***

When a spoiled boy is forced to watch over a flock of sheep, he finds himself more interested in catching the eye of a girl with lovely ground-trailing tresses than he is in protecting his boring charges. But after he cries “wolf” twice, a determined fairy decides to teach him a lesson once and for all. She will give him what he desires, and perhaps he shall learn that some things are worth more than simply getting what he wants; some things are worth making sacrifices for.

 

Unsoiled, Book 2 of The Smothered Rose Trilogy

“Look, Poppy! It’s Bella of the Cinders. She certainly doesn’t look like ‘The Beauty’ now, does she? Not with that rat’s nest of hair or those filthy chicken arms. Maybe we should start calling her ‘Cinderbella.'” Nettle started laughing as if she had said the cleverest thing in the world, and I heard Poppy weakly join in.

I didn’t look at them; I just continued cleaning the ashes and soot, aware that it was on my face and hands and clothes, aware that the picture I made was a far cry from the beauty my father had always praised. Why should I have cared whether or not my hands were soiled with soot? What need did I have for beauty anymore?

***

Elle’s life is turned upside down when tragedy strikes. Her stepmother and stepsisters treat her as Cinderbella, forcing her to do manual labor to the point of exhaustion. It would be easy enough to accept Thorny’s overtures, yet the inequality that exists between them seems an unsurpassable gulf.But when Thorny suggests they go to the nearby kingdom of Airland in quest of a mythical sword whose bearer will be made queen, Elle sees her opportunity to start a new life, freed from the oppression of her stepmother. The thought that she might have to face such challenges as hungry dwarves, land pirates, and angry chimeras never crosses her mind.

 

 

Roseblood, Book 3 of The Smothered Rose Trilogy

“I hate dancing. I don’t want to attend all those balls, exchanging fake smiles and watching nobles preen over every compliment like slavering lapdogs.”

“Birds and cats preen, Thorny.”

“Whatever. I don’t care. I hate the whole thing. It’s all a pile of worthless sheep dung!”

“Need I remind you that sheep dung isn’t entirely worthless? Besides, you don’t hate dancing. You just hate the idea of dancing with women who aren’t Rapunzel.”

***

Though Thorny has estranged himself from Elle, he would do anything to keep her safe, even if it means risking his life. When a series of balls necessitates Elle’s attendance, Thorny would much rather she remain in Airland, where she will be safe from her stepmother’s curse. But Elle is determined to reconcile with him, and Queen Rose has every intention of assisting her in doing so. Unfortunately, there is more happening than meets the eye, and the magical properties of the rapunzel lettuce could end up destroying everything Thorny holds dear.

 

***

SMOTHERED ROSE TRILOGY

THORNY

CHAPTER 1: THE BOY WHO CRIED WOLF

***

I was lying in the bed of the one that I loved, my fur matted with blood, as I waited to die.I wasn’t looking for a light to guide me down a tunnel, and I wasn’t frightened. My beloved had left me, and nothing could be worse than that. My life had already ended.

But maybe I should start at the beginning. And where was that? Well, it all began with a creature whose fleece was as white as snow.

***

I stared at it.

It stared at me.

I yelled.

Its ears twitched.

I waved my arms and shouted, “Hyah!”

The stupid creature finally bleated and ran a short ways off, turning to look at me in confusion. I shook my head and growled under my breath. I had tied a rock to the ewe’s hindquarters, and it hadn’t even batted an eye. My hunting dogs back home had hated that, and they always gave a loud and manic reaction worth watching, but sheep were as boring as they looked.

Trying to rile up sheep was like trying to make a stone smile—you could finally stop making jokes and draw a smile on the rock with charcoal, but all your effort up to that point made it seem a feeble victory. You were better off not even trying.

There was never a victory to be won with sheep. They were sort of like rats. But instead of fur, they had wool, and instead of scurrying around, they ambled along. Still, they were as vile and disgusting as rats, if not more so. At least rats didn’t sit and stare at you, plotting to invade your sleep and hop over fences ad infinitum.

I brought my shepherd’s staff up and stabbed an imaginary dragon with it. “Die, foul beast!” I proclaimed in my best hero’s voice. Then I lowered the staff and lifted my lip in disgust. This was stupid. There were no dragons here. No, that would be too much excitement for a sheep-kissing town like this.

I missed being back home. I would much rather be hunting or holed away with a book than watching woolly beasts chew grass all day. Even my French lessons had been a better use of my time than this. I would have given my best hunting dog just to be back with Pierre, listening to him say in exasperation, “I shot the chatte is not amusing! It does not make sense. You cannot mix two languages in such a fashion. C’est pas bon!”

At least I understood Pierre. I certainly didn’t understand commoners. For one thing, on the rare occasions when they actually took baths, they used this nasty lumpy soap made of sheep’s fat. Perfumed soap would have been a far better purchase than silly things like hammers and bolts of cloth . . . and maybe then they wouldn’t all smell like sheep.

But no. Instead of taking the time to bathe, they spent the whole day doing things like farming.

There was certainly a lot of that sort around. I wanted to take them aside and explain that I hadn’t farmed a day in my life but had always had plenty to eat and plenty of time to devote to reading and even learning another language. But they would have been too dense to understand. Just like they were too dense to realize that the king they were constantly bad-mouthing had better things to do than worry about droughts and failing crops.

“Baa,” a black sheep said loudly, interrupting my thoughts.

“Oh, stop your woolgathering and go give a bag to the little boy who lives down the lane,” I muttered, my cleverness lost on the dumb beast.

My stomach growled, and I winced. I was hungry, but eating a shepherd boy’s food was like stepping into a deathtrap. It would not be long before one of the villagers’ wooden forks lodged a splinter in my tongue, if the spoons didn’t do it first. Someone needed to explain that the only proper cutlery was that made of gold or silver. Why in the hay blazes anyone would ever want to stick a tree in their mouth was beyond me.

I brought my staff up as an imaginary rifle and sighted the sheep along it. I made an impressive-sounding boom and feigned a kickback before lowering it again with a loud sigh that only the sheep were around to hear. Even the props for this job were lame—just a shepherd’s crook. Wasn’t I supposed to have a horn or something to blow the sheep out of the meadow? Didn’t they know that?

And why was I in such a lousy situation? It was all because my father was a stickler for tradition.

I had said, “Father, I don’t want to go.”

He had said, “For generations, our forefathers have been sent to live among commoners at age fifteen to learn more about them—”

“But for three years!” I had complained.

“You’re going,” he had said. And that was that. Even if it did mean putting your tongue in danger of becoming a pincushion, it was his way or no way. End of story.

There was no special treatment allowed whatsoever—not even to protect your tongue, which was ridiculous—and it all had to be done in complete anonymity, save for an overseer. Unfortunately, that meant wearing commoner garments.

When my overseer had handed me a pile of rags and said, “Here are your clothes,” I had stared at him skeptically.

“Don’t I need to be fitted for my new outfit?”

“Uh, no,” he had said, scratching his chin.

“You made a mistake. These are old rags that haven’t been cleaned and starched properly. There’s no gold thread in them, no—”

My nervous overseer had interrupted: “No, uh, that is what you need to wear.”

“I’ve dressed pigs in nicer clothing than this.” (I wasn’t lying. Once I had stuffed a boar in a dress and watched chaos ensue. Boy, my rear had burned after that one.)

My overseer had pulled at some of the dark blond hair sticking out from beneath his hat. “I’m—I’m sorry, but this is how it must be.” Not as stern as my father had been, but just as determinative. I would not be getting my way, no matter who I was.

As if rags were not bad enough, I had lucked out by getting the absolute worst job out there—one which would have bored even the dullest peasant to tears. It would have been far better to be a blacksmith’s apprentice. I could have made a good-looking sword. I could see it in my mind’s eye: a couple pounds of my hammer . . . and then voilà! A masterpiece! The world would praise me for lending my prodigious talent to such an enterprise.

“What an impressive artisan you are,” they would say. “I will take half a dozen before noon.”

Now, that would have made for an interesting day. But of course I wasn’t given a job like that.

“Be glad you’re doing something safe and easy,” my uncle had said. “You could have been given hard work like blacksmithing. Just think of this as a pastoral vacation.”

I had wanted to kick him in the shins. I hated sitting around either doing nothing or helping ewes deliver their lambs (I swore the cursed things multiplied faster than rats). These sheep were so far from interesting that I nearly fell asleep just looking at them.

Like always, they were grazing on the bright green grass that I had—in my utter boredom—plucked many blades of myself. Below the hilly pasture, the village was visible. It was optimistically called “New Fountain,” but it was simply your typical rowdy village, with no real fountain in sight, just dirty pigs and dogs running around instead of players putting on shows and minstrels singing their songs.

On the other side of the great green sheep manger, opposite the village, sat a forest that was supposedly filled with all sorts of nasties, including the wolves I was supposed to watch out for. They called it the Devil Beast’s Woods, like they expected demons would be jumping out any second with packs of wolves at their feet.

Though I had hunted deer and wild pigs before, I had never seen a wolf in person. Still, I had read many stories about them. One thing the books agreed on was that they avoided human settlements. As a result, I was certain the villagers’ worry that the flock would be entirely consumed by wolves was unfounded.

It was based on this belief—and my insurmountable boredom—that I did something juvenile. But in my defense, the first time was an accident.

After hours of staring at a fuzzy mass of black and white and resisting the urge to count my charges, I had begun to pretend that my staff was a sword . . . and that a wolf had come to eat my flock.

“Wolf!” I had cried out, stabbing at the air. “You shall not eat these fuzzballs if I have my way with you!”

Well, my cry evidently carried down into the village, and while I had laughed at my imaginary foe’s death throes, a swarm of villagers came running up the long hill to save a flock that didn’t need saving.

I had stared at them, dumbfounded, until an old man named Redmoss had stepped forward and said, “You cried ‘wolf.’ Where is the beast?”

At the time, I was a bit embarrassed, and I had explained that I was simply pretending there was a wolf. The villagers had returned home with much grumbling after that, except for Redmoss, who had stayed behind to deliver a lecture on responsibility and some other stuff that I ignored.

My embarrassment had quickly turned to anger. They had no right to lecture me of all people, though I couldn’t tell old Redmoss that. I didn’t even want to watch their filthy sheep! The creatures could stuff themselves down wolves’ bellies for all I cared!

I had stewed over the matter for a few days afterward, growing angrier and angrier, until I had cried out “wolf” a second time on purpose. About half as many villagers had come that time, and they seemed even more infuriated at the sight of the obviously docile sheep than they had been the first time.

Redmoss had stuck his finger in my face and said: “Sonny, I’m going to make sure Gaheris Beauregard gives you a beating that leaves you standing for weeks! Then we’ll see if you’re still so quick to use your tongue.”

I had given him a knowing smile and let his words pass over me. Beauregard would hesitate to hurt a fly. Furthermore, he happened to be the overseer who knew I was more than just a shepherd boy, and he would eat his fingers before he would attempt to beat me. While Beauregard was a wealthy merchant who actually owned some farmland and had some influence, he wasn’t a noble. I was safe from any physical manifestations of wrath from him.

I yawned and stretched, my eyes passing over the sheep before I turned and paused. A beautiful girl was staring at me.

Straightening my posture, I gave her a slight nod before turning back to the flock. But despite my calm and collected behavior, my heart was knocking against my ribs.

She was the merchant’s daughter . . . and the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Her hair fell in strawberry-blonde locks down her back and all the way to the ground, where it then continued to flow in an impressive fashion that always left me wondering how long it really was. A few braids of it would probably be long enough to help you climb a tower—I could see myself calling for her long locks to fall down already. (Not that I would actually climb a tower. Humans were given feet instead of wings for a reason.)

As a result of her unusual choice of appearance, she was always followed by a servant who carried her hair and kept a train beneath it to prevent it from dragging in leaves and dirt. Today, the train was scarlet, to match the red that trimmed her white dress. I found myself wishing I could trade places with the hair-bearer and reach out to touch those blonde locks. Were they as soft as they looked?

But more impressive than the voluminous hair that trailed the ground—though it seemed impossible for anything to top that—was the perfect beauty of her face. Her face was soft, with skin that was nearly as white as snow, cheeks that were flushed just the right shade of pink, and lips that were almost as red as blood. Her eyes were intense and gray, with a tint of blue to them, like the ocean just before a storm. As for the rest of her, well, her form seemed so delicate that it always surprised me that a breeze didn’t carry her away.

Labelle, they called her. The Beauty.

And what a desirable beauty she was. In fact, she was the most interesting thing about this place. I had yet to speak to her, but I often found her staring at me from afar. I figured her father had broken the rules and told her my true identity. I hadn’t seen his two stepdaughters or his wife looking at me, though, so it seemed like she was the only one he had told. Or maybe she just realized I was the only good-looking thing in this town.

I prodded a sheep’s behind with my foot before casually turning to glance at Labelle and see if she was still watching me. She wasn’t, but she had moved a little closer, her hands filled with the flowers she had gathered. There were many wild-flowers dotting the hillside in random patches, like bits of paint that had dripped off a few giant paintbrushes. I didn’t care for most flowers, so I had never been attentive to those surrounding me, but if Labelle liked them, perhaps it was worth paying closer heed to them. I looked down at one by my feet and shrugged to myself. Well, at least I could pretend to be interested when she was around.

It suddenly occurred to me—that was a perfect first move. I took in a deep breath. Yes, I was going to do it. I was going to finally talk to her.

Watching as she picked up a white bloom, I asked: “What kind of flower is that?”

She jumped in surprise at the sound of my voice and looked up at me. “Oh! Umm, it’s a bellflower.”

Great. First words were over. Now what? “You must really like flowers.” Score one for inanities.

“I do.” She smiled down at the bundle.

Think. I couldn’t understand why this was so hard and why the blood was coursing through my veins so quickly. “You know they last longer if you keep them in the ground.”

“But then I can’t see them at home.”

“Get a potted plant.”

She laughed. “I might do that.”

I gestured with my chin. “Pull up a patch of grass and stay awhile. I could use the company.” That wasn’t too bad.

She beamed at me, and I had to take a step backwards. That smile could have stopped a dragon in its tracks . . . and reduced it to begging for a scratch under its chin. “All right,” she said.

Her hair-bearer arranged those bountiful locks and then stood away at a respectful distance while Labelle and I sat on the ground and talked.

“I love sheep,” Labelle said as a lamb came over to investigate her. She reached out and rubbed its woolly head.

I don’t, I thought. Out loud, I said noncommittally, “They’re not as active as dogs.”

“Every animal has its own beauty,” she commented.

She needed to get her eyes checked, as there was nothing beautiful about sheep. “Do you like having long hair?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Yeah, I do. It gives me a sense of self a little apart from my general looks.”

That didn’t make sense to me—the hair was part of her looks—but there was no use in trying to make much sense out of what girls said. So I asked: “Does your father like it?”

“Yes. He says my mother always wanted me to have really long hair.”

“Did she have long hair?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember her very well, and my father doesn’t like to talk about her.”

“My father doesn’t like to talk about my mother either.” That was a definite understatement.

“What happened to her?”

I looked down at my lap. “To tell the truth, I don’t like talking about her either. And I’d rather avoid talking about my father, too, for that matter. He’s a real pain in the Highness, if you know what I mean.”

She chuckled. “I guess most children our age don’t like talking about their parents.”

“Children? Pssh. I’m a young adult, thank you.”

“How old are you?”

“It’s not polite to ask someone their age.”

She shook her head. The grin on her face made me smile, too. “I thought that was just women.”

“Well, you thought wrong.” Hawthorn’s heart, she was beautiful. We would make a good-looking couple. “Anyone ever tell you how pretty you are?”

Her face got a little cloudy, but she worked to smooth it over. “There are things that are more important than beauty.”

“Yeah,” I said, swirling my fingers in the grass. Whatever. “If you listen to some of the townspeople here, there’s nothing in the kingdom that’s more important than these sheep.”

She was smiling again now, and I thought she would have been the perfect subject for a painter. “As a shepherd,” she said, “surely you don’t disagree.”

Her words didn’t really register. I was too busy looking at her face, and then I was blurting: “Labelle, will you marry me?”

She seemed surprised, though I doubted that was the first proposal she had received. Shaking her head, she said, “I . . . I can’t say ‘yes’ to that.”

Now I was surprised. “Why not?” If she did know my identity, then how could she turn me down? She wasn’t of noble blood. Rejecting me was unheard of.

“We just met,” she said, one eyebrow raised. “I hardly know you.”

“We can change that,” I said, biting my lip as I searched my brain for ideas. “I can tell you what happened to my mother.”

“It’s not that simple. It’s something that will take time.”

That was certainly easy to fix. Time was something a shepherd had a lot of. “Then come back tomorrow to see me. If the wolves haven’t gotten me, I’ll be here.” I gave her a winning smile.

“Miss,” her hair-bearer called, “we should probably be getting back.”

Labelle looked at her and nodded, and then she turned to me. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to return to learn it.”

She shook her head, but I could tell I had piqued her interest. “Fine. I’ll see you again.”

She walked off with flowers in hand and her attendant performing that most necessary task of hair-corralling, and I grinned to myself. She would be back.

My grin quickly faded, however, as I realized that it was back to watching grass grow. Oh, hurrah.

I shoved a couple of sheep aside, dodged a few playing lambs, and then sat in the middle of the flock, twirling my shepherd staff. I took one hand off the staff and stood it up, end against the ground, so I could pick a few verdant blades and throw them in the air like confetti. But as I looked up from the grass, a woolly sea of sheep parted in front of me.

I dropped my staff in surprise. A green-eyed mass of red fur was heading toward me.

I shot to my feet.

“Wolf!” I cried without thought, bellowing the word so loudly I thought my lungs might burst. But even as my eyes flicked down toward the village, I knew no one would come. I couldn’t save any of the sheep. And the beast was so huge I wouldn’t be able to save myself.

The sheep were a whirlwind of confusion. They bleated and scattered to escape their natural enemy. I started to sprint away, wanting to put a few sheep between me and the wolf. But then it leaped at me and knocked me to the ground. I rolled away. Then I jumped to my feet. Then I ran.

Like a fool, I didn’t pay attention to where I was going. And so, my feet took me not to the safety of the village, but to the unpredictability of the forest.

As I fled the flock and went deeper into the woods, I heard the crunch of footsteps and the light panting of the red wolf. I didn’t know why it was pursuing me. It didn’t matter. I was growing winded, and the vegetation was slowing me down. If I didn’t do something fast, I would become wolf fodder.

Ahead of me was a thick low-hanging branch. I sprinted forward and grabbed it, hauling myself upward. I scuttled up the tree like a drunken squirrel, trying to get high enough to keep the wolf’s jaws from latching on to my leg. Then I clung to the trunk and prayed for wings.

Several seconds passed. I didn’t sprout wings. But I did hear an elderly female voice command none-too-nicely: “Come down from there.”

I looked below in suspicion, but I didn’t see any snarling beasts or slaughtered sheep. I was going to be alone with another human being.

I couldn’t exactly stay in the tree forever; my arms were already starting to hurt. I should have been practicing climbing trees instead of watching sheep.

Muttering to myself, I inched down the trunk, a single agonizing branch at a time. It was one thing to climb up a tree when you felt you were fleeing for your life; it was quite another to go down it when you didn’t know what waited for you below.

Finally, I made it, and after brushing sticky sap and crumbly tree bark on my pants in disgust, I turned around to face the stranger. And recoiled in surprise.

The woman’s face—if it could be called that—looked like it had hit the broadside of a barn. I wasn’t sure “grotesque” could begin to describe it. Great Gawain, I wasn’t even sure “witch” could come close to an accurate description. It was as if someone had shoved their fist into a pile of mud and then added eyes to it. Misshapen, wrinkled, deformed—these terms and more could all apply, yet they seemed to fall short of the mark.

“Why did you leave your flock?” she asked me. Her voice was grating yet shaky, and she spoke to me as though I were some worthless shepherd boy who had suddenly decided to abandon his flock to join the traveling circus. She sneered at me, and I cringed. Her mouth was even worse than her face—it looked like someone had melted her gums and then thrown her teeth in . . . or at least some rotting, festering lumps that passed for teeth, anyway. I didn’t even know teeth could be that shade of black.

“I’m above such things,” I told her haughtily. She knew about the wolf; I was certain of it. “I’m not meant to watch sheep. I’m meant for nobler things than that.”

“You think shepherds do not have a noble calling? A shepherd must be willing to give up his life for his sheep—to give his all to them. And what have you illustrated about your own heart? You have shown that you lack even a hint of such nobility. Your upbringing was not what it should have been. Your mother filled your head with fantasy, and your father filled your heart with scorn—”

I cut in: “Oh, what do you know, old lady?”

She continued as if she hadn’t been interrupted: “As a result of this and your personal pride, you refuse to recognize the importance of the common people. Sheep give meat for food, wool for clothing, and fat for soap. Do you think the food on your plate and the clothes on your back simply appear at your command? What do you think your flowery soap is made of?”

“I repeat: what do you know?” I returned, not realizing how important my next words were going to be. “You’re nothing but an ugly old witch. I wish I could leave this flock and go back to hunting and being surrounded by pretty things and attended upon, as is my right. I hate the life of a shepherd.”

“You would prefer, then, to be the wolf?” she asked, waving her hand about in the air. “Very well. You can have what you want . . . and your outward appearance shall reflect your inner heart. As you wished it to be, so it shall be.”

The last thing I saw before the darkness overtook me was an image of her lip curling upward in disgust.

Open Your Eyes

I am excited to announce the publication of Open Your Eyes, my newest Pride and Prejudice variation.

It can be found here as a trade paperback or here as an ebook. I appreciate your support!

When Elizabeth Bennet meets with Mr. Wickham in Meryton, he informs her of his past dealings with Mr. Darcy. During the course of this conversation, Elizabeth realizes that Mr. Wickham is perhaps not all he seems to be and that there may be more to the man than amiable manners and a handsome countenance.

Though she decides she does not want to be involved with either of the men, she finds that it is not easy to extricate herself from the situation. One of the men turns out to be strangely compelling, and the other is intent upon inducing her to acknowledge that his version of events is correct. The further she is drawn into their intrigues, the more Elizabeth realizes that she may have misjudged the situation . . . and that her powers of observation might not be completely faultless in all cases.

This tale of love and courtship tells the story of what might have happened had Elizabeth only opened her eyes and used some of her vaunted ability to sketch characters shortly after the beginning of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham and Mr. Darcy.

Book Review: Emma

I first read Emma in college during a Jane Austen class in which we read all of her novels. I’ve seen the movie with Ewan McGregor, and I wrote an essay on the novel in college and in graduate school. Coming back to it after having read Pride and Prejudice multiple times (and having seen the Keira Knightley and Collin Firth versions multiple times), I wasn’t quite sure what to expect.

The two primary emotions I felt when reading the novel were mirth and dread.

As I read, I remembered the main events of what was going to happen, and I was able to look at clues along the way. I certainly recommend that anyone who does a first reading try to do a second reading, as it is one of those books where you like to see if you missed anything. Despite that fact, I think the strength of the novel is in its characters.

One thing I’ll say is that it is sort of hard to like Emma, the main character. You feel a lot of the same things she does, yet she can be so critical of others and so vain that you aren’t sure whether you should like her. She is a flawed and very real character. She has the best intentions, yet she makes mistakes time and again, just like any real person would. While her heart is often clouded by vanity, she does have an amazing heart deep down. The very real love and attention she shows to her father—even at a specific time when it seems like everything should be about her happiness—softens her particularly, as does her mortification over her mistakes. I did feel bad when she felt bad, and I did feel happy for her at the end. Though her flaws made her difficult to love, I decided at the end that I do care for her as a character.

Mr. Knightley’s role for the bulk of the novel seems to be acting as a conscience for Emma. Since the reader often shakes her head at Emma as well, there is an empathy there, I suppose, yet he lacks the strong allure of someone like Mr. Darcy. His jealousy is perhaps his only real flaw, if indeed one could call it that. Perhaps he was simply too flat of a character for me to really identify with.

Frank Churchill, though he made me laugh at times, seemed to try too hard to be funny and well-liked. Let’s just say I won’t be joining his fan club.

Mrs. Elton is humorously ridiculous and utterly annoying all at the same time. I think some people will find her funny; I’m not quite sure whether I’m one of them or not.

Rather than take time for each character, I’m going to just touch on Mr. Woodhouse. I rather think he is one of the best parts of the novel. While his extremes may induce eye-rolling at times, there were many moments where I laughed out loud. I don’t want to spoil the good parts for anyone, but his hypochondriac nature leads him to new levels of ridiculousness, such as when he gets into a “my apothecary is better than your apothecary” fight with his eldest daughter, Isabella.

Should you read it? Absolutely. Will you enjoy it? I’m not sure. It may depend on what type of humor you have. There’s a sort of “who likes who?” mystery throughout that will probably appeal to first-time readers, but know that it starts out pretty slow. And when you have problems caring for the pretentious Emma, know that deep down, she really is a good person, and you’ll see more of that closer to the end.

Characterization: This story is populated with some really great characters. I’ve got no complaints there.

Overall Plot: It’s another great comedy of manners from Austen. There are repetitions of sorts, but it’s all about character failing, so it doesn’t get boring. Maybe the plot isn’t the dramatic one of Pride and Prejudice, but it is enjoyable in its own right.

Descriptions: As might be expected, sometimes Austen goes a little overboard on descriptions. But it’s just the style, and in truth, most of the descriptions do seem necessary to an understanding of everything.

Writing Style: As an Austen fan, I rather enjoy the writing. I think my primary complaint would be the overabundance of dashes.

Pace: I’ll admit that it felt like the story could be a fair amount shorter without losing things. The ending especially seemed to drag. Still, it was important for everything to get fully resolved, I suppose.

Romance: The romance is rather weak, I think. While even Pride and Prejudice is not exactly blatant with romance, it feels a million times stronger than what is found in this book. That’s not to say that the romance wasn’t believable; it certainly was, particularly upon a rereading of the book. There was one really great moment, however, that I think mostly makes up for any weaknesses elsewhere.

Dialogue: I think Austen particularly excels at dialogue when she is at her best. There were certainly some good tidbits here. But while I do feel like there were parts where the dialogue could have been stronger, I was laughing out loud in several places.

Audience: Regency fans. While the strong element of romance in Pride and Prejudice makes it appeal to a wider audience, I think people more familiar with the language of Regency times are the ones who will benefit from a reading of this. Otherwise, they may miss many humorous elements. However, if you keep these following thoughts in mind (even if you aren’t a Regency fan), you may very well enjoy it: Mr. Woodhouse is supposed to be hilariously ridiculous, Isabella Knightley is supposed to be so to a lesser degree, Mr. John Knightley is supposed to be a humorous grump of a man, and Mrs. Elton is utterly outrageous.

Open Your Eyes – Publication Announcement

I am pleased to announce the upcoming publication of my new novel, Open Your Eyes. This will be my second solo novel, and it will be published on June the 30th, and like all of our previous novels, it will be available on Amazon as of that date.

When Elizabeth Bennet meets with Mr. Wickham in Meryton, he informs her of his past dealings with Mr. Darcy. During the course of this conversation, Elizabeth realizes that Mr. Wickham is perhaps not all he seems to be and that there may be more to the man than amiable manners and a handsome countenance.

Though she decides she does not want to be involved with either of the men, she finds that it is not easy to extricate herself from the situation. One of the men turns out to be strangely compelling, and the other is intent upon inducing her to acknowledge that his version of events is correct. The further she is drawn into their intrigues, the more Elizabeth realizes that she may have misjudged the situation . . . and that her powers of observation might not be completely faultless in all cases.

This tale of love and courtship tells the story of what might have happened had Elizabeth only opened her eyes and used some of her vaunted ability to sketch characters shortly after the beginning of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham and Mr. Darcy.

As always, I will be providing a link when Open Your Eyes is available. If you have read my first solo novel, this one will seem a little different in tone, as it is much more lighthearted than Acting on Faith was. I hope that it will bring joy and amusement to all who give it a chance and read it! Here is a short excerpt from the first chapter.

 

It is a commonly understood truth that pleasant young men in possession of fine and pleasing manners have no trouble making themselves agreeable to single young women.

However, it should also be understood that not all young men have the best intentions when recommending themselves to others. Sometimes, in the course of general conversation, a choice of words, a phrase which perhaps should not have been spoken at all, can at times induce a young lady to obtain a much greater knowledge than a young man had intended or wanted, assuming that such a lady is astute enough to discover the meaning behind the words which were spoken. In some cases, when a young man has harmful or untrue statements to impart, he may even contradict what he has previously said if he does not take great care in remaining consistent.

Such was the situation in which Elizabeth Bennet found herself one fateful evening in her Aunt Phillips’s parlor.

Were Elizabeth to be honest with herself, she would be forced to confess that she appreciated Mr. Wickham’s words concerning the man she loved to detest—Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. The man had had the gall to offend her on the night of their first meeting and had subsequently proceeded to reinforce her estimation of his proud and haughty ways, his selfish disdain for others, and his perceived superiority over everyone with whom he came in contact.

And if she had not already thought him to be disagreeable, her time at Netherfield would have sealed the matter. His performance there—his ill-concealed superiority, especially concerning the matter of his faults or lack thereof—had more than convinced her that Mr. Darcy was a man who thought himself so much better than the world around him. He was undoubtedly intelligent, but this intelligence only magnified his pride, conceit, and the meanness of his opinions concerning those whose situations in life did not equal his own.

Thus, when Mr. Wickham related his claim that Mr. Darcy had denied him of his godfather’s chosen reward, suddenly Elizabeth felt she had proof that Mr. Darcy’s faults included not only appalling manners, but also unchristian behavior. Indeed, if he could behave in such a manner toward a young man with whom he had been raised, how much crueler might he be to the world at large?

Elizabeth had to acknowledge that her decided opinion of Mr. Darcy meant she was taking Mr. Wickham’s story in eagerly, being overcome with an almost fervent glee—mixed with outrage at Mr. Darcy’s audacity—at hearing this proof.

But then Mr. Wickham had spoken those fatal words in response to her fervently stated opinion that Mr. Darcy should be publicly disgraced for his actions, telling her: “Some time or other he will be—but it shall not be by me. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose him.”

Elizabeth rolled the words around in her head, thinking that perhaps she had mistaken Mr. Wickham’s meaning. Had he instead been suggesting some other conviction? Or perhaps he had misspoken and inferred something wholly unintended?

No, there could be no mistake. According to Mr. Wickham, he could never expose the master of Pemberley, as he had too much respect for the man’s father. And if that was so, then why had he shared his intelligence with her, an acquaintance of only a few hours? What could he mean by it?

“Miss Bennet?”

The sound of Mr. Wickham’s voice pulled Elizabeth from her reverie, and she peered up at him, noting the half frown which had come over his face.

“Oh, please forgive me, Mr. Wickham,” blurted Elizabeth, not knowing what to say. “I believe I allowed my mind to wander.”

She was now not as interested in continuing this conversation as she had previously been—his contradiction of his own words made her suspicious of his designs, and she wondered whether his cheerful and agreeable manners were an affectation to hide whatever he truly was from others. Though she was still confused and upset over the realization, what she wished for most was a respite in which she could examine their interactions and his words in a more thorough manner. Only then could she more fully discern for herself whether this man could be trusted.

“I had not thought I had lost the ability to hold the attention of a lady, but it appears I was mistaken.” declared Mr. Wickham, his tone light and playful.

No doubt he intended his words in jest, but Elizabeth took just enough warning in them to determine that if his confidences were false and if his manners were a mask to hide the real man, it might not be prudent to openly acknowledge her understanding of his duplicity. If he was truly attempting to deceive her, then the character defects necessary to defame another man without scruple, almost certainly hid other character defects of a potentially more serious nature. So Elizabeth, calling on her own social prowess, fell back on what she knew best—she teased him.

“Oh, I do not know that I would say that, Mr. Wickham,” said she, giving him an arch look. “I assure you that I consider you every bit the diverting conversation partner.”

Mr. Wickham laughed, his good humor apparently restored. “I am very glad to hear it, Miss Bennet. I must own that I have never before met such a charming young lady with whom I have been able to converse with so easily despite such a short acquaintance. I am very much looking forward to knowing you better.”

Had Elizabeth missed the contradiction of his own words, she might very well have also missed the salacious gleam in his eyes and the way they raked over her form. Feeling suddenly uncomfortable in his presence, Elizabeth was forced to acknowledge that his company had lost much of its allure. His flattery was as thick and sweet as honey, and his charming smile now seemed false—a mask donned to mislead others. Elizabeth still determined to think on the subject at a later date, but at that moment, she was resolved not to fall for his false flattery!

Still, there was small talk to be made, and until Elizabeth felt she could extricate herself from his company, she had little choice but to affect a friendly and engaging mien. Serious contemplation would come later.

So she sat in his company, speaking with him, laughing at his witty repartee, and sharing a little of herself with him, if only to keep him unsuspicious of her feelings, and as their conversation progressed, she began to feel ever more confident that her suspicions were correct. Invariably, as their discourse progressed, Mr. Wickham attempted to turn the conversation back to Mr. Darcy and to wax poetic upon the wrongs done to him by that gentleman. Though Elizabeth almost ground her teeth together in frustration, she listened, commiserated, and showed the proper amount of outrage and empathy, all the while trying to turn the conversation to other subjects. The problem was that the man did not seem to have much to say of anything else. Of literature, he was perfectly indifferent; of the topics of politics and the current situation of the war with the French tyrant, he seemed to have little real knowledge. There seemed to be, in truth, little for them to discuss on an intellectual level.

He flattered well and said pleasing words for the purpose of enlarging her vanity, but it become quickly evident that he was all charm and little substance, though Elizabeth suspected that had she been taken in by his manners and missed the contradiction of his words, she might very well have fallen under his spell. As it was, the effect of his flattery was quite different from what he undoubtedly intended, as it informed her that she had best be wary in this man’s presence; he was not a man to be trusted. It was a very relieved Elizabeth who finally surrendered his company to Lydia, who had cajoled Mary into playing so they could dance.

Point of View

Point of view can absolutely make or break a story. When you have limited time, as I do, the wrong point of view can make you decide to put down one novel and pick up another. There’s no sense in wasting your time reading something that doesn’t feel write or doesn’t flow properly.

So, how is a story’s perspective set up? It’s done by using a certain verb tense and a certain kind of narrator.

With verb tense, you generally have the choice of either past or present tense. Most successful books are written in past tense (Harry Potter, Twilight, Lord of the Rings, etc.). If you are a beginning writer, you should start out with past tense. The benefit of present tense is a more casual and immediate feel . . . yet the problem is it almost seems sort of lazy. In addition, some things that work in past tense don’t work nearly as well in present tense.

Below is a passage from Stephenie Myer’s Twilight. The original is the past tense version; I have converted the same passage into present tense.

Tense

Past Tense

“Do you come up to Forks much?” I asked archly, as if I was hoping for a yes. I sounded idiotic to myself. I was afraid he would turn on me with disgust and accuse me of my fraud, but he still seemed flattered.

Present Tense

“Do you come up to Forks much?” I ask archly, as if I am hoping for a yes. I sound idiotic to myself. I am afraid he will turn on me with disgust and accuse me of my fraud, but he still seems flattered.

In this instance, something that worked in the past tense doesn’t work quite as well in the present tense. “I am afraid he will turn on me” just seems awkward somehow. It doesn’t convey fear the way it feels like it should. To make it work properly, the sentence would need to be rewritten.

Many times, there is something almost whimsical about the present tense. The problem, however, is that it’s distracting.

Most readers are accustomed to reading past tense. Maybe you don’t particularly want to cater to others’ whims, but it can be difficult to make a story written in present tense work for the reader. Just like you shouldn’t avoid using punctuation, so should you not avoid following convention in a matter such as this. You want the writing to flow easily through the reader’s mind. Any distractions could make the reader lose interest.

I will note, however, that the present tense does help create a sense of immediacy when you have a fast-paced story. Take this passage from Suzanne Collins’s The Hunger Games:

All the general fear I’ve been feeling condenses into an immediate fear of this girl, this predator who might kill me in seconds. Adrenaline shoots through me and I sling the pack over one shoulder and run full-speed for the woods. I can hear the blade whistling toward me and reflexively hike the pack up to protect my head. The blade lodges in the pack. Both straps on my shoulders now, I make for the trees. Somehow I know the girl will not pursue me. That she’ll be drawn back into the Cornucopia before all the good stuff is gone. A grin crosses my face. Thanks for the knife, I think.

Note what happens when I convert it to present tense instead:

All the general fear I had been feeling condensed into an immediate fear of this girl, this predator who could kill me in seconds. Adrenaline shot through me and I slung the pack over one shoulder and ran full-speed for the woods. I heard the blade whistling toward me and reflexively hiked the pack up to protect my head. The blade lodged in the pack. Both straps on my shoulders now, I made for the trees. Somehow I knew the girl would not pursue me. That she would be drawn back into the Cornucopia before all the good stuff was gone. A grin crossed my face. Thanks for the knife, I thought.

Note how a slight sense of urgency is lost when you convert the passage to past tense. Yet before you take that as your final “okay” for using the present tense, think about how it is possible to bring back some of that urgency, even though using the past tense, simply by a little rewording:

All my general fears condensed into an immediate fear of this girl, this predator who could kill me in seconds. I had to get away.

I slung the pack over one shoulder and ran full-speed for the woods. The blade whistled toward me. Reflexively, I hiked the pack up to protect my head. The blade lodged in the pack.

Both straps on my shoulders now, I made for the trees. I knew the girl would not pursue me. She would be drawn back into the Cornucopia before everything was gone. A grin crossed my face. Thanks for the knife, I thought.

Urgency can be created through smaller paragraphs and shorter sentences, as you can see above. You don’t have to rely on present tense to make that happen.

Narrator

Perhaps even more important than tense is the choice of narrator. Here are your options:

First Person (the “I” POV – from Megan Whalen Turner’s The Thief)

All I wanted to do was lie in the dry grass with my feet in a ditch forever. I could be a convenient sort of milemarker, I thought. Get to the thief and you know you’re halfway to Methana.

Second Person (the “You” POV – from William Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom!)

But you were not listening, because you knew it all already, had learned, absorbed it already without the medium of speech somehow from having been born and living beside it, with it, as children will and do: so that what your father was saying did not tell you anything so much as it struck, word by word, the resonant strings of remembering.

Note: This POV usually works best with present tense, yet Faulkner uses the second person in past tense here with success (note, however, that second person isn’t the only POV used in this novel, which was a good decision on his part).

Third Person (the “He, She” POV – from Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice)

While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the door-bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in the evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her. But this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room.

The first thing I have to say about the narrator is don’t write in second person. Unless you’re a literary genius like Faulkner, it’s obnoxious. It takes a lot of searching to find many famous books written in second person—and even then, as I noted above, that is not the only POV usedin the Faulkner novel that I took the example from. Second person usually seems more suited for something sultry than it does for something that actually has a point.

When you say “you,” you are essentially directing the actions of your reader. Guess what? The reader doesn’t need to read “about themselves.” Let them buy a diary if that’s what they are interested in. I just don’t think there’s much of a place for this if you have any desire to be taken seriously as a writer.

Deciding on Tense

So, should you write in first person or third person? Well, it depends. A beginning writer should probably write in third person since it’s the standard. However, there are pros and cons to first person that should be noted.

In first person POV, the main downside is you are limited to one person’s perspective. If your story necessitates seeing more than one perspective, you are probably better off not doing first person. You could have chapters labeled with the name of the individual whose first-person perspective you are showing, yet that can sometimes get clunky. It might be better to simply do a third-person POV. Otherwise, you are going to have to make it clear at the beginning of every chapter, through use of the narrative, just whose POV is being explored.

What’s good about first person? Well, the reader connects more with the narrator. After all, the narrator’s innermost thoughts are displayed for the reader. If it’s an unlikeable or flat character, however, that could very well be problematic, as no one wants to constantly see the inner workings of a mind that doesn’t interest them. In third person, where there’s a little distance, it isn’t as problematic.

Yet a story might be built around a first-person narrator in a very interesting way—the narrator may not know the truth about what is going on or may completely mislead the reader intentionally or unintentionally (with good or bad results). Take Agatha Christie’s The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, for instance. (WARNING: SPOILER ALERT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) It’s a mystery novel where the narrator turns out to be the murderer. Since it is written in first-person, you might think you could trust the narrator to tell you whatever he knows; however, that is apparently not the case.

Try a story out in first-person and third-person narrations. Maybe a character is funnier when shown in first person. I personally have tried to write something in third person that fell flat, only to find it worked much better when I changed it to first person. I felt like I needed the deeper level of empathy.

However, please note that you should be very careful about first person. It invites a sort of casualness that can be dangerous. For instance, you are probably more likely to use contractions, sentence fragments, etc. Maybe it will work, and maybe it won’t. You just need to be careful not to become too casual with your first-person writing, as it needs to remain comprehensible. Unless you are certain you are writing the next Ulysses, comprehension and easy readability should always come first. That’s why second person and present tense are best avoided.

What about third-person narration, where you tell the story through a nameless entity? That is the standard, and if you are a beginning writer, it is a good place to start. It will encourage more formality and enable you to get a better handle on your writing style.

When it comes down to it, everything you are doing as a writer is for the benefit of the reader. In Stephen King’s On Writing, he discusses the two theses of his book, saying:

The first is that good writing consists of mastering the fundamentals. Vocabulary, grammar, the elements of style, and then filling the third level of your toolbox with the right instruments.

 

The second is that while it is impossible to make a competent writer out of a bad writer and while it is equally impossible to make a great writer out of a good one it is possible with lots of hard work, dedication and timely help to make a good writer out of a merely competent one.

POV is an important instrument for a writer. Choosing the right POV is one step on your road to becoming a good writer. Choosing the right POV at the beginning of writing a story can save you a lot of work down the road, allowing you to focus more on things like character development.

Third Person POV – Some Specifics

Even when you have decided on third-person narration, there’s still another choice in front of you.

You get to choose: Do you want your narration to be limited to the “perspective” of one character (where everything you see occurs in the same room as one character, just the way much of the Harry Potter series sticks with what Harry sees and thinks), or do you want the narration to encompass a lot of different characters’ experiences?

What is the benefit of being limited to one character? Like with first person, the reader starts to really relate to that specific character. However, the reader is allowed a little bit more distance (enough to allow more criticalness), it is more formal, and it is less distracting to the reader. If your story allows you to do this, then great! It’s not a bad narration style.

If you feel like your story necessitates knowing what several people are doing, then you can give the perspectives of several different characters. You can choose to do that in the same scene, or you can use scene breaks to distinguish between changes of the third-person “perspective” you are writing from. I absolutely 100% recommend the latter. If you show the thoughts of several different characters in one scene, it is jarring, confusing, and unfocused. Jann and I call this “POV wandering,” and we have made a determined effort to stamp it out of all our stories. If you need to show someone else’s POV in third-person, then use a scene break in between the two perspectives. It will really help your readers.

The great thing about this method is that you can have a little bit of fun with it. Maybe one man thinks of all other men by their last names in his perspective; maybe someone else always thinks of people by nicknames in their perspective. Maybe an alien comes to Earth and doesn’t know what a toilet is, so he perceives it as a water container. There’s different things you can do with it.

Look at this passage from Timothy Zahn’s Star Wars: Heir to the Empire:

“Finally awake, are you?” a woman’s voice said from the side.

 

Startled, Luke twisted his head toward the voice. His first, instantaneous thought was that he had somehow missed sensing whoever was over there; his second, following on the heels of the first, was that that was clearly ridiculous and that the voice must be coming instead from an intercom or comlink.

 

He finished his turn, to discover that the first thought had indeed been correct.

 

She was sitting in a high-backed chair, her arms draped loosely over the arms in a posture that seemed strangely familiar: a slender woman about Luke’s own age, with brilliant red-gold hair and equally brilliant green eyes. Her legs were casually crossed; a compact but wicked-looking blaster lay on her lap.

Now, this passage is written from Luke’s perspective. Because of that, he doesn’t automatically know who this strange woman is speaking to him. This also allows the dramatic element of him learning that there is someone in the room with him who just so happens to have a weapon in her lap. By limiting it to Luke’s experiences only (and not cluttering it up with the other character’s experience), there is a focus to the scene and a closer connection to Luke as a character. Having one character to follow through a scene gives you a focus—you can show that person’s reactions and perspectives of others (which could very well be wrong somehow).

Notice how if I inserted Mara’s POV in there as well, it would take away the focus (see the bolded paragraph to see my changes):

“Finally awake, are you?” a woman’s voice said from the side.

 

Startled, Luke twisted his head toward the voice. His first, instantaneous thought was that he had somehow missed sensing whoever was over there; his second, following on the heels of the first, was that that was clearly ridiculous and that the voice must be coming instead from an intercom or comlink.

 

He finished his turn, to discover that the first thought had indeed been correct.

 

Mara stared at the man, barely able to disguise the disgust she felt for him. She was sitting in a high-backed chair, her arms draped loosely over the arms. She was a slender woman about Luke’s own age, with brilliant red-gold hair and equally brilliant green eyes. Her legs were casually crossed; a compact but wicked-looking blaster lay on her lap.

I embellished a little to make it more obvious that I was inserting a little of Mara in there. Yet notice how it feels sort of ping-pongy. “Here’s what he sees, here’s what she sees.” It’s much better to focus on just one perspective in a scene rather than doing this POV wandering.

The Bottom Line

So what’s the bottom line?

In my opinion, a beginning writer should start out writing in past tense, using a focused third-person perspective that does not show several different perspectives in one scene. Once you’ve written a lot, then you can branch out to see the effects of other perspectives. Yet I would avoid present tense and second-person narration. I don’t think the pros will ever outweigh the cons of those, though there are some people who might disagree!

Outlining: How to Keep Your Story on Topic

So, you think you are a writer. You have spent hours honing your craft, and you have hit upon that perfect idea that you are certain that everyone will love. You have dreams of becoming an instant star! So with pen in hand (or fingers on a computer!), you sit down and begin to mold your idea into a coherent story. But you may have forgotten something . . . .

It is commonly said that “if you fail to plan, you plan to fail.” And this axiom applies to writing as well—and more specifically to outlining. I liken it to playing the piano—I dabble a little, and I fancy that I play pretty well for a fellow who has no formal training whatsoever. But even though I could have taken the time to learn how to play properly even by myself, I never had the patience to do so. Playing scales and stuff like that is boring—I always wanted to get to playing the music! As a result, though I can play to a certain extent, the more difficult pieces, which require a certain dexterity of the fingers, are beyond my ability.

Writing is much the same, though in a different sense. Years of typing have brought me to the point where I can type fairly quickly, so that is not the problem. But if I do not prepare my story by charting out exactly where I want to go with it, I am not giving it a chance to be as good as it could be.

Let me share another example. When I first started writing, I started because I had a good idea for a fantasy fiction which I shared with my sister. We both had an interest in writing, so we decided that we’d take a shot at it and see if we couldn’t come up with something. So we planned out a little of the world (we’ll get into this a little later), the characters, and the situation which would require resolving, and then we dove into writing. The result, while amusing for us, was a long rambling manuscript of well over 600 pages (somewhere in the 350 – 400K word range, as I recall) which bogged down when we didn’t know where we were going. Another sister of mine read it and proclaimed it to be the most boring thing she had ever read.

I learned a couple of valuable lessons from this experience. The first is that a story can go in all kinds of tangents if it is not tightly controlled, and while those tangents might be amusing for me as a writer, others do not have my attachment to the characters and situations. Writing this way introduces a whole lot of material which is not necessary to relate the story. A good story needs to be well-planned, and it needs to move the plot along at a good pace. You cannot do that if you do not know where you are going. And even if you know what the ending will be, if you do not know how to get there, you are setting yourself up for failure. The other thing I learned from the experience is that it is very difficult to recover a story when it gets bloated with a lot of extraneous material. I’m still trying to recover that initial story, but the problem is that I know what we have written so well that it is difficult to know what to purge and what to keep. Beyond that, it grew to such proportions so quickly that it is too slow by half, and I think most readers would give up before they ever get to the good parts. It is something I am still struggling with.

Now, before we get into the main part of this article, I just wanted to put in a bit of a plug here which will only be applicable in certain genres. If you are writing about the modern world—or even, to a certain extent, the historical world—then you pretty much have the world already created for you. However, if you are writing in a setting which is not “our” world and deals with subjects we would find fantastical, then you need to know how everything works. Lelia and I call this step “world building,” and it is not only setting up the history, cultures, customs, etc., of your new world, but also creating the rules for how everything works.

In Fantasy Fiction for instance, magic does not necessarily need to be explained in any great detail, but you as the writer need to know in a general sense how magic works. One of the best descriptions I have ever seen in fantasy was David Eddings’ “the will and the word” from the Belgariad. Essentially, if you have the will and you speak the word (it does not really matter what the word is), then what you intend will happen. However, there are certain rules which cannot be broken—for example, it is impossible to “unmake” something, and if it is attempted, the power exerted will rebound and destroy the person using the power. It is a simple description, yet so it was so profoundly useful in the story and sufficed brilliantly for the mechanics of what Eddings needed to accomplish in his saga.

Other genres have different requirements. Science Fiction, for example tends to be rather rigidly controlled, and the science used has to be at least plausible. It does not really matter what genre you are writing, but the knowledge of the rules of your universe is critical so that you do not end up contradicting yourself.

Once you have completed your world building, the next step is to take your idea and the information about the world you have created and to use all this to build an outline. The outline will tell you in a general sense everything that needs to happen for you to get from the initial chapter of your story to the end result. It can be as detailed or as brief as you want it to be, though it should at the very least contain all the major events which will make up your story. Robert Jordan, author of The Wheel of Time saga, once said that he had a document which laid out all the important events which needed to happen for him to complete the series. Now, I can only conjecture, never having seen this document, but my guess is that it was in point format, and it was likely not very long. Whether this lack of detail (if it was lacking in detail) led to fourteen books, again, I can only conjecture. However, I have found that my writing tends to bloat somewhat the less information I have in the outline.

So how exactly should a writer structure his outline? Well, really that is really up to each individual. I will mention two different styles that I have used in the past with some success, but each writer should really through their own experimentation find a method which works best for them.

The first example is a point format which contains quite a bit of detail. Here is an example from a work which Lelia and I are currently writing:

Chapter 8: (Elizabeth POV) The next day, Elizabeth rambles through the country. Wednesday, October 16

Elizabeth thinks of the assembly and how Bingley singled her out.
She reflects that it is extremely rare for a man to pay attention to her and ignore Jane.
Elizabeth’s reflection about Bingley (some time gone by) and the party at Lucas Lodge.
Elizabeth has spent some time with Bingley, and the first feelings of gratitude have worn off.
She decides she is probably not a good match for Bingley (who, after all, is not an avid reader as she is) and resolves to put Jane forward.
Thursday, October 24 At the party at Lucas Lodge, Caroline and Elizabeth talk briefly. Caroline is being barely civil and mentions that her brother is very fond of Georgiana. Elizabeth doesn’t trust what she says, but she does wonder.

During the party, Elizabeth, Charlotte and Jane have a talk, and Jane, knowing her sister, tells her to try to find out whether she likes him rather than just dismiss him out of hand.
Charlotte, however, says Elizabeth should secure Bingley.
Elizabeth realizes Jane is right that she should give Bingley a chance and agrees to try.
When Elizabeth speaks to Bingley with her mother nearby, Mrs. Bennet says nothing but scowls and glances at Jane. Elizabeth realizes her mother has been told to back off and not continue to promote Jane to Bingley.

In this example, as you can see, the major points of the chapter are all covered, and while it does leave a bit of room for creative license in the writing, the plot has been decided upon, and there is not a lot of maneuvering room available. Of course, if an idea strikes me while I am writing, I will often follow it. But I find that such inspiration strikes me less when I am writing with this style of outlining.

Here is the second style I have used, which is done in more of a paragraph form:

Chapter 6 (Skye is captured by GB)

Having been cast off by his father, Skye wakes up to find himself on the ground in a grove of trees. He is horrified, never having walked on solid ground before. He has a splitting headache and can barely concentrate. Skye is disoriented when he wakes up and does not immediately try to go up to one of the smaller SC cities. Thus, by the time he gathers his senses, the GB soldiers are already there. Skye fights them and then tries to run, but he is captured by their “dirt cages” before he can use his power to fly up to the clouds.

Here, we just put a few sentences into a paragraph to give us a sense of where the chapter is headed. It’s quite a bit more vague and requires the writer to come up with a lot more of the material on the fly rather than regimenting it out in advance. I tend to embellish quite a bit more when I am using this type of outline.

From my perspective, I tend to prefer the second style better. The reason is that I tend to be able to produce a paragraph outline much easier than I can a point outline, likely because there is a lot less information to decide upon in a paragraph outline. I think much better on the fly, and story points come to me while writing, so a less specific outline tends to work better for me. Lelia, I suspect, would have a different opinion, as she tends to prefer to know exactly what she is writing before she begins. Neither is right or wrong, and both have their advantages and disadvantages. Either way, outlining is a lot of work, but I find that the point style is much more work and much more time consuming. Of course, it’s likely another facet of my personality. If you recall, I said earlier that I like to get right down to it. The more detail an outline contains, the more time consuming it is . . . and the longer it will take before you are able to actually get to the writing.

In our joint writing, Lelia and I have used both styles. We started using point format, but as we became more familiar and confident with one another’s writing, we gradually migrated to paragraph style, though we still tend to use point form when the story we’re outlining is complicated or long. Again, there is no right or wrong. Just remember that when you outline, you should have all the major points included regardless of the level of detail you use. That does not mean that you should ignore inspiration, but it does keep you on topic. Just do not try to dive directly into the writing without taking the time to plan in advance. Trust me—regardless of the amount of work it requires to create an outline, you will not regret it.

* * * * *

For anyone who is wondering, the two examples I used were from upcoming works. The first is obviously a Pride and Prejudice variation which we are currently writing. The second is a fantasy fiction trilogy. The rough draft of the first book is complete, while the other two books are in the outlining/world building stage and should be written over the course of the next several months. Hopefully, we’ll be editing and searching for a publisher by the end of the summer.

I also wanted to announce that we have created a Facebook page for our publishing imprint, One Good Sonnet Publishing. For anyone who is interest, come and check us out at https://www.facebook.com/OneGoodSonnetPublishing. We try to post twice a week, generally sharing little anecdotes about writing or articles which are useful for the budding author.