Down Salem Way Review Copies Now Available
While I’m getting back into work mode after a couple of
difficult months, I wanted to share some updates.
Down Salem Way is here! Normally, I’d send out review copies in the weeks prior to a book’s release, but as I said in this post, I fell behind on just about everything this summer. You have to go with the flow, right? Here’s a belated offer for digital review copies for any reader who would like one. If you’re interested, contact me via email at meredithallardauthor(at)gmail(dot)com or through the form on the Contact page. If you do request a review copy, let me know if you’d prefer a mobi, epub, or pdf version. For those of you who have already bought copies, thank you! There will be other promotions and giveaways for Down Salem Way in the coming weeks and months.
The initial feedback for Down Salem Way has been positive, for which I’m thankful. Down Salem Way is different than the other Loving Husband Trilogy books for a few reasons: 1) it’s strictly historical fiction, taking place in Salem in 1692, so there’s no back and forth between the past and the present; 2) it’s James’ journal and the narration feels different since these are James’ thoughts and experiences as he describes the madness of the witch hunts in his own words; 3) James is the James we know and love, but he turns 30 here, as in actually 30 years old. He’s not a 300+-year-old pretending to be 30. His journal reflects the thoughts and experiences of a young man still finding his way in the world; 4) James may seem to have a modern view of the witch hunts, but he isn’t the anomaly he seems to be. Many in the late 17th century, many in Salem itself, believed the Salem Witch Trials were a travesty of justice. John Proctor spoke aloud of his disbelief in the witch hunts in 1692, and he was accused of witchcraft and hanged as a result. You don’t need to dig far to find examples of others from that time who believed as James and John do—that it was the dark side of human nature, not a supernatural evil being, that caused the suffering of innocent people.
Just for fun, I thought I’d share the beginning section of Chapter 1 that I’ve shared here before. If you read all three examples, you’ll see that I had everything I needed in the first draft, but I whittled away at it until I had the final version that ended up in the book. How do I know when something is finished? I know when something is finished when I can read it without needing to tweak anything. There’s not a lot of change from version to version, but if you read all three you’ll see how sections, words, or sentences were whittled down or deleted. A few mistakes were caught and fixed (some by me, some by my editor). This part of writing, what I call my “whittling down” phase, is the best part for me since this is when I can finally see the story I meant to write all along.
It looks like I had three drafts for Down Salem Way, but it’s impossible to say how many drafts I wrote. What constitutes a new draft? Is it changing sentences around, rearranging the same comma 10 times, or deleting entire passages?
Here are the three main drafts from 10 January 1691 (Chapter 1) for your reading enjoyment.
First Draft of Chapter 1— Down Salem Way
Second Draft of Chapter 1— Down Salem Way
And the beginning of the final draft of Chapter 1…
10 January 1691, Monday
The winters are colder here, I’m certain of it. I feel it so in my bones, which feel brittle, as though they shall shatter like a hammer against icicles. The sky looks nearly as it does in England, gradations of gray from near-black to tinder-slate that shed wind, sleet, or snow depending on its mood. Whilst England grows cold enough in the sunless months, in Salem the sky disappears beneath a woolen blanket. I cannot step one foot outside without feeling liquid ice in my veins, but such is life in Massachusetts in January.
This morn Lizzie laughed as I piled on layers of clothing in an attempt to stay warm: my woolen flannel underdrawers, my linen shirt, my thickest worsted leggings, perhaps not the most fashionable, but they are my warmest; my woolen suit of doublet, jerkin, and breeches, and my heavy coat, the deep blue one Lizzie says matches my eyes, though what matters my eyes when I cannot see for the blizzard? Lizzie pulled my coat close to my ears and knotted my scarf near my throat so I might keep whatever warmth I take with me. I would cover myself in ten coats if I could without looking ridiculous. Even as I was, Lizzie could not stifle her giggles.
“Good heavens, James. You look like a blue onion ready for the peeling.”
“And shall you peel my layers away?”
She blushed in that way I love, red-hot along her jaw. She pushed me toward the door as though she could not be rid of me soon enough.
“Perhaps when you return home. If you’re lucky.”
I pulled my dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty closer and basked in her warmth. I ran my lips along her red-stained cheeks. “I have been lucky thus far. I cannot imagine that my luck shall not continue.”
Lizzie tugged my coat closer round my neck, then opened the door and pushed me toward it. She shivered in the cold, kissed my lips, and pressed me outside.
“Go. Father waits for you.”
“Shall you wait for me?”
“What other man might I wait for who is tall and strong with hair the color of spun gold and eyes like the bluest, brightest jewels?”
I stepped into the unfriendly gloom and the door shut behind me. I had lost the battle to Lizzie, which is as it usually goes.
I quivered in my boots as I walked toward the shore, warming my mind with thoughts of Lizzie, her wondering dark eyes, her dark hair, her luscious, berry-like lips. I needed something else to occupy my mind, but there was nothing. I’m still struck by how sparse tis in Massachusetts.
“They call this a town?” I said aloud, to no one. I struggle to think of this place as civilized. Salem Town grows livelier toward the harbor since tis the hub for shipbuilding and the merchant trade. Tis even more provincial at the Farms. There is so little of everything here, and tis still a shock to walk amongst nothing but seashore to one side, farmland on the other, and wilderness all round.
“Is this all there is?” I said, again to no one. A seagull cawed overhead, but then I doubted what I heard since even seabirds must know to stay away from Salem in winter.
I shook myself as far as the sea and stood at the edge of the white-gray bay, the tips of my boots licked by the lapping waves, the ocean spray splattering my exposed face with bitter water like pinpricks along my cheeks. Again, I thought the cold in England was not ever this cold. I squinted into the expanse of water, slapping my forehead when I realized I left my spectacles at home. What a confounded fool I can be. Twas an excuse to return home to Lizzie, I knew, but Father waited for me at the wharf so I pressed forward. If I concentrated enough, so that my temples squeezed, I could see well enough. If I pinched my brain that much tighter, I thought, I could see past the ocean to England, and home.
A sharp spray of salt water brought me back to myself. The air is even colder at land’s end. With my hat pulled over my eyes and my face turned from the wind, I bumped into a man in a leather coat, a fisherman, I think. The man’s Monmouth cap fell to the ground, his leather pouch flung from his shoulder, and he grimaced with severity.
“My apologies,” I said. “I did not see you there.”
“Blind, are you?” The man spat in my direction. “A Pox on you!” With a hmph! he skittered away, his gray doublet and breeches blending into the slate of sea and sky. Indeed, I am blind. I cannot see my own hand before my face without my spectacles, which were at home with Lizzie, where it was warm, where she was warm, her embrace warmest of all. I wanted to be in my cushioned chair before the hearth reading Samuel Pepys’ Memoirs of the Navy with Lizzie beside me knitting, mending, or chatting to me about her day, but instead I was there near an unforgiving shore whipped by the angry weather like a thief in the stocks. Still, I pressed forward. I stared into the distance, struggling to make out Father’s short, slight shape. Then I had a fright brought on by one word: “Pox.”
I did not need that ill-tempered man to remind me of the Pox running rampant along the shore. There has been another outbreak, and those living closest to the port suffer most. I pulled my scarf closer to my mouth, as though the meager movement would keep the Pox where it belonged, over there, away from me and mine.
My head ached with the clinking of nails hammered into wood and the grunts of strong-backed men in heavy coats hauling barrels on their shoulders. The woody scent of fresh-made lumber, salt, and fish lingered everywhere. I stopped near the port, squinting into the distance, still searching for Father, until I thought my head would burst into a star-like pattern from the effort. With some struggle, I saw a vague outline of men and guessed Father was amongst them…
