tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66657149855993672552024-03-05T00:39:25.109-05:00Bluestocking BallHistorical Romance author Elizabeth Boyce on books, words, and history.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.comBlogger95125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-7048300365356333542014-10-14T12:10:00.002-04:002014-10-20T07:27:59.418-04:00HONOR AMONG THIEVES Sneak Peek: Meet Bluebell!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIO9VXYiCXR1nYQjZyRFlDcJlvHlNsb6ZNul23gh4sIknLP7DqAtO5FrS6gTas_n-8oE-hH0I1J4R3z5s09a6TEkfCByVVW8ucXCPPywxjbW0_8t0eGPAgAI8t1Yoi6olJs_MqELSutHSe/s1600/Honor+Among+Thieves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIO9VXYiCXR1nYQjZyRFlDcJlvHlNsb6ZNul23gh4sIknLP7DqAtO5FrS6gTas_n-8oE-hH0I1J4R3z5s09a6TEkfCByVVW8ucXCPPywxjbW0_8t0eGPAgAI8t1Yoi6olJs_MqELSutHSe/s1600/Honor+Among+Thieves.jpg" height="200" width="128" /></a>My new Regency romance series, The Honorables, kicks off in less than two weeks with the release of HONOR AMONG THIEVES on October 27. I can't believe it's already almost here! I'm so excited to share this novel with you. This story has been kicking around in the back of my mind for years, waiting for all the pieces to fall together. They finally did, and I'm thrilled with the result. I hope you will be, too.<br />
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While we're waiting for October 27 to get here, I thought I'd introduce you to one of the characters you'll encounter in this tale that carries us to the dark underbelly of Regency London. HAT's heroine, Lorna, joins a gang of resurrectionists, body snatchers who plundered graves and sold corpses to surgeon-anatomists for dissection. One of the members of the group is Bluebell, a bloodhound who sniffs out fresh graves. And though she has a grim job, Bluebell aspires to a cushier life. Click through for an excerpt, and a chance to win an advance e-copy of HONOR AMONG THIEVES:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia; font-size: 26px; line-height: 38.4000015258789px; orphans: 2; text-indent: 51.2000007629395px; widows: 2;"> </span><span style="line-height: 38.4000015258789px; orphans: 2; text-indent: 2em; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">H</span>umphrey, his voice coming from the entrance hall, broke the silence. “Oh, no you don’t. Get out! Out, I say! Oscar,” he called, summoning the footman, “come at once!”</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Alarmed by the commotion, Lorna sprang to her feet. She ordered Daniel to <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 38.4000015258789px; text-align: justify;">stay put and hurried into the corridor.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In the foyer, Humphrey made slow, arthritic attempts at shooing away the large tan and black bloodhound eagerly sniffing her way around the perimeter of the space. The dog paid the old retainer no mind, but her head snapped up when Lorna entered. With a happy woof, she trotted, jowls swinging and tail wagging, to Lorna’s side. Red-rimmed eyes buried in folds of fur gazed at her adoringly, while drool dangled from a lip. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 38.4000015258789px; text-indent: 2em;"> Lorna groaned. The last she’d seen of Bluebell, the dog had been gnawing on a beef bone in the mews that housed the gang’s wagon and mules. The animal must have followed Lorna home last night after </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 38.4000015258789px; text-align: justify; text-indent: 2em;">she retrieved her mare.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Oscar, seize the cur,” Humphrey ordered. The footman started for Bluebell, but Lorna stayed him with a hand.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Just a moment, Oscar.” She turned to the butler. “Where did you find her?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Daniel whooped behind Lorna. “A dog!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I told you to stay in the breakfast room,” Lorna scolded.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ignoring his sister, Daniel bounded over, rubbed Bluebell’s large ears, and was rewarded with sloppy licks all over his face. Daniel fell over on the yellow marble floor, giggling wildly, while Bluebell laved him with attention.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Daniel,” Lorna started. With a sigh, <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 38.4000015258789px; text-align: justify;">she left him to his fun and raised a brow at Humphrey.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“When I opened the door to sweep the portico, there it was.” He pointed an accusing finger at his adversary. “The great lummox waltzed right in.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">On the floor, Daniel now lay on top of Bluebell, his lithe body running the length of her back. The boy’s arms wrapped around the dog’s neck; his cheek rested on her withers. For her part, Bluebell panted contentedly.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 38.4000015258789px; text-indent: 2em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Get off of the dog,” Lorna said.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Daniel’s arms gripped Bluebell tighter. “Can we keep it, Sissy?” Boy and dog both gazed at her with liquid brown eyes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 38.4000015258789px;">While animals are present in my other novels, Bluebell is my first animal character who plays an active, important role in the novel and has a story arc. Writing her was great fun, and I hope you'll enjoy spending time with this special girl.<br /><br />Now... giveaway time! If you'd like to receive an advance digital copy of HONOR AMONG THIEVES (your choice of ePub or MOBI format), just leave a comment below telling me about one of your favorite fictional animals. Contest closes 11:59 PM EDT Sunday, October 19. Winner will be selected via Random.org, and announced Monday, October 20.<br /><br />*** GIVEAWAY IS NOW CLOSED. CONGRATS TO J. ARLENE CULINER! ***</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-14499248752403834872014-06-10T14:33:00.000-04:002014-06-10T15:06:48.307-04:00Announcing The Honorables!So, after a long while of people asking me WHEN is my next book coming out, I finally have an answer for you: this fall!<br />
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I've just signed on with Crimson Romance again to release my new Regency Romance series, called <i>The Honorables</i>. The series will consist of five titles, three full-length novels and two novellas. Book one launches in October, with a new title coming out every three months. It's an ambitious schedule and I'm a little daunted, but I know I can do it! I've been thinking about this series for years, and I'm so happy to have the chance to bring it to you.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Who Are The Honorables?</b></span><br />
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Back in the day, groups of friends often named themselves and held club meetings. JRR Tolkien and CS Lewis both belonged to a small literary discussion group called The Inklings, for example. In current historical romance, you'll find <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/series/79180-the-survivors-club" target="_blank">The Survivors' Club</a>, Mary Balogh's group of Napoleonic War veteran heroes, and Celeste Bradeley's <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/series/40482-liar-s-club" target="_blank">Liar's Club</a>, a group of Regency-era spies.<br />
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In a similar vein, I have formed The Honorables, a group of five friends who belong to noble families, but who will never inherit the title. The men meet at Oxford University, where they form their little society and bond over pints at the local pub. The friendship carries over to their adulthoods in London, and plays an integral part in each man's story.<br />
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The first member of the group you will meet is Brandon Dewhurst, the youngest of Viscount Marcel's five sons. He's an anatomist-surgeon, working on the frontier of medical knowledge in Regency London. He has a passion for his work, but knows the macabre nature of his calling and younger son status make him all-too-resistible to the young ladies of the <i>haut ton</i>'s infamous Marriage Mart. Everything changes when he meets Lorna Robbins, a lady who doesn't mind his work, and who seems to be carrying a dark secret of her own.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>What does 'The Honorables' mean?</b></span><br />
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History lesson time! During the Regency (and beyond, but I speak only about the time period in which I write), men who carried titles were referred to as Peers of the Realm. These are your dukes and marquesses and earls, etc. The Lords. The heirs of these titled noblemen might carry what is called a Courtesy Title. For example, the son of Joe Johnson, Earl of Chicago might be known as Viscount Indianapolis. It all had to do with how many titles the family patriarch possessed. In this example, the father owns both the earldom and viscountcy, but since he is only called by his highest title (Earl), his eldest son gets use of the next-highest title he owns (Viscount) until he dies. The heir's title, Lord Indianapolis, is a courtesy only, carrying no real legal weight. In the eyes of the law, he is a commoner. He does not become a peer in his own right until his father dies, making him the new earl.<br />
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The younger son(s) of the Earl of Chicago does not receive a courtesy title, no matter how many additional viscountcies or baronies might be attached to his father's name. He is simply referred to as Mr. Johnson, although his full legal title, in recognition of his family's status, is The Honorable Mister Johnson. Your boyfriend Mr. Darcy, the untitled grandson of an earl (his father was a younger son) carries the moniker The Honorable Mister Fitzwilliam Darcy.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Honorable Misters Bingley and Darcy. When's the last time you read a Regency romance novel featuring a Mister?<br />
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And thus the name of both the group of friends, and the series. <i>The Honorables</i> is about men who aren't your typical Regency heroes. None of them are peers. There are no dukes, no earls, no viscounts. Each man belongs to a noble family led by a titled peer, but these are the younger sons or grandsons, the guys typically overlooked in contemporary Regency romance. Some of them, such as The Honorable Mr. Brandon Dewhurst in book one, have a profession, rendering them bad matches on the great Marriage Mart of the <i>haut ton</i>. Others, like book three's Lord Sheridan Zouche (courtesy title only; his legal name is The Honorable Mister Sheridan Zouche), are happy dwelling on the edges of the ballrooms and parlors, enjoying their allowances and lack of responsibility.<br />
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There are no grand estates to be inherited, no massive fortunes at stake, no titles to pass along. For this series, I have dug deeper into the Regency's rich, fascinating history to bring you stories you won't find elsewhere. Together, we'll explore the criminal underworld of body snatching, the East India Company's massive trade empire, a political campaign gone haywire, and so much more. Along the way, you'll meet the heroines who tame the hearts of these fiercely independent gentlemen. They are women like you, struggling with financial difficulties, family problems, and feelings of not fitting in. When they find their men, though... watch out. The sparks are going to fly, and the temperature is going to rise as wits and passion collide on the way to true love.<br />
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I hope you'll join me for this exciting journey.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-66362993967504145592014-05-05T16:54:00.000-04:002014-05-16T14:12:27.040-04:00Retreat!Right this second, I'm sitting in the middle of a gorgeous green lawn, reclining in a lounge chair, with my laptop in my lap and my eyeballs closed. A refreshing breeze is blowing across my face and arms, while the sun's warmth keeps me from getting too cold. I'm on retreat. A writer's retreat. And it's heaven.<br />
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I just opened my eyes, but I can't make out the screen clearly on account of my sun-blinded eyeballs (turning one's face up to the sun will do that, I suppose, even with your lids clamped down), so I'll keep writing without the assistance of visual input for a while longer.</div>
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For the last few months, I've been dealing with my usual winter blahs. Spring arrived, but the inspiration didn't come with it. I haven't written as much or as well as I'd like. I have allowed myself to get caught up in everything else that needs my attention: children; spouse; laundry; house; cat. Meanwhile, the manuscript doesn't impose. It doesn't insist I work on it. It just sits on my hard drive, patiently waiting for me, accepting whatever bits of time I give it.</div>
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The trouble is, if you let it, a manuscript will do nothing but wait. In my experience, manuscripts EXCEL at waiting. They might even major in it at college. While they sit there, waiting all professional-like, everything else in a writer's life continues to demand her notice. Loudly. It's so easy to lose the stride, the fire.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seriously, I can't see. What is this even?</td></tr>
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Enter the writing retreat.<br />
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One of my very best friends in all the world knew I was struggling, and she generously invited me to come to her home to work. She and her husband (another of my very favorites) have treated me like an honored guest, their Author In Residence, while I've been here. They've seen to my every need while I have taken over a whole portion of their house, spreading my research materials, computer, and personal belongings all over the place. They've fed me beautiful meals and refused to allow me to do the dishes. They've told me my only responsibility here is to get inspired and WRITE.</div>
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And boy howdy, I have written.</div>
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It's amazing what miracles a change of scenery can do, what wonders can be wrought by a temporary reprieve from responsibility. With nothing else to focus on, my brain has been working in overdrive, churning out more words in the last four days than I've written in the whole last month. Right this minute, writing isn't something that's getting in the way of all the other stuff I have to do for my family and home. It's a pleasure, a wonderful, beautiful pleasure. THIS is why high school and college students can churn out poem after poem. When you've got nothing to do but think about the story... you think about the story. And you write it. And maybe also a blog post for the poor, neglected blog.</div>
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Calling an event like this a retreat is apt. What is a retreat, but an occasion to pull back and regroup? When faced with an overwhelming situation, a retreat allows a writer (or an army) to strategically refocus the effort where it's most needed.</div>
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Tomorrow is my last day of retreat. Wednesday, I return to my life and all the business that is going to try to pull me away from my writing. I hope to carry with me the feeling of my retreat, of being able to disengage from everything around me for a short time to focus on the work. To remember why it is I love writing so freaking much.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-57116018724025244862014-02-28T10:40:00.000-05:002014-02-28T15:40:33.734-05:00Daffodowndilly<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21.006000518798828px;">Daffodowndilly</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21.006000518798828px;">by: A.A. Milne</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21.006000518798828px;">She wore her yellow sun-bonnet,</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21.006000518798828px;">She wore her greenest gown;</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21.006000518798828px;">She turned to the south wind</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21.006000518798828px;">And curtsied up and down.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21.006000518798828px;">She turned to the sunlight</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21.006000518798828px;">And shook her yellow head,</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21.006000518798828px;">And whispered to her neighbour:</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21.006000518798828px;">'Winter is dead.' </span></span></div>
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Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter, hasn't it?<br />
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Even here in the South, we've had more than our fair share of gray skies, sub-arctic temperatures, and rain falling to earth in an unnatural, solid state. In a region where any amount of snowfall is a rare treat, this winter has taught us to dread the words "frozen precipitation" This has been the year of the Polar Vortex, a climate event that sounds like it was conceived in the volcano lair of a Bond villain.<br />
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The entire North American continent is suffering from the winter blahs, but this week I spotted the light at the end of the tunnel: My daffodils bloomed.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These aren't my actual flowers. Or my actual barn. These are paid re-enactors.</td></tr>
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I'm usually not much for spring. Typically, we get a week or two of pleasant spring temps, accompanied by bucketfuls of pollen in the air, and then we plow right on into summer. Spring is a quick pit stop on the way to the main event--heat and humidity.<br />
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But this year... man, I'm really digging the idea of spring. When I saw the daffodils in my front yard burst into their glorious yellow blooms, my heart opened right along with them. Yesterday, we woke up to yet another frost on the ground, and I feared the flowers were done for. But this morning they're nodding in the breeze, defying the lingering cold and forcing bright color onto our muted landscape of brown and gray.<br />
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When I studied abroad in France during college, I took an oral presentation course. One of our assignments was to speak about a festival in our hometowns. I'll never forget the speech given by a Swedish student. She told us about her town's annual spring festival, how everyone got together for days of music and revelry to celebrate having made it through the winter. In my area, we celebrate particular crops, like watermelons, peaches, cucumbers, peanuts... whatever a given little town produces lots of. The idea of celebrating basic survival touches on something primal and intrinsic. And after the brutal season we've endured, I think we're all due a little fun.<br />
<br />
Spring reaches past our modern, civilized exterior to grab us right by our pagan roots. To this day, all of our spring holidays are about fertility, sex, new life, renewal. The ground thaws to accept seeds. Plants engage in passive sexual reproduction and douse our cars and our respiratory tracts with their sperm. Spring fever hits humans and other animals, granting us increases in energy and sexual appetites. The entire hemisphere (Sorry, Antipodeans, you already had your turn.) pulses with vigor and desire.<br />
<br />
It's little wonder our ancestors welcomed spring with music and dancing and wine and fertility rites and feasting and little fuzzy bunnies and chicks. Flowers and soil and green and youth and breasts and sap and cherubs and the sun. The sun. That glorious giver of life and light. It came back. And we honor it, we thank it for keeping its promise. Every civilization throughout history has worshiped the sun. How can we not?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/5f/Pap_Henrik_A_tavasz_%C3%A9bred%C3%A9se.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/5f/Pap_Henrik_A_tavasz_%C3%A9bred%C3%A9se.jpg" height="400" width="390" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sentiment... I get it.</td></tr>
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I know winter isn't quite over for a lot of you. There's still a stretch of miserable cold and dreary, leaden skies in the coming weeks, but we're almost there. I promise. Daffodils don't lie. Hang in there. The ice is slowly melting.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-14616689805953359672014-02-14T11:58:00.000-05:002014-02-14T11:59:10.389-05:00Be MineToday is February 14, Valentine's Day, a holiday with the power to reduce the best of us to quivering heaps of adolescent uncertainty: Is it too soon to get him a gift? Will she think I lack imagination if I buy her chocolates? Will the comically oversized box earn back originality points? What if he doesn't like teddy bears? Haven't we been together too long for this nonsense? Is it weird to say "Happy Valentine's Day" to my boss, or is it weirder not to say anything?<br />
<br />
Someone you encounter today will tell you Valentine's Day is a made-up holiday pushed by a secret coalition of greeting card companies, candy cabals, and floral cartels trying to boost profits in the post-Christmas slump. Those people are wrong.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/95/Buster_Brown_valentine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/95/Buster_Brown_valentine.jpg" height="247" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maybe. The above could only have come from a soulless<br />
Faustian fraternity working in concert with the minions of Hell.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Here are some fun facts about the history of Valentine's Day you can use to put the naysayers in their place, and to dazzle your friends and lovers.<br />
<br />
You might know that Valentine's Day originated as a Catholic feast commemorating St. Valentine, but did you know there is more than one St. Valentine honored by the day? Valentine of Terni was a second century bishop martyred during the Roman persecution of Christians. When he was jailed for preaching his faith, he reputedly healed his jailer's daughter of blindness, thus earning a few new converts and a date with clubs, stones, and the executioner's axe. Valentine of Rome hails from the fifth century. He was also persecuted, imprisoned, tortured, and executed. Romance! Legend has it that Mr. Of Rome performed secret marriage ceremonies for Roman soldiers, who were forbidden to marry. His flower-adorned skull is a relic on display in the Basilica of Santa Maria in Cosmedin.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/e8/Santa_Maria_in_Cosmedin_(Rome)_Skull_of_St._Valentini_._Valentini.JPG/800px-Santa_Maria_in_Cosmedin_(Rome)_Skull_of_St._Valentini_._Valentini.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/e8/Santa_Maria_in_Cosmedin_(Rome)_Skull_of_St._Valentini_._Valentini.JPG/800px-Santa_Maria_in_Cosmedin_(Rome)_Skull_of_St._Valentini_._Valentini.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Your move, Hallmark.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The feast of St. Valentine was not originally fixed to the fourteenth day of February. Even today, the Eastern Orthodox church honors the Saints Valentine in July, on the sixth for Valentine of Rome, and on the thirtieth for Valentine of Terni.<br />
<br />
Valentine's Day was first connected to romantic love by Geoffrey Chaucer in the high middle ages. To commemorate the engagement of King Richard II of England to Anne of Bohemia, he penned "Parlement of Foules," which begins:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
For this was on seynt Volantynys day</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Whan euery bryd comyth there to chese his make.</div>
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Mid-February isn't really sexy time for most species of birds in England, so this poem also provides a clue that Valentine's Day wasn't always observed on 14 February, but sometime later in the spring. Also, we know the engagement was made official in a treaty signed May 2, 1381. Aww, political marriages. Romance!<br />
<br />
Over the next many centuries, Valentine's Day really hit its stride. It was a big hit with followers of the courtly love traditions. Valentine love poems and letters dating back to the 1400's have survived to tell the tale. Donne and Shakespeare both wrote about Valentine's Day ( in "An Epithalamion, Or Mariage Song, On The Lady Elizabeth, And Count Palatine Being Married On St. Valentines Day" and <i>Hamlet</i>, respectively).<br />
<br />
The giving of flowers and chocolates on Valentine's Day are folk traditions from the UK which commemorate the early advent of spring. In some places, sweets and gifts were left for children, while other communities latched onto it as a celebration of romantic love.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/c/cd/Saint_Valentine's_Day_1861.jpg/506px-Saint_Valentine's_Day_1861.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/c/cd/Saint_Valentine's_Day_1861.jpg/506px-Saint_Valentine's_Day_1861.jpg" height="400" width="333" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ducks are an interesting artistic choice.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Charges of mass-produced sentiment are frequently leveled at manufactures of greeting cards, but you can't blame American Greetings for spreading a bad idea. In 1797, <i>The Young Man's Valentine Writer </i>was published in Britain. Its pages were filled with verses a young swain could copy out to send his beloved. A few commercially produced cards embellished with sketches and poems, called "mechanical Valentines," were available in the late 1700's, although they were not manufactured on a large scale until the Victorian era. By the turn of the nineteenth century, young lovers of both sexes were sending an astonishing number of poems and letters to one another through the post, using the holiday as an excuse to toss propriety to the wind.<br />
<br />
A couple years back, one of my favorite blogs, <a href="http://twonerdyhistorygirls.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Two Nerdy History Girls</a>, featured this amazing anti-Valentine's Day screed written in 1805 by an indignant father and published in <i>The Gentleman's Magazine:</i><br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
My eldest daughter who never receives any letter which she would wish to conceal from her parents, finding that her billet contained what appeared to be Poetry, began to read it to us; but she fortunately had not gone beyond the second line, when I recollected (from having heard of them in my boyish days) what the sequel was; and, snatching, as quick as lightning, the abominable Valentine from her hands before she could possibly arrive at the meaning, threw it upon the fire, congratulating my daughter on having escaped reading the most horrid obscenity that depravity could invent.</blockquote>
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This is just an excerpt. I encourage you to read <a href="http://twonerdyhistorygirls.blogspot.com/2012/02/father-warns-against-depravity-of.html" target="_blank">the whole post</a> at Two Nerdy History Girls for the entire, hilarious epistle. The gentleman must have, in his own youth, utilized a publication akin to <i>The Young Man's Valentine Writer</i>, to be so familiar with the "horrid obscenity" his daughter received in the morning post.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/bc/Victorian_Valentine_GT_Little.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/bc/Victorian_Valentine_GT_Little.jpg" height="400" width="282" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On Life's Sea<br />
In Love's Boat<br />
Ever with thee<br />
I would float<br />
<br />
The poetry really hasn't gotten any worse, although that's not saying much.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
From Victorian times onward, commercial valentines have been a mainstay of the holiday, making observation of the occasion affordable for everyone, down to the least popular kid in the fourth grade.<br />
<br />
I hope you've enjoyed this little overview of the history of Valentine's Day. Whether you're celebrating with a special loved one, children, friends, or a box of chocolates<i> pour un</i>, do so with a clear mind, knowing that by sending flowers and buying cornball greeting cards, you're doing your part to uphold ancient, proud traditions.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-61406577695967976892014-02-06T16:45:00.000-05:002014-02-06T16:46:09.391-05:00MachiavellianAlmost three years ago (Has this blog been around that long? Yikes!) <a href="http://bluestockingball.blogspot.com/2011/04/lo-lee-ta.html" target="_blank">I wrote about</a> my annoyance with the use of "Lolita" as a pejorative. I'm here today to rant about another inappropriately hijacked name-turned-adjective:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Machiavellian</span><br />
<br />
This one doesn't stem from the misunderstanding of a fictional character, but rather from an incomplete comprehension of a real man's literary legacy.<br />
<br />
<i>Yes, Elizabeth</i>, I hear you saying,<i> but what does it mean?</i> I'm so glad you asked!<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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<tr class="tr1" valign="top"><td class="td1" colspan="2" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b><span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">Machiavellian</span> </b><i><span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">or</span> </i><b><span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">Machiavelian</span> </b><span id="hotword"> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">(ˌmækɪəˈvɛlɪən)</span> </span></td></tr>
<tr valign="top"><td colspan="2" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"></td></tr>
<tr class="tr2" valign="top"><td class="td2" colspan="2" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span id="hotword">— </span><b><i>adj</i></b></td></tr>
<tr class="tr3" valign="top"><td align="right" class="td3n1" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" width="1%"><span id="hotword">1.</span></td><td class="td3n2" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span id="hotword"><span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">of</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">or</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">relating</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">to</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">the</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">alleged</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">political</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">principles</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">of</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">Machiavelli;</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">cunning,</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">amoral,</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">and</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">opportunist</span></span></td></tr>
<tr valign="top"><td colspan="2" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"></td></tr>
<tr class="tr2" valign="top"><td class="td2" colspan="2" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span id="hotword">— </span><b><i>n</i></b></td></tr>
<tr class="tr3" valign="top"><td align="right" class="td3n1" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" width="1%"><span id="hotword">2.</span></td><td class="td3n2" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span id="hotword"><span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">a</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">cunning,</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">amoral,</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">and</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">opportunist</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">person,</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">esp</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">a</span> <span class="hwc" id="hotword" name="hotword">politician</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</blockquote>
<br />
Wow, that Machiavelli guy must have pretty bad, to have a whole word meaning "evil politician" dubbed in his honor, huh?<br />
<br />
<i>Bzzzzt!</i> Wrong!<br />
<br />
So, what's all the hubub about this man? How can I claim his name shouldn't be shorthand for everything we hate about politics and politicians? Good questions. Let's discuss!<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/3/35/Frans_Hals-_Jester_with_a_Lute.JPG/525px-Frans_Hals-_Jester_with_a_Lute.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/3/35/Frans_Hals-_Jester_with_a_Lute.JPG/525px-Frans_Hals-_Jester_with_a_Lute.JPG" height="320" width="280" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dark Ages are over, baby! Somebody bust out the<br />
scientific method and the booze. Wooo! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Niccolò Machiavelli, known today as the father of political science, was born in Florence, Italy in 1469. The keen among you will note that this places him squarely in the Italian Renaissance. Though a wonderful era for the arts, sciences, literature, and philosophy, it was sort of a crap time for Italian politics. In fact, the nation of Italy, as we know it, did not yet exist. Instead, Italy was a collection of independent city-states constantly warring over territory. And within the city-states (Venice and Florence being the biggest kids on the block), rival political factions kept overthrowing one another. The Papacy was active in fighting for land, as were foreign powers such as France, Spain, and Switzerland. It was all very tumultuous.<br />
<br />
Over the years, Florence, Machiavelli's hometown, had gone back and forth between a republic system of government, and a monarchy. At the time of his birth, the Medici family had held Florence for half a century. But they were ousted from power in 1494, and the republic was reestablished.<br />
<br />
Niccolò was an educated young man with a keen interest in history and politics. He held several posts in the Florentine government, serving as a diplomat to foreign courts, and running the city-state's militia for a time.<br />
<br />
In 1512, the Medici returned to power, dissolving the republic, and in 1513, Machiavelli was imprisoned. Accused of conspiring against the Medicis, he was brutally tortured for three weeks before he was finally released. He retired to his country home outside the city, where he tried to stay involved in politics through his writing. He was a renowned intellectual. Besides his political writings, he penned books on history and war, as well as poems, plays, and other works of fiction. He died in 1527, at the age of 58.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/82/Niccolo_Machiavelli-part.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/82/Niccolo_Machiavelli-part.png" height="320" width="248" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nope. Nothing remotely diabolical here.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So, where in this brief sketch of a biography will you find the underpinnings of the term <i>Machiavellian</i>? Niccolò himself seems a rather unassuming sort. He never possessed political power of his own, and was never more than a minor player in the government.<br />
<br />
The term finds its roots in Machiavelli's most famous political treatise, <i>The Prince</i>. In it, Machiavelli discusses the different types of princes, namely hereditary and new. Machiavelli offers advice for those in power. Drawing from historical and contemporary examples, he uses the successes and failures of others to support his points.<br />
<br />
Controversy swirled around <i>The Prince</i> almost as soon as it was published. Within its pages, you see, Niccolò Machiavelli asserts that a strong prince must do whatever it takes to seize control, stabilize the government, and retain his power. A prince must be willing and able to behave in immoral ways in order to meet these ends, including eliminating those who could threaten his position, lying, faithlessness, and developing a false morality to present to the populace. "But it is necessary to know well how to disguise this characteristic [faithlessness], and to be a great pretender and dissembler; and men are so simple, and so subject to present necessities, that he who seeks to deceive will always find someone who will allow himself to be deceived."<br />
<br />
Oooooh. Okay. Yeah. Now we're starting to get to the bottom of this <i>Machiavellian </i>situation. That doesn't look very good for old Niccolò, does it?<br />
<br />
But here's the thing:<br />
<br />
A lot of what Machiavelli says in <i>The Prince</i> is true. The leaders of countries really do have to grapple with decisions we'd consider immoral. Most of us can agree that killing is bad, mkay, but we know there's always the chance of war being declared. It may be justifiable in certain circumstances, but ordering the deaths of human beings is immoral. Yet we expect our leaders to be able to send armies out to kill human beings. So we, as a society, already accept a measure of immoral conduct in those who rule. And many of Machiavelli's observations regarding the nature of politicians sound just as accurate now as they did 500 years ago. Take, for example, this passage:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
For this reason a prince ought to take care that he never lets anything slip from his lips that is not replete with the above-named five qualities, that he may appear to him who sees and hears him altogether merciful, faithful, humane, upright, and religious. There is nothing more necessary to appear to have than this last quality, inasmuch as men judge generally more by the eye than by the hand, because it belongs to everybody to see you, to few to come in touch with you. Everyone sees what you appear to be, few really know what you are, and those few dare not oppose themselves to the opinion of the many, who have the majesty of the state to defend them.</blockquote>
<br />
Well, hey there, every politician ever! Look at you, espousing God and Country and Family and Children on the tee vee, while behind closed doors you're taking money from special interest groups, doing favors for your corporate buddies, and engaging in tawdry affairs in airport bathrooms and Oval Offices and the like. That's pretty spot-on, yeah?<br />
<br />
But for centuries, historians and philosophers have wondered whether Machiavelli really meant what he was saying in <i>The Prince</i>, or if he was maybe up to something. The first clue is found right at the beginning of the book, in the dedication:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>To the magnificent Lorenzo Di Piero De' Medici</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
You may recall that time, about ten paragraphs ago (man, this post is a lot longer than I thought it would be), when the Medicis had Machiavelli imprisoned and tortured for three weeks. So, what gives? Why dedicate his book to the dude who introduced him to the joys of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Strappado" target="_blank">strappado</a>?<br />
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/b/bd/Lorenzo_de_Medici2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/b/bd/Lorenzo_de_Medici2.jpg" height="320" width="255" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More like Lorenzo de' MeDouchey, amirite?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
One idea is that Machiavelli was just toadying up to the man who could decide to make a human pinata out of him again whenever the fancy struck him. And you know, I wouldn't even say that's a terrible idea.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Some people, including the philosophers Diderot and Rousseau, argued that <i>The Prince</i> is satire. Others have hypothesized that the true audience of <i>The Prince</i> is not the nobility at all, who would already know everything Machiavelli advises, but the common people, who might be inclined (in the early 16th century, anyway) to trust the promises of their princes and kings, and to think them upright, pious men based on what they see in public.<br />
<br />
One intriguing theory even suggests that Machiavelli--in true Machiavellian fashion--was attempting to lure Lorenzo de'Medici into a situation in which the people of Florence could easily rise up and overthrow him. In support of this idea is the fact that in <i>The Prince</i>, Machiavelli advises Lorenzo to arm the people, live inside the city, shun liberality, and lie to the citizenry. That's... kind of a genius recipe for disaster.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/1/1e/Santi_di_Tito_-_Niccolo_Machiavelli's_portrait.jpg/540px-Santi_di_Tito_-_Niccolo_Machiavelli's_portrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/1/1e/Santi_di_Tito_-_Niccolo_Machiavelli's_portrait.jpg/540px-Santi_di_Tito_-_Niccolo_Machiavelli's_portrait.jpg" height="320" width="287" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He looks so much less menacing with his eyeballs<br />
properly filled in.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<br />
Additionally, <i>The Prince</i> is not the sum of Machiavelli's work. Following <i>The Prince</i>, he wrote another, much longer, political treatise. This one, titled <i>Discourses on Livy</i>, extolled the virtues of republics. In this book, he sets forth a system of checks and balances between the prince, the nobility, and the people. Contrary to the immoral behavior advised in <i>The Prince</i>, in the <i>Discourses</i>, Machiavelli states that extra-constitutional means should never be necessary in a republic (Some commentators have even suggested that <i>The Prince</i> is meant to demonstrate the moral superiority of republics.). He says that governments of the people are better than governments of princes. And it doesn't get more clear than this: "... if we compare the faults of a people with those of princes, as well as their respective good qualities, we shall find the people vastly superior in all that is good and glorious."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
So... Machiavellian? I think there's a strong case to be made that Niccolò Machiavelli's work has been unfairly reduced to <i>The Prince</i>. The entirety of his political work and writings suggest he was strongly in favor of republics by and for the people. A true Machiavellian, therefore, would trust the people to govern better than a prince ever could.</div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-65980541804273149642014-01-30T14:21:00.000-05:002014-01-30T16:45:12.506-05:00In Memoriam<i>On January 24, 2014, my beloved grandmother, Grandma Vel, passed away at the age of 92. I've been away from the blog for a few months and this isn't how I imagined coming back, but I hope you'll indulge me. The following post is adapted from the eulogy I wrote for her memorial.</i><br />
<div>
<i><br /></i>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n243/bondgirlsc/8a136812-0a35-4e7b-9542-093e207f45be_zpse67282d2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n243/bondgirlsc/8a136812-0a35-4e7b-9542-093e207f45be_zpse67282d2.png" height="400" width="346" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vel in 1942, age 21</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;">For Vel</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As I thought about the memorial service, one of my first considerations was to worry about what I should wear. Even though the small service was just for our family, the occasion seemed to warrant more than my usual
jeans-and-a-t-shirt wardrobe. I considered shopping for
something a rung or two up the formal ladder of attire.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But then
I remembered a particular Sunday morning, during one of my sister's and my summer visits to Grandma Vel's. This would have been, I believe, the
summer between my seventh and eighth grade years of school. We were
all getting ready to go to church. While Sis and I donned our dresses
and brushed our hair, Grandma's voice erupted from her room, in one
of her usual exclamations of frustration, “Oh, Godfrey!” followed
by her laughter. We found her sitting on the edge of her bed,
struggling to pull on a twisted pair of pantyhose. She cursed and grunted until she'd shown them who was boss, and
then complained the whole morning about how uncomfortable they were.
It was the only pair of nylons she owned, she later explained, and
she hadn't worn them in years. The elastic had given out, so the
pantyhose sagged at the ankles. Her wrestling match with them had
put a run one leg, and the toe seams showed through her sandals. When
we got home, she threw them away and changed back into her own
comfortable uniform, jeans-and-a-button-down. It didn't occur to me
until today that I might have gotten some of my fashion sense from
Grandma, but I think I must have, and I know she would want us to be comfortable here.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When I
think about Grandma, I remember how she always seemed
larger-than-life. She was tall, with broad shoulders and a bit of a
swagger in her step. Even when I'd grown taller than her, she was
still something of a giant in my mind. When she was excited, the
concept of an “inside voice” escaped her. She spoke loud, she
laughed loud. Her heart was large and overflowed with love,
especially for small animals, such as stray cats and her
granddaughters. Vel took up a lot of room. She was a landmark, a
destination, all by herself. Only a landscape as expansive as her much-loved Zion National Park could house a woman as brimming with life as she.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n243/bondgirlsc/58d3bbb1-39be-476f-8238-f3a8a290985e_zps86785753.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n243/bondgirlsc/58d3bbb1-39be-476f-8238-f3a8a290985e_zps86785753.png" height="301" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vel is the baby in her mother's lap. Two more would be born after her.<br />
The oldest few were already grown and gone.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n243/bondgirlsc/1928_zps245da1d2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n243/bondgirlsc/1928_zps245da1d2.png" height="200" width="131" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1928</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;">Vel was born in 1921, one of seventeen children, to poor Danish immigrants. She grew up in a small coal mining town in Utah that no longer exists. As I thought about what I should say in my remarks</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">, I knew
I couldn't really talk about any of her family history, as it falls beyond my area of authorial expertise. I didn't witness her bucolic childhood in Spring Canyon, nor
did I watch her grow up in a tribe of sisters. As a young woman, she developed her talents as an artist and a songstress, singing on live radio to great acclaim, and painting canvases of the untamed wilderness which inspired her. She became a woman I
never met, riding in a standing-room-only troop transport train for
her brief honeymoon in San Francisco, and riveting bombers during
World War II. I like to think we'd have been friends, had we met at a
play group as young mothers, with our arms and laps and houses full
of children. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">I look at photos from that time in Vel's life and
recognize a kindred sense of harried weariness, of love and
exhaustion so deeply entwined it doesn't seem you can ever pull one
from the other. But I'll never know. That wasn't my experience with
her.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n243/bondgirlsc/1a45ec5c-a921-4bb9-baa6-90111dfa45e1_zps3f49802e.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n243/bondgirlsc/1a45ec5c-a921-4bb9-baa6-90111dfa45e1_zps3f49802e.png" height="197" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My father is the well-behaved one on the right.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Since
she passed, I've been reflecting a lot on what my relationship with
Vel was, and what it wasn't. I don't know what it was like to grow up
with Vel for my mother. I can only imagine the family was
complicated, as all families are. Vel's children would have adored
her when they were young, and hated and been embarrassed by her when
they were teenagers. As a parent, she probably often fell short of
her own desires, and her children's expectations. This is the way of
being a mother.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
I don't know what it was like to have Vel for a
mother-in-law. Mom always spoke of her with fondness and respect.
Maybe everything was smooth sailing between them. Maybe there was
some underlying judgment and animosity I never knew about.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
To me,
she was always Grandma Vel. In all of my life, she is the only person
from whom I have ever felt complete and total acceptance. I believe
it must be the prerogative of grandparents and grandchildren to find
in one another not just the potential for, but the fulfillment of,
perfection. Vel used to praise Mom's late mother, Liz, as a paragon of
ladyhood. She admired Liz's genteel manners and said she felt like
“a bull in a china shop” next to her. But to me, her brash ways
were every bit as instructive in the art of Womanhood as Liz's more subtle, cultured example.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n243/bondgirlsc/bec6c75a-720e-4c23-863c-b663ffeac8d1_zps47ae6e9c.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n243/bondgirlsc/bec6c75a-720e-4c23-863c-b663ffeac8d1_zps47ae6e9c.png" height="308" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1962, still waiting for Nelson Eddy to sweep her away.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
From
Vel, I learned that that the simple pleasures in life were just as
marvelous as the finer things, that an evening at home playing cards
and sipping margaritas was the best thing in the world, as long as
you spent it with the right people. She taught me a woman should
never leave home without three essentials: her lipstick, so she'd
always be presentable; some tissues, useful in civilization or the
wilderness; and chewing gum, so your breath will be fresh, in the
event your dream Latin lover suddenly materializes at your side.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n243/bondgirlsc/3f82b2e0-b63e-4c43-ba50-da3f01aa7a28_zps9c28529d.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n243/bondgirlsc/3f82b2e0-b63e-4c43-ba50-da3f01aa7a28_zps9c28529d.png" height="232" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another family pet. This one she called Fury,<br />
presumably because she'd trained him to tear the faces<br />
off of intruders. Don't let the fluffy ears fool you.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
On the
same summer holiday I mentioned at the beginning of my remarks, when
Vel wrestled with and discarded those hated nylons, we had one of my
first mature heart-to-heart discussions on the subject of
spirituality and religion. I don't remember how the conversation
started; I probably asked her why she so rarely went to church. But I
remember well her telling me that she felt closer to God when she was
out in nature than she ever did inside a building. Vel didn't need organized religion telling her
how to find God. Her deity was all around her in the mountains. He was in the yard she worked so hard to make
beautiful. He was in Mop and Sandy, her dear little dogs. Even
though it was different from how she'd been raised, and from what
some of her children came to embrace for themselves, Vel found a
spiritual path that fit her perfectly. A little bit Christian; a
little bit Pagan; a little bit Pantheist. As far as I know, Vel
didn't have a word for her beliefs, and she didn't need one. It was
something just for her, and it didn't matter if anyone else in the
world agreed with her. She taught me that's it's ok to break from
convention, and to hold fast to what is right for myself.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I have
frequently said that I feel like an imposter grownup. Sometimes, I
feel as insecure as I did in high school, and I'm sure that one day,
some government agents will turn up at my door and charge me with
impersonating an adult. But then I remember Grandma Vel, and how she
never felt her age, either. Even in the last few years, when she was
living in a nursing home and mostly confined to a wheel chair, she
groused about being surrounded by old folks. Vel never got old.
She took French lessons and learned to use the computer and
socialized with her friends, refusing to let something as
inconsequential as the passage of time put a damper on her enjoyment
of life. She showed me that I may not be able to escape the
indignities that come with age, but I never have to feel—or be—old.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n243/bondgirlsc/74d6f75d-c376-49c7-b468-8825c581c78e_zps8e31b369.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n243/bondgirlsc/74d6f75d-c376-49c7-b468-8825c581c78e_zps8e31b369.png" height="400" width="245" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vel, on the right, with one of her sisters (center)<br />
and a childhood friend. Vel never lost her youthful<br />
sense of fun.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In
return, my sister and I provided Vel with a constant source of
grandparental pride. She thrilled at our good grades. She thought we
were beautiful. She invited the neighbors over to coo at our sweet,
Southern accents. She called us by the endearments Little Sweet, or Living Doll. Even
the one time I recall her wanting to fuss at us for sneaking out of bed and staying up late was turned around when she discovered we'd broken bedtime to secretly bake a cake for her birthday the following day.
Her disappointment in our behavior was turned to surprised delight in
the blink of an eye.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
loved us the way she did everything, big and loud and a little bit
unruly. I know neither Sis nor I will ever forget the time we broke
down on the side of the interstate on our way to catch our flight
home from Vegas. Grandma's one-armed neighbor, Ann, gave us a
lift. We stopped at a casino in Mesquite, Nevada for lunch. Vel and Ann got carried away on the slot machines, so we were late getting back on the road. When the car broke down a short time later, in the middle of the Nevada desert in the middle of a
hot, summer day, the time crunch made it an even greater catastrophe than it would have been otherwise.
But Vel didn't hesitate in her purpose. She knew she had to get her
babies to the airport, and so she flagged down a perfect stranger and
commandeered his vehicle. My sister and I perched on the piles of paperback
books in the backseat of his car while Grandma hopped into the front
passenger seat and ordered the man to drive us to Vegas. Damn if he
didn't drive us a good hour and a half, right to the curbside dropoff
at the airport, never once protesting Grandma hijacking his car and
his time.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Vel was
proud of my efforts as a writer. When I sent her a copy of <i>Once a
Duchess</i>, she locked everyone out of her room at the nursing home
while she spent the weekend reading, so she could call me on Monday
to discuss the novel. She told me that she showed it off to all the
residents and staff.<br />
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3hma9xI_VmfA15gX0xaNFs4tiQvn-0saLIwDfon6uOFgUFl0Qcdopugu69xxXwEsuvo5kx-yPNGDcVrHWAXCx1-cwj71SMLg9Yf7uKE2CZlqU5eZyMVqQr25US_-97fZRU6PcKIARGTjk/s1600/20111128-DSC_9644.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3hma9xI_VmfA15gX0xaNFs4tiQvn-0saLIwDfon6uOFgUFl0Qcdopugu69xxXwEsuvo5kx-yPNGDcVrHWAXCx1-cwj71SMLg9Yf7uKE2CZlqU5eZyMVqQr25US_-97fZRU6PcKIARGTjk/s1600/20111128-DSC_9644.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The author and Vel in 2011. I smuggled tequila into the nursing home to<br />
make her a proper margarita. A fine time was had by all.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She even
praised my mundane accomplishments. When the eldest Master Boyce was two months old,
Mom and I took him out to see Grandma Vel for Thanksgiving. One
afternoon, we left her home with the baby, with a bottle of pumped
milk to give him when he became hungry. She repeatedly marveled over and complimented the cream content of the milk, as though I had personally invented
the perfect food for infants. Everything I did was really and truly
wonderful, and to me, she was every bit as perfect.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Because
Grandma Vel lived so far away, visits were always an event. In my
mind, Grandma Vel will always be a vacation. She's a special holiday
of mutual adoration and affection, smelling of White Linen and dusty,
Western skies. She is soaring mountains and horseback rides. Rock
shops and bumbleberry pie. She is Good and Plenty candies, licorice
nips, and a drawer full of reused aluminum foil. She is lava rocks
and zoysia grass, apricots and cherries. She is her wonderful
paintings, her extraordinary voice, and her unfettered enthusiasm for living.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My time with Grandma Vel is like a strand of pearls, each occasion beautiful unto itself, but becoming more precious as they are gathered together,
becoming a rare and precious heirloom on the silken strand of my
life.</div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-61756588533585473012013-10-28T10:16:00.001-04:002013-10-28T10:16:38.607-04:00Big News for the Once SeriesI am thrilled to share some exciting news with you! The response to the <i>Once </i>series in ebook format has been so wonderful, my babies are getting a print run!<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/7e/Animal_Party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/7e/Animal_Party.jpg" width="301" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just so we're clear, I'm the happy, dancing pig.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /><div>
<i>Once a Duchess</i>,<i> Once an Heiress</i>, and <i>Once an Innocent</i> will be released in trade paperback, available for purchase in-store at Barnes and Noble. One book will be released each month, beginning with <i>Duchess's</i> release on December 18. It's available for pre-order right now on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Once-Duchess-Elizabeth-Boyce/dp/144057345X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1382968550&sr=8-1&keywords=once+a+duchess" target="_blank">Amazon</a> and <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/once-a-duchess-elizabeth-boyce/1113004682?ean=9781440573453" target="_blank">Barnes and Noble</a>.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thank you to Tara Gelsomino, my fantabulous executive editor at Crimson Romance, for making this happen. And a super huge deluxe THANK YOU to my amazing readers for loving these books and for asking when you'll be able to pick them up in the bookstore. Soon!!!</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-80966933921784682542013-10-14T13:41:00.000-04:002013-10-27T22:17:58.526-04:00At the Library<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;">“We
don't really market to libraries. We don't want readers to get the
idea that they don't have to pay for content.” – Representative
From a Publishing Company Which Shall Remain Unnamed</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As I
write, I'm sitting at a table in the corner of the non-fiction
section of my local public library. My plan for today is to get lots
of writing accomplished, which means I need to get away from the
internet. Turning off my wireless at home doesn't always cut it; it's
too easy to turn it back on. So I need to be somewhere else. I need
to be at the library.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.iep.utm.edu/wp-content/media/paradox_logical-300x250.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.iep.utm.edu/wp-content/media/paradox_logical-300x250.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Then how are you posting right now, genius?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;">While
preparing for my day, I remembered hearing the quote I posted above. I was at
a workshop hosted by a particular publishing house, listening to a
presentation meant to sell authors on why this company is the place
to be. Things were going along okay, until someone in the audience
asked what kind of penetration the company had with libraries, and
one of the publisher's representatives said … that.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It was
one of those moments when my jaw quite literally dropped. I couldn't
believe someone whose business is books could so casually brush aside
the entire concept of public libraries. <i style="line-height: 200%;">We don't want readers to
get the idea that they don't have to pay for content.</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Holy –
pardon my French – <i>merde</i>.</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
* * *</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I've
been addicted to books from the beginning, and while my childhood
room had a little shelf crammed with many of my favorites, the
library was the primary supplier of my drug of choice. Every time my
mom took us there, I exchanged one heavy pile of books for another.
It was nothing for me to leave with five or ten or more. My parents
never could have afforded to purchase all the reading material I tore
through.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/7/73/Jan_van_Eyck_Madonna_with_the_Child_Reading.jpg/442px-Jan_van_Eyck_Madonna_with_the_Child_Reading.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/7/73/Jan_van_Eyck_Madonna_with_the_Child_Reading.jpg/442px-Jan_van_Eyck_Madonna_with_the_Child_Reading.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fine, Baby Jesus. We'll read Goodnight Moon. <i>Again</i>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
To be
sure, they bought me plenty of books over the years. For my birthday,
for Christmas, for just because. When in doubt, a book was always
(and still is) the perfect gift for me. Still, the sheer volume of
them I consumed... If I were to add up the cover prices of every book
I have read in my entire life to this point, the total would probably
sustain a small country for a year.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My first
act of scholastic misfitery happened in the fifth grade. Being the
top of the elementary heap, fifth graders were assigned various
responsibilities around school. I was put on the safety patrol, which
came with a neon orange sash and the power to enforce hallway rules
of orderly conduct. It was a prestigious position. Being the visible
face of authority is heady stuff for a ten-year old.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But it
wasn't good enough for me.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
You see,
another position given to fifth graders at my school was that of
Library Helper. I was wildly jealous of my library-working peers. So
one day, my stomach roiling and palms sweating, I got up with my
Library Helper classmates when they left for their duties. I lied
right to Mrs. Anderson's face, and told her I'd been asked to be a
Library Helper, too. I slipped into the library with the rest of the
group, pulled an identification button from a basket, put it on...
and I was in. I was a Library Helper.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I must
have lied to the librarian to explain my presence, as well, since
fifth grade tasks had long since been assigned. Either that, or no
one was going to raise a stink about a rebellious act of
volunteerism. A friend showed me the ropes, and soon I was shelving
books, sorting media materials, and working circulation like a pro.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My
favorite task was processing new books. To reach into a cardbord box,
pull out a shiny new book, and be the first person <i>ever</i> to
open it was a rush like nothing else. Wielding a rubber stamp, I
branded each new book with the name of our school. There was a system
to it: Inside of the front cover, page five, page thirteen, etc.,
inside of the back cover. I carefully adhered the manila pocket that
held the circulation card for each book into the back cover, as well.
Then I prepared the card itself. I scribed the book's title across
the top of the card and, armed with one of those wonderful, heavy
stamps constructed of metal, with rolling gears and that satisfying
<i>ka-chunk</i> noise, I memorialized the date the book was
introduced into the library. Now it was ready to be released into the
library wilds, there to wait until a child picked it up and
discovered a new world. And I was part of this magnificent thing.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>We
don't want readers to get the idea that they don't have to pay for
content.</i></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
* * *</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A man
has taken the table beside mine. He's wearing a long-sleeved
chartreuse shirt and a bow tie. He seems to be dressed for work, and
I wonder if he's just passing the time here while waiting for a
business appointment. There's a pencil and a highlighter on the
table, too, so maybe he <i>is</i> at work, like me. A cup of
Starbucks is sitting at his elbow. Three paperbacks are on his table;
he's looking through one of them. He has a little laptop computer,
too. He spent some time on it, but now it's closed.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/b7/In_the_Library_by_John_F._Peto,_Timken_Museum_of_Art.JPG/800px-In_the_Library_by_John_F._Peto,_Timken_Museum_of_Art.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="237" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/b7/In_the_Library_by_John_F._Peto,_Timken_Museum_of_Art.JPG/800px-In_the_Library_by_John_F._Peto,_Timken_Museum_of_Art.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And here's my table.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Suddenly,
I'm wondering how many of us there are, officeless workers who make
the library our temporary base of operations on any given day.<br />
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Plenty
of writers like setting up camp in coffee shops, but that isn't
really my scene. Coffee shops are noisy, plus there's the
understanding that you should actually spend money there. It's rude
to take up space in a cafe without patronizing the business. And I
get that. I do. But the library doesn't want anything from me. No one
is going to give me a dirty look if I sit here for three hours
without making a purchase. If I need to stretch my legs, I can stroll
the stacks. If I'm thirsty, there's a water fountain.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When I
came to the library's website this morning to double-check the hours
of operation, I noticed the calendar of events in a sidebar. Several
times this month, there will be sessions offered to help members of
the community navigate through the new Insurance Marketplace. There
are computer literacy courses. A class on researching family history.
Star gazing parties. For the children, there are puppet shows, movie
days, story times.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
library is part of the community. It doesn't just offer books to
anyone who wants to read, it helps the public lead richer, better
informed lives.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>We
don't want readers to get the idea that they don't have to pay for
content.</i></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>* *
*</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> </i>Creative
writers sometimes say they
don't write for the money. That's mostly
true. I would write no matter
what, whether or not another pair of eyeballs ever saw my words. I've
written for most of my life, but have only been published for one
year out of the … lots …
since I learned how to form letters. In the grand scheme of things,
my life as a published
novelist is a blip on the
screen. But the truth is,
I'm a writer who is trying to build a career as a published author.
And publishing is a business. That means I have to care about sales
and money and marketing and all sorts of stuff that has nothing to do
with the writing.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But
the point of being published, to me, is getting my work to readers.
It's sharing my stories with other people, and hopefully contributing
something meaningful to their lives. If
people get my books by purchasing them, wonderful. Awesome. Every
sale is humbling, and I am so, so grateful to each and every one of
you who has financially contributed to my fledgling career. But I'm
just as grateful to those who have told me, “I got your books
through my library.” To them, I have said, and will continue to say,
“Thanks for supporting your local library!”</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;">I
love my readers, no matter how they </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">find</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">
my books. It's just as thrilling for me to see my books in the
catalogs of libraries all around the world as it is to see my sales
numbers </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">slowly</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">
increasing. Knowing that libraries carry my work is just amazing. I'm
right back in the fifth grade, reveling in being connected to
something as utterly fantastic as libraries.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/8b/Pynekingslibrarybuckinghamhouse_edited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="331" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/8b/Pynekingslibrarybuckinghamhouse_edited.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">King George, tear down those library doors!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Public
libraries are one of the few truly democratic institutions in our
society. It is open to absolutely everyone. The knowledge inside
these walls is on offer to any person who cares to avail themselves
of it. Right this minute, there is more information packed inside
this building than the average person was ever exposed to over a
lifetime, just a few
generations ago. My library
isn’t particularly grand when compared to lots of other places, but
there are still more books here than I will ever read, and more
coming in all the time. It doesn't matter if you're a billionaire
or a nickelaire, the library
is yours to use.<br />
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
There
have been times in my life of financial hardship, when I could not
afford to purchase books. No one here asks to see my bank statement
or last two pay stubs before letting me check out materials. Aren't
hard times like those precisely when we need libraries the most? With
nothing more than the trust that I'll bring them back again, I'm
permitted to take home as many books as I want. I get to escape my
troubles for a little while. The library has been an oasis when I desperately needed
one. It has given me more
enjoyment than any other institution I can name. How could I ever,
<i>ever</i> begrudge anyone
that same joy now that I'm part of the publishing industry?</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
So
when that person said,
“We don't want readers to get the idea that they don't have to pay
for content,” what I heard
was, “We don't want readers.” I scratched that company off the
list of publishers I would consider working with. I care about
readers. I want readers.</div>
<br />
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As
a reader, I will forever love the library for making it possible for
me to discover and experience
so many amazing books. And as an author, I will always champion
libraries. My novels
belong there, where anyone
who cares to read them can.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-32143295438234915922013-10-01T14:16:00.000-04:002013-10-01T15:41:13.391-04:00ExtraToday I went to the grocery store to pick up a few things. As I pushed my cart past the deli, another shopper drew my eye. She had a long, blonde ponytail. I recognized her from my yoga studio. A couple months ago, she came to the Sunday morning class I normally attend. Her brother came with her that day. He complained about tight hips. She borrowed a studio mat, while her brother used hers. I've only seen her in class the once, but she chatted familiarly with our instructor, so I think she's a regular at the studio, just not at that particular session.<br />
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/7/7b/Cyprian_Boot-Shop_(1900)_-_TIMEA.jpg/800px-Cyprian_Boot-Shop_(1900)_-_TIMEA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/7/7b/Cyprian_Boot-Shop_(1900)_-_TIMEA.jpg/800px-Cyprian_Boot-Shop_(1900)_-_TIMEA.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carol! I'd recognize that smile anywhere. How are you, dear?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I circled through the produce department, collecting my carrots and tomatoes and green leaf lettuce, while this woman strolled through the fruits. I wondered if she recognized me, too. The Pringles and Coke in her cart surprised me. In yoga class, she was the student everyone envied, even though There Is No Competition In Yoga. If I'd spent any time picturing her life at home, it would have included a super clean diet, possibly vegan, certainly gluten-free. Shows how unimaginative I am. Now I knew two things about her, that she can do beautiful flying splits, and she eats Pringles. Also that she has a brother with tight hips.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
All these thoughts tumbled through my head in the produce department, and still, she never looked my way. I spent some time at the bagged salads, pulling them out of the refrigerated case and scrutinizing them for the slimy brown beginnings of rot. At the same time, the woman from yoga class studiously considered the nearby fruit salad offerings.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I sort of wanted to walk over and talk to her. But what would I say? "Hi. I don't know your name, but I recognize you from yoga. We once shared space in the studio, and your brother was kind of terrible at pigeon pose. Not that I judge him for it; I know he has tight hips."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
How strange would that sound? In the end, I didn't feel I had the right to speak to her. I realized I was just an extra in her life. If her credits had rolled that morning in the yoga studio, I would have been Yoga Student #3. Today I was Woman Agonizing Over Spring Mix.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/95/Washington_Crossing_the_Delaware_by_Emanuel_Leutze,_MMA-NYC,_1851.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="254" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/95/Washington_Crossing_the_Delaware_by_Emanuel_Leutze,_MMA-NYC,_1851.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Did you ever stop to think about the trio huddled in blankets in the back?<br />
What's their story? I bet it's good. And the oarsman in red? Most<br />
interesting guy in the boat.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I thought about that. Here I am, a fully realized human being, reduced to filler in another person's episode. Just an unremarkable face in the background. I considered the fact that I recognized her, but she didn't recognize me back. Rather than take offense, I wondered how often I'm guilty of failing to see the people around me, the bodies who serve as my own extras. Do they sometimes recognize me? Do any of them know I have a weakness for Nutella and children who incessantly tattle on each other?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And all of them, from Man Arguing On The Phone to Elderly Woman Ordering Tea to Yoga Student #5, they aren't really extras, any more than I am. We're all part of a glorious, ensemble cast. I have 7 billion co-stars. I know this, but sometimes it's good to be reminded. Next time I'm out, I'm going to try to pay more attention to people than I do to my produce.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-42795119504849528122013-08-05T14:53:00.000-04:002013-08-05T16:32:33.766-04:00I Get Questions!<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sometimes
I get notes from readers, telling me they enjoyed my books (yay!).
Often, there are questions in there, too. So often, in fact, I have
seen a trend of frequency. One might be so bold as to call them
Frequently Asked Questions. While I'm always happy to respond to
notes from readers (yay!), I thought I might start compiling an
actual FAQ. Or a running FAQ, with new posts written as I accumulate
more questions. Or something. Whatever. We'll figure it out as we go,
shall we?</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/65/20_questions_1954.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="301" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/65/20_questions_1954.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No, Dick, this will not be on the quiz.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>QUESTION:</b> Will
there be any more books in the <i>Once A...</i> series,
following some of the other secondary characters?</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>ANSWER:</b> This
is, by far, the question I receive most frequently. First of all, it
warms the cockles of my authorial heart to know readers feel a
connection to my little Regency world and its inhabitants. So, a
super huge thank you to everyone who has asked me this question.
Thank you for reading. Thank you for caring. I *heart* you forever
and always.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The <i>Once
A...</i> series was originally conceived as a trilogy. I wanted
to follow three friends: Isabelle, Lily, and Naomi. Their stories
became <i>Once a Duchess</i>, <i>Once an Heiress</i>,
and <i>Once an Innocent</i>. Mission accomplished!</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Except...</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As I
told my ladies' stories, I met some gentlemen along the way, guys who
are now giving me the Meaningful Look a character gives an author
when he wants to impress upon her his feelings of neglect and
impatience. Grant Lockwood, the middle sibling of the Lockwood clan,
and Alexander Fairfax, Isabelle's older brother, are definitely on
the list. Those two have been riding around in the back of my head
for a while now. There's another man who's captured my imagination, too, one a little darker, a
little more dangerous. If you've read all three of the <i>Once A...</i>
novels, you might guess his identity.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At
this point, I have nothing in the works for these fine fellows, but
I'd like to get to them eventually. I cannot commit to anything
regarding a timeline as to when you might see their books, because I
don't have so much as an outline for these stories. I don't know if they will continue the <i>Once A...</i> series, or if they'll get a
trilogy of their own, or if they might be stand-alones or mixed up
with other series... No commitments! Just know that I've heard you,
and I want to know their stories, too.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>QUESTION:</b> What's
next? More <i>Once A...</i>?</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>ANSWER:</b> Dang
it, people, we just talked about that! </span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;">OK,
"What's next?" is fair. Here's What's Next, including a
rambling story, because that's how I do.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;">You
see, when an author is just starting out and doesn't have a contract
anywhere and doesn't know if her stories will ever see the light of
day, she spends a lot of time second guessing herself and wondering
if she's Doing It Right. Say, for instance, this author was
working on a trilogy. Say she'd finished two manuscripts and had the
third underway, but hadn't managed to place the first one yet. Say
she was starting to question whether she was wasting her time on that
trilogy. All the advice says to keep going, to write the next thing,
and the next, and the next. But maybe she was spinning her wheels on
that next thing and needed to do a whole other, different thing.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I know there's no fooling you, my keen reader. That hypothetical author was, in fact, <i>moi</i>. When I'd gotten about halfway through the manuscript that became <i>Once
an Innocent</i>, I set it aside and started something new that wasn't
attached to my trilogy, so I'd having something else to shop around in case <i>Once a Duchess</i> didn't sell.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That
manuscript is called <i>Anatomy of a Deception</i> (working
title). It's a Regency-set romance about a genteel young lady turned
body snatcher, an ambitious London surgeon, and the anatomical
specimen they both have to obtain... But the body is still alive.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It's
got a gothic atmosphere, a little darker in tone than the <i>Once
A...</i> novels. It took second place in last year's Fire and Ice
competition (historical romance category).</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Wouldn't
you know it, though, when I was about halfway through that novel, my<i> Once A...</i> trilogy was picked up by Crimson Romance. So, I put
<i>Anatomy</i> on the back burner and got to work on my edits for
<i>Duchess</i> and <i>Heiress</i>, as well as finished writing
<i>Innocent</i>. And edited it. And learned about marketing and publicity
and being a published author.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
finally got back to work on <i>Anatomy of a Deception</i>. In
addition to that one, I penned a little novella called <i>The
Ruination of Miss Claudia Baxter</i>, about a plucky young woman and
the desperate lengths she goes to to avoid her arranged marriage.
Those are both being spruced up in preparation for finding homes. I
hope to have some news for you on that front soon!</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I've
got ideas for several series, each consisting of at least three
novels, as well as a couple other stand-alone novels. The work I've
laid out for myself should keep me busy for at least the next decade
(and the ideas don't stop coming!), so I hope you're wearing your
comfy pants. We're going to be here a while.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That's
enough Q&A for today. If there's a question burning a hole in
your heart, leave it in the comments below, or feel free to write. I
love hearing from you!</span></span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-80354293883320865512013-07-23T16:27:00.000-04:002013-07-23T16:27:59.322-04:00RWA 2013 RoundupLast week, Romance Writers of America (RWA) got together for the annual national conference, held in Atlanta, Georgia. This was my first year in attendance. It was uh-mazing.<br />
<br />
I had my very first fan sighting--meaning I was sighted by a fan. Right after signing in at the conference registration desk, I hit the ladies room. While I was washing my hands, a woman at the sink next to me eyed my badge and did a double take. "Are you one of my authors?" she asked. I thought she must have been with my publisher, or perhaps one of the industry professionals I had scheduled meetings with. It didn't even occur to me she might have been a reader. "I don't know," I said. "What's your name?" "Sophie," she replied. No bells rang. "Who are you with?" I asked, still trying to place her in a professional context. "Facebook!" she replied. Then she gushed about how excited she was to meet me, and how she hoped to meet many more of her favorite authors. What a great start to my conference! Sophie, wherever you are, you totally made my day.<br />
<br />
Wednesday evening, we hosted a Literacy Book Signing. Over 400 romance authors (not me--maybe next year!) signed books for avid readers. All proceeds went to several literacy charities. I met romance readers who had traveled hours to meet their favorite authors. Being published in the genre doesn't squash the fangirl in me... it just gives me more frequent access to my own idols.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQzQ4yI32rCr-om6wvkxsHoU0C6eI5pcafLth1K500peEsuE0Q1Bx1RK-LaWIPU1CGPIQksTNEXRMDBxeQzjuFnbZRAai7HG1O3J5WLlS5kExNf7LridInFunnQ5MrEgpQtM4SBeGsYqiH/s1600/002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQzQ4yI32rCr-om6wvkxsHoU0C6eI5pcafLth1K500peEsuE0Q1Bx1RK-LaWIPU1CGPIQksTNEXRMDBxeQzjuFnbZRAai7HG1O3J5WLlS5kExNf7LridInFunnQ5MrEgpQtM4SBeGsYqiH/s320/002.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">l-r: Tessa Dare; Fangirl Grinning her Fool Face Off</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifvM_4A0XB3GocIPBe53xNmITMbjVANzvxzpMxVsys4RiSLipfceJ2U9Mx80omZKECPatuxbXyn5Opax-L_OnIO1EZigdPucQP6orvyBG_rESv-c9DwJaikHBWEcECMHpfjAw6NgODLMbH/s1600/006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifvM_4A0XB3GocIPBe53xNmITMbjVANzvxzpMxVsys4RiSLipfceJ2U9Mx80omZKECPatuxbXyn5Opax-L_OnIO1EZigdPucQP6orvyBG_rESv-c9DwJaikHBWEcECMHpfjAw6NgODLMbH/s320/006.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mary Jo Putney, who wisely advised we take two pictures.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
In addition to the marvelous Tessa and Mary Jo, over the course of the conference I met huge names in romance like: Eloisa James, Jo Beverley, Eileen Dreyer (who I gushed over, and who was very laid back about it), Cathy Maxwell (who I cried on, and who was very kind about it), Kristan Higgins (who I accosted with a hug, and who hugged me back).<br />
<br />
Besides the New York Times bestsellers you all know and love, I got to hang out with lots of writing buddies, new and old: <a href="http://synithiawilliams.com/" target="_blank">Synithia Williams</a>, <a href="http://kwana.com/" target="_blank">Kwana Jackson</a>,<a href="http://micahpersell.com/Home_Page.html" target="_blank"> Micah Persell</a>, and so many more.<br />
<br />
There were cocktail parties and luncheons with uplifting and powerful speakers.<br />
<br />
And--oh, yes!--the workshops. Approximately five zillion workshops jam-packed with information on craft, marketing, research, and career paths. Spotlights on individual publishing houses. More book signings (I came home with over 40 novels. I might have a little problem.). Parties, open houses, awards dinners... and I didn't even make it to the RITAs, our industry's version of the Oscars, recognizing the best romance novels of the year. One of the Boycelings was bound for summer camp, so I scooted out of conference a few hours early to get in some snuggle time before he left.<br />
<br />
Y'ALL. No wonder I'm still worn out. What a great conference it was. If you enjoy reading romance novels, keep your eyes peeled for a conference near you (in 2014, RT will be in New Orleans and RWA will be in San Antonio). Those are your chances to rub elbows with your favorite authors and take home the best new releases. And if you're a romance writer, I really can't emphasize enough how worthwhile it is to attend these events. I came home re-energized and brimming with inspiration for my work.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-51910742652837011762013-07-08T07:20:00.001-04:002013-07-08T07:22:30.259-04:00Hanging Out with The Book TartTo celebrate the release of Once an Innocent, <a href="http://thebooktart.com/new-fiction-release/google-giggle-hangout-with-elizabeth-boyce-spotlight-on-once-an-innocent-contests/" target="_blank">The Book Tart</a> invited me to a Google Hangout! She is so much fun! I wish I could have a slumber party with her in Maine. Or Colorado. Or on the moon. We had a great time chatting about the Once A... series, bathtub mishaps, and the virtues of East Coast humidity. Don't miss out on the giveaway goodness! Watch the video for a trivia question (<a href="mailto:bluestockingball@gmail.com" target="_blank">email the answer to me</a>), and be sure to leave a comment at <a href="http://thebooktart.com/new-fiction-release/google-giggle-hangout-with-elizabeth-boyce-spotlight-on-once-an-innocent-contests/" target="_blank">The Book Tart</a> to enter the second giveaway.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-66077918082579824892013-06-28T10:04:00.000-04:002013-06-28T10:04:59.643-04:00LemonsSometimes life hands you<i> a </i>lemon.<br />
<br />
Sometimes life force-marches you out to the lemon grove and fells a fruit-bearing tree on your head.<br />
<br />
This June has been a pretty rough on the Boyce household. I'd like to be able to feel relief that it's almost over, but if I've learned anything this month, it's that life can change drastically from one instant to the next. 48 hours is a lot of time for June to find another way to mess with me, so I'm not celebrating just yet.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/32/Limones_en_Cesto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="258" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/32/Limones_en_Cesto.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't let the sunny color lull you into a false sense of security.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
One of the Not Great things that happened was the hospitalization of one of my children (Child is ok now; please don't fret.). My day was going along like any other. I was struggling with my Work in Progress and policing petty sibling squabbles. And then, suddenly, I was making phone calls to arrange care for two of the kids and taking the third to the emergency room for immediate medical attention.<br />
<br />
It was stunning, how fast it happened. All at once, the bottom fell out from under me. I was forced from my normal daily routines into something new and frightening. Later, sitting in the hospital and holding the hand of a child tucked into an institutional bed, my writer brain kicked in.<i> Feel this</i>, it ordered. <i>Take it all in. Make note. You might need this later.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
So I let myself tune in to what was happening. I turned my attention from staring at my child (as though the weight of my constant gaze was the only thing ensuring his continued survival) to myself. I felt the ebbing adrenaline and the headache building in its wake, the bewilderment, the desperate fear, and strangely, the beginnings of betrayal. Life had pulled a nasty one on us. Tears occasionally spilled from my eyes, stopped for a while, then spilled again.<br />
<br />
Around me, I watched the harried nurse click through a computer screen listing her various charges. I felt the coarse weave of sheets manufactured to survive bleaching after bleaching. I noted the dust accumulated on top of the various wall-mounted apparatuses. I wondered why our room didn't have a box of tissues. On the television in the upper corner of the room, a Food Network personality made a cookie-crumb pie crust. "What more could you want from life?" she chirped.<br />
<br />
I tuned back out.<br />
<br />
Now, with the distance of a couple weeks behind me (and a couple more craptastic incidents thrown into the mix), I can't help but recall the adage about taking life's lemons and making lemonade, and I find myself wholly unwilling to do so.<br />
<br />
These are my lemons, dammit. I earned them, and I will make or not make with them whatever I choose. When Mr. B and I had to leave the hospital without our child (who is, as a reminder, now totally fine), I didn't have the luxury of enjoying metaphorical lemonade. It was lemon juice, straight up, and a lot of it. I was sick with it churning in my stomach.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/a/a8/Stillleben_mit_Hummer_c1890.jpg/490px-Stillleben_mit_Hummer_c1890.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/a/a8/Stillleben_mit_Hummer_c1890.jpg/490px-Stillleben_mit_Hummer_c1890.jpg" width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Although, for the lobster, the lemon is<br />just a final splash of indignity.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And I have to think that sometimes it's ok to just let a lemon be a lemon. What happened to our family sucked. I don't have to try to make something more palatable out of it. Life is a messy business. We all go through rough times on occasion, and there's nothing wrong with letting them be. Of course, I have learned from this experience, and I hope I will be able to use the emotions I lived through to add authenticity to my work at some point in the future, but I'm not calling that lemonade. A well-stocked produce bin, maybe, but not lemonade. I'll keep the lemons as they are and use them as needed.<br />
<br />
After all, having lemons to hand is a good thing. When life eventually hands me a lobster, I'll enjoy it that much more.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-86486209886671869642013-06-06T12:09:00.003-04:002013-06-06T12:10:50.509-04:00Once a Duchess Goodreads GiveawayI'm running a giveaway on Goodreads to help celebrate the upcoming release of <i>Once an Innocent</i>. Through July 8 (<i>Innocent</i>'s release day!), you can enter for a chance to win one of two autographed copies of <i>Once a Duchess</i>. This giveaway is open to readers worldwide, so click below to enter!
<br />
<br />
<div id="goodreadsGiveawayWidget55068">
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<h2 style="color: #555555; font-size: 20px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 20px; margin: 0 0 10px !important; padding: 0 !important; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/" target="_new">Goodreads</a> Book Giveaway
</h2>
<div style="float: left;">
<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17385220"><img alt="Once a Duchess by Elizabeth Boyce" src="http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1365794607l/17385220.jpg" title="Once a Duchess by Elizabeth Boyce" width="100" /></a>
</div>
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<h3 style="font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 20px; margin: 0; padding: 0;">
<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17385220">Once a Duchess</a>
</h3>
<h4 style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0 0 10px; padding: 0;">
by <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6479383.Elizabeth_Boyce" style="text-decoration: none;">Elizabeth Boyce</a>
</h4>
<div class="giveaway_details">
Giveaway ends July 08, 2013.
<br />
See the <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/55068" style="text-decoration: none;">giveaway details</a>
at Goodreads.
</div>
</div>
<div style="clear: both;">
</div>
<a class="goodreadsGiveawayWidgetEnterLink" href="http://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/enter_choose_address/55068">Enter to win</a>
</div>
</div>
<script charset="utf-8" src="http://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/widget/55068" type="text/javascript"></script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-83680461551242310452013-06-04T14:39:00.000-04:002013-06-04T14:39:35.035-04:00Doing it for the First Time<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/87/D_Class_No_140_at_Ferrymead_Railway.jpg/800px-D_Class_No_140_at_Ferrymead_Railway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/87/D_Class_No_140_at_Ferrymead_Railway.jpg/800px-D_Class_No_140_at_Ferrymead_Railway.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Choo Choo!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Regular
readers of my blog will recognize what I'm about to do here. The rest
of you, get ready to take a ride on Elizabeth's Nostalgia Train!</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'll
never forget the first time. The nerves, the sweaty palms, the racing
heart... <i>Is this really happening?</i> I thought. <i>Am I really
about to do this? </i>I
second guessed myself
the whole time, wondering if I
was doing the right thing...
or if I was
doing it right. I
worried what others would think of me
when they found out what I'd
done. Eventually, though,
I succumbed to the need, thew
caution to the wind, and embraced
the experience. It was
exhilarating. It was powerful. It changed me forever.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
am, of course, talking about the first time I
wrote.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/6/61/Detail,_Wall_Painting,_Old_Church_of_St._Mary_of_Zion,_Axum,_Ethiopia_(2866859800).jpg/800px-Detail,_Wall_Painting,_Old_Church_of_St._Mary_of_Zion,_Axum,_Ethiopia_(2866859800).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/6/61/Detail,_Wall_Painting,_Old_Church_of_St._Mary_of_Zion,_Axum,_Ethiopia_(2866859800).jpg/800px-Detail,_Wall_Painting,_Old_Church_of_St._Mary_of_Zion,_Axum,_Ethiopia_(2866859800).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For this, you waste my time?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;">... A</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">bout
sex.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/43/Fry-lightbulb-on-forehead1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/43/Fry-lightbulb-on-forehead1.jpg" width="230" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">*Ding!* There it is.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It
was my senior year in high school, my AP English class. The course
marked a major milestone in my writing life, for while I was not yet
writing my own novels, I was learning to analyze the hell out of others' works.<br />
<br />
On this particular day--April 14, according to my file (You do hang onto your academic papers, don't you?)--we were given a poem entitled "The Centaur," by May Swenson (Downloadable text <a href="http://digitalcommons.usu.edu/usupress_pubs/97/" target="_blank">here</a>). Our essay prompt was this: "Read the following poem carefully. Then write an essay in which you discuss how such elements as language, imagery, structure, and point of view convey meaning in the poem."<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f4/Wilhelm_Tr%C3%BCbner_Kentaurenpaar_am_Wasserfall.jpg/476px-Wilhelm_Tr%C3%BCbner_Kentaurenpaar_am_Wasserfall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f4/Wilhelm_Tr%C3%BCbner_Kentaurenpaar_am_Wasserfall.jpg/476px-Wilhelm_Tr%C3%BCbner_Kentaurenpaar_am_Wasserfall.jpg" width="253" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There was also some mention of spanking<br />and rump slapping.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So I read it. I read lines like: "I'd straddle and canter him fast"; "The willow knob with the strap / jouncing between my thighs"; "I shied and skittered and reared, / stopped and raised my knees, / pawed at the ground and quivered. / My teeth bared as we wheeled"; "Dismounting, I smoothed my skirt."<br />
<br />
I read. I blinked. My 17-year old mind went straight to the gutter, as adolescent brains are wont to do.<br />
<br />
Desperately, I tried to think my way around my degenerate ideas. There was no way Ms. Swenson's poem, told through the narrative voice of a young girl, was really saying what I thought it was saying. I mean... it was just a little girl playing in the woods, right? It was just my lurid imagination seeing titillation in the imagery, finding a phallus where a stick had been "peeled [...] slick and clean."<br />
<br />
But no matter how I attempted to bully my brain into reading something more innocent in the text, I couldn't escape the notion of something deliberately erotic about this poem. I can't remember exactly what clicked, but I finally decided that "The Centaur" really <i>was</i> about sex, gosh darnit, and I was going to put on my big girl writing britches and say so.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/19/Sommer,_Giorgio_(1834-1914)_&_Behles,_Edmund_(1841-1924)_-_n._2399_-_Disegno_tratto_da_un_affresco_pompeiano.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/19/Sommer,_Giorgio_(1834-1914)_&_Behles,_Edmund_(1841-1924)_-_n._2399_-_Disegno_tratto_da_un_affresco_pompeiano.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's like centaurs literally have NOTHING else to do.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I wrote how the language lent the poem an erotic flavor. In another paragraph, I stated: "In conjunction with the diction of 'The Centaur,' imagery and structure work hand-in-hand to bring about the sexualization of the speaker's imagined horse ride as a ten-year-old. The entirety of 'The Centaur' parallels a sexual experience. It opens with the expectation of a rendezvous 'by the old canal,' hidden away 'in a willow grove.'" I went on to map out the arc from foreplay to intercourse to climax to post-coital disarray. The paper I turned in ends with: "The poem transforms a seemingly harmless childhood game into a sexual romp in the woods."<br />
<br />
I've never sweated so much upon turning in an essay. <span style="line-height: 200%;">I held my teacher in great esteem. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">What if I was wrong? </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">What would she think of me when she read my work? She would know I had all these thoughts about Ess Ee Ex in my head, that I knew about orgasms and women being on top. I was terrified.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 200%;">I got an A-.</span><br />
<br />
After "The Centaur," I was never afraid to call out what it was I read in a text. If I saw sex, or misogyny, or nuanced commentary on race relations, or a pink elephant in the sky, then I said so. I learned to trust my instincts, both as a reader and as a writer. As an author, this is a lesson I have to keep teaching myself. It's ok to go there. It's ok to write what's on my mind. I cannot be constrained by what someone else might think, whether I'll offend a reader's sensibilities. I have to be true to the vision I have for my work, and trust that it will find its way into the hands of readers who enjoy it.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-38676885774370228032013-05-30T12:57:00.000-04:002013-05-30T12:57:18.470-04:00Once an Innocent -- Cover Reveal!I'm so excited to share with you the cover and blurb for my third novel, Once an Innocent:<div>
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvYlNRZyjapU7lTQ_Hqa6eLVz1qOaPa8C5pbkZmD_U7W7fOcOdqsynDky_Z0nktXElr2cwu-ENNuwtecV3rxXuq0FPpLMxWTqTpSACU1Xek4FetCU2yDyX2TiTu1DXS5c6VpsflGB5u0UA/s1600/Once+an+Innocent+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvYlNRZyjapU7lTQ_Hqa6eLVz1qOaPa8C5pbkZmD_U7W7fOcOdqsynDky_Z0nktXElr2cwu-ENNuwtecV3rxXuq0FPpLMxWTqTpSACU1Xek4FetCU2yDyX2TiTu1DXS5c6VpsflGB5u0UA/s640/Once+an+Innocent+Cover.jpg" width="409" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Release Date: July 8, 2013<br /><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Jordan Atherton, Viscount Freese, returned from the Peninsular War scarred and ready to live as a dissolute bachelor. Society knows nothing of his secret occupation or of the obligation binding him to Lintern Abbey, the estate he loathes. When his Foreign Office superiors discover a network of French agents near his country home, Jordan quickly devises a house party scheme to cover the influx of his men hunting the enemy. With no time to lose and political stability hanging in the balance, Jordan turns to his friend, the Duke of Monthwaite, for help. Would the duke be so kind as to loan Jordan some ladies to populate his party? </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Lady Naomi Lockwood, Monthwaite’s younger sister, is snatched from her warm, secure world when she’s suddenly forced to go to Lintern Abbey, despite her pleas to stay home. Stunned by her family’s abandonment, Naomi and her aunt travel to the Yorkshire home of the handsome and enigmatic Jordan Atherton. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
There Naomi soon realizes this house party is not all it seems. The estate is neglected by its master, as is Jordan’s ward, a mysterious Spanish orphan. When Naomi demands answers, Jordan distracts her by indulging their mutual attraction. With danger drawing closer and her family far away, Naomi must stand on her own to uncover the truth and protect the home and people she’s coming to love—including the maddening Lord Freese.</blockquote>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My novels are the luckiest books on the block! The covers for <i>Duchess</i>, <i>Heiress</i>, and <i>Innocent</i> have all been beautiful. Huge thanks to the talented art department at Crimson Romance for so beautifully capturing the essence of my novels in these lovely visuals.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-51480263591002475092013-04-22T14:06:00.001-04:002013-04-22T14:06:17.754-04:00Once an Heiress Deleted Scene, Dinner with the BachmansI thought I'd share with you a scene deleted from the final edit of <i>Once an Heiress</i>. If you haven't read the novel yet -- stop! Go read it and then come back. I promise this scene will be here later.<br />
<br />
The rest of you, meet me behind the jump for some bonus goodness.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
This scene originally came at the end of what is now chapter twelve, in which Ethan suffers the fallout from the fiasco at Covent Gardens. He's dragged into Mr. Bachman's office, where he's maneuvered into signing the marriage contract, then makes an attempt at proposing to Lily. I wrote this scene from the point of view of Lily's father. It takes place during the family dinner to which Ethan had been invited. Mrs. Bachman, you may recall, is suffering back problems, while Lily and Ethan are both upset about their engagement. In the end, the scene didn't contribute to the overall story enough to make the final cut, but I enjoy seeing the couple through Mr. Bachman's eyes. I hope you will, too.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
Dinner with the Bachmans</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c6/Adalbert_Gyrowetz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c6/Adalbert_Gyrowetz.jpg" /></a></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">A</span>lfred Bachman settled his wife into her chair, lending support with
a hand twined tightly around hers. She hissed as she sank to the
seat. A lump in his chest constricted at her distress. Through the
many years of their marriage, he'd always done his best to provide
Mrs. Bachman with comfort and stability. The only burdens he'd not
been able to take upon himself had come from her own body.<span style="line-height: 200%;"> There were
the babes she'd lost in the early years of their union, leaving him
with such a dreadful feeling of powerlessness as he witnessed the
pain and grief the losses wreaked upon her. And now as they sailed
toward their twilight years together, the agonizing muscle spasms in
her weakening back appeared—a dragon whose torment he could only
witness with frustration, unslayable with his impotent weapons of
warm compresses, physics, and laudanum.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
His face drew into a grave frown. “Are you sure, my dear?” he
murmured in her ear. “I'll help you back to bed—”</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She turned her face up to him, a glassy look to her eyes brought on
by the half-dose of laudanum she'd ingested to take the edge off the
pain. “No, Mr. Bachman, I'm quite all right.” She grinned
sleepily; her eyes slid across the table where Lord Thorburn held the
chair for Lily.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As they watched, their daughter paid her new fiancé no more notice
than she would a footman, no word of thanks for the man's courtesy.
Thorburn's lips tightened. He shoved the chair into place, hitting
the backs of her legs. Lily startled as she collapsed to the seat
with a graceless plop. Her eyes shot daggers at the smirking
viscount.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Alfred shook his head and sighed. His wife sniffled. “I'm so
happy, Mr. Bachman. Just think—our Lily will be a countess
someday!”</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He patted her shoulder. “If they don't kill each other first,”
he grumbled.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The meal progressed in tense silence. Lily ate with mechanical
efficiency, finishing her mock turtle soup well ahead of the others.
Lord Thorburn attempted an air of congeniality, but it failed to
spread around the party. Mrs. Bachman produced little moans of
enjoyment at every bite, which in turn elicited Lily's visible
annoyance.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Alfred watched as Thorburn studied Lily's pursed lips and narrowed
eyes. Then the younger gentleman addressed Mrs. Bachman. “My
compliments, madam. The soup is of the first order. Truly, I can't
say I've ever had better.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Mrs. Bachman preened at the nobleman's compliment, the laudanum
augmenting her typical manner of deference to the titled class. <i>She
does try, bless her,</i> Alfred thought. Without the benefit of the
etiquette lessons Lily had been privileged to have growing up, Mrs.
Bachman did the best she could to ingratiate herself with the <i>ton</i>,
trying to act as a proper society wife and hostess.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh, my dear, <i>dear</i> Lord Thorburn!” she proclaimed. “How
good of you to condescend to notice our humble mock turtle.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The viscount's eyebrows rose in amusement. Lily groaned.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Cook does do justice by most soups,” Mrs. Bachman continued,
“but she has a tendency to produce rather dry cutlets. I have
advised her to cover this deficiency with sauces, but it continues to
be a source of disappointment to me. I fear that by the time our
guests have got through the cutlet, they've quite forgotten the
excellent soup which began the meal.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As she prattled on, Lily drew her lips in and squeezed her eyes shut
for a moment. Then she drew a deep breath and pasted a false smile on
her face. Alfred winced inwardly—he'd almost rather Lily be
forthright about finding her mother objectionable than give such a
poor imitation of agreeableness.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Mrs. Bachman tilted her head to the side and almost toppled out of
her seat. Alfred instinctively lunged, but he was too far away. The
footman hovering behind her snatched her arms and righted her. Alfred
blew out his cheeks and sat down again. Mrs. Bachman continued on as
though she didn't notice her own near-disaster. “Tell me, my lord,
does your cook create a good cutlet? If so, I should be much obliged
if I could impose upon her to give ours some advise in the matter.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Lord Thorburn's jaw worked soundlessly for a moment. He, too, had
reached out when she'd begun to go over, and now blinked, trying to
reorient himself in the conversation. “Ah, no, ma'am, I'm afraid I
do not employ a cook at present.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Mrs. Bachman tsked. “Oh, but you are a bachelor. I suppose you
dine at the club and make a nuisance of yourself at your married
friends' tables.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Lily shot Alfred an anguished look. He cleared his throat
meaningfully, hoping his wife would cease talking. Perhaps allowing
Mrs. Bachman to come down for supper had not been the wisest course
of action, he reflected.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Thorburn, however, took her comment in stride. “Just so, Mrs.
Bachman. I am blessed with a circle of acquaintance which kindly
keeps me fed.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You must have a cook, now that you are to wed.” Mrs. Bachman's
chin trembled as she looked from Thorburn to Lily, her eyes shining
beatifically.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Lily stiffened and fixed her gaze on her plate. Thorburn cast her a
sidelong look before returning his attention to the older woman. “For
now, I'm afraid such an expense will have to wait. You may have heard
that I am presently economizing.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Alfred watched as his beautiful, proud daughter seemed to collapse
in on herself, her shoulders slumping. His heart lurched on her
behalf. He'd heard from Wickenworth about the state of Thorburn's
house—all the furniture seized and sorry drifts of dust all over.
It pained him to force Lily's hand in the matter, but he had no
choice. She had to marry the man, and now she was to be mistress of
an empty, shabby house without so much as a cook in the kitchen.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUS_t3OIWBni7x1Qct56Kuxp5M3dLduXet5cWzlVBM1cr4cF0_0ePjPfWpq_5JjsClGjXKjLTvZ1znIi_y9vx0Snv2fyHm-O9r4e2c121ZrE1pbyl6NAuHuabjQt9I5NpEkh3jFvXgdvoj/s1600/Once+an+Heiress+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUS_t3OIWBni7x1Qct56Kuxp5M3dLduXet5cWzlVBM1cr4cF0_0ePjPfWpq_5JjsClGjXKjLTvZ1znIi_y9vx0Snv2fyHm-O9r4e2c121ZrE1pbyl6NAuHuabjQt9I5NpEkh3jFvXgdvoj/s320/Once+an+Heiress+Cover.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He sighed. The wedding might be unavoidable, but perhaps he could
help the children a little. He couldn't very well send Lily out into
the world with nothing but the clothes on her back.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When the meal adjourned, the gentlemen did not linger long over
their port. They soon rejoined the ladies in the parlor, only to find
Mrs. Bachman with her head tipped back on the sofa, snoring softly.
Lily stared out the window.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Alfred sat next to his wife and took her hand. She stirred a little;
her head flopped forward, her chin coming to rest on her expansive
bosom.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Thorburn crossed and stood behind Lily. He hovered on his toes,
poised uncertainly. <i>Go on and talk to her,</i> Alfred silently
urged. Time and again, he'd seen Lily's suitors fall in defeat for
simple lack of intelligent conversation. Her mind craved constant
stimulation.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He supposed that was his doing—what with his insisting on her
having tutors in rigorous mathematics, philosophy, languages, and
classic literature. In retrospect, perhaps that hadn't been entirely
well done, but neither could he regret it. He would only regret
having allowed her intelligence go to waste.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In any event, poor Thorburn didn't stand a chance if he didn't hurry
up and open his mouth. He knew enough of the man to believe him
capable of engaging her intellect. He seemed to be of a good humor,
what with not taking offense at Mrs. Bachman's outrageous comments at
dinner.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It's too bad Mrs. Bachman has nodded off,” Thorburn finally
said. “We could have played whist.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Alfred shook his head. <i>Bad start.</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i></i> Lily turned from the window and crossed her arms. “Whist,
my lord? I am given to understand your habitual game play has landed
you in the mess you're in—the same mess into which I have now been
dragged.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Thorburn glanced in his direction before responding. <i>Watching
your words in front of the old man, eh?</i></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i></i> “I merely suggest it as a way to pass the time,” Thorburn
said. “I was not about to suggest any kind of stakes beyond
shillings.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Why?” Lily shot. “So you can go further into debt? You'd
undoubtedly lose every shilling in your pocket and then some.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Very well,” Thorburn rejoined, visibly struggling to maintain
his equanimity. “What do you suggest? Would you like to play the
pianoforte for us?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Alfred winced. Lily's miserable performance at pianoforte lessons
had been a constant source of embarrassment for her as a girl, to the
point where Alfred had allowed her to give up the instrument
altogether. Thorburn was doing a fine job of stumbling across every
point of conversation sure to vex her.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Lily uncrossed her ams and planted her fists on her hips. “So now
I'm to entertain you? Is that it? What shall I do next, my lord?
Would you like to grind an organ while I put on a little hat and
caper around the room?”<br /> Thorburn snorted. “The idea hadn't
occurred to me, but it would be diverting. Shall we ring for your
little hat?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
While Lily and Thorburn flung barbs at one another, Alfred settled
back to watch the fur fly, noting with satisfaction that the fire had
returned to his daughter's eyes. Most of her suitors she dismissed
out of hand, with a sneer and an offhand remark. This one got under
her skin and fought back when she pushed.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A smile flitted across his lips as he leaned to whisper to his wife
in her laudanum nap. “I think it's all going to work out, my dear.”
Lily stomped her foot at something Thorburn said. Alfred chuckled.
“I think it's all going to work out just fine.”</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-90263041322210840902013-03-22T13:49:00.001-04:002013-03-22T13:52:38.372-04:00Pickup LinesSo, Once an Heiress is out! Eleven days out, if my reckoning of time and math is correct. So far, I've had a lovely review from <a href="http://harlequinjunkie.com/review-once-an-heiress-by-elizabeth-boyce/">Harlequin Junkie</a>, as well as a fun interview with <a href="http://thebooktart.com/new-fiction-release/interview-with-elizabeth-boyce-author-of-once-an-heiress/" target="_blank">The Book Tart</a>, great reviews from<a href="http://www.amazon.com/review/R29PVMFTB3FS6Z/ref=cm_cr_pr_cmt?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B00BFCUU52&linkCode=&nodeID=&tag=#wasThisHelpful" target="_blank"> readers</a>, and one that puts me in mind of Cromer's P-Nuts, "<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/560145702" target="_blank">Guaranteed Worst In Town</a>." Be sure to click on my "Press" page for reviews, guest posts, and more!<br />
<br />
Anyway, the point of this post was to inflict upon you something looping through my brain. When I get songs stuck in my head, they hang around for weeks. WEEKS, people. And I can be plagued by more than one at a time. Currently, my earworms are "The Boxer" by Simon and Garfunkel and "Mr. Tambourine Man" by Bob Dylan.<br />
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Aren't you glad you read this blog?!?<br />
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Anyhoodle, the lines that keep looping through my brain are Dylan's:<br />
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<i>Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free</i></div>
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<i>Silhouetted by the sea...</i></div>
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Honestly, this goes through my head at least once a month. This has to be one of the most exquisite images ever committed to the English language.</div>
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Do you ever get lines of a song stuck in your head? Which ones? Let me know in the comments!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-68834443649709888472013-03-04T11:27:00.000-05:002013-03-04T11:29:48.925-05:00Once an Heiress Excerpt<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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One week until the release of <i>Once an Heiress</i>! If you read<i> Once a Duchess</i>, I hope you'll enjoy following the story of Lily Bachman in <i>Once an Heiress</i>.<br />
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Click through for an excerpt of Lily's first kiss with the scandalous Lord Thorburn. If you'd like to read more, <i>Once an Heiress</i> is now available for pre-order at most major eBook retailers. Click on my "Books" page for a link to your favorite merchant.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNQkwZOu2M6dne6C6rU7aTbCF2oZAC2CvrRpGaWXvaeIOuAF2cOa1DvqJliFCMgoJH_FwfR1DKAF1XmSIB5rZ1AfNSh4WyDn-u0yAJDW33MlABN7AfCapOkkmFB7oVGCJHr_d_vG3s7n-E/s1600/Once+an+Heiress+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNQkwZOu2M6dne6C6rU7aTbCF2oZAC2CvrRpGaWXvaeIOuAF2cOa1DvqJliFCMgoJH_FwfR1DKAF1XmSIB5rZ1AfNSh4WyDn-u0yAJDW33MlABN7AfCapOkkmFB7oVGCJHr_d_vG3s7n-E/s320/Once+an+Heiress+Cover.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
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She made no further protests as they descended into the garden. They strolled past other couples and exchanged greetings with acquaintances. It was all very respectable.</div>
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Why, then, Lily wondered, did she feel that stepping into the night with this man was an act of rebellion?</div>
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Why did her heart pound so as he led her farther away from the house?</div>
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And why was he moving around the hedge and pulling her into a shadowed alcove?</div>
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Alarms sounded in her mind. “My lord — ” she started.</div>
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He gripped her waist and swung her around so her back was to the tall hedge.</div>
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She couldn’t see the house at all now. Only the faintest wisps of music and laughter filtered to their secluded hiding place. His features melted into the darkness, rendering his face a study of shadow-on-shadow. There was only his overwhelming nearness and the warmth of his hands on her waist.</div>
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Her heart hammered madly. She had to get out of here. This wasn’t a good idea. In fact, her overwrought mind pointed out, this was a very <em>bad </em>idea. She’d have been better off discussing the various, precise attributes of the musicians with her swarm of fortune hunters, rather than allow herself to get carried away by Lord Thorburn’s many charms.</div>
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Her throat was dry. She swallowed. That didn’t help — her mouth was dry, too. “My lord — ”</div>
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Then his mouth was on hers, extinguishing her voice like a snuffer on a flame.</div>
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The contact shocked her. Her eyes went wide.</div>
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His lips were soft, yet exerted firm, insistent pressure. Strong arms snaked around her back and drew her against his hard length.</div>
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<em>No!</em> her mind protested. <em>He didn’t ask, I didn’t say he could …</em></div>
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She placed her left hand on his shoulder and pushed herself away. At the same instant, she brought her right hand swinging up.</div>
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His hand clamped around her wrist like a vise before she made contact with his face.</div>
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“That’s rather uncalled for, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice full of mirth.</div>
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He was <em>laughing </em>at her — again! Never had she known someone who laughed at her as much as he did. It was lowering in the extreme. “I didn’t give you permission to do <em>that</em>,” she said.</div>
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His hand slid from her wrist to cover hers. His thumb traced small circles on her palm. Tiny convulsions of pleasure shot up her arm and her eyes fluttered closed in spite of herself. “I’m leading this dance, remember?”</div>
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Lily’s arm went limp under his touch. “We’re not dancing anymore.” Her voice was small and weak in her own ears.</div>
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“Of course we are.” He guided her hand to his neck. Of their own volition, her fingers burrowed into the short hair at his nape.</div>
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His hand still covered hers, keeping her firmly anchored. His other hand rose to her face and grazed her cheek with the back of a finger.</div>
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She jerked a little, turning her face toward his touch. The part of her mind that had sounded the alarm bells now notified her she was being drawn in by a practiced seducer. But the warning voice scarcely made an impression against the pleasurable sensations rolling through her.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-13033998576692649472013-02-27T14:11:00.003-05:002013-02-27T15:07:15.354-05:00Identity CheckLast night, my five-year-old daughter presented me with a handwritten note:<br />
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<i>Der Mom</i></div>
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<i>I <3 you</i></div>
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<i>sow much!</i></div>
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<i>Bee cus</i></div>
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<i>you'er a </i></div>
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<i>Good righter</i></div>
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First of all, I was blown away that my lesson about silent 'g' had stuck, even if she employed the wrong 'righter.' And how she used the more difficult 'sow,' rather than 'so.' Obviously, she shares my affinity for <a href="http://bluestockingball.blogspot.com/2012/05/homonymilicious.html" target="_blank">homonyms</a>. My kid is the next O'Conner-in-training, and don't you dare try to tell me otherwise.</div>
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Anyway, her note was sweet and adorable and I loved that she recognizes my profession. It reminded me of another time (Yes, it's going to be one of THOSE posts. Deal.) one of my spawn called me a writer. In fact, it was the first time.</div>
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When my eldest was in first grade, he had to fill out a little Getting to Know You questionnaire. Name, Age, Pets, Hobbies... and then it wanted to know what Dad and Mom do. I helped him spell his dad's profession. When it came to "My Mom is a ___" I started to spell out 'homemaker.' But my son, with his pencil poised over the paper, looked at me and asked, "How do you spell 'writer?'"</div>
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That one question, those five little words, absolutely floored me. At that point, I'd been writing for years, hoping for eventual publication. But it never crossed my mind to call myself a writer. It felt presumptuous. I wasn't published. I wasn't paid. I wasn't anyone. But to my son, I <i>was</i> a writer. He gave me the courage to say it out loud. To own it.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's me... Spicy mystery AND Satan's<br />
daughter. Just ask my ex.</td></tr>
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Allowing others to identify us can be powerful for good or for ill. I'll never forget the time a person I once loved called me a whore. I rejected that label with my whole being, and it created an irreparable breach between us. Even though I know it was hurled at me in anger, I'll never forget it.</div>
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Something else I'll never forget: I had a friend with whom I used to sit for hours, discussing literature and art and philosophy and religion and politics and absolutely everything. He asked questions, and he listened to my answers. Over the course of months, he turned me inside out, examining everything about me. Finally, he proclaimed me to be intelligent and restless and passionate. He said I couldn't be contained by convention. He made me feel worldly and intriguing, like I might be a fascinating person to know. Whether or not that's true, I wanted it to be. He saw something inside of me I hadn't recognized in myself, and put words to it. Ever since, that feeling has stayed near my heart. Now and again, as I'm going about my mundane, domestic routines, those words float to the surface of my mind. They feel like a secret identity. I might be over my ears in laundry and social studies projects, but <i>really</i>, I'm the woman you wish would give you the time of day at a cocktail party. </div>
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While we must ultimately decide our own identities, there is something so powerful about having someone else recognize an aspect of ourselves and put a name to it. Whether it's a young child dropping a truth bomb, an abusive partner filling our ears with lies, or a friend boosting our confidence, the words by which others name us make an indelible mark upon our souls.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-2459689356116913732013-02-05T12:54:00.002-05:002013-02-05T12:54:54.064-05:00Total Recall<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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Actors of the stage and screen are in the business of convincingly portraying a character as part of a larger storytelling effort by the entire cast and crew. There are many methods actors might employ to get "into character" as they call it in the biz, but most of them rely on some form of sensory or emotional recall, in which the performer summons memories of an event in his or her own life similar to that which must be portrayed, and attempts to channel the physical and emotional state they experienced at the time.<br />
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I bring this up, because as I've been working on my current work-in-progress, it occurs to me that authors are a lot like actors in this regard, and then some. To write good fiction, an author must submerge herself in the point of view character. This means feeling and writing <i>everything</i> that character goes through. To a lesser extent, we must understand and sympathize with the motivations of even minor characters, even if we don't take you into their heads.<br />
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Romance novels often feature at least two point of view characters, the hero and the heroine, sometimes more. My current release, <i>Once a Duchess</i>, has at least four point of view characters. Perhaps five. I'm loathe to pick through and count right now.<br />
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In order to bring the best realism to my work, every aspect of my life becomes fodder. Every humiliation and heartbreak; every love and longing; every loss and rejection; every anxiety and fear; every arousal and impotence... they're all fair game. I may not have experienced the precise scenarios my characters go through, but so many of the feelings are my own. This is why a life well-lived is the greatest resource at a writer's disposal. The ability to accurately portray human experience is invaluable.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Also me.</td></tr>
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Quite recently, I was on the phone with a friend while in the grips of some Big Emotions. While I cried and gasped and stammered my way through a feeble attempt at articulating myself, she said, "What you need to do is take all of this and channel it into a great scene." And she was right. Right then, I took a quick mental and physical inventory. What does my body feel like? Which muscles are tense? Which internal organs burn? How difficult is it to draw breath? Why can't I string together a coherent sentence? I filed away the information for later use.<br />
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Writers are scavengers of emotion. We horde our own experiences and we pick the carcasses of others' tragedies for useful bits. Our memories are our databases. Our bodies are forced to relive the traumas and joys of our lives, over and over again. All in the service of telling a story.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-14060837205895134522013-01-31T12:11:00.002-05:002013-01-31T12:14:11.571-05:00Once an Heiress -- Cover RevealI just got the final version of the cover for Once an Heiress from headquarters, with the go ahead to share. I feel like celebrating today, and so does my cover:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bubbly for everyone!</td></tr>
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Once an Heiress releases March 11. Don't forget to add it to your <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17302670-once-an-heiress" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> Want to Read list!<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-63660015826491495612013-01-28T12:38:00.000-05:002013-05-13T12:52:27.990-04:00Happy Birthday, Pride and Prejudice!Today marks the bicentennial of the publication of Jane Austen's <i>Pride and Prejudice</i>.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doesn't look a day over 165</td></tr>
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First published on January 28, 1813, <i>Pride and Prejudice</i> was an instant hit and met with rave reviews -- except from Charlotte Brontë, who found the novel to be "a disappointment." Of course she did.<br />
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What can I say about this novel that has not already been said? I've <a href="http://bluestockingball.blogspot.com/2011/06/pride-and-prejudice-and-please-make-it.html" target="_blank">lamented</a> the myriad, mediocre spinoffs and sequels. I've already told you how ardently I admire and love <i>Pride and Prejudice</i>. Its popularity has only grown in the last two hundred years. Fans of Elizabeth and Darcy show no signs of flagging in their devotion. And why should they? The novels themes of love, family, marriage, and class are as pertinent today as they were two hundred years ago. Readers still relate to Elizabeth Bennet. We still cringe at her mother's embarrassing behavior. We still love the special bond she shares with Jane. We still want Fitzwilliam Darcy to recognize her for the smart, loyal, loving person she is. And, gosh darn it, we still want them to achieve Happily Ever After.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a1/Elisabeth_et_Darcy.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a1/Elisabeth_et_Darcy.png" width="318" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Of course we did.</td></tr>
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Here's to the next two hundred years, <i>Pride and Prejudice</i>.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6665714985599367255.post-73007600508135424532013-01-22T19:10:00.001-05:002013-01-22T19:10:42.169-05:00Mixed TapeEarlier today, a <a href="https://twitter.com/EBoyceRomance" target="_blank">fascinating Twitter personality</a> posed a thought-provoking question:<br />
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The equally fascinating <a href="https://twitter.com/vristenpierce" target="_blank">Vristen Pierce</a> suggested the topic might make a good blog post. And friends, I believe she's right. She usually is.<br />
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In an attempt to answer my own question, I've been thinking about Marshall and Isabelle from <i>Once a Duchess</i>. As denizens of Regency England, the music they have to choose from might not make the most exciting mixed tape. [Although, the book does contain a scene at a musicale. Isabelle is moved by Beethoven's 26th Sonata for Piano, <i>Les Adieux:</i> "It was as though Herr Kaufman -- and Beethoven before him -- put her woes to music for all the world to hear." Maybe she'd toss that one in Marshall's face.]<br />
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So, in the spirit of the mixed tape, I'm giving Marshall and Isabelle access to all the songs I know. They're each allowed to choose three selections.<br />
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First up, Isabelle's tape to Marshall<br />
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She opens with "I Will Survive" as performed by Gloria Gaynor:<br />
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<i>"I think," Marshall said, "you're awfully brave."</i><br />
<i> Isabelle pulled back in his arms, searching his face for a sign of mockery, but found none. "You do?"</i><br />
<i> He nodded. "It's not every woman who could take care of herself when times got hard."</i><br />
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Next, Isabelle taunts Marshall with Queen's "Somebody to Love."<br />
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<i>Isabelle sighed and plopped back onto the couch in a rather unladylike fashion. "I just want a family, Lily. Is that really too much to ask? A respectable husband and a few children of my own?"</i><br />
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Finally, while Isabelle is busy hunting for a husband, Marshall is busy hunting for a wife. He finds a candidate, but Isabelle doesn't think much of her replacement:<br />
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<i> Lady Lucy raised her chin and turned her lips in a satisfied smirk. She laid her hand on Marshall's forearm.</i><br />
<i> Isabelle's first impulse was to swat those bejeweled fingers off his arm. It was no surprise Naomi deplored a potential union between her brother and the calculating Lucy Jamison.</i><br />
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And now, Marshall's mixed tape to Isabelle<br />
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Marshall begins with "Broken Vow," by Josh Groban,to really drive home what a terrible thing she's done:<br />
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<i>... If he had felt only a passing attraction for Isabelle, enough to beget his heir and little beyond, her betrayal would not have struck the blow that it had. But he had been strongly, deeply attracted to his young wife. She had awakened passion in him that no other woman before or since had come close to realizing. And that's what he could not forgive, the way she had him nearly eating from the palm of her pretty hand, and then turned to another man for what Marshall had so freely given her.</i></div>
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Having to find a second wife is a demoralizing prospect. He's starting all over again, but with the wariness of a failed relationship under his belt, and lingering emotions for his former wife. He expresses this through Coldplay's "The Scientist":</div>
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<i> Marshall squeezed his eyes shut and drew several deep breaths. These were just feelings stirred by the unwise dalliance they'd indulged in, he assured himself. Once they were both safely married off to others, he would no longer feel a possessive compulsion to have her for himself.</i></div>
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After the therapy provided by those rather maudlin songs, Marshall needs to tell Isabelle how he feels about her now. He takes her by surprise with an upbeat classic. Go ahead and try not to smile. Can't do it, can you?</div>
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<i> "If your idea is that I want to convince Isabelle to agree to marry me, and that I don't think I can do it without your help, then you would be correct."</i></div>
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<i> Naomi covered her mouth and made a squeaking sound.</i></div>
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<i> Marshall glowered. "Are you laughing at me?"</i></div>
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<i> She shook her head. "Oh no, of course not." She grinned widely. "I'm just very pleased to hear this."</i></div>
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I hope you enjoy my characters' mixed tapes! I'd love to see your suggestions in the comments for other songs Marshall and Isabelle could include in their compilations. </div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07706661834677466081noreply@blogger.com4