Christmas Special!

Only a Novel is on sale for Christmas (limited time only and all that jazz)!  If you purchase a copy through the CreateSpace store before January first, you'll receive 20% off the purchase price-- just enter the code 3QH797U5 at checkout.  Merry Christmas!

[Elizabeth] decided that the topic of Christmas gifts was quite safe, and so began on that.

“Mr. and Mrs. Crimp were so kind as to give me some lovely perfume and a comb set for Christmas,” she remarked to Mrs. Leopold.  Mrs. Leopold gave her a rhinoceros-like stare and nodded in an unnecessarily patient manner.  Elizabeth would not be daunted.  “We had a lovely time exchanging gifts this morning,” she continued, “and I know Isabelle was quite pleased to receive her china tea set.  I understand you helped to choose it, Mrs. Leopold?”

Mrs. Leopold chose to ignore this, and Elizabeth realized with horror that it was not proper for a governess to begin a conversation at table, let alone to address unsolicited remarks to the lady of the house.  Her ears felt as though they were being tastefully roasted over a barbecue pit, and she quickly turned to see if Isabelle needed any assistance with her dinner.

This was a merry Christmas, indeed.

She really must stop being so sarcastic, even in thought.  It was most unbecoming.

~Only a Novel, chapter 18

Only Some Snippets {and a giveaway...}

I'm giving away one free copy of Only a Novel this week... so if you're interested in reading the book, hop on over to Yet Another Period Drama Blog to enter the giveaway! In the meantime, I thought I'd take the opportunity to give you a little taste of what you're getting yourself into.  I know I wouldn't enter a giveaway unless I knew a bit about the book I was hoping to win, so without further ado...

***

“We’re memorizing all the kings of Judah in Sunday school,” Isabelle confided to Rodney as they meandered down the road. “And I know more than Jonathan already.”
“Fighting words,” said Rodney warningly, but he sounded amused. “And how many do you know?”
“Um… well, I know more than Jonathan.”
“You do not,” said Jonathan.
“I do so.”
“Well, suppose you show us,” said Rodney, and Isabelle promptly launched into a long list of names, pronouncing Solomon correctly and sadly butchering the rest.


“Miss Markette,” Mr. Rowe droned, “your grandmother desired that this check in the amount of one hundred and fifty dollars be presented to you when she…ahhhhhhhh…” He seemed to be searching for an appropriate euphemism, and stretched out his hesitation until Elizabeth feared the “ah” might snap.
“…Depaaaaarted this earth,” Mr. Rowe decided. “And she desired that I be the one to present you with the… errrrrrrrr… funds.” He poked a long, thin hand into his long, thin pocket and withdrew a paper. Peering shortsightedly at the writing, he adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles—the only thing about him that was small and round—and nodded in a self-satisfied manner. “Aaaaaahhhhhhh, yes. Everything seems to be in order.”


“You must meet the nephew of my dear friend Mrs. Wakenshaw,” Lady Fagles boomed. “Lieutenant Scarborough is a MOST excellent young man, as Miss Bancroft can testify, can you not, Miss Bancroft? Most eligible, as well! I am afraid, Miss Bancroft, that Miss Markette will prove to be some competition for you.”
Lavinia only nodded and turned away as soon as was politely possible. She evidently was not at all interested in the most eligible Lieutenant Scarborough.


Elizabeth swallowed hard and forced herself to smile and greet the children. “Good afternoon,” she squeaked. Ugh.  Hastily, she cleared her throat and tried to look like an intelligent human being. She achieved this effect by elongating her neck and widening her eyes—but now she felt even more like an imbecile than ever and quickly rearranged her face back into its previous expression, intelligent or otherwise.


They might have sat there smiling timidly at each other all day long—an occupation that might not be the most profitable in the world—if Mercy had not wandered in.


People in books always tossed and turned in bed when they could not sleep, but Elizabeth had never found this procedure very effective. Instead, she lay rigid in her bed and stared in the general direction of the ceiling. It would have been rather difficult to stare at the ceiling itself, as she could not see it. This was because the lamp was out and if it had not been for the tiny sliver of light leaking under the door from the hall, the room would have been almost pitch dark. She wondered how dark pitch was, and what it looked like, and who had coined the simile about it. Probably Shakespeare; he had come up with practically every other idiom in the English language.


Ah, well, it can’t be helped. As I said before, I must make an effort to be charming. Of course I shouldn’t be too charming, or else he might fall desperately in love with me, and then I would be in a pickle.  [this italicized bit comes from a letter written by Lavinia]


“What will we do?” Jonathan repeated.
“We could play checkers,” said Elizabeth, feeling inspired.
“Most of the men are missing,” said Isabelle, “and only two can play anyhow.” Elizabeth had not seen this as a problem; they could have played while she retreated with a book, but if the pieces were missing there was not much she could do about it. Her inspiration sagged.
“We could organize the bookshelves,” she hazarded.


“What sort of things do you write?”
“Adventure stories, mostly.” Mr. Pickering blushed. “I wrote a little one recently about an elephant hunt—I’ve never been on an elephant hunt, but I always thought it sounded rather intriguing.”
Elizabeth privately wondered if the poor elephant found the idea intriguing, but did not say this aloud.

"And that's all there is. There isn't any more."

From my limited, biased and slightly snarky point of view, it seems to me that almost every young writer out there refers to the process of writing a book as "a journey."  Now, just because almost everybody does it does not make a thing undesirable--but it does annoy me just a tad when I see the word "journey" used to describe novel-writing.  Because that word is used to describe everything else under all nine planets (yes, there are nine--in my book, anyways.  Quit with the size discrimination, astronomers.).  As an alternative, I suggest "crazy-wild road trip" instead of "journey."  It packs a bigger punch.

Because really, writing a novel IS a crazy-wild road trip.  At least, mine was.  Now, Only a Novel isn't exactly the most adventurous, suspenseful, spinning-off-the-shoulder, edge-of-your-seat story out there (that's my sister's genre, not mine) but that doesn't mean I didn't have an exciting time writing it.  For the first time, characters that I had invented seemed incredibly real to me. I found myself dreaming about them, thinking about them almost constantly, imagining how they'd react in various situations.  They were the driving force behind my story, and believe me, they drove recklessly.  (Is anyone else enjoying all these road trip puns? No?  Just me?  You people have no sense of humor.)

At any rate, lovely fellow road-trippers, I finished my novel.

Clocking in at three hundred and fourteen pages, thirty-four chapters and 88,245 words (what a nice round number!), Only a Novel is finally complete.

And now I'm feeling that funny sort of happy-sad mixture of emotions.  On the one hand, I'm thrilled to have written an entire story, a tale of my own spinning featuring characters of my own creation.  But on the other hand, it's actually hard to say goodbye to those characters, to know that their story has been told and is now over.

Believe me, I got pretty close to them over the last eight months.  Are writers allowed to play favorites?  I don't care-- I favorited with reckless abandon, and this author's pet was unquestionably the hero of my story. Rodney Edgerton Burke, the carriage driver and stable hand who reads Dickens after work popped into my head one day in November when I realized that my novel had featured only female characters thus far.  I needed a MMC, and I needed him fast-- so I plucked the name Rodney off my Favorite Boy Names List, pasted Roger Hamley's face onto the name and plopped him down in the Crimp family's garden with a trowel in his left hand and a garden toad in his right.  And thus my favorite character of all time was born.

The Many Faces of Rodney.  (Extra-special hugs and chocolate-covered strawberries must go to my dearest Tween, who generously screencapped all the above pictures of Roger Rodney and sent them to me as a surprise.)

Probably my protagonist should have been my second favorite character at least, since she didn't make the top spot on the list, but the fact is that she has to take third place.  Lavinia Solange Vivian Bancroft, an extremely wealthy, beautiful young socialite and the FMC's best friend, is second in my estimation and I'm not sorry for it.  Lavinia was one of the very first characters I created, and I went through various stages of loving her and hating her.  She's a snob at times, but a lovable snob, and any scene was immediately made more fun to write if she was in it.  And when my book becomes famous and the BBC comes clamoring for the miniseries rights (heeheehee), I shall sell them the rights on one condition: Romola Garai must play Lavinia, for she simply IS Lavinia and no two ways about it.

Much gratitude to Miss Laurie for taking all these screencaps, and for
sending them to my Twinnie, who in turn sent them to me. :)

Last and, unfortunately, least in the top three is Elizabeth Sophia Markette, my protagonist.  I really do love her.  Just not quite as much as Those Two Up Above.   (You can read more about her here.)  She's a lot like me in some ways, and quite different from me in others, but I've grown quite close to her over the last eight months and I like her tremendously.

What would I do without my Tween?  Melody did most of these screencaps for me, again. :)

And now I've come to the end, and... well... it's time to say goodbye to this story.  Con te partiro... (and that's about all I know of the lyrics to that song despite having heard it several hundred times.  Heehee.)  Unless, of course, I decide to write a sequel someday.  But right now, I'm just luxuriating in the whole I've-actually-completed-this-project feeling.

It's quite delicious, really.

Dramatis Personae: Elizabeth Sophia Markette

I didn't get started on Beautiful People until March 2012, so unfortunately I missed a year's worth of lovely questionnaires.  But when I was looking through the archives the other day, I thought "well, why should I miss out?"  So I've decided to slowly but surely work my way through the Beautiful People archives, featuring a different character each time.  Today, I'll be exploring the protagonist of Only a Novel, with the BP questions from March 2011.

First of all, I should give all y'all some background on my protagonist.  Her name is Elizabeth, and on the surface she's boring as all get-out.  I honestly don't blame you if you find her dull.  Because sometimes she is.  But that's part of the manifold and complicated reasons why I like her, and I'm hoping that after reading a little more about her, you'll start to like her too.

Born in June of 1860, Elizabeth grew up in a wealthy home in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, cared for by her grandparents after her parents died when she was very small.  Her grandfather passed away when she was thirteen, and she led a quiet life with her grandmother--going to school at Miss Raleigh's Academy for Young Ladies and reading everything she could lay her hands on--until her grandmother's illness and death when Elizabeth was twenty-one.  With her grandmother's death came the unsettling news that the family fortune was all gone, and Elizabeth was left to make her own way in the world.  Not being the kind of person to sit down and acquire a case of the doldrums when things take a turn for the worse, Elizabeth packed her bags and set off for England  to seek a position as a governess.  Because, you know, everything's better in England.  All of Jane Austen's stories take place there, after all! (Thank you, my dear, I think we had all apprehended that much.)  On the voyage, she met an extremely fashionable and slightly eccentric young socialite, Lavinia Solange Vivian Bancroft, who was determined that they should be Best Friends... that is, until Lavinia learned more about Elizabeth's plans to be a governess.  Nevertheless, Elizabeth stuck to her guns, obtained a position with the Crimp family, and began her new job as caregiver for Jonathan and Isabelle (who aren't exactly angels and aren't exactly holy terrors, but are somewhere in between).  But of course, she was quite sure that this was all only temporary--sooner or later Mr. Darcy would come galloping up on a white horse and sweep her off to Pemberley to live happily ever after.  Heh.  That's what she thought.

And if I continue to ramble about the entire plot of the story, I'll give it all away and nobody will ever want to read it, so I'll stop now and get to Beautiful People.

~What is her full name?
Elizabeth Sophia Markette.

~Does her name have a special meaning?
*hastily rushes to a baby names website to look this up* Elizabeth is the Greek form of a Hebrew name meaning "my God is an oath".  Sophia means "wisdom".  Heh.  Ironic, that.
I suspect this question might have been asking if I had a special meaning in mind when I named my character... the answer is no.  I named Elizabeth after Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice (a fact that comes into play in the story), made up Markette out of mine own little head (stop red-underlining it, Chrome) and then stuck Sophia in the middle after asking bloggy friends for suggestions.

~Does she have a methodical or disorganized personality?
Definitely methodical--or at least, that's what she'd like to think.  Elizabeth prides herself on being logical and not heedless, but the truth is that she gets flustered quite easily.  NO SHE IS NOT AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL CHARACTER.

~Does she think inside herself more than she talks out loud to her friends? (more importantly, does she actually have friends?)
Elizabeth is a thinker.  Much of the book's narrative is told from her perspective, as if the reader is inside her mind.  (I'm not a huge fan of the italicized words followed by "she thought", as if the character were speaking aloud.  Thought processes are much less structured than that--at least, in my mind. :P)  Anyway, Elizabeth is most certainly more of the type to think things out privately rather than "spill" to her friends.  Though, if she's talking to the right person, she can be inveigled into sharing her thoughts.  And yes, she has friends.  She is quite offended that you would suggest otherwise. She does INDEED have friends.  Three of them, in fact.  No, four. Er, five.  Wait, is it permissible for a young lady (even if she be a governess) to count an upstairs maid as one of her friends?

~Is there something she is afraid of?
Heehee.  Pardon me while I attempt to make the answer to this question less than eight paragraphs long.  Yes, there are quite a few things Elizabeth is afraid of, and since I am a mean author, several of those things pop up to scare her silly in the course of the novel.  The things Elizabeth is afraid of include heights, large birds, embarrassment, nippy-yippy-dogs (you know the type--the Fifi kind who yap and squeal and run at you and try to bite) and the Bubonic Plague.  Thankfully the Bubonic Plague does not figure in the novel.  Or does it....?  *scribbles down ideas*

~Does she write, dream, dance, sing, or photograph?
I suppose I should answer each one of these separately.  Writing-- Elizabeth writes letters and that's about it.  Dreaming-- science has declared that everybody dreams every time they sleep at night, whether they remember the dreams the next morning or not.  So yes, Elizabeth dreams.  Dancing-- she took lessons in school, and can hold her own in a waltz, but it's not her favorite thing to do in the whole wide world.  Singing-- hmmm.  I really don't know.  She hasn't yet had any occasion to do so.  I'm inclined to think she isn't much of a singer.  Photograph-- personal cameras weren't around yet in 1882, so far as I know.


~What is her favorite book? (or genre of books)
Funny you should ask this.  Let me think very, very hard.  I'm sure I'll come up with something... oh! Yes, of course! Elizabeth's favorite book is Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, an author of whom she is rather inordinately fond.

~Who is her favorite author and/or someone that inspires her?
Heh.  See above.

~Favorite flavor of ice cream?
Vanilla.  I'm afraid Elizabeth's a bit boring in that respect, but hey, vanilla ice cream is good! Besides, ice cream's ice cream.  Who passes up ice cream?  Crazy people.  Or lactose intolerant people.  (No offense, lactose intolerant people...)

~Favorite season of the year?
Mmm... spring, I think. It's romantical and pretty, and the weather is nice, and she likes to daydream about strawberrying at Donwell Abbey. :D

Linking Up at Scribblings

I'm linking up with Anne-girl at Scribblings of my Pen for a June Crusade tag... check it out here.


1. What is your word count now?
76, 214--and no, I didn't do that all during the month of June! I started writing this story (Only a Novel) in November 2011 and now I'm just wrapping it up.

2. What is your favorite paragraph so far?
Hard call.  I like pretty much all of them--if I didn't, I wouldn't be writing this thing. :P Maybe this one.

Elizabeth put down her pen and stared moodily at the wall. Heroines in novels always gazed wistfully out of the window, but the tiny table in her tiny bedroom faced the wall, not the window.

3. When you are writing what is your favorite song to listen too? Not theme song for your book but favorite song for while you're writing?
I've been really enjoying Rose's Theme from the Titanic soundtrack lately-- definitely don't endorse the movie, but the music's great!

4. Do you love your villains or do you relish hating them?
I relish hating my villain.  Indubitably. :D

5. What was your very first piece of free writing?
Heh.  I wrote a twenty-page Bobbsey Twins fan-fiction at the age of five. I still have it.  It utilized all my vocabulary words and told an amazingly epic story about a blueberry-picking contest.  The story took place at Thanksgiving.  I was not exceptionally well acquainted with produce seasons when I was in kindergarten. :P

6. What was your first completed piece of fiction?
Um, does the above story count?  If not, then probably a journal-form novel that I wrote in sixth grade entitled Laundry for Abraham Lincoln.  I cringe when I see that thing now.  Trust me.

7. What are some of the plot bunnies that you are being teased with right now?
Accck.  There are way too many.  An idea for a contemporary mystery is niggling at the back of my brain (I even have the entire PLOT mapped out, for crying out loud!) and I'm also being bothered by The Rochesters, a rambling-ish story about a large family living by a lake in Michigan.  And there are more, but I'm not quite ready to discuss them yet. ;)

8. What is your strategy for writers' block?
"When the going gets tough, the tough get going."
Heehee.  That is my lofty sentiment.  In reality, I tend to procrastinate or mope until an idea comes along.   If I'm in a really industrious frame of mind, I'll work and work until I snap out of the block, but that doesn't happen so often as I should wish.  Perhaps it's because I do not take the trouble of practicing.

9. If you could meet one famous author which one would you pick?
Jane Austen.  "Thank you, my dear.  I think we have all apprehended that much." ~Mr. Palmer, Sense and Sensibility, 1995


10. Who is your favorite secondary character so far?
In Only a Novel, you mean? Probably Mercy Burke, the hero's little sister.  She's tremendously fun... and she wandered into the story completely by accident.  I had just realized that all the principal characters in my story were only children, so I gave Rodney a sister just for kicks (Beverly Cleary did the same thing in a Henry Huggins book and thus Ramona Quimby was created).  And Mercy managed to worm her way into a very significant position in the plot, and now I'm not sure what I would have done without her. :D

Mercy (Tamzin Merchant)

Snippets of Story - June 2012

All of my snippets this month come from Only a Novel, which shouldn't be a surprise as it's the all-consuming project on my brain right now.  My goal is to finish it by June 20th, so I'll make this post quick and get back to work.  :D Don't forget to check out Katie's blog, Whisperings of the Pen, to link up your own snippets!


*


Lavinia startled Elizabeth out of her reverie by a gentle poke with the tip of her parasol.  “Elizabeth, dear, you are not attending to me at all, and I’m afraid that is a grave offense.  You must always attend closely when I speak.  You might learn something of great importance, you know.  Mamma, pray do not laugh at me—you might cause Lizzie to think I am not serious, and I am perfectly serious.  In fact, I am always serious, except when I am not, which is often.”


*

The garden was small, as Jenny had said, but she walked a few times around its perimeter, breathing as deeply as she could. Grandmother had always done so when she was exasperated, and Elizabeth was most definitely exasperated. She tried humming to calm herself down, but since she had a habit of humming off-key, this procedure did not prove helpful and in fact only increased her frustration.


*

Elizabeth’s head hurt.  This fact was partly a result of her having slammed her head against the wall.  It was also partly a result of the turmoil her mind was in. 

Elizabeth had, of course, taken off her hat before beating her head.   She now picked it up very carefully and placed it on the bed.  Then she sat on it.

*

“As we have no mutual friend to introduce us,” the young man continued, his brown eyes twinkling, “I’m afraid we’ll have to perform the task ourselves.  My friend here—” he held up the toad and Elizabeth hastily stepped back “—is of an unsocial and taciturn disposition, I’m afraid; unwilling to say anything unless it will amaze the whole garden and be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb.  So I believe I’ll have to do the honors myself.  I’m Rodney Burke, and you must be the new governess.” 

*

“I keep the potato water to starch collars and cuffs,” [Mrs. Ingle] explained to Elizabeth.  “Something in the water keeps them stiff.  A little trick that comes in handy nearly every day.  When you have a house of your own, Elizabeth, you’ll find it helpful.”

Elizabeth wanted very much to have a house of her own one day.  However, she also very much wanted to have a maid who would starch collars and cuffs for her.  

*

Mrs. Crimp turned her attention back to the place cards.  “Miss Markette, I’m placing you between Isabelle and Mrs. Poplar.  Do not, I beg you, try to begin an intelligent conversation with Mrs. Poplar—at least, more than that which decorum requires—because we will never leave this table if you do.”

*

Mrs. Poplar was a reedy, seedy woman dressed in black—a color that did not complement her bleached complexion.  She poked fastidiously at everything set before her and religiously chewed each mouthful of food at least one hundred times.

*

{the following snippet is probably my favorite conversation in the entire book}

“Did you bring us a little lunch?” asked Rodney, peering into the bowl.

“No, you goose, this is for the horses.”  Mercy fed a lump of sugar to Virgil, then one to Opus, then another to Virgil again.

Rodney announced pompously, “Someone very wise and learned has frequently told me that it is a waste of money to feed sugar to horses.”

“I know,” said Mercy blithely, “but you got a raise in your salary last week, you know, and I have just today acquired a new client.”

“And this is the way you spend my hard-earned money, gained by the sweat of my brow and ceaseless toil on long, dark, cold nights?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Mercy.  “Besides, horses love sugar.  Someone very wise and learned has frequently told me that.”

“And you have little or no regard for your poor brother who is now deprived of sugar in his coffee,” Rodney complained.

“Coffee,” said Mercy, “is not at all indispensable; in fact it would probably do you good to go without it for a little while.”  She turned to Elizabeth.  “When he drinks too much coffee, he cannot sleep, and so he sits up reading half the night, and the light from his candle shines in under my door and then I cannot sleep.”

“You poor abused little creature,” said Rodney, sorrowfully shaking his head.

*

Elizabeth hardly knew which remark she should answer; Miss Bancroft had thrown at least six different topics into the conversation.

*

Lavinia was angry with her; furiously angry might be a better way of phrasing it. And for what? What, really, had she done to offend her friend?
What had she done besides running like a street urchin through fashionable Kensington Gardens in pursuit of an unruly child, accompanied by a stable hand, hat nearly flying off, with her skirts lifted well above her ankles?
She winced at the memory.

*

She spoke far more patiently than she felt—indeed, she felt quite ready to pull out her own hair. The day had not begun well. For one thing, she had woken up half-frozen after tossing off her blankets in her sleep during the night. For another, her dark green striped dress had a rent in the bodice and would have to be mended, and she did not know whether it was proper for a governess to mend her own clothes or ask the maid to do it. (A handbook on The Proper Etiquette Of A Nursery Governess: What To Do, What To Say And With Whom To Associate would be a useful item to own, she had often thought.) And now she was saddled with the responsibility of taking care of Maria, who did not take kindly to her and had been squealing like an injured rabbit since Elizabeth had first set foot in the nursery.

*

And besides, in order to become a lawyer, in all probability I’d have to start out as a clerk during law school, and the only interesting thing about that would be pretending I was a Dickens character. Tim Linkinwater, I think—or maybe Herbert Pocket. Uriah Heep is too ’umble even for the likes of me.”
“But once you got past being a clerk and had finished studying for the bar, you could fancy yourself someone like Mr. Kenge or Mr. Carboy.”
“Or Mr. Guppy.” Rodney made such a convincing fish face that Elizabeth let out a highly unladylike snort. Hastily she clapped her gloves over her mouth and with her eyes beseeched Rodney to pretend it hadn’t happened.
“We’ll pretend that didn’t happen,” Rodney teased.

Beautiful People: Annette Pickering

This month's Beautiful People centers on villains, and I leaped at the chance to get to know my villain a little better.  Ladeeeeeez and gentlemen, may I present Miss Annette Florence Pickering, a lovely, accomplished and selfish young woman with an ego the size of something really, really big.  

Tiny bit o' background: Annette is the oldest child in a fabulously wealthy English Victorian family, with everything she could ever want at her disposal.  And believe me, she likes it that way.  She likes nothing better than to be the best at everything-- to be the prettiest girl in the room, the most popular young lady at a ball, the most fashionably dressed woman in her circle of friends... yeah, you get the idea.  Her younger brother Wilfred (whom I covered in another BP) lives pretty much under her thumb, and Annette likes things that way, too.  

1. What is her motive?

Excellent, excellent question-- and one I hadn't really considered until about a month ago, when my sister and I were up way too late one night talking about villains (and many other things related to writing).  They DO have to have a motive, and I'm afraid Annette didn't have one when I first created her.  So I hastily went back in the story and altered a few events... and everything slid into place, and now Annette has a motive and one aspect of the story is in far better shape than it was before.  Yay!

Oh, but I didn't yet tell you what Annette's motive is.  Right.  Okay, so Annette has always thought herself better than everybody, right?  She always associates with the most upper-crust people, and it is to her advantage to be "friends" (yes, the quotation marks are necessary) with Lavinia Solange Vivian Bancroft, another extremely wealthy and influential young woman.  That is, until one day when Annette and Lavinia go for a walk in Kensington Gardens.  They're strolling along talking about nothing (typical) when they run (literally) into Elizabeth Markette, a friend of Lavinia's who is a...wait for it... governess.  GET THE FLY SPRAY, because ewwww.  A governess is of the working class, you know.  *shudder*  Elizabeth is in the act of chasing down an errant child, and needless to say, it's a bit of an awkward meeting.  From that moment on, Annette ceases to associate with Lavinia.  Why?  Well, read the previous few sentences.  People who associate with servants (or nearly-servants) are not people who associate with Annette Pickering.  Therefore, Annette Pickering shuns Lavinia from that moment on.  Figuratively, of course.  They still are obligated to speak to each other in Polite Society, but their conversations are... interesting.  (And quite fun to write, I might add.)

Also, Annette makes things pretty doggone uncomfortable when her brother falls in love with Lavinia. *dramatic music*

2. What is she prepared to do to get what she wants?

Pretty much anything, as long as it won't soil her Parisian gloves.

3. Is she evil to the core, or simply misunderstood?

Evil to the core.  Ehh... well... she's mean to the core.  Not really evil.

4. What was her past like? What about her childhood? Was there one defining moment that made her embrace her evil ways?

It was never any one defining moment-- just a childhood spent in being spoiled rotten and given her own way in everything and brought up to believe that she was a little princess.  Unfortunately, her parents forgot to teach her about the whole noblesse oblige business.  It was more of a "might makes right" thing.

5. Now that she's evil, has she turned her back on everyone, or is there still someone in their life that she cares for? (Brother? Daughter? Love interest? Mother? Someone who is just as evil as she is?)

Annette really doesn't care for anyone but herself-- though it's not a question of turning her back on loved ones.  She never truly loved anyone in her family, because she's consumed with herself.  Deep down, however, I think she really is yearning for a friend.  Her insecurity and fear of not being accepted is what makes her so selfish and gives her such a drive to be the best.

6. Does she like hugs?

Is the pope a Muslim?

7. Is she plagued by something? (Nightmares, terrible thoughts?)

Annette doesn't allow herself to be plagued by anything.  (Eeep, I'm seeing some rather eerie similarities between her and another character, Lavinia--who is a good guy.  Er, a good girl.  She's a good girl, she is.  Aowwwww.)

8. Who is she more similar to: Gollum or Maleficent?

Since I'm not familiar with either character, having never seen Lord of the Rings or Sleeping Beauty (though I know the story of the latter) I'm going to substitute Chauvelin and the evil stepmother from Cinderella for that question.  And the answer is that Annette is more like the evil stepmother.  "Me, me, me--what's in it for me?"

9. If your villain could have her choice of transportation what would it be?

A carriage better than the Queen's. :P

10. If you met your villain in the street, how afraid would you be? Is she evil enough to kill their creator?

Good gracious, Annette would never kill anybody.  What a messy business that would be.  Besides, one might get in trouble with the law, and Society would certainly frown on a murderess.  No indeed, I would have nothing to fear from Annette in that regard... and actually, it might be quite interesting to meet her on the street.  She's so dreadfully snooty that she's actually funny at times, and I'd probably have a good laugh afterwards.

Does the dark side really have cookies?

I have no idea, having never been there.  I would imagine that they do, but I'd advise you to ask the Phantom.

P.S.  Apologies to any and all Keira Knightley fans... it isn't because I hate KK that I cast her as Annette.  It's simply that she looks exactly like the mental image I have of the character.  It is not my own fault. 

Snippets of Story - May 2012

Linking up with Snippets of Story (hosted by Katie at Whisperings of the Pen) again! Only a Novel is chugging along, but I really need to just sit down and write more of it.  And stop letting myself be distracted by Plot Heffalump.  (Which, by the way, is coming along swimmingly.  In my head.)


“Elizabeth, if you think he stole it, then I don’t even see why we’re having this conversation.” Mercy’s eyes seemed to shoot sparks. “Rodney would never do something like that, never, never, NEVER. He’d starve before he’d steal. Don’t even incinerate such a thing.”

“Insinuate, not incinerate,” was on the tip of Elizabeth’s tongue, but this was not the time.

~Only a Novel

Lavinia regarded her for a moment. Then, as if she were the sun magnanimously breaking through storm clouds, she smiled. “I can never stay angry at anyone for very long,” she said, opening the door wider and ushering the astonished Elizabeth inside. “You are much too dear to be angry with anyhow. Though I have to say that you have committed an unpardonable sin and I’m very close to telling you that you are the silliest little fool that ever lived.”

“Lavinia, I have to do this,” Elizabeth began, but Lavinia cut her short.

“No, no, no excuses. Hush. I shan’t listen. I shall put my fingers in my ears and sing loudly to drown you out. And then you will flee from the room shrieking, as would any poor soul who had to listen to my voice raised in song. I can’t forgive this error on your part, Lizzie, but I can ignore it, and ignore it I shall.”

~Only a Novel

“I wish I could have stayed at the table,” Jonathan spoke up. “But Mamma made Miss Markette take Isabelle and me up to bed. Whenever the grownups are doing something interesting, they always send us away. We never get to hear any arguments.”

~Only a Novel

Elizabeth sighed. Apparently she had been outvoted. “Very well, then, we’ll read out here. But we will walk around the garden as we read, for I will not have the two of you turning into mushrooms.”

“This isn’t Wonderland, Miss Markette,” said Jonathan gravely.

“I know. I’m merely indulging in a bit of humor, which evidently is not appreciated. Ahem! Where were we?”

~Only a Novel

If this moment were a scene upon the stage, the accompanying music at this point in time should have risen thunderously, perhaps with some stirring strings and fast and furious piano. As it was not a scene upon the stage, Elizabeth was forced to simply imagine the music, but she was not particularly good at this and had to abandon it. Nevertheless, she felt that the moment was of great dramatic import and must be dealt with properly.

~Only a Novel

The hasty knock came barely two seconds before Mercy burst into Elizabeth’s room. “Elizabeth! Look!”

“Come in,” said Elizabeth.

“I am in.” Mercy danced to the desk where Elizabeth sat and flung her arms wide, twirling so that the skirt of the dress flared out. “Look at it. It’s perfect. It’s utterly gorgeous, it’s dazzling, it’s the most beautiful thing in the whole world.”

~Only a Novel

“I sat up till two last night--er, two this morning--and had a romantic proposal all written out. Quite nicely, in fact, with neat margins, and the writing didn’t slant upwards to the right. My writing so often does, you know.”

~Only a Novel

The heavy scent of flowers from the funeral still hung, stifling, in the air around her. It had probably clung to the folds of her dress—another reason to never wear the horrid thing again. She hopped off the bed and threw open her window. Warm, humid breezes from the streets blew in, partly clouded with a stench from the sewers. Anything was better than the weighty perfume of the lilacs and lilies.

~Only a Novel

“It says McTavish, Nurse. Private Peter McTavish, Allied Forces.” He wasn’t exactly laughing at her, but he was coming pretty close to it.

“Um, thank you, Mr. McTavish.” (Were you supposed to call an enlisted man Mister? Shouldn’t she have said Private? Too late now.) “And, um, I’m actually not the nurse—I’m the nurse’s aide. Annabeth Creighton, pleased to meet you.”

No, you were definitely not supposed to tell a patient you were pleased to meet him. It implied that you were glad he was in hospital. Ugh.

His blankets were straight, his water pitcher full, and she wasn’t responsible for the bandages on his leg—besides, they looked fine, which was a relief because she definitely didn’t want to deal with anything bloody on her very first day. But she had to do something, or at least say something.

“Pleasure,” said Private McTavish. “Is this a social call, or have you come to stick me with something sharp for the sake of my health?”

~Plot Heffalump 

(that's not the title, it's my fond nickname for this project)

She unfolded the scrap of paper, wiping away the smudges of dirt that obscured the word and numbers. “John 15:13… that’s all, Thatcher? That’s it? A reference? I don’t have my Bible with me, I can’t look it up—”

She was babbling and they both knew it. He rolled his eyes. “You don’t need to look it up. You memorized it years ago, I know you know it.”

Silence.

“Yes. I know it.”

“Okay, say it.”

More silence.

“Greater love… greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

“See? It’s that simple.” Thatcher folded the paper up again and tucked it into her sleeve. “Keep it and don’t forget it.”

The cold lump in Annabeth’s stomach rose up into her throat. “Thatcher… he’s not your friend. He doesn’t deserve to be helped. You can’t do this.”

Thatcher closed his eyes and flopped down on his back, hands behind his head in his favorite pose. “So, maybe he’s not my friend. And maybe he doesn’t deserve it. That doesn’t change what I have to do. Jesus laid his life down for me hundreds of years before I was born, Annabeth. I didn’t deserve it.”

“But you’re not Jesus—and Arnold’s not your friend; you have no obligation to him. You’re not laying down your—your life for a friend.”

Peter, who Annabeth had thought was asleep, pulled himself up on one elbow. “You’re right, Annabeth. Arnold’s not a friend.”

No one said anything.

Peter looked up through the maze of leaves to the stars. “Well, then… so maybe that makes it even greater love.”

~Plot Heffalump

Beautiful People: Wilfred Pickering

Use your imagination and pretend he's wearing
period-correct 1880's clothes, please. ;)

Taking my cue from an authoress I greatly admire, I'm using this month's Beautiful People to familiarize myself with a character I don't know too well.  (For those of you who aren't familiar with Beautiful People: it's a monthly questionnaire designed to help writers get to know their characters better.  You can read more here.)

This month, I decided to tackle Wilfred Alfred Pickering, a secondary character in Only a Novel, my current WIP.  (Don't hold the poor chap responsible for his middle name-- he can't help the fact that it rhymes with his first.  His parents, I'm afraid, were remarkably short-sighted.)  Wilfred lives in London, England in 1881-1882 (presumably he lived for at least twenty-some years before that time, and hopefully for many years after, but 1881-1882 is when the story takes place.  Don't be so technical), the over-privileged son of wealthy parents who isn't quite sure of what he wants to do with his life.  My little sister Laura, if she were reading this, would immediately ask "is he a good guy?" (because she asks that about everyone) and my reply would be, "Well, read the following and see for yourself... I'll let you make your own decision."

1. What is his favourite type of shoes?

Quite frankly, I don't believe Wilfred puts much thought into footwear.  His shoes are black, in all likelihood.  Sturdy and sensible, yet fashionable--but not dandified.  Selected by his Esteemed Mother and paid for by his Honored Father.  He doesn't take much notice of them-- just wears whatever the valet puts out for him in the mornings.  He's not a sloppy fellow, mind you-- he likes to be neat.  But he doesn't much care what he's wearing, as long as it's presentable.

2. Does he journal?

Not nowadays, but he used to.  When he was younger and away at boarding school, he'd fill pages of tablet paper (paper that was supposed to be used for letter-writing) with the day's events.  Only of course the events were completely made up, because nothing much interesting happened to him while he was at school (unless you count being punished for using all his tablet paper and his roommate's besides for "scribbling nonsense" instead of writing letters home).

3. What’s his favorite animal?

Wilfred likes dogs, but his mother and sister do not, because dogs tend to shed and slobber.  Therefore, Wilfred does not possess a dog.

4. What does his average day look like?

That depends on whether he's at home in London or abroad with his family.  When he's abroad, he spends the forenoon and afternoon trudging from Fashionable Meeting Place to Fashionable Meeting Place with his mother and sister, and his evening at some party or other, being polite and making rather awkward small talk.  When he's at home, he spends the day at the office with his father, conducting Business (at which he is rather adept, but does not particularly enjoy) and his evening reading at home.

5. Night owl or morning person? (Optional: What time does he usually wake up? Go to bed?)

Wilfred generally gets up about seven, so that he can have breakfast with the family at eight and be at the office by nine-- he wouldn't exactly be described as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning, but neither is he a grump at the breakfast table.  He's not precisely a night owl, but he does enjoy his evenings, because evening means that he can relax in the library with a good book.   (Undisturbed, because the rest of his family never ventures into the library--it's too dusty and dull for the ladies of the house, and the gentleman of the house hasn't picked up anything but the newspaper since Oxford.)  Wilfred goes to bed between ten-thirty and eleven--earlier than his mother and sister, later than his father.

6. Does he have a sweet tooth?

Wilfred likes sweets in moderation, but he doesn't like the kind of cake with sugar dusted all over it-- he generally manages to smear it across the front of his coat, which is most embarrassing.   He prefers plain buns or muffins.

7. What colors are in his bedroom?

Colors?  There are colors in his bedroom?  Why, to be sure, there are.  He'd never taken much notice of them before.

8. Can he cook?

Not at all-- that is, he never tried.  Or had to try.  But if he were hard put to it, he might be able to scramble an egg.  It can't be that hard of an operation, after all, and if one approaches it logically and methodically, it can surely be done.

9. What is his favorite household chore?

Wilfred doesn't have to do chores.  The servants take care of that.  He wouldn't mind trying his hand at washing the windows, however-- he was never allowed to as a child, and always thought it looked like fun.  The butler would have let him help to polish the silver, and he would have liked to be of use in that way, but his Mamma said No and that's the end of that.

10. Favorite kind of tea?

India tea, the kind with a slightly musky, smoky flavor, very exotic.  It's not fashionable, but it tastes good and makes one think of foreign lands waiting to be explored.  Not that Wilfred could ever go exploring in India or South Africa, of course-- his mother would have a conniption at the very idea!

EDIT: I had a quote from Only a Novel picked out and ready for the the end of this post, and then of course I forgot about it.  Miss Scatterbrain speaking... anyways, here it is.

Elizabeth stopped listening and focused on minutely examining Mr. Pickering’s appearance. So this was the young man whom Lady Fagles was so keen on attaching to Lavinia. He did not seem at all unpleasant—on the contrary, his face bore the marks of good humor and frequent smiling. His hair was a handsome red—Lavinia’s prejudice against it was quite ridiculous—though a bit rumpled, but of course that was due to his running his hand through it a moment ago. His eyes—fixed immovably on Lavinia, regardless of the other young ladies to whom he was being introduced—were a pleasant brown and seemed to be quite friendly indeed.

He held his teacup with the ease of one who was accustomed to elegant parlors, but his precarious perch on the edge of the sofa belied any carelessness in his manner. It was obvious that Mr. Pickering was not feeling comfortable in this company, but then who could with a sister such as his seated beside him? With the skirt of her satin afternoon dress drawn carefully away in case her brother might soil it, no less?

“I was drive—driving by,” Mr. Pickering explained, stuttering just a bit, “and—and I thought I’d come by and—and bring you home with me, Annette, and then you wouldn’t have to call a—a cab.”

~Only a Novel, chapter 24

Snippets of Story - April 2012

Time for Snippets of Story again.  I'm getting way too much fun out of this--and I can't wait to read all of your snippets too! Don't forget to stop by Katie's blog, Whisperings of the Pen, to link up.


(The Very Astute among you may guess that the last three snippets, all from my currently untitled Work In Progress, all come from the same scene.  This is because that scene is one of only two that I've written so far for that story, and the said scene amuses me so immensely that I couldn't help sharing, well, a lot of it.)


“I have never been employed before,” said Elizabeth.
“No?” Mrs. Leopold’s caterpillar-like eyebrows drew together in a disapproving frown. “Dear Eloise recommended you highly. I had thought perhaps you had previously been dear Lavinia’s governess. Though I must admit your extreme youth has caused me to retract THAT opinion.”
Elizabeth did not feel that her youth was extreme, or that any measure of youth was a monstrous crime against humanity, but she prudently said nothing. 

~Only a Novel

Elizabeth cast about in her mind as to whether it would be simpler to sit upon the dress to hide it or put the nearby bowl of potatoes on top of it. Neither seemed a practical solution, and besides Rodney must have noticed the dress by now. Indeed, he looked as if he were on the point of making a remark about it. She could only hope that he could be prevailed upon not to mention the dress to Mercy.
“Much obliged. What’s this on the table? Hmmm. I should have known what would happen if Mrs. Ingle left you in charge of supper, Jenny. This—” he lifted one sleeve—“will be delicious with buttered potatoes. Indubitably.” 

~Only a Novel

The dress looked even lovelier when she spread it out on the bed. In Lavinia’s gorgeously decorated bedroom it had been just another conglomeration of velvet and lace, but here in the starkness of Elizabeth’s room it fairly shone in contrast. The crimson of the skirt was such a comforting color that Elizabeth thought it might almost be warm to the touch. She touched it. It wasn’t.

~Only a Novel

“When you cook with onions, it’s like using a silent E,” said Maeve. “You know it’s there, but it doesn’t assert itself. It just strengthens the sound—or the taste—and gives the word—uh, dish—a new… a new… taste.”
“Poetic,” said Ismelda.
“Thank you.”

~It's Thursday Again

“Piffle,” said Lavinia. “It will do you no harm to have a few nice dresses. And I beg you, Lizzie, don’t talk of such vulgar things as cost. I care not how much I pay for a dress, so long as it is good quality, and if I choose to make you a present of a dress, what business is it of yours?”
But Elizabeth won in the end, and Lavinia sighed. “I do not know what to do with you,” she said. “You are certainly the most trying friend I have ever known. If I didn’t think you were the dearest girl in the world, I would have nothing to do with you, you know, Lizzie.”
Elizabeth knew. 
“Ah, well,” said Lavinia. “How do you think this color would look on me? If I cannot make you a present out of this dress, I am resolved not to be cheated out of the pleasure of buying it for myself, at least.”

~Only a Novel

Elizabeth looked around the stateroom. There was a bed, firmly attached to the wall. There was a table, firmly secured to the floor. There were a washbasin and pitcher, which were not attached to anything at all. Elizabeth imagined a stormy night, the wind-tossed ship, the bowl and pitcher clattering off the table and onto her head as she lay shivering in the bed—

“Is there a great deal of—er, motion during storms?” she asked in a small voice. Then she reproached herself for asking such a childish question. Of course the ship would toss about in a gale. She was not in a solid building, after all.

~Only a Novel

“I have never been to a ball,” said Elizabeth. She was not sure if she would like it or not, but she could not help being excited. Grandmother had never let her go to balls.
“Hush,” scolded Lavinia. “My dear Lizzie, you must not speak so loudly of your misfortunes. People will think you are no better than a guttersnipe.” 
“Lavinia!”
“My dearest creature, of course I do not think you are a guttersnipe, but Lady Judith Meriwether Fagles may if you do not take care. Now, as it is nearly eight and we are requested to come at eight, we must be on our way.”

~Only a Novel

“What’s wrong with you?” Maeve demanded. 
“Everything,” said Ismelda, kicking at a harmless rock.
“What do you mean, everything?”
“Well, to say that every thing is wrong is just as much a lie as to say that nothing is wrong. And you may as well be hung for an everything as a nothing.”
“I think it’s going to rain,” said Freddie, who had stopped listening five minutes ago.

~It's Thursday Again

“Heartless villains are so run-of-the-mill,” said Phoebe, chewing the end of her pencil the way she always told Freddie not to. 

~It's Thursday Again

Where Lady Fagles was all harrumphing and supercilious camel-like expressions of the face, Mrs. Wakenshaw was all chirping and twittering and fluttering feathers.
 “Miss Bancroft, don’t you think Miss Markette will like Lieutenant Scarborough? He is quite distinguished—soon to be promoted, we hope—and he is not married,” she hastened to add.
 Lavinia gave Elizabeth another eloquent look. Apparently these ladies were not at all subtle in their attempts to marry off this Lieutenant Scarborough.
 “I am sure Miss Markette will like Lieutenant Scarborough,” Mrs. Wakenshaw persisted hopefully.

~Only a Novel

“Well, then, why, please?” Emily was not to be distracted by string beans.
Mr. Rochester handed Alice the pepper. “Because I see absolutely no purpose in teenage girls going out on so-called dates with teenage boys. Especially when neither party is old enough to drive or possess a car. Which, I might add, is the case with you and Frank Whittaker. Moreover, teenage boys are, in general, idiots and I do not care to have my daughter keeping company with an idiot. Which, I might add—but shall not for fear of offending—might be an apt way to describe the young man in question—i.e., Frank Whittaker.”
“Why Daddy, you said just last week that you thought Frank was a very nice boy.”
“I do not deny it. However, idiocy and niceness are not necessarily isolated characteristics—as life will teach you all too quickly, I fear.” Mr. Rochester gave a sad, solemn shake of his head. He was enjoying himself immensely.

~Untitled W.I.P.

“Daddy, do you mean that I need to wait four years to go to the movies with Frank? I’ll be nineteen!”
“Movies will be obsolete by the time Em’s nineteen,” put in Mark, snickering. “We’ll all be going to supersonic atom-blasting theaters that project the story right into viewers’ heads.”
Emily kicked him under the table and looked to her father.
“A fine and sensible age,” said Mr. Rochester, ignoring Mark’s comment. “Yes, nineteen is a splendid age. Almost out of the danger zone, though of course not quite. Your Uncle Ned broke his right arm at the age of nineteen after riding his bicycle backward down our driveway with his eyes shut. An excellent example of my previous point regarding the mental capacity of teenage boys. Alice, these mashed potatoes are superb. Are these our own chives?”

~Untitled W.I.P.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to tell Frank I can’t go.” Emily, who was (as aforementioned) not the drippy type, was also not the type to bewail her losses. She took a pragmatic sip of milk.
“I suppose you shall,” agreed Mr. Rochester, “but if you care to pull a Bartleby the Scrivener and would prefer not to, I will be happy to perform the hated task myself. Do you think that I might look more harsh and forbidding and properly like a stern guardian if I wore my horn-rimmed spectacles during my little chat with Frank, the hopeful suitor? I believe they’re in the attic somewhere—I can easily fish them out if you think they’ll aid me in the part.”

~Untitled W.I.P.

Snippets of Story - March 2012

Snippets of Story (hosted by Katie at Whisperings of the Pen) is back again!


Elizabeth’s brief glimpse of Lavinia’s world had only served to show her that their lives were, in truth, very, very different. Lavinia still led a life of luxury and beauty, while Elizabeth had taken several steps downward, and was now shivering from the cold in a whitewashed bedroom without even pictures on the walls.
True, the shivering was her own fault. The radiator was steaming away, and it was rather silly of her to sit here in her nightgown without even a shawl around her shoulders.

~Only a Novel

“Do sit down, Lizzie, you make me nervous standing by the door like a statue. There is nothing in the rumors that pacing makes people nervous. I believe that standing still is what makes people nervous. It makes one fidget.”

~Only a Novel

Lavinia nodded slowly. “Yes… well… and she is so mean to poor Sarah Redgrave. Now, between you and I and that cushion—” she nodded to a fringed, puffy little thing sitting pompously atop a hatbox—“I do not think Sarah Redgrave is a particularly bright creature, but no one needs to be condescended to the way Annette Pickering condescends to everyone. Did you see how she took just one bite of the shortbread? Horrid thing. Mrs. Shurtleff’s shortbread—my, that’s a mouthful—is practically famous. Mamma serves it to all her guests and everyone says they want to hire Mrs. Shurtleff, but of course Mamma would never dream of letting our cook leave our employment, the very idea! The nerve of Miss Prunes-and-prisms Pickering, to take just one bite as if it wasn’t worth her while.”

~Only a Novel

If her thoughts could be made to stay in one place for any length of time, she might accomplish something in her hodgepodge of ponderings, but they would not. They leapfrogged about and slid from one topic to another with astonishing rapidity. Perhaps this was due to the fact that her brain was deprived of sleep. Perhaps it was due to the fact that she was really a very silly creature, after all.

~Only a Novel

The garret was colder than she had expected—most likely a result of the fire in the stove having sunk down to a few dark ruby embers and a lone chilly flame. Mercy shivered and poked a few more sticks into the stove. Nothing happened. The flame flickered, gasped, and sank.
“Just what I need,” snapped Mercy, dashing a stick to the floor. “It always goes out like that when I’m especially put out. Where did I put the poker? I had it last night, I know I did…”
Elizabeth was not quite sure if Mercy was talking to herself or to Elizabeth, so she refrained from answering and joined in the search for the poker. Mercy’s dejection had given way to frustration, and she slammed things about in a manner that bordered on the frightening. Elizabeth had to rescue a copy of Nicholas Nickleby—Rodney’s, no doubt—from being furiously flung into the wood box. 

~Only a Novel

The toad blinked balefully at Isabelle, who regarded it with a mixture of fascination and disgust. “Does it bite?”

“Only clowns,” said Rodney solemnly. “Are you a clown?”

“No.”

“Good. Then you can hold him.” Rodney held out the toad, who closed his eyes and pretended that Isabelle was not there. Isabelle recoiled.

“Put that toad down at once, Rodney, if you don’t wish to be bit,” scolded Mercy. “I declare, if that toad finds clowns to his taste, your hand is in mortal danger.”

~Only a Novel

It’s quite cold and rainy and dreary here, Lavinia. You must be enjoying the sun and warmth of southern Italy. I assume you must be in Italy by now, which is why I am sending this letter to the address you provided earlier. If you are indeed in Italy, you are reading the letter—if you are not in Italy, you won’t have received the letter. Therefore you won’t be reading this letter at all, and I needn’t have said that last bit.  Oh, dear, I’ve been reading far too much Alice in Wonderland to the children, and I’m afraid it has sadly muddled my logic. 

~Only a Novel

Ismelda’s eyebrows had been creeping closer and closer toward each other as Phoebe spoke, and now they were twisted into what could only be called a scowl. “You’re rooming with Maeve Alistair? That’s impossible because I room with Maeve Alistair.”
Phoebe swallowed. “Oh. Oh, I see. Er—well—perhaps there’s some mistake.”
Ismelda scowled harder. Not only had this new girl trumped Ismelda in mathematics all morning long, but now she was also taking away Ismelda’s room--and her roommate--, and on top of that she did not appear to be quite the brightest crayon in the box.

~It's Thursday Again

“A new pupil? Another one? But why so late in the year?” Phoebe was almost running to keep up with Ismelda.
“Oh, well, they’re always late. The scholarship students, I mean.”
Phoebe flushed. “I’m a scholarship student,” she said.
“So am I,” said Ismelda breezily. 
Maeve came to Phoebe’s rescue. “She doesn’t mean that scholarship students are, in general, late for things. When a student comes here on a scholarship, it usually takes a while to get all the paperwork straightened out, with applications and whatnot. So scholarship students generally come after the school year has already started. You were one of the early ones—we’d only been in session two weeks when you came.”
“What she said,” said Ismelda.

~It's Thursday Again

Emily gave an immense yawn. “I dreamed last night that we went to a family reunion and I showed up in my pajamas.”
“Thank you for sharing that vital bit of information.” Alice swept the cream pitcher out of Mark’s reach with an enough-is-enough look.
“I was the only one who noticed, though,” said Emily placidly, “so it was okay.”

~Untitled W.I.P.

Snippets of Story - February 2012

I encourage you all to join in Katie's Snippets of Story event at Whisperings of the Pen!  If you'd like to find out more about it, go here.  I don't know if I'll participate in this every month, but I thought I'd give it try, at least for the first time.  Looks like fun!


(By the way, most of these snippets are coming from my NaNoWriMo story, Only A Novel, which was formerly titled What Would Elizabeth Bennet Do?)




There is something about snow that makes everyone discard his or her dignity and just enjoy the moment. Elizabeth knew perfectly well that it was not proper for a governess to be running around the garden with her charges, (hadn’t she gotten in some trouble for running a couple of months ago?) chasing snowflakes and shrieking with laughter, but for the time being she did not care. Not the least, tiniest bit.
~Only A Novel


She had only just crossed the threshold into the dining room when a hoarse, harsh cry split the air and Mr. Crimp’s dreadful, rusty red parrot came diving at her head.
Elizabeth screamed. She hated to scream, and did it only under the most trying circumstances. This, she felt later, was a circumstance deserving of a good healthy shriek. She was not alone in her screaming; Isabelle was treating the company to a demonstration of her lungpower, and Mrs. Crimp was making unearthly squeaking noises as the parrot dove around the room.
Elizabeth, her heart pounding nearly in her throat (something she had always read of in novels, but had never before thought to be physiologically possible) covered her head with both her hands and shrank back against the doorframe in a very cowardly manner. She later made excuses for herself (to herself), saying that if the bird had managed to entangle itself in her hair, she would have laid down on the floor and died. 
Which would not have been a dignified thing to do.
~Only A Novel


Elizabeth searched under her table, under her bed, under her pillow, under her lamp, behind her ear and finally under Lavinia’s letter until she found her pen. It had been under Lavinia’s letter. Naturally, whenever she lost something she always found it in the last place she had looked. 
Well, of course the last place she had looked had been the place she had found it, for after she found it she need not look for it any more.
Though geometry had been one of her best subjects, logic had never been her strong point, and she returned to her page with her head in a bit of a muddle.
~Only A Novel


They pulled to a stop at an intersection. Elizabeth pulled her head back into the brougham and straightened her hat. Wisps were already escaping from her French twist, and she had been so proud of it only an hour ago. It was no light feat to do one’s own hair so prettily without even Jenny’s help. But the wind rushing past the window had no regard for her hard work and, indeed, seemed to scorn it.
~Only A Novel


“LaVEENia, darling,” squealed the tallest of the group, a sallow-faced young woman attired in an unflattering shade of gold. “How lovely to see you, you look simply lovely, darling, and who is this lovely little friend of yours, how lovely to meet you, you sweet thing!”
Elizabeth, who did not particularly relish being dubbed a sweet thing, politely took the young lady’s hand and shot Lavinia a beseeching look.
~Only A Novel


“And may I introduce,” said Lavinia quickly, “Miss Vivian Applethwaite, Miss Annette Pickering—my dear friend Miss Elizabeth Markette.”
“Delighted,” said Miss Applethwaite.
“Charmed,” said Miss Pickering.
Elizabeth sought for a synonym. “Enraptured,” she said solemnly, shaking hands all around.
~Only A Novel


With great effort, Miss Ballantyne managed to squeeze out two or three tears. Usually the tears were quite effective, but today her friends--and even her sister--seemed made of stone. She offered another injured sniff. In honor of the day, she was wearing her best black bombazine, the one trimmed with delicate fluting all around the waist and hem... so tasteful and so appropriate to the memory of poor dear Humphrey. And yet no one had complimented her on it, nor even seemed to notice how well the fine black material set off her complexion. She had always looked well in black.
~Untitled Story for Rachel's Contest


Miss Waxington drank tea and coffee—in the same cup—every morning for breakfast, and the other teachers were so polite that they never said anything about it to her. The students were not so polite, but they were so in awe of their teachers that they never said anything to Miss Waxington either.
~It's Thursday Again


In the mathematics classroom, Miss Box rapped firmly on the table. “Young ladies, may I introduce to your our newest pupil,” she said.
“Good morning Miss Box,” droned the students. Then they realized that she had not said “Good morning, class,” and they looked at each other sheepishly.
~It's Thursday Again


“Of all the dreadful, rude, insufferable creatures I have ever met in all my life, Annette Pickering is the worst. Don’t try to think of anything nice to say about her, Elizabeth, you’ll only hurt your brain.” If Lavinia could be said to plop, she would have plopped onto her chaise longue. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Mother, of course. Thank you for not saying anything when I lied through my teeth at dinner and told Mother we had a perfectly lovely tea. I can always count on you, Lizzie.”
~Only A Novel