Novel
Blog

Tag: life

  • Winter Weather

    Winter Weather

    As the usually warm south buckles under a second surprise winter weather system (out of California, no less), I can’t help but think of the people of 17th-century England I’ve been writing about, trapped in a lifelong cycle of colder than normal temperatures we know of today as the Little Ice Age. It wasn’t the blast of arctic temps we’re experiencing now, but more of a slow chill that deprived this people of entire summer seasons. It certainly impacted food crops and their agrarian culture to a disastrous level. Even the cod in the ocean migrated south.

    But is their story of political upheaval still worthy of our attention some 400 years later, even as we reap the rewards of their trials? Without the Dissenters standing up to state churches and its related economic system, we would not have the Bill of Rights upon which we so heavily rely for our freedoms today. The discussions that George Fox and George Whitehead dared to introduce to various heads of state helped bring the conscience of a nation to account.

    And all that being said, with what I know from my studies and the inordinate amount of time I spend with my Cockney husband, I am particularly aware of the difference between the English Bill of Rights and our American Bill of Rights.

    England with its two-tiered society still struggles between perceived “rights” of the upper class at the expense of the commoners. It’s shocking to me that there is still a House of Lords and a House of Commons as if the two tiers each require their own representation. We have no Lords in America, and we have no tyranny of one class over another. People today complain about oligarchs, but these monied people exist on both the far left and far right, and while they impact our politics, they don’t get their own legislative body in Washington, DC. Imagine if they did! And yet they do to this day…in England. Evidently the Labour Party is trying to get rid of it. Good luck to them, I say.

    But this entire situation is lost on most Americans. How lucky we are to have our Bill of Rights, and the means by which it shapes us into an independent people. On those grounds I feel as if I must keep working on the story of its inception. Yet at the same time it seems pointless to pursue the unproductive path I was on. Do I crunch it down into tiny bites, make it a daily nibble (if I could draw I’d say a comic strip), or a series of videos that would end up being a jumble in a playlist that would hardly make sense?

    These are my thoughts, if and when I allow myself time to think about this project. I try not to, because a good idea requires hours of writing, which requires hours of personal space, which is in short supply these days…what with the extended flu season and this doubled-down winter that has trapped us indoors. I have time today, thanks to a project Eddie is doing for my daughter, but no guarantee of more time down the road. And we’re preparing to move to a construction site, at which point I will be the only lackey my aged husband has at hand. I fantasize about nipping off to a local library where I can write, even as I know I would worry excessively about what construction-related accident might put him in the hospital.

    I have to laugh at myself as I lament this great tragedy of having no space to write. Some would say I should try harder and barricade myself away. But relationship dynamics and certainly my personal dynamics make me shy of such a move.

    Well. My mother always said, “Slow and steady wins the race.” So with that in mind I suppose I will take the hours I’ve just been given and make hay while the sun still shines.

  • In the Time of Plague

    In the Time of Plague

    It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve written a blog post, and a treacherous ten days of deciding whether to feed or starve this cold or flu, whatever it is. And it’s been eight days since I’ve had the presence of mind to compose anything at all.

    As it happens, it is also time to be thinking about The 1665 Plague of London, a sequel to The Great Plague and a perfect driving force to whip up my story arcs and throw a little danger in the mix.

    Not that I need danger, I think as I blow my nose and grab another hand full of tissues, because my Quaker characters are living in a police state at this point, moving in and out of jail, fighting the good fight and so on. What I really need is to make it sound compelling, to put the reader there in the midst of it all.

    I had threatened to quit in my last blog entry, for lack of time to write. Then as our own mini plague set in at the Lawrence residence I had time to write while Eddie was sleeping late, recovering. I was suddenly inspired with the idea to do what I’ve always done as a reader–skip to the end and see how things go. Sure enough, the scene where Thomas Lightfoot escapes certain death while the prison billows into a conflagration around him was just the ticket. Even when he was up and about Eddie was more help than hindrance with his experience as a firefighter and interest in getting the technical aspects of the scene correct.

    I still have to go back and write the scenes of Charles II’s public and private marriage ceremonies, which promises hours of painfully deep research. Oh if it were only true I could get ChatGPT to write it! But then it would be full of anachronisms.

    In time it will get done. And that will be Part II, the goal of 100,000 words met, and my story only 2/3 complete.

    Sigh… I need to go lie down again.

  • The Monster Within

    The Monster Within

    I recently saw on a history program that Frederick Douglass had a “thinking cabin” the family called The Growlery. One can imagine him stomping straight to his cabin at the end of a hard day in politics and growling away at the walls. He was like so many brilliant creators who have been known for their tempers, especially when they needed privacy to create.

    So I was not surprised to hear this, but I was incredibly jealous. A cabin to go to, and people leave you alone.

    Sometimes I want to scream, “LET ME WRITE!” but my daughter keeps bringing these absolutely delightful foster grandchildren to the house and they can’t be denied. As Bluey teaches us, there will always be another time to watch a game…or to do the actually important things Mum and Dad must do. Ok not really a fan of the spoilt children show, but I do see that there is only a short window of time for toddlers and it must be cherished. Though I did admit the other day I chose writing time over Grandma time.

    And I actually feel a bit bad about that choice on that day, because so far, the folks who promise to read my Chapter 1 (I never ask for more–let Chapter 1 do the heavy lifting of enticing readers if it can), never offer any feedback. Except my sister, who decided to start editing it and then got too busy. Which is probably for the best.

    But as I also mentioned in my Writing in Absentia post, I have a whole 17th century universe in my head. It is an accumulation of researched facts that begs to be shared, and a budding love story, a boy in prison, changes in dynasties, and new worlds, and so on! GAH!

    I did have a desk once. As the primary income earner working remotely, there was always an office somewhere as we flipped our way through houses. But then I retired and I gave away my desk. Instead I’m writing from the comfort of my recliner with a lap desk. The cat tries to worm her way in between me and my laptop, but we have developed a deal where she gets her attention at 4pm. Or did.

    And I say these things in past tense because now I have stopped writing. Period. I am attempting to shed myself of my own love story with my book and my characters, and focus instead on the children and on spending my time with my husband (who to be fair just had a scary thing happen with his heart). And let me be clear for your commiseration that spending time with the hubby means endless hours of television or running errands. Frederick Douglass would have gone mad.

    The creators of Bluey are right; I will not end my days wishing I’d written more. Well…unless somebody reads my Chapter 1 and says, “Oh my gosh this is an incredible story–when are you going to finish it?!” Which might be my dream or my nightmare at this point.

    I must tell you, though, that there is a monster within me, and it’s bloody well uptight.