A Twist of Rotten Silk

Sketch From the Country #1

2009-01-23T12:52:00.011-05:00

Moving to the country a few years back was one of the best things we've ever done, but it was also a cultural shock, reminiscent of the book Funny Farm. The difference is that the deer on our land pass across the lower valley of their own accord and the people are, for the most part, genuinely friendly. We never had to pay them to be nice to us. (Okay, we paid them once, but it was the only way we could eat our dinner in peace.)

Our local general store, three miles up the road, is a hangout for all the old men hereabouts. It's a typical white-framed building with all the usual signs for Coca Cola and cigarettes. There is one very large sign outside, one of those signs where you can change the words yourself by sliding letters and numbers across slatted rows. It reads gas, cigarettes, lottery, live bats and acks. After seeing they actually sold live bats and acks, I was curious and dying to know what an ack was. After all, the sign had been there for years and ... well, okay, I was being a smart ass.

"I'd like to buy some live bats and an ack," I said.

The man behind the counter is usually grumpy and I never know what to expect. He is short, perhaps 5'.4" and just as wide. I interrupted his breakfast of canned stew and potato chips. "We don't have any bats. You might try the hardware store for an ack," he said. "Chopping firewood in this weather?" The stew dribbled onto one of his chins and bits of potato chip fell out of his mouth as he spoke.

I smiled. Was it condescending? I couldn't help it. "I don't really want live bats. I'm just pointing out the sign. It reads 'live bats' and 'acks'."

"Oh, that. Well everybody knows it's live bait and snacks. What else could it be?"

"Live bats, of course." He looked at me strangely and wished I'd hurry up and leave. I can tell these things, you know.

"Well, I know somebody who traps 'em." he said. "Name's Henry and he usually comes in on Wednesdays. But can't help you with the ack."

"I don't want it really. It's just that sign," I said. I must leave here as quickly as possible.

"Is it broke?"

"No, it just needs adjusting." Enough now. Be polite and leave.

"What for? Everybody knows what it says."

"Thank you." I said. Well, what else could I say? "Uh ... have a good day." Found something.

"Yea, take care, eh. I'll tell Henry you been lookin' for him."

"Um." I didn't finish the thought. I can only hope he didn't see me roll my eyes as I left.

A few days later, I had to nip in there again. I forgot it was Wednesday. The little bell jingled above the door as I entered and the saggy eyes of six old men were upon me. "Oh here's the lady looking for the bats, Henry." said the shopkeeper.

"Good morning," I said. I was instantly reminded of a typical old general store in the old west. "All you need in here is a barrel full of pickles, a wood stove and all you gentlemen smoking corn cob pipes."

"Oh, there's no smoking in here," he said.

Now, I don't want to sound smug, but really? "I'm kidding. Just the milk, thank you." I just wanted to leave and never come back.

"What you want with all those bats?" said who I presumed was Henry.

"I don't want any bats." I said. I really, really just want to leave. "I think there's been a misunderstanding."

"Heh, Bob. I got a box full of bats in the truck freezin' their n!ts off."

"Lady, you said you wanted bats." Bob turned to me. Seems I put him in an awkward situation.

I was becoming more than a little uncomfortable and more than a little irritated. My husband always says I'm way too friendly with strange ... I mean, strangers. "It was a joke. I was making fun of your sign."

"There's nothing wrong with that sign." said Bob. As he spoke a middle-aged woman came into the store. She was out of breath and panting as Bob pulled what I presumed was her usual cigarette brand off the shelf.

"What's up, Bob?" she asked.

"Nothin' much, but do you see anything wrong with that sign?" He pointed out the window and all the old men got up to follow his finger. I stood there with my hand on the door handle.

"Nope," she said and they all nodded in agreement.

"But ... but it says live bats and acks. How can you not see that?" Why was I still there?

The woman looked at me like she was ready to pounce. Nobody messes with Bob. "But everybody knows Bob sells live bait."

I smiled at them as I left. I know it was my best patronizing smile, the one I pull out to hide my shame. I don't shop at Bob's General Store anymore. The other is fourteen miles in the other direction. And even though the other store sells "oca ola," I've never felt the need to try it. It's for the best. The next closet convenient store is thirty miles away.

(names changed to protect the locals)

2009

2009-01-12T22:05:00.002-05:00

I can't believe it's been a year since I posted anything. So much for that "discipline/diligence " thingy among my 2008 resolutions. Nevertheless, it's in this years mental list as well.

Still busy with revisions of my 2007 Nano novel and I'm hoping it'll be ready for beta readers by the end of 2009, hopefully before with discipline and diligence. I enjoy this part -- playing with phrases, moving this to there and that to here.

Haven't come up with a decent title yet though. A Twist of Rotten Silk is the working title for my witch wip. This one? Haven't a clue. My MC's name is Swithun, born on St. Swithun's Day. I was considering Swithun's Day for a title, but ick. Too ... something. Charming, perhaps? I like coming up with titles, but this has me stumped

A Snippet from A Twist of Rotten Silk

2008-01-21T22:13:00.002-05:00

I actually put this novel away for a bit. It lost its muse somehow, but I pulled it out tonight for a look/see and made a few edits here and there. I miss her. Anyway, Beth over in Books and Writers is going to be doing a workshop on metaphor and imagery. I wondered if I had anything. I think this may fit, especially the last paragraph. Must scrounge up some others.

A Twist of Rotten Silk copyright L. Syratt 2007-2008
(my old witch wip) (unfinished and in first draft)

The path to the stream wound like a serpent through the forest. Every bend glowed with torches of twisted rush, smoking with pig's grease. A mist was rising, moving across the forest floor like fairy dancers, changing shapes with every gust of wind. I shivered like a child afraid of the dark and squeezed William's hand as we walked.

I wanted to tell him I wasn't gripped by fear of the dark. Darkness kept no secrets from me. I was gripped by memory and the sudden chill of that remembering. There was still so much I hadn't told him.

I found myself thinking of Mary again, pulling from my memory all the wretched things she said to me in that cell, the constant bray and cackle of her bitterness. “No man will ever want you lass. Look at you, so full of ruts and ridges. They'd as soon spit on you than touch you.”

Some things from those years I'd forgotten, but memory is a mystic thing – always showing itself when you'd rather it didn't. It doesn't allow indolence. It is raw and bloody with a shrill voice. And there, on that serpentine path, I was haunted with it, listening attentively as it slithered behind us.

John O'Donohue Rest in Peace

2008-01-16T15:31:00.000-05:00

John O'Donohue 1954-2008

I was listening CBC radio on Sunday, during a three-hour drive across to northern edge of Lake Ontario. CBC is always good company. It was a Tapestry interview with John O'Donohue, ex-priest, philosopher, theologian, poet and lovely speaker. You can hear the interview on podcast. I'm not catholic, but couldn't help but be awed. He had a wonderful view of life, lovely. He said there is a part of every man's /woman's soul that is pure and good, innocent of the ugliness we see in the world and the ugliness in our own lives, free of the mistakes we've made, the guilt we feel. He said this is the place to go to when you need to feel that purity and beauty. Oh, the things he talked about. His voice was a choir and his words were poetry. Sadly, John O'Donohue died two weeks ago at the age of 53. I wish I'd known him.

‘I would love to live

Like a river flows

Carried by the surprise

Of its own unfolding.’

John O'Donohue

Inspired ... I write the post below.

The Garden in Winter

2008-01-16T10:50:00.000-05:00

I resolve to find beauty everyday, to read a poem or write a poem, for that matter. I resolve to see with my heart and not just my eyes. Beauty hides itself in anything, everything. The guttural giggle of an infant. The words "I love you" from a parent, partner, sibling or friend. The way the sky looks on a stormy day and the way we feel when a song brings tears to our eyes.

This morning, I woke to see the frost dripping from every bare branch and clinging leaf. The winter garden is beautiful even without the pinks of gallica and damask. We have those rosettes in the icicles dripping from branches of feathery tamarisk and lilac. We have the naked shapes of things poking up through the protection of snow. The winter garden has its own magic, changing with the years and every snowfall and thaw. Always a wonder. No footprints mar the perfection this snow brings. It is preserved, pristine and crisp like freshly-ironed linen. Smooth as the thick petals of a summer lily.

I finished!

2007-11-30T19:02:00.000-05:00

Yay, it's over and Yay, I finished NaNoWriMo. It's an awful mess. Needs a ton of work, but it's a fair beginning and I like the story. Can't wait to get at the first proper writing of it. I can't even think of this as a first draft. It's too dreadful and not even fit for my eyes, but wow....that took discipline, I didn't know I had. What an exercise. Oh and this is the first novel, I've actually finished. Doesn't matter that it's awful, but the finishing is a big deal to me. And Beth, if you happen to be reading this...thank you for the mantra. "Finish something, so you know you can." I can't remember who you got it from ... Eve, was it? Anyway, it help push me along.

Rebecca

2007-11-03T19:10:00.000-04:00

My favorite novel. I must have read it a dozen time over the years. Not for the melodrama, however, and it was certainly melodramatic, but for the writing and the lovely words and phrases Daphne Du Maurier put to the page. I actually swoon when I read such wordiness. It stuns me.

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive, and for a while I could not enter for the way was barred to me. There was a padlock and chain upon the gate. I called in my dream to the lodge keeper, and had no answer, and peering closer through the rusted spokes of the gate I saw the lodge was uninhabited.

No smoke came from the chimney, and the little lattice windows gaped forlorn. Then, like all dreamers, I was possessed of a sudden with supernatural powers and passed like a spirit through the barrier before me.

And later....

There was Manderley, our Manderley, secretive and silent as it had always been, the grey stone shining in the moonlight of my dream, the mullioned windows reflecting the green lawns and the terrace. Time could not wreck the perfect symmetry of those walls, nor the site itself, a jewel in the hollow of a hand.

And then there is the first paragraph of chapter five....

I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden too, whatever the poets may say. They are not brave, the days when we are twenty-one. ( I love that line) They are full of little cowardice's, little fears without foundation.

Oh, I do love her writing. She was a master mood-setter.

At Sixteen

2007-11-02T11:39:00.001-04:00

When I was a teenager back in the sixties, I started to write my first novel. The Gothic romance genre was huge and I loved reading them. They all worked on a similar theme - a governess in some sort of peril in an old spooky mansion or castle in England. They were soooo bad, but also an enjoyable read. Phrases like "I felt the earl breathing on my neck and turned to find no one there"(eyelids flapping). Oh the melodrama. Oh the mood. I absolutely adored them. They all followed the same recipe - young girl, usually orphaned, of a good, but not wealthy family, leaves her home to become a governess to the children of a rich and widowed lord. The pictures on the book cover were all pretty much the same and easily picked out. There was always a beautiful girl, dressed in 19th century garb, running terrified into the night, away from the mansion or castle. It was dark and there was always ... I mean always, the yellow glow of candlelight illuminating one of the turreted windows.

My own novel was titled The Hour Glass and much to my astonishment, it recently turned up in a box of old papers I hadn't seen in years.

Here's the beginning. Don't laugh ... unless you feel you must. After all, it was written by a young girl who really, really tried. I mean, really tried ... tried too much.

My days in this life have passed quickly and I have aged into an invaluable antique. After all these twisted years, time has finally shattered it's glass (Oddly enough, I still love metaphor) in my garden and the one-thousand particles of sand are slowly disappearing into the soil as inane trespassers. I feel a strange awareness that soon I will be dead. No, not dead ... just gone and my house and possessions will leave with me. No trace of my existence will remain, but somewhere in this wooded lot, an hour glass will sit amongst the fallen trees, waiting patiently for another decade, another century, another victim of this madness. The day's sky is abounding with hazy wintry clouds, so I must tell my story quickly before the snow falls and washes away my last hopes and dreams. Makes absolutely no sense at all, but there is a slight glimmer of a premise and at the time of writing, I'm sure I thought it was the best beginning ever written in the history of best beginnings. I have no idea what the rest of the story entailed or would entail as it wasn't finished, but the next paragraph started like this (and it actually gets worse here).

I remember the year was '32 (I know, but I wrote '32 instead of) and some time in February. Yes, I'm sure it was February. Everything always happens to me in February.......

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Also, I might add, I proudly received my first rejection letter at that age. A poem to Seventeen Magazine. So writing, it seems, was something I always wanted to do. Good or bad, doesn't matter. It's the doing, that does.

NaNoWriMo Daily Journal

2007-11-01T12:52:00.000-04:00

Day One
1800 words in three hours. Surprising how quickly it moves when you make very few corrections as you go. (And I remembered to hit spell-check) The writing style, as it turns out, is very tongue-it-cheek, but I had a gooood time. Enough for the first day.

Prologue opening....
I died. It was the hottest day in September of 1723, and one of the last things I remember was feeling faint as I climbed the stairs to the drop. Beads of perspiration rolled down my cheeks and dripped like candle wax onto the wood floor. I remember staring down at the wet-speckled planks, asking for a cloth to wipe my face. Strange I should think it bothersome when I was about to die.

Well, we're going for quantity with this challenge, not quality. If I were critiquing, the first thing I'd say is, I used the word remember twice in the same paragraph. Also, the second line is a bit too much like "It was a dark and stormy night". I mustn't fix though. The idea is not to.

Day Two
2423 words today. So far, I've not given up the ghost. Itching to rewrite what's written. It's all I can do to stop myself.

A line from wip.....
...tall stalks of oats and barley, heavily laden with water, dripping and bent low like mourners in the kirkyard...

Day Three
1859 words today. The story is moving. A mystery has appeared. Moved on to chapter two with the plot starting to show itself. I've got no log line and I've done no plotting outline for this. Just want to see what happens as it happens.

Some lines from wip...
She stared up at the low beams crossing the ceiling, hand-hewn by her great-grandfather – thick with layers of bees wax, richly oiled and cared for with the passage of time. His marks. His hands.

Day Four
1969 words today. Hard slog today and I'm not happy with much of it at all. Tired. Maybe it has something to do with the clocks going back. I guess part of this exercise is to force yourself to write even when you're really not buzzed to. So today's efforts were certainly quantity over quality for the most part.

some lines from wip...
(five year old son just fell in the midden)

“What a mess you are boy and you stink.” she said. Margaret held her nose away, trying not to smell the odor emanating from his clothes. “There's nothing for it but to strip down and have a dunk in the pond.”

“It's too cold mama. I'll die of kinsumpton.”

“If there is such a thing as kinsumpton, well you could, but since there isn't, I don't see it a possibility. A quick scrub-down and we'll have you in the house warming by the fire.” She grabbed the shoulder of his jacket with two fingers and led him to the pond. “Oh, you do get into messes at the farm, lad.”

“Liliana's mummy died of kinsumpton. Liliana told me herself. You know, I really do feel it coming on Mama. I am ailing since the midden.” He stuck his hand to his forehead. “Are you sure there's no such thing as kinsumpton, because Liliana is two years older than me and she is very wise. She told me so.”

“And I'm much older and wiser than you both, so who are you going to listen to?”

They reached the pond and he removed his clothes and quickly jumped into the water, continuing to speak through chattering teeth. “Well, all I have to say is, if I do die of kinsumpton, I don't want you to feel sorry. You were a good mother in many ways."

Day Five
2132 words today. Don't know how I managed it. Spent most of the day on an exercise in the Book and Writer's Community Forum and about four hours on todays Nano words.

little snippet sent with tired eyes.... and posting this one because I love the last historical phrase used in the time period.

He handed him his mug of hot cider. Ephram looked at his mother as if to ask permission and she nodded. “What do you say to the kind gentleman?”

“Thank you m'lord.” The mug was much bigger than his little hand and he used both to hold it, struggling with it's weight.

“Your servant, laddie”

“Your servant, sir.”

Day Six
2350 words today. Mostly dialogue bits, but I also managed to get the story plotted, which is good. There's going to be a lot of research next month when I start the rewrites. Lots of brackets and question marks and "remember to check this" notes. I do like the story though. I hoped it would show itself and it has.

Day Seven
3002 words today. Reworked story line a bit. Changed setting from Edinburgh to London, because I have a better knowledge of the city during this time period and I know very little about Edinburgh in any period. No time for research. It's kind of a race against the clock. This thing is getting messy. Oh my God, the editing it needs. I've got too much untagged dialogue, not enough internals, the pov switches are ridiculous. My MC is a dullard. She didn't start out that way. It's the hurrying, I think. Getting it down without playing with much isn't my style. Normally I take my time working on a simple line or phrase, getting is just so. But I promised myself, I'd keep writing no matter what and just treat it like a very rough overly long summary with some reasonable bits to work with. I can just melt into it when the month is over and I'm looking forward to the first rewrite ... breaking it down and making it make sense with all the pretty, shiny bits I so miss. I think I'll read some poetry tonight. I need something pretty to read.

Day Eight
1478 words today. Slowed down a bit. Hope I can pick it up tomorrow. Too many interruptions and things that couldn't wait.

Day Nine
986 words today. Spent most of the day working on character sketches, histories, backgrounds etc., so didn't get a great deal written. Woke up thinking about the crap I've put to the pages and wondering if a race is really a helpful exercise, because it is a race. How helpful is it though, when you write crap and you know it's crap? How does continuing to write said crap motivate you write more crap, if that makes any sense? Got myself a mantra yesterday from Beth at Books and Writer's Community. "Finish something, so you know you can." (Wasn't written for me especially, but I knew I had to take it as my own while I'm doing this) I especially need this mantra now, when I just want to burn what I've got thus far. But, I remind myself again, for this exercise, I'm more interested in story. I knew from the start, it would have no "pretty, shiny" bits. I need to cut the crap ... I mean let it go. So, I'll finish it, ignoring the crappy bits, even the ones that no longer have any relationship to the story because the story has changed so much. I'm hoping to reach 50,000 by the 27th so I can clean it up a bit, not that anyone will read it, but I'd only be cheating myself if I padded it with the crap before sending it for the word count to be verified. I just don't want to look back yet. I know I'll throw in the towel if I do. I'll stop whining now.

Day Ten
day of rest with some research

Day Eleven
day of excuses

Day Twelve
520 words

Day Thirteen
1488 words today. Need to pick it up.

Day Fourteen
2357 words today. Story is moving. It's still crap, very rough and very muddled, but I see the light at the end of the tunnel as I'm on schedule and almost at the half-way mark. And I do like the story. To write a novel in a month, you at least have to like the story. If I didn't, I'd quit now. Writing crap for the sake of writing is no exercise. I could write in, it, in, on, for, so, and, off, or and at 5000 times and it would be the same thing. The repair work will be fun. I've passed over huge chunks of important bits, but it's only 50k words, so there's lots to do when this is over.

Day Fifteen ... Half-Way Day
1730 words today and about 900 short of where I should be on this day. No bad though ... well in terms of word count. Not whining today. "Finish something, so you know you can." Also, I don't see this as a first draft. It's kind of a pre first-draft.

Day Sixteen
Away

Day Seventeen
Away

Day Eighteen
Away

Day Nineteen
Home but with migrane, so no writing. Urgh! Visited my sisters who both live in lake country. Something about the air pressure over large lakes. Get a nasty one 7 out 10 visits.

Day Twenty
Home but no writing. Over the migrane, but very draining.

Day Twenty-One
Up by 1561 words today, but I actually wrote 3291 words. Opened my file this am to find everything I wrote on thursday was gone. I suppose I didn't hit the save button, but probably hit disgard instead. Normally, I'd kick the computer moniter, but I was strangely calm about it, probably because I'm not proud of the words anyway. I've been writing like mad trying to make up for the days away and the 1730 words I lost. Um .... oh, drat! That's the best I can do.

Oh dear, I just realized I have nine days left. I need to write 2700 words a day or more, if I'm going to finish this thing. I did 3300 today, so I know I can manage this, but so much for finishing early.

"Finish something so you know you can." I have this pasted onto the monitor. It's so simple. Just finish it.

Day Twenty-Two
2467 words today. Need to pick it up.

Day Twenty-Three
3232 words today and I actually like some of the writing for a change. That light is getting brighter.

Day Twenty-four
3556 words today with only six days left. Ouch!

Day Twenty - Five
1435 words today. Five days left. Too many interuptions. 13,653 words to go.

Day Twenty-six
3679 words today. Hard slog, but I needed it. Lost about 6 six days this month and I was determined to hit 40,000 today. 9974 words to go with four days left. The writing is still dreadful, but heh.

Day Twenty-Seven
3994 words today. Getting closer.

Day Twenty-Eight
Computer bit the dust today. OMG. Main board died. Had to quickly buy another computer. No words this day. A day for hand-wringing. So close.

Day Twenty-Nine
3236 words today. One more day and not too bad afterall. Almost done.
3064 also. Somewhere, I've miscalculated. Must have been one of those days I thought I was away. I don't add to the diary everyday, usually the next morning before I start, so I messed up somewhere. The tally to date, however, is accurate according to office suite 3.

Day Thirty
3751 words and it's done, fin, the end. Awful. Awful. Awful, but I finished.

Spelling Evils

2007-10-31T11:30:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking a lot about spelling this past week. I'm irritated when I read misspelled words, but I'm thoroughly humiliated when I misspell words and those words go off into the world for all to see and there is nothing I can do about it. So, since those words are already out there in the world, here are my thoughts. I make no apologies for the misspelling, however. The terrible deed is done.

When I'm writing, I get into a kind of zone. I don't think about the spelling, just getting those words to page.

there becomes their
they're becomes their
you're becomes your and so on.

I need to remember to hit the grammar button in Office Suite. It'll point out these "words often misspelled" and I can read them in context to make sure. Now, I know how to use these simple words. The misuse is ridiculous, but I do it time and time again and I can't fathom why. I hurry. I type before thinking. I know better. I can easily see the errors in other people's writings, but I'm blind to my own. I'm not illiterate. That's all I have so far.

When I'm in that zone, I don't bother to look words up. I just spell them phonetically, because I just can't stop now, so feces becomes fecis (I've never actually written that word in my life. I mean, shit is shit, no matter what way you look at it.) and tome (book or manuscript) becomes tomb (the place where all the bodies are buried) etc. I always intend to check "later", but nine times out of ten, I forget.

Need to train myself to watch this....maybe try to remember to stick brackets or question marks to the words I'm not sure of. Copy-edit more carefully, rather than rush it through.

I've kicked myself so many times this week and it hurt, bruised ego for life...well, for a little while. It's just spelling.

Hitting spell-check now.

National Novel Writing Month

2007-10-30T18:41:00.000-04:00

I'm very impulsive in the morning and found myself signing up for NaNoWriMo It was like my mouse was working against me, filling in all the blanks on the sign-up page. I was half-way through my first cuppa and I just don't think I had anything to do with it. Somehow, I've committed to write a 50,000 word novel in one month.

I've put away A Twist of Rotten Silk for a bit. It/I need a rest. My NaNoWriMo novel is stuck with the ridiculous title of The Ropemaker's Friend or the Remarkable Adventures of Half-Hangit Maggie With the Story of her Life, Death and Life Again Found Herein, long and typical of the novels of the period. Well, it doesn't have to be my Mona Lisa - just has to be words to page. Gee, I wonder if the title counts in the final word count.

I look at it this way. 50,000 words is half the average-sized novel, so I've decided to see it as a very long summary, sans all the pretty shiny bits. If it turns out, I like the story, I can have fun adding the pretty shiny bits later.

Now to stock up on a months worth of food, hire a maid and fill the fridge with Red Bull. (I'm not sure what Red Bull is, but I hear it'll keep me awake.

Breast Reduction in 1694

2007-10-30T18:13:00.000-04:00

I was searching for info regarding the transportation of women to the colonies in the 17th century and came across a snippet about a book printed by John Dunton at the Raven in the Poultry in 1694. It is titled The Ladies Dictionary, Being a General Entertainment For the Fair Sex: A Work Never attempted before in Englifh (err, English).

It was the cosmo of the day with info on exercise, diet, reading, wobbly bits, make-up, dating, prostitution and adultery.

Written by a man they think, but with initials NM as the author, so I don't know how they know that.

Here's a sampling. Wish I had the whole book, but it sold for $9500. Cdn.

BREAST REDUCTION
Breasts that "hang loose, and are of an extraordinary largeness, lose their charms, and have their beauty burried in the grave of uncomliness". To reduce them, bind for several nights, coat with a mixture of seeds, then wash with white wine and rose water.

MAKE-UP
"A painted face is enough to destroy the Reputation of her that uses it."

READING
"It is not necessary to read many Books, but to read the best. The forbidding of idle books makes young people more curious to read them."

SEX
"Is it proper for a Woman to yield at the first address, though to a man she love? You'll get better Conditions if the Enemy does not know how weak you are within."

ADULTERY
Women are warned not to be tempted due to "dangerous consequences" and "dishonour it puts on your Sex". On prostitution, he says it "causes a man to spend silver for flesh, till he becomes so lank that his legs are scarce able to support their late master".

EXERCISE & DIET
Diet advice includes taking vigorous exercise before meals. The author also suggests not eating "any thing that is very Salt, Sharp, Bitter or too Hot, but let your Food be Sweet and nourishing". He recommends: "New Eggs, Veal, Mutton, Capon."

LOSING WEIGHT
Re "fatty lumps", the author says: "Bodies sometimes fall away in one part, and not in another." To combat this, take "Oyl of Foxes, Capons Grease, and Goose Grease" with "Pine, Rosin, and Turpentine". Boil with "Virgins-Wax" and plaster on to the body.

The only thing I have to ask is what is Virgins-Wax?

Ahh! not what one would think.....

From British History Online

Virgin wax[virgins-wax; virgin's wax; virgins wax; virgin ditto]Originally fresh, new or unused BEES WAX, sometimes that produced by the first swarm of BEES; in later and more general use, a purified or fine quality of WAX, especially as used in the making of CANDLES. In the latter sense WHITE BEES WAX.OED earliest date of use: 13--Found in units of DRACHM, LB, OZ, PENNYworthSee also WHITE WAX. Sources: Inventories (mid-period), Recipes, Tradecards.
From: 'Viol - Vizard mask', Dictionary of Traded Goods and Commodities, 1550-1820

The Romance of Lichen on Boulders in Relationship to History

2007-09-24T13:52:00.000-04:00

When Dave the Cat took me for a walk this morning, he sat on a large boulder in a field by our drive. This boulder is gigantic, worn by the weather of millions of years, full of cracks where plants have taken root. There is even a juniper starting to grow from one of these cracks and there is, here and there, the dried up spongy green moss, brown now, at least until we get a rain when it will spring to life again. There is also a small crust of orange lichen. I was reading a while back, this particular lichen is very slow growing - takes about one hundred years just to grow a square inch. By my rough visual reckoning, I date this to about 1660. This lichen was starting to grow when Charles 11 was restored to the throne, during the plague in London and the Great Fire. The old London Bridge still existed with the tarred heads of traitors and highwaymen stuck on posts above the gate at Southwark. This is the time and place of my novel. The real Jonet Howat was presumbably freed from the tollbooth cell in 1663. Two years earlier, her mother, also accused of witchcraft in Forfar, Scotland was executed. All this happened when 3000 miles across the sea in a largely undiscovered wilderness the lichen on a boulder in my field was starting to grow. It doesn't mean anything. In the mornings, I think too much and dwell on things like the romance of lichen on boulders in relationship to history. Just sayin'.

The True Story

2007-09-22T11:12:00.000-04:00

I'm writing fiction, but if you want to read the true story of the Forfar Witches there is plenty of info on the net and one book by a Forfar historian.

The Plausibility Factor (thinking out loud)

2007-09-22T10:02:00.000-04:00

I have my protagonist as a Shakespeare quotin', intelligent, witty, stubborn young women living in the 17th Century. However, from the age of thirteen to seventeen, she was in a tollbooth cell in Forfar, Scotland, having been accused of witchcraft. Her mother, among others, was executed - strangled and burnt to ashes in a barrel of tar. Now, how do I make this character a Shakespeare quotin', intelligent, witty, stubborn young women? Is is plausible considering this history? Well, I don't know. Certainly good writing can make it so, but for a first novel, am I asking too much of myself? I'm stalled.

How do I make myself believe my character? Oh, I can justify how she knows Shakespeare. I can justify her intelligence and wit. But would she have those traits? Four years is a hell of a long time for a young girl. She lost most of her youth to a dark cell. She would be malnourished among other things - certainly that could affect her thinking.

Hmm, second-guessing is painful. I have to fix this.

Blog Beginnings

2007-09-15T14:32:00.000-04:00

I'm writing a novel. I can actually say it now and mean it. I wrote a prologue a year ago, hoping it would take me somewhere. It didn't, but I was happy with the prose regardless. So, not wanting to give up again, I wrote the first chapter and it stalled too. In the words of Miss O'Hara, "Where will I go? What will I do?"

I joined a writer's community and I can't tell you how grateful I am. Turns out, you don't have to write the first chapter first. You can hop about the story like a rabbit, writing scenes anywhere in the wip (work-in-progress). The story begins to tell itself, eventually one scene meeting up with the other, shaking hands and patting each other on the back. It's exhilarating. Some writers call it "writing in chunks" or "chunk writing". When I think of the word chunks, I think about throwing up, so I prefer to call it "writing in fragments". Sits better in my belly.

I can write one thousand words a day or more when Fritz isn't hovering or Dave the Cat isn't sitting on the keyboard. The next several days I'll spend fiddling with the scene, tweaking, editing, preening, adding salt or sugar to taste. I love this part - finding words and phrases to show visuals, emotion, ways to move the story forward by saying a lot or a little. (Less is more) It's the joy of writing and the pleasure of knowing the final result works .... well, works for the moment. Things change however, when you write a scene placed much later in the work and realize you've already said such and such in a scene coming earlier. Now you have to go back and fix such and such to make so and so work, thus urging you to tweak. I love to tweak, so I'm not bothered by these foibles.

Back to the thousand words a day thing. Yes, it's doable. If I just wrote and wrote and worried about the tweaking at the end of the novel, once all the various scenes fused themselves together, I could finish a 100k novel in three months, but it would be really, really bad. Lots of writers do it and don't mess with anything until "The End" is typed at the bottom of the last page. Every writer eventually finds their way. Every writer has a different process and there are no rules, other than owning a copy of Elements of Style by William Strunk Jr. and E. B. White and keeping beside the computer. (No, I have no financial interest in the book, just interest in general )

Therein lieth my first post.