From Highgate Hill to Kindle
When my mother was a small girl, my grandfather, Charles, stood holding her hand on Highgate Hill. Together they watched one of the first aeroplanes fly overhead. He looked down at Mother and said: ‘Nothing will come of those flying machines.”
Born within the sound of Bow Bells, the eldest of eight children, Charles was a scholarship boy at Westminster Boys School and sang in the choir at Westminster Abbey. Unfortunately, due to his father’s death, Charles had to leave school at the age of fourteen and find a job so that he could help my great-grandmother financially. Nevertheless, he acquired a lifelong love of reading, and I believe he would have been very enthusiastic about Kindle and other such devices.
Grandfather was fortunate to be born in time to benefit from the liberalism of the Prime Minister, Gladstone. Many people were opposed to mass education because they feared it would teach the workers to think for themselves, decide their lives were unsatisfactory and revolt. (The upper classes were always frightened of revolution.) However, the Education Act Reform Bill allowed schools to be set up by the Education Department in any district where provision was either inefficient or suitable; and from 1880 onwards it was compulsory for children to attend school until they were twelve years old.
When there were insufficient schools for the number of children a School Board was created and required to provide elementary education for children from the age of five to twelve.
Although parents had to pay school fees in the Board paid poor children’s fees.
By 1873 40% of the population lived in areas where education was compulsory. Fortunately for my grandparents they both lived in such an area, Charles receiving an excellent education and Annie’s a good one.
Annie’s father had been a rich man but he ‘took to the bottle’ and brought his wife and thirteen children to the ‘breadline.’ My great-grandmother earned a living as a midwife and Annie, her eldest daughter, was expected too help. However, my great-grandmother always found the pennies for her children to go to school but, (almost unbelievable to modern ears) one of Annie’s teacher’s said: ‘Oh, Annie, if you always come to school with a baby strapped to your back, your back will become crooked. Can you imagine what would happen today if a primary school child arrived in her classroom with a baby on her back? Leave aside IT studies, the world of e-books and print on demand, it is obvious there is an enormous gulf between schools for poor children in those days and modern day schools.
Annie valued her rudimentary education, and she always enjoyed reading, as she put it, ‘a good novel’, the more she cried over the sad or heart-touching parts the more she enjoyed it. She wept bucket loads over Little Nell in Dickens Old Curiosity Shop and admired Sir Walter Scot’s hero, Ivanhoe and wept over Rebecca’s unrequited love. Not bad for a child who carried a baby brother or sister on her back to school.
Had Annie been born earlier she might not have attended school until she was twelve years old. I think she would have learned the three r’s at school, but once she mastered the basics great-grandmother would have kept her at home to help. Fortunately, Annie mastered reading, writing and arithmetic, was taught domestic science and enjoyed gymnastics and art and crafts.
Annie could not have imagined future advances in education but I wonder if she valued her schooldays far more than many children do today. In England the powers of schools to expel unruly students have been eroded. Teachers’ means to discipline children have been reduced to the point at which disruptive children regularly prevent the rest of the class from learning. (I am not the only one who thinks that the abolishment of corporal punishment is praiseworthy, but in the United Kingdom teachers should be allowed to restrain violent pupils.
Most of today’s children enjoy far more material benefits than Charles and Annie could have ever hoped to enjoy, but this does not automatically mean their lives are either happier or more enriched. Certainly, good conduct as well as the attainment of academic standards was stressed and valued when Charles and Annie were at school. It was taken for granted that all children – unless they had a learning disability - would be able to read when they left school. I do not have statistics to prove it but believe those children who completed their elementary education unable to read were a tiny minority. Sadly, this is not true today. There are frequent articles in the newspapers and mention on television news broadcasts about children who leave secondary school unable to read at the age of sixteen.
The following gives me an idea as to the basic education Annie received.
The following are the six Standards of Education contained in the Revised code of Regulations, 1872
STANDARD I
Reading One of the narratives next in order after monosyllables in an elementary reading book used in the school.
Writing Copy in manuscript character a line of print, and write from dictation a few common words.
Arithmetic Simple addition and subtraction of numbers of not more than four figures, and the multiplication table to multiplication by six.
STANDARD II
Reading A short paragraph from an elementary reading book.
Writing A sentence from the same book, slowly read once, and then dictated in single words.
Arithmetic The multiplication table, and any simple rule as far as short division (inclusive).
STANDARD III
Reading A short paragraph from a more advanced reading book.
Writing A sentence slowly dictated once by a few words at a time, from the same book.
Arithmetic Long division and compound rules (money).
STANDARD IV
Reading A few lines of poetry or prose, at the choice of the inspector.
Writing A sentence slowly dictated once, by a few words at a time, from a reading book, such as is used in the first class of the school.
Arithmetic Compound rules (common weights and measures).
STANDARD V
Reading A short ordinary paragraph in a newspaper, or other modern narrative.
Writing Another short ordinary paragraph in a newspaper, or other modern narrative, slowly dictated once by a few words at a time.
Arithmetic Practice and bills of parcels.
STANDARD VI
Reading To read with fluency and expression.
Writing A short theme or letter, or an easy paraphrase.
Arithmetic Proportion and fractions (vulgar and decimal).
I assume that my paternal grandparents, George and Florence, were expected to achieve the goals set out above. However, George was a younger member of an old established West Country family of landowners. He received a superior education, enjoyed reading the Bible and studying politics newspapers, magazines and journals. He pasted cuttings about topics of national importance and the First and Second World wars in large leather bound scrapbooks. Yet his country roots always remained with him. By the time he married, he had moved to Kent and owned no more than a large back garden where he enjoyed keeping chickens and grew fruit and vegetables. Possibly, he would not have been deeply interested in computer technology. On the other hand, he might have enjoyed downloading articles, printing them and sticking them into his scrapbooks.
Florence, daughter of an architect, received a reasonable academic education at school, and, at home, a thorough education in deportment, social airs and graces and all matters domestic including sewing. Florence’s skill with the needle was much appreciated; she sewed for herself, her family and for church bazaars. One of my happiest memories is sitting on a stool at her feet stitching bugle beads onto chiffon. ‘Fairy stitches, tiny fairy stitches,’ she used to say to me. Thanks to her, I have always enjoyed sewing and knitting.
Today, ‘liberated’ women have a multitude of modern conveniences, career opportunities, access to television, computers, the world wide web, e-mails, Amazon, kindle etc., but, by and large, are they as contented as my grandmothers, who had the love of good men and took pride in their domestic skills? What, I ask myself, would they have made of modern technology?
In 1902, seven years before my father was born and eight years before my mother was born, the School Boards were abolished and Local Education Authorities replaced them. For the first time, secondary school education to the age of fourteen became compulsory. Would my grandparents have enjoyed further education? Regardless to the answer, I know Charles would have been as amazed by online publishing as he would have been by modern aircraft, although he stood on Highgate Hill with his small daughter’s hand in his and told her: ‘Nothing will come of those flying machines.”
Saturday, 10 September 2011
Saturday, 3 September 2011
How to Critique a Novel or Short Story
How to critique a Novel or Short Story
As the recipient of many critiques and assessments of my work I have sometimes been dismayed by a critiquer’s comments about my novels and short stories. On the other hand, on occasions, a critiquer has been too full of praise instead of suggesting improvements. The best critiques have been a balance between the positive and the negative.
I belong to three online critique groups and Watford Writers, which meets every Monday at Café Cha Cha in Cassiobury Park at 7.30 p.m. Watford Writers hosts manuscript evenings at which members may read their work, whether it is non fiction, short stories, extracts from novels or poetry.
Members of the online critique groups post chapters of their novels and receive critiques in return for critiquing other members’ critiques. In each group members choose four or more partners whose chapters they critique once a month or more. Over the years most members have offered constructive comments. Those who have been negative or who have ‘flamed’ have been a small minority who the moderators have dealt with – occasionally excluding the offender from the group.
Watford Writers are a friendly group whose feedback I find invaluable. No matter how often I read my work silently or out loud from the computer screen or from the printed page I always miss things which need to be improved. Reading my work aloud to an audience helps me to identify problems for myself and to receive good advice from other writers.
In return for other authors’ generous help I always try to offer the best possible advice and bear the following in mind.
To begin with, I concentrate on the positive and ask myself what I like about the author’s work.
I then consider various issues, which I hope will be helpful, and sometimes remind the recipient that the suggestions in any critique only reflects one person’s opinion, and that the recipient is free to accept or reject them.
I ask myself if I enjoyed the story and, in the case of novels, ask myself if I want to read on and find out what happens next. My next question is who would want to read it and does it stand a good chance of being published?
Important considerations are as follow.
Does the first line make the reader want to continue? Do the opening paragraphs grip the readers’ attention? Will the conclusion make the readers sigh with satisfaction and be sorry they have finished the novel?
I then consider and comment on the nuts and bolts of the writing, not forgetting to praise a few particularly well-turned phrases and ask myself the following questions.
Is there sufficient conflict to make the work interesting?
Do the major and minor characters spring to life? Are they believable and do they act in accordance with their personalities with sufficient emotional depth?
Is the plot believable and do the theme/s grip me and make me want to find out what happens next?
Are the settings believable? Has the author checked the world in which the characters move?
If the novel is historical has the author researched it carefully and are the characters of their time?
Is there enough dialogue to move the story forward and is it well written or either awkward or stilted? If the author uses dialect is it believable?
Has the author jumped from one character’s viewpoint to another’s? If so does this make it difficult for the reader to identify with the characters?
Overall is the manuscript well written and is it properly formatted.
In my critique I make everything I like clear and also answer the above questions to the best of my ability.
Most of my critique partners tell me they appreciate my critiques so, thank goodness, I must be doing something right.
****
Forthcoming releases from MuseItUp Publishing
Tangled Love set in England in Queen Anne’s reign 27.01.2012
Sunday’s Child set in the Regency era June.2012
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
As the recipient of many critiques and assessments of my work I have sometimes been dismayed by a critiquer’s comments about my novels and short stories. On the other hand, on occasions, a critiquer has been too full of praise instead of suggesting improvements. The best critiques have been a balance between the positive and the negative.
I belong to three online critique groups and Watford Writers, which meets every Monday at Café Cha Cha in Cassiobury Park at 7.30 p.m. Watford Writers hosts manuscript evenings at which members may read their work, whether it is non fiction, short stories, extracts from novels or poetry.
Members of the online critique groups post chapters of their novels and receive critiques in return for critiquing other members’ critiques. In each group members choose four or more partners whose chapters they critique once a month or more. Over the years most members have offered constructive comments. Those who have been negative or who have ‘flamed’ have been a small minority who the moderators have dealt with – occasionally excluding the offender from the group.
Watford Writers are a friendly group whose feedback I find invaluable. No matter how often I read my work silently or out loud from the computer screen or from the printed page I always miss things which need to be improved. Reading my work aloud to an audience helps me to identify problems for myself and to receive good advice from other writers.
In return for other authors’ generous help I always try to offer the best possible advice and bear the following in mind.
To begin with, I concentrate on the positive and ask myself what I like about the author’s work.
I then consider various issues, which I hope will be helpful, and sometimes remind the recipient that the suggestions in any critique only reflects one person’s opinion, and that the recipient is free to accept or reject them.
I ask myself if I enjoyed the story and, in the case of novels, ask myself if I want to read on and find out what happens next. My next question is who would want to read it and does it stand a good chance of being published?
Important considerations are as follow.
Does the first line make the reader want to continue? Do the opening paragraphs grip the readers’ attention? Will the conclusion make the readers sigh with satisfaction and be sorry they have finished the novel?
I then consider and comment on the nuts and bolts of the writing, not forgetting to praise a few particularly well-turned phrases and ask myself the following questions.
Is there sufficient conflict to make the work interesting?
Do the major and minor characters spring to life? Are they believable and do they act in accordance with their personalities with sufficient emotional depth?
Is the plot believable and do the theme/s grip me and make me want to find out what happens next?
Are the settings believable? Has the author checked the world in which the characters move?
If the novel is historical has the author researched it carefully and are the characters of their time?
Is there enough dialogue to move the story forward and is it well written or either awkward or stilted? If the author uses dialect is it believable?
Has the author jumped from one character’s viewpoint to another’s? If so does this make it difficult for the reader to identify with the characters?
Overall is the manuscript well written and is it properly formatted.
In my critique I make everything I like clear and also answer the above questions to the best of my ability.
Most of my critique partners tell me they appreciate my critiques so, thank goodness, I must be doing something right.
****
Forthcoming releases from MuseItUp Publishing
Tangled Love set in England in Queen Anne’s reign 27.01.2012
Sunday’s Child set in the Regency era June.2012
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
Friday, 19 August 2011
Writers' Workshops and Linda Spur
Writer’s Workshops and Linda Spur
As well as belonging to three online critique groups, where I can post a chapter of my historical novels in progress and receive constructive critiques in return for critiquing other members’ chapters, I also belong to Watford Writers. Every Monday the society meets in Cassiobury Park, Watford, Hertfordshire, England at Cafe Cha Cha at 7.30 p.m.
From time to time Watford Writers arranges for guest speakers and workshops. Linda Spur’s workshops are very popular and well-attended.
Linda Spur is rarely seen without a pen and notepad in hand – although in recent months, this is more likely to be an iPad. Linda is well-qualified to advise writers. She started working on local and regional newspapers before moving to the BBC World Service for a broadcasting career of over twenty years. Since then, she has worked as a freelance journalist and as a teacher of Creative Writing and computer skills. She is currently studying for a Masters in Creative Writing at Brunel University.
Writing takes up a lot of her “leisure” time, trying to finish what she hopes will be the next block-busting novel. Her work with the BBC meant she frequently travelled overseas; today, she loves exploring Britain – on foot and by car. But always with the iPad at hand for when inspiration strikes!
In addition to her regular classes, Linda runs occasional Creative Writing workshops for local writing groups. She finds these can serve several purposes: “I’m a great believer in trying different genres of writing. Even if you never intend to write a play, an evening of playwriting exercises will help with your dialogue while poetry makes you think carefully about every word you put down on paper! Moreover, experimenting with, for example, historical fiction or fantasy writing might well open up a whole new area that you had never considered writing before.
“I also find that workshops are ideal for reminders – such as remembering to use all the senses. Writers come up with some lovely images when they use the senses but, over time, authors might forget to involve them until they are reminded. Similarly, the occasional reminder to use a setting more creatively can pay dividends.
“Workshops provide a very supportive environment for writers – beginners and experienced ones alike. Trying something out in a small group first is far less daunting than on your own. Also, learning to give and receive constructive feedback is probably one of the most useful ways of improving your own writing.”
At one of Linda’s workshops, I read a non-fiction article I had written called The Scarlet Pimpernel and His muse. Linda pointed out that the article should be split into two. The first titled Baroness Orczy, and the second titled The Scarlet Pimpernel fact and fiction.
I took Linda’s advice and subsequently placed both articles with Vintage Script a small press magazine. Next year I might re-submit both articles, offering second British serial rights or first American serial rights.
After another workshop, Linda was kind enough to read the first three chapters of my novel Sunday’s Child set in the Regency period. She returned it with the comment that I had introduced too many characters too fast. I took this ‘on board’, revised the chapters and submitted the novel to MuseItUp Publishing with the happy result that it will be published in June, 2012.
Recently, Linda gave a workshop on playwriting. I do not intend to write a play so I shilly shallied about whether or not to attend. To my surprise I enjoyed the workshop during one part of which we were asked to form small groups and write snippets from proposed plays on various themes. Each person assumed the role of one character and wrote that character’s lines. Later we read our snippets to the group. One of my parts was that of a mother-in-law who doesn’t like her son-in-law. A line when she speaks to her son-in-law was: “I believe in live and let live, but not where you’re concerned.” That raised a roar of laughter. All in all, the workshop was fun. It has had the happy result of making me more adventurous about attending other workshops focussed on various forms of writing that I have not attempted.
Wherever you live, whether you are a new writer or an experienced, multi-published writer Linda and I are confident that participating in workshops will pay dividends,
All the best,
Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist
Forthcoming releases from MuseItUpPublishing
Tangled Love 27.01.2012
Sunday’s Child 06.2012
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
As well as belonging to three online critique groups, where I can post a chapter of my historical novels in progress and receive constructive critiques in return for critiquing other members’ chapters, I also belong to Watford Writers. Every Monday the society meets in Cassiobury Park, Watford, Hertfordshire, England at Cafe Cha Cha at 7.30 p.m.
From time to time Watford Writers arranges for guest speakers and workshops. Linda Spur’s workshops are very popular and well-attended.
Linda Spur is rarely seen without a pen and notepad in hand – although in recent months, this is more likely to be an iPad. Linda is well-qualified to advise writers. She started working on local and regional newspapers before moving to the BBC World Service for a broadcasting career of over twenty years. Since then, she has worked as a freelance journalist and as a teacher of Creative Writing and computer skills. She is currently studying for a Masters in Creative Writing at Brunel University.
Writing takes up a lot of her “leisure” time, trying to finish what she hopes will be the next block-busting novel. Her work with the BBC meant she frequently travelled overseas; today, she loves exploring Britain – on foot and by car. But always with the iPad at hand for when inspiration strikes!
In addition to her regular classes, Linda runs occasional Creative Writing workshops for local writing groups. She finds these can serve several purposes: “I’m a great believer in trying different genres of writing. Even if you never intend to write a play, an evening of playwriting exercises will help with your dialogue while poetry makes you think carefully about every word you put down on paper! Moreover, experimenting with, for example, historical fiction or fantasy writing might well open up a whole new area that you had never considered writing before.
“I also find that workshops are ideal for reminders – such as remembering to use all the senses. Writers come up with some lovely images when they use the senses but, over time, authors might forget to involve them until they are reminded. Similarly, the occasional reminder to use a setting more creatively can pay dividends.
“Workshops provide a very supportive environment for writers – beginners and experienced ones alike. Trying something out in a small group first is far less daunting than on your own. Also, learning to give and receive constructive feedback is probably one of the most useful ways of improving your own writing.”
At one of Linda’s workshops, I read a non-fiction article I had written called The Scarlet Pimpernel and His muse. Linda pointed out that the article should be split into two. The first titled Baroness Orczy, and the second titled The Scarlet Pimpernel fact and fiction.
I took Linda’s advice and subsequently placed both articles with Vintage Script a small press magazine. Next year I might re-submit both articles, offering second British serial rights or first American serial rights.
After another workshop, Linda was kind enough to read the first three chapters of my novel Sunday’s Child set in the Regency period. She returned it with the comment that I had introduced too many characters too fast. I took this ‘on board’, revised the chapters and submitted the novel to MuseItUp Publishing with the happy result that it will be published in June, 2012.
Recently, Linda gave a workshop on playwriting. I do not intend to write a play so I shilly shallied about whether or not to attend. To my surprise I enjoyed the workshop during one part of which we were asked to form small groups and write snippets from proposed plays on various themes. Each person assumed the role of one character and wrote that character’s lines. Later we read our snippets to the group. One of my parts was that of a mother-in-law who doesn’t like her son-in-law. A line when she speaks to her son-in-law was: “I believe in live and let live, but not where you’re concerned.” That raised a roar of laughter. All in all, the workshop was fun. It has had the happy result of making me more adventurous about attending other workshops focussed on various forms of writing that I have not attempted.
Wherever you live, whether you are a new writer or an experienced, multi-published writer Linda and I are confident that participating in workshops will pay dividends,
All the best,
Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist
Forthcoming releases from MuseItUpPublishing
Tangled Love 27.01.2012
Sunday’s Child 06.2012
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
Sunday, 7 August 2011
Redbournbury Mill and Bakery in Hertfordshire, England
Redbournbury Watermill and Bakery
On Saturday the 31st of July my six year old grandson and I visited Redbournbury Watermill, which is surrounded by farmland and water meadows. The latter provide a habitat for herons and kingfishers that feed on sticklebacks, trout fry and other fish. Generations of water fowl have eaten, defended their territory and mated in this fascinating area where there was probably a Watermill in Saxon times.
There has been a watermill at Redbournbury in Hertfordshire for at least 500 years, and probably since Anglo Saxon days. The watermill is beside the softly flowing River Ver that powers the waterwheel and millstones.
Near Redbourn village a short country road leads past a few idyllic cottage with pretty gardens to Redbournbury Watermill and Bakery
Like its larger neighbour St Albans, Redbourn and the surrounding area is steeped in history. A few Roman remains – some Roman bricks used in St Mary’s, a Norman church, hob nails, some coins, enameled brooches and curse tablets have been found in and on the outskirts of Redbourn.
In summer, 2008, the sites of what are considered the remains of four Roman temples were found. Pottery from one of the sites close to the river Ver indicates it was in use from the 1st century A.D. to the 3rd century. It is possible that the temple was used to worship water gods.
The translation of a mediaeval charter reveals that in approximately 1030, during the reign of Edward the Confessor, the Manor of Redbourn was given to St Albans Abbey (later the modern day Cathedral Abbey) by the landowner, Aegelwyne le Swarte and his wife Wynfreda. The Abbot’s Chamberlain used Redbournbury farmhouse as his Manor Court-house. The manor, which included the watermill, was then called The Chamberlain.
A mill was recorded in the Domesday Book in 1087 and it is possible that the modern day building is situated on top of the first building.
When John of Wheathampstead was abbot between 1290 and 1301 Chamberlain’s Mill was gutted by fire. Fortunately, the manor was protected by the woods around it and spared from the fire spread by an ‘unbearable wind’.
Most mills were the property of either the Church or the Lord of the Manor. Villagers were not allowed to grind their grain. The owner of the mill had the ‘Right of Stoke’ and by law grain could only be ground at the lord’s mill. The miller claimed 10% of the flour and the landlord claimed more. In 1381 there was a ‘peasant’s revolt’ against the Abbot of St Albans. Among other causes were the abbot’s milling rights
After the dissolution of the monasteries, all of the Abbey lands, including the watermill, became the property of Henry VIII.
While looking at various photographs, my young grandson was delighted because he recognised Henry’s picture. He told me the king was very cruel because he gave orders for two of his wives to have their heads cut off. Like most small boys he was fascinated by this and asked ‘bloody’ questions which I will not repeat in case you have a weak stomach.
During the reign of James I the mill was leased out by the Treasury until 1539 when the mill was bought by Sir Harbottle Grimston for £200, (Grimstone is the family name of the present Earls of Verulam). The mill became part of the Gorhambury Estate until the 4th Earl sold it to the Crown Estate Commissioners.
For a hundred and forty years the mill was leased by the Hawkins family until, at the age of 89, Ivy Hawkins, the only lady miller in England, quit the mill in 1985.
Amongst the artefacts in the mill are Ivy’s smock – dull green with vertical bands of old gold and brown on each side of the front fastening – and various items such as a washing board and basin. My grandson knew what these were for and explained how they were used but concluded: ‘I think washing machines are better.’ I agreed and admired Ivy’s pretty china jug, copper measures and ladles.
After Ivy retired, Redbournbury Mill, now a grade two listed building, was bought by the present owners. After a fire in 1987 the watermill was restored to full working order with a grant from English heritage.
My grandson and I climbed the stairs to each of the four floors. On each one were interesting displays. As well as many items pertinent to the miller’s trade was an impressive array of blacksmiths’ tools and products and one of the first sewing machines used by a cobbler.
After exploring the mill and looking out of the windows at the peaceful views, and a glimpse of chickens in the foreground, we bought bread from a stall outside the bakery in Ivy Hawkins’s converted cow barn.
An impressive range of bread is sold by the bakery. Whenever possible the grain used to make flour at the watermill is from local farms including Hammonds End in Harpenden. This means that much of the grain is gown within a mile of the watermill.
The flour is 100% organic. Some of the wholemeal flour is sifted through a bolter to produce white flour, brown flour, semolina and bran. Brown flour mixed with whole, malted wheat flakes makes delicious bread.
The mill also produces spelt flour and rye flour. Spelt flour is an ancient variety of wheat. It is more flavoursome that conventional wheat and some people think it is suitable for those suffering from wheat intolerance.
The master baker makes artisan loaves from the flour produced in the mill. He produces a wide variety of bread including, wholemeal, brown, spelt, rye, savoury breads such as foccasia and sweet breads such as date and walnut. He also makes scones, chocolate brownies, granola slices, cakes and tea breads.
I bought some excellent spelt bread that was light and tasty. As I have a bread machine and make my own bread, I also bought some wholemeal flour. In future, I shall visit a nearby village market where products from the mill are sold.
Before we left, at peace with the world, we sat outside in the sunshine near the gently flowing river, listening to the splash of the waterwheel, admiring tall hollyhocks and eating delicious eccles cakes.
Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist
Forthcoming releases from MuseItUp Publishing
Tangled Love set in England in Queen Anne's reign. 27.01.2012
Sunday's Child set in England in the Regency era. June 2012
On Saturday the 31st of July my six year old grandson and I visited Redbournbury Watermill, which is surrounded by farmland and water meadows. The latter provide a habitat for herons and kingfishers that feed on sticklebacks, trout fry and other fish. Generations of water fowl have eaten, defended their territory and mated in this fascinating area where there was probably a Watermill in Saxon times.
There has been a watermill at Redbournbury in Hertfordshire for at least 500 years, and probably since Anglo Saxon days. The watermill is beside the softly flowing River Ver that powers the waterwheel and millstones.
Near Redbourn village a short country road leads past a few idyllic cottage with pretty gardens to Redbournbury Watermill and Bakery
Like its larger neighbour St Albans, Redbourn and the surrounding area is steeped in history. A few Roman remains – some Roman bricks used in St Mary’s, a Norman church, hob nails, some coins, enameled brooches and curse tablets have been found in and on the outskirts of Redbourn.
In summer, 2008, the sites of what are considered the remains of four Roman temples were found. Pottery from one of the sites close to the river Ver indicates it was in use from the 1st century A.D. to the 3rd century. It is possible that the temple was used to worship water gods.
The translation of a mediaeval charter reveals that in approximately 1030, during the reign of Edward the Confessor, the Manor of Redbourn was given to St Albans Abbey (later the modern day Cathedral Abbey) by the landowner, Aegelwyne le Swarte and his wife Wynfreda. The Abbot’s Chamberlain used Redbournbury farmhouse as his Manor Court-house. The manor, which included the watermill, was then called The Chamberlain.
A mill was recorded in the Domesday Book in 1087 and it is possible that the modern day building is situated on top of the first building.
When John of Wheathampstead was abbot between 1290 and 1301 Chamberlain’s Mill was gutted by fire. Fortunately, the manor was protected by the woods around it and spared from the fire spread by an ‘unbearable wind’.
Most mills were the property of either the Church or the Lord of the Manor. Villagers were not allowed to grind their grain. The owner of the mill had the ‘Right of Stoke’ and by law grain could only be ground at the lord’s mill. The miller claimed 10% of the flour and the landlord claimed more. In 1381 there was a ‘peasant’s revolt’ against the Abbot of St Albans. Among other causes were the abbot’s milling rights
After the dissolution of the monasteries, all of the Abbey lands, including the watermill, became the property of Henry VIII.
While looking at various photographs, my young grandson was delighted because he recognised Henry’s picture. He told me the king was very cruel because he gave orders for two of his wives to have their heads cut off. Like most small boys he was fascinated by this and asked ‘bloody’ questions which I will not repeat in case you have a weak stomach.
During the reign of James I the mill was leased out by the Treasury until 1539 when the mill was bought by Sir Harbottle Grimston for £200, (Grimstone is the family name of the present Earls of Verulam). The mill became part of the Gorhambury Estate until the 4th Earl sold it to the Crown Estate Commissioners.
For a hundred and forty years the mill was leased by the Hawkins family until, at the age of 89, Ivy Hawkins, the only lady miller in England, quit the mill in 1985.
Amongst the artefacts in the mill are Ivy’s smock – dull green with vertical bands of old gold and brown on each side of the front fastening – and various items such as a washing board and basin. My grandson knew what these were for and explained how they were used but concluded: ‘I think washing machines are better.’ I agreed and admired Ivy’s pretty china jug, copper measures and ladles.
After Ivy retired, Redbournbury Mill, now a grade two listed building, was bought by the present owners. After a fire in 1987 the watermill was restored to full working order with a grant from English heritage.
My grandson and I climbed the stairs to each of the four floors. On each one were interesting displays. As well as many items pertinent to the miller’s trade was an impressive array of blacksmiths’ tools and products and one of the first sewing machines used by a cobbler.
After exploring the mill and looking out of the windows at the peaceful views, and a glimpse of chickens in the foreground, we bought bread from a stall outside the bakery in Ivy Hawkins’s converted cow barn.
An impressive range of bread is sold by the bakery. Whenever possible the grain used to make flour at the watermill is from local farms including Hammonds End in Harpenden. This means that much of the grain is gown within a mile of the watermill.
The flour is 100% organic. Some of the wholemeal flour is sifted through a bolter to produce white flour, brown flour, semolina and bran. Brown flour mixed with whole, malted wheat flakes makes delicious bread.
The mill also produces spelt flour and rye flour. Spelt flour is an ancient variety of wheat. It is more flavoursome that conventional wheat and some people think it is suitable for those suffering from wheat intolerance.
The master baker makes artisan loaves from the flour produced in the mill. He produces a wide variety of bread including, wholemeal, brown, spelt, rye, savoury breads such as foccasia and sweet breads such as date and walnut. He also makes scones, chocolate brownies, granola slices, cakes and tea breads.
I bought some excellent spelt bread that was light and tasty. As I have a bread machine and make my own bread, I also bought some wholemeal flour. In future, I shall visit a nearby village market where products from the mill are sold.
Before we left, at peace with the world, we sat outside in the sunshine near the gently flowing river, listening to the splash of the waterwheel, admiring tall hollyhocks and eating delicious eccles cakes.
Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist
Forthcoming releases from MuseItUp Publishing
Tangled Love set in England in Queen Anne's reign. 27.01.2012
Sunday's Child set in England in the Regency era. June 2012
Sunday, 24 July 2011
Hatfield House
Hatfield House
A fortnight ago I visited Hatfield House with a friend and made notes.
When visiting a stately home, personal items always make a great impression on me. In one of the display cases are Queen Elizabeth I’s straw garden hat which has an intricate pattern, a pair of her gloves and a pair of silk stockings, which are believed to be the first pair made of silk to be worn in England. In another display case I saw a small, round silver box labelled as King Charles II’s counter box. Such personal items bring historical personalities to life, and so did Queen Anne’s coronation chair. The chair is of particular interest to me because I researched Queen Anne’s life and times for my novel Tangled Love set in her reign. The chair is ornately carved and padded with red and white fabric. Unfortunately, because it is cordoned off, I could not examine it in detail.
Visits to houses such as Hatfield House are inspirational. When I tread not only in the footsteps of the famous, but also in those of their guests, relatives and servants, I imagine my characters in similar places.
From the grand rooms to the re-created Victorian kitchen and scullery and the grounds, which include a modern day organic garden, everything delights the visitor.
The history of Hatfield House stretches far back in time. The original manor was given by the Anglo Saxon King Edgar to the church of Ely. The old palace at Hatfield, a residence of the Bishop of Ely, was built between 1480 and 1497.
The bishop’s old palace, a quadrangle, was one of the first brick buildings. Today, only the banqueting hall or Great Hall, with its oak and chestnut roof and arched windows set high in the walls remains. (The bricks from the rest of the building were used to build Hatfield House.)
After the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII appropriated the Bishop of Ely’s palace and used it as a residence for his children.
In my mind’s eye I can visualise Mary, daughter of Henry and his late brother’s wife, Katherine of Aragon, waving from the tower to her father Henry, when he rode past Hatfield house looking the other way after he divorced her mother.
At first Mary’s half sister, Elizabeth, lived a wretched life at Hatfield House after her mother, Anne Boleyn’s execution. At one time, she outgrew her clothes and new ones were not provided by her father. Fortunately, Henry VIII relented and her childhood and that of her younger brother Edward were happy.
The Lady Elizabeth, survived Protestant Edward and unpopular Roman Catholic Mary, but not without facing ‘trials and tribulations’.
Perhaps Hatfield House is best known for the occasion on which Protestant Elizabeth sat reading under an oak tree when she received the news that she had become queen. “It is the Lord’s doing” she said, “and it is marvellous in our eyes.”
There are two portraits of Queen Elizabeth I at Hatfield House, the famous rainbow portrait, in which she wears a gown embroidered with eyes and ears, which symbolise that she saw and heard everything in her kingdom. The other is the ermine portrait, named for the gold-crowned live ermine, a symbol of purity and virginity.
When I looked at the pale, inscrutable face of the queen in each portrait, I asked myself if, in spite of the many non fiction and fiction books and films about her, if anyone knows what Elizabeth the woman was really like.
James VI of Scotland and I of England succeeded to the throne and exchanged Hatfield Palace for Theobalds, the residence of his own and the late Queen Elizabeth’s first minister, William Cecil’s son Robert Cecil.
Small, sickly Robert had a crooked back and a passion for building. With bricks from three sides of Hatfield Palace he had Hatfield House built. No expense was spared to create the stately home which I and my friend enjoyed visiting.
Rosemary Morris
Forthcoming releases from Muse Publishing
Tangled Love set in Queen Anne’s reign. 27.01.2012
Sunday’s Child set in the Regency era. June.2012
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://rosemarymorrisblogspot.com
A fortnight ago I visited Hatfield House with a friend and made notes.
When visiting a stately home, personal items always make a great impression on me. In one of the display cases are Queen Elizabeth I’s straw garden hat which has an intricate pattern, a pair of her gloves and a pair of silk stockings, which are believed to be the first pair made of silk to be worn in England. In another display case I saw a small, round silver box labelled as King Charles II’s counter box. Such personal items bring historical personalities to life, and so did Queen Anne’s coronation chair. The chair is of particular interest to me because I researched Queen Anne’s life and times for my novel Tangled Love set in her reign. The chair is ornately carved and padded with red and white fabric. Unfortunately, because it is cordoned off, I could not examine it in detail.
Visits to houses such as Hatfield House are inspirational. When I tread not only in the footsteps of the famous, but also in those of their guests, relatives and servants, I imagine my characters in similar places.
From the grand rooms to the re-created Victorian kitchen and scullery and the grounds, which include a modern day organic garden, everything delights the visitor.
The history of Hatfield House stretches far back in time. The original manor was given by the Anglo Saxon King Edgar to the church of Ely. The old palace at Hatfield, a residence of the Bishop of Ely, was built between 1480 and 1497.
The bishop’s old palace, a quadrangle, was one of the first brick buildings. Today, only the banqueting hall or Great Hall, with its oak and chestnut roof and arched windows set high in the walls remains. (The bricks from the rest of the building were used to build Hatfield House.)
After the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII appropriated the Bishop of Ely’s palace and used it as a residence for his children.
In my mind’s eye I can visualise Mary, daughter of Henry and his late brother’s wife, Katherine of Aragon, waving from the tower to her father Henry, when he rode past Hatfield house looking the other way after he divorced her mother.
At first Mary’s half sister, Elizabeth, lived a wretched life at Hatfield House after her mother, Anne Boleyn’s execution. At one time, she outgrew her clothes and new ones were not provided by her father. Fortunately, Henry VIII relented and her childhood and that of her younger brother Edward were happy.
The Lady Elizabeth, survived Protestant Edward and unpopular Roman Catholic Mary, but not without facing ‘trials and tribulations’.
Perhaps Hatfield House is best known for the occasion on which Protestant Elizabeth sat reading under an oak tree when she received the news that she had become queen. “It is the Lord’s doing” she said, “and it is marvellous in our eyes.”
There are two portraits of Queen Elizabeth I at Hatfield House, the famous rainbow portrait, in which she wears a gown embroidered with eyes and ears, which symbolise that she saw and heard everything in her kingdom. The other is the ermine portrait, named for the gold-crowned live ermine, a symbol of purity and virginity.
When I looked at the pale, inscrutable face of the queen in each portrait, I asked myself if, in spite of the many non fiction and fiction books and films about her, if anyone knows what Elizabeth the woman was really like.
James VI of Scotland and I of England succeeded to the throne and exchanged Hatfield Palace for Theobalds, the residence of his own and the late Queen Elizabeth’s first minister, William Cecil’s son Robert Cecil.
Small, sickly Robert had a crooked back and a passion for building. With bricks from three sides of Hatfield Palace he had Hatfield House built. No expense was spared to create the stately home which I and my friend enjoyed visiting.
Rosemary Morris
Forthcoming releases from Muse Publishing
Tangled Love set in Queen Anne’s reign. 27.01.2012
Sunday’s Child set in the Regency era. June.2012
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://rosemarymorrisblogspot.com
Monday, 18 July 2011
A Novelists Road to Publication
A Novelist’s Road to Publication
Most published novelists agree that it is extremely difficult for a new author to find a publisher.
I wrote my first novel when I was a young woman. The first publisher I submitted it to accepted it. From there everything went downhill. I did not know that the date of publication should be included in my contract. Without this the publisher could withhold publication indefinitely. When I signed the contract I was living in East Africa and gave power of attorney to my brother. That was my second mistake. The publishing house had moved country and the new editor was not interested in my novel. Unfamiliar with the publishing world my brother accepted payment in lieu of publication.
Very discouraged, I continued writing and had a few minor successes. Many years later, after leaving Kenya and living in an ashram in France, I returned to England, my late husband encouraged me to continue writing.
I took his advice and was grateful for his encouragement. ‘Keep on writing, darling,’ he said, ‘one day you will have a novel accepted and then all your previous novels will stand a good chance of being accepted.’
Hopefully he was right. Years later, he would be pleased and proud because two of my historical novels, Tangled Love and Sunday’s child have been accepted.
I’ve always had plenty of ideas but I needed to refine my writing skills. Over the years I have read books on How To Write, attended two writing holidays in Wales, joined the Romantic Novelists Association of Great Britain New Writers Scheme, submitted my current work to critique groups and critiqued other peoples’ work as well as joining a Writers’ group.
In 2007 my historical novel Tangled Hearts was accepted by an online publishing house which subsequently went out of business. However, the publisher taught me a lot about publicising my work on and offline. Unfortunately, it was a bitter experience for more reasons than I will share, and the experience included non-payment of my royalties.
Determined to achieve my dream of finding a reliable publisher I continued to write and research my historical novels. Another author told me about MuseItUp Publishing. I submitted my novel Tangled Love, previously published as Tangled Hearts, to MuseItUp. Tangled Love set in England in Queen Anne’s reign (1702-1714) will be published by MuseItUp on January 27 2012.
Several months after signing the contract for Tangled Love, I submitted my historical novel Sunday’s Child set in the Regency era between 1813 and 1815 prior to the Battle of Waterloo.
I wrote Sunday’s Child some years ago and it went through the New Writers Scheme. The reader’s report was excellent. I revised the novel and worked on it with one of my critique groups. Having, ‘scrubbed, dusted and polished’ the novel I submitted it to publishers. After each submission it winged its way home to my pigeon loft (my office in the spare bedroom). I had reached the point when I thought I would never have another novel accepted but I submitted it to MuseItUp. To my delight, my publisher loves Sunday’s Child, which will be published in June 2012.
Most published novelists agree that it is extremely difficult for a new author to find a publisher.
I wrote my first novel when I was a young woman. The first publisher I submitted it to accepted it. From there everything went downhill. I did not know that the date of publication should be included in my contract. Without this the publisher could withhold publication indefinitely. When I signed the contract I was living in East Africa and gave power of attorney to my brother. That was my second mistake. The publishing house had moved country and the new editor was not interested in my novel. Unfamiliar with the publishing world my brother accepted payment in lieu of publication.
Very discouraged, I continued writing and had a few minor successes. Many years later, after leaving Kenya and living in an ashram in France, I returned to England, my late husband encouraged me to continue writing.
I took his advice and was grateful for his encouragement. ‘Keep on writing, darling,’ he said, ‘one day you will have a novel accepted and then all your previous novels will stand a good chance of being accepted.’
Hopefully he was right. Years later, he would be pleased and proud because two of my historical novels, Tangled Love and Sunday’s child have been accepted.
I’ve always had plenty of ideas but I needed to refine my writing skills. Over the years I have read books on How To Write, attended two writing holidays in Wales, joined the Romantic Novelists Association of Great Britain New Writers Scheme, submitted my current work to critique groups and critiqued other peoples’ work as well as joining a Writers’ group.
In 2007 my historical novel Tangled Hearts was accepted by an online publishing house which subsequently went out of business. However, the publisher taught me a lot about publicising my work on and offline. Unfortunately, it was a bitter experience for more reasons than I will share, and the experience included non-payment of my royalties.
Determined to achieve my dream of finding a reliable publisher I continued to write and research my historical novels. Another author told me about MuseItUp Publishing. I submitted my novel Tangled Love, previously published as Tangled Hearts, to MuseItUp. Tangled Love set in England in Queen Anne’s reign (1702-1714) will be published by MuseItUp on January 27 2012.
Several months after signing the contract for Tangled Love, I submitted my historical novel Sunday’s Child set in the Regency era between 1813 and 1815 prior to the Battle of Waterloo.
I wrote Sunday’s Child some years ago and it went through the New Writers Scheme. The reader’s report was excellent. I revised the novel and worked on it with one of my critique groups. Having, ‘scrubbed, dusted and polished’ the novel I submitted it to publishers. After each submission it winged its way home to my pigeon loft (my office in the spare bedroom). I had reached the point when I thought I would never have another novel accepted but I submitted it to MuseItUp. To my delight, my publisher loves Sunday’s Child, which will be published in June 2012.
Sunday, 10 July 2011
Online Writers Critique Groups
Online Writers’ Critique Groups
Last week I wrote about Writers Circles. This week I’m writing about my experience of the three online writers’ critique groups which I belong to.
My experience of these groups for historical novelists has been positive. However, via the proverbial grape vine I’ve heard that some authors’ experiences have been unproductive. My advice would be to search for a suitable group.
Members of the groups I belong to are not allowed ‘to flame’. They are expected to be polite and offer constructive critiques.
Each group is for writers who are conversant with the unwritten rules of writing and are seeking publication.
In return for receiving critiques, members are expected to reciprocate.
Over the years, I have made new friends who trust my comments on their novels. A few of us met in person. One charming lady and I meet from time to time, visit places of historical interest and, over lunch, discuss ‘writerly’ matters.
There are always some fellow writers on the groups with whom I am on ‘the same wavelength.’ Through them I’ve been introduced to eras I know little about and they have been introduced to the Stuart Queen Anne’s era – 1702-1714.
When I receive a critique I always remind myself that the comments in it only reflect one person’s opinion and it is up to me to accept or reject them. Sometimes I have enjoyed writing a flowery passage which a critiquer rightly suggests toning down. On other occasions flaws and inconsistencies in the plot are pointed out.
It is also useful to receive comments on unconsciously telling the reader about an incident instead of revealing it through the character, on head hopping when I change from one character’s viewpoint to another’s, too much emotion or a lack of emotion at crucial points. All this is free for the taking and helps me to improve my novels.
Achieving publication has never been easy. There are more examples of writers whose work was rejected time and time again before they became either classical authors or modern best sellers than I have space to mention. I am sure you can think of some, including J. K. Rowlings who wrote the Harry Potter series. In order to be published writers need to do everything they can to help themselves. I belong to a writers circle and to critique groups in order to scrub, dust and polish every sentence in my work.
Forthcoming release. Tangled Love (previously published as Tangled Hearts) 27.01.2012
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
Last week I wrote about Writers Circles. This week I’m writing about my experience of the three online writers’ critique groups which I belong to.
My experience of these groups for historical novelists has been positive. However, via the proverbial grape vine I’ve heard that some authors’ experiences have been unproductive. My advice would be to search for a suitable group.
Members of the groups I belong to are not allowed ‘to flame’. They are expected to be polite and offer constructive critiques.
Each group is for writers who are conversant with the unwritten rules of writing and are seeking publication.
In return for receiving critiques, members are expected to reciprocate.
Over the years, I have made new friends who trust my comments on their novels. A few of us met in person. One charming lady and I meet from time to time, visit places of historical interest and, over lunch, discuss ‘writerly’ matters.
There are always some fellow writers on the groups with whom I am on ‘the same wavelength.’ Through them I’ve been introduced to eras I know little about and they have been introduced to the Stuart Queen Anne’s era – 1702-1714.
When I receive a critique I always remind myself that the comments in it only reflect one person’s opinion and it is up to me to accept or reject them. Sometimes I have enjoyed writing a flowery passage which a critiquer rightly suggests toning down. On other occasions flaws and inconsistencies in the plot are pointed out.
It is also useful to receive comments on unconsciously telling the reader about an incident instead of revealing it through the character, on head hopping when I change from one character’s viewpoint to another’s, too much emotion or a lack of emotion at crucial points. All this is free for the taking and helps me to improve my novels.
Achieving publication has never been easy. There are more examples of writers whose work was rejected time and time again before they became either classical authors or modern best sellers than I have space to mention. I am sure you can think of some, including J. K. Rowlings who wrote the Harry Potter series. In order to be published writers need to do everything they can to help themselves. I belong to a writers circle and to critique groups in order to scrub, dust and polish every sentence in my work.
Forthcoming release. Tangled Love (previously published as Tangled Hearts) 27.01.2012
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
Sunday, 3 July 2011
Writers Groups
Writers Groups
I spend eight hours or more writing and dealing with matters related to writing.
While writing there is no one to metaphorically hold my hand, encourage me and help me to improve my work in progress.
From my first draft of a novel or article I try to write to the best of my ability and avoid the many pitfalls which plague authors. By the time I have written several drafts, revised and edited my work I know it inside out, upside down and back to front, and that is the problem. I reach the stage when I no longer see typing errors and other mistakes because I am so familiar with my typescript – faulty punctuation, writing from the author’s point of view instead of the character’s and telling the character’s story instead of showing the character’s actions. No matter how interesting my novel or article is these unprofessional mistakes might result in an agent or publisher rejecting my submission.
Fortunately, there is help available. I belong to Watford Writers, which meets every Monday evening with the exception of Bank Holidays.
On manuscript evenings I read approximately 2,000 words from my work in progress and receive helpful comments. Someone might point out a weak spot in the plot, an awkward phrase or something unnecessary for which I am very grateful. After all, to achieve my goal of having more work published I need to constantly improve my craft.
Apart from manuscript evenings Watford Writers invites guest speakers or guests who conduct workshops. Last year I handed in my non-fiction article titled Baroness Orczy and Her Muse at a workshop. The feedback was invaluable. The article needed to be divided into two. I accepted the advice and used the material to write two articles, the first titled Baroness Orczy and the second titled The Scarlet Pimpernel.
At Watford Writers I heard about Vintage Script, a small press magazine devoted to past times. I submitted Baroness Orczy and the article has been published in the magazine’s first edition.
I’m so busy researching my novels and articles that I rarely venture into other fields. However, Watford Writers holds flash fiction competitions in which I have recently participated. So far, I haven’t won anything but writing something very different to my chosen field challenges me to ‘think outside my box’.
Recently, Watford Writers invited its members to submit a 500 word competition story. The theme is The Blue Door. To enter it I had to dig deep into my imagination to find what I hope is an original plot. My entry is called Paradise Lost and even if it is not placed I will still be pleased to have taken part.
Last week was one of the four social evenings held every year. A member organised a quiz – which dismayed me because I know so little about some subjects – for example sport and pop music.
Somewhat nervous I arrived at Café Cha Cha in Cassiobury Park on the quiz evening. It was a hot with a hint of thunder so we sat outside the café looking out over the beautiful park with drinks and plates of food from the buffet to which we all contributed.
I was pleased when I knew the answers to questions relating to gardening and literature but dismayed by the 25 questions about pop music.
Our group lagged behind but we had a stroke of luck. The organiser did not know that one of the ladies in our group had been a disc jockey in South Africa. We scored 50 out of 50 on that final round and won prizes. Mine was a writing magazine and a very useful computer dictionary.
So, if you can find a constructive writers circle that will welcome you, I suggest you visit it and amongst other things make new friends. If you live in or near Watford, Hertfordshire, do drop in at one of out meetings at 7.30. p.m. on Monday evenings. You will be very welcome,
All the best,
Rosemary
Tangled Love set in Queen Anne’s reign 1702-1714 to be published by Muse It Up on the 27.01.2012 (Previously published as Tangled Hearts.)
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
I spend eight hours or more writing and dealing with matters related to writing.
While writing there is no one to metaphorically hold my hand, encourage me and help me to improve my work in progress.
From my first draft of a novel or article I try to write to the best of my ability and avoid the many pitfalls which plague authors. By the time I have written several drafts, revised and edited my work I know it inside out, upside down and back to front, and that is the problem. I reach the stage when I no longer see typing errors and other mistakes because I am so familiar with my typescript – faulty punctuation, writing from the author’s point of view instead of the character’s and telling the character’s story instead of showing the character’s actions. No matter how interesting my novel or article is these unprofessional mistakes might result in an agent or publisher rejecting my submission.
Fortunately, there is help available. I belong to Watford Writers, which meets every Monday evening with the exception of Bank Holidays.
On manuscript evenings I read approximately 2,000 words from my work in progress and receive helpful comments. Someone might point out a weak spot in the plot, an awkward phrase or something unnecessary for which I am very grateful. After all, to achieve my goal of having more work published I need to constantly improve my craft.
Apart from manuscript evenings Watford Writers invites guest speakers or guests who conduct workshops. Last year I handed in my non-fiction article titled Baroness Orczy and Her Muse at a workshop. The feedback was invaluable. The article needed to be divided into two. I accepted the advice and used the material to write two articles, the first titled Baroness Orczy and the second titled The Scarlet Pimpernel.
At Watford Writers I heard about Vintage Script, a small press magazine devoted to past times. I submitted Baroness Orczy and the article has been published in the magazine’s first edition.
I’m so busy researching my novels and articles that I rarely venture into other fields. However, Watford Writers holds flash fiction competitions in which I have recently participated. So far, I haven’t won anything but writing something very different to my chosen field challenges me to ‘think outside my box’.
Recently, Watford Writers invited its members to submit a 500 word competition story. The theme is The Blue Door. To enter it I had to dig deep into my imagination to find what I hope is an original plot. My entry is called Paradise Lost and even if it is not placed I will still be pleased to have taken part.
Last week was one of the four social evenings held every year. A member organised a quiz – which dismayed me because I know so little about some subjects – for example sport and pop music.
Somewhat nervous I arrived at Café Cha Cha in Cassiobury Park on the quiz evening. It was a hot with a hint of thunder so we sat outside the café looking out over the beautiful park with drinks and plates of food from the buffet to which we all contributed.
I was pleased when I knew the answers to questions relating to gardening and literature but dismayed by the 25 questions about pop music.
Our group lagged behind but we had a stroke of luck. The organiser did not know that one of the ladies in our group had been a disc jockey in South Africa. We scored 50 out of 50 on that final round and won prizes. Mine was a writing magazine and a very useful computer dictionary.
So, if you can find a constructive writers circle that will welcome you, I suggest you visit it and amongst other things make new friends. If you live in or near Watford, Hertfordshire, do drop in at one of out meetings at 7.30. p.m. on Monday evenings. You will be very welcome,
All the best,
Rosemary
Tangled Love set in Queen Anne’s reign 1702-1714 to be published by Muse It Up on the 27.01.2012 (Previously published as Tangled Hearts.)
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
Sunday, 19 June 2011
Retro Centre and Samuel pepys
Retro Centre and Samuel Pepys
I always enjoy visiting St Albans. Yesterday I visited a treasure house of items from times past at a Retro Centre, which I will visit again, and I shall attend the Retro Fair next weekend.
The Retro Centre is divided into sections where different sellers arrange their wares. China, glass, curios, soft furnishings, clothes and a treasure house of books.
As I went round I yearned to own a country cottage with oak beams which I could decorate with colourful china, lace edged throws, embroidered tablecloths, traycloths, framed tapestries and embroidered or tapestry cushions. Having admired, picked up and put down various items I found the book section after I rummaged through clothes and admired costume jewellery.
This is the year when I’m supposed to be saving money but I couldn’t resist three books by one of my favourite historians, Arthur Bryant, Samuel Pepys The Man in The Making, Samuel Pepys The Years of Peril and Samuel Pepys The Saviour of The Navy.
I have collected a number of Arthur Bryant’s books and always enjoy his style. Samuel Pepys, The Man in the Making begins: - “North of Cambridge lie the Fens. The sea from which they arose laps at their northern boundaries, and north and east great rivers lazily wind across them, drawing black cattle to drink among the sedges at their brink. This land would be one of silence were it not for the innumerable company of larks, of bittern, coot and moorhen, of sedge warblers and reed sparrow, which ever provides it with a faint and not discordant music. In summer it is still, as the monk William of Huntingdon remembered it, a land of clouds and orchards and golden corn. Yet it is so only by right of battle waged ceaselessly by its invading armies of water. Whenever civilization has receded – when Roman legion fell back or monastery bell was silenced-the waters have taken back their own. Salt tides have swept in with winter gales through forsaken walls, and the rivers have flowed out, cold and remorseless, over the fields and houses of man.
“.…On this land came the Pepys’s. For centuries they had grazed and ploughed, haggled at markets over country wares and peered at the Fen skies…”
Although Samuel Pepys was first published in 1933 it has not dated and is full of fascinating information, and I the preface very interesting.
“…Samuel Pepys was the creator of three remarkable, and still surviving things. The first, in the order of their making, was his Diary. The second was the civil administration of the Admiralty-the rule –and order that still give permanence to the material form, fighting traditions and transmitted knowledge of the Royal Navy. …Lord Barham testified that there was not a department of the Admiralty that was not governed by he rules Samuel Pepys had laid down in the 17th century. It was Pepys who made the scabbard for the sword that Nelson, and the heirs of Nelson used.
“Pepys third creative achievement sprang from the second. He has bee described as the father of the Civil Service. Here, too, his orders hold. The rules he laid down and the administrative principles he elucidated have become part of the continuing life of his country…”
I am writing a light-hearted novel set in the Restoration period when Charles Second came to England after his exile which followed his father’s execution. I always try to ensure that my novels are as well-researched as possible and Arthur Bryant’s trilogy about Pepys will be invaluable.
Forthcoming release. Tangled Love 27.01.2012 Muse It Up Publisher.
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
I always enjoy visiting St Albans. Yesterday I visited a treasure house of items from times past at a Retro Centre, which I will visit again, and I shall attend the Retro Fair next weekend.
The Retro Centre is divided into sections where different sellers arrange their wares. China, glass, curios, soft furnishings, clothes and a treasure house of books.
As I went round I yearned to own a country cottage with oak beams which I could decorate with colourful china, lace edged throws, embroidered tablecloths, traycloths, framed tapestries and embroidered or tapestry cushions. Having admired, picked up and put down various items I found the book section after I rummaged through clothes and admired costume jewellery.
This is the year when I’m supposed to be saving money but I couldn’t resist three books by one of my favourite historians, Arthur Bryant, Samuel Pepys The Man in The Making, Samuel Pepys The Years of Peril and Samuel Pepys The Saviour of The Navy.
I have collected a number of Arthur Bryant’s books and always enjoy his style. Samuel Pepys, The Man in the Making begins: - “North of Cambridge lie the Fens. The sea from which they arose laps at their northern boundaries, and north and east great rivers lazily wind across them, drawing black cattle to drink among the sedges at their brink. This land would be one of silence were it not for the innumerable company of larks, of bittern, coot and moorhen, of sedge warblers and reed sparrow, which ever provides it with a faint and not discordant music. In summer it is still, as the monk William of Huntingdon remembered it, a land of clouds and orchards and golden corn. Yet it is so only by right of battle waged ceaselessly by its invading armies of water. Whenever civilization has receded – when Roman legion fell back or monastery bell was silenced-the waters have taken back their own. Salt tides have swept in with winter gales through forsaken walls, and the rivers have flowed out, cold and remorseless, over the fields and houses of man.
“.…On this land came the Pepys’s. For centuries they had grazed and ploughed, haggled at markets over country wares and peered at the Fen skies…”
Although Samuel Pepys was first published in 1933 it has not dated and is full of fascinating information, and I the preface very interesting.
“…Samuel Pepys was the creator of three remarkable, and still surviving things. The first, in the order of their making, was his Diary. The second was the civil administration of the Admiralty-the rule –and order that still give permanence to the material form, fighting traditions and transmitted knowledge of the Royal Navy. …Lord Barham testified that there was not a department of the Admiralty that was not governed by he rules Samuel Pepys had laid down in the 17th century. It was Pepys who made the scabbard for the sword that Nelson, and the heirs of Nelson used.
“Pepys third creative achievement sprang from the second. He has bee described as the father of the Civil Service. Here, too, his orders hold. The rules he laid down and the administrative principles he elucidated have become part of the continuing life of his country…”
I am writing a light-hearted novel set in the Restoration period when Charles Second came to England after his exile which followed his father’s execution. I always try to ensure that my novels are as well-researched as possible and Arthur Bryant’s trilogy about Pepys will be invaluable.
Forthcoming release. Tangled Love 27.01.2012 Muse It Up Publisher.
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
Sunday, 12 June 2011
Recommended Reads
Trencarrow Secret by Anita Davison
For readers who like a twist in the tale which takes them by surprise, I recommend Trencarrow Secret by Anita Davison.
I had the privilege of reading this novel by an accomplished author prior to publication and thoroughly enjoyed it
You can find out more about Anita and her novels at Anita’s beautifully designed blog:http://thedisorganisedauthor.blogspot.com
Isabel Hart is afraid of two things, the maze at Trencarrow where she got lost as a young child, and the lake where her brother David saved her from drowning in a boating accident.
With her twenty-first birthday and the announcement of her engagement imminent, Isabel decides it is time for her to face her demons and ventures into the maze. There she sees something which will alter her perceptions of herself and her family forever.
Isabel’s widowed aunt joins the house party, where her cousin confides she is in love with an enigmatic young man who surely cannot be what he pretends, for he is too dashing for homely Laura.
When Henry, Viscount Strachan and his mother arrive, ostensibly to use her ball as an arena for finding a wife, Isabel is determined not to like him.
As more secrets are revealed, Isabel begins to doubt she has chosen the right man, although her future fiancé has more vested in this marriage than Isabel realizes and has no intention of letting her go easily.
Will Isabel be able to put her preconceptions of marriage behind her and take charge of her own life, or is she destined to be controlled by others forever?
For readers who like a twist in the tale which takes them by surprise, I recommend Trencarrow Secret by Anita Davison.
I had the privilege of reading this novel by an accomplished author prior to publication and thoroughly enjoyed it
You can find out more about Anita and her novels at Anita’s beautifully designed blog:http://thedisorganisedauthor.blogspot.com
Isabel Hart is afraid of two things, the maze at Trencarrow where she got lost as a young child, and the lake where her brother David saved her from drowning in a boating accident.
With her twenty-first birthday and the announcement of her engagement imminent, Isabel decides it is time for her to face her demons and ventures into the maze. There she sees something which will alter her perceptions of herself and her family forever.
Isabel’s widowed aunt joins the house party, where her cousin confides she is in love with an enigmatic young man who surely cannot be what he pretends, for he is too dashing for homely Laura.
When Henry, Viscount Strachan and his mother arrive, ostensibly to use her ball as an arena for finding a wife, Isabel is determined not to like him.
As more secrets are revealed, Isabel begins to doubt she has chosen the right man, although her future fiancé has more vested in this marriage than Isabel realizes and has no intention of letting her go easily.
Will Isabel be able to put her preconceptions of marriage behind her and take charge of her own life, or is she destined to be controlled by others forever?
Sunday, 5 June 2011
A Novelist aka Organic Gardener's Saturday Morning
As usual, when I woke at 6.am, I went downstairs to make a mug of green tea sweetened with organic honey, and flavoured with a wedge of unwaxed, organic lemon. While the kettle boiled I turned on the tap to water part of the vegetable plot. I then wasted a lot of time trying to adjust the spray.
By 6.20 I was checking my e-mails and replying to some of them. Recently, junk mail has been appearing. How do I get rid of it? I changed my password for one e-mail address but it hasn’t helped. What satisfaction do people derive from wasting other people’s time?
An hour later, I applied on line critiques to my mediaeval novel set in the reign of Edward II. The novel is part of a planned trilogy. I finished the first draft several years ago and sent it to the Romantic Novelist’s Association New Members’ New Writers’ Scheme for a reader’s report. The report was incredibly useful. I applied all the suggestions and put my novel, Dear Heart, aside while I wrote my new release Tangled Love (formerly published as Tangled Hearts) set in Queen Anne’s reign.
My critique partners thought the chapter I submitted for their opinion lacked emotion. In retrospect, I agree and now know how to add depth to the chapter. The good news is that they can identify with the characters’ dilemmas and enjoy my descriptions of places. In the chapter the hero has returned from the Battle of Bannockburn.
“After all that Nicholas had endured on the battlefield, he could scarcely believe in the reality of this oasis with its luxurious furnishings, a cradle for the babe yet to be born, a loom, a spinning wheel and a prie-dieu. Glad to see everyday things, he gazed at the items on top of a coffer – the box Harold gave Yvonne for a wedding gift, her ivory-framed looking glass, a pair of gold embroidered gloves, a baby’s gold and coral rattle next to a tiny, half-stitched coif.”
I applied some suggestions, corrected grammatical errors and inserted notes about revision in the text.
In between applying critiques I turned off the hose and make breakfast – freshly squeezed organic orange juice and porridge. While I ate breakfast I watched the news and decided what I would do in my organic garden.
After breakfast I critiqued a chapter of an intriguing historical novel set in the Bronze Age. It will be the first novel I’ve ever read set in this period. By then it was 10 a.m. time to set aside my writing activities until the late afternoon and early evening.
I had a quick shower and went into the garden. The redcurrants hang on the bush like glistening jewels. I picked half of them with the intention of making a raspberry and redcurrant pie. Today I will pick more to make redcurrant jelly and – if there are enough – redcurrant cordial. The jelly is delicious in cream cheese sandwiches, added to a serving of my homemade yoghurt or in creamy rice pudding. The cordial is refreshing and the pie will be delicious.
Next, I planted out beetroot which I grew from seed in the greenhouse and sowed turnip seeds and white radish seeds. The leaves and long white radishes make a delicious curry. I then did some weeding. By then it was very hot so I had a drink made with homemade yoghurt and cold water and a pinch of salt. It is a very refreshing drink on a hot day. I sipped it while leafing through a vegetarian cookbook and deciding what needs to be done in the garden on the next day, a Sunday.
On Sundays I feed my tomato plants which I grow in pots and hanging baskets. Last year Idli tomato plants provided masses of succulent sweet, yellow cherry tomatoes, which my grandchildren ate like sweets. I decided that other urgent tasks would be picking the last of my broad beans, potting up bush basil and leeks that are growing in the greenhouse and sowing some more French beans. And, of course, there is the never ending task of weeding and pruning.
By 6.20 I was checking my e-mails and replying to some of them. Recently, junk mail has been appearing. How do I get rid of it? I changed my password for one e-mail address but it hasn’t helped. What satisfaction do people derive from wasting other people’s time?
An hour later, I applied on line critiques to my mediaeval novel set in the reign of Edward II. The novel is part of a planned trilogy. I finished the first draft several years ago and sent it to the Romantic Novelist’s Association New Members’ New Writers’ Scheme for a reader’s report. The report was incredibly useful. I applied all the suggestions and put my novel, Dear Heart, aside while I wrote my new release Tangled Love (formerly published as Tangled Hearts) set in Queen Anne’s reign.
My critique partners thought the chapter I submitted for their opinion lacked emotion. In retrospect, I agree and now know how to add depth to the chapter. The good news is that they can identify with the characters’ dilemmas and enjoy my descriptions of places. In the chapter the hero has returned from the Battle of Bannockburn.
“After all that Nicholas had endured on the battlefield, he could scarcely believe in the reality of this oasis with its luxurious furnishings, a cradle for the babe yet to be born, a loom, a spinning wheel and a prie-dieu. Glad to see everyday things, he gazed at the items on top of a coffer – the box Harold gave Yvonne for a wedding gift, her ivory-framed looking glass, a pair of gold embroidered gloves, a baby’s gold and coral rattle next to a tiny, half-stitched coif.”
I applied some suggestions, corrected grammatical errors and inserted notes about revision in the text.
In between applying critiques I turned off the hose and make breakfast – freshly squeezed organic orange juice and porridge. While I ate breakfast I watched the news and decided what I would do in my organic garden.
After breakfast I critiqued a chapter of an intriguing historical novel set in the Bronze Age. It will be the first novel I’ve ever read set in this period. By then it was 10 a.m. time to set aside my writing activities until the late afternoon and early evening.
I had a quick shower and went into the garden. The redcurrants hang on the bush like glistening jewels. I picked half of them with the intention of making a raspberry and redcurrant pie. Today I will pick more to make redcurrant jelly and – if there are enough – redcurrant cordial. The jelly is delicious in cream cheese sandwiches, added to a serving of my homemade yoghurt or in creamy rice pudding. The cordial is refreshing and the pie will be delicious.
Next, I planted out beetroot which I grew from seed in the greenhouse and sowed turnip seeds and white radish seeds. The leaves and long white radishes make a delicious curry. I then did some weeding. By then it was very hot so I had a drink made with homemade yoghurt and cold water and a pinch of salt. It is a very refreshing drink on a hot day. I sipped it while leafing through a vegetarian cookbook and deciding what needs to be done in the garden on the next day, a Sunday.
On Sundays I feed my tomato plants which I grow in pots and hanging baskets. Last year Idli tomato plants provided masses of succulent sweet, yellow cherry tomatoes, which my grandchildren ate like sweets. I decided that other urgent tasks would be picking the last of my broad beans, potting up bush basil and leeks that are growing in the greenhouse and sowing some more French beans. And, of course, there is the never ending task of weeding and pruning.
Sunday, 29 May 2011
Helen Hollick - Novelist
It was a pleasure to attend the London Chapter Meeting of the Romantic Novelist’s Association on the 21st May, 2011, at which our guest speaker was Helen Hollick, whose novels I enjoy.
For thirteen years Helen worked as a library assistant at Chingford library. During those years her interest in and passion for King Arthur and the Dark Ages grew. As a result she wrote the first of her trilogy, Pendragon’s Banner, which Heinemann accepted three days before her 40th birthday in 1994.
As Helen explained at the Chapter Meeting, she intended to write Guinevere’s story but realised it should be Arthur’s story - the tale of what might have happened, an interpretation of what we think we know.
Helen moved onto the Saxons. She brightened up Harold Godwinson’s story and while doing so visited Waltham Abbey where he walked. She also visited Battle Abbey, the site of the Battle of Hastings. While there she sensed that if she turned round she would see the battle, but she could not force herself to look. I wish she had taken a peep, I would love to know what she would have seen.
While writing Harold the King her hatred of William grew. She wrote the novel from the Saxon viewpoint and presented Harold as a popular, dynamic leader who gave his life to save England from invasion.
After the publication of Harold the King, Helen’s agent suggested she should write about pirates. Doubtless, the agent had the popularity of The Pirates of the Caribbean mind.
One day, Helen went for a walk along the beach and the whole story of The Sea Witch came to her.
Helen settled on a rock and looked out to sea and saw her pirate. (*This incident reminds me of Baroness Orczy who, while waiting for the train that Emmuska saw her most famous hero, Sir Percival Blakeney, dressed in exquisite clothes. She noted the monocle held up in his slender hand, heard both his lazy drawl and his quaint laugh. Emmuska told her husband about the incident and within five weeks wrote The Scarlet Pimpernel.)
Unfortunately, Helen’s agent didn’t like Sea Witch but Helen was not deterred. She wrote three more pirate novels and recently completed the fourth, which will be published in the autumn. Her determination has paid off, all of Helen’s novels are being republished by Sourcebooks in the U.S.A and Silverwood in the U.K.
The rejection was a serious mistake. Helen’s many fans relish her imaginative, well-written tales.
I have been one of Helen’s fans for a long time. Her novels have never disappointed me; and her talk did not disappoint me; it inspired me to write to the best of my ability and not to become discouraged.
Thank you,
Helen.
Series. Pendragons Banner
The Kingmaking
Pendragons Banner
The Shadow of the King
Seawitch Chronicles
Seawitch, Pirate Code, Bring It Close, Ripples in the Sand. Autumn 2011
Novels.
Harold the King. aka. I am the Chosen King
A Hollow Crown aka. The Forever Queen
Children’s Fiction
Come and Tell Me Be Safe Be Sensible.
*My article in the first edition of Vintage Script a subscription magazine devoted to Past Times
For thirteen years Helen worked as a library assistant at Chingford library. During those years her interest in and passion for King Arthur and the Dark Ages grew. As a result she wrote the first of her trilogy, Pendragon’s Banner, which Heinemann accepted three days before her 40th birthday in 1994.
As Helen explained at the Chapter Meeting, she intended to write Guinevere’s story but realised it should be Arthur’s story - the tale of what might have happened, an interpretation of what we think we know.
Helen moved onto the Saxons. She brightened up Harold Godwinson’s story and while doing so visited Waltham Abbey where he walked. She also visited Battle Abbey, the site of the Battle of Hastings. While there she sensed that if she turned round she would see the battle, but she could not force herself to look. I wish she had taken a peep, I would love to know what she would have seen.
While writing Harold the King her hatred of William grew. She wrote the novel from the Saxon viewpoint and presented Harold as a popular, dynamic leader who gave his life to save England from invasion.
After the publication of Harold the King, Helen’s agent suggested she should write about pirates. Doubtless, the agent had the popularity of The Pirates of the Caribbean mind.
One day, Helen went for a walk along the beach and the whole story of The Sea Witch came to her.
Helen settled on a rock and looked out to sea and saw her pirate. (*This incident reminds me of Baroness Orczy who, while waiting for the train that Emmuska saw her most famous hero, Sir Percival Blakeney, dressed in exquisite clothes. She noted the monocle held up in his slender hand, heard both his lazy drawl and his quaint laugh. Emmuska told her husband about the incident and within five weeks wrote The Scarlet Pimpernel.)
Unfortunately, Helen’s agent didn’t like Sea Witch but Helen was not deterred. She wrote three more pirate novels and recently completed the fourth, which will be published in the autumn. Her determination has paid off, all of Helen’s novels are being republished by Sourcebooks in the U.S.A and Silverwood in the U.K.
The rejection was a serious mistake. Helen’s many fans relish her imaginative, well-written tales.
I have been one of Helen’s fans for a long time. Her novels have never disappointed me; and her talk did not disappoint me; it inspired me to write to the best of my ability and not to become discouraged.
Thank you,
Helen.
Series. Pendragons Banner
The Kingmaking
Pendragons Banner
The Shadow of the King
Seawitch Chronicles
Seawitch, Pirate Code, Bring It Close, Ripples in the Sand. Autumn 2011
Novels.
Harold the King. aka. I am the Chosen King
A Hollow Crown aka. The Forever Queen
Children’s Fiction
Come and Tell Me Be Safe Be Sensible.
*My article in the first edition of Vintage Script a subscription magazine devoted to Past Times
Helen Hollick - Author
It was a pleasure to attend the London Chapter Meeting of the Romantic Novelist’s Association on the 21st May, 2011, at which our guest speaker was Helen Hollick, whose novels I enjoy.
For thirteen years Helen worked as a library assistant at Chingford library. During those years her interest in and passion for King Arthur and the Dark Ages grew. As a result she wrote the first of her trilogy, Pendragon’s Banner, which Heinemann accepted three days before her 40th birthday in 1994.
As Helen explained at the Chapter Meeting, she intended to write Guinevere’s story but realised it should be Arthur’s story - the tale of what might have happened, an interpretation of what we think we know.
Helen moved onto the Saxons. She brightened up Harold Godwinson’s story and while doing so visited Waltham Abbey where he walked. She also visited Battle Abbey, the site of the Battle of Hastings. While there she sensed that if she turned round she would see the battle, but she could not force herself to look. I wish she had taken a peep, I would love to know what she would have seen.
While writing Harold the King her hatred of William grew. She wrote the novel from the Saxon viewpoint and presented Harold as a popular, dynamic leader who gave his life to save England from invasion.
After the publication of Harold the King, Helen’s agent suggested she should write about pirates. Doubtless, the agent had the popularity of The Pirates of the Caribbean mind.
One day, Helen went for a walk along the beach and the whole story of The Sea Witch came to her.
Helen settled on a rock and looked out to sea and saw her pirate. (*This incident reminds me of Baroness Orczy who, while waiting for the train that Emmuska saw her most famous hero, Sir Percival Blakeney, dressed in exquisite clothes. She noted the monocle held up in his slender hand, heard both his lazy drawl and his quaint laugh. Emmuska told her husband about the incident and within five weeks wrote The Scarlet Pimpernel.)
Unfortunately, Helen’s agent didn’t like Sea Witch but Helen was not deterred. She wrote three more pirate novels and recently completed the fourth, which will be published in the autumn. Her determination has paid off, all of Helen’s novels are being republished by Sourcebooks in the U.S.A and Silverwood in the U.K.
The rejection was a serious mistake. Helen’s many fans relish her imaginative, well-written tales.
I have been one of Helen’s fans for a long time. Her novels have never disappointed me; and her talk did not disappoint me; it inspired me to write to the best of my ability and not to become discouraged.
Thank you,
Helen.
Series. Pendragons Banner
The Kingmaking
Pendragons Banner
The Shadow of the King
Seawitch Chronicles
Seawitch, Pirate Code, Bring It Close, Ripples in the Sand. Autumn 2011
Novels.
Harold the King. aka. I am the Chosen King
A Hollow Crown aka. The Forever Queen
Children’s Fiction
Come and Tell Me Be Safe Be Sensible.
*My article in the first edition of Vintage Script a subscription magazine devoted to Past Times
For thirteen years Helen worked as a library assistant at Chingford library. During those years her interest in and passion for King Arthur and the Dark Ages grew. As a result she wrote the first of her trilogy, Pendragon’s Banner, which Heinemann accepted three days before her 40th birthday in 1994.
As Helen explained at the Chapter Meeting, she intended to write Guinevere’s story but realised it should be Arthur’s story - the tale of what might have happened, an interpretation of what we think we know.
Helen moved onto the Saxons. She brightened up Harold Godwinson’s story and while doing so visited Waltham Abbey where he walked. She also visited Battle Abbey, the site of the Battle of Hastings. While there she sensed that if she turned round she would see the battle, but she could not force herself to look. I wish she had taken a peep, I would love to know what she would have seen.
While writing Harold the King her hatred of William grew. She wrote the novel from the Saxon viewpoint and presented Harold as a popular, dynamic leader who gave his life to save England from invasion.
After the publication of Harold the King, Helen’s agent suggested she should write about pirates. Doubtless, the agent had the popularity of The Pirates of the Caribbean mind.
One day, Helen went for a walk along the beach and the whole story of The Sea Witch came to her.
Helen settled on a rock and looked out to sea and saw her pirate. (*This incident reminds me of Baroness Orczy who, while waiting for the train that Emmuska saw her most famous hero, Sir Percival Blakeney, dressed in exquisite clothes. She noted the monocle held up in his slender hand, heard both his lazy drawl and his quaint laugh. Emmuska told her husband about the incident and within five weeks wrote The Scarlet Pimpernel.)
Unfortunately, Helen’s agent didn’t like Sea Witch but Helen was not deterred. She wrote three more pirate novels and recently completed the fourth, which will be published in the autumn. Her determination has paid off, all of Helen’s novels are being republished by Sourcebooks in the U.S.A and Silverwood in the U.K.
The rejection was a serious mistake. Helen’s many fans relish her imaginative, well-written tales.
I have been one of Helen’s fans for a long time. Her novels have never disappointed me; and her talk did not disappoint me; it inspired me to write to the best of my ability and not to become discouraged.
Thank you,
Helen.
Series. Pendragons Banner
The Kingmaking
Pendragons Banner
The Shadow of the King
Seawitch Chronicles
Seawitch, Pirate Code, Bring It Close, Ripples in the Sand. Autumn 2011
Novels.
Harold the King. aka. I am the Chosen King
A Hollow Crown aka. The Forever Queen
Children’s Fiction
Come and Tell Me Be Safe Be Sensible.
*My article in the first edition of Vintage Script a subscription magazine devoted to Past Times
Saturday, 14 May 2011
St Albans Cathedral Abbey
The only Englishman, who has ever been Pope,was Nicholas Breakspeare. He was born near St Albans in Kings Langley. His father became a monk in the abbey but Nicholas was considered too uneducated to enter the monastery although he had attended the abbery school.
Presumably disappointed by not being accepted at St Albans, Nicholas went to France and became a novice at St Rufus in Avignon where he later became prior.
Nicholas was noticed by Pope Eugenius III and subsequently became a cardinal. In 1154 Nicholas became Pope Adrian IV.
Modern day visitors to the abbey can see a statue of Nicholas aka Adrian stands on the ornately carved screen of the High Altar.
Although the abbey had rejected the young Nicholas, he favoured it and freed the abbey from the jurisdiction of the Bishop of Lincoln by granting the Abbot of St Albans permission to wear the mitre. This gave him precedence in the Benedictine hierarchy.
To this day the Cathedral Abbey of St Albans continues to flourish and is a vibrant part of the community.
Presumably disappointed by not being accepted at St Albans, Nicholas went to France and became a novice at St Rufus in Avignon where he later became prior.
Nicholas was noticed by Pope Eugenius III and subsequently became a cardinal. In 1154 Nicholas became Pope Adrian IV.
Modern day visitors to the abbey can see a statue of Nicholas aka Adrian stands on the ornately carved screen of the High Altar.
Although the abbey had rejected the young Nicholas, he favoured it and freed the abbey from the jurisdiction of the Bishop of Lincoln by granting the Abbot of St Albans permission to wear the mitre. This gave him precedence in the Benedictine hierarchy.
To this day the Cathedral Abbey of St Albans continues to flourish and is a vibrant part of the community.
Thursday, 5 May 2011
Mathew Paris and St Albans Abbey
During St Albans Abbey’s greatest days, the monastery was a centre of learning. One of the most famous historians from the scriptorium was Mathew Paris, who wrote the Chronica Majora in Latin from 1235 until he died in 1259. He began with the story of creation and concluded it with the news of the day.
Written in Latin, the Chronica Majora, starts with the creation story and ends with what, for Matthew, was the present day. St Alban's guest facilities and strategic position, one day's ride from London, made it a popular venue for the many visitors who brought much of the news and information which Brother Matthew recorded and illustrated. His drawings depicted subjects as varied as heraldic shields, Bible stories, famous battles in the crusades and the fantastic – for example, sea monsters.
Amongst other literature, Mathew wrote Gesta Abbatum – the Deeds of Abbots – which records life in a Benedictine house. Although he is loyal his own monastery, his comments are honest. He writes favourably and unfavourably about his abbot’s behaviour and decisions, and mentions favours and slights to St Albans.
By 1235 St Albans Abbey was a large self-contained community near to London. It received many visitors and the stable block contained stalls for 200 horses. There were a 100 monks or more and 300 or more lay helpers. The abbey’s prestige increased in the mediaeval era. 20 monasteries depended on it and acknowledged its authority. The abbots were – in modern day parlance – ‘rushed off their feet’ administering estates and intricate financial matters, attending parliament and entertaining royalty.
Mathew
Written in Latin, the Chronica Majora, starts with the creation story and ends with what, for Matthew, was the present day. St Alban's guest facilities and strategic position, one day's ride from London, made it a popular venue for the many visitors who brought much of the news and information which Brother Matthew recorded and illustrated. His drawings depicted subjects as varied as heraldic shields, Bible stories, famous battles in the crusades and the fantastic – for example, sea monsters.
Amongst other literature, Mathew wrote Gesta Abbatum – the Deeds of Abbots – which records life in a Benedictine house. Although he is loyal his own monastery, his comments are honest. He writes favourably and unfavourably about his abbot’s behaviour and decisions, and mentions favours and slights to St Albans.
By 1235 St Albans Abbey was a large self-contained community near to London. It received many visitors and the stable block contained stalls for 200 horses. There were a 100 monks or more and 300 or more lay helpers. The abbey’s prestige increased in the mediaeval era. 20 monasteries depended on it and acknowledged its authority. The abbots were – in modern day parlance – ‘rushed off their feet’ administering estates and intricate financial matters, attending parliament and entertaining royalty.
Mathew
Sunday, 1 May 2011
St Alban's Cathedral
Yesterday, I again visited St Albans Cathedral, this time with a friend.
Alban, the first English martyr, was beheaded for his Christian faith by the Romans on the hillside where the Cathedral now stands. According to legend the executioners’ eyes fell out when he struck off Alban’s head. The claim that miraculous healing took place at the site of his martyrdom spread and after 325, when Christianity was permissible, pilgrims gathered there.
In 429 St Germanus of Auxerre visited the area which is the modern day town of St Albans. He discovered Alban’s grave, a place where Christians have worshipped from then until the present day.
The first church, part of a Benedictine Abbey, was south of the present cathedral.
In the 8th century, the honourable Bede mentioned: the beautiful church worthy of Alban’s martyrdom where frequent miracles of healing took place.’ The monastic church he referred to was built on the command of Saxon King Offa whose wife converted him to Christianity.
Offa had successfully petitioned the Pope to canonise Alban. Afterwards the abbey and the settlement around it became known as St. Albans.
Alban, the first English martyr, was beheaded for his Christian faith by the Romans on the hillside where the Cathedral now stands. According to legend the executioners’ eyes fell out when he struck off Alban’s head. The claim that miraculous healing took place at the site of his martyrdom spread and after 325, when Christianity was permissible, pilgrims gathered there.
In 429 St Germanus of Auxerre visited the area which is the modern day town of St Albans. He discovered Alban’s grave, a place where Christians have worshipped from then until the present day.
The first church, part of a Benedictine Abbey, was south of the present cathedral.
In the 8th century, the honourable Bede mentioned: the beautiful church worthy of Alban’s martyrdom where frequent miracles of healing took place.’ The monastic church he referred to was built on the command of Saxon King Offa whose wife converted him to Christianity.
Offa had successfully petitioned the Pope to canonise Alban. Afterwards the abbey and the settlement around it became known as St. Albans.
Tuesday, 26 April 2011
Memories of my mother
My publisher MuseItUp invited me to post some recollections of my mother at the May blog, the theme of which is Mother's Day, so I'm sharing the following, which is only part of my contribution.
My mother, Lucy Agnes, celebrated her 100th birthday Boxing Day and left her body on the night of the 28th December, 2010.
During the last few years of her life Mum’s hearing was impaired and she suffered from macular vision. In her own words: “It seems as if there’s a small coin placed over the centre of my eyes and I can only see round the edge of it.” For years she suffered from back pain and one of her lungs only worked at quarter of its normal capacity. However, Mum’s wits were needle sharp and remained so until the very end.
Mum had more common sense than anyone else I have ever known and I could always turn to her for advice. There’s a huge gap in my life. She’s always in my head. I see a film she would have enjoyed, go somewhere she would like and miss her dreadfully. Sometimes I pick up the phone to give her a ring and realise she’s no longer there for me – at least – not in this world.
Since mum’s death memories have flooded into my mind fast and furiously. I imagine the young Lucy leaving school at fourteen. Her father arranged for her to be apprenticed to a milliner. He said that it would provide a living for life as women would always wear hats.
Mum spent one miserable day at the milliners. On the next day she tramped the streets of London until she found a job at one of the large London stores. Nothing my wonderful grandfather said persuaded her to return to the milliners.
Over the years Mum worked at many of the large, fashionable London stores in the West End where she met potential husbands. One of them was a high-ranking civil servant who had a splendid house run by his housekeeper in the Chilterns, near Wendover. They used to go for long walks in all seasons. Afterwards they went to his house where they enjoyed afternoon tea. Cucumber sandwiches made with thinly cut bread, scones with strawberry jam and fancy cakes in the summer; crumpets, cheese on toast and fruit cakes in the winter. However, the civil servant was too old for her so she turned down his offer of marriage, but he was not the one who broke her heart.
She never told me the name of the man she fell passionately in love with, but not passionately enough to go to Brighton with him for – as she put it – “naughty weekends”. However, she and the man she loved, who I shall call John, and other friends often piled into cars and set out for Brighton, where they swam in the sea, ate fish and chips and returned to London in the small hours of the morning.
John went on business to Australia. Mum waited for John to return and dreamt of marrying him. All her hopes were destroyed. John, Lucy, her girlfriend, May and May’s fiancé, Bunny, went out for a meal at a posh restaurant. Halfway through the meal Bunny looked John straight in the eyes. “Why don’t you tell Lucy you’re married?” Bunny asked. I can only imagine the scene and grieve for my mother, who lost the love of her life.
My mother, Lucy Agnes, celebrated her 100th birthday Boxing Day and left her body on the night of the 28th December, 2010.
During the last few years of her life Mum’s hearing was impaired and she suffered from macular vision. In her own words: “It seems as if there’s a small coin placed over the centre of my eyes and I can only see round the edge of it.” For years she suffered from back pain and one of her lungs only worked at quarter of its normal capacity. However, Mum’s wits were needle sharp and remained so until the very end.
Mum had more common sense than anyone else I have ever known and I could always turn to her for advice. There’s a huge gap in my life. She’s always in my head. I see a film she would have enjoyed, go somewhere she would like and miss her dreadfully. Sometimes I pick up the phone to give her a ring and realise she’s no longer there for me – at least – not in this world.
Since mum’s death memories have flooded into my mind fast and furiously. I imagine the young Lucy leaving school at fourteen. Her father arranged for her to be apprenticed to a milliner. He said that it would provide a living for life as women would always wear hats.
Mum spent one miserable day at the milliners. On the next day she tramped the streets of London until she found a job at one of the large London stores. Nothing my wonderful grandfather said persuaded her to return to the milliners.
Over the years Mum worked at many of the large, fashionable London stores in the West End where she met potential husbands. One of them was a high-ranking civil servant who had a splendid house run by his housekeeper in the Chilterns, near Wendover. They used to go for long walks in all seasons. Afterwards they went to his house where they enjoyed afternoon tea. Cucumber sandwiches made with thinly cut bread, scones with strawberry jam and fancy cakes in the summer; crumpets, cheese on toast and fruit cakes in the winter. However, the civil servant was too old for her so she turned down his offer of marriage, but he was not the one who broke her heart.
She never told me the name of the man she fell passionately in love with, but not passionately enough to go to Brighton with him for – as she put it – “naughty weekends”. However, she and the man she loved, who I shall call John, and other friends often piled into cars and set out for Brighton, where they swam in the sea, ate fish and chips and returned to London in the small hours of the morning.
John went on business to Australia. Mum waited for John to return and dreamt of marrying him. All her hopes were destroyed. John, Lucy, her girlfriend, May and May’s fiancé, Bunny, went out for a meal at a posh restaurant. Halfway through the meal Bunny looked John straight in the eyes. “Why don’t you tell Lucy you’re married?” Bunny asked. I can only imagine the scene and grieve for my mother, who lost the love of her life.
Thursday, 21 April 2011
Withdrawal symptoms
One of my grandsons stayed for the night - we had a lovely time but there was little time to write. I did turn on the laptop but he plonked himself next to me and ...aged five...began reading the new novel I'm writing. (According to his teacher is reading age is seven plus.)
Later I made 5 and a half pounds of rhubarb chutney, tidied up the house and pulled up some potatoes to make potato salad. The potatoes are growing on last year's patch and need to be pulled up so that they won't cause disease in this year's newly planted patch. I made a mixed salad useing greens from the garden, including young dandelion leaves and some feverfew, which is very bitter but hardly noticeable if it is chopped very finely. I added chopped chives to the potato salad and fresh basil to the green salad.
This afternoon I had my hair coloured and cut and when I came home had to tidy up the house and water the garden and now ... at last the withdrawal systems are decreasing,
Later I made 5 and a half pounds of rhubarb chutney, tidied up the house and pulled up some potatoes to make potato salad. The potatoes are growing on last year's patch and need to be pulled up so that they won't cause disease in this year's newly planted patch. I made a mixed salad useing greens from the garden, including young dandelion leaves and some feverfew, which is very bitter but hardly noticeable if it is chopped very finely. I added chopped chives to the potato salad and fresh basil to the green salad.
This afternoon I had my hair coloured and cut and when I came home had to tidy up the house and water the garden and now ... at last the withdrawal systems are decreasing,
Tuesday, 19 April 2011
The Cathedral and Abbey Church of Saint Alban
Yesterday my daughter and I visited the Cathedral Abbey Church of St Alban.
St Alban lived in the Roman city of Verulimium. His life was transformed by a Christian priest who he sheltered from persecution. When St Alban professed his faith before a judge he was flogged but still refused to deny his Christian faith and was sentenced to death.
"St Alban was brought out of the town across the river and up a hill to the site of execution where his head was cut off. Legend tells us that on the hill-top a spring of water miraculously appeared to give the martyr a drink. Also moved by his witness the original executioner refused to carry out the deed, and that after his replacement had killed Alban, the executioners eyes chopped out. This account is based on that of the Venerable Bede."
The children enjoyed their visit and the picnic in the beautiful grounds at the rear of the abbey.
When I visit Westminster Abbey, it fills me with awe but St Albans gave me a sense of welcome as though the ancient building had opened its arms to me.
I will vist the Cathedral again, go on the guided tour, spend time in the library and make notes.
St Alban lived in the Roman city of Verulimium. His life was transformed by a Christian priest who he sheltered from persecution. When St Alban professed his faith before a judge he was flogged but still refused to deny his Christian faith and was sentenced to death.
"St Alban was brought out of the town across the river and up a hill to the site of execution where his head was cut off. Legend tells us that on the hill-top a spring of water miraculously appeared to give the martyr a drink. Also moved by his witness the original executioner refused to carry out the deed, and that after his replacement had killed Alban, the executioners eyes chopped out. This account is based on that of the Venerable Bede."
The children enjoyed their visit and the picnic in the beautiful grounds at the rear of the abbey.
When I visit Westminster Abbey, it fills me with awe but St Albans gave me a sense of welcome as though the ancient building had opened its arms to me.
I will vist the Cathedral again, go on the guided tour, spend time in the library and make notes.
Saturday, 9 April 2011
Chance Encounter
Yesterday, I needed more plant pots so I went to the Pound Shop and then visited Wilkinsons, where I bought some brackets and chains for hanging baskets and some trailing fuschias.
A bit hot and tired, I lunched at British Home Stores and sat at a table opposite an amazing gentleman who must have been about 90. He started chatting to me about healthy, organic food, something I'm so passionate about that I grow about 60% of my own. He then asked me what I do and when he learned I write romantic historicals, amazed me by his knowledge of Queen Anne's era in which Tangled Love is set. Chatting to him was a delight and I hope I bump into him again.
Rosemary Morris.
Tangled Love 27/01/2012 MuseItUp Publishers
A bit hot and tired, I lunched at British Home Stores and sat at a table opposite an amazing gentleman who must have been about 90. He started chatting to me about healthy, organic food, something I'm so passionate about that I grow about 60% of my own. He then asked me what I do and when he learned I write romantic historicals, amazed me by his knowledge of Queen Anne's era in which Tangled Love is set. Chatting to him was a delight and I hope I bump into him again.
Rosemary Morris.
Tangled Love 27/01/2012 MuseItUp Publishers
Thursday, 7 April 2011
MuseItUp publishers - special offer
This week Muse It Up Publishing have two special offers for $1.99 each.
The first is Crimson Dream by David J. Normoyle a young adult fantasy fiction novel.
"Haunted by a dream of his beloved sister's death, an asthmatic seer leads his people against a long forgotten enermy."
The second is Norman by Craig Gehring a sci-fi novel.
"Journalism student Clayton East is hot on the trail of a multi billion hoax - a research project into artificial intelligence authored by a sceintist turned exile.
He'll risk his careet, his friendship and his love to get the scoop of a lifetime."
The first is Crimson Dream by David J. Normoyle a young adult fantasy fiction novel.
"Haunted by a dream of his beloved sister's death, an asthmatic seer leads his people against a long forgotten enermy."
The second is Norman by Craig Gehring a sci-fi novel.
"Journalism student Clayton East is hot on the trail of a multi billion hoax - a research project into artificial intelligence authored by a sceintist turned exile.
He'll risk his careet, his friendship and his love to get the scoop of a lifetime."
Tuesday, 5 April 2011
Historical Fiction - Research
I have begun a Restoration Novel set soon after Charles II was crowned King of England.
My bedside table is piled high with reading material about the period. Another, smaller pile of books borrowed from the library are in a heap on my desk in the spare room. I woke up at 5 30 a.m. and decided tecord the tit-bits about customs, fashion, food, gardens, husbandry etc.
Recreating times past to the best of my ability requires meticulous research which I enjoy.
Our well-to-do ancestors ate well. In one book asparagus, Spanish cardoons, grapes and figs are mentioned.
My bedside table is piled high with reading material about the period. Another, smaller pile of books borrowed from the library are in a heap on my desk in the spare room. I woke up at 5 30 a.m. and decided tecord the tit-bits about customs, fashion, food, gardens, husbandry etc.
Recreating times past to the best of my ability requires meticulous research which I enjoy.
Our well-to-do ancestors ate well. In one book asparagus, Spanish cardoons, grapes and figs are mentioned.
Monday, 4 April 2011
Rainy Day
After cold, icy weather during winter, when I was housebound, I've enjoyed a few sunny days in the garden. Yesterday was cool but pleasant so I planted my maincrop potatoes, which had been chitting indoors. Then I potted up Idli tomatos. Last year this variety provided dozens of small, sweet yellow fruits. I also sowed some mustard seeds, on Thursday I'll sprinkle some cress seeds over them and in a short time have mustard and cress for salads or sandwiches.
Back to the main topic. Today is rainy so I shall remain cosy indoors while e-mailing, blogging and, of course, writing in the hope that my new work will be published,
All the best,
Rosemary Morris
Forthcoming release. Tangled Love. 27.01.2012 Reprint of Tangled Hearts
Back to the main topic. Today is rainy so I shall remain cosy indoors while e-mailing, blogging and, of course, writing in the hope that my new work will be published,
All the best,
Rosemary Morris
Forthcoming release. Tangled Love. 27.01.2012 Reprint of Tangled Hearts
Thursday, 31 March 2011
New Release. Tangled Love by Rosemary Morris
I am delighted to announce that my novel Tangled Hearts set in England in Queen Anne's reign 1702-1714 will be published as Tangled Love on the 27th January 2012.
NN
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About Rosemary Morris
Rosemary Morris was born in 1940 in Sidcup Kent. As a child, when she was not making up stories, her head was ‘always in a book.’
While working in a travel agency, Rosemary met her Indian husband. He encouraged her to continue her education at Westminster College. In 1961 Rosemary and her husband, now a barrister, moved to his birthplace, Kenya, where she lived from 1961 until 1982. After an attempted coup d’état, she and four of her children lived in an ashram in France.
Back in England, Rosemary wrote historical fiction. She is now a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Historical Novel Society and Cassio Writers.
Apart from writing, Rosemary enjoys classical Indian literature, reading, visiting places of historical interest, vegetarian cooking, growing organic fruit, herbs and vegetables and creative crafts.
Time spent with her five children and their families, most of who live near her is precious.
Website. www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
Blogsites www.rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
www.penwoman.gather.com
www.enspirenpress.com
Member of:
The Romantic Novelists Association of Great Britain
The Historical Novel Society
Affiliations.
http://www.myspare.com/rosemarymorris
Bebo
Bookplace
Facebook
Communicati
Gather
Good Reads
Published Authors
Ning
Shelfari
Stumble Upon
Writers Across Time
While working in a travel agency, Rosemary met her Indian husband. He encouraged her to continue her education at Westminster College. In 1961 Rosemary and her husband, now a barrister, moved to his birthplace, Kenya, where she lived from 1961 until 1982. After an attempted coup d’état, she and four of her children lived in an ashram in France.
Back in England, Rosemary wrote historical fiction. She is now a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Historical Novel Society and Cassio Writers.
Apart from writing, Rosemary enjoys classical Indian literature, reading, visiting places of historical interest, vegetarian cooking, growing organic fruit, herbs and vegetables and creative crafts.
Time spent with her five children and their families, most of who live near her is precious.
Website. www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
Blogsites www.rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
www.penwoman.gather.com
www.enspirenpress.com
Member of:
The Romantic Novelists Association of Great Britain
The Historical Novel Society
Affiliations.
http://www.myspare.com/rosemarymorris
Bebo
Bookplace
Communicati
Gather
Good Reads
Published Authors
Ning
Shelfari
Stumble Upon
Writers Across Time
Joy of Gardens and Writing
I've hoarded some birthday money for ages. Yesterday my daughter-in-law and I went to Costco and I bought a large, bronze coloured, resin statue of a kneeling oriental figure with a small begging bowl in its hands. It looks gorgeous at the end of the garden path against a background of a conifer hedge.
I also bought a 6 foot by 10 foot greenhouse and am looking forward to having it installed. I'm going to heat it with a radiator via the central heating and even in the worst weather it will be a nice place to write in on my laptop.
I employ a part time gardener, who does all the heavy work. This leaves me free to plot and plan my novels; to answer the questions of who, what, where, when and how? I reiterate the questions at the writing group I belong to when commenting on inexperienced writers work,
All the best,
Rosemary
I also bought a 6 foot by 10 foot greenhouse and am looking forward to having it installed. I'm going to heat it with a radiator via the central heating and even in the worst weather it will be a nice place to write in on my laptop.
I employ a part time gardener, who does all the heavy work. This leaves me free to plot and plan my novels; to answer the questions of who, what, where, when and how? I reiterate the questions at the writing group I belong to when commenting on inexperienced writers work,
All the best,
Rosemary
Special offer from MuseItUp Publisher
MuseItUp Publishing House have introduced their weekly $1.99 Books of the Week Specials, and this week they are offering:
The Fireborn Chronicles: Resonances regularly 5.95
and The Ghost of Grover's Ridge regularly 5.50
for $1.99 until next Thursday when our new Books of the Week Specials go up.
As well, it is April 1st and it's officially Autism Awareness month, so Autism Epidemic: Shaking the System is on special offer for the entire month for only $1.99
The Fireborn Chronicles: Resonances regularly 5.95
and The Ghost of Grover's Ridge regularly 5.50
for $1.99 until next Thursday when our new Books of the Week Specials go up.
As well, it is April 1st and it's officially Autism Awareness month, so Autism Epidemic: Shaking the System is on special offer for the entire month for only $1.99
Saturday, 13 February 2010
Show Don't Tell - Write With Style
Show Don’t Tell
One way to make your work fascinating is to use the active rather than the passive voice.
Passive
Passive designates a form of the verb by which the verbal action is attributed to the person or thing to whom it is actually directed: i.e. the logical object is the grammatical subject. E.g. He was seen by us. Passive. The opposite of active. Active: We saw him.
In a grammatically active construction, the subject is performing the action.
eg Jack ate the chocolate. (Jack is the subject, he’s performing the action, the chocolate is the object.)
Exposition
At the beginning of a play the dramatist is often committed to giving a certain amount of essential information about the plot and events which are to come. He may also have to give information about what has ‘already happened’. All this comes under the heading of exposition. A skilful dramatist is able to introduce material without holding up the action of the play and with recourse to the obvious devices of narrative.
Exposition is also a subject which other fiction writers need to consider. A writer might do well to remember that in Writing Circles, was, were, had, feel, felt and feeling are often considered to be passive words which tell instead of showing. A writer should also remember that modern editors and publishers tend to shy away from exposition.
***
I could have begun my published novel, Tangled Hearts, like this:
Richelda Shaw was in her nursery when Elsie, her mother’s maid, told her that her father had summoned her. After she had delivered the message, Elsie had followed her to the great hall where her father was waiting.
This tells my reader what happened but is not interesting.
Instead, I began.
“Richelda Shaw stood silent in her nursery while thunder pealed outside the ancient manor house and an even fiercer storm raged deep within. She pressed her hands to her ears and, eyes closed, remained as motionless as the marble statues in the orangery.
‘Nine years old and you’ve not yet learned to be neat!’ Elsie, her mother’s personal maid, pulled Richelda’s hands from her ears. ‘Come, your father’s waiting for you.’
Richelda’s hands trembled. What was wrong? Until now Father’s short visits from France meant gifts and laughter. This one made Mother cry while the servants spoke in hushed tones.
Followed by Elsie, Richelda hurried down the broad oak stairs. For a moment, she paused to admire the lilies of the valley in a Delft bowl. Only yesterday, she picked the flowers to welcome Father home. After she had arranged them with tender care, she placed them on a chest, which stood beneath a pair of crossed broadswords on the wall above.
Elsie opened the massive door of the great hall where Father stood to one side of the enormous hearth.
This shows the heroine acting in a way consistent with her situation, instead of telling the reader about it.
However, as for ‘telling’ being wrong, it is not. Was, were, had, feel, felt and feeling are part of the English language and if I showed every single event in a novel it would be too long for publication.
It is how I use was, were, had, feel, felt and feeling which matters, not whether or not I use them.
I need the skill to decide when telling is too much and when I should stop telling and start showing.
Characterisation
In Tangled Hearts, I could have written the following to tell my reader that Chesney, the hero, is handsome:-
“Chesney had the classical features of Adonis. He was tall, had perfect proportions and was in good health.”
Instead I wrote:-
“…‘Who is that Adonis?’ A high-pitched female voice interrupted Chesney’s thoughts.
Chesney looked round and saw a powdered and patched lady with rouged cheeks staring at him.
‘I don’t know, I think he’s a newcomer to town,’ her companion, a younger lady said in an equally strident tone.
Unaffected by their comments he laughed. Since his youth women remarked on his height and his perfect proportions. He did not consider himself vain, but unlike some members of his gentlemen’s club, who took little exercise and overate, he fenced, hunted and rode to keep his body fit.
The older lady inclined her head, the younger one winked before they went about their business.”
Of course introspection is a form of telling but it is effective and reveals the character.
In Tangled Hearts it was not enough to tell my reader that Chesney is brave. I needed to show him in action.
“Chesney rushed to the cottage. ‘Keep back, Richelda,’ he shouted, ‘the thatch will ignite like tinder.’
Taking no heed of his instructions, she ran after him and followed him down the short corridor to the kitchen where smoke poured from beneath the door. ‘I think Elsie is in there,’ Richelda screamed above the roar of the fire.
Every trace of an indolent nobleman vanished. Chesney snatched off his periwig, wrenched off his coat and swathed it round his head.
‘Go outside! Your clothes will burn like kindling.’ He disappeared into the kitchen.”
***
I believe that I must strive to grab my reader’s attention from the first line to the last, and that passive writing – or telling – weakens the prose.
When I revise my work I use the search and find facility on the computer to highlight the words which tell and decide whether or not I can improve the text.
To be a writer not only do I need to be an artist, I also need to craft my work. Words are the tools which I use to write a page turner for my readers.
Flashbacks
Chesney lived in France with his father etc., is exposition in conversation. “Do you know I lived in France at the court of James II in St Germaine etc.,” is description.
A flashback reveals something that occurred in the past as though it occurs in the present.
Even if the reader needs to know about my character’s past I am cautious as to how I reveal it.
Frequently, flashbacks are often badly written and they jerk the reader from the present to the past.
The knack is to slip in essential facts without disrupting the story - memory of something that happened in the past, the reply to a question, a letter or an entry in a diary
Tangled Hearts is set in England in 1702 at the beginning of Queen Anne’s reign. In order to avoid flashbacks full of historical detail to I began with Author’s Notes.
“When the outwardly Protestant Charles II died in 1685, he left a country torn by religious controversy but no legitimate children. The throne passed to his Catholic brother James.
It was an anxious time for the people, whose fears increased when James II, became so unpopular that he was forced into exile. In 1688, James’s Protestant daughter, Mary, and her husband, William of Orange, became the new king and queen of England.
Some English Protestants, who had sworn allegiance to James II, refused to take a new oath of allegiance to William and Mary and joined him in France.
When James’s younger daughter, Anne, inherited the throne in 1702, many Protestant exiles returned to England. Others declared themselves Jacobites and supporters of James II son, James III, by his second wife, Mary of Modena, and stayed abroad. They believed James III should be king.”
In my rough draft of Tangled Hearts the scene in the manor house when my heroine, Richelda, is a child, (quoted above) was a flashback. When I revised the novel I realised it was too long so I scrapped it and began with a prologue that contained the essential information.
Conclusion
Words are a writer’s tools. Avoid dull narrative, boring flashbacks and unnecessary exposition. Write stylishly. Words should sparkle and grip the reader.
One way to make your work fascinating is to use the active rather than the passive voice.
Passive
Passive designates a form of the verb by which the verbal action is attributed to the person or thing to whom it is actually directed: i.e. the logical object is the grammatical subject. E.g. He was seen by us. Passive. The opposite of active. Active: We saw him.
In a grammatically active construction, the subject is performing the action.
eg Jack ate the chocolate. (Jack is the subject, he’s performing the action, the chocolate is the object.)
Exposition
At the beginning of a play the dramatist is often committed to giving a certain amount of essential information about the plot and events which are to come. He may also have to give information about what has ‘already happened’. All this comes under the heading of exposition. A skilful dramatist is able to introduce material without holding up the action of the play and with recourse to the obvious devices of narrative.
Exposition is also a subject which other fiction writers need to consider. A writer might do well to remember that in Writing Circles, was, were, had, feel, felt and feeling are often considered to be passive words which tell instead of showing. A writer should also remember that modern editors and publishers tend to shy away from exposition.
***
I could have begun my published novel, Tangled Hearts, like this:
Richelda Shaw was in her nursery when Elsie, her mother’s maid, told her that her father had summoned her. After she had delivered the message, Elsie had followed her to the great hall where her father was waiting.
This tells my reader what happened but is not interesting.
Instead, I began.
“Richelda Shaw stood silent in her nursery while thunder pealed outside the ancient manor house and an even fiercer storm raged deep within. She pressed her hands to her ears and, eyes closed, remained as motionless as the marble statues in the orangery.
‘Nine years old and you’ve not yet learned to be neat!’ Elsie, her mother’s personal maid, pulled Richelda’s hands from her ears. ‘Come, your father’s waiting for you.’
Richelda’s hands trembled. What was wrong? Until now Father’s short visits from France meant gifts and laughter. This one made Mother cry while the servants spoke in hushed tones.
Followed by Elsie, Richelda hurried down the broad oak stairs. For a moment, she paused to admire the lilies of the valley in a Delft bowl. Only yesterday, she picked the flowers to welcome Father home. After she had arranged them with tender care, she placed them on a chest, which stood beneath a pair of crossed broadswords on the wall above.
Elsie opened the massive door of the great hall where Father stood to one side of the enormous hearth.
This shows the heroine acting in a way consistent with her situation, instead of telling the reader about it.
However, as for ‘telling’ being wrong, it is not. Was, were, had, feel, felt and feeling are part of the English language and if I showed every single event in a novel it would be too long for publication.
It is how I use was, were, had, feel, felt and feeling which matters, not whether or not I use them.
I need the skill to decide when telling is too much and when I should stop telling and start showing.
Characterisation
In Tangled Hearts, I could have written the following to tell my reader that Chesney, the hero, is handsome:-
“Chesney had the classical features of Adonis. He was tall, had perfect proportions and was in good health.”
Instead I wrote:-
“…‘Who is that Adonis?’ A high-pitched female voice interrupted Chesney’s thoughts.
Chesney looked round and saw a powdered and patched lady with rouged cheeks staring at him.
‘I don’t know, I think he’s a newcomer to town,’ her companion, a younger lady said in an equally strident tone.
Unaffected by their comments he laughed. Since his youth women remarked on his height and his perfect proportions. He did not consider himself vain, but unlike some members of his gentlemen’s club, who took little exercise and overate, he fenced, hunted and rode to keep his body fit.
The older lady inclined her head, the younger one winked before they went about their business.”
Of course introspection is a form of telling but it is effective and reveals the character.
In Tangled Hearts it was not enough to tell my reader that Chesney is brave. I needed to show him in action.
“Chesney rushed to the cottage. ‘Keep back, Richelda,’ he shouted, ‘the thatch will ignite like tinder.’
Taking no heed of his instructions, she ran after him and followed him down the short corridor to the kitchen where smoke poured from beneath the door. ‘I think Elsie is in there,’ Richelda screamed above the roar of the fire.
Every trace of an indolent nobleman vanished. Chesney snatched off his periwig, wrenched off his coat and swathed it round his head.
‘Go outside! Your clothes will burn like kindling.’ He disappeared into the kitchen.”
***
I believe that I must strive to grab my reader’s attention from the first line to the last, and that passive writing – or telling – weakens the prose.
When I revise my work I use the search and find facility on the computer to highlight the words which tell and decide whether or not I can improve the text.
To be a writer not only do I need to be an artist, I also need to craft my work. Words are the tools which I use to write a page turner for my readers.
Flashbacks
Chesney lived in France with his father etc., is exposition in conversation. “Do you know I lived in France at the court of James II in St Germaine etc.,” is description.
A flashback reveals something that occurred in the past as though it occurs in the present.
Even if the reader needs to know about my character’s past I am cautious as to how I reveal it.
Frequently, flashbacks are often badly written and they jerk the reader from the present to the past.
The knack is to slip in essential facts without disrupting the story - memory of something that happened in the past, the reply to a question, a letter or an entry in a diary
Tangled Hearts is set in England in 1702 at the beginning of Queen Anne’s reign. In order to avoid flashbacks full of historical detail to I began with Author’s Notes.
“When the outwardly Protestant Charles II died in 1685, he left a country torn by religious controversy but no legitimate children. The throne passed to his Catholic brother James.
It was an anxious time for the people, whose fears increased when James II, became so unpopular that he was forced into exile. In 1688, James’s Protestant daughter, Mary, and her husband, William of Orange, became the new king and queen of England.
Some English Protestants, who had sworn allegiance to James II, refused to take a new oath of allegiance to William and Mary and joined him in France.
When James’s younger daughter, Anne, inherited the throne in 1702, many Protestant exiles returned to England. Others declared themselves Jacobites and supporters of James II son, James III, by his second wife, Mary of Modena, and stayed abroad. They believed James III should be king.”
In my rough draft of Tangled Hearts the scene in the manor house when my heroine, Richelda, is a child, (quoted above) was a flashback. When I revised the novel I realised it was too long so I scrapped it and began with a prologue that contained the essential information.
Conclusion
Words are a writer’s tools. Avoid dull narrative, boring flashbacks and unnecessary exposition. Write stylishly. Words should sparkle and grip the reader.
Monday, 11 May 2009
Murder Most Foul
Murder Most Foul
When the sun retired on cool evenings, purple shadows crept across the fields and villagers sat in stout, mud-brick houses either gossiping or telling stories. The elders sat closest to slow burning fires of cow-dung cakes dried during summer’s ferocity, and whenever they mentioned King Chitraketu’s name, they praised him.
But the king found his life more barren than a desert because he had not received a son from any of his wives. Whether he resided in his capital city Mathura, in the Indian province of Surasena, or whether he travelled by horse, elephant, camel or chariot he lamented.
Whenever he saw a man with a son, he asked himself. Which sinful action in my present life or my past lives prevents me from having an heir?
He put this question to ambiguous brahmin priests who replied. “Do your subjects complain there is any lack in the kingdom. Aren’t there enough grains and pulses, vegetables and fruits, nuts and spices, herbs and cloth?
The king sighed, listening to rain drumming on roofs where people sunned themselves during spring’s pregnant promise or slept during summer’s ripening heat.
The priests assured their pious king there would be no lack. Even the grass Mother Bhumi produced for cows and oxen made dung to nourish her and provided fuel for cooking and warmth.
When his spies confirmed his subjects were contented, he again asked himself. Why don’t I have a son? In my kingdom even racketeers can’t find black market goods because my people lack nothing.
Despite his country’s and his personal prosperity, Chitraketu grew thin. To have a son, he would gladly renounce his education, his health and his treasury filled with chests of gold and precious stones
His golden skin paled, his long black hair lost its shine and his moustache drooped mournfully at the edges of his unsmiling mouth.
The more wives he accepted the more he suffered from anxiety and the less he ate. Brahmin cooks made his favourite preparations, wafer thin unleavened breads, fluffy rice, tit-bits of vegetables fried in chick pea flour batter served with spiced sauces or yoghurt, and rice simmered in condensed milk with honey and almonds. Obsessed by his desire to hear his son’s laughter within the marble walls of his palace, he only ate enough to keep himself alive.
He never gave up hope. He accepted wife after wife and provided each one with a soft bed to lie on, silk clothes, gold girdles, earrings, nose rings and bracelets. Each queen consort sported in water gardens, crops were harvested, and although the still autumn air over-heated the blood he never dived into swimming baths of clear water to splash, tease or play with his consorts.
Until the day when Sage Angira, master of mystic knowledge, visited Chitraketu, each queen, famous for her good qualities and beauty, witnessed his self-pity, heard his lamentations and prayed to become mother of the heir apparent.
The king bowed his head, pressed his palms together as though he was praying and gestured to his gold throne set on a dais. “Please sit there, Sage Angira.”
In silence, the courtiers watched the ascetic go up the short flight of steps and sit down.
Sage Angira’s skin rippled over a spine disdaining to lean against the cushion furnishing the back of the throne.
Everyone, including the king, knew how indifferent sages were to comfort. At night their arms, with which they pillowed their heads, satisfied them as much as pillows as soft as swansdown.
Sage Angira did not bend his head topped with lustrous, black hair partly arranged in a bun and partly falling to his waist, around which was tied his only garment, a pleated, ankle-length, saffron cloth. In silence the holy man scrutinised his host, who circled a slipper-shaped brass dish containing a lighted ghee wick before him.
Following the custom, Chitraketu worshipped God’s representative. To the accompaniment of a tinkling bell and chanted hymns he continued the ceremony by offering incense, flowers, clean cloth and water to the sage and concluded it by blowing a conch shell.
He then sat cross-legged on the floor and Sage Angira the yogi, the master of all five senses addressed him. “My dear king, words are insufficient for me to express my appreciation of your hospitality and humility.”
The king stared at the ground while waiting for his visitor to continue.
“Are you in good health? Is your mind troubled? I hope that just as the earth receives showers, Lord Krishna’s delegates, the demi-gods and goddesses, shower you with blessings. In other words, I hope there is neither anything lacking nor any problems in your kingdom.
Chitraketu knew the sage used conventional phrases while piercing the fleshy veil of the body with omniscient eyes.
“My dear king, are you in complete control of your mind? Are you in control of your family, the courtiers, provincial governors, merchants who, with your permission, deal in silks and wool, spices and jewels? Can you control tax collectors, farmers and labourers?
Feeling the weight of his jewel-embedded, gold crown Chitraketu bent his head, stared at the sage’s feet and listened attentively.
“Have you no reply to make? Has someone let you down or have you failed to achieve something? Your pale face reveals you are distraught.”
The king took a deep breath. “My dear sage, you are a great personality, who neither rejoices over happiness nor laments over distress because you understand each condition is temporary. Nevertheless, you understand someone like me who alternates between cheerfulness and misery.”
He broke off, then, with tears spilling from the corners of his eyes, he continued. “A traveller is dissatisfied when his host puts flower garlands round his neck and gives him fragrant sandalwood pulp to cool his body. He wants food and drink. A king is discontented without an heir. An heir to light his funeral pyre and save his ancestors from hell by offering them sweetly perfumed flowers and flower garlands.”
Instead of replying, Sage Angira first offered Lord Krishna, The Supreme Personality of God, sweet rice and then gave it to Kritayouti, King Chitraketu’s senior wife. After she ate it, he said. “My dear king, your queen will present you with a son who will cause laughter and tears.”
The royal parents assumed Sage Angira’s words meant their son would play childish pranks and sometimes be disobedient.
After the sage left, rain impregnated the earth, the seeds within her swelled and the queen received a son into her womb.
As the days of her pregnancy passed Chitraketu observed Kritadyouti progress from moon-sickle slenderness to harvest moon fullness.
On the evening of the prince’s birth, the queen looked out of the latticed windows at the night sky, admired spangled points of light dispersing velvet darkness and said. “My dear husband, I rejoice because our son’s spark of life vanquished your melancholy, which was as black as the sky during a lunar eclipse.”
As soon as Chitraketu announced the heir’s birth, the townsfolk rejoiced. In the palace the prince’s male relatives bathed and dressed themselves in silk tunics worn over trousers fitting tightly at the ankles. They adorned themselves with elaborately wound turbans, ropes of pearls, diamonds and other precious stones, gold belts, earrings and arm clasps. When they were satisfied with their appearance, the king, the uncles, great-uncles, first, second and third cousins and other relatives assembled before going to see the child.
After everyone admired the prince, a brahmin astrologer named him Harshasoka. Delighted, Chritraketu rewarded all his brahmin subjects with gifts of gold, land on which villages provided incomes, horses, elephants, mountains of grain and thousands of cows.
Every morning, as happy as a beggar finding a fortune, the king loved Harshasoka more than he did on the previous day and his love for Kritayouti increased until his interest in his other wives dwindled.
The queens observed their husband’s devotion to Kritayouti and yearning to receive children from him did not sleep well.
All of them hoped to regain the king’s attention. They wore the finest silk, satin and velvet clothes. Some accentuated their shapely figures with saris, others either wore long tunics over trousers gathered into cuffs at the ankle or figure hugging blouses and swirling skirts.
But the beautiful wives were not puppets to dance at the end of a string. They were well-educated women qualified to raise heroic sons and give their husband advice about the government of nations.
Immersed in her personal happiness, Kritayouti neglected her duty to her co-wives. She neither behaved as a mother or a loving elder sister and had no time for them. They felt like insignificant servants within their husband’s palaces. Frustrated, because they neither had sons nor felt protected by a husband qualified by his character to have many wives, they complained to each other.
“Oh! A woman with no son whose husband and senior wife ignore her should live in the forest instead of being humiliated by neglect,” exclaimed the blonde daughter of a northern prince.
“Our husband accepts the services of Kritayouti’s maidservants and thanks them politely but doesn’t speak a word to us,” stormed the raven-haired daughter of a desert prince.
Anger and envy burned in her charcoal black eyes and was reflected in the eyes and expressions of all the consorts.
*
Kritayouti wondered why Harshasoka slept for so long. She went to the nursery, bent over his intricately carved sandalwood cradle and decided to let him sleep for a little longer. An hour later, uneasy because Harshasoka still slept she commanded the nurse. “Bring the prince to me.”
The woman padded into the nursery, approached the cot, saw the pallor of Harshasoka’s face and screamed. “I’m cursed.”
The queen ran in and saw her dead son. But she did not suspect her rock-hearted co-queens of conspiring to poison the prince.
The murderesses entered the nursery, wailed louder than anyone else and made no attempt to comfort their husband or Kritayouti.
The fire of lamentation grew in Chitraketu’s heart, raged and consumed everything else. His hair was disordered and his tunic twisted. When he fainted the physician remarked. “His breath comes unevenly.”
In the presence of his ministers and priests, the king regained consciousness and repeatedly tried to speak.
Seeing her protector in such a condition Kritayouti sat next to him and wept. The flowers tucked into her hair fell to the ground and black eye make up smudged her face. Soaked by the waterfall of her tears red kum-kum powder decorating her breasts stained her thin silk blouse.
Kritayouti clutched a bar of the cradle. “Why has this happened to me? My husband never harmed anyone. Why did God take our son? I’ve never hurt anyone. I’m a virtuous woman, a merciful queen, and a kind mistress. Why did this happen to me?”
Forgetting the laws of karma applied to millions of her past lives, lives during which every good and bad action led to a favourable or unfavourable reaction in her present and future lives, she only saw and thought of her dead son.
Seeing Kritayouti shared his grief, Chitraketu moved closer to her. “Harshasoka, my son, my dear little prince, why have you gone away? Please don’t go with Yamaraja the demi-god who presides over death. Hear me and return to me.”
When he paused to wipe his eyes on the sleeve of his tunic, his queen continued. “Dearest of children, your friends want you to play with them, wake up and let me feed you, you must be very hungry. I beg you to open your eyes and smile at me. Please speak to me.”
With open mouth Chitraketu sobbed and everyone in the court wept.
*
Sage Angira understood the king was drowning in a death-like ocean of lamentation and came to court with the sage of sages, Narada Muni.
When he saw the king lying on the floor as though he was dead he abandoned the formalities he employed on his previous visit. “My dear king, do you believe you and the dead body in the cot have anything to do with each other? Why do you and your queen think he is your son? Was he your son before he entered the queen’s womb? Is he your son now the body he lived in is dead? Do you have any relationship with the dead body you are mourning? Will it be your son tomorrow, next week, next year?”
His words shocked the king, the queen and the courtiers. They stopped weeping and remained silent.
Sage Angira continued. “Seaweed clumps together on the ocean’s surface, rising and falling until waves toss it apart forever. People meet during the waves of time and no matter how much they grieve they are separated by the laws of nature.”
King Chitraketu propped himself up on his left elbow and wiped his eyes with the back of his right hand. “Sage Angira, please save me. I’m a man more ignorant than a village dog scavenging for scraps. Please give me scraps of real knowledge.”
“Your majesty, material life is an illusion. It is a dream because it is temporary. When I last visited you, I could have spoken of spiritual matters, but you were preoccupied with thoughts of your unborn heir. So, I gave you a son and warned you he would cause happiness and distress.”
The king sat up, did not, could not look at the dead body while remembering he had not paid much attention to Sage Angira’s warning. He’d been happy on the child’s Naming Day and given no consideration to the literal translation of Harshasoka, jubilation and lamentation.
He crossed his legs, straightened his back, folded his palms together and thought. This lifeless body is my enemy. It causes me so much anguish.
Narada, an eternally handsome, celibate young sage, stood up. With compassion he first looked at the king then addressed the inert body in the cradle. “Dear soul, may you receive good fortune.
“Enter this inert body. See your parents, your relatives and friends who are in mourning.”
The queen consorts looked uneasily at each other. What would happen to them? Too frightened to whisper of their crime to each other the murderesses clustered together and stood with clasped hands and downcast eyes.
Narada continued. “Dear soul, you departed prematurely from your last body. Now permission is granted for you to return to it. In due course of time, you may inherit your father’s throne.”
Colour filled the infant’s cheek and the faint smell of decaying flesh dispersed. Harshasoka stretched, yawned and sat up. He regarded everyone and asked. “Who is my father? What kind of father is he? My soul has transmigrated to many bodies. Should I look for a plant, insect, fish, bird, animal, human or spirit father?”
Chitraketu and Kritayouti embraced the child.
“Ah!” said the soul through the vehicle of the body with which he no longer identified himself. “You think you are my parents. You don’t understand you’re swept along by the river of existence in which souls sometimes surface as kinsfolk, friends or enemies.”
Chitraketu and Kritayouti glanced at each other and accepted their son was dead to them although his indestructible soul would transmigrate to another body.
End
When the sun retired on cool evenings, purple shadows crept across the fields and villagers sat in stout, mud-brick houses either gossiping or telling stories. The elders sat closest to slow burning fires of cow-dung cakes dried during summer’s ferocity, and whenever they mentioned King Chitraketu’s name, they praised him.
But the king found his life more barren than a desert because he had not received a son from any of his wives. Whether he resided in his capital city Mathura, in the Indian province of Surasena, or whether he travelled by horse, elephant, camel or chariot he lamented.
Whenever he saw a man with a son, he asked himself. Which sinful action in my present life or my past lives prevents me from having an heir?
He put this question to ambiguous brahmin priests who replied. “Do your subjects complain there is any lack in the kingdom. Aren’t there enough grains and pulses, vegetables and fruits, nuts and spices, herbs and cloth?
The king sighed, listening to rain drumming on roofs where people sunned themselves during spring’s pregnant promise or slept during summer’s ripening heat.
The priests assured their pious king there would be no lack. Even the grass Mother Bhumi produced for cows and oxen made dung to nourish her and provided fuel for cooking and warmth.
When his spies confirmed his subjects were contented, he again asked himself. Why don’t I have a son? In my kingdom even racketeers can’t find black market goods because my people lack nothing.
Despite his country’s and his personal prosperity, Chitraketu grew thin. To have a son, he would gladly renounce his education, his health and his treasury filled with chests of gold and precious stones
His golden skin paled, his long black hair lost its shine and his moustache drooped mournfully at the edges of his unsmiling mouth.
The more wives he accepted the more he suffered from anxiety and the less he ate. Brahmin cooks made his favourite preparations, wafer thin unleavened breads, fluffy rice, tit-bits of vegetables fried in chick pea flour batter served with spiced sauces or yoghurt, and rice simmered in condensed milk with honey and almonds. Obsessed by his desire to hear his son’s laughter within the marble walls of his palace, he only ate enough to keep himself alive.
He never gave up hope. He accepted wife after wife and provided each one with a soft bed to lie on, silk clothes, gold girdles, earrings, nose rings and bracelets. Each queen consort sported in water gardens, crops were harvested, and although the still autumn air over-heated the blood he never dived into swimming baths of clear water to splash, tease or play with his consorts.
Until the day when Sage Angira, master of mystic knowledge, visited Chitraketu, each queen, famous for her good qualities and beauty, witnessed his self-pity, heard his lamentations and prayed to become mother of the heir apparent.
The king bowed his head, pressed his palms together as though he was praying and gestured to his gold throne set on a dais. “Please sit there, Sage Angira.”
In silence, the courtiers watched the ascetic go up the short flight of steps and sit down.
Sage Angira’s skin rippled over a spine disdaining to lean against the cushion furnishing the back of the throne.
Everyone, including the king, knew how indifferent sages were to comfort. At night their arms, with which they pillowed their heads, satisfied them as much as pillows as soft as swansdown.
Sage Angira did not bend his head topped with lustrous, black hair partly arranged in a bun and partly falling to his waist, around which was tied his only garment, a pleated, ankle-length, saffron cloth. In silence the holy man scrutinised his host, who circled a slipper-shaped brass dish containing a lighted ghee wick before him.
Following the custom, Chitraketu worshipped God’s representative. To the accompaniment of a tinkling bell and chanted hymns he continued the ceremony by offering incense, flowers, clean cloth and water to the sage and concluded it by blowing a conch shell.
He then sat cross-legged on the floor and Sage Angira the yogi, the master of all five senses addressed him. “My dear king, words are insufficient for me to express my appreciation of your hospitality and humility.”
The king stared at the ground while waiting for his visitor to continue.
“Are you in good health? Is your mind troubled? I hope that just as the earth receives showers, Lord Krishna’s delegates, the demi-gods and goddesses, shower you with blessings. In other words, I hope there is neither anything lacking nor any problems in your kingdom.
Chitraketu knew the sage used conventional phrases while piercing the fleshy veil of the body with omniscient eyes.
“My dear king, are you in complete control of your mind? Are you in control of your family, the courtiers, provincial governors, merchants who, with your permission, deal in silks and wool, spices and jewels? Can you control tax collectors, farmers and labourers?
Feeling the weight of his jewel-embedded, gold crown Chitraketu bent his head, stared at the sage’s feet and listened attentively.
“Have you no reply to make? Has someone let you down or have you failed to achieve something? Your pale face reveals you are distraught.”
The king took a deep breath. “My dear sage, you are a great personality, who neither rejoices over happiness nor laments over distress because you understand each condition is temporary. Nevertheless, you understand someone like me who alternates between cheerfulness and misery.”
He broke off, then, with tears spilling from the corners of his eyes, he continued. “A traveller is dissatisfied when his host puts flower garlands round his neck and gives him fragrant sandalwood pulp to cool his body. He wants food and drink. A king is discontented without an heir. An heir to light his funeral pyre and save his ancestors from hell by offering them sweetly perfumed flowers and flower garlands.”
Instead of replying, Sage Angira first offered Lord Krishna, The Supreme Personality of God, sweet rice and then gave it to Kritayouti, King Chitraketu’s senior wife. After she ate it, he said. “My dear king, your queen will present you with a son who will cause laughter and tears.”
The royal parents assumed Sage Angira’s words meant their son would play childish pranks and sometimes be disobedient.
After the sage left, rain impregnated the earth, the seeds within her swelled and the queen received a son into her womb.
As the days of her pregnancy passed Chitraketu observed Kritadyouti progress from moon-sickle slenderness to harvest moon fullness.
On the evening of the prince’s birth, the queen looked out of the latticed windows at the night sky, admired spangled points of light dispersing velvet darkness and said. “My dear husband, I rejoice because our son’s spark of life vanquished your melancholy, which was as black as the sky during a lunar eclipse.”
As soon as Chitraketu announced the heir’s birth, the townsfolk rejoiced. In the palace the prince’s male relatives bathed and dressed themselves in silk tunics worn over trousers fitting tightly at the ankles. They adorned themselves with elaborately wound turbans, ropes of pearls, diamonds and other precious stones, gold belts, earrings and arm clasps. When they were satisfied with their appearance, the king, the uncles, great-uncles, first, second and third cousins and other relatives assembled before going to see the child.
After everyone admired the prince, a brahmin astrologer named him Harshasoka. Delighted, Chritraketu rewarded all his brahmin subjects with gifts of gold, land on which villages provided incomes, horses, elephants, mountains of grain and thousands of cows.
Every morning, as happy as a beggar finding a fortune, the king loved Harshasoka more than he did on the previous day and his love for Kritayouti increased until his interest in his other wives dwindled.
The queens observed their husband’s devotion to Kritayouti and yearning to receive children from him did not sleep well.
All of them hoped to regain the king’s attention. They wore the finest silk, satin and velvet clothes. Some accentuated their shapely figures with saris, others either wore long tunics over trousers gathered into cuffs at the ankle or figure hugging blouses and swirling skirts.
But the beautiful wives were not puppets to dance at the end of a string. They were well-educated women qualified to raise heroic sons and give their husband advice about the government of nations.
Immersed in her personal happiness, Kritayouti neglected her duty to her co-wives. She neither behaved as a mother or a loving elder sister and had no time for them. They felt like insignificant servants within their husband’s palaces. Frustrated, because they neither had sons nor felt protected by a husband qualified by his character to have many wives, they complained to each other.
“Oh! A woman with no son whose husband and senior wife ignore her should live in the forest instead of being humiliated by neglect,” exclaimed the blonde daughter of a northern prince.
“Our husband accepts the services of Kritayouti’s maidservants and thanks them politely but doesn’t speak a word to us,” stormed the raven-haired daughter of a desert prince.
Anger and envy burned in her charcoal black eyes and was reflected in the eyes and expressions of all the consorts.
*
Kritayouti wondered why Harshasoka slept for so long. She went to the nursery, bent over his intricately carved sandalwood cradle and decided to let him sleep for a little longer. An hour later, uneasy because Harshasoka still slept she commanded the nurse. “Bring the prince to me.”
The woman padded into the nursery, approached the cot, saw the pallor of Harshasoka’s face and screamed. “I’m cursed.”
The queen ran in and saw her dead son. But she did not suspect her rock-hearted co-queens of conspiring to poison the prince.
The murderesses entered the nursery, wailed louder than anyone else and made no attempt to comfort their husband or Kritayouti.
The fire of lamentation grew in Chitraketu’s heart, raged and consumed everything else. His hair was disordered and his tunic twisted. When he fainted the physician remarked. “His breath comes unevenly.”
In the presence of his ministers and priests, the king regained consciousness and repeatedly tried to speak.
Seeing her protector in such a condition Kritayouti sat next to him and wept. The flowers tucked into her hair fell to the ground and black eye make up smudged her face. Soaked by the waterfall of her tears red kum-kum powder decorating her breasts stained her thin silk blouse.
Kritayouti clutched a bar of the cradle. “Why has this happened to me? My husband never harmed anyone. Why did God take our son? I’ve never hurt anyone. I’m a virtuous woman, a merciful queen, and a kind mistress. Why did this happen to me?”
Forgetting the laws of karma applied to millions of her past lives, lives during which every good and bad action led to a favourable or unfavourable reaction in her present and future lives, she only saw and thought of her dead son.
Seeing Kritayouti shared his grief, Chitraketu moved closer to her. “Harshasoka, my son, my dear little prince, why have you gone away? Please don’t go with Yamaraja the demi-god who presides over death. Hear me and return to me.”
When he paused to wipe his eyes on the sleeve of his tunic, his queen continued. “Dearest of children, your friends want you to play with them, wake up and let me feed you, you must be very hungry. I beg you to open your eyes and smile at me. Please speak to me.”
With open mouth Chitraketu sobbed and everyone in the court wept.
*
Sage Angira understood the king was drowning in a death-like ocean of lamentation and came to court with the sage of sages, Narada Muni.
When he saw the king lying on the floor as though he was dead he abandoned the formalities he employed on his previous visit. “My dear king, do you believe you and the dead body in the cot have anything to do with each other? Why do you and your queen think he is your son? Was he your son before he entered the queen’s womb? Is he your son now the body he lived in is dead? Do you have any relationship with the dead body you are mourning? Will it be your son tomorrow, next week, next year?”
His words shocked the king, the queen and the courtiers. They stopped weeping and remained silent.
Sage Angira continued. “Seaweed clumps together on the ocean’s surface, rising and falling until waves toss it apart forever. People meet during the waves of time and no matter how much they grieve they are separated by the laws of nature.”
King Chitraketu propped himself up on his left elbow and wiped his eyes with the back of his right hand. “Sage Angira, please save me. I’m a man more ignorant than a village dog scavenging for scraps. Please give me scraps of real knowledge.”
“Your majesty, material life is an illusion. It is a dream because it is temporary. When I last visited you, I could have spoken of spiritual matters, but you were preoccupied with thoughts of your unborn heir. So, I gave you a son and warned you he would cause happiness and distress.”
The king sat up, did not, could not look at the dead body while remembering he had not paid much attention to Sage Angira’s warning. He’d been happy on the child’s Naming Day and given no consideration to the literal translation of Harshasoka, jubilation and lamentation.
He crossed his legs, straightened his back, folded his palms together and thought. This lifeless body is my enemy. It causes me so much anguish.
Narada, an eternally handsome, celibate young sage, stood up. With compassion he first looked at the king then addressed the inert body in the cradle. “Dear soul, may you receive good fortune.
“Enter this inert body. See your parents, your relatives and friends who are in mourning.”
The queen consorts looked uneasily at each other. What would happen to them? Too frightened to whisper of their crime to each other the murderesses clustered together and stood with clasped hands and downcast eyes.
Narada continued. “Dear soul, you departed prematurely from your last body. Now permission is granted for you to return to it. In due course of time, you may inherit your father’s throne.”
Colour filled the infant’s cheek and the faint smell of decaying flesh dispersed. Harshasoka stretched, yawned and sat up. He regarded everyone and asked. “Who is my father? What kind of father is he? My soul has transmigrated to many bodies. Should I look for a plant, insect, fish, bird, animal, human or spirit father?”
Chitraketu and Kritayouti embraced the child.
“Ah!” said the soul through the vehicle of the body with which he no longer identified himself. “You think you are my parents. You don’t understand you’re swept along by the river of existence in which souls sometimes surface as kinsfolk, friends or enemies.”
Chitraketu and Kritayouti glanced at each other and accepted their son was dead to them although his indestructible soul would transmigrate to another body.
End
Monday, 3 November 2008
Queen Anne - Part Three
Queen Anne Part Three
Princess Anne’s relationship with Sarah Jennings, the future Duchess of Marlborough, would last into her middle age.
Sarah, a year younger than Anne’s fifteen year-old stepmother, was the daughter of a landed gentleman and the younger sister of Frances Jennings, a maid of honour, appointed to serve Anne’s mother.
At the age of twelve, Sarah, who would play such a crucial role in Anne, the Cinderella princess’s life, was appointed as one of her attendants. Years later Sara wrote: We had used to play together when she was a child and she even then expressed a particular fondness for me. This inclination increased with our years. I was often at Court and the Princess always distinguished me by the pleasure she took to honour me, preferably to others, with her conversation and confidence. In all her parties for amusement, I was sure by her choice to be one.
Kneller’s portrait of the teenage Sarah reveals a pretty girl with an oval face, broad forehead, fair hair and confident blue eyes. Yet no portrait could reveal her vivacity and charm.
It is not surprising that the motherless, Cinderella princess living in the shadow of her older, cleverer sister, Mary, and the six daughters of her governess, Lady Frances Villiers, became deeply attached to Sarah.
Anne was pretty with plump features, red-brown hair and her mother’s elegant hands, of which she was very proud. However, she was shy, easily ignored and all too aware of her short-comings – her poor education did nothing to boost her confidence. As Sarah said years later: Your Majesty has had the misfortune to be misinformed in general things even from twelve years old.
Undoubtedly, there was no reason to provide Anne and her sister with a better education because it was likely that the Queen would provide an heir to the throne. In Anne’s day few women could read and write – perhaps as few as one in a hundred. For Anne it is probable that little more than dancing, drawing, French and music were required to prepare her for life at court. Her general education was neglected but not her intensive religious education which founded her life long belief in the teachings of the Anglican faith.
Anne and Mary lived apart from the court at Whitehall and their indulgent Roman Catholic father and step-mother. Expected to be virtuous, the sisters could not have been totally unaware of the licentiousness of their uncle’s court and that their uncle, the king, and her father had acknowledged illegitimate children. Indeed, their governess, Lady Frances Villiers, wife of Colonel Villiers, the nephew of the ill-fated Duke of Buckingham, a favourite of James I and his son, Charles I, was the daughter of the king’s notorious mistress, Barbara Castlemaine.
Lax though King Charles II’s morals were he took some interest in Anne, who played the guitar better than many professional musicians. She also had a pleasing voice and the king ordered the actress, Mrs Barry, to give Anne and Mary elocution lessons. These stood Anne in good stead when, as Queen, she addressed Parliament and no doubt later on when she and Mary took part in some of the plays popular at Court.
However, ‘Cinderella’ and Mary grew up in the company of clerics and women, secluded from Whitehall with little to entertain them. One can imagine the boring conversations, stifling closets (small rooms) and endless card games. Sarah declared: I wished myself out of Court as much as I had desired to come into it before I knew what it was.
In spite of the boredom and whatever storms lay ahead, Anne dearly loved her sister. So much so that when Mary married her Dutch cousin, William of Orange, in 1677 and Anne lay sick of smallpox, her father, who visited her every day, ordered that she should not be told her sister had departed for the Continent. The charade went as far as messages purported to be from Mary asking about her health being delivered to Anne.
While Anne’s tutor fretted in case Anne’s fanatical Roman Catholic nurse influenced her while Anne was ill, as soon as she recovered, Anne had to cope with the death of her governess. Fortunately, she still had Sarah’s companionship and enjoyed the vast grounds of Richmond Palace, leased by the king for both his nieces. However, this tranquillity would soon be disturbed by the so called ‘Popish Plot’. And it is not unreasonable to suppose that her mind would be occupied with thoughts of who she would marry.
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Tangled Hearts set in Queen Anne’s England received five star reviews and is available now.
Princess Anne’s relationship with Sarah Jennings, the future Duchess of Marlborough, would last into her middle age.
Sarah, a year younger than Anne’s fifteen year-old stepmother, was the daughter of a landed gentleman and the younger sister of Frances Jennings, a maid of honour, appointed to serve Anne’s mother.
At the age of twelve, Sarah, who would play such a crucial role in Anne, the Cinderella princess’s life, was appointed as one of her attendants. Years later Sara wrote: We had used to play together when she was a child and she even then expressed a particular fondness for me. This inclination increased with our years. I was often at Court and the Princess always distinguished me by the pleasure she took to honour me, preferably to others, with her conversation and confidence. In all her parties for amusement, I was sure by her choice to be one.
Kneller’s portrait of the teenage Sarah reveals a pretty girl with an oval face, broad forehead, fair hair and confident blue eyes. Yet no portrait could reveal her vivacity and charm.
It is not surprising that the motherless, Cinderella princess living in the shadow of her older, cleverer sister, Mary, and the six daughters of her governess, Lady Frances Villiers, became deeply attached to Sarah.
Anne was pretty with plump features, red-brown hair and her mother’s elegant hands, of which she was very proud. However, she was shy, easily ignored and all too aware of her short-comings – her poor education did nothing to boost her confidence. As Sarah said years later: Your Majesty has had the misfortune to be misinformed in general things even from twelve years old.
Undoubtedly, there was no reason to provide Anne and her sister with a better education because it was likely that the Queen would provide an heir to the throne. In Anne’s day few women could read and write – perhaps as few as one in a hundred. For Anne it is probable that little more than dancing, drawing, French and music were required to prepare her for life at court. Her general education was neglected but not her intensive religious education which founded her life long belief in the teachings of the Anglican faith.
Anne and Mary lived apart from the court at Whitehall and their indulgent Roman Catholic father and step-mother. Expected to be virtuous, the sisters could not have been totally unaware of the licentiousness of their uncle’s court and that their uncle, the king, and her father had acknowledged illegitimate children. Indeed, their governess, Lady Frances Villiers, wife of Colonel Villiers, the nephew of the ill-fated Duke of Buckingham, a favourite of James I and his son, Charles I, was the daughter of the king’s notorious mistress, Barbara Castlemaine.
Lax though King Charles II’s morals were he took some interest in Anne, who played the guitar better than many professional musicians. She also had a pleasing voice and the king ordered the actress, Mrs Barry, to give Anne and Mary elocution lessons. These stood Anne in good stead when, as Queen, she addressed Parliament and no doubt later on when she and Mary took part in some of the plays popular at Court.
However, ‘Cinderella’ and Mary grew up in the company of clerics and women, secluded from Whitehall with little to entertain them. One can imagine the boring conversations, stifling closets (small rooms) and endless card games. Sarah declared: I wished myself out of Court as much as I had desired to come into it before I knew what it was.
In spite of the boredom and whatever storms lay ahead, Anne dearly loved her sister. So much so that when Mary married her Dutch cousin, William of Orange, in 1677 and Anne lay sick of smallpox, her father, who visited her every day, ordered that she should not be told her sister had departed for the Continent. The charade went as far as messages purported to be from Mary asking about her health being delivered to Anne.
While Anne’s tutor fretted in case Anne’s fanatical Roman Catholic nurse influenced her while Anne was ill, as soon as she recovered, Anne had to cope with the death of her governess. Fortunately, she still had Sarah’s companionship and enjoyed the vast grounds of Richmond Palace, leased by the king for both his nieces. However, this tranquillity would soon be disturbed by the so called ‘Popish Plot’. And it is not unreasonable to suppose that her mind would be occupied with thoughts of who she would marry.
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
Tangled Hearts set in Queen Anne’s England received five star reviews and is available now.
Monday, 4 August 2008
An Author's Garden in August
An Author’s Garden in August
I wish I could bottle the fragrance of my garden in Hertfordshire, South East England. When I open the windows, front or back doors the perfume of lavender and roses wafts through the air. I have introduced biodiversity into the garden which bees, butterflies and hoverflies visit.
Unfortunately slugs and snails also inhabit my garden. I garden veganically and combat their attacks on the vegetable patches by encouraging wildlife – flat stones on which thrushes can smash the shells of snails and a garden pond – an old bathtub sunk into the ground – where frogs breed and a bird table to attract blue tits and other birds that relish pests.
My garden is generous. I have three compost bins, the contents of which enrich the soil that produces and abundance of fruit, herbs and vegetables.
Yesterday, while I harvested blackberries I thought about kitchen gardens in times past and tossed ideas about a historical novel in which a garden is central. My heroine would be responsible for the kitchen garden with its seeds, fruit, vegetables, roots, pot herbs and medicinal herbs.
According to A Little History of British Gardening by Jenny Uglow my heroine would keep a Receipt Book in which, amongst other things, she would note the best times for sowing and transplanting herbs and vegetables. According to Elinor Fettiplace of Oxfordshire in the sixteenth century “in midsummer at the waning of the moon, one should sow ‘all manner of potherbs, and they willbee greene for winter; also Lettice seeds sown at this time and removed when they bee of a prettie bignes at the full willbee good and hard Lettice at Michaelmas’.” So far, I have not sown according to the waxing and waning of the moon but I have read modern advocates of doing so. One day I might not be able to resist trying this although I’d hate the neighbours to think I am some sort of modern day witch.
According to Jenny Uglow in Chapter Nine titled Wife into thy Garden, “Grandmothers and mothers handed on country skills…many women kept their own household books, filling the creamy pages over the years with recipes, details of cures and tip’s for the garden. An elegant version, purporting to be Henrietta Maria’s own (hardly likely) household book of secrets, was published as The Queen’s Closet Opened in 1655. Recently, I have been considering keeping a modern day Receipt Book. I would record the successes and failures in my garden and note recipes and the use to which I put herbs. For example, yesterday evening I was hungry and tired. I needed a quick meal before I popped round the corner to baby sit my daughter’s young sons. So I put some organic brown spaghetti into a saucepan of boiling water. While it cooked I liquidized fresh basil, parsley, marjoram and time with pine nuts, parmesan cheese, pepper and olive oil. When the pasta was ready I drained it and stirred in the sauce. A delicious meal that took me ten minutes from start to finish.
The herbs from my garden add taste and subtlety to most dishes and it gives me great pleasure to view them in their terracotta pots from my office window.
From the window I can see the path that divides the garden enclosed by a mixture of native English hedging and conifers which filter the wind. At the end of the path is bird bath which, as well as the bird table, attracts a large variety of my feathered friends, including fat wood pigeons that peck at the leaves of my cabbages, cauliflowers and broccoli.
Despite the woodpigeons that are so fat that their chests wobble as the strut down the path or flutter onto the roof of the garden shed my cauliflowers are nearly ready to crop. As well as the cauliflowers I have enjoyed an abundance of different varieties of crisp lettuce, spinach and courgettes. My greenhouse is full of green tomatoes and the outdoor ones are doing well and so are the carrots, beetroot, brussel sprouts, carrots, greenhouse cumbers, French beans, leeks, mizuna and radishes.
The other day I wrote a shopping list and added fruit and vegetables to it. I shook my head and wondered why on earth I needed to buy any vegetables other than green peppers, which did not thrive this year, and tomatoes. As for fruit, there’s plenty of soft fruit in the garden and neighbouring hedgerows. There are two large bags of homegrown gooseberries in the freezer waiting to be made into gooseberry chutney, fruit fool, jam, and a pie. There are five pounds of succulent blackberries in the fridge with which, over the next two days, I shall make pickled blackberries – delicious with cheese and crusty bread – blackberry and apple jam and blackberry and apple chutney. Later in the month I will pick more blackberries and make blackberry cordial, blackberry and apple pies and fruit crumbles.
As a vegetarian my garden is very important. For the first time I am growing Chinese greens such as mizuna for stir fries and intend to increase the quantity of produce through the use of raised beds.
Why, you may ask, in this day and age do I grow my own? Well, if you’re not a vegetable gardener or if you don’t have a garden try growing a pot or two of cherry tomatoes in pots – you’ll be delighted by the superior taste. And you could also grown herbs from seed which is uncontaminated by chemicals. Today as it did in times past their fragrance delights the senses, they enhance our food – try crusty bread drizzled with olive oil with mozzarella cheese, tomatoes and fresh basil – and contribute to health. Black peppermint tea tastes delicious and soothes the stomach.
By this time next year I hope to add a peach tree in a sheltered corner to my mini orchard, a cooking apple tree, three eating apple trees, two plum trees, two pear trees and a cherry tree. And I hope to add black currants, blue berries and more strawberry plants to my soft fruits – redcurrants from which I make redcurrant jelly – delicious on creamy rice pudding, on ice cream or plain yoghurt as well as in a sandwich – strawberries and gooseberries.
Today, with so many modern tools and aids gardening is much easier than it was for the heroine I think about while tending my garden. However, I am certain that both of us say Grace in thanksgiving for the bounty we receive, rejoice in our successes and mourn our failures and take equal pleasure in our gardens. To reinforce this I only have to walk along the path to the front door which is edged with fuchsias and geraniums in terracotta pots and look at the cottage garden behind them full of lavender, lupins, foxgloves, Californian poppies, nasturtiums, dainty cranesbill geranims and many other delights according to season,
Rosemary Morris.
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
www.rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
Tangled Hearts set in Queen Anne’s England – 1702 -1714 available now.
I wish I could bottle the fragrance of my garden in Hertfordshire, South East England. When I open the windows, front or back doors the perfume of lavender and roses wafts through the air. I have introduced biodiversity into the garden which bees, butterflies and hoverflies visit.
Unfortunately slugs and snails also inhabit my garden. I garden veganically and combat their attacks on the vegetable patches by encouraging wildlife – flat stones on which thrushes can smash the shells of snails and a garden pond – an old bathtub sunk into the ground – where frogs breed and a bird table to attract blue tits and other birds that relish pests.
My garden is generous. I have three compost bins, the contents of which enrich the soil that produces and abundance of fruit, herbs and vegetables.
Yesterday, while I harvested blackberries I thought about kitchen gardens in times past and tossed ideas about a historical novel in which a garden is central. My heroine would be responsible for the kitchen garden with its seeds, fruit, vegetables, roots, pot herbs and medicinal herbs.
According to A Little History of British Gardening by Jenny Uglow my heroine would keep a Receipt Book in which, amongst other things, she would note the best times for sowing and transplanting herbs and vegetables. According to Elinor Fettiplace of Oxfordshire in the sixteenth century “in midsummer at the waning of the moon, one should sow ‘all manner of potherbs, and they willbee greene for winter; also Lettice seeds sown at this time and removed when they bee of a prettie bignes at the full willbee good and hard Lettice at Michaelmas’.” So far, I have not sown according to the waxing and waning of the moon but I have read modern advocates of doing so. One day I might not be able to resist trying this although I’d hate the neighbours to think I am some sort of modern day witch.
According to Jenny Uglow in Chapter Nine titled Wife into thy Garden, “Grandmothers and mothers handed on country skills…many women kept their own household books, filling the creamy pages over the years with recipes, details of cures and tip’s for the garden. An elegant version, purporting to be Henrietta Maria’s own (hardly likely) household book of secrets, was published as The Queen’s Closet Opened in 1655. Recently, I have been considering keeping a modern day Receipt Book. I would record the successes and failures in my garden and note recipes and the use to which I put herbs. For example, yesterday evening I was hungry and tired. I needed a quick meal before I popped round the corner to baby sit my daughter’s young sons. So I put some organic brown spaghetti into a saucepan of boiling water. While it cooked I liquidized fresh basil, parsley, marjoram and time with pine nuts, parmesan cheese, pepper and olive oil. When the pasta was ready I drained it and stirred in the sauce. A delicious meal that took me ten minutes from start to finish.
The herbs from my garden add taste and subtlety to most dishes and it gives me great pleasure to view them in their terracotta pots from my office window.
From the window I can see the path that divides the garden enclosed by a mixture of native English hedging and conifers which filter the wind. At the end of the path is bird bath which, as well as the bird table, attracts a large variety of my feathered friends, including fat wood pigeons that peck at the leaves of my cabbages, cauliflowers and broccoli.
Despite the woodpigeons that are so fat that their chests wobble as the strut down the path or flutter onto the roof of the garden shed my cauliflowers are nearly ready to crop. As well as the cauliflowers I have enjoyed an abundance of different varieties of crisp lettuce, spinach and courgettes. My greenhouse is full of green tomatoes and the outdoor ones are doing well and so are the carrots, beetroot, brussel sprouts, carrots, greenhouse cumbers, French beans, leeks, mizuna and radishes.
The other day I wrote a shopping list and added fruit and vegetables to it. I shook my head and wondered why on earth I needed to buy any vegetables other than green peppers, which did not thrive this year, and tomatoes. As for fruit, there’s plenty of soft fruit in the garden and neighbouring hedgerows. There are two large bags of homegrown gooseberries in the freezer waiting to be made into gooseberry chutney, fruit fool, jam, and a pie. There are five pounds of succulent blackberries in the fridge with which, over the next two days, I shall make pickled blackberries – delicious with cheese and crusty bread – blackberry and apple jam and blackberry and apple chutney. Later in the month I will pick more blackberries and make blackberry cordial, blackberry and apple pies and fruit crumbles.
As a vegetarian my garden is very important. For the first time I am growing Chinese greens such as mizuna for stir fries and intend to increase the quantity of produce through the use of raised beds.
Why, you may ask, in this day and age do I grow my own? Well, if you’re not a vegetable gardener or if you don’t have a garden try growing a pot or two of cherry tomatoes in pots – you’ll be delighted by the superior taste. And you could also grown herbs from seed which is uncontaminated by chemicals. Today as it did in times past their fragrance delights the senses, they enhance our food – try crusty bread drizzled with olive oil with mozzarella cheese, tomatoes and fresh basil – and contribute to health. Black peppermint tea tastes delicious and soothes the stomach.
By this time next year I hope to add a peach tree in a sheltered corner to my mini orchard, a cooking apple tree, three eating apple trees, two plum trees, two pear trees and a cherry tree. And I hope to add black currants, blue berries and more strawberry plants to my soft fruits – redcurrants from which I make redcurrant jelly – delicious on creamy rice pudding, on ice cream or plain yoghurt as well as in a sandwich – strawberries and gooseberries.
Today, with so many modern tools and aids gardening is much easier than it was for the heroine I think about while tending my garden. However, I am certain that both of us say Grace in thanksgiving for the bounty we receive, rejoice in our successes and mourn our failures and take equal pleasure in our gardens. To reinforce this I only have to walk along the path to the front door which is edged with fuchsias and geraniums in terracotta pots and look at the cottage garden behind them full of lavender, lupins, foxgloves, Californian poppies, nasturtiums, dainty cranesbill geranims and many other delights according to season,
Rosemary Morris.
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
www.rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
Tangled Hearts set in Queen Anne’s England – 1702 -1714 available now.
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