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?
Sunday, 12 June 2011
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
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