I haven’t done this in a while, but I have had quite a few recent DNF books. (Did Not Finish.)

No, I will not reveal titles or authors even if you ask me. Yes, I am attempting to avoid mentioning any details which would aid in identifying these works of fiction.

1. My, this writing is…serviceable. I keep mentally editing as I read. Still, the characters ought to be interesting, from the blurb…. No. They aren’t. In fact, if the protagonist namedrops one more fashionable object in place of actually telling me about her likes and dislikes, or better yet showing me what she likes…. Nope, more namedropping. So…bland…brain…hurts.

2. Okay, chit at society ball, there’s the degenerate rake, oh wait, she’s not going for him, hooray! She’s in love with this other guy. Who is Mysterious. She can’t look at him or speak to him. She feels a Mysterious Attraction to him. She’s going to tell us all about how Mysterious it is…no. Never mind. I do not need to suffer through this because it has not a scrap of a hint that this might be a new take on this well-trodden idea.

3. Post-apocalyptic, yes. Post-apocalyptic teenage emo whining, no. And I’ve seen this plot before, done better. Several times.

4. The blurb sounds interesting. The opening page is intriguing and funny. However, the narrator grows more and more patronizing and the tropes of her sub-genre pile up and up and up until, within three pages, it sounds like every other book I have ever read that is in this sub-genre. Also I hate the character whose voice is supposed to entertain me. Pretty impressive, my hate, in such a short span of pages.

5. Bo-ring. Too much backstory in the first scene, and also, the supposed protagonist has no personality whatsoever. Pity the book is about him instead of that other guy, who has some hints of an intriguing past. Are they going to have an adventure? Oh, probably just the protagonist? Well, he’d best get on with it, then, while I straighten my sock drawer.

Watching Helen Mirren in “The Tempest” got me in the mood for more Shakespeare. I’ve loved Kenneth Branagh’s movie adaptations since his “Henry V,” which I saw in the theater four or five times, and I have been collecting his various Shakespeare movies on DVD. I hadn’t yet seen his 2006 version of “As You Like It,” so I obtained the DVD and watched it in one go.

This adaptation was very interesting visually; it was set late in the 19th century, when Japan had opened itself to outside trade, the idea being that these characters lived in one of the British trading outposts – there’s a little introductory commentary (“A Long Time Ago, in a galaxy far, far away….”) in the opening screens. This enabled a mingling of European costumes with Japanese ones. The only house shown in detail was a Japanese-style house with sliding paper walls. There are a few Asian actors in the production, including one of the couples in the Forest of Arden (Silvius and Celia). Charles the wrestler became a sumo wrestler (also an Asian actor). The sumo wrestler bit was amusing because Orlando, played by David Oyeluwo, is not particularly large next to the sumo wrestler, yet he has to win their bout. There was some close camera work obscuring how exactly Orlando managed it! There’s also a bit added before the beginning of the play, to show exactly how Frederick’s palace coup to depose his brother the Duke happens: he did it with ninjas.

I liked that Brian Blessed, with different hairstyles and demeanours, played both Frederick and the (real) Duke. I just love Brian Blessed in general, so this was an extra treat for me. I also got to see another favorite actor, Richard Briers, as Orlando’s servant Adam; his part in the movie is small, but he has one speech that just broke my heart. I surprised myself and teared up.

ADAM: Master, go on; and I will follow thee
To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.
From seventeen years till now almost four-score
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek,
But at fourscore it is too late a week;
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better
Than to die well and not my master’s debtor.

I think, if one hadn’t previously read the play, the movie might be a little confusing on first watch, but maybe I’m wrong; if you see it without reading the play first, let me know what you thought.

A lot of the text was cut, as is usual in movie versions of Shakespeare plays. I think some scenes are rearranged, to make the progression of events more clear (I am not that deeply familiar with the play). The whole thing seemed to go very fast, and had a nice flow to it, but I didn’t feel as involved with the subplots, even though all play into the Rosalind/Orlando romance.

I thought all of the performances were excellent (not really a surprise!). David Oyeluwo (Orlando) has the biggest range of emotions to portray, I think; I was with him all the way; he has one of those magnetic faces. (Many viewers know him from “Spooks/MI-5″; he’s currently starring in Red Tails, presumably playing an American.) Adrian Lester (a friend of mine loved him in “Hustle”) played his brother, which leads to a sort of Shakespeare in-joke, because Oyeluwo has played Henry VI on stage and Lester has played Henry V…okay, not brothers, but I think it’s amusing. In a geeky way. Lester is also in Branagh’s movie version of “Love’s Labours Lost,” which I should watch again and write about, because it is one wacky adaptation; the play was made into a musical. With dancing. No, really.

Alfred Molina is, unsurprisingly, really good as Touchstone. Kevin Kline won a SAG award for his portrayal of Jaques, according to Wikipedia. Bryce Dallas Howard, an American, played Rosalind. To my American ear, the accent she used was not offensive. She, too, had a very interesting, magnetic face.

Overall, I recommend this, at least if you like Shakespeare! If you do watch it, make sure to stick around for the Epilogue, which was kind of cool.

One comment about the DVD: I was very disappointed in the limited extras. The accompanying documentary was more of a teaser; I don’t think it was even a half-hour long.

A Cross in Flanders

In the face of death, they say, he joked–he had no fear;
His comrades, when they laid him in a Flanders grave,
Wrote on a rough-hewn cross–a Calvary stood near–
“Without a fear he gave

“His life, cheering his men, with laughter on his lips.”
So wrote they, mourning him. Yet was there only one
Who fully understood his laughter, his gay quips,
One only, she alone–

She who, not so long since, when love was new-confest,
Herself toyed with light laughter while her eyes were dim,
And jested, while with reverence despite her jest
She worshipped God and him.

She knew–O Love, O Death!–his soul had been at grips
With the most solemn things. For she, was she not dear?
Yes, he was brave, most brave, with laughter on his lips,
The braver for his fear!

–G. Rostrevor Hamilton

I felt this one was awesome enough for its own post.

Also, a collation of my recent book previews:

Available Dark by Elizabeth Hand. Noir thriller with Norwegian Black Metal. This book rocks.
Charlie Cochrane’s Dreams of a Hero. A fairly short story about a gay couple living in their happily-ever-after.
Cath Crowley’s Graffiti Moon, a YA about art and love and our real selves.
Firelight by Kristen Callihan, an angsty Paranormal Romance that takes its worldbuilding in some interesting directions.
Heroic Don’ts.

I somehow missed this when it first came out, but there is a Russian translation of The Duchess, Her Maid, The Groom and Their Lover. Here’s the page at Harlequin Russia.

- Где ты черпаешь вдохновение?

Иногда вдохновение на написание романов является реакцией на уже прочитанное. Или когда я начинаю думать о той или иной теме, проблеме, жизненной ситуации, я представляю, как бы можно было облечь ее в литературную форму. В том, что я пишу мало из моей личной жизни. Мои истории – это выдумка для развлечения и удовольствия.

-Есть ли какие-нибудь приемы, которые возбуждают твое воображение?

Когда мне тяжело пишется, я играю в компьютерные игры. Это отвлекает, снимает напряжение и позволяет мне вновь вернуться к работе через какое-то время. Каждый день, когда я вновь сажусь за рукопись, я перечитываю предыдущие главы, погружаясь в атмосферу, место и время.

I had a new post up on Heroes and Heartbreakers over the weekend, all about the romance in The Element of Fire by Martha Wells, one of my favorite fantasy novels.

Please welcome my guest, Magdalen Braden of Promantica! 

A while back, I posted some thoughts on romance author Betty Neels.  Strangely, that post keeps getting hits…more than I would expect.  Alas, though I think her work is a fascinating part of the romance genre, I haven’t yet read enough of Neels’ enormous backlist to talk about her in a truly knowledgeable way, so I asked for a post from an expert. 

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Betty Neels’ Books Rock by Magdalen Braden

A friend sent me a Mills & Boon published in 1974. With a few changes, the plot could have been by Betty Neels. Here’s the back cover copy, edited just a bit:

After a childhood spent in an orphanage, Lucy Brown was delighted when Miss Ramsay organized a new life for her working in a hospital. But when Lucy got there, she discovered that the doctor in charge, Tavis Walsh, didn’t want her there, and Sister Ursula made it clear that Lucy had better stay out of her way. It was obvious that Ursula had a very close relationship with Doctor Walsh. Surely she didn’t regard Lucy as competition?

Let’s see how many Betty Neels-esque elements this story’s got:

• Poor childhood
• Plain-jane name
• Glamorous doctor hero
• Nasty, spiteful cow for a rival for the doctor’s affections

Only, it’s not by Betty Neels (I’ll protect the author’s identity; trust me you don’t want to read this one) and it’s not good. Very much not good.

Whereas, Betty Neels’s books—even the not-quite-so-good ones—are wonderful.

Here’s why, at least here’s why I think they’re wonderful:

1. She’s a literate author. I imagine she grew up reading Charlotte M. Yonge and Charles Dickens, Elizabeth Gaskell and Stella Gibbons. People who could write a sensible sentence in English. It’s very rare that I come across an infelicitous sentence in a Betty Neels romance. We take writing of that quality for granted…until we’re reading a book written by a less skilled writer. (Here’s a sentence from the Lucy Brown book above: Once again, instead of the eager and interested aide she had been for the last hour, she felt herself the deprivation.) Betty Neels never wrote a sentence that bad in her professional life.



2. Her characters, particularly her heroes, may be cut from the same bolt of cloth, but it’s damned fine cloth. Yes, almost all of them are rich Dutch doctors, with the rest being rich English doctors. (In 134 romances, there are precisely 6 non-medical heroes, and of those, only one is the least bit un-rich-Dutch doctor-y. See this fascinating account of the heroines’ occupations; halfway through is an aside on the heroes.) And yes, they’re all the type of man who’s likely to order for you at a five-star restaurant and get it right. But while we might not want to marry such a man ourselves (although I can see the appeal), these men are perfect for their heroines, who are hard-working, sensible, loyal and easy to love.
3. Each book is partly a travelogue, period fashion show, foodie’s blog, British car rally, and antique furnishings auction catalogue. You could easily plan a trip to The Netherlands (specifically Holland and Friesland) from Neels’ oeuvre, right down to which stately homes to gaze at. You’d even know where to shop, which museums to skip, and what to order in a casual restaurant.



4. Pets. Dogs, cats, donkeys, even an occasional pet rat (but a nice one, promise) are often important secondary characters in Betty Neels’ books.
5. Sex. Admittedly there’s no explicit sex in her books, but implicit is that every single one of her heroes—even the bitter divorcés and widowers—know precisely what to do with the heroine after the book ends. (See ordering for you at a five-star restaurant, above. Now consider that a euphemism for something sexy and you’ve got the right idea.)
6. Happy endings. Some romances leave me with the feeling that when the whirlwind quiets down, and the passion morphs into the mundane, the couple may not have what it takes to go the distance. Never, ever, with a Betty Neels romance do you have that feeling. Sure, YOU might not want to marry that sort of man, but he’s clearly perfect for her. And she might seem a bit bland for any man you know, but by the end of the book she’s the center of her hero’s world.

Last thought: Betty Neels romances are the mac-and-cheese of the genre. But really, really good mac-and-cheese, the kind you can’t wait to eat again and again. Comfort food never goes out of style, and a Neels romance—even one written over 40 years ago—doesn’t either.

Photo sources are here and here and here.
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Thanks, Magdalen!

If you want to read more about Neels, or share your love of her books, make sure to check out The Uncrushable Jersey Dress, a blog for all things Neels.

My Son

Here is his little cambric frock
That I laid by in lavender so sweet,
And here his tiny shoe and sock
I made with loving care for his dear feet.

I fold the frock across my breast,
And in imagination, ah, my sweet,
Once more I hush my babe to rest,
And once again I warm those little feet.

Where do those strong young feet now stand?
In flooded trench, half numb to cold or pain,
Or marching through the desert sand
To some dread place that they may never gain.

God guide him and his men to-day!
Though death may lurk in any tree or hill,
His brave young spirit is their stay,
Trusting in that they’ll follow where he will.

They love him for his tender heart
When poverty or sorrow asks his aid,
But he must see each do his part–
Of cowardice alone he is afraid.

I ask no honours on the field,
That other men have won as brave as he–
I only pray that God may shield
My son, and bring him safely back to me!

–Ada Tyrrell

After a small hiatus from the genre, I started reading romance novels again in December, and I have some new thoughts.

The reason for my burnout: the constraints of the genre had palled. Instead of soothing through familiarity, they scraped across my nerves because of their sameness. I found myself skimming over scenes of first meetings, scenes of realization, scenes of sexual intimacy–skimming in novels by authors whose work I love, whose prose is skilled and creative. Everything began to seem clichéd.

I was overcome by ennui. I went through my To Be Read boxes and culled a couple of dozen romance novels I’d acquired but not yet read. Then I drew out some recent novels by favorite authors and moved them to the top of the pile, in the hope of reigniting my interest; I also pulled out some classics I hadn’t yet read. (One exception was the new Marjorie Liu novel, which I read almost immediately after purchase. I think, in my mind, her romances skew more towards science fiction/fantasy; for me they weren’t subject to my burnout.)

From the Oxford English Dictionary definition of cliché:
a. fig. A stereotyped expression, a commonplace phrase; also, a stereotyped character, style, etc.
b. Used as adj. Stereotyped, hackneyed.

I revived my interest in Romance with older novels by Patricia Gaffney (Crooked Hearts) and Anne Stuart (Devil’s Waltz). What I found engaging about the two novels is how strongly the authors’ voices were present in both the way the stories were written and in the progress of the stories themselves. While remaining firmly within genre boundaries, both authors used humor and specificity of detail, in their own particular ways, to enliven their stories. Both novels were rich in unforced banter arising from characterization that did not feel pasted on. Both novels took unexpected turns, which is tricky when you have to follow an overall romantic arc.

Also, both novels had a sort of meta-commentary on Romance as a concept, whether directly or indirectly. Whether in internal monologue or dialogue, the protagonists of the Gaffney and Stuart novels reacted against societal expectations of what romance ought to be. For example, in Crooked Hearts: “Unhand me, I said.” Hazily, she wondered why she was talking like a heroine out of Sir Walter Scott. In addition, both hero and heroine are atypical; they are criminals. In Devil’s Waltz, the hero is an atypical representative of the Rake stereotype because he maintains his self-centered behavior throughout almost the entire novel, instead of instantly shedding his Rake behavior as soon as he meets the heroine. Stuart invites the reader to be in on her joke.

I think that’s a way to make it work, the way to explore overwhelmingly common ideas without losing the reader’s interest: imbue the hackneyed with unique individual detail that comes from your own personality, not mechanically, but organically. It works for description, it works for characterization, and it works on a larger scale.

Another thought I had is that these were both older books, so their genre constraints were a little different from books that are coming out now. Totally aside from these being books written by skilled authors, these books felt different because they were different. I had enough distance from their conventions that they felt new to me.

For that reason, I’m finally reading Laura London’s The Windflower for the first time, widely acknowledged to be a classic. More on that later.

When I first heard that there was to be a movie of Shakespeare’s play “The Tempest” with Helen Mirren playing the lead role (Prospera rather than Prospero), I nearly screamed with excitement. That was before it actually came out in theaters, and it turned out I wasn’t able to go and see it. As soon as the DVD was available for pre-order, I pre-ordered. And waited. And waited, as the release was delayed time and again. Finally it arrived, and finally I had a free evening to sit down and absorb it.

I loved so many things about this movie, Helen Mirren in the lead role first among them. She was so strong and powerful, so very believable as a middle-aged woman who wielded mighty forces of magic, who loved and wanted the best for her daughter, who was both arrogant and wise, who made mistakes. She gave me chills. I couldn’t look away. Also, her outfits were awesome.

The main difference the cross-gender casting made in the play was in Prospera’s background; Taymor added in a bit about how her husband was Duke, then she was made Duke in his place, so her later betrayal by the other heir had added resonance: she was a woman who earned power, which was then taken away by accusations of, basically, using her femininity/magic to gain power unnaturally. I think the cross-gender casting also made a difference in her relationship with Miranda. A same-sex parent/child relationship has a different feel to it; I got the feeling Prospera was trying to save Miranda from suffering at the hands of patriarchy in the same way she suffered (true, by marrying her off to some random wet guy…).

I thought all of the performers were amazing, with the exception of Reeve Carney. He played Ferdinand, who seemed impossibly low-key and bland in comparison to the other actors; in the accompanying documentary, I found out he was a singer rather than an actor, which makes sense. He was simply overpowered. In all of his scenes with Felicity Jones, who played Miranda, I was fixated on her and could barely remember to look at him. He did a lovely job with his singing, though!

My favorite performers, after Mirren, were Ben Whishaw as Ariel and Djimon Hounsou as Caliban. Both men wonderfully embodied the otherworldly aspects of their characters. It’s true there were a lot of special effects surrounding Ariel, but the actor’s face and voice and especially how he used his body were a big part of how I experienced the character. He was especially deft in showing hints of emotion between Ariel and Prospera. Hounsou as Caliban had a lot of wacky body and face makeup, but I think he would have been fine without it, because he did so much with his body and voice to show Caliban’s complex, twisted mess of loneliness and ambition and pain. Also, I really like Hounsou’s speaking voice.

The movie was filmed on a small island in Hawaii, very cool since the play itself takes place on an island. The landscape, especially the vistas of cracked lava rock, had an eerie, bleak feel that I loved each time that the cameras returned to it. It became part, in my mind, of Prospera’s bleak, revenge-driven emotional landscape, tempered only by her love for her daughter.

Some viewers might find some of the special effects silly at times (they were low-budget). I didn’t mind them. To me, they were fine if not state-of-the-art (the Ariel water effects were more than fine!). It was the actors’ performances that were important to me, and I found they were utterly worth the wait.

Under Her Uniform by Victoria Janssen

Isobel Hailey has disguised herself as a man so she can fight in the British Army in World War I. Only a few people know the truth, including her two officer lovers–so why can’t she stop thinking about handsome Corporal Andrew Southey instead? Isobel has to keep her wits about her and her erotic fantasies hidden so she doesn’t blow her cover. But when she and Andrew find themselves working closely on a mission, their attraction–and the truth–is impossible to deny….

A sequel to Victoria Janssen’s The Moonlight Mistress, available May 2012 in ebook from Spice Books.

The Tombstone-Maker

He primmed his loose red mouth and leaned his head
Against a sorrowing angel’s breast, and said:
‘You’d think so much bereavement would have made
‘Unusual big demands upon my trade.
‘The War comes cruel hard on some poor folk;
‘Unless the fighting stops I’ll soon be broke.’

He eyed the Cemetery across the road.
‘There’s scores of bodies out abroad, this while,
‘That should be here by rights. They little know’d
‘How they’d get buried in such wretched style.’

I told him with a sympathetic grin,
That Germans boil dead soldiers down for fat;
And he was horrified. ‘What shameful sin!
‘O sir, that Christian souls should come to that!’

–Siegfried Sassoon

Historical note: The British claimed that the German army used the fat from human corpses to make various products during World War I in The Times (April 1917) and later in other newspapers. British Foreign Secretary Sir Austen Chamberlain officially admitted that the story was untrue, but not until 1925. Sources: Phillip Knightley, The First Casualty; Arthur Ponsonby, Falsehood in Wartime; Walter Laqueur, The Terrible Secret.

I did something cool Monday night. Friends of mine invited me to their house to see a one-man show of Dracula, performed in one hour. There was no way I could resist.

The picture illustrating this post was taken by one of the hosts, Kyle Cassidy, with his iPhone while the performance was going on. What you can’t see is the windowseat behind the actor, which held a small, stuffed Winnie the Pooh. I kept wondering if Winnie was to be one of the victims.

Joshua Hitchens, the actor, wrote the one-hour adaptation of the novel himself. After the performance, he said he’d first read Dracula at age eight, and though it terrified him, he also became fascinated with it. He’s previously performed the show only a few times: at the Philadelphia Fringe Festival, and at Philadelphia’s Rosenbach Museum and Library, which houses Stoker’s original notes and sponsors a Dracula festival each year. Hitchens had the chance to actually see and touch the notes when he performed there.

I think the audience was about a dozen people, some of whom I knew, such as local writer Michael Swanwick and his family, and some whom I’ll be happy to see again in the future. We gathered in the living room for snacks and–of course–red wine. Then we settled in the front room and waited. Some of the cats wandered in and out, and we heard mysterious creaks from above (the house is a Victorian, like most in West Philadelphia).

Hitchens wore a simple black costume. His only props were a copy of the novel, a chair, and a spotlight, borrowed from Curio Theatre Company. The spotlight was on the floor, aimed at the ceiling; Hitchens used it throughout in various ways by changing his relative position to cast shadows and, once, by turning it off completely. The coolest part, for me, was how he changed posture and speaking style for each character. I know that’s what actors do, but it’s still nifty to see, particularly when the changes happen in a split second. I was enthralled the entire way through; I enjoyed seeing how Hitchens interpreted each character. For example, Dr. Van Helsing was both avuncular and a little jovial, Dr. Seward was a bit depressed.

I have never read Dracula (I know, I know, shame!), but once I had to critique a spinoff story, so I have read a very detailed summary. Even if I hadn’t read the summary, the play would have been really easy to follow, thanks to the excellent adaptation. Most of what was trimmed, I think, was secondary plot. Quincey’s character was also cut save for one mention (Dr. Seward got his bowie knife at the end).

Aside from the play itself, though, what I loved the most was the intimacy of it. We were right there, only feet from the stage, in a small room that seemed to hold more energy, or different energy, than a giant theater. And, periodically, Milla the cat wandered in, curious about the goings on. She lent another level to the intimacy as she checked out audience legs, considered checking out Hitchens’ legs but thought better of it, jumped onto the prop chair, jumped off again just in time…I was paying attention, truly, but the cat was part of the experience for me.

You can read the hosts’ accounts of the event at Kyle’s LiveJournal and Trillian’s LiveJournal. There are some additional pictures at those posts that Kyle took afterwards. And here’s Michael Swanwick’s post.

The Head Girl at the Gables by Angela Brazil (1919) is available for free download at Gutenberg.org.

I chose this book for the The WWI Challenge for several reasons. I already had it on my e-reader, along with a number of others by the same author. I needed to read an English school story as research for a panel at Arisia (held in January). This particular book is interesting because it has some character overlap with another Brazil novel, Monitress Merle. Finally, the novel has more explicit references to World War One than I’ve yet encountered in her work.

The book was published in 1919, which leads me to think it was written while the war was still going on. In the story itself, it isn’t clear how far along the war has progressed–there’s no specific reference to years or events–but it had to have been after gas was introduced as a weapon, because at one point the students are collecting “fruit-stones and nuts, to be sent to headquarters for use in the manufacture of gas-masks for the army.”

The tone overall is one of patriotism and optimism, perhaps more due to the book’s genre than the mood of the country when it was written. Or perhaps the tone is aspirational. When a peripheral character is reported killed in action, there’s grief, but it’s nobly restrained. “Lindon, their one treasured boy, had “gone west”. Well, other mothers had given their dearest and best! She would offer him gladly, joyfully, on the altar of Britain’s glory! But her face seemed to grow suddenly shrunken, and the high colour faded from her cheeks, leaving a network of little red veins instead.”

The sentiments expressed in the school year’s opening speech are exemplary of WWI-era rhetoric:

At this crisis in the world’s affairs we don’t want to bring up ‘slackers’. Your fathers, uncles, brothers, cousins have answered their country’s call and gone to defend Britain’s honour, and you have been proud to see them go. The women of the Empire have played their part as nobly as the men, and it is these brave and splendid women whom you must try to imitate. Do you think they would have been able to give the help they have given to their country unless they had prepared their characters for it beforehand? I’m sure not…We hope it is going to be a beautiful world when the war is over, but it can only be so if we remember the sacrifices that have been made, and determine to be worthy of those who gave up everything for us.

Throughout the story, life goes on. The heroine, Lorraine, is elected Head Girl at the novel’s opening and spends the novel learning how to manage her duties as well as the personalities of the other students. In addition, she finds a mentor and begins to discover her own life’s passion, art. All the while, the War is a backdrop. Two of her brothers are at “the front, in the thick of the fighting” and another is “in training for the Air Force.” There’s also a subplot of spies who have infiltrated the sleepy, artistic English village setting. It’s apparently okay to complain about rationing. “In these days of rations there’s never even a scrap of margarine to spare, let alone butter!” and
“…home-made chocolate concocted with cocoa and condensed milk. Like most war substitutes, it was not so good as the real thing…”

What I like best about this novel is its hints of feminism. The main characters are almost all female, and they’re all active in the war effort as well as in their education. The school’s head quotes Nellie McClung in her opening speech of the year: “A nation never rises higher than its women.” Ultimately, the story has a Victorian tone, though. At the novel’s end, there’s a hint of the “angel in the house” idea when the main male character confesses to Lorraine, “I’ve been a fool, Lorraine. I’m going to start a fresh page, and try to be worthy of my best friends. I simply can’t express what I owe you. You’re the sort of girl that keeps a fellow straight–some women send them on the rocks. When I think of you, I think of everything that is true and good.”

“I’m not much to boast of, I’m afraid,” said Lorraine humbly, “but I’m trying–trying hard, like many other people who are a great deal better, and nicer, and sweeter tempered than I am.”

That scene does not defeat, however, the scenes throughout of girls who make art and uncover enemy activity.

Overall, this was a fun read for me.

I have a preview of Budapest Noir by Vilmos Kondor up at The Criminal Element, if you missed it last week!

Edith Cavell

She was binding the wounds of her enemies when they came—
The lint in her hand unrolled.
They battered the door with their rifle-butts, crashed it in:
She faced them gentle and bold.

They haled her before the judges where they sat
In their places, helmet on head.
With question and menace the judges assailed her, “Yes,
I have broken your law,” she said.

“I have tended the hurt and hidden the hunted, have done
As a sister does to a brother,
Because of a law that is greater than that you have made,
Because I could do none other.

“Deal as you will with me. This is my choice to the end,
To live in the life I vowed.”
“She is self-confessed,” they cried; “she is self-condemned.
She shall die, that the rest may be cowed.”

In the terrible hour of the dawn, when the veins are cold,
They led her forth to the wall.
“I have loved my land,” she said, “but it is not enough:
Love requires of me all.

“I will empty my heart of the bitterness, hating none.”
And sweetness filled her brave
With a vision of understanding beyond the hour
That knelled to the waiting grave.

They bound her eyes, but she stood as if she shone.
The rifles it was that shook
When the hoarse command rang out. They could not endure
That last, that defenceless look.

And the officer strode and pistolled her surely, ashamed
That men, seasoned in blood,
Should quail at a woman, only a woman,–
As a flower stamped in the mud.

And now that the deed was securely done, in the night
When none had known her fate,
They answered those that had striven for her, day by day:
“It is over, you come too late.”

And with many words and sorrowful-phrased excuse
Argued their German right
To kill, most legally; hard though the duty be,
The law must assert its might.

Only a woman! yet she had pity on them,
The victim offered slain
To the gods of fear that they worship. Leave them there,
Red hands, to clutch their gain!

She bewailed not herself, and we will bewail her not,
But with tears of pride rejoice
That an English soul was found so crystal-clear
To be triumphant voice

Of the human heart that dares adventure all
But live to itself untrue,
And beyond all laws sees love as the light in the night,
As the star it must answer to.

The hurts she healed, the thousands comforted—these
Make a fragrance of her fame.
But because she stept to her star right on through death
It is Victory speaks her name.

–Laurence Binyon

This month I’ve been cleaning up assorted papers I’d accumulated over the last few years. Like many writers, I have a strange attraction to notebooks, some decorative, some plain spiral-bound of varying qualities, bought for various reasons: a pretty one on a clearance table, a cheap stenographer’s pad purchased on a journey. I’ve set aside a few of the nice ones from my collection to give as gifts.

However, that still left all the ones that were half-used, or tattered from being carried with me for days on end, or that had notes scribbled on just one or two pages. Part of the problem is that in the last few years I’ve mostly switched over to the Moleskine brand, since they produce a slender notebook that will open out flat; it fits much better in my everyday messenger bag than anything else I’ve tried. What to do with the small spiral-bounds?

Most have lots of empty pages I can use. On the used pages, I found Calls for Submissions, long past; those I tore out and recycled. I found grocery lists, packing lists, and the like; recycled. I also found my own writing ephemera: notes on a story or novel I was writing, early versions of story drafts, ideas for stories, opening scenes for stories I’d utterly forgotten about. I couldn’t bring myself to recycle them. I tore those pages out, trimmed the ragged edges, and placed them into the acid-free boxes I use for my novel manuscripts. Maybe someday, I’ll want to revisit them.

At Heroes and Heartbreakers in the last couple of days, you can read my thoughts on Kristen Callihan’s Firelight and on Clothes in the Time of Downton Abbey, which means 1912-1919.

I was thrilled on Sunday morning at Arisia when, while ambling through the lobby, I spotted a zouave. I walked a little past, wondering if I’d been mistaken – maybe it was just a similar uniform, and he was busy chatting with someone – but then I couldn’t resist, and went back to request a picture. There’s a French zouave in The Moonlight Mistress, in a bit part, simply because I think they were pretty cool. (My zouave is riding a motorbike.)
These guys were dressed as American zouaves, American Civil War vintage, from a volunteer guard unit. You can learn more about them here.

I have a post on World War One male/male romances over at Heroes & Heartbreakers.

Girl Fever: 69 Stories of Sudden Sex for Lesbians from Cleis Press now has a publication date of June 12, 2012 and is available for Amazon pre-order. “The Airplane Story” by me will appear in this anthology. Isn’t the cover nice?

Fleurette

THE WOUNDED CANADIAN SPEAKS:
My leg? It’s off at the knee.
Do I miss it? Well, some. You see
I’ve had it since I was born;
And lately a devilish corn.
(I rather chuckle with glee
To think how I’ve fooled that corn.)

But I’ll hobble around all right.
It is n’t that, it’s my face.
Oh, I know I’m a hideous sight,
Hardly a thing in place.
Sort of gargoyle, you’d say.
Nurse won’t give me a glass,
But I see the folks as they pass
Shudder and turn away;
Turn away in distress…
Mirror enough, I guess.
I’m gay! You bet I am gay,
But I was n’t a while ago.
If you’d seen me even to-day,
The darnedest picture of woe,
With this Caliban mug of mine,
So ravaged and raw and red,
Turned to the wall—in fine
Wishing that I was dead….
What has happened since then,
Since I lay with my face to the wall,
The most despairing of men!
Listen! I’ll tell you all.

That poilu across the way,
With the shrapnel wound on his head,
Has a sister: she came to-day
To sit awhile by his bed.
All morning I heard him fret:
“Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?”

Then sudden, a joyous cry;
The tripping of little feet;
The softest, tenderest sigh;
A voice so fresh and sweet;
Clear as a silver bell,
Fresh as the morning dews:
“C’est toi, c’est toi, Marcel!
Mon frère, comme je suis heureuse!”

So over the blanket’s rim
I raised my terrible face,
And I saw–how I envied him!
A girl of such delicate grace;
Sixteen, all laughter and love;
As gay as a linnet, and yet
As tenderly sweet as a dove;
Half woman, half child–Fleurette.
Then I turned to the wall again.
(I was awfully blue, you see,)
And I thought with a bitter pain:
“Such visions are not for me.”
So there like a log I lay,
All hidden, I thought, from view,
When sudden I heard her say:
“Ah! Who is that malheureux?”
Then briefly I heard him tell
(However he came to know)
How I’d smothered a bomb that fell
Into the trench, and so
None of my men were hit,
Though it busted me up a bit.

Well, I did n’t quiver an eye,
And he chattered and there she sat;
And I fancied I heard her sigh–
But I would n’t just swear to that.
And maybe she was n’t so bright,
Though she talked in a merry strain,
And I closed my eyes ever so tight,
Yet I saw her ever so plain:
Her dear little tilted nose,
Her delicate, dimpled chin,
Her mouth like a budding rose,
And the glistening pearls within;
Her eyes like the violet:
Such a rare little queen–Fleurette.

And at last when she rose to go,
The light was a little dim,
And I ventured to peep, and so
I saw her, graceful and slim,
And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh
How I envied and envied him!

So when she was gone I said
In rather a dreary voice
To him of the opposite bed:
“Ah, friend, how you must rejoice!
But me, I’m a thing of dread.
For me nevermore the bliss,
The thrill of a woman’s kiss.”

Then I stopped, for lo! she was there,
And a great light shone in her eyes.
And me! I could only stare,
I was taken so by surprise,
When gently she bent her head:
“May I kiss you, sergeant?” she said.

Then she kissed my burning lips,
With her mouth like a scented flower,
And I thrilled to the finger-tips,
And I had n’t even the power
To say: “God bless you, dear!”
And I felt such a precious tear
Fall on my withered cheek,
And darn it! I could n’t speak.
And so she went sadly away,
And I know that my eyes were wet.
Ah, not to my dying day
Will I forget, forget!
Can you wonder now I am gay?
God bless her, that little Fleurette!

–Robert W. Service

Wickedly Funny: the humor of Anne Stuart’s Heroes is up at Heroes & Heartbreakers. The post focused on Stuart’s novel Devil’s Waltz.

Photos from Arisia 2012, in Boston, Massachusetts.

Need some dice?

This stormtrooper? Is cake.

No, really, he was cake. People ate him.

Need some steampunky specs?

Among my favorite costumes of the con – cross-gender casting of Holmes and Watson.

I have a new Top 5 post up at Heroes & Heartbreakers – Animals in Historical Romance.