To Emote or Not To Emote...

Can you destroy a good novel with a narration that is over the top... or in one case, under the top?

I am reading Michael Curtis Ford's The Ten Thousand. Well, I am listening to it. It is debatable whether listening to books from the National LIbrary Service for the Blind is actually reading. If you ask Braille militants, any blind person who cannot read Braille is illiterate. I will only concede the point if the same person never learned to read print. I was reading at five, thank you, so I don't agree that losing significant sight but not learning Braille makes me suddenly illiterate.

But one point that comes up in any audio interpretation of literature is whether the narrator should turn the reading into a performance. I don't think anyone suggests that readers do so in a monotone, but how much is enough and not too much? I can't imagine listening to Edward Rutherfurd's Dublin Saga without the magnificent narrator and his facvility with all the accents. The reader for the Ford book, however, is so dour that I find myself wondering if the character telling the story, Theo, is as dour, and if I should interpret the story the same.

I am not crazy about Jean Plaidy, but reading her novel of Edward II I can't decide if it is really as bad as it sounds or if the narrator in this one is coloring it even worse? I expect it is both Plaidy and the narrator that have conspired to trivialize and camp up the story of Edward and his "Parrot". I got to the point where Piers Gaveston is about to be murdered, and I am not so sure I want to hear that sad event done in the narrator's flippant Bette Davis ren dition.

More and more of the books I "read" are read to me by a tolerable computer voice. It can be downright funny at times, how the speech synthesizer handles pronunciation. The kingdom in my own novel, "Críslicland" comes out as "C. R. Slickland"! Perhaps the straight un-emoted reading is what is best. I honestly don't know.

An Involuntary King: the Tale Continues

[The following story takes place just after the reunion of the king with his wife and children and Shannon with Rory at the end of An Involuntary King: A Tale of Anglo Saxon England. If you are planning to read this novel, be warned that some of the contents in these stories are spoilers for events in the book.]

After the Reunion

Shannon lifted his head from where it lay on Rory’s chest. His face was puffy, tear-streaked, but he was smiling his lop-sided smile. Then he frowned. “Ochon, Rory, what a mess they made of your face.”

Rory raised his eyebrows ruefully. “That they did. Mayhap it will make my battle tales more believable.”

He glanced to the side, just seeing the king’s and queen’s embracing forms disappear as the welcoming throng closed behind them.

“Will ye not be going after her, then, boyo?” Shannon asked.

Rory shook his head. “She’ll not be after needing me. She has her lord and now he has her and their wee ones. ‘Tis for that I fetched her.” He grinned into his friend’s concerned face. “I should like to spend this welcome with ye, me friend.”

Shannon’s face lit like a sunburst. “Then off to the Blue Lady, lad, and we shall celebrate with wine, women and song… or in your case, just wine and song.”

Rory grimaced at the reference to his celibacy, dedicated as it was to the unattainable queen. He put his arm around the shorter man’s shoulders and started up the street. “I’ll be assuming’ the alehouse be in the same place as before. Grand so.”

At the alehouse the Ulstermen were greeted with delighted surprise. Everyone in Lawrencium had heard that the Irish mercenary commander O’Donnell had hanged Rory. Yet here he was, somewhat the worse for the treatment he got at the man’s hands, but nonetheless alive and seemingly well.

As Shannon sought out the alehouse’s owner, Leofwen, to share the unbelievable news and get his friend and himself well supplied with her ale, Rory found himself drawn to one of the crude tables near the fire. The cacophony of welcomes and questions about his deliverance made his head ache. The group parted as Leofwen made her way through it like a ship into fishing boats. “Rory, Rory, God be praised!” The stout woman’s bright face was running with tears. She drew him to her be-aproned breast and held him to her in a mighty embrace. “Shannon has been mourning ye something awful. We all have been. Praise God that he has brought ye back to us.”

Rory made a mental note to seek Leofwen out and hear more about how Shannon had spent his time since he and the queen returned from Affynshire. He had seen the redness of his lifelong friend’s eyes, the puffiness of his face, and smelled the ale on his breath.

Now he was drawn to a bench and seated, Leofwen bringing ale to every cup, refusing payment and casting tearful and happy glances at the returned prodigal as she did. The calls came for the story of his escape as the cheery response to free beer subsided.

Shannon sat across from Rory. He watched his friend’s face wondering what tale he would tell. Would he tell the true reason O’Donnell had taken him?

Rory’s face was somber as he considered his own path. He cast Shannon a questioning look. Had he said anything about O’Donnell’s obsession with him, his designs on making Rory his lover? He gratefully received his answer in the slight shake of his friend’s head. The long years of companionship made any more explicit communication unnecessary.

No, he would not reveal the purpose of O’Donnell’s trading the queen for him when she was captured. He would not reveal what had transpired in the hall of O’Donnell’s fortress. He would not tell them how he had pretended to return the man’s desire, and then hurt him sorely. He would not tell them that the man who set him free was O’Donnell’s lover as well as his lieutenant.

Shannon offered him a way into the story he would tell. “In Hucknall.. they told me you were executed as a spy…”

Rory’s nod and smile were as much a thank you as assent. “Aye, ‘tis true. That be what they said, and sure and if I had gotten away on me own two feet that judgment should have been exactly what I should have done. I should have made me way straight to the king with every bit of information I had garnered in the fortress.”

Leofwen looked betw3een the two men. She noticed the silent communication. There was more to this tale than she would hear. Mayhap she never would know for sure, but she would pay attention. The man, with his broken cheekbone and nose, his drooping eyelid and slight limp might be the outward signs of a much greater hurt. If she could help him heal, she would.

Rory proceeded to tell a story of being tossed into a locked hut and beaten by the mercenary lord’s rough soldiers. He revealed what he could of his remarkable escape. All he recalled, or so he told them, was being dragged unconscious to a cell in the town, then of being carted away and taken over the Trenta in a boat to a monastery. He woke a long time after to find himself cared for by the monks. He was unable to move for his broken bones and injuries. It was only when he learned that the queen was a prisoner of the usurper Gadfrid that he left the monastery. When he reached the king’s fortress the lady was just leaving with the Breton for safety with her children. He followed as best he could, finding her at Lindisfarne.

“Why did you not bring her home straight away?” one man asked.

“We believed the king was killed. It should not have been safe, so it wasn’t.”

Rory glanced at Shannon. He was beaming and happy.

Another man spoke up. “’Twas a good long time from when our good queen returned and the Breton spirited her away. Shannon, was it not? Were you crippled all that time?”

Rory hesitated. He worried how he would explain the delay all the while he was heading east to save the queen if he could. He looked at Shannon’s face. It was averted, considering. He caught the mop-haired man’s questioning glance at him. How could he ever explain to Shannon how he had thought to save him and all others from the pain he felt he had given them?

He opened his mouth to answer when Leofwen interrupted. “’Twasn’t so long a time and the man was near to death. Of course he was crippled. He should have come straightway had he not been. Isn’t that right, Rory?”

The onslaught of questions and congratulations recommenced. Rory had avoided that explanation. At least for now.

Shannon was quickly drunk enough to forget any misgivings, leading the company in song, telling stories of Rory’s and his journeys, and finally collapsing off the bench. Leofwen took him lovingly in hand, and left him in a back room with Rory as she and the others who had carried the man there departed. She caught Rory’s eye as she dusted off her hands dramatically. “He is not the man you knew, my friend. A part of him died when he thought you had.”

Rory gazed at her, then nodde3d. “I thank ye for lookin’ after him as ye did, goodwoman.”

She looked back into his eyes before she nodded and left.

Rory sat on the rushes next to the thin pallet Shannon was now snoring on. Tears sprang to his own eyes. “Och, Shan, how can I ever make you understand?”

To be continued.

You can find many other stories at Welcome to Críslicland.

It's a Crying Shame

Last night I had trouble going to sleep and staying that way. I know why. I kept thinking about stories I would like to write and book trailers I would like to put together. I thought about how much I enjoy immersing myself in the world of my novel. It occurred to that it really was a crying shame that I don't dream about that world populated by my fictional king and queen and their friends. A crying shame, I say.

I don't know if this will work, but I want to do it anyway for other, better reasons, but maybe if I get back to writing about them I will dream about them too. This begs the question, "Well, did you dream about them when you were writing the novel?" Nope, not much if at all. Hope springs eternal and all that jazz. At any rate, you can expect to start reading "the rest of the story" in bits and pieces here. I will also put them on the An Involuntary King website.

I actually managed a tiny bit of a dream about my Crísliclanians last night by thinking about them as I fell back to sleep... often I realize I have dozed because something I was thinking about no longer made sense. I seem to recall for a moment thinking about the queen in my novel at some task. I know I did not think consciously about that. I do wish that would happen more often.

I wonder... is it possible that the part of the brain that is in charge of creating fiction is not wired directly to the part that squeezes out dreams?

I am having a moment of déja vu with the following question, but even if I have asked this here before, I'll ask. Do you dream about the characters you write about.. or read about?

• "...dreams serve a purpose for the brain, allowing it to make necessary emotional connections among new pieces of information. " How the Brain Turns Reality Into Dreams, from MSNBC.com "Science Mysteries"

This Kind of Email I like

I have written before about how isolated an author can feel lacking the sort of immediate response performers can have. But every so often, like today, I get an email that leaves me dripping and grinning like a fool Dripping because I have just been slobbered over with all the adoration of a big-hearted puppy. And grinning because it just feels so damn nice.

In this case a woman ran across my deeply discounted price for a copy of my book on Amazon. She was pleased at the price, of course, but then she saw The Author was selling it and would sign it... and she is a historical fiction freak! I wrote and asked her if she would like me to write anything special in the book. She replied that just my signature would make her bery happy.

Just as fun is when someone you know reads your book and then never looks at you again in quite the same way. "She really can write!" you can almost hear their brains registering.

The best though is the reverent and sometimes almost obsequious tones from people you meet who have read your book and fallen in love with the characters. My secret ambitions are to have a movie made of my novel.. but even better, I hope someday someone sets up a fanfic site about my characters. It could happen.

If you think I like that sort of schmaltz, then you are right. I set it up... I created a book discussion group and assigned my own novel. You might wonder if that is not a little risky. Am I overconfident? Maybe. Was I mistaken in setting myself for possible pain? Naw. It was great. And I am glad I took along several towels and change of clothes.

Nan Fans of the world.. I love you too!

So who's for a Críslicland fanfic site? ;)

How I Made My Book Trailer

It sure didn't feel like it at times while I was makng it, but it really wasn't that hard! The comments I have gotten on it seem to indicate that in spite of this, I pulled it off well. You can watch it here.

I started out by thinking about what would make people watch, watch again and send my trailer to their friends. My novel, An Involuntary King: A Tale of Anglo Saxon England, has appeal for different people, but what images and sounds would appeal to a large number of them. I can tell you now that the trailer I made first will not be the only one. But the first one is for those people who might find the action adventure side of my book interesting. I knew then that I would want to find video of battle, specifically of shield wall battle from the Dark Ages. This was the hardest part of this whole project. I finally located a group in France called La Compagnie du Frankland, which reenacts life in Charlemagne's Frankia. I negotiated a price for one minute of the video. I put together a licensing agreement and their representative agreed to the terms.

Next came sound. I was able to find sounds of a sword battle and a lovely clip of a sword being drawn from a scabbard on AudioSparx. The same site had some lovely Gregorian chant which, while not exactly correct for my period, evokes the feeling I wanted to impart. Then I needed a spoken teaser for the book. I discovered that poet and teacher Liam Guilar, though living in Australia, has one of those British voices that are hard not to swoon over. I asked him to record a couple sentences I wrote. He has gotten as many lovely compliments from the trailer as I have!

The next problem I ran into was that I could not figure out how to make a short video clip from the long one. I don't know if my software won't do that or whether I just couldn't figure it out. I suspect it is the former, since I think the software is for making videos out a home productions. I decided to save stills from the video, choosing ones without "civilians" in modern clothing or other less effective shots. I mixed in a couple of photos from iStockPhotos.com.

Then it was time to throw all of this into a hopper, shake it up and see what hopped back out. I had never used Windows Movie maker(R)before, but it was fun to learn. I had quite a hard time at first making the audio and video stick together. Either I had the audio file or the video file, never the completed video. That is when I had a bright idea.. I had made a video of cat pictures just for fun. I used their "auto-movie" tool and that worked just fine. So I took the video items I wanted in the final trailer and the completed audio track with sword sound, Liam's narration, and the sword battle sounds and did an auto-movie. It turned out terrific! I was able then to add titles, rearrange the images, add some effects and transitions to the video that actually make the stills look like video if you don't look too hard.

I clipped and modified and adjusted and watche the video to my heart's content until I thought it was good. My husband advised, "Remeber that you don't have just one go-round. You can make as many of these as you want." That allowed me to hit "Publish Movie" and start uploading the final result to YouTube, Facebook, my own blog, and to tell everyone and her brother about it. I plan to turn the audio track into a promo on my radio station, Radio Dé Danaan.

This was so fun and satisfying that I fully intend to make more movies!

OK, I know.. you want to know how much I spent. I could give you an exact figure given some time, but let's guesstimate. I paid $100 for the licensing of the video, no more than $40 for the other photos and sounds. Liam made me a gift of his vocal honey. MovieMaker came with my new computer. So other than an incidental or two, which I can't even recall, I spent less that $150. I can foresee spending a lot less for future trailers. This means that there will be no barrier to my wonted dabbling.

His Father Slain... Now He Is King!

Divers Parfit Blogges

Every day on Nan Hawthorne's Booking the Middle Ages you will find a long list of historical fiction and related blogs complete with their most recent entries. Today and every day it will be in the right hand column where it lives. If you know of a blog you think belongs there, just drop me a note at hawthorne at nanhawthorne dot com.

I always try to have an image for the page, so this time I will indulge myself and put up my beloved Mr. Hata. Visit his blog.

Happy Trailers to You

I am working on a book trailer for An Involuntary King: A Tale of Anglo Saxon England. It's fun, if rather flummoxing. After looking at a couple that Erastes put on Facebook I got that the trailers don't need to be, if you will excuse the expression, big productions. Erastes book trailer for Standish, a gay love story I quite enjoyed reading, is stark, with Henry Purcell's Pavane for a Dead Queen as the background music, and title cards with tempting phrases about the book. If i hadn't read it already, the trailer would have made me want to.

I decided to use a combination of Gregorian chant and sound effects of a sword battle as my background. I had originally planned to use some of a shield wall battle video I paid a French group called La Compagnie du Frankland, but I am not having any luck (yet) figuring out how to edit the video. I decided to use snapshots from it instead. My friend Liam Guilar of Lady Godiva and Me fame has one of those melt at his feet British voices , and he recorded a couple lines I wrote for the beginning of the trailer.. ooh.. I will listen to it over and over! The problem is that although I think the audio track I made is superb, it doesn't play when I wartch my video clip.. why not I don't know. I need it to in order to make sure the clips synchronize properly.

Still, I am a lot further than I thought I would be at this point.. if I can just find out why the audio track is silent, I will be in fat city.

The photo above is from the Frankland group's video taken at a festival in Russia in 2007 called Rusborg. You can find it on YouTube.

I promise to post my book trailer here as soon as it is fit for public viewing. If there are any Internet cideo wizzes out there who might offer advice... hawthorne@nanhawthorne.com .

Which Henry Is Which?

On a lighter note today, try your hand at identifying which Henry is meant in each of the following questions, courtesy of About.com.

1. Which Henry won the batlle of Agincourt?

2. Which Henry was king when St. Thomas More was beheaded?

3. Which Henry inherited his insanity from his grandfather, Charles VI of France?

4. Which Henry married the ex-wife of a French king?

5. Which Henry won the Battle of Bosworth Field? (the jerk)

6. Which Henry inherited the throne when his brother was killed while hunting? (see the latest review in That's All She Read".)

7. Which Henry was king when Thomas Á Becket was murdered?

8. Which Henry was the youngest English monarch ever to be crowned?

9. Which Henry usurped the throne from King Richard II?

10. Which Henry was given the title "Defender of the Faith" for his writings against the actions of Martin Luther?

11. Which Henry was both the son of a king Henry of England and the father of a King Henry of England?

12. Which Henry was the first English monarch to be crowned while still a child?

13. Which Henry lost his son and heir in the wreck of the White Ship?

14. Which Henry founded the Angevin dynasty?

15. Which Henry died while imprisoned in the Tower of London?

16. The warship Mary Rose was one of the favorite ships of which Henry?

17. Which Henry was captured by Simon de Montfort at the Battle of Lewes?

18. Which Henry was king when Owain Glyndwr led Wales in rebellion against the English?

19. Which Henry created the Star Chamber, a closed court that answered to no one but the king?

20. Which Henry was the first English king to read and write English with any ease?

(I got and 20 wrong.)

Click on the About.com link above to take the quiz there and to get the right answers.

And if you have the herman's Hermits song going through your head all day, don't blame me.

Authors: How's the Economy Treating You?

Yesterday my husband found out that his company is shutting down a product line for which he and his staff have some responsibility. That has him nervous understandably. They would have to cut his entire section to cut him, but it could happen. If he went on unemployment things would get darn iffy around here. That got me thinking about how my writing career affects our finances and how our finances affect my writing career. I wonder what the impact will be on your own?

I write full time. If you are tempted to say "lucky you!" I would say I agree but with a caveat.. I had to make a darned significant sacrifice to be able to do this, one I know for a fact without asking that you would not want to make. I had to lose much of my eyesight. 'Nuff said. I don't have any intention of going on with this line of thought. My point is only that if I wanted a "job job" I would have quite a challenge ahead of me just to get one. I finally decided that at this point in my life it would not be worth giving up my creative opportunity.

Here's where my thoughts went last night after Jim and I talked about how to save more money. I am just finishing a novel for an ebook publisher. They don't know about it yet, so clearly I don't know if it will get published by them. If it does I will make some money, very little but on the plus side at least. My already published novel I paid to get published. I did it for reasons I am comfortable with, but that means anything I spend to market it is on the financial minus side as was the publishing itself. Though it is possible, and I am certainly going to dedicate myself to this goal, I doubt I will ever even make what I have spent back from sales. That was a gamble I was exceedingly happy to take. An Involuntary King is a lot more to me than just some novel I wrote.

Looking towards the future and other projects in the works I face something of a dilemma. I think I have it in me to write more novels that could just be saleable, to a publisher and to its customers. But in a down economy chances are even slimmer than the slim chance any author has to get a novel published. It is possible that if I write Out of the Storm, my paranormal mystery set in the late tenth century, it will have to be on my own dime again.. and is that a gamble I should take given how things are?

The alternative might be to continue writing the ebooks and submitting them. The one I am just finishing is an erotic historical romance I wrote on a lark. It is good enough. That's all I will say. I could write other romances, and they would be good enough, maybe even better than average, but they would not achieve the ambition I have as a writer. That is, to write excellent and entertaining novels. I would rather do both. Both are perfectly valid genres. But do I want to give up the "finer" for the more likely to sell?

So that's what I am thinking about as the economy contracts and promises to do so for at least a couple-three more years. Jim and I can economize in other ways and save more money, but ultimately for me it comes down to a threat to what I have been doing and which has made me so happy for the past couple years. That research trip to England looks to be on the chopping block as well.. and time is running out for me visually.

So am I down? Yea, verily. And scared.

How about you?

Where To Draw the Accuracy Line

My reprint of my article "Word Rivets" inspired a little discussion of how petty people can be about the authenticity of historical fiction. My particular point was that insisting on the use of one modern English word ober another in "translating" words someone in Anglo Saxon England said was to get into some absurd nuances.

There is a limit to how accurate an author can be and still communicate to modern readers. I ultimately prefer to err on the side of good storytelling. As I think about this topic, however, I realize there is a line I draw, but have not yet articulated where that line is and how it comes to be there.

I would like your opinion in the Comments section of this post.

I will offer a few examples of books that I just couldn't read because they were so over the line.

Sea of Trolls lost me in the first few pages when the eighth century Anglo Saxon children included a girl named Lucy who wanted a knight in armor to come and take her away to his castle. Why does that bug me? This one I might be able to answer. I like Anglo Saxon England the way it was. Sans knights, sans castles. I stopped reading if only because I could not trust the book to follow Anglo Saxon history and culture. I can't remember anything about another book I started to read and hit the stop button after the two 12th century knights started picking up steins and talking about chastity belts. I guess I just don't care for that image of the middle ages, the chastity belt business -- though I know a great joke about one.

Of course the Great Bugaboo of medieval historical fiction is the book and movie Braveheart. I think there are many things historical fiction devotees can point to about this movie, but the two that get me personally are related to Edward II and his wife Isabella. It was bad enough that they had Daddy Longshanks throwing Edward's boyfriend, Peter, out the window, but having the queen.. no, I mean the wife of the king.. having sex with and conceiving Edward III with William Wallace was enough to make me shriek aloud. I don't like real people so thoroughly moved around in history and acting out of character... I guess. I like Edward II. I don't want to see him, rewritten that thoroughly... I guess.

The question I am asking here is not what bugs us individually but where to draw the line. In some cases the facts are known, so it is easy enough to point to fiction being no more than changing facts. That's not what I think fiction is. To me fiction is interpreting and amplifying on facts. I would say that if the author explains himself or herself, as I did with my entirely fictional kingdom in An Involuntary Kingdom, but Randall Wallace does this in Braveheart. He says he communed with William Wallace in the porch of a church overlooking where Wallace was executed and he said OK to the changes. He wishes. Now it's my task to decide why what I did was OK, but not what Randall Wallace did. Have any thoughts on that?

Let's take it from there. I could go on with other reasons people change history in their novels and movies, but let's consider just this one for now. Why was it Randall Wallace's altering history was over the line, but my whole cloth creation of a kingdom was not? Or was it?

Word Rivets: On Quibbling about Language in Historical Fiction

[Originally appeared in Christopher Gortner's blog Historical Boys on 13 October 2008.]

I paid attention to historical accuracy when I wrote An Involuntary King: A Tale of Anglo Saxon England. The novel is based on stories a friend and I wrote as teenagers, and though it is set in a fictional Saxon kingdom in the late 8th century, I gave it my attention. I could call it alternate history and get away with anachronistic murder, but while preserving elements of the adolescents' vision, I got rid of the castles and knights and replaced them with timber stockades and shield walls. Home free? Not a chance.

My husband uses the expression "rivet counters" to refer to people who pick away at minor or irrelevant mistakes in historical fiction. He refers to those people who cannot get through a movie like Titanic without pointing out there are too few rivets in the hell. Thus, rivet counters are those people who overlook all the characteristics of fiction, in particular the skill of the storytelling, to point out trivial inaccuracies.

I quickly learned as I embarked on my career as a historical novelist that the author is as much or more likely to be jumped on for "too few rivets" as for any thinness of plot or unevenness of character development. It became apparent to me quickly that my fate was to have these irrelevant peccadilloes pointed out in scathing terms in public. It has, so far, only happened to me personally a couple of times, but I watch other authors getting creamed for what boil down to the critic's own beliefs and often misunderstanding of the author's chosen era. In particular, however, I want to address a criticism that is so obviously illogical I am surprised it is uttered at all, and that is the use of certain terms to denote an object or other concept in another time. In a nutshell, "You can't use that word because it did not exist in that year."

I personally got this one when I set up The Blue Lady Tavern blog (http://nanhawthorne.blogspot.com) and was informed that there was no word "tavern" in the late 8th century, that it did not come into use until the 13th century. Um, yeah, that's right. But then they didn't have the words "blue" or "lady" either.. they did not speak the English we do. It's the same as saying I could not call the establishment "The Blue Lady Tavern" because there were no such words in Tagalog at the time. Another writer told me how she was corrected when she used the word "pitcher", as no such word existed at that time. I promptly produced for her pictures of Anglo Saxon era pitchers. She had been told to use the word "jug". Do her critics mean that the Saxons called both jugs and those vessels with big looped handles "jugs"? How did they distinguish between them? Or could it be.. that they spoke a different language than we do and called them neither jugs nor pitchers?

There are two issues at work in this sort of word rivet counting. One is the old "a little knowledge is a dangerous thing". Someone got a copy of the Oxford English Dictionary and started looking words up. So they find that the first written reference to pitchers is not until the 14th century". But the word was not coined at the same time. The word had been in existence for some period of time before someone had occasion to write it down. Use and documentation are quite different matters. When you recall that most writing for many hundred years was done by clerics it becomes possible to imagine that many words might not have made it into print for generations.

More germane to my own use of "tavern" is the fact that when I write about the late 8th century in Lincolnshire I am in theory writing a complete translation. If I wrote the book in accurate language, the entire 648 pages would be in Old English, as in "Sume is incumen in, lhude singe cuccu." When I take whatever word a real person from that era uses to refer to a place where you can go to get a bowl of ale, it is my job as the writer to choose a word that expresses the idea so the reader can form a picture in his or her mind. Sure, I could have used "ale house" but that's not Old English either. I think tavern works fine. At least I didn't call it The Blue Lady Nightclub or The Blue Lady Disco!

I for one do not understand this quibbling over approximate or interchangeable terms. Why do some people insist on counting rivets? Yes, I want realistic settings and the history correct in those novels that are based on actual events. But these books aren't and never were intended to be nonfiction history. I appreciate those authors who add an author's note explaining which characters were real and which invented for the novel, what liberties were taken with the real history to make a more cohesive story. What really happened and what was made up. But in the long run, novels are about people and their lives, their stories and their feelings, their struggles and how they overcame them. The lovers in Titanic were not real, there were no such passengers on the ship, no massive jewel thrown into the sea. But Jack's and Rose's love, their self-sacrifice, their enduring will, those are things we can relate to and make us care about other human beings. How sad to miss it when concentrating on the rivets, "425, 426, 427…"

How Would You Play Out Your Dream?

I had a dream this morning that has me thoughtful. I dreamed I followed a young Goth fellow to an apartment. It was where his aunt, a woman in her late thirties with short dark hair and clad in a sleeveless dress with dazzling jewelry and high heels, lived. She welcomed him with pleasure, then ushered him back to a living room. They had a gray cat who seemed as bent on some activity as they. While this cat capably and enthusiastically shut sliding doors the young fellow propped himself in a wing back chair and started reading a book. In the meantime the aunt turned on and off lights to create an atmosphere similar to a cabaret. She picked up a microphone and started to sing a jazz tune.

It was then I understood two things. She was playing at one of her personal dreams, to be a cabaret singer. But perhaps more significant, as I wondered why she did not do more to make the living room look like a cabaret, I realized she didn't need to. She had what she wanted and needed, a chance to play at her dream. After that, her imagination could fill in the rest. It came to me during the dream and when I awoke that we all can do the same. We can find the elements of a dream, assemble them, then fill in the rest with our creative and inventive minds.

This reminds me of Barbara Sher's book Wishcraft: How To Get What You Really Want which I read about 25 years ago. The wisdom in that book boils down to "Figure out what it is about your dream that you want, then find the ways you can create that." Part of Sher's contention is that we seem to believe that dreams are always beyond our reach. She gave the example of a woman who dreamed to become an opera star. At her age it was far too late to start voice lessons. But working with Sher the woman identified what she wanted in her life that she interpreted as the operatic ball of wax. It came down to the lights, artistry, excitement and pomp. The woman realized she could get this simply by working with the opera and wound up getting a job as a scenery painter. She was deliriously happy. I achieved my own dream through acting on what I learned from that book. Within a year and a half of reading it, my first book, Loving the Goddess Within, was published and in the window of a new age bookstore. Soon after I fulfilled the essence of my dream, i.e. taking a book I wrote out of the library.

Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.

This quote from John Lennon is part of the message of my dream, but it is more insightful even that that. The kernel of this idea is that we don't realize how esy it can be just to get into reality what it is we really wanted. The aunt in my dream wanted the experience of b eing cabaret singer, so she made it happen. Her unlikely confederate, her Goth nephew, "got it". What surprised me about my dream once I knew that was what it was, is that I realized even as I was watching the woman that the added elements I thought she could have managed.. more of a spotlight type light on her, a piano, cabaret props, was my idea of what she needed, not hers!

Of course now that has me wondering what it is I really want. I have achieved more than most people, and I don't mean that in terms of some level of success. Through my own determination I have two books I can take out of the library, among other fulfilled dreams. Is there something I am longing for now that I have overlooked or thought required some difficult to achieve step? Could it be my desire to live in County Wicklow in Ireland? Is it wanting to build an Anglo Saxon village? Could it be to go to England and do all the research my little heart longs to do?

I see my tasks as whittling down my list to just one or perhaps looking for what the common thread is in them, then figuring out how to achieve the essence of my dream.

It occurred to me as well that the aunt in my dream might be able to achieve her own with the help of others. The Wishcraft book was also about setting up groups to help each other explore one's dreams, but think also how we can make them happen. What if the aunt had a group who would come to her living room and enjoy the cabaret along with her Goth nephew?

I have two questions for you:

1. What are the elements of your own dream you can make happen yourself, so you can play at it rather than denying it to yourself thanks to unrealistic goals?

2. Want to help me and others like us explore the same questions?

Who knows what we could accomplish!

What's In a Name?

Authors: How do you come up with character names?

The character pictured at the left is from An Involuntary King: A Tale of Anglo Saxon England. It is Rory McGuinness, and I put him up to answer my own question above. I stole the name Rory McGuinness whole cloth from the novel by Elizabeth Linington, The Proud Man, pictured below, which I read when I was about 14. He is one of the only two entirely fictional characters. I created both Rory and Shannon as a result of reading it.

Of course many of you write about historical figures. I know where Susan Higginbotham got the name Hugh le Despenser.. all of them. I know where Brandy Purdy got the name Piers Gaveston. I know where Morgan Llywelyn got the names Finn MacCool and Brian Boru. And I know where Sharon Kay Penm an got the name Richard, Duke of Gloucester.

I generally prefer to write about purely fictional characters. In a much earlier post on this blog I explained where the names of my central characters in AIK came from. The only original -- meaning coming from the early years of "The Story" -- character whose name I change is the king's cousin Gaylord, whose new name came from a web site called "Proseography" that listed Anglo Saxon names drawn from legal documents and other contemporary sources. (Greta Marlow said the name Gaylord wasn't evil; enough.) Most of the rest of the characters also came from that site or other sites listing names in Brythonic, Breton, and so forth.

I have had to come up with a few names of entriely fictional characters from the Napoleonic era of late, and I have to say they just occur to me. I might go through several names before I hit on the one I think fits the character.

So, authors of the world, how do you come up with the names for your characters? Please answer in Comments below.

An Encounter in the Woods

[This excerpt comes from the beginning of the usurping of the crown of Affynshire. The queen has been caught behind enemy lines. Her persistent admirer, the Breton lord Elerde, has sided with the usurpers in order to have his revenge on the king, her husband, and to have access to her. They find each other in the woods some short distance from Keito Uxello.]

"Lord, cart tracks," Lagu said as he pulled his mount alongside Elerde's. He rode ahead of the small troop of soldiers carefully examining the rough track that was wide enough for simple carts. Riding back, he turned to point out the spot where someone had carefully kicked the dirt about to cover their tracks.

"Fresh enough," Lord Elerde confirmed. "Come with me." Calling to the rest of the troops, he commanded, "Stay here and watch the path. Stop anyone who passes, and if we flush the quarry, hold them." He and Lagu urged their horses forward into the woods, unhurried.

Though the forest floor was thick with old leaves and underbrush, it was not difficult for an experienced tracker to assess where a cart might have been able to pass. Though leaves were kicked back to cover any sign of wheels, the dry leaves bore the marks of pressure and were unnaturally disturbed and torn. As slowly and quietly as possible for riders, the two picked their way along, pausing frequently to listen. The breeze rustled through the branches and occasionally a small animal scurried through the brush. The canopy was thick enough here that what birds were about mostly flew between neighboring trees and no further. The air was thick with verdure and the smell of life poised to reawaken.

"Hold," Elerde called in a whisper. Lagu stopped to listen. The breeze favored them momentarily. It brought the sound of a small child's crying, if only for the span of a respiration. "Dismount."

Elerde and his lieutenant tied their horses and advanced on foot towards the direction of the child's voice.

Lagu put up a hand to signal his lord to stop. Elerde followed his gaze and saw it—the glimpse of a person moving stealthily towards them. Lagu and his lord crouched to watch. The figure was joined by another.

Elerde signed to his lieutenant to circle around and hold the second figure. He began to move crouched low, towards the first.

Josephine spun as she heard the rustle of leaves on the ground and the briefest cry of surprise from the man who had come with her into the woods. She saw, to her dismay, that the man was held from behind by a man in mail. The man, who resembled someone she had seen before but whom she could not place, held a dagger to the young man's throat. The servant's seaxa was dangling from his hand, useless.

"Drop it," came an all too familiar voice from behind her. The servant dropped his weapon and was pulled away from it by the man who held him.

Josephine, her face paling, slowly turned, her seaxa in her hand. She looked directly into a view of the legs of an armed man standing on a slight hillock. Her gaze rose to see Elerde standing, sword drawn, smiling.

"My lady, you have a skill that methinks you did not have last time we met." He nodded at the weapon in her hand. "It looks well on you."

Josephine stared. The man looked different, more hardened since she had shared her love of Roman verse with him on a bench in her garden. His brow was set but his lips were soft and smiling, as were his eyes.

"Elerde! What are you doing here?" After her momentary shock, she cast a glance back at her servant. "What is the meaning of this, sir?"

Elerde gestured with his head for Lagu to take the servant off to the side. He sheathed his sword. After a moment's hesitation and a glance at the queen's weapon, Lagu stepped away, pulling the servant along by his neck.

Elerde walked past Josephine to retrieve the servant's weapon. To do so, he had to pass within easy striking distance of her own seaxa. He betrayed no fear. But when she moved her arm to ready the weapon to strike, he spun, pulling his dagger, and confronted her.

"Will you kill me, sirrah?" she shot at him. "Did you think my skill charming but not sufficient to defend myself?"

The Breton relaxed, but did not sheath his dagger. "I see well that the seaxa is not ornamental. I bid you put it away, or I shall take it from you. You may be fast, but, lady, I am faster. Care for a demonstration?"

She glared at him but, realizing if she sheathed the weapon she would at least still possess it, she did as he suggested, sliding the blade home into the scabbard at her left shoulder.

Elerde put away his dagger. "I did not expect to find you out wandering in the woods, my lady."

"You have not yet explained your own presence here, sir. Are you part of the force that has taken my uncle's fortress?" Her eyes did not leave his.

"So you know about that." The warrior cast his eyes around. "Someone saw and warned you, and, mayhap, your cousins are on their way to try to take the fortress back or..." He looked back at her considering, "or they are sizing up the situation, and will be back here soon enough."

Josephine stood with her hands at her sides, her right hand flexing, longing for the feel of the hilt of the seaxa in it. She made no reply, realizing that she had already given him information she wished he did not have, the intelligence she had let fall from her own lips.

"I will answer your question, lady. I owe you that at least. Aye, I am more than part of that force. I am that force. Keito Uxello is in my hands. Your aunt and uncle are unharmed. I intend to let them remain, particularly as your uncle the earl is clearly not well."

Josephine's hand went to her throat. "Not well? What has happened to him?"

Elerde looked at her a moment. "He was better before I arrived. Aye, he must have been, or you and your cousins would not have left him alone and gone... wherever it is you are returning from." He continued to assess the situation. He cast down his eyes. "I regret to say that my arrival has apparently caused him to lose ground in his recovery. Is it his heart?"

Josephine's eyes flashed. "If he dies, know that I shall deem it as being at your hands, sirrah. You shall have killed my own kin. If you ever held any regard for me, I hope you will feel the regret of doing a grievous harm to me and mine own."

He shot back at her, "'Twas one of your own who tried to dispatch me to the gates of hell, my lady, a twelve-month past."

Josephine shook her head, replying, "Nay, sir. That is a fiction you have yourself invented to justify your actions, whatever the purpose of these actions may be."

Elerde suddenly reached with his right hand and pushed aside the mail shirt and padded brigandine beneath it. He exposed a red and evil looking scar to the upper left breast. "Is this a fiction, lady?" His eyes burned into hers so intensely she had no choice but to avert her own fiery gaze. She felt an urge rise to go to the man and touch the angry scar and soothe him. She hastily shoved the urge down.

"He did not mean..."

Elerde stopped her with a bitter laugh. "So he would have you and all else believe. I saw the look in his eyes, my lady. If he was a better shot, I should not be here to speak with you. And did he tell you that, failing to kill me with that shot, he threw himself upon my prone body and tried to finish the job?"

Josephine said nothing, afraid of betraying too much in her voice.

He stared at her. He pushed the brigandine and mail back over his scar. "Your good Saxon lord has two reasons to be ever in my mind."

Josephine lifted her eyes to his and something of her regard for him was reflected there. "Oh, Elerde, what is it? What have you done?"

He stepped towards her. Stopping before her, his eyes downcast to meet her gaze. He saw a softening there that warmed his heart, but at the same time he saw her fear and anger. "Your kingdom, my dearest lady, is returned to its Briton masters. Since your noble brother has relinquished his claim on the throne in favor of your Saxon husband, it has reverted to its next rightful king, earl Maegwig."

"Maegwig? That buffoon? Through my mother's line, any one of my cousins have more claim than does he. His right is all in his head."

Elerde replied superciliously, "But your cousins are too closely allied with the Saxon, my lady, and your people look to the pure Celtic line for reclamation of their honor and pride."

"So Ratherwood is fallen? And the governor-general?"

Elerde continued to look into her face, though her gaze was averted to the side ***. He felt her closeness with every cell in his body. Her breathing betrayed that she felt his as well. "The man no doubt has met his eternal reward. We have Ratherwood, Hucknall, and Matlock Hall, as well as, of course, Horsfort, Cross Gates, and Keito Uxello."

"Horsfort? Ah, earl Malcolm! I cannot imagine he would not find it tempting to be part of this infamy."

Elerde laughed in spite of himself. "Part of? Leading, more like."

Josephine glanced up at him. "So you are not at the heart of this." There was a hint of relief in her eyes.

He firmed his mouth and jaw. "Heart is exactly where I am, my love." His voice was softer than his expression seemed able to produce.

Josephine's eyes grew hard. "I am not your love, sirrah."

Elerde smiled wistfully. "Nay, 'tis that I am not yours. You shall e'er be mine own."

Josephine turned her back on him. She did not want him to see what thoughts and emotions she could not hide. Even so she fought to keep her voice even. "And what are you going to do with me? I suspect I would make a magnificent hostage."

Elerde replied, "Aye, that is the one part of the Saxon's great love for you that is to my own advantage." She waited for him to go on. "I beg you to consider coming back with me to Keito Uxello. You can remain with your kin there. I am your champion, my lady. The other conspirators... that is, the new lords of this land, may not have the same concern for your well-being that I most ardently do. I can protect you."

Josephine turned slowly back to him. "You... you beg me? Does that mean I have a choice?"

Elerde was the one to avert his eyes. "Aye, I have no desire to harm you. I will let you go, though 'tis with misgivings beyond measure. I would keep you... safe."

In a quiet, steely voice she replied, "Sir, I shall never willingly go with you. Not even to the gates of hell."

Elerde nodded sadly. "Oh Josephina, you are a rare one. You make me adore you all the more." He looked up into her eyes, which were full of pain and defiance. "You should go. Go far away, hide yourself. Malcolm will not stop his hand at anything to take possession of you. He will sell you dearly to the Saxon."

Her eyes flashed. "The 'Saxon' you refer to is the rightful king of this land, and my dearest lord, and the father of my children."

"Do I not know that? Though 'twas the Witan that made him king—the Saxon Witan—which your own people reject. We Celts, as you know well, though only half a one, respects its royal lines. It does not give over to a council to select its kings." He instantly felt regret for his emphasis on "half."

"You forget, sirrah, that we Celts also respect the female line. The 'Saxon' may be king, aye, but I am the queen of this country, by right of birth. By your own reasoning, you are committing treachery... to me."

In spite of himself he flinched.

"What will you do with my kin? My cousins?" she pursued

Elerde looked up again. "We will let them pass today... if they do not take arms against any of my men. Thereafter, I cannot vouchsafe their passage. If they are captured, they will be held. If they take up arms against us, they will be killed." He looked hard at her. "As will you, my lady. I cannot prevent it."

"And my lord, Lawrence, do you believe he will sit idly by and watch you and the other blackguards do as you will with us and our land?"

She was startled to see Elerde's lips curve in a smile. "I count on him to come blazing across Críslicland to rescue you. His haste will make him unwise. I shall have, I hope, the personal pleasure of catching him up. I am owed a debt."

Josephine glared at him with all her might. "Are you that bitter, Elerde? Where is the soft-spoken, gentle lover of verse and of walks in the country?" There was a hint of her own longing in the question.

"He took an arrow in the shoulder, my darling. Now go. I will go back to the fortress and let you and your people escape. I will not send a man to follow you. On my honor," and here he glared at her amused response," On my honor I shall not uncover your hiding place... yet, call it foolish sentimentality, call it folly, It is my choice."

He took her hand and kissed it. She did not resist. He turned and called to his lieutenant, "Lagu! Release the boy. Come."

Josephine stood shaking, watching Elerde and his lieutenant go. She watched until she could not detect the glint of light on mail. She thought she heard a horse snort and quiet sounds of hooves in the leaf mould. She turned and went back to the others, the servant walking at her back.

[See what happens next in Nan Hawthorne's An Involuntary King: A Tale of Anglo Saxon England.]

Another Medieval Puzzle

Click on the arrow to scatter the pieces and solve the puzzle.

A Mountain Beltane

[Readers are enjoying the excerpts from An Involuntary King on Historical Novel Review so much that I decided to offer one about a close encounter between the queen and Rory McGuinness.]

When she found the chance, Josephine sought out Rory and asked him, "You are planning to be on your way, you and Shannon? I know you mean to, but can you tell me, how long might you be wandering? We shall miss you both. You know that." Her manner was sincere but light. She wanted to know, but she did not want to unease him.

To her surprise, Rory looked shamefaced. He twisted his cap in his hands and looked down. "Aye, me lady, and I am that sorry Shan spoke up ere I had a chance to speak with ye…"

Josephine watched his face. "There is nothing to apologize for, Rory."

He looked up into her eyes briefly. "Me lady, I dinnae think Shannon plans to return."

"Oh," Josephine breathed. "And yourself?" She hid her trepidation.

"I... I should like to return to Lawrencium, with your permission."

"Rory, you do not need my permission. Of course we want you to come back. My lord and I both care deeply for you and Shannon." She looked at him for a few moments. "Please come back, Rory dear. Will you not?"

He smiled wistfully. "I shall. I promise. But, me lady, Shannon…"

Josephine put a hand on his arm for the barest moment. "I know. He depends on you to keep out of trouble. I know your love for him is great. Come back... when you can. And if you can..." She looked at Shannon, who was walking towards them, "bring him back with you."

Shannon looked at the two solemn faces. "Och, tell me, who died?" Neither replied. He shook his head at his own foolishness and fell silent.

Josephine turned a brilliant smile on him. "It seems the place where I spent my girlhood shall have the benefit of adding your clear voice to the Bealtana festivities, my friend!"

Shannon and Rory both smiled their gratitude. "Och, aye, me lady. ’Twill be as rare a treat for us," Rory said.

The festive company set out for the mountain early the next morning. The track was old but passable as it wound through the forest, ever rising in elevation, until the track became to narrow for the carts. At that point, the carts were left in a clearing set up for them and all, including the small children, continued either a-horse or afoot.

As the spring evening light began to fade, the party finally arrived at the camp. Its remoteness made it unknown and hard to run across, but it was neither small nor primitive. Ruallauh's own wife and children came out of a log house to greet him, pleased and surprised to see him home early.

Before settling in for the night, Josephine walked about in the night air, only the faintest light coming through the thick forest from the sun setting over the mountaintop to the west. She went to the edge of the lake, long and narrow, and sat on a rock. Before she knew it, Ruallauh was crouching beside her.

"Is it as you remember, my lady?" he asked, smiling with his own memories of growing up with his towheaded and scabby kneed little cousin.

She breathed in the mountain air and nodded. "Much is the same, and much brings lost memories to mind. I do miss Affynshire. I wish 'twas not such a journey so I could see you all more often than once every five years."

He stayed by her as they heard night birds join the frogs and wind singing to them in the peace of the mountain.


"Sire, my sister has written to say she shall be delayed a few days."

Lawrence took the message and broke the seal. While he unrolled it he gave Lorin a rebuking glance. "The only way you can know that is if you also received a message but delayed bringing this one to read your own. You think to make me wait?" He was not jesting.

Lorin colored. "I beg your pardon, sire, it shall not happen again."

Lawrence nodded, his glare unabated. He looked at his own message. "I suppose I need not bother to read this, since you know everything in it." But he did not wait for the duke to reply. He scanned the first several lines, his face shifting from effrontery to disappointment. "Ah, it is as you say, she is delayed. But 'tis for a happy reason. I must not be selfish when she sees your family so infrequently. She will be on the road after Bealtana. The children will be sad." He put down the message. "You may go."

Lorin started to say something sympathetic, but thought better of it, bowed, and left.

Once the duke was gone, Lawrence unrolled the message again and read it more at his leisure.

May Eve found the company gathered where the mountain rose to a rounded meadow with few trees. Chill as it was, they wished to be the first to see the sun rise to the east in the dawn. Josephine found herself wakeful, looking as she was in the direction of Lawrencium, where no doubt her love slept peacefully, dreaming of her. She sat on the fur that Ruallauh placed on the ground for her, her knees drawn up to her chin, her arms wrapped around her legs for balance and for warmth.

She felt more than heard Rory come up beside her. "Sit with me, my friend," the queen invited. She felt his body's warmth as he lowered his long limbs to sit by her side. "Nay, share the fur," she said, moving over to make room. She could smell his body, always strangely like deep woodland. He placed himself next to her, leaving the barest gap, afraid for their bodies to touch.

"'Tis goin' on dawn, I am thinkin'," he said quietly. "Can ye see the faint hint of light o'er the hills?"

She rested her chin on her knees, listening to the slow breathing and occasional snores of the children who tried in vain to stay up for the morning light. "Aye, though that means 'tis already Bealtana in Lawrencium. If 'were flat between us, we should have seen the morn ere this."

"D'ye think the king wakes for this dawn?" Rory inquired.

"Nay," she sighed, "'tis not his way. He does not set his mind upon such traditions. Much as my brother does not. He might seek to greet the dawn to please me, or he might greet it on the morning of a battle, otherwise, my lord sleeps." She sighed thinking of the delicious warmth of him in bed beside her. "I will be glad when the sun is well and truly up... it is cold!" The queen shivered.

Rory looked over at her concerned. "Lady, may I offer ye me cloak?"

Josephine accepted it, feeling the warmth he infused it with warming her own shoulders and back.


Many of the adults who managed to greet the dawn slept in the warmth of the midmorning sun while servants set up the festivities and watched as the children played games on the mountain meadow. Shannon remained with them, as engaged in their play as they were. Rory dozed but mostly watched where the queen slept some distance from him, lying on her fur and still covered with his cloak. It would smell like her, he thought with a smile. She was lying on her side, her cheek cradled on her crooked arm. Her face was relaxed and peaceful. Her lips curved slightly in a dreaming smile. Her shoulder rose and fell as she breathed. Rory felt his love for her buzz inside him, and he could not help but let a quiet chuckle of pure joy escape his lips.


A maypole set in the middle of the mountain meadow cast its long, thin shadow on the ground as the company feasted and the afternoon grew warmer still. Long ribbons tied to the top and crowned by spring flowers in a garland curled and drifted about in the breeze. Shannon obliged the company with a song as the children, and some adults, danced around it, weaving the sheath the ribbons made. Rory backed away, shaking his head, when he was invited by Ruallauh's wife Mairead to be a dancer. Josephine joined the dance, and he did not want to find himself facing her when the music stopped and chaste kisses exchanged.

Shannon watched Rory carefully as the light started to dim. "That be more mead than ye usually partake of, boyo."

Rory was enjoying the simple peace and camaraderie of the servants to whose fire he wandered. He reassured Shannon with a merry smile. "Now go and break that bond your faithless mistress held you to. That serving woman seems to want to help you."

Rory's vision was swimming as the two bonfires were lit. He shook his head to clear it. He was starting to sober in the chill night air. He looked around the two fires to see the queen's cousins holding their wives to their sides, their arms around the women's waists. Servants paired up too, from the stout cook and her husband to the younger unmarried lads and lasses. He noticed Shannon with his arms around the servant woman, his face almost touching hers, his lips moving in sweet words or perhaps a song.

He was deep in a reverie of the growing flames. When a sound beside him caused him to look up, he saw the queen standing beside him, her arms wrapped around her again. She did not look cold, but rather content and smiling. Her eyes twinkled as she glanced over at him. Or was that the firelight reflecting in her blue eyes? He returned her smile.

Servants led the cattle between the fires for the blessing, the light and warmth making them seem otherworldly as it reflected off their flanks, and the party joined their voices in song. The mood rose to a merry pitch. With the more reverent and soulful songs of the season it mellowed again. Rory noted the queen shivering. He reached to her without inhibition and put his arm around her shoulder. She smiled her thanks.

Rory saw Shannon start to stroll off with the blushing servant. He saw Ruallauh take his wife in his arms and kiss her. The other cousins in turn embraced their own wives. Other less distinct figures either joined or went off arm-in-arm. Rory turned to Josephine. She faced him and smiled up at the tender face of this man who towered over her. On an impulse he could never later explain, he leaned down and put his lips on hers.

Her jerk of surprise broke Rory's sense of dreamy unreality. She pulled back, pressing herself away from him with her hands against his chest. He looked into her face dismayed. "Och, me lady, I am sorry! I forgot meself! I didn't mean…"

Josephine turned her face away. "Nay, Rory, I understand, it was the moment. But... but... we cannot..." She knew she had let herself be lulled by the companionability of the moment. How could she not? Life in his presence was so sweet, how could she but keep him by her, overlooking what his feelings meant, for him, for herself. "Oh Rory, I am so sorry... I should have realized..."

She looked back around and up into his face, seeing misery there. She was struck speechless by the depth of it. She put her fingertips to her mouth, her eyes round as she saw his pain.

"This is not right, me lady. I beg of ye, let me go, I... I..." He couldn't finish.

A feeling of loss overwhelmed her. "Oh Rory, why can we not go back as if this ne'er happened? Can we not go back to being dearest of friends?"

To her horror, instead of accepting this gratefully or at least with peace, Rory turned on her a look of agony. He turned abruptly and strode away.

[Find out what happens next in Nan hawthorne's An Involuntary King.]

Lost in Translation

In my review of Finn MacCool, one of Morgan Llywelyn's reamrkable novels interpreting Irish legends, I mentioned a question that came to me while reading the novel. How much deeper meaning or emotional content is lost when a word in another language is written in English? This is hardly an original question on my part. The very existence of the expression lost in translation demonstrates that. But I just had occasion to wonder about it when a skillful author fails to quite evoke a character's feelings with the use of a single word.

There is a scene where the Irish legendary hero Finn MacCool is faced with the son of the High King he served, now High King himself. The young man demands an apology for some perceived wrong, something his father never asked of Finn. Our hero, realizing that the principle was less important than keeping the tolerance if not acceptance of the High King says the words, "I apologize." Llywelyn describes how hard it is for Finn to say it, how his tongue "did not know how to shape the words", but something was missing. I had the feeling that something in the word in its early Irish Gaelic form must have conveyed more than the readily thrown out modern English word. There must have been a touch of shame, of admitting to something virtually unforgivable or dishonorable. The character of Finn in the novel is a roiling mass of poignant feelings and qualities. No way the simple word "apologize" can mean to him what it means when I say it to someone whose email I failed to respond to promptly.

I am looking for an Irish Gaelic historian to answer my question, but the answer is no doubt evident. Perhaps it is the culture, perhaps the linguistics, but clearly the apology lost a great deal in translation. No fault to Llywelyn. Some things just can't be expressed.

A Red Letter Day!

I smiled this morning when I reread an interview with me done by Mirella Patzer on The Historical Novel Review. In the interview I make reference to "a red letter day" when I could put the funds together to buy a device that can literally read a print book aloud. That red letter day coincidentally was yesterday!

As someone who has read since she was five, who read constantly all her life, and who took twice as many credits in English literature in college than she needed for her degree, losing my vision was a bit of a setback.. to say the least. "Talking Books" were heaven.. or shall I say Valhalla-sent. But all these years later, a novelist myself now, I am coming to the end of the supply of books for the blind in areas of my narrow interests. Further as I go through my own teeming list of books at medieval-novels.com I face the frustration of books not available in an accessible format, often the books I want to read the most.

Even more important, research has been complicated since I could not just take a book about Saxon England off the shelf and read it. That has necessitated a certain amount of resourcefulness, that amount being remarkable if I say so myself. I found myself communicating with various experts in academia and elsewhere trying to find the information I needed. Academia proved generous.. others outside that area were more inclined to criticize me for not doing the research myself. That is water under the stone bridge over the Trenta.. both well into the past and also no longer relevant.

About six inches from my left hand dancing on my keyboard is the Plustek Book-Reader, a scanner with a difference. it reads what it scans aloud! Immediatley at that! And clearly in a very human sounding voice.

What it changes in my life, personal and professional, is that it takes away the limiting nature of print accessibility. That is, while most people are only limited in what they read by what is available in the library network and in print, I have had to rely primarily on the far more limited budget of the U.S. National Library Services and my state's branch of libraries for the blind. Whether intentional or not, and I am not so paranoid as to think it is, that limit comes from others deciding what people like me will be permitted to read. I am not the first person to point this out, to which the very existence of Our Right to Know Braille Press and the Womyn's Braille Press attests. Braille is even more dramatically limited. I dobn't even need to limit myself to what's available in the U.S. any more. Though scanning and using OCR software to turn a book into digital text was significant, it is amazingly time consuming. Imagine having to scan an entire book before reading it.

Now I have my little friend, pictured on the right, my "magic book" -- maybe I should have a contest to name it! right here at hand.. so the fact that the intricate details of Aethelræd II's reign is no longer beyond me. You know what? Nothing is. Bring it on! Aethelræd may not be, but I am ready!

More Detailed Map of Winchester

I don't have a simple graphics program to crop this map, so I left it as a screenshot. I like this map because it denotes the gate names and a little more about what has been found by archaeologists.

I will make a more legible version of my street map as soon as possible.

Wintanceaster Streets

Below is a map I am trying to create without a proprer graphics program.. matching the Saxon street names to the map of Winchester in King Alfred's time.

I will keep you posted as I identify various streets and buildings and make a more readable map. In the meantime, ifyou can add to or correct my map please let me know!

Nan Hawthorne
hawthorne@nanhawthorne.com

Anglo Saxon Map of the World from 1025 AD

• earliest known, relatively realistic depiction of the British Isles


• most likely created at Canterbury between 1025 and 1050


• probably ultimately based on a model dating from Roman times


• shows Roman names of provinces and uses Roman town symvols


• revised and updated in about 800 and again in about 1000


• East at the top as traditional for the time


• pigment on vellum

Couldn't you just die?!

Learn more at British Library Gallery Online

Makes an Author's Heart Sing!

From Historical Novel Review Online
Historical Novel Society
http://www.historicalnovelsociety.org/hnr-online.htm

AN INVOLUNTARY KING
Nan Hawthorne, BookSurge, 2008, $27.99, pb, 648pp, 1419656694

Who knows how many worthy stories from the so-called Middle Ages have been lost to us? It’s a rich period, especially in England, where small nations and armies were constantly clashing and men and women could still be larger than life.

Young Lawrence, the hero of Nan Hawthorne’s sprawling historical novel An Involuntary King, yearns to be larger than life. When his father, the king, is cut down, the crown falls to Lawrence, and he vows to be worthy of it and of his young wife Josephine. But 8th-century Northumbria is a dangerous place for such vows—young Lawrence is soon tested on all sides, and the result is a rousing, involving tale of Saxon war and romance.

Although Hawthorne has done an evident amount of historical research (readers will take away a very pleasant sense of immersion in the medieval Saxon world), the main strength of An Involuntary King lies in its people. In addition to the central trio of Lawrence, Josephine, and the mercenary Elerde who in different ways threatens them both, there’s a huge cast of secondary characters, virtually all of whom are brought to life with colorful details and the author’s sound ear for dialog. Indeed, talk bubbles throughout this book, talk of high state affairs, the outpourings of the heart, and the joking prattle of old friends, and all of it works a kind of magic on the reader. Lawrence and Josephine’s world is one in which that reader will want to linger, and by the end of the book, many of its characters will feel like old friends.

The aforementioned mercenary Elerde won’t exactly feel like a friend, but his impression will be the strongest. He’s the novel’s most memorable creation, and Hawthorne would be well justified in giving him a book of his own some day.

-- Steve Donoghue

Wintanceaster Streets

Aeddan (pronounced Eden) and her sister Ystradwel (nickname Stree) are standing in front of me waiting for an answer to their question qabout where they would live in late 10th century Winchester. Their father is an armorer, so I am looking for a street whose Saxon name indicates their presence in that part of the city. One street in that list is designated at "Seyldwortenestret" or "Shield-maker's Street" so that seems like a reasonable place for armorer's as well. My one concern is that as its modern name, Upper Brook Street suggests, that street is where two brooks run through the town. Would armorer's find this useful or rather damaging to their craft?

The list of streets I located on the City of Winchester's history site lists the old street names after the modern equivalents.

CURRENT NAME, PREVIOUS NAME(S)
High Street, Chepe Street (AS)
Southgate Street, Gold Street
Tower Street, Snidelingestret or Snitherlingastret (AS) - The Tailor’s Street
Jewry Street*, Alwarenestret (AS)
St Peter’s Street, Flescmangerstret (AS) - The Butcher’s Street
St Thomas’ Street, Calpe Street (AS)
Upper Brook Street, Seyldwortenestret (AS) -The Shield Maker’s Street Shulworth Street
Middle Brook Street, Wunegrestret or Wongarestret (AS)
Lower Brook Street, Tannerestret (AS) - The Tanner’s Street
Busket Lane , Bucchestret (AS)
Colebrook Street, Colebrochestret (AS)
Parchment Street, ParmentryWest of the Cathedral, Menstrestret (AS) - Minster Street
High St to site of North Gate, Scowertenestret (AS) - The Shoemaker’s Street
High Street Northwards, Bredenestret or Brudenestret (AS)
Kingsgate, St Michael’s Gate
Market Street, Thomas-GateLittle Minster Street, Burdon Street
Blue Ball Hill, Redhouse Lane
Staple Gardens , Bridney Street
Minster Street, Munkestrete (AS)
Canon Street, Paillard’s Close St Cross Sperkeforde
Back Lane to Upper Brook St, Wode Street
Back Lane to Lower Brook St, St Ruel Street
Wharf Mill, Segrim’s Mill
Prior’s Barton Mill, Crepestre Mill
The Piaza, Penthouse

* wholly or in part

The map below has all the modern names on it... thanks to Winchester City Councilman for Oliver's Battery, Dabvid Spender for this ... and one of my projects is to write the Saxon names into the map. You will see Upper Brook Street, or Seyldwortenestret in about 990 AD, is the first street to the right of the red dot.


Stree: Oh no, do we have to live there? The tanners and butchers are so close! When the wind blows from that direction it will be disgusting!

Aeddan: Mayhap Father will see if we can live outside the walls. That should solve the problem.

I hope so, for their sake.

Medieval PIck-up Lines

"Hey, Princess, you wouldn't happen to know where a lonely knight could scabbard his sword, would you?"

"Been there, slain that."

"What's a nice maiden like you doing in a dungeon like this?"

"They don't call me Lance-A-Lot for nothing, you know."

"When the Inquisition put me on the rack, my limbs weren't the only thing they stretched."

"Dost thou know? That chastity belt of yours would look great on my sleeping chambers floor."

Wench: "What's that sound?" Knight: "That's just the sound of my chain mail drawers expanding."

"Thou hast hit on me harder than the black plague!"

"Your hovel or mine?"

"Pardon me, madam, but wouldeth thou like to see my long sword in action?"

"Dost thou practice safe hex?"

"Milady, it's not the size of the wand that matters, but the magic within."

"I have the key to your chastity belt and you have the key to my heart."

"You should be glad I'm not a Viking."

"You would have been ravaged and plundered by now."

"I lost my leg in battle. Guess what I'm walking on!"

"Yes, fair maiden, I am indeed a wizard. Shall I make your clothes disappear?"

"You won't believe this but St. George just appeared to me in a vision and told me that I must bed you...the fate of England depends is on it!!"

"I'm really a prince cursed by an evil witch. Tell me, do you have sex with frogs?"

"My! But you are a beautiful damsel in distress! Allow me to help you out of it."

"I've been VERY NAUGHTY. You'll have to put me in the stocks and...er...PUNISH me, now won't you?"

"You know, I was once imprisoned in a tower very much like Repunnzel. Only it wasn't my hair that the queen asked me to let down."

"I may not be a priest, but I can get you to heaven, m'lady."

"C'mon, sweetie...didn't your mother ever tell you? A cleric a day keeps the black plague away."

Generously and unwittingly shared with you by Jokes-Funnies.com.

The Broken Toymaker

I don't usually blog about dreams, but this image from one I had last night is just too enchanting not to record somewhere. The Broken Toymaker was part of a theme park that had what they called the Mountain of Snow. It was a small mountain one climbed and followed paths or wandered through tunnels to find either a slide exit or any other way of getting off. While wandering over this Mountain of Snow I found a fellow lting on the side of the path. He started out as an automaton but morphed, as things do in dreams, into a live person after a short time. I would say he looked rather like a cross between the two Willie Winkas but without quite the personality of either one, but he had the hat, the coat, a scarf and the generally Victorian look about him.

He lay bent and folded like he was broken. The idea was to fix him, basically by unfolding him and making him stand like a person. Jim and I did this, and as we did I straightened out his scarf. It apparently warmed him up, for as I straighted the scarf he said "59 degrees!" and then "79 degrees!" When he was fully standing he was able to move about. This is when he seemed human. He was smiling and happy and danced a little jig. He took us to the toyshop and made Jim climb a winding staircase up to an attic full of toys. The Broken Toymaker showed me something that looked like twisted wrought iron and said, "I can't give you this, because if I did I would also have to give you this." He showed me another length of twisted wrought iron. He and I left when Jim got down the bicycle the Broken Toymaker told him to.

Next I knew Jimm dressed as a panda, was bringing down the bicycle to cheers from many around us. I excitedly told a couple other people that if they had a chance to straighten out the Broken Toymaker they should, because it was wonderfully fun. I was watching my little sister, 7 or 8 in the dream, in her late 40s in reality, being made up elaborately as a princes. I looked over and noticed that a fellow I had told to go find the Broken Toymaker was over by him. The toymaker was on the ground, in the snow again, and the man was lying on the ground next to him trying to unbend his limbs.

I know precisely why I had this dream. Jim and I took a friend out to lunch yesterday who used to be a man and is becoming Joan, a quite lovely woman. She could be a female version of the Broken Toymaker in her build. She is doing the straightening out on her own. Jim and I were both fascinated and impressed by her story about the transformation. Even the makeover as a princess ties in here, because part of our conversation was about what it means to be female socially and in the world. It makes perfect sense to me that once our friend, the Broken Toymaker, was whole again, she would give us some sort of gift, perhaps one that will help us transprt ourselves in some magical way.

I must insert here that since I first began writing fiction, my dreams are much more creative and insightful.

Joan, Jim and Nan