Juliet Waldron's Blog - Posts Tagged "romance"
Nanina Slips in the Window Again
The character who keeps coming back! Most writers have them. The book that can’t or won’t be finished--those too are on every writer’s hard drive. My particular dark horse always returns in the first warm weather, this year occurring in April.*
She’s here again, sucking up my waking hours. Needless to say, I’m reediting and reimagining scenes and conversations I’ve visited many, many times before. I’ve journeyed repeatedly to this world across a time which now spans thirty years.
Nanina's is the first story/book I ever wrote, although a satisfactory ending, I think, still eludes me. Like Constanze of "Mozart’s Wife," this young heroine insists on speaking in the first person, which both narrows and deepens her POV. It’s like writing while pinned inside her dress.
I’ve heard authors talk about “channeling” their characters. There are many accounts of automatic writing and spirit dictation, which sound as if they should be taken with entire handfuls of salt. However, after the experience I've had working on Nanina's story, I know it can happen.
Ordinarily it takes a period of study and focused concentration to make your "dolls" get up and show you where they want to go. In this case, however, it appears I was the vessel chosen by a voice from the past. She desperately wanted to tell me about her grand passion,about what happened to her after it ended, and about how she coped with the death of the man who was, to all intents and purposes, her only God.
So tulip-time April comes again, and her voice returns, calling for rewrites and editing. She insists I do my best work, despite the fact that the story is “romance.”
I hasten to add that it’s a “romance” in the broadest sense of the word, in the way "Romeo & Juliet" is a romance. I’m not using the modern commercial meaning. This is a tale of the old-fashioned bloody-insanity that a great passion can sometimes be, the kind which all too easily slides into tragedy. It’s the dark side of "Mighty Aphrodite," which makes completing this vulnerible young woman's story so difficult for me.
~~Juliet Waldron
*Finished at last, published in 2011 as
"My Mozart," Nanina's story now stands beside the story of "Mozart's Wife" as a kind of ecstatic flip side image.
She’s here again, sucking up my waking hours. Needless to say, I’m reediting and reimagining scenes and conversations I’ve visited many, many times before. I’ve journeyed repeatedly to this world across a time which now spans thirty years.
Nanina's is the first story/book I ever wrote, although a satisfactory ending, I think, still eludes me. Like Constanze of "Mozart’s Wife," this young heroine insists on speaking in the first person, which both narrows and deepens her POV. It’s like writing while pinned inside her dress.
I’ve heard authors talk about “channeling” their characters. There are many accounts of automatic writing and spirit dictation, which sound as if they should be taken with entire handfuls of salt. However, after the experience I've had working on Nanina's story, I know it can happen.
Ordinarily it takes a period of study and focused concentration to make your "dolls" get up and show you where they want to go. In this case, however, it appears I was the vessel chosen by a voice from the past. She desperately wanted to tell me about her grand passion,about what happened to her after it ended, and about how she coped with the death of the man who was, to all intents and purposes, her only God.
So tulip-time April comes again, and her voice returns, calling for rewrites and editing. She insists I do my best work, despite the fact that the story is “romance.”
I hasten to add that it’s a “romance” in the broadest sense of the word, in the way "Romeo & Juliet" is a romance. I’m not using the modern commercial meaning. This is a tale of the old-fashioned bloody-insanity that a great passion can sometimes be, the kind which all too easily slides into tragedy. It’s the dark side of "Mighty Aphrodite," which makes completing this vulnerible young woman's story so difficult for me.
~~Juliet Waldron
*Finished at last, published in 2011 as
"My Mozart," Nanina's story now stands beside the story of "Mozart's Wife" as a kind of ecstatic flip side image.
From Award Winning "Genesee"
~Genesee goes moonlight walking with the exceedingly charming Alex Dunbar~
...Next, they had gone into the set of a country dance. To take three dances in a row with the same partner was a breach of propriety that had set fans fluttering on every side.
They flaunted convention still further, and walked the circular path that ran around Aunt Kitty's garden. A yellow moon, past full, was clearing the woods on the crest of the eastern shore.
Their pace was a little fast, for the night was chilly and they were both, in spite of the dancing, full of nervous energy. Jenny felt ready to jump out of her skin. Alexander seemed to be in the same condition.
In the darkness, here and there, they'd catch sight of other couples, sitting upon garden benches, leaning against each other or unabashedly embracing. It was cold, early in the year for strolls in the moonlight, but there were a lot of blue and buff uniforms here, young men who were soon leaving to fight.
"I don't know what to say to you, sir," she finally said, ignoring the polite gambit he'd made about the beauty of the scene.
Alexander halted. She gazed up at him, at his thin handsome face in the moonlight, wondering what he would do.
In the next moment he'd clasped her in his arms, swept her close and kissed her. In the chilly darkness his mouth was warm and eager.
What temptation, the wanting to let her arms go around his shoulders, the wanting to let him kiss and taste, do what he'd done at her grandparent's house! Instead, she kept her palms against the rough wool of that uniform jacket, held him in check.
Feeling her reticence, he ended the kiss, although he kept his arms around her slender waist. "What's the matter?" he breathed.
"You mustn't just – just – kiss me like that," she protested.
His strong arms held her close. "Why not?" he murmured, his lips grazing her cheek. "Don't you like me to?"
"Liking's not the point."
"Since when is liking not the point of kissing?"
"Do let me go," she whispered, trembling. "I can't think of what I mean to say."
She saw him smile. He did, however, obediently relinquish the embrace, although not his hold upon her hands.
From another pair of lovers, hidden somewhere nearby, came a gasp. Below, fine golden scales of moonshine shimmered upon the bosom of the river.
"All right, Miss," he said. "Out with what you mean to say."
"That– I don't generally ... I mean – I haven't ever – I mean that no one..." Jenny stammered. "Ah – that you may not just – "
He pulled her close again. "Even," he whispered, "even if you haven't ever – even if no one has had the sense – even if I must not assume – I believe that a girl as beautiful as you must be kissed and kissed very often and very thoroughly. I look upon it as a duty."
"Rubbish," she gasped, attempting severity, though it wasn't easy with that hard young body pressed so ardently against hers. "Stop teasing!"
~Juliet Waldron
In e and print
`Action, Adventure and Romance during the Revolution~
http://amzn.com/B004BSH1R2
http://www.amazon.com/Genesee-Juliet-...
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/genes...
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view...
https://www.allromanceebooks.com/prod...
...Next, they had gone into the set of a country dance. To take three dances in a row with the same partner was a breach of propriety that had set fans fluttering on every side.
They flaunted convention still further, and walked the circular path that ran around Aunt Kitty's garden. A yellow moon, past full, was clearing the woods on the crest of the eastern shore.
Their pace was a little fast, for the night was chilly and they were both, in spite of the dancing, full of nervous energy. Jenny felt ready to jump out of her skin. Alexander seemed to be in the same condition.
In the darkness, here and there, they'd catch sight of other couples, sitting upon garden benches, leaning against each other or unabashedly embracing. It was cold, early in the year for strolls in the moonlight, but there were a lot of blue and buff uniforms here, young men who were soon leaving to fight.
"I don't know what to say to you, sir," she finally said, ignoring the polite gambit he'd made about the beauty of the scene.
Alexander halted. She gazed up at him, at his thin handsome face in the moonlight, wondering what he would do.
In the next moment he'd clasped her in his arms, swept her close and kissed her. In the chilly darkness his mouth was warm and eager.
What temptation, the wanting to let her arms go around his shoulders, the wanting to let him kiss and taste, do what he'd done at her grandparent's house! Instead, she kept her palms against the rough wool of that uniform jacket, held him in check.
Feeling her reticence, he ended the kiss, although he kept his arms around her slender waist. "What's the matter?" he breathed.
"You mustn't just – just – kiss me like that," she protested.
His strong arms held her close. "Why not?" he murmured, his lips grazing her cheek. "Don't you like me to?"
"Liking's not the point."
"Since when is liking not the point of kissing?"
"Do let me go," she whispered, trembling. "I can't think of what I mean to say."
She saw him smile. He did, however, obediently relinquish the embrace, although not his hold upon her hands.
From another pair of lovers, hidden somewhere nearby, came a gasp. Below, fine golden scales of moonshine shimmered upon the bosom of the river.
"All right, Miss," he said. "Out with what you mean to say."
"That– I don't generally ... I mean – I haven't ever – I mean that no one..." Jenny stammered. "Ah – that you may not just – "
He pulled her close again. "Even," he whispered, "even if you haven't ever – even if no one has had the sense – even if I must not assume – I believe that a girl as beautiful as you must be kissed and kissed very often and very thoroughly. I look upon it as a duty."
"Rubbish," she gasped, attempting severity, though it wasn't easy with that hard young body pressed so ardently against hers. "Stop teasing!"
~Juliet Waldron
In e and print
`Action, Adventure and Romance during the Revolution~
http://amzn.com/B004BSH1R2
http://www.amazon.com/Genesee-Juliet-...
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/genes...
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view...
https://www.allromanceebooks.com/prod...
Miss Gottlieb Remembers
The opener of MY MOZART as a kind of Mozart Kugeln sweetie for the Maestro's Birthday,
January 27th
"Mozart, Ich liebe dich. I love you. Love you."
"Come, Nanina Nightingale. Come and give your poor old Maestro some of your ‘specially sugary sugar."
My mouth on his‑‑the friction produced warmth and sweetness, with a decided undertone of the expensive brandy he liked, flowing from his tongue to mine. I slid my arms across the brocade of his jacket, none too clean these days, and swayed a slender dancer's body against him.
Let me assure you that my sophistication was assumed. It really doesn't matter - then, or now. I was young, foolish, and drowning in love. I was seventeen. He was thirty five.
I believed he knew everything--that he could see right through me with those bright blue eyes. He probably could. He'd been my music master--and, more--my deity, ever since I'd met him, in my ninth year...
January 27th
"Mozart, Ich liebe dich. I love you. Love you."
"Come, Nanina Nightingale. Come and give your poor old Maestro some of your ‘specially sugary sugar."
My mouth on his‑‑the friction produced warmth and sweetness, with a decided undertone of the expensive brandy he liked, flowing from his tongue to mine. I slid my arms across the brocade of his jacket, none too clean these days, and swayed a slender dancer's body against him.
Let me assure you that my sophistication was assumed. It really doesn't matter - then, or now. I was young, foolish, and drowning in love. I was seventeen. He was thirty five.
I believed he knew everything--that he could see right through me with those bright blue eyes. He probably could. He'd been my music master--and, more--my deity, ever since I'd met him, in my ninth year...
Angelica ponders the Revolution
Angelica Ten Broeck, patriot heiress, writes in her diary a few days after the American defeat at New York, 1776.
I still can't believe what I saw outside of Aunt Letitia's parlor windows last night. The whole City south of her house was on fire. We were afraid, and the servants stood before the door with muskets in hand. So much smoke blew about that even inside the house we were coughing. The whole sky turned red, and throngs of people carrying pitiful bundles of clothes ran and wept, driving their cows and horses down the street.
I hadn't believed it could happen, that General Washington could be driven out of New York and that the British would rule here again, but that's what has come to pass.
My Aunt believes that Americans set fire to the City themselves, that British troops were not responsible for this arson. This morning the fires still burn, and we've heard that more than half of the buildings downtown are in ruins. Auntie and I had hot words on the subject at breakfast, but after what I've seen and heard of this war, I confess I am truly not certain of what the truth is.
It's unimaginable, the things my Uncle Ten Broeck has written of, terrible things being done all up and down our peaceful valley, the looting and burning, the cruel maiming of horses and cattle done by those who must have nothing but evil in their hearts. Everywhere, my Uncle says, men settle old scores with their neighbors, while hiding these dreadful crimes behind politics--as if calling themselves "Loyalist" or "Patriot" can excuse the wicked things they've done.
Oh why did I ever come to New York? It has turned out exactly as Uncle Jacob warned. I've been a great fool, traveling in the middle of a war! All I want now is to go home, to sail up the river back to Kingston, but now I am trapped behind the lines of our enemy. My Aunt Letitia says that I--and my inheritance--are safer here, that because my Uncle Jacob is a patriot and defies the British, he will be hanged and his lands forfeited to the Crown. It is better, she says, that I "not be involved in his folly and ruin."
She keeps saying she wants me to marry "a respectable English gentleman" and "leave forever this barbaric place". She doesn't seem to understand that I am an American, bred in this land and rebel to the bone. Even though General Washington has been defeated, I believe that in the end--somehow, someway--our Cause will triumph and that one day we shall enjoy the blessings of true liberty and peace...
Angel's Flight originally published as Independent Heart is the Revolutionary War sister book to the award-winner, Genesee.
~Juliet Waldron~
See all my historical novels at:
http://www.julietwaldron.com
http://www.julietwaldron.com
I still can't believe what I saw outside of Aunt Letitia's parlor windows last night. The whole City south of her house was on fire. We were afraid, and the servants stood before the door with muskets in hand. So much smoke blew about that even inside the house we were coughing. The whole sky turned red, and throngs of people carrying pitiful bundles of clothes ran and wept, driving their cows and horses down the street.
I hadn't believed it could happen, that General Washington could be driven out of New York and that the British would rule here again, but that's what has come to pass.
My Aunt believes that Americans set fire to the City themselves, that British troops were not responsible for this arson. This morning the fires still burn, and we've heard that more than half of the buildings downtown are in ruins. Auntie and I had hot words on the subject at breakfast, but after what I've seen and heard of this war, I confess I am truly not certain of what the truth is.
It's unimaginable, the things my Uncle Ten Broeck has written of, terrible things being done all up and down our peaceful valley, the looting and burning, the cruel maiming of horses and cattle done by those who must have nothing but evil in their hearts. Everywhere, my Uncle says, men settle old scores with their neighbors, while hiding these dreadful crimes behind politics--as if calling themselves "Loyalist" or "Patriot" can excuse the wicked things they've done.
Oh why did I ever come to New York? It has turned out exactly as Uncle Jacob warned. I've been a great fool, traveling in the middle of a war! All I want now is to go home, to sail up the river back to Kingston, but now I am trapped behind the lines of our enemy. My Aunt Letitia says that I--and my inheritance--are safer here, that because my Uncle Jacob is a patriot and defies the British, he will be hanged and his lands forfeited to the Crown. It is better, she says, that I "not be involved in his folly and ruin."
She keeps saying she wants me to marry "a respectable English gentleman" and "leave forever this barbaric place". She doesn't seem to understand that I am an American, bred in this land and rebel to the bone. Even though General Washington has been defeated, I believe that in the end--somehow, someway--our Cause will triumph and that one day we shall enjoy the blessings of true liberty and peace...
Angel's Flight originally published as Independent Heart is the Revolutionary War sister book to the award-winner, Genesee.
~Juliet Waldron~
See all my historical novels at:
http://www.julietwaldron.com
http://www.julietwaldron.com
