A classic is a classic is always a classic. Or?

Anna Belfrage5 Comments

Admit it. You’ve all experienced that mind-numbing exercise of having to read a certain book. “It’s a classic, a pillar of our literary canon,” gushed the teacher while shoving one of August Strindberg’s works in our hands. (Swedish literary canon, obviously.) Or you were handed a dog-eared copy of 1984 and told this, this was manna for the soul. (I much preferred Animal Farm. “All animals are equal but some animals are more equal than others.” A quote that, sadly, is as applicable today as when Orwell first wrote it)

Thinclassics-20180127_175250.jpgg is, even classics become dated. In fact, sometimes they become irrelevant, because the reality they describe is too far removed from the world that surrounds us. Over time, all classics essentially become historical fiction, and many readers don’t want to read about the past., they want to read about the here and now. This, I believe, is especially true of teenagers who are probably struggling with hormones and finding themselves just as a helpful soul gives them The Old Man and the Sea to read. Don’t get me wrong: I think this is a great book. Now. I wasn’t that taken with it as a fifteen-year-old, because seriously, an old man fighting a big fish became a bit old after the first ten pages or so. At the time, I wanted to read stuff that somehow reflected my own, very confused, reality. No fish or old men figured in my teenage daydreams…

Not all classics become dated. As an example, Robinson Crusoe is still very readable. As is Tom Sawyer, Anna Karenina and Crime and Punishment (although veeeeery long and rather depressing). Or Lord Jim, Kristin Lavransdotter, Great Expectations, For Whom the Bell Tolls, Jane Eyre—the list is actually quite long. (And must include The Little Prince by Saint-Exupery. Mais bien sûr!) So why do some classics survive, while others do not?

In some cases, it is a matter of language. Authors like Conrad, like Hemingway, stand the test of time because they do not load their books with adjectives and adverbs (rather the reverse, in dear old Ernest’s case). Nouns and verbs are less sensitive to fashion than descriptive words, so if the text mostly consists of texts and nouns, the language remains relevant, vibrant even.

But what all those timeless books have in common is something else. It’s all about the people, peeps. There’s a reason why Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy still enthral new readers, despite the story being reasonably predictable and not exactly high-paced. Anna Karenina’s infidelity, her subsequent humiliation and despair still moves us, as does Jane Eyre’s depressing childhood and the terrible blow her pride (and love) suffers when Mrs Rochester numero uno is revealed. (In Jane’s case, though, I suspect it is that final line which sort of clinches it: “Reader, I married him.” Perfect.)

For well over a century, the Nobel committee has awarded authors the Nobel Prize in Literature for their contribution to the global literary canon. When I read through the list of the prize winners during the first fifty years, I suspect very, very many have already become obsolete. Seriously, how many have read Prudhomme? Benavente? Maeterlinck? Writer like Pearl.S.Buck are almost forgotten (more’s the pity in her case. The Good Earth is quite the read – but yes, it is dated) while others, such as Kipling and Undset still attract readers. Once again, because of the characters. We can still relate to Mowgli and Kim, and as to Kristin Lavransdotter, show me any woman in the world who can’t relate to her and how she faces up to what life throws her way.

Obviously, fabulous characters and no plot does not a story make. Readers tend to pick up books because they want to be told a story, they want to be transported elsewhere, hastily turning pages as they are sucked into the plot. The conclusion, therefore, is that it’s people and plot. But plot without people will never work. Never. Books with people and little in the way of plot can work. Sometimes. This is why a book like Fifty Shades of Grey—which we all “know” is terribly, terribly written, full of clichés and with awful dialogue (does ANYONE say “Whoa!” while in the throes of passion????)—sells millions and millions. Whatever else she may do wrong, E L James does one thing right: she gives the readers the people they want, in this case a very young but very mature and compassionate young woman who can take on and tame the angry, wounded beast that is Mr Grey. It’s the classic fairy tale of the good girl penetrating the layers of evil that shroud the beast to tap into his golden heart. Supposedly, she also writes hot sex scenes. Not so much, IMO. Once again: it doesn’t matter. What matters is that millions of readers care about Christian and Anastasia. Just like millions and millions (if we count since it was first published) care about Elizabeth Bennett and Mr Darcy. Or Jane Eyre and the deliciously haunted Mr Rochester. Or the little prince and his rose, that rather vain and self-engrossed flower the little prince so loved.

LittleprinceI’m guessing none of the above comes as a surprise –neither for writers or readers. But I’d love to hear which classics you feel have stood the test of time and which have not. And while you mull that one over, I’m going to dig out my very old, very loved copy of Le Petit Prince. As always, I’ll laugh at the picture of the boa which has swallowed an elephant. As always, I will feel my chest constrict as we get to the sadder parts. Because that’s what all great classics do: they make us feel, they make us share in the pain and joy the characters experience, thereby making us grow (a bit) as people.

What is in a name?

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Like many authors, I spend a lot of time tasting the names of my characters. Do they fit them, do they please me, are they adequate for the period—many, many questions.

Some characters come with names. Matthew Graham popped up neatly labelled as did Alex Lind, a modern woman who gave me a mental headshake before throwing the rather handsome Matthew a surreptitious look. Other characters begin life with one name and then, about halfway through my rough draft, I just change it. Inspiration has struck, which is why Adam de Guirande is named Adam and not Gilbert. (A change I am very happy with)

In a WIP I’ve been working on for quite some years, my female protagonist popped up as Sofia Carolina Rudbeck. Of mixed descent, the Swedish young woman lives in 17th century Stockholm and will spend much of her childhood in proximity to Queen Kristina. Not something Sofia is all that thrilled about, because Kristina is several years older and not always all that nice. Anyway: after like 40 000 words it struck me that my character shared her name with my sister. (I rarely call my sister Sofia, I use Fia instead which explains why it hadn’t struck me before, I guess)

So, could I really use my sister’s name for an invented character? I decided not, so Sofia became Hannah. That worked for a while—especially while I wasn’t working too much on the WIP. But now that I am back to thinking about it, Hannah Carolina just doesn’t sound right. At all. The person taking shape through my words totally agrees. When I ask her for suggestions, she just gives one: Sofia. When I ask the male protagonist, he says the same.
“I’ve never called her Hannah,” he says.
“That’s because you call her your little pigeon,” I tell him.
Jon Crowne smiles. “I like pigeons.”

Where I have vacillated over the name of the female protagonist, there was never any doubt about Jon’s name. Not that it is his real name, but that is between Jon and me—at least for now. And by the time he is in a position to reclaim his real name I suspect he won’t want to. But we shall see: such matters tend to become clearer as the full story takes shape.

I’ve now renamed Hannah. She is back to being Sofia, and ever since I took that decision, other bits and pieces of the narrative are falling into place. I even know how things will end. Well, almost. Still, a major improvement from how things were three or four weeks ago, and all because of a name that chafed and irritated. Clearly, there IS something in a name, no matter that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet!

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Using real-life peeps to spice up your historical fiction

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There are moments when I feel rather torn. In one corner of my brain my medieval characters are clamouring for my attention, in another, 17th century Matthew and his wife Alex are just as vociferous (with some reason: I’ve sort of left them hanging) In my frontal lobe my new characters are spreading out, and as I have three WIPs in various stages of completion this means I have one group of contemporary protagonists, another set of (new) 17th century characters among which figures a certain Queen Kristina of Sweden, and a new medieval set. My new medieval set is presently snagging a lot of attention – Edward I is a commanding presence, even when relegated to a supporting role.
“Supporting role?” Edward’s droopy eyelid twitches.
“Yup.” I give him an ingratiating smile. “If not, you’d take over the entire narrative, sire.”
“Hmm.” He doesn’t look convinced and gives Robert FitzHugh a rather dark look. I give Edward a warning scowl. “This is MY brain,” I remind him. “If you don’t behave, poof, and you’re gone.”
The tall king smirks. “You think?” He shakes his head. “I am a conqueror at heart, fair authoress. Where I want to go, I go.”
I forgive him for his condescending tone because of his indirect compliment—and because I do need him to stick with the project. He may not be the protagonist, but he’s the “real-life” character my story pivots around.

I do that a lot: I use real peeps to anchor my make-believe to a historical period. I prefer fictional protagonists, but they become far more solid when they hover round someone who did exist, their lives affected by what this real person did or didn’t do. In Edward I’s case, it’s his obsession with Wales that sits at the heart of my plot. In my series The King’s Greatest Enemy, it’s the final fate of Edward II—and of Roger Mortimer and Queen Isabella—that set the boundaries for my story.  Within those boundaries, I subject my Adam and his Kit to a lot.

If we leap ahead to the 17th century and Matthew and Alex, one of my more joyous discoveries was a certain Alexander Peden. I had been reading up on the persecution wreaked upon the Scottish Presbyterians after the Restoration of Charles II (this relatively tolerant gent had little time for the members of the Scottish Kirk, probably a result of how he was treated by the Scots in 1650 when, as a  newly crowned king of Scotland, he was dragged hither and dither as it pleased his Scottish lords) and had just realised that the little town I’d chosen as closest to Matthew’s beloved Hillview, Cumnock, had been the home of a most fiery and determined Scottish minister, nalemly Alexander Peden.

As a consequence, Alexander (or Sandy to his friends, among which I now count myself) came to play a pivotal role in the third of the books, The Prodigal Son. His was a cloak-and-dagger sort of life, always on the run from the English who wanted nothing more than to apprehend him and send him off as indentured labour to the West Indies. Eventually Alexander was captured, betrayed for the very generous prize on his head. Fortunately for him, the attempt to transport him failed utterly.

In one of my WIPs, Queen Kristina of Sweden plays an instrumental role. So far, this WIP is taking one step forward and two back, mainly because I can’t quite decide whether I like Kristina or not. I lean towards the not – the lady held a very high opinion of herself. At the same time, I admire her for being a big,big girl in a man’s world. Thing is, until I’ve made up my mind, poor Sofia Carolina (very much a figment of my imagination) can’t exactly make up hers either.
“Some days I like her, some days I don’t,” Sofia tells me. “Thing is, even when I don’t like her, I still care for her.”
True. So do I, because Kristina’s childhood was no child’s play, surrounded as she was by a wacky mother and serious gents who constantly reminded her of her duties to the state. As she herself said, “any child born to inherit the crown belongs to the state”.

I shall have to make up my mind about Kristina later. At present, I am more concerned with Edward I. As multi-layered as an onion, that man is.
“Ah. You find me enigmatic?” the king asks with a little smile.
“I find you contradictory,” I retort. “On the one hand a loving husband, a good lawmaker, on the other a brute.” Oops. Shouldn’t have said that. He is fading away fast, and I must throw myself forward to grab hold of him before he totally disappears. “Stay and prove me wrong,” I tell him.
“I can’t.” He glares at me. “Things were complicated back then.”
Well, clearly my Edward I will have moments when his conscience pricks him. That, IMO, is good.

 

 

Keeping it real – sort of

Anna BelfrageLeave a comment

Okay, so I read a lot of romance. A lot. In general, the leads in all these romances are all DDG, i.e. drop dead gorgeous. Rarely does one encounter a romantic hero with a paunch and thinning hair, or a heroine with bifocals, a tad too many pounds round her waist and a preference for flat heels. And yes, I agree that part of the appeal is that while reading a romance I can pretend to be one of those over-represented redhaired beauties with long, long legs and green eyes. I can pretend that the man holding me so tenderly to his chest is six foot something, a lot of muscle and tousle-worthy hair. All very nice.

Still, sometimes I get a tad irritated by all these male leads with ripped abs and bulging biceps, with muscled thighs and pecs to die for. Why? Because they never do anything to maintain their physique! Rarely do we see our leads go to the gym, sweat like crazy and collapse in sheer exhaustion afterwards. Yes, there are books where exercise happens, but usually these mouth-watering men and their female counterparts just are. Like Venus alighting from her sea-shell, they embody perfection without having done much to deserve their physical attributes. Great DNA, one presumes.

As an aside, look at Venus as depicted by Botticelli and consider whether our goddess of love would even qualify as mouth-watering in this age of physical perfection. Neither here nor there, but I suspect Botticelli was actually using a real woman as his model, ergo the softness to some of the curves, the lack of overall athletic tone. Kudos to him, I say.

Most authors gravitate towards type. I do that myself, liking my male leads taller than average and somewhat hunky. But one of them is hunky because he’s a medieval knight and spends a LOT of time perfecting his fighting skills. The other is brawny because he’s a farmer, wresting virgin land from the American forests to convert it into arable fields. Hard, hard work that leaves a man with long, strong muscles, a broad chest and strong arms (and, as he gets older, an aching back). My soon-to-see-the-light-of-the-day contemporary lead is a fine-looking specimen, but him we also see work out. Still: one could argue I should vary myself and have non-descript men as my heroes. Maybe I should—but I won’t. I will, however, try to make their physique the result of some effort.

What I find rather fascinating when it comes to romance heroines is that very often they like to eat—a lot—without this having an impact on their weight. How often doesn’t a romance hero gaze fondly at his soon-to-be other half as she chomps her way through generous portions and desserts and say “I love a woman who enjoys her food”? Argh! Very few women, in my experience, can indulge their appetite and retain their perfect figure. Well, unless they work out which very often romance heroines don’t. Especially if they’re 19th century Regency Romance heroines, seeing as there weren’t any gyms back then, so exercise was often restricted to walks, at times long dramatic walks over rain-drenched moors, at others more of a stroll round the nearby park.

Anyway: I can forgive the handsome hunks (of course I can) and the lucky lady with the constant hourglass figure, no matter how much she stuffs her face. What I do have a major problem with is when the obstacles our couple have to overcome become too inane. Misunderstandings are ok, but when the protagonists lose all communication skills overnight, thereby making it impossible to have that one conversation required to clear up the mess, I generally groan. Loudly.

Skilled writers usually complicate things by creating a misunderstanding followed by a separation in place, i.e. he never gets the opportunity to explain he wasn’t flirting with another woman because he is abducted by the villain of the book. Or she rushes to tell him she didn’t mean to kiss Handsome Harry—in fact, he forced her, the bastard—and is abducted by the villain of the book, a.k.a. Handsome Harry. Or he is called away to the deathbed of his father. Or she is afflicted by measles and almost dies (which creates an excellent opportunity for the dashing hero to brave the germs and sit beside her as she twists and tosses in a high fever, repeatedly calling his name. Awww…)

Whichever version, at some point our DDG hero is going to a) escape and brain Handsome Harry while doing so b) rescue her and brain Handsome Harry while doing so c) hasten back from the deathbed once Papa has passed and punch Handsome Harry in the face before declaring just how much he loves his redhaired beauty d) fall to his knees when she finally wakes and beg for forgiveness for being such a cad last time they were together.

There are also those variants where it is the determined heroine who saves her hero from the clutches of the evil Handsome Harry. At times, she does this by sacrificing herself (free him and I will be yours) but fortunately once HH has complied, our hero returns to save his sweetheart. Alternatively, our heroine grips a poker and defends herself… I rather like ladies who rely on themselves rather than their man.

The interesting thing about romance is that even if we all know there will be a Happily Ever After in which the dashing hero rides off into the sunset with the glamorous heroine, good writers still manage to create sufficient tension and novelty. How? Mostly be developing the characters and giving them quirks and unique personalities – and keeping them real. Or at least realish. Which, dear peeps, means that IF you have a glorious hunk strolling across the pages of your novel, please, please make all that musculature feasible. Give him a rowing machine (or a row-boat if we’re back in time). Give him a gym membership or a tough fencing master. Give him something!

That weird head-hopping stuff.

Anna Belfrage16 Comments

Writing a book is about establishing a connection between the reader and the character in the book. No matter how excellent the historical details, how correct the description of everything from how to dismantle a gun to how to perform emergency surgery in the wild, unless the reader is invested in the characters, the read will leave them at most lukewarm. Unless, of course, they read the book precisely to find out how to dismantle a gun, but generally expectations on a work of fiction are somewhat higher than that.

To establish that connection, the writer has at their disposal person and POV – point of view. Person is usually a choice between first person and third person. I once attended a very interesting lecture about using second person, i.e. “you” throughout a book and came away with the conclusion that this  a) was difficult to pull off without sounding patronising/hectoring  b) would never create that sensation for the reader of being inside the character’s head, seeing as the writer was always talking TO the character rather than THROUGH the character.

First person is not a favourite with me. Yes, there are a number of books written in first person that are very gripping, but in general I feel first person is rather restrictive. However, there are some books in which a combination of first and third person are used in an excellent fashion, and there is one book in particular where an initial third person bleeds over into a first person that I find quite amazing. This is a story about a woman afflicted by dreams of the early 13th century, vivid dreams in which she effectively sees the past through the eyes of a person living in the past. As the dreams become increasingly more vivid, as the lines between reality and dream become more and more blurred, our protagonist drifts from third person narrative to first person narrative and I, as the reader, am thereby dragged along into her obsession/that distant past life.

Many first person books end up being flat. There is a lack of depth in reactions, reflections, emotions as they’re often sifted through one very subjective view. (The obvious exception are intense books roiling with personal feelings where first person may well be the only choice as it is the subjectivity of the reactions that define the book and the character) Once again, some writers overcome this hurdle with ease – but far more do not.

Some books have multiple first person POVs, but those I tend to find rather confusing.  What I really detest about books written in first person is the “how do I fit in a description of my character now that I’m writing in first person” issue. Studying your own reflection happens a lot. Strange sentences such as “I dragged the brush through my long, golden locks” make me cringe, as rarely do we think of our hair as anything other than plain hair. Or “My blue eyes teared up.” Urk.

The benefit with first person books is that the POV is very clear. People writing first person rarely head hop – indicative of the fact that we generally do not know what the person we’re talking to is thinking, nor do we feel their emotions, be they anger or irritation or joy or whatever. Our first person character might see their reactions. “His face lit up” would indicate the person is pleased. “I watched with trepidation as his hand bunched into a fist,” indicates some sort of conflict. Our first person can guess at what they’re thinking/feeling. “To judge from how X kept his eyes on the plate, he had no desire to continue this discussion.” It might have nothing to do with an unwillingness to continue the discussion: maybe X was struggling with mirth and did not want to hurt the protagonist by bursting out in laughter.

Third person narratives (and I prefer those with various POV characters) somehow offer more depth – at least to me. They do, however, require that the writer sticks to the chosen POV throughout a scene/dialogue, this so as to avoid confusing the reader. Head-hopping, i.e. the writer’s tendency to leap-frog from one person’s thoughts to the other, not only causes confusion, it also causes distance, as the reader is thereby expected to bond with multiple characters simultaneously.

“Why would I do that?” She crossed her arms over her chest. No way. Never. It was wrong, heck, it was probably illegal. (Here we are in HER head)
“Because I want you to,” he replied, amused by her stance, by how she lifted her chin. He had to hand it to her: she had guts—and a moral compass. Wouldn’t help her much, though. (What? And now we’re in HIS head?)
“I won’t do it,” she said, setting her jaw. She glared at him, hating the way he smiled, the way he looked utterly unfazed by her refusal. (Back to HER head…)
“Oh, you will. Eventually. You have to, you know that.” He took a step towards her and she backed away, her eyes wide and dark. She licked her lips. He liked that. (HIS head. Somewhat sinister, isn’t he?)
“Dream on,” she snapped back, trying to inject determination in her voice. (Oops! Back to HER, so I can’t continue exploring his sinister side. Pity…) 
“No dream, sweet-pea.” He crowded her back against the wall. “I tell you to do something, you’ll do it. Now.” He ran a hand down her arm, enjoying how she shivered under his touch, the muscles in her forearm bunching when he tightened his hold. He ran his thumb up and down her skin. Soft, slightly damp skin. Not only because of the damned heat, he supposed, bending down to brush his lips down her cheek, down her neck. She smelled nice. He kissed her just below her ear. She tasted nice too. She softened—for an instant, before yanking free and ducking under his arm, marching towards the door. A futile gesture. The door was locked and he wasn’t about to let her go until she’d done as he told her to. He could wait all night if necessary. (All in HIS POV. Quite the relief after all that preceding back and forth) 

Okay, so the reader gets the above. He wants her to do something, she doesn’t. He is clearly attracted to her, whether she returns the favour is unclear. But the reader does not need to develop more than a shallow bond with the characters – the writer is telling the reader just what each speaker is thinking with each line of dialogue, which is a far cry from how things are in real life. Far more importantly, this writing technique means the reader is missing out on how the POV character reacts to what the other person says or how she/he reacts – in itself an illumination of the POV character.

So if we were to write the above purely in her POV, it might read like this:

“Why would I do that?” She crossed her arms over her chest. No way. Never. It was wrong, heck, it was probably illegal.
“Because I want you to,” he replied, the corner of his mouth twitching. Damn him for looking at her like that, as if she had no choice but to do as he asked!
“I won’t do it,” she said, setting her jaw. She glared at him, hating the way he smiled, the way he looked utterly unfazed by her refusal.
“Oh, you will. Eventually. You have to, you know that.” He took a step towards her. She scrambled back, not wanting him too close. Or maybe she did. She licked her lips. His smile became a grin.
“Dream on,” she snapped back, trying to inject determination in her voice.
“No dream, sweet-pea.” He crowded her back against the wall. “I told you to do something, you’ll do it. Now.” He ran a hand down her arm. She shivered, the muscles in her forearm bunching when he tightened his hold. He ran his thumb up and down her skin. Too intimate, too gentle. His lips, brushing her cheek, her neck, and she leaned into his solid warmth, his gentle touch. He kissed her just below the ear and she bit back on a moan. No, no, no! What was she doing? She yanked free, ducked under his arm and marched towards the door. A futile gesture, she knew that. He wasn’t about to let her go until she’d done as he told her to, and to judge from his expression he could wait all night if necessary.

What we get from this is that she is conflicted. She is attracted to this man, but she is also angry and intimidated.  This makes her an interesting character to the reader, we sort of like conflict, don’t we? His behaviour – as analysed by her – would indicate he is attracted to her, but not to the point of letting her off the hook.

We could also write the scene from his POV:

“Why would I do that?” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Because I want you to,” he replied, amused by her stance, by how she lifted her chin. He had to hand it to her: she had guts—and a moral compass. Wouldn’t help her much, though.
“I won’t do it,” she said, setting her jaw. He just had to smile. His princess looked about as dangerous as a determined poodle. How fortunate he was here to keep her safe.
“Oh, you will. Eventually. You have to, you know that.” He took a step towards her and she backed away, her eyes wide and dark. She licked her lips. He liked that.
“Dream on,” she snapped back, and he heard the quaver in her voice.
“No dream, sweet-pea.” He crowded her back against the wall. “I tell you to do something, you’ll do it. Now.” He ran a hand down her arm, enjoying how she shivered under his touch, the muscles in her forearm bunching when he tightened his hold. He ran his thumb up and down her skin. Soft, slightly damp skin. Not only because of the damned heat, he supposed, bending down to brush his lips down her cheek, down her neck. She smelled nice. He kissed her just below her ear. She tasted nice too. She softened—for an instant, before yanking free and ducking under his arm, marching towards the door. A futile gesture. The door was locked and he wasn’t about to let her go until she’d done as he told her to. He could wait all night if necessary.

Well, maybe he isn’t that big a jerk. He is attracted to her and admires her and the use of “his princess” indicates he cares for her. He still has no intention of letting her off the hook, but after reading his POV the reader can toy with the idea that maybe there’s a valid reason behind his insistence. Maybe. Once again, we have been given deeper insight into the character than in the original head-hopping scene. This generates more interest from the reader.

Note that the changes are subtle. The dialogue as such doesn’t change, the overall conflict (he wants her to do something she doesn’t want to do) remains unchanged. But the persuasions behind their actions become somewhat clearer, indicating a complexity to their characters.

As an aside, I find it helps to write crucial scenes in various POVs as this tends to shed light on the various characters, thereby giving me, as the writer, a deeper understanding for their motivations.

Some writers—notably those who do it—feel head-hopping is no big deal. Some say well-known, established authors do it (and yes, sadly some do). Some even go as far as saying that adding the inner reflections of their various characters to their every line of dialogue enriches the reading experience. Hmm. Nope, not to me. Instead, I am highly irritated by head-hopping as it indicates that the writer is either a) unaware of some of the basics of writing, or b) a tad lazy, as it is much harder to refrain from head-hopping than it is to do it. Besides, every time the writer head-hops, there is a risk that this will yank the reader right out of the character and the story. What could have been a deeply satisfying read becomes nothing but a distraction, potentially enjoyable but forgettable. Seriously, what writer wants their books to be classified as that?

Of stereotypes and heroes

Anna Belfrage2 Comments

The men in my brain have a tendency to ambush me at the most inappropriate moments. Note the men in my brain: in real life, I have only one man, and he is not much given to ambushing me—and when he does, he calls it a surprise, ergo the ambush is a (supposedly) pleasant experience. Which it mostly is.

Anyway: while hubby (in singular) is a singularly one-of-a-kind gift to womankind (well, to me, at any rate), the men that populate my brain come in all kinds and shapes, and they’re not always warm and cuddly. Especially not when I am planning to put them through their emotional paces. For some odd reason, neither Matthew nor Adam nor Jason nor—OK, won’t bore you with this never-ending list—appreciate it when I place the lives of their beloved in jeopardy. Hence the ambush, with me being crowded back in one mental corner while facing three glowering males.

“Hey, it’s an opportunity for you to show off your hero qualities,” I tell them.
“So stereotypical,” Jason replies. “The damsel in distress saved by her white knight.” He claps Adam de Guirande on the shoulder. “Problem is, only one of us is a knight.”
“But you’re all heroes,” I try, fluttering my eyelashes at them. “Besides,” I add in view of their icy silence, “your damsels do a pretty good job of saving themselves—and you.”
“They do,” Adam says. His mouth tugs into a smile. “Without Kit, I’d be…” He drags a finger over his throat, making me shudder. Yes, had Kit not risked her own life, he’d have been feeding the crows since seven centuries or so.
“I don’t like it,” Matthew mutters. “And this new book of yours, what will you put us through this time?”
I’m about to say that he doesn’t need to worry, this time his Alex is safe and no one will die. Until I remember that isn’t the case. So I hem and haw and say something vague about hoping he’ll like his new adventure. He gives me a penetrating look. I pretend a major interest in my nails.

Once I’m alone again in my mental space, I spend some time considering the stereotyping accusation.  And yes, I’m guilty as charged in that all my male protagonists are strong and reliable men who will go to whatever lengths necessary to protect their loved ones. This does not necessarily make them a stereotype, though. Matthew Graham, Adam de Guirande and Jason Morris are all very different men, shaped by their experiences and their times. Are they all a tad possessive when it comes to their women? Yes. Are they all very protective of their lady love? Absolutely. Are they all good-looking? To me, yes. (And here I must admit to teetering on the edge of stereotyping in that they’re all tall and well-built, but one of the benefits of being a writer is that I can please myself in these matters) Are they stereotypes? Nope. Adam, Jason and Matthew all agree: they’re quite unique, thank you very much.

Likewise, my female protagonists are no stereotypical damsels in distress – I don’t believe all that many women are. Instead, they are as strong as their men, albeit at times restricted by their gender. Accordingly, my 14th century female lead, Kit de Guirande, is no atypical sword-swinging female.
“Thank the Lord for that,” Adam mutters. (See? They’re always there, eavesdropping on my thoughts)
No, Kit is strong and determined, but she is also very often pregnant which sort of puts paid to any Wonder Woman aspirations she might have. On the other hand, strength comes in many forms, and sometimes it is our lot—whether we be women or men—to just bear things, survive despite the obstacles along our way.

In difference to Kit, both Alex and Helle are capable of fighting to defend their man. Both are modern women, albeit that I’ve sent Alex falling through time to live out the rest of her existence in the 17th century. Very much fun, that, even if Alex doesn’t always agree. The challenge when it comes to Alex is that she must reasonably change from the out-spoken and very independent woman she is when she first crash-lands at Matthew’s feet to a woman more in sync with her times. After all, no person is ever written in stone, we evolve throughout our lives this due to our experiences and the expectations on us. And so Alex Lind learns (and slowly accepts) that in this new world of hers she has no legal status. She is only an extension of her husband and has no choice but to accept his decisions. A hard road to travel for one as independent as she is. Fortunately, Matthew is an intelligent man who loves his wife dearly and therefore involves her in the decision-making—as long as they agree…

“As it should be,” Adam says.
“Aye,” Matthew agrees. “My wife is mine to care for, mine to cherish, mine to discipline as she might need it.” His eyes twinkle. “Mind you, disciplining Alex is a tad dangerous: she may very well end up kicking me to the ground.”
“Too right,” Alex says. My time-travelling lady has a black belt in Karate. Has come in quite handy when she’s had to save Matthew from all sorts. Not something Matthew likes to discuss, though: in his book, he’s the one supposed to do the protecting.

“I’ve never disciplined my wife,” Adam says. “For a man to bear hand on a woman…” His voice trails off, his cheeks going a dull red when Kit just looks at him. “Once,” he says quietly. “I did it once and was immediately ashamed.”

“Well, anyone tries to discipline me and they won’t know what hit them,” Helle says. In tight jeans showing off her strong legs she looks extremely self-sufficient, especially standing the way she does, arms crossed over her chest.
“My lioness has quite the bite,” Jason says proudly, ruffling her blonde curls. And he’s right. Helle saves his life on a number of occasions no matter the cost to her. As I think it, Jason’s face clouds. No doubt he’s recalling just how much it cost her the first time round…

I guess if there’s any stereotype I’m guilty of it’s believing in love. Not your romantic pink-flushed love, more the gritty lasts-for-a-lifetime love that somehow manages to overcome everything from the loss of a child to the loss of your dignity and pride. That’s how my male protagonists love their women, that’s how they’re loved in return. They stand and fall together, my Adam and his Kit, Matthew and Alex, Jason and Helle. A bit like hubby and me if I may say so—albeit that so far our lives are rather ordinary and humdrum compared to the exciting times my poor characters live through.
“Good. Keep it that way,” hubby says, stooping to kiss my brow. “I’m not sure I’m made for all that hero stuff.”
Silly man. He is a hero. My hero.

No discipline, no output

Anna BelfrageLeave a comment

Writing is a very creative process. In the initial stages, there’s not much discipline around as I’m so caught up in developing the story I often forget both to cook and shop, causing me to survive on copious amounts of tea and too much chocolate. This stage is exhausting – productivity is at an all-time high and I am burning energy as if there is no tomorrow, especially as I also have a pretty demanding day-job.

Some writers love this part of the process. I don’t, uncomfortable with the way I am engulfed by the creative side in me. You see, in all other aspects of my life I am VERY disciplined. I write lists. I plan dinners a week at the time. I am a structural fascist. Having my brain taken over by my characters—and a loud and opinionated lot they are—is way out of my comfort zone, however exhilarating it is.

Fortunately, once the first draft is in place, I can resort to structure. This is when I rewrite and revise. Historical fiction authors come in all sizes. For some, the human-interest angle overshadows everything else, and a couple of historical errors is neither here nor there. For others, the historical facts must be as correct as they can be. I belong to the latter category, and my penchant for lists and structure—discipline—come in handy when I double-check my facts. Or when I chase up little details such as on what day exactly was there a full moon in April of 1328. Or spend hours studying what medieval maps I can find of the various towns in which my story takes place.

I think this is my favourite phase of the writing process, lovely hours spent organising my work, comparing my research notes with the story and the settings. This is also when I discover that perfect scene in which my heroine is staring out towards the west and the setting sun has to go as the castle she is in would not offer all that much of a view to the west. I sigh mightily at having to cut the scene—but pat myself on the back for having the fortitude to do so. After all, facts are facts.

Mind you, a historical novel without human-interest would be pretty boring. Especially, if like me, you’re into searing love stories, intense love scenes and some sort of HEA (Happily Ever After). So while the discipline—fact-checking, plot-structure, realistic character arcs, revised grammar & spelling—build the foundations, it is the creative whimsy, the actual people, their lives and loves, which make up the icing. And who wants cake without icing, hey? Not me, at any rate!

My latest release is set in 14th century England: An inept king is forcibly deposed and replaced by his young son; the queen mother and her lover Roger Mortimer take over the actual ruling and the barons of England don’t like it one bit, to be lorded over by an adulterous wife and her bit on the side. This is all historical fact, hours of research laying the framework for the story. A story with plenty of human-interest as it stands, but to really spice things up I’ve added the fictional character Adam de Guirande, torn between his love for his young king, his former lord Mortimer—and his wife.

The end result is (I hope) quite the heady brew of medieval intrigue, treachery and passion. But it is the disciplined approach to historical facts and trivia that help build the setting and atmosphere. It is through discipline that I build my medieval world, lacing it with sufficient details to transport the readers right into the draughty guest hall of the Priory of St Mary, one very cold December day in 1327.

It had been decided that the former king was to be buried at St Peter’s Abbey in Gloucester. Some days into December, the court was slowly making its way across a sodden and gloomy England, the king preferring to ride apart with his young companions.

They arrived in Worcester in a squall of rain and sleet. Kit had never entered Worcester from the east before, having always approached from the west and over the bridge spanning the Severn, but once through the gate, the town was very much as she remembered it—albeit surprisingly empty of people, which she took to be due to the freezing weather. They made their way towards the river and the huge whitewashed church of the priory of St Mary’s, stark against the grey skies beyond. By the time they were ushered inside the priory’s guest hall, they were muddy and cold to the bone.

Kit settled herself in a corner, waiting for the bustle to settle. The queen insisted on private accommodation, and the little prior bowed and scraped, hands twisting nervously as he assured his lady queen he would do everything to fulfil her wishes.
Kit pulled her damp cloak closer and suppressed a shiver.
“Cold?” King Edward sat down beside her.
“And wet.”
So was he, his hair plastered to his head. A day of constant wind and rain had left him with windburn, he had a streak of mud under his right eye, and his boots squelched when he moved. And yet it wasn’t that which moved her to place a hand on his face—it was the shadows under his eyes, the uncertain set to his mouth.
“It will be over soon, my lord.”
“Will it?” He pulled off his gloves, rubbing his hands. “I am not so sure, Lady Kit.” He scraped at a scab on his hand, studying the little beads of blood intently.
“Once he is laid at rest, things will be easier.” She used her sleeve to wipe his hand clean of blood.
Edward grunted, no more, sinking into a heavy silence. Kit cast about for a somewhat cheerier subject.
“Looking forward to your wedding, my lord?”
The king blinked. “My wedding?” His mouth curved into a soft smile, and he nodded. “She will be on her way soon.” He gnawed his lip, throwing Kit a look from under long, fair lashes. “I hope she is as pleased as I am.”
“Oh, I am sure she is.”
“Truly?” He smiled again, briefly. He made as if to say something, broke off. Kit waited. “I…” He turned troubled eyes on Kit. “I have never…er…deflowered a maid.”
“I am glad to hear that,” Kit said, laughing silently at his discomfited expression.
“Will I hurt her? I don’t want to, but Montagu says it always hurts the first time for a woman.” He leaned back against the wall, long legs extended before him.
“It doesn’t have to.” Kit recalled her own wedding night. It had been uncomfortable as Adam had been convinced she was no virgin. But he had made amends, loving her with far more tenderness the second time around.
“Lady Philippa will have been told two things: that it may hurt, and that she must lay back and bear it—as any good wife must.” She rubbed at her belly. In response, the child within kicked. “If you want a happy marriage, you don’t want her to lay back and bear it, my lord. You want her to enjoy it.” From the amused look in the king’s eyes and the heat in her cheeks, Kit suspected she was presently the bright red of rowan berries, but she pushed on. “You must…well, I suppose you have to…” She glared at him. “Why don’t you ask Adam instead?”
“He’s not a woman.” The king studied his hands. “I have to touch her, don’t I?” He cleared his throat. “Everywhere.”
“Yes.” Kit fiddled with the clasps of her cloak. “Touch her and kiss her until she strains towards you.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
“Then you’re not touching her boldly enough.”
The king grinned. “Can I hope for some demonstrations, Lady Kit?”
“Most certainly not!” She stood. “If you want further guidance, I suggest you ask someone else.”
“Like Adam.” Yet again that broad grin. “He must do everything right, to judge from your bright face, my lady.”
Kit grinned back, patting her belly. “As a matter of fact, my lord, he does.”

Stealing the limelight – or how a secondary character grew into a central one

Anna BelfrageLeave a comment

Writing historical novels very often leads to discovering new favourites. When I started writing my The King’s Greatest Enemy series, I was very much into Roger Mortimer and Queen Isabella, only occasionally sparing a thought for Isabella’s son, the very young Edward III who became an unwilling participant in the events that led up to his father’s deposition and subsequent (purported) death.

As my writing progressed, Edward grew on me. The idea of a young boy torn in two by his love for both his parents had a lot of potential for emotional tension. And I imagine it was tense—and difficult—for Edward to watch the rift between his parents widening. Even more so when he ended up as the official figurehead for Isabella’s invasion of England: she came, she said, to deliver the English from that foul snake Despenser, and to protect the throne for the rightful heir, her handsome son.

What her handsome son thought about being paraded at the head of an army intent on ousting his father was neither here nor there according to Isabella. Edward likely did not agree, and these early experiences made him all that more determined to become a king so perfect no one would ever dream of attempting to oust him.

Eduard3
Edward the boy king

It also made him determined to rule his own roost. I imagine living under mama’s thumb for a number of years only reinforced that feeling. It is strange that a woman as intelligent as Isabella did not realise just how much her young son resented her attempts to order all things in his kingdom, even more so when the Isabella & Roger duo showed little inclination to step aside as Edward grew older.

Edward had few opportunities to rebel. The royal administration was in the hands of Mortimer’s capable officers, Isabella and Mortimer held the Great Seal, and Edward spent his days surrounded by people who served his regents rather than him. A difficult situation for a young king who aspired to power.

What Edward did have were friends. Having learnt from his father’s fate just how dangerous it was to play favourites, Edward cultivated a varied selection of young men, some substantially older than him, some as young as he was. What all these young men had in common was that they were the heirs to important lordships in England, i.e. Edward was forging strong relationships with the men that would in the future be his barons. Along the way, this group of companions would also help Edward reclaim his royal power.

In my recently released book, any reclaiming of power is still in the future. Edward III is as yet an untried youth, chafing under the rule of his mother and her favourite baron. He is confused by what is happening around him, he is afflicted by guilt for his part in his father’s deposition, and he is quickly learning to be very selective as to who he trusts. He is also an adolescent, a lanky teenager thrust into a position of eminence which requires adherence to protocol when he’d prefer running wild with his companions. Plus, at the age of fifteen he also becomes a husband, a role he intends to take very seriously. After all, Edward has seen first-hand just what a failed marriage can lead to, and is therefore determined to ensure his Philippa is content.

A larger-than-life lad is my Edward, and where initially he was more of a supporting character, he has become one of the protagonists, a young puppet fighting his puppeteers for control over his own strings. I admire this boy-king. I am impressed by how quickly he learns to play the political game, I smile fondly at his more boisterous moods and am not sure whether to groan out loud or pat him encouragingly on the back when he rides north at the head of his army to teach the pesky Scots a lesson. At the time, he was fourteen…

As all those familiar with history will know, some years later Edward wrested control away from his mother and her lover. At eighteen, Edward III began his own personal rule, forty plus years in which he was the undisputed king, his authority never questioned.

Edward_III_counting_the_dead_on_the_battlefield_of_CrécyWas he a perfect king? I suspect the French would have replied with a resounding NO. After all, Edward III unleashed the Hundred Years’ War on France, resulting in far too much death, too much loss. He was ruthless in war—whether in France or Scotland—but he was also a man determined to act honourably towards his vanquished foes. Well…if it suited him politically.

Whether perfect or not, Edward III is definitely one of the more impressive English kings. But he tends to be overlooked, squashed as he is by the tumultuous reign of his father, and the equally volatile reign of his grandson. Both the king that preceded him and the one that came after were destined to lose their crowns, obliged to abdicate. Heady stuff, that, and in comparison, Edward’s reign can seem a bit staid. Here was a successful king, happily married and with the reins of government held firmly in his hands. No scandal (except for Alice Perrers when Edward was already slipping into his dotage), no rebellions.

Ironically, Edward’s happy and fruitful marriage would indirectly cause one of the more violent periods in English history. For a medieval king to have so many accomplished sons was almost as bad as not having any, and while the brothers seem to have worked well enough together, the same could not be said of their children. And so, within decades of Edward III’s death, one of his grandsons had usurped the throne from another of his grandsons, thereby laying the foundations for the extended civil war that would plague England for most of the 15th century.

Fortunately, I am not writing about that era. No, I am writing about the years that shaped Edward into the man and king he would one day become. I am writing about a queen and her baron who became addicted to power, about a very young king who could do nothing but bear it—at first. I am writing about a son plagued with guilt over his father’s fate, about a half-grown royal lion finding his claws and teeth. I am writing about a boy who dreamed of valour and glory on the battlefield, a lad who rode to was under the flag of St George, determined to forge his kingdom into something bigger and better than it was!

To write or not to write

Anna BelfrageLeave a comment

I must admit straight off that the title to this post is a tad misleading, as it is not so much about writing as it is about everything that comes with it – at least if you’re writing for publication. And seriously, there are days when I want to chuck it all in. Not the writing as such – I don’t think I can chuck it in – but the sheer slog of spreading the word about my books is, at times, borderline exhausting. Plus, I am way out of my comfort zone here, having little idea what will work and what won’t. Even worse, sometimes what works one day falls flat on its face the next time you try it. Very disheartening, putting it mildly.

I believe most writers experience some sort of passion over their writing. Okay, so some crank out like three books a year that are formulaic and a tad repetitive, but even these authors probably experience moments of passion for their craft. I also believe very few authors enjoy the promotional side of things. First of all, it steals time from writing. Secondly, few authors are entirely at home discussing targeted ads and punchy one-liners. Thirdly, many of us writers are uncomfortable with the commercial aspects of writing.

Now, if the writing is done purely as a hobby, marketing your book is not a must. Maybe it suffices seeing it up there on Amazon, maybe holding a couple of copies of the book is enough. But for most writers, it isn’t. We want sales & reviews, some sort of recognition as to the merits of our work. Pretty silly, really, as what one person thinks is a great read, another may very well throw at a wall.

If you want to sell, you have to promote.
“Ah,” someone may say, “that only applies if you’re self-published.”
Nope. It applies to ALL authors. Publishing companies don’t exactly spend tons of money on all of their releases—they can’t afford to. Instead, they’ll concentrate their marketing efforts to the books they expect will sell really well, while their mid-list authors and downwards are expected to contribute to their own promotion.

Ironically, this means a lot of promo money is poured into books that don’t need it. Take Diana Gabaldon as an example: She publishes a new book and it takes on life of its own, snowballing through the sales ranks. (Having said that, Ms Gabaldon is an active tweeter, thereby maintaining a strong & growing platform. See? She too invests time in promotion!)

If, like many writers, you’re the ambitious sort, the one who wants to see your sales ranking improve and the reviews coming in, there’s no way around it: you MUST promote. But how? Ah, therein lies the question, does it not?

Blog tours help to create a certain buzz—a short-lived burst of interest that the savvy writer can milk for some months afterwards by reposting guest posts and reviews. Or you can do ads. Yup, write your own “copy” and put up FB ads or Amazon ads or BookBub ads. Not as easy as it sounds, but, I believe, relatively effective—assuming you’ve analysed your targeted audience, your targeted markets, your comparable authors. I.e. successful ads require a lot of work—yet another time thief, eating into precious writing time.

Mind you, all promotional activities take time. But there is no such thing as a free ride in a marketplace which sees millions and millions of new releases on a yearly basis, so either you promote or you drown in the deluge of books. Now and then, drowning seems the better option…

Alternatively, the happy writer concentrates on just that: the writing. Forget about publication, ignore the call of the market. No need to promote, no need to worry about pleasing anyone but yourself with your writing. I’m not sure I’d be able to do that. I need that ephemeral recognition, some sort of verification that what I write has the capacity to touch my readers. And so, dear peeps, I must bow to the inevitable: I write, therefore I promote.

Cracking the whip

Anna BelfrageLeave a comment

writer“No inspiration,” I sometimes sigh, while staring at the screen which remains enervatingly blank. And yes, inspiration is a must when it comes to writing—if nothing else as the igniting spark—but there’s another component which is just as important: discipline.
“Of course,” my very own muse, Ms Inspiration says. For the day, she’s wearing a rather scary outfit—all black & red leather—and out of nowhere a whip materialises. She smiles—one of those smiles that is all teeth no warmth. When she’s in this mode, Ms Inspiration is frankly quite frightening, and I have to suppress the urge to stand up and run, reminding myself repeatedly that Ms Inspiration is not real. She’s a figment of my imagination.

“Ouch!” I jump like half a metre when she cracks the whip over my back. For a figment, she sure has quite the hand on her.
“You have work to do,” Ms Inspiration tells me. She nods at my very long to-do list. “Get cracking.” She chuckles and cracks the whip in the air a couple of times before fading away. I have no doubt she’ll be back to plague me if I don’t comply.

That to-do list of mine is full of stuff that requires discipline rather than inspiration. Things I do once I have a first draft to work with – once that initial conflagration of inspiration has burned down a bit. After all, the first phase of any writing project IS creative, inspirational. I dive right into my escapist bubble and end up so caught up in my developing story I often forget to cook and shop, surviving on copious amounts of tea and too much chocolate. This stage is exhausting – productivity is at an all-time high and I am burning energy as if there is no tomorrow, especially as I also have a pretty demanding day-job.

Some writers love this part of the process. I do and I don’t, torn between the exhilaration of seeing my story, my characters come alive, and being uncomfortable with the way I am engulfed by my creative side. You see, in all other aspects of my life I am VERY disciplined. I write lists. I plan dinners a week at the time. I am a structural fascist. Having my brain taken over by my characters—and a loud and opinionated lot they are—is way out of my comfort zone, however exciting.

Fortunately, once the first draft is in place, I can resort to structure—which in my case results in the to-do lists. Lists with things like “double-check how many blows to the head it took before XX died” or “MANTEL, not MANTLE!!!!!” or “time from Northampton to Leicester by horse?” or “top speed for a Tesla?” (and yes, obviously these are examples from different books). This is when I rewrite and revise, when I go back to my research notes to verify my facts.

Now, historical fiction authors come in all sizes. For some, the human-interest angle overshadows everything else, and a couple of historical errors is neither here nor there. For others, the historical facts must be as correct as they can be. I belong to the latter category, and my penchant for lists and structure—discipline—comes in handy when I chase up little details such as on what day exactly was there a full moon in April of 1328. Or spend hours studying what medieval maps I can find of the various towns in which my story takes place.

metsu_writerI think this is my favourite phase of the writing process, lovely hours spent polishing my work. This is also when I discover that perfect scene in which my heroine is staring out towards the setting sun has to go as the location she’s at would not offer all that much of a view to the west. I sigh mightily at having to cut the scene—but pat myself on the back for having the fortitude to do so. After all, facts are facts.

All of this requires discipline—and an eye for details. Fact-checking, tick, plot-structure, tick, grammar & spelling (MANTEL, remember?), tick, All those ticks build the foundation of the final story. Ultimately, though, it is the inspirational bursts, the characters and their lives and loves, which add the icing to the story-telling cake. And who wants cake without an icing, hey? Not me!
“Done yet?” Ms Inspiration reappears in a swirl of red and black leather. I proudly hold up my list. Write post is now neatly ticked.
“Well done.” She peers at the list (she’s seriously myopic but is too vain to admit it). “Only nineteen items to go.”
I groan. She cracks her whip. Here we go again…