Word Wenches

A Library of Your Own

Christina here. When I was young, I dreamed of having my own library. The old-fashioned kind, of course, with built-in shelves in the Gothic style and special ladders for climbing up to reach the top. Perhaps even a double-height room with a little balcony running round the top where you could walk around to peruse those shelves. It has to be the ultimate fantasy for a booklover and I can’t help but picture the library in the Disney film Beauty and the Beast – just perfect!

(There is a list of five real life libraries here that would suit me just fine, although with slightly more realistic expectations, my ideal is the one at Saltram House, a National Trust Property in Devon).

My library was going to be very specific though, not like the general one downtown. It would be specially curated to contain only romantic fiction, some historical fact/biographies, possibly a few thrillers, and coffee table books, including those relating to my favourite artists. And the romantic books had to all have Happy-Ever-After endings – no sad ones allowed. No Gone With the Wind (although I might make an exception for that one as it’s a classic), absolutely no Tess of the D’Urbervilles and no Thorn Birds. And yes, even if I hadn’t read the books added to that library, I would have checked the ending of each and every one just to make sure.

A Cocky tale

Anne here, and this time I'm not going to be digging into any history, just a little bit of personal history. I hope you'll forgive me, but I'm in the last stages of a book, and don't have time to dig out some historical tale for you. This story was inspired by the photos you see in this blog which were taken by my friend, Cate Ellink — they took me right back to when I was a child, and we had a sulphur-crested cockatoo, just like the one in the photos. (And aren't the photos superb?)

I first met Cocky (he never did get a proper name) when I was a child walking to my primary school in a small country town. He lived on the end of a long chain and frequently hopped back and forth along the long peaked roof of a neighbor's garage, calling out things to passers by, things like "Hello Cocky", and "Hello Pooh!" and dancing up and down, his yellow crest bobbing.

Then one day those neighbors moved, to Melbourne I heard, and Cocky with them, I assumed. Later that week I was wandering with my dog down near the lagoon near where we lived on the outskirts of town, when I heard, "Hello Pooh," from high up in a nearby tree. It was Cocky. The neighbors must have released him into the wild. 

Now cockatoos are wild in Australia. They circle in great screeching flocks, or graze quietly on grassy swards, nibbling on grass roots, or perch en masse in gum trees chattering noisily. But a cocky that's been tamed or raised in captivity could never survive in the wild — even at the age of ten, I knew that.

The Long and Winding Rhodes

Andrea here, looking out on another very grey, gloomy and cold day here where I live. January has been a dreary month, so it’s no wonder that I’m in the mood to plot more foreign adventures to sunny climes, especially as this past November I took my first trip abroad since before the pandemic.
 
For me, travel—even if it's done in an armchair—always brightens the spirits. It sparks a sense of wonder as I explore new sights, sounds and tastes. And of course, it  lights a fire to the imagination if I get to visit place that I want to feature in my books. The November trip—an amazing cruise from Istanbul to Athens—was extra special because it did include a fascinating place that I have in mind for upcoming stories . . .

Fond of Fire

By Mary Jo

Taming fire was surely one of the most significant developments in human history.  Probably the discovery happened numerous times and numerous places, but the results were profound. Fire provided warmth, hot food, the ability to venture out into darkness, fire pottery and bricks.

It could also be a tool for long distance communication.  There's a marvelous scene in The Return of the King, the third Lord of the Rings movie, where signal fires are lit to summon the troops to battle.  It's breathtaking to watch the fires catch on distant peaks.

 

Heirs and Spares

Nicola here, talking slightly tongue-in-cheek about a certain trope in fiction, that of birth order. The concept of the “heir and the spare” is something that has been discussed quite a lot lately and it’s a theme that those of us who read historical romance are very familiar with. The noble family is desperate to have an heir (usually male, since women can’t inherit the majority of British titles) and that person will be expected to carry on the traditions of the family, inherit the title and any entailed fortune that goes with it. They will be in line to take the responsibility for the crumbling stately pile and if it really is crumbling, find an heiress whose inheritance fortunately comes from trade or some other source, to prop it up. It feels like a heavy weight for the heir to carry. The emphasis here is on responsibility and continuity. However, there’s a snag. What if something happens to the heir? Then you will need a spare – two boys at least – to ensure the continuation of the family line. So, to be on the safe side, most families try not to stop at one.

Ask A Wench – Wenches on Writing

The Wenches were asked to answer some questions about writing and the publishing industry, and today we’re replying to the first one – How do you decide on a title? Is it the editor or you or what?

Mary Jo:  Titles wars, all authors know them well! Ideally, authors and editors work together to come up with titles that in just a few words will convey the genre, the essence of the story, and also have a marketing punch. Not surprisingly, this is difficult! 

In my first book, my heroine was a gifted musician so my working title was the rather uninspired THE MUSICAL LADY. Later, my brother-in-law, an amateur musician, suggested LADY OF NOTE, which was better since it conveyed both music and being notable.

The book sold quickly on a partial manuscript, but coming up with a good title was another matter. My first editor always insisted that her writers come up with good titles. We would produce pages of possibilities, which she would dismiss with a few heartless chuckles. When I'd say in exasperation that she should come up with a title, she had a whole prepared speech about HOW MANY BOOKS she'd edited over the years, how could she possible do any more???  Cowed, I'd slink off and produce more lists, which were all shot down posthaste.

Triskaidekaphobia

Susan here, on Friday the 13^th – the first Friday 13^th of 2023 (the second will be in October). We all do a bit of a double-take on any Friday the 13^th, but why? Some who are genuinely superstitious about it may have triskaidekaphobia, or fear of the number 13, while others may be so superstitious that they develop a fear of Friday the 13^th in particular, called paraskevidekatriaphobia (from the Greek) or friggatriskaidekaphobia (from the Norse “frigg,” the root word of Friday).

What is it about this particular day, or the number 13? Let’s take a look.

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Probably the earliest and certainly the most well-known cause of superstition around the number 13 is due to the attendance at the Last Supper of the 13th Apostle, Judas, who betrayed Jesus at the supper held on the 13^th of Nisan, later called Maundy Thursday. From that developed an understandable superstition about 13 guests at a dinner table. . . 

In Norse myth—not based in Christianity, so perhaps rising independently—there is a story of a feast of the gods in Valhalla when Loki, being the 13^th and uninvited arrival, took offense and provoked one god to kill another, the god of light and joy--whose death brought darkness and destruction to the realm of the Norse gods.

In the fairytale realm, another party ended in disaster in the Brothers Grimm story of Briar-Rose, or Sleeping Beauty. The king and queen, celebrating at last the birth of a child, a beautiful baby daughter, host a dinner and invite fairies to bless her with gifts and protection. Having only twelve golden plates for the table, they declined to invite a thirteenth fairy—who arrived in a snit, cursing the child with the prediction that she would prick her finger on a needle and die at the age of 16.

Legitimate or not?

Anne here, writing with a sense of frustration — and no doubt preaching to the converted. The frustration is caused by the number of times I've come across books where an unmarried prince (or a king or a duke or any nobleman, actually) discovers he has a son, because some years ago he slept with a woman and unknowingly got her pregnant. Fast forward several years and he comes across this child and his mother, and decides to marry her and make the child his heir. 

Noooooooo!  I want to shriek. Actually I'm probably likely to stop reading at that point because it shows what I think is unforgivable ignorance of the laws of inheritance — historical laws particularly, but the law remains pretty much the same for contemporary titles of nobility.

These days for most people illegitimacy is no longer even an issue; nevertheless, especially in the past, it was a huge issue. An illegitimate son born to a noble father could not inherit his father's title, regardless of the child and father's wishes.

An illegitimate son born to a king might be given a title—for instance on reaching adulthood, the illegitimate sons of Charles II were given dukedoms, along with estates and wealth, and their own sons, if legitimate, could inherit their title, but they could never aspire to be King.

Because that would create chaos. Until recent years there was no way of proving paternity, so the closest men could come to ensuring they had true heirs of their body was through marriage. Of course, marriage was no guarantee of fidelity, which was why women were frequently 'cabin'd, cribbed, confin'd.'

Ink, vellum . . . and Murder

Andrea here, My new Wrexford & Sloane mystery, MURDER AT THE MERTON LIBRARY, has just been put up all all major retailers for pre-order, and as the setting for the dastardly crime that sets off the investigation into old betrayals and new skullduggery takes place in a very beautiful and historic library, I thought I would give a little backstory on it.
 
Founded in 1264 by Walter de Merton, Merton College is one of the oldest and most prestigious of the self-governing colleges that make up Oxford University, I’ve talked about about the history of the college itself in an earlier Word Wenches blog post, as it appeared as a “secondary character” in my current mystery, MURDER AT THE SERPENTINE BRIDGE. But it's such an atmospheric place that I couldn’t resist giving it a marquee role in my upcoming book. (I'm absolutely delighted that my publisher was able to use a real picture of the Library on the cover!)

Taking Description to Task

Pat here:

In response to reader requests that the Wenches occasionally talk about how we do what we do—I am taking a broad interpretation to include craft as well as how I come up with my stories and characters. Because, truth to tell, I haven’t a clue what crossed wires create insane scenarios in my brain, and craft is a lot easier to explain.

If there are writers reading this, please feel free to jump in, because—as we all know—THERE ARE NO RULES in writing. It’s a creative process requiring we pry the stories from our heads in whatever manner works for us.