by Mary Jo
The Word Wenches have been blogging for three years, which is no small feat in the ephemeral world of cyberspace. That means it’s time for a special anniversary blog. Who could forget our famous Getting Naked with the Wenches blogs to celebrate our first year, Parts I, II, and III?
Last year, we posted pictures of ourselves as young ‘uns, and asked our readers to identify us. How could we top that?
Aha! A thought occurs. One of an author’s most valuable assets is her unique voice: the sum of how she uses words, her interests, and her view of life. Voice is often the difference between a good book that we love and will reread, and an equally good book that we read and forget.
All the Wenches, current and Emeritae, have strong voices. Admittedly I’m not exactly objective, but when I’m reading comments to posts, I can always identify my fellow Wenches just by how they use words. (And we can often identify regular commenters, too.)
So—today’s contest is samples by all current Wenches, plus one new Wench who hasn’t yet been launched (that will happen next week), but who is already an Honorary Word Wench, so you aren’t working entirely blind.
Below are seven samples, mostly but not always of books that have not yet been published. The illustrations are just for fun. How many can you identify?
Each of us will be giving away a book, though we aren’t yet sure how we’ll pick winners. But if you can identify all or most of the Wenches by their voices, you’ve got a good shot of winning a book/s. So without further adieu:
Wench 1:
“She moved through the mist, lovely as a fairy sprite in a gown and bonnet gray as fog. Just a glance told him that she was all he could ever desire in a woman—gracefully shaped, with the sort of mysterious allure that would endlessly fascinate a man. With such a woman, the days, and the nights, too, would be filled with the happiness that had so long eluded him. He wondered who she was—and then wondered how quickly he could convince her to leave the hillside, and his property, too. She was trespassing.
Folding his arms, he watched as the young woman took the slope upward to where the foothills met the mountain. Behind him was a stone wall, inside that a valuable cache, and within arm’s reach, a loaded pistol with which to protect it. He stood still and silent, breathing, waiting. “
Wench 2:
“She felt oddly at a loss, as though the clear definition of their relationship had somehow been blurred. He was a shopkeeper’s son and she was an admiral’s daughter, and with the shop counter between them she had allowed herself to dream a little. He might always speak to everyone in the same manner, but there was a decided hint of warmth when he addressed her, an admiration in his eyes that had made her heart beat a little faster. Then he had been so kind to her when her father had died. He scarcely knew her and yet his words of comfort had been so perceptive.
Caroline was right - she had been calling in at the draper's shop more often of late, contriving an order of ribbons here, a pair of gloves there. She blushed to think of it now. She had thought… But here her thoughts became at the best confused.
Was she a snob, aware of her status and the relative inferiority of his, or was she above such things, scornful of those whose lives were ruled by rank and privilege?
Whatever the case, she had never met Barnabas Hammond in a situation such as this and it made her feel strangely vulnerable.
The odd effect he had on her caused her voice to come out with decidedly squeaky overtones when she would have preferred to sound authoritative.
“Mr Hammond, what do you mean by creeping around in the dark – and with this-” She gestured with her foot towards the offending sack. It seemed obvious that he had been poaching and worse, that his quarry was still alive.“I would have thought better of you!” She finished with self-righteous indignation.
“Would you?” Barney Hammond sounded surprised and amused. “Naturally, I am flattered, Miss Brabant, but why should you?”
Wench 3:
“Laughter can take many forms, from the gibber of madness to the pure delight of a happy child. The laughter that slithered out into the misty Dover night was the sound of cruel men with a victim in their clutches. It stopped the man in the street.
To his left, water slapped against the wharf, and wind rattled the riggings of ships and jangled a buoy bell. To his right, lanterns hung outside buildings were merely gleaming globes in the sea mist, giving only enough light for him to avoid the larger detritus of any port -- rope, bales, and broken casks.”
Wench 4:
“Taking a deep breath to steady her ragged nerves now that she was so close to her objective, she entered the edge of the woodland. As if a fire-breathing dragon lurked in the shadows under the trees, a cloud of smoke engulfed her, and she coughed harshly.
A rabbit dashed across her foot. She tripped and caught her balance on a tall standing stone. The rock was so hot, she quickly withdrew her palm before it burned.
She dragged her gown up from where it tangled her feet, and held the fabric in her hands, striding faster. She doubted anyone could see her in this murk, and her lungs would appreciate a hasty departure….
A demon shot through the smoke at inhuman speed. She glimpsed only a blur of broad, filthy bare chest before iron arms tackled her waist. She shrieked as the creature tore her heels from the ground and tumbled with her into the ashes on the far side of the lane.
Another fiery geyser spewed into the air on the spot where she’d just been standing.”
“The lady was still wearing the same hideous headcovering as when she had left the house. Its voluminous clouds of black gauze made her look like a walking stormcloud.
“Get out!” Her thunderclap of fury did nothing to dispel the impression. “This instant.”
Strange, but for a heartbeat Lucas had a prickling feeling that they had encountered each other before. He shook it off and replied, “Not until you do me the courtesy of hearing me out.”
“How dare you accuse me of bad manners! You are hardly entitled to lecture anyone on proper behavior.”
Lucas tapped his forefinger to the erotic etching. “Neither are you.”
Her shoulders stiffened and her head came up a fraction. She was taller than he had imagined, and for some odd reason he had the impression that beneath the crow black coverings the arch of her neck was graceful as that of a swan.
“Get out,” she repeated. “I warn you, I don’t mean to tolerate this invasion of my privacy.”
Lucas crossed his legs and waggled a boot. “What do you intend to do—pull out a pistol and shoot me? I had heard that poison was your preferred weapon.“
“If I gave you a choice, I should imagine you would choose a blade. Word has it you fancy yourself quite a swordsman.”
He laughed. “Touché, Lady Sheffield.” Pressing a hand to his chest, he exaggerated a grimace. “I appear to be hoist on my own petard.”
The gauzy veil did little to blunt her daggered look. He could feel a thousand little points of steel prick into his flesh.
“Your petard will not be hoisting itself—much less anything else—in this house,” she retorted.”
Wench 6:
“A. nodded and stepped forward. The smile in his eyes made her feel a little shy. And the dress was all right, he'd said so.
Behind her, Mrs. Ferris cleared her throat in a meaningful way and R. looked past A.
“Mrs. Ferris, I presume,” he said with a smile. “R. at your service.”
“You are here to escort this girl?” she said in faint disbelief.
A. bridled at her tone.
“I am,” R. confirmed, holding his arm out for A. to take. She stepped forward and placed her hand on his arm. He covered it with his own.
Mrs. Ferris's lips thinned. “She said you were her grandmother's friend.”
“That is correct.”
“But I was expecting a much older man.”
He raised one dark brow. “Were you, ma'am?” he said in a manner that suggested, ever so politely, that it was none of her business. “Life is full of disappointments, isn't it?” And he led A. away.
She maintained a dignified walk until they reached the end of the corridor, then she gave a gleeful little skip. “I am so glad you were rude to that woman. She is such a—a-”
“I wasn't the least bit rude,” he said. “I was extremely polite.”
“Yes, politely rude.” She tried to think of how to describe what he'd done. “Like a very polite wasp.”
Wench 7:
“I was interested even when you were a village midwife,” he said slowly. “Granted, your rank will make it easier for others to accept you as my wife, but the main reason I looked elsewhere was because you appeared to want nothing to do with me. I didn’t think I could change your mind, but I did want to see you again. Just in case.”
She looked down at the embers of the fire. “You humble me, Major. I don’t deserve your regard, but I’m grateful for it.”
“To say you don’t deserve my regard implies that I have poor taste,” he said with lurking humor. “Quite the contrary.”
She laughed. “My apologies.” Her laugh turned into a yawn.
“Sleep now. You must be exhausted.”
“I am.” She raised her gaze to him. “I would never have imagined such a day as this one.”
“Nor would I. Yet here we are.” He gave one of his rare, surprisingly sweet smiles. “I think we shall deal well together, Julia.”
“I hope so.” She lay down and wrapped the blanket around her, so tired that she didn’t mind the unyielding floor. Agreeing to marry a virtual stranger was madness. But it was good to have someone concerned on her behalf. She’d been alone so long….”
So who is who? Which voice belongs to which Wench? The best answers between now and midnight Friday will win some books.
And just to liven the pot--I'm giving away an advance reading copy of Loving a Lost Lord.
Have fun solving our anniversary puzzle!
Mary Jo, asking forgiveness for quirky Typepad spacing