#The Escape of Lady Aigle | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hamlets-ghost-zaddy · 6 years ago

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queen of peace

Part 8/10 Shifty Powers x Reader

You regret the words before the syllables form, before they’re from your mouth, but then they’re spiraling through the air and you can’t cram them back in.

Ricocheting around your brain, dunking your anger into a frigid swell of shame, the echoes of your callousness send thoughts spinning until you’re motion-sick; until they don’t sound like words at all—more like liberal strokes of cruel unfeelingness—and you will later marvel at your mechanical ability to escape: leaving a penny on the table, leaving Shifty sitting there, shame-faced and red. It was cowardice, how you fled from your own vitriol: ‘I don’t have much left, Shifty, but at least leave me my dignity.’

The next morning, you rest your head against the worktable surface, piled with Aigle fabric bolts, the words repeating again. You went to bed hearing them, woke hearing them, and no matter how you plugged your ears or shut your eyes, you couldn’t hide. They haunt you, plummeting through and dragging you low. But its deserved, you know; Shifty was trying to help, trying to be a good friend. You snapped at him, and though the words cripple you with guilt, it’s preferable, you assure yourself, to the alternative: to seeing flashes of Shifty’s expression, seared forever in your memory, when your words hit.

His nighttime eyes shone with injured earnestness, with undiagnosable hurt, his cheeks hollowing and graying and—stop, you think, resolutely taking up your needle. Dwelling wouldn’t do you any good, not when you needed to finish the meager order stack as quickly as possible. And anyway, you think, he probably thinks I’m a horrid, wretched little girl now.

And rightfully so, too.

Pass the needle in-and-out, in-and-out of the fabric. Pull the thread, tighten the stitch, finish the commission, receive the payment, and pray the bankers deign to bestow a small mercy on you (it’s unlikely, considering this would be the second year in a row you’ve requested an extension on the loan payment, but you can’t afford to be realistic. Threadbare optimism is all you have to cling to).

You’re fulfilling your last order—letting out a favorite nightgown for a very pregnant Mrs. Morrison—when Mother peers into the workshop. She knocks softly on the doorjamb, wavering and unsure if she’s welcome to enter, and you’re careful not to look at her: the rush of guilt would only increase, rendering you paralyzed. She’s crept around the house since you laid out the truth of financial ruin—and how it directly resulted from her carelessness—and its precisely what you had carefully avoided. She’s sinking once more into the shadowy depths she had been lost to after your father’s death, succumbing further every day to her grief. Time had been the cure but, with how life currently slams every opportunity closed on you and your Mother, you wonder—if Mother does manage to pull herself out of her grief this time around—if there’d be anything to live for when she resurfaced.

You tried so hard to protect her from this, too: to protect her from herself, terrified of seeing her look at you but not really see you. She would perch in the sitting room, staring out at the front garden, and blink at you blankly when you asked if she wanted tea, or if she wanted to take a stroll around the neighborhood, or how she was doing. Now, just as it had then, life has emptied from her eyes, guilt opening up a drain she’s unable to plug, but your acknowledging it would mean acknowledging losing another person: your mother, Shifty. Both repelled and isolated because of your hardheartedness.

Biting your lip, you wait for Mother to speak.

“Darling,” she begins, softly. “There’s some Americans here to see you. Margaret is with them.”

“Americans?” you repeat, perking up despite yourself.

Startled to find you looking at her, Mother shifts under your stare. You lower your eyes back to your needle, shame heaving your shoulders. “Well, yes,” she offers, “They say they’re here to place orders.”

“Oh,” you breath, gathering yourself from the stool and following Mother through the sitting room and into the entryway. The front door hangs open, Margaret leaning against the doorjamb with Allen Vest at her side and a herd of olive-uniformed boys at her back. You recognize Skip Muck’s cackling laugh, spy the bright grin of Don Malarkey, catch the flash of Alex Penkala rolling his eyes among other faces you recognize from Margaret’s Christmas Eve party.

Margaret straightens at your appearance, hand fluttering up to fluff her curls as a roguish grin curls her lips. “Hey there, pretty lady. Just who we were wanting: we need a miracle-worker.”

“A miracle-worker?” you repeat, arching an eyebrow, not helping yourself from sweeping all them into a quick glance. “What do you need? Water to wine? Curing the blind?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” pipes George Luz, his head popping in between the much-taller shoulders of Muck and Penkala. “Heya, sweet thing, how’s it rolling?” he adds with a wink.

Don Malarkey nudges George. “He’s not serious; we’ve been given orders that we’re shipping out soon and we’re all in desperate need of uniform repairs.”

“Our new CO isn’t as much of a—” Skip hesitates, obviously trying to settle on an appropriate vocabulary choice for the present, mixed company, “Stickler for uniform regulations, but we also don’t want to look shabby when we’re going to meet up with a lot of other Airborne companies.”

“We’re the Screaming Eagles not the Scruffy Eagles,” offers George, earning him another nudge to the ribcage.

“Ah,” you reply. There were nearly ten men haunting your doorstep—a day’s worth of hard work, from the state of the fraying thread on their citation patches, the snagged fabric puckering at the sleeve-cuffs—but your fingers itch for the challenge, for the distraction of a series of goals to strive toward, pushing through a feverish night of work and into the small hours of the morning. “If you boys are wanting mends, I can get everyone done by this tomorrow.”

“Don’t make any promises,” Margaret interjects with a wink. “This is the first wave of orders; there’s more to come.”

Interpreting your raised eyebrows, Malarkey supplies, “Word is you’re the gal to go to, ma’am, and that word has spread like a wildfire through Easy, Fox, and Dog.”

“Company names,” Penkala interjects, helpfully.

You nod vaguely, mind caught and stuck on wondering how the ‘word’ got out, and why it spread with such ferocity—wondering who ignited the spark. Your brain conjures Shifty’s face—smiling and bright, a twinkle in those nighttime eyes, and so different from when you last saw him—but you hastily push it aside, asking, “Um, how many orders am I facing down then?”

Margaret, impossibly, smiles wider. “Oh, well over four-hundred.”

And maybe you are a miracle-worker: after all, it is a miracle you don’t faint.

…

George Luz lingers, waiting to be the last client to put in his order of the ‘first wave,’ and once you’re done calling notes for his uniform jacket to Margaret, acting as your assistant and secretary—organizing the order receipts—he hops down from the tailor’s block, immediately nosing through the parcels of brown-papered, orders completed and needing to be delivered. “What are you up to?” you ask, eyeing him over your shoulder as you hang his jacket up alongside the others. You’re relieved all of the men’s clothes already have their last names patched on them; it saved paper, twine, and safety pins.

“Oh, just looking,” George replies, far too innocently. “Are these the things you’re done with?”

“Yeah, I need to drop them by this afternoon and collect the commission money,” you reply, sticking a needle between your lips and sniping a length of olive thread—one of the only spools left in the workshop that’s well-stocked—as you take down Penkala’s jacket. Around the needle, you call to Margaret: “What’s needed for Penkala?”

Hunching over her notes, Margaret replies, “‘Refasten buttons, all are loose; redo Eagle patch, and patch holes on left bicep.’”

Nodding, you mumble ‘thanks,’ taking it to the worktable and poking a gentle pinky-finger through the bicep holes. Your question to Shifty, asked only four months before but feeling a memory from a different lifetime—maybe someone else’s life—drift back to you: did the boys really take cheese-graters to their uniforms? Why and how could they acquire so much wear and tear so quickly?

George follows you to the worktable, the stack of parcels migrating with him. You raise an eyebrow at it, and then at wide grin worming across his mouth—as if he tried mightily to repress it, but then, when has George ever known how to hide his every emotion? The kid’s face reads like an open book. “What are you up to, Georgie?”

“Well, hear me out,” he begins, talking in a great gush of words as if he’s sure you’d shoot down his idea before it’s even from his mouth—not that he’s wrong, you think, tying off the olive-green thread and beginning to mend Penkala’s sleeve-holes. “Why don’t I make all the deliveries for you? That’ll save you some time and you can completely focus on finishing up the orders. I mean, how much time do you waste making deliveries when you could be here, putting in elbow grease and making money?”

You frown down at the jacket. “I don’t know; it’s just…I’m really sorry, but I can’t afford to pay you.”

You can almost feel George shaking his head, his persistent rebuff palpable when he replies, “No, no, I wouldn’t dream of asking you to pay me. I’ll do all the deliveries for free.”

Now, you frown up at him, a protest forming on your tongue: you don’t want hand-outs. You want to be respectable, earn your keep and be independent on your own merit, but if you denied George’s offer, should you—from the same logic—return all of the men’s jackets? Your eyes slither from George’s open and hopeful expression, as if he thinks making deliveries will be the most fun he’ll have this side of the Atlantic, and to the neat row of American Airborne uniforms. You glance at Margaret, madly scribbled up totals and making notes that none of the men have prepaid.

George offered a kindness; Margaret offered a kindness; and every single man who left his jacket in your care—entrusted you to do a service—did, too. It’s too coincidental after yesterday, and you know Shifty plays some part in the plot. The fury, the heated and sharp anger, you felt in the teashop perks up in your stomach, wanting to rise and push hot words from your mouth all over again, but then Shifty’s expression flashes behind your eyelids. With these jackets, a favor had given, you realize, but not a favor to me. Shifty, perhaps in league with Margaret, had convinced the men to bring their orders to you as a favor to them, but you would earn the money through hard-work and timely delivery: no prepaying, no hand-outs.

When your eyes return to George—sheepishly, you wonder how long your silence has dragged, considering the concern darkening his eyes—he asks: “C’mon, why not? Friends help out friends, no strings attached. Putting up with my dumb jokes is payment enough, right?”

And that single innocuous question suckers the air from your lungs, grand-slams every thought from your brain, leaving a dull ache behind your eyes. ‘Friends help out friends, no strings attached,’ you turn over mentally; it’s what Shifty proposed, granted on a much more drastic magnitude. Friends don’t deal in repayments, they deal in affection and trust; they operate above the reaches of dignity because, you think as you observe George’s keenness to help you, my success is their success; my dignity is their dignity.

It takes a great feat of restraint, but you want until after you send George on his way with the deliveries under arm, until you’ve completed repairs on five of the jackets, until Margaret suggests stopping for tea and toast before you allow yourself to slump, forehead pressed to the worktable. Groaning, you wonder how you’ll ever earn Shifty’s forgiveness.

(Yet, the respite doesn’t last long: more groups of Americans soon show up on your doorstep).

. . .

With every day that passes, you expect Shifty to drift in on the heels of one of the ‘waves’ of Airborne men shuffling in and out of your workshop, yet, his abashed grin never winks into existence to warm you. You expect Shifty to accompany George Luz in on one of his many thither-hither jaunts to deliver finished orders or follow Margaret in to help sort through the stacks of orders and receipts, logging the payments, but he remains a specter of your imagination, always lingering on the periphery of your thoughts and imagination.

After keeping at a mad pace for eight days—filling orders as quickly as the American boys, enlisted and officers alike, tottered out of your workshop—George informs you the Airborne is to ship out at the end of the week. You don’t allow yourself to nibble at your lip or worry your fingers together, speculating if you ought to send a note with George for Shifty, begging him for forgiveness. You trust George would see it delivered safely—he’s been nothing but reliable with the other two-hundred-seventy-plus orders, though you suspect he’d snoop and read it before handing it over—but you do hold onto the girlish hope Shifty might want to see you one last time, if only as a final homage to the friendship you once had (the friendship I brutally axed to death, you remind yourself savagely).

You haven’t the time to worry, not with your skin cracking from sewing so much; not with her muscles cramping and the orders piling up. You put on sewing gloves—they slow you, but at least you can keep going—you don’t fuss when Mother throws herself into the work at your side, silent and dogged despite her arthritis, or when Margaret completely bans you from so much as glancing at the account ledger.

“Completing the orders and earning the money ought to be your only concern,” Margaret tuts, slapping your hand away from her spidery lines of arithmetic. You shake her head, tucking your chin to hide an affectionate grin, all the while thinking of the drafted letter begging for a loan extension tucked into your sewing apron. If the payments from the American orders fell short—don’t think about it, don’t even consider it, you internally coach yourself—you’d have to send the letter out on Saturday, the day after the American Airborne left Aldbourne.

(Don’t think about that either, you mentally tack on.)

On Thursday, in the quiet hours of the afternoon, George appears on your front stoop for his usual afternoon deliveries, payment collected that morning jingling cheerily in his pocket. “You know,” he says, accepting your offer of the tea and toast you, Margaret, and Mother had just made. “It’s been a good time doing all these deliveries, getting to chew the fat with the people I drop things off for and stretch my legs while I’m doing it. I think I might like to do that after all this is over.”

You shrug, not helping a grin from George taking an overenthusiastic bite of his toast and a loud slurp of tea. His table manners are hopeless, honestly. “Why not? You can do whatever you’d like. I mean, with your charm and can-do attitude, George Luz, you could dethrone Cary Grant as king of Hollywood, if you wanted.”

“Aw, gee, you think I’m charming?” he crows, perching his teacup and plate of toast on the desk next to Margaret’s ledger to sling an arm around your shoulders. “You’re too sweet to me, I swear! What did I do to deserve you, huh? You’re like an angel!”

“Alright, alright; get off me, please.” Feigning surliness, you shrug him off but your efforts are subverted by a snort bubbling up from your diaphragm and popping from your nose, a round of giggles following closely. George looks as though he’s won the lottery and, some small part of you thinks, it almost feels as if you have, too.

You haven’t laughed in weeks, not since the Aigle fabrics appeared in the post office.

. . .

Thursday inches along, taking George on another delivery run, and dusk descends on your back garden. Every time you think to glance up, sunlight has leeched more from the world. By the time it’s fully dark, the BBC’s news bulletin concluded and allowing for a radio play to alleviate the daily gloom of wartime, you shoo Margaret and Mother: Mother to bed and Margaret to a date with Tommy Beale (she even gushed at a poor private named Hoobler, one of the stranglers who’d yet to collect his order, regaling him with the details of Tommy having positively dragged feet about asking her on a proper date for years. Though you agree Tommy has been an absolute horror, you also can’t help thinking of poor Allen Vest, who’s obviously smitten with her).

And isn’t that a nice change? You wonder, refastening a loose button onto Toye, Joseph’s dress uniform jacket. Being able to giggle over the possibilities of a date, of having multiple suitors? You sigh, longing for the days of mooning over handsome boys—allowing yourself to be a girl—and not mooning over a tin of freshly baked scones in the bakery shop window, hunger grumbling in your stomach.

A faint knock on the front door echoes to you. Checking your watch, a quarter past eleven, you wonder why George is out, cavorting, so late the night before loading out to wherever the Airborne is bound for next. Knowing your mother could (and has) slept through German bombings, you feel no qualms with shouting, “It’s open! Come on through, George!”

The front door whines open, the floorboards complaining under the weight of a person, and you’ve tightened the button with three more stiches, tying it off and nipping the thread, before a gentle voice says, “It’s not George.”

Startled, jumping from your stool and upsetting it in your haste, you twist over your shoulder to find Shifty—cap worrying between his fingers, just like when I first saw him, steals through your thoughts, just like at the teashop—shadows from the weak electric light hollowing out his cheeks, defining his nose. He looks like a man, like someone you don’t know, standing there with something—something you’re too scared to name for fear of being wrong—darkening his eyes.

“Shifty,” escapes on a breath without conscious decision. Silence; you track the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows; you pretend you can see the thoughts and words forming, and quickly tossed aside, darting across his expression. Reaching a hand behind you, clutching the worktable, you attempt to steady your weak legs and hide the tremors turning your fingers jittery.

The movement startles Shifty, prompting him to move in careful steps—as if tiptoing around a skittish forest creature—and he sets a parcel on the worktable before bending to righted your stool. When he straightens again, his face is close to yours. Involuntarily gulping, you step back only to bump into the worktable. You bury your fingers into Toye, Joseph’s jacket, pressing the newly hastened button into your palms. “Um,” you begin. “I, um, owe you an apology, Shifty; I shouldn’t have reacted to your offer the way I did; you were being a good friend—”

“No, stop,” he interrupts, voice soft and it’s just not fair for him to look at you like that, especially after he hadn’t looked at you like that when you kissed him. “Please, stop.” Pain tucks the corners of his mouth, a marginal movement you’re privy to from proximity. “It was a crazy offer and I didn’t consider your feelings when I decided to ask you. I just made up my mind that that was the answer to all your problems after Maggie told me; that I’d sweep in and fix everything, and…and…” He nibbles his lower lip.

You can’t stand him looking like that, can’t stand knowing it’s because of you, so you offer: “No, Shifty, none of it was your fault. It was a solution, granted not one I was willing to consider—”

“And rightfully so,” he interjects, fiercer than you thought him capable of, his hands capturing yours and pressing hard, a physical askance for you to listen to him, to believe him. His eyes catch yours, and you’re trapped (except, ‘trapped’ implies it’s unwilling) under those eyes. A constellation burns there, threatening to swallow you whole. “It wasn’t a solution because I was lying to you; I lied to you from the very beginning because…”

“Because…?” you echo when his hesitation stretches.

Biting his lip again, he sucks in a deep breath. His eyes never leave yours. “Because I said you’re my friend and that I wanted to help. But the truth is, y/n, you’re not my friend; you never have been. I kept up this façade for so long because…because of that day, that very first sewing lesson.” His eyes leave yours, sweeping to encapsulate the sewing workshop, a wry smile quirking his lips. He mumbles, “I guess it’s fitting that I tell you here, huh?” His eyes drift back to yours. “We kissed, but then you looked so horrified afterwards, you apologized so quickly, and I knew you only saw me as a friend. After that, I was…I am so scared of losing you as my friend that I never tried to act on…I decided having you as a friend was better than not having you at all.”

“What?” manages to cobble itself together in your brain, coming out on a choked wheeze. Swallowing once, twice, you rally your thoughts but the one conclusion logic offers you is too ludicrous—too illogical—for it to be real. You try speaking again, “What do you mean?”

A blush creeps into Shifty’s cheeks. “I mean…well, I mean that I’ve…” He hesitates, his hands dropping yours to gently cradle your jaw, tilting your head up, and then your nose are bumping, his lips ghosting over yours in indecision and hesitation. Stretching up on your toes, you catch his lips in your own, fingers skittering up to clutch the lapels of his jacket, and your mouth slots with his. Every inch of you presses into him. Shifty’s height forces your spine to arch, stretching your arms as your hands migrate to his hair, threading and rethreading the silky hair around your fingers, trying to drown every sense with him: Shifty Powers. You try to exist in the same space, try to live in the same breath, and you know it’s foolish—against the laws of physics, nature, and biology—but you keep trying; you want to keep kissing just to try.

When he pulls away, gulping down air, he concludes, “I’ve been in love with you for a long fucking time.”

. . .

Shifty props you onto the worktable after some half-hour’s worth of kissing, gently smoothing your hair as he explains, “As much as I’d like to go on kissing you, I’ve got two things for you. It’s, uh, why I came. That, and to apologize.” He crooks a grin at you, placing a kiss on the corner of your lips that makes you chase his mouth a few inches as he moves back. “Didn’t expect to kiss you, I promise. I didn’t want to take advantage.”

Blushing, you thread your fingers with his, and quip back, emboldened by his kisses, “Well, maybe, Shifty Powers, I was wanting to take advantage of you.”

That crooked grin stretches into a proper grin now. “Well, after you open this for me, I don’t see why you can’t do just that.” He places the forgotten parcel in your lap.

Arching your eyebrows, wanting to ask if his confession wasn’t gift enough for one day, you grab a pair of sewing shears and snip the twine off the package. The paper flops open to reveal a carefully folded length of blue fabric and a little wooden carving nestled at its center. Cradling the carving in your palm, cool against your skin, you realize it’s a doe, legs delicate and thin, but head tilted in curiosity and—you fleetingly allow yourself to think in wild imagination—defiance.

“I carved her for you in December. I wanted to give it to you during the Christmas Eve party, but then…” he hesitates, his fingers tapping out a nonsense rhythm on your knuckles. “I went to that dark mental place, you know. Then, I was going to give it to you after, but I began to wonder if you really are a doe.”

“I’m not?” you ask, glancing up at him through your eyelashes. “What would you say I am, then? Have you figured it out?”

Shifty shrugs. “No, not really; nothing I can say definitively, at least. Though,” he tilts his head, considering, “maybe a lioness?”

You hum, your turn to kiss the corner of his lips. He’s agile, turning to catch your mouth, and he works at your bottom lip, gentle and considerate and eager. He draws back with a long inhale of breath, leaving you blinking and dazed—suddenly wakened from a drunken stupor. Clearing your throat, you say, “Well, I think the doe is lovely; she has a spirit and fire to her, even though she looks fragile. Thank you.” Carefully, you set the doe aside, already planning to transport her to your bedside table, so she might greet you every morning and bid you a restive sleep every night. You return to the blue fabric, shaking it out to find—“My dress!” Your eyes swing to Shifty. “You went and bought it back?”

Shifty shrugs, abashed anew. “I didn’t believe that you had been meaning to sell it. It’s what made me go ask Margaret about if you were having money trouble. In her defense, she wouldn’t tell me anything at first, but after she did, I went and got the dress.”

You shake your head, voice quiet. “She didn’t know. No one did.” Hugging the dress to your chest—a dress you convinced yourself was gone—you offer, “You have to understand, Shifty. I didn’t keep my problems from only you; I didn’t tell Margaret, or even my mother. Some part of me wanted…wants…to be like my Mother used to be; to be like how I remember my father. They took chances, but they made their way on their own merit. I just couldn’t…I know my pride is silly and prickly but…”

Now, Shifty shakes his head. “Please never apologize. I understand; my folks didn’t have much money, and I was always determined to make my own way in the world. I get it, y/n, and it’s one of the reasons I’m a goner for you.”

Your hands slacken, arms and dress falling into your lap, and you’re transfixed by the pooling blue fabric—as sleek and brilliant as a springtime creek swollen with melted mountain snow; as flooded with promise as the waving green shoots along the creek-bed. Returning your face to his, you kiss him chastely, adding a whispered, “Thank you.”

(And, until that evening, you had thought of the War as olive-green khaki. But, as Shifty peeled off his jacket and shirt, leaving him in his white undershirt; as he lays atop the quilt on your bed, refusing to ‘compromise’ you by joining you under the covers and instead contented to press kisses to your temple, your nose, your mouth, holding you close against him; as you listen to his breathes even into sleep, you think of the War as chiffon: easy to tear and irrevocably ruin, but soft and precious and, if handled mindfully enough, capable of heart-rendering beauty.)

(When the morning comes, the War of khaki will follow, hurrying Shifty back to his barracks and toward the inevitable invasion of Europe. He leaves with kisses, your postal address in his pocket, and a promise you dare to hope will remain unbroken: ‘I’ll be back for you.’)

tag list: @gottapenny, @maiden-of-gondor, @wexhappyxfew, @medievalfangirl, @higgles123. @mayhem24-7forever

#shout out to maiden of gondor's shifty playlist for helping me get through this one #Shifty Powers #shifty powers x reader #shifty powers image #band of brothers #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers fic #and it did get better yall #my writing #the gif doesn't really match but i thought we needed a good thumbs-up for everyone being emotionally intelligent in this part hahah

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the-lunar-library · 4 months ago

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THE ESCAPE OF LADY AIGLE

A portrait of my heroine Charmian that I've always really liked. Charmian has a natural elegance to her, but she doesn't often feel at home in her role as a noble.

This is from 2013, and there were a lot of times between then and last year, when I published, that I doubted her book would see the light of day. That stretch of time included a period of a lot of discouragement and frustration for me, and I questioned whether Charmian and her book were worth all the effort.

I could say here that I'm proud of myself for sticking with it, but it's more accurate to say I came back to it. That was probably a useful thing to go through too -- realizing that just because I'd been unhappy and frustrated and very negative over a project, I could turn away from it and let go of it -- but still come back to it. I'm proud of that.

You don't have to push yourself to work on a creative endeavor that's making you unhappy. You can walk away. That doesn't mean you might not end up walking back.

#original character #writeblr #writers on tumblr #indieauthor #fantasy novel #charmian aigle #the escape of lady aigle

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the-lunar-library · 5 months ago

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Writerly Questionnaire

Questionnaire by @davycoquette

This is a very in-depth questionnaire for writers, suitable for original fiction writers, fanfic writers, and people who aren't writing but who are messing around with OCs. It's a lot of fun and I'm glad I stumbled over it.

Original post here.

About You

When did you start writing?

Very, very young. I would write and draw picture books about horses. Occasionally I finished them. The first chapter “book” I completed was called Starlight's Fury and heavily based on The Silver Stallion and similar wild horse stories. It was also only 3100 words. Short chapters, big writing, and lots of illustrations.

Are the genres/themes you enjoy reading different from the ones you write?

Sometimes. I have no interest in writing romance novels from the 1960s, but if I can find them cheap secondhand, I will snatch them up. I'm trying to think if there's themes I seek out without wanting to write them myself, and I sort of have the opposite... I tend to avoid stories centered on love triangles, but in my original fiction, I keep writing relationships that, if they aren't exactly triangles, veer awfully close. Eider-Diarca-Yew, Charmian-Jimson-Rigmor, Akantha-Alexandros-Genesius, and, yes, another one for the fourth book. In my own mind, I can declare these aren't love-triangly love triangles, but possibly I am kidding myself.

Is there an author (or just a fellow writer?) you want to emulate, or one to whom you're often compared?

I wrote last week about how Tanith Lee greatly affected my voice was I was developing it in the mid-2000s. The combination of her conversational tone and unexpected imagery really struck me, and I still find myself looking back to her and thinking how she would approach certain narrative moments.

I once heard a professor say that Emily Dickinson's writing style “scared him” because it was so spare and direct, and, my golly, I would love to be able to do that, and it's something I keep in mind when heading into heavier subjects. (I don't always want to scare the reader, but I often want that direct impact.)

Recently, my mother read The Alice Network by Kate Quinn and said its style reminded her of mine. But I don't think there's anyone I've been often compared to.

Can you tell me a little about your writing space(s)? (Room, coffee shop, desk, etc.)

I love the idea of writing in a cozy coffee shop, but the truth is that I would probably be too distracted. I tend to write in my bedroom, cross-legged on the floor. When I was younger, I mostly wrote longhand and would snatch whatever writing time I could, during free periods, in cars, that sort of thing; I would take my writing notebook to school and on trips.

What's your most effective way to muster up some muse?

The muse, she does not come when she's called. She likes music though. A lot of the time, any music will do, just to create a sense of shut-in-ness and a barrier from the world. If I'm writing something emotional, then I might go for really emotional music. (I wrote the last chapter of The Stars Are Fire with “Weight of the World” on repeat.)

But I don't rely on my muse if I can help it. When I was younger I did, and my (original) first drafts spanned years, and en route I often ran out of interest and momentum and they languished unfinished. So now, when life allows it, I try to set time aside (a 30 minute block, say), and that's for writing (includes editing) and you just have to sit and write, sorry, but yes, you may take breaks between paragraphs. This allows me to write much more quickly, and the idea that I won't be working on this first draft for years affords me a light at the end of the tunnel. I don't expect it to always work, but right now, it works enough.

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and places you write about?

Yeah, somewhat. Relatives' homes, different areas where they lived (the differences in scenery, animals, overall moods), and then where I grew up, traces of it have shown up in my writing. As for people, that's a tricky thing to cop to, basing characters on people you know. I don't have any characters that are one-to-one analogues of people I know. When it comes to antagonists (dangerous territory), I try to draw more on my own negative traits and bend or exaggerate them rather than settle scores writing someone I know as a villain.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing, and if so, do they surprise you at all?

Ones that I've noticed include guilt, a sense of being cursed, conflict between once-friends, untrustworthy romantic interests, large snakes, learning how to break free/express anger in a useful way. They're not surprising. Not that I'm an edgelord or something, but these are things I'm interested in, these are things that I think make for really powerful stories.

I could also sweepingly say DEATH, because that is something I return to, though I think more in fanfiction than in original fiction. Lost Savior, Elysion, Death and Ker, The Stars Are Fire, parts of The Muse Trilogy, definitely parts of the unposted Fate stuff – they all focus on mortality and what it means for you (the person dying) and how you cope with it (the person surviving).

I'm sure there are themes that would surprise me, but that's the sort of thing a reader figures out before the writer does.

Your Characters

Would you please tell me about your current favorite character? (Current WIP, past WIP, never used, etc.)

I'm the author, and I'm irresponsible, and I'm saying Alexandros, the trickster prophet from To the Ravens. He's not my favorite in that I think he's particularly admirable. You could definitely pick a better role model. But I love writing him. He's creative, intuitive, over the top, very fun in how he talks and how he acts. He can be warm and reassuring and heroic. He's beautiful and eloquent and he can cut right to the heart of the person he's talking to. But he's always operating from an angle, coming up on your side. He spins explanations quickly, he lies with a smile, and he never looks back. He's exhausting, but so fun to write.

Which of your characters do you think you'd be friends with in real life?

I feel sorry for Diarca, and he's shut up in a mirror, he could use a friend. I would also love to be friends with Wuxle, just an absolutely steady presence, someone who will watch your back when you're in danger while undramatically pointing out you're maybe not making the best decisions. I could see myself befriending Akantha and Karyai and probably even Kokkonas, though we might bicker a lot.

Which of your characters would you dislike the most if you met them?

It's probably too easy to just list off antagonists, particularly the ones who head into Actual Villain territory. Among the “good” or more neutral characters, I think I'd find both Charmian and Yew sometimes frustrating in real life. But then, their bad decisions are part of why their stories happen. I don't think I'd actually dislike them, but there might sometimes be words exchanged.

Tell me about the process of coming up with one, all, or any of your characters.

I don't have any one method. With Eider, I set out to make her very appealing – I designed her to be extremely beautiful for that fairy tale factor, and I wanted her to be very brave and earnest in the hopes the reader would really get behind her. So there were a lot of deliberate choices made in her creation. Similarly, Arsen was intentionally written to evoke gothic romantic hero tropes, hopefully to examine them in an interesting way. Other characters come along in a more as-you-go sort of way. I've talked about how Jimson was originally a more villainous character, and I'm not sure what exactly changed him – the needs of the story versus how I felt while writing the character – but he definitely circumvented my plans. Akantha was originally a defiant trickster character, but researching the lives of Greek women in antiquity ended up being more interesting to me, so I wrote her well within those confines, defying them in a more slowly building way.

Right now, I'm brainstorming a possible ghost character, but at this stage I don't have much set in stone – some world-building ideas for where the ghost comes from, some tropes I might use for their personality. I think part of this process is going to involve reading different ghost stories from different sources and seeing if that shakes any interesting ideas loose. From there, I might just start listing possible tropes, origins, arcs, regardless of whether they're good, and see what connections form. Or maybe I'll work on a different character from that project and the arc of that character could end up shaping the ghost's arc secondarily. It's still early enough that things could head in so many directions; the ghost doesn't even have a name yet.

Do you notice any recurring themes/traits among your characters?

Many! There's the stuff I mentioned above, like Yew, Charmian, and Akantha all considering themselves cursed in some respect. I see some similarities between Jimson and Alexandros, these charmers who have some pragmatism behind their smiles. Mabry and Yew are also somewhat similar, bold, irreverent, even having some similarity in their designs with their long sleek hair and big dark eyes. Charmian and Akantha both deal negatively with arranged marriages. These characters aren't identical, but they share some themes and ideas I've been turning over and exploring from book to book.

How do you picture them? (As real people you imagined, as models/actors who exist in real life, as imaginary artwork, as artwork you made or commissioned, anime style, etc.)

I'm able to draw them, and that's another way I refine their characters. (Though in many cases, I don't draw them until after the project is finished.) Even so, it's not perfect. I can draw a figure with the necessary traits, but it doesn't necessarily capture the character. I still feel like I haven't ever properly drawn Arsen, and though I've gotten closer with Diarca, he's still elusive. Still not entirely pleased with any pictures I've done of Genesius – I don't think I've quite gotten his maturity, maybe. Real people do sometimes influence the characters' designs; I'd been watching lots of Poldark ahead of writing The Price and Prey of Magic, and my goodness, Aidan Turner and his deep sultry voice definitely passed some DNA on to Arsen.

I realize though that's not quite the question. How do I see them in my mind, as real people or drawings? I think it's closer to real people, but real people whose faces are still sometimes a bit blurry and uncertain to me.

Your Writing

What's your reason for writing?

I've always done it, and I've always been considered good at it (for my age group, when that was still applicable). As with a lot of writers, there's a sense in which writing's difficult and I drag my feet, but simultaneously I can say that I love it, I get an emotional and even a physical sense of well-being from it. It makes me feel accomplished, it organizes my thoughts. Being able to write, especially original projects, often feels like it's a sign of my mental health being good. When my mental health isn't as good, writing fanfiction allows for a lot of comfort and fun, emotional release, and interacting with other fans. (Which is not to say I only write fanfiction when things are going wrong in my life – don't worry about that! But for years I felt like I couldn't write original stuff anymore and fanfic gave me a way to keep writing.)

In a more exterior way, there's a quote from the Matilda movie that I can only paraphrase, but which has always stood out to me: That writers send their books out like ships to bring messages to people. I'm not claiming to have very deep material, but I think about how much enjoyment other writers' books (and fics) have given me, and I would love to pass that on as a writer.

Is there a specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating coming from your readers?

All comments made in good faith, even criticism, are generous gifts. But the comments that really stand out tend to be specific – lines people liked, twists that surprised them, theories they have. One comment I remember from years and years ago was an anon on Fanfiction.net who noticed I updated a certain fic the same day every week, and that made them look forward to that day all week. Another reviewer said that years after first reading it, they still quoted one of my fics. Learning that is so touching and I'm feeling all fuzzy writing about it now.

As for criticism, I've definitely gotten it, and while I don't always agree with it, I think I can tell when the reader's put thought and honesty into their feedback. So even if I don't make the changes they suggest, the feedback is still valuable. Other times, the critic's been exactly right, and even if the feedback comes too late for me to change a project, I can still keep it in mind as I write new things.

In general though, comments in and of themselves are motivating. You might know people are reading a fic, you might see the hit number going up, but not hearing what people think about it is discouraging.

How do you want to be thought of by those who read your work? (For example: as a literary genius, or as a writer who “gets” the human condition; as a talented worldbuilder, as a role model, etc.)

It's that Matilda quote again. I really, really want you to enjoy my writing, whether it's original or a fic. I want you to read it and remember it years later, and it gives you a warm nostalgic feeling, taking you back to that time in your life. When it comes to characters and world-building, I hope people find them intriguing and worth studying for their own writing, and I hope the themes and my takes on them resonate with people. But the real thing, the crucial thing, is that I hope you like my writing and remember it.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

It's hard not to think of an answer that doesn't come from someone else. It's also easier to focus on shortcomings. Part of the problem is that quality is subjective, so something I really like about my writing could be just the thing a given reader hates.

I think I'm capable of some good poetic language. For some people, it might shade too purple; other people might say it doesn't go purple enough. Some would say that if I like a line, I should make like Faulkner and kill it, but I don't subscribe to that motto. If you let all your darlings live, will you let some awful cringey lines survive? Yeah, probably. But experience will make you better able to hear what sounds awkward and what doesn't, and, honestly, better that your writing be awkward and memorable than serviceable and anonymous.

What have you been frequently told your greatest writing strength is by others?

People note my descriptions, my dialogue, especially funny one-liners. Readers have also liked (or at least been affected by) my emotional endings, particularly in fanfic. On reflection, my fics' endings tend to be received pretty well.

How do you feel about your own writing? (Answer in whatever way you interpret this question.)

It's tiresome to harp on, but I do see a lot of flaws in my writing. I often feel my plotting is weak and I can fumble when it comes to internal rule-/world-building.

On the positive side, right now, at this point in my life (the last 7 – 5 years or so) I'm very happy that my writing's been happening, projects emerging quickly, projects getting finished. I can't know if that will last, but I'm grateful for it as it's happening.

As for the writing itself, looking at it separately from me, my feelings are complicated. Like many (most? all?) writers, I'm writing the stories I want to read, so that's fun. On the other hand, they're written by me, so I can see backstage, as it were, see all the scaffolding and compare the story to an ideal non-existent version of it in my head. So that harshes the fun.

I've written before that when it comes to my fanfic, I'm able to go back after posting and reread it and enjoy it a lot. But rereading my published stuff doesn't offer much relaxation – I'm too caught up in things I can no longer change. I still feel that way with The Price and Prey of Magic and The Escape of Lady Aigle, but with To the Ravens, I have been able to go back and reread it, at least some sections. And while I still see small things I question and wish I could go back and alter, I do enjoy rereading it. I don't know if I've turned some corner or if there's just something special for me about To the Ravens.

If you were the last person on earth and knew your writing would never be read by another human, would you still write?

If I'm looking at this literally, I think I would be too depressed to write. But looking at it theoretically, at the broader question – or maybe just hoping that my initial depressed paralysis would be temporary – yes, I think I would write even if I didn't expect anyone to read. I have writing projects that I never plan on sharing. I have a diary I don't ever want anyone who knows me to read. My favorite fanfic has never been posted, and I'm still torn on whether it ever will be. Like I said above, writing makes me feel good. So if I'm the last human, I think writing would help. And I think I'd want to document things, just in case someone ever did come along.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely what you enjoy? If it’s a mix of the two, which holds the most influence?

I don't know if anyone can write with such selfish purity, if they're intending to share their work. (Again, see my favorite fic, just for me, utterly self-indulgent. But even there, I didn't write it without ever considering what other people would think of it. The barrier of outside criticism was lower, but it was still there.)

So yeah, I think about the audience, in terms of making my ideas clear, or trying to make sure I'm not unwittingly offensive or insensitive, and then, yes, what they might enjoy. On the other hand, I'm very much writing the stories I want to write. My fanfic is mostly for niche JRPGs from the 2000s, 2010s, not exactly white-hot fandoms; even within those fandoms, I don't think I'm writing the subjects or characters that will get the most hits. As for the original stuff, if I was going for mass appeal, all three novels would be markedly different. I don't think I would've written a book about a second-century snake cult on the moon.

But I think there's a subtler answer. There's “readers” as in generic, mainstream readers. And then there's people who read my stuff. These are people I do and don't know, and if they like some of my writing, I'd like to think they'd enjoy more of it. I wouldn't want someone to read one of my fics/books and be majorly disappointed by another. At the same time, you can't expect to hit the target for every reader every time; that's unreasonable.

This answer is just getting more garbled. Yes, I do both. I have no idea what the percentages are, but I think generally it's always best to be true to yourself in writing, even if it might alienate some readers. Again, better to alienate and make an impression than to be palatable and easily forgotten.

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #indieauthor #writer questionnaire #meta #the price and prey of magic #the escape of lady aigle #to the ravens #don't even want to know how many typos there are

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the-lunar-library · 1 year ago

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THE ESCAPE OF LADY AIGLE

I can't be sure, but Wuxle might be the second earliest character I developed for this book, after the protagonist Charmian. He arrives later in the book than the other major characters, but I think he's an important foil to her -- less privileged than her, but also much stronger, more self-sufficient, more at home in the world. Like Jimson, his role also changed somewhat over the course of my brainstorming/writing. His character grew more subtle, more three-dimensional, and he became somewhat more assertive and -- not self-serving, really -- but more independent.

As for his design, it's changed very little over the years: rough, squarely-built, freckled, and always with those hidden eyes. (You do get to "see" them in the book though.) I'm not 100% sold on his hair color here -- in the past, it had been darker, closer to brown, but I wanted to keep him distinct from Jimson. But I really like how his outfit came out, practical but also cozy; Wuxle may do some dramatic things, yes, but he's not going to leave without a scarf if he has time to go and get that scarf.

Yes, that is a leaf sticking out of his hair. No, he hasn't noticed it.

#original character #indieauthor #writeblr #writers on tumblr #fantasy novel #fantasy book #sarsen wuxle #the escape of lady aigle

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the-lunar-library · 1 year ago

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I think I may have more or less finalized the cover for the next book.

It is nerve-wracking.

There's a lot of little things that can unexpectedly go wrong with formatting everything and getting both the inside and the outside of the book correct -- and then seeing how different things look when it's actually in your hands.

So please keep your fingers crossed for me!

#the next book #self publishing #the escape of lady aigle

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the-lunar-library · 1 year ago

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THE ESCAPE OF LADY AIGLE

People. My second book is live and it is beautiful. It's both a paperback and an e-book. I've literally spent ten years, on and off, writing and editing it. I've sunk so much time in the last several months, hoping I could have it ready by the end of the year. The feeling of finally holding it -- it's a really, really big feeling.

I've had support not only on this blog, but on my two others, and I just want to thank you all for that. Writing, especially self-publishing, is very self-directed and kind of lonely, and your encouragement, even something as quick as a like on a post, always makes a difference and perks me up. So thank you!

I'll be following this soon with a post talking more about the book and what it's about, and all of that, but I just needed to get this out as soon as possible.

It's here!!!

#self publishing #indieauthor #writeblr #writers on tumblr #fantasy novel #the escape of lady aigle

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the-lunar-library · 10 months ago

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Designing My Book's Cover

I did this with my first book, talked about my thought processes behind its cover -- so let's do it with the second one, The Escape of Lady Aigle. You hear different things about book covers:

1: Traditionally published authors have no control over their covers, so don't complain to them about it.

2: Self-published authors must never, ever do their own covers.

As a self-published author who did her own cover, it's fair game to 1) judge me and 2) complain to me. With that out of the way, let's talk about it, what my process was, and whether I made the right choices.

This book, Eola for short, was developed over a stupidly long period of time. I think I started brainstorming some time in 2008, I started writing in 2013, and then it was published in 2023. For most of it, the book didn't even have a name (that's a different post) and I didn't have much idea what the cover should be. (Eyeball? Eyeball with mysterious magical mark beneath it?) But in late 2018, I started playing around with -- not exactly workable covers, but ideas that maybe some day could inspire a cover.

This is the one I always think of:

Character art by me. As with the first book, I used some borders/ceiling art by Jules-Edmond-Charles Lachaise because they are utterly gorgeous and public domain. Background texture by solstock on deviantArt.

I think I wanted to convey two key things in this and the following images: 1) The heroine is a fancy lady and 2) There is a mysterious magical gateway that's going to bring her no end of trouble.

I also played around with using old photos, pressing long-dead silent-era film actors into service.

More Lachaise. Light flare texture by Hexe78 from deviantArt. Charmian played by Greta Nissen, from Photoplay. I like the broodiness of this, also the way the light flare is localized over her left cheek, but altogether it feels unbalanced to me.

This time, the Lachaise magical "gate" is straight up coming out of her cheek. I think there's an interesting idea here, but it's not well executed -- the gate should be shaped to her nose, and it would look much better if it extended all the way behind her. (Again, I say in my defense, these were ideas, not meant to be actual covers.) Charmian here played by Mary Hay from Photoplay.

Some months later, I returned to this idea, this time with Charmian appearing to be lost inside the gate. Background texture from Freestock.com, I believe. I think this looks nicely harmonious, but the concept of the gate being a gate, rather than being a pretty design (which is what it originally was, sorry, Lachaise) is lost.

Then I did this series, where the gate is emerging from her mind. I think of these as the kokoshnik ones. They're very pretty, but I wonder if they also would have been baffling. Two Lachaise borders this time, woman's photo from Pixabay, texture (I believe) from Freestock.com. Out of all of these, the last one might have come closest to becoming the basis for the cover.

And then there was this one I just threw together, going for a little bit of an art nouveau feel. Artwork by Ethel Gabain, border and background from Pixabay. An amethyst/purple night sky is a key plot visual, and I think it's pretty, but this one would have needed a lot of work.

But in the end, I didn't use any of it. After doing the first book's cover, I think I was pretty committed to doing Eola's art elements myself -- all of them, not even relying on stock images. The cover's dimensions and the placement of images can change a lot as you figure things out, so rather than create a single static image, I decided to create a collage, doing each element in isolation so I could move things around as needed.

If it looks like it took a long time to do all those geode facets and small pebbles, that's because it took a long time. I am an imprudent traditional artist and the detail work just about killed me. But I think it sells the effect, so I don't regret it.

One thing I like about this cover, that the earlier attempts didn't have, is that it's extremely specific. The different elements mean something. This couldn't be the cover of any other book.

One key difference with Eola and the first book is that I also wanted a hand-drawn back cover -- and, hey, while we're at it, why don't we do a portrait of the heroine Charmian on the book's spine? A picture on the spine will help it stand out on the shelf. It can't be that hard.

I ended up drawing that spine portrait three times. It's the smallest element of the cover, and it kept thwarting me.

I just wanted Charmian in simple profile, showing off the mysterious marking on her left cheek. I like this first attempt a lot, but the colors were wrong (I can't complain about the publisher getting details wrong; it comes down to me) and overall she felt a bit stiff. Okay, let's go for more movement.

That's quite a lean you've got going on there, Chara sweetie. We got movement, but the colors aren't right at all and in general she's kind of droopy.

Third time was the proverbial charm.

Pose has some movement, colors are good, mark looks good. I really like the warped lines around her, though in the end result, you don't see too much of them.

The final spine portrait, blown up huge.

So, after all of that, here they are, the front and back covers:

Hand-drawing the entire cover was daunting, but the end result was better than I'd expected. Where's the magical gate? It's still there, it's the erupting tear behind Charmian. What're the geodes about? What's the bracelet skull thingie? Hopefully they're intriguing and they'll inspire browsers to open up the book.

I'm especially pleased with her cheek mark on the front cover. I wanted it to be there, but not immediately obvious.

I hope you enjoyed taking this little journey with me. Did I make the right calls? Am I just abusing poor Lachaise's hard work? It's always possible I'll redo the cover some day way down the road, so you might see some of these ideas resurface.

#indieauthor #writeblr #book design #fantasy novel #fantasy book #the escape of lady aigle

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