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Horse Sense

Posted in Articles with tags , on June 14, 2009 by randomfreshink

Back a few years ago, I wrote this article for RWA’s Beau Monde’s newsletter. Since horse information doesn’t really go out of date, here it is again, for folks who need to write about horses.  Somewhat edited.

For those whose equine experience has been rather limited, this might offer some practical information you can use when your characters have to have some real horse sense.

General Horse Sense

The sexes of horses include: mare, stallion, gelding which is a castrated male horse.  Baby horses are called foals, with filly for a girl, and colt for a boy.  Horses usually mature between ages five to seven.

Horses are creatures of habit and herds.  Despite movies you may have seen, the herd is actually governed by a head mare.  The stallion is there to protect, she leads.

A horse would rather run from trouble than fight, and so a horse will only fight if it is cornered.  Horses are made into vicious animals only by abuse.

For a good source on horse behavior, I recommend Mind of the Horse by Henry Blake. It gives excellent information on a horse’s eyesight–which is designed to see long distances and up close for grazing, on how to read horse communication–which all occurs with nickers, ear positions, and posturing.

As creatures of habit, horses love to maintain the same pattern.  There are many stories of horses knowing the way home to the barn, of work horses doing the same work every day–even after they are retired.

Horses eat hay and grains, or what the English call “corn.”

Corn includes barley and oats.  Hays include oat hay, timothy.  They don’t feed much alfalfa in England, it’s a hay that grows wonderfully in the western states, but not so well in England. Horses do not eat straw–you hope not, at least. They are bedded down on straw.

Horses also come in all variants of brown, with true black and white being the rarest colors.  Horse colors sometimes have specialized names, such as: seal bay (a dark brown with black legs, tail and mane), liver chestnut (a dark red chestnut), roan (which can be blue or strawberry), dun (what we call buckskin in the States), and even piebald or skewbald (what we call paints).

Horses have four basic “gaits” or paces: the walk (a four beat movement), the trot (which is two beats), a canter (a three beat gait), and the gallop (four beats).

A fit horse can travel 25 – 100 miles in a day, at various paces.  The trick is to rest the horse with walking between.  It is possible to do more, but you will be putting stress on the horse, and could possibly damage him.

Speeds for horses vary, for it depends on the horses’ size, fitness, and what he is carrying.  A team of six horses pulling a light carriage will go faster and farther than a single horse pulling a very heavy wagon.  A good source for traveling times is to check mail coach times. 

Some useful terms to know include:  near side (left side), far side (right), hind quarters (back of the horse), forehand (front of the horse).

On a carriage, the leaders are the front team, and the wheelers are the back team.

Horses can be drive as a single horse, a pair, a four-in-hand (and that does mean holding all those reins in one hand), a team of six, a tandem (one horse in front of the other), or Unicorn style (three horses, one in the lead, two as wheelers).

English equipment also has its own vocabulary, and so it’s important to know the English words (rather than the western phrases).

To ride, you would use: saddle, girth, bridle, bit, and stirrups–which are made up of stirrup irons and stirrup leathers.  The back of the saddle is the cantle, the front is a pommel.  There’s no saddle horn on an English saddle.

Do keep in mind that riding styles have change over the last two hundred years.  Modern English riding comes from the forward seat, developed in the early 1900’s.  We ride with a shorter stirrup, leaning “forward” to go with the motion.  Riders of the 1800’s leaned back and rode with long stirrups that kept their seat in the saddle–even jockeys rode sitting down square on a horse’s back.  Studying sporting prints of the era will give you lots of information– but make sure the drawings are not caricatures.

In the stable the horse wears a headcollar (not a halter, as we call it in America).

A carriage horse is in harness, usually between carriage shafts.

The aides to control a horse include the legs, meaning the calves and heels.  Voice (cluck or whoa, not giddyup), hands, the whip and spur.  A hunting whip actually is a special design with a crook on the end to open gates, and whip points on the end you can change to actually use to control the hounds.  The whip is not actually used to whip the horse.

A lady will often use a whip to give commands to the horse on the ‘off’ side, since her legs hang down on the ‘near’ side.  The whip here is used to just tap the horses’ side.

Horses have been bred for specific function for centuries.  There are hundreds of breeds, but there are also some generic terms for horses used for specific purposes.

Hack – a city riding horse, can also be called a cob.

Hunter – a strong boned, good jumping horse.

Carriage Horse – a strong horse with showy action (not necessarily rideable, or a good ride).

Ladies’ Horse – a comfortable, smooth riding horse.

Now, how much would a good hunter or hack cost you in Regency England?

To put it into perspective, think of horses as cars–the more status, the more they cost.

John Tilbury of Mount Street in London offered a horse for rent at 12 guineas a month.  For 40 guineas, you could get two hunters and a servant.  (He also gave his name to a carriage he designed–the Tilbury.)

The average value of a coach horse in the Regency era was 20 pounds.  A hunter or race horse might go for anything from 20 pounds to 1,000 guineas.

On 5,000 a year, family could keep 22 servants, 10 horses, and three carriages–so long as they weren’t spending 1,000 guineas per race horse bought.

Carriages were even more expensive than horses.

In Northanger Abbey, Mr. Thorpe enthuses over his new curricle, boasting: ‘Curricle-hung, you see; seat, trunk, sword-case, splashing-board, lamps, silver moulding, all you see complete; the iron work as good as new or better’ — and all for fifty guineas.

Chandros Leigh, a distant cousin of Jane Austen, obtained an estimate for a fashionable landau in 1829; the price of the basic carriage was 250 pounds, which included, ‘plate glass and mahogany shutters to the lights, and plated or brass bead to the leather, lined with best second cloth, cloth squabs, and worsted lace….

The ‘extras’ he ordered, including footman’s cushions, morocco sleeping cushions, steps, silk spring curtains, his crest on the door, embossed door handles and full plated lamps brought the cost to 417 pounds, 11 shillings and six pence, but he was given 60 pounds in exchange for his old carriage.

But what is the difference between a hack and a hunter, or a race horse?

Many of the modern horse breeds existed in the Regency.  General horse breed types include:

Ponies – less than 14.2 HH – often used by ladies in pony carts or carriages, or for packing goods — they’re smart, sturdy, good ‘doers’ (they get fat on very little food)

Cobs — Often a cross with TB and Pony — usually 13 – 15 HH – often a ‘hacking’ horse, or a light city riding horse.

Cold Blooded Horses – Draft horses.  Used mostly in farm work, and later in factories.

Warm Bloods – Often crosses of Hot Blood to cold Blood.  Used as carriage horses, and good military horses, for pulling cannon and what not.

Hot Bloods — Arabian and Thoroughbred.  Used for racing, and in general showing off.  Arabians were very exotic as they were hard to come by.  They tend to be smart, sturdy horses with great endurance.  When crossed with English mares, they produced tall, athletic horses which we’ve come to know as Thoroughbreds.

All Thoroughbreds trace back to three breed establishing stallions.

The Darley Arabian, Manak, came to England in 1703.  I actually lived in the house owned by the family who had imported him. They had a life-size portrait in the main hall.  The portrait seemed a little stiff, and that was because it was traced directly from the horse–after he had died.  He was quite a small horse, even by today’s standards of Arabians.

The Godolphin Barb came from Paris to England in 1738.  He was a gift from the Bey of Tuins to Louis XV, but he was ill-valued and ill-treated and sold off as a cart horse.  Eventually was sold to Lord Godolphin, who took him home to England and set about producing excellent race horses.

The Byerley Turk–most likely an Arabian–was a war-horse acquired by a Captain Byerley. 

These stallions produced, when crossed with English mares Matchem, Herod and Eclipse–racing stallions who can also be found in the ancestry of every Thoroughbred. 

The Racing World

Racing in the Regency was only for the very rich.  The Prince Regent’s racing stud farm came to cost him 30,000 pounds a year.

While racing can be traced back as far as English history goes, it’s modern form really comes out of the 1700’s.

In 1711, Queen Anne established regular race meetings at her park at Ascot.

Racing continued rather unorganized and unregulated.  Gentlemen organized races for themselves, often “matching” particular horses against each other.  By 1727 a regular Racing Almanac began to be printed.

Flat and jumping races were also held for women only.  Mrs. Bateman wrote in 1723, “Last week, Mrs. Aslibie arranged a flat race for women, and nine of that sex, mounted astride and dressed in short pants, jackets and jockey caps participated. They were striking to see, and there was a great crowd to watch them. The race was a very lively one; but I hold it indecent entertainment.”  This sort of attitude continued, but those women–such as the infamous Letty Lade–who did not care about their reputations rode and drove to please themselves, but they were the exception in the Regency world.

Around 1750, the Jockey Club comes into being, as a loose organization founded by gentlemen who regularly met at the Red Lion Inn at Newmarket. By 1758 the first regulation–for the weight of jockeys–was issued and the Jockey Club became responsible to the Crown for its organization.

In May of 1779, the first Derby was held.  Initially, it was called “The Oaks” after the name of the hunting Lodge in Surrey, owned by the then twenty-seven-year-old Edward Smith-Stanley, 12thEarl of Derby.  It became “The Derby” after the Earl won the coin toss to see whether the race would be named after him or Sir Charles Bunbury. Bunbury got his revenge in that his horse–Diomed–won the first Derby in 1780.

In 1791, the Jockey Club issued the “General Stud Book”, and by the early 1800’s Jockey Club stewards were at every racing meet.

In 1807, George III gave away the first gold cup at Royal Ascot. Also that year, Prince George quit racing after there was an accusation that his jockey, Sam Chiffney, was involved in dealings to fix a race.  The prince was never a good looser.

Racing meet sprang up– and still run–at Newmarket in April and October, York in May, Epsom, Ascot in  June, Goodwood, Doncaster, Warick, Manchester, Liverpool, Chester, Cheltenham, Bath, Worcester, and Newcastle.

Assize-week was the time for races, for it was when the gentry came into the chief town of the shire for trials, for selling harvest, and for races.

Steeplechasing–or what we know as races over fences–started off much slower and less organized than flat racing.

In the mid 1700’s, steeplechases were literally races between one church steeple to the next — over whatever lay in between.

By 1792 a race for 1,000 guineas was recorded near Melton Mowbray to Dalby Wood, covering about nine miles.  But it was not until the 1840’s that Steeplechases began to be held over organized courses.  They tend to remain informal races between individuals who want to try out their own hunters.

In both flat racing and Steeplechasing, do remember that England races clockwise–not counterclockwise as are horse races in the US.

But fox hunting is very similar to both the US and England.

In the Country: Hunting and Hacking

The record of the oldest English foxhunt dates back to mid 1600’s and the second Duke of Buckingham, who hunted the Bilsdale pack in Yorkshire dales.  November to March is fox hunting season.  It starts after the fall of the leaf…. it’s when the fields lie fallow. And it ends after the last frost and before the first planting.

Each hunt is composed of a Master– usually the man who owns the hounds.  The Master may employ “whipper-ins” to help keep the hounds together.  Hunting is informal in the 1700s–anyone can join in to follow the hounds (as in that wonderful scene from the movie Tom Jones when the Squire cannot resist the call of the huntsmen’s horns).  Those horns are actually signals to the other huntsmen and the pack as to where the fox is headed.

The Duke of Bedford’s hounds hunted actually stags until 1770’s.  But by 1780’s fox hunting took over in popularity. Enclosure Acts and reduction of forests mean less stag hunting.  And hare hunting was generally regarded as more a necessity of country life.

Hunt territories varied widely. The fifth Earl of Berkely hunted an area from Berkley Castle to Berkley Square, stretching 120 miles.  Most hounds were kept by rich individuals, and they often invited local farmers to hunt with them, for very often you depended on the locals allowing your hunt access over their farms—there’s still no way to predict which way a fox will run.

By 1810, there were only 24 subscription packs–or packs that you could pay to belong to and hunt, as opposed to requiring an invitation from the Master.  But this would double, so that by the mid 1800’s hunting became a more a matter of ’subscribing’ in exchange for the right to hunt with the pack.

The golden age for hunting in Leichesterchire is 1810 – 1830.  This starts off with Hugo Meynell, who hunted his foxhounds from Quorn Hall in Leicstershire from 1753 to 1800.  His record run was 28 miles in two hours 15 minutes.

During this time, there’s as many as 300 hunters stabled in Melton Mowbray–with some gentlemen keeping up to 12 hunters.  You could hunt six days a week with the still famous packs–the Quorn, the Cottesmore, the Belvoir, the Pytchley.  Lord Sefton, Master of the Quorn from 1800-02, went through three horses a day–which is why you might need a dozen horses.

Ptychey’s record run was in 1802, when the pack covered 35 – 40 miles in four and a quarter hours. With horse medicine being about the same as for people–horses were bled after a long, tiring day.  So the life of a hunter could be a short, hard one.  In Warwickshire, a hunter might fetch 200 – 500 guineas.  But in Leichestershire, a hunter could cost up to 800 guineas

Wellington’s officers took to hunting in their regimental scarlet coats.  These started to be called hunting pink (the story goes that this was after the tailor Mr. Pink, but there’s no evidence this is true).  Each hunt, however, has its own colors–a color of leather boot tops, coat color and collar color and even button design.   It’s said that Brummell never hunted past the first field, for he hated to get his white-leather boot tops muddied.

Ladies were also found in the field.  Mrs. Tuner Farley hunted for 50 years. Lady Salisbury was master of the Hatfield Hunt from 1775 – 1819.  She hunted old and blind, in her sky blue habit, with a groom leading her horse and yelling at her to, “Jump, damn you, my lady.” From 1788 to 1840, Lord Darlington hunted his own hounds four days a week in Yorkshire and Durham, with his three daughters and his second wife, all in their scarlet habits.

But between late 1700’s to about mid 1800’s, when the jumping pommel was invented for the side-saddle, ladies were more the exception than the rule, and they were more likely to be advised to “ride to the meet and home again to work up an appetite.”

Traditionally, each hunt always has a designated meeting place–a gate, or an inn, or even a house.  You meet, the hunt cup is taken–folks drink to stave off the cold.  You might meet around 11 and hunt all day–or until it’s dark.  Bad weather does not stop hunting–wet weather means the scent will be high (so long as it’s not pouring).  Ice can be dangerous–that’s when you get broken necks and legs.

A hunt really is lots of standing around, with bits of galloping to and fro.  Trotting from cover to cover, hoping to draw a fox.  Some hunts kept tame foxes they could let go if the day’s sport proved too slow.  Some areas had to curtail their hunting to allow the fox population to come back.

Hunting was always viewed as a sport for everyone, but the reality was that it cost money to keep a pack of hounds and hunt them.  However, anyone could take a horse and follow, if the master allowed it, and some followed the hunt  in their carriages.

In Town: Hacks, Carriages and Hyde Park

Carriages for country and for town were generally quite different in build, for they served different purposes.

This was the pre-mass-production era–everything was custom built, or was bought second hand.  Because carriages were often built to the owner’s specifications, they often acquired the owner’s name–as in a Stanhope Gig.  One of the main places to have a carriage built was Longacre in London.

Types of carriages included:

The Phaeton – four-wheeled owner driven vehicle fitted with forward facing seats.

The Gig – two-wheeled vehicles (Whiskey), built to hold two.

The Curricle – which acted as the “gig” of the quality, and was built to hold two, sometimes with room for a goom behind.

A Town Coach – could be drawn by one or two horses (a pair).

Landau – held up to four people, and was drawn by a pair.

Barouche – could be drawn by a pair, or a team (four or six horses).  Had an option for a driver, or for post boys to ride and control the horses.

A “Drag” was a slang term for a gentleman’s private coach. It was built much like a mail coach, and often used for race meetings or other outdoor events as it height and roof seats created its own grandstand.

In 1808, Mr. Charles Buxon founded the Four Horse Club, its members drove barouche carriages and so was also called the Barouche or Whip club.

Another driving club was the Four-in-Hand Club.  The club assembled at George St., Hanover Square and drove to Salt Hill to the Windmill Inn.  The pace was never to exceed a trot.  Lord Barrymore could often be seen driving his matched grays, and he was also one of the founders of the Whip Club as well a member of the Four-in-Hand.

In 1805, smaller coaches came into use and in 1823 the first Hackney cabs came to London. It was not until 1830’s, however, that the Handsome Cabs–those single-horse vehicles we know from so many movies–appeared in London.

With a fashionable carriage you might go driving in Hyde Park at five PM, the fashionable hour.   You might hire a hack to be seen riding, if you could not afford a carriage. Ladies often drove ponies.

Handling the ribbons was not for the unskilled, or the timid.  To drive a single horse is to have around 1600 pounds of muscles in your two hands. You begin to see why men have the advantage in shoulder strength.

It takes a fine hand not to drag on the horse’s mouth and make them hard mouthed, and yet to control the team, and it’s quite an art to drive a horse up in to the bit so that it doesn’t slip behind your control.  It’s not at all like driving a car, for a horse is always thinking ahead to how to get its own way about what it wants to do.

To see some great carriage driving, look for three-day event Carriage driving.  Drivers have to perform through Dressage phase for movement, a cross-country phase (where you see the grooms clinging for life to the carriage), and an obstacle phase. 

Getting Around: Coaches and Stage Travel

Riding in a carriage is also very unlike riding in a car.  It’s a good step to climb up into a carriage.  And both carriage springs and road constructions were being developed during the Regency–and were not without problems.

Sylas Neville’s diary, dated 1771, recorded a stagecoach journey on the London to Newcastle stage.  To travel the 197 miles Stilton to Newcastle took him two days, traveling day and night at a speed of about four MPH.  The speed was restricted by the road conditions.

By the 1780’s, private post-chaises could cover the distance from Bath to London in 16 to 18 hours.  But the Royal Mail coaches were much slower–until John Palmer put a plan forward for a special coach.

Palmer’s improvements produced a mail coach that left the Rummer Tavern in Bath on August 2, 1784 at four PM, and arrived at the Swan with Two Necks in London, before eight AM the next morning. They traveled 119 miles in less than 16 hours, earning the coaches names such as The Quicksilver.

Up to 1820, most coach horses were changed every 10 – 11 miles.  Thereafter, to get better speeds, they opted for even less distances, changing about every six miles.

Average speed could vary between 4 MPH for a slow coach or up to 12 MPH for a fast one.  16 mile an hour tits would be a team of four to six high-strung, well fed horses, and a fast, light private carriage that would only ‘be sprung’ over a short distance.

Problems on the road included mud, ruts, cast shoes, lame horses, broken wheels, dust, collisions, snow drifts, overturns, runaways.  On the stage or mail, when going uphill you might even have to get out and walk up the hill to spare the horses.

 However, a good road could do well.  As Mr. Darcy says in Pride and Prejudice, “fifty miles of good road was ‘little more than half a day’s journey.’  And the roads were so good to Brighton that they were often used for setting speed records.

Now, you might not be able to travel the Brighton road today in a carriage–at least not with as they did in the Regency.  But there are other ways to gain valuable experience by going out to take a few riding lessons or even driving lessons–and nothing beats hands-on experience for color in a book.

REFERENCES

The Ultimate Horse Book, Elwyn Hartley Edwards, Dorling Kindersley Horses and Horsemanship Through the Ages, Luigi Gianoli, Crown Publishers
Horse & Carriage; The Pageant of Hyde Park, JNP Watson|
A More Expeditious Conveyance; The Story of the Royal Mail Coaches, Bevan Rider
The Encylopedia of Carriage Driving,Sallie Walrond
The Elegant Carriage, Marilyn Watney
Fox Hunting, Jane Ridley
Hints on Driving, Captain C. Morley Knight
The Young Horsewoman’s Compendium of the Modern Art of Riding, Edward Stanley
Records of the Chase by “Cecil”
Nimrod’s Hunting Reminiscenses

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Because it’s not always about the writing — an etymology of titles

Posted in Articles with tags on November 1, 2008 by randomfreshink

This article first appeared in the Beau Monde’s newsletter, The Regency Reader, and since it sort of came up again, and since sometimes the writing is more about the research, here’s the information posted.

An Etymology of Titles
 
We tend to think of dukes and viscounts as having always been in the British nobility. In fact, these titles came into creation at specific dates, often as the result of royals looking to reward a favorite. English nobility grew as a result of the crown granting a “Patent” which stipulated the degree of the title and how it could devolve upon the title-holder’s descendant.

Knowing when a title was created can help understand its precedent. Two factors go into creating precedent: the rank of title, and the age of the title. The older a title, the more clout it carries. Therefore, a fourteenth marquess takes precedent over a fifth marquess, but not over any duke. For simplicity, let’s start at the crown and work our way through the English peerage by rank.

King (pre-conquest): In Old English the word was cyng or cing. The Saxon tribes who invaded Briton used this word for their leaders. In Saxon days, this did not denote a hereditary title, merely someone of high status and noble birth who could be elected to power. After 1066, when William of Normandy brought over his feudal notions of inherited power, King became an inherited title for the ruling monarch.

Queen (pre-conquest): The Old English equivalent to cyng is cwen. Again, we have a matching ancient Saxon title for a female ruler, or the consort of a king. England differs from much of the continent in that women can inherit the throne. This began in 1135, when Stephen inherited the throne through his mother, Adela, the daughter of William of Normandy.

Prince/Princess (1200’s): The Normans brought the Latin and French; from them, in the early 1200’s, comes this title. Until James I (1603-1625), only the king’s eldest son could call himself a prince. After James, all sons and daughters of the King or Queen became a prince/princess. Victoria (1837-1901) went on to extended the titles prince/princess to all children of the sons of the ruling monarch (all grandchildren of the monarch through the male line). The Windsors are now moving away from this tradition, opting for lesser titles for the queen’s grandchildren.

Prince of Wales (1338): Edward I conquered Wales in 1283, and his son Edward II, was born in Wales at Caernavon a year later, the first English ‘Prince of Wales.’ In 1338, Edward III made his son Duke of Cornwall, and would later confirm him Prince of Wales—a title that continues to this day.

Duke/Duchess (1338): This is an ancient title in European countries, coming from the Latin, dux, for leader. William of Normandy, the Conqueror, is often called William, Duke of Normandy. But, an Old English chronicle of 1066, gives him an older Saxon title, Wyllelm, earl of Normandize. In England, ‘Duke’ remained a foreign title until 1338 when Edward raised his son from Earl of Cornwall to Duke of Cornwall. Despite traditions of romantic fictions, duke remains a rare title.

Royal Dukes are those sons born to the ruling monarch. George IV’s brothers included the Royal Dukes: York (Frederick), Clarence (William), Kent (Edward), Sussex (Augustus), Cambridge (Adolphus), Cumberland (Ernest). The Prince Regent’s sister Mary also married William, Duke of Gloucester, who had inherited the royal title from his father, the younger brother of George III.

Other than the Royal Dukedoms, there are 26 noble dukedoms, including: Argyll, Atholl, Beaufort, Bucclench, Buckingham, Devonshire, Grafton, Hamilton, Leinster, Manchester, Marlborough, Montrose, Newcastle, Norfolk, Northumberland, Portland, Portsmouth, Queensbury, Richmond, Roxburghe, Rutland, St. Alhans, Somerset, Wellington. At birth, a duke’s eldest son takes on one of his father’s secondary title as a courtesy title. And a grandson then takes one of the third, lesser titles as a courtesy.

Marquess/Marchioness (1385): In 1385, Richard II created Robert de Vere–the Earl of Oxford–the Marquess of Dublin, thereby bringing the title into existence as a degree between Duke and Earl. The term comes from the Old French, marchis, for warden of the marches. The title wasn’t adopted into the Scottish peerage until the 15th century. As with a duke, the eldest son of a marquess takes on one of his father’s secondary, lesser title (if one exists) as a courtesy. Other sons and daughters are called Lord and Lady. This is a courtesy title, and so the title is attached to their given and family name.

Earl/Countess (pre-conquest): The Old English for someone of property is eon. This is as opposed to ceonl, someone without property. Earldoms are perhaps the oldest English title, dating back several hundred years before the conquest. After William came along with his conquest, earl became equal to the Norman “count.” William tried to force the title “count” on the Saxons, but the word caught on only with the earl’s wife, who still bears the title countess. As with duke and marquess, an earl’s eldest son takes on one of his father’s lesser titles as a courtesy title. Daughters are style Lady—such as Lady Elizabeth Dabney—and retain that title if they marry beneath them. Younger sons are mere Honorables (but that title is never mentioned in any verbal address).

Viscount/Vicountess (1440): In Old French the word is viconte, or in Latin vice comes–the deputy of a count. In 1440, Henry VI first granted the title to make John, Baron Beaumont, into Viscount Beaumont. However, the word had already been in use for almost a hundred years for an assistant to an earl—specifically for high sheriffs. There are no courtesy titles for any rank below earl, therefore the children of Viscounts are only known as “Honorables” (a style used only in writing and never in speech). And eldest sons of Scottish Viscounts are sometimes called The Master of (place name).

Baron/Baroness (late 1300’s): The word comes from the Latin for baro, meaning a man. Specifically, this meant a man who was not a vassal or servant. From the time of Henry III (1216 – 1272), the King’s barons were summoned to the Great Council. These were men who “were summoned by a writ to Parliament” or men of important, and often military, standing. (It was the ‘Great Barons’ who forced King John to sign the Magna Carta in 1215– primarily to make sure they kept their own rights.) Richard II (1377- 1400) started to created Barons by patent.

Baronet/Lady (1611): From the Latin for lesser baron. Historically, the term was applied to gentlemen summoned by Edward III (1327 – 1377) to the House of Lords (barons by writ, not by tenure). It also has been used to indicate barons of small holdings. The original term was Knight Baronet. The title did not come into formal existence until 1611. At that time, James I needed cash to hang onto Ulster, which the Irish wanted back. So James created a hereditary title, baronet, and The Red Hand of Ulster became their badge. Baronets of Scotland were created from 1625 until 1707, and Irish baronets were created until 1801, when acts of union passed respectively. A baronet is really not a member of nobility. He styles himself ‘Sir’ (no my lords here), and he does not hold a seat in the House of Lord. His wife is known as Lady (instead of Mrs.).

Knight/Dame (1000’s): Knight comes to us from the Old English cnihht or in Old French cnihta. It’s original meaning is for a boy military servant or follower. After the conquest, the word shows up to denote a man, usually of gentle birth, who has earned the title by serving at court and training for the right to bear military arms (and therefore earn higher rank by fighting for the crown). By 1386, we have Chaucer’s “verray parfit gentil knyght.” And by the sixteenth century, the title began to be awarded for personal merit or services to the country. Knights are not members of nobility. And the title cannot be inherited. The title is given to an individual. A knight is known as “Sir” and his wife is usually “Lady” or “Dame.” A woman can be granted this honor and is then named “Dame” in her own right, but her husbands remains a mere mister.

Listed by precedence, the British Orders of Knighthood include:
— Knights of the Order of the Garter (1349)
— Knights of the Thistle (1678) – exclusive to Scottish nobles
— Knights of St. Patrick (1788) – exclusive to Irish nobles
— Knights of the Bath (1399, revived in 1715)- first order conferred on commoners
— Knights of the Star of India (1861
— Knights of St. Michael and St. George (1818)
— Knights of the Indian Empire (1877)
— Knights of the Royal Victorian Order (1896)
— Knights of the British Empire (1917-1918)
— Knights Bachelor – a knight who is not a member of any particular knighthood

Edward III founded the “Poor Knights of the Order of the Garter.” It was a set group of 26 veterans of military service. Since Charles I the number has been fixed at 13 for the Royal Foundation and 5 for the Lower (now abolished), and a Governor. These men are military officers who are given, along with their title, apartments in Windsor Castle and small pensions. They are therefore known as Knights of Windsor. From 1797 to 1892, these Knights of Windsor could included naval officers. William IV officially made their title, Military Knights of Windsor.

A FINAL NOTE: For those Americans confused by the inconsistent “of” that is sometimes included in a title, this preposition indicates a title that takes its name from a territory. The Duke of Kent is a title associated with Kent, the land. The preposition is omitted in titles that originated with the family name, such as for Baron Beaumont. All existing dukedoms are territorial titles. And the preposition “of” is never used for viscounts.

The caveat to everything said here is that there are exceptions to almost everything. These are frequent enough to confuse, but rare enough to slip past the notice of most. Remember the notion of a monarch’s whim when creating titles—almost anything goes, but tradition is tradition because it is the most common method of doing anything. And you need good reasons to break that tradition. Particularly some of the traditions of nobility date back to before the conquest.

Sources:
Oxford English Dictionary, Compact Edition, Oxford University Press, 1971
Titles and Forms of Address, Black Ltd., 1929 ed.
Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, Wordsworth Reference. 1970

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Courting the Muse

Posted in Articles with tags on July 5, 2008 by randomfreshink

Then, rising with Aurora’s light,
The Muse invoked, sit down to write;
Blot out, correct, insert, refine,
Enlarge, diminish, interline.
                   Swift, On Poetry

Most of us allow our characters more foreplay than we allow ourselves. I’m not talking sexual foreplay, but creative foreplay. Think about it. Do you plunk yourselves down to work! Do you sit, staring at a blank page or an empty computer screen, demanding your creative side to get busy and produce. Do you tackle your manuscript with a red pen and the attitude that you’re going to get through that entire sucker tonight and make it shine? Is this any way to really be creative?

I thought about this article for some months before I sat down to write it. I mulled over the title, made a few false starts, tried to force out a few paragraphs. Then, sitting in the hot tub up to my neck in bubbles and staring up at the stars after a very unproductive day, it all came together in that one key word–courting.

How many of us court our creative muses? Do we send our creative side flowers? Do we mutter soft flattery? Do we evoke an inviting environment with soft light and music? Do we honor any of the rituals of courtship–or even half of what we’d like on a first date?

For me, it’s more often a matter of, “Gee, muse, I’ve got an afternoon to get some work done, so get your tail in here and get down to it.”

Now, I’d toss any potential romantic hero out on his semi-colon if he showed up in my manuscript with that kind of charm. But I’m guilty of approaching my ‘work’ with that same knuckle-dragging grace. Too often, I’m under pressure to produce, or I’m trying to squeeze in that extra bit of writing into an already packed day, and so I demand roughly, “Strip baby!” as I try to get under the skins of my characters. Their usual response is to freeze up, and refuse to even participate in the story. Wit turns wooden and dialogue flows about as well as lumpy oatmeal pours.

To court…to woo…to try and gain the favor of. From court we get courtship, courtesy, and even courtesan. The word implies grace, irresistible charm, and facinating allure. But exactly how do you court your muse? How do you woo creativity so that you don’t waste precious writing time.

Well, for me, I’m better off wasting that time.

You see, I believe that for a writer, no time is ever wasted. Half of writing is figuring out what to write, when to start the story, who the characters are. Personally, ‘down time’ is as vital to me as breathing. Sometimes the bad writing, the stiff dialogue, the stuff I look at and go, “yuck!” that’s really just my muse screaming for some attention. She dries up like an old heifer and sulks at my poor treatment of her. So, I do as I would have done to me. I take her out for a date.

The nice thing is that she’s a cheap date (really cheap). I can lie in a park and stare at clouds. I can garden a little (meaning pull a few weeds and just poke around). Or I wander around a farmer’s market (with no intention of buying anything and every intention to sample the sights, smells and produce). Or I just sit somewhere. And drift.

In The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron talks about this as taking an artist date. For me, it’s even less structured than that. It’s a matter of clearing away the rest of the world so I can get quiet enough to hear my muse. It’s a matter of soft lights, of sitting in a hot tub, of not having anything else to do. It’s not having the TV on, or a book open, or the radio playing, or a record sounding, or someone talking at me. It’s just wandering–sometimes physically and always mentally. Because that’s when my muse comes to me.

She comes on soft and darting feet, as elusive as a dandelion on a summer breeze. She speaks in whispers quieter than a moonless night. She stays long enough to laugh at mortal whims, and then she glimmers out of sight. And if I’m lucky–and have nothing else in my head–I see that what she leaves behind are golden rays of ideas. And these pour out of my fingers in such a rapid flow that my keyboard clatters late into the night.

That’s how this article happened. And all because I got up from my chain and keyboard and stopped trying to work. I started goofing off. I started wooing and stopped demanding.

It is called foreplay for a reason. Fore as in before, play as in have fun. Let’s face it, writing is not work. It’s hard. But it’s not work. Ditch digging is work. Writing is art. It’s black magic. It’s farce and tragedy, and bloody amazing that anyone can learn to speak to another soul so directly with print on a page and this clumsy, lovely, mysterious thing we call language.

So next time, before you sit down to write, waste a little of that precious time. Treat yourself, and your muse, to some creative foreplay. Don’t just slam, bam on the keyboard. Goof off a little. Let your characters roll around in your head without the encumbrance of shopping lists and chores. Ease yourself into it as if you were going out on a date with someone you greatly admire–and lust after. Apply a little courtship, but then, be warned–when the muse whispers to you, you must write.

Write at once. Not tomorrow, not later. Grab a pencil, switch on that computer. Get that hot flow of words onto paper before they dart away.

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Writing Muscles

Posted in Articles with tags , on July 5, 2008 by randomfreshink

Fast writing is not a gimmick–there are some tips than can make any writer more productive.

More years ago than I like to mention these days, I started writing computer games. The deadlines cracked whips that could get a crew in a Roman galley up to speed for water skiing. Over the years, those deadlines have given me “writing muscles.” It’s like this–you don’t run the marathon without training for it, and you don’t do the 50-yard dash in under ten seconds without muscles that’d put a cheetah to shame. Well, a lack of training is all that’s keeping you from getting that 130,000 word book done in less than ten years or knocking out a story a week (the way Science Fiction great Ray Bradbury used to when he was building his writer’s muscles).

So, how do you get these muscles? Put away those weights. The exercises I’m about to give you happen only at your keyboard.

First–you are now an athlete in training. This means that you must PAY ATTENTION TO YOUR BODY. Frequent, small meals keep my mind sharp. I avoid fats and sugar, functioning best with starches, such as pasta, rice and very little protein. I go light on any alcoholic beverage and limit the caffeine, unless I’m facing a late-night, last-minute deadline. And I make sure that I get enough sleep. Facing a blank page or computer screen with a sleep-dulled mind is a great way to do Zen meditation, but not much else.

On your day off, you can dig into those chocolates and cookies and wine and live it up. But don’t be surprised if you find yourself not liking those ‘treats’ as much as you used to. Training quickly becomes habit–and you’re conditioning your body to like writing.

Next, establish a habit of “warms-up” that begin every writing session. Your main writing muscle is your brain, and you’ve got to give it a chance to settle into writing mode.

Warm up start on by writing something. So sit at your desk and write one page. Of anything!

Write a page from the book you’re currently reading. (This is a great way to limber up and subconsciously gain insight into ‘how does she do that’.)

Write a page of what’s going on in your head.

Write a page that describes any conversation you ever overheard.

Write a page that describes any person you ever met.

JUST WRITE ONE PAGE.

Each week, increase this goal until, first thing off, boom! You write five pages. This is a religious routine. Do it until it’s automatic. But these five pages do not count as your regular pages. These are your warm-ups.

Then, after you’re warmed up, look at your current project. Go over the last five pages you’ve written. You can only make minor edits–changing a word, correcting a sentence, fixing a misspelling, marking a place that needs more research. If anything in those five pages needs major work or makes you want to throw it out–don’t! Instead, write the word EDIT in big, bold letters and go on.

Now, to stretch your muscles. Your initial goal is not to do ten pages a day. Would you try to run ten miles without being ever running and doing well at a single mile? Your initial goal is to do ONE MORE PAGE each week than you consider productive and comfortable. Push past your comfort zone by easing past it. If you consider two pages a day good, set your goal to three pages a day. Keep pushing. Don’t say, “I’m a slow writer.” You become your labels–so start saying, “I’m a fast writer.” Don’t worry if what you write is good or bad–just write it. The time for editing is when you have something to edit.

Plan your training. If writing short romance is your goal, work those sprinting muscles. Once a week, write one entire short story. Yes, one story. The story can be any length. But you must write the entire story–beginning, middle and end. Write only the first draft. Write without thinking, “this is good” or “this is bad.” Just write a story. Don’t fret over characters or point of view. Use the characters from your favorite TV show. Rewrite that ending for the movie you saw and didn’t like. This is an exercise. No one’s going to see it, so just have fun! And next week write another story. Work on this story the same day every week, so that your mind starts getting ready. Do it on your worse day–if Wednesdays are usually unproductive, do your story every Wednesday. You are training your writing muscles, working them out, so that they become productive no matter what.

If you want to write longer fiction, your exercise is–write every day. And write only one book at a time. This is important. You are training for a marathon here. You need endurance. You need to learn how to start the a long course and finish it.

If you’re not used to writing every day, start by writing for five minutes every day on your book. (Everyone has five minutes, so no excuses here.) The next day, write for ten minutes. By the end of a week, you’ll be up to 35 minutes a day. Stay at that speed for a week, then boost it to one hour the next week, and so on until you’re working a minimum of two hours a day. You can get a lot done in two hours-and even more, if you’re fast.

That’s your second exercise. Even when writing long books, you still need sprinting muscles. So in addition to your regular time on your book, once a month you’re going to do the sprinting exercise. But with this small change–your goal is to write a ten page story in one day. That’s right–one ten page story. This can be any story–even a childhood fairy tale that you remember, or a story about what happened to you at the car wash last week, but you’re going to write it. The point is to show yourself that you can do it.

These days, I joke that I don’t have time for writer’s block. In fact, I’ve found two tricks to keeping my writing muscles loose and working every day. First, always stop in mid-sentence and mid-scene. (It worked for Hemingway, so it can work for you.) The other trick is that you must write something. No sitting and staring at an empty screen. If you can’t think of how to describe a scene, write dialogue. If you can’t think what the characters should say, write description and narrative. If you can’t think how to do a scene or what should happen, just write what you want to have happen. If this scene isn’t working, change character viewpoint or write about why it isn’t. If all else fails, outline. But you must write. You must write even if your head is empty. You must write even if it is only for the next five minutes…and then the next five minutes…and then the next five minutes. All those five minutes add up.

Just like your characters, you need motivation. Money is one of the best incentives I know to get any writer working–oh, that lovely cash. But a writer who hasn’t yet sold is missing this prime motivator–which is why you’re going to start paying yourself.

Set your pay according to what you can afford, anything from a dollar to ten cents per page. You must pay yourself once a week. And you must put your pay into a visible “piggy bank”–something made out of a clear plastic is perfect. Now if you don’t think that’s much money, add it up. For a 400 page 100,000 word manuscript you’ve earned between $40 and $400 dollars! Even if your thrifty soul screams at this, even if it’s a stretch to make the paycheck cover the bills, you must do this. You must pay yourself something in order to know bone-deep that you are making money! Pay is what makes you know that you can earn money with your writing.

There is one catch–you can’t spend a nickel until after you finish your first draft and do a second-draft edit to smooth all scenes. On the day you write THE END and you’ve removed all those “EDIT” notes you had left, that’s when you open up that piggy bank and celebrate. Spend the money on anything you want–a triple-scoop sundae, new clothes, a writing conference.

Make your writing place comfortably yours. Athletes need good equipment to compete. You don’t see Florence Joyner on the track in ratty cross-trainers with broken shoe laces. Get that pocket dictionary by your desk, buy yourself that wrist rest, make sure your chair and desk are at comfortable heights. This is an investment in yourself and your career. You don’t have to do this overnight. Start with cheep equipment and trade up as you get better and need better equipment.

If you don’t have a computer, make it a priority to get one. On a typewriter, 65 words a minute is my max. (and don’t even count the errors). With a computer, I can push 120 words a minute or more. Computers increase productivity. And they’re getting cheaper by the day–particularly the second-hand models. There’s no way I could produce as much work as I currently do without a computer.

When you take a vacation–or suffer an illness–ease yourself back into your training schedule. You’re an athlete making a comeback, remember. Nothing is more likely to cause a block than to think you’re hitting one because you normally produce ten pages in a week, only this week you barely got two done. When that happens, back up in your training program. Go back to basics. You can strain your writing muscles by working too hard when your out-of-shape.

In each writing session give yourself short breaks. The key word here is short. Get up, walk outside, stretch your back, have a glass of water. Then get back to work. You’ll be more productive for it. I have about four to six good hours of work in me, but I spread that out over eight to ten hours. Learn what your own pace is–watch how you work on the most productive days and copy that pace to make every day just as productive.

There are other techniques you can use–most of them you’ll discover by just observing how you like to work and customizing your training program to work for you. Just remember one thing–a muscle gets stronger with use. Your goal is progress. It’s no good if you spend all day exercising, but only do it once a month. Sure, you get some benefit, but you’re not building long-term muscle. Same goes for writing. It’s a lot harder to write when you don’t do it very often. And, by pushing yourself for a little more each time you flex those muscles, you’ll soon wonder why you ever thought it was so hard just to write a few pages.

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Plotting from Character

Posted in Articles with tags on July 5, 2008 by randomfreshink

We’ve all read it (and written it)–that scene where the heroine does something really stupid because the plot needs her to be at risk. Or what about that moment when you can’t think what happens next–say, right after the heroine and hero make love for the first time–and all you can come up with is them bickering over a misunderstanding because you need conflict.

Contrived. That’s how those scenes read. But there’s a better way to create a tighter, more believable story. By plotting from character.

To do this, you create the action (or beats) for your story from the inside out. Your characters will come across as well motivated, and this’ll give you some great plot twists because they come from character not cliché.

To start on the inside, start at the deepest point: for every character in your story (hero, heroine, secondary folks and villains) find out that person’s core need. This goes beyond a tangible goal, such as to be rich. This is what Debra Dixon in Goal, Motivation, Conflict calls a motivating force. For example, maybe the heroine needs a place to belong, because she grew up with an alcoholic father and her parents’ divorce when she was twelve left her feeling she didn’t fit in anywhere. As you can see, when you identify this core need, you also need a reason for how it arose.

Orson Scott Card in Character and Viewpoint recommends that when looking for motivations for your character’s core need discard the first two or three ideas. These impulses pop up because they’re overused–you’ve seen them a lot. As in, the hero doesn’t want to get married because a woman betrayed him. Instead, stretch a little.

Maybe you start with a hero betrayed by a woman–but how did he end up with a woman who’d dump him? Maybe he’s deeply insecure due to having grown up short and fat (before he shot up to six foot and trimmed down), so he picks women who’ll leave him because it reinforces his self-image. Or maybe he had a repressive childhood and flaky women represent a freedom he craves–but they also leave him. Or maybe he grew up a foster kid and has thick walls about commitment, so women end up “dumping” him because he’s not emotionally available.

As you dig deeper, you’ll get a more complex character. This means a stronger plot. An important factor is that core needs developed in early years always resonate the strongest with readers, creating the most sympathetic characters.

Once you have the core need and why it’s there, now set up a potential mate who can’t provide that need, but who is still attracted to that person and by that person.

Let’s pick up with that heroine who wants a house because of the ‘belonging’ it represents. This means we need a house in the story. And we need to hook her up with someone who doesn’t want to belong. So how about that hero who’s looking for freedom (and has been looking for it in flaky women who leave him). Give them both a house–a join inheritance–and now they’re ready to clash. She wants it for a home. He wants the money from it for the freedom it’ll buy him.

Now we have internal and external conflict going–and the start of a plot. Time to go back to your characters (instead of to outside situations or actions).

Do your characters recognize their needs and motivations, or are these unacknowledged?

Maybe the heroine knows she wants a house–does she know why? Let’s say we go with her knowing she wants to belong–how do we add conflict? Have her hate this weakness. She’s independent, strong, and successful–and this need irritates her. It’s a weakness. Now she’s in conflict with herself.

What about if she doesn’t know she has this need? How to increase the pressure? Maybe she has trouble explaining her attachment to this house–it’s only a feeling. And this embarrasses her. The hero’s frustrated with her lack of communication, and she resents him pushing her for answers.

Notice that either approach creates conflict, but also creates two different people. That’s going to mean two different stories. Make your choices based on what works for you. Repeat this with all your characters, but particularly focus on your main characters.

Just as you think about what’s going to keep your hero and heroine apart, what personality traits are going to pull them together? Go beyond he’s hot and she’s sexy. These two need to click emotionally, mentally and on levels beyond physical.

Maybe she makes him laugh–she’s spontaneous without being a total flake. That’s a hint she’s got the potential to satisfy that basic need of his–but there’s a journey past his baggage to get to a relationship that works.

For her, maybe he’s the version of her father she remembers from before her childhood fell apart. Maybe she gets a little swept up with his dreams. Again, the reader need hints–not clubs over the head, hints–that somehow these two can satisfy the basic need in each other. Or perhaps the character will grow past this need.

Keep layering. Add traits that are strengths and ones that are weaknesses, make them compliment and contrast to the other person. Maybe he’s good with fixing things–nice potential here to have his shirt off as he hammers nails–but he’s short tempered. Maybe she’s patient and creative, but procrastinates. Can you start to see scenes for how these traits clash? Or work together? Use these characteristics to jot down scene ideas of how you’ll show these traits in action–that’s story.

Four things are helpful in plotting this way:

1) Give every character a secret. This may or may not come out. Either way, it shapes the character. This could be a secret fear, sexual fantasy, hidden lie, or a guilty pleasure.

2) Leave room for characters to surprise you. If a character goes off in some direction, let ‘em. It’ll keep the writing fresh for you and the reader.

3) Focus the story on one character’s specific growth. In a romance, both the hero and the heroine will have to move from a person for whom a relationship is not possible. However, one character will have the greatest growth–that character should be the focus of the book. Build the story around that person.

4) Know your main characters’ sexual histories. Your hero and heroine need to be compatible sexually, so it’s good to know how they complement each other, and how there might be conflict in experience, comfort zones, and willingness to experiment.

With all this brewing, you also need a clear goal for each character. Something that connects to that core need you found. Character goals must put the two characters in conflict, but there are two approaches.

Either have the goals be opposite–she wants to keep the house, he wants to sell it, or she wants a family, he wants no responsibility, and so on. Or give them the same goal and make the conflict come from each person’s approach to achieving it. As in, they both want to sell the house, but he’s knocking out walls while she’s trying to paint them. Or her plan for a family is no plan at all, while he’s got it mapped out with travel for five years, then marriage, a house, and two kids spread three years apart. This is a great way to create sizzle because it seems as if the complimentary goals ought to work, but they keep clashing.

With your characters developing, now we’re ready to shape the scenes to give us the four main points of the book. You’ll need the first turning point, mid-point, third turning point (sometimes called the third act dark moment), and resolution (where the main character realizes that he or she has changed). In a romance, the resolution is also where the reader sees that the hero and heroine have moved to where a deeper relationship is possible.

This is a good time to play the “what if” game.

Two simple rules–start every sentence with “what if.” Then think of the worst thing that could happen to this person and jot it down.

What if the heroine has her sense of not belonging thrown into her face by her being…fired…asked to leave her favorite club…ostracized by the local community?

What if the hero has his freedom taken from him by being…thrown in jail for violating an obscure city law…saddled with a house that can’t be sold due a sudden drop in the market…faced with a baby that’s dumped on him?

This is where you bring in outside events and actions to bounce the “what ifs” off your characters’ core needs and goals. Come up with situations to strip away every defense a character has–pound away at their needs. Now is the time to layer on external conflict to increase the internal conflict you’ve been creating with character development.

Use the “what ifs” that resonate with you. The ones that make you chuckle or make you think ‘I can’t do that to that poor person.’ Test each plot point against the questions of would this person really do this, think this, feel this way?

As you jot down scenes and continue plotting, keep building on your characters’ feelings, actions and reactions. Stay true to your characters, be honest with them, respect them, find something to like in each of them, find something shameful, find something to love. Trust your characters. Let them tell the story they want to tell.

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