Food Glorious Food

Sep30

The wonderful thing about food is that it’s as much fun to read about it and write about it as to actually indulge–well, almost as much fun.  And the joy of writing a historical novel is the meals–breakfast, nuncheon, tea (but not High Tea unless you’ve a Victorian setting or a lower class who must make do with this for their dinner), dinner and supper were and still are the main eating occasions in England.

Meals often provide a social structure for life. However, as noted in The Jane Austen Cookbook, “In the late eighteenth century, at the time of Jane Austen’s birth, it was necessary to make the best possible use of the hours of daylight….candles, wood and coal were quite as expensive comparatively speaking as gas, oil and electricity and far more liable to be in short supply or to run out altogether during hard winters.”

What this meant was a different structure to meals.

To start the day, breakfast came around ten o’clock–well after most had risen and started their day.  The Regency morning then went on through the afternoon, with morning calls being paid.  In London, five o’clock was the fashionable ‘morning’ hour to parade.  And so serving a breakfast party might well occur sometime between one and five o’clock in the afternoon.

During morning calls, light refreshments might be taken.  Ladies might have a ‘nuncheon’ but the notion of lunch did not exist.  Also, the lush high tea now served at most swank London hotels actually originated as a working class dinner, and was perfected by the Edwardians into an art form, but was not a Regency meal.

Dinner in the Regency came at three or four o’clock in the country.  In London, the fashionable dined between five and eight, before going out for the evening.

This left room for a supper to be served–as either a supper-tray that might be brought into a country drawing room, or as a buffet that would be served at a ball.  Such a supper would be served around eleven.  Again, in London, this supper could be served as late as nearly dawn.

From the Georgian era to the Regency the method for serving dinner changed.  “…as soon as they walked into the dining-room they saw before them a table already covered with separate dishes of every kind of food…” states The Jane Austen Cookbook.  The idea was that with all courses laid on the table, those dining would choose which dishes to eat, taking from the dishes nearest.  It was polite to offer a dish around.  Food in History notes, “It was a custom that was more than troublesome; it also required a degree of self-assertion.  The shy or ignorant guest limited not only his own menu but also that of everyone else at the table.  Indeed, one young divinity student ruined his future prospects when, invited to dine by an archbishop who was due to examine him in the scriptures, he found before him a dish of ruffs and reeves, wild birds that (although he was too inexperienced to know it) were a rare delicacy.  Out of sheer modesty the clerical tyro confined himself exclusively to the dish before him….”

This style of serving dinner was known as service à la française.  During the Regency this was replaced by service à la russe in which the dishes were set on a sideboard and then handed around by servants.

Maggie Black and Deirdre Le Faye in The Jane Austen Cookbook provide this menu for a meal recorded in Mrs. Philip Lybbe Powys’ diary of some of the dishes she served, as hostess for her brother-in-law the Dean of Canterbury, for Prince William of Gloucester.  Fourteen sat down to a meal in August, 1798, that included:

Salmon
Trout
Soles

Fricandó of Veal
Raised Giblet Pie

Vegetable Pudding

Chickens
Ham

Muffin Pudding

Curry of Rabbits
Preserve of Olives

Soup
Haunch of Venison

Open Tart Syllabub
Raised Jelly

Three Sweetbreads, Larded

Maccaroni
Buttered Lobster

Peas
Potatoes

Basket of Pastry
Custards

Goose

Society meals were also being influenced at this time by the French chefs who had fled the revolution in their own country, and who had become a fashionable necessity in London.

Food in History gives this account of the dinner held by the Prince Regency at the Bright Pavilion, with his chef Carême in command on January 15, 1817:

“It began with four soups:

Le potage à la Monglas – creamy brown soup made with foie gras, truffles, mushrooms and Madeira

La garbure aux choux – country-style vegetable broth with shredded cabbage

Le potage d’orge perlé à la Cracy – a delicate pink puree of pearl barley and carrots

Le potage de poissons à la russe – ‘Russian-style’ fish soup, probably made from sturgeon

The soups were ‘removed’ with four fish dishes:

La matelote au vin de Bordeaux – a light stew of freshwater fish cooked in wine from Bordeaux

Les truites au blue à la provençal – lightly-cooked trout with a tomato and garlic sauce

Le turbot à l’anglaise aux homards, poached turbot with lobster sauce

La grosse anguille à la régence – a large fat eel, richly sauced, garnished with quenelles, truffles and cocks’ combs

The fish dishes were followed (the trout and turbot remaining on the table, the matelote and eels being taken away) by four grosses pieces or pieces de resistance:

Le jambon à la broche au Madére – spit-roasted ham with Maderia sauce

L’oie braiése aux racines glacées – braised goose with glazed root vegetables

Les poulards à la Perigueux – truffled roast chicken

Le rond de veau à la royale – round of veal, enrobed in a creamy sauce, finished with truffle purée and various garnishes

These grosses pieces (and the turbot and the trout) were flanked by no less than thirty-six entrée…”

Reay Tannahil, author of Food in History, gives a sampling of the various entrée, which includes macaroni and grated cheese, pheasant, rabbit, and other dishes, all with lush descriptions of rich sauces.  He adds that this was considered only the first course.

He also describes the set pieces brought in made of sugar icing and molded into such things as ‘The ruin of the Turkish mosque’, as well as the other entremets (between serving items) and the assiettes volantes, such as the five chocolate soufflé.

As stated earlier, while no one was expected to sample every dish on the table, the description makes it instantly understandable why the Prince Regent had run to fat.

The menus also reflect dishes familiar to any modern table–macaroni and cheese, trout with a tomato and garlic sauce, spit-roasted ham.

For a more simple family meal, Maria Rundell’s Domestic Cookery of 1814 gives this menu:

Crimp Cod

Salad
Gooseberry Pudding
Jerusalem Artichokes

Leg of Mutton

Crimp Cod is the simplest of recipes.  The directions are to take a cod and, “Boil, broil, or fry.”

For a salad, this is not what might be found in any modern American restaurant.  Instead, for Mrs. Rundell’s French Salad, “Chop three anchovies, a shalot, and some parsley, small; put into a bowl with two table-spoons-full of vinegar, one of oil, a little mustard, and salt.  When mixed well, add by degrees some cold roast or boiled meat in very thin slices; put in a few at a time; not exceeding two or three inches long.  Shake them in the seasoning, and then put more; cover the bowl close, and let the salad be prepared three hours before it is to be eaten.  Garnish with parsley and a few slices of the fat.”

Gooseberry pudding is a baked dish.  “Stew gooseberries in a jar over a hot hearth, or in a sauce pan of water till the will pulp.  Take a pint of the juice pressed through a coarse sieve, and beat it with three yolks and whites of eggs beaten and strained, one ounce and half of butter; sweeten it well, and put a crust around the dish.  A few crumbs of roll should be mixed with the above to give a little consistence, or four ounces of Naples biscuits.

(If you actually wish to try making this dish, you may want to start with gooseberry jelly, if you can find it.  For a ‘few crumbs of roll, think of this as something like a bath bun–a sweet roll.  Or for biscuit, think English cookie–something sweet to crumble into this.)

Jerusalem Artichokes offer another simple recipe in that they, “Must be taken up the moment they are done, or they will be too soft.  They may be boiled plain, or served with white fricassee sauce.”  Otherwise, prepare them as you would any artichoke, taking off a few outside leaves and cutting off the stalk (I also like to cut off the tips, but that’s optional).

For Leg of Mutton, Mrs. Rundell’s recommendation is, “If roasted, serve with onion or currant-jelly sauce; if boiled, with caper-sauce and vegetables.”  (Personally, I would swap in lamb for the mutton and opt for roasting it.  My grandmother who came from Yorkshire insisted on boiling all meat, and nearly made vegetarians out of all of her sons.)

And now I think I’ll go off and get something to eat.

Show and Tell

Jul18

This August, I’m doing the “Show and Tell: An Interactive Workshop” online for the FFnP Chapter of RWA, so it seemed time for blatant promotion and to post tips for this.  The “show don’t tell” advice I understand but it sometimes chaps my hide a bit since telling can be a way useful tool for a writer and if folks are struggling to show everything they don’t get around to leaning how to do strong narrative.  That’s too useful a tool for a writer to ignore.  The way I figure it, these are two things you need in your toolbox–same way a carpenter needs both a screwdriver and a hammer.  Hammers really are great for pounding things home–but there are times you need the finesse of a screwdriver to just tighten things up.  Means a writer needs to learn how to both show and tell–and you need to learn when each of these works best for your story. 

Now, about those tips….

Showing:

  • means convening the character in action and words.
  • takes more words because the goal is to create a picture and feeling in the reader’s mind with only words.
  • takes vivid descriptions that reveal the characters emotions to the reader.
  • requires good visualization by the writer.
  • is strongest when you use as many of the five senses as possible: smell, touch, taste, sight, hearing.
  • is the continual search for how to reveal what your character feels and how that character displays (or doesn’t display) those feelings.

 Telling:

  •  means conveying exact meaning to the reader; it is, literally, telling the reader information.
  •  compresses word count (useful in short stories and a synopsis).
  •  alerts the reader that the information, or the character, is relatively unimportant.
  •  can smooth transition in time, distance, or viewpoint.
  •  can establish a mood or setting when you do not wish to do this in any character’s viewpoint.
  •  is the continual search for fresh ways to give your reader information the reader must have.

To know if you’re telling vs. showing, look for “clue” words that tip you off when you may be telling more than showing, such as was, were, are, to be (as in, The sun was hot.).

If the telling is done in a character’s viewpoint, it is really showing us how a character sees the world.

If dialogue is about plot exposition, it is really telling a plot point to the reader—this is why exposition in dialogue usually falls flat and leaden (use dialogue to show more how a character is feeling).

Use of deep viewpoint allows the reader to ‘discover’ your characters through showing that inner person.

A character’s actions always speak louder to the reader than any thoughts or narrative about that character; actions reveal true character—you can tell a reader a character is brave, but if you show that person acting like a coward the reader will believe the action, not the telling.

To better show a character, give your characters mannerisms (physical and verbal habits) that reveal their inner person.

In general, if you have a character thinking something, put that thought into dialogue. 

Most people respond to any motivating stimulus (something happening) in this order FEELING, BETRAYING ACTION, THOUGHT, DELIBERATE ACTION (GESTURE/SPEECH), so that’s how you want to structure scenes, so that a character feels something, acts on that feeling, then says something.

The main except to the above response order comes when training or instinct kicks in action before all else. 

Less can be more (in both show and tell)–what you leave out is often more important than what you include. (Just don’t be obscure.)

Words and sentences and paragraphs that do not add anything actually detract from what is there–the end result is to weaken the good stuff.

Multiple edits are your friend; it’s not necessary to get everything in one pass.  Make one edit about dialogue, the next edit about punching the narrative (telling), the next edit about adding more showing details, etc..

Showing and telling do not have to be absolutes; use more show than tell in a dramatic scene, or use more tell than show in a transition.  Part of the choice about how much of each you have is your style, and part is the effect you want to have on the reader.

For the rest…well, you’ll just have to take the workshop.

Goldilocks Time

Jul15

At risk of stating the obvious, beginnings are tough. Nothing new there. We all know that. So the question is, what to do about that ‘hook’, the super opening that grabs the reader and doesn’t let go? Since it seems to be judging season right now for contests, I’ve been thinking about this. Because, honestly, the writing lately in contests has been good. Often very good. But the stories…well, not so much of the grabbing.

The balance is always too much information and too little. This is particularly tricky with paranormal, and if you add in romance, both have to be there. That’s a lot to get in front of a reader. Add in the reader needing to understand the world, the rules of the fantasy, and yeah, pretty much everyone is going to get the too much or too little thing going. It’s Goldilocks time.

Now, in the interest of learning from fairy tales, let’s look at Goldilocks. She did not find the perfect bed on the first try. She did not eat the perfect porridge with her first taste. She had to try different options. And I think this is one place where folks are having trouble because sometimes you have to write a scene different ways in order to find out what works best. It’s far too common for a writer to fall in love with a scene (particularly an opening) and not want to change it. That way to disaster, my friend.

But why not try the bigger bed (add more information, details to enrich the world and the story)? Try the smaller bed (try a bare-bones opening). Try the middle bed after taking on the other two to see what’s the best balance (and a couple of readers here can be very helpful).

Why not try a different character’s viewpoint for the opening (to see who really has the most emotionally at stake)? Why not try on first person to see how it feels and stretch your skills?

Now here’s what I’ve noticed in teaching workshops–folks want to apply everything to the manuscript in hand. And want it all to work right off. That kind of focus can be a good thing. But not everything you write will (or should) make it into the book. So why not try new things on? Write scenes just so that you, the author, know the information. Interview your characters to get to know them better. Try writing the book as every page is the ONLY page you’ll get anyone to read. And try writing a scene that you don’t want in the book–see if you can keep it a secret scene.

IMPORTANT SIDE NOTE HERE: Withholding information from the reader is not suspense, it is irritation. Withholding information from the characters which puts them in jeopardy gives you suspense–so stop saving the best stuff for chapter five and later. Give the reader the best stuff right away, and then go think up even better stuff.

Now to balance this–after all Goldi didn’t like the too hot or the too cold porridge, and let’s not get into why bears were eating porridge–the other side of holding out on the reader, giving too little to go on, is loading the reader up for bear.

Personally, I think there are two kinds of writers: those of us who over-write and must cut and those who under-write and must layer in details that reveal the world to the reader. It’s good to know which camp you fall into so you can compensate. If you’re like me and you love the details, you have to learn to be picky about which details you use. And you have to learn to edit and cut. Even more important is to learn to layer and weave in back-story in small bites–a sentence here or there, instead of a few paragraphs here and here and here and here. If you’re the type who writes sparse, that’s good, but make sure there’s enough details that a reader can see the same world that’s in your head.

One caution here–it’s boring to get too much information about people you haven’t learned to like. So that’s task one–engage the reader’s emotions. Make them care for the characters and get them interested, then you can start peeling back the layers of the characters.

NEXT IMPORTANT SIDE NOTE: What you show your characters doing matters more than what you tell the reader about your characters. If you want a reader to think a character is brave, she must be shown doing something brave. That’s why showing matters so very much.

Speaking of brave, there’s one other lesson that Goldilocks offers, other than that a life of petty crime isn’t that bad, and this lesson is that it pays to be picky. Goldi is a high-maintenance gal. If it’s not just right, she’s not putting up with it. That’s a good trait for any writer–don’t put up with crap, not even from yourself. Be very picky about the opening and getting it just right (you only have that one chance to hook a reader). Be picky about the words you use. Be picky about making sure it’s not too hot or too cold, or too hard, or too soft. Be picky about the character’s dialogue, about opening with a strong scene that SHOWS the reader something important about the main characters.

LAST IMPORTANT SIDE NOTE: Start the story as close to where the main character’s life changes forever–but start also with a scene that sets the reader’s expectations for the mood and type of story. (There is a reason to start off with Bella moving up North and not sooner or later than that.) It’s very hard on folks when they’re in the mood for fish and they pick up what looks like a fish and you’ve said it’s a fish, but the first bite is all batter and breading.

With the last comes the first, and we’re back to where a lot of beginnings seem to struggle. It’s damn hard to write a good beginning without having the ending done. That’s my take on it. I almost always revise the opening based on where the story ends up, but this is just about impossible if you don’t have the book done. Which leads us back to Goldi.

The last lesson we can take from Goldilocks is that kid didn’t give up. She ransacked that whole house–food, chairs, beds, everything she wanted. Start to finish, our Goldi girl. That’s often where you can find your great opening, in that strong ending that gives you a mirror back to how it all started. You show your character at the end now able to do what was impossible at the beginning (in a romance, you show the character now able to have a relationship that was impossible at the start of thing). You KNOW where this story has to start because you know where it has to end.

And maybe that’s what we need more of–contests for great endings. Ones where Goldilocks starts off a wear-bear herself and ends up married to the handsome were-bear of the family.

(Originally published as  a guest blog at FFnP.)

Exercise — Not Everything Goes into the Book

Jun9

I have a fascination for reality shows that let you see into other people’s lives — yes, one of my favorite things is to walk the neighborhood at twilight and peer into lit living rooms to get a glimpse of decor and people and mostly ghostly glows from widescreen TVs.  Now I know the reality is about as much as in any piece of fiction — it’s filtered through an editor, producer’s, camera man’s view.  But, still, there are glimpses.  And last night on the newest lose weight show a woman said she’d never learned how to exercise.  Which got me  thinking.

Over several workshops that I’ve taught, I’ve noticed that writers tend to only want to use material from their work in progress.  If I assign an exercise, out comes the manuscript and a chunk of it is used.  This is not a bad thing, but it does defeat the purpose of exercising — as in, it’s not stretching out the writing muscles.  Folks also struggle with the idea of a writing exercise that is about writing a few pages that are never going to make it into any book — the pages may be about trying a new viewpoint, or exaggerating a technique, or it may be about backstory that needs to be real (meaning it needs to be on some pages, just not the ones that go into a reader’s hand).  So I’m wondering — do folks need to be taught how to do writing exercises?

It seems obvious to me that if you do any sport, you don’t just do the sport.  When I rode, I also trained so that I could ride (yucky sit-ups which I loath, stretching, weights).  The exercise wasn’t part of the sport, but was an important factor — there wasn’t much to learn, except that some exercises helped more than others, and nothing helped as much as the drills you actually put in on horseback. (Lots of rising trot without stirrups.)  But I was taught by riding instructors, and part of that was about ‘hey, you need to do more than ride, if you’re serious about this.’

In the interest of passing along info, writing exercises — ‘hey, you need to do more than write the book, if you’re serious about this.’  So what is that more?  What’s worked for me?

POV Exercise 1

Take a scene.  Write it from one character’s POV only.   Now rewrite that scene from the viewpoint of another character in that scene.  Now rewrite that scene from yet a third character in that scene (and if there wasn’t one invent one — could be a cricket under the carpet eavesdropping.)  Point here is to try multiple viewpoints — can be very helpful to unblock a book.

POV Exercise 2

Write a scene that is first person.  Now shift the writing to third person.  Helps to develop deeper third person POV.

Description Exercise

Write a description of a setting in your book.  Write this as one sentence.  Now write this as three paragraphs.  Now write this as three pages.  As you develop the setting, layer in more details–use all the senses (sight, hearing, taste, touch, smell).

Character Exercise

Interview your main character–ask them deep personal questions (as if you are a reporter for a tabloid).  This works particularly well if you’re working on a scene and it’s not working–ask the character about this, what’s wrong, and what does that character really want to do in that scene?

Backstory Exercise 1

Write a critical scene in your main character’s life that happened when that character was very, very young and which forever shaped this character’s core beliefs and personality.

Backstory Exercise 2

Write a two page profile of a secondary character — in first person as if you are that person.

Story Idea Exercise

Write the back cover copy for your story — in two to three paragraphs, how do you convey the idea and get someone to buy this book?

Show/Tell Exercise

Write the opening for a story and only TELL the story to the reader — use only the narrative voice.  Now rewrite that same opening and only SHOW the reader information by showing the character in action and show the character’s thoughts and feelings to the reader with dialogue and detailed, layered descriptions that convey how that character expersses that emotion.

Each exercise should result in work that you DO NOT use in your manuscript.  You may get ideas and insights, but the goal is to treat these like sit-ups — useful to strengthen muscles.  If you even have a vague idea you might use the writing in a manuscript, this will affect how you treat the exercise. You want the freedom of writing only for yourself here.

There are lots other exercises, but these are good for core writing strength.  Like any exercise program, try not to do these all in one day.  Apply them in a regular program of writing every day, and repeat the exercises as well — this is not something you do once and that’s it.  These are great ways to limber up if you haven’t written in a long time.  They’re also great if you feel ‘blocked’ and need something to break you out of a rut.

And you really, really don’t have to use everything you write in the book.  Sometimes is about performance on the page, and sometimes it’s about warming up with exercises.

The Regency Post — A Pity We’ve Lost Letters

May29

From an article published in The Beau Monde’s Quizzing Glass newsletter…

Posting a letter in Regency England was not as simple as walking down to the local post office and dropping off a stamped letter.  Prior to January 10, 1840, stamps did not exist.  Inked hand stamps applied to the letter indicated such information as whether it had been sent POSTPAID, UNPAID, PAID AT (city), PENNY POST, TOOLATE, 1dDUE or FREE, or what post office had collected the letter and what mileage it would cover.  The ‘letter box’ itself only came into use after 1794, and did not become compulsory until after 1811.  (The box consisted of a slit in the wall of the receiving house, which opened into a locked box.  Private boxes could be hired in some towns for as little as 1/2d per letter to 4d per letter.)

The letter itself differed from its modern form.  The letter usually comprised a single sheet (sometimes folded once in the middle to make a booklet-like page).  This was folded in thirds, then the ends were folded together, with one end tucked inside another.  Hot wax dripped onto the joining ends sealed the letter.  The address or direction would be written on the front and rarely went beyond Name, Town (or house name), County– occasionally, in London, a street might be indicated.

To save money, correspondents often wrote down the page, then turned it and wrote across their previous writing– thrifty souls would turn it yet again and write diagonally across everything else, producing a nearly illegible mess.  This was called crossing and recrossing one’s lines.  The postmaster receiving the letter would write on the envelope the postage due by whoever received the letter.

‘Posting a letter’ in the country meant sending it from one post town to another, where it could be collected.  After 1784, country areas had three deliveries and two collections, with deliveries sent out from London by horse messenger to the receiving houses.  The messenger then brought back any letters going to London.

Post offices operated as parcel depots, poste restante address (or post office boxes), and usually carried on some other business, such as serving as an inn.  Enterprising postmasters could and did charge for local delivery to non-post towns, villages, and even manor houses.

From 1801- 1808, England had numerous private posts to carry letters between towns and manor houses.  Rates could vary from 1/2d to 1d or more for delivery.  From 1808 on, local delivery standardized at 1d per letter and post towns began to use the stamp P.P. for Penny Post.  The private posts, however, tended to be notoriously slow and unreliable.  Postmasters often went bankrupt, ending their service.  Those to whom speed carried more importance than money kept to the old practice of sending letters via servants, by the Common Carriers or by private courier.

On Monday August 2, 1784, the Post began to change when John Palmer’s first Mail Coach left the Rummer Tavern in Bristol at four o’clock PM, carrying the mail and four passengers (which later became seven passenger, with four inside).  Palmer had long advocated postal reform and expansion.  Increases in commerce, industry and population demanded it.  After his friend William Pitt became Prime Minister, Palmer got authority to try his reform ideas.

Palmer’s Mail Coach reached Bath at five-twenty PM, and arrived in London at the Swan with Two Necks well before eight o’clock the next morning to deliver mail to the Chief Post Office in Lombard Street.  The coach had traveled 119 miles in under sixteen hours, an incredible feat.  Palmer received public acclaim and bureaucratic stone-walling, including a record of criticism which ran to three volumes of copperplate.  However, Palmer’s Mail Coaches began to take hold.

By 1811, approximately 220 mail coaches ran on regular schedules from London to various major cities.  These coaches used the post roads and cross post (post roads that did not pass through London), which could support the light, fast coaches.  The Post Office continued its custom of farming out the job of postmaster, and letters still had to make their own way between post towns.  Coffee houses, inns along these routes, and even carriage makers, held contracts to provide both horses at each stage, coaches and coachmen.

Coach hire rates were based on mileage, and varied from 2d to 4d per double-mile of the journey.  Mail coaches had the advantages of not having to pay tolls, which could be worth as much as six pounds to the contractor.  (In 1813, Parliament repealed the toll exemption for mail coaches with more than two wheels in Scotland and imposed a 1/2d tax letters carried in Scotland to compensate the carriers.)

The Post Office did use its own, scarlet-liveried employees as guards.  These men had to read and write to fill out their time sheets (Way-bills).  Each carried a timepiece set each evening before leaving the Chief Post Office at eight PM.  As compensation for sounding the horn at toll gates, seeing the mail safely to its destination and carrying out the unpleasant task of reporting the misbehavior of any sub-contracted coachmen, guards earned an excellent wage– half a guinea a week, plus sick pay and pension.  Tips were allowed and could average as much as 2/- a passenger.  As the Chief Superintendent of Mail from 1792 to 1817, Mr. Hasker also allowed his guards to carry personal goods and newspapers, provided this did not interfere with the mails.

Until the mid 1800’s, when rail began to take over, mail continued to be carried by Mail Coach on the best roads between major cities.  In rural areas, post went by cart, horseback and even by foot.  Private Penny Posts often tried to undercut the General Postal rates.  In 1805 when the minimum rate between post towns became 4d, the private post and some postmasters began an illegal Twopence Post, charging only 2d to carry a letter between two nearby post towns.  This was not fully resolved in all counties until 1840 and the standardized 1d stamp.

1784 GENERAL POSTAL RATES

Rate are “Single Letter”, “Double Letter”, “Triple Letter” or “1 oz”

The d stands for “denarius” which means a penny, and comes from the Latin the Romans left behind; shillings are written out with a slash as in 1/ (1 shilling) or 1/2 (1 shilling and 2 pence).

Not exceeding 1 Post Stage                  2d    4d    6d    8d

1 – 2 Post Stages                                        3d    6d    9d    1/-

Above 2 Post Stages up to 80 mi      4d    8d    1/-   1/4

80 – 150 miles                                           5d    10d   1/3   1/8

Above 150 miles                                      6d    1/-   1/6   2/-

From/to London, to/from Edinburgh & to/from Dumfries, Cockburnspeth & intermediate places between them and Edinburgh

7d    1/2   1/9   2/4

1801 GENERAL POSTAL RATES

Not exceeding 15 miles                       3d    6d    9d    1/-

15 – 30 miles                                            4d    8d    1/-   1/4

30 – 50 miles                                            5d    10d   1/3   1/8

50 – 80 miles                                           6d    1/-   1/6   2/-

80 – 120 miles                                         7d    1/2   1/9   2/4

120 – 170 miles                                       8d    1/4   2/-   2/8

170 – 230 miles                                       9d    1/6   2/3   3/-

230 – 300 miles                                      10d   1/8   2/6   3/4

every 100 miles thereafter                 +1d   +2d   +3d   +4d

1805 GENERAL POSTAL RATES

Not exceeding 15 miles                      4d    8d    1/-   1/4

15 – 30 miles                                            5d    10d   1/3   1/8

30 – 50 miles                                           6d    1/-   1/6   2/-

50 – 80 miles                                           7d    1/2   1/9   2/4

80 – 120 miles                                         8d    1/4   2/-   2/8

120 – 170 miles                                     9d    1/6   2/3   3/-

170 – 230 miles                                   10d   1/8   2/6   3/4

230 – 300 miles                                   11d   1/10  2/9   3/8

every 100 miles thereafter           +1d   +2d   +3d   +4d

1812 GENERAL POSTAL RATES  (new mileage divisions)

Not exceeding 15 miles                     4d    8d    1/-   1/4

15 – 20 miles                                          5d    10d   1/3   1/8

20 – 30 miles                                         6d    1/-   1/6   2/-

30 – 50 miles                                         7d    1/2   1/9   2/4

50 – 80 miles                                          8d    1/4   2/-   2/8

80 – 120 miles                                       9d    1/6   2/3   3/-

120 – 170 miles                                  10d   1/8   2/6   3/4

170 – 230 miles                                  11d   1/10  2/9   3/8

230 – 300 miles                                     1/-   2/-   3/-   4/-

every 100 miles thereafter            +1d   +2d   +3d   +4d

THE LONDON POST

London had had its own General Post with local delivery since 1635 when Charles I opened the Royal Mail.  In 1680, William Dockwra began his private Penny Post, named for the penny charge to mail any letter up to a pound.  Two years later, the government took over and continued operation of the Penny Post.  It comprised the cities of London and Westminster and the Borough of Southwark, covering letters received and delivered within ten miles, while the General Post serviced both London and the country side.

From 1680 to 1794, letters for London’s General Post had to be prepaid 1d.  This relaxed after 1794, with the condition that letters put into the Penny Post for delivery by the General Post still had to be prepaid.  Letters from the General Post for Penny Post delivery were charged 1d on delivery, plus the General Post charge.  In 1794, Parliament also lowered the weight limit to four ounces for any 1d letter.

The General Post and Penny Post remained separate organizations with their own letter carriers and receiving houses (a large number of which happened to be stationers’ shops).  The only point of exchange came at the Chief Post Office.

In 1792, Parliament gave letter carriers for the General Post uniforms of scarlet coats with blue lapels, a blue waistcoat and a tall hat with a golden band.  Walking back from a delivery, the carrier rang a large hand bell to indicate he could collect letters for an extra charge of 1d postage.  The letters went into the slit of a locked pouch for delivery to the Chief Post Office.

In 1794, London’s five post offices (Lime street, Westminster, St. Pauls, Temple and Bishopsgate) became two:  the Chief Office in Abchurch Lane, Lombard Street, and the Westminster Office in Gerrand Street, Soho.  All London mail now passed through the Chief Office.  In addition, service expanded to cover the seven rides surrounding London:  Mortlake, Woolwich, Woodford, Edmonton, Finchley, Brentford and Mitcham.

London post offered six collections (at 8, 10 and 12 AM; 2, 5 and 8 PM) and daily deliveries.  The clerk stamped letters received after seven o’clock PM with that time or a TOO LATE stamp, for the window closed at seven forty-five so that mail could be shorted and bagged by eight for the last collection.  The Chief Office charged an extra sixpence for such letters, with other receiving offices setting their own fee.  Letters received at the Chief Office on Lombard Street on Sunday were sorted and posted on Monday as there were no Sunday deliveries.

From the Post Office on Lombard Street, the blue and orange Mail Coaches departed every evening at eight.  Passengers assembled at various inns throughout London for departure at half past seven.  The coaches then stopped in Lombard Street to collect the mail and the guard, and departed London at eight PM.  Lombard Street became so congested that by 1795 the six Western Road coaches began to leave from the Gloucester Coffee House in Piccadilly at eight-thirty, with the guard and mail traveling to this point from the Post Office.

In 1812, Cary’s Itinerary listed 37 inns with stage and mail coach departures.  By 1815, this grew to 44, with inns having as few as 3 or as many as 35 coaches departing.  In 1815 alone, of the 20 coaches leaving the Angel Inn, St. Clement’s, Strand in London, five are daily post coaches and four are daily Royal Mail coaches.

The Bull and Mouth, Bull and Mouth Street, boasted the record of having thirty-five coaches departing, including the Royal Mail to Edinburgh, while the Swan with Two Necks, Lad Lane, listed the original Bath and Bristol coach, the Royal Mail to Bath, the Brighton Post Coach, and the Prince Regent coach to Dover and Paris.

POSTAL RATES – LONDON 1794  1801  1805 – 1831

Within Town Area                                      1d    1d    2d

Town to Country, or within Country 2d    2d    3d

Country to Town                                       1d    2d    3d

Town to General Post                              1d    1d    2d

Country area to General Post              1d    1d    2d

General Post delivered by P.P. in town     free  free  free

General Post delivered in Country    free  1d    2d

THE FRANKING SYSTEM

Since the post office’s beginning, its revenues went to the crown, which held the right to grant the privilege of signing a letter and having it posted for free.  This practice, known as franking, extended to both Houses of Parliament and certain officials.

In 1764, postal revenues were given to Parliament in return for the crown being able to submit a Civil List to award honors.  Thereafter, Parliament authorized Free Franking.  Letters were stamped FREE when franked.  Nearly everyone abused the privilege.  Most considered a stack of signed blank sheets from a Member of Parliament’s to be a common present after a short visit.  Franks could also be issued, by law, by certain public offices both in London and abroad.

To curb abuse, Parliament made forgery of franks a felony, punishable by transportation for seven years.  As of 1784, reforms required all franked letters to have the signature, as well as the place and date of posting written at the top by the person franking it.  Limits on the numbers of letters that could be franked were imposed, but how could a lowly postmaster tell an undersecretary not to frank more than ten letters a year?

During these years, 1780’s to early 1800’s, it became a hobby among some well-bred ladies to collect franking signatures from letters.  Rather the Regency equivalent of collecting autographs.  Some ladies strove for a broad collection, while others specialized in particular friends, MPs or relatives.

Prior to 1836, newspapers– and some other printed material such as charity letters and educational materials– could be also franked for free postage to postmasters by the six Clerks of the Road.  A tax of 4d had been imposed to cover the cost to handle newspapers.  However, publishers were not shy about franking their own newspapers.  Booksellers, after Parliament imposed higher postage rates in 1711, also wrote the names of Members of Parliament for free postage, with the approval of the postal Surveyors appointed in 1715, who administered function and facilities of the postal roads.

In addition to franking, from 1795, Parliament granted privileged rates to those serving in the Army, Navy and Militia, with no letter charged a rate higher than 1d.  Over the year, this extended to every branch of military service, including, in 1815, the soldiers and seamen employed by the East India Company.

While privileged rates continued for the armed services, all free franking was abolished with the introduction of the penny postage stamp in 1840, which marked the beginning of the modern post office as we know it.

REFERENCES

The Postal History of Great Britain and Ireland (1980), R.M Willcocks & B. Jay  ISBN: 0-9502797

English Provincial Posts (1633-1840) (1978), Brian Austen  ISBN:  0-85033-266-4

England’s Postal History to 1840 (1975), R.M. Willcocks   ISBN: 0-9502797-1-4

British Postal Rates, 1635 to 1839, O.R. Sanford and Denis Salt   ISBN: 0-85377-021-2, The Postal History Society

United Kingdom Letter Rates 1657-1900 Inland & Overseas, C. Tabeart  ISBN:0-905222-58-X

Cary’s New Itinerary Great Roads (1815), John Cary

A More Expeditious Conveyance: A History of the Royal Mails (1984), Bevan Rider   ISBN: 0-85131-394-9

Inside-Out for Plotting with Characters

Feb8

Twelve steps to create a romance from the inside of the characters instead of the outside of things happening.

1. Start at the deepest point: for every character, find that person’s core need.

2. Look for what happened in that character’s past to give that character that need (motivation)–when looking discard the first two or three ideas (they’re almost always cliches).

3. Set up a potential mate for the main character who can’t provide that need quite the way that character wants it met.

4. Decide if your characters recognize their needs and motivations (the reasons why they need and want the things they need and want), or if a character is lying to self, or ignoring the past.

5. Know each character’s sexual history.

6. Go beyond he’s hot and she’s sexy for characters who can click emotionally, mentally, and on levels beyond the physical.

7. Layer–add ‘wants’ on top of the core needs, and add traits to each character that are strengths and ones that are weaknesses, and make them compliment and contrast for all characters.

8. Give every character a secret.  Maybe even one that stays hidden in the entire book.

9. Leave room for characters to surprise you.

10. Focus the story on one character’s specific growth.  That person’s growth is at the heart of the book.

11. Put in clear goals for each character that force the characters into action to reach those goals, and put them in conflict with others.  So there can be conflicting goals, or different approaches to achieving the same goal, but everyone should want something in every scene.

12. Play the “what if” game to keep coming up the worst thing that can happen to the main character — use the “what ifs” that most resonate with you, and then come up with something even worse to keep raising the stakes, tension, and conflict.

Voice

Jan13

With a workshop pending (one I’m giving, not taking), I’ve been thinking about what to say–what can be taught, what can’t.  And that leads me to thinking about ‘voice’ since that is where we’ll be starting.

A writer’s voice is one of those ‘you know it’s good when you read it, but it’s difficult to verbalize’ things.  But I’m a writer, verbalizing is what I do.  So it’s worth tackling.  Also this seems good timing for the topic–American Idol is starting a new season (maybe the last what with Paula gone and Simon heading out the door, and it’s tempting to wonder if he’s missing that love/hate thing with Paula or just exhausted–how does anyone sit through that many auditions in one lifetime?).

(Confession time–I’ve voted only once…well, okay, twice.  For David Cook. Yeah, they suckered me into thinking other David had the lead, and I fell for it. And boy was I so happy Adam Lambert did not win and get saddled with that awful ‘idol must sing song’ they had.  Sometimes second is a good place to be.)

Anyway, Idol does one thing brilliantly–they show how easy it is to have a bad voice.  Maybe it’s nerves.  Or song choice.  Or simple delusion.  But they show how the “that’s a good voice” is not always subjective–there are folks who can’t sing worth a damn, and that’s painfully clear.  Same goes for writers–there are folks who can’t write worth a damn.

Maybe it’s nerves.  Or story choice.  Or simple delusion.  And I do think that nerves figure into a large part of a bad writing–folks tend to cramp up or go all stiff when faced with a blank page.)  But while you can fix nerves–build confidence, acquire technique, do breathing exercises–and you can fix story choice with better ones, there’s not much that can be done for delusions.  And you can’t really teach someone to have ‘a voice’. 

Now, you can point in the direction for a writer to look to that voice.  And there are techniques to develop voice–plain old writing helps more than anything.  But it’s still something that every writer must find for herself–or himself. Voice comes from experience, education, upbringing. It comes from what you read, and personal taste.  It’s shaped, just as an artist’s eye, or a singer’s voice, is shaped by teachers, mentors, and by what you taken in and put on the page.  There are so many things that go into making ‘a voice’ that it’s no wonder it can’t really be taught.

But I wonder if we’d have more really good writers if a few more teachers at least tried to tackle this?  Or if a few more writers went out looking for their voice, or spent time developing voice?  I know that when you take on a physical skill–riding horses, or dancing–you always want to look at the teacher’s style because that’s going to be your style, too.  You imprint like a duckling on the instructor–that old ‘monkey see, monkey do.’  And maybe that’s the core issue–writers are generally too busy writing to do much teaching.  Either that or they don’t have the credentials, or those who teach writing have been to college and have taken courses, but they haven’t been in the wilderness looking for their voice either–so what they pass along is a lot like BBC-mid-Atlantic don’t get in the way voice.  Which, come to think of it, is at least an okay voice.

So maybe this is something every writer has to find on her own, sort of a rite of passage (and I’ll resist the obvious pun). And the question then becomes–how can you give someone better sign pointers along that path?

Dark Days

Dec28

My mum never did well with the dark days of winter–how she grew up in snow country without a suicide or a homicide (far more fitting for her moods), I’ve no idea.  Grams E. never did particularly well with short winter days, and this may be why most of our family Christmas cookies require vast amounts of chocolate.  Oh, tidings of joy….or at least of theobroa cacao.  And the shorter dark days got me thinking about the whole depression, discouragement thing that writers are prone to.

Maybe it’s artistic sensitivity.  Maybe it’s just that lack of chocolate, or sunlight to create enough chemical balance to keep your head on straight.  Or maybe it’s because we work solo so very, very much.  Writing is isolating–it just is. You live in your head, because that’s where the story is, and dragging it out of the darkness to any kind of light is a masochistic process at best that most folks are wise to avoid.  It’s no wonder we procrastinate.  Avoidance, thy name is writer (or not-writer, more like would-be writer).  And I understand why folks stop writing, and take up just about anything else for a hobby.  But I suspect writers are not alone with this problem–creativity tends to happen in the head, and then it forces itself out in various forms.  Flowers bud, then bloom.  Folks do the same some way, some how–and, yes, a clean house can be a creative expression, but it’s also one that’s socially approved, and you get admiration for it (no one every says, oh, gee, you know if you’d only dusted from left to the right, instead of right to the left, I think this would have a much better impact and really convey the essence of your cleaning far better).

So this brings me back to how the hell do you cope with dark days–metaphorical or real ones–and the trick is to cope in ways that still leave you working (or able to–chocolate comas are not pretty things, and come from the Greek koma for deep sleep, so too much of that cure and you end up useless as a lotus eater).  For me, exercise helps, and thank god for horses, because riding in the winter in So. Cal. where we don’t have the snow, just fresh icy morns, is great, but I’ve been out of the saddle a couple of years and it so shows–happens every damn time, I stop riding, and put on twenty pounds, at least.  Meaning I need to get my ass back to some kind of dance class–very important in winter.  Or at least get back to yoga or something that will take not too much time and keep the endorphins pinging.  Gardening only does so much for me in the winter.  And at least the dogs need and get their walks–they don’t put up with excuses, good animals that they are.  There is also much therapy in that house cleaning, and praise, and the only thing I have to be careful with is that it doesn’t become an avoidance mechanism for not-writing.

But I think what’s stood me best in dealing with the dark days is to get angry (or at least strongly annoyed), instead of depressed or discouraged.  Anger–thank everything–can get you moving.  Get pissed off enough and you either want to prove the bastards wrong, or you buckle down and have to put that red hot glow inside to use. It’s not a bad tool to get really ticked off at someone’s bad advice, or stupid critiques, or (god help us all) well meaning advice that doesn’t mean spit.  A little fire in the belly is not a bad thing for the dark days–keeps one warm and moving.  And if you can keep going, the days do get longer again, the warmth outside comes back.  That’s the hard part, really–hanging in there long enough to get there.  So here’s to a healthy dose of arrogance self-assurance, and sheer bloody-mindedness to get us all through the dark days.

This entry was posted on December 28, 2009, in Uncategorized. 1 Comment

Winter Fare

Nov25

From an article published with the RWA’s Regency Chapter, The Beau Monde:

In the still largely agrarian world of the early 1800’s, fall and winter became a time to relax after harvest.  Gentry and yeoman alike could take advantage of old feasting customs that had long ago mingled with the Christian holidays.

In Fall, Parliament opened again and society returned to London.  St. Michael’s and All Angel Day, or Michaelmas, at the end of September, marked the end of a quarter year.  The end of the Celtic year itself fell on October 31, and the ancient celebration for the Celtic god Saman (also Samhain) became All Hallows Eve.  October was a month when land owners ate pheasant, partridge, duck and grouse.  Fish for meals included perch, halibut, carp, gudgeons, and shellfish.  And poachers also looked to snared hares for their pot.  Beans were still fresh, and the fruits of summer gave way to pears, apples, nuts and the last harvest of grapes.

On November 5 bonfires burned in mockery of Guy Fawkes and memory of the Gunpowder Plot to blow up Parliament.  The Feast of St. Martin, or Martinmas, fell on November 11, and St. Andrew, the patron saint of Scotland, had his day on November 30.  St. Andrew’s day also marked the beginning of Advent to celebrate the four weeks before Christmas.  In November, the landed gentry still dined on wildfowl as well as domestic poultry–which was now getting a bit old and aged.  They also had beef, venison and pork with their meals.  Fish could still be caught and served, and winter vegetables graced the dining room, including: carrots, turnips, parsnips, potatoes, leeks, cabbage, celery and lettuces.  With November, walnuts and chestnuts came into season.

More celebrations lead to Christmas Eve when the Lord of Misrule danced and the Mummers traveled to perform their pantomimes.  Then came Christmas Day, and Boxing Day on December 26, which was St. Stephen’s Day.  Boxing Day did not get its name from gift boxes, for the exchange of gifts was a German custom still new to Regency England.  Instead, Boxing Day got its name from the older tradition of it being a day in which pleadings could be placed in a box for a judge to privately review.  In December, besides beef and mutton to eat, pork and venison were served.  Goose was cooked for more than just the Christmas meal, and there would be turkey, pigeons, chicken, snipe, woodcock, larks, guinea-foul, widgeon and grouse to eat.  Cod, turbot, soul, sturgeon and eels joined the list of fish in season.  Forced asparagus added a delicacy to the usual winter vegetables.  Stored apples, pears and preserved summer fruit appeared on the better, richer tables.

Finally, celebrations mixed tradition and religion when the Twelfth Night feast arrived on January 5, which combined the Roman Saturnalia with the Feast of the Epiphany, when the three wise men were said to have paid tribute to the Baby Jesus.  Deep in winter, there was still plenty of game to eat.  Beside those wild and tame birds available in December, lobster came into season in January, as did crayfish, flounder, plaice, smelts, whiting, prawns, oysters and crab.  Broccoli made a welcome change from the other winter vegetables, as did cress, herbs, cucumbers, beets and spinach.  Preserved fruits would be running low in all but houses with large orchards, and stored apples and pears would have to serve guests until the expensive forced strawberries of February appeared.

Distractions

Nov20

There’s a reason disaster movies are so popular–it’s just damn fun to watch stuff blow up and or fall to pieces.  Entropy is fascinating.  But it’s highly distracting if what you’re trying to do is create something (and, yes, that takes making a mess to start, but then it means you have to make the mess take some kind of shape).  So the latest distraction is the buzz on the Internet over the future of publishing, and the looming disaster of publishers wanting a slice of self-publishing by offering deals for authors to pay to publish while the authors still share their profits with the publisher.

Now, don’t get me wrong–this is not anti self-pub, or traditional pub, or even a bitch session on vanity press.  Any choice is up to the creator of the work, and one has to hope the creator is able to make an informed choice.  And if not, well, no one said this world is fair, and frankly global warming is a helluva bigger issue.  I do think it’s nice that if the author takes the risk, the author gets the reward.  Just as big bad publishers who take on the risk, and the distribution, well, they’re not in this for world peace.  And vanity press–hey, they serve a need, too.  I can see why publishers are looking to experiment–not a bad thing in a world that changes faster than anyone can track.  Bottom line, too, I’m not sure this is a model that works. As in, in this economy, it’s a business that expects folks to shell out money?  Hello–has anyone looked at current wages, or the shrinking middle class in this country?  Publishers don’t even have money for risk, so why the hell would an individual?

Which leaves this a distraction that’s not quite as visually cool as 2012.  And here’s why I say distraction.

A lot of folks look at books, and think media, which means a connection to music.  Nice logial connection, and they are the same in the digial sense in that canned peas are like canned pears.  Which are nothing alike.  A digial container does not make the stuff inside the bytes the same.  So…movies, music, books.  All may be digital, but we’ve got canned pears, peas, and sausage here.  They’re consumed in different fashions, for different reasons.  And I can only look at how I consume such things.

I buy music online.  I love that I can buy the songs I love, not the whole record or CD.  And I use lots of services to find songs I like, including the referrals of friends (iTunes is my friend).  I buy songs and do not pirate because I don’t want to a virus, and karma will bite your ass eventually.  I read online, but prefer books–my hardback purchases are actually up, and I love trade paper.  I can’t afford as many books as I once bought, but I do buy.  And online is a great way to sample before I get the book.  And for movies–totally different consumption methods and patterns there, too.  A lot of it is digital, but I want big movies, and my new laptop is smaller (and lighter) than my old.

In all of this, as a buyer, I do not care who published the stuff.  Imprint on the spine–could not care less.  Not for any of it.  Now maybe I’m different, but I’m looking for an author’s name, or a musician’s, or an actor’s.  Big level of caring there.  And the issue for me is how to find stuff I like–the stuff from those particular people.  So I browse.  I read reviews. I follow word of mouth recommendations.  And I don’t really care if a book is self-published, or whatever published.  But I do care if I can find it on an online bookstore, with good reviews and recommendations, or find it in a local bookstore where I can browse it. And I damn well want to own it and not have it deleted (or erased when my hard drive crashes–and that’s happened).

Which leads me back to distraction.  Because I don’t care if an author paid to publish a book, or if a publisher paid the author.    I’m also not going to plough through a TON of work that’s posted online to get to the good stuff.  I’m going to keep relying on others (reviews, and bookstores both online and in malls) to find the stuff I like.  And I’m going to follow authors whose work I like. Period.  And, as an author, well, if the world changes, not a lot I can do.  But I can keep buying the books I like.  Voting with dollars does help (yeah, I buy organic, too, and do my Carbon Net contributions–doing what you can do is not a distraction, but a creative step to make the world that you want).

So, end of western lit as we know it?  Don’t think so.  Will it be harder to find more good stuff out there if the canned section becomes the entire store?  Sure will.  Is it going to become harder for a writer to become published–darling, that’s been going on since the baby boomer got computers.  But I expect I’ll still find the stuff I like based on an author who has done great, amazing work. Based on friends who point me to that great, amazing work.  And at the end of the day I’m not going to care how the stuff is published, as long as it is.

And if the world does end in 2012, or with the changing of the publishing world to some new deal, well, I think we have enough time in there yet to sit down and write a few good stories.  Or in the words of a programmer friend of mine, cut the crap and hand me the keyboard.