There’s a quote from Shakespeare in Love (wonderful movie, with a terrific script from Marc Norman and Tom Stoppard, and Geoffrey Rush stealing scenes as usual, and as Philip Henslowe, Rush has the lines: “…, allow me to explain about the theatre business. The natural condition is one of insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster.” That, too is the writing business overall, and as Henslowe goes on to say, “Strangely enough, it all turns out well.” How? Well, that is the mystery.
I’ll be there to answer questions, and post in general about the mystery of writing–and the less mysterious bits–and talk about the research that goes into a Regency, along with talking about some of my favorite books, just doing what one does with tea–talking.
There is good reason that “scandalbroth” was a name for tea–it is the time to swap gossip and brew scandal along with the beverage. I’ll be drinking my favorite right now (Lady Gray, a variation of Earl Gray, but with less bergamot, however, I am very fond of an excellent Gunpowder if it can be hand, or a smoky Lapsang souchong).
So please feel free to join me at the salon…asking those questions you might like to ask. We’ll see what we can do about all that mystery (maybe even create a little more, for every story ought to have a little mystery).
Recently I read a book where the flow of the story was chopped off in the jump from chapter one to chapter two. I’ve also read books where the flow was interrupted from one sentence to the next, or one paragraph to the next. Flow hits on all levels from word to word all the way up across the story.
Flow is one of those important, yet, neglected writing topics. This may be due to being something difficult to really nail down.
We read about pacing all the time—how the story needs to have good pacing and not sag in the middle. Flow is a little different. Flow is about linking thoughts to gently pull the reader along. The Truman Capote quote may sum it up best, “’What I am trying to achieve is a voice sitting by a fireplace telling you a story on a winter’s evening.” That is a very good way to think about flow. It can make the writing seem effortless, very much like a river that is just moving along.
The flow can be in fast paced or slow stories. Flow is more about linking one word to the next, one sentence to the next, one paragraph to the next, one scene to the next, and one chapter to the next. It is about using words and sentences in such a way that the reader is engaged—but never thrust from the story. It is very much like a river’s flow that move on without the reader noticing the water is being deliberately move.
This idea was first introduced to me by Elizabeth George’s excellent book Write Away. It is something a writer should think about, but I believe it is something to work on after you get the basics of craft down and you’re looking to bump your writing to the next level. It can leave a writer choked if thought about too much. It also is something that shows up if you read your work aloud.
That trick of reading a story aloud is one that I often think is neglected. Different things show up when you read a story aloud—and it is a pity we’ve lost the habit of sitting down in an evening with one person reading while others do handicraft. Typos jump out, stumbles become clear, and flow—or the lack of it—becomes much more obvious.
Flow is about word choice, but also about sentence structure, and how paragraphs are built. This is why I consider it a more advanced topic for a writer—if you’re still struggling with the basics of building a character, of crafting dialogue, and structuring a scene, flow is something to look at after you finish a book or two.
In an article by David Jass on ‘What Writes Mean by Flow’ he speaks to the importance of syntax and writes that, “…altering our syntax does more than help us write flowing prose; it allows us to get our thoughts off the normal track on which they run.” When it comes to the use of syntax and varying sentence structure Jass quotes Robert Hass, “New rhythms are new perceptions.” This is what someone means when they say the writing is or isn’t fresh.
So…fresh and flow…and syntax. It is enough to stumble any writer into a block—too much thinking about this can be deadly. But if you write enough words, you will start to find your own flow…and when you get to revising what you’ve written this is where a focus on flow becomes important (also called word choices, and syntax or use of variable sentence structures).
One general guideline that helps me is to keep in mine one thought to a sentence, one topic to a paragraph. If I chop up sentences, or paragraphs, I want to do so with intent for the scene and still keep flow in mined even as I look at the pace. Thinking about the emotion behind each word—its connotations as well as its meaning—and looking at how the sentences and paragraphs, and scenes reveal character I want to keep asking a couple of questions. What should the reader feel? And is it all getting too intellectual? Sometimes, if the emotion is on the page, you want to leave things alone.
I do believe that if you write long enough you start to get a handle on flow with a writer’s instinct. I also believe that reading a lot can help with absorbing this idea of flow. It also helps to stop and take apart a sentence, or paragraph, or scene that either thuds for you or has that “flow”. (This is the curse of a writer—you start to read like a writer, not like a reader.) To head back to the analogy of a river running, leading inevitably to the sea, that is why the word “flow” crops up for writing. The story can carries the reader along is the one the reader has trouble putting down—I’ll just read one more chapter, a few more pages…oh, I finished the book and I want the next one from that writer. Flow is attached to a writer’s voice—it’s not just the rhythms of thought, it is the rhythms of intent. It is something that makes writing forever an interesting challenge.
I’ve been reading some contest entries of late, and one thing that struck me is that I don’t see the point of the story emerging right away to hook me into the story. Theme is the point of a story–it is why it has to be written. It may be something a writer naturally puts in (I envy those folks), but most writers need to think about theme and make it stronger by intentionally building it into the story and weaving it in to everything.
But let’s start with a definition: Theme is an idea that recurs in or pervades a work of art or literature.
Another good definition is that theme is the underlying idea an author is trying to convey to an audiences.
If you write a novel, spend weeks and then months catching it word by word, you owe it both to the book and to yourself to lean back (or take a long walk) when you’ve finished and ask yourself why you bothered— why you spent all that time, why it seemed so important. In other words, what’s it all about, Alfie?— Stephen King
In other words, the theme is really the ‘big idea’ that is woven through the entire story. It is a critical belief about life that transcends cultural barriers. It is usually universal in nature, and works best if it is integral to the story, instead of only being used once (which can make it come across as heavy handed, like a club over the head).
Another way to think of theme is that it is a touchstone. Theme is going to help you develop your characters, their main goal, and the main need for each character. It will tell you what you need in the story, and what you need to leave out. It will tell you what should be the dark moment or climax of the main character’s arc. Theme is what makes a story resonate with a reader long after the story has ended.
Theme can be a statement, or a question posed to explore, and smaller themes may echo the larger one. You do have to be careful about making theme a statement. That can make the writing preachy, or come across as a message instead of strong story with vital characters. Sometimes it is best to go with a theme that has you needing to answer that question.
I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.— Joan Didion
Theme also tends to work best if it is something that, as noted above, resonates with you, the writer. If the theme is just an intellectual exercise and doesn’t hit home with you, it can come across to the reader as ‘shoved into place’ or not really fitting—it stands out like a red flag in a field of green grass.
Now, when I say theme is what the story is really about, this does not mean theme is the action that describes the plot.
As in: Two people fall in love, but their families hate each other due to a long-standing feud.
That describes the action of ‘Romeo & Juliette’, but not the theme. Now there are several smaller themes int he play, but a main theme is that “We cannot overcome our fates.” Romeo is fated to fall in love with Juliette. Their love is fated to have a tragic outcome. And Mercutio—the man caught in the middle—is fated to die.
Oil Painting by Frank Bernard Dicksee, 1884
To look at another example, “Lord, what fools these mortals be,” pretty much comes right out to state the theme of “love makes fools of us all” for A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream.
Theme may be explicitly stated by a character. (In Blake Snyder’s book on screenwriting, Save the Cat, he argues for this to be a beat in the story, and indeed this can make for a great scene.) Or theme may be woven into motifs and thematic elements—such as Mercutio’s death foreshadowing the tragic fates awaiting Romeo and Juliette.
Here is one simple rule to remember: Characters carry theme.— James Scott Bell
Theme does need to be both rejected by the characters, and then proven at some point, usually in the climatic moment of the story. You usually see theme best at the ‘dark moment’ of a story.
Theme shows up in songs as well (beyond thematic melodies). Think of favorite songs that really resonate with you and you’ll find more than a catchy melody. Theme can be something you explore in one book, in several, or over a lifetime of writing.
‘Nowhere Man’ embodies one of my favorite themes—the hero completely out of his element. It’s really near and dear to my heart.— Ruth Glick
I used a theme of “What is too great a compromise of self in any relationship?” to explore the idea of compromise to make a relationship work, and I used this over three books. Another theme I’m drawn to is “How do you find a sense of belonging in this world?” I used that in the Proper Series Regency romances I wrote. You may well find yourself drawn back to the same theme over and over. It’s quite possible to either have a lot to say about a theme, or do want to really push into a theme in different ways. A great theme can be explored over a lifetime of work. It’s all about if you still have more to say or discover about that theme.
So…how do you find your theme?
To Learn How to Identify Theme
Pick out three favorite books from your keeper shelf. Look at the opening when the protagonist’s life is thrown out of balance, and then look at the dark moment. See if you can identify theme from those two moments–it’ll be a moment early on when the protagonist doesn’t think that theme holds true, and the dark moment is a moment of realization that relates to the theme.
If you can’t find the theme there, head to three favorite movies–again, look for that early scene when the protagonist is thrown into hot water, and then toward the end when the protagonist is faced with the toughest choice.
Finding Themes
With a pen and paper (writing by hand connects left/right brain in a different way than does a keyboard) Write down what ticks you off? What lights a fire inside you? What do you feel compelled to write about? Jot down three things that hit you emotionally.
Now….look at a story you are currently working on. What is it about? Write a sentence that poses a core, emotional question for that story. Then compare the two—are you writing about something that really hits you emotionally?
Another Way to Find Theme
Write down a paragraph about your main character’s arc in the story you’re working on.
Now, read it over, and see if you can condense this to a one sentence theme. The main character’s arc—what the protagonist faces as a dark moment—is going to help reveal theme to you.
If you can’t find your theme right away, don’t sweat it. Start writing, and wait for the theme to show up. That sometimes happens anywhere from 40 to 100 pages into the story. That’s when you can go back and start weaving it. Or even get the book done, and then figure out what needs to be cut or added or changed. Editing is your friend–and sometimes the ending reveals the true beginning, along with that theme.
The first draft is just you telling yourself the story. —Terry Pratchett
By 1815 the Palais-Royal was already known for being the place to go in Paris not just for a meal, but for gambling, and to indulge in every other vice. John Scott wrote of his visit to the Palais-Royal in 1814: “It is a square enclosure, formed of the buildings of the Orleans Palace; piazzas make a covered walk along three of its sides, and the centre is an open gravelled space, with a few straight lines of slim trees running along its length.”
Scott called it, “…dissolute…wretched, elegant…busy, and idle” The palace began life in the early 1500s as the Palais Cardinal, home to Cardinal Richelieu, but became a royal palace after the cardinal bequeathed the building to Louis XIII. It eventually came to Henrietta Anne Stuart who married Phillipe de France, duc d’Orléans. That’s when it became known as the House of Orléans.
The building was then opened so the public could view the Orléans art collection, and that began the palace’s more public life. Louis Philippe II inherited the royal palace, and the duc renovated the building, and the center garden was now surrounded by a mall of shops, cafes, salons, refreshment stands and bookstores. The Parisian police had no authority to enter the duc’s private property, which meant it became a hub for illegal activity, and the cafés, particularly the Corazza Café, became a haunt of the revolutionaries. During the French Revolution, the duc dropped his title, changed his name to Philippe Égalité and even voted for the death of his cousin to the end monarchy. That didn’t save his own head. But the Palace-Royal continued on.
Scott writes, “The chairs that are placed out under the trees are to be hired, with a newspaper, for a couple of sous a piece; they are soon occupied; the crowd of sitters and standers gradually increases; the buzz of conversation swells to a noise; the cafés fill; the piazzas become crowded; the place assumes the look of intense and earnest avocation, yet the whirl and the rush are of those who float and drift in the vortex of pleasure, dissipation, and vice.”
On the ground floor shops sold “perfume, musical instruments, toys, eyeglasses, candy, gloves, and dozens of other goods. Artists painted portraits, and small stands offered waffles.” While the more elegant restaurants were open on the arcade level to those with the money to afford good food and wine, the basements offered cafés with cheep drinks, food and entertainment for the masses, such as at the Café des Aveugles.
After the Bourbon restoration in 1814, the new duc d’Orléans took back his title and the Palais-Royal kept its reputation for a fashionable meeting place. It was said, “You can see everything, hear everything, know everyone who wants to be found.”
Scott visited Paris during the peace of 1814 and wrote of the shops, “…they are all devoted to toys, ornaments, or luxuries of some sort. Nothing can be imagined more elegant and striking than their numerous collections of ornamental clock-cases; they are formed of the whitest alabaster, and many of them present very ingenious fanciful devices. One, for instance, that I saw, was a female figure, in the garb and with the air of Pleasure, hiding the hours with a fold of her scanty drapery: one hour alone peeped out, and that indicated the time of the day…. The beauty and variety of the snuff-boxes, and the articles in cut-glass, the ribbons and silks, with their exquisite colours, the art of giving which is not known in England, the profusion and seductiveness of the Magazines des Gourmands are matchless.”
The bookshops sold erotic prints along with French classics, and political pamphlets and the restaurants were crowded every evening and night with anyone who could afford the price of a bottle of wine and a fine dinner. Upstairs were the gambling houses and bagnios, and as Scott wrote, “…the abodes of the guilty, male and female, of every description.” Lanters illuminated the crowds that strolled past along with dancing dogs, strolling musicians, singers, and “….Prostitution dwells in its splendid apartments, parades its walks, starves in its garrets, and lurks in its corners.” Scott spoke of “The Café Montansier was a theatre during the revolutionary period…” Just such a café/theater went into Lady Lost, as the place where the heroine Simone, also known as Madame de Mystére, practices her illusions. In March 1815 the Palais-Royal saw more soldiers than it had in ages for Napoleon brought his troops to Paris, chasing out Louis VXIII.
EXCERPT LADY LOST – Jules and Simone dine at the Palais-Royal
Simone stood at the entrance to the Café Lamblin in the Palais-Royal. Even this late, some lingered over their supper. The looking glasses that lined the wall facing the street emphasized the crowd. The other walls, painted white and trimmed with gilt, shone in the light of the Argand lamps set between the silverware and china placed on tables covered with white linen. Ornamental iron stoves warmed the vast space, and four clocks, hung high on the walls, showed the hour as well past eleven. Perhaps three dozen diners remained—gentlemen and ladies, soldiers and courtesans. In Paris, anyone and everyone chose the pleasure of dining out when they had the money to pay the bill. Her mouth watered at the aromas haunting the room—soups and meats, liquors and wines, and the sweet scent of fruit and ices melting into their glasses upon the tables. To her right, behind a barrier and seated on a rise, the lady proprietor took payment from two men who shrugged into their coats and donned hats. Simone handed her cloak to an attendant and waved for Jules to do the same with his outer garments. A waiter appeared, a long white apron around his waist and flapping at his ankles, partly covering a black vest and breeches. With a bow and a snap of his shoes against the marble floor, he showed them to a table and handed over broad, paper menus. Jules stared at the printed sheet. “Not as extensive as that of Le Beauvilliers but far better prices.” Simone glanced around the room. The wine and liquors flowing endlessly—along with coffees—and waiters dodged tables with trays of food and drink. Laughter and conversation rolled across the room. No one in Paris liked to refuse the flow of francs into the hand, not even for so late a meal. She glanced back at Jules. “Prices? Do not be so provincial as to think that is all that matters.” Putting aside his menu, mouth twisted up on one side, he shook his head. Blue eyes gleamed bright. “Oh, but I am just that. A wine merchant who has never before been to Paris, I am amazed by such an extensive printed menu. Order what you wish. I think we can stand the nonsense.” “You may regret that,” Simone told him. She ordered lobster soup from a choice of half a dozen others, cold marinated crayfish, chicken fricassee with truffles in a sauce of leeks and oysters, duck with turnips from an array of roast birds, a side dish of asparagus and one of early peas, a dessert of cheese and nuts, and a bottle of Volney, which Jules sipped and sent away, ordering a Latour instead, which indeed tasted better but would take more coins from his purse. Dishes came and went. Jules kept up an astonishing chatter about Paris, the food, droll comments on the other diners, and everything but what lay between them. She pushed at the peas on her plate with her knife and glanced at Jules. “You manage to say a great deal without saying much of anything.” He held still as only he could, studying her, eyes a sharp blue in the glow of the Argand lamps. “The art of polite discourse. It is second nature. Would you care for more of the duck? I must say, they have a pleasant way with it. The skin is crisp and the taste a delight. They must feed them good corn before they come to the kitchens. Then you may tell me if you think Henri had any part in poor M’sieur Breton’s demise.” Putting down her knife, she propped one elbow on the table and cupped her cheek with one hand. “That is…no, tell me first, what transpired with those men who took you up? Why do you not speak about that?” He pushed at a slice of duck with his fork. “Will you in turn tell me if your brother would have jumped for the chance to meet up with the not-so-good duc in my place?” Straightening, she smoothed the napkin on her lap. “Do we talk of such things here? Where others might listen?” A woman’s laugh pulled her attention to a table with four soldiers and two ladies whose dress—or lack of such a thing—proclaimed their status as those who sold their favors. Jules waved his wine glass at the room. “Everyone else is bent on pleasure of one sort or another. We might be the only sober souls in this fine establishment.” She traced a fingernail along the edge of the tablecloth. “Henri…he would not…no, M’sieur Breton was his friend. A good friend.” “Had he known the man long?” “No, but that is Henri. He charms everyone quickly. We only met the m’sieur after we come to Paris. Now do I get a question?” “It has gone beyond coincidence that your brother is a friend—or perhaps I should say was—friend to the late M’sieur Breton. Now we have the duc embroiled in events—the Butcher of Lyons you named him—and it all has me wondering if your parents might have lived in that charming city. Perhaps during the Revolution? That automaton reveals also that your father was a man who made expensive clockworks for those with money.” With a small shrug, she took up her wine. “What would you have me say?” “You may act as casual as you wish—you are practiced at that with your stagecraft—but I will have the story. Consider it a fair exchange for dinner.” “What of payment in an answer for an answer? I am curious, too, and have questions. Why are you not in London? Do you have no wife, for you keep only the mistresses?” “Multiples is it? You think perhaps I have one woman for each day of the week, or perhaps only one for each season of the year? They are expensive things, and I have no wish to beggar my estate for any such entanglements.” “Then you have casual liaisons? Was that true of the woman you once wanted to marry as if…for one that, you sound as if you don’t want to speak of her at all?” “My past has no bearing on the incidents of tonight. It is yours that stirs my interest. May I serve you more of the chicken? You may then tell me of this tie between yourself and Lyons, for you speak of the past as if it is far too present, and the excesses of Madam Guillotine’s rampage certainly reached everywhere in France. Come now—a straight question and a straight answer. Did the Butcher of Lyons touch your family?” “The past can haunt us all—can it not? What is it you really do in London? Do not the ladies interest you?” “Ah, now you make me into a gentleman who spends all this time only with other gentlemen. I’ve had other things to occupy me—the world has been sorely troubled of late, and ladies…courting takes a great deal of work. There are rides and walks and dancing to be done. Flowers sent, and if you get that wrong they either wilt too quickly or any real interest does the same. Turn your back but once, and the lady is off on some other man’s arm. Now, what of you? I expose myself, but you remain the lady of mystery? Since you ask it of me, I shall be forward as well and ask why you are unmarried?” Holding up her hand, she ticked a count on her fingers. “I do not plan to marry a soldier, and look around just now—that means most men in France. Second…actors. I meet many and I follow Maman’s advice and leave them to flirts only for it never ends well.” “That does not surprise overmuch.” “Third…” She wiggled her fingers and picked up her fork again. “Third is that I do not want to keep a shop, or run a tavern, and even that sort thinks a woman who goes onto a stage is not respectable, but I am!” He reached for one of the plates to serve himself more asparagus that had come out with an excellent white sauce that did tempt her, but she would not allow him to divert her focus. She put her hands in her lap. Glancing at her, he put down the asparagus. “If you will not finish this, I shall. Will you have more of anything else?” She plucked a green spear from the plate and waved it at him. “Answers. Why are you not in the army? Is not every man fighting on one side or another? Why are you really here? We are back to you talking around and about. Do you think I do not know distractions? That is the principle of sleight of hand.” She bit into the asparagus, then licked her fingers. When she held up her hand again, a coin glinted in her finger tips. With a quick move of the other hand, the coin vanished, and she showed him bare palms. Putting down his fork and knife, he fixed his stare on her. Heat bled into her face, but she met that direct gaze of his. For a moment, he pressed his mouth tight and hesitated as if making up his mind about something. Finally, he threw his napkin onto the table. “Very well, if you must know, you must. As to a uniform, it was considered, at least by me, but responsibilities kept me from doing more than that, along with…well, at the time—and this was a long time ago—the woman I wished to court had vapors at even a mention of something so vulgar as fighting and armies. Odd, really, considering she eventually deserted her husband to run off with a sailor. Actually, a captain at the time, although not in the British Navy. However, I also have wretched aim, and while I look very good on a horse, I am not given to charging about. I prefer to think things through and take my time, and that is a quality I found I could put to use elsewhere.” “Bah—you still tell me nothing. What do you mean, ran off? She is alive still? And she was married when you wanted to court her, or she did marry elsewhere after the courting?” “We slip from the more pressing topic at hand—that of your brother’s involvement in a death.” She stiffened. “Do you tell me…did you…? This woman, she is—is no more?” “Please do not speculate. Far too much of that has dogged me over the years. What I will say is that seventeen is a very stupid age, one I am grateful to have outgrown. Also, her husband suffered more than I at that time. But the situation as well as my family history stirred up old talk about my family, for scandal dogs us like hounds on a high scent, even when I should rather leave all of it far behind.”
Cooking is one of my favorite pastimes—eating and learning about good food is a pleasure. This means it was not difficult to dive into the research needed for a restaurant in Paris of 1815 for the setting of Lady Lost (which comes out in March).
France gets the credit for inventing the more modern idea of a restaurants, and they certainly came up with the name. The word comes about in 1806 for “an eating-house, establishment where meals may be bought and eaten,” but comes from a “food that restores” from the Old Frence restorer.
The original idea was to serve up a healthful bouillon—basically a bone broth or consommé as a restorative. This was also to get around the strict guilds that made selling bread, meat, fruit, and vegetables separate affairs. In 1765, a gentelman named A. Boulanger opened a restaurant on what was then rue des Poulies (now rue du Louvre). It was his idea to serve a wide rage of food—and Boulanger offered up menus, waiters, and small, round marble-top tables. A new business was born.
The term “Gastronomie” comes about in 1801, in a French poem by Joseph Berchoux, and was translated into English in 1810 as: “Gastronomy or a Bon-vivant’s Guide: A Poem”.
The phrase établissement de restaurateur was shortened, and there were soon enough restaurants that the guide L’Almanach des Gourmands was published annually from 1803 to 1812 by Grimod de La Reynière.
In 1782, Antoine Beauvillier opened Grande Taverne de Londres on rue de Richelieu, and went on to write L’Art du Cuisinie, published in 1814. He had to close that restaurant when things got a bit too hot in Paris during the Revolution, but he then opened Beauvillier’s. Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin said, it was “the first to combine the four essentials of an elegant room, smart waiters, a choice cellar, and superior cooking.”
Francis Blagdon, Englishman, wrote of Beauvillier’s in 1803, “The bill of fare is a printed sheet of double folio, of the size of an English newspaper. It will require half an hour at least to con over this important catalogue. Let us see; Soups, thirteen sorts. — Hors-d’oeuvres, twenty-two species. — Beef, dressed in eleven different ways. — Pastry, containing fish, flesh and fowl, in eleven shapes. Poultry and game, under thirty-two various forms. — Veal, amplified into twenty-two distinct articles. — Mutton, confined to seventeen only. — Fish, twenty-three varieties. — Roast meat, game, and poultry, of fifteen kinds. — Entremets, or side-dishes, to the number of forty-one articles. — Desert, thirty-nine. — Wines, including those of the liqueur kind, of fifty-two denominations, besides ale and porter. — Liqueurs, twelve species, together with coffee and ices.” Below is just part of the menu sheets showing prices.
London continued on with taverns, coffee houses, chop houses, confectioners that served tea, sweets, ices and pastries, and a few gentlemen’s clubs. The Epicure’s Almanack by Ralph Rylance came out in 1815, listing more than 650 eating houses, inns and taverns in London, but was a financial failure. The English just were not that interested.
By 1815, the Palais Royal alone had fifteen restaurants, twenty cafes, and eighteen gambling halls—not to mention the brothels. This included Café de Chartres. Other restaurants included Le Grand Véfour next door to the Palais Royal gardens, Le Procope in Saint-Germain-des-Pré and said to be Bonaparte’s favorite restaurant, Véry which moved to the Palais Royal in 1808, Frères Provençaux in the Palais Royal, and the Café des Aveugles was one of those in the basement of the Paris Royal that offered cheaper prices. In 1815, the Café Anglais opened on the corner of rue Gramont and the Boulevard des Italien, and that boulevard would become extremely popular over the next few decades for restaurants and cafes.
There’s the saying about many sauces in France and one religion, but the opposite in England, and often attributed to Voltaire, but which comes from Louis Eustache Ude’s 1829 book, The French Cook; A System of Fashionable and Economical Cookery, Adapted to the use of English Families. The quote is, “It is very remarkable, that in France, where there is but one religion, the sauces are infinitely varied, whilst in England, where the different sects are innumerable, there is, we may say, but one single sauce.” He was speaking of the English penchant for a white sauce of butter, with a little flour and then perhaps some anchovies or capers, put over most everything.
Back to Paris of 1815—and there were at least a couple hundred of restaurants, some out to attract the wealthy but others serving up food for the average man and woman. The café’s had figured out the idea of putting tables outside to attract customers to sit with a coffee. The Parisians drank lots of coffee, offered along with the inevitable wine, and sometimes chess as well. Pastries, of course, came out along with cakes and bread and cheese. Soups were always a popular meal—despite what the song says about ‘April in Paris’ springtime is lots of wet and March of 1815 served up more than a little bad weather.
A meal might be had for a few sous, or the francs piled on with an array of dishes served up—the wine was generally the most expensive item on any menu.
All of this kept making me remember a trip to Paris—the street food was amazing, as was almost any café serving up crepes or fondue (interestingly Homer’s Iliad describes a mixture of goat cheese, flour, and wine that is basically fondue, but the Swiss came up with their version to use up leftover bread and cheese—a cheap and easy meal.) It is said that the version with meat was created in the Middle Ages in the Burgundy region of France, and the word fondre means to melt in French. Like most foods, everyone seems to have come up with their version. And…oh, the patisseries!
Which are nothing new to Paris, as shown in the print below, entitled, “The English Revenge or, The Patisserie at the Palais Royal” by John Sharp, from 1815, no doubt after Waterloo, with the English eating up all the sweets in the shop. The poor shop girl doesn’t look happy about it, even if she is selling out of everything. Which seems a very Parisian attitude.
All of this made for a fun bit of research for the book when I had to weave in a meal, or put a conversation into a café, which were all considered suitable places for women as well as men, and isn’t it nice to know the cafés and restaurants of Paris still seek to serve up some of the best food that can be had.
Some stories just take more time—and this one took ages! Part of this is due to the research needed for Paris in 1815. Part is just due to Jules being a reticent character who took a bit of coaxing before he finally agreed to this. Another part comes from the interruptions of life. But at last Lady Lost, the third book in the Ladies in Distress series, is done and coming out March 2025.
Below is an excerpt from the book…
Chapter One Paris, March 1815
She stepped onto the stage in a ripple of smoke, shadows dancing on the white plaster of the wall behind her. Jules sat straighter in his chair. The illusion of fog was a good one. It would hide any trap doors. The actress took one step forward, into the light of the stage lamps. Makeup left her oval face pale and perfect—a slash of dark, arched eyebrows, a curve of a red mouth. Under her black cape and hood, the brown of her elaborately arranged hair showed through glistening white powder. Her skirts rustled and the spangles on her gown glinted. The dress belonged to a previous generation, but the woman moved with the grace of youth. She swept the room with a look…a challenge…arrogance in the dark eyes. For an instant, their stares clashed. Awareness shot through Jules and tingled on his skin. The woman commanded the stage—and his attention. Her gaze seemed to linger a heartbeat longer before it shifted. He let out a breath. With a wave of her hand and a burst of smoke, she conjured a box with thin legs onto the stage. A good trick from Madam de Mystére, otherwise known as Simone Raucourt, the featured act. She was his connection to Henri Allard…and the missing courier. Shifting restless in his chair, Jules glanced around the theater. It was more of a café with its tables and chairs, and its black-and-white checkered floor. Past splendor haunted the décor with bits of carved columns in dark corners. Two chandeliers clung to the ceiling as if desperate to hold onto past glory, their crystals dusty and dim. The crowd had quieted. Those sober enough to give their attention leaned forward. For an instant, irritation surged that he must wait for his answers. “Patience, patience,” he muttered, keeping his words in French, not English, his accent that of his old governess who herself had come from Paris. He let his gaze slip back to the stage. The woman proceeded to conjurer a bouquet of violets—the symbol for this rebirth of Bonaparte’s Empire. She transformed them into a deck of cards and back again, and threw a few into the audience. They cheered. More cards appeared from the ether. Fanning them out, she changed the suits all to hearts. She managed several other sleights of hand. Coins did not go over well, but scarves in the tricolors of France’s Revolutionary flag had the audience going wild. Turning to the box she’d summoned onto the stage, she beckoned with a slim, pale hand. An oddly still monkey in a blood-red coat rose from inside the box to perch on its top. Jules had seen more than a few automata—mechanical beings that ran on some sort of clockwork with gears and cams, metal discs with the edges notched to create instructions. Most played an instrument, while others could write or draw. One, he recalled with a smile, had been an extraordinary swan made from silver. It caught fish from glass rods that appeared to be reflective water. This mechanical monkey sat before a tiny harpsichord, bits of black hair glued to its head and the backs of its paws. Glass eyes shone in the lamplight with the illusion of life. The uncanny creature mimicked playing a sweet tune, its paws moving over the keys, which depressed on their own. The music obscured the click and creak of the mechanism. Madam de Mystére sang along, a plaintive melody about home and loss. She had a good voice, a deep contralto that would enchant anyone. An ache wound through her song. The audience quieted. Some stared into their drinks. A few wiped a tear. No doubt everyone here knew someone who had died for France—the wars drained more than a few villages of every able-bodied man. Jules turned his drink on the table once, like winding a watch that might turn time back to better years. The conjurer had power, he had to give her that. Her emotions seemed heartfelt. Perhaps she, too, had lost a brother or father to the wars. He tightened his fingers around his tumbler. Life had left him wary of maudlin sentiment. He shifted on the chair and wished he could pull off his boots. He knew himself not in a mood to be pleased. The hour for his dinner had long passed, this café stank of onions, wet wool and the acid of inferior wine, and his feet ached from tramping over this damp city. Allowing the last note to trail off into silence, the actress held still. The spangles on her dress sparked with each breath. She lifted her hand. The automaton did the same, a small pistol slipping down its coat sleeve and into its mechanical grip. The audience gasped. Jules did not. The female magician held up a card. A sharp report stung the air and sulphury gunpowder bloomed. The woman turned the card so all could see the image of the king shot through the center. The symbolism could not be clearer—royalty shot dead. Cheers rose, along with stomping. Deciding he’d seen enough, Jules stood and gathered his hat and gloves. He tossed a coin onto the table and made for the door at the side of the stage pausing long enough to speak to a waiter to ask directions and pushing a few francs into the man’s hand. On his way to the dressing rooms upstairs, he spotted a spray of violets on the floor, one tossed into the audience by Madam de Mystére. He hesitated, and then gave into impulse. He swept up the tiny purple flowers. He brought them to his nose only to have silken petals brush his skin. That left him wondering if the woman who had thrown the flowers was as false as the violets.
I’m giving a talk via Zoom for Orange County Romance Writers on November 9 on Pacing Tips and that has had me thinking about story pacing, and what I see so very often in writing contests. It is not a too slow pace, but actually a too fast pace–the story speeds ahead as if the writer is worried about losing the reader’s interest. The problem with this is that this steps all over immersing a reader into a story.
Now we’ve all read lists of great opening lines–some of them are on the verge of being cliche they’ve been quoted so soften. Pacing is about far more than just a good opening hook, however.
Any story needs to set the pace–and I often think about this in comparison to a horse race or a runner in a footrace.
There’s the short sprint that needs to be fast from the start to the end.
There’s the marathon or race over a couple of miles for a horse that needs for early speed not to be so fast it burns up the energy and leads to a lackluster finish.
You can hook a reader with a great opening line, and then lose that reader in the first chapter.
You can have a great first chapter, and then the book sags in the middle and the reader’s interest drops away.
You can also have a great premise, but weak execution means the reader is not pulled into a fully realized world with fully developed characters.
Dealing with all of this is what I’ll be talking about with those pacing tips, but what I’m talking about here is to just take a deep breath–and imagine more. Slow it down a bit. Figure out and put in those vital details that make the world come to life.
I think too often writers worry so much about a fast pace–a fast start–that what gets forgotten is building a scene and enjoying the process. There’s so much about agonizing about writing that we forget we love words–and love to put them together in fresh, inventive ways. We forget to pace ourselves and hurry to finish the scene or the chapter or the story, and forget to weave in all the stuff we love the most.
I sometimes wonder if we slowed ourselves down–read a book aloud, sat on a park bench and watched the world go by, took a drive into countryside with no destination in mind, strolled down a street without the idea of hurry or losing weight–would that help bring more to the page?
That’s one thing that writing by hand does–it slows us down a bit. It gives a little more room to thinking and imagining and a little less pressure to get a word count done. I think we have to look at pacing ourselves as well as our stories.
But there are still some more practical tips that can help–and those go into that talk for Orange County Romance Writers.
In every story I like to try something a little bit different, but I have learned a couple of things about this that I have to keep in mind.
First off, the shiny something new is always more attractive than finishing up the something current–and I have to resist that urge. The something new seems better because it is in my imagination. Once it gets on paper the story in my head disappears and I have to deal with what is on paper. In other words, time to fix things and make it better, which is really the most difficult part of writing. I also hit with every story the point at which I can no longer tell if it is good or bad–it simply just is. That’s the time to trust in the process. There’s a quote from the movie Shakespeare in Love that seems to sum it up best. The wonderful Geoffrey Rush gets all the best lines, but as the play producer Philip Henslowe he notes that even when it is a disaster heading for ruin, somehow it all works out in the end. “It’s a mystery.” (He also says all you really need in a good play is love and a bit with a dog, and it’s hard to argue with that.)
Secondly, as for something new to try out I try to limit this. When I was first struggling with the craft of writing the technical challenges often overwhelmed me. There’s dialogue to get right–perhaps the most important skill since that brings characters to life–and description to make snap, and then there’s viewpoint to handle and scene structure and pacing and dealing with foreshadowing and making sure the characters and the plot makes sense, along with all the bits of punctuation to handle. I quickly learned that taking on one technical challenge at a time served me well. I could work on just that in a story and everything else could be handled in edits.
What if a couple interacted over the years, how would the relationship develop? What obstacles would keep them apart for long periods of time? How would they reconnect? Would they be friends who could just pick up right where they left off no matter how much time came between?
With my novella Remember the technical challenge I set was dealing with time…so many love stories seem to happen over days not weeks or months or years, but what if a love story did take place over years? That idea intrigued me, and I started to dive into the lovely game of “what if?”.
I’m not knocking the instant attraction of first glance, and there are people who know right on the spot ‘this person is for me’ while others don’t get that bolt from the blue. But the slow burn appealed to me as something I had not tried before. It was a something new technical challenge.
Chapter breaks helped a lot with that–new chapter, new year–but then I had to sort out the timeline and figure out what was going on in the world that could cause gaps in the relationship without breaking the relationship. I also had to decide what obstacles, such as age of the characters or status or background or goals, might be slowing down the immediate desire to become more than friends.
All of that ended up being a lot of fun–and some work in editing to make certain I wasn’t putting things out of order. So Remember ended up being a sweet story–I do like a story where not much happens other than lots of banter and getting there eventually. While it is fun to write some action and adventure, love and a bit with a dog goes a long way to pleasing audiences even to this day.
Narrative is one of those flexible words. The basic meaning is the same as a story, but narrative can be use as a noun or as an adjective. it is an account of events, experiences and details. But as an adjective, narrative describes the style of the story being told. A good narrative means in part a good style in the story and style matters.
I’m teaching my workshop on showing and telling in February for Outreach International Writers, and I’ve also been reading The Paper Magician, which is a wonderful book to illustrate great narrative, which relies on really excellent telling mixed with showing. That’s right–it’s not only show your characters to the reader.
Now, too much narrative can indeed slow the pace of any story–but it is also useful to set the pace. That includes the details that make up the style. Style is partly a matter of work choice, and also how do you structure your sentences, and how do the paragraphs connect and flow. What are the modifiers you use–are they fresh and specific? Do you vary sentence structure, using shorter sentences to speed action and longer to slow the reader? What words to you choose to set the mood for not just the scene but the entire story? All these details matter.
You may not be too concerned with style when you are just trying to get words on the page and get started, but it’s something to look at as you edit and revise. The style of the story is what pulls in a reader–this is your writer’s voice.
There is a danger here–too much style can become a burden to the reader. This is where the writing gets “writerly”–the writer is drunk on words and this can trip up readers, throwing the reader out of the story. Sometimes the right word is an unusual word–sometimes the unusual word is just the writer getting in the way of the story. This is where the phrase “kill your darlings” can be helpful. It’s a lot like choosing the style of your clothes. That extra watch or scarf or colorful hat may be the right touch–or it may just be one step too far over the edge. But we are back to style. There are writers who can take things far too far and still make it work.
Narrative is all about the details. Is the sky black or inky? Or purple edged? Or pale blue-white, dotted with fluffs of gray? Those are the details that put the reader into the world, and that’s all about telling the reader those exact details. Don’t forget to layer specific details that weave into the style–the sense of smell is one of the strongest to evoke an emotion. Sounds can also act to bring in mood and emotion onto the page. We all have good and bad connotations associated with sounds. Taste and touch are also often neglected as “telling” details that help put the reader into the world. Smells can connect to a taste, bringing in a a bitter taste or a anticipating taste of something delicious. Touch puts the reader in touch with the world–the air, the weather, the heat, the chill, and all the reactions to the setting.
Again, this goes back to style. Some writers have a sparse style–the focus is more on dialogue and action and more on showing. Others have a talent with description and can weave a spell that keeps the reader going. Part of this is about the genre of the work Stories set outside the normal world tend to need more details–and often a slower pace that appeals to the reader–to bring the reader into the world. While action-based stories usually put the action first. It’s all about knowing what is your writing style, and using what you’re good at.
That all starts with being able to know how to show the character to the reader, but also knowing how to use great telling to pull the reader into the fictional world. More on that in February.
An open iron gate leads to an enchanting secret garden surrounded by ivy covered trees.
Something what sets a good story apart from a great one is the use of setting as a character. A setting is not just description of a place—it gives the reader more emotion on the page. It uses mood and vivid details to put the reader into the story. Setting is also as much about theme and motifs as anything else.
Let’s take a look at one setting, but given two very different moods and themes. Let’s put the main character into a summer garden—or, actually, two different summer gardens:
She pushed open the gate. It groaned on rusted hinges, barely yielding to her shoves. Ivy dangled low from the wall, browned and gnarled, and a willow tree in the corner sagged against the bricks as if braced for her. A wind whispered, dry and cool, brushing through the leaves as if warning the garden against her presence. Sweat trickled down her back and gathered on her brow, and the bees swarmed to her right, the buzz an angry sting of noise to break the quiet.
That’s garden one—now, same time of year, but a very different mood for this garden:
She pushed open a gate that squeaked on rusted hinges, yielding to her shoves as if grateful for someone to come at last. Ivy curled down from the wall in splashes of green against the red bricks. The willow tree in the corner stirred, the long fronds of leaves beckoning with a luxurious shade away from the heat that pressed down on her. The breeze brushed her cheeks, dusting away her sweat, bringing a sweet tease of wild roses and lavender and honeysuckle. Bees hummed through the dazzling colors at her feet, their legs heavy-bright with pollen, wobbling like drunk sailors in a welcoming port.
This summer garden has gone from a touch ominous to a lush romantic spot through word choices—this lets the reader into the world through the character’s senses. Obviously, in the first garden description, the mood is one of danger and tension. We’re going to have a theme of danger and suspense. The second garden offers a lighter mood—this is going to be a fun story, possibly with some hints in the theme of magic or romance.
That’s what description can do for a story—that’s what setting can do. Setting can anchor the reader into the world. It draws the reader into a place and time and into sensations that make the world come to life. It becomes a vivid character if the writer takes the time to develop all the characters.
All this starts with asking a simple question—what is the mood here? You can follow this up with—what would my character notice? You can overwrite—that’s always possible. But by remember mood and what is important to the story, that will tell you what you need in your setting.
Theme will also help you in that it will tell you what motifs you want to use over and over to better weave theme into your story. Perhaps your theme is about the masks we all wear to protect our inner selves, and so masks and their collection or use, or things hidden with shadows and shading will be part of the settings to bring this theme to the reader without hitting the reader over the head. Or perhaps the theme is about rebirth of self, and you want setting to move from winter to spring several times over to bring that them into the story in subtle ways. All this means the writer must pay attention to the real world and the fictional world.
When thinking about setting, bring in something more than sight. We all lean too much on the physical description of things we see, but very often it’s the aroma floating in the air or the notes of music lingering that really capture our imaginations. A touch of jasmine incense could bring in the exotic, or the sour note from an out-of-tune piano clattering adds a jarring feeling to the reader’s mood. Maybe it’s the taste of something—a spice that goes from nose to tongue. Or maybe it’s the shiver of fog on the skin. Go for the very specific detail.
When you’re editing, look at the writing to remove clichés and look for fresh modifiers—and watch those weak verbs.
Notice that in the garden above, I never write: “The garden was overgrown.” That is flat telling and robs the description of the vivid touches the reader needs to be inside that garden. “Was” becomes a weak verb in such a case. Notice the fresh modifiers—a breeze that dusts away sweat, a sting of noise. You may not come up with these in the first draft, so as you edit, look for fresh ways to convey the mood you want the reader to get from that scene.
By vivid, I mean VERY specific. If you don’t have the specific in mind, go hunting in your experiences or in your imagination.
Never been to the Redwoods, but need them in the story? It’s time to get a really good travel guide, or watch a very detailed documentary. Do the same for any profession you might give a character, or for that character’s background. This is the truth in the phrase “write what you know.”
Whenever you can, pull from where you have been and use your own experiences to give you that perfect smell, that right feeling on your skin, the sounds you heard, and the taste in your mouth. A vivid imagination can help, but so can stepping outside—close your eyes and put your other senses to work. What birds do you hear? What about traffic, or the lack of it. If you’re near the ocean, that tang of salt in your mouth will be noticeable—and perhaps that sand itching under your swimsuit as it dries. Think about what details will best realize your setting as a character and a mood, and reveal something to the reader without “telling” the reader that information.
Maybe your protagonist is an artists and the world is vivid colors—teal, azure, verdant green. Or what if your antagonist has perfect pitch and the least dissonate voice is a screech to her? Be picky about word choices, particularly when editing. In a second or third draft, that is a great time to read your work aloud and write in the margin the emotion you want, and then decide if the words pile into the correct cadence and mood.
Look for overused words. Do you repeat the same phrase too often? Is there a “pet” word you fell in love with that starts to hammer on the reader?
Remember that each new scene needs to be “set” for the reader—the reader won’t be happy if left floating in a void. It doesn’t take much—look at the paragraphs above for the garden. Four or five sentence can do the job. If you have a character in that description and that character’s viewpoint to layer in tension, the reader is going to be caught up in the moment.
Above all, take the time—don’t feel that you have to worry about “oh, it’s a slow pace with too much description.” That description allows the reader to settle into the story and the scene. If your setting is a character, that character can bring forward so many more layers to your story that it can move from just okay to a book a reader can’t put down.
Shannon Donnelly's Fresh Ink 