Retreat, Day 3

I've been calling my time here at the shore a "retreat." In some ways it is: a retreat from my day job, from my daily routine, and even from my responsibilities back home. (Sorry, guys--you know I love you to death.)

But there's something about a walk along the ocean that puts things in perspective in the most elemental way. One tide comes in, and another goes out in an unchanging cycle; the vastness and permanence of the sea remind us that life is the thing that changes. And we have to change with it. So when I leave here this morning, I leave with several thousand more words, some sand in my shoes, and a renewed appreciation for all that is waiting for me back home. Garden State Parkway, here I come. . . Word count total=715o

♥ ♥ ♥

Dorothy's Lord Peter*

I've always been a Dorothy Sayers fan girl, but a recent reading of Barbara Reynolds' biography sent me scurrying back to Sayers' Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries. After a delightful re-read of Busman's Honeymoon, I now plan to back up and start with the first one, Whose Body?, already loaded onto my Kindle. Following the development of Lord Peter's character from effete aristocrat to multi-layered man feels a bit like looking over Sayers' shoulder as she worked. Once Harriet Vane is introduced in Strong Poison, we follow the Vane/Wimsey courtship, with all its trials (literal and otherwise) to its thoroughly satisfying conclusion in Busman's Honeymoon.

Many Sayers' critics and biographers maintain that the Harriet Vane character is a stand-in for Sayers herself. Vane, like Harriet, is among the first group of women who take degrees from Oxford; she is a writer of complex mysteries featuring a suave detective, Robert Templeton, who shares many characteristics with Wimsey. Even Vane's physical description, with her dark bobbed hair and striking eyes, is a match for the young Sayers. And while most critics are accepting of the idea that Sayers might use a doppelganger for herself in her novels, a few (males, natch), sneer at the idea, claiming that Sayers actually fell in love with her own creation.

To that I say: why the hell not? Even if Sayers had a weakness for her own hero, that certainly doesn't detract from the brilliance of her work. Personally, I find the "Harriet novels" the most compelling of the bunch, but that's probably because I like a good love story threaded into my mysteries, a practice Sayers actually disdained until, at the suggestion of her publisher, she did it herself with great success. And while she may have identified with Harriet Vane, I suspect that Sayers had more than a bit of Wimsey in her as well--pun intended, by the way. Here's what she had to say about the creation of her wealthy, aristocratic detective:

At that time, I was particularly hard up and it gave me pleasure to spend his fortune for him. When I was dissatisfied with my single unfurnished room, I took a luxurious flat for him in Piccadilly. When my cheap rug got a hole in it, I ordered him an Aubusson carpet. When I had no money to pay my bus fare I presented him with a Daimler double-six, upholstered in a style of sober significance, and when I felt dull, I let him drive it.

If Wimsey became so real to his creator that she lived through him vicariously, and then let her alter ego fall in love with him, so be it. It's just one of the many beauties of writing fiction.

♥ ♥ ♥

*A version of this post first appeared on Red Room.

Author Spotlight: Yours Truly

As a debut author, my budget does yet not allow for a publicist. So in the interest of economy, I have decided to interview myself to impart my latest news:

Yours truly: Well, you've finally gone and done it. What was it like to sign your first book contract?

Rosemary: The font is very, very tiny, so I needed my reading glasses. Then I couldn't decide which pen to use. And the thing is pages long, filled with words like "whereas" and "herein" and "exclusive." They really like "exclusive."

YT: Um, I meant that figuratively.

R: Oh. It was amazing. One might even say momentous.

YT: You've contracted with Penguin's New American Library division to write the first three books in a mystery series. Tell us a bit about it.

R: The mysteries are set at an Italian restaurant at the Jersey shore called the Casa Lido. My main character, Victoria, is a mystery writer who goes back home to research her family history, but instead stumbles into murder, mayhem, and romance. Each book will also feature a family recipe.

YT: Is there a character you're particularly fond of?

R: Vic's Nonna. She runs the restaurant with a steel spine and an iron hand. She's formidable and intimidating, but has a soft spot for her family. (Any resemblance to my own grandmothers is, of course, entirely coincidental.)

YT: For this series, you'll be writing as Rosie Genova. Catchy name. You knew I was born with it, right?

R: I'd heard that, yeah.

YT: So you've been at this writing thing a while. How'd you finally luck out?

R: Hmm. I've always liked this quote from Hemingway: "It is better to be lucky, but I would rather be exact. Then when luck comes you are ready." For the last seven years, I've tried hard to be "exact," to hone my skills as a writer.

YT: So besides the sweat of your brow, to what do you attribute this success? I hear you have a fabulous agent.

R: Absolutely. Many thanks to Kimberly Lionetti at Bookends, aka K-Lion, who pushed persuaded me to try my hand at a mystery. And I would be remiss if I didn't mention my awesome critique partners, Loretta Marion and Sarah Pinneo, author of the upcoming  Julia's Child.

YT: Anything else you'd like to add?

R: Yes--why are you wasting time on a self-indulgent blog post? Don't you have a book to write?

YT: Good point.

♥ ♥ ♥

Murder Marinara, the first in the Casa Lido mystery series, is slated for publication by  Penguin/NAL in December 2013.

The First Kiss

My first kiss happened on a swing set; my young swain had dirty fingernails and milk on his breath. Okay, so we were eight years old. And to be quite honest, I had thrown myself at him with an impassioned letter done in maroon crayon I left on his front porch. Moments later, I found the letter torn to shreds, its tiny pieces littering the lawn and mirroring the state of my heart. But in spite of what I thought was a clear message, the boy next door planted a kiss on me the very next day as we sat in that double-seater.  The day after that, he threw a rock at me. Ah, love. Since then, I have learned the importance of the first kiss, whether the first of your life or the first of a new relationship. (In one of my novels, my hero and heroine have their first smooch while they're cooking, and let's just say they end up tasting more than just the food.) The first kiss can seal the deal or send you running in the opposite direction. One way or another, they're usually pretty memorable. A couple of years ago, I got a message on classmates.com that began: "I used to live next door to you when we were growing up, but you probably don't remember me. . ." You'd be surprised, dude.

♥ ♥ ♥

"Mine Own Library"*

This week I will be presenting a workshop, So You Wanna Be a Writer?, at the Kenilworth Library here in New Jersey. I am thrilled to be doing this for a number of reasons. First, I love libraries and librarians, and Kenilworth's librarian, Dale Spindel, is awesome. Dale was the second person (after my mom) to read the nowhere-near-ready-for-public-consumption first draft of my first novel a couple of years ago. She's brought wonderful programs to the library, including The Bard on the Boulevard, which stages Shakespeare plays in the summer. She's managed to snare amazing writers to do workshops and signings, including Jonathan Saffran Foer and Tom Perrotta (who attended my high school!). Dale is also a regular blogger at  Hey,There's a Dead Guy in the Living Room. Beyond that, however, I will always be grateful to the Kenilworth Library. I grew up in Kenilworth, and spent many a summer day browsing the stacks in that place, when it was maybe a third of the size of its current structure. (The white drain pipe marks the approximate end of the original building.) It was the treasures in my little library--Carolyn Keene and Booth Tarkington, Mary Stewart and Daphne DuMaurier, just to name a few--that first fired up my writer's imagination. Quite simply, my story started there, and I'm always happy to go back. P. S. Support your local public library. Fight to keep it open. And thank a librarian near you. photo courtesy of library website *Wm. Shakespeare: "Knowing I loved my books, he furnished me from mine own library. . ." The Tempest

♥ ♥ ♥

Romance Meets Mystery, or There's Nothing Like the Dame

  When I am deep in a project, I generally don’t read too much women’s fiction. I worry about the unconscious influences of voice or tone, and I dread coming across a plotline that may be similar to mine. So last summer while I worked on the first draft of my current novel, I tended to curl up in my big chair with mysteries, specifically Agatha Christie's works—there is nothing like the Dame on a rainy summer night.

 But as I worked on my story, it occurred to me that Christie’s formidable skills are a model for all writers, even those of us writing romantic fiction. Herewith are the lessons I have gleaned from Dame Agatha:  --Mystery. No, I’m not writing one, but I’m planting small ones in my story, including a few red herrings. There are no bodies littering my tale, but there are characters whose motivations are not clear, a couple who may or may not come together (perhaps not so mysterious after all, but I will keep ‘em guessing for a bit) and a hero with a secret.  --History. Just about every one of Christie’s murders has its roots in what happened before the action of the novel begins. It’s the characters’ histories that move them “towards zero,” or the defining moment that kicks the story into gear. My heroine has some baggage from her first marriage, and lots of residual anger. She’s got sibling issues with her younger sister that always threaten to bubble to the surface, and longstanding attachments to her grandpa and her beloved dog that get in the way of relationships with men (though her bad temper has something to do with that as well.) As I flesh out characters, I ask myself what has brought them to this particular place, so that I can move them “towards zero” in believable ways.  --Economy. Can Christie describe a London alleyway with the poetry of P. D. James? No. Does she have the literary brilliance of Dorothy Sayers? Probably not. But she is an unqualified master of pacing; few writers move a story the way she does, and the reader is helplessly carried along on the swift and twisty currents of her plot. Characters are sketched quickly but skillfully, and back story is woven seamlessly into the action without slowing it down. For writers of commercial fiction, particularly in this market, it’s all about page turning. And who knows? Maybe I'll even try my hand at a real mystery one of these days.

? ? ?

Hath Not Thy Rose a Thorn?*

 You might say that Kate, the main character in my current novel, is a "thorny" woman. She's angry, impatient, and quick to take offense, and at first, maybe a little hard to like. Her thorns keep people from getting too close to her, which is how she likes it. Because she's been hurt, she protects herself by throwing out some pretty sharp barbs. In the course of the story, she grows and changes; in fact, she blooms. She remains a strong woman, but a much less angry one. (And not completely thorn-free--that's what makes her interesting!) I struggled with developing the character of Kate, because conventional wisdom says a main character has to be likable for readers to engage with her. The choice of pronoun here is deliberate. I suspect most readers, male and female alike, have a much easier time accepting an angry guy as a hero than an angry woman as a heroine. Our cultural expectations run deep and run strong, and that's a hard tide to fight against. We love our cold Mr. Darcys and our mean Mr. Rochesters because we know that underneath they are basically good men with loving hearts. As readers, we give these characters a chance--sometimes for hundreds of pages--before they justify themselves in the eyes of readers. We watch their characters unfold and reveal themselves worthy, not only of our time, but of the heroines they love. We appreciate their sweetness because of, not in spite of, their thorny natures. (By the way, did it occur to anyone else that Mr. Rochester's home is actually called Thornfield? Gotta love serendipity.) As readers, we embrace male characters who are--dare I say it?--prick-ly. And what's good for the hero ought to be good for the heroine as well.

♥ ♥ ♥

*Wm. Shakespeare

Here to Stay: An American in Paris

On Saturday night I watched An American in Paris and two days later I'm still hearing Gershwin's jazz riffs in my head, still listening to the swelling strains of "Our Love is Here to Stay," and still wondering how Gene Kelly manages to make ankle-length pants, white socks and black shoes terribly, terribly sexy.

 I'm not generally a fan of the Techicolor era of movie musicals--I'm a diehard Astaire/Rogers gal--but I'm a sucker for this film. Kelly's character, Jerry Mulligan, is an ex-GI turned starving artist on the streets of Paris after WWII. Leslie Caron is Lise, a lovely shop girl with a secret. On first glance, the two don't seem to be much of a match. Until of course, they dance together.   While the film is best known for its wordless 17 minute ballet sequence at the end, for me it will always be defined by one number: the courtship dance to "Our Love is Here to Stay." Kelly is attempting to woo the resistant Caron, who leans shyly against a wall. But once the violins start, Kelly pulls her into a gentle embrace, and the two begin a balletic exchange that is at once sinuous and chaste. And while Caron is a delicate and nuanced dancer, it's Kelly who blows you away. Fleet-footed, graceful, athletic, and undeniably masculine. No matter how many grand jetes he executes, you never for a moment forget he's a guy. (Dance training tends to build muscle in rather interesting ways.)  I hadn't seen this movie in years before Saturday night, and as this dance began I actually let out an audible sigh. Just for a second, I felt as though I were dancing along the banks of the Seine. And it occurred to me that a good dance is a lot like a well-written love scene, with two people who dance around each other before they finally connect in the most satisfying of ways. A scene that builds to certain heights and then quietly falls. A scene that pulls the reader into a world she wishes she could inhabit, even if it's only for a couple of hours.

♥ ♥ ♥

Mary, Mary, and Me

My stories all seem to feature grandmothers. Given that my own were so strong a presence in my own life, I think it's my way of keeping them with me. Both my grandmothers were named Mary, but two more different women you could not imagine.    One Mary was tall, big-boned, the kind of woman people termed "handsome." She started going gray in her thirties, but never dyed her hair. No matter what drama was enfolding around her, she kept her counsel and her cool. She suffered the losses of her husband and oldest son with a strength and grace I've never seen in another person.

Because she came to this country as a baby, she grew up without an accent, and Americanized herself with great success. I spent the first year of my life under her roof, and growing up, I felt extremely close to her. I have fond memories of trips to the five and dime store and the Grand Union, and I remember her endless patience as she attempted (unsuccessfully) to teach me to knit. When I got my first job, I used to go to her house on a weekly basis to do my laundry and have dinner with her. She's been gone for nearly two decades now, and I'm grateful that she lived long enough to know my oldest son.

My other Mary was pretty, petite, and unapologetically vain about her appearance--a trait I seemed to have inherited, along with her facial structure. Sharp-witted and sharp-tongued, she was unafraid to speak her mind. She was also a gifted seamstress. If you can get past the polyester, take a close look at the dress she's wearing in the top photo. Note the cute collar and the unusual seaming--her design, as were all her clothes. She made me every dance costume I ever wore, and mine were always the envy of the other girls! In many ways, I think she was a woman out of her time. She worked her whole married life, and once confessed to my aunt that she had always wanted to learn fashion design, but never had the money to go to school. It was from her I learned to sew, as well as to appreciate good tailoring. She retained her accent, her hair color, and her sassy attitude until the day she died--at the age of 102, by the way. I hope I've inherited her longevity as well. When I look at that picture above, I get a pretty good sense of what I'll look like in about 15 years. I could do worse.

I feel that Nature has played a cruel trick on me. As a middle-aged woman myself, I've come to appreciate my grandmothers in ways I never did as a young woman. I have so many questions I'll never be able to ask them, and so much to tell them in return.  In the meantime, I'll give my characters their nonnas. But I'll never stop missing my own.

                                                                                           ♥ ♥ ♥

HEA or HFN?

                                                                                                        

I have been re-reading Stephen Greenblatt's wonderful biography of Shakespeare, Will in the World. It's one of those books that inspires you to read passages aloud to a half-listening spouse; in fact I've been gushing about it so much that my husband now refers to the author as "your boyfriend, Stephen Greenblatt." (So maybe I have a tiny academic crush.)

What I love about this book is that Greenblatt looks at Shakespeare's life primarily through the prism of his plays. In a fascinating chapter called "Wooing, Wedding, and Repenting," he theorizes about Shakespeare's marriage to Anne Hathaway--and in fact his view on marriage in general--by looking at the couples in a number of the plays, in particular the comedies.

Greenblatt reminds us that Shakespeare's characters, even in the lighter comedies such as Much Ado about Nothing and As You Like It, voice doubts and even cynicism about marriage. The chapter's title comes from Beatrice's lines in Much Ado, yet she and Benedick marry in the end of the play, "despite the clear-eyed calculation of the consequences," according to Greenblatt. Shakespeare employs common conventions of romantic comedies, but doesn't seem to believe in his own happy endings. However, Greenblatt reminds us that the magic in these plays resides in

"the joy and optimism of each of the couples. . . .The spectators are invited into the charmed circle of love, knowing that it is probably a transitory illusion, but for the moment at least--the moment of the play--not caring."

We can't think too carefully about the fact that Demetrius only loves Helena because a love potion has been sprinkled on his eyes (Midsummer). Or that Duke Orsino is a self-involved jerk who is undeserving of the loyal, loving Viola (Twelfth Night). We might have more hopes for Beatrice and Benedick, but only if we forget that they were tricked into loving each other.

In romance parlance, HEA stands for "happy ever after," but HFN means "happy for now." What Shakespeare knew was that happy forever is an illusion. But happy for now just might be possible.

♥ ♥ ♥