Adri Sinclair's Blog, page 7

Ontmoet vir Hannelie, ‘n Afrikaanse vroutjie daar uit die Tuinroete!

 

Hannelie Pretorius, Proef & Redigeer

Hannelie se prys vir haar werk is beslis baie billik, teen net o.05c per woord, en ‘n hele ‘swart boekie’ vol name [getuigskrifte!] wat haar knappige diens kan bevestig, maar dit is duidelik dat die mens volledig twee-talig is en dus, aanvaar sy werke in Engels ook.

[Die hoof foto in die artikel is gemik op so bietjie humor, aanvaar dit asseblief in sodanige konteks!]

Hannelie verkies om deur FaceBook haarself bekend te stel aan skrywers en is beslis baie aktief in die Self Publikasie kringe. Kyk gerus na die indrukwekkende name onder haar belt, en kom in aanraking direk met haar as jy enigsins hulp benodig!

Ek het in 1997 gematrikuleer met Afrikaans as eerste taal en Engels as tweede taal. Gedurende my hoërskool loopbaan [1993 – 1997] was ek ‘n media-prefek gewees.

Ek was ook gedurende my hoërskool loopbaan deel van die skool se koerant redaksie [Die Noorderlander] en ek was verantwoordelik vir die taalversorging gedurende die tydperk.

1998 – 2009:

Gedurende hierdie tydperk het ek vir verskeie plaaslike publikasies vryskutwerk gedoen. Ek het verskeie artikels en berigte geproeflees en geredigeer. Ek was ook ‘n vryskutskrywer van verskeie artikels en rubrieke [resepte, wenke, gedagte vir die week, ensovoorts].

2009 – 2014:

Gedurende hierdie tydperk het ek vir verskeie studente hulle tesisse geproeflees en geredigeer.

Sept. 2013 – Okt. 2013:

Ek het die geleentheid gehad om ‘n tesis te proeflees en te redigeer vir Juliana en Wendy Lombaard. Hierdie tesis het gehandel oor leerders met spesiale behoeftes wat insluit Aandag Gebrek en Hiperaktiwiteit Sindroom [AGHS]. Dit verduidelik hoe sagte strelende musiek bevorderlik is vir kinders met spesiale behoeftes.

Die tesis is geskryf deur Juliana Lombaard en Wendy Lombaard
Die tesis is geskryf met die oogmerk om dit deel te laat vorm van die witskrif.

Okt. 2013 – Nov. 2013:

Willemientjie my lief geskryf deur Zelda van der Mescht.

Dit is ‘n volledige lang manuskrip wat in Afrikaans geskryf is wat ek geproeflees en geredigeer het.

Nov. 2013 – Des. 2013:

La Mia Meta geskryf deur Zelda van der Mescht.

Dit is ‘n volledige lang manuskrip wat in Engels geskryf is wat ek geproeflees en geredigeer het.

Febr. 2015:

Op pad na Arniston geskryf deur Noddy Schutte.

Dit is ‘n kortverhaal wat ek geproeflees en geredigeer het.

Hierdie kortverhaal is spesiaal vir LitNet se reisverhaal kompetisie geskryf en een van die voorwaardes was dat dit presies uit ‘n 1001 woorde moet bestaan.
Hierdie verhaal het ‘n derde plek in hierdie kompetisie verwerf.

Mrt. 2015:

Met ‘n knippie sout – Volume 1 geskryf deur Noddy Schutte.

Dit is ‘n bundel met kortverhale.

Apr. 2015:

Met ‘n knippie sout – Volume 2 geskryf deur Noddy Schutte.

Dit is ‘n bundel met kortverhale.

Apr. 2015:

Ek het die geleentheid gekry om ‘n artikel te proeflees en te redigeer vir Nampo Landbou Skou. Hierdie geleentheid is moontlik gemaak deur Ronél Botha van Brandbar.

Apr. 2015:

Arabiese Lente geskryf deur Tinus Viviers.

Dit is ‘n volledige lang manuskrip wat in Afrikaans geskryf is wat ek geproeflees en geredigeer het.

Mei 2015:

Met ‘n knippie sout – Volume 3 geskryf deur Noddy Schutte.

Dit is ‘n bundel met kortverhale wat ek geproeflees en geredigeer het.

Mei 2015:

Polaroid van die Platteland – Publishing World SA

Dit is ‘n volledige lang manuskrip wat in Afrikaans geskryf is wat ek geproeflees en geredigeer het vir die uitgewers Publishing World SA (kontak persone Pieter Loftus & Relene Engelbrecht)

Junie 2015:

Die Botha’s – geskryf deur Noddy Schutte.

Dit is ‘n kortverhaal wat ek geproeflees en geredigeer het.

Julie 2015:

Wit sokkies – geskryf deur Noddy Schutte.

Dit is ‘n kortverhaal wat ek geproeflees en geredigeer het.

Aug. 2015:

Op die vlug van die voëls – Publishing World SA

Dit is ‘n volledige lang manuskrip wat in Afrikaans geskryf is wat ek geproeflees en geredigeer het vir die uitgewers Publishing World SA (kontak persone Pieter Loftus & Relene Engelbrecht)

Aug. 2015:

‘n Stofpad op die Ondermaanse – Publishing World SA

Dit is ‘n volledige lang manuskrip wat in Afrikaans geskryf is wat ek geproeflees en geredigeer het vir die uitgewers Publishing World SA (kontak persone Pieter Loftus & Relene Engelbrecht)

Okt./Nov. 2015:

Donker Uur – Francois Conradie

Dit is ‘n volledige lang manuskrip wat in Afrikaans geskryf is wat ek geproeflees en geredigeer het vir die Suid-Afrikaans gebore skrywer, wat deesdae in Australië woon.

Jan./Feb. 2016

Kruispad – Willie J. Botes (Uitgewer: Groep 7)

Dit is ‘n volledige lang manuskrip wat in Afrikaans geskryf is wat ek geproeflees en geredigeer het vir die die uitgewers Groep 7 (kontak persone Jaco & Ilette Strydom)

Jan./Feb. 2016

The !gais of the Nama – Pieter Gouws

Dit is ‘n volledige lang manuskrip wat in Engels geskryf is wat ek geproeflees en geredigeer het.

Feb./Mrt. 2016

Wense – Johan Jansen

Dit is ‘n volledige lang manuskrip wat in Afrikaans geskryf is wat ek geproeflees en geredigeer het.

Maart 2016

Artikel vir die blog Klipgooi – Jacques Basson

Dit was ‘n volledige artikel vir die blog Klipgooi wat gehandel het oor die sakeman Tiaan de Jager.

Maart 2016

Bylaag artikel vir die Departement van Handel & Nywerheid – Ronel Botha (Brandbar)

Dit was ‘n volledige bylaag artikel vir die Departement van Handel en Nywerheid in samewerking met die minister Rob Davies.

Maart 2016

Tuin van Liefde – Heidi Strauss

Dit is ‘n volledige lang manuskrip wat in Afrikaans geskryf is wat ek geproeflees en geredigeer het.

 

It is not every day you get to ask questions directly from your main characters in a story. Truth is, when we entered into the intimate interview room to do just that, none of us knew what to expect. I myself, sat nervously looking at the door, wondering: How will this go? After all, Carmina and Liam are my family and I am fiercely protective of them – as I am over just about everyone in the Valley.

First through the door, was Jen Winters. She is an amazing author of several paranormal romances, and she was the first blogger to officially take a look at the lives of Carmina and Liam. Jen wasted no time, and after the pleasantries, got straight to the point:

While I bit my nails, I sat back and let the pair answer for themselves:

Jen: Carmina,What was the scariest moment for you living with your family?

Carmina opened her mouth several times but closed it again. I became fidgety, keen to know the answer myself as Carmina hardly spoke about any of the events surrounding the discovery.

Carmina: It is hard to answer that Jen, because my family are good people. When I learned what they are, I wasn’t really scared, but I was hurt and angry at them for hiding things from me. I think, looking back, the scary part for me came when I realised I could loose all of them and may have to choose death over life.

Jen gave Carmina an endearing look before she turned to Liam. As always, the big brute was stood against the wall, head down and arms folded over his chest. Liam lifted his head before Jen even asked the question, but he allowed her to speak it out loud. Carmina turned in her chair to look at him, a quirky smile on her lips.

Jen: Liam, what was it like the first time you shifted? Were you prepared? Was it surprising?

Liam: Mrs. Winters, the first time I shifted, I was having a disagreement with my father who thought it a good idea to force the matter. I was disgruntled at the Alpha and challenged him. So no, I wasn’t prepared, I was pissed off. Was it surprising? No. It was a lesson for me to learn to control my temper better. As for how it felt,” Liam motioned to Jen to touch him “why don’t see for yourself?”

Let nobody call Jen Winters a coward. She didn’t hesitate one moment, but the ominous look on Liam’s face and Carmina’s quick reaction to restrain the dark-haired beauty was enough notice for Jen to laugh and decline the offer with poise and grace.

Next up was the gentlemanly approach by the name of Tom Hodden. Tom too is an author friend of mine, but he is more than that. Tom is a mate, a man we all have come to respect and appreciate. After a general introduction, Tom’s question was aimed at Liam too.

Tom: What does it feel like to transform? 

Liam regarded Tom with a side-long look though his eyes kept darting to the door where Jen has just gone through.

Liam: Hmm. It is energy that brings about the changes, Mr. Hodden. Imagine a swift electric shock from an open wire and you jerking your hand away to shake out the aftermath of the energy. The change is that quick and feels about the same, only, all over.”

Liam wiped at the corners of his mouth, his eyes fixed on Carmina while he waited for Tom to ask his next question.

Tom: Have you become more like your animal, or does the animal come from your own traits?

Liam: Man by nature is an animal, Mr. Hodden. Being able to skin-walk, only shows a truer form of the hidden beast. The traits, as with any animal, are passed on from the creators – in my case the Alpha pair. How they develop is partly based on who I am, what I choose and how I experience things. It is also partly based on pure instinct and desire.

Liam was done talking, and he dropped his chin to his chest again. I was rather pleased with the fact that Tom received an answer at all but it was clear to me that the friction between the couple was still present at times. Undeterred by any of the perceived undercurrents, Tom had one more question to ask, and he gently eased it towards the two individuals.

Tom: Do you ever watch horror movies, and complain they are wrong?

Carmina’s laughter was infectious, she answered first.

Carmina: [Still chuckling] I usually watch comedy, romance or drama, Tom. Though my favorite genre has always been Historical Romance. After learning some things, I admit that I do not think they are wrong at all – though I do question more often whether or not they are hiding anything more. Much of history, as I learned it, it appears, have a immortal hand in the pie somewhere.

Carmina pinched her lips together and shot a challenging look at Liam. Liam didn’t lift his head, nor did he rise to Carmina’s challenge. He simply answered Tom’s question.

Liam: No.

Carmina wasn’t impressed with the answer but she let it go and added to her own.

Carmina: Liam is more of a reader Tom, and a painter. Though judging by his method of painting, I think he may enjoy horror movies regardless of their accuracy.

Tom chuckled softly at the cheek of Carmina, and after a little chit-chat, he kindly stepped out to allow the next person into the chatroom.  Next, through the door was Magda Cornelius. Her short, wavy copper red hair glistened under the light, and her lively hazel eyes roamed freely. Magda did not think twice, she simply hugged Carmina and Liam whether they wanted to or not. From where I watched, Carmina thoroughly enjoyed it, but Liam was slightly taken aback. After a little bit of back and forth, Magda eventually asked Liam her final question.

Magda: Liam if you open a FaceBook account would you use your own name?

Her question caught us all off guard. Nobody, not even Carmina, has thought of Liam’s human name, nor mentioned it before. I held my breath in anticipation, hoping Liam would open up and reveal the secret. Carmina leaned forward to hear the answer too. Liam looked pained when he finally lifted his head with a sigh.

Liam: If I did, you wouldn’t know.

Carmina let out a groan in objection, but Magda shook her head and her humour reminded me some of Esmeriska’s – Lady E. When Magda left, Liam and Carmina became tangled in a silent [I assumed non-verbal] argument, and the energy in the room became thick with tension. Where Carmina was [and still is] an open book, getting anything from Liam is difficult – and that is on a day when he’s talkative!

Next up was Linus Cornelius. It wasn’t hard to see the family resemblance, as he is Magda’s eldest son. His broad shoulders near matched Liam’s as Linus is an arm wrestler. He shook Liam’s hand and offered a quick, sisterly hug to Carmina.

Linus was excited to ask his question to Liam, he had mischief dancing on his face and he rubbed his hands together while speaking.

Linus: Liam, who is your favourite super hero. And this is not as easy a question to answer as one might think.

There are no words to describe what happened next, and I bet nobody is going to believe it. The walls in that small room shook, Carmina jumped and I gawked with my mouth wide open. Linus simply stood there with a massive grin, playfully mocking Liam with a ‘So?’ expression. Liam was folded over laughing, the sound was rich, warm and husky but crashing down around us like boulders from the side of a mountain. Try as I may, I do not recall ever hearing Liam laugh like this. It was something John did, not the Dark Lord!

Through splutters and snickers, Liam answered Linus.

Liam: To borrow my brother’s expression, Dude! That is the best question ever. John and I have debated this for… well, we’re old. It isn’t easy because we have our own skills right? John however always fancied himself a bit like the airbender Ank. Gods knows why, but I suppose maturity levels does not feature high in my brother’s priority list. But me? I would trade Carmina’s blood for the physical and mental capacity of Wolverine. There, I said it!

I swallowed, seriously I  could not believe what I heard, and by the expression on Carmina’s face, nor could she. Liam and Linus debated back and forth for a good while, which was tense, to say the least, when the debate became heated. Linus however, stood fearlessly on his grounds, his own love for Japanese culture and history tested against Liam’s historical information. It was daunting to be in the company of an exuberant Liam, and neither Carmina nor I have ever heard him so fully engaged and dare I say it, rambling? To see this side of Liam scared me, though, as I soon realised that he was good at hiding a large part of himself, even from me.

When I finally chucked Linus out with an agreement of “It must be a boy thing,” and put an end to their debate, it was with Liam throwing a challenge back at Linus.

Liam: Let me know your favorite super villain Linus, I think I may relate better!

The next guest was Tina Fourie. She was more interested in a general chat than peppering the pair with questions. From behind her, Liam barely moved or made a sound, which was more in line with how we knew him. When her time to leave came, Tina said her goodbyes but she did have one question for Liam.

Tina: Is it just me or do you intimidate very one.

Carmina’s lips squeezed tight together, stifling a giggle while Liam’s only response was to shrug his shoulders. Tina rolled her eyes and left the room with a little wave at us.

The last person through the door, was Ingvild Birkals, a nurse all the way from Norway. Ingvild’s warm greeting extended to both Carmina and Liam, and she was rewarded with a dazzling smile from the big lump against the wall. Carmina’s affection for Ingvild was evident too, as she offered a hug to the short woman.

The conversation was pleasant, and it was clear to me that Ingvild adored this couple and was hardly intimidated by Liam’s demeanour when she asked the things she wanted to know about them.

Ingvild: What are your favourite music, books, colors?

Carmina: We both like books about mythology, for different reasons, I suspect.

She glanced at Liam who nodded.

Liam: Posh fairytales, as Carmina would have it, are the history of my kind, while to you, Rockflower, it is legends and stories forged from imagination.

Carmina blushed at the mention of the pet name and the reference to her sarcastic observation when she saw Liam’s reading material for the first time. This amused Ingvild but the nurse wasn’t done with them yet.

Ingvild: If you could go anywhere, where would you go and why?

At this question, Liam looked up at her directly, and a far-off look wove through the gold in his eyes. Carmina smiled and nodded as if to answer him in a private agreement.

Liam: Anywhere where Carmina and I can have enough privacy to be a couple. She craves normality, I crave fewer people to get on my nerves.

Carmina: What he means Ingvild, is that we have been bombarded with one thing after another, and … we are a new pair. I am used to it, having grown up with a large family and all that, but Liam is –

Liam: Able to speak for myself. I don’t like people and I don’t like how they demand Carmina’s attention.

At this point, I tried to re-direct the conversation, but as so many times before, Liam and Carmina were locked in an argument with one another, to which we are not privy. Ingvild understood their means of communication and gave me a knowing look before she gained their attention with another direct question at Liam.

Ingvild: If you could choose anyone, who would you like to have dinner/coffee/tea/water with, and why? Not each other.

He seemed annoyed at her for the interruption but I couldn’t help but wonder if Ingvild had a ‘silent word’ with him too. Liam’s lips thinned out and his jaw clenched, but he nodded for Carmina to answer first.

Carmina: I’d have liked to sit down with my mother, Carmen. I learned a lot about her recently, and it made me realise that I have a rich history filled with wonder too. She saved me, by offering her own life, and there are many unanswered questions. I- I think I’d like that.

Compassion oozed from Ingvild for Carmina, her hand stroked over the arm of the red-head near her. Yet, she wasn’t going to let Liam off the hook. He shook his head, and again I felt as if something passed between them without words. He answered the question in a gruff, short manner.

Liam: I have no desire to entertain anyone, in particular, Mrs. Birkals.

He lifted his eyes to me and I felt myself shrink into a corner.

Liam: But I’d like to return the favor of hearing the story of the woman who keeps us straight and gave us our voices. The true creator,  if you will.

Ingvild looked at me and I felt her warmth extend around the room. She has asked me so many questions over the past two years and she knew more about these two people in the room with us than most.

Carmina and Liam both stood up too, and I knew it was the end of this session. With Ingvild on one side, Carmina on the other, we walked out of the door that Liam held open for us.

There wasn’t anything else to say because we all knew that Liam Moretti, will eventually get his way when the time is right.

He knew it.

We knew it.

 

Second Breath Chronicles, Hidden Carmina, Adri Sinclair, Romance

Hidden Carmina is the first book in the Second Breath Chronicles. 

To live, she has to die, to die, she has to love – and to love, she has to face her own history founded in mythology!

Carmina Nightshade is 22 years old, and feels as if her entire life has been one big illusion when she learns that her family and clan are not human. This unsettling revelation leads to a deeper understanding of their peculiar behavior around her, though it brings very little comfort. She now knows she triggers their hunting instinct by simply being around them, testing their resolve! Now begins the turbulent journey of self discovery, perilous dangers and buried truths. As Carmina learns that her entire identity is a lie, she also meets with the dark and brooding Liam Moretti. The act of falling in love becomes a burden with catastrophic consequences for both of them. Carmina will soon learn, however, that this problem pales by comparison to the darkness that lurks within herself. She is not exactly angelic descended.

 

 

So staan ek vanoggen en deeg verwerk hier op ‘n koue London oggend. My hande mooi gevryf met botter, nes Ouma my geleer het. Soveel liefde wat ek insit, en dis dan nou ook wanneer ek die diepste dink. Terwyl ek vou en brou, onthou ek die versie uit die Bybel: “… Gee ons vandag ons daagse brood…” en toe bars ek kliphard uit van die lag. Nee, hang vas, ek verduidelik!

Dis mos ‘n gebed wat van kleinteid in my kop vasgevang is – as jy niks geleer het nie, het jy DIE gebed geleer. Deur die jare het ek natuurlik my sielsgeluk gevind in baie ander maniere, en alhoewel geloof ‘n groot deel van my bestaan is, is die Bybel nie. En tog, die gebed… Toe ek die woordjies hoor terwyl ek die rolletjie in die pan sit om te rys, toe tref dit my soos ‘n giggelsak vol liefde en minora lemmetjies.

In ons huis was altyd brood. Bruin brood vir die moeilike maande, en wit brood as als mooi verloop het en die geldjies vir ‘n verandering reg uitgewerk het. My Ouma en Tannie Lettie veral, het ‘n groot rol gespeel in my lewe. As jy hartseer is, eet ‘n broodjie. As jy gelukkig is, dan maak ons ‘n broodjie. As jy kwaad is, dan eet jy sommer ‘n broodjie en verwurg jouself. Daar is nie ‘n ding wat jou kon beterder laat voel het, as ‘n broodjie nie. En so met die hele ding van God se gebed, en die daagse brood… Toe snap ek! Drie-en-veertig jaar agter die klip, maar nou verstaan ek dit eers regtig. Dis nie die broodjie nie, dis die oumense se geloof wat my telkens gered het! “… En lei ons nie in die versoekking nie…” Natuurlik! Met ‘n mond vol brood, mag jy nie gepraat het nie, en dit het NET genoeg tyd gegee om af te koel, of anders te redeneer, of te voel daar is ondersteuning, of te luister as daar met jou gepraat word – want jou mond is vol!

Al laggend sit ek die broodjies op die stoof [want ek moet mos maar die kombuis opwarm met ‘n gas stoof sodat die broodjies kan rys] en ek vou my arms oor my bors met die grootste lag ooit. Ek weet beide my Tannie Lettie en my Ouma staan sommer net so langs my met daai tipiese ‘Ek het jou mos vertel’ kyk.

Dit is geen wonder dan, dat ek tot vandag toe nog, altyd seker maak daar is ‘n broodjie in my huis. Ek bak dit nie aldag self nie, maar probeer gereeld om vir my twee Ingelsmantjies ‘n vars boerebrood voor te sit. Maar vandag is anders… Vandag bak die twee ouvrouens saam met my en ek ruik hulle Chesterfields, en proe hulle tee op die lug. Vandag, staan hulle bankvas om my te herhinner oor God se gebed… en oor broodjies wat gebak moet word.

Ons kuiertjie was nie lank nie, en die broodjies is nou eers in die oond gedruk, maar my hartjie verlang na die dae wat ons groot familie om ‘n tafel sit en broodjies eet. Min het ek geweet, toe, dat dit was die raadskamer van my voorsate, en dit was nie altyd oor die broodjie nie, nog minder oor die botter of appelkoos konfyt. Dit was oor geloof dat dinge beter sou word.

Oorlog, hartseer, troues, geboortes of dood… In ons huis, was daar altyd brood.

Adri.

Met liefde geskryf vir my twee anties: Magda & Tina. Ek weet sommer julle sal verstaan.

Die ‘Onse Vader’

Onse Vader wat in die hemele is,

laat u Naam geheilig word,

laat u koninkryk kom,

laat u wil geskied,

soos in die hemel

net so ook op die aarde

Gee ons vandag

ons daaglikse brood,

en vergeef ons ons skulde,

soos ons ook ons skuldenaars vergewe;

en lei ons nie in die versoeking

nie, maar verlos ons van die Bose.

Want aan U behoort die koningkryk

en die krag en die heerlikheid tot

in ewigheid. Amen [Mat 6:9-13]

Elke dag bring ‘n hergeboorte van my siel,

Hoop dat vandag gaan beter wees as gister,

Soos ‘n verpleegster met ‘n tydbom gevul met liefde,

Om die kranksinnigheid van euwel te verniel.

Elke hartklop bring ‘n asemteug van onthou,

Eergister se lewensbrood wat droog is,

Soos ‘n slukkie water wat dit makliker maak,

Om die bitter van more af te sluk of op te kou.

Elke laggie, elke wink, bring ‘n bietjie aanmoediging,

Lig in die lewe se lang, donker gang,

Soos ‘n sonstraal wat my beskerm met ‘n glans,

Om die skaduwees te verban met aanvaarding.

Elke dag is ‘n nuwe dag om ‘n beter mens te wees,

As die monsters wat ek agterlos in my gister,

Soos ‘n klok wat aanhou tik met afwagting,

Om die nuwe skrif op die muur te lees.

— Adri Sinclair.

Second Breath Chronicles; Hidden Carmina

Second Breath Chronicles Social Media Connections


1. [SBC] Adri Sinclair Author Page FB:  https://www.facebook.com/Author-Adri-Sinclair-1411356515822689/

2. [SBC] Adri Sinclair Google+ Page: https://plus.google.com/111947400695434017882/posts

3. [SBC] Adri Sinclair Twitter: https://twitter.com/My_MindGrind

Hidden Carmina eBook

#MondayBlogs #MyRomanceMyRules

And what am I rambling on about anyway right? Well, it is time. I AM that person who refuse to be held back by ignorance – and the more I think about it, the more I think: I really should learn all this malarky [or at least the basics] of scriptwriting – Right?

I’ve been toying with the idea to get the Second Breath Chronicles into script – but first, I need to know what that means – because you see… I’ve had offers to get this done, but I do not know nearly enough about the trade to know what is plausable practice, what is acceptable creative behaviour and even: where do I start?

Self doubt knibble at the back of my mind. I’m 43 years old, I am in no real state to take on something as intensively mental as this – and yet – like with every other bit of education I bartered for, begged for and litterally stolen for – there is that nagging feeling in the back of my head that says:

SHUT THE FUCK UP AND JUST DO IT.

Gone are the days of bringing teacher an apple which wasn’t only a great way to introduce yourself, but also for you to smooth over the transition from obscurity to performance graded tests, by a ‘stranger’ who may or may not hate you. This course is 5 weeks long and online – convenient to say the least but still as scary to me, as that first day in the ‘big school’! Insecurity is an douchebag on a galloping horse without a saddle. But you don’t shoot the horse to deal with it, you simply yank that mother mofo off the horse and enjoy the ride. The most happy dances for me?  It won’t cost me a dime!

“Where there is a will, there is a way!”  

So Yip… Should I vanish for a while… THIS is what I am doing with my ‘spare’ time [of which I have exactly none, but you know… Where there’s a will there’s a fucking pile of dirty laundry that can wait too. Check out the last paragraph, and DO wish me luck… it is going to be a stiff learning curve with high hopes at the end of it!!!

Script Writing: Write a Pilot Episode for a TV or Web Series (Project-Centered Course)Michigan State University

What you’ll achieve:

In this project-centered course*, you will design a series bible and write a complete pilot episode for your own unique television or web series. You’ll learn to break down the creative process into components, and you’ll discover a structured process that allows you to produce a polished and pitch-ready script in just a few weeks. Completing this project will increase your confidence in your ideas and abilities, and you’ll feel prepared to pitch your first script and get started on your next.

The course curriculum is simple: you’ll write, revise your work, and share feedback with your peers.

The ten scripts that receive the highest peer review ratings will also be personally reviewed by a group of well-regarded professional writers, and the script authors will receive personal feedback on their work.

Sponsored Adverts 

eBook

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#MondayBlogs: Adri Sinclair is a paranormal romance author, published by Booktrope and responsible for the Second Breath Chronicles and the Barefoot Romance brand. 

“They steal your voice!” The scary whispers were put out to me. “They stifle your creativity!” another wrung her hands together as she told me her tale of Editor’s Horror. I was petrified. I wanted to pee my pants just hearing the word and I bit my nails until they bled. Editors often receive the worst reputation attributes. They are seen as vindictive, destructive and merciless passion killers with red markers and a grade card. But… are they?

 I knew I had to face one of those monster-word-haters because you see… I recognise and admit my flaws.

So I took the plunge. It was quite surreal when I received the edits back. “Hey,” I thought, “this isn’t so bad.” I made the changes and published.

By the GODS! Every informal language expert on the planet came at me from all angles. They all shouted one thing at me: YOU NEED AN EDITOR!

Well, I had one. And to be fair, she did a fucking great job.

Soon I realised that what was ‘wrong’ with my writing, wasn’t really all that wrong  – it was a difference in geography. Most of the mistakes in ‘grammar’, was really based on localised rules. Brits don’t have the same grammatical rules [it appears] as the USA does, and therefore… I was wrong. My writing was wrong. My poor editor, bless her heart, she was the wrongest [yes I said it!] of all!

But even so. I soon learned the difference between a grammar Nazi, and an Editor.

You see, Editors, do not care to change your ‘voice’. They don’t care to re-write and re-word your story. They honestly don’t mind your creative stances and your generous licencing on colonialism either. They care about the words, the order you use them in, the correctness of your work and the acceptable standards that face the public eye. Editors , I realised, are not monsters, they are powerful traps that will catch the real monsters – and help you sleep better at night.

I used to dread Editing. I have several reasons for this:

1. I translate from my native tongue into English. It could go either way.

2. My English grammar is non-existent. While I’ve learned a lot, I still get terribly confused and let’s not even mention the difference between favor vs favour! [And when to ‘z’ and when not to ‘z’ !]

3. Grammatical rules are fluid. Yes, unlike math, it changes on a dime and each rule has a subset of rules and my brain? My brain only computes simplicity.

4. Punctuation is the bane of my existence. I write how I speak and how I speak, apparently, is terribly wrong and where I take breaths or place emphasis, too.

But then… I met Tabatha Rhodes. She is my ultimate monster buster! She showed me the gentler side to Editing and the patient side to grammar and the beauty in having words shine like floodlights, rather than twinkle.

My voice-box wasn’t ripped out, ever. I could explain what I wanted to say, and she could show me how to say it better. It was almost as if I had to learn a whole new language. One that wasn’t fearful, bashful or resentful. She nurtured my understanding of when to use which punctuation and how to shape and create my words to be as fluid as the language rules themselves.

I listen now to so many authors who are petrified of the idea about editors – as I was. I encourage them to take the leap [it IS leap year after all, right?]

Some advice to those in the same boat as me, about editors:

1. Don’t just accept the first, cheapest, or nearest. [Especially if they’re just a really picky family member!]

2. Sample edits do not work for me. Honestly, I don’t think an editor can really get into the swing of your style with merely a chapter [which for some is barely two pages long] I remember one of the ‘editors’ I asked to help with a chapter, became so fixated on the ‘lack of information forthcoming’ that she eventually decided not to take the job. When she eventually picked up my book to read it, she apologised and we agreed that sample edits are not terrible ideas – but they don’t compliment certain styles.

3. Free isn’t bad. Paid isn’t better.

4. Be patient, find the match. I believe that the editor must match the genre in the sense of interest. If he/she is going to apply a clinical approach to a soft, sweet romance – that is when the voice-loss happens. That is when the passion is killed. That is when your story become a textbook rather than something warm and creative. [Of course, there ARE exceptions, there ALWAYS are exceptions; so take your time!]

5. Admit your shortcomings. Admit your fear. Admit your weaknesses and lay them bare; but do not compromise on your vision, your dream or your passion. Ultimately, Editors are there to give you advice, not to force you into a corner and beat you with a stick until you do as you’re told. You are still the artist, the call, is still yours to make.

6. Be open to constructive criticism. This is the hardest part – but we have to put our ego aside, we have to put the gentle, fragile artistic soul aside and listen to the input. Weigh it up, debate it, deliberate if you must, but do not ignore it altogether. We tend to forget that we know our characters and stories so well, that we often neglect to ‘see’ the lack of information, or the break in the flow, or the switch in concepts. Because we have the big picture, the entire story, the whole wikipedia and every dream, avenue, used and discarded piece of information in our head… Does not mean we brought it to the table and captured it well enough on paper. THAT is what editors do.

I am sure there are loads more bits of genuinely good advice out there, but the biggest and most helpful I came to, was with this realisation:

Editors are just as passionate about the written language, as we are about writing it. 

Tabatha Rhodes, Editor

Love your Editor today! Give them a shout-out!

Tabatha Rhodes @ Spellbound Book Editing 

I love you lady. Thank you for all the work you’ve done, and still is doing for and with me!

Adri Sinclair is a paranormal romance author, published by Booktrope and responsible for the Second Breath Chronicles and the Barefoot Romance brand. 

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The Soldier’s Maiden

T.E. Hodden

 

“I want it to be beautiful.” Lady Felten said.

She was marching ahead of me through the hop fields. She was tall, and lithe. Her cascade of hair was so fair it was almost silver. Her eyes were sapphires. She did not dress like a Lady, that first time I saw her. She was not adrift in a sea of skirts, her hair sculpted, and her face painted. She was dressed in riding boots, tawny trousers, and her fathers old coat.

“Do you think that possible?” She asked, looking back.

“I intend for it to be very beautiful.” Baker said. He was burly, and stocky, wild white hair escaping from his tricorn hat. Since he had found his fortune, he had taken to dressing in rich blacks and very dark reds. The cream scarf pinned around his throat was decorated with amber coloured stitching. “The reason it has taken so many years to complete, is because I wanted to do justice to your father’s desires. To make it beautiful, and haunting, so that it will never be forgotten?”

She did not seem convinced.

“Romance and Tragedy,” I offered. “Your father was very clear.”

“Tragedy?” Lady Felten stopped walking. “Oh no. No… Romance, yes, but tragedy? No.”

“Your father was very specific.” Baker said, his cheeks flushing a very particular red, and his tone adopting a particular note of plum, as he threatened to bluster. I kicked his heel. He scowled at me. “The Tragedy Of  The Soldier’s Maiden was to be the masterpiece that his Troupe would be remembered for. The Jewel in his Crown, and his…”

“Baker.” I said.

He swallowed back his bluster. “Of course, the house of Lady Felten has been visited by too much tragedy this year. Of course, if My Lady would  rather we staged a comedy for her delight?”

“No.” Lady Felten sighed. “Why is it actors always want to turn love to a joke, or a tragedy? Why can you not simply offer me a story of love. Truest, sweetest, kindest, and most beautiful love?”

“If you wish me to write a new play, I will have to beg more time.” Baker may have tactfully avoided mentioning money, but his tone did its best to hint at the money it would require.

“No.” Fleten shook her head. “I have read some of what you left for my father to approve. I like the Soldier’s Maiden. I would rather it was the Romance of the Soldier’s Maiden, than her tragedy. How long would you need to complete the play, with a final act that is not some tawdry bloodbath?”

“Tawdry.” Baker seethed.

“A happy ending. Not a comedy. Not a death. Something more… Perfect.” Lady Felten said.

Baker considered. He nodded. “I believe it can be done.”

“You will winter on the estate.” Lady Felten said. “Complete the play.  Stage it for me. Bring a little hope, a little sunlight and warmth back to this house.”

“My Lady.” Baker stooped into a bow. “I would be honoured.”

I felt the eyes of the lady on me. I followed Baker into a bow.

“I shall visit you in a few days. To see what you have come up with.” She said.

Baker glanced at me. He tried very hard not to look worried.

“A few days? Ma’am?” I said.

“Well, I would not expect you to have completed the script. I would just like to know if you have the story in hand. A plan.” Lady Felten nodded. “An artist has a plan. An architect. A gardener. You will of course have one. How else would you know the roles, or the props, to be filled?”

Baker was swallowing back his bluster.

“And you will want to hear a story of love?” I said.

“Yes.” She looked at me. “Actors are capable of love? You do not all believe that every fair maiden should be stabbed, poisoned, or die of heart sickness?”

“Our life does not make it easy, but… It has been known.” I said.

She smiled. “Are you sure? Mister David’s reputation suggests it is… something of a skill to him.”

Her smile was bright, and her cheeks rosy. She had that distant look that many women had when they spoke of the wolfish, Scott.

“Perhaps, but I doubt if it is the particular form of Romance you intend.” I said. “I think the Romance you described is considerably rarer. As rare for actors as for anybody else.”

Lady Felten nodded. “Very true Fawn. Very true! Master Baker, I am heartened you understand.”

Baker smiled. “We do Ma’am. And I will endeavour to capture that very essence, for our play. The rarest, and most beautiful of treasures. The truest of loves.”

Lady Felten grinned broadly, happy with our understanding.

The troupe gathered in the Hearth Hall of the house. It was as large as a church, with beams high overhead, supporting the arched roof. The floor was solid stone, the walls sturdy brick. The room was more than large enough to be haunted by echoes. There was the hearth, that gave the hall it’s name, at one end. The golden flames drove back the chill of the morning, so the frost did not stray past the tall, narrow, windows.

“We are to stage the Romance of the Soldier’s Maiden.” Baker said, with gusto.

“The Romance?” Tam David was thin and gangly. He was just past thirty, with razor sharp features, jet black hair, and eyes that could open legs from a hundred paces. His accent lingered in Edinburgh most often, but would stray around the Highlands when his passions were raised. He wore a simple shirt, and loose trousers under his quilted coat. “The Romance of the Soldier’s Maiden?”

“Yes.” Baker said, his jowls reddening. “Our patron has asked we amend the script.”

“You mean write a script?” Mathews was the Girl. The youngest of the actors. His rubbery face was not handsome, but with the right care could become beautiful. His elfin build leaned naturally towards the feminine. He gave a self assured smile.

“We have a script.” I said. “The same script. Same characters. Same roles. The script is two thirds done. Instead of the final act that Lord Lady Felten wanted, his grand and heartbreaking tragedy, we just need to write the new ending.

“We do?” That was Billy. He was only fifty, but could carry himself in a way that made him look wizened and frail. He was a natural at kings, lords, and men of noble virtue.

“A happy ending?” Patch said. He was short, and somewhat ramshackle. His bob of hair crowned a craggy and expressive face, whose eyes twinkled with child like mischief. He smiled. “So, all she wants is a happy ending?”

“All she wants…” Paul was square jawed, and square shouldered, with long locks of chestnut hair, and a trimmed beard. He spoke with a soft, poetic, Northern accent. “All she wants, is love and happiness, ever after?”

“All she wants is something that encapsulates the finest, truest, and most beautiful, love.” Baker said.

“Oh?” John was often our narrator. He was a hawkish man, who carried himself like a dandy, and spoke like a crier. “Is that all? So… How will it end?”

Baker gave a wry smile. “With a tragedy.”

“She does not want a tragedy.” I said.

Baker swatted me around the back of the head.

“She said…”

“She said she wanted something beautiful? Something that captures the truest essence of love?” Baker walked to the middle of the hall. He turned to look at me. “And that is what I will give her.”

“You will break her heart.” I said, nursing the new lump on my crown.

“And?” Baker planted his feet, and spread his shoulders. “That is the nature of love Tawny. That is how we know love is true. When it endures beyond our last breath. When it stings our tears. Dear God, why do you think we tell of love through tragedy? We know love by loss. We know love by…”

He paused and stared at the back of the room.

“Do not mind me.” The young woman who stood in the doorway was hearty and hardy. Her eyes were the colour of a restless sea, but as bright and warm as summer. She wore autumnal skirts and a warm shawl. Her hair was tied back into a knot. “Please. Go on.”

“Ah.” Baker coughed. “My Lady, if you please, your father had an understanding with us…”

“He did.” She nodded. “But my sister said I was welcome to watch you.”

The young woman was Grace Felten, the second of the Lord’s three daughters. I stepped forwards, and spoke before Baker could.

“Of course. We are at the service of our patron.” I set one of the chairs by the hearth, and flicked a blanket over it. “Please?”

She nodded, and sat demurely down. She looked at Baker and waved for him to continue.

“We know love by…” She prompted.

“My gracious lady.” Baker seemed to remember who had their fingers on the purse string. “We are honoured by your interest. Humbled by your presence.” He waved his hands. “So… Our story. The Romance of the Soldier’s Maiden. Imagine, if you would, my lady, that this hall is a field on some distant shore, blanketed in snow, and moonlight. Above us,” he craned his head, “a field of perfect stars, stretching into eternity.”

I set the blanket over Grace and ensured she was comfortable. She gave me a hint of a thankful nod. I took the other blanket and draped it over Mathews, like a riding cloak. He gave a feminine giggle as he fluttered his eyes, and his manners suddenly became shy and ethereal.

“Our Maiden. Lola. A fair and comely lass, of a once great family falling on hard times. She feels with her fortunes waning love will pass her by,” Baker said. As he spoke Mathews danced around, losing himself in his role. David stepped forwards, and placed his hands on Mathews’ side. They stepped into a dance together. “Until, she happens upon Jacob, a soldier. A brave young officer. To her eyes he is dashing and charming. They can not help but to feel the bonds of love starting to form.”

Mathews and David drew close, in their dance, their lips about to touch, when David suddenly stepped away. His back straightened as he marched away. Mathews followed for a step, before slumping into sadness.

“Only for duty to call him away.” Baker said. “Leaving her alone, and adrift for months.”

I took two props from the chest. A feathered hat, and a crown. The feathered hat I placed on Billy, the crown I placed upon Patch.

“Lola’s father,” I said, touching Billy, “Halberd, is making a deal with the Count Croesan. He intends for his daughter to travel to the court of the Count, as his guest, with an eye for matching the daughter with the Count’s son and heir. Hawk.”

Paul stood and bowed. He stepped close to Mathews, and they began to dance.

“Hawk is blunt in manners, and sharp in tongue. His duties weigh heavily on his shoulders. But, beneath the mask he must wear in his duties, is a simple man, of an honest heart. He is not used to love, or tenderness, he does not know how to show Lola what he feels. To let it through his starched uniform.” Baker waved a hand. “And his closest friend and ally?”

David stepped back into view.

“So, the woman is torn?” Grace said. “Between the woman she wants, and the woman she is to marry?”

“No,” I said. “She is torn between the man who made her heart beat faster, and the man who makes her heart ache. Both are worthy, both are kind, and good. But the question is not if one is heroic and the other a villain. It is, if love is the instant spark, the bolt of lightning that steals our breath. Or if it something that grows slowly, as we come to know each other. If it is a tidal wave that sweeps us away. Or a tide that raises us slowly, as we float upon it.”

“And how does Lola intend to answer this question?” Grace leaned forwards to rest her chin on her fingers.

“With his help,” Baker said, pointing at me.

“And you are?” Grace raised an eyebrow.

“Pertwee. Halberd’s clerk, and Lola’s oldest friend. Her only confidant,” I said. “I can see that my Lady Lola is torn. I do not approve of her game, but as she is expected to court Hawk, I distract him. I make excuses and alibis as she finds moments to be with Jacob. He keeps Jacob at arm’s length when she spends time alone with Hawk.”

“Her game of deceit and lies is justified, because of course it is her only way to be with her one true love.” David said. He held out his hands. “But alas, we are discovered.”

“Lola realises too late the true danger of her folly.” Mathews says. “Hawk is a good man, but she has broken his heart, with false hope. He will cling to any hope of happiness, even if it means false hope. He would face Dav- I mean Jacob, in a duel.”

“He does not know seduction, or poetry, but he has come to know love.” whispered Paul. “But he knows justice, and he knows war. He is learning jealousy.”

Paul and David circled each other. They began to duel with imagined swords.

“No!” Mathews threw himself between the two, and let out a deathly cry. He dropped to his knees.

“No!” David crouched, with Mathews in his arms. “As she dies in my arms, as she stares into my eyes… As she tries to form the words we have longed to tell each other…”

“It is only then I learn true love,” Paul said. “Only then I see what it is I could never compete with. Only then… I know what was not mine to lose.”

“Only then I know I wasted such love on games and chases.” David bowed his head. “Oh sweet princess, sleep forever and dream of me.”

“Is that not beautiful?” Baker spoke in a hushed tone.

“No,” said Grace, folding her arms. “It is torture of the heart.”

“It is tragedy.” Baker sounded exasperated.

“It is tragic.” Grace snorted.

“And what would you know?” Baker roared the words.

“What she is willing to pay for.” I whispered, with as much sorrow as I could invest.

“Ah,” Baker said. “And what would you suggest.”

Grace stood, brushed the creases from her skirts, and walked onto the stage. She grabbed Mathews by the arm and hoisted him up. He flushed at the lingering look she tried to give him, as her hand lingered on his arm. He gave her a friendly nod, and stepped away, as she took on the role of Lola.

He stepped clear of the stage and gave me a smile.

“She doesn’t want me to die,” Mathews said, brightly. “I might get a long lingering kiss as the curtain falls.”

“Oh?” I smiled.

He looked between Paul and David. “I can think of worse fates.”

“No…” I said. “ Lola will kiss either Hawk or Jacob. Passions fade, when you have made the same kiss a thousand times, and you can feel the audience on you.”

“And it is worth it for the one kiss when I can only His eyes. When the world slows around you, and fades into the shadows.” Mathews chewed his lips. “Don’t you think?”

I shrugged. I could not tell if he spoke from experience (and he must have experienced quite some kisses), or if he was describing the dream he had woven from poems and songs. I did not want to steal his smile away, so I said:

“Which one?”

Mischief infused his grin. “I shall let the muses decide.”

Ah. Love can be trouble for an actor. It can blur lines, and make it difficult to tell where the role ends, and your heart begins. It can bring Heaven to your sonnets, or it can make you feel a Hell of despair. It can taint your words and cloud your eyes.

An actor who believes he is fallen in love twice over, brings a new trouble for every breath he draws.

“Well?” Baker huffed out his cheeks.

“Well…” Grace paced around the stage. “We begin with the girl. Lola. She is of course exactly as you explained. Innocent and kind, fallen on hard times. Of course, when she meets a wolf of an officer she is going to fall for his allure.”

Dave swept Grace into their dance. His eyes locked with hers, his fingers on her cheek. He looked at her the way a cat would look at a mouse. Making promises with his smile.

“And, she will think it is love.” Grace said. “She will think his desire, his passion, and his allure, are love. Because she has never been romanced before. She has never opened her heart, and she knows nothing of the sport. Of the thrill of the chase, and the fleeting thrills. She is so desperate to find her chance, that she grabs the first hope she finds, thinking it is her only hope.”

“But when duty calls…” David stepped away. “Jacob looks back on her with fond memories, but nothing more. There will be other sport.”

“And her wise father,” said Billy, placing a comforting hand on Grace’s shoulder, “Tries to offer her heart direction. Towards hope. He has heard whispers that she caught the eye of a man she did not even see in the crowd. A smile she was blind to, while lost in the eyes of another.” He gestured for Paul, and placed Paul’s hand upon Grace’s. “He sends his daughter to the court of the Count, and hopes her eyes will open.”

Grace closed her eyes, drew a long slow breath. She glanced at me, a second.

I stepped onto the stage.

“But when she reaches court, she sees her first love,” said Grace.

David walked past her. A look. A touch of his fingers to hers. For a moment she was lost. She did not see the way David aimed his smile past her. To Mathews.

“He sees his sport.” David said. “And why should fond memories end?”

“She has her friend and confidant arrange for meetings with Jacob.” I said, as David took her hands. “And she longs.”

“But she learns the difference between her infatuation and real love.” Grace nodded. “She spends time with Hawk, and starts to see past his stiff and regimented duty, to the good man beneath. As she spends time with him in court, even as she plans to have the next kiss stolen from her by Jacob, she begins to doubt, and to question…”

Paul stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders.

“And he… He learns to open himself to her. To love. But… When he discovers her infatuation, he will be a gentle and noble man. He will have no choice, but to stand aside, to let her be happy.” Paul bowed his head. “If his love is true.”

“And how could she have any doubt?” Grace grinned. “If he will sacrifice all his happiness for her, how can she doubt?”

“And where is our final act?” Baker raised an eyebrow.

“Come man. Do you really think Hawk would just give up?” Billy huffed at the idea. “He has a hold on Lola. If she tried to break away, then their secret moments will no longer be secret. There will be scandal. There will be gossip. There will be-”

“A duel!” Grace clapped her hands. She hurried to David and shoved him towards Paul. “He knows Hawk will give up her hand, but he has not yet won her heart. Jealous rage fills him, and he orders a duel with Hawk. A duel that Grace will feel bound by. When he slays Hawk, she will find comfort nowhere else. She will fall into his arms.”

“Or so he thinks.” I add.

David smiled at Paul. They began their duel.

“And thus, Jacob is defeated, and Hawk has proven his love. Our heroine realises that true love is not found in an instant, or in a skip of the heart. It grows slowly and builds over time. It is the heart that begins to beat in time with your own.” Grace said.

David let out a mournful cry and fell to the floor, clutching a red kerchief to his heart, in imitation of flowing blood. Paul stepped over him, to lay a chaste kiss upon Grace’s fingers.

“And this will please your sister?” Baker said.

Grace paused. She frowned. She shook her head.

“Then what?” Baker growled.

“True love is found in a single heartbeat.” John said.

The company fell to silence and looked at him.

“My Petal and I knew love in an instant. I still remember the first time I saw her smile at me, when I fourteen. I remember knowing then, that one day I would marry her.” John shrugged. “I think I knew then I would be with her to her last breath, and one day, I would be an old man, on my own, loving her still.”

Grace smiled.

“It took me three years to win her hand. But one instant, one second, one beat of my heart, to know.” John gently ushered Grace away, and waved for Mathews. Mathews slipped easily into his role as Fair Lola. “If our heroine is to know true love it is because one moment is all it takes.”

David held Mathews in his predator stare. He moved to place his hand on Mathews, to begin their dance, but Mathews stepped teasingly away. He placed a hand on David’s chest, exploring the muscles with a stray finger, before shoving David away.

David stepped up to Mathews and grabbed his hands. Mathews played at trying to escape, but only enough for the determined, hungry, look, to etch itself over David’s face. Then as David loomed over him, the struggles subsided. Mathews submitted to the kiss. His struggles becoming those to hold David closer.

“Their passions burn bright, but when his duty calls Jacob away, they have so much still unsaid. Her heart is not broken. It is simply incomplete without him.” John turned to Patch and Billy. “But a deal is struck. Halberd and the Count arrange for her to meet Hawk. She believes her hope of the purest love is lost, so she seeks what comfort, or joy, she can find, with a good man who cares for her.”

“Why?” Grace slumped into her chair. “Why has she given up on her love so easily?”

“Jacob is a soldier. His duty is war.” I said. “She thought he was lost.”

John nodded. “But she does not give up hope completely. She sends her friend to find him. To lay a single rose on his grave, wherever it may be. In the mean time she is in court…”

“Learning that Hawk is no villain. She does not love him, but he cares for her.” Paul took Mathews in a protective embrace. Standing behind him, and caressing his fingers. “She may not have that same instant love, but I think, perhaps, she can recognise his heart is true. They are friends, and he hopes for more.”

“She questions if she may indeed be allowed happiness.” Mathews said. “Love, but not the kind one falls in. Love, but not lovers. Kindred spirits and kindness.”

David stepped close to Mathews, his predatory nature smouldering through his flesh.

“When she sees her first love, she is torn.” John said. “She can not deny that every fibre of her body aches for Jacob. But she has felt the pain of loss. She has felt the flame of hope being snuffed from her heart. She may not long for Hawk, but she can not bring herself to cause such pain, in one who has tried to show her kindness.”

“Then how can she have her happy ending?” Grace whispered.

“Tragedy breeds love.” Patch said. “I, the Count, learn that my future daughter in law may be falling for another. I will not see my son betrayed.” He lay a hand on my shoulder. “I have my agents bring me the man who has been messenger for the lovers, Jacob and Lola, and I draw the truth from him. Threats to his flesh will not sway him, but threats to his beloved Lola crack open his lips. I declare a duel.”

“En Garde!” Paul cried, launching into a duel. He and David danced with imaginary swords, lunging and parrying.

“No!” Mathews threw herself between them, and placed his hands on David’s chest. “No. I would rather live a life with half a heart, than see my truest love die.” He turned to Paul, and took his hands. “End this now. I will be yours. And I hope… If I can not know true love, perhaps one day his heart will beat in time with another.”

“Oh my darling.” Paul sighed. “How can I claim to love you, if I would ever deny you this happiness? Your heart is his, and his alone.”

“You will be happy for us?” Mathews whispered the words, sadness and joy mixed in every syllable.

“I love you Lola.” Paul cupped Mathews’ chin, and guided him to a lingering kiss. “But that love is worth nothing if it darkens your heart, or denies you your own love. It will be my honour to defend the honour of yourself, and your husband to be.”

Mathews looked at David. Slowly, carefully, he entwined in an embrace. David no longer smouldered with desire. He held Mathews close, and looked awed. He stared to the Heavens.

“My heart will be yours, as long as the sun and the moon watch from the skies. As long as the stars burn, and the spheres turn.” David whispered.

Their kiss seemed to stretch on and on, refusing to break.

“Would this make My Lady happy?” Baker said.

“I do not know.” Grace shook her head. “It leaves a good man wounded and pained.”

“But it is the truest of loves.” John said.

“Aye.” Patch said. “No tragedy. No comedy. But some of both.”

I knew it would make Felten happy. Of course it would. She would smile, and clap, and imagine the futures for each of the characters, that would spread far beyond a Happy Ever After. She would stare into the fireplace in her room and toy with her hair as she wondered what would happen if she faced the same choice. If she would want the hungry, wolf, or the wise and gentle owl.

She would flush as she imagined the words of love being whispered in her ear.

But it was not the truest love.

“Fawn?” Baker looked at me.

“I am in the wrong role.” I said. “Because Pertwee should get the girl.”

“Oh?” Paul stood up straight, and looked at me, stroking a hand through his locks. “How do you come to that conclusion?”

“Because… He is her best friend. Her confidant. Her trusted advisor.” Patch said. “He helps her find stolen moments with the lad she fancies. He runs off to find her soldier.”

“He would do anything for her.” Grace said.

“He has probably known her since he was a boy.” I whispered. “He served her father for years. He earned her friendship, and he dared to dream or more, though he knows she will never see him as anything else.”

“She can’t.” Baker said. “He is making something of himself, but not enough to even earn a second look from her. He is staff.”

“He is a clerk.” I said. “And her family fortune is faltering. There are worse things she could do than consider a professional.”

“Besides, this is a romance.” Patch spoke in a velvet tone. “It does require that love be approved, or blessed, only that it be true. Have Hawk employ the boy. He sees where true love lays, and cedes to it. Gives the clerk a role in the court, and marries the happy couple.”

“Jacob could not deny it. He would have to see the risk that Pertwee took to be the messenger in their illicit affair.” David said.

“Lola sends him to find the soldier.” Mathews said. “Just as before. He collects Jacob and takes him back to court.”

“And just like last time, she is coming to her understanding with Hawk.” Paul said.

“And just like last time, the clerk helps her arrange stolen moments to see Jacob.” David agreed. “But something is different. His attentions are alluring, but promise no more. The excitement, the spark, is there, but it will never offer the support of the nobleman.”

“And Hawk does not have the passion.” Paul said.

Patch lay his hand on my shoulder. “The Count hears of the affair. He intercepts the lowly clerk, and levels his influence. The Count intends well, but the Devil lives in good intention.”

“And why would two good men duel?” Grace was hopping around excited. “Surely either would concede, if thy thought the other was her true love?”

“And surely both would join her, if her friend was in danger? Held captive until her hand was offered in marriage?” David said.

“Because it is the threat of loss…” I whispered.

“The threat of loss, of tragedy, of having her truest friend torn from her heart that opens her eyes.” Baker spoke as though he were projecting over the crowd. “It is only then, when hope seems doomed, that she realises why her friend has done what she asked, at such risk to himself. She chides herself for being blind.”

“She would rather live in poverty with her love, than live in a palace without him.” Grace smiled brightly. She looked at me, and for a moment, she understood. “And she has two great heroes to help her. They save poor Pertwee, and she confesses her love. A happy ending can be had.”

“So, David must play Pertwee.” I said.

Mathews nodded, pleading Baker with his eyes.

“Very well.” Baker grumbled. “Though the Clerk’s Maiden has no ring to it.”

“Keep the title.” Grace patted his shoulder. “It is perfect. Can you write it?”

“I can write it.” Baker grinned. “We can have costumes and make-up. We can produce the show.”

Grace nodded. She looked at me, as I lifted a dress from the trunk. It was ivory and cream, with glass beads that looked like pearls. It was sized to me, but I held it up to Mathews. Grace grinned at me.

“It will need taking in.” She said.

“It will be.” I promised.

“But he will make a beautiful maiden.” She looked at me. “Now you have a beard.”

“Ach.” David frowned. “He made such a poor Maiden we had to play comedies until we could employ a beautiful wee thing.”

Grace giggled. She did not take his words for truth. “I thought Fawn made a fine maiden. Not beautiful, but…”

“Give me the dress. I will pin the scrawny bean-pole in it, and have him looking like Venus herself soon enough.” David took the dress from me, and whistled sharply at Mathews.

Mathews smiled at me. He was already imagining that first, perfect kiss. I guess he had made his choice. I waved at him to hurry up after David.

I had been painting the backdrop in the barn. A canvas sheet that would hang from the rafters and give the impression of a snow laden field on a distant shore. As it hung in the barn to dry, I went back to our rooms, ready to collapse by the fire. But as I pushed the door to our rooms I froze. I caught a glimpse of Mathews, mostly in his costume, and Tam David, mostly out of his clothes, celebrating their affections.

I closed the door, and made myself scarce.

I found myself in one of the hop fields on the edge of the estate, staring up into the stars. My thoughts in the past.

“You seem lost Fawn.” Felten sat beside me, a grin on her lips. “Is it because you have to call me Your Lady now?”

“Not at all my-”

“Fawn.”

“Not at all Plum.”

She laughed. It had been a long time since she had been called that. She put a hand on my shoulder. “See! You remember! We were friends once.”

“We have always been friends.” I wished those words did not come so easily. I wished they did not make my heart feel so heavy. “I have never considered you anything less.”

“I know since you came home from the last tour…” She sighed. “A lot changed in those months.”

“I wish I was here for you.”

She nodded. She knew. She had seen how the news of her father had hit me.

“I met somebody.” She said.

I forced myself to smile.

“An officer.” She said. “Actually… it was at Father’s funeral. A man from the old regiment. He was kind, and he was gentle. And I do not think he sees me as anything else. But… The ball is coming.”

“The ball? You will dance?”

“I intend to. With him.”

“It must be serious.”

“I…” She paused. “I need to practise, and Grace is forever falling to fits of laughter. She does not think I can count to three, as I keep muddling the steps.”

“Crushing her toes?”

“She thinks I should wear clod-hopper boots.”

“Very well.” I stood, and bowed. “Would My Lady care to…”

She took my hand, and we began to dance. She looked at the floor, and crushed my toes.

“Oh!” She squeaked.

“No. I’m fine.” I tried not to feel like I had kicked an anvil. “Look. The secret to dancing has nothing to do with dancing.”

“No?”

“No. Look at me Plum. Look at my eyes.” I tried not to let too much of soul show, as she looked into my eyes. “Your officer is a good man?”

“I very much hope so.” She whispered.

“Then he will not have danced with you, because he wants to dance.” I started us moving, up and down the line of the bines, on the frost crusted grass. She kicked me twice, but I refused  to stop.“He wants to spend a few moments with you. A few moments that feel like he is alone with you. He won’t care if you stomp his feet, or lead him into the buffet table. Nothing else matters beyond the tips of your fingers. He wants to see you. He wants to see you smile. He wants a chance to ask you to be alone later.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“See. You are doing fine.”

“Well, it was always easier with you.”

I laughed, and she began to hum the tune of the dance, so we could keep better time. As we slowed, she rested her head on my shoulder and began to hum folk music. I put my hands on her hips, and we began an easier, earthier, more intuitive dance.

“Why is it easier to dance with you?” She whispered.

“We are friends.” I said.

“Still?”

“Always.” I promised.

“There was a time…” She stopped that thought.

There was a time I had wanted to be more. I was a boy, and even by the standards of youth, I was an idiot. I had not told Plum my feelings because I ever thought she had shared them. But I had wanted her to know the truth, because I had been too close to her to lie. She had taken it in good humour. Too good humour.

There are still nights that I am woken, cringing and heartsick, by the ghosts of her laughter.

Perhaps the worst of it was, that while I was working in her father’s office the next morning, she just treated me exactly the same. It would have been kinder for my words to make her hate me, than to have no meaning at all.

I believe she read my thoughts in my eyes.

“I did not mean to be cruel.” She said. “I was a child. Love was a game, and you were…”

“Beneath you.” I said.

“No.” She squeezed me. “How dare you think that?”

“Because you said it. You wanted a man of title and wealth.”

“But not because of class. Not because I was blind to you.” She blinked away a tear. “Because I thought that love was a game, and I wanted a prize. Wealth and a big house, and…” She looked at me. “I did not understand what love was. I did not understand what you told me. I would not have deserved you.”

“You deserved the world and the stars.”

“And a better thing by far.” She sung the words. She leaned against me. We stopped dancing and I just held her. “You promise you will always be my friend?”

“Of course, My Lady.”

She smiled. “No matter what I do?”

“That is the thing about friends.”

“Good.” She nodded. She patted my arm. “Good.”

She leaned back, so that the moonlight caught her hair, and leaned forward. Our lips met with a kiss. The world faded away, and there was nothing beyond that moment, beyond our finger tips.

— The END —

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I have had a few people on my case of late, asking me to give them a deeper look into my world. [Ingvild, you win!] The hardest part for me about this, is how to present it without giving away the story or boring the hell out of anyone.

So I figured, the next step would be to introduce the characters to you first. Give you a little more information about each one – and there are many! Of course I do suffer from squirrel syndrome, and will alternate the posts by explaining a little more about the mythology used in the story – and how it pertains to each character along the way. If you have any questions you’d like answering after reading the book, let me know and I will be sure to add it in a posts along the way.

So, watch this space… or don’t….

Adri.

“Best selling author” and “NYT Best seller,” and “Award winning,” 

Titles and badges, all thrown around like confetti at a wedding. I used to lift my head from writing to gander at the earned bragging rights, then smile and go back to writing. I was happy, content and truly submerged in my own little world where I could conjure up a house to my needs, a river to my precise measures, a valley and friends to my exact fancy.  I wrote for a year and a half, my books floated back and forth from the top seller’s lists and ranks – but it didn’t matter. I didn’t care for the analytics, I didn’t care for the numbers, and I didn’t care for the hurtful things that were flung my way during this time either.

Then one day, I lifted my head and a jailer stood there in front of me with a set of cuffs, a neck brace and a helmet stuck with electric devices akin to that used in old Frankenstein movies to dole out shock therapy.

“You have to market your work this way,” and “You cannot be taken serious  if you aren’t selling your work,” or “Don’t give it away, don’t be lazy,”

 

These were my charges. Of course, this came after the accusations of being too fat to write, and too illiterate to write, and do this or that… I pushed through it all, waded through it and now… Now I am in a jail and it feels like shit.

I cannot afford to pay someone to do my marketing  – and I am filled to the brim with inspiration for new works – but I have a responsibility to the community, the publisher and the fantastic team who rely on me. Well, that is what I tell myself.

I feel the world is now looking at me, waiting for me to screw up, waiting for me to make a mistake – none of them are truly there to see me succeed. Well, that is, at least, what I tell myself.

“Write a blog or you will fail!” – “Don’t write a blog, it will make you fail!” – “Spam Facebook!” – “Don’t spam Facebook!” – “Tweet this way!” – “Don’t tweet at all!” and so the list grows. Do this, do that, the reason why you are failing, the way to fail at marketing, the failure of authors who do not market, Fail… Fail… Fail… 

It all becomes a sea of clashing information, while the jailer laughs at me. I am drowning in a pisspot full of analytics. I am swallowing down the force-fed marketing methods from someone else’s plate. I am sinking in the bottomless pit with the ball and chain tied to my ankle – all the while, the jailer laughs, and the masses assemble to watch the spectacle.

And all I want to do, is write. Get rid of the cuffs on my wrists and write. Not write a marketing post. Not give some expert advice to which I am no expert. Not another list of ten things I should do, could do, will have to do, must do, because some  guru tells me if I don’t… I will fail.

The truth is, I am only now realizing, I have succeeded. I have actually managed to accomplish something I have only dreamt of: And now I must put a price on it. I have had the help of amazing people – people who I could never pay or repay for what they have done for me…  People who invested in me to achieve the goals of greatness they believe to reside in my work.

“Give up take-outs,” I am told in response to my problem of affordability, “Give up coffee,” and “Cut out luxuries,” and “It is only $10.” 

I am sorry to inform you, Mr. and Mrs. Marketing Expert, but the next step for me would be to cut my internet connection in order to save money. It would be to give up treatment, or food. It would be to negotiate with my child’s education. It would be to gamble with the need for medication. It would be to give up altogether – if, as you say, my success is only measured in sales.

In order to sell my dreams, I have to sell my soul and I am NOT okay with that. I want to write. I don’t want to be a marketing fundi, I don’t want to be a socialite, I don’t want to be an undiscovered gem. I want… to write.

I am sorry if what I do is not good enough. I am sorry if I let anyone down – but I am picking this lock, and I am freeing my hands so that my mind can be freed and my words can be unblocked.

And I know, for sure, that what I do do to ‘market’ my work, and the team I have in support – may not be instant in results, but it will be enough to garnish the ability for a future enlistment of professional services.

But I am also initiating a jail-break.

I am scribbling my name at the bottom of that pit, and marking each milestone with my own name signed: “Adri was here,” so that those who falls down there behind me, can see it is possible to get back to the top… And the top is not strewn with gold but with pages and pages of words on paper… Pages and pages of imagination poured from the depths of a soul with, or without, a list of what was done wrong, marketing failures and general judgment of the price to be paid for dreams.

Written by Adri Sinclair, romance Author of Hidden Carmina.