A Vivid Dream by Eleanor Stem

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Princess in the Woods

When I was young, probably nine or ten, I had a wild dream that spooks me to this day. It was winter, and dark outside. We lived in this small house I want to call a dacha (a country house or cottage in Russia). It had two rooms: a larger common area with a hearth, table and chairs, and a sleeping chamber, much smaller. The sleeping area was a series of platforms tacked to the wall, one above the other almost to the ceiling. We kids slept on the higher platforms, the adults on the lower.

No adults were at home. I must have been the eldest, and was in charge of some other children. 

A fierce storm raged outside. It had come up quickly, and did not give me time to close the shutters. I would have to go outside, but I was afraid I’d get lost in the driving snow that pricked your skin like needles.

The winter had dragged on for weeks, one storm after the other. Food was scarce. Wolves that normally howled at night, started doing it in the daytime. As the winter progressed they became more aggressive. Horses, dogs, and sheep were vulnerable. Wolves attacked people in their sleighs. They'd run up from behind, pull people off, and devour them on the icy road.

Tonight, with the adults gone, the shutters that slammed in the winds, the wolves became reckless, crazed in their hunger. They smashed in the windows of the front room. I pulled the children into the sleeping chamber and shut the door. Wolves surrounded the little house, ten or twenty, piled against the outside windows, growling, snapping their teeth.

Man attacked by wolves

Those inside slammed against the bedchamber door. In a panic, everyone screaming, we climbed from one sleeping shelf to the next, higher, toward the ceiling.

The windows burst with wolves. The door latch broke. Wolves jumped up against our climb to the higher sleeping levels. They were relentless, would not go away. Their fur brushed against my legs. They spewed vile odors from their snapping jaws, wild with bloodlust. We huddled together on the top shelf nearest the ceiling while the wolves snarled and fought each other. They climbed over themselves in an attempt to reach us, their eyes flashing with hunger. 

I awoke, filled with terror, shaking, and glad I was where I was, not in a small Russian cottage during a terrible winter. Needless to say, I’ve never liked really big dogs, like German Shepherds. I’d walk a mile out of the way to avoid one.

Do dreams have meaning? Where did this vivid scene come from? I was young, innocent. After years of thinking about this, I believe it was a memory from a past life, a memory that bled into this life. A not-so-good past life.

Scary Moment

I want to thank Wikicommons Public Domain for these pictures. 

LODESTONE LETTERS

BUY FROM AMAZON

I’ve always had an interest in reading biographies of famous people, but it didn’t take me too many years to realize that these books, by nature, are only the opinion of a single writer. That’s when I started to read the notes and the bibliographies and these soon became as interesting as the book itself. This naïve reader had just “discovered” an author’s finest source material. 

As I, back in the day of inter-library loan, began to pursue these leads, I discovered the most exciting material of all, letters and diaries. The language isn't always easy for a modern reader. Eighteenth Century language has a circuitous, verbose style which tends to disguise the emotional thrust of the message. From these letters and journals, however, a voice still speaks; the past enters our present in a breath-taking way.

Here’s one which paints a picture of the realities of 18^th Century travel, of an Albany still forested, as the Marquis de Chastellux describes a Revolutionary War winter visit to General Schuyler’s mansion.

 

“It was a difficult question to know where I should cross the Hudson…for it was neither sufficiently frozen to pass over the ice, nor free enough from flakes to venture it in a boat. …I was only twenty miles from Albany; so that after a continued journey through a forest of fir trees, I arrived at one o’clock on the banks of the Hudson…A handsome house half way up the bank opposite the ferry seemed to attract my attention and to invite strangers to stop at General Schuyler’s, who is proprietor as well as architect…The sole difficulty therefore consisted of passing the river. While the boat was making its way with difficulty through the flakes of ice, which we were obliged to break as we advanced…”

Envision this world—so green, so cold! All you have between you and Old Man Winter is wool, felt and hide, and your feet and hands are continually numb. The Hudson flows like slate under an only single shade-up grayscale sky. A twinkle of snow sinks into the surface. The pines hiss, and the wind picks up as we are ferried across the water, the drifting ice striking the boat and icy droplets of water strike our face.  

I get inspiration from this stuff! Here’s another, a charming (and alarming) view into the life of Mozart, a musician on the English leg of his “world” tour, aged eight years and five months:

“Witness as I myself of most of these extraordinary facts, I must own that I could not help suspecting his father imposed with regard to the real of the boy, thou he had not only a most childish appearance, but likewise had all the actions of the stage of life.

For example, whilst he was playing to me, a favorite cat came in, upon which he immediately left his harpsichord, nor could we bring him back for a considerable time.

He would also run about the room with a stick between his legs by way of a horse. ..” 

~Daines Barrington, 28 September 1769, report to the Secretary of the Royal Society in London.  

I was happy to read that the little boy was allowed to have time with a favorite cat, that Leopold Mozart (“Papa”) didn’t play the martinet and order Wolfgang straight back to the piano. Like little boys today playing with cars, little Mozart would, in his imagination, ride horses.

I’m thinking, really excellent ones, matched, of course, maybe white or dappled gray…”

Sometimes these surviving letters say a great deal about kinks in personality, some not so pleasant, things you’d rather wish your subject hadn’t said, something a writer has to ponder and work to understand. Sometimes, when this happens, you may have to rewrite an entire character.  

It’s understandable—not to snoopy writers and historians, of course— that wives of men judged ‘famous” by their contemporaries often burned and bowdlerized their husband’s surviving letters—all and any they could lay their hands on.  In deference to those wives, whose spirits have been so forthcoming to their humble servant, here is a brief sample of something I'd rather not have read:

“Received December 22 of Alexander Hamilton six hundred dollars on account of a sum of one thousand dollars due me.”  ~James Reynolds

This is a receipt for the first part of the blackmail Hamilton would pay for his adultery with Reynolds’ wife Maria. She must have been a hot number, because talk about shooting yourself in the foot—this particular bad move just about takes the cake, both politically and personally! As I’ve studied his wife, Betsy Schuyler, I’ve grown to have the profoundest respect for her. She was a woman of convictions, the kind which helped her survive fifty years beyond the death of her husband. For me, she's become the  embodiment of the word "lady."  

Here's a happier excerpt (a flirtatious double entendre) from Nov 19, 1798, some years after his infidelity, sent by Hamilton to his wife:  "I am always happy My Dear Eliza when I can steal a few moments to sit down and write to you.  You are my good genius; of that kind which the ancient Philsophers called a familiar; and you know very well that I am glad to be in every way as familiar as possible with you."

  

And last, a charming diary entry, one from James McHenry, of later Fort McHenry fame, about Revolutionary War evenings while quartered with the rest of Washington’s ADC’s upon a substantial Pennsylvania household.

“Eight miles from Moors & 25 from Philadelphia. Head-quarters at Jonathan Fells (Doylestown). A raining evening. The company within doors includes a pretty, fullfaced, youthfull, playfull lass and a Family of Quakers meek and unsuspicious. Hamilton thou shalt not tread on this ground. I mark it for my own.”

This tells me that the recreational behavior of army officers/staff hasn’t changed a whole lot over the course of the last 250 years. It brings us, readers and writers,  closer to a world that is, in many ways, technically and socially, alien.  We no longer have to trust ourselves to a small ferry in sketchy winter conditions in order to cross the Hudson and arrive at the warmth, food and good company of the big house, but down at the core, we humans remain the same.

 

~~Juliet Waldron

 

See all my historical novels at:

 

http://bookswelove.net/authors/waldron-juliet

 http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B004HIX4GS

5 Reasons Writers Should Blog By Connie Vines

In the past, my marketing was often 'guest appearances' as a speaker or workshop facilitator, a participant in a interview panel which included book signings.

Not having reached the stellar stardom of Steven King or others topping the NYT Best Sellers Lists, my 'guest appearances' were memorable (though, not always for the the right reasons).  Book signings in chain and small book stores, and booths--in my case the boots were at Powwows and Rodeos were the norm.

This brand of  market included lots of toting and driving!  Fortunately, I was able to dress in trade cloth dresses and high-top beaded moccasins or western wear and riding boots. Often my Regency writing friends fussed with flounce, bustles, and complicated footwear to help promo their genre fiction.  

However, this type of marketing was hit-and-miss and cut deeply into my writing and family time.  Since I also freelanced, writing for magazines,  ghosting literary fiction, and working, part-time, as an acquisitions editor for an independent Christian publisher, I wasn't even toying with the idea of  financing my personal city-by-city book tour.

Even though I still act as a contest judge in numerous national and international writing contests, belong to professional writing associations, and am acting President of a Special Interest (GothRom) Chapter of Romance Writers of America, I believe social media and the Internet are wonderful ways to promote both print and eBooks.

I tweet, I keep a personal and author Facebook page, Google+ and an author website (which I revamp yearly).  I also actively blog and guest blog--now.

• Blogging keeps me motivated and aware of what is going on in the writing world.  view it as Professional Development.  It is where I put into practice all information I mentally uploaded from online classes I've attended, or articles I've read.

• Accountability for my writing time.  Like most writers today, I have a day job.  Blogging helps me keep my writing time sacred.  There are days I don't have time to write, but knowing I am breaking one of my personal 'rules' keeps me a accountable.

• M-A-R-K-E-T-I-N-G.  I still think book signings are great fun.  I always, always enjoy speaking to children and YA readers at library and book store functions.  I just don't wish to spend every single weekend out on the road promoting my novels.

• And, as all writers know, the only way to sharpen prose is to write.  Often.  Being forced to write articles and/or blog on a regular basis has helped me to improve my prose in often small, yet meaningful ways.

• Networking and Connections.  Blogging on my personal site, "Word Slinger" and guest blogging on other sites, including here at BWL author site, helps me make new friends, interact with my readers, and to learn and grow--as a writer and person.

Readers, what do you think?  Do you think writers should be blogging?  What other forms of promotion are appealing to you?

Thank you for stopping by today.

Happy Reading!

Connie