Back to Top

Author Archives: carolyn

About carolyn

Carolyn Jewel was born on a moonless night. That darkness was seared into her soul and she became an award winning and USA Today bestselling author of historical and paranormal romance. She has a very dusty car and a Master’s degree in English that proves useful at the oddest times. An avid fan of fine chocolate, finer heroines, Bollywood films, and heroism in all forms, she has two cats and a dog. Also a son. One of the cats is his.

I have a book called The History of Fashion in France, or The dress of women from the Gallo-Roman period to the present time, from the French of M. Augustin Challamel by Mrs. Cashel Hoey and Mr. John Lillie.

The Present Time, by the way, for the purposes of this book is 1882. I bought it because the plates are intact and really pretty.

Now, the first thing I find interesting is that this doesn’t say translated by so really, you can read this as stolen from M. Challamel because, come on, he wrote the book (in French) and Mrs. Hoey and Mr. Lillie translated it, right?

Well, whatever. Let’s gloss over the fact that I own an apparently pirated PRINT book and get right into some interesting stuff.

From Chapter 1, the very first paragraph:

We learn with horror from ancient writers that certain women of Gaul were accustomed to dye their skin with a whitish matter, procured from the leaves of the woad or pastel, a cruciform plant from which is derived a starchy substance, that may be substituted for indigo for certain purposes. Others were tattooed in almost the same manner as the savages of America.

So, Gaulish women dyed themselves blue. Or had tats. To my vast regret there are no pictures of the tats. I wonder which savages of America they mean? Anyway, obviously these women kicked ass and took names while they were doing it: (not that!, sheesh you have dirty minds, you know that?)

But then time passed. . . and France began to practice industry . . .

The cleanliness of the Gallic women, which has been praised by historians, added another charm to their unrivaled natural beauty. No Gallic woman, whatever her rank, would have consented or even ventured to wear dirty, untidy, or torn garments; nor did any one of them fail to frequent the baths which were established everywhere, even in the very poorest localities. The Gallo-Roman woman was admired for her fair complexion, her tall and elegant figure, her beautiful features; and she neglected nothing that might tend to procure her that homage. Cold bathing, unguents for the face and often the entire body were to her a delight, a duty, and a necessity.

Are you seeing the same image I am? Happy peasant women skipping through the fields (watch out for the cow pies!) humming and perhaps even trilling out loud, their clothes pristine and put together with that certain Je ne sais quois.

Honey, mon amour, I cannot feed the children or milk the cows until have I spent three hours with the cold bath and applying unguents. Tra-la-la-la!

And really a COLD BATH? Are you freaking insane? I think that’s the work of Mr. Lillie. He made that up. No woman would actually take a cold bath without ending up kicking some ass.

Anyway, on to Chapter XXL – Reign of Napoleon I, because that is our period here at the Riskies.

Under the Empire, which was proclaimed in 1804, the fashion of short waists continued in favour, and even developed into extra-ordinary results. The fair sex adopted “sack” dresses, with the waist close under the arms, and the bosom pushed up to the chin. This was far from graceful, and a woman needed to be perfectly beautiful to look well in such a costume.

Gold, precious stones, and diamonds were lavishly used. Numerous balls were given, and official receptions held, and the dress of the women was handsome, nay, even magnificent. Unfortunately, it was chiefly remarkable for its bad taste. A French-woman seemed to have attained the height of glory when it could be said of her: “Voila une personne cossue!”
[There’s a warm, substantial person.]

However, I question the accuracy of the translation. I believe it should be Here is a well-to-do person. But whatever.

Handsome, magnificent gowns in bad taste. Is that awesome or what?

I particularly admire the glib description of Napoleonic extravagance that sounds like someone grabbed their fifth grader’s report and cribbed at will (Mrs. Hoey? Was that you?) but then someone brilliant added the thing about bad taste.

So, pretend you’re a French lady (or better yet, an English Miss, pretending to be a French lady) and you’re at a ball or official reception.

What are you wearing?

Extra credit if it barely hides your tattoo.

Well. I had this brilliant idea of searching Google Books for 11 November and limiting my search to 1800 – 1825. Because I wanted to avoid the poignancy of the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, 1918. It makes me sad. Do please take a moment to think about the men and women who have given their lives for the country you’re from.

That said, what about November 11 in history prior to 1825?

Oh. My. God. Can you spell B. O. R. I. N. G?

Some dude, I can’t even remember his name filed a patent for an improved truss. Then this other fool was going on about the United States, Britain and impressment and his stupid letter of November 11 the previous year (which would have been 1813), Skipped that because there were no sailors at all.

Catalogue of Merino Sheep sold at auction? That just made me hungry and not because I was thinking of mutton which I don’t like all the much. Or lamb chops, which I probably do but can’t eat ever since the day my mother served us lamb chops made from the lambs which until recently had been gamboling in our field. All five siblings (yours truly included) looked at our plates in dead silence. As I recall, we had Cheerios for dinner instead. I got hungry because the auction yard 2 miles down the road has this awesome hot dog stand, and they have a really spicy polish you can get with cold root beer. Anyway, the sheep auction was actually on November 2, but at 11:00. In case you’re wondering.

Then there was this writ of Supersedas (No 11) against a surgeon for gross negligence and carelessness. The court did not grant a new trial. That was in 1826.

One interesting result was from 1808, but Google seems to think there’s a copyright issue. WTF? No. Google. There’s not. Just why, I would like to know, are so many books that are more than 200 years old, being withheld on grounds of copyright? I thought the whole point of this was that Google got to scan all this public domain stuff so the public could actually see it. This is not an isolated incident and now I’m just [delete bad word] not happy.

There was lightning on November 11 1808 but that is also rendered a mostly useless snippet (said with great scorn) by a spurious claim of copyright. I am unable to tell you where in the UK this lightning occurred.

However, I did learn that owners of fisheries in the Counties of Southampton and Wilts may take salmon from 11th November, to 1 August; but not after 1 August til 12 November following. I have a headache trying to figure when these poor folks could fish for salmon. There’s a fine of 5 pounds if you get it wrong.

Library of the late Charles Long, Esq. of Hurt’s Hall, Suffolk …: which will be sold by auction … on Thursday, November 11, 1813, and five following days (Sunday excepted).

I can’t tell you what was in his library because, you guessed it, Google thinks there’s a copyright issue and won’t show a document that is in the public domain.

At this point, I’m afraid, I was both BORED out of my mind and really, really irritated.

So instead, I searched for demons 1400 to 1825 and that was more fun. But kind of weird. People took their demons very literally. And used extra large fonts like this DEMONS!!! and also like this SATAN and Beelezebub!!!!!

In Act 5 of a Play called The Brothers, a woman was invited to a wedding only to find that the happy groom was her own husband! Check it:

Via. Thus insulted, I can contain myself no longer. Upon what infernal shore am I cast? Into what society of demons am I fall’n, that a woman, whom by an act of honour I would have redeem’d from misery and ruin, should have the insolence, the inhumanity, to invite me to be a spectatress of her marriage with my own husband!

Pat. With your husband I What do I hear? Is Mr. Andrew Belfield your husband?

Via. Ay, do you doubt it ( Would I could say he was not)

Pat.Just Heaven! You then are the Violetta, you are the Portuguese lady I have heard so much of, and married to Mr. Belfield : base and perfidious!

Why, madam, both Miss Dove and myself conceived that ’twas the young adventurer with whom you suffered shipwreck, that —

Fio. What? Lewson, the brave, generous, honourable Lewson

Pat. Lewson? Lewson? I as sure as can be you mean young Belfield; for now the recollection strikes me, that I’ve heard he took that name before he quitted England. That Lewson, madam, whom we believed you married to, is Robert Belfield, and younger brother to your husband.

Via. Mercy defend me, into what distress had this mutual mistake nearly involved us

Pat. Come then, madam, let us lose no time, but fly with all dispatch to Cropley-castle ; I have a postchaise waiting, which will convey us thither in a few minutes ; but, before we go, I’ll step in and direct,

And thank goodness for the postchaise, just waiting there.

Plus how many of you think (as I do) that the brave and generous Lewson wasn’t all that brave but was probably all too generous? And, what do you think happens at Cropley-castle? Is she married to Andrew or Robert and who the hell is Lewson?

Boy, they just don’t write plays like they used to.

Check the date. Yeah. Today is Wednesday, November 4. Uh huh. Perhaps you don’t recall, but my book was due November 1. I may have mentioned that a couple of times.

About now you’ve clicked away or else are glued to your screen wondering what happened.

Did she do it? Was she like Awesome Amanda (who actually turned her book in early? Or was she Merely Mortal Carolyn, turning her book in on time?

Or did something terrible happen involving tearful crying over the phone to her agent?

By the way, The awesome Nalini Singh answers Important Questions over at my blog where you could win one of her books. Please check it out.

Oh, and did you-all remember the time change? Because most of the U.S. had to Fall Back at 2:00 a.m. on Sunday November 1, the day my book was due. To be honest, I didn’t stay up for the big event. No, at 2:00 a.m., I was fast asleep in a sugary dream fueled by a great deal of Halloween candy.

Because, as you must know, the day before November 1 (the day my book was due) is October 31, which is Halloween. Any parent knows that this is one of the Three Big Non-Birthday Occasions no parent dares mess up. Two of the days involve bunnies and reindeer, respectively. Which means, in case you still need coffee, that the day before my book was due, my evening was previously engaged.

Yes, the tension is certainly mounting.

What happened?

We go to my brother’s house for Halloween because we live in the boonies and he lives in an area known for its holiday extravagance. My brother does this awesome haunted house that at key portions of the evening has a line out to the sidewalk.

Anyway, some fool put me in charge of handing out candy. It’s a complicated job involving taste testing, admiring costumes, directing haunted house traffic, advising young kids and teen boys (to mess with their minds) that there is a No Scare version of the Haunted House. There’s a lot of standing involved since we set up a table and a cauldron in front of the house, which means, I’m sure you’ve guessed, that the person handing out the candy (me!) has to keep her strength up by searching out the Whoppers, Baby Ruths and Junior Mints to make sure they taste good.

They did. With every batch. There is also a great deal of skill involved in making it look like you’re giving out gobs of bad-for-your-teeth-sweetie candy while not actually dropping the whole handful into the waiting bag. This is necessary because the kids often come by in batches of 20 or more. And the Haunted House draws them to us like flies. Over 500 kids served!

Here is an actual conversation that took place the night before my book was due.

Me: No, the Haunted House line is over there (pointing boy in correct direction)

Boy dressed as um, something: (He is 8 or 9) Is this where you come out?

Me: No. Nobody comes out of the Haunted House.

BDAUS: Why not?

Me: It’s haunted. A few make it out. Most don’t. (Pointing to large glass jar next to cauldren, which contains floating fingers, eyeballs and shrunken heads) We put the left over bits in here.

BDAUS: Really?

Me: Well, yeah. Were do you think we got all this?

BDAUS: (Eyes get really big)

Me: No. Not really. The line’s over there (pointing). Have some candy and ask for the No Scare version if you’re worried.

As you can see, I am completely perfect for this job.

And I was very relaxed because my book was done.

By the time you read this, I hope like heck this is how I feel about my manuscript.

My Star

All that I know
    Of a certain star
Is, it can throw
    (like the angled spar)
Now a dart of red,
    Now a dart of blue;
Till my friends have said
    They would fain see, too,
My star that dartles the red and the blue!
Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled:
    They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.
What matter to me if their star is a world?
    Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.

But I might feel more like this.

My Last Duchess

Ferrara

That’s my last duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
That depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ‘t was not
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say “Her mantle laps
Over my lady’s wrist too much” or “Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat:” such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart — how shall I say? — too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed: she liked whate’er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, ‘t was all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace — all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush,at least. She thanked men — good! but thanked
Somehow — I know not how – as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech — (which I have not) — to make your will
Quite clear to such a one, and say, “Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss
Or there exceed the mark”– and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse
— E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will ‘t please you rise? We’ll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master’s known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed
At starting is my object. Nay, we’ll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me.

P.S. These are by Robert Browning. Quite the poet.

To distract you from the fact that I have no post (some of you may know that I have a book due November 1st) —

Note to Self: Arrange to post here on a day when Amanda doesn’t post the day before. She has an 11/1 deadline, too, and she has this factual, interesting totally awesome post. I have this. But I bet my deadline is much deader than hers. Or maybe it’s me that’s dead.

Here are some pretty pictures:

Picture of Honey Dijon Rose with Rain drops

Blogger making this smaller doesn’t do justice to the photo, I’m afraid. But this rose is called Honey Dijon.

OK, to make this go faster, I am now choosing random photos. Oh my God, this is so fun! What will show up?

Mystery Photo #1

Mystery Photo #2

Mystery Photo #3

Mystery Photo #4

Mystery Photo #5

Yeah. So guess what I like to take pictures of?

ETA: I think everyone should just guess what the pictures are of. Wackiness wins points. Hint: Plants.

P.S. I took all these pictures at my house.

P.P.S. The deadline is still killing me.