It should surprise no-one that my first introduction to the concept of Waterloo was from Abba:

My my, at Waterloo Napoleon did surrender
Oh yeah, and I have met my destiny in quite a similar way
The history book on the shelf
Is always repeating itself

Waterloo – I was defeated, you won the war
Waterloo – promise to love you for ever more
Waterloo – couldn’t escape if I wanted to
Waterloo – knowing my fate is to be with you
Waterloo – finally facing my Waterloo

My my, I tried to hold you back but you were stronger
Oh yeah, and now it seems my only chance is giving up the fight
And how could I ever refuse
I feel like I win when I lose

Waterloo – I was defeated, you won the war
Waterloo – promise to love you for ever more
Waterloo – couldn’t escape if I wanted to
Waterloo – knowing my fate is to be with you

And how could I ever refuse
I feel like I win when I lose

Waterloo – I was defeated, you won the war
Waterloo – promise to love you for ever more
Waterloo – couldn’t escape if I wanted to
Waterloo – knowing my fate is to be with you
Waterloo – finally facing my Waterloo

The extended etymological sense of “a final, crushing defeat” was first referenced in an 1816 letter of Lord Byron. And yes, it was a final, crushing defeat, but as Janet so eloquently posted yesterday, one in four soldiers died.

Meeting one’s Waterloo is something to be avoided. I’ve had a few near misses, but thus far have dodged any final, crushing defeats (although temporary ones are in abundance).

In books, the potential ‘final, crushing defeat’ is what is more normally called the Black Moment–that time in the book when neither the author nor the reader sees a possible way out of the situation that won’t result in misery, loss of love, loss of life, or eternal heartbreak. What makes our books so revelatory is that we do always find a way out, a way to vanquish that defeat with love, or a compromise, or a sacrifice. Literary fiction doesn’t always give us the Happy Ending, at least not the unabashed Happy Ending; romantic fiction does, thank goodness, so we can see hope amidst the fighting.

Have you ever had your own Waterloo? What happened? Are you a fan of the ‘gasp, clutch your chest and wonder how they’ll get out of it’ books, like I am? Who’s your favorite Black Moment author?

Megan

Don’t Stand So/
Don’t Stand So/
Don’t Stand So Close To Me.

The Framptons have all been engaged recently in watching the new Doctor Who, and it’s a fascinating exercise in sexual tension and relationship-building.

Each Doctor has a companion, a human person who helps them in the whole Saving The World thing. This season, Doctor Who’s companion is Amy Pond, a feisty Scot who thinks nothing of dashing after vampires and facing danger in the teeth (so to speak) and all that.

And there’s sexual tension; after all, the Doctor is a young, smart, witty, handsome, tall guy who has all the answers; she’s young, smart, witty, beautiful and although she doesn’t have all the answers, she does ask questions. Which is, of course, intriguing to our Doctor.

But one interesting direction of the series is how close the two stand to one another. So close, in fact, that if it were in real life, you would think they were invading each other’s personal spaces. The doctor likes to speak rapidly into Amy’s ear, and she often leans up (he’s TALL!) to bite out some question to him.

Much, in fact, like our heroes and heroines, who are constantly getting in one another’s faces. As someone who visualizes the action in her head as she writes, this is really helpful to imagine what it feels like to be sparring with the object of one’s affection (even if you haven’t acknowledged him or her as such). Standing too close, invading the space around a person, makes the person feel “discomfort, anger, or anxiety.” Although it doesn’t lead to those feelings unless it then leads to warmth in certain regions and a desire to kiss the other person. In our books, at least (and in Doctor Who, where there was a KISS! Swoony!)

Have you ever deliberately shortened or lengthened someone else’s personal space? How does invasion of personal space make you feel? Which author has written the best demonstration of how personal space can affect the love story, in your opinion?

Megan

Okay, so things are at a static spot right now, so I can return to my usual blather, last week’s joyous grab bag of news notwithstanding.

So–last weekend my friend came to visit, and we headed to the Met to see, among other things, the American Woman exhibit (Oh. My. God. Amazing).

When we were done with that, we headed to the Picasso exhibit; the exhibit features 300 works by Picasso (!), and shows his work changing through the years. I know I’m not uttering anything profound, but man, Picasso was one talented-ass dude.

Which led me to this epiphany: There aren’t very many artists who can continue to grow and change as they develop and master their art. Usually, an artist comes out of the box with a bang and then does the same piece of art, only watered down, for his or her ensuing career (see: Paul McCartney, Eric Clapton, Gang of Four, James Ellroy, Patricia Cornwell, ER, Scooby-Doo with Scrappy, Transformers, etc.).

BUT when you find someone who continues to grow, and change, and develop? Incredible. For example, this week I am reading Jim Butcher‘s Turn Coat, the 11th book in the Dresden Files series. Wow. It is way more complex and intriguing than Storm Front, the first book, which was recommended to me by a book blogger reviewer a gazillion years ago (she is on hiatus for the best reason: A new addition to her family! Yay!).

There are other authors who improve and grow as they “hone their craft” (which, as a romance writer, sounds vaguely dirty). I’d like to think–and hope–that I will be better in a few years than I am now, and I think I’m better now than I used to be.

The essential element, for me, is never being too vain or confident to think I can’t learn something. Apparently Picasso was vain and confident, but also observed and incorporated other artists’ trends and talents into his own work. Like a shark, an artist has to keep moving to stay alive. Or will end up watered down (or, in the shark’s case, a watery grave).

Who has gotten better with age? What other artists jumped the shark (so to speak–completely accidental punnage, I promise!)

Megan

I have loads of fantastic news I am so psyched to share! First off, I have found an enthusiastic, energetic champion agent to represent my contemporary women’s fiction book Mothering Heights.

Here’s the first part of the evil synopsis I had to write:

Molly Hagan is overwhelmed.

Her husband left her for a younger, blonder woman six months ago, her six year-old son is questioning her authority, and so is she. In order to pay her Brooklyn rent and keep her son supplied with Pokemon and Legos—not to mention food and clothing—she has to get a job. She’ll never have enough caffeine—ever—and she’s forty years old.

If it weren’t for her son, she’d have thrown herself out the window 5 months and 29 days ago.

But Molly knows that constant mourning isn’t good for her or her son. And it sure as hell won’t pay the bills.

The Champion Agent will be sending the submission out sometime next week. Fingers crossed, all!

Next up, and impacting my future even more, is that my son got into his first choice of middle school, a gifted and talented middle school that is “one of the most sought-after in the city. . . it draws kids from all over Brooklyn and even parts of Queens and Staten Island. It’s a beautifully equipped, first-rate school that provides a firm foundation for entrance to the city’s most selective high schools.” My husband and I are so proud of him. And, like both his parents, he’ll be specializing in creative writing/journalism.

Last, I have been trying to stay on top of that writing horse; last week I shared how I came to choose what my hero (Christian) looked like, and this week, I am happy to say I have an image of how the heroine (Violet) looks. This was easier, since I’ve been wanting to write someone along the lines of Helena Bonham-Carter, A Room With A View period, for ages now. So I am.
You can see some of the other ladies I considered; Kate W. here is too spunky, Kate B. too polished and Emma just too darn young–maybe not polished enough?

But, knowing my penchant for British actors, I will likely use them later on in other works.

Meanwhile, thanks for cheering me on through thick and thin times! The Riskies are great friends to have, whether the five other ladies who post here or the Risky Commenters who join in the convo.

Megan

(Apologies in advance for my woeful lameness in posting pictures. Everyone else here can make theirs line up all nice, but I just can’t.)

A few years back, two friends and I started working on a fun historical project, a writing collaboration that was almost as much fun to write than it was to talk about.

That got tabled, but is now back in my sights, and so all of us are back on board again, trying to knock out some words so we can show people what we got.

As I’ve realized (and talked about a lot), I cannot write a compelling character unless I have a rock-solid image of the person in my head.

So earlier this week I went to Twitter, and asked:

“Suggestions for a male actor who’s lanky, tall, intellectual-seeming, kinda nerdy, but secretly hot? Bonus pts for a brunette.”

And, boy howdy, did I get a lot of replies.

Just to give you a taste of the guy (so to speak), here is how we’re first introduced to him (this may change, but it works for me thus far):

Damn it. Where the hell was his cravat?

Last time he knew he had it on was when he was tugging at it, when he was doing his translation. Right before Lulu arrived.

Aristotle surely didn’t have these kind of burning sartorial questions. Even more than usual, he envied the ancient Greek; all he had to deal with were those flowing robes, perhaps a sandal or two; now, Society demanded he wear several items of clothing, which usually meant he walked out on the street frequently missing a jacket, or a hat, or gloves. Gloves. Even the word made his jaw clench.

Gloves were the devil’s bane.

Christian frowned and ran his hand through his hair.

And after all the looking, I ended up with Matt Smith, the new Doctor Who.

Now I just have to find my heroine.