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As those of us in the States know, today is the Fourth of July, where we celebrate our Independence.

I’d like to take a moment to celebrate our individual independence, and ask you for your thoughts. I’ll start:

I am grateful to be independent of:

–arranged marriages
–men making all my decisions for me
–having to wear body-covering clothing all the time, even when it’s 90 degrees out
–worrying about how I can survive as a genteel gentlewoman with very little fortune
–dying in childbirth
–those tiny little sausage curls
–ill-fitting shoes
–listening to ladies who cannot play perform on the pianoforte
–not being able to get more education than what is provided by a governess
–feeling guilty for having sexual thoughts

I am grateful to be dependent on:

–air conditioning
–deodorant
–eyeglasses
–swimsuits
–indoor plumbing (you knew it was coming)
–razors
–makeup
–my iPod
–comfortable shoes
–albuterol for my asthma

So–what about you?

Megan

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I am a dog.

Which is not to say I think I’m ugly; no, I am a specific kind of dog, namely Pavlov’s. Let me explain.

In addition to being a book freak, I’ve also always been a music geek. My dad stuck a radio playing jazz under my crib the first night home from the hospital, and I’ve been hooked on music ever since.

In high school, I was a new waver, sporting a bleached-blonde streak in my hair, buying pricey British imports, and wearing ripped tights. In college, I went downtown to see bands that played at 3 in the morning, then took the subway home. I dyed my hair purple, wore multiple earrings, and spent all my money on records.

After college, I got a job in the music industry. I spent 15 years writing about up-and-coming bands and being the first to know about any new musical trend. After I got laid off from my last job, however, I slacked on my music knowledge. I was burned out.

Now, however, my previous passion has reared its head with a vengeance, and I am compiling playlists to listen to while writing. Now just hearing any of the songs on my respective books’ lists is enough to make me think about the book, which explains the Pavlov’s dog thing.

Lately I’ve been loving Duffy, Adele, Estelle, Santagold, Amos Lee and Kid Sister. I did the playlist for On Bold Adventure/Road To Desire (title yet TBD, as you can see) in about five minutes, and each song echoes one or the other of the hero and heroine’s emotional or physical state. I’ve listed it here:

Little Boy Soldiers The Jam
Wasteland The Jam
Chasing Pavements Adele
Burning Sky The Jam
Back In Black AC/DC
The Real Me The Who
The Eton Rifles The Jam
Wax And Wane Cocteau Twins
Thunder Kiss ’65 White Zombie
I Can’t Quit You Baby Led Zeppelin
The Punk And The Godfather The Who
Ivo Cocteau Twins
Drive Blind Ride
You My Lunar Queen Cousteau
Ladykillers Lush
She Don’t Hear Your Prayer Cousteau
Wayfaring Stranger Jack White
Rag & Bone The White Stripes
You Don’t Know What Love Is (You Just Do As You’re Told) The White Stripes

Do you make playlists for writing? What is your favorite artist or song right now? Does music inspire you? Who’s the most emotional musical artist you can think of?

Megan

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In researching my latest hero, a Sharpe-based soldier, I’ve been delving into Scott Hughes Myerly‘s British Military Spectacle. I highly recommend the book; every page has some essential, interesting nugget of information, even if you’re not writing a battle-scarred hero, as I am.

In reading it, I’ve been alternately horrified and impressed at how the British Army used dress to control its soldiers.

As Janet pointed out yesterday, many British soldiers were boys or men who had no choice (“Prison/deportation or the Army?” is just as obvious as Eddie Izzard‘s “Cake or death?”) or were coerced to join.

To keep their soldiers–some of whom were blackguards, to say the least–in line, their superior officers demanded perfection in appearance. Keeping the men busy cleaning their kits kept them away from alcohol, which was one of the Army’s biggest problems (Sharpe mentions this frequently, always trying to destroy whatever alcohol is within his men’s vicinity). Myerly says, “The ideal of perfection was central to the art of nineteenth-century military management, especially in connection with martial display.”

Myerly then goes on to say that “Officers were sometimes obsessed with presenting a correct and pleasing appearance, which often resulted in the total neglect of other significant considerations, even if these were vital to the army’s success.”

Wow. To prove the point, Myerly discusses the headgear required, sometimes two feet high, made of material that was ridiculously hot in the summer, got drenched in the rain, and blew off whenever there was a strong wind.

On one dress occasion in 1829, Wellington, in full military regalia, was blown off his horse by a gust of wind. In 1842, Queen Victoria demanded that a 73 year-old Wellington wear all the proper military gear, which made him trip and fall.

The stocks soldiers wore around the neck had to fit tightly, and were sometimes made too tight so as to make the blood go into the soldier’s face and make him look hale and hearty, even if he hadn’t been eating properly.


Soldiers had to wear uniforms sometimes designed by people who had no idea what a battlefield was like (King George IV, I’m looking at you). The uniforms were impractical, binding, difficult to maintain and expensive. But they looked good, and that was all that mattered.

As Billy Crystal‘s Fernando Lamas character says, “It is better to look good than to feel good.”

It’s clear, from history, that this kind of restrictive insistence on proper attire worked to keep the Army intact and submissive. Of course it chafes at our notions of freedoms as well.

How about you? Have you ever had to wear a uniform? Follow a dress code? Did it make you feel more official? Did you hate it? Did you like not having to worry about choosing what to wear?

Megan

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Oh, geez. Friday already?

Last week, I talked about great book beginnings. I’ve since changed mine to this:

“If you don’t get your stinkin’ farmer’s hands off me, I will rip your head off and feed it to your pigs.”

Spoken by the hero, of course, a sharp(e)-tempered man bent on revenge. I’ve now got three chapters under my belt, and I have to write the synopsis. Ugh.

To inspire my writing, I’ve started reading Sharpe’s Havoc, a Richard Sharpe book by Bernard Cornwell set in Portugal in 1809 (Elena posted about Sharpe in India, too, if you wanna read more about him).

I don’t know if any author as skilfully embeds history within exciting action; sure, Cornwell takes liberties with some aspects of the Napoleonic Wars, but in general he gives you the feeling of what it must have been like to be there. Awesome, awesome writing and a super-compelling hero (Cornwell’s site, www.bernardcornwell.net, is great for more insight into his most famous character. I would say ‘memorable,’ but I also really liked Thomas of Hookton in the Grail Chronicles).

And inbetween all this “research” (did I mention I got some of the Sharpe miniseries from the library? Yeah, pure research, baby), I’ve been watching ladies win on Top Chef and Celtics win in Los Angeles. Plus getting back to the gym for the first time in 2 1/2 months.

Which is why I am late, and aghast it is Friday.

So I have very little to offer here, except that it is finally cooling off some, I cannot wait to see the Incredible Hulk, freaking out that my son gets out of school for the summer in a week and a half, that National is next month (!), and that I am finally writing fresh stuff again.

In other words, life is good, and I am dull. So let’s talk about you, instead.

What are you doing this summer?

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So my new agent has the latest version of edits for my Regency-set historical, Road To Passion (the title of which she says, as others have, that she is reminded of Bob Hope. Bob Hope = Not Sexy. New Title being brainstormed now), and she will be submitting it to editors soon.

Meanwhile, I have begun Road To Desire (I know! Still Bob Hope! But that’s the title in my head!), and it is so much fun to start writing NEW stuff after laboring so long over the old.

My hero this time is a low-born soldier, raised on London streets and out for revenge after returning from the wars. He’s got a crazy-hot temper, is aggressive, bold, confident and super-sexy.

My heroine is an Earl’s daughter, on the run from a controlling uncle and his leering son, off to find her fiance, who’s just come home from the battlefield.

(Note to readers: The hero is not her fiance. Really, how boring would that be?)

Whether you’re starting to write or to read a new book, the beginning is so crucial:

(Some of the) 100 Best First Lines from Novels

1. Call me Ishmael. —Herman Melville, Moby-Dick (1851)

2. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. —Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice (1813)

3. A screaming comes across the sky. —Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow (1973)

4. Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice. —Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967; trans. Gregory Rabassa)

5. Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. —Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita (1955)

6. Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. —Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina (1877; trans. Constance Garnett)

7. riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs. —James Joyce, Finnegans Wake (1939)

8. It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. —George Orwell, 1984 (1949)

9. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair. —Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities (1859)

10. I am an invisible man. —Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man (1952)

11. The Miss Lonelyhearts of the New York Post-Dispatch (Are you in trouble?—Do-you-need-advice?—Write-to-Miss-Lonelyhearts-and-she-will-help-you) sat at his desk and stared at a piece of white cardboard. —Nathanael West, Miss Lonelyhearts (1933)

12. You don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter. —Mark Twain, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1885)

13. Someone must have slandered Josef K., for one morning, without having done anything truly wrong, he was arrested. —Franz Kafka, The Trial (1925; trans. Breon Mitchell)

14. You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino’s new novel, If on a winter’s night a traveler. —Italo Calvino, If on a winter’s night a traveler (1979; trans. William Weaver)

15. The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new. —Samuel Beckett, Murphy (1938)

16. If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. —J. D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye (1951)

17. Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo. —James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916)

18. This is the saddest story I have ever heard. —Ford Madox Ford, The Good Soldier (1915)

19. I wish either my father or my mother, or indeed both of them, as they were in duty both equally bound to it, had minded what they were about when they begot me; had they duly considered how much depended upon what they were then doing;—that not only the production of a rational Being was concerned in it, but that possibly the happy formation and temperature of his body, perhaps his genius and the very cast of his mind;—and, for aught they knew to the contrary, even the fortunes of his whole house might take their turn from the humours and dispositions which were then uppermost:—Had they duly weighed and considered all this, and proceeded accordingly,—I am verily persuaded I should have made a quite different figure in the world, from that, in which the reader is likely to see me. —Laurence Sterne, Tristram Shandy (1759–1767)

20. Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. —Charles Dickens, David Copperfield (1850)

My first lines, as they stand now, are these:

“Get your stinking farmers’ hands off me.”

The words were spoken in a furious rumble that left no doubt as to the speaker’s feelings. His accent wasn’t the ones she was used to hearing here; he spoke much more quickly, his vowels broader than the usual Northern mumble.

What are your favorite first lines?

Megan

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