Reprint: From the desk of... R.E. Hargrave Blog Guest Post

Here's another "reissued" guest blog post while I'm tied up with editing. This particular entry was originally posted on July 30, 2013, on the From the Desk of... R.E. Hargrave blog in support of my newest release, Wishing Cotton. I was very appreciative of the opportunity and am grateful to R.E. Hargrave for hosting me. I'm providing the link to the original posting below; I encourage you to check out her blog!

Discuss three things that readers would be surprised to know about you.

I’m not sure that there is anything genuinely surprising about me, but I’ll give it a shot. To be honest, I have a tendency to over-share that makes keeping things hidden rather difficult. One must also consider what sorts of things would be surprising: my writing life or my “real” life. Let’s see what I come up with.

Back when I knew nothing about the publishing world or the reality of a writer’s life, I used to envision published authors as boldly striding towers of self-confidence. To be fair, it’s difficult to picture Shakespeare or Tolstoy or Byron or whomever having fits of insecurity. But they must have done. Every writer I have spoken to has said the same thing. Seeing your words in print is exciting, of course, but it also feels like you have left the house in your unmentionables and not much else. It exposes you in a way that is unique to the creative world. Many people have been surprised that I experience this as well. Since I serve as lead editor for Renaissance Romance Publishing, there is an expectation of self-confidence that goes along with the job. Sure, I am confident when I’m slicing into someone else’s baby. My own stories, on the other hand… Even a cover reveal or an announcement of an upcoming release fills my soul with dread. There are moments when I want to take it back and tell the publisher I was just kidding. It’s pitiful. Still, I do manage to control those insecure impulses and carry on with my work.

Another thing about me that might surprise people is that I am not an especially emotional person. Romance novels, by definition, deal with deep and often turbulent emotions, and the characters need to reveal their feelings through their words and actions. In real life, I am much more buttoned down. Both sides of my family shy away from emotional displays, so I suppose I just grew up in a less demonstrative environment. It seems strange to some people who know me in real life that a person like me would find romance an appealing genre, but it’s a mistake to equate lack of public expression with lack of comprehension. I do feel things very deeply, and I understand human emotion. All the same, it can be difficult to reconcile the real-life persona with the written word, and I think people who know me through my writing are surprised when they actually speak to me and find out I’m a much different person than the characters in my books.

I don’t know if this counts as “surprising,” but I have background knowledge in a very hodgepodge collection of subjects. Over the years, I have received at least rudimentary training in ballet, violin, piano, voice, drawing, Egyptian funereal art, theater, British literature, art history, business management, various areas of law, gothic architecture, Catholicism, Judaism, Methodism, Norse mythology, middle English verse, pottery, literary theory, American and British history, archeoastronomy, etymology, and Native American spirituality. All of this means that at any given moment, I may spit out a completely random fact on an obscure subject. My husband treats me like a walking Encyclopedia Britannica. To balance this out, I am completely useless at the most basic tasks like cooking, cleaning, and shopping. Friends have commented from time to time that I know more than they do, but I still envy all of them their ability to boil an egg without setting their homes on fire.

So that’s it – the three most surprising things about me I can think of! Thank you for reading, and I hope you’ll also read and enjoy my story “Wishing Cotton,” which is being released July 23, 2013, as part of the Heat Wave anthology from Renaissance Romance Publishing.

  
R.E. Hargrave Guest Post 7/30/2013

Reprint: N. Wood Blog Guest Post

Here's another "reissued" guest blog post while I'm tied up with editing. This particular entry was originally posted on July 23, 2013, on the Romance Stories by N. Wood blog in support of my newest release, Wishing Cotton. I was very appreciative of the opportunity and am grateful to N. Wood for hosting me. I'm providing the link to the original posting below; I encourage you to check out her blog!

The Use of Comedy in the Romance Genre

Aficionados of the romance genre are well aware that influences from other genres have a tendency to sneak in. There are paranormal romances, historical romances, mystery romances, science fiction romances, and maybe even steampunk dystopian voodoo monkey romances (I did say “maybe” there). I love these kinds of blended stories, because it makes for a richer reading experience. Let’s face it: when you pick up a contemporary romance, there won’t be a lot of surprises inside. You may have a wonderful romantic tale of love, betrayal, and forgiveness, but at its heart, you know you are reading a story that will end with the lovers united and possibly some celebratory hanky-panky. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. I’ve read some really well-written and gripping contemporary romances that didn’t have as much as a whiff of genre comingling.

That being said, I have to admit that I have a special place in my heart for romances that incorporate elements of other genres. It’s like finding out that your steak comes with mashed potatoes and gravy. It’s the moment when the manager sends you a free desert on the house, and it happens to be something awash in chocolate sauce and maybe a little vanilla ice cream.

I really should have had dinner before I wrote this.

Getting back to my ever-elusive point, one element that can be fun to incorporate into a romance novel is comedy. Anyone who has seen The Thin Man with William Powell and Myrna Loy will appreciate how wonderfully comedy can be used to offset more serious, dramatic moments. If anything, I believe the contrast comedy provides can allow you to make the dark scenes even darker. Comedy gives the author a way to continually dangle the reader over a dramatic cliff, not letting go until the moment the reader least expects. It makes the fall so much more thrilling. It’s the difference between going to a Broadway show (a perfectly pleasant experience) and having a stranger walk up to you at 3:00 on a Tuesday afternoon to drag you into Phantom of the Opera-themed flashmob (something you will never forget and will recount at cocktail parties for years to come).

Laughter shared between fictional characters also makes the romantic aspect more believable. If a hero and heroine are content to cling to each other and weep tears of longing at each other, their emotional connection will lack plausibility. Of course, as Wuthering Heights has shown us, two absolutely miserable and unlikeable characters can communicate believable, even overpowering, love and passion. But Wuthering Heights isn’t really a “feel good” novel, so I’m going to callously ignore it. My literature professors don’t know where I live anymore, so I think I’ll get away with it.

My story Wishing Cotton is being released on July 23, 2013, by Renaissance Romance Publishing. People who read my last release My Apple Tree may be surprised at the difference in tone between the two stories. Wishing Cotton is intended to be the sort of light-hearted story that you might enjoy while lounging by the pool on a warm summer day, and I’ve incorporated many comedic elements into my storytelling. I hope that readers will enjoy a few chuckles while my characters try to find love.

  
Guest Post on Romance Stories by N. Wood Blog

The Minor Character

In many ways, the minor character is sometimes easily forgotten. The gregarious taxi driver, the helpful woman at the store, the nosy coworker, and the grumpy neighbor all have their parts to play, but the reader tends to not give much thought to these brief appearances. So why incorporate them at all?

I think it’s not hard to understand that the reader’s experience of a novel and the author’s experience while writing it differ quite a bit. One thing that the average reader may not realize is that no character appears in a story without a distinct purpose. Any novelist worth his or her salt will pay exacting attention to every facet of the novel, including the minor characters. There must be a reason for a particular character to appear in the narrative, and the presentation of that character must maintain a balance that is consistent with his or her importance to the action and development of the story.

In The Truth Seekers, Mrs. Olivia MacDonald serves as the necessary chaperone for her young friend, and so must be blended into the scenes in which she appears. She herself is not a major player, and her voice must not be allowed to overshadow those of the main characters. However, at certain points her actions move the narrative forward, so we need to see enough of her to have a sense of who she is as a person. By way of contrast, the existence of the male lead’s friend John needs to be established, but we don’t need to interact with him a great deal.

In Wishing Cotton, Olive meets Mr. J.P. Croupington (“Pinger” to his friends). This character’s importance begins and ends with the scene in which he appears. So why have him at all? He helps to provide comic relief, but his conversation with Olive also works to create the mood needed for Olive’s subsequent conversation with her friend Blair. So old Pinger provides a necessary element to the narrative, but once his usefulness is at an end, he vanishes from our view.

In the case of quiet John mentioned above, a good deal of his lines were cut in order to achieve the proper balance. Every time a character is introduced into the story, their voice, opinions, and personality are also inserted. The people they are influences the main characters on some level, but their appearance must blend into the story. In other words, it is one thing to have the gregarious taxi driver chat with the main character and give a suggestion that impacts that character’s choice of destination. It is another thing altogether to allow the driver to take center stage. We don't need to see the color of his eyes or have his life story laid out for us. A character that has such a limited part to play cannot be allowed overshadow the main characters.

All the same, minor characters are important, and often the author is able to provide gorgeous characterizations that give the reader a firm grasp on the minor character before he or she walks offstage. When the right balance is present, the minor character can be one of the most vital elements in a novel.

The Three Little Pigs of Victorian London

I was talking with my friend tonight about the various writing I've done over the years and how I have genre-jumped a bit. While I was reviewing some old files, I came across this little gem, which was the product of a novel-writing class I took a few years ago. The idea was for the entire class to present their version of the same story (in this case, The Three Little Pigs), but each person would write it in a different genre. I was assigned historical fiction, and this was the result:

“The Three Little Pigs of Victorian London” – a work of Historical Fiction

Oscar Wolf’s eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted into a pained grimace as he walked through London’s blackened, suffocating streets. The horror of the squalor surrounding him tugged at his very core, aggressive in its absolute need to be recognized. It overwhelmed the senses and unrepentantly squelched even the hardiest shred of hope that might attempt to take root in the cracked and filth pavement. Such a landscape cried out against those in power in tones both strident and unrelenting, and Wolf responded by once more pledging himself to his work. Only anarchy could free the downtrodden of England from the oppression and cruelly inequitable treatment they had endured for so long. He had sworn to become an agent of destruction and to demonstrate with ruthless tenacity how ineffectual and powerless government truly was in the face of the deterioration of the currently established social system.

The worn leather of his boots creaked as he continued down the stinking, soot-stained streets until he stood before a ramshackle house that appeared to have been constructed from nothing but straw. This, he knew, was the home of John Pig, an unskilled laborer who worked in a textile mill along with his wife and five children. If Wolf and his associates were to gain a foothold within the ranks of the factory workers, the support of men such as Mr. Pig was essential. With a resolute step, Wolf stepped up to the tightly-woven straw door, but he could not identify a surface sturdy enough upon which to knock. This slight obstacle did not deter him, however, and he called out to announce his presence. 

                “John Pig! I must speak with you!”

                A rustle and a thump preceded Pig’s reply. “Aye? Who be ye?” asked a grating voice.

                “My name is Oscar Wolf,” he responded. “I wish to speak with you concerning the mill.”

                “Oh?” came the voice again, now heavy with suspicion. “And what is the mill to ye, then?”

                “Your employer is notorious for demanding twelve-hour days from his workers, even the children. We wish to push him to increase wages, as well as reduce the hours...”

                “Oh, shove off,” Pig interrupted. “You be nothin’ but trouble. I won’t be caught talkin’ to the likes of you!”

                “Mr. Pig, you must listen!” Wolf pressed on. “The revolution is at hand! Now is the time for the workers to throw off the shackles of middle class oppression and expose the government’s hypocrisy! I must warn you – if you are not with us, you are against us!”

The door swung open abruptly, revealing a large, weather-beaten man, his muscled forearms folded uncompromisingly across his chest. “I told you to shove off! We’ll have none of your huffing and puffing here! You got no right coming here and makin’ trouble for my family. We be decent folk, and not afraid of hard work. Now, off with ya. I’ve been savin’ up to take the little ones to the penny theater, and I ain’t gonna let the likes of you get in the way!” Pig pushed Wolf roughly aside as he shouldered his way to the street, and a pale and painfully thin woman followed behind dragging a string of young children along in her wake.  

Wolf’s face heated and his blood pounded in his ears as he considered Pig’s obstinate refusal to listen.  His next course of action was clear. As in the case of any obstacle that prevented him from achieving his goal, his only recourse was to remove that obstacle outright. He cast an expert eye over his surroundings, needing to ensure adequate time to execute his plan. Once he was satisfied that any interference would not be forthcoming, Wolf moved quickly, his well-trained hands completing their tasks with only the smallest portion of his concentration. 

When the explosion tore through the straw house, sending ash and flaming tendrils of heated malice in all directions, Wolf was already some distance away. He moved through the passages of the city with confidence, easily avoiding detection by the constabulary, should they deign to respond to an incident involving only a working-class hovel. At length, his steps gradually slowed until stopping in front of a house made of sticks. Once he had caught his breath, Wolf realized that he had fortuitously located the home of George T. Hogge, the middle-class owner of the textile mill at which the Pig family labored. 

Wolf was filled with the determination to take Hogge to task for the condition of his factory and the poor wages and long hours to which his workers were subjected. Not surprisingly, his demands to be given admittance were refused. Hogge deigned at last to lean out of one stick-framed window in a final attempt to rid himself of this nuisance. His brow was smooth and untroubled as he explained that he considered himself a proponent of the principles of Utilitarianism, which supported his belief that the benefits to his workers must outweigh the hardships. When Wolf disagreed and made to debate the matter further, Hogge gave a negligent shrug before asserting that if this were not the case, his workers would have already revolted against the conditions at the mill. As they had not done so, Hogge felt justified in his belief that any change would be unnecessary. 

“Take your huffing and puffing elsewhere, Sir,” he said over his shoulder as he withdrew his head from the window and disappeared from view.

Wolf’s further arguments were met with silence until at last the housekeeper advised him as she made her way to the shops that Hogge has left out the back door of the house with Missus and young Master Hogge in order to attend a dinner party. It was the work of a moment to prepare his fiery rebuttal to Mr. Hogge, and Wolf quickly fled the environs as the house of sticks exploded, giving voice to his wrath and ire.

When Wolf stopped in his headlong flight to catch his breath, now satisfied that the authorities had been successfully eluded, he found himself standing before a grand house of bricks belonging to Sir Arthur Pemberton-Piglet, Earl of Bacon and member of the House of Lords. Giving himself over entirely to the increasing frustrations of the day, Wolf began pounding upon the ornate door, coherently if somewhat frantically denouncing the government in general and Pemberton-Piglet in particular for failing to institute even the most basic reforms and for ignoring the plight of the country’s poor. He received no response from Pemberton-Piglet, who was rather preoccupied with preparations for the ball being given that evening to celebrate his daughter Penelope Pemberton-Piglet’s presentation to society. 

While perfectly prepared to grapple with malicious and rough treatment, Wolf’s entire frame trembled and his breath came in shallow, uneven gasps at this blatant disregard. His voice cracked with the fervor of his dedication as he called out a final warning to Pemberton-Piglet. If he continued to ignore Wolf’s call for justice, judgment would be rendered instantly – Wolf would not hesitate to incinerate the house and its inhabitants without a qualm.

From within his mortared walls, Pemberton-Piglet snorted in derision at this hollow threat before summoning the police, who easily apprehended the distracted and increasingly unstable Wolf. Vast quantities of incendiary devices were removed from his person before his writhing body was confined in chains and relocated to the nearest prison, where he was able to indulge in unrelenting self-flagellation and frustrated huffing and puffing to his heart’s content for many years thereafter.  

Penelope Pemberton-Piglet’s ball, on the other hand, was an unqualified success.