I’m so happy to say that I’m not going stag to today’s ball as originally planned! Instead, the fabulous Lauren Willig, author of the Pink Carnation series, has joined me for the evening. Lauren and I have been pre-partying a bit (we might have had a little wager involving champagne and this year’s RITAs)…so it might be best for all involved if we just watch the scene unfold…

In the ballroom, our esteemed hostess, Lady Beaufetheringstone, is putting the final touches on the decorations for the evening’s event, when a rather large, blond man in a gaudy waistcoat blunders into the ballroom.

Lady B: Carnations…. Pink ribbons…. Pink biscuits…. Ratafia returned to a more appetizing color. [casts an eye toward Tessa, across the room.]

<squawk!>Lobster Patties!<squawk!>

Lady B: Yes Albert, darling, even pink lobster patties…Ooph!

Mr. Turnip Fitzhugh, as he hauls Lady B up and enthusiastically brushes crushed biscuits and flower petals off her dress: Terribly sorry, didn’t mean to knock you over and all that! I say, are
you Lady B? Just the person I was looking to meet!

Lady B, frostily: May I be of assistance, sir?

Turnip: Frightfully excited to meet you and all that. I’m Fitzugh? Turnip Fitzhugh? M’real name’s Reginald, but everyone calls me Turnip. [Taps the side of his nose.] M’author tells me
that turnips are inherently amusing vegetables. Not quite sure what she means by that, but it sounds like a deuced good thing, don’t it?

Lady B: I’m sorry, Mr., er, Parsnip. I don’t believe we were expecting you….[spears Sarah and Lauren with an icy, knowing glance]

Sarah: Uh-oh.

Lauren: Oh, dear.

Turnip, eagerly: I’m here for the book toss thingamagummy.

Lady B, frostily: My dear sir, if you were looking for a caber toss, you’ll find that about four hundred miles to the north. Books are for reading, not for flinging. [She thinks about it for a moment. Her lip curls.] With a few notable exceptions.

Turnip: I say, it’s not all the way in Scotland, is it? Shouldn’t like to go there. Vicious creatures, haggis. Not to mention that those kilts are deuced drafty.

Lady B [trying to shuffle him out]: Yes, well, I’ve always had a fondness for kilts, myself. Now, if you don’t mind trotting along, we do have a book launch we’re trying to prepare for here in the Ballroom….

Turnip: Book launch! That’s what I meant. Can’t think where I got this idea about tossing, but, then, haven’t been to one of these before. Not that I haven’t been in books—been in quite a few,
actually—but this is the first time I have a book of my own.

Lady B: If you mean the book launch, yes, we do have one of those here this evening, but it certainly has nothing to do with—

Turnip, waxing lyrical: It’s all Arabella, you know. Miss Arabella Dempsey. Without her, I’d still be a comic side character, there to fall out windows and natter on at inconvenient moments. Not that it isn’t a valuable job and all that, but I was getting a little tired of being stalked by misguided French spies and poked by the Dowager Duchess of Dovedale. That cane of hers is deuced pointy.

Lady B: Mr. Parsnip—

<squawk!> Rutabaga! <squawk!>

Turnip: Haven’t seen Arabella about, have you? Blonde woman, about this high, well-furnished in the brainbox? She’s the plum in my pudding, the holly on my ivy, the ringer on my bell….

Lady B: Mr. Parsnip! This is all very touching, but I’m afraid you have been misinformed. We aren’t expecting any Arabellas this evening, and certainly nothing resembling a root vegetable.

Turnip: But… but… it’s my book, don’t you know. The Malefactor of the…. No, wait. The Murder of the…. No, not that either. Well, something to do with Mistletoe, in any event. You know the sort of thing, daring escapades, amusing larks, touching love scenes, and all the pudding you can eat!

Lady B: It sounds… special.

Miss Gwendolyn Meadows, stalking into the room (and modeling some truly alarming purple headgear): I’ll show you special! [Pokes at Turnip with parasol.] What’s this cretin doing at MY book launch? He doesn’t even appear in the first Pink Carnation book! He first shows up in Book Two. [Sniffs] Not that anyone would bother with Book Two. I hardly appear at all. It was a lamentable oversight on the part of the author.

Lady B, edging away from Miss Gwen’s parasol: I can assure you, I have nothing to do with—

Turnip, cheerfully: Hullo, here for my party?

Miss Gwen, stalking toward Turnip: We are here promoting breast cancer research. What do you think you’re doing?

Turnip, quickly: Er, nothing to do with breasts! I mean, that is, unless they were Arabella’s breasts. Don’t think it would be the done thing to do to have anything to do with anybody else’s. Not that I’m sure yours aren’t terribly, er—ouch! I say, that wasn’t terribly sporting of you.

Miss Gwen: This is MY party and I’ll poke you with my parasol if I wish to do so.

Turnip [scratching head]: Your party?

Miss Gwen: This is the book launch for the special Read Pink reissue of The Secret History of the Pink Carnation—[prods him with parasol]—not the All Too Obvious Tale of the Man With the Gaudy Waistcoat.

Turnip [looking down]: Don’t you like it? Thought it was deuced fetching, if do say so m’self. Wait? The Pink Carnation? It’s not the party for the Mischievous Mistletoe?

Miss Gwen: You, sirrah, must wait until 1 November for your happily ever after. [Looks Turnip up and down.] If I were you, I would use that time to find some new garments.

Turnip: Er, is that a spy over there? (Flees as Miss Gwen is looking the other way.)

Lady B, icily: Miss Willig!

Lauren straightens: Yes, Lady Beaufetheringstone?

Lady B: Why is it that your guests seem unable to keep their events straight?

Lauren: Well, since I couldn’t remember when my books were coming out this fall, it seems only reasonable that they wouldn’t…don’t you think?

Lady B: No. I do not think. Get yourself a social secretary, girl. And that gentleman…[she trails off]

Sarah: Oh my, Lauren. I think Turnip has rendered her speechless.

Lady B raises an eyebrow: I would tread very carefully if I were you, Miss MacLean.

Sarah opens her mouth to say more. Thinks better of it.

<squawk!>Good choice!<squawk!>

Lauren: He means well, Lady B….  Isn’t it just like Turnip to wander unwittingly into Miss Gwen’s book launch? [sotto voce] Miss Gwen seems to labor under the delusion that Pink I is all about her, and not, well, the Pink Carnation. I prefer not disabuse her. Like the Dowager Duchess of Dovedale’s cane, Miss Gwen’s parasol is, indeed, deuced pointy.

Lady B, after a long inspection of Lauren: Fair enough, Miss Willig. Do say more about this Read Pink program. You know, only Tuesday we were Kissing and Tealing…quite scandalous. But for a good cause…I do my best to be philanthropic.

Lauren: The Secret History of the Pink Carnation has just been reissued this week in a special Read Pink edition as part of Penguin’s program to support the Breast Cancer Research Foundation. Thank you so very much for agreeing to  hosting a Pink Ribbon ball today—even if it did get crashed by a rather confused Turnip.

Lady B: Is he always so…bumbling? Someone falls in love with him you say?

Lauren: Believe it or not, yes.  It’s a long story.   There’s spies; there’s Christmas pudding; there’s Jane Austen.  In other words, it’s complicated.

Lady B, lifting her lorgnettes: Hmmm. Must have nice legs.

–

To salvage Turnip’s wounded feelings (and Lady B’s ball), Lauren is generously giving away a copy of The Mischief of the Mistletoe to one Ballroom Blog commenter! Tell us your best…or worst!…party faux pas in comments! 

And thanks to Lauren for attending today’s ball! 

Thanks to our lovely guests who visited the Ballroom this week for our teal celebration in honor of Ovarian Cancer Awareness Month and promised to spread the word about this whispering disease. Congratulations to Molly Wilsbacher, who’s won all seven titles in Avon’s K.I.S.S. and Teal campaign!

There’s still one more chance to win the set of seven K.I.S.S. and Teal books this week. Visit the “SHOUT against the Whisper!” Facebook page and enter the Sweepstakes (the Sweepstakes tab is in the left margin) for a chance to win this week’s prize package.

Until our next set (tomorrow), happy dancing!

– Katharine and Tessa

As she makes her grand entrance to today’s ball, our esteemed hostess, Lady Beaufetheringstone, is taken by surprise.  She strides to the center of the ballroom and makes a slow turn.

Lady B:  Why, pray tell, is everything this singular bluish color?  I’m always glad to see young ladies wearing ribbons, but normally one likes a variety of shades.  And it isn’t only the ribbons. The decorative swags, the candle tapers…  My word.  Has someone dyed the ratafia?

Tessa, sheepishly:  That might have been me.

Lady B:  I should have known, Miss Dare.  And all this strange shade of blue.  Or is it green?  A pleasant shade, but one hardly knows what to call it.  It’s not precisely peacock.

Katharine:  It’s teal, my lady. We’ve decorated everything in this special color today in honor of our guest.

At the foot of the stairs, the majordomo announces, “Miss Amanda Davis, of America.”

September is Ovarian Cancer Awareness Month

Into the ballroom sweeps a lovely young woman with dark hair and a charming smile.  She’s wearing a dazzling teal silk gown with ropes of aquamarine.

Tessa:  Oh, here she is now.  Miss Davis, please let me introduce you to our hostess, Lady B.  Lady B, Miss Davis works with the Ovarian Cancer National Alliance.

Polite curtsys and warm greetings are managed.

Tessa:  Miss Davis, Lady B was just wondering about the teal color. It has to do with the month of September, doesn’t it?

Amanda:  Every September, we urge women — and the men who love them — to learn about ovarian cancer. This month is dedicated to the 22,000 women in my country who will be diagnosed with ovarian cancer this year.

Katharine:  Our publisher, Avon, is spreading awareness of this too, Lady B.

Lady B:  In ballrooms?

Katharine: Oh, yes! You see, Tessa’s and my new books are part of Avon’s K.I.S.S. and Teal campaign to encourage everyone to Know the Important Signs and Symptoms of ovarian cancer and to tell their friends. Proceeds from the sales of our books and five other new Avon titles will go toward awareness and research programs. But that’s not all: in the back of each K.I.S.S. and Teal book is information on ovarian cancer, including the signs and symptoms.

Lady B:  What are these signs and symptoms?

Amanda:  Ladies should pay close attention to signs of ovarian cancer, especially if they are unusual or persistent. Those symptoms include bloating, pelvic or abdominal pain, difficulty eating or feeling full quickly, and urinary symptoms (like urgency or frequency). Many of us have felt these symptoms at one time or another, but if you feel them almost daily for two weeks, please consult a physician.

Lady B lifts an eyebrow.  I am sure that the Ballroom is not an appropriate place to discuss bloating.  Much less…the other.

<<squawk> Urinary! <squawk>>

Tessa:  If I may be so bold as to disagree, Lady B, I think the Ballroom is actually a perfect place to discuss this.

Katharine:  After all, Lady B, women adore your balls (not to mention the men that love women who adore your balls!), and women need to talk about this important issue.  Miss Davis, Lady B is actually really open minded.  Can you help her understand the reason it’s so important for women to be aware of these symptoms and talk about them?

Amanda: Unlike other women’s cancers, there is no early detection test for ovarian cancer. Very often, women are not diagnosed until the disease is advanced. Knowing the symptoms is the best way for a woman to protect her health so she can live a long, healthy, happy life.

Lady B:  Well, then, that is a worthy effort.  I may be a woman in my… prime… but I plan to spend several more decades admiring the calves of well-formed gentlemen.

Tessa:  Exactly, Lady B.  The K.I.S.S. and Teal message is all about helping women live longer and healthier.  Who can argue with that?

Katharine:  Miss Davis, thank you so much for being our guest today.  It’s such an honor to have you here (and I really adore your gown!). Before you join the dancing, would you tell our guests how they can stay informed?

Amanda: New advances are being made all the time that could help doctors identify and treat ovarian cancer. Stay informed by visiting www.ovariancancer.org or following us on Facebook.

Katharine:  Lady B, in thanks for allowing us to transform the ballroom today, Tessa and I would like to offer you this pair of teal gloves.  We know you prefer peacock–

<<squawk!> Inferior bird! <squawk!>> 

Tessa:  But we’d like you to have them, nevertheless.

Lady B:  Thank you, dear gels. And what will you give my guests to celebrate the occasion?

To celebrate Amanda’s visit today, Tessa and Katharine are giving away to one commenter a set of all seven K.I.S.S. and Teal romances from Avon. (Katharine’s and Tessa’s will be personally signed!) To enter the giveaway, tell us in your comment below how you’re planning to show your teal spirit during this last week of Ovarian Cancer Awareness Month. And since we’re all about spreading the teal word, if another commenter says that you invited her to visit the Ballroom for our teal post, we’ll add your name to the drawing again. We’ll draw a winner this Wednesday.

I get a little giddy about science, sometimes.  It wasn’t my favorite subject in school.  Biology was okay for me. Hated Chemistry, especially lab stuff.  But Physics?  I’ve always loved physics. At least, the layperson’s version of it. Because I am a person who likes to ponder “Why?” questions, and Physics is all about the whys of our universe.  ”Why does a ball fall to the ground when I drop it?”  ”Why does the earth orbit the sun?”  Etc. etc.

Until as recently as this week, physicists generally accepted Einstein’s theory that nothing in the universe can move faster than light.  However, researchers at CERN unveiled findings a few days ago that they have observed these little particles called neutrinos moving faster than light speed. Which, if true, would apparently re-write physics and change the way scientists understand the universe.

Tessa, you might say, that’s all very well and good. But why are you writing about this on The Ballroom Blog?  What can this possibly have to do with historical romance?

And I would reply, read on:

Jeff Forshaw, a professor of particle physics at Britain’s Manchester University, told Reuters the results if confirmed would mean it would be possible in theory to “send information into the past”. “In other words, time travel into the past would become possible…(though) that does not mean we’ll be building time-machines anytime soon.”

Did you hear that?  Soon or not–we are one step closer to time travel.

So, for the all-important question:

When the time machines are ready, when and where are YOU going?  Back to the Regency?  To a different historical era?  What are you taking with you?  Which sights are you most interested in seeing?

And what model car should we use?  Deloreans are so 1985.

Piazza Navona, Rome, Italy

In the elegant Piazza Navona in the center of the city of Rome, a quartet of enormous, muscular men in scant garments majestically twine about an Egyptian obelisk. They are river gods — the magnificent Ganges of Asia, the wide Danube of Europe, the endless Nile of Africa, and the powerful Rio de la Plata of America. 

Tourists cluster about the fountain, snapping photos, shading their eyes from the bright Italian sun and chattering in as many languages as the ancient capital of an empire has ever known. But the gods are inured to gawking and conversations. Since the seventeenth century they’ve been imprisoned here in stone.

But, finally… they’ve had enough. Unbeknownst to all who gaze upon their massive musculature, they’re not actually there! While their stone shells bask in a Mediterranean glow, the gods themselves have traveled northwest to a cooler clime, to another bustling city that is nearly as old as Rome…

They have come to Lady B’s ballroom.

How do I know this? Well, I’m looking right at them. And I’m not the only one.

The River Ganges

Lady B: Miss Ashe, you invited four huge, naked men to my ball.

Not entirely naked. And I didn’t precisely invite them. I was just looking through some photos I took in Rome a few years ago.

Lady B: Photos?

Um. Little paintings.

Lady B: That’s all? You were merely studying paintings?

Well… Er… Maybe not? At the same time I may have been thinking about…  well… you know, (mumbling swiftly) the vast breadth of the British Empire. (deep breath) It’s kind of a habit of mine. Anyway, they just showed up!

Lady B: But why here, dear gel?

It’s possible I was thinking about my latest book too. You know, the hero, Ben, is part Indian, though from quite a few miles south of the Ganges. But the book I’m copyediting now is occupying my thoughts too lately, When a Scot Loves a Lady. My Scottish hero spent a few years tracking along the Ganges on a secret mission for the king.

Lady B: I do admire a man of action.

Shockingly Underclad River God

Oh, me too. That sort of lifestyle tones a gentleman’s muscles remarkably well, if you know what I mean.

Lady B: Naturally.

And speaking of muscles, these guys are nearly naked because they’re gods.

Lady B: Gods or no, they are shockingly underclad. (looking the Nile up and down) I approve. You gentlemen are welcome in my ballroom.

Ganges bows augustly, his beard flowing and his long oar clicking on the floor.

PLATA: (one hand in the lobster patties plate, the other pushing Albert away) What’s a ballroom?

DANUBE: This is a ballroom, you barbarian. A chamber in which ladies and gentlemen dance—the waltz, if they are civilized.

NILE: You Europeans always imagine you have a monopoly on civilization. Egyptians were building pyramids while you people were still walking around on your knuckles.

The Ganges in India

GANGES: Neither of you is correct. (Note: Ganges has this sort of James Earl Jones-esque voice. Really nice. Everybody stops to listen.) In this century Britain is busily conquering my fertile continent and each of yours. With each victory, another ballroom is erected, another drawing room decorated, another tea table set for ladies wearing puffed sleeves and carrying parasols.

PLATA: Well look who’s the culture expert?

GANGES: In this decade, Danube, the waltz is not universally accepted.

Lady B: It is in this ballroom!

DANUBE: We Hungarians are always ahead of our time. (glancing at the refreshment table) Is that goulash?

Lady B: Good heavens, no.

NILE: You’re all pathetically behind the times. My pharaohs were posing for portraits while Plata’s people were still swinging from trees.

DANUBE: It’s true, Americans are backward. But don’t you get all high and mighty. Egypt was conquered by Rome, too, and America never was.

NILE: (mumbling) Well, we’re a lot closer to Italy, and ancient navigation being what it was…

Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi (translation: Big Phallic Fountain)

PLATA: Yeah, Nile. We’ve all been hanging out around a giant phallus for centuries because a Roman emperor conquered Egypt and had all your monuments shipped back to Italy.

(me, in a whisper to Lady B) Come to think of it, I just finished writing a half-Egyptian hero, a pirate known as the Pharaoh. So maybe that’s the reason—

GANGES: Gentlemen, may we return to the reason for our visit to this place?

PLATA: So we can ogle the pretty girls?

DANUBE: The American has a point.

NILE: Ogling is for amateurs. We Egyptians were sculpting portraits of goddesses when you were all still fumbling for your di—

Drawers! Fumbling for their drawers, right, Nile? Heh.

Lady B: (eyes twinkling) Young man, in my ballroom we won’t have you hiding your face. Ladies must see a man’s eyes to know if he is a rakish sort or not.

The River Nile (Faces are so overrated, don't you think?)

I don’t think he has a choice, Lady B. The designer, Bernini, put that cloth over his face to show that Europeans hadn’t yet discovered the source of the Nile.

Lady B: Ah, the whimsy of artists. Then I daresay we must be content with the parts that are showing.

It’s really a shame.

GANGES: Ladies, my fellow river gods and I have come here today not upon whim. Rather, we were mystically conveyed. For, just as we four connect the seas of the world, so too does this ballroom — peopled by the wealthy and powerful of London — connect the oceans and continents. Britain’s empire will soon be as great as Rome’s ever was.

PLATA: Wow.

NILE: (muttering) Egypt’s empire lasted longer.

DANUBE: You’re a pompous ass, Ganges. Look around you. Ladies don’t care about empires—

(me, sputtering) I beg your pardon?

DANUBE: They care about handsome gentlemen.

No caption necessary

Well, that’s true.

DANUBE: And as I’m the handsomest and the most gentlemanly of us four, they’re all looking at me.

PLATA: (elbowing Nile in the ribs) So much for Mr. Civilized, huh?

DANUBE: I’ve no doubt these ladies can sense breeding and culture as well.

Lady B: Don’t be absurd, young man. They are looking at your legs and hastily donned loincloth.

DANUBE: It’s not a loincloth. It’s a drape.

(me, nodding to Lady B) And his back. However totally wrong he is about some ladies, he’s got really great back muscles.

Lady B: Wonderfully well formed.

Danube's back (to be seen in a future Katharine Ashe novel, mark my words)

PLATA: My legs are good too.

Lady B: You needn’t fret, sir. In this ballroom there is no such thing as an excess of excellent legs.

GANGES: Dear ladies, the winds are shifting, the tides turning. It is time my brother rivers and I depart. (bows to me and Lady B)

Thank you for visiting today, Ganges. It was really a pleasure. I’ll make sure to tell Ben and Leam you came by.

Danube follows Ganges out, shaking his head and pulling Nile behind him by the kerchief.

PLATA: (winks at me and my sister authoresses) See you ladies back home.

Lady B: Extraordinary.

Actually, their visit makes me think about where I’d like to travel to next. I’m pretty sure which fantastic place I’d choose. But I really wonder where our guests would go on a dream vacation if they could go anywhere in the world!

Lady B: Anywhere in the world? Delightful notion.

<squawk! The Love Boat! squawk!>

Just what I was thinking, Albert. Ladies and gentlemen, you can take one other person — anybody — with you on your dream vacation. Who will it be and where will you go?

My dear Lady B, don’t you think it’s time we played more Parlor Games?   I have just the idea for today’s amusement.

Lady B raises an eyebrow.  ”You have an idea, Miss Dare?  I must admit to some trepidation.”

I have a wonderful idea!  We should play “Do, Dump, or Marry.”

Lady B. sighs.  ”My fears are confirmed.”

But it’s so much fun, you see.  We choose three men, and then we all debate which of the three we’d Marry, which we’d Dump, and which one we’d tackle to the bed for a rousing–

Really, Miss Dare!  ”Doing” a gentleman?  Much less “dunking” one?

That would be “dumping.”

Even worse!  This game of yours is unspeakably vulgar.

Well, then we can choose more polite-sounding words.  How about we call the game, “Court, Consummate, or Cut Direct?”

Much better.  When it comes to gentlemen, I suppose there is nothing a woman likes so much as having her choice.

Well, I’m not sure about that.  I happen to be writing a book where the heroine has choice. It’s making her rather miserable, to tell the truth.  She’s absolutely torn over which man to marry, and which to give the cut direct.

Albert squawks.  <<Consummation!>>

Er… On the consummating score, my heroine has a clear preference.

Lady B clears her throat.  ”Indeed, Miss Dare.”

But by all means, let us stick to the game.  Fictional choices are far more entertaining.

Why don’t we start with these Regency notables?

George Gordon, Lord Byron

Sigh.

I mean, really.  That portrait should just be captioned “Sigh.”  There he is, the original Romantic hero.  Dark, tortured (with a malformed right foot), expressive, and exquisitely handsome.  He had a string of scandalous affairs, most notably with the married Lady Caroline Lamb, who coined the famous phrase “Mad, bad, and dangerous to know.”

Beau Brummel

I know.  In this portrait, he looks rather dough-faced and wreathed in meringue, but presumably he must have cut quite the dashing figure in real life.  He was, after all, the leader of Regency fashion and secure enough in his social standing to cut the Prince Regent himself.  Sure, he racked up lots of debt.  But we can thank him for making daily baths, clean shirts, and toothbrushing the standard in personal hygiene.  That alone bumps him up in the “consummate” category, I think.

Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington

The whims of history fascinate me.  There he sits, the strategical genius who defeated Napoleon.  But young Arthur didn’t a military career at all.  No, he wanted to play the violin.  But when his marriage offer to Kitty Pakenham was declined on the basis of his “poor prospects”, he burned his violin and borrowed money to purchase the rank of major.  The rest, as they say, is history.  It’s just like The Social Network, isn’t it?

Moving on from the real Regency, how do we feel about these fictional heroes (and/or the men who play them)?

Fitzwilliam Darcy, from Pride and Prejudice (as played by Colin Firth)

Heathcliff, from Wuthering Heights (as played by Tom Hardy)

Edward Rochester, from Jane Eyre (played here by Fassbender, who needs no other name)

What say you, ladies?  In each group of three, which gentleman would you prefer to sweetly Court, who would inspire you to the more carnal Consummation, and whom would you give the Cut Direct?  No cheating!  Let me know your choices in the comments.

And feel free to create your own groups of three in the comments, too!  Movie stars, perhaps, or your favorite romance heroes…?  We will debate their relative merits.

Note:  It has occurred to me that we might have guests whose tastes run to ladies rather than gentlemen.  Shall we offer the fictional heroes’ counterparts?  Elizabeth Bennet, Catherine Earnshaw, and Jane Eyre: Discuss.  Or even better, suggest your own set!

Miss Foley, you look out of sorts today. Whatever is the matter?

Well, thank you for your concern, Lady B, but I am irked at myself, if you really want to know.

Why is that?

(Heaving a sigh) Because I did not make my writing quota this week. You know, there isn’t nearly as much elegant lazing about in the author life as I had been led to expect by Hollywood movies. And…

Yes?

Well, on top of that  I think I have a touch of OCD. I mean really, sometimes, you just have to laugh at your own foibles. 

Pardon?

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Or a case of Writer’s Rituals.

SQUAWK!

Indeed, Albert. Sounds dreadful! What is this cursed affliction, you poor dear?

Well, I’m sure it manifests differently in every individual, and in some poor souls, it is very severe and debilitating. But for me, it seems to manifest as a complete inability to get any writing done unless there are Perfect Conditions.

SQUAWK! LAZINESS! SLACKER!

I beg your pardon!

Quiet, Albert. Can’t you see she is at the mercy of her Delicate Artistic Temperment?

Yes, exactly! That’s the ticket! 

Now dear, don’t fret. Have a spot of tea and I’m sure we’ll get all this quite sorted out. What are these Perfect Conditions you must have in order to have a good writing day?

Oh, it’s a very exacting regimen, Lady B. It begins first thing in the morning. I wake up, take care of my dog (Bingley), kiss Prince Eric goodbye as he heads out for work, get my coffee and sit down at my writing desk with what should be a very easy, sane, achievable daily goal. 6 clean pages every day. More is fine, but that is my minimum to keep on track for my deadline. And I am mad at myself because I couldn’t even manage THAT this week. Harrumph. Frustrated with myself.

My dear, no one is perfect. Perhaps one of your Ideal Conditions was not met.

My deadline is not going to care about that.

What other conditions must be in place?

I’ll make you a list:

1. Must wear loose, comfortable clothes. You cannot lose yourself in the story world if your mind is distracted by a too-tight corset.

From Ackermann's Repository, 1813

Ah, so one must be in deshabille.

Indeed. It’s the only way to write:

2. For a truly effective writing day, I must be actually writing new word-count when the clock strikes 8:00 A.M. [I get to my desk you see about 7:30. First I need a little time to do a read-back of what I was working on yesterday and review my notes that I made at the end of my previous day's writing session, to give me direction on where i need to go next. But I have to start writing the new material by 8:00 A.M. on the nose.] If it is 8:01 I start getting ancy. If it’s anything after 8:15, I am downright anxious. If it’s 9:00 A.M. before I’m writing, my day is as good as ruined. Thus, oversleeping would be a calamity.

Surely the rooster wakes you on time.

3. Well, not so much a rooster as my alarm clock. It’s an ingenious device you see that plays music at exactly the time you set it to start.

Incredible!

4. I have to wake up to pleasant, instrumental music only. No howling lyrics. Preferably classical. Bach or Rossini’s little Harp Concerto. Mozart and Haydn are also most welcome, and Vivaldi in a pinch. So far, so good. But if I forget to change the clock to CD and the radio comes blaring on first thing in the morning—or, horrors, if it’s a commercial–it’s hard to say what effect such a wakening might have on my Delicate Artistic Sensibilities.

SQUAWK! BOLLOCKS! CODSWALLOP! EXCUSES!

Albert, it’s not right to impugn a lady’s veracity.

5. There are many negative influences in the world that I cannot abide to encounter until I’ve got my creative work underway, such as the news with the latest dreary disaster in the world. Or if Prince Eric is in a grumpy mood. Or if I forgot to get the coffee ready the previous night, set to auto-brew, that can throw off my whole day. Like Mary Fisher (Meryl Streep in She-Devil), I must “think beautiful thoughts…”

Miss Foley, surely you are being facetious.  

Well, maybe just a little–but still! It’s not fair. Some writers’ muses allow them to go skipping off to coffee shops and parks, but I have to shut myself up in my room in silence, and I cannot abide interruptions. That is why I had to stop working for 10 hours a day and cut my daily page count from 10-15 down to 6. A lot in life tends to fall apart if your head is in a book for 60+ hours a week. It’s not healthy!

No wonder all you writers are as mad as hatters.

Nonsense. I don’t trust anyone who’s not at least a little eccentric. (Another large sigh.) Oh, Lady B, if only I had a sliver of Lord Byron’s cleverness! I hear he dashed out his Childe Harold at nights over a 6 week period while consuming numerous bottles of wine–perfect on the first draft! Like Mozart!

Well…

What? (Leaning closer.) You know something?

You didn’t hear it from me, but you know, as much our lovely poet claimed to knock it out in one draft, revised manuscripts were found after his demise. He put out the rumor of getting it right the first time to enhance his public image. It made him seem like more of a genius, and of course, he didn’t want anyone knowing he actually cared about what he wrote.

 He was that savvy a self-promoter in the early 19th century? He didn’t even have a Facebook page! Well, I am glad you told me so. Hearing he had to revise actually makes me feel much better. But–my, goodness…if the trick is to convince readers that you’re a carefree genius and writing is effortless, then I suppose should not be telling people all this about myself. Admitting that I sometimes don’t feel like writing at all, even after 2 million words in print. (Especially on weekends. Boo. HOO.)

It’s nice of you to invite us to your pity party, though.

My pleasure.

Now get back to work!

Right. I suppose I must. Even if conditions aren’t perfect?

Deal with it, Ms. Foley.

SQUAWK! DEADLINE AHEAD! SAVE YOURSELF! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!

Thank you, Albert. You are a very wise bird. And thanks, Lady B. I needed that.

Any time.

Well, Ballroomies (–roommates? –roomites? –roomarians?) I have unmasked myself as a great procrastinator. I think that’s why my “hemming and hawing” (as my Grandma would’ve said) over perfect conditions is just my way of getting going. But I have heard that writers–like baseball players!–a lot of times have odd rituals they are triggered to. Tolstoy (I think–might’ve been Dostoevsky) had to have his feet in warm water to write. At least I’m not that weird! LOL. It’s funny how the human brain works.

Am I just nuts or do you also have any little rituals you do to get yourself psyched up for a challenging task?  

Great gardens… high tea… royal weddings (and those astonishing hats)…and of course, Regency novels…  England has done much over the ages to put a smile on the world’s face.

But true Anglophiles like the Ballroomarians agree, one of the things we love most about our cousins across the Pond is that distinctly odd and wonderful British sense of humor.

Since the second week in September has become one of the saddest times of the year, as nobody here needs reminding, today I thought we could all use a good laugh. After all, living well is the best revenge; humor is one of the finest weapons in anybody’s arsenal, and nobody does it better than the Brits. So, send in the clowns!

Top Regency Comedian, Joseph Grimaldi

First — a quick detour into Regency humor before we get to the jollification…

Joseph Grimaldi was the top stage comedian of Regency London. At the same time, the high world excelled in the art of the zinger, especially Beau Brummell, whose wit was so sharp that it was said of him that he could cut you dead and you wouldn’t even know it until your head fell off two days later. The reigning dandy made one of his smart cracks about Prinny’s weight one evening and finally got himself ostracized from Society for his rude tongue, on top of his other foibles. 

Regency novels are full of rollicking rakehells pulling pranks on each other. Not all was Jane Austen propriety. Regency folk enjoyed slapstick humor, too. You can see it in Cruikshank cartoons, particularly the antics of Pierce Egan’s rakehell characters “Tom and Jerry.” These are “lovable scoundrels” as are often found in British humor, along with parody, word play, and an affection for eccentricity.

I hope the following clips make your day. They’re some of my favorites British funnies (with a few of particular interest to writers! ) Enjoy…and be sure and let us know what makes YOU laugh!

 1. The great John Cleese and Michael Palin of Monty Python need no introduction. Concerning a lesser known department of the British government…

2. Blackadder is a series of historical comedy sketches starring “Mr. Bean” Rowan Atkinson as the droll adviser to our dear Prinny, played by Hugh Laurie. This episode is of particular interest to writers, titled “Ink and Incapablility.” If you have time for the full 15 minute clip to follow, you’ll even get to meet poets Byron and Shelley.

 3.  Black Books is a British sitcom that takes place in a bookshop. In this episode, the bookstore guys try to knock out a bestselling children’s book over the weekend. The rigors of the creative process…and the problems of big success as an author!

 4. Hyacinth Bucket (Bouquet) of Keeping Up Appearances is company most worthy of Lady B’s ballroom. Ahh, what would it be like to be part-owners of a Grade II listed historical great house? Sadly, her relatives aren’t quite as fine Quality.

5. Last but not least, here’s Ricky Gervais trying to work out the meaning of some nursery rhymes, especially Humpty Dumpty. (Contains some swearing.)

 Hahahahaha…. hoo. So what do you turn to when you  need to laugh?

We have a crisis at The Ballroom. Albert got a little too enthusiastic while the cook was making the lobster patties and she’s out for a week or two while her eye recovers. [Albert hangs his head <squawk>] Lady B placed an advertisement in the Morning Post: “Noble lady seeks temporary experienced cook. Duties include preparing supper for twice weekly balls (an array of dishes to appeal to delightfully Original Ladies and Muscular Bachelors). Must love parrots.”

After seeing candidates all morning, Lady B. asked me to step in for a few minutes. (Between you and me, I think she’s popped out for a tot of ratafia. Interviewing cooks is hard work.)

A slender, dark man enters.

Antonin Carême

Miranda: How do you do. Please tell me your qualifications

The man starts speaking in very rapid French of which the only intelligible word is “Carême.” Miranda switches on the Romance Writer’s Translator (™ Sabrina Darby).

Carême: I am Carême. I need no introduction.

Miranda: No indeed, monsieur. You are the most famous chef in Europe, lately employed by His Highness the Prince Regent in London and Brighton. [I talked about him at a Saturday salon last month]  I’m sure Lady B would be honored to hire you. What are your salary requirements?

Carême: Two thousand guineas a year.

This is enough to hire about 30 ordinary cooks, or keep an entire family in considerable comfort.

Miranda: We only need you for a week or two.

Carême: To offer me less than a full year’s salary would be an insult.

Miranda: I’m sure we can come to an arrangement. How do you feel about parrots in the kitchen.

Carême, producing a poultry hatchet from his pocket: Absolument non! No birds. No visitors. And no women in the kitchen.

Miranda: Thank you, monsieur. We’ll let you know. Next! A young man wearing blue jeans beneath a chef’s jacket, comes in. He has a pony tail, a stubble and a single earring. Quite cute. I think Lady B will feel his legs have possibilities.

Young man: I am a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America. I interned with Alice Waters, Thomas Keller, and Mario Batali. I cook only with sustainable organic ingredients.

Miranda: That shouldn’t be a problem. I think all ingredients in Regency England are organic. What’s your signature dish.

Young Man: A nice pan-seared mahi-mahi over a little pine-nut and farro risotto, with a medley of baby Asian vegetables and a nice little passion fruit coulis.

Miranda: We may have a problem with some of these ingredients. Mahi-Mahi, for example, is not found in English waters.

Young Man: No problem. Scottish salmon is to die for. We can fly it in fresh.

Miranda: Sorry. This is the early nineteenth century. It will take at least five days to reach London by coach. Can you make lobster patties?

Young Man: I have concerns about the sustainability of lobster. I could substitute scallops.

<squawk> no scallops <squawk>

Miranda: We’ll let you know.

Roars, screams and crashes are heard below stairs. Lady B enters, highly agitated.

Lady B: Miranda! There’s a man in the kitchen shouting. One of the maids has fainted, two are having the vapors and a footman has cut off his thumb trying to plate the appetizers, which is Not His Job.

Miranda: Oh lord! Gordon Ramsey insisted on inspecting the premises before interviewing.

Lady B: It’s a scene out of Hell in the kitchen. I will not hire that man. [Another man enters. Lady B calms down and perks up]. Now that’s more like it. Here’s a man who looks like he knows how to stir a pudding. We could invite him up to the Ballroom after supper. I suspect he may have most excellent legs.

Miranda (fanning herself madly): It’s Anthony Bourdain. Let’s hire him. Mr. Bourdain, we have only one question for you: how do you feel about parrots?

Anthony Bourdain: I’ve traveled around the world tasting exotic ingredients and I learned how to cook parrot meat from the Comarloros tribe of Guiana.

<squawk squawk squawk> Lady B collapses onto a sofa.

Miranda: Next! We only have one candidate left. I hope he’ll do. Yes?

Ray: Yo, Lady B! Yo, Albert! Yo, Miranda! How you doin’? I’m Ray and I’m your man.

Miranda: Do I know you?

Ray: I’m Ray of Ray’s Pizza in New York City.

Miranda: Are you perhaps related to the Ray of the World-Famous Original Ray’s Pizza?

Ray: That slime-ball! He got his recipe out of a Crackerjack box.

Lady B: I don’t understand this man. What is a pizza?

Miranda: A large flat bread, usually covered with tomato sauce and cheese and a choice of toppings. I very much doubt it has arrived in England yet.

Lady B: Excellent. It will be the talk of the town. Engage this man and we’ll serve pizza at the next ball.

Miranda: Let me think … Tomatoes are hard to grow in England outside hothouses but they should be available in September. Canning was invented in 1810 by Nicholas Appert, a Frenchman, to preserve food for Napoleon’s army. Despite the war, a translation of his book appeared in England in 1811 (I’d love to know how that happened. Smugglers?) so canned tomatoes may be available. I think we’re good, Lady B. Pizza it is.

<squawk> what about the lobster patties? <squawk>

Ray: I reckon I can whip up a lobster patty. My aunt had a parrot. Used to drink red wine. Me and Albert’ll get along fine. Do you speak Italian?

<squawk> Si, si, Signor Ray. <squawk>

Lady B: I am pleased, Miranda. The other hostess will be green with envy about the pizza. What other unusual food can we serve at our suppers? Oysters and syllabubs are so last season.

Help Lady B. come up with some creative menus to satisfy hungry Bachelors. What would you like to see served for supper after a hard night’s dancing? Bonus points if they are made from ingredients available in Regency England.

Well, it’s official…my next hero is a ginger.

I didn’t plan it that way, but it should come as no surprise to those of you who were here when he got loose in Lady B’s ballroom that he has absolutely no interest in my well-laid plans. Instead, he’s a very tall, very handsome ginger.

I’ve been reading up on redheads since I discovered this about new (still unnamed) hero, and I’m kind of shocked by how much historical weirdness there is out there about people with red hair! So…only 4% of the world’s population is ginger, with the highest percentage of redheads in Scotland (only 2% of people in the US are redheads), but that doesn’t stop redheadedness from having a rich legacy of history, myth and superstition.

For example, in Ancient Rome, a redheaded slave fetched a higher price than all others. The Ancient Greeks dyed their hair red to show courage and in some places in the world, it’s considered good luck to rub a red-haired person’s head. Check out this fabulous fun blog post on Myths and Legends of redheads.

Anyway…I figured that for today’s Saturday Salon, I’d share some of the gingery goodness over which I’ve been drooling these days as I fall rather ridiculously in love with this new, shiny hero. How about a few pictures of handsome gingers?

Paul Bettany – the classic handsome ginger, he also happens to live in my neighborhood with his lovely wife and their darling children. The day I opened the door to our local indie bookstore only to discover that he was on the other side of said door might just be the best day of my life. Don’t tell my husband, as I’m sure I should say that our wedding day or the day we met should be that day. But… it was Paul Bettany!

Michael Fassbender – I only just recently came to appreciate the Fassbender…though I am a huge fan of Inglourious Basterds, I am decidedly not a fan of Edward Rochester…but last week I watched the most recent Jane Eyre, only to discover that I don’t mind Mr. Rochester when played by a tall drink of water like Fassbender…a quick Googling (or perhaps Googling?) revealed the truth! Ginger beard!

Prince Harry – Do I really have to explain this one? He’s the second son. He’s adorable. He’s excellent with flower girls. And puppies.

Other favorites that come to mind …Queen Elizabeth I, Julianne Moore, Conan O’Brien, Lucille Ball, Louis CK and my grandfather …so tell me…who’s your favorite redhead?

Edited to add this fabulous video, which my husband just showed me! It’s hysterical! Watch all the way to the end!