The enormous man, tall and broad, with skin dark as midnight, did not reply, instead silently indicating that she should walk ahead of him into the dark hallway with a seriousness that suggested it would be a mistake to…

Early draft of Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past. Sarah makes Marcel look organized.

“Miss MacLean!”

The door opens with vigor, and I jerk up from my notebook, my pencil sliding off the page as a hunk of hair falls across my face. Not in an attractive, heroine-like way. In an I-cant-see-a-thing kind of way. Dammit. I thought she wouldn’t find me here. I picked this cupboard for it’s roominess. it fits me, several linen tablecloths, a stack of well ironed napkins and a candle. And my notebook. And a pencil.

I was looking for quiet. And definitely not looking for Lady B.

My mother is English, however, so I know how to fake it till I make it. I paste a smile on my face. “Lady B!”

“You are missing the ball.”

My father is Italian, though, so I find myself gritting my teeth. “Am I?”

Her blue gaze narrows. “You are.”

I have never been good at faking it. My shoulders slump. “I know.”

Her lips purse. “What is it, gel? Miss Neville has brought gentlemen in BOOTS. It’s quite diverting.”

This does not make me feel better. “It sounds like it. Except, you see, I can’t go. I have to stay here. I have to work.”

She looks to my notebook. “Work on what?”

“My book. I’m on deadline. And, you see…” my voice lowers to a near whisper, “The book is quite late.”

She does see. “Well. Are you nearly finished?”

She does not, however, know that that precise question is not something to ask a writer on deadline. You see, probably, to the general outside observer, I am nearly finished. But I feel like I’ve half of Africa to traverse before I’m done. North-to-south Africa. Not the easy way. It occurs that the other way isn’t easy either…but I’d take it.

“I am…getting there.”

“Hmm. And when do you think you will get there?” This woman has clearly taken lessons from my mother on how to ask all the wrong questions.

I sigh. “Before the next ball, I’m hoping. But today…I need a little bit of time in this cupboard, if you don’t mind.”

She leans in, tilting her head to look at my notebook. I cover the page with my hand instinctively. She looks up. “Will it be quite salacious?”

I think of leather straps and bathing chambers and boxing rings. “If it is ever finished, my lady, it will be.”

Her eyes light. “And am I in it?”

I smile. “In fact, you are, and it’s quite a scene.”

She nods, her decision made. “Then I shall leave you to it.”

The door to the cupboard closes with a snap.

–

When you are nearly at the end of a project — what do you need to get it done? Absolute silence? Chocolate? A week in a posh hotel? Massages? A large man with a whip? 

“I’ve heard a rumor, Miss Darby.”

I crack one of my eyes open. Apparently I fell asleep on the sofa in Lady B’s library. I go to check the time and then remember that I’m back in the Regency and my cell phone has no power here. That’s the problem with spending a little too much time in 2013; one tends to forget some important details.

“Sit up, Miss Darby!” Lady B folds her arms over her chest and taps her toe. Loudly. And then I feel a pecking at my hair. Albert!

Naturally her minion would be close at hand. I sit up begrudgingly. As uncomfortable as these Regency sofas are, I was rather enjoying my rest.

“What rumor, Lady B?” I ask and seeing that she now has my attention, she finally sits down in the big brown leather chair across from me.

“A rumor that you have released a new book.”

Ohhh. That.

“I assured Albert that it could not possibly be true as I have not yet received a copy and all of your fellow authoresses have always been intelligent enough to send me a copy in advance of the public. However, Miss MacLean (who did present me with a copy of the fabulous One Good Earl Deserves a Lover) mentioned that you wrote yet again about mistresses. So what do you have to say for yourself?”

She is definitely in a huff.

“With apologies, Lady B, I confess the rumor is true.”

<< Squawk! >> Now you did it! << Squawk! >>

“But,” I continue quickly, “it is so different from my usual fare, and I’ve been a bit preoccupied this last week that—”

“Enough with the excuses, Miss Darby.”

“I am sorry, Lady B. Completely remiss of me. May I present you with a very special copy entirely for you? And one for Albert as well?”

Daniel Hartmann and Emily Anderson have every reason to hate each other. Her father destroyed the lives of his parents and he in turn sent her father to jail. Now Daniel’s a successful billionaire and artsy Emily is his newest employee. Both of them intend to make the other pay for the sins of the past, but revenge has never been so sweet.

Lady B nods with a sniff. And then opens the book.

And then starts to read. Aloud.

“Emily Anderson, right?”

There . . . attraction almost all gone.

“No. I don’t invite all my employees to lunch. But I’m inviting you.”

Almost.

Lady B looks up. “While I am not entirely certain about the language in this novel, I do hope you intend to bring this Daniel Hartmann to visit. You know how I always enjoy when these rogues attend one of my balls.”

“I will definitely see what I can do.”

However, in the meantime, I’m giving away a digital copy of Entry-Level Mistress to one of our commentors. I know we all adore Regency rakes, but what about contemporary heroes? Who are your favorites of years past?

There are very few perfect books I’ve ever read and perfect movies I’ve ever watched. I spent much of my college years wandering bookstores (back when there were more of them to wander) looking for the story that would perfectly capture everything I was feeling. The closest to that that I found was in Ani DiFranco’s music and in Carole Maso’s prose.

However, as a voracious reader, as it seems most of our Ballroom denizens are, there were a myriad stories that were almost perfect. And then there were hundreds more that were flawed but had moments that spoke to me deeply. Some of that last category are what have influenced me most as a writer.

For example, this exchange from The Interpreter. Warning: this following excerpt and the clip come from the end of the film so if you don’t want anything spoiled, don’t read below!

In any event, there is something about Penn’s last line in this section that just gets me every time.

Kidman: You have to get out of here.

Penn: l can’t do that. So put the gun down.

Kidman: l can’t.
Penn: – Yes, you can. Put it down.

Kidman: l can’t! l can’t… l can’t. Just go.

Penn: This is how it’s done. This is how you put a gun down.

Watch it below for the context. This is a horrible version of the clip, but it is the only one I can find.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dzAP-LpUebE

Another example is from the PBS television show Sherlock. It took me a while to get into this show and if I hadn’t already run through all the episodes of Flashpoint and Bones available on Netflix, I probably would not have watched it. If you haven’t planned to watch this show, but do intend to, there is a spoiler ahead.

So while I didn’t love this show, I did get into it and it did have some good writing and a few very funny lines. However, there was one section that actually brought me to tears and if you are a fan of the show, you likely already know which!

When John says, “One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t be dead,” he’s getting at that universal feeling of raging against fate, at wanting to turn back time and change the present. As a writer, that angst is one of the emotions that is often important evoke at some point in a story so that the resolution can be that much more powerful.

And one last influence is Gossip Girl. In this case, the “line” I love is all of season 1 and 2. The part that I recommend ignoring is everything after!

What about everyone else? Do you have a favorite scene from a book or movie that is otherwise forgettable or deeply flawed?

It’s National Novel Writing Month, which is always an exciting time for writers, whether you’re working on your first book or your fifteenth, it’s always good to have a reason to put words on the page! The goal of NaNoWriMo is to draft a novel in one month. It sounds scary, I know, but the project is really manageable — if you commit — 50,000 words in 30 days or 1667 words each day for the month of November.

So many writers I know have done NaNoWriMo and ended up selling their books, and so many others have used the month as an opportunity to try something new. As for me, I’m using this November to try drafting a novel — which is not something I ever actually do — I am an obsessive revise as I go-er. But this month, I’m using my new AlphaSmart (which Eric thinks came directly from 1983), and I’m only writing forward — not back. It could be a disaster, but at least at the end of this I’ll have words to revise (which is my favorite part)!

If you’ve already joined NaNoWriMo this year, awesome! Good luck, and friend me over there (I’m sarahmaclean)! We’ll track words together and cheer each other on!

If you haven’t, there’s still time! I can’t recommend it enough…it feels awesome to be working toward a common goal with so many other writers who know how hard the work is and know exactly what you’re going through!

This is an awesome opportunity to try something crazy. I mean, think about it…this time next month, you could have 50,000 words toward a full book!

I leave you with the fortune cookie fortune that is taped to my computer monitor: “Begin…the rest is easy.”

–

Are you NaNoWriMoing? Share your screen name (and a little about your project!) in comments so we can all be buddies! If you’re not planning to write this month, do you ever think about writing a book? What kind?

The career of being an author was romanticized for me from a young age when I read Harriet the Spy and started keeping a detailed journal.

Then there was (of course) Romancing the Stone, which I saw after I’d started reading romance books. How fun to see the stories I’d just recently discovered discussed on screen (although as a child, I didn’t understand many of the stereotypes). One of the early scenes that features romance writer Joan Wilder crying over her manuscript is a classic. However, I still haven’t cried while writing any of my stories.

Two of my favorite films featuring somewhat humorous looks at both published and aspiring authors are Room with a View and Cold Comfort Farm. As mocking as E.M. Forster is in his portrayal of writer Eleanor Lavish, I love her over the top aesthetic and unapologetic use of other people’s lives for her fiction.

If you haven’t seen Cold Comfort Farm, I highly recommend it.  Protagonist Flora intends to write a novel when she’s fifty and has gathered life experience.  You can see her early attempt at literary greatness at 1 minute and 25 seconds.

Romance books aren’t strangers to the use of authors as protagonists. In Georgette Heyer’s Sylvester, the heroine is an author, in Julia Quinn’s Romancing Mr. Bridgerton, the heroine is revealed to be a gossip columnist. Do you have a favorite book or movie featuring a writer?

Though it is the middle of a warm August afternoon, I have dragged Lady B. out for a constitutional…

Photo by Roz Sheffield

She is not altogether sure what’s going on, and frankly it’s a wonder that she trusts me after my last date as Ballroom hostess – Villains Day, you might recall.But she is well recovered from all that and since she has several hours before she must welcome the evening’s guests, she is intrigued by the ritual of a writer’s walk. I’ve agreed to take her along.

Lady B: So this is what you romantic, artsy types get up to in the middle of the afternoon, then, is it?

It is, say I.

We look the part. Regency ladies out for a stroll. Wide-brimmed straw bonnets. Printed muslin downs in pastel colors. (How did Regency people stay cool, anyway? Painted fans, linen underclothes, and drinks like Barley Water…read on for the recipe.)

All I know is that I am determined to enjoy every last drop of summer while it lasts. The slower pace of life. The tranquility of an afternoon in the shady green woods. It’s refreshing to the spirit, rejuvenating to the soul. It also happens to be wonderful for the creative faculties of the mind.

Lady B: How fortunate that writers can legitimately count relaxation among their daily duties. It’s almost as good as being the daughter of a duke.

It does help make up for all the years of rejection, I admit. *g*

But it’s true. This idle walking…or some other languid practice that my colleagues find useful (jogging, crafting, shopping?) is as important to the art as the historical research, the plotting, the revision.

Writers do have a grand tradition of taking walks, from the Bronte sisters striding across the windy moors, to Thoreau (or was it Emerson?) making his in-depth study of ant colonies at war.

There is a secret in it, I wager, though I’ll be dashed if I know what it is.

Photo By Brenda Starr

Perhaps it’s simply the sheer, decadent luxury of thinking of nothing at all—such bliss for the modern mind, especially the overactive imagination, the questing, ever-puzzling, insomniac, writer’s mind. Maybe no one knows exactly how it works, but watching the sky, smelling the scent of rich turf and the spring water, hearing the babbling brook and the birds—being wholly in the present moment—seems to be the best refreshment for that place inside of a writer that the story comes from.

For me, this is my renewal. I savor the restfulness, the stillness.

The gravel of the easy path crunches under my feet, as I escape the beating sun in the coolness and languor of thick woods. A hundred shades of green fill my eyes, countless textures. Birds twitter, unseen amid the branches.

A hawk soars against the clouds shapes glimpsed amid in the trees. I note the shelf moss growing off the sides of their weathered trunks here and there and half expect see a fairy standing atop one of these little horizontal outposts, midway down a towering poplar or an elm.

At my feet, meanwhile, a beetle trundles across the path ahead, steady and direct, carrying its shiny black shell. On both sides, the way is starred with tiny purple tiny flowers on tall stalks. Yellow bursts of tiny trumpets.

Photo credit Nancy Frost

A bee inspects a ragged white daisy with a yellow center. I go in search of some comfortable, unexpected garden seat, a mossy boulder near the babbling brook, or the crook of a big old tree-trunk where I could wedge myself and find a place to write, or read, or journal, or dream.

It’s more than picturesque. The peacefulness of this setting seeps into me, becomes me, and I do my best to pass it onto you. The lulling drone of crickets rises and falls on the heavy, humid air.

Butterflies in resplendent colors go crashing past, impossible creatures weaving feckless paths. The dragonfly zooms by much more purposefully and hovers, gone again in the blink of an eye, a whirring flash of blue. Here and there, a pale moth waits for evening.

Crunch, crunch, go my steps. I focus on the steady sound as my thoughts fade.

Then I notice the curious, smooth, brown dome of a beehive hung up high in the branches of a crabapple tree. Almost like parchment paper, wrapped and wrapped, desiccated. The ground at the feet of the tree is littered with hard, green fruit too sour for anyone but squirrels. Down the path fifty yards ahead, a deer glides by silently on long-legged steps, delicate as a whisper, it’s tapered ears twitching off flies. Its dappled hide helps it melt into the shadows and it’s gone.

There’s a rabbit that doesn’t bother running from me as it busily chews a blade of grass. Oddly, I take that as a compliment: I’m no threat.

I idle my way over a footbridge, the stream below strewn with gray rocks cloaked in luxurious green moss. Pussy willows cluster at the banks; water bugs skate across the surface. The gurgling stream is too inviting. I walk down to trail my fingers in the current, then all the more enchanted, step out of my flip-flops and kick up a small splash with my toes.

Photo by Fontplaydotcom

I take a deep, slow breath, reveling in the sense of well being. Wholeness. Then suddenly a snippet of dialogue unfurls across my mind like a banner. Plain as day it’s written. What my hero really feels, the thing he needs to say. It fills the hole in my tapestry where I didn’t even know something was still missing.

Where did that come from? Not from me. I was too busy over-thinking it. Sometimes the best thing you can do is get out of your own way. It’s times like these when you need to take a walk. Then these little puzzles have a way of simply solving themselves.

Thanks for coming along on our walk. But I don’t imagine these kinds of experiences belong only to writers. Where do you go, what do you do when you need to clear your head? What helps? We’re taking suggestions to expand our own repertoire. Thanks for joining us today. Here, have a glass of chilled Barley Water, and here’s the recipe while we’re at it!

Barley Water, the Regency answer to lemonade, from REGENCY RECIPES by Marie-Pierre Moine and Antonia Williams, Arundel Press, 1995.

MAKE 2 PINTS

Juice and grated zest of two juicy unwaxed lemons

4 oz. pearl barley

2 oz. sugar

Bring to the boil two pints of water with the grated zest of lemons. Add the barley, sugar, and lemon juice and return to the boil. Reduce the heat a little and simmer for about 10 minutes.

Take off the heat, leave until cold, then strain through a muslin-lined sieve. Chill until needed and drink very cold.

(Note: Cheesecloth or even a sturdy coffee filter might suffice if you don’t have a muslin sieve.) I’m going to try this! Let me know if you do, too, and what you think of it!

When Lady B makes a demand, it is impossible not to do one’s utmost to fulfill it. After all, she’s so generous and kind, and hosts a wonderful ball…

Lady B: Miss Darby, are you buttering me up because you bear bad news?

Sabrina: Not at all. I just needed some sort of introduction, of explaining exactly why I’ve invited this particular guest to the ballroom tonight.

Lady B’s brow is furrowed as if she’s struggling to recall. I see exactly the moment that her memory jumps into action. Only…Albert beats her to it.

<< squawk! >> The Actress! << squawk! >>

Sabrina: Precisely. You demanded to meet the heroine of my upcoming novella, The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe, and I have delivered.

Cover image for The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe

Lady B: I thought the story was about a Captain Martin. That handsome, taciturn and scarred war hero whose meddling mother advertised for a mistress.

Sabrina: Well, yes, he’s in the story, too, of course. But Angelina is his heroine.

Lady B: And his mistress.

Sabrina: I’m not certain I can speak to that.

<< squawk! >> Tease! << squawk! >>

Lady B is now looking around the ballroom with her lorgnette. Studying the crowd, which is filled with heroines of recent balls past and quite a few heroes. In fact, I see Miss Dare’s Eliza Cade and Miss MacLean’s Cross, and Miss Noble’s Lieutenant Fletcher.

Then I see Angelina, holding court amongst a group of very attractive men. She looks stunning, with her blond hair swept up fashionably and fastened with diamonds. She’s got a wide smile and eyes that seem to flirt with every person, male or female that her gaze rests on. This must be Angelina when she was still the darling of the London theatre, and being kept by Lord Peter Denham. Great. She’s here as a mistress and not the hero’s. How embarrassing!

Lady B: Isn’t that Lord Peter Denham’s mistress?

Sabrina: Correct.

Lady B: She made a charming Viola in Twelfth Night. However, I’m not entirely certain how I feel about a mistress in my ballroom. It was one thing when you invited the lot of them to my parlour, but this is an exclusive event. Albert, do alert the footman to see her out. What’s her name again?

This isn’t going well at all.

Sabrina: Lady B, wait, that’s actually Miss Whitcombe.

Lady B raises her lorgnette again. Then she lowers it and looks at me with a very arch expression.

Lady B: Why am I not surprised? (She gives a long-suffering sigh.) Shall we?

I approach Angelina and her coterie.

Sabrina: Excuse me gentlemen. (I firmly take Angelina’s arm as I try my own inequal attempt at that flirtatiously confident look.) I need to borrow Miss Whitcombe.

One passively handsome gentleman: Bring her back soon!

The man’s speaking rather possessively, so I stop and take a better look. I realize with a bit of shock that this is her latest protector. I never expected to come face to face with him. After all, he’s merely part of the back story, off the page when the story actually begins.

I hurry Angelina away, ignoring him. Lady B is watching us come near and I see that her right toe is tapping.

Angelina: Lady Beaufetheringstone, it’s such an honor to be here tonight. You have the loveliest home.

Lady B’s foot stops tapping. Her hand unfists and her lorgnette drops down to hang from her wrist. She’s no longer quite as put out and that’s all due to Angelina’s charm. See, it isn’t what she says, but rather how she says it. I can see how magnetic she would be on the stage.

Lady B: When do you leave for Yorkshire? I must say, having seen you now, I’m quite surprised you’d hare off on such a wild jaunt on the basis of an advertisement in the paper. Lord Peter Denham and the accolades of London surely is preferable to such an unknown?

Angelina: I beg your pardon?

Angelina is staring at Lady B with the most politely bland expression, as if she thinks our hostess is crazy but would never, ever intimate such a thing.

I cough loudly.

Sabrina: Actually, Lady B, that hasn’t actually happened yet.

Lady B: What do you mean? I met your cousin Mary. She was in my ballroom.

Sabrina: Yes, but…

Angelina: I’m not certain what you are discussing, but I assure you I am quite happy here in London.

Sabrina: You see, Lady B, the Angelina I know is older and wiser.

Angelina: Surely not so much older.

She looks alarmed even though she clearly still has no clue what I am talking about.

Sabrina: I’ll explain, Lady B. (I shoo Angelina off, back to her admirers who have all been sending frequent and languishing glances this way.) You see, the circumstance that befalls Angelina and leads her to such a desperate situation that she answers my cousin’s advertisement hasn’t yet occurred. Please remember, that while this might very well be the year 1816 today, just a few weeks ago it was 1811.

Lady B very prettily scrunches her forehead.

Lady B: I do follow you, Miss Darby, but it is all rather fantastical.

Sabrina: Much like a ship in your ballroom.

Lady B: (rolling her eyes) Yes, I quite see what you mean. You shall have to bring by Miss Whitcombe later, then. When she has been properly settled.

<< squawk >> What befell her? << squawk >>

Lady B: Quite right, Albert.

They both stare at me, waiting. But as the story does not release till July 31, I can hardly share such delicious gossip. So we’ll have to satisfy Lady B with pure conjecture. What do you think would make an actress leave London to be a stranger’s mistress?

I am back in the card room, having finally dispatched my last hero and his unexpected guest, and settling back into my game of whist. However, for the first time that I have been witness to, Lady B has decided to sit in on a rubber.

Lady B: I am constantly amazed by your complete disregard for anything other than cards, Miss Noble. You attack your play with a bloodthirstiness that is uncommon in your sex.

Kate: …Thank you? I suppose that to be a compliment.

Lady B: Yes, especially when delivered by someone who has the final trump.

Lady B lays her last card and I blanche. She had been holding that Heart all game, and I had completely forgotten it! With that trick, she had taken the game.

Lady B: Another rubber, my dear? I am surprised to have won – you are such a yare player, after all.

Kate (still peevish from losing): if you say so, Lady B.

Albert: <squawk!> Sore loser! <squawk!>

I glare at Albert as Lady B deals out another hand.

Lady B: What do you mean, my dear? Do you not wish to play again?

Kate: I’m happy to play – however, my comment was in reference to that word you used. ‘Yare’?

Lady B: Do you not know what ‘yare’ means? How is that possible? Samuel will be appalled.

Kate: Samuel?

Dr. Johnson. A findy man, if ever there was one.

I look up from the middling cards that Lady B had just dealt me, to find that a heavy-set man in a wig was looming over the table. Admittedly, the wig throws me – why, wigs had gone out of fashion with the turn of the century – but what throws me more is how Lady B introduces him as he takes a newly empty chair at the table.

Lady B: Miss Noble, this is Dr. Samuel Johnson. He’s an author too, you know.

I do know. Dr. Johnson is a bit of a celebrity of his time – an author, a critic, and an essayist. But he is perhaps best known for writing what is considered the English language’s first comprehensive dictionary. In 1755.

Kate: So the space-time continuum just doesn’t exist in this ballroom, is that it?

Dr. Johnson: What is that, child? Space-time continuum? I do not know if I have that word in my dictionary.

Kate: Er – nevermind. Dr. Johnson, it is a pleasure to meet you.

Dr. Johnson: Indeed the pleasure is mine. And call me Samuel. I am quite illaqueated by your charms. Rumor has it your card play is quite fatidical.

I exchange a glance with Albert. The parrot shrugs.

Kate: Dr. Johnson – er, Samuel — I’m afraid I do not know what you mean.

Dr. Johnson: Now, now, don’t demur, child –

Lady B: No, she really does not know what you mean, Sam. These young authoresses do not have the same words as you and I do.

Dr. Johnson: Really? I find myself hebetated! Er, and by that, I mean ‘stupefied’, young lady.

Kate: I’m afraid it is true, Dr. Johnson. Where I come from, there are many words in your great dictionary that have fallen out of favor and into obscurity throughout the ages.

Dr. Johnson: Is my life’s work for naught then?

Kate: No, of course not! But English is a fluid language, it changes with time and need. I wager that there are hundreds of words – words like ‘gearshift’, ‘meme’, and ‘Decepticon’ – from my time that will disappear from the lexicon within a century. Having them written down – like you did with your dictionary – is the only way of preserving them and their meanings.

Dr. Johnson: Well, that is a relief. I swear you had my heart apitpat with your pronunciations! Now, shall we play? And Lady B, do you think we could procure some belly-timber? I tried to prog some refreshments but the hallways in this house are so anfractuose I found myself in huggermuggers thrice!

This time I look at Lady B. And this time, she is the one to shrug.

Lady B: There are times even I do not know what he is saying, Miss Noble.

While Lady B and I try to decipher just what on earth Dr. Johnson is talking about, tell us what are some of your favorite obsolete or esoteric words? Because if I cannot beat Lady B at cards, I need to make certain that I have ammunition to best her at Words with Friends.

A story is like a diamond. Depending on which way you hold it up to the light, you can see into a whole different facet of that story world. Each character has his own perspective on the fictive world that he inhabits, but as writers, it’s our job to keep the focus on the main narrative – in this case, the romance.

At least that is how it normally works. 

But since we don’t have to be normal in The Ballroom, I thought it would be fun to look into the other facets of a romance novel, the stories NOT told. To that end, I have invited some of the secondary characters, bit parts, and walk-on players from one of my past novels to stop in for a visit to try to make the case for why their stories should be told.

But first–before I summon these visitors into the Ballroom, I must remind our glitterati, as exquisitely well-mannered as you all are, please, for gentility’s sake, do not mention their true status to our visitors, if you please.

None of them has the slightest idea that they are secondary characters. I can assure you, they view themselves as the undisputed stars of their own lives, as do we all. And so it must be. Even the liveried footman has a mind and a soul beneath that powdered wig…      

Liveried Footman: This dashed wig is so itchy. I wish she’d call us in and get this over with. It’s not easy standing here like a statue when I already have to pee.

Gaelen: Oh, guests? Get the door, please, footman. I’d like to present our first visitor… Come in…that’s right, make yourselves at home. No, Mara and Jordan aren’t here. Today is all about YOU…

[By the way, I decided to focus on a few of the secondary characters from my 2011 release, My Irresistible Earl, because it's part of Avon's big April E-Book Sale on selected "Earl" themed titles all month long. The full listing of Earls for Girls can be found at http://www.avonromance.com/2012/04/09/april-early-bird-specials/. Throughout the month of April, these selected titles are only $1.99!]

Only $1.99 throughout April!

Gaelen (as they shuffle in): Well then, let’s get started! Please tell us a little about yourself and what genre you feel are best suited for. 

1. Mrs. Busby – Literary Fiction.

 ”No rest for the weary… Ah, but you’ll never hear me complaining. I know how lucky to have such a fine position in these hard times. Lady Pierson is an easy mistress to work for. Pay no mind to the rumors about her ‘scandalous’ behavior. It’s all lies! Bless ‘er, she’s had a hard time with her husband dyin’ young like that, and of course, little Thomas is a dear. Still, it troubles me sometimes thinking of how lookin’ after Her Ladyship’s boy when I’ve got thirty grandchildren of my own scattered round. I’m 65 years old and I should hope when Thomas is old enough for a governess, I may be able to retire and help my daughters look after their wee ones instead.”

Gaelen: Thank you, Mrs. Busby. I think in the handsof the right author, yours could be a fascinating story and certainly pertinent today. Many grandmothers these days face a similar situation to yours, whether it’s having to work a fulltime job longer than expected or finding themselves the primary source of childcare that their grown children rely on to take care of their kids.  

Mara's mystery-solving cat scanning a letter for clues...

2. The Cat.- Mystery. We all know cats solve mysteries on a regular basis these days. Mara’s cat doesn’t solve mysteries and doesn’t actually havemuch of a stream of consciousness. It spends most of its days trying to escape the toddler in the house, Thomas, Mrs. Busby’s charge. But if the cat were a feline sleuth, perhaps it could have helped with the next Secondary Character to come sidling in from a shadowy corner of the Ballroom, his favorite silver flashing in his grip. 

3. Dresden Bloodwell. – Serial Killer/Suspense Novel. - “Get it straight. I don’t answer to you, and I don’t expect that someone like you could ever begin to understand me. I will respond to your questions only because it amuses me. But if you were to cross my path in a darkened alley some night, don’t be surprised if you don’t make it home. 
          Why did I choose the name Dresden Bloodwell when I re-created myself with my new identity, you ask? No, you’re quite right, it isn’t the name I was born with. That blind fool is dead and gone. I chose Dresden because it was the city where I killed for the first time, and Bloodwell… I just like the sound. It helps inspire fear in others, and that’s what the Prometheans pay me to do.” 

Gaelen: Egads! I marvel that there are authors out there who, despite being very nice people, love writing about creepsters like you, Mr. Bloodwell. They must really love writing about their fictional detectives–maybe that makes up for having to spend months on end working on a novel with a sinister villain like that. 
          But as a strange, chilly breeze moves through the Ballroom, raising the hairs on the back of our necks, I realize things are about to get even creepier…   

4. Ghost of the Heroine’s Dead Husband. – Paranormal. – “Mara… Mara…”

Gaelen: Oh, look! The curtains are billowing. Do you hear that?

Ghost of Viscount Pierson: “Mine…”

Gaelen: Pardon? Could you speak up please? (A vase goes crashing off the mantel.) That wasn’t nice! What do you think you’re doing, Lord Pierson?

Ghost: Mine… She belongs to me…

Gaelen: No, my lord, I’m afraid you have been dead for two years. It’s time for Mara to move on. She’s got another chance to get back together with her first love–her true love–the one she met before you ever came along. Now, shoo! 

Cat (eyeing Albert): Meow.

<Squawk!>

Gaelen: Indeed, Albert. We definitely need to lighten things up a bit after that! I know just whom to call in–Mara’s glamorous but thoroughly cynical best friend…

5. Delilah – Chick Lit. – (Dressed to the nines, she swirls Champagne in a crystal flute.) “Ah, so many men, so little time! Agreed, ladies? I admit, I love a handsome face almost as much as good day’s shopping. Of course, you won’t find me falling into such a state over any man as Mara has over Falconridge.
       What’s that? Am I jealous?
       Fustian! I’m thrilled to see her happy, naturally. It’s just, she used to be so much more fun when she was single like me. (Sigh) There is no happier state than to be a wealthy widow in Town who is still possessed of beauty, youth, and fortune. But I suppose it doesn’t matter. It only leaves more available gentlemen for me.”   

So, you see, one set of characters could result in an untold number of different stories. It all depends simply on which character’s eyes we are viewing the story world through.

Authors have had phenomenal success in recent years taking a secondary character from classic fiction or history and telling their stories. (The Other Boleyn Girl, Mr. & Mrs. Darcy mysteries, Wicked, Rhett Butler’s People, etc.)

Which secondary character inspired a spin-off story that you enjoyed, OR, which secondary character that you’ve read deserves his/her own story?