|‘Artist Sketching’ by Constable|
I tend to be visually oriented. Something, whether a graphic or an item, can serve to express and summarize my thoughts about a scene, a character, a setting. Sometimes things fall beautifully into place. And sometimes they…just…don’t. But ah, they do come close at times. I have a scene in my Work In Progress in which one of the characters, Larouche, a 7 year old street urchin, encounters ‘Monseigneur’, his name for a high-ranking police officer that he met in the first book of the series, initially hated, and grew to like and admire in the course of the story. The growth of their liking is a theme throughout the series, and this scene, the second time they have actually come face to face, is pivotal. The child, who has found a position at a small bistro as a hired boy, is sweeping the yard:
Larouche watched as Jean-Claude led the big gray horse from the stable. Nice-looking fellow, he thought. Tall, strong: maybe some Percheron in him? His dark coat dappled down to white with a white mane and tail. Elegant and strong, Larouche thought, and remembered the horses ridden by the helmeted officers during reviews. This one could easily be one of those mounts.
The horse had been gazing toward the door of the taproom. He raised his head and nickered as Monseigneur emerged into the early afternoon light.
Larouche drew back against the wall, suddenly breathless. The row of bushes was beside him, offering shelter and concealment. He lifted his chin, stayed where he was, and watched.
Monseigneur was in uniform, the sun flashing from the gold-washed bronze buttons of his coat, the dark blue cloth rich in the sunlight. A brief conversation with Jean-Claude… Nods all around, and Monseigneur came farther into the stable yard. He was bareheaded, the cocked hat tucked under his left arm. Larouche could see the sunlight glinting on strands of silver in his dark hair. Monseigneur getting old? The thought sat oddly, as though it expressed something Larouche did not want to be true.
The gray was tossing his head. He settled as Monseigneur approached, took out a small snuffbox and shook some candies into his palm.
The gray’s ears flicked back and forth. He lowered his lead to lip at the treats.
“He’s ready for a good trot,” Monseigneur said. Larouche caught the accent again. “I will be obliging him shortly.” He took the reins from Jean-Claude, smiled as the man cupped his hands for a leg up, and sprang into the saddle.
Larouche watched Monseigneur slide his feet into the stirrups and gather the reins. The hazel eyes settled on his, caught and held. Larouche thought it was like the time Monseigneur had seized him by the ear. No escape possible. But did he want to escape?
He raised his eyes and smiled as the moment deepened, lengthened. Larouche realized that Monseigneur was as caught as he was, unable to break the connection, unable to speak.
…and then Larouche found that he could draw breath and take a step forward, and he saw that Monseigneur was also leaning toward him, smiling and stretching out his hand—
“Sir!” The voice, strident and anxious, cut the connection between them.
Monseigneur’s hand fell to his thigh as he turned, frowning. “What is it, Trinchard?”
“A mob assembled! They are threatening headquarters!”
“What? When was this?”
“Twenty minutes ago—a half hour! We have been seeking you all this time!”
Monseigneur’s frown deepened. “You have found me,” he said. “Lead me there.”
Larouche watched Monseigneur gather his reins, and then, almost as though he were drawn, turn back toward Larouche.
Their eyes met, held for a long moment.
Monseigneur’s lips parted as though he meant to speak. Larouche waited. But then he turned his horse and was in the street.
Well, that was that. Larouche took up the broom he had laid aside and started sweeping the leaves away.
The clack of iron on cobblestone made him look up..
The gray was snuffling at the remains of the ivy on the post while Monseigneur watched Larouche with a warm smile. Larouche could see a group of mounted officers in the street beyond.
Monseigneur leaned down, his hands braced on the pommel of his saddle. “I must go,” he said. “I will be back. I don’t know how soon that will be, but I will be back. I give you my word..” His smile deepened. “I want to speak with you. Will you wait for me?”
Larouche nodded. “I’ll be here,” he said through an answering smile. “I promise.”
Monseigneur bowed, touched his heel to his mount’s side, just behind the girth. The horse turned on his haunches and they left at a gallop.
|So close, and yet so far…|
Almost. It has some issues. For starters:
I did not know this when I started writing The Orphan’s Tale. I solved the problem by making it Alternate History (from a geographical standpoint).
|Avenue de l’Opera, Evening|
Since I was arrogant enough then to think I knew the area very well from reviewing maps, I knew that I could cut out a dog-leg by following a street that connected those two major thoroughfares.
|The Fontaine St-Michel, Paris|
I mentioned my near-mishap to a friend, who said “You do know that Michael the Archangel is the patron saint of Police, don’t you?”
It’s always hard to express a character, whether hero, heroine or villain. A writer has a picture in her own mind, but readers have their own ideas. Whose is valid? Whoever is expressing the picture, of course.
I wrote some quasi-heroic fantasy years ago that involved a group of people who looked rather like Thor in the Marvel Comics. Tall, blond, bright blue eyes… I had a hero that some folks (not me) considered a heart throb. So, out of idle curiosity, I asked who he looked like.
‘Bjorn Borg!’ sighed one friend.
Oh…kay… I said. Others had other notions, leaning toward the tall and stringy.
And so it goes.
I’ve been working on the covers for The Orphan’s Tale, a trilogy set in 1830’s Paris. Book I is out. Book II will be out, God willing, around Christmas. Book III will be next year. They have developed simultaneously.
The covers have the same theme: a scene of Paris with a portrait of a main character inset in the upper left. The Heroine, Elise, graces Book I. The heroic young boy, Larouche, is on Book III. So… Who is on Book II?
Therein lay the problem. Obviously, the hero, Paul Malet, who has an interesting past and is a very enjoyable character to write about. But what on earth does he look like? Tall, yes. Dark-haired and hazel-eyed. Graying around the edges (he is in his forties). Military – he fought in Napoleon’s armies as a colonel of artillery. That much was described. The rest? Well, it’s in my head,
…but I needed a cover, and soon.
So I went through the portraits of the era, sifted through the works that are in the public domain. Two seemed to work, partially. I combined them, adjusted the coloring and the uniform, and now am happy to present, for the cover of the book, Paul V. Malet, the hero. I was not able to capture the sardonic lift of the eyebrows when he encounters stupidity, but the tolerant smile is there. It’ll do.
…and now I have the three covers:
Here’s the page on my website: http://www.dianawilderauthor.com/the-orphans-tale.html
It is Friday again, and a time to stop and take stock of the small things we celebrate, often unknowingly. Thanks to VikLit, who had the idea for this wonderful bl0g hop, we can remind ourselves of the beautiful things in life that make our days just that much more lovely. You’re welcome to join – head on over to her blog!
Details are at the end of this post.
I have been what the French call hors de combat (out of action) for a while with a bad case of bronchitis and pneumonia. It’s clearing up, the solstice has passed (if you can survive to December 22, you can start seeing the days lengthening).
This morning I awoke to a view of a full moon hoving over the hilltop through a smoky lace veil of bare branches. I actually stepped outside (barefoot – don’t tell my mother!) to look at it.
I could feel that I was on the mend, and I’d had an idea for a twist in Book II of The Orphan’s Tale, which I am working on at the moment. A touching idea, introducing (incognito) a man who would be a major contributor to mid 1800’s Europe. To have the prison-raised hero encounter this fellow as a young man (the fellow, not the hero, who is in his mid-forties) and recognize in him a sort of wistful admirer, has me smiling.
There’s another character who appears in the trilogy (it’s shaping up to be that) and he’s always such a joy to write about:
|Larouche The Great|
He’s a street-child with a sad background, a lot of commonsense and some very good luck. He is the hero’s more-than-match. In fact, the conflict in the last volume might have been ably handled if Larouche had been given free rein.
I love writing about him.
The flow of creative juices is always a cause for celebration.
(And I am remembering that today is a Friday! I hope you all have wonderful weekends.)
...one writing step at a time
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