Jane in January: The Birth of a Story

This month for Jane in January, we are discussing the various inspirations that have caused us to pick up our pens and keyboards to honor The Lady. I wish I could tell you that I had traveled to Venice like Diana (doesn’t that look incredible?), or had been steeped from my infancy in Jane Austen Lore, or perhaps even had some tragic romance of my own from whence I could dredge every last drop of angst and swoon-worthy romance… but it’s simply not true for me.

I have always been a daydreamer. Whenever I was bored, ever since I was a child, I would spin some elaborate fantasy in my head. Usually it had something to do with whatever heart-thumping story had most recently captivated my attention. The first instance of this that I can point to would be my seven-year-old self’s obsession with Walt Disney’s Robin Hood. I never could get enough of imagining Robin Hood and Marian in the woods by themselves just before that fun dance with his merry men!

And thus began the treacherous slope toward writing for me. Anne of Green Gables, Gone With the Wind, and even Star Trek drew my compulsive interest. I thought up unique tales as well, usually starring caricatures of people I already knew. I almost always had a notebook of scribbles that I rarely let anyone see. One day, if I feel like making fun of myself, I will pull one of them out in all its unedited glory and take a snapshot for you! Most of what I wrote down in my book was parody, because I saved the romance for my own private thoughts. I mean, who would want to read that, right?

You know what they say – if you are cursed to write, you will write something, no matter what it is. Actually, I don’t know of anybody who says that, but it’s a universal truth. The urge to write only got worse with the years, and I remember getting up to stare at glowing screens in the middle of the night because a story was bugging me. I cannot tell you how many scrapped manuscripts I have of children’s books, because I assumed I could write those and nobody would make fun of me. The only problem was that my brain wrote romance, and that’s all there was to it.

And then, Jane Austen happened. I’m not really sure why I had to be in my thirties with three kids before I found her, but maybe she was just waiting for me to be bored with everything else. Oddly enough, it was one of the least popular versions of Pride and Prejudice that caught my fancy, and after that, it was all over.  Her stories took me to a new level of brooding, to the point that my husband would recount conversations we had had that I had no memory of! Apparently I had even responded in complete sentences, but my head was somewhere around Pemberley. (Or, later, I also spent a lot of time in Milton.)

I would start with a scene in my head, and pretty soon I would have an entire story built around it. For example:

1. No Such Thing As Luck began with John and Margaret stuck on a ship and forced to talk to each other.
2. Rumours and Recklessness began with Darcy having to witness Collins’ humiliating proposal to Elizabeth.
3. Northern Rain began with that opening scene, as John and Margaret stumble upon each other in the graveyard (still one of my favourites that I have ever written).
4. The Courtship of Edward Gardiner started with—believe it or not—little Lizzy Bennet telling off haughty, adolescent Fitzwilliam Darcy over a chess table.
5. Nowhere but North started next (it took a while to develop!). This one actually began with one scene I wrote for the blog tour of Northern Rain, for Rita Deodato’s blog. This scene imagined John as a very young man in a tough spot, and I loved the idea so much I kept going. Slowly.
6. These Dreams absolutely steamrolled the poor nascent Nowhere but North when it grabbed me. It started with me dreaming up what would happen if Darcy had been kidnapped and presumed dead. Rita had been telling me a bit about Portuguese history that I never learned in school, and then an 80’s song by Heart pulled it all together.
7. London Holiday was born out of desperation. I actually had the idea a couple of years earlier that it would be fun to do a mash up with one of the Hollywood classic stories, and Roman Holiday was an easy list topper. However, the idea did not really take hold of me until I needed something funny, and from the very beginning I knew I wanted to write a silly caper scene ending with a surprise kiss. If you have read both These Dreams and Nowhere but North, I’m sure you can imagine that I needed a break! London Holiday was the perfect vacation.

For one of my current WIPs, a couple of beginning scenes stuck in my head. I’m not sharing the title yet, and it will be a while before I post any more about it, but I will leave you today with the completely unvarnished opening scene. I sure hope it eventually becomes a book!

Wyoming, United States
June, 1899Colonel Richard Andrew George Fitzwilliam, second son of the Earl of Matlock and special envoy of Her Majesty’s Army, drew his horse to a halt. He patted the beast with some satisfaction after their long gallop, and searched his saddle bag for his field glasses. The purportedly well-traveled road he followed was little more than two deeply-worn wagon ruts, with several meandering animal trails beaten along its edges. The blossoming grasses and scrub brush of the valley below him seemed home to a multitude of small birds, creeping rodents, and he had even glimpsed a few snakes—he had no idea if they were harmless or not. As his horse panted, he took a moment to appreciate the terrain. Stunning country, this!Richard pressed the glasses to his face and swept the vista from his right to left. Rolling, golden hills in the foreground gave way to jagged, snow-capped peaks in the distance. As far as the eye could see, not one earth-bound human soul flitted about the rugged landscape. It was desolate, wild, and staggeringly immense. He lowered the glasses, his face reflecting the fascination and the undeniable call echoing in his heart. America, with all its rough savagery and backward ways, was far more boundless and glorious than he could ever have imagined!

He had been the first to loudly protest this assignment. He was a leader of men, and rightly ought to be with his men as they struggled on the Boer front. His superiors, however, thought otherwise. More than good men, what the army needed most was good horses, and rapidly. His reputation as a fine judge of horseflesh and an accomplished master of the cavalry had cemented the war office’s opinion that he should be the one to replace Colonel Marcus at this backwater outpost. One thousand horses every two months—that was what he had been ordered to procure, and they had to be of a hardy type to withstand the rigours and deprivation of war. He almost snorted to himself as he lifted his field glasses again. With an order of that size to fill, the army did not need a judge of horseflesh, but a bulk merchant! He doubted that even the best cavalryman could assemble what did not exist. Her Majesty’s army would simply have to take what was available, and hope for the best.

Richard grimaced down at the rangy brute assigned to him when he had stepped off the train. It was not an auspicious beginning, if this was intended to be an honour to his rank. To call the creature a Thoroughbred was a stretch. He seemed willing and at least somewhat trained, but he was a raw-boned thing with a head that could have suited one of the long-faced cattle he had passed. How Darcy would laugh to see him astride such a monstrosity! Ah, Darcy! How this savage land would appall you! His genial face split into a grin beneath the glasses as he appreciatively scanned the horizon once more. Three miles to the west, along this crude wagon road, had been his directions….

He started as a moving figure dashed across the magnified view of his glasses. Pulling them down, he squinted his eyes and then trained the glasses once more on the galloping horse. It was cutting a path almost diagonal to his own, and flying at breakneck speed. He leaned unconsciously forward in the saddle. Was that a thatch of long, curly brown hair streaming behind the rider? Why, yes, it… it was a woman! She rode astride, her wide-legged split skirt flapping in the wind and her hat fluttering by long ribbons behind her. He swept the terrain again, and found no other horses nearby. A runaway!

Without a second thought, Richard’s experienced eyes projected a path to intercept the wayward steed. He put heel to his mount, and they were off in hot pursuit. The leggy brown horse performed better than he had hoped, and in little time at all—though it seemed much longer—they had nearly caught the flying little range pony. He angled a bit more sharply towards it, his hand outstretched to catch the horse’s bridle.

The woman had seen him now. Wide eyes met his own, and her mouth rounded in a single, inaudible syllable just as he closed in on her. “Whoah, there!” he called, snatching the reins and giving a firm tug to bring the little pinto into line beside him. “Steady, boy! Miss, are you w—” he began to ask, but in that instant, she slashed across his face with the curious long ends of her western reins.

“Unhand my horse!” she cried, and swung her reins again. “Get back, sir!”

Yelping as if he had been scalded, Richard dropped the rein and lurched away. “I mean you no harm, Miss!” he protested. “I only thought to stop your runaway!”

The fury drained from her features, replaced quickly with wry amusement. “My runaway?” she laughed. “I am glad you informed me I had such a problem, for I might have mistakenly continued to enjoy my ride.”

“You… you were not in any danger, Miss?” he stammered. Naturally, he had known many a bold female rider—why, his sisters enjoyed a splendid gallop as much as any man, and his cousin, Georgiana, followed the hounds whenever she got the chance. The reckless abandon with which this woman tore across the range, however, was altogether new to him. “I… I do beg your pardon. Forgive me for frightening you,” he backed his horse away, touching his hat.

Sensing, perhaps, her own disheveled state, she reached to settle her wide hat over her wild, wind-tangled hair. “You are new to the area,” she observed, with a little curve to her brow and an impish smile about her mouth.

Suddenly a little shy, he could not stop himself from biting his upper lip. How her eyes did sparkle when she smiled! “Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, at your service, Miss. You are correct, for I am only arrived today.”

She lifted her chin in a little nod of acknowledgment as her smile widened. “In that case, Colonel, I might suggest you take care of the prairie dog holes when you race your horse off the road like that. Another of your colonels crippled two horses in that way last year.” With a mercurial little wrinkle of her nose, she offered him one last smile, whirled her stubby-legged pinto, and darted off along her original course.

Fitzwilliam’s own mount attempted to bolt after the other horse, and had he not his orders, he would have been scarcely less inclined himself. He stared after her. What a singular young woman! He remained thus, gazing after the receding wisp of flowing dark hair, until she had completely disappeared. Americans were a strange lot.

I hope you enjoyed this snippet! I will post more when it is farther along.

Our Jane in January posts are featuring giveaways. I will be posting another excerpt from a different story in two weeks, so comment on both to double your chance to win a paperback (US only) or ebook of your choice!

-NC