Okay… it’s not really secret. And… I guess… it’s not really a lair.
It’s just where I’ve been spending most of my time lately.
It’s a tiny bit different than last year — mostly in the organization of books.
I know… you’re thinking “WHAT organization of books?!”
But they are organized now, I promise you.
If you want to catch up, you can read the Prologue of my Golden Pen submission over HERE.
This is the next piece — the first chapter.
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Chapter One
London, 1816
The narrow skirts of her second-hand dress didn’t allow Anne Barrett to match her uncle’s great ground-eating strides. Forced to take several short steps for each of his, she felt more dwarfed than usual by his massive bulk as they made their way into Mayfair.
And her hair itched. She didn’t like having it piled and pinned on top of her head. But the bonnet was a blessing; it kept her hidden from prying eyes, and—if she concentrated on the ground at her feet—no one need see her face at all.
Except Tip, of course. Every few yards, his furry, dark face lifted up to her questioningly. She’d smile back to comfort him, the lead she’d been forced to hang around his neck slapped idly against his side as he trotted along at her knee.
If only Uncle Ned could be reassured so easily.
Not only am I a huge movie buff, but I’m also a huge movie soundtrack buff.
Ever since grad school, when I’d be up until ridiculous hours of the night painting costume renderings, I’ve been hooked on the sweeping emotions great soundtracks can evoke, the wonderfully rich way music can set my right-brained self free to be creative.
With all the writing I’ve been doing to get my manuscript done in time for the Golden Heart submission date in early December, I’ve been running my iPod on overtime.
Here’s what I’ve been listening to:
Lush, gorgeous, European, playful… oh, I adore this movie and this music! You just can’t beat Ennio Morricone…
This is the prologue from “A Whisper To The Wild” — the Regency romance entry I sent off to the Golden Pen contest:
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Prologue
Scotland, 1804
Her body felt strange, sprawled out, with something coarse and sharp—was it straw, or maybe grass?—biting into her cheek. The rain pelting her wrists and ankles was icy cold, and the hair plastered over her face blotted out everything except the faint glow of the moon.
Where was Maman? Why didn’t she come?
Nanette swept the wet mat of hair from her eyes. Their coach sat nearby—but all wrong. It was twisted up, lying sideways on the road. Baskets and cases were strewn across the ground, with several of Maman’s dresses spilled into the mud.
“Maman…?”
She held her breath for the reply, but none came. She’d need to be louder.
“Maman!”
There. A sound from the other side of the battered coach.
