Oops…that’s not what I sat down to write

I’ve been asked dozens of times if I’m a plotter or a pantser (which means I write by the seat of my pants). I’ve often described myself as a plotzer. I try to plot but end up winging the words.

The truth is, my muse is just out-and-out insane, and I’m at his mercy. Sometimes he tells me what’s coming. Other times he prefers to surprise me. A couple of months ago, Mr. Muse shocked me by telling me about this average, contemporary hero named Boone.

Now my muse and I don’t write contemporaries. As a life-long medievalist with interests solidly fixed in the 12^th century, a contemporary was never a blip on my radar, much less an option. So, I said no.

He kept whispering.

I ignored him.

He woke me at 3 a.m.

I threatened to eunuch him. He promised me the key to the five-book historical series I’ve been struggling to write for a few years now.

He won. I following his crooked path and found a contemporary novella at the end of it. 

In Something Promised, Boone Robertson and Eden Rivers have to confront injury, greed, and ghosts before finding a future. Even then, a future together isn’t guaranteed. The story is still in development and I haven’t even looked for a publisher but it’s interesting to write about people who aren’t trying to save the kingdom—or the world—they are just trying to find what we all want: someone to love and laugh with.

I find myself excited and challenged by the story’s very normalness (but I’m still holding Mr. Muse to his promise for the historical series).

 Excerpt:

“Mom is naked again.” 

Eden Rivers tripped up the old step, dropping her walking pole in the stumble. She grabbed the rail. Splinters dug into her palm. Balancing on one foot, she caught her breath and waited for the pain to fade. 

“No need to be so dramatic,” her sister said as she snatched up the walking stick. "Did you hear what I said?"

Eden tentatively shifted her weight. No pain. Well, no more than usual.  

“Mom is weeding the yard au natural.” Savannah Rivers-Knott slipped the iPhone into her back pocket. “She is getting more ridiculous as she gets older, not less.” 

“Front or back?” Eden asked. 

“What?” 

“Is she gardening in the front or back yard?” 

Savannah wrinkled her upper lip. “Does it matter?” 

“If she’s in the front yard, we tell her to stop before she causes an accident on 68. In the back, we tell Old Lady Pratt to mind her own business.”

Keena Kincaid is the author of four, full-length romance novels set in 12^th century England, as well as several novellas in the same period. Her books are available from Amazon and other online outlets. You also can fan or friend her on Facebook and follow her on Twitter.

The Medieval Man and the Post-Truth Elections

As the election cycle gets crazier, I’ve been thinking a lot about Simon de Montford.

Simon de Montford memorial at Haymarket
Clock Tower, Leicester

Hasn’t everyone?

Simon, Earl of Leicester (yes, the English city that recently won the UK Premier League championship), was a charismatic malcontent who almost became king—and who inspired Alain, my romantic hero/spy from Art of Love

Born in 1208, Simon was the third of four sons and couldn’t expect an inheritance. The medieval world could be as harsh to younger sons as it was to women, and he knew he would have to make his own success.

And he did.

The death of two brothers and an agreement with the third brought him to England on the thin hope he could win back the Leicester lands, which had been given to Ranulf of Chester (a fascinating character in his own right).

He made friends with the king, always a good move, but was not what anyone would call a suck-up. He married the king’s widowed sister in secret (probably with the king’s grudging permission after he had already seduced her), identified early with reform movements (the Provisions of Oxford) that increased baronial power at the king’s expense, and eventually led an armed rebellion against Henry III.

Although he is called the father of the House of Commons, Simon may or may not have been the populist history proclaimed him. He believed royal power needed to be checked—and sometimes opposed—by he and his peers but that’s not the same as giving political voice to serfs and merchants (and isn’t that the heart of this coming election? The need for us “peasants” to have more of a voice in national decisions.)

The hero of ART OF LOVE precedes Simon by almost a century, but carries many of his ideals. Also a younger son (fourth of four), Alain is determined to chart his own path to power and security through service to the king. At the same time, he says gender and birth order—not God—makes a king, a treasonous and heretical notion in the 12^th century.

But the first step to limiting a king’s power is to challenge the notion of divine right. And again, isn’t the first step to limiting the power of our government the challenge to the idea that they know best?

 

Paris at any time

 

Paris doesn’t sell.

I’ve heard that statement quoted with the fervor of the newly converted and the weariness of the ancient cynic since I first decided I wanted to write. So me being me, I set my one of my favorite books, ART OF LOVE, in Paris.

But from my perspective from a small coffee shop on the rue Voltaire, there was no reason Paris shouldn’t sell. It’s a fabulous city charmed by and history to be a historical romance writer’s nirvana.

And for better or worse, the hero that came to me while I meandered the winding, medieval streets was a Scotsman. I was so excited about Alain of Huntly Wood that I couldn’t not write his story even if it did take place in Paris and even if Paris is the kiss of death for a romance.

But Alain’s story is intricately bound to Paris of the 12^th century and the exciting, overcrowded and malodorous Latin Quarter. If set in London or Edinburgh or even the absolute gorgeous landscape between Inverness and Thurso, Alain’s story would be a different tale entirely—and a much less satisfying one—because in ART OF LOVE, Paris is not “wallpaper” but a thriving character in its own right.

So my questions to you, the readers:

·      Do you notice setting at all?  If so, how much? If not, why not?

·      Do you want “place” to be as active and interesting a character in the story as the hero and heroine or are you happy with “wallpaper” settings?

·      Do you read stories set in your favorite places or those on your wish list?

When Meryk the Outlaw finds a badly beaten woman beside the road, he almost rides on. With a price on his head and a winter storm raging, even a short delay could cost him everything. But when he discovers she’s ready to give birth, he takes the risk and vows to protect her.

Ada of Bew doesn’t want the outlaw’s help—much less his protection—but she has no choice. Unable to run any farther and ready to give birth, she must place her faith in this stranger or die at the hands of the men who want to kill her unborn son.

In the struggle against cold and would-be kings, Meryk and Ada discover love is the most unexpected gift of all, but will they survive long enough to claim it?

Seven authors, seven heart-warming medieval holiday stories. http://tinyurl.com/OneChristmasKnight #OneChistmasKnight

The path from idea to book is a messy one

In a recent discussion about getting past writer's block, I shared my trick for busting through those word tangles. In short, I write the scene that's in my head, even when it has nothing to do with my WIP.

I discovered this trick a few years ago while I was trying to write a murder mystery. The scene just popped into my head and refused to budget. For days I tried to write around it. I was determined to "stick" to the story I was working on. Eventually, though I gave it, wrote the scene, and then immediately found my way through writer's block.

What came next was a shock. The scene I'd written had nothing to do with my WIP. Nor did it have anything to do with the next few projects. Eventually, I forgot about it until a few weeks ago when I found it buried in my files--and realized it was a prologue to my upcoming book, ENTHRALLED.

It isn't in the book, neither is the POV character, but it was the germ of a story that eventually became ENTHRALLED. The scene (mostly unedited): 

The child was all his brother said she would be, and more. Robert of Ravenglas blinked, rubbed a hand over his eyes and looked closer at the child who stood before him. She didn’t move. If she breathed, he saw no sign of it in her immobility, and that caused him to hesitate. Such stillness seemed quite unnatural in a child of her years.

Dismissing his thoughts as whimsy born of grief and fatigue, he studied her critically. She was five, maybe six, at the stage of childhood where she was nothing more than sharp angles and large, wary eyes that brought to mind a stormy sky boiling over the North Sea.

He glanced at his brother. “Amilia’s eyes were not quite so…” he searched for the right word. “Unusual.”

“They were blue. Hers are blue.” The abbot toyed absently with a reliquary on the great oak table before him. “She is blonde, as your daughter was, and likely twice as clever.” He leaned over the table, his eyes bright and fixed on Robert. “This marriage is too important to this family to let it lie fallow.”

“Amilia was three at the betrothal. I hardly let it lie fallow.”

The knot of anger in his gut twisted and expanded until Robert thought he would explode from the burgeoning emotion. He knew the dangers of loving a child too much. It is not like Amilia was the first child he had buried. Pray God, she would be the last. He studied the scrawny, morose child that stood like a statue in the middle of the room. Blackness washed over his eyes, blotting out all sight, and he surged to his feet, wanting to be as far from this place of mischief and plotting as he could ride.

“Robert. Robert.”

He blinked at the soft call and realized he stood before the open door. The cold winter wind cooled his rage as he ranged about the room. He turned to face his brother.

“Do not relinquish this opportunity to rise in this world,” Edward said. “Think how it will benefit William. He will make a most advantageous marriage with Braose championing his cause.”

Unable to counter his brother’s rationale words, Robert turned back to the girl. She was as fair-haired as his Amilia had been, yet where his daughter’s hair had run as straight as the old Roman road, this girl was crowned with rumpled curls that fought against the ribbon holding it back. If she listened to his brother, or even heard him, she gave no sign of it. Instead, her eyes focused on him, as if she measured his willingness to deceive.

The harsh scrape of wood on stone signaled his brother now stood. Now doubt he would soon begin circling him like a wolf did its prey. He was the elder, the heir, but Edward had always been the ambitious one. “I have never met a child with as sharp a memory as this girl, even as young as she is.” Edward neared and began to walk a small circle. “’Tis as if she remembers everything she sees or hears. Perfect recollection. She discerns meaning from what she hears, as well.”

“Women should not think so much, at least not those given to wife.” Robert turned to the girl, and frowned as he studied her. There was a puzzle here, but it eluded him. “Why, brother, do you offer me this child?”

“She has no choice.” Edward closed the second circle around them. “She is a resident of the abbey, with her ailing father and an elder brother. Her father will be dead within a few days. She cannot remain once that happens.”

The coldness in his brother’s voice caused Robert shift uncomfortably. Almost against his will, he looked down at the child. Was it his imagination or had the child somehow moved closer to him? The sadness in her eyes could not be mistaken for any other emotion. With a sigh, he knelt and took hold of her thin wrists.

“How many years do you have, child?”

“Latin. She does not understand Saxon,” Edward said.

Robert nodded and asked the question again.

“Six”

“Amilia was five.”

“How is that important?" Edward asked. "These peasants hardly know when they were born.”

“But she is not a peasant.” He straightened and looked at his brother. “Who is she?”

“‘Tis unimportant,” Edward said. “Her father’s wealth and land is ours.”

“And her brother?”

“He is ours, as well. If you do not want her…”

Robert turned back to the girl. He’d have to dress her in blue to bring out what little of the color lurked in her eyes. He rocked back on his heels. So, he’d made his decision. “Has the abbot explained why I am here?”

The girl nodded.

“You will be Amilia. And you will have a brother, my son William.”

“I do not like brothers.”

Robert held back a smile. “You will like William.” Tears flooded her eyes, and Robert deliberately softened his voice. “It is much to ask of you, I know. I⎯”

“There is no need to coddle the girl,” Edward snapped.

“If I am to make her daughter, I will start in this moment.”