NaNoWriMo 2022 Winner

Ich bin fertig! 50,677 words. Hallellujah! 

NaNoWriMo 2022 Update

Hello friends! Just a quick post to acknowledge that I am on target, for the first time in three years, to actually complete NaNoWriMo! I'm having a lot of fun with the story and feeling a joy in (and fixation on) writing that has eluded me since the pandemic began. What a relief! Current word count = 34,628. 😅

Back to it. Happy Thanksgiving to those celebrating this week. We're doing it up Swiss style, with fondue and Christmas markets. Until next time ...

NaNoWriMo 2022

So, I'm writing. That's the good news. Not what I planned to write. On the eve of November, new inspiration hit, and instead of working (again) on Tales of Less Pride and Prejudice, I began a sequel to Darcy in Wonderland, the long planned Lizzy through the Looking-glass, premised loosely upon recent events in my eldest child's dynamic development. I'm making steady progress, which is great! The word count is currently just shy of 5500. We'll see if I can keep it up. 

It will be in the same vain as Darcy in Wonderland, only my Alice is older than Carroll's is in Through the Looking-glass. I don't want to go into too much detail now (need to writing it, not about it), but here is a small taste. I'm enjoying delving into a poetic parody again:

 

NaNoWriMo Update: Week Four, a week late

Even as I feel fairly positive about my improvement over last year's performance, I really checked out that last week. Between the school stuffs, Thanksgiving, and Hanukkah starting so early, I never quite finished those last few scenes I meant to write. I totalled out at 12,649 words, but that does not reflect the huge leaps I made in turning three novels into one, functioning story. The manuscript is in a much more tolerable state now. From the NaNoEditMo perspective, this is something to celebrate, and so I shall.

Today is the last day of Hanukkah (last night was the final candle) , and now my mind is fully engrossed in Christmas. I'm terribly behind on preparations (same tune, new lyrics), but I ought to catch up. Samichlaus visits my children in school today, bringing sacks of tasty treats. The Christmas markets are mostly open and accessible. It's lovely visiting them once more.

It is uncertain how much writing I will continue to accomplish amidst all the upcoming hubbub, but I will try to stick to my mostly regular blogging. I also want to dig back into the Mixed-up Mashup conundrum. It would be wonderful to finish it this year, but I won't hold my breath. 

Here is a very short, very rough excerpt from the beginning of the now nearly finished rough copy of Tales of Pride and Prejudice. I'd love to hear your thoughts:

Pemberley, January 1791

It was a cold-hearted visitor for whom Pemberley, at any time, was an unimpressive sight to behold, but only those so fortunate as to be included in the estate’s annual Twelfth Night celebrations knew the house in all its glory. One wondered how the surrounding woods could remain so lush, when surely a hefty percentage of the foliage had been harvested and moved indoors, there to festoon every window pane, stairwell, and mantelpiece. With all the multitudes of candles alight and the torches lining the drive blazing forth towards the sky, every invitee who traversed that fiery avenue knew that their evening would be one they should not soon forget.

However, that time had not yet come. The day was still young, and though all the greenery was already in place, casting its festive atmosphere, the only sound of merriment currently ringing through those hallowed halls were those emanating from young Mr. Wickham, son of the estate’s steward, who ran through the gallery, laughing all the while, and down the servant’s stair, concealed behind a tapestry. The young master of the house, normally a proper enough gentleman, was in hot pursuit of the imp, who had moments before pilfered his favorite toy soldier. His progress was impeded by a most effective obstacle: the great form of his aunt, Lady Catherine De Bourgh, her dear friend, Augusta Westingham, both of whom were currently guests of the house, and, most formidably, his mother, Lady Anne Darcy, who frowned down at him disapprovingly. “What is this, Fitzwilliam? I expect an explanation for such unruly behavior.”

Young Fitzwilliam Darcy reddened with shame under the glare of his mother’s reproach. He knew he had behaved wrongly, and past experience had already taught him that no explanation he attempted would pacify his mother’s pique, but he was only eight, and he felt all the indignation of being the wronged party, unfaiurly held to account while the true perpetrator got away, and struggle though he might, he could not contain his indignation. 

“George was in my room again, Mother. It is all his fault … ”

“Yes,” she interrupted. “I saw him come careening through before you, but in what way can his uncouth behavior in anyway account your lack of conduct? I expect more from my son.”

“You ought not allow Mr. Darcy to so indulge that young rascal,” Lady Catherine inserted, never one to be left out of a conversation. “T’will come to now good, as I have warned him time and again.”

Lady Anne ignored her sister, an art in which she was well practiced. “Do you think the conduct becoming Mr. Wickham’s son is on par with what is expected from the heir of Pemberley? Is this how the sprig of a noble tree presents himself to the world?”

The boy hung his head. “No, ma’am.”

“Never forget who you are, Fitzwilliam. Now, it is past time you were dressed for the children’s party. It will not do for your guests to begin without you.”

“Yes, Mother,” and without further objection, the young master obeyed, retreating, if not with noble hauteur, than at least at a far more sedate pace than that at which he had charged forth, mere minutes before.

“Try not to be too hard on him, Anne,” commented Augusta, once the young gentleman was gone. “He is just a boy. It is a short lived phase that they grow out of it all too soon.”

“Youth is a dangerous excuse for not knowing one’s place,” retorted Lady Anne. “I will speak to George about young Wickham. He becomes more unruly by the day.”

“You should witness the antics in which my nephew James engages. The young rascal will be the death of my poor brother. He won’t heed a word he says.”

“I have broached this subject with Sir James,” Lady Catherine confided. “I warned him it is far easier to break a colt while he is young, but your brother will spoil the boy so! He shall grow quite impossible as he ages,” she predicted.

“Nonsense!” laughed Augusta, well used to her friend’s interference and not at all intimidated by it. “Never have I known a more charming young scamp.” She sighed longingly. “I begin to fear I shall never have one of my own.”

“You are yet young woman Augusta,” reassured Lady Catherine. “Have you tried that tea I suggested?”

“I assure you that I have tried everything that has been suggested by either the doctor or you, Catherine. I have been pushed and prodded far beyond the bounds of decency. So far, it has all been to little avail.”

“Yes, we have all been inspected and examined. It is most unpleasant.”

Mrs. Westingham sighed. “But at least you both have something to show for such invasions.”

“You assume too much, Augusta,” Lady Anne said. “Fitzwilliam sprang into existence with little enough fuss.  I have been expecting five times since his birth. Nothing has come of it,” she concluded sadly.

Mrs. Westingham eyed her suspiciously. “Not nothing, I should say. That emerald set Mr. Darcy bestowed upon you deserves some attention.”

“The emeralds are inadequate consolation,” she responded seriously, but understanding her friend’s desire to lighten the suddenly sour mood, continued, “but do not take that to imply that I am anything but exceedingly pleased with my Christmas present from George.”

“It was the least he could do after your sufferings!” Lady Catherine continued, not knowing when to let sleeping dogs lay. “I, too, have endured my share of medical intrusions, and I begin to doubt the doctors have the slightest notion as to what they are doing. I, for one, am done with being experimented upon. For all we know, it is the gentlemen whose health is to blame. Why not badger their poor persons for a while, instead of ours? Besides, the future is already secure. Anne shall marry Fitzwilliam, and they will united the two estates.”

“I see you have it all organized, Catherine,” Lady Anne said, inspecting her older sister quizzically. “Shall they have nothing to say about it? What shall you do if he cannot like her, and she elopes with your rector?”

Mrs. Westingham laughed, the argument about the futures of Anne de Bourgh and Fitzwilliam Darcy already being an old source of disagreement between the sisters. “Shall you wear the emeralds this evening, Anne?”

That lady happily assented and began regaling the others with tales of her gown, future speculations and old sorrows forgotten for a moment, as they all set their minds upon the imminent delights before them.

NaNoWriMo Update: Week Three (Going to School)

Thomas Rowlandson, "Dr. Syntax Visits a

Boarding School for Young Ladies," 1821.

Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection

Well! Currently at 10,973 words. I think it is very safe to say I will not be "winning" NaNo this year. That's ok. I am going to have a complete rough draft. Finally! I have one more big scene to fill in.

That being said, I haven't written a word since Thursday, when we attended a parent's night at my daughter's school. This was not routine. It was held in response to an ongoing situation in her class. Unfortunately, I did not hear what I needed to from the principal, who pretty much gave the parents the run around. It was very disappointing, and it raised the stakes for this week, when my daughter is visiting a private bilingual school for three days. It is the only school we've found that both fits our requirements and can take her in January. I so hope she likes it, and that they like her.

So this past weekend was totally focused on shoring up the family and doing my best to encourage good spirits in this week ahead. This amidst rising COVID cases (again) and my annual frantic attempt to recreate Thanksgiving abroad. I will be very well satisfied with a completed rough draft, thank you.

Disease and school: when Austen springs to mind upon the flimsiest of excuses, this one screams to be addressed. The good news is that, no matter how acute my daughter's current situation may feel, it is not fatal. Jane Austen's time at school did prove fatal to her aunt, however, which does a great deal to put my current concerns into perspective.

Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School—not of a seminary, or an establishment, or any thing which professed, in long sentences of refined nonsense, to combine liberal acquirements with elegant morality, upon new principles and new systems—and where young ladies for enormous pay might be screwed out of health and into vanity—but a real, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable quantity of accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price, and where girls might be sent to be out of the way, and scramble themselves into a little education, without any danger of coming back prodigies. - Emma, Chapter Three

Austen went to two different school in her formative years. The first, Mrs. Crawley's school in Oxford, she was sent to in 1782, when only seven years old. Maybe she refused to be parted from Cassandra, also on her way as a companion to their cousin, Jane Cooper, maybe not. This was the explanation Mrs. Austen used to employ when questioned on the subject.

While the three girls attended, the location of the school was relocated to Southampton, due to a measles outbreak in Oxford. But bad luck followed them and a "putrid fever" soon swept through the school.  Perhaps this was diphtheria. Jane Cooper wrote home (no communication from Mrs. Crawley 😡), and Mrs. Cooper and Mrs. Austen went to Southampton to rescue their girls. The girls all recovered, but Mrs. Cooper was dead from the infection within the year. 

Side note: we now routinely provide diphtheria vaccinations to babies. Isn't that wonderful?

This experience didn't totally sour the Austens on female education, and both girls were sent to another school for a year or so, largely remembered by history for its fraudulent French mistress. This experience proved less dramatic, but the adult Austen expressed a negative opinion of girl's schools and the superficiality of the education obtained at such institutions. Proper education, she repeatedly implies, is gained through extensive reading. 

I love it when history puts my own sorry woes into such clear and stark contrast. My daughter will undoubtedly receive an education, a right only recently guaranteed to children, let alone girls, who are still denied this opportunity in too many parts of the world. This is a great blessing, and I never want to take it for granted. My daughter is unlikely to contract a deathly disease while at school, though certainly more likely than she was a few years ago. This is also (mostly) a blessing. Thank goodness for modern medicine! And on that note, I'm going to try and write this last scene. It just so happens to begin in a Regency Era girl's school (it was recommended by Mr. Darcy, so you know it is one of the better examples of this sort of establishment). How perfectly synchronistic! Til next week ...

NaNoWriMo Update: Week Two (In the ballroom)

Hmmm. As of 9:45 AM, Monday morning, I still have no stunning results to share, though I have, at least, passed last year's total. Let's see if I can't make this number slightly less abysmal before this post goes live, shall we? I shall report back. In the meantime, I require inspiration.

Balls, balls, balls. My NaNoWriMo social calendar is excessively full. Most of the scenes needing to be written take place in the ballroom, spanning the 18th and 19th centuries. Maybe I should rename this book Dancing at Pemberley? But no: I want to have the continuity of the Tales of Less Pride and Prejudice name, so it is clear that this is a rewrite. This is, of course, assuming Amazon doesn't give me a hard time about the title. Think it's worth the fight?

But I digress (or procrastinate, take it as you will). I need ballroom inspiration to set the scene through at least three more I'm writing into the book. Most of these are Twelfth Night balls, which I have proclaimed an annual Pemberley tradition. So first things first: what would they be wearing? This is a bit of a mess, for some torturous reason I have set the opening scene in 1791, at a time when fashions were rapidly changing (read more about it here). Just compare these two portraits by George Romney, painted four years apart.

Mrs. Mark Currie, 1791.

Anna Maria Hunt, 1793.

So I am envisioning a mix of styles on this occasion, the older people still in wigs and panniers, while the younger guests have long abandoned powder and voluminous skirts for those styles that are the precursors to the Regency fashions we all love so much. By the time Elizabeth has become Mrs. Darcy and is making her debut in society, her attire might have looked something like this:

La Belle Assemblée, 1811.

Now, what would they have been listening/dancing too? This changed less drastically over the years, though the waltz (which I wrote about here) was becoming fashionable towards the end of my tale. This playlist should keep me in the right mood for a while, at least:

At twenty til noon, I am at 6,936 words. Pretty pathetic, but I did finished the opening ball scene, so I can abandon the 18th century for the far more familiar 19th. That's progress. I really don't think I'll hit the 50,000 word goal. Honestly, if I just walk away with a complete first draft, I will be very well satisfied. But, hypothetically, if I were to write another 43,064 words this month, I would need to clock over 2,800 words every day for the rest of the month. My current average is 455. It's not impossible. I have done it before. Let's see where I am in a week ...

NaNoWriMo Update: Week One

Hello to all, and a special thanks to those of you left messages of support last week. It was very encouraging.

The first week wasn't half bad. I logged a rather unimpressive 3,302 words, but there are mitigating circumstances that make me feel pretty good about what I have accomplished, even as the overall word count fails to inspire:

• I had not even opened the document since December 2020, a fact I was rather shocked to realize when I retrieved the file in a week ago. I have mostly been rereading the 150,000 words I already wrote. I am about 2/3rds through.
• I have been coping with a very difficult situation at my daughter's school, which necessarily eats up a healthy chunk of my free time, as well as draining me emotionally. There is no resolution in sight, and the fact that I am able to write at all is, frankly, amazing. Maybe things will look brighter on this front next week (I've got my fingers crossed).
• I am within 1000 words of beating my abysmal total word count from 2020. The numbers might be small, but this is an important goal. It means I'm on the right track, if nothing else.

This week I will finish reading the document and starting composing the new scenes in my head. If I'm lucky, they'll simply pour forth. I'll let you know how it goes.

Until then, some inspiration:

NaNoWriMo begins today ...

I actually have a pretty awesome NaNoWriMo track record. 2012 was the first year I participated, and it was spontaneous. I created my account November 1st and wrote 50,042 words, just sneaking past the goal line on the last day of the month. 2013 was better. I soared past the official 50,000 word goal logging a total of 82,122 words! How did I do that? Oh, yeah. I nearly lost my mind.

In 2014 I wrote 57,626 words. I took 2015 off to move to Europe. In 2016, I snuck in 50,080 words while 8 months pregnant. In 2017, with an almost one year old at my feet, I wrote an impressive 76,706 words. I held strong in 2018, with 54,125 words logged.

All this is important to remember, because the last three years have been pretty abysmal. Obviously, I can't blame the pandemic for my total lack of participation in 2019 (I think I was studying for a German exam? That sounds good. Let's stick with it), but I can totally blame the pandemic for my poor showing in 2020, when I didn't even log 5,000 words! That is such a disheartening number, especially with my history with this event, and especially with all the other many challenges I was juggling through those years of NaNo success. My path isn't exactly clear and easy for 2021. What is to say it will go any better?

Well, I have been writing this year, unlike last year, even if not as much as I should. With my partner back in the office at least occasionally, and the kids' school schedules usually pretty predicable, my brain has been able to reorganize itself to some degree. Blogging weekly here has been very helpful, and I feel deep gratitude to those of you who stop by regularly and maybe even sometimes comment. It makes me feel more accountable to someone beyond my tiny family circle, where so much of my attention remains fixated. I've been having fun working on the Mixed-Up Mashup piece (I'm still rather amazed to find myself reengaged in this long-abandoned train wreck), though I do not have near enough time to devote to it as I would like. 

From where will this time miraculously materialize? I haven't the foggiest. I've made no special arrangements to write this month, beyond asking the man to go into the office a few extra times. A shake up in my daughter's schooling is consuming a vast deal of time and energy, thoroughly squashing my pipe dream of escaping alone to a cottage for a few days to write. And I haven't picked up my poor Tales of Less Pride and Prejudice manuscript, which will be my project for the third time running, since last year. I plan to reread it this weekend, amidst all the Halloween hoopla. Good luck to me!

But I am supposed to be building myself up, and all this self-defeating talk is throughly contradictory to that goal. How about this? Since this blog is functioning like an accountability buddy anyway, maybe I make that relationship explicit this month? I will report back here each Monday with my progress, however little or much. Perhaps it will serve to keep me motivated. There are NoNoWriMo tools intended to do this, but they feel like procrastination fodder to me. I do like the timed writing sprints, but I'm not even sure they are still featured on the site. 

If any of you (and I have a few suspects in mind) are NaNoWriMoing this year, please make sure we are buddies. My profile name is Alexa Adams. Easy enough. 

Oh. And though it has barely maintained the slightest presence in my thoughts, I did offer a giveaway. And the winner is: Mary Smythe! Congratulations Mary. I'll be in touch soon.

Now it's time to write. Please wish me luck! I'm gonna need it.

NaNoWriMo 2018 Winner!

I can't believe I did it! It was a very close call this year, and while I logged over 50,000 words, I did not get anywhere close to my personal goal of 150,000. Oh well. The project is now shelved until 2019. It's party time!

NaNoWriMo 2018: Tales of Less Pride and Prejudice!!!

Announcing my NaNoWriMo novel for 2018! Da da da da! Tales of Less Pride and Prejudice. Yes, that's the name of the blog, as well as the name of the trilogy that comprises my first three novels: First Impressions, Second Glances, and Holidays at Pemberley, or Third Encounters. The paperbacks are now out of print and, though still available for Kindle, all three stories are badly in need of proper editing. My plan is to rewrite the entire story and rerelease it in one volume. First Impressions, though in the worst condition of them all, remains, by leaps and bounds, my best selling book. So I will probably will not stop selling the original books, just offer this as an alternative to readers. Here is the preliminary cover (and a new blog banner to compliment it). What do you think?

Since I'm kind of cheating this year - working with pre-existing material - I'm hoping to make up for it by writing three times are much. Instead of 50,000 words, I'm shooting for 150,000. This is probably insane, but it fits my profile. Wish me luck!

NaNo Update: My parody of Carroll's parody of 'The Sluggard" by Isaac Watts

Just popping in to share a but of fun I've been having with my NaNoWriMo story, Darcy in Wonderland. I'm just under 35,000 words as I write this, a bit behind after a crazy viral thing that took me down for four full days last week, but still on track to finish 50,000 words before the end of the month. Some of the hardest earned words in those 35,000 are my responses to the many poems Lewis Carroll includes in Alice in Wonderland. I just got though the episode with the Mock Turtle, which is very verse heavy, and I'm in need of a short reprieve. 

In that scene Alice is asked to recite a famous moral poem by Isaac Watts (1674-1748), and the words come out quite nonsensical instead. Thought I do a quick side by side comparison of Watts' original, Carroll's version, and my own Austen inspired variation. This is very rough still, but I'd still love to hear what thoughts you have on it: please share them!

First, Isaac Watts:

'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain,
"You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again."
As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed,
Turns his sides and his shoulders and his heavy head.

"A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;"
Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number,
And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands,
Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.

I pass'd by his garden, and saw the wild brier,
The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher;
The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags;
And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs.

I made him a visit, still hoping to find
That he took better care for improving his mind:
He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking;
But scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

Said I then to my heart, "Here's a lesson for me,"
This man's but a picture of what I might be:
But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding,
Who taught me betimes to love working and reading. 
                                                                    (1715)

Next:, Mr. Carroll's, with interrupting dialogue omitted:

'Tis the voice of the Lobster: I heard him declare

"You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair."

As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose

Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.

When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark,

And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark;

But, when the tide rises and sharks are around,

His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.

I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye,

How the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie:

The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat,

While the Owl had the dish as its share of the treat.

When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon,

Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon;

While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl,

And concluded the banquet by eating the owl. 

                                                                    (1865)

And my own:

’Tis the voice of the Lobster: In tones not muted,

‘Take no pleasure in novels? Intolerably stupid!’

Like a lady when shopping for muslins and lace,

Our minds shout agreement, even as our hearts race.

‘Little boy and girls should be tormented,’ he said,

But only so long as it is good for their heads:

‘To torment or instruct: words found synonymous.’

All precision of language has now gone amiss.”

“I passed by his garden, and to my surprise,

Something shocking indeed was happening inside.

‘Indeed! Of what nature!’ The questions were fret.

‘More horrible than anything we’ve met with yet.’

‘Good heaven! A riot? Give me peace of mind!’

‘I expect murder and everything of that kind.’

 Laughing, ‘The riot is only in your own brain!

The confusion there might drive anyone insane.’

                                                                              (2016)

Winner of Darcy By Any Other Name and NaNoWriMo

It is National Novel Writing month, so I am unlikely to be blogging much. This is unfortunate as I still haven't finished traveling my late summer travels with you. Look for pictures of Bath around Christmas.

Before I disappear, I must announce the winner of one copy of Darcy By Any Other Name donated by the gracious author, Laura Hile. Ya da da da da da! And the winner is: Anonymous #1. Well, that was a bit anti-climatic. The winner may expect to hear from us soon. Congratulations! If you missed the giveaway, do still check out my review of this fantastic book. You can read it here: https://alexaadams.blogspot.ch/2016/10/darcy-by-any-other-name-by-laura-hile.html

Also today is my monthly Austen Authors post. My subject? NaNoWriMo. Shocking, right? The nifty part is I have included an excerpt from the very little I have written so far of Darcy in Wonderland. I'm having great fun with this one! Please come check it out: http://austenauthors.net/austen-authors-at-nanowrimo/.

As the month wears on, I may share some more excerpts here, so keep a lookout and wish me good luck!

I'm still here! It's just NaNoWriMo. Twisted Austen winners.

No, I haven't fallen off the face of the earth, though it sometimes feels like it. Twisted Austen seems a million years ago already, and I am only getting around to announcing winners now. Rafflecopter seems really glitchy for some reason, and I am sorry if it inconvenienced anyone. With no further ado the winners are:

Day 1: Chiara L.

Day 2: Angela W.

Day 3: Susan M.

Day 4: Ceri T.

Day 5: carmen

Day 6: Jan S.

Day 7: Luthien84

Congratulations to all the winners and thank you so much for celebrating Halloween with me this year! I have no idea what next year will bring. Maybe I'll tackle Northanger.

Two more exciting announcements to make:

There is an amazing review of The Madness of Mr. Darcy posted at Austenesque Reviews! My favorite line: "I highly recommend this exquisitely crafted variation!" Perfect! DO check it out: http://austenesquereviews.com/2014/11/madness-mr-darcy-alexa-adams.html.

There is also an excerpt from The Madness of Mr. Darcy as well as an international giveaway going on at The Calico Critic. Giveaway ends on 12/7: http://calicocritic.blogspot.com/2014/11/excerpt-and-giveaway-madness-of-mr.html.

Regarding Being Mrs. Bennet: the last chapter posted somehow got chopped in half, right when they were at Pemberley, and I lost the rest of it. Disheartened and insanely busy, I have not tried to rewrite what was lost, but I will. Just not sure when. We're almost at the end of the story. I plan to post a second draft at AHA late winter/early spring.

Looking ahead: I am way behind on reviews. Hoping to catch up on some of those before the end of the year. I am also going to be putting together a Christmas vignette, following up on The Madness of Mr. Darcy a few years after the end of the book. This will probably be in lieu of my usual Christmas offering, though I have some aspiration to hurry up and illustrate last year's Twelve Days of Christmas. We'll see how December transpires.

NaNoWriMo is going great! Currently in just over 45,000 words, but as I have a personla goal of 60,000 words, there is still a bit to go. I have not been sharing excerpts like I did last year. Not sure why, just haven't felt particularly compelled. The Prodigal Husband is my first straight regency romance, though there is still a lot of JA influence, of course. It is also a great deal more sexy than what I'm used to writing. Maybe that is why I'm keeping it closer this year. I'm sure there will be excerpts to come.

Happy Thanksgiving to the american Janeites out there! I'll catch back up with you all in December.

The Madness of Mr. Darcy at Austenesque Reviews

There is a guest post about some of the characters from Austen's other novels that appear in The Madness of Mr. Darcy at the fabulous Austenesque Reviews along with a giveaway! Don't miss it!

http://austenesquereviews.com/2014/10/guest-post-giveaway-author-alexa-adams.html#more-14378

I've been rather busy lately and as usual it is my blog that suffers. Look for more Being Mrs. Bennet soon (it is almost done!). I also haven't forgotten Francis Hodgson Burnet and Charlotte Lennox. I cannot say when the next posts in those series will appear. Before the end of the year? Honestly, between NaNoWriMo bearing down on me like a steam engine and all my other commitments, it is hard to predict what will and wont get done. How about a few final quarter writing/blogging goals?

1. Have an awesome Twisted Austen with Becoming Mrs. Norris. Posts start the 25th.
2. Write 50,000 words of The Prodigal Husband, my first non-austenesque, regency romance 
3. Finish Being Mrs. Bennet
4. Write a much requested short sequel to The Madness of Mr. Darcy, a Christmas gift to my readers.

Those are the main items. We'll see what else gets done. There are, of course, my real life commitments too. Case in point, the guessing game for the school book fair. How many gemstones so you see?

If Cinderella & Elsa were roommates ...

Constructed entirely of cardboard & hot glue

And many many plastic gemstones.

Little secret passageway 

Just had to share.

Makes a cozy reading nook

Mr. Darcy's Madness - A More Intimate Peek

Five more days of NaNoWriMo! I'm hoping to put in 3 to 4,000 a day, putting the overall word count on The Madness of Mr. Darcy somewhere in the 80,000s.

The problem is I'm beginning to fizzle out, which is why I'm writing this blog post instead of plugging ahead. Perhaps the sharing of another, extremely rough excerpt will evoke more words of encouragement from my kind readers, giving me the final push I need to complete the novel. It is by far the most complicated story I have ever written, and I sincerely hope it will be my best book yet!

The following, unlike the previous excerpts I've shared, is from the beginning of the story, when Darcy is grappling with whether or not to enter the private asylum called Ramsey House. I'd love to hear you comments! Thanks for reading!

Mr. Darcy was forced to face that truth later that evening. Only an hour two after finally, following a length struggle, falling asleep, he woke up, as he so often did, haunted by specters from his past.

He rose and drew on his dressing gown before opening the door to his room in order to examine the clock in the outer chamber. Normally, on such occasions when sleep was impossible, it was his habit to roam the estate, but tonight the pile of clothes left in waiting by his obliging valet for just such an occasion held no interest for him. He lit a candle and looked to the clock. Three am. No one should be about the house anymore, but he still looked out into the hallway before exiting his room, checking in both directions before making his way hastily to the large gallery, filled with family portraits, one floor down, almost immediately beneath the family quarters. He thought darkly on this arrangement, for it was as if his entire ancestry was buried beneath his bed, where he could always feel the force of their expectations and his failures.

Upon entering the gallery, he lit a lamp and began to walk slowly down the length of the room, stopping to study each of his ancestors in turn. There was his great-great-great grandfather, William Darcy, who united his estate of Pembor to the neighboring Waverly through marriage to the sumptuously dressed lady hanging on his right: Elizabeth Hollingsworth. Thought a beauty in her day, the image of the first mistress of Pemberley, in her large collar and enormous skirts, had terrified Darcy since his boyhood. He no longer shielded his eyes from her sharp gaze as he passed her, but she still seemed to cast an aura of menace. He used to dream she was roaming the estates decapitated, with nothing but a disk of starched lace where her head should be. Though she had died a peaceful death at a respectable age, this did not keep her from haunting him. Tonight he stared at her closely, imposing her headless image on the portrait in his mind’s eye, amusing himself with the thought that she seemed a bit more becoming without the appendage.

Next was their son, Edward Darcy, pictured first as a young man, with another likeness directly to it, done many years later and in company with his wife and three children. One of the boys, Thomas, he thought was his name was, died of some illness or another. If he had survived, the two estates would have been split into two once more. Though still in the same family, instead of melding more and more into one, indistinguishable unit, by his own time there would exist only a distant connection, and he would certainly not be the possessor of such a fine estate..

The the remaining heir’s name was William, and he was Darcy’s great-grandfather. He had two children, an elder boy and younger girl, establishing a tradition of sorts, as the next two generations following him bred in precisely the same manner. Darcy thought what a coincidence it was, and wondered fantastically if other children were forcibly prevented, in an attempt to preserve such a convenient dichotomy. His grandfather and father both married heiresses, and their fortunes were freely invested in the estate, always growing and improving, for their was never an abundance of heirs for which to provide. Darcy came to his father’s portrait and looked at it warily. What would his father think of him now, the destroyer of the work of so many generations?

He had failed his duties in every sense of the manner. First and foremost, he had not provided an heir to the estate, passed down so seamlessly for so long. He had once thought Georgiana would have a son, alleviating him of the responsibility. He might have been given the name Dracy, or taken it later in life, and the regular visits of this imaginary nephew, come to learn the management of the estate, would have saved his life from the lonely desolation into which it had sunk. But then Georgiana died, horribly and childless. He had failed to protect her. It didn’t matter how many times he tried to convince himself that she had become her husband’s responsibility, he could not shake the feeling of guilt in her regard. The way in which her life was taken made it all the more horrible. Her widower was not so guilt ridden. Not three years after her passing, he was married once more, and he now had three children and an idyllic family life to show for it.

Darcy knew at the time that he had a duty to find a suitable woman and marry her, with or without the love he had once hoped to share with Elizabeth Bennet, but Georgiana’s death bore down upon him, crippling his will. He had already gained the reputation of being a recluse, but when the official mourning period was more than complete, he tried to force himself through a London season, in hopes the effort would produce an acceptable wife. He attended one ball and then fled for the comfort and security of Pemberley. He had not been seen in society since.

Perhaps it was not too late? Perhaps Sir Frederick really could help him? He looked at his father’s face again and began to laugh wildly. What would he say to his son being committed to a mad house? He would think it even more horrifying than what he had done to poor Wickham, and that was taking into account his affection! No, what his father cared for above all else was family pride and honor. He had seen himself as the embodiment of his heritage, and he tried to raise his son to be the same way. What a wasted effort!

He looked to his mother, bewigged and bonneted in the fashion of the last century, and thought of her sentiments on the notion. They would be just like those of her sister, Lady Catherine, though spoken more softly. Both his parents would shun him if they were alive, their embarrassment at how low he had sunk a source of incessant pain. Oh! Something could certainly be worse than a madhouse. At least he had only their portraits to confront, still and silent, instead of the shame of living and breathing judges. He started laughing again, but the harsh chortles quickly dissolved into weeping, and he fell to his knees before his parents images, crying with hopeless abandon. He could sink no further. There was no pride or dignity left to lose, and then there was that name, Bennet, which seemed to be calling him away from his decade’s seclusion at Pemberley. He would go to Ramsey House, if only for the vague stirrings the name conjured. What else had he left to lose?

Missed the previously posted excerpts from The Madness of Mr. Darcy? You can read the first conversation Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet have in the book here, and a scene from almost the end of the book here.