A Gift to Give Yourself

A Note from Stephanie:   

In the middle of the madness that will be December (in spite of our best efforts to control it), I hope that you will find time to give yourself a gift, too—time with a favorite book. Time with your feet propped up. Time with a cup of joe or cocoa or tea. Time. The best gift of all.

       
I thought I’d share two of the books I return to at this time of year (and why).  

Journey into Christmas by Bess Streeter Aldrich. 

Bess Streeter Aldrich is my favorite story-teller. She’s “the other Nebraska author” that few seem to know about. (Everyone knows about Willa Cather.) Aldrich is “softer.” Her stories are gentle and filled with hope. Journey into Christmas (first published in 1949) is a collection of short stories guaranteed to bring tears to your eyes and encouragement to your soul. The themes are timeless (difficult economies and tough times) but hope reigns eternal. And hope wins. Aldrich’s gift with imagery resonates with me. For example:

     “Bellfield is similar to a hundred other small Midwestern towns. From the air its building look like so many dishes clustered together on a flat table. The covered soup tureen is the community hall. The red vase in the center is the courthouse. The silver-tipped salt shaker is the water tank.

     There are few changes in the ensemble from year to year. Only the tablecloth is different. There is a vivid green one for spring, a checkered green-and-tan one for  summer, a mottled yellow-red-and-brown one for autumn. Just now—the day before  Christmas—nature, the busy housekeeper, had dressed the table in a snow-white cloth for the first time …”

            In another story, where children think that Christmas has become too much work for their 81-year-old mother and decide they won’t be going home for Christmas, Aldrich writes, “…not one had understood how much less painful it is to be tired in your body than to be weary in your mind—how much less distressing it is to have an ache in your bones than to have a hurt in your heart.” Never fear, though—Aldrich always treats her readers to a happy ending.

             If I could, I’d send a copy to every blog reader. I like it that much.

The Day Christ Was Born by Jim Bishop. 

             “The road out of Bethany threw a tawny girdle around the hill they called the Mount of Olives and the little parties came up slowly out of the east leading asses with dainty dark feet toward the spendor of Jerusalem.”

            I’ve never been to the Holy Land, but with that opening and all the way to the end, I feel that I am seeing what Mary and Joseph saw as they journeyed toward Christmas. In addition, I begin to understand what Jerusalem meant (and means) to the Jewish people.

            Bishop’s Mary is a flesh-and-blood girl—not some other-worldly mythical figure I can’t relate to. In this book, Mary is faithful and aware of her heavenly Father’s care, but she’s also terrified and wondering. “God was everywhere. It gave Mary confidence to know that He was everywhere. She needed confidence. Mary was fifteen.”

            The book flap on my copy of this book says, “Bishop incorporates treasures of information … discovered by nineteen centuries of scholars in archaeology, linguistics and related disciplines, to create a tapestry woven from many threads of a gripping, ever-unfolding narrative that is biblically accurate yet filled with rich, dramatic, detail.”

            In plain language, Bishop’s account is the ultimate “you are there” experience (at least it is for me). He helps me see, hear, small, and feel what the most important event in all of human history might have been like for the real humans who lived it—Mary and Joseph, shepherds and Magi (in spite of the title, the story goes beyond that one day). Bishop provides the cultural context for the story in a way that helps me understand and appreciate “the players” far more than I ever have before. [Apparently the book is out of print, but abundant used copies are available online.]

_____________________________

            May your holidays be bright, and I hope you give yourself the gift of quiet time and reading. 

What’s your favorite holiday reading? 

A Patchwork Christmas Collection

Quilts and Christmas.
There's no better combination.

A PATCHWORK CHRISTMAS

Stephanie and I (Nancy) are happy to announce a new novella collection by the two of us and Judith Miller. Three historical novellas that revolve around Christmas—and quilts! What evokes a cozier feeling than quilts? And as a bonus, in the back of the book are recipes and directions to make a crazy-quilt ornament, a pair of knitted Amana mittens, and a patchwork doll quilt!

• THE BRIDAL QUILT by Nancy Moser: A wealthy ingénue—the toast of 1889 New York—
inadvertently causes grave injury to a poor man who protects a street urchin from a rearing horse.
Remorse forces her to bring the man home, where she discovers he is someone she once considered quite a catch. Can she give up everything to love him?

• SEAMS LIKE LOVE by Judith Miller: Jilted by a faithless fiancé, Karla Stuke of the Amana
Colonies packs away her wedding quilt in 1890, her faith in men destroyed and her hope for marriage and children shattered. Until an apprentice pharmacist arrives in town. Does Frank Lehner have the saint’s patience he’ll need to change her mind?

* A PATCHWORK LOVE by Stephanie Grace Whitson: Jane McClure, widowed too soon, is headed west in 1875 to marry a prosperous businessman she barely knows in order to give her daughter a better life. Given shelter when a show storm strands them both, Jane worries that her chance is slipping away—and so does the homesteader who rescued her. Will she see what’s
right in front of her?

Thanks for visiting, and may your holidays be bright.

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Jane Austen's Writing Journey -- is our Journey Too

I’m at a writer’s conference in Dallas: ACFW. Over 600 novelists with big dreams and loads of talent. Not-coincidentally (it seems to me) I am editing one of my biographical novels, this one about Jane Austen called Just Jane (I'm working to get it back in print.)


But just a few moments ago, as I read about Jane's angst and her dreams, I thought of all of us writers, here at the conference, over two hundred years after Jane wrote her immortal novels. The years fall away as we see that her issues, doubts, and hopes are ours.

Read about Jane Austen’s writing life, from her point-of-view, as she struggles to be Just Jane. See how her struggles are our struggles… (FYI: her manuscript First Impressions became Pride & Prejudice.)

Just Jane (Chapter 4) 

I have always written. My first attempts at novel writing—Catherine, Lesley Castle, and Lady Susan—are evidence of that. But none is quite right. The latter two works are a bit scandalous, with adultery, abandonment of children, and permissiveness beyond the ken of polite society. Years ago, when I read them aloud to the family, Father’s eyebrows rose. Yet he didn’t chastise me or tell me to stop. I thank him for being patient with me, for what good is a rector who cannot see the joke in sins and sinners?

I have also attempted a series of letters called Elinor and Marianne. I enjoy the differences between the two sisters. Perhaps I have shown that a disparity in character does not indicate a lack of character. . . .

We have always been a family of readers—my father’s library has over five hundred volumes, and I have access to them all. And though it’s not always considered delicate to admit it, we adore novels. Those of Fanny Burney, Samuel Richardson, Henry Fielding—to name three. And though I hold Fielding’s Tom Jones dear—for the fact that book inspired the dialogue between my Tom and me—my favourite is Richardson’s masterpiece, Sir Charles Grandison. It’s a massive book, populated by friends. If only I could discuss their failings and follies directly with the characters themselves.

If a book is well written, I always find it too short. The boldness in the craft that these authors possess inspires me to try my hand at it. Not that my busyness will ever amount to much.

I remember sitting in my father’s study once, reading while the boys played outside. I heard Henry in the hallway talking with Father, wanting me to come join them in a roll down the green hill behind the rectory. But Father stopped him, saying, “Leave your sister alone, she is enmeshed; she is gone from us.”

Henry (being Henry) said, “No, she is not; she is right there in your study. I saw her through the window.” Thankfully, Father held fast, protecting my privacy. His words held more than a kernel of truth. When I read a novel I’m not here. I’m transported to far-off places, my eyes unseeing of the words on the page, busy with a scene being played out in my mind’s eye, with my ears engaged, hearing the voices carry from the pen to the present. What a lovely place to be—not here.

I enjoy working in the sitting room I share with my sister, Cassandra (the blue paper on the walls here is such a balm), and she respects my time here, though, in truth, I don’t mind her presence. By her own volition she never intrudes. It’s I who occasionally request her participation. I relish her comments when I read to her a line or two out of doubt. She is very wise, and, seeing beyond what I have said, she has an ear for what I mean. I often read aloud to Mother and Father after evening tea and also accept their comments, though I admit, with less alacrity. ’Tis a distinction I fear implies too much. Mother usually asks for more description of place and costume: “But what colour is her dress, Jane?” And though I have attempted to write more of these details, it’s a forced addition that intrudes upon the words that beg to be released. Her request reminds me of a child pulling on a mother’s gown, wanting attention. Sometimes attention to the child’s needs is required, but at other times it’s best ignored.

And so, I ignore Mother’s wishes and do what I must do, and write how I must write. If a bubbling stream forces itself to become a torrent, surely disaster will follow. I am what I am, and though I’m still learning this measure and meter of words, I must be true to my nature, and yea, even my gift.

For it is a gift—from God, if I may be so bold. I say this not to imply great talent, but to indicate my awareness that I have received something beyond my own choosing. Although in essence I realize I can refuse this offering, I also sense that the prudent act, the one that begs to be tinged with sincere gratitude, requires me to do what I can with this gift and offer it back into the void from whence it came. Whether it will prosper and move along or disappear like morning fog, I don’t know. I should not care. For the gift is not truly mine to hold, but mine to use and return. To someone’s benefit. I hope.

My musings have delayed my task for the day. I must acknowledge that I have finished that which I started nine months ago. I stack the pages and align the edges. So many hours. So many thoughts—some used and many discarded. But here it sits. First Impressions, the story of the Bennet family, which was inspired by my dear Tom’s own familial condition. The two oldest Bennet sisters: Jane and Elizabeth, their names taken from my own name and Cassandra’s middle name. If someone asks if I used us as the inspiration for our namesakes, I will have to tell them no. If anything, Cassandra gives the most to Jane’s character, and I to Lizzy’s. But even then, they are not us. Not completely. And never purely. But they are two sisters, dear to each other and different from each other. In that we share a connection.

I’m reluctant to be done, for I have long lived with Lizzy and her sisters, with Mr. Darcy, and even the duplicitous Wickham. I have invested and divested in them as much as I have in my own Austen family. I’m wont to say adieu to them, as I would to those with whom I share blood ties.

I set my hand upon the pages and let a breath go in and out. It’s hard to let go, yet it’s a necessity in the birth of any child. I tie a string around the pages, adjusting its bow. A pretty package all in all.

There is a knock on the door. “Come in.”

Father opens the door, a letter in hand. “’Tis a letter from Henry, addressed to you.”

I nod and reach for it.

Father sees the pages. “You have finished?”

“I have.”

“Will you read the end to us tonight?”

“If you would like.”

He gives me a chastising look. “Of course we would like. It’s a good work, Jane. A fine accomplishment.”

“I’m happy the family is pleased with it.”

He strokes his chin, his eyes on the neat pile of pages. “Actually, I know of a man in the publishing business and I was thinking—”

My words don’t align with my thoughts. “No, Father. It’s not good enough for that.”

“Nonsense. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” He turns toward the door. “Tomorrow I will write a proper letter of introduction. Then I will send it to this man, Thomas Cadell.”

“He will not publish it.”

Father points a finger, then flicks it toward the end of my nose. “We shall see.”

Once again I place a hand upon the pages that are mine, all mine. Until now? Until someone beyond the family reads the words? I shiver at the thought with dread—

And yes, excitement.

**

I hold on to hope. And a letter.

The letter Father wrote to the publishers in London—Cadell and Davies—is quite . . . direct. He allowed me to copy it before it was sent:

     Sirs

     I have in my possession a Manuscript Novel, comprised in three Vols. About the length of Miss Burney’s     Evelina. As I am well aware of what consequence it is that a work of this sort should make its first appearance under a respectable name I apply to you. Shall be much obliged therefore if you will inform me whether you chuse to be concerned in it; what will be the expense of publishing at the Author’s risk; & what you will advance for the   Property of it, if on perusal it is approved of?

     Should your answer give me encouragement I will send you the work.

      I am, Sirs, Yr. obt. hble Servt: Geo Austen

In many ways it’s an awkward letter, and if I would have had the chance to edit it . . .

I shove away such presumption. He is my father. He deals with businessmen every day. What do I know regarding the form of such correspondence?

I know that I care deeply about its outcome.

Although I’m careful not to make anyone else aware, I pore over the letter daily—actually, many times a day. I pull it out of my writing desk and imagine Mr. Cadell reading it and being intrigued, pulling a fresh piece of paper close. He dips quill to ink and writes, Sir. We would be happy to peruse such a manuscript. Please send post-haste. We have been searching for just such a novel and will surely publish it—at our expense.

I laugh at the presumption. Yet what good are dreams if they are grounded in logic and probability?

The letter also brings me great pride, for to know that Father thinks well of the story, enough to bother his day by writing a letter and by offering to have it published “at the Author’s risk” . . . I’m very blessed.

I hear Mother talking to Cook below. I have been alone in my daydreams long enough. There is work to do. Life does go on. With or without a published book by Jane Austen.

**

Tilly brings in the post, along with a gust of the November chill. I meet her near the door, eager to retrieve it. There is a letter from Aunt Leigh-Perrot in Bath, a letter from Edward, and . . .

My heart stops.

On top of the pile of three is a letter addressed to Cadell and Davies. From my father. Across the front is boldly written: Declined by Return of Post.

I turn it over. Father’s seal is broken and resealed.

They read the letter.

They returned it.

They don’t want my manuscript.

I have been rejected.

Father comes into the foyer, a book in hand. He sees me. “Ah. Letters.” He extends a hand.

I hesitate. For it’s not just I who have been rejected. All Father’s hard work, writing the letter on my behalf, believing in me . . . oddly, I feel I have failed him.

“Jane?”

I give him the three, keeping the rejection on top. He deserves to see it.

He reads the front, turns it over, then reads the front again. “Declined?”

“They read it but—”

His voice rises. “Declined?”

I take the offending letter away, moving it behind my back. Out of sight. “It was a great risk, Father. I’m too great a risk. For who will take seriously anything penned by a parson’s daughter living in Hampshire? I have no standing, no right, no—”

“But declined?”

I point to Edward’s letter, which graces the top of the pile. “Go. Read what your son has to say.”

He nods and turns away, then back to me. “I’m sorry, Jane. It’s a good story.”

“You tried, Father. I will always remember that.” I kiss his cheek.

He goes back to his study.

And I?

I remove the letter from behind my back and stare at it. My silly imaginings of Cadell writing a far different response evaporate. I need to take the words I have just spoken with such false bravery to Father and hold them as truth: Who am I to expect a publisher to care about my work? I’m no one, beyond obscure, never to be known beyond the tight boundaries of tiny Steventon.

Who am I to expect more? Want more? Dream of more?

I retreat to my sitting room and close the door. I open the trunk that holds the evidence of my folly—my follies. Manuscripts written strictly for the amusement of my family. And myself. For I do enjoy the writing process. I do enjoy creating another place and time, populating it with people who could be as outrageous, vainglorious, courageous, or victorious as I will them to be. Through my writing I capture a smidgen of control—if not in my own life, in the lives of my characters. Their happiness, success, justice, or demise depends on me.

If only I had as much control over my own fate. My mind wanders to thoughts of Tom. . . . If only he would come home from his law studies and take me away from all this. Rescue me.

But alas, such happy endings happen only in novels.

Novels that will never be published.

I look down on the stacks of paper, so neatly tied. Hours and hours, days and days of my life . . .

Wasted.

I slip Father’s letter under the bow of First Impressions. The word Declined peeks back at me, teasing me.

Condemning me.

I close the lid of the trunk.

The lid of my dreams.

***

Just Jane

Nancy again: So, dear writing friends, take heart in the disappointments, the excitement, the hard work, and the rejections that come with the writing life. Know that every writer before and after experiences the same things.  And remember the rewards exist in all of those pesky emotions. The reward is in the journey//Nancy