A to Z: Letters to Dead Writers: Daphne du Maurier

This month I'm writing one post for each letter of the alphabet, all on the theme of "Letters to Dead Writers." You can see my theme reveal post here and learn more about the blogging challenge here.

Today's writer is Daphne du Maurier
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Dear Ms. du Maurier,

My mother gave me your books to read, having loved them herself. They were dark and brooding and dreamy all at the same time. The settings were sweeping and emotions ran high. Mom was right. They were perfect for me.

Rebecca is the one I've read the most times since, though I have now read nearly everything you published. I have a hardback copy of Britannia, but I've been putting off reading it, because then I'll be out of your words to enjoy.

Recently, my classics book club read Rebecca, and there were some among our group who thought your book too light to be considered a classic, but I think they underestimate you, as unfortunately, critics long have.

The menace that emanates from the pages is astonishing, considering that the titular threat is dead before the first page of the novel. Rebecca is not a ghost in the traditional sense, but she haunts the halls of Manderley, and dogs the steps of her former husband and his new wife all the same.

Mrs. Danvers is one of the most terrifying villains I've ever read.

You were amazing Ms. du Maurier as were your books. I'm glad to see your work finally getting the recognition it has always deserved.

Love,
Samantha

IWSG: When part-time isn't enough, but you can't afford full time

Welcome to the first Wednesday of the month. You know what that means! It's time to let our insecurities hang out. Yep, it's the Insecure Writer's Support Group blog hop. If you're a writer at any stage of career, I highly recommend this blog hop as a way to connect with other writers for support, sympathy, ideas, and networking.

If you're a reader, it's a great way to peek behind the curtain of a writing life.

This month's wonderful co-hosts are J.H. Moncrieff, Natalie Aguirre, Patsy Collins and Chemist Ken!

Be sure to check out their blogs (and others on this great blog hop) when you're finished here!
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This month, I'm feeling the crunch of time.

Since I began to see my work into print (my debut was in 2015), I've been building a writing life that involves public appearances, judging contests, teaching classes, keeping up a social media presence and--oh yeah--writing!  I love nearly every aspect of it.

These little tastes of fame, like appearing as a guest on a talkshow or speaking as an expert on a panel, when they come are validating and invigorating. Coupled with my innate desire to help (it's in my DNA, and why I'm also a teacher), it's a beautiful thing.

A beautiful and exhausting thing.

I could easily fill all my working hours each day with my writing life. Unfortunately, I can't yet also fill my bank account with full time pay for that work. I don't yet earn minimum wage when you average it out as hourly pay.

I'm not a trust fund baby and my "sugar daddy" husband (whose support I'm very fortunate to have) isn't one either.

We have children, which turns out to be a very expensive hobby, especially when one of them grows up and goes to college.

So, I'm holding down a demanding (and underpaid) day job (teaching middle school in "Right to Work" North Carolina) for half what my husband makes for the same education level and half my experience, while also trying to build up my second career and occasionally play with my dog, talk to my children, or date my husband or something.

I was patient with getting this far, and I'm trying to be patient still, trusting that the balance will skew in my favor given focus and hard work. But it's hard, when it feels like I lose opportunities for my writing life because there are simply not enough hours I can devote to it each day.

So, that's my insecurity this month: trying to hold on to the hope that I can make my passion into a paying proposition that justifies the hours and effort I put in.

I'm starting by being more intentional and regular about submitting my work. After all, no one can read it and decide to pay me for it if I don't submit it!

How do you hold onto your dreams when they're seeming to take too long to come true? I'd love to hear your advice!

A to Z: Letters to Dead Writers: Patricia Clapp

This month I'm writing one post for each letter of the alphabet, all on the theme of "Letters to Dead Writers." You can see my theme reveal post here and learn more about the blogging challenge here.

Today's writer is Patricia Clapp.
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Dear Ms. Clapp,

I read your book Jane-Emily at the perfect impressionable age to set my tastes for life. I think I was about twelve.

Maybe I would have been a fan of gothic romance and stories with evil children in them anyway. Maybe it's just me. I also loved the Addam's Family and Dark Shadows when I was a kid, after all.

But I think you get at least some of the credit for my interest because of the vibrant world and wonderful sense of menace you created in that novel. I've read it twice since, and it holds up for me as an adult. That's not something I can say about everything I loved as a child.

The edition of Jane-Emily I read as a child came compiled with another of your books, The Witches' Children. That one came more from history, taking the reader with you back to Salem, Massachusetts, during the years that made that city a household name. It started a fascination with that case and that section of history that lasted many years in me.

But Emily! I still think of her every time I see a gazing ball in a garden. She was wonderfully malevolent, and because she attacked a child, it was so nearly a tragedy. No one ever believes the children in time! 

So, thank  you Ms. Clapp. You opened up a world of story for me that still bring me joy and cold chills today.

Love,
Samantha

A to Z: Letters to Dead Writers: Charlotte Brontë

 This month I'm writing one post for each letter of the alphabet, all on the theme of "Letters to Dead Writers." You can see my theme reveal post here and learn more about the blogging challenge here.


Today's writer is Charlotte Brontë.
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Dear Ms. Brontë,

Jane Eyre is one of the books of my heart. I loved her stubborn independence, her indomitable strength, and her fierce pride. When I read the book for the first time, probably in middle school, I was an immediate convert. The story gave me everything I loved in Gothic romance without a ninny as the heroine (a failing in too much of the genre). I've read it several times since, and I love it every time.

I didn't learn much about you yourself and your family until  later. As a college student, I studied a bit of biographical detail, enough to become fascinated by your family. I still have in the back of my mind some kind of book around your brother Branwell, the one Brontë who never seemed to produce anything of worth . . .and also the only boy.

Your life and your work are like that: mysterious and interesting. No wonder Jean Rhys couldn't resist writing a backstory for poor Bertha, the quintissential madwoman in the attic in her Wide Sargasso Sea. I also loved Romancing Miss Brontë, Juliet Gael's imagining of your life. I wonder what you would think of having become such an object of interest. Would you have enjoyed Rhys's reinterpretation of your work? It's hard to know. You were a private person, but not a recluse. You enjoyed a few perks of celebrity, I think.

Whenever I imagine you, you are walking out on the moors that featured so strongly in your work and that of your sisters. Wind is whipping your hair across your face and bringing unexpected color into pale cheeks. You come back home looking as if you've been mussed by a lover, but it was your muse who left you rumpled. I only wish you'd lived long enough to write more books!

Love,
Your fan girl,
Samantha

A to Z: Letters to Dead Writers: Louisa May Alcott

This month I'm writing one post for each letter of the alphabet, all on the theme of "Letters to Dead Writers." You can see my theme reveal post here and learn more about the blogging challenge here.

Today's writer is Louisa May Alcott.
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Dear Ms. Alcott,

I'm sure you hear this all the time, but you are part of why I am a writer today.

I'm not sure how old I was when I read Little Women, but I was certainly young enough to be very impressionable. Like many a bookish girl who didn't want to be held to stereotypical expectations for women, I fell in love with Jo March.

Jo wasn't the good sister, but she was the most interesting one. She was passionate and loyal and fierce and all the things I felt in my heart even when I was afraid to express them. And she wrote stories!

Sometime later, I learned that you didn't really want to write Little Women, but had been pressured into doing so by your publisher. It's interesting because there's so much of your life in it, paralleling some of your family history. There's some evidence that Jo is lot like you, too. 

I read everything I could find of yours when I was a kid. I felt like you understood me and my life. Like you, I grew up in "genteel poverty"among loving but financially poor people who believed in that hard work and dedication would pay off.  People who valued kindness and family and love, as well as books and creativity.

Even though I studied Emerson and Thoreau in high school literature courses, I didn't put together that you and your family were part of that same set until I was in grad school, and took a bit of a literary tour of New England on my way to my summer program at Middlebury College. My mother and I toured your family home and farm and I bought a biography of you that I still treasure.

You really were a woman ahead of your time. An abolitionist, a feminist, an activist. You wrote under a pseudonym to protect the secret of your gender. I'm so glad you did!

Thank you,
With Love and Admiration,
Samantha

Guest Post: Jordan Elizabeth's New Release!

Hello regular readers! I'm handing over my blog today to Jordan Elizabeth to celebrate the release of her newest book with her. Please read on to see what she's been up to!

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CASTLE OF BLUE STONES
A New Young Adult Fantasy from Jordan Elizabeth

Volcanic ash has ruined the world and only remote outposts remain. At the castle in the mountains, covered by snow, everyone only sees shades of blue.

Except for Jaisy.

By day she explores farther down the mountain. By night, she’s plagued with dreams of a panther and ghosts calling her name.

When Jaisy’s job sends her into the dungeon, she discovers a hidden room filled with dangerous information. There are secrets within the damp, stone walls that those in control don’t want anyone to know.

The leaders will kill to protect those secrets – even executing one of their own.

Jaisy will not go quietly into the blue night, no matter how hard the leaders attempt to silence her.


Get your book today from Amazon for 99 cents! getbook.at/CastleofBlueStones

Chapter 1

They tell me the world shouldn’t be blue, but that’s all I see. Everything has a twinge of blue, from the mist that sometimes rises in the morning to the snow that never wants to leave. The Guardians tell me the snow should be white, that which stretches everywhere across the mountains. I know what it looks like, white, when I close my eyes, a stark absence of color, but I shouldn’t, for all I remember is blue in all different shades.

The cold dampness bites at my toes. The extra two pairs of woolen socks, all I can fit into the old boots, aren’t working. I glance over my shoulder, up the hills to the castle of dark blue stone – they say it’s such a dark grey it looks black – where the windows haunt my dreams. That glass that reflects the sunlight screams at me to ignore the worn-out leather boots and the threat of frostbite on my cheeks, to keep trudging and never dare go back.

Except, I will. What lies beyond all the snow and rocks? They tell me nothing, that I should be thankful to have survived the volcano that killed ninety-percent of the population with ash, which brought about what they call an ice age. Out there, I will freeze and starve. Death will claim me.

I tug off one of my wool mittens to study my fingers, still pliable enough that frostbite hasn’t begun. I’ve gone what might be an extra half-mile from my last trek. I mark each time I stop to go back by painting on a rock. I choose a rock tall enough to protrude from the snow.

My breath puffs in front of my lips. I’ve gone a mile, by my reckoning. I always push myself for that one extra mile. They’re used to it, back at the castle. My boss won’t expect me back until morning when we file for breakfast, and judging by the sun lowering in the sky, I have a few hours before twilight.

I pull my glove back on and continue. The snow drifted, so in most places, it reaches my shins, but sometimes it comes up to my knees, or my waist, but never deeper. I’ve laced the ankle boots as tight as they go, with extra woolen legwarmers, to keep the snow from falling inside.

Someday, I will find what calls to me. Whatever it is, it is mine. It wants me there.

The wind tears through the leather coat. I’ll need to sew extra material into the lining. The dress underneath is thick, with a collar that buttons to my chin. I won’t freeze. The ice would be the winner then, not I.

“Jaisy…”

I stiffen. No one would follow me. They don’t go outside except for the balconies, for fresh air when the sun is warm.

“Jaisy.”

The voices have begun again. “Who are you?” My own voice is higher-pitched, shrill, desperate. It bounces off the boulders rising jagged; it rattles through the mountains into the cloudless sky.

The voices only reach me when I leave the castle, when I am far enough away that it is only a speck of blue.

Flakes of snow spiral into the image of a young woman. Her hair is copper, with a tiara on her head, set with pearls. A sheer veil drapes around her bare shoulders. Her red dress is sleeveless, with a gold sash across the front.

She is not blue.

“Shayna…” It is her voice, deeper than mine, which answers my question. The flakes fall back to the ground, banishing her. She’s appeared before, always leaving without more than a few words. Last time, she swore she loved me.

I sit in the snow and adjust my hat. My heartbeat races, my palms itch as though a thousand spiders bit them.

A dream approaches. “Take me.”


#


A woman shoved my arms into the sleeves of an oversized brown coat and jerked at the fastenings. “You do not look back. You keep going.”

“Grandma, Lana isn’t here. They’re going to hurt her.” My voice wobbled and tears blurred my vision. I wiped the burn away on my sleeve as she fastened the final brass button. “Grandma.” She needed to listen – Lana had to be saved. “Our lives are linked. If she dies, I die.” It was more than that. Lana had become everything to me since I turned thirteen, two years ago.

“That’s not how it works. If you die, she dies, but if she dies, another will take her place.” My grandmother cried as I did, her blue eyes shining and the kohl around her lashes running. Her brown coat was as hideous as mine, shapeless, a peasant man’s; I had to be short, so mine dragged along the marble floor.

Antorge bolted into the library and slammed the door shut. “They’re here.”

“The spirits save us.” My grandmother drew a heart over her chest to call on their good graces. How could they help us when we were abandoning our pets to fight for us? Lana, my panther, should be at my side, not snarling at the palace gate.

Antorge pulled me into his arms to lay his lips against mine. “I love you, Jaisy.” Gone were his regal clothes; in their place, he wore a baggy, woolen tunic and black slacks tucked into boots. He could’ve been a servant rather than my betrothed.

My grandmother fiddled with the lever beneath the ship painting; the secret panel in the wall swung outward. “Come, hurry.”

My heart thudded against my chest and I tightened my fingers around his. “We’ll hide in the wall.”

“We’ll keep going.” My grandmother scowled as she vanished into the shadows of the passageway.

Antorge and I had played hide-and-seek in that dank area when we were children. Father had told us it’d been used for refugees in the wars one-hundred years ago. It would be used again for that.

As I stepped inside, Antorge pulled me back around to press his lips to mine. “I love you.” He nudged me inside, one hand on the panel.

“She said to hurry…” A roaring started in my ears. The candles around the library had grown too bright. “You’re not coming.”

Now he cried; so many tears amongst us. “I’ll lead them away. It’s you they want.”

“They want all of us.” Grandmother grabbed my sleeve from the darkness, jerking me back. The panel closed, sealing a wall between Antoge and me.

“He’ll be fine,” Grandmother whispered. “He’ll find us if we don’t find him.”

The tunnel led us up and down. The tears refused to stop and a sob choked my throat. Our ancestors had done this before, they would pity us. My brunette bangs fell over my eyes, long curls catching on my lips. In the dark, my hair could have been sable.

The passage opened beneath the bridge in the city. Snow fell in thick flakes from the sky. It had never snowed so much; it had begun when the evil ones first entered the country.

“The temple will protect us,” my grandmother said. She believed so heartedly in the ancestors. We needed Lana and the other soul pets, not long-dead ghosts.

The ice in the pond cracks and a hand jutted out, skinny enough to accentuate every bone. Yellow fingernails, an inch long, curled around the fingertips.

“What is that?” I screamed.

I would waken in Antorge’s bed with sunlight painting us in colors from the stained-glass window. We would giggle, he’d kiss me, and I’d tiptoe back to my bedroom, biting my knuckles to stifle my laughter.

This couldn’t be real. A nightmare terrifying enough to send a child scurrying to its parent.

The hand seized the dragging coat. I reached for my grandmother, catching sight of her green eyes and silver hair, before frigid water closed over me.


#


I open my eyes to realize I’ve fallen backwards. It has begun to snow, flakes settling over me. When I blink, I feel frozen tears.

I’ve had that dream before, and each time the loss of the young man stabs me so hard I want to scream.

“Grandmother?” No answer besides the wind.

I walk to the nearest rock and pull the paint stick from my pocket. They say the paint is red, but it appears murky blue. I color in a square as large as my head and tuck the paint stick away, buttoning the pocket. If I head back to the castle, I’ll stop crying. The grandmother and Antorge will fade away, back into the daydream, and everyday activities will take over. I won’t be lost to my own mind.

Antorge and my grandmother will never be real. I’ve made them up, even though the dreams have color and I can feel them touch me.

They tell me I never had a grandmother, so she can’t be factual.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” the Guardians say. The volcano killed my family when I was two years old. I’ve lived at the castle ever since.

About the Author

Jordan Elizabeth writes down her nightmares in order to live her dreams. When she's not creating art or searching for lost history in the woods, she's updating her blog. Jordan roams Central New York, but she loves to travel.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: Theme Reveal

Is it already almost April? This year is zooming by!

April, among other things, is the A to Z blogging challenge, which asks bloggers to post 26 entries in April (one for each day, minus Sundays) corresponding to the letters of the alphabet. This is the most fun, in my opinion, when people choose a theme to explore.

In past years, I've done:

2018: Poetry! posts about some of my favorite poets.
2017: Places in my Heart
2016: Superheroes
2015: My Publishing Journey
2014: Evocative Words

All of these have been a lot of fun to write, and participating has built my circle of friends, readers, and colleagues. So, of course I'm back to play along again, here in year 10.

So, what are we up to this year? I'm writing letters to dead writers. There are a lot of writers who have been important to me across my life and it's too late to meet some of them in person, but it's not too late to express my love and appreciation.

My planned list of writers (subject to change due to inspiration) includes:

A: LOUISA MAY ALCOTT

B: CHARLOTTE BRONTE

C: PATRICIA CLAPP

D: DAPHNE DU MAURIER

E: EMILY DICKINSON

F: ANNE FRANK

G: GWENDOLYN BROOKS

H: H.D. (HILDA DOOLITTLE)

I: LAURA INGALLS WILDER

J: JANE AUSTEN

K: HELEN KELLER

L: MADELEINE L’ENGLE

M: MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

N: ANAIS NIN

O: OCTAVIA BUTLER

P: DOROTHY PARKER

Q: QUEEN OF CRIME FICTION, AGATHA CHRISTIE

R: JEAN RHYS

S: SHIRLEY JACKSON

T: SOJOURNER TRUTH

U: URSULA LE GUIN

V: VIRGINIA WOOLF

W: EDITH WHARTON

X: ANNE SEXTON

Y: EMPRESS YAMATO

Z: ZORA NEALE HURSTON

See any favorites in that list? Did you think of some you're surprised I didn't choose? I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments!