Lives… lived amidst the end of a thousand year way of life and the arising of a new in one country, the struggle to preserve the independence of another, and the consolidation of an entirely new one – a distant and strange place across the ocean calling itself the United States of America…
My “monster” international romantic historical story of 1795-1805: long promised, and now available at last. Much as was regularly and “humbly” offered by 18th and early 19th century authors in their contemporary books’ introductions, borrowing that habit here given the novel is set in their time, I write that… tel qu’il est, je le présente à l’indulgence de mes amis. Indeed, as it is I leave this effort now to the hoped for indulgence and approbation of my friends…
…and, if I may add, to as yet unknown new readers who may soon too become friends.
In simpler and modern English: I have once again given it my best write. Link(s) to it are found above and in my right sidebar as always. The Kindle version is available now, while the (uh, rather large) paperback will be appearing within 24 hours or so.
The difficulties and dangers of travel; the occasional isolation and loneliness; the books; the music; the letters; the ideas; the politics; the happiness; the sorrows; the loves; the unexpected adventures…
…in their world. If it is your sort of a tale I hope you enjoy it. Because a reader enjoying a book is what writing a book is fundamentally all about.
I thank you for following me on my latest “writing journey” (to use the language of 2019). How time does fly as well. Its predecessor, Conventions: The Garden At Paris, had appeared in April 2017, and after that I felt I needed several months’ respite from a keyboard. By July, though, thinking my next book might be maybe a modern day series of travel short stories (a decidedly different writing direction from the 18th century and the French Revolution), I tried to write one… and it was, I felt, utterly awful – and it remains hidden away, never to be seen again.
I realized with that personal sense of failure that if I have any talent at all as a writer, it is in writing full novels. Within weeks, I was scribbling away again on the outline of a new one of the late 18th century – a sequel, but also a stand alone, to the previous one. Remember for example this post (on the sudden invention of “Ana Sánchez,” although she did not have any name as of then) from October 21, 2017?:
When you write, you have to start somewhere(s). I see here and there on social media how “organized” other writers claim to be. Hmm. In contrast, early on I’m creative chaos, typing page after page often “stream of consciousness” style (“Okay, my friends, what are you going to do today?”), and thinking as I go variously anything from the likes of, “Oh, I love that!” to “Umm, that’ll kinda do for now…” to “Good grief, that’s junk!” while always hoping hoping hoping that I will eventually manage fully to develop what began life outlined as perhaps “10 ideas” on a page or two into the full novel readers will enjoy.
And, now, two years and some on, I hope I have (again?) managed to create something worthwhile.
“Robert” in both novels enjoys port. In real life I’m a Robert too as you may know. I prefer cognac to port, but I do like port too; and now that this newest novel is released, I am later today DEFINITELY going to have a VERY large, uh, drink myself as well.😉
Have a good day, wherever you are in our world. 🙂