I can't believe we're into the third week of 2017 already, and I have nothing to talk about.
Well,
I do, but I doubt if you want to hear much about my latest house
project—removing painted-over wallpaper from the dining room. Let’s face it,
that’s about as interesting as watching paint dry.
However, “have you ever
painted over wallpaper?” is my new litmus tests for friends, lovers and
politicians.
And
there is a wrong answer to that question.
On
the writing front, as I worked on revisions, I discovered why Dead Aunt
Charlotte is haunting the family. Not because they never found her body, which
is what the family thinks, but because the family never found Charlotte’s
child.
When
Charlotte died in the 1920s, unexpected pregnancies were hidden, bastard
children were put up for adoption once they were born, and no one ever talked
about it. More frequently, there were a lot of babies born six or seven months
after the marriage.
Of
course none of my readers would blink an eye at a single, wealthy woman having
a child, so explaining why this is a big deal without preaching will be
tricky—particularly because it’s a minor thread in the overall story but she’s
critical to the resolution.
Even trickier
will be doing this without an info-dump.
But I’m excited about this development and the ensuing challenge. I'm fascinated by the 1920s. I like the clothes, the shoes (really like the shoes) and the hats.
As a result, I have done way more research than my minor ghostly characters deserves. I’ve discovered that like now social acceptability of
sexual mores varies by social-economic status.
In the medieval times, the
wealthier or more noble you were, the greater the risk of stepping outside of
expected behavior. By the early 1920s century, it was just the
opposite. Wealth served to insulate you from public censure, and Dead Aunt Charlotte could
afford to keep her child hidden.
And now for something fun... post the opening line of your work-in-progress. I'll start:
“Mom is naked.
Again.”
Eden Rivers tripped up the
old step, dropping her walking pole in the stumble. Balancing on one foot, she caught her breath and turned to her sister.
“What?”
“She’s weeding the
begonias au naturel.”
