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Coping strategies for your impending NaNoWriMo mental and emotional breakdown

Huzzah! NaNoWriMo is here! Are you ready? Doesn’t matter. Just sit down. Write. Write more. Sit down. You’re not done yet.

I’m writing this for you as much as for myself.

This is my first attempt at completing a book in a month. Except, I’ve chosen not to look at it like that. Instead, I’m approaching it as a 50,000 word first draft of something, anything. Even if I can only mine out one good nugget for a short story or, hell, my most perfect sentence yet, I’ll consider it a success.

Actually, scratch that. Success to me will be if I can get down 1,600 words every day this month. I’m working on consistency. To not be so precious about the act of writing.

Writing at that pace, being committed to a word count on a daily schedule, not “waiting for the muse,” is bound to cause some inner friction soon enough.

Here are some coping strategies for you (me) to reference when that friction hits. Just add them to your writer’s toolbox, which I’m sure you (I) spent a lot of time meticulously organizing instead of working on an outline. 🙂

Me. November 1.
Me. November 15.

Read from “The War of Art” by Steven Pressfield

I love this book. It’s a super fast read, the chapters punchy and direct, which is great, because you have work to do. Reading from “The War of Art” is like getting a pep talk from your coach, ringside, after a round of battling it out on the page.

I especially appreciate Pressfield’s insights on how we trick ourselves into procrastination–and his tips on how to defeat that tendency.

Want the CliffsNotes? It’s cool, you’re on a deadline: Check out these quote excerpts from Goodreads.

“The most important thing about art is to work. Nothing else matters except sitting down every day and trying.”

Listen to an episode of the “10 Minute Writer’s Workshop” podcast

Take a 10 minute break. That’s all the time you’ll need to get an energy boost from published writers who have been in your shoes. This podcast from NPR features quick interviews with authors about their craft, hangups and tools for busting the block. Try this episode first, with current literarti It Girl, Celeste Ng.

Listen to Uncle George

“Art doesn’t have a finish line. It’s just a race. Against yourself.”

Remind yourself this is only the first draft… of the first draft

And those are always shit. Just ask Hemingway. Or any of the greats. Here are some quotes for you (me) to reference when the mid-month, mid-book, self-doubt storms start rolling in.

“You fail only if you stop writing.” Ray Bradbury

“The first draft is just you telling yourself the story.” Terry Prachett

“The first draft of everything is shit.” Ernest Hemingway

“I’m writing a first draft and reminding myself that I’m simply shoveling sand into a box so that I can later build castles.” Shannon Hale

Settling in to a not-forever home

Somewhere deep in a landfill, or draped around the tip of a mountain of trash, like a pig wearing costume pearls, there is a garland of construction paper candy corn, crafted to decorate my apartment several Halloween moons ago.

Presumably nearby:

  • A mini Christmas tree with pine needle ends that alight in LED technicolor.
  • A cornafauxpia made to overflow with plastic fruits and vegetables, the waxy purple grapes soft from wear and punctured, thanks to fingers that liked to squish and a cat that liked to gnaw on their spongy exteriors.
  • A Valentine’s Day Cupid window dressage, whose silhouetted sharpened arrow may have seemed menacing from the second floor if not for that cute little bump of an angel baby bottom. If we count Cupid, we’ve been blaming a child for our relationships for a long time. A threatening, flying child whom we’ve given a weapon.

Throughout my young adult years of living along, my holiday decor has been nothing short of Pinterest worthy. In fact, I hold Pinterest accountable for my former highly held expectations of a home stunningly outfitted for the season. That, and holiday movies of every rank.

Similar to how SATC tricked Millennial girls, fledgling in life outside the nest, into thinking a one-bedroom apartment and closet full of Manolos was possible for any woman in NYC not in finance or with a trust fund (let alone as a sometimes-freelance columnist, not even a freelance reporter, gah!), holiday movies have made it appear that affording an entire dining table worth of golden turkey embroidered napkins, squash-scented pillar candles and salad forks would, like, totally be possible on the average 20-something’s salary!

That’s about as real as the families that smile from your newly purchased picture frames.

It is time we held pinned Pottery Barn catalogs accountable for the monsters they truly are.

For nearly 10 years and nine apartments I’ve hauled plastic tubs full of stockings and feathers and firework centerpieces and light-up reindeer, then tried to find room for all of it in closets the size of a Christmas card.

For my cross-state move, however, I trashed it all. Gave the best pieces away to Salvation Army. Washed my hands of all that glitter and gold and never looked back.

I did save a few of my favorite pieces that I’ve had since my first year as a post-graduate. I’m still a weepy sentimental softie, just more economical, hardened by the reality of how much moving sucks, as does finding storage space for things you don’t really need after you’ve taken the luxuriously large U-Haul back.

I’ve purged a lot of my everyday decor, too, much to the relief of my now-husband, who, no exaggeration, will straighten my things into parallel lines when I’m not looking. I’ll return to notebooks, shoes, half-eaten snacks I’ve mindlessly strewn about and find them perfectly aligned and laying at attention. Good little soldiers, keeping his demons away. The whereabouts of my hair ties are no longer a mystery with a non-debilitating-OCD dude as my roommate.

The thing about tchotchkes is this: They’re all well and good in a home that you’ve bought and will be paying off (ie. living in) for the rest of your life. But I was tired of them clogging up my apartments. They created pressure. If I bought a cute vase for my fireplace mantle, I’d have to then get cute matching bookends for the books I have up there. Oh! And maybe a few new books to showcase a variety of topics I can pretend I’ve read about.

You know, that age old “the more you have, the more you want” chase that never seems to end. Happiness and satisfaction never achieved by way of “stuff.” Plus, everything from big boxes to drug stores to mom and pop-style gas stations now have an inventory of something fucking adorable tempting me to buy and hang at my house. I was starting to feel suffocated by my options. NO MORE. I HAVE TOO MUCH. TOO MUCH. TOO MUCH.

Our now minimalist apartment style can be attributed to a reaction against all of the above. A husband who gets itchy over disorganization and an exhaustive fatigue courtesy a tireless consumerist culture and decade of moving unnecessary items that I don’t even like that much, just feel like I need to have or keep.

But can a house (a one-bedroom apartment house, but still) become a home without this stuff?

Can touches of personality come simply by way of a cute bedspread and matching curtain?

Can I miss having a place of my own to decorate and pattern mix and generally make a delicious mockery of class and sophistication but at the same time grow increasingly satisfied with having little of worth or heart-value in here except a flesh and blood person, my greatest accessory yet?

We know we won’t be here long (I mean we won’t be here long in this apartment but you could read that sentence as something more metaphorical about life). We’re tramps born to run and eat vending machine cheese sandwiches on the road, after all. Acknowledging this has not only saved us (me) a lot of money on flash sales at Target and Michael’s, but also imbued a sense of peace and focus into our relationship.

For each life choice you tick off the list of choices that life — and its no-nonsense, objective passage of time — forces you to make, the easier your life becomes.

We will decorate a house together someday, but for now, why worry? All we have to do is be with each other. Be ourselves, stripped of pretense and a perfunctory going-through of life’s motions. Enjoy each other’s company.

Which, when I consider it, is what all that holiday decor was supposed to inspire in the first place.

Five word-inspired Halloween costumes you can put together in a day

A Cat Call

Puns! This is a drunk Jackie Mantey original idea and my favorite Halloween costume (and party) to date! I got so sleepy putting together this makeshift photo booth for my dining room, I had to take a cat nap before the party. Eeeeeeehhhhh?

This is super easy. Throw on something that looks like a cat costume, which you can fake really well with drawn on whiskers and some pointy ears. Hold your phone and pretend to make calls a lot. Also, say inappropriate things to your hot friends.

Lady and Gentleman Bug

Eeee. You know what they say. A couple that puns together… breaks up for a year or so then stays together.

This is another original and my favorite couples costume we’ve done together. It’s pretty self-explanatory and you could pull it off a lot of different ways; however, Justin’s black man leggings, top hat, homemade wings and monocle really took it next level.

Edgar Allan Ho

Scandalous and amorous, old Edgar Allan wouldn’t mind you adding some fishnets and heels to his look. Hit up a craft store to get a decor skull or raven/ crow (no one knows the difference) to hold so you don’t just look goth.

A Shooting Star

A cut-out star + water guns = giiiiit it?

Arthur Dent from “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”

Be honest, playing a helpless human won’t be that hard. Put your robe over your pajamas, throw on some slippers and grab your fave coffee mug. Roll up a newspaper or Scientific American and place it in your robe pocket for extra credit. Maybe tape a sign to your back that says “Don’t Panic”? Fellow hitchhiker fans will eat it up.

Words on the Street: October 26, 2017

I love everything about this building… except those glaring “your” and “you’re” errors but I choose to ignore them.

Slut boy!

Foreign boy!

This poster looks so ominous because of its decay. Like some shifty Groupon lackey tried to remove it or scrape of its message in the cover of darkness.

It’s been three years since a Chicago policeman shot 17-year-old Laquan McDonald in the back 16 times. Black lives matter.

Get it?

These quotes about famous people’s perseverance are on the outside of a Family Dollar, which is a pretty perfect location to spread the message to never give up.

This is from a show at the Slate Arts and Performance space. Liu’s work is bright and immersive and reflects her narrative search for memory and emotional recovery following a terrible head wound. It’s interesting to see how visual artists find ways to express their story through color and form, not words.

 

And here’s the Slate bathroom. It’s glorious and this post series seems to be where I, ahem, dump all my good bathroom photos. You’re welcome.

In which sometimes the universe helps you say yes

The thing I’ve basked in most since moving to Chicago from Columbus is the anonymity I have here. No one knows me in Chicago. I’m just one person in a crowd of many. One ant in the army, a pretzel in the party mix.

I know that’s unusual to say; don’t you want to be where everybody knows your name?

Well, therein lies our answer. I liked that no one knew me in Chicago because it made getting sober a lot easier. There were no expectations for who I was and how I would act.

No one in Ohio made me drink, of course, but it was hard to say no to “just one” when I had created the habit and reputation of being a party girl. I didn’t want to let anyone down, and you convince yourself you will by not drinking. At least when you’re a drunk. Codependency comes so easily for us!

I recognize that none of that matters and I what I needed to break through was why I had convinced myself I was Good Time Gina and couldn’t break free from that self-perpetuating idea. Nonetheless, moving to a new city was a relatively easy way to stack up some months of sobriety and then use them as the foundation for strength to even claw my way to that realization.

In Chicago, I didn’t care if anyone liked me. My move there wasn’t about them. It was about rehabbing a love and rehabbing myself.

Nearly a year and a half later, both of those things have come to fruition. No regrets, clearly, but I do find myself thinking sometimes, “Oh wow, I don’t really know anyone here except the person I came here for and the friends I met at work.”

That happens naturally as you get older. You settle in. Find one or two people who are worth your time and mostly just stick to them.

But I ain’t dead yet. And now that I know how and trust myself to hang out without wanting to drink, I’m ready to do it!

Getting myself to do that has proven difficult though. I think I’m an introvert who’s excellent at playing an extrovert. Which means, I make a lot of plans and never follow through. Then there’s that pesky monthly wave of depression.

Oh, and also, not being drunk means drunk conversations now bore the shit out of me. I want to talk the good stuff. Not share party stories. I’m so bad at small talk now.

Me at your kegger.

So imagine our surprise and, really, glee, when last Saturday Justin and I went out for an all-you-can-eat sushi date (gross in theory, delicious in reality) and found that a pair of our friends already had the same idea.

While we put our name in for a table, we heard our names being called from another one. We’d been “planning” double dates with this pair for as long as I’ve been living in Chicago, but we had yet to make it happen.

“Come sit with us!” they waved.

I think our first instinct was to politely decline and say something about not wanting to interrupt their date–or ours. I’m glad we did nothing of the sort. For the first time since I’ve moved here, it was really nice to not feel anonymous.

There was wine and gin on the table, BYOB, but I didn’t want any of it. I didn’t even think about it being there until we were out the door and on our separate ways, enveloped by the Chicago night. Alcohol finally appears to me in the way I think healthy drinkers see it: As secondary to the party as the food. It’s awesome when it’s there, but it’s not necessary.

Is this what coming out of a self-imposed hibernation feels like? I’m finally warming up to the city’s flesh and bone inhabitants, de-thawing into a wonderfully vulnerable little puddle that wants people to come and play.

As we shared dinner, sushi and stories, we discovered both of our date nights had been stalled in various ways to put us here, in the same obscure restaurant, at the same strange time, in a city where more than 2.7 million people could be roaming about.

What are the chances?

Here’s to no longer asking questions like that.

And saying yes more often with follow-through, no matter how shaky I feel.

Thanks for the kick in the pants, universe. And also for the sushi.

In sickness and in health, from memories do we part

The headache came first. On a Saturday afternoon, as innocent as a Cure song.

By Sunday I’m woozy. “Monday’s blue. Tuesday’s gray and Wednesday too. Thursday, I don’t care about you. It’s Friday, I’m in love.”

OK, but back to Wednesday.

By this point I had shut down almost entirely.

I had a full-on head cold, or probably the flu because it was complete with fever, nausea and exaltations to the Goddess that I would never do anything bad again if only my nose would drain itself of this hot gold mucus and allow me to breathe like a real person again.

This was the first time my husband of exactly one and a half months saw me so sick for such an extended period of time.

Though we lived together before being betrothed, it had never been during a bout of ol’ influenza.

During those illnesses of yesteryear, we’d typically give each other a middle-school-slow-dance-distance hug, a warm bowl of soup, and a shout to “Call if you need anything” on the way quickly out the door to our own, not-gross apartment.

It didn’t bother me that he was seeing me so absolutely unappealing. We’d seen each other at our most vulnerable long ago.

In fact, the scariest part about getting married wasn’t the wedding night or committing to each other for life, it was trusting one another with our money. Sharing bank accounts is the modern girl’s virginity, after all.

“Will you still love meeee tomoooooorrow – because today I spent way too much at Macy’s-there was a really good sale tho and we should go back asap because coats are eighty percent off.”

That’s how that song would go if it were written in 2017.

But here we were: Me sick, him catching it, and us together 
 living our “In sickness and in health” vow IRL. I really thought we had nothing left to learn about each other.

Incorrect.

For example, I learned that it’s possible for me to smell his stanky dried saliva on a shared pillow and not bitch about it once, and instead just roll over, mentally adding “wash sheets” to our to-do list.

I also learned that as I tend to skew into helpless whiny adult-baby territory when I don’t feel good, he turns into a no-nonsense Polish grandmother who loves me but is 
 whatever is Polish for “completely sick of my shit.”

The more I refused to help myself, the more he helped but also gave me lectures. While gently covering my burnt-out nose and chapped lips with Vaseline, for example, he gave a long-winded speech about not putting dirty tissues on the nightstand like I had been doing.

I stared back in awe that one person could have so much air in their lungs!

I also thought I had nothing else to learn about myself. But this infection was a monster and a scholar, ready to teach my sorry ass.

So, I work from home as a copywriter and I had an important client presentation to make via phone call on Thursday. At this point I was on the upswing but still ticking by at only about 70 percent.

Though I felt capable of faking coherency, I had been bequeathed a new sickness gift: A voice that was nearly gone.

When I dialed into my team line before we called the client, I managed to croak out a wimpy “Hello.”

My teammates on the other line burst into laughter. A loving laughter, at how pathetic I sounded and how they thought I should just go back to bed, but laughter no less.

I laughed too but told them I was going to go on mute and just jump in if there was a client question only I could answer.

Something inside my head—and not just the mucus buildup—made me feel like my scratchy, nearly nonexistent voice made me appear weak, not good enough, and that embarrassed me.

Hmm
 Where did that come from?

Luckily, when you’re sick, you have a lot of time to think about things like this. Because while the Goddess giveth you DayQuil, she taketh your ability to sleep on command.

After the call ended and I had crawled back to my bed, I laid there and thought about this perceived weakness and my subconscious desire to not let anyone hear me that way.

Again, where did that come from?

I decided to start with my childhood. Because this is where all weird subconscious adult insecurities take root.

I remembered having sore and strep throat a lot.

Then there was the unfortunate bout of frequent yeast infections until we discovered I was allergic to the bubblegum scented, red-dye body wash we were using.

I remembered pretending to get sick from the fumes of 409 when it was time for chores and I didn’t want to work.

I remembered Grease. Yes, I associate sickness with Danny Zuko and, my favorite pink lady, Rizzo.

As we were not yet owners of cable, I spent my days home from school in the ‘90s watching Grease on repeat.

“Won’t go to bed ‘till I’m legally wed! I can’t! I’m Sandra Deeeee!”

Who knew going to bed meant having sex? Not I, said the child singing it.

I just thought she was willing to forgo sleep to find a suitor. Like a real idiot.

Following the lead of my boo, Rizzo, I never liked Sandy that much. Nothing in her character resonated with me. She was indeed too pure to be pink. She was too pretty. She was too sweet.

Too sweet
 too sweet
 Oh my god, bingo!

Like a T-Bird outta hell, the following memory landed on me:

It’s third grade and time for the Christmas musical. Grades 1-3 do a musical together, which means I’m considered an “older kid” and can try out for a lead role!

Fast forward.

I get it.

Fast forward.

I practice my butt off at school and at home, learning my lines, putting together my costume using my dad’s old robe and knock-off Birkenstocks, a raggedy brown towel draped over my head and tied on with baling twine from my dad’s farm.

Most of all though, I practice my one vocal solo.

My singing voice is pretty average now and it was pretty average in third grade. Here was my solo part. I still remember it:

“Sometimes I wish that I could be. Somebody else instead of me. A person who is quiet and sweeeeeet. To be like that would sure be neat.”

If I’d been assigned to sing this verse as a teen, my paranoid rage would have led me to believe someone was trying to tell me something. I’ve never been accused of being quiet. And being sweet is a nice goal but it’s not exactly something that comes naturally to me.

Sometimes you gotta tell a motherfucker that dirty tissues can go anywhere you damn well please when your head feels like it’s in a vice, OK?

Fast forward.

It’s the day of dress rehearsals and we’re performing our musical in front of the WHOLE SCHOOL, which means the all-powerful fourth, fifth and sixth graders will be watching from the bleachers.

I’m. So. Nervous. And on top of my nerves I have, you guessed it, a sore throat. And my voice is almost gone.

Here’s what I remember. Squirming my way through the whole show, bravely speaking into the mic even as my voice uncontrollably spat and sizzled.

My 9-year-old-self made every valiant effort to add inflection and drama and intrigue but I mostly sounded like a mouse on acid. I can remember so badly wanting to prove myself worthy of this part.

I thought I was doing OK. But then I had to sing.

And there, swimming in my dad’s weird brown throwaways, I sang. My nasally voice cracking the whole way:

“A person who is quiet and sweeEEeEEeEeet. To be like that would sure be nEEEeeEeat.”

As I recall this, I can see as clear and as bright as Christmas Eve’s come-to-Jesus star, the entire sixth-grade class whispering about and laughing at me.

Do you ever have memories of Those Moments where you wish you could DeLorean back in time and just give your little self a big hug and whisper:

“It’s totally cool, bitch. I got you. We’re gonna be SO fucking happy someday. Fuck them.”

Yeah. This is one of my Those Moments.

Fast forward.

My older sister takes a seat next to me on the bus home that day after school. She’s in fifth grade and doesn’t sit by me normally, so it’s nice to have her there by my side.

She tells me I did great, and I shouldn’t worry about those kids laughing at me. After all, didn’t I notice who was making fun of me the most?

I cringe. No. I was trying not to look.

“It was Hillary’s sister,” she says matter-of-factly. “You know, Hillary, the girl in your class that you beat out for the lead part. They just think they’re special because their mom is a professional singer and they think singing is all that matters and it isn’t.”

Then she changed the subject and rode by my side the rest of the way home.

Fast forward.

I wake up from my reverie and turn over to see my new family member, my person who has taken the place of my sister and now rides shotgun in my daily life. My Polish grandmother husband, now sick with whatever I gave him.

In that moment, it’s Friday. I’m in love. And I throw up a shout-out to the Goddess for giving me such good people throughout my whole life. I’d give them all my money, my flu, my voice. I’d give them anything, everything.

And, in that moment, I feel better already.

Tips for a successful DIY family holiday

When my family started doing its annual Great Pumpkin Day event, I only had one nephew and one niece. Now I’m up five. Total count: four nephews, two nieces.

I’m not being hyperbolic when I say being an aunt is the best thing in the world. I love these little ones as if they were my own. My idea to start Great Pumpkin Day was just an excuse to hang out with them. I was also at the point in life where I was learning one of my most value life lessons to date: No one knows what they’re doing and traditions can be started at any time, yes even by you.

What began as a family get-together has turned into an annual thing I think we all look forward to.

Great Pumpkin Day 2012

Here’s how it works. It’s so simple. We just pick a Saturday in October that we all can meet at mom and dad’s house. We dress up in costumes (optional), do fun fall stuff, eat pumpkin everything (not optional), and just hang out.

There’s no pressure to cook a huge meal, like Thanksgiving, or bring a list-full of presents, like Christmas. And it’s in fall, which, who are we kidding, is the best season of all. Again, no hyperbole.

We just had our Great Pumpkin Day 2017, and it was my favorite one yet. Here are some suggestions to get your own family holiday started.

***

Keep the guest list small.

Part of what puts so much pressure on traditional traditions is that you have a whole contact list full of family and friends you want to see during them. That’s not a bad thing, but having a special day that you only share with a few people (like for us, it’s immediate family and grandparents only) no one can get shifty that you’re spending just an hour or two at their event before bouncing to another one. It also makes your nearest and dearest less likely to skip out on the event each year. It’s easier to send your regrets when you know a ton of people will be at the party and your presence won’t be missed that much.

Do it during the day.

Here’s why: It keeps the party flexible. We start at noon and it ends whenever we’re tired. You’re not trying to “make fetch happen” in a tight three-hour window at night when the mood has shifted and everyone’s thinking about going home or what they’re going to do later.

Have fun activities.

This takes you from hangout to holiday. We’ve done face painting, pumpkin carving, coloring, crafting, kickballing, apple bobbing, trick or treating, costume fashion showing, and, new this year thanks to the addition of Justin to the family, a piñata.

Stay open to anything.

Ugh. Other holidays are a pain when there are expectations involved. So, like, don’t have any. A general theme is fine, and planning ahead is necessary, but anything goes. It’s your holiday. So about that piñata. I love Justin’s family, and during a recent birthday party for his mom they had a piñata filled with little plastic bottles of liquor and lottery tickets. Oh shit, what a fun idea! We stole their idea but used kid friendly Halloween candy instead. Who knows what we’ll do next year? Maybe a kid piñata and an adult piñata? (Yes!) Spontaneity is the fun of it.

Take SO many photos.

My greatest Great Pumpkin Day regret? I didn’t take a million photos every year! I wish I had a picture album for each edition so we could see how much the kids and our family has grown year to year.

After all, time flies when you’re having fun.

 

Interview: 10 Questions for Author Mimi Matthews

Bust magazine readers may recognize the name Mimi Matthews.

This California-based writer pens a weekly column for the feminist magazine’s website. It chronicles the mostly fascinating, truly fabulous, and sometimes straight-up weird life and style aspects of Victorian culture.

Matthews does rabidly precise research and has a thoughtful eye for a good story — from Victorians’ beautiful fall dresses made of a toasted-orange fabric (the Pumpkin Spice Girls?) to the fate of old men who married young women in the 1800s (it’s, as predicted, pretty yikes) to their gone-viral beauty obsessions (mmmm, violet perfume).

You can (and should) read her Bust entries here. I, being an auburn-leaning ginger, am partial to the one about why auburn haired women were beloved (we cray!):

Auburn hair, with a florid countenance, indicates the highest order of sentiment and intensity of feeling, along with corresponding purity of character, combined with the highest capacities for enjoyment and suffering.

Matthews has two non-fiction books on the way, including “The Pug Who Bit Napoleon: Animal Tales of the 18th and 19th Centuries,” due out in November, and “A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Fashion and Beauty,” due out July 2018.

As an attorney with a Juris Doctor and a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature, it’s no surprise Matthews can expertly handle not only separating fact from fiction — but making them play together nicely.

Proof: Her debut fiction novel “The Lost Letter.”

This Victorian romance is the perfect companion for a cuddled-up Fall Saturday. It follows the story of the dynamic Sylvia Stafford. The tragic death of her father demotes her to a life of spinsterhood (no more pumpkin colored evening gowns for Ms. Sylvia!), until fate intervenes and she is reunited with her former love, the once charming Colonel Sebastian Conrad, gone surly and sour from a devastating battle wound. The Victorian countryside is the  lush backdrop for this story of love, loss and redemption.

In the following interview, Matthews talks about her own love affair with the Victorian era, how she balances research with crafting fiction, what she’s working on next, and advice she has for anyone writing a historical novel.

Oh, and which Bronte she would invite to a dinner party. Would you be able to choose just one?

***

What do you love about the Victorian era? What draws you to it?

The Victorian era has always appealed to me on multiple levels. First, there’s the obvious: the gorgeous fashions—from wire crinolines to enormous bustles. Then there’s the emphasis on manners and decorum; the strict societal rules for ladies and gentlemen and the limitations imposed on courting couples. The Victorian era was also a time of enormous advancements in industry, medicine, and the rights of women. Aniline dyes were discovered, the sewing machine was invented, train travel became ubiquitous, and women shed their cumbersome skirts and hopped on safety bicycles, an invention which gave them enormous independence. What’s not to love?

What made you want to write fiction about a subject whose real-life stories you’re so knowledgeable about?

The Victorian era has a wealth of fabulous history to tap into. And I already write so much about it in the non-fiction realm, it seemed only natural to set my novels there as well. I think my readers would have been disappointed if I hadn’t. Not to mention, when I read historical romances, I really notice when an author gets their history wrong. I was determined that I would use my knowledge of Victorian social history to help me get my own novel right.

How do you balance being true to the gender roles of the Victorian era with creating an interesting woman and romance your reader wants to root for? (Hello, Sylvia!)

It’s a challenge, especially as I hate when characters in a historical [novel] come across as nothing more than modern men and women in costume. This is why I really liked writing Sylvia. Since she had essentially been ejected from fashionable society, she wasn’t strictly bound by Victorian social conventions. It was up to her to make her own way in the world. It was a grim situation, but one that allowed her to gain a measure of feminine independence. At the same time, she was still quite constrained in regard to how she could interact with the opposite sex—especially Sebastian. Also, it helps that a lot of the emotion that she and Sebastian felt—the romantic angst, fear of rejection, and feelings of betrayal—is emotion that many of us have felt at some point in our modern romantic lives. This made the characters relatable in spite of the restrictions imposed by the era.

How did your background studying Victorian era history and culture help and/or hinder the fiction writing process?

It helped tremendously in that I was able to draw on my knowledge of Victorian fashion, etiquette, and social norms without having to do too much additional research. It hindered me on occasion because I’m such a stickler for historical accuracy and, in writing a scene, I would often think, “They would never have said/done this!” It was sometimes hard for me to put that aside in order to allow my characters to have time on their own to talk—or to kiss!

Do you have any advice for writers about doing research for a fiction novel?

If they’re striving for true historical accuracy, I would strongly advise them not to limit their research to uncited blog posts or Wikipedia articles. They should read historic newspapers, magazines, and books. They should get a feel for the language and the behaviour of the era in which they’ve set their story. And if they’re writing about something they know nothing about—like horseback riding—they really need to have their research down. Nothing is more irritating to a reader than being absorbed in a story only to have some anachronism wrench them out of it.

Check out the Mimi Matthews author Facebook page. She regularly posts paintings from the era and provides some context for the work. She had me at cats sneaky-snackin’ on some tea and crumpets. TBH, I don’t know if that’s a crumpet.

What do you listen to or watch or read to get pumped up to write?

I get most pumped up to write when I’ve been researching something. I often find some odd Victorian fact which inspires me to envision a scene or a scrap of dialogue. Victorian fiction—especially classic novels like those by the BrontĂ« sisters, Margaret Gaskell, or George Eliot—also inspires me and helps to get me in a certain frame of mind. As for music, though I love it, I can’t really listen to it when I’m writing. It’s too distracting. I have to have everything super quiet.

Do you have a daily writing routine or schedule when you’re working on a novel? If so, what is it and how does this help you get the work done?

I had to finish my latest non-fiction book, “A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Fashion and Beauty,” on a hard deadline. I was at my computer writing every day by one o’clock. I would then write straight through until dinner. For fiction I’m not so strict with myself. I write whenever the muse takes me. There are some days I can write thousands of words. Other days I only write a few hundred—or none. I aspire to be more disciplined (and more prolific), but life often gets in the way.

Do you want to write another romance set in this time period? If so, what will you do differently or how do you want to grow or explore as a writer in a second book?

I’ve got a few other novels set in the Victorian era that will be out over the next year or two. “The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter” is coming in January. I actually wrote it before I wrote “The Lost Letter.” Because of that, I’m not sure how much it will read as if I’ve grown as an author. It’s far less angst-ridden than “The Lost Letter” was. In fact, it reads more like a romp, with an impulsive, rakish hero and a prim heroine who can’t resist him. Following that, I have a much darker Victorian novel coming out (as yet untitled). It’s about an injured soldier in coastal Devon who places a matrimonial advertisement in a London newspaper. The woman who arrives on his doorstep is not quite what he was expecting. This novel allowed me to explore more sinister themes, including those relating to the legal power that Victorian men had over their wives and female relations.

What has been inspiring you lately?

I’ve recently been researching 19th century breach of promises cases. In many, the gentleman had written compromising letters to his betrothed before breaking their engagement. The jilted girl’s father then used the letters as evidence when bringing suit. I’m planning on using one of these old cases as a basis for a novella about a broken engagement which results in a breach of promise suit. I’ve already written the first five pages. We’ll see where they lead!

If you could invite three people, living or dead, to a dinner party, who would they be and why?

I’d like to say Queen Victoria would be on the list, but I actually think she’d put a damper on dinner conversation. The guests would be too intimidated to speak. Instead, I’d invite all three BrontĂ« sisters, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne. They were three of the most talented authors of the Victorian era. I would love to hear their thoughts on life, love, and the business of writing.

 

Cryptic away messages to use during AIM’s funeral

So sad face! AIM, the old friend we didn’t even know still lived in town, will sign off for good on Dec. 15. In preparation, here are a few thought starters for your away message during AIM’s funeral. I know, we have a few months until then, but you remember how much thought goes into crafting the perfect away status in hopes that your crush sees it and worries about you. You’ll need time. XOXO TTYL, BFF.

***

RIP AIM {class of 2002} {’97-’17}

My girls 4 lyfe: KC RA JH KK KS MG TH CW ES CB AIM

These woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. – Robert Frost

brb “We’ll all float on okay”

Every step I take, every move I make
Every single day, every time I pray
I’ll be missing you
Thinkin’ of the day, when you went away
What a life to take, what a bond to break
I’ll be missing you // Puff // AIM 🙁

omg life is so random… Love you forever, AIM

cells on if u need a ride

i just cant believe hes gone he was so nice and funny ninth grade was the bomb bc of him

I wish I had talked on him more…

:'(