"This is all your fault, you wretched creature." My stepmother's eyes flared at me, hot as flames in her haggard, tear-stained face. It was not in me to look at her with anything but sorrow in my heavy heart. Though she and I had much different ways of loving, still we had both loved him.

It was my fault. I knew what she meant. She had been driven to impetuosity, endangering my father's life in bad weather, by jealousy over a love in him that my presence had kept alive, a love that was unacceptable to her. Or perhaps it was his fault. He had never been able to get over loving my mother, and Regina knew that he knew, and was able to play him like a marionette, taking advantage of his guilt feelings.

However, I said the most sensible thing. "'Twas your stupid bonnet! You and your stupid vanity! You knew he would do anything for you, wasn't that enough? Couldn't I have had his attention for just one evening?"

It still rained. The same rain that had slicked the road beneath my father's carriage, driving it relentlessly over a bridge and extinguishing his life, still pelted the glass. It was like torture on my senses. I thought I would scream from the pain.

Portia and Melisande, my stepsisters, were crying prettily. They didn't really care. They had not loved my father. This was between me and my stepmother.

My vision narrowed as I looked at her. This thorn in my side was suddenly my lifeline. I felt my mother's locket burning in my pocket. They were dead, both of my parents. I had no one but this woman who hated me. For a moment, through my streaming grief, I felt the hell that my life was to become.

However, I had no idea, really.

My father's funeral necessarily must befit his station, and when it came time to arrange, it was suddenly found that there was almost nothing with which to pay. We had been living on borrowed money for some time. My head spun too much with grief for the truth to sink in totally, and it might have driven me beyond the brink to do so at the beginning.

My stepmother and stepsisters had cleaned him out. We had no inheritance and on his death we owed a great deal.

Our home, the family home which had belonged to my ancestors for generations, was immediately sold. Regina did it gleefully, with no sensitivity to my memories there, nor my right to it as my father's daughter. Everything that I had known was turned over to creditors.

"Of course," Regina said, "for Frederick's sake, and that alone, I am taking you in. You have not endeared yourself to me, Cinderella. You do not have the potential that my daughters have in the marriage market, either. Therefore I see no point in bringing you out. In you will stay. Below you will stay." She pointed to the door in the kitchen of our townhouse. It led to the basement.

I was still holding my bundle of things in my arms. It was all I had left. All of my dresses had been sold, all my trinkets, books and jewels. Except one jewel, about which my stepmother would never know. "What will my living in your basement accomplish?" I asked. "There are three spare rooms, in addition to the master bedroom."

"There are two bedrooms for my daughters, and a sitting-room between them, for their musical instruments, and their art. I will not have their talents stifled. You, Cinderella, may ply your work in the basement. In addition to cooking and cleaning, mending and making up all our garments from now on, I expect you to turn out a goodly portion of lace each week to sell at market. You must earn your keep here. If you slack from these duties, Cinderella, I will turn you out."

Though I was a headstrong girl, her words chilled my blood. To be turned out was an unknown thing. There was no place for me in the city fog, and I would vanish as though I had never been. I would become a gray, indeterminate thing. I would suffer and starve. I would lose my honor. My eyes filled with tears and I let her see how hateful she was, but she did not see. Even though my father was dead, and could not hurt her any longer with his love for Evangeline, my mother, she could go on punishing me. It was the closest she could come to Evangeline.

The first days were hard. It took a while for my new position to sink in. I had never been treated well by the three, but Regina had counseled her daughters carefully in their behavior, and they unleashed their demands with a vengeance. They delighted in watching me be brought low. They loved to see how it rubbed me raw to serve them. When I didn't think I could go on any longer, I would close my eyes and see the gray void outside our street. There was nowhere for me to run. I was trapped.

Portia, Regina's oldest daughter, loved to eat. She was a heavy girl, and I was brought upon to let out her gowns almost weekly. Regina disapproved of Portia's habits, but it only stressed Portia into eating more. She did not mind stealing my portions as well as Melisande's, who had no appetite at all, and languished anemically.

If I were a man, I thought hatefully, I would never, never marry them, or give them a second glance. They are ugly, through and through.

At first my hatred was extreme. It ate at me, damaged me. I did not feel how much less I was really eating, or my lack of sleep in the cold, damp basement. When I looked at myself in my stepsisters' gilt mirrors I was startled by the change. My expression changed my whole face. The light in my eyes that my father had so loved was gone.

They love what they are doing to me, I thought, and I hated them even more.

After a time, I knew I must make a compromise with my reduced circumstances. The shop girls who worked endless hours in factories bore this somehow. I had been born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but it didn't mean I didn't deserve to work, too. I would work for myself, and for the memory of my father. This was a Cinderella he had never seen before. Indeed, it was one I barely knew myself.

One night I burned their dinner, badly. It was a mistake. I did not want to hear their harpy-like shrieks at me any more than they wished to eat burned food, but I had no natural cooking abilities, either, and the mystery which distinguished delightful souffle from sunken, brown souffle eluded me.

My stepsisters cried out loudly when they saw what I had done. "Mother, look! Cinderella's burned dinner. Now what will we eat? She will make paupers of us. Oh, it isn't fair."

My stepmother jerked me by the arm furiously.

"It was a mistake," I said.

"You make too many mistakes," Regina hissed. "It's time I knocked some sense into you." She slapped my face, and I went rigid. I stared at her, my back ramrod straight.

"If only he could see you now," I said. "If only my father would see you. Every last bit of love for you in his heart would wither and blow away."

Melisande threw the souffle face-down on the floor with a splat. Regina thrust a broom at me. "Clean that up, you fool. The only dinner you'll have 'twill be that."

At least, I thought, it might prevent Portia from stealing my food tonight.

In my basement room that evening, I wept. I was beyond despair. I had not the strength to bear up under this labor, and my pride was too great. I could not give up that pride. I sensed I would need it for more important things in my life, when this crisis was past. I must find some middle ground between destroying myself with hate, and losing myself entirely.

I cannot do this. My life has become unbearable.

I bowed my head and shivered beside the boiler. I felt a weight on my head, a caressing touch, like a hand stroking my hair. I shuddered.

"'Tis a rat."

But when I looked around, there was no rat. I was alone in the room.

I worked on my lace-making by the window. It was an arduous task, guaranteed to make me cross-eyed and pinched before I was thirty. When my back ached, I stood up and looked out of the basement window. The ground was at my eye level and looked out into a courtyard of a home that was slightly nicer than our own.

There was a young maid who spent a lot of time in the courtyard. She must have had a nicer mistress than myself, one who allotted her fresh air during the day to do her handwork. Her hair was black as soot, and upon her dead-white skin was a lively blush.

Whenever I got the chance, I watched her, for it made me feel less lonely. This maiden had a sweetheart who visited her often. Before my bewildered gaze they would move to the shadowed portions of the courtyard and caress one another.

I watched her cheeks crimson with pleasure as he took her in his arms, her lips grow swollen from his kisses, her eyes drift closed as his hands roved around her rigidly corseted waist, searching in vain for some means to unlock the trap.

I forgot myself and my miserable life as I watched them, and the matted pile that ought to have been a length of lace fell at my feet, forgotten.

Desire pierced like an arrow through my desolate loneliness. Beneath my decrepit little figure lay a maiden's heart which longed to love and be loved by a man. Please, God, I thought piteously. One day, before I die.

Labels: Cinderella, excerpt

On my sixteenth birthday my father gave me a locket which contained a miniature of my mother, whom I had never known. It had been a breast-pin of his that he had sent to a jeweler to have done up fabulously. Encrusted with diamonds and aquamarines the color of water, it glimmered like a sea jewel in my hand, which it filled entirely. I caressed the locket lovingly and threw my arms around him.

"Just remember, my child, she is with you still. There is not a day that goes by that I do not think of her."

I met his eyes, which were misty. He spoke in a hushed whisper, and I knew intuitively that this was a secret time, words that my stepmother must never hear, nor must she know about this gift. It was not something that I needed other people to see. To keep this sweet secret locket was enough for me. As I pressed it against my breast I felt for a moment that my family circle was complete.

"I can feel her, father," I whispered, holding him close, as my heart warmed with a feeling like incandescent light.

"I see her, my darling, every time I look at you. Which reminds me that you are a woman now, and there is another matter we must discuss." He held me at arm's length.

I laughed, but his serious looks made me nervous.

"I have made an important provision for your future. At first you may be angry."

He did not have the chance to continue. I whirled around and stamped my foot, my back to my father, facing the well-manicured gardens below the balcony.

"You should not have done this," I said in a choked voice.

"You knew it must be done. Darling, I would never arrange a marriage for you that I did not think would work. You must trust me. It was something that your mother and I discussed. She was very fond of the idea."

"How can this be?" I demanded. "When she was well, I was a babe, and my prospective mate could not have been old enough to merit a fair assessment. Or was he? Would you see me married to-"

"An old man? Like me?" He chuckled. "He is older than you are, Cinderella, but not by more than a score. He comes from good stock, very good stock, and his parents are of excellent character. We knew he has been reared well, and as we predicted, his temperament is most complementary to your own." His eyes twinkled. "'Twould be a rare man to deserve my Cinderella."

"Well, then," I said haughtily, for though my father's smile melted my heart readily, I knew I must not let go of my growing independence as a young woman and bow easily to his wishes. "What is the name of this paragon?"

"I think, my dear, that it will be a time before I tell you. He would win you in his own way."

My face, and my hands clutching the balcony rail, colored at my father's words. The notion of being won by a man was foreign to me, but it stirred my heart. That a man was close at hand, and aware of me in this way, cut off my breath. "Then, he agrees to this cold contract?"

"Readily. I knew he would be pleased. He is a practical man, as well as a wealthy one, and desires an heir to continue his legacy."

My quick-bloomed tender feelings were wilted as though by a sudden, pelting rain. "Please, Father, don't say any more to me about this. I don't want to be cross with you on my birthday."

Just then the balcony door burst open. I turned in time to see my well-coiffed stepmother stride toward us. She was very tall, with dark hair made up in fashionable curls. She did not look at me at all, instead said to my father, "Will you not come inside? The girls are ready to have cake."

"That would be my cake," I said somewhat sourly, drawing her notice not at all.

"Come, my dear." I felt my father's steadying hand on my back, effectively staying my temper toward the three self-centered females who occupied our home. His presence, and the locket clutched in my fingers beneath my shawl, reminded me of the moment we had recently shared, when I had felt my mother between us, before he had spoiled everything by mentioning the terrible constriction he had put on my liberty.

It seemed very far away to me, and I put it out of my mind. I could not imagine my life being any different than it was, or that my father would let go of me soon. He needed me, I told myself.

My father was attentive to me as I served my birthday cake to my stepmother and stepsisters, in lieu of the maid, who was still attending nearby and fretting over the icing I dripped onto the carpet. I laughed merrily and passed the cake around, and many times I felt my father's affectionate grasp on my arm.

"Frederick," my stepmother said, jarring our merry laughter. "I have forgotten to fetch a bonnet from the milliner's, which I intend to wear to Cinderella's banquet tonight."

"Darling, but fortunately you have many lovely bonnets to wear."

"But I had this one made up specifically for this evening." Her scowl darkened the parlor's warm glow.

"Well, then, you must send Hughes after it."

"The milliner has not been paid. He requires one of us to settle the account. We cannot send that amount of money with Hughes."

"Regina." A warning flashed in his eyes.

She pleaded with him, looking suddenly heartbreakingly vulnerable. "Oh, Frederick, you would not send me out in this weather. You are a man. You are far more capable of braving the elements. Darling, I care for nothing more than looking well-turned out for you."

Her ploy had worked. I did not release my grasp on my father's arm before leaning close and whispering, "Another moment or two and the party will be broken up. And anyway, your gift to me renders this birthday the most wonderful of my life."

My stepmother gave me a withering look, as though she suspected me of conspiring against her. Indeed, to love my father, and feel the glow of his love, was a betrayal in her mind. She would never open her heart to me, because she could not accept that my father had loved before her, and that I was made in the image of that late wife.

My heart felt colder as I went to the window and saw the rain beginning to streak down the panes. As my father's carriage rolled from beneath the porte cochere, the storm broke, though he continued doggedly. My stepmother watched him at my side with eyes glassy with irritation and something else. Perhaps it was desperation.

A dreadful feeling came over me. I left the small party in the parlor and went to my room. I held my father's locket close to my heart and began to cry.

Labels: Cinderella, excerpt

This morning I am contemplating the gray world around me in my bathrobe with a new Christmas coffee blend.

This weekend, I desire two things,

1. To buy an American Girl for the toy drive
2. To watch the Bee Movie

"His hair was the color of dead wood. His eyes, like the green heart of a tender leaf. I was still and silent as I looked at him for the first time, and he looked at me."

Not much to build a story around, I'm afraid. I have always wanted to put these two together, and now that I have done it, I don't know what to do with them. Like fighting hard for a hopeless love, eloping together, and having no idea what to do now.

I have a new, powerful spin on Lind's protege Germaine, formerly Hildegarde, described thus,

"She looked back into the parlor, which seemed extremely warm and from the balcony, where candles flickered softly and a fire burned behind the glass hearth doors. A young woman entered the room, all in white, with blue ribbons on her gown and in her hair, signifying the dress of a fashionable ingenue, but her face, though youthful and soft, was like nothing like Lind had seen before.

Her mouth was large and red; her face was dead-white, with heavily lashed eyes of the blue hue Lind likened to the hottest portion of a flame. Her eyes set on her new governess through the glass doors, and she stood still. Lind knew this was her prompt to enter the room.

Swiftly she moved through the doors and closed them behind, not without disturbing the candles with the draft. Bits of snow clung to her brown shawl and in her hair. The student looked her over with interest but not criticism. When she met Lind’s eyes Lind felt the full force of her personality.

“Good morning, Freiherrin Hesse. I am your tutor, Miss Thorn," Lind said.

“Miss Thorn, a pleasure,” she replied in heavy English. There was a wistfulness in her voice that bred an aura of charisma around the student’s voice and expression. Lind had never met a girl with this human awareness; it was either an inherent trait, or born of experiences unknown. Most girls faced their new female teacher with boredom or melancholy, if they faced her at all.

“Likewise, Freiherrin,” Lind said warmly. She gestured to the tea table, where she had laid the books for their lessons.

“Please, Miss Thorn, call me Germaine.”

“Thank you,” Lind said quietly, not looking up from the book she handled. She was constrained by courtesy to addressing this young noblewoman by her title and had hoped for the permission, which of course many a vain, petulant pupil would never give. It would help her to gain authority."

I'm so much less romantic now. I'm using what I see in real people as material, and not because someone told me to. Maybe I'm becoming real.

Lots of people standing still. I just noticed that, that's odd. It must be my new writer's tic.

Labels: story notes

My annotations in italics. Notes on text in regular format.

Writing with Passion

Self-publishing is a viable alternative.

Creating a masterpiece. Confront truth on chapter 1, page 1. What is the truth about Madeleine? Can she possibly form a masterpiece? Is she a deep enough character, or is she shallow? Her whining about her dreams and her forgotten past doesn’t cut it. It has to be more than that—an expression of her deepest yearning. That is why putting her together with Hildegarde is tempting. To see Madeleine’s hunger for connection, for belonging, at odds with a porcelain doll of a girl who has never wanted for anything.

What do I believe is important in life? What do I hate? What do I love? Where do I stand? What would I be willing to die for? What can I bring to a work that shows the world in a unique light? What would be my gift to other humans? I believe it’s important to get this damn novel finished! I hate the indifference between human beings. I love beauty. I love seeing the personality rise above the commonplace normalcy. I love beauty in dark, forgotten places, beauty in the rejected and undesired. I would die for beauty. I would probably die to see that park in France. The transcendental beauty that rests in the lonely and forgotten is so elevated above the concerns of humans for me that I can’t think of any worthwhile war. I can bring to the world’s eyes the half-light, the half-truth, the searing beauty which lies in the impossible and the never to be. The beauty of love that grows in an unconventional, a wrong or seemingly ugly place, and turn the prism around ever so slightly so that the reader recognizes the beauty in the worst of human beings and looks at every person, the people they thought were unimportant or ugly—and sees the beauty in them, the beauty inside, and recognizes them as a lover of someone.

What am I about as a writer? What is my mission? Where am I going? What do I stand for? What do I want my readers to say about me? What am I trying to achieve? What are my themes? I am about getting the damn novel written. My mission is to finish all of these novels, these dream-visions, to realize all the feelings within me, of which what I have described is only the very outer shell. I am going forward on this journey. I’m taking the time out of my schedule. I’m following all the leads I have on how to be a good writer. I’m digging in even when I don’t know what I’m doing to perfect my work. I want the reader to say, “This has changed the way I see others. This love is beautiful, and that love is beautiful. These people are all beautiful, and I will not judge.” I am trying to achieve some kind of fame. My themes are darkness, decay, decrepitude, the echo of fairy tales, love and romance, desire, beauty, the juxtaposition, the opposites. The thesis and antithesis together, to form a synthesis.

A writer must have something important to say.

Write what you are trying to achieve as your life’s work. What you’re trying to achieve in a particular book you’re writing. I am trying to realize myself as a writer, to understand myself as a person, to figure out completely what it is I should say, how to put my deepest passion into the most effective story, and turn them out, as fast as I can and as well as I can. In Winter Light I am trying to achieve a juxtaposition, the opposites. Darkness and light, beauty and ugliness, hatred and love, existing together in the same human vessel, what one person can feel for another.

What I’m writing should have an emotional and spiritual effect on readers.

I must tap the root of my passions. This is where my power lies.

Labels: story notes