I've just finished watching Miss Potter, and as it always happens when I watch a film with British actors--particularly a historical movie--, my pattern of speech begins to mimic theirs. Now, this is a splendid thing when it comes to sit down to write since I write Edwardian historicals (fyi 1890-1914), but when speaking with my family or just regular online chit-chat, I think I sound rather weird and old-fashioned. But on to my writing, it's going rather well and in fact, I should get back to it right away. I'm doing something I've never done before: write the entire first draft by hand.

I sat down yesterday to begin the manuscript for day one of NaNoWriMo and couldn't write a lick beyond the opening line. In my frustration, I ended up completing my household chores (washing dishes, vacumning, etc etc), but to no avail. Then I sat down, grew still and quiet, and realized that I was supposed to write this by hand. I'd already had my mind set on pounding out 2,000 words and then wasting the remainder of the day dallying around the internet, but that wasn't to be. This book was supposed to be written the way it was supposed to be, and my own agenda was not on the menu. So here I now have ten hand-written pages and it's rather....fun. It's rough of course, as all rough drafts should be, but it's steaming along and I hope to have a big chunk of the book completed by the end of November.

It's also quite freeing to handwrite a manuscript. I'm not tied to the computer. I can take my papers and go anywhere and write. I don't have this obnoxious screen glowing in my face and being on my own, with only my head and my hands as resources, I'm forced to dig deeper for the right word, to force my brain to use the knowledge I have of my particular setting instead of the usual impulse to Google it and be lazy.

I have Britney Spears' new CD. There, I said it. I can't stop listening to it. Damn ohnotheydidnt!

But today is day one of NaNoWriMo and I have to knock out 2K words by the day's end and 2K words for the next 29 days until I have 60K words by November 30, 2007, which will put me at a 60% completion level. Here's to me getting there!

I'm plotting the first book in what could be loosely described as an Edwardian romantic suspense series. The bare bones of the plot are here, I just need to find the meat. Since I want to be as historically accurate as possible (my original reasons for writing these books--I am sick and tired of wallpaper spy historicals) I'm pouring over and compiling a notebook of facts by timeline. For instance, the presence of Russian and Italian anarchists in London play a part in a few books so I'm researching anarchy in Britain of the 1890s and 1900s which brings me into the presence of Lenin, Trotsky and Gorky in London for a period in time.

In dealing with the tensions that led to WWI, even though the war and the Edwardian period tend to be ignored by the general populace, I love the period so why be lazy with research just because readers may not know? As a result I have quite a few research books to read. But anyways, I kept hitting snags in my plotting and since my only points of reference are Hitchcock movies and Helen MacInnes books, I struggle with integrating a romantic relationship in this book since this is a romance novel at its heart. But then a line came to mind: when in doubt, up the body count. To create suspense, someone has to die or at least be in danger of dying. See, my h/h aren't really being chased because they're still trying to figure out what the heck is going on so I have to build tension in the midst of the action. Therefore, someone has to die,or almost die. *ggg*

I completely lost my writing mojo. I've been pouring my energy into working out the kinks in this Edwardian spy series and all of the sudden, the first time I leave the house for a period of time, all of the inspiration I had left me. It's like, I think about brainstorming and there's no spark. I want to do this series, I really do, but I have no drive whatsoever.

>.

Here I go again neglecting the LJ.

Anyways, I'm steaming mad because someone stole my Harry Potter book from the library. And you know I sent a tersely worded email to the librarian over this.

You know what a reservation is, right? I think I'll let Jerry tell you:

I forget I have this LJ where I can slag off on anything and anyone I want without anyone who visits my main blog knowing about it. Go figure!

Antiwayz(love that word), I am washing clothes and dishes, while starving for food, after pulling yet another all-nighter. But not a good all-nighter because I've spent most of the time surfing online and reading. I want to bang my head against the wall when I do this because I'm deliberately wasting so many opportunities to write. I look at the calendar and note that if I wrote X amount of words by this date, the novel would be completed, but when it comes to the daily grind of meeting those daily goals, I grow discourage and disillusioned. Do I want this badly enough? I have so many great ideas floating around my head--some even near fully plotted, but I can't muster enough courage to actually sit down and write and not care whether it's my Magnum Opus or not. I feel so stupid for feeling this way and don't want to ask any one how they get over this because the BS cliches everyone spews towards tentative posts on this subject is BS I've readily spewed at other writers. I keep thinking "Edith Wharton wrote long-hand on paper" or this writer wrote under tragic circumstances/extreme duress, and while I don't want something crazy tragic to happen in my life to give me a kick in the seat, I can't figure out how to combat the lethargy that glazes my eyes and paralyzes my limbs at the thought of sitting down each day and meeting a writing goal.

I'm a slacker.

But I saw a good movie a week ago: The Painted Veil with Edward Norton and Naomi Watts. It's based off a Maugham book that I never got around to reading when I checked it out from the library (and now there's a 30 people deep wait list! >.<) set in 1925 China where Watts' character Kitty Fane cheats on her mild-mannered husband and is dragged into a cholera-infested village by said husband when he finds out about her adultery. It's quite romantic even though I called the ending because it was the only way for the story to go.

Also, fresh off my Amy Winehouse kick, I now can't take Kelis' first album Kaleidoscope out of my cd player. I never realized what I missed by passing on this album--as well as Kelis' other albums--because they are superb. From start to finish, there is no track I want to skip, and frequently put some songs on such constant repeat I'll probably burn the cd.

Gigi was late. To make matters worse, it began to rain. Fat, wet drops poured forth from the heavens and landed in splattering plops, soaking through her ulster and paper-wrapped package of books. The bookstalls along the Seine teeming with fellow bibliophiles, she lingered despite her tardiness and the acknowledged reaction of her grandmother and great-aunt when she finally returned home. One last sigh and covetous look directed at the Aristotle first edition and Gigi popped open her umbrella and clutching her books, crossed the bridge stretching from the quay to the Ile de Saint-Louis.

The oldest part of Paris, the island was a maze of medieval streets and derelict baroque mansions, their closeness giving the area the air of faded opulence. Her residence--her great-aunt's really--was a rococo creation made of pink marble and Doric columns squeezed protestingly between a cafe and a block of newly renovated flats. Gigi paused at the flight of stairs curving to the lattice-front double doors, gathering her excuses before taking a deep breath and quickly ascending the steps. Their lone maid, Helene, opened the door moments after Gigi's knock with a look of disapproval marring her otherwise cherubic features.

"Is Grandmere upset?" Gigi queried as she stood still, allowing Helene to divest her of her sodden outerwear.

"I should say so Miss Gilberte." Helene sniffed, droplets staining her skirts black as she shook Gigi's walking coat.

"Gigi!"

She winced at the high-pitched wail of her name from the first floor. Both she and Helene's head immediately craned upwards when her great-aunt Alicia appeared at the balustrade, followed by Grandmere, both of them narrowing eyes at the recalcitrant Gigi.

"You may be dismissed Helene." Tante Alicia waved her hand at the maid, who duly scampered off to the nether regions of the hotel prive. "Now Gigi--"

"I'm sorry Aunt Alicia," Gigi hastily interrupted, climbing the stairs. "But would you see what I purchased? If I hadn't gone to the stalls today old Henri would have sold my books to another customer! And at a cheaper price as well!"

Her great-aunt and grandmere lacked the proper appreciation of Gigi's financial savvy, frowns pushing their plucked brows together over the bridge of their nose at her hands akimbo.

"Is that all you've done today Gigi?"

"Well, yes. I did pay a call on Madame Norbert this afternoon--she sends her regards to you Grandmere--"

"Mon Dieu," Tante Alicia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in apparent agony. "This is all your doing Eugenie, indulging her whims and neglecting your duty. Fix it!" With that, great-aunt Alicia disappeared in a flurry of chiffon and gardenias, the door to her private boudoir slamming in her wake.

Gigi pressed her hands to her mouth with a gasp. "I forgot! Do forgive me Grandmama." She grasped for her grandmother's hands, suddenly aware of their frailty.

"Oh yes, now you remember." Grandmere took Gigi by the shoulders and propelled her up the second flight of stairs to the second floor, where she shared the connecting bedroom to her grandmother's. "If I don't have you dressed within the next half hour, your Aunt Alicia will never forgive the both of us."

"Shall I be laced up?" Gigi stalled in the doorway. Grandmere pushed her into the room, drawing the curtains and lighting the gas.

"Don't pout Gigi, it ruins the face." Grandmere wagged a finger at her. "And yes, you shall be laced up. It would be a travesty were we to allow you to run about tonight without the proper corsetry. Now, where is Helene?"

Gigi rang for Helene at Grandmere's behest and squared her shoulders to accept fate as Grandmere, soon joined by Helene, made short work of her grimy clothing and shoved her nimbly into a rose-scented bath.

"What shall you wear?" Grandmere mused, tapping her chin as she stood before Gigi's wardrobe.

"I'm quite partial to the striped silk. Monsieur Norbert said he found me charming in it." Gigi said offhandedly, flicking at the bubbles skimming the surface.

"Never you mind what Monsier Norbert says about your appearance. Helene--scrub!" Grandmere snapped. Gigi obediently knelt forward for the maid to scrub her back.

"Alicia suggested the blue, but you would fade into the background of the salon." Grandmere pulled out a length of blue, discarding it for a pale green watered silk.

"Not the green Grandmama," Gigi sputtered when she surfaced from Helene's dunking of her head beneath the water. "It fits horridly and barely comes to my calves."

"Limbs, Gigi. Limbs, never calves. Only vulgar women refer to their body parts in such indelicate terms."

"But the anatomy books call them 'calves' and 'thighs'." Gigi began innocently.

Grandmere started in shock, coming to the tub and snatching the bar of rose soap. "Would you like me to wash your mouth with this?"

"No Grandmere." She lowered her eyes in contriteness.

Helene returned with a fluffy terrycloth towel and dressing gown, and Gigi leapt from the bath into them, shivering, her teeth chattering as she rushed for the fire crackling softly in the hearth.

"Ah ha!"

Gigi peered at her grandmother through drying tresses, whose exclaimation was the result of the discovery of a satin cream gown trimmed with blonde lace in the recesses of her wardrobe, matching shoes in the other hand.

"Perfect." Burdening the waiting Helene with the items, Grandmere pulled the requisite lingerie from the drawers and clapped her hands for Gigi to rise.

She did so, buttoning her combinations, lifting her foot for the white stockings Helene tugged onto her leg and fastened with garters, and clutching the bed post when Grandmere fit the stiff health corset over her waist and hips.

"Now take a deep breath." Grandmere instructed.

She ignored Gigi's yelp at a particularly savage yank of the laces, and Gigi, feeling like a much abused toy doll, stood stiffly before the floor length mirror, vision briefly obscured by the satin gown Helene and Grandmere dropped over her waiting body, they tugging and adjusting until the gown fit over her curves, both natural and artificial, in a manner they approved of. Gigi peered at the alarming expanse of skin peeping from the bodice before she was propelled into a seat for Helene to curl and pin her hair.

"Delightful." Grandmere clasped Gigi's shoulders when Helene finally stepped away from her head. She started when the clock chimed, one, two...eight.

"Come, come Gigi, we mustn't be late." Grandmere grabbed Gigi's hand and tugged her from the room, ushering her down the stairs to the salon on the ground floor.

They paused on the threshold. "Now Gigi, your aunt has gone through much to arrange tonight. Be polite, charming and please do not mention what you've recently read."

"I'm a trifle nervous Grandmere." Gigi admitted, palms sweaty beneath her gloves.

"Of course you're nervous child!" Tante Alicia swept into the conversation from the open door. "My limbs quaked deliciously when Monsieur le Comte paid his first call upon me. Ask your grandmother, I was a complete and utter disgrace--why, our mother nearly wept in frustration when it appeared the comte wouldn't be asking for my companionship after all."

"But enough of that! Come in before our guests see you hanging about and take you for the maid!"

Gigi followed her great-aunt into the salon, taking a seat upon a prim chaise closest to the fireplace, her grandmere and great-aunt linked arms to stroll delicately about the room. When her grandmere frowned at her, she realized she was fidgeting and stood, moving towards the elaborate birdcage where a pair of turtle doves twittered on their rungs. To calm her raging nerves, she fed the tiny birds bits of honey-soaked seeds, stiffening when the echo of the doorbell vibrated through the house. Before she knew it, the blue salon had filled with gentlemen of all ages and sizes, obviously engaged in conversation with her grandmere and aunt or with one another despite the frequent straying of their eyes in her direction. The sketchy lessons she allowed from her grandmother suddenly fled her mind and Gigi, ignorant of what to do, concentrated on the birds, back to the audience.

~

The carriage carrying Bernard Fournier and his cousin, Georges, creaked along the Pont de la Tournelle and the islets twisting one way streets. Bernard's presence in the vehicle was purely to humor his cousin, who had pulled him from the Gare de Lyon before the train even chugged into the station, and impressed upon him the need to attend to him as he called upon an old friend in the City. And so he, still attired in his travel-stained clothing, hungry and fatigued, was on his way to visit a stranger in the night. A stranger who could be any sort of person, judging by his cousin's dissolute lifestyle, he mused bemusedly.

"And who is this 'friend' of yours pray tell?" Bernard peered at his cousin in the faint light of the street lamps occasionally lighting the carriage's interior. "Hopefully no one you owe money to, for I've no cash on my person."

"A cheque would be sufficient." Georges replied. "I'm chaffing mon cousin. But never mind who this friend is, we have arrived."

He rapped the roof of the carriage and it slowed to a halt before, from what Bernard could see through the window, a pale marble building nestled between buildings highlighted by the lights blazing through the gauzy curtains of the many windows adorning the exterior. The door swung open and Georges, followed by Bernard, exited. He paused behind his cousin, overly conscious of his lackluster attire beside Georges' tie and tails.

"Perhaps I should remain in the carriage--I'm not properly dressed."

"Nonsense Bernard, come in, Madame Alvarez is very accommodating."

"Madame Alvarez?"

"Our hostess for the night." Georges bounded up the stairs and rung the doorbell.

The silhouette of a plump maid met them in the open door. "Ah bonsoir, Monsier Fournier. Ca Va?" She chattered welcomingly to Georges as she took his coat. "Ton cousin?" She motioned to Bernard, who paused on the threshold, scrutinizing the foyer.

"Oui." Georges guided Bernard into the house with an arm around his shoulders. "Bernard Fournier, my elderly cousin. Bernard this is Helene."

The maid, Helene, curtseyed in greeting and Bernard made a jerky, half-bow to the maid.

"Madame will be most pleased at your attendance." Helene remarked, walking backwards to speak with Georges as she led them to the molded sliding doors just beyond the foyer.

"Say Helene," Georges began casually. "Is it true?"

"Is what true monsieur?"

"Of mademoiselle Gilberte?"

"Oh, yes." Helene thrust apart the sliding doors to reveal a slightly crowded salon. "There is Madame de Pougy speaking with the Duc d'Amirage."

"That old fool." Georges muttered in an aside to Bernard. "I must speak with Madame." He tossed at Bernard before abandoning him at the now closed doors.

There was a lull in the conversation and Bernard brushed at his tweed jacket, aware of the scrutiny turned his way through monocles and spectacles of the properly attired gentlemen milling about the room. Usually self-possessed, Bernard was irritated to discover the unease currently coursing through him and he broke away from the door to circulate the room in hopes of gravitating to an interesting conversation. As Bernard walked about the room, glass of champagne in hand, he came to notice the subtle focus of attention to the far side of the salon. It was no more than the careful avoidance of a particular area and discreet sliding of glances in that direction, but it was enough for Bernard to assume something--or someone--of importance held court. Curiosity got the better of him and he inched through the guests, surprised to find the center of attention, a young woman--a girl really--seated on a chaise, listening patiently to the conversation the gentlemen circling her directed at and above her.

Something about the way she sat, perhaps the crook of her arm held against her side, the curve of her neck and fan of eyelashes shielding her eyes as she leaned into the young man at her side, or the agitated twitching of her fingers against her open fan, struck him, and Bernard felt as callow as the spotted boy hovering at her shoulder. Who was she? As though to answer his unspoken query, her attention jerked to the man who absently jostling Bernard in his haste to approach her.

"Mademoiselle Alvarez," He clasped her hand, kissing it in greeting. "You have blossomed, literally blossomed overnight."

"Thank you Monsieur le Comte." She tugged her hand from his, snapping her fan open before her face.

A slight narrowing of her eyes above the edge were the only betrayal of her irritation, and as her eyes swept the crowd pressing against her skirts, they somehow caught Bernard's and she paused, brows raising slightly, before moving past him, seeming to search beyond them all for someone.

"Grandmere!" The relief in her voice was apparent, and the men were forced to make room for the stately elderly woman who entered the fray.

"Your Tante Alicia wishes you to meet someone."

"Oh. Alright." The young woman

"You wold disappoint us Madame Alvarez? Mademoiselle?" Monsieur le Comte dabbed the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.

"Mademoiselle must." The grandmother said firmly, leading her granddaughter away.

As Bernard registered the mingling disappointment and frustration that coursed through the rapidly dispersing men, he suddenly realized the purpose--nay the profession--of the charming young woman. He was shocked, outraged....and a number of other confusing emotions that impacted him with his epiphany.

Georges.

He spotted his cousin through the crowd, at the side of another elderly woman, though this one fairly shone with diamonds and grey silk in comparison to the more somberly clad grandmother. The aunt, he assumed darkly. Georges' brows rose in query at Bernard's approach.

"Alicia--Madame de Pougy--allow me to present my cousin, Bernard."

"Your cousin is an asset to my salon, may I hope you shall be as well?" Alicia de Pougy tapped Bernard on the hand with her fan.

"Bernard?" Georges laughed. "My cousin hasn't the time to dance attendance upon sophisticates such as yourself. He feels most at home in a factory or behind piles of paperwork."

"What is your trade, if I may ask?"

"Silk." Bernard said stiffly.

"Ah! Now I recall--Fournier Silk--though the market has taken a hit from foreign markets if I am not mistaken? The Americans, I hear."

"The firm does well enough."

"How fortunate." Madame de Pougy appeared bored with Bernard, turning away from him to glance at her niece, who was monopolized by a middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. The gentleman brushed against the young woman's arm and Bernard, seized by an unknown force (he would analyze it later but was unable to name it) regained the lady's attention and his cousin's visible surprise with his next words.

"Madame, if I could be introduced to your niece?"

"Why...well...Monsieur le Duc..."

"Indulge my provincial manners just this once Madame." Bernard pressed.

"Well..." Madame de Pougy dithered, but he was aware of the shrewd assessment of his worth compared with the duke's simmering beneath her appearance of confusion.

"Yes, do indulge my cousin, Alicia. I've never seen him in such a state."

"Alright." Madame de Pougy, snapped her fan open. "Gigi ma chere."

The young woman turned from the duke to her aunt in query.

"Allow Monsieur le Duc a rest and come chat with Monsieur Fournier's cousin."

Gigi, Gigi, Gigi, Bernard sampled her name on his tongue, as he approached her, passing the obviously disgruntled duke to take his seat beside the young woman slightly shielded by a potted plant. She stared at him frankly, brown eyes both guarded and curious, dark and luminous, and rather large for her fine-boned prettiness. Cream satin (a fabric inferior to silk in his opinion) and blond lace hugged her curves, her gown fitting her as though it were sewn onto her body: curved where she was, tapering rib by rib to her waist and cascading from her hips in a shower of cream. The ample expanse of flesh revealed through the décolletage contrasted with the almost virginal coloring of her gown, and Bernard was struck anew by the situation in which his impetuous decision landed him.

They presented an amusing tableau, both turned towards one another, utterly speechless. Bernard, aware of the eyes turned on them, cleared his throat to speak.

Suddenly I'm obsessed with the 20s and 60s--flappers and mods. Hmm...perhaps that should do some research and incorporate it into the small line I'm hoping to show at my school's fashion show this fall.

I'm also obsessed with Amy Winehouse. The girl can blow and reminds me of Billie Holliday and other old jazz/torch singers(literally--drugs, messed up relationships, alcoholism and such).

School is just about out--thank the Lord--and I'm mulling over my options for this summer: writing and sewing or writing, sewing and going to summer school. The last is contingent upon transportation since as you know, I don't drive.