My Writing Progress Blog

Today is "My Writing Process" blog tour day, when authors answer questions about their writing process. Last week, fellow author Debra Brown posted hers. You can check it out at: http://authordebrabrown.blogspot.com/

Debra writes Regency novels – I loved her first book TheCompanion of Lady Holmeshire:

Many thanks for the invitation, Debbie. Here goes.

 

So, what is my writing process?

I write four days a week, leaving the weekend free for research and leisure, or that is the plan anyway. I am often distracted  by other things. First thing in the morning I answer emails, catch up with my online readers and fellow authors. Social networking plays a huge part in book marketing so it may look like play but in actual fact is me hard at work. Then, after coffee, I settle down to write. I aim to add five thousand words a day, sometimes I manage that, sometimes not but it is a good goal to have. One of the main things an author needs, apart from being able to spell, is self-discipline. Once I have done that I usually retire to the sofa or, if the sun is shining, to the garden to plan an outline for the following day. I am lucky. I have a lovely study that looks out across a garden full of flowers and birds to the welsh countryside beyond. Sometimes the only person I see all day is the postman. I think I have the best job in the world.

What am I working on?

A historical novel called Intractable Heart which is the story of Henry VIII’s last wife, Katheryn Parr. It is my sixth full length historical novel and my third set in Tudor England. Katheryn is not as popular as Anne Boleyn whom I featured in my last release, The Kiss of the Concubine but my research is revealing a fascinating woman. Her story has conflict, war, grief, terror, as well as some 'lurve.'  Her story is so interesting that I am glad to wake up in the morning and get started.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Some of the most frequent recurring words in Amazon reviews on my work are ‘different’ ‘refreshing,’ and ‘new perspective.’ I write in the first person, which helps me to strip away the magnificent clothes and jewels and reveal the woman beneath. I think long and hard how it must have felt to marry a man like Henry. A man very much older than oneself (to illustrate the generation gap; Katherine was named after Henry’s first wife Katherine of Aragon), and a man who had already disposed of five wives. Henry was increasingly ill, increasingly erratic and Katheryn was in love with another man, Thomas Seymour. She must have been close to despair on her wedding day. This sort of dilemma is a re-occurring one in Tudor women’s history, and I love to write about it.

Why do I write what I do?

When I first began to write I was advised to stick to what I know and keep to a setting where I am comfortable'. I am far more at home in Tudor England than I am in the modern world. I wouldn’t have a clue what goes on in a modern office, and I am not up to date with all the gadgetry that is essential to contemporary life. I have a master’s degree in Medieval Studies so it seemed natural to write historical novels, especially as that is my genre of choice as a reader. When I first began to write seriously I set my novels in the early medieval period. It was constant requests from readers that prompted me try out a Tudor one and it was a good decision. My career has really taken off since I wrote The Winchester Goose.

How does your writing process work?

The ideas for most of my books have germinated during research for the previous one. For instance, when I was writing The Winchester Goose I came across an article about how Anne Boleyn has been seriously misrepresented by novelists – I read a few of the novels cited in the article and decided she had been maligned rather than just misrepresented. When I wrote The Kiss of the Concubine I made sure I presented her as neither a witch nor a scheming whore. She is a woman in a difficult situation, in love with a difficult man. While I was writing The Kiss of the Concubine I read an article about Katheryn Parr and was surprised to discover how interesting she was. Katheryn was a devout, intelligent and educated woman, the first English queen to become a published author. That is how Intractable Heart was conceived.

Next week the following three authors will be telling you about their writing process:

Karen Aminadra : http://karenaminadrablog.wordpress.com/

Caroline Storer: http://carolinestorer.blogspot.co.uk/

Rachael Thomas: http://rachael-thomas.blogspot.co.uk/

All my books are available in paperback and on Kindle. My amazon page is here.

For more information please visit my webpage: www.juditharnopp.com

The Song of Heledd - Judith Arnopp

In a matter of months my next novel, The Song of Heledd will be published so it’s time for me to start spreading the word. Those of you who have read Peaceweaver and The Forest Dwellers will know that I write historical fiction, usually from a female perspective.

The Song of Heledd (pronounced Hell eth) is set in seventh century Powys at the hall of King Cynddylan of Pengwern. The princesses, Heledd and Ffreur (Freya) attend a celebratory feast where fifteen-year-old Heledd develops an infatuation for a travelling singer. The illicit liaison triggers a chain of events that will destroy two kingdoms and bring down a dynasty.

Set against the backdrop of the pagan-Christian conflict between kings Penda and Oswiu The Song of Heledd sweeps the reader from the ancient kingdom of Pengwern to the lofty summits of Gwynedd where Heledd battles to control both her own destiny and that of those around her, until, by degrees, she is gradually bereft of everything she holds dear.

This particular novel was inspired by fragments of Welsh poetry known as Canu Heledd and Marwnad Cynddylan which can be found in the Red Book of Hergest. This book dates from the 14-15^th centuries although the poems themselves (set in the 7^th century) are believed to have been composed in the 9^th century. Canu Heledd is part of an older oral tradition, recorded and transcribed in the medieval period.

Heledd is the narrator of the poem, and this is the thing that sets it apart from others in the saga tradition in which very few female dialogues exist. Jenny Rowlands in her book Early Welsh Saga Poetry says, ‘women do not speak or appear, and even allusions to their existence is rare.[1]’

So Heledd’s voice, even if it is a fictional one, provides us with real insight into the society in which she lived and, more importantly, into a woman’s role within that society. Although sole survivors of disaster are not uncommon in this genre, female survivors are and so Heledd’s story may perhaps be a historical event that has passed down through the oral tradition to become legend.

In the poem Heledd is the sole surviving member of the royal house of Pengwern in Powys, which at that time stretched into English midlands. Her dynasty and family have been destroyed and her brother, King Cynddylan’s (Cun- dylan) hall lies in ruins. Her lament for him and the destruction of the royal seat remains powerfully emotive but for me, the most poignant things is Heledd’s sense of culpability. She believes that her own actions have brought about the downfall of the dynasty and she is unable to forgive herself.

The poem itself cannot be relied on historically, it was written for entertainment not to enter the historical record, but the document when combined with the historical record, make enlightening reading.

Historically we know nothing about Heledd herself but her brother, Cynddylan is believed to have united with Cadafael of Gwynedd (Cad a vile of Gwinith) and Penda of Mercia against Northumbrian forces in the battles of Maes Cogwy, Chester, Lichfield and Winwaed, where Penda was slain.

Shortly after the Battle of Winwaed in 655AD Oswiu of Northumbria invaded Mercia and Powys, launching an attack upon the royal llys at Pengwern and practically obliterating the dynasty in one night. The Canu Heledd is set immediately after this event.

It has been suggested that, in order to cement the alliance between Powys and Gwynedd, the princess Heledd was married to Cadafael, the King of Gwynedd. But, for reasons we will never know, on the eve of the battle at Winwaed, Cadafael suddenly withdrew his troops and rode back to Gwynedd, abandoning Powys and Mercia to their fate. This act earned him the ignoble title of Cadafael Cadomedd, (Cad a vile Cad o meth) which translates as ‘battleshirker.’ There is no record or even a hint as to his motivation but the act did his reputation little good and shortly afterward, although the circumstances remain sketchy, the rule of Gwynedd passed back to Cadwaladr.(Cad wal adder)

The historical detail of 7^th century Powys and Gwynedd is very sparse. We can never know what really became of Heledd and her family but there are enough references to know they existed. The Canu Heledd illustrates that the family bond was strong, that Heledd was the sort of woman whose actions impacted upon the world around her.

The poem provides rich descriptions of the llys and the people who lived there, Cynddylan in his purple cloak, the richly carved mead halls, the merging tradition of Celtic and Christian religion. And the mention of Ffreur, a sister she once mourned but mourned no longer. Canu Heledd raises many questions but this one is the most intriguing of all; Heledd no longer mourns her sister, Ffreur? Why?

I spent many months sifting through the smoke-ruined embers of Cynddylan’s royal hall to piece together a story for Heledd and Ffreur, a fiction of what might have been.

Below is an excerpt. I hope you enjoy it.

The eagle of Eli, loud his cry:
He has swallowed fresh drink,
Heart-blood of Cynddylan fair!

I dreamed of the eagles long before they came swooping down from their cloudy crags. They blackened the sky, the wind from their wings lifting my hair as they circled, talons extended, before settling on the field of death to tear at the corpses of my brothers.

Too torn for tears, I waded through slaughtered kin while pain ripped my heart like a dagger and then my step faltered, for I saw Cynddylan’s limp standard, his torso twisted, his neck broke, his mouth gaping, and the world turned dark around me.

I knelt in his blood and tried to close the yawning wound upon his chest but I was too late, he was gone. What had I done? All of my kindred were lost and the Kingdom of Pengwern was shattered. I was left, alone. I threw back my head, unprotected beneath the vast, empty sky and screamed a protest to the vengeful gods.

When I woke in the morning and found myself safe in my furs, I flung back the covers to run outside. My playmates tumbled as usual beneath a kindly summer sky while the women spun yarn in the shade of the alder trees. My brother’s hounds came bounding to meet me, leaping up, trying to lick my face but I pushed them away.

And then I saw him. My brother, Cynddylan, King of Pengwern, striding across the enclosure with an arm about his companion and I ran to tell him of my terrible dream but he was intent on the affairs of men and, waving me away, he would not listen.

I was just nine summers old then and, as I grew to womanhood, the dream faded and I forgot it. It was many years later, when I heard the first clash of battle and the far off cry of the wheeling eagles, that I remembered my dream and knew what was to come.

Part One

Osian’s Song

Cynddylan of Powys purple gallant is he!
The strangers’ refuge, their life’s anchor,

October 644 AD

It all began on the day that my sister Ffreur and I first saw the singer of songs. He came in after supper and filled my brother’s hall with his sweet music. The company were entranced, King and commoner alike, and even the dogs ceased worrying their fleas to listen as his voice flowed smooth, like nectar, drowning us all in his honeyed lies.

He was a golden man, his hair burnished by the leaping torches and a beard, the colour of bees wax, curling thick upon his chin. I was just a girl, my heart as yet untouched by the beauty of men but the words of his song filtered deep into my soul, kindling something warm and dangerous in the depths of my belly.

When his song ceased we were all so lost in his art that it took a little time for the murmur of applause to grow and then my brother, Cynwraith, rose from the bench, clapped him on the back and led him to the high table. The handsome poet sat with my kin, flushed and laughing while they piled his platter with food and filled his mead cup to the brim. The minstrel had found favour with the great King of Pengwern and secured his future.

Beside me Ffreur clasped her hands across her stomach, her eyes as bright as the torches, missing nothing. She nudged me sharply in the ribs and laughed at me but I tossed back my hair and ignored her.

‘Heledd,’ she hissed. ‘Stop it; your mouth is open. You are almost drooling.’

I closed my lips and wriggled in my seat, the heat of the fire suddenly too great. I longed for him to notice me and as I picked up a piece of mutton and glanced at him through my lashes , I wondered what he was called.

When his appetite was sated Cynddylan requested another song and the stranger took his place before the top table again. I sat up straight, with my chin on my hands and prepared to be enchanted. The hall fell silent and even the children ceased their noisy games to listen.

He picked up his harp and ran his fingers across the strings before his voice engulfed us, ebbing and flowing like clear water over pebbles, turning my skin to gooseflesh.

In one year
One that provides
Wine and bounty and mead,
And manliness without enmity,
And a musician excelling,
With a swarm of spears about him.
With ribbands at their heads,
And their fair appearances.
Every one went from his presence,
They came into the conflict,
And his horse under him.

It was The Song of Urien Rheged. I had heard it a thousand times but never before had it sounded so good. The lyrics had never made my blood run so thick that my heart pumped long and slow. It was quite painful to listen to him, almost as if his harp were strung with my heartstrings. I sank my chin in my palm and closed my eyes, blocking the tears as I let his voice caress me and take me where it pleased.

By the time he noticed me I was familiar with every contour of his face, the way his hair curled into his neck, the strength of his jaw, the sensuous curve of his mouth and the softness of his smile. Then, quite astonishingly, his eyes fell upon me and I felt my heart leap a little. For a moment, he stilled, held fast in my gaze before he continued his song. His fine features mesmerised me, so that the crowd in the hall seemed to drift away leaving the minstrel and I alone in the firelight, his words and his music exclusively mine. And when the magic ended, he bowed his head ever so slightly and, as I bent my own head in return, I was sure that I saw him close one eye.

As the eldest princess of Pengwern I had been prepared since birth for a political marriage and I knew that my heart was not my own. But on that night, while the autumn winds howled about the hall, blowing small yellow leaves in beneath the lofty door, I forgot who I was. I dismissed my family and my royal obligation and gave my heart to a singer of songs.

---

[1] Rowlands Jenny, Early Welsh Saga Poetry, p.141

White and Black Sheep

My sister has been researching our family history for years now, diligently turning up brickmakers and tweenies. The most exciting thing to date has been a highway man, Joshua Hayley who was transported to Austrialia for highway robbery. His wife was a midwife. I imagine them; he dashing and daring, she, her youthful good looks fading, slapping babies arses, a bottle of gin in the pocket of her pinny.

That got my juices running for a while but then the story returned to hatmakers and school teachers. Not that there is anything wrong with those careers, after all, we will always need hats and learning provides the impetus for the worst of us to drag ourselves from the gutter.

By taking a different branch of the tree and delving a little further, some rather more interesting discoveries were made. I am pleased to report that my family does have some blue blood after all, however well watered down.

The trail of noblemen is easier to trace and so picks up impetus. A link with the Myddletons of Chirk castle made me prick up my ears, not from snobbery, but from the fact that we were now dealing with people I had actually heard of! People who are on the historical record.

Hugh Myddleton, sixth son of Richard Myddleton of Chirk, was apprenticed to a goldsmith. He became Royal Jeweller to James I, alderman, Recorder of Denbigh, and eventually MP to Denbighshire and a baronet. He is best remembered for the New River, dug from Amwell in Hertfordshire to london to provide the capital with fresh water when the Thames became too polluted. A statue to his memory stands in Islington.

There are numerous famous Myddletons,too many to go into detail here; their portraits hang in the Royal Gallery there are monuments and statues scattered around Britian. The most impressive of which is Chirk Castle that lies close to the centuries old posting road from London to Holyhead. they fought for parliament during the civil war but, disillusioned with Cromwell's rule, voted for the restoration of Charles ii. The Myddletons trace their descent back further to the Welsh warlord, Rhirid Flaid and (along another route) to the viking, Ivar the Boneless. My blood is up now, you have my interest Mr Myddleton, do please tell me more!

I studied the portraits of these long dead ancestors; they are aloof and far above me in terms of status. I do not sniff a mystery until my eye rests on one particular portrait. She 'speaks' to me, but I can't quite hear her words. I begin to read, find out who she is and why she is staring so smuggly from the canvas. What has she to hide?
Jane Needham was the eldest daughter of Sir Robert Needham (d. 1661), and his second wife, Jane (1619–1666), daughter and heir of Sir William Cockayne of Clapham, and widow of John Worfield of Barking. Like the Myddletons the Needhams were Welsh gentry.

Jane was married at the age of fourteen (18 October 1660) at St Mary''s, Lambeth, to Charles Myddleton, the sixth son of Sir Thomas Myddleton of Chirk Castle. She is a very interesting character. Contemporary accounts recall her as thrusting, ambitious and ruthless. Undeterred by her unsuccessful bid to weedle a way into the bed of King Charles ii, she then resorted to dangling the charms of her young daughter, Jenny, before his eyes.
'That isn't very nice, Jane!' I think and am forced to read on, to learn more. I turn to Pepys who mentions her in his diaries. Jane myddleton is 'indeed is a very beautiful lady' he says and I feel better. That is where I must get it from I suppose :D

On reading further I discovered that far from being loved and admired, her contemporaries (or at least those of the female persuasion) found her annoying, a girl who 'had not learned the meaning of wit or wisdom'. Rather more startling in a world of unimaginable smells, she is recorded as being 'smelly.' Pepys writes, 'she (Mrs Pierce) tells me that the fine Mrs. Middleton is noted for carrying about her body a continued sour base smell, that is very offensive, especially if she be a little hot.'
Oh, fair do's! I cry! Everyone was smelly in those days! I then began to realise that, if everyone was smelly then her stench must have been truly overpowering. Not something one hopes to discover about one's ancestors but I am now determined to discover the cause (or at least a hypothesis of the truth) of that unfortunate, scheming, ruthless, beautiful, calculating woman's personal aroma. I smell another novel!

A return to normality

Well, all that fuss and its over in a trice! Our festivities were pleasantly dull, it was nice to see my grown up children all at on table, nice to eat so much chocolate without feeling guilty, nice to have a new shiny laptop to fill with fabulous novels but so very, very nice that things can now go back to normal!

Most of all I am looking forward to the resumption of my writing group and long for enough peace to get on with writing The Forest Dwellers. I have done little to it in the past two months but there are ideas popping into my head all the time.
The story so far: Aelf's family have been evicted from their forest home to make way for the King's hunting ground. The strangely beautiful Alys has made a home with them and her presence unintentionally brings discord between the brothers. Aelf and Alys run foul of Prince Richard and during a flight across the forest the king's son meets an early death. Knowing they cannot return home, the family seek refuge with other outlaws in the depths of the New Forest and prepare their fighting skills to drive the Normans from their lands. A battle and a raid on the camp see an end to many of Aelf and Alys' friends and Alys makes a shocking discovery. They are taken prisoner, set to work as slaves in the nearby Norman castle until Alys' beauty catches the attention of a Norman baron. More excitement to follow!

It promises be a busy year. I hope to promote Peaceweaver and sell as many copies as possible, seek out some book fairs etc. and continue with on-line promotions. The feed back on Peaceweaver has been very gratifying; the biggest complaint being that it is keeping people awake long into the night.

Happy New Year to all and may it be a healthy one, prosperous and full of book sales!

First contact

I'm told that I need to blog, so here I am, blogging. What to blog about, I don't know; I suppose I should begin with an introduction.
Most of my time is spent at my PC, writing fabulous novels. I live with my husband and several of my grown up children, on a smallholding in West Wales. Now, the family have grown up I can devote my time to writing. As a child I wrote poems and stories, as a teenager I dreamed up torrid romances and now, as an adult, I write Historical novels.
After studying English literature and History at university of Wales, Lampeter I realised how Anglo Saxon and medieval women have been omitted from the historical record; even women whose influence has been considerable. It is these wronged women that appear in my novels, whether they be wives and mothers, nuns or prostitutes, queens or commoners.

Peaceweaver is the story of Eadgyth Aelfgarsdottir, the queen of both Gruffydd ap Llewellyn of Wales and Harold II of England. She tells a tale of war and passion and provides a voice for women tossed in the tumultous sea of feuding Anglo Saxon Britain.
This blog will relate the tale of my journey from an unknown into a published author.