Excerpt

Father Randall and I sat with steaming, sweet Assam tea, piles of buttered brown bread and stacks of Highland oatcakes. I was particularly fond of all three, and decided to impose on my guest. I had, after all, offered some of the very fine whisky my father had laid in; although declined, surely this provided some social recompense for a lack of cream and jam? As it was, the priest ate heartily and seemed not nearly as disturbed by the menu as Mrs. Fraser had been.
We were in the midst of discussing the latest scholarly thought on Biblical authorship, informed by the practices of both Jewish midrash and Western historiography, when an enormous clatter and amiable bellowing began to carom about the (spacious) hall outside the library doors. In fact it sounded as though a bull had made its way up from the downstairs servants’ area and was now being chased by Mrs. Peck, McPherson and possibly even Mrs. Fraser as it approached our location. And then it burst into the room.
“Ah, Helen! Sweet Scottish thistle of my heart!” it bawled, and rapidly crossed to meet me as I stood. I couldn’t help but smile and embraced Lord John Marbury, Duke of ___. His strikingly handsome face beamed down at me, blue eyes twinkling. Breaking off and running an absent hand through coal-black hair, the imposing Lord John brought his full power, charismatic and otherwise, to bear on Father Randall. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” he said evenly, offering his hand with a smile but also with the distinct implication that he might break the younger man’s, if provided good cause.
“Lord John Marbury, may I present Father Randall Oakes-Larsdon of the Church of England. Father Randall is here to discuss the vacant vicar position left by Father Aloysius.”
“Ah, yes,” John interrupted, no longer interested now that the threat of the man in my near proximity had so abruptly evaporated. “Strange business, that, don’t know why the old bugger ran off. Pardon me, Father.”
“I believe Aloysius was either secretly in love with my father, or with me,” I said, somewhat relishing the effect I knew my words would have on both men. “He all but vanished in the middle of the night after Da's funeral.” Lord John turned a satisfying shade of green at the thought, but remained silent and inscrutable.
“Which is neither interesting nor relevant,” I added. “Lord John was a close friend of my father’s,” I turned to the priest.
“I have no wish to monopolize your afternoon, Lady _______” Father Randall said, admirably in complete possession of his faculties after this unorthodox display. “We can continue our discussion of the authors of the gospels at another time, I hope. My lord, it is a pleasure to meet you and I beg you allow me to take my leave.”
“Certainly. Good evening,” John said absently, already halfway through pouring himself a dram and tucking the decanter under his arm for the trip to the oxblood chair. John wasn’t intentionally rude, so much as easily bored. And few things bored him as much as religion.
“Really, my lord,” I gently admonished him once Father Randall had departed, “You might on occasion consider treating others as if they contained the smallest potential for intellect.”
“It’s not intellect I despair of, dear girl,” John responded, “It’s intellect married to usefulness or at least diversion.” He drained a glass.
“As you see it,” I countered.
“Ah, you finally comprehend. Good girl.” He smiled at me, in a manner that had become familiar and welcome -- with a paternal kindness and pride, his grin tinged with . . . something else. His dark blue eyes shone and he regarded me a bit longer than genial interest would expect. In recent times I had found myself seeking out opportunities to win that look from Lord John.

Writing that Book

So when do you think I might stop contenting myself with being sure I can do it and instead actually do it?

I am working on it. More now than ever before.

But I keep waiting for it to fall on me, when I'm ready. Like meeting Mr. Right and getting married. I felt all those years that I wasn't ready. I knew I would be a great wife and mom when I got around to it, but I couldn't quite get myself to do anything proactive to make it come about. In fact, at some point I decided I was probably getting too old and got ready to settle down with my cat -- and that's when Dave fell into my lap.

Is this the year when the book falls into my lap? I feel like I'm probably getting too old, and I can't quite get myself to do anything more proactive than writing when I feel like writing. Which is often, but not often enough. And the book I'm working on, though I'm convinced it will be a good book, that someone will want to read, is not The book. The book I'm working on is fiction. The book is memoir. Can you imagine how scary it would be to write my memoir?

So, what do you think? Should I keep writing the novel? Stop altogether and wait for it to fall in my lap? Stop writing the novel and try to write the memoir? Write both? Or chuck all of it and just blog for my 5 loyal readers?