Yesterday afternoon, I spent the day with several writing friends, and the topic turned to research. Maggie asked me if I'd actually ever been to Hong Kong, the setting of my newest historical release, Kismet's Salvation. The answer? No. Nor have I visited Victorian London or New Orleans during the War of 1812 or many of the other settings I've written over the year. As writers, we're often told, "Write what you know." So how did I manage to write about Hong Kong without ever having been?
Research.
Research can be a tricky thing. When I wrote my first historical it was over 800 pages in length, thanks to the tons of facts I learned that fascinated me. And surely, if I was fascinated, my readers would be, too! Ummm...really? Not so much. The Internet can be a wealth of information, but it isn't necessarily factual. So how did I research Victorian London and 19th century Hong Kong? Through books. Travel books, historical books, picture books. I read journals of people who'd lived in these places during the years my story took place. I immersed myself in the culture of Tao, studied the habits of pink dolphins and jackass penguins, and strolled cobblestone streets without ever leaving my library.
And what did all those research books gain me in the end? A book of my own. A book I love and I'm proud to put my name on. Want a peek at 19th century Hong Kong? Take a look at it through my heroine's eyes:
Under Armand’s guidance at the wheel, South Star sailed into Hong Kong harbor through the West Lamma Channel. The air filled with a thick, heavy fragrance. Inhaling deeply, Lydia discerned the distinctive tang of salt mixed with a more flowery exotic perfumed scent.
Baptiste, beside her at the rail, covered her hand with his own. “Hong Kong means fragrant harbor in the Chinese dialect of Cantonese.”
To her mind, no greater truth had been written since the scriptures of the Bible.
“The odor comes from the incense factories over there.” He pointed past the ships that crowded the channel to the hilly, rocky island where gray, weathered clapboard buildings dotted the shoreline.
She stared over those sad, dilapidated structures for a long while.
“Cridick-crick-crick-cree!”
From beneath her feet, a crackly screech rose. Peering down into the blue-green water, she found an odd sea creature, even stranger than the comical penguins of South Africa, swam alongside the ship. The beastie resembled a large fish but had a long pink snout and face with a white underbelly. With its wide-open mouth and square teeth, he appeared to grin up at her, and the squeaks he made sounded a greeting in a tradition unfamiliar yet unmistakable in meaning.
On a giggle of delight, she leaned over the rail and waved. “Hello there, my friend. Thank you for the warm welcome to your home.”
“That’s a dolphin,” Baptiste said. “Unusual to see one this time of year.”
The playful creature disappeared beneath the surface, and she returned her attention to Baptiste. “I thought dolphins were gray.”
“Most of them are,” he replied. “But for some reason the dolphins of Hong Kong are born gray or black, then turn pink and white as they mature.”
What else had all her books failed to reveal about this strange faraway land? In truth, no amount of description in a book could have prepared her for the variety of wonders her senses beheld as she looked out over this paradise.
Unfamiliar smells, some fishy, some flowery, tickled her nostrils and landed on her tongue, lending their tastes to her mouth and throat. No matter where she looked, her eyes drank in an array of quaint peculiarities. From the dolphin who swam in the water to the ships that sailed atop its surface, one unusual and colorful view melded into another.
A variety of styles of clipper ships and barques clustered about, dwarfing the smaller vessels that shared the harbor with them. Dinghies transported sailors from their moored ships to the shore while local fisherman aboard tinier boats hauled in nets filled with their fresh squirming catch. In the distance, a more triangular vessel she recognized as a Chinese junk glided past on its way out to sea.
Against the backdrop of all those white sails, the hills and mountains on land took on a blue-gray hue beneath a purplish sky.
Her ears had heard the strange cry of the pink dolphin, but also recognized the squawk of various sea birds, the sing-song voices of Chinese sailors, and the more familiar sounds of British accents mixed with a smattering of French and Spanish.
I hope you enjoyed this excerpt! Kismet's Salvation is available now from The Wild Rose Press.
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Showing posts with label The Kismet Series. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Kismet Series. Show all posts
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
"Revenge" and a Full Plate
Ordinarily, this would be a bit of an inconvenince, but with my trip to RWA National in Orlando coming up next week (and all its obligatory paperwork: reservations, flights, transportation receipts, schedules, etc., carefully stored on Della's hard drive), inconvenience became apocalyptic drama. You see, in my local chapter, I not only serve as President, but I'm kinda the unofficial Control Freak in Charge. Which means, I not only had my information for National, but my chapter mates' stuff, and stuff for the chapter at large all stowed in Della's trusty megabytes.
I began treating Della with the usual disk maintenance. But defragmenting was impossible since I need a minimum of 15% free space to run that particular program. Current free space? 0%. Okay...deep breath...not a tragedy yet. I ran my virus software, malware, and crap cleaning software. After all that, current free space jumped from 0% to a whopping ...0%.
Yup. No change at all. Time to go into the Programs section and clean stuff out of there. I moved 138 files-- mostly WIPs and documents related to chapter business--from my desktop to my Yahoo group where I archive and store important info. (A side note: I highly recommend some kind of Yahoo group or Google storage thing for everyone. While I use Carbonite for storage of all my computer files, if Della should ever reach a DNR stage and I don't have the means to replace her immediately, I can access any of my important stuff from any computer anywhere with my Yahoo group. Best of all, it's free.) Okay...so 138 files deleted from hard drive and transferred to Yahoo group. Current free space...0%.
Hmmm...I'm sensing a pattern. Flipped my Auto Restore settings to 2-4, rather than the 15 it was set on as the factory standard. Current free space...2%. Yay! Progress. Back into other Program files to delete. In going through the actual C Drive, rather than the autopopulated list Della gives me in Add/Remove Programs, I found some files I hadn't used in eons. Old publishing files from programs that no longer exist for documents for an organization I'm no longer a part of. Still 2%. And we're only up to Tuesday of the week.
I removed--one at a time--the series of 4000 fonts I'd downloaded to Della when I was a newsletter editor. Kept only the basic. Up to 6%. On Thursday, I looked in my Music files and discovered something unusual. When I'd switched to a new I-touch from my loyal old MP3 player (which, after eight years of fantastic service, had gasped its last the week before), I had to transfer all my music from Windows Media Player to I-tunes. Approximately 500 albums, more than 3000 songs. (Yeah, I'm a music buff with extremely bizarre taste. I have everything from The Mills Brothers and Etta James to Lady Gaga and O.A.R.) But my I-tunes said I had more than 12,000 songs! Okay, I'm a music buff, not a crazy person. Opened my I-tunes to discover every song I'd transferred from WMP had replicated itself five times!
At this stage, I knew I was in serious trouble. So I broke down and bought Della a shiny new external hard drive, transferred all my music files over to that. Nothing else, just my music files. Current free space: 16%! Woo-hoo! We have lift-off! Finally defragmented, got in to my files for RWA National and quickly printed all the receipts, reservations, and handouts that I needed, tucked them into my annual "National" folder.
For the last 24 hours, I've been manually deleting the four extra copies of every song I transferred to I-tunes. The external hard drive is happy to help and Della, while weak, will hold out a little longer so I can shop around for her replacement and not buy something in the heat of panic.
So if anyone's been wondering where I've been this week, now you know. But I did manage to squeeze in an appointment with a tattoo artist. I'd take a picture of my new "pretty", but I'm afraid Della couldn't take the excitement. So if you'll be at RWA National and spot me there, ask and I'll be happy to show you my little masterpiece.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Welcome to My World!
As the newest member author of RBRU, I thought I'd use my inaugural post to play hostess. So come inside my cyber house and let's chat.
I'm a bipolar writer. Under the name, Gina Ardito, I write sweet, lighthearted contemporary romances. But my slightly darker/older alter ego, Katherine Brandon, writes epic historicals with a bit of a spicy bent--not erotic, mind you. Just no closed bedroom doors, like in Gina's stories. My worlds aren't too far apart so it's fairly easy to straddle them.
Katherine has three books releasing this year with The Wild Rose Press, all part of her Kismet series. Book I, Kismet's Angel, was released in May, Kismet's Revenge (Book II) will be released in August and the third book, Kismet's Salvation is due out in October.
Gina will have three books out, her Nobody series, with Avalon Books over the next eighteen months.
I'm a coffee addict (big surprise!) and my favorite invention of the last few years is the Keurig coffee system, which allows me to brew one perfect cup of coffee whenever I want it.
In a glistening castle spun from vapor and dreams, Kismet, the goddess of fate, sits upon her celestial throne. While she awaits word from her handmaidens, her fingers drum the armrest, scattering astral dust into perfumed air.
At last the dark-haired Rosamond, mistress of the virtuous, flutters into the chamber and makes her obeisance. “She has arrived, Peerless One,” her melodic voice sings. “Nearly a month too soon.”
“Nevertheless,” Kismet replies, a gentle chastisement, “she is welcome.”
Rising in the mauve sky, the goddess transmutes to pour as incandescent gold into the viewing room. While a cluster of lovely women watches, the light grows denser until the goddess returns to her opaque form. “Where is she, Rosamond?”
“Hyderabad, India, Peerless One. On earth, the year is 1793.”
From her special aperture, Kismet searches the blue planet, but discerns nothing save darkness and rain. A wave of her hand sends a flash of lightning to hurtle downward, illuminating the earthen sky and a ramshackle cottage’s occupant…
****
Summer lightning speared the gloomy room, startling Ahmed Manu from his chair. He trudged to the window and lifted a trembling hand to the ragged curtain. Nothing stirred but the banyan trees, shuddering beneath the wind’s fury, weeping in grief.
I will not cry. He dropped the curtain. I will not cry.
What would become of him now? Only Kismet knew what the Nizam would do when he learned of his favorite child’s death. The hairs on the back of Ahmed’s neck prickled at the imagined cold steel of a royal executioner’s axe.
Outside, thunder rumbled, combining with the low thud of approaching hooves.
Inhaling courage from the storm, he opened the scarred wooden door. The wind whipped, and the force knocked Ahmed against the wall. On the heels of the gusts, a man raced inside.
“Sarita!” The man removed his sodden cloak, tossing it on the chair before turning to Ahmed. “Where is she? Where is my wife? Is she well?”
Dropping his gaze to the rainwater pooling on the dirt floor, Ahmed choked out the dreadful words. “She—she is dead, Louis. And the child with her.”
“Dead?” The pain in Louis’s voice tore into him like talons. “No, she can’t be.”
I will not cry… “I-I’m sorry. The midwife did all she could. But the babe was too big. Sarita could take no more.”
“Our child,” Louis murmured. “Was it a son or a daughter?”
“The babe was a girl. She never took a breath. Now she sleeps in her mother’s arms for eternity.” Ahmed dared not look at Louis, couldn’t bear to see the agony his words inflicted. He’d made Sarita a promise—his very last service to his beloved princess. Despite the wrongness of it, he’d hold fast to his vow. “Your wife’s only thoughts were of you. She insisted you leave India before the Nizam learns of our tragedy.”
“I would see them first.” Louis strode toward the bedchamber. “I would say goodbye.”
Panic welled. Ahmed leaped to place his hands flat upon the man’s chest, halting any forward motion. “Sarita did not wish you to see her in death. As for the child, your loss will be easier to bear if you’ve never seen her. A faceless memory does not linger.”
As if voicing displeasure, the winds howled and rattled the door. Another stab of remorse pierced Ahmed’s heart. Why had Sarita heaped such a large burden upon him? How long could he keep his secret from Louis’s acute senses? In an effort at distraction, he reached for the sodden cloak still draped over the chair. Rainwater rolled off the garment and splashed onto his bare feet, the rhythm of tears.
I will not cry…
Pulling the grief-stricken man forward, he wrapped the cloak around him. “I’ve secured your passage onboard a merchantman, The Christman. She leaves on the morning tide for Batavia. From there, you must find your way home.”
“Home?” Louis’s dirt-streaked face clouded with grief. “I no longer have a home. Sarita was my home.”
Guilt sliced Ahmed in half. Before he broke and allowed the truth to escape, he led Louis out into the maelstrom. Hard rain pinged his cheeks as he helped Louis mount the saddled horse still standing in the midst of the deluge. “May Kismet smile upon you always, sir,” he shouted above the monsoon’s wind.
Slapping the beast on the rump, he sent horse and rider away. When their shadows disappeared in the dark and rain, he sloshed through ankle-deep mud to return to the house. Once the door closed on nature’s fury, he pressed his dripping head to the rough wood. The deed was done.
A mewling cry broke from the bedchamber. Ahmed hurried into the room, careful to avert his gaze from the lifeless body lying atop blood-soaked bedclothes. The cries grew louder when he lifted a swaddled bundle from a wooden cradle at the bedside.
He removed the blanket covering the child’s head and kissed the feathery hair. “Hush, my little princess,” he crooned, rubbing the infant’s back. “All will be well. Did I not promise your beautiful mother I’d take care of you? Uncle Ahmed is here. I’ll always be here. Don’t cry.”
Unbidden, the litany began again in his brain. I will not cry. I will not cry…
At last the babe quieted and snored against his neck. Only then did he allow the tears to slide down his cheeks. He cried until he was completely devoid of moisture as the storm clouds outside did the same.
He was twelve years old.
I'm a bipolar writer. Under the name, Gina Ardito, I write sweet, lighthearted contemporary romances. But my slightly darker/older alter ego, Katherine Brandon, writes epic historicals with a bit of a spicy bent--not erotic, mind you. Just no closed bedroom doors, like in Gina's stories. My worlds aren't too far apart so it's fairly easy to straddle them.
Katherine has three books releasing this year with The Wild Rose Press, all part of her Kismet series. Book I, Kismet's Angel, was released in May, Kismet's Revenge (Book II) will be released in August and the third book, Kismet's Salvation is due out in October.
Gina will have three books out, her Nobody series, with Avalon Books over the next eighteen months.
I'm also co-founder and president of Dunes & Dreams, the eastern Long Island chapter of Romance Writers of America®. In that role, I lead a group of about twenty very talented romance writers--half published, half unpublished. We host monthly meetings, online workshops, booksignings, and promote romance writing and reading. On a month to month basis, I'll oversee our meetings, assign chairpersons to different activities like contests and conferences, and act as a liaison between our members and the national organization, as well as our members and the public.
For today, I'm going to introduce you to Katherine Brandon's first historical novel, Kismet's Angel, which is available now from The Wild Rose Press. I hope you'll enjoy this peek into my work!
Prologue
In a glistening castle spun from vapor and dreams, Kismet, the goddess of fate, sits upon her celestial throne. While she awaits word from her handmaidens, her fingers drum the armrest, scattering astral dust into perfumed air.
At last the dark-haired Rosamond, mistress of the virtuous, flutters into the chamber and makes her obeisance. “She has arrived, Peerless One,” her melodic voice sings. “Nearly a month too soon.”
“Nevertheless,” Kismet replies, a gentle chastisement, “she is welcome.”
Rising in the mauve sky, the goddess transmutes to pour as incandescent gold into the viewing room. While a cluster of lovely women watches, the light grows denser until the goddess returns to her opaque form. “Where is she, Rosamond?”
“Hyderabad, India, Peerless One. On earth, the year is 1793.”
From her special aperture, Kismet searches the blue planet, but discerns nothing save darkness and rain. A wave of her hand sends a flash of lightning to hurtle downward, illuminating the earthen sky and a ramshackle cottage’s occupant…
****
Summer lightning speared the gloomy room, startling Ahmed Manu from his chair. He trudged to the window and lifted a trembling hand to the ragged curtain. Nothing stirred but the banyan trees, shuddering beneath the wind’s fury, weeping in grief.
I will not cry. He dropped the curtain. I will not cry.
What would become of him now? Only Kismet knew what the Nizam would do when he learned of his favorite child’s death. The hairs on the back of Ahmed’s neck prickled at the imagined cold steel of a royal executioner’s axe.
Outside, thunder rumbled, combining with the low thud of approaching hooves.
Inhaling courage from the storm, he opened the scarred wooden door. The wind whipped, and the force knocked Ahmed against the wall. On the heels of the gusts, a man raced inside.
“Sarita!” The man removed his sodden cloak, tossing it on the chair before turning to Ahmed. “Where is she? Where is my wife? Is she well?”
Dropping his gaze to the rainwater pooling on the dirt floor, Ahmed choked out the dreadful words. “She—she is dead, Louis. And the child with her.”
“Dead?” The pain in Louis’s voice tore into him like talons. “No, she can’t be.”
I will not cry… “I-I’m sorry. The midwife did all she could. But the babe was too big. Sarita could take no more.”
“Our child,” Louis murmured. “Was it a son or a daughter?”
“The babe was a girl. She never took a breath. Now she sleeps in her mother’s arms for eternity.” Ahmed dared not look at Louis, couldn’t bear to see the agony his words inflicted. He’d made Sarita a promise—his very last service to his beloved princess. Despite the wrongness of it, he’d hold fast to his vow. “Your wife’s only thoughts were of you. She insisted you leave India before the Nizam learns of our tragedy.”
“I would see them first.” Louis strode toward the bedchamber. “I would say goodbye.”
Panic welled. Ahmed leaped to place his hands flat upon the man’s chest, halting any forward motion. “Sarita did not wish you to see her in death. As for the child, your loss will be easier to bear if you’ve never seen her. A faceless memory does not linger.”
As if voicing displeasure, the winds howled and rattled the door. Another stab of remorse pierced Ahmed’s heart. Why had Sarita heaped such a large burden upon him? How long could he keep his secret from Louis’s acute senses? In an effort at distraction, he reached for the sodden cloak still draped over the chair. Rainwater rolled off the garment and splashed onto his bare feet, the rhythm of tears.
I will not cry…
Pulling the grief-stricken man forward, he wrapped the cloak around him. “I’ve secured your passage onboard a merchantman, The Christman. She leaves on the morning tide for Batavia. From there, you must find your way home.”
“Home?” Louis’s dirt-streaked face clouded with grief. “I no longer have a home. Sarita was my home.”
Guilt sliced Ahmed in half. Before he broke and allowed the truth to escape, he led Louis out into the maelstrom. Hard rain pinged his cheeks as he helped Louis mount the saddled horse still standing in the midst of the deluge. “May Kismet smile upon you always, sir,” he shouted above the monsoon’s wind.
Slapping the beast on the rump, he sent horse and rider away. When their shadows disappeared in the dark and rain, he sloshed through ankle-deep mud to return to the house. Once the door closed on nature’s fury, he pressed his dripping head to the rough wood. The deed was done.
A mewling cry broke from the bedchamber. Ahmed hurried into the room, careful to avert his gaze from the lifeless body lying atop blood-soaked bedclothes. The cries grew louder when he lifted a swaddled bundle from a wooden cradle at the bedside.
He removed the blanket covering the child’s head and kissed the feathery hair. “Hush, my little princess,” he crooned, rubbing the infant’s back. “All will be well. Did I not promise your beautiful mother I’d take care of you? Uncle Ahmed is here. I’ll always be here. Don’t cry.”
Unbidden, the litany began again in his brain. I will not cry. I will not cry…
At last the babe quieted and snored against his neck. Only then did he allow the tears to slide down his cheeks. He cried until he was completely devoid of moisture as the storm clouds outside did the same.
He was twelve years old.
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