yorkshire girl writes

writing sideblog for @nostalgic-breton-girl ~ the pictures are not from yorkshire but from the maison de jules verne

[yorkshiregirlwrites]

this is the writing sideblog of @nostalgic-breton-girl​. my wips are, with no guarantee of their development or completion:

The ADVENTURES and MISADVENTURES of JONATHAN HARBERT

an englishman of the eighteenth century goes from prestitious captain, to desert-island castaway, to questioning everything not least his wife and brother. it is on a theme of storytellers and narrators - from the first person perspective of the well-meaning, but extremely naive and ignorant, captain harbert

THE FOUNTAINS OF MAGIC, or, LETTERS ON MAGIC

an epistolary novel in which magic is potentially discovered, or maybe it’s some sort of delusion, or maybe it’s something else entirely. anyway it does not matter because it’s distracting everyone from their real problems. focuses around a talented young musician whose parents have engaged her to a man she likes but cannot love

(UNNAMED)

a princess is about to enter into an arranged marriage, to unite two formerly enemy kingdoms. this all ends up back in the air again after her father is assassinated by one of her fiancé’s countrymen. on the brink of a resuscitated war, she must deal with becoming queen, this unexpected assassination plot, and the sentiments of all those about her

LA PAYSANNE PARVENUE or LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF L--

a young woman enters domestic service and decides to play a double game of seduction for the power and fun of it. meanwhile her pious sister pursues a chaste relationship with a young apprentice she believes to be likewise innocent. a sort of stendhal-laclos-marivaux mess of an epistolary novel

(UNNAMED)

a young man at university becomes curious about an oddball contemporary who goes awol for days at a time. turns out she’s building a spaceship

L'ÎLE DES LUMIÈRES, OR, THE REPUBLIC OF LETTERS

another robinsonnade, but this time kind of an allegory of the french enlightenment. featuring the mysterious figure of 'la salonnière' and, if i am ambitious and stupid enough, about three different languages all mashed together

[yorkshiregirlwrites]

tagged by @elavoria for a wip extract but i only have a bit of original stuff this week

Madeleine's arm was not nearly so plump as those which the Prince had read about: but this might be forgiven, for it was of a dazzling whiteness such as is idealised by young men who, holed up in their libraries, have rarely seen the sun on their own skin. He fancied he saw her glowing, even beyond her pale cheeks and her golden curls, – these latter voluptuous though the rest was not so much, – as a sword which catches the sun. He was not once informed of Madeleine's recent and severe illness, which had sapped her extremely: he did not know that his favourite heroines were probably also drawn from the ranks of the consumptive. The princess had some of these merits, but her eyes did not sparkle like Madeleine's, and she wanted the influence of some dreadful miasmic agent for her complexion.

haven't written a lot of narrative for this one... but all of it makes fun of the prince... damnit prince she just isn't into you

[yorkshiregirlwrites]

map finished! not sure about the colours and less sure about the place names but ~

[yorkshiregirlwrites]

was tagged by both @sylvienerevarine and @inkoherentwriting for wip wednesday.. sadly i do not have anything elder scrolls related, just the start of a fantasy map

i say fantasy like i'm not just plagiarising names and geological features from grenoble and chambéry, where i last went on holiday.... and the society is just eighteenth-century france and geneva... but worldbuilding amiright 😅

tagging the followers of this blog.. i think most people have been tagged already

[yorkshiregirlwrites]

tagged by @elavoria for a wip extract... haven't written much in ages so i'll confess this is from a while ago. character called L being snarky about a nobleman with a penchant for the theatre... where have we seen that before

It was hardly subversive, it was charming only thinly, by moments; & there he appeared as a most insipid character named Dorante, who falls in love with a servant, & is rewarded by discovering her to be a noblewoman in disguise. I do not know how many servants Monsieur C means to unwrap before he realises that none of us are hiding a thing so great as a title [...] I am sure, dearest M., that you will tell me all about the evils of the theatre; & now that I have seen Monsieur on the stage, I am half convinced of them.

tagging @sylvienerevarine who i know tagged me probably hoping for something elder scrolls... this is all i've got for the moment. also tagging @druidx and @redyn-nerevarine if they like

[yorkshiregirlwrites]

creative writing advice is terrible like no i do not want to know how to write a modern american realist novel i want to know which demon laclos did a deal with so he could smash out les liaisons dangereuses

[yorkshiregirlwrites]

tagged by @elavoria for a last line... this is more of a last paragraph because i didn't know how to explain the context more succintly. this is victoria hatteras, an 8-year-old pianist, forced to entertain a boy her age despite never having spoken to another child in her life before

I pulled out at last, a piece I'd heard a boy-treble sing once: and not singing myself, I thought it relatively simple; and that Harbert, who had the angelic look and curls of a boy-treble, perfectly suited it. He came over at my insistence, and looking at it, said in a small voice that he knew it: which was the first victory. 'Come, then,' said I, 'mistakes are best made together,' and I launched into it.

tagging everyone who follows this blog who wants to share

[yorkshiregirlwrites]

tagged by @sylvienerevarine for a wip extract... unfortunately i have not been writing much at all lately but here is an original bit from a creative writing society meeting. the prompt was 'a hero in the wrong genre'... the genre switch, which is not included here, is probably unguessable

I was born in the Year Seventeen Forty Three, the youngest Son of a Lord dull enough that, as per tradition, he sent his Eldest to marry a Lady; his Middle to marry God; & I to meet my Death at Sea. Indeed he was most surprized, and I confess not wholly pleased, when I survived my first Stretch of Trials intact; & returned high-ranking in our Royal Navy, yet hardly having engaged in a Combat more fierce than with a Fellow up to his Neck in Rum Rations. My Successes were so great compared with those of my Brothers, – the One turned to Drink & the Other to Courtesans, the Latter regretting it bitterly for God probably did not have Syphilis, – that my Father, who had meant to plan my Funeral, must send me at once back to the Ocean which had not yet conquered me.

tagging @elavoria and @druidx :)

[yorkshiregirlwrites]

tagged by @elavoria and @sylvienerevarine for a wip extract... i'm afraid i'm on a bbc merlin high of all things. but if you do not know it well, this is simply a bit about a boy from a village being spellbound by a city, and my oc trying to rope him into her gossip network servants' union

He asked how many hands had worked upon a tapestry; at my guess, said that there were fewer people in his village; and leaning out of a window, lost count of the rooftops. – He marvelled at every armoured guard which passed, for metal was at once might and wealth, and he had metal only in his belt-buckle. – And most especially he admired the instinct which led me: for one might navigate fields by their patchwork, and forests by their variety; but Camelot’s corridors, he said, are all alike, and twisty, and the plaques upon the doors are quite illegible. ‘Once you know it,’ said I, ‘you will find charm and irregularity in the city. There is so much coming and going, that there is fresh interest every week.’ – ‘Shall I have any part in this interest,’ said he, ‘if I become a servant?’ – ‘Oh!’ said I, ‘we are the best placed to hear everything: invisible messengers; and in far less danger than those who have to go gallivanting off on Quests and things.’

tagging anyone seeing this who fancies it... especially but not limited to followers of this blog

[yorkshiregirlwrites]

tagged by @elavoria for a wip extract... the only thing i have written since the end of term is a scrap from what is actually a drachenreiter fanfiction. of all things. which i'm hoping to adapt into something else at some point... plus it's in french so i had to translate it

Following the Death of my miserable Creator, in the first Rays of the Enlightenment, I found I was alone in the World, without Resource, but still inhabiting the House where my wretched Master had lived. As the House was being prepared for his sole Heiress, a Niece whom he had hardly met, he was taken, when the Remains of his Experiments were found, for a Madman, & what is worse, for a Fraud, – who had claimed to know the Secrets of Magic & of other things that did not exist: & the new Century being that of Reason & of Science, they cast almost all of his Papers (keeping his Books for they were extremely valuable) into the Fire, & set about making of the House that of a reasoned Being. This Niece was indeed a Savante, a Woman of Letters, who did not believe in Alchemy; in artificial Life; or in Homunculi or other Fabelwesen, as they are known. She did not, enfin, believe in the little Woman who nevertheless lived alongside her, & who over the years, listened to her during her Salons, read her Books & found herself so in her Image, that she at last recognised the Model for her Creation. I was by no means the same Person; but I had a little of her Mind & of her Face; & I so admired her, that after her Death though I had never once spoken to her, I took her Title & became, in her Absence, La Salonnière. 

if you see this, consider yourself tagged... this blog does not have much reach i don't think

[yorkshiregirlwrites]

how on this earth do people write historical fiction. i feel like i need a new masters degree for every damn paragraph

[yorkshiregirlwrites]

(unfinished; spontaneous; a lot of fun to write, perhaps less to read. to be read in the voice of a well-meaning but naive Eighteenth Century Parisian Gentleman)

-------

The Rational might enquire, why I was put, in this Eighteenth Century, to super-natural Investigations: to which I may respond, that without empirical Observation, Nature may be so strange as to defy Expectation & even, in the Moment, Reason: that all Things arousing Publick Gossip bear Investigation lest Gossip become Disorder: & that the Eastern Regions are so much Vineyard & so little anything else, that the honest Journalist may starve for want of Interest. The most extraordinary Thing in Thann, is that on the last Day of June every Year, the God-Fearing Populace turns pagan & dancing, sets a whole Stack of Pine Trees alight in the very Church Courtyard. The second, is that it is inhabited by a Witch. 

Arrived in the Town, hardly a Town, a Row of Timber Frames lost in the Vosgien Green, I remarked to a local Woman idling at the Site of the Pine Tree Massacre, that the Map showed quite plainly: the Tour des Sorcieres: the Witches’ Tower. To which she replied in such good Alsatian or else such bad French that I understood not a Word, & I left her staring after my Parisian Perruque as if she’d never seen a Man wear someone else’s Hair before. This Incident notwithstanding, I decided a Population must be stupid indeed, to complain lately of a Witch who since a Survey fifteen Years ago had been marked quite plainly upon the Town Plan. I pinched the Top of my Nose & continued on my Route. 

The Summer Day was beginning to rise such that the Vineyards all about hazed into one; the Castle on the Hill disappeared into the lifting Fog; & before me upon the River Bridge, before I had come to that picturesque & infamous Tower, I was so approached by curious Swarms of Day Flying Hawkmoths, that a less rational & more dehydrated Man might have thought them the Familiars of some underpowered Insect Fancying Witch. Leastways the fine View from the Parapets of this Bridge near made me forget my Mission: until at last I came near the Tower, a squat Thing with hardly any Windows though the Reports had named it overbearing & seen eerie Lights at every Aperture. I supposed that in the Light of Day, little save the most Abject of Horrors (& the Prospect of a Social Engagement) takes on a nightmarish Appearance: therefore resolved on that Point, I rejoiced that I was not here by Night, realm of the Fanciful, & went ever closer. 

The Tower I supposed, served as some Storage for Wine Barrels or for some other Thing pertaining to the local Industry: which is terrifying only to the Puritan Teetotaller: & I being back in Paris, quite the Wine Fancier, I had about resolved to knock upon the Door when a thrum about me distracted my Attentions. I turned, – I saw the Hawkmoths thick at my Back, – I felt my Hand fall to my Side; & then though I had touched not a Drop of Wine since my Arrival in Alsace this Morning, – I must have fainted.

--------

‘A Fool to doubt!’ cried my Captor: ‘a Fool, Monsieur, to doubt!’

I do not know if she had perceived my slow Awakening: or if she was meerly practising, to declaim such Things when I did awake: but nevertheless I was less surprized at her Words, than at the Notion of my Paysanne of earlier suddenly capable of speaking perfect French. – For it was she! my Readers: who had read my Map, & seeing Herself there upon it, feigned perfect Ignorance!...

I supposed I must have been carried inside: until blinking, I saw that this Room wherever it should be, had neither Doors nor Windows & yet it was lit so ethereally, that I wondered if my Woman were a Physician who had succeeded in isolating the Particles of Light Itself. 

I was yet hardly conscious but Hands already itching for Paper and Ink, that I may interview my strange Interlocutor, I asked blearily: ‘O Madame are you a Savante!...’

‘A Man of your Century,’ said she smiling, ‘to believe less in Magick than in the Female Scientist: yet I am not, I do not work, I do not observe, I only Do and Command. – Pray Monsieur you are very pale.’

‘It is the Magical Transportation I believe,’ I stammered: finding my Way to my Feet: yet finding that my Feet did not quite want the Orders of my troubled Brain. ‘Where am I? have you imprisoned me? O fiendish Witch! –’

‘And there, Monsieur, is the irrational,’ said she beaming: ‘come now, I know with what Purposes you were sent here: & unable to bear my Tower being the Site of Publick Interest and Journalistic Scrutiny, thought to silence you before my Rest, – so vital to the accurate Working of Magicks, – was for ever disturbed.’

The Thing was so sudden that it came as a missed Blow: & only when I shuddered at its Passage did I wonder: that she meant to kill me.

‘Capital Punishment, Madame, for Investigative Journalism!’ I cried in but a pathetic Sort of Squeak, –

[yorkshiregirlwrites]

(the prompt for this was a picture of a chicken wearing a scarf, coupled with unexpected characterisation. long story. anyway it's from a while ago)

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There was at the top, a most unimposing figure: who in positioning itself as the Guardian of the Mountain, may have done better to guard a small to moderate snow-drift: and who as I drew nearer, took on the form not of a human, nor of some grand (though minuscule) figure of myth, but, –

‘I have not seen,’ I remarked aloud, ‘such a thing in my life before. Pray Guardian, I have not in all my travels and studies of Creatures of Fable, known your like or representation, –’

‘I am a chicken,’ said the Guardian.

Whereupon I lifted my hat; thought better of bowing; only scratched my head, and looked down at her, and, – my ears beginning to freeze outside of their woollen confines, – replaced the hat. The chicken only stared, – with all the grandeur, I thought, of a hen lately divested of her eggs; and wanting at least as compensation, a handful of corn. I had not brought a handful of corn. What with the mountain-shoes, and the extensive food-provisions, and the letter of recommendation, and the hairbrushes, and the padded fur coat, and most particularly the hat with the ear-flaps, – it had not even occurred to me.

‘I have nothing, O Chicken,’ said I most conscious of the vocative, ‘with which to appease you; you must forgive my lack of foresight, –’

‘Fear not, my child,’ said the chicken, who spoke so serenely, that I thought the voice come of the snow itself, ‘for I am no jealous god, and you must not fear to tread my path.’

I looked at the chicken. The chicken looked at me.

Slowly she drew herself up; then in a great mass of feathers, shook out her wings and her tail that the snow went up about her and shone in her wake like angel-light; and returned to herself, she tested her beak, wiggled her wattle and clucked.

She was, after all, a chicken.

‘Many have made this pilgrimage before you, –’ she began.

‘O and they brought back not the slightest suggestion of your form,’ said I: ‘speak only more hoarsely, or more gobbly, and I’ll perhaps believe it; for you are a brown hen, a simple brown hen, – and, – and, – and you have a knitted scarf.’

‘It is cold up here,’ said she.

‘But the form goes not with the voice nor the title, –’ I must protest.

The hen shuffled most uncomfortably.

‘Ought I to be a ptarmigan?’ she suggested: ‘would I be less out of place were I a mountain-grouse?’

‘O no,’ said I: ‘that is not the problem; it is rather that I came through ice and peril, over days of effort which has entirely spent me, –’ I nodded to the earflaps, which had been worn down with nervous chewing, ‘– to the shrine of the Mountain-Goddess, guarded by Her Ladyship herself, –’

‘And what precisely, child,’ said the hen, – I not liking the appellation from a voice hardly thigh height, – ‘did you expect a deity to resemble?’

I must stammer and stutter; and blame for this, not without a flake of reason, some looming hypothermia. I could not answer: because the representation of a goddess ought to be unanswerable: o because I could not and should never have been able to describe the Mountain-Goddess, so eluded she my grasp and the mundane!

‘My poor pilgrim,’ said she at last: ‘come, I will lend you my scarf, just as the saint gave his cloak to the beggar, –’

‘It is chicken-sized,’ said I.

‘It contains multitudes,’ said the chicken: and taking its tassels in her beak, made such deft and graceful work of its removal, – all in a hail of icicles and of snowflakes, – until it was off; and the thing, which might go around me thrice, was humbly offered to me, – by a chicken, – whose eyes like the scarf, pooled so bright and deep, that in beholding them I half believed, – and blamed the hypothermia, but believed, – in miracle!

[yorkshiregirlwrites]

tagged by @elavoria for a wip extract... have a bit of the only thing i've written in a few days. from fountains again... in which cornelius breaks down. but i don't want to put up too much of the context because spoilers

I took so long to recover yet did not fall from reality itself: I know Richard left a little while after my retreat; and I listened lest someone discover my sobs, and in inquiring after them, awaken while I had not entire control, an unpleasant and unwelcome explanation. I was left alone therefore, to wordless passion; sentiment which finds no course in writing; o I wish you had been there to understand me, - yet when at last I recovered, I found the letter I'd made all torn to shreds and so tumultuous on my desk, as never to be entirely located. [...] And was it I who, terrified, tore up the letter, not perceiving it! I am sure that the door was never opened yet I was so lost... O has someone read it! and does someone know it! but it must have been me! and why have I forgotten! pray God it was me and Richard has read neither my letter nor yours, -

[yorkshiregirlwrites]

tagged by @elavoria for a wip extract... oh it is so convenient that creative writing society is on tuesdays. this is from fountains... beginning to really think about the weird magic-not-magic system i've somewhat unwittingly set up

And then where there was wall before, now only my passage, which sealed up behind me; which went as if compelled, as if compelling; displacing things around me, which ought never to move. Now I saw shards of light, which half lit this hidden chamber, unlit themselves, - since I am sure, dearest Cornelius, that light cannot come of nothing; and yet there are parts of the air which, provoked, are light; and may, I suppose, in unreasonable circumstance, become detached. I ought to have so questioned the place that I condemned it at once, or my own strange imagination; but persuaded by whatever had drawn me, - whatever had drawn Richard, - I stood, and saw what the light revealed, and must kneel perplexed in the dust.

i should tag some people for once... how about @druidx @sheirukitriesfandom and @rosette-dragonborn

[yorkshiregirlwrites]

tagged by @elavoria for a wip extract... i'm back on my fountains of magic wip. kind of. mostly i'm just reading the bits i already have and not knowing where to go... this is a man of the enlightenment writing to his sister about magic

When our ancestors, unenlightened as they were, believed in spirits and fairies and Mother Nature herself, - o how we think them ignorant! Of course we do, - when though the rainbows in a shower of rain, or in the rising wake of a bird, leaving the water, are beautiful, they are inanimate, and may be drily explained and measured as things; and must not be given causes against the same science of their nature. O Philomena! I may not believe as they do, - I am not unreasoned, but I can understand the unreasonable, in the thraldom of such scenes, - not ignorance, but ecstasy!

[yorkshiregirlwrites]

the fact that the epistolary novel was an eighteenth-century fad and not the enduring standard format is an absolute disgrace

[yorkshiregirlwrites]

i mean. i will confess the epistolary novel has its limitations. and it's so damn hard to write one. but they are so much fun and you can do so much with them. like you can have as many different narrators and voices as you want, they can all disagree, they can tell each other complete falsehoods that only the reader knows are lies, they can lie to the reader, they can be terrible writers, everything's a subjective free for all. you can have just the one letter writer and then suddenly there's another person and what the hell are you doing here! you can make writing and sending letters into a plot device. you can make someone write a letter full of innuendoes using a prostitute as a writing desk (actually that might just be liaisons dangereuses). you can use letters as a metaphor or a vehicle for decentralised or polyphonic discourse. you can position yourself not as the author, but as just some poor editor who found a bunch of letters in a box. you can pretend the editor is someone else and you don't exist and are not responsible for any of this mess. and yet, no matter how hard you try, you will never write a letter as good as 'hé bien! la guerre' which is probably why people stopped trying actually