Re: Warriors of Love
 

Yesterday, I discovered two errors in my novel Jane. One was the surname "Endell" spelt, on one occasion as "Endall". The other was the wrong character's name. Miles seems a common surname in The Warriors of Love. Miss Miles is a major character in Margaret Again. Jane has two people with this surname: Jennifer Miles (an unpleasant girl Jane knew at school) and Stephanie Miles (a quiet girl who serves as the despatch rider). (None of these Miles people seem connected with one another.) Anyway, I found, on one occasion, I'd written Stephanie Miles' name where I should have put Jennifer Miles. Whoops!

Both errors are now corrected in the hard covered edition. But, because it is available on such outlets as Amazon, correcting the paperback is much more of an undertaking. Whether the paperback will ever be corrected is an open question, but the hard covered edition has a text as good as I can make it.

Re: Warriors of Love
 

I intend to make the two volume Odalisque hard covered edition unavailable in a couple of days time.

Re: Warriors of Love
 

I'll probably do it tomorrow.

The paperback, incidentally, is already unavailable.

Re: Warriors of Love
 

It's been a while since I posted on this forum, but felt that I needed to share this.

I had an amazing experience this morning.

In my fiction, there's something I call gynogenesis, which is a process by means of which two women can create children with no male input. I was thinking that I needed a neat word for the second (female) parent. Thinking it over, I decided that genetrix would be good ("genny" for short, the child might refer to "my genny"). I thought that "gene" was the key component in the word I wanted, and "trix" is my favourite feminine termination. ("Aviatrix", for example, is such a lovely word... roll it over your tongue and hear... were I a female pilot, I would insist on being called an aviatrix.) So I stuck "gene" and "trix" together and came up with "genetrix". But, I wondered, is that a barbarous mismatch of Hellenic and Latin roots? So, I looked at first "trix" in the dictionary (Latin) and then "gene" (as I hoped, both Hellenic and Latin). Then came the amazing bit, I found that the word "genetrix" (meaning "female parent") already exists. I had invented a real word, and it means exactly what I wanted it to mean. Crumbs!

Re: Warriors of Love
 

My new book arrived today:

http://www.ligotti.net/picture.php?a...pictureid=2272

I'm really pleased with it... thus far, available in paperback, but not yet in hard covers.

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Oh, and I have created a second edition of Jane to replace the first.

http://www.ligotti.net/picture.php?a...pictureid=2273

The tiny writing under my name says "Second Edition".

Apart from a table of contents (incorporating a synopsis of each chapter) not much is new. But I think this change is a big improvement...

First edition text:

Chapter One

Modesty Clay and I were lovers, although I never really knew her.

Flocking gulls squawked over the marshland. Chill breezes blew, tossing the reed bed into motion, almost like breaking waves out at sea. Sunshine, dodging its way through a rift in the cloud bank, did little to warm the air. A cold blast assailed me, fiercer than the preceding gust. Against this fresh onslaught, I wrapped my cloak tighter about my person. My chiffon scarf having worked loose – a turquoise flag flapping in the wind – I tucked it back into place. As I did so, my fingers brushed the golden goddess image about my neck, its associations reassuring to the touch. Thick salty mud, an enemy of leather, spattered my boots. Spending unaccustomed time in the saddle, my bottom hurt. After a sea voyage, my belly weighed heavily. Lingering in my mouth, and settled uneasily in my stomach – leaving me feeling bloated – lay an early lunch of beans and sausages.

It was a Valday afternoon in late Glarehaze of Her Majesty’s fifth regnal year.

“It’s supposed to be summer,” I said glumly.

“Yesterday was nice,” Bobbi replied brightly, but unhelpfully.

Second edition text:

Chapter One

Modesty Clay and I were lovers, although I never really knew her.

Flocking gulls squawked over the marshland. Chill breezes blew, tossing the reed bed into motion, almost like breaking waves out at sea. Sunshine, dodging its way through a rift in the cloud bank, did little to warm the air. A cold blast assailed me, fiercer than the preceding gust. Against this fresh onslaught, I wrapped my cloak tighter about my person.

It was a Valday afternoon in late Glarehaze of Her Majesty’s fifth regnal year.

My chiffon scarf having worked loose – a turquoise flag flapping in the wind – I tucked it back into place. As I did so, my fingers brushed the golden goddess image about my neck, its associations reassuring to the touch. Thick salty mud, an enemy of leather, spattered my boots. Spending unaccustomed time in the saddle, my bottom hurt. After a sea voyage, my belly weighed heavily. Lingering in my mouth, and settled uneasily in my stomach – leaving me feeling bloated – lay an early lunch of beans and sausages.

“It’s supposed to be summer,” I said glumly.

“Yesterday was nice,” Bobbi replied brightly, but unhelpfully.

Re: Warriors of Love
 

And now the Tuerqui Again hard covered edition has been published:

http://www.ligotti.net/picture.php?a...pictureid=2274

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Having completed Volumes 1, 2, 5, 8 and 11 of The Warriors of Love, I've now started on work on Volume 4. It's to be the second volume narrated by Jane. My working (and perhaps final?) title is Jane and Eaquellety.

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Here's the start of the draft for Chapter 1 of Jane and Eaquellety:

Although enslaved as a traitor, Hartlisse now had eaquellety.

Gossiping girls filled our office with a buzz of low murmuring chatter. Beyond the window, chill breezes blew, tossing trees into motion, pale spring green leaves in a lively two step. Judging from women in their winter coats, sunshine – dodging its way through a rift in the cloud bank – did little to warm the air. My first sip of rosehip tea proving insufficiently sweet, I reached for the honey bowl. A fresh blast rattled the window. Although sheltered from the gust, I wrapped my cardigan tighter about my person.

It was a Sorday afternoon in early Drizzlemoon of Her Majesty’s sixteenth regnal year.

With a frown, I saw Helen Smith crossing the road, returning from lunch at least ten minutes late. Should I chide her for this tardiness, or let the matter pass? My duty indicated the former, my heart the latter.

Turning from the window, I saw Debbie Chalmers approaching my desk. During the wicked kingdom period, as I understood matters, one of her forebears had been convicted of treason – on manufactured evidence. Was that Debbie’s grandmother, or great grandmother? Here, in Essex, nobody’s family history appeared unclouded by injustice or abuse. How fortunate I was to originate in Surrey.

“Miss Brewster,” Debbie said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but…”

“No problem, Debbie. I’m at work. I’m here to be bothered.”

“Yes, Miss Brewster, of course… One of the ladies from the Belle House is here, and I thought…”

Under the wicked kingdom, the Belle House had been home to the Earl of the East Wood. Now, it housed a gynogenesis community, most of the ladies of which I counted as my friends. In a professional capacity, I received their taxes, but paid them a much larger sum on Her Majesty’s behalf: mostly for horses they’d bred. Betty Fletcher, taking charge of the equine business, had – almost twenty years before – served as my childhood riding instructor. Perhaps that was coincidence; others would see it as an example of the goddesses’ working – if those two can be distinguished from one another.

“If you thought I’d like to see her personally, you’re quite right, Debbie.” Then, as a doubt struck me: “All the same…”

“All the same, Miss Brewster?” Debbie asked. “Is there a problem?”

“Not exactly a problem, Debbie… but I suppose she’s looking pretty swish.”

“She’s wearing riding things, Miss Brewster, not a ball gown.”

“Of course, she’ll have ridden into town… but that wasn’t exactly what I meant… Elegance of Berenice…”

“The Belle House ladies always wear Elegance clothes… you must know…”

“Yes, I do. I was more worried about me looking scruffy.”

“Scruffy, Miss Brewster? You’re looking good.”

Debbie’s glance flicked over my person. She smiled, clearly pleased by what she saw. My frown seemed an inadequate response.

“Not covered in muck from the stationary cupboard?” I asked.

“No, Miss Brewster. Why, should you be?”

“That locket I usually wear, Debbie. The catch is faulty, and I was fiddling with it while I was in the stationary cupboard… The thing fell off and I was down on my hands and knees…”

The locket had been a gift from Nicola, and contained small pen and ink portraits of us both. Not only was its vanishment a personal loss, but my life partner would certainly be displeased, were I unable to recover the thing. The stationary cupboard was, in reality, a small room crowded with storage racks. My assumption was that the locket lay under one of the lower shelves, but no amount of probing had revealed which. More than likely, my efforts had resulted in the keepsake retreating further into a dusty corner.

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Today I composed a protective rhyme to send goblins off about about their business. An adult imparts it to a child in Chapter 4 of Jane and Eaquellety:

Gibber babble goblin
No threat do you pose
Set off running or hobblin'
Or I'll smack you on the nose!

There's something very satisfying about the first line... it needs saying aloud to be appreciated. :)

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Here's a trip down the South End pier from my work in progress. (Draft text, subject to change.)

We departed the flat after perhaps twenty minutes delay, not overly impeded by Alice’s insistence that she was a big girl and didn’t need any help. Soon thereafter, we stood on the landward end of the pier. The tide almost at its high point, water stretched from under our feet to the misty outline of the Kent coast. After a few yards, the planking began to bounce a little as we stepped. Through gaps between the boards the waves could be glimpsed. Ahead, the walkway extended for more than a mile: ten feet wide to allow carts to pass one another, a fragile-looking rail on either side guarding against plummeting into the estuary.

“There’s a ship,” Hazel said, “but I think it’s only a collier.”

“It looks to me as though there are two ships,” I replied, right hand shielding my eyes, “and the second one doesn’t have the lines of a freighter.”

“Yes,” Hazel agreed, “I think there is a second ship, genny, but you must have jolly good eyes if you can see they’ve painted lines on it.”

“Not those sorts of lines, Hazel… I meant the shape of the hull.”

“It’s shipshape,” there was a note of triumph in Alice’s voice. “Shipshape and Brister fashion.”

“Brister’s in the west, Alice,” Willow corrected her, “and our geography teacher says that coal comes from the north.”

“It’s a saying,” Alice responded, “meaning just right.”

“You’re perfectly correct, Alice,” I confirmed, “shipshape and Brister fashion means just that. And your geography teacher, Willow, is right, too. Coal comes from the north.”

“And it is a collier,” Hazel added, “I’m sure of it.”

Perhaps a quarter of an hour later – confirming Hazel’s observation – a cartful of coal rumbled past, heading for the shore. A rising breeze whipped black gritty dust from its cargo. Fortunately, we walked on the windward side, and little of the filthy stuff raked our throats or spotted our clothes. Five or ten minutes afterwards, a cart heading for the pier-head kept pace with us for a short while. Glancing at the load, I saw a large cheese and several boxes of fresh vegetables.

“There you are,” I said, “there must be a second ship. They wouldn’t carry vegetables and cheese on a collier. Imagine the food all over coal dust. It would be horrid.”

“Horrid,” Alice repeated, “but not as horrid as…”

“Yes, Alice,” I chided her, “but I don’t think we need any suggestions for horrid food.”

“They might carry vegetables and cheese on a collier,” Hazel corrected me, “for the crew to eat.”

“A collier,” I said with more certainty than I felt, “carries a captain, a mate and three or four deckhands, at the most. They wouldn’t eat a cheese as big as that one… not this side of the New Castle.”

“Anyway, genny,” Hazel countered, “people sometimes eat coal. I think I saw mummy eating some.”

“Pregnant women sometimes eat queer things,” I admitted. “All the same, I don’t think a grocer would sell much cheese, if it was mixed with coal dust.”

“It might possibly be nice,” Alice revised her earlier opinion that it would be horrid. “You never know.”

“Well,” I conceded, “we’ll know for sure whether there’s a second ship when we get a bit nearer the pier-head.”

“Mummy” Alice said, “I’m a bit tired now… I’ve been a good girl, and…”

Her pace had slowed markedly during the last ten minutes. Smiling, I lifted Alice to my shoulders for a piggyback. Planking reverberated under our feet. White crested waves surged beyond the rails on either hand – and below gaps between the boards. The further we advanced, the stronger and colder the wind grew. On the shore, winter weight coats and scarves had seemed absurd; half way to the pier-head, they declared themselves as sensible, even necessary. Woolly layers rising to protect our teeth from the blast, we fell silent.

“There are two ships,” Willow said at last, lowering her scarf to impart the information. “And I think the second one is a warship.”

“Yes,” Hazel agreed, uncovering her mouth. “I thought that thing sticking up at an angle was a hoist for coal, but it’s not.”

“It’s a catapult,” Willow sounded excited, “to hurl rocks at the wicked kings’ sailors. And jolly well serve them right, too.”

There followed the imagined sounds of discharged boulders and splintering timbers. Joyously, Alice joined her sisters in creating the cacophony. Having once ridden as a passenger on a warship engaged with the enemy, I knew that the noises bore little resemblance to reality. For a mixture of reasons, I failed to correct our daughters. For one thing, I preferred to keep the scarf over my mouth until we reached the windbreak formed by pier-head structures. Also, I strongly doubted whether I could reproduce the correct sounds. And, should an adult overhear my attempting to do so, I wouldn’t seem a fit person to take charge of three young girls. The first and third of these motives appearing very grownup – but not in a good way – I shuddered, although failing to uncover my mouth.

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Tonight, I thought of the titles and main themes for the two remaining Warriors of Love volumes that had, hitherto, remained mysteries to me. The series should run:

1) Jane (already published)
2) Margaret (already published)
3) Daisy (projected for 2012)
4) Jane and Eaquellety (work in progress, completion and publication projected for 2011)
5) Tuerqui (already published)
6) Daisy Explores (projected for 2014)
7) Jane and Education (projected for 2013)
8) Margaret Again (already published)
9) Daisy Settles (projected for 2016)
10) Jane and Expansion (projected for 2015)
11) Tuerqui Again (already published)
12) Daisy Returns (projected for 2017)

Re: Warriors of Love
 

I've just published a new novel:

Jane and Eaquellety by P F Jeffery in Science Fiction Fantasy

:)

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Here's the cover:

http://www.ligotti.net/picture.php?a...pictureid=2495

Re: Warriors of Love
 

The day after publication, I notice that the back of the title page could with tidying up. It contains a full list of Warriors of Love novels (written, and projected) in which "Jane & Eaquellety" is said to be "projected for 2011". I really ought to change "projected for" into "published". :o

Re: Warriors of Love
 

The copyright page has now been corrected.

There will only ever be three copies as originally published... maybe one day they'll be collectors' items and change hands for more money than has passed through my hands in my entire life... perhaps... ;)

Re: Warriors of Love
 

I think that I have decided to replace (with something quite different) my draft for the start of the next book to be written ("Daisy").

These are only very rough drafts, but... My first attempt began:


The flickering desk lamp bathes this page in shadow. Burning oil scents the room, almost like rissoles frying. Beyond the window, three or four lanterns in the darkness: students or staff returning to the halls of residence. Singing, decidedly out of tune, seems to betoken an excess of alcohol in the vicinity of at least one bobbing light. Taking another sip tea, blackcurrant rolls across my tongue. This desk seems a little small, my legs slightly cramped.

It’s the evening of Mistream the fourteenth in Year Twenty-Six.

“That’s a queer way to write the date,” Beatrice – my roommate – just said, looking over my shoulder. “If it was me, I’d put it into figures, separated by slashes.”

“It seems more literary, the way I’ve done it,” I reply.

“In any case, I’m pretty sure that’s not the sort of thing we’re supposed to write.”

“Wait and see,” I hold my finger to my lips, enjoining silence.

“Is that what it’s doing?” Beatrice continues to read, as I write. “What if I’m not enjoying silence?”

“Whatever.” The play on words didn’t seem worth a more considered response.

Very well… My name is Daisy Diamond. The circumstances of my conception made me a pioneer: part of the first age of gynogenesis girls. For uncounted generations, children had fathers: a male second parent. From my time onwards, we have genetrices, our mothers fertilised by another woman.

“I don’t think there’s any need to write all that,” Beatrice said, having collected her tea and biscuit from the other desk. “Everyone knows all that… well, not necessarily that you’re part of the first gynogenesis generation, but…”

“If people are reading my book…”

“Book?”

“It may grow into one. Stranger things have happened. And, if people are reading my book in a thousand years’ time…”

“As if!”

“I don’t say they will be…”

“And, even they are, they’ll know all about gynogenesis, and genetrices, and…”

“Yes, but they may have forgotten about fathers.”

“In any case,” Beatrice shifted our dispute, “you’re bigging yourself up. You’re not really one of the first gynogenesis girls. In fact you’re a month or so younger than me, and…”

“Yes, Beatrice, but we were born in year eight… not so very long after…”

“You should know that Berenice II was born in year one, and…”

In case this really is read in a thousand years, I’ll explain that Berenice II has shared her genetrix’s throne for the last eight years.

My mother is Lisa-Louise, the famous photographer. Once, inevitably, she had a surname, but it is no more. Her family name, she tells me, was Addal, but she prefers not to be addled. There is more to it than that. Her uncle, Wilfred Addal, served Usurper II of Lundin as a spymaster. Mum says that he was neither a pleasant nor an evil man. He did what he saw as his duty, and once did her friend Tuerqui a very good turn. All the same, her ancestry isn’t one that many women would wish to own.

My genny is a notable cavalry commander: Colonel Modesty Clay.

Both my mother and my genny were warriors of love. That, I suppose, makes me a warriors of love child. The pair of them clearly view that part of their lives with affection and pride.

“You called it a book,” Beatrice interrupted my flow. “But that’s just a pages or three of scribble.”

The second draft begins:


The scent of recently turned earth may well have been damage we’d inflicted on the lawn. After recent rain, my feet sank into the soft surface. Beyond the window, the room lay in darkness. Gritty dirt from the bin chafed at my fingertips. Manoeuvring the heavy metal object into place against the wall, it boomed loudly. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked in reply. A slightly soapy taste from cheap whisky filled my mouth. In an upstairs window, somebody ignited a lamp – splashing light on to the grass at our feet.

“Someone’s up there,” Beatrice said, “do you think she’ll see us?”

“Not so loud,” Nerys whispered, “or she’ll certainly hear us.”

“She can’t have failed,” I replied, “to hear the bin bash against the wall.”

“Whoever it is,” Heather said, “she’s probably used to student pranks – won’t pay us much mind.”

“This is not a prank,” Nerys sounded indignant, “we’re looking for the place where…”

“We all know what we’re looking for,” Beatrice shook her head. “Who’s going to climb up on the bin, and try to open the window?”

It was the mid-evening of Mistream the fourteenth in Year Twenty-Six. Perhaps three hours earlier, Beatrice, Nerys, Heather and I had completed our first day as students in the Imperial University at Berenice. While I’m unable to speak for the others, it’s fair to say that I’d found the experience more bewildering than enlightening. Several hours, or so it felt, had passed in queuing. The seeming reason to standing in line was to register for a series of things, although I’d generally found myself only dimly aware – if that – of what, precisely, our object was.

“It makes a nice change,” I reflected “to know what I’m looking for. Half the day…”

“You climb up on the bin, Daisy,” Heather said to me. “After all, your mum’s a cavalry officer, and…”

“I don’t see what that’s got to do with it.”

“You’re probably used to leaping on to horses.”

“We’ve all four of us ridden. In any case, I’ve spent more time – in recent years – at the Belle House School with you lot, than in camp with my mum.”

“You took a gap year,” Beatrice said, “in Victoria’s Land.”

“I didn’t spend it climbing up on to bins.”

“Yes, but you must have had all sorts of adventures out in the wilderness – marshes, forests, wild beasts…”

Re: Warriors of Love
 

This hasn't been polished into its final form, but I thought some of you might be interested that the name H P Lovecroft has popped up in "Daisy" (my novel in progress):

As before, the library tearoom proved very crowded. At first, I was unable to see a single familiar face. About to leave, and confront whatever horrors lurked in the refectory, my eye fell upon a mousy girl. She smiled at me, shifting a little, to show that she could make room. Smiling back, a little uncertainly, I placed her as Miss Page – the latecomer, who had dropped her books in Room two-oh-seven. After standing in a queue that seemed short for such a popular eatery, I bought a sandwich and a cup of blackcurrant tea. Returning to my classmate, she budged up, allowing sufficient space for my bottom.

“Thank you,” I said. “Crowded in here, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, well, if you don’t fancy fishing for soggy lumps in the sludge that passes for refectory soup… I’m going to look out a shop after classes, so I can use the student kitchens… My name’s Sally Page.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sally. I’m Daisy Diamond.”

“What a lovely name! I couldn’t help noticing… all that stuff you wrote during maths… it wasn’t lecture notes.”

“No,” I replied, with an upsurge of pride, “I was starting to write a book.”

“You’re a writer, too? That’s great! I don’t suppose you like goblin tales?”

“I’ve read a few,” I admitted.

“I’ve written one… well, it’s an experimental goblin tale… called Phaedra… I think I’ve got it in my bag.”

“Lovely.” This was insincere, but seemed the thing to say.

Rummaging in her bag, Sally retrieved three sheets of crumpled paper. Glancing at them in distaste, I saw that they were covered in a rats’ nest of untidy scrawl. The idea of reading them tipped from disinclination to despair.

“Of course,” Sally said, “the writing’s a bit scribblesome.”

“Yes it is,” I agreed eagerly, “I don’t think I could…”

“Tell you what, I’ll read it to you. I’ve finished my sandwich.”

“It’s a bit noisy in here.”

“I’ll manage, don’t worry. Phaedra by S L Page. The golden gleam of Solstice sunset gusted, spinning, pouring, whirling in helixes – filling the grisly alleyways, the dreary dwellings, the muddy watercourse, the contorted copse – as colossal bats fluttered above…”

Eventually, she reached the end of her bewildering recital. Sally looked me, smiling, clearly expecting some kind of comment. Expressing my incomprehension seemed too cruel. In the midst of an adjective-clotted passage, she had used the word Lovecroftian. In the Belle House library, there was a book called Dragon by H P Lovecroft. Falsely linking the name with the Warriors of Love – I think – I’d read the book, and found it to contain some splendid goblin tales. When I’d asked after the author, Tuerqui – Nerys’ mother – had told me: She lived in the Old Time: an obscure writer, but permissible. Don’t worry, in spite of when the book was written, it isn’t blasphemous.

“Does Lovecroftian,” I asked, “refer to H P Lovecroft?”

“You know her goblin tales?” Sally sounded delighted by my response.

“There was a book of them in the school library.”

“I wish I’d gone to the sort of school that would have such a book.”

“What kind of books did your school have?”

“History, and geography… maths… and there was a book on gynogenesis science dumbed down for kiddies… and…”

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Yesterday, I was in the inadequate shelter of a gazebo during a thunder storm which was, in itself, an interesting and enjoyable experience. Better still, perhaps, listening to the thunder gave me a simile which today I've incorporated into my current novel ("Daisy"):

"like a muck cart trundled across a cobbled sky"

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Here, before its final polishing, is the end of "Daisy" Ch 5. Soldier Girl is a brand of whisky. The girls are camping, a storm rages... Is there something familiar about the goblin tale Sally tells her friends?

“There’s something very cosy,” Carol said, “listening to the rain, while we’re dry – almost, but not quite, exposed to the storm.”

“Make the most of it,” Bea replied, “things won’t be so cosy tomorrow, when it comes to folding up wet canvas.”

“And” I added, “it’ll be heavy for the poor pack horse to carry.”

“Did we bring the tents?” Sally asked. “I had an idea Liz got them out of a shed.”

“If that’s right,” Bea said, “it’ll be hard to stash them back so they don’t get mildewed.”

“Anyway,” Sally shifted the subject, “that’s tomorrow’s problem. For tonight, like Carol said, this feels really cosy.”

“Might be even cosier,” Bea added, “with a mouthful of Soldier Girl.”

“Better wait,” Carol said, “until Liz gets back, for even dibs.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “we can wait.”

“You know what’d make this moment perfect,” Bea suggested, “Sally telling us one of her goblin tales.”

“Something really spooky,” I added.

“If you’re sure,” Sally said…

“We’re sure,” Carol, Bea and I chorused.

“It’s not word perfect, but this is one of Lovecroft’s… Sylvia-Jean is a mangled corpse, and I alone know why…”

Lightning rendered my friends suddenly vivid, before we sank back into darkness. Thunder pealed, the loudest yet, rain thudded. My last small swig of Soldier Girl continued to tingle upon my tongue. The rumpled sleeping bag under my bottom felt soft, warm and comfy.

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Here are four versions of "Daisy" Chapter 9 Paragraph 1:

First Draft

In contrast to the previous day, the lake lay leaden under a sky heavy with cloud. Gulls mewed, circling overhead –- perhaps a storm at sea had blown them inland. Certainly, a chill wind blew –- feeling almost wintry. A cold shudder ran through me. Gusting stronger than before, the blast carried a smell of burnt canvas from where Liz and Mel inspected the partially charred remains of Sandra’s tent. Sweetness enveloped my tongue from the honey in my blackcurrant tea.

Second Draft

In contrast to the previous day, dull choppy waves scudded the lake. The sky churned with storm-freighted cloud. Gulls mewed, circling overhead –- perhaps gale-tossed from their wonted sea. Certainly, a sharp wind blew –- with a distinct wintry edge. The gust carried a charred smell. Twelve or fifteen paces distant, Liz and Mel inspected Sandra’s partially incinerated tent. A shudder ran through me –- part cold, part remorse or regret. Sweetness enveloped my tongue: honey-laced blackcurrant tea.

Third Draft

Unlike the previous day, dull choppy waves scudded the lake. The sky churned with storm-freighted cloud. Gulls circled, mewing –- perhaps gale-tossed from their wonted sea. Certainly, a sharp wind blew –- with a distinct wintry edge. The gust carried a charred smell. Twelve or fifteen paces distant, Liz and Mel inspected Sandra’s partially incinerated tent. A shudder ran through me –- part cold, part remorse or regret. Sweetness enveloped my tongue: honey-laced blackcurrant tea.

Probably final version

Distinct from the previous day, dull choppy waves scudded on the lake. The sky churned, massed with storm-freighted cloud. Gulls circled, mewing –- gale-tossed, I imagined, from their wonted sea. Certainly, a sharp wind blew –- its edge winter’s harbinger. Charring swept on the gust. Twelve or fifteen paces distant, Liz and Mel inspected Sandra’s fire-damaged tent. A shudder ran through me –- part cold, part remorse or regret. Sweetness enveloped my tongue: honey-laced blackcurrant tea.

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Here's something (written today) for anyone who wonders about the origin of the name of a certain European country:

“Fair enough,” I posed the question, “but remind me, why do the girls need to be able to trek in winter weather? Couldn’t they explore the Victoria’s Land wilderness during the summer months?”

“As we explore further south and east, Jane, the expeditions will take longer. Years, eventually, perhaps.”

“Yes, but couldn’t they rest up during the colder weather?”

“There may be no warm weather where they go. A place the Old Time blasphemers called Swizzer Land, for instance, has high mountains – some of them covered in snow throughout the year.”

“Swizzer Land?” Passibelle sounded doubtful. “That’s a funny sort of name.”

“I believe that it was home to money-changers who swizzed people.”

“Perhaps,” Rachel suggested, “they sought refuge in the mountains from the people they’d cheated.”

“That makes sense,” Passibelle admitted.

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Congratulations to PF Jeffery, Pet (Odalisque). See the reference at the foot of the page here;
http://chomupress.com/our-books/

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Three of the authors in that 2012 list above are serendipitously photographed together around 1986: http://nullimmortalis.wordpress.com/...d-gongoozlers/

Re: Warriors of Love
 

A major publication.
The first, self-contained, novel of the Warriors of Love Duodecology...
By PF Jeffery.
Jane | Chômu Press

Re: Warriors of Love
 

BTW, PFJ's fascinating website: The Warriors of Love - petjeffery.co.ukpetjeffery.co.uk

Re: Warriors of Love
 

My work in progress is to be Volume 6 of The Warriors of Love. The book is entitled Daisy's Day. The action of the novel covers only twenty hours, something which imposes much upon it.

It is designed to follow Volume 5 Tuerqui. There is an extreme contrast between the two books. At the start of Tuerqui, the narrator has just been enslaved, and there follows an account of life in slavery. Daisy's Day concerns a boatload of young women on a mission to explore part of the wilderness continental Europe has long since become.

Here is a summary of some differences between Vol 5 Tuerqui and Vol 6 Daisy's Day:

Vol 5 Tuerqui:

• Covers a period of several years
• Huge cast of characters
• Amongst them proper villains (starting with Cap'n Gentle, the pirate who enslaves the narrator)
• Much headlong action
• A great deal of violence
• A lot of sex

Vol 6 Daisy's Day:

• Covers a period of twenty hours
• Just 8 characters, of whom half depart not very far into the book. For most of its length, there are only 4 characters
• None of them (I think) dislikable, let alone proper villains
• Very little action -- a tree falls over triggering a landslide, characters are shaken but not seriously injured
• No violence
• No sex

As a sample, here is the part of Daisy's Day on which I've been working today...


“Thank you, Heather,” Sally said, taking her mug. “No honey spoon, I see.”

“We seemed to get the tea down our throats without honey, last time,” Heather replied, “and I thought…”

“Yeah,” Sally nodded. “Maybe it’s better to do without, rather than take just a scraping. The drop of honey in this morning’s tea only reminded me of what we’re missing – it didn’t do much to sweeten the drink.”

“Thanks love,” Carol said to Heather, taking her mug. Then, perhaps to Sally: “I suppose we’ll get used to taking it unsweetened, sooner or later.”

“We might even,” Heather added, "come to prefer it that way. Daisy – do you remember Felicity Peace?”

Felicity had been a lanky girl with a snub nose and freckles, whom I’d known at school. It would be going too far to say that we’d been fiends. We hadn’t been enemies, either. Rather, we’d failed to interact to any great degree. While I’d ridden my pony, or joined such girls as Heather climbing trees in the Oak Wood, Felicity had preferred to devote herself to ball games. After the Battle of Woking Field – during the First Civil War – Felicity’s mother, Penelope Peace, had lived up to her name by joining Her Majesty’s cause. Although once the enemy of the future Empress, she had been forgiven – and why not? Even Nadine Next had eventually been reconciled.

“Yes,” I replied, “what of it?”

“Before she came to the Belle House, she’d gone to school in some prison camp.”

“Felicity Peace, you say?” Sally asked. “Daughter of Penelope Peace?”

“That’s the one,” I agreed.

“Did Penelope rebel a second time? I mean, the prison camp…”

“Of course not,” Heather replied. “And, even if she had, Felicity was… is… an eaquelle by right of birth. When I said prison camp, I just meant a tough kind of school – a place that wouldn’t allow the girls honey in their drinks.”

“In that case,” Carol observed, “exploration would have suited her.”

“In some ways it might not,” I said, “we don’t chase balls about the forest.”

“Bulls?” Sally asked. “Forest cattle?”

“Balls,” I clarified, “with an a. Felicity liked to play hockey, and tennis, and…”

“Hockey,” Sally said, “encourages teamwork, which would be useful on an expedition… not that I ever much took to it, myself.”

“My point…” Heather looked at us as though we were a class of naughty children, subverting her lesson by introducing irrelevancies. “…was to do with honey, not ball games. Accustomed to unsweetened drinks, she never did take honey – or, at least, I never knew her to.”

“Then,” Carol said, “give or take the ball games, she really would have been suited to an explorer’s life.”

“What I had in mind is that maybe we’ll be like Felicity.”

“Once we have the axes and saws, we could maybe fashion hockey sticks from the branches of fallen trees.” It occurred to me that Carol was now deliberately misunderstanding her partner. “A round rock might do for the ball.”

“Are you winding me up?” Heather asked.

Carol’s impression of wounded innocence was almost convincing. “Me?”

“Yes, you, my precious badness. What I meant was that maybe, once we get used to unsweetened drinks, we won’t reach for the honey jar when we’re back in civilisation.”

“On the other hand,” Sally said, “we may go the other way, and pour honey into our tea like Auntie Jane.”

“Either way, my love,” I replied, “I hope that you and I will go in the same direction.”

“Of course we will. Your home will be mine, and…”

“Are you doing a Carol on me?”

“And what do you mean by that?” Carol asked.

“Deliberately misunderstanding me, like you did with Heather, just now.”

“Daisy!” Carol’s exaggerated tone of shocked innocence was unlikely to fool anyone. “As if I would!”

“Silly me, Carol, suspecting that you don’t mean every word you say. And I meant, my Welsh floozy, that I hoped we’d go in the same direction by taking more or less honey in our tea.”

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Chômu Press have published Jane, the first volume in the Warriors of Love series.

Jane | Chômu Press

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Review of JANE by PF Jeffery (Chomu Press): the first volume of the duodecology entitled 'The Warriors of Love':

Book of the Month: by P.F. Jeffery | paintthistownred

"It is a work of towering imagination, staggering wit and vital energy."

Re: Warriors of Love
 

BTW, the only other duodecology I can think of is Anthony Powell's MUSIC OF TIME.

Re: Warriors of Love
 

From a recent review of JANE here: https://www.goodreads.com/review/sho...rue&page=1
"It is truely inspiring and eye opening read, and a journey I think we should all go through."

And another here: https://www.goodreads.com/review/sho...rue&page=1
"This novel has swagger. Post-apocalyptic fantasy exploring a hyper-feminist society through the youth and eroticism of beaucrat Jane. P.F.Jeffery’s writing bounces with intelligence, charisma, and humor (an absolute pleasure to read)- but still finds the time to critically analyze itself, and feminity, and sex, and love, in a very gentle and confident way."

In recent months I have been reading private copies of two novels later in the 'Warriors of Love' duodecology: Daisy's Day and Daisy's Month.
These are uniquely charming. Magnetising.

JANE, meanwhile, can only speak for herself. With that critically slow-burning fuse of the first Chomu Press novel in the series.

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Much work has now been done on preparing Volume 2 Margaret for publication... but perhaps I should check with the prospective publisher before saying too much about that.

Re: Warriors of Love
 

As I implied yesterday above, the slow-burning fuse of your duodecology of novels looks as if it is now approaching well-deserved ignition...!

Re: Warriors of Love
 

I hope so!

Re: Warriors of Love
 

I've now written more than eighty (preliminary draft) pages of the twelfth and final volume Daisy's Year. I wonder whether I will live to see the book published.

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Here's an issue on which I'd welcome other people's views. It's to do with language, rather than the storyline.

The twelve Warriors of Love novels cover almost a century during which there are great changes of several kinds. The most important of those changes is the introduction and spread of gynogenesis, whereby two women are able to conceive a child (who will always be female). The final volume is set in the year 74-75, by which time there will be very few men under the age of fifty, and none in important positions. I wonder, in this context, what will become of the feminine -ess termination.

I think that we might see three things:

1. The decay and disappearance of some -ess words. A clear example, I think, is 'manageress'. As opposed to 'manager', 'manageress' is a bit of a mouthful. If all managers were female, I can see no reason why the -ess form would be retained. It might have been popular in the early years of the Empire, with a message of 'I manage by right of being female' but (I suspect) would be virtually extinct before Year 50.

2. Some -ess words might be preferred as easier to say than the masculine or general forms. A clear example is 'Empress', which is shorter and rolls off the tongue more easily than 'emperor'. Perhaps 'actress' would be retained as marginally easier to say than 'actor'.

3. The -ess suffix might be retained as a honourific, rather than female, suffix. This would provide an additional reason to retain 'Empress'. Here are my thoughts on other examples:

a. 'Goddess'. Goddesses, of course, are mightier than mere gods. It could be that a dryad (the spirit of a single tree), for example, might come to be regarded as a god -- whereas the gestalt of many trees would be a forest goddess.

b. 'Priestess'. Perhaps a young woman, emerging from theological college, might become a priest. (A status equivalent, perhaps, to a curate in the Church of England). Subsequently, she would be eligible to be initiated as a fully-fledged priestess, who might have responsibility for the spiritual wellbeing of an entire community.

c. 'Princess'. Perhaps women and girls closely related to the Empresses might continue to hold the title of princess, whereas those a little more distantly related might become mere princes.

d. 'Actress'. Although 'actress' may roll off the tongue a little easier than 'actor', might the word fall is disuse because an actress per se doesn't have the high status implied by other surviving -ess terminated words?

******

I'd welcome, as I said, other people's views on this issue.

Re: Warriors of Love
 

An interesting subject. "Less is more," an interesting dictum, especially with the current age's internet splurge of stuff, books galore, millions of books, electronic and print-on-demand, etc etc.

I think the -ess suffix for femininity is a pretty one that would be a shame to avoid. Although there are exceptions, like 'manageress', as you say, that is a bit of a mouthful. (I think the "-trix" suffix ugly by comparison).

Is this tied up with calling 'chairwoman' or 'chairman' as 'chair''? Is today's so-called political correctness relevant? Just throwing that in.

"'Goddesses, of course, are mightier than mere gods."
Even if that is a truism within the world of 'Warriors of Love', the use of 'of course' there needs to be discussed, at least, rather than letting a 'truism' pass, without reaping any wisdom from questioning a 'truism'.

Individual 'god' deities as a 'goddess' gestalt, you mention, is an interesting observation. I know your 'Warriors of Love' duodecology teems with mind-stretching observations as well as picaresque adventure and cultural vision. Fast-moving, at times, deliciously slow, at others. Thanks for that.

Re: Warriors of Love
 

I think that it is difficult to square the womb from which the universe emerged with male divinity. Take, if you will, what I believe to be the start of St John's Gospel. (I own many books, but the Bible is not amongst them, otherwise I'd check.) If memory serves, it goes somewhat in this manner: "In the beginning was the word..." How much more sense would this make, if we substitute "womb" for "word", and alter "God" to "the goddess"?

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Perhaps because of its bizarre angularity, I rather like the '-trix' suffix. Possibly another attraction, for me, is the irregular plural '-trices'. If it were generally applicable to words ending in 'x', we would be putting things in bocices, perhaps, which might be pronounced like 'boxes', but has quite a different look. Also, I rather like the letter 'x', which is more of an ornamental embellishment to the alphabet that a utilitarian necessity. A box could perfectly well be a bocks, but it would be sad day that the substitution was made. People (not just me) seem to like the 'x' so well that it is assigned the additional duties of signifying a kiss, marking the spot on pirate treasure maps, and so on.

All of that said, I use (I'm sure) the suffix '-trix' very little in The Warriors of Love. In fact, there is (I believe) only one pre-existing '-trix' word to be found in the entire series. That is 'genetrix'. It means 'female parent' (the male form is 'genitor'). The word isn't my invention, but seems handy for a female parent who is not the mother. I think though, that the word is only written in full as 'genetrix' a time or two in the entire series, and not at all until Volume 11. Contracted as 'genny' the word is important and used frequently from Volume 3 Daisy onwards. Daisy's genny is Modesty Clay.

There is also a '-trix' neologism which first appears in Volume 2 Margaret, but possibly doesn't figure in any of the later volumes. That is 'Surretrix' which means the same as our 'lesbian'. An association with Surrey, rather than Lesbos, is appropriate for these books.

Re: Warriors of Love
 

I've been thinking about this. When I was much younger, I liked the idea of creation through the word. Perhaps that was because, as a writer, the word was my chosen creative vehicle. (It is another question whether the word chose me, or I chose the word, or whether there was an interweaving of the two.) Now, the idea of creation through the word strikes me as fundamentally wrong because it presents creativity/creation as clean, orderly and logical. (On the logical aspect, one might consider the relationship between logos and logic.) It seems to me, with an increasing experience of the world, that creation is always messy, chaotic and irrational. Increasingly, I wouldn't care for it to be otherwise.