Brava, Erika!

Congrats, erika!

Key scene drabble to follow. I'm planning to do a few drabbles of turning points from the second novel, from sections I'm not even close to writing yet, because I stopped working on it when I went on bedrest, and this week's theme seemed the perfect way to get back into it.

She raised the first pistol and fired, point blank, but aimed too high for the heart—or her hands shook too much. In any case, the soldier fell at her feet, but lived, bloody and horrible, gasping for gurgling breaths.

So young he was, no more than twenty, and sweet-faced behind the pain and desperation. Anna saw him through nurse’s eyes, and thought, Perhaps I can dig the bullet out. I can make bandages from my shift.

And then Jack was at her side, limping and trailing blood. Two patients, she thought.

He dropped his rifle and took the remaining pistol from her unresisting hand. Calmly, he raised it and took aim.

“Merci,” the soldier whispered.

Jack fired. Anna fell to her knees and retched.

Oh, excellent, Susan. Brava!

Why, thank you! I'm still trying to get the hang of this-here action writing thing. Also, in this tiny out-of-context snippet, I'm afraid it reads like they're playing to gender stereotypes, when what's really going on is he's a 10-year combat veteran, and she's never held a gun before in her life.

I'm afraid it reads like they're playing to gender stereotypes, when what's really going on is he's a 10-year combat veteran, and she's never held a gun before in her life.

Maybe it is because I am somewhat familiar with the story, but I think this comes through. The fact that at point blank range she is not able to fire a shot that is immediately deadly certainly helps to illustrate your intent.

And what I immediately picked up was that the nurse in her - trained as a healer - was also likely getting in the way of her ability to kill coldly, quickly or efficiently.

And let's face it, to a certain degree, women who were crack shots with small firearms during the Napoleanic Wars weren't really everyday.

And let's face it, to a certain degree, women who were crack shots with small firearms during the Napoleanic Wars weren't really everyday.

Yep. And I get annoyed after awhile at historical fiction where all the women, or at least all the heroic women, are total action heroes whose unconventional fathers made sure they could ride and shoot as well as any men. Because it's one thing to avoid stereotypes, but another thing entirely to avoid historical reality.

Because it's one thing to avoid stereotypes, but another thing entirely to avoid historical reality.

Exactly. THat's one reason why The Grand Sophy made me so happy (except for her letting her rampant Tory anti-semitism hold sway for a chapter): Sophy wasn't the norm, she wasn't a pretty little thing, she was a big tall butch freak, and not presented as your basic everyday "why yes, I've fought off bandits in the dusty Spanish hills, hasn't every girl?" type.

Driving home from Target today, I was walloped by a plot bunny with Clovis-like mind control powers. If I stay as excited about it as I am right now, it'll leapfrog everything else in the queue, and I'll start on it as soon as I'm finished with Anna. Without further ado, in keeping with this week's drabble theme, here's how I think it starts:

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1799ish, Portsmouth

Elizabeth's teeth chattered a staccato rhythm, half from terror, half from cold. A steady drizzle fell, and the night was black but for the dim glow of lanterns shining from tavern windows or carried by better-prepared citizens.

Her boot settled in something slimy and malodorous, and she stumbled to her knees. She choked back a cry of pain, but not before four brawny, terrifying sailors on the other side of the street stopped and looked at her. Thank God she'd thought to steal her brother's clothes before she ran away--what would happen to a young woman in proper woman's clothes in a place like this at this time of night didn't bear thinking of.

"There's a likely one," the oldest and biggest of the sailors said, and they swarmed across the street toward her.

Oh God.

She'd forgotten all about the press gangs.