Playing Eighteenth Century Architect

UPDATE: I finally hit upon a final floor plan:

 
 

ORIGINAL POST:

This week’s adventure in writing: playing eighteenth century architect. As I sat down to work on Molly Chase Book Three, I realized I never mapped out the floor plan for the Chases’ house.

The easiest solution would have been to research colonial homes and pick a floor plan, way back when I began this project (2017? 2018?). Alas. I was not so forward-thinking as that.

With two books under my belt, I needed to match the floor plan to what I’ve already written. And I need it to meet the needs of Book Three’s plot. And it needed to be rectangular-ish, like a true colonial. Plus, the house has no HVAC and no artificial light, of course, so rooms need fireplaces and passages need windows. Figuring this out for a large home—not McMansion sized, because colonial homes weren't that big, but certainly big enough—was not the easiest task, y’all.

Thankfully, while googling colonial homes, I saw some with wings built onto the original rectangular floor plan and had an “ah-ha!” moment. Maybe Mr. Chase built onto his house after he and Mrs. Chase married? I could see him doing that. And now I have a floor plan!*†

 
 

*Historical accuracy and structural soundness not guaranteed. Build at your own risk.

†I still need a fireplace for the workroom. Not entirely sure where to put it...

Story World, Writing, HistoryRhonda OrtizMolly Chase, Colonial America, Early America, American History
Recovering My Reading Life (With Recommendations)
 
 

2022 was an insane year.

We had a baby. Our sixth. And while the baby himself is deeply beloved, I could have done without the pregnancy and postpartum challenges. I’m in my forties. My pelvis torques with every pregnancy. The usual postpartum hormones are complicated by preexisting conditions. Et cetera, et cetera. Plus, one of our autistic children had several rough months in a row. Also, I wrote/revised all 138,000 words of Adrift in the span of six weeks, not long before Christmas.

Insane. Like I said.

I’m still dealing with hip pain, but otherwise things have calmed down. Our happy baby is now a happy toddler, my mental health is stable, the special needs situation has been addressed, I finished edits on Adrift, and I’ve begun writing the next Molly Chase installment. I also stepped back from some commitments. The storm has abated; the ship has righted.

And with that, I’ve discovered reading again. Yes, books. I had no idea how little I was reading until I turned in Adrift and all of a sudden had time and attention for other people’s writing. “I’m free to read…whatever I want!” And I am. And it is glorious.

 

Post Captain (Aubrey/Maturin, Book Two)
Patrick O’Brian

I began my first “circumnavigation” of the Aubrey/Maturin series last fall with Master and Commander. (Read my cheeky reflections here.) I started Post Captain not long after, but owing to doing my developmental edits on Adrift, I wasn’t able to pick it back up again until March. So glad I persevered. While Master and Commander is an enjoyable romp, and not a middling or unthinking story by any stretch, Post Captain is a literary achievement. Adding the women to the mix does so much to develop Jack and Stephen as characters—I understand both men better, and I’m far more invested in the story now than I was after Master and Commander.

 
 

Code Name Edelweiss
Stephanie Landsem

I’m a huge fan of Stephanie Landsem’s work (and of Stephanie herself). Code Name Edelweiss is based on the fascinating real life story of the Nazis’ attempt to infiltrate Hollywood and the amateur spies who stopped them. The novel’s central characters are fictional, but several historical persons make their way into the novel, including Leon Lewis, the Jewish lawyer and former Army intelligence officer who formed the spy ring. Plus, Code Name Edelweiss has a love story subplot. History + spies + romance = right up Rhonda’s alley.

 
 

Works of Mercy
Sally Thomas

Works of Mercy is my favorite type of literary fiction: philosophic and beautifully written, yet also unpretentious, with recognizable characters and a recognizable world.

(Especially for us American Catholics. I know Janet Malkin. I may be Janet Malkin.)

No mid-century grotesques here: this is Jane Austen’s “bits of ivory,” the drama of ordinary life. Even the church cleaning lady has a story, and Sally Thomas tells it straight.

While I was immediately invested in Kirsty Sain, not much seemed to be happening, story wise…until something was happening. My husband likened the novel’s arc to the slow cracking of an egg. Crack… Crack… Crack, crack… Crack-crack-crack… Crack. BREAK.

 
 

The Ghost Keeper
Natalie Morrill

Not entirely sure how to describe The Ghost Keeper except to say that it’s exceptional. One reviewer described it as “one long lyric poem, but never self-indulgent.” Like any story about WWII, it delves into darkness, but it also dares to hope. I loved the nuance, the love and care with which Natalie Morrill treats each character, including the antagonist. So well done.

The changes in narratorial point of view (first person, close third person, omniscient) interested me from a craft angle. Jozef questions his own reliability as a narrator several times over the course of the novel, and he also questions Friedrick’s, when we finally have Friedrick’s story. The war skews their vision of the whole, and the narratorial instability underscores this important theme.

Content warning for sensitive readers: In addition what’s obvious from the back cover copy, the book includes a few open door bedroom scenes.

 

Next up in fiction:

Next up in nonfiction and professional development:

How about you? What are you reading? Contact me here.

Books, PersonalRhonda OrtizBooks, Patrick O'Brian, Stephanie Landsem, Master and Commander, Post Captain, Baby, Autism, Health, Reading, Code Name Edelweiss, Sally Thomas, Natalie Morrill, The Ghost Keeper, Works of Mercy
Adrift Has a Soundtrack
 
 

“It’s my house.” Josiah circled the table and kissed Mrs. Robb on the cheek, then jogged off. A moment later, they were treated to a rousing performance of “The Sailor and His Truelove” from the upstairs passage. 

As a young sailor and his truelove one morning in May,
Where walking together in the field blithe and gay;
Says the sailor to his truelove, my dear life for your sake,
I’ll away unto the Indies whatever does betide,
And when I do return, my love, I’ll make you my bride.

— Adrift, Ch. 2

At the front of the room was the sitting area, comprised of two leather armchairs and a table holding an oil lamp and a large paper booklet—a musical score. Between the armchairs stood a bookshelf, and several miniatures and a pencil sketch hung nearby. Crammed into the corner was a pianoforte, or maybe a harpsichord? The lid was closed, and more musical scores were piled on top. Some of the music was new; other sheets were moldering. One such ancient selection sat on the instrument’s rack. Josiah stepped forward and read the title. Die Kunst der Fugue. J.S. Bach. Never heard of him.

— Adrift, Ch. 10

Adrift, the second book in the Molly Chase series, features a musician among its many characters. I created a YouTube playlist of all the songs and pieces mentioned in the book. Give it a listen!

 
 
BooksRhonda OrtizMolly Chase, Adrift
If Book Two Were a Car

My mom asked me today how edits on Molly Chase Book Two are going.

“I'm at the, ‘car engine is pulled apart and the parts are all over the garage floor, and I'm not sure how to put it back together,’ stage,” I told her. This morning I woke up in a panic, wondering if I spent yesterday's fifteen hour workday doing the exact thing my editor (Karen Ullo) told me not to do. Once caffeinated, I realized that I am doing what Karen wants me to do, but it involves replacing several car parts and making several extra trips to the auto parts store... and...

For context: I have drafts of this book dating back to 2017, several years before Book One (In Pieces) was acquired for publication and substantially revised. Revisions on One necessitated revisions to Two. This story has been through so many drafts, I've lost count. I have old material, I have new material, I have material I have yet to write, and I have material I wrote and subsequently lost. I have the darlings I've kept, the darlings I've killed, and the darlings I have yet to kill.

And I now have Karen's edits to incorporate, which one might liken to souping-up the engine: it's great, so long as I can modify the suspension, brakes, and steering to match.

“Mom,” I said, “if this book was a car, it would be the one in that Johnny Cash song. ‘Well, it's a '49, '50, '51, '52, '53, '54, '55, '56, '57, '58, ‘59 automobile...’”

She thought that was pretty funny.

WritingRhonda OrtizMolly Chase, Writing Life
A True Story, With Creative Embellishments, Inspired by My First Reading of Patrick O’Brian’s Master and Commander
 
 

They are strangely immature for men of their age and their position: though, indeed, it is to be supposed that if they were not, they would not be here – the mature, the ponderate mind does not embark itself upon a man-of-war – is not to be found wandering about the face of the ocean in quest of violence. For all his sensibility (and he played his transcription of Deh vieni with a truly exquisite delicacy, just before we reached Ciudadela), JA is in many ways more suited to be a pirate chief in the Caribbean a hundred years ago: and for all his acumen JD is in danger of becoming an enthusiast – a latter day Loyola, if he is not knocked on the head first, or run through the body. —Master and Commander, Ch. 10

“That pilgrim from the English sloop is mad,” the surgeon’s servant told the second cook. “Mad, twisted, tormented. And ours is not much better.” —Master and Commander, Ch. 12

“You do not rate post-captains and admirals very high among intelligent beings, I believe?” —Master and Commander, Ch. 12

Twenty-odd years ago, I attended college in Annapolis, Maryland. No, not that one—the other one, St. John’s College. St. John’s is a small liberal arts school known for its “great books” program, a four-year, nonelective curriculum consisting solely of Western Civilization’s greatest hits. Despite its name, St. John’s is nonsectarian, and between that and its unusual curriculum, the school attracts a motley crew.

 

View of Annapolis, 1800 (pre-USNA). St. John’s McDowell Hall in the far distance, behind St. Anne’s Church in the foreground. Wikimedia Commons.

 

Across King George Street is the United States Naval Academy.

 

Naval Academy Chapel. Those darn bells are LOUD. (Wikimedia Commons.)

 

Johnnies and mids (we called them middies, which they hated) rarely mixed. They thought we were misfits; we thought they were dunderheads. Our heads were in the clouds; their eyes were on the horizon. Occasionally mids would meander about our campus—perhaps because alcohol was available in abundance—and try their hand at asking esoteric questions. Sometimes Johnnies would meander about the yard: to go jogging, to visit the museum, or to attend Sunday services at the chapel (for the handful of religiously minded among us). And the annual SJC-USNA croquet tournament brought us together every April, forcing us to mingle. Otherwise, we thought of each other as alien species: odd, obtuse, baffling.

We were Stephen Maturin and Jack Aubrey, the Odd Couple, but with more detachment and less goodwill.

 

American privateer taken by H.M.S. Sophie, 1812. (Wikipedia.)

 

But there are always exceptions, and my roommate was among them. She loved USNA dances. And I allowed her to drag me to a few. I was a traditional girl who wanted to get married, but I had exhausted my prospects among the least ‘mad, twisted, tormented’ of pasty-faced, priggish Johnnie pedants. Another girlfriend of mine was engaged to a mid, and he was a great guy. Maybe I would be so lucky? (Though they had met in high school, and he entered the Corps after graduation—and became a pilot, no less—so does he really count?) For all my surface disdain, I was not immune to the romance of dancing with officers in uniform. So my roommate and I would get dolled up and head toward Gate One for a night on the yard.

I quickly learned that for some—not all—midshipmen, not only were Johnnies an alien species, but women were alien too. No one has ever confirmed this, but I swear USNA must offer a class titled, “How to Talk to Women Who Are Not Your Fellow Officers and Classmates,” because every dance conversation followed the same outline:

(1) Introduce yourselves.

(2) Ask your partner where she’s from.

(3) Ask her what school she attends. (One question behind this question was, “Are you legal?” High schoolers often went to Navy dances.)

(4) Ask her about her favorite subjects.

(5) Ask her what she wants to do after graduation.

(6) Thank her for the dance.

Which isn’t a bad formula. But with Johnnies, the script always failed at Question Three:

Mr. Midshipman: “What school do you go to?”

Me, after a fortifying breath: “St. John’s.”

His eyes grew so wide that you could read his internal dialogue: “Marxist! Bluestocking! Feminazi! Weirdo! HARD-A-LEE!” Which tells you a lot about my alma mater.

Once he had recovered (“she looks normal”): “Is it true that…?”

I assured him that whatever rumor he had heard was only half-justified.

Awkward pause.

Him: “What’s your favorite class?”

Me: “Honestly, junior year readings are a real drag. Too much Age of Enlightenment flapdoodle—monads, ‘nasty, brutish, and short,’ blah, blah, blah. I can’t wait until we get to Jane Austen, but we have to survive six weeks of Kant first.”

Look of horror.

“I feel the same way. And you?”

“Ship Hydrostatics and Stability.”

My turn to be horrified.

“It’s hard but really interesting.”

Think, think, think, think. “We’re studying Newton’s Principia in our mathematics tutorial.”

Silence.

“Galileo? Descartes? Franklin? Faraday? … Aristotle? Mind you, I understand very little of it. Not a science person.”

“And you’re paying how much for this education?”

“I can’t talk about tuition or school loans while dancing. Moby Dick?”

“I took a literature class once.”

Silence again.

Him: “What do you want to do after graduation?”

Me: “Still figuring it out. Probably something impractical that pays nothing. How about you? What’s your goal?”

“Not to end up on a submarine.”

Pause. “I can respect that.”

Needless to say, I was never asked to dance twice. I did date one midshipman for a few weeks, but we ran out of things to talk about, and his backup plan met with more resistance than he anticipated. So that was that. Still, I wish him well and hope he’s somewhere not-a-submarine. I instead married an academic, had a bunch of kids, and became a novelist. Stephen won, while Jack was left to the annals of, “Mistakes I Wish I Hadn’t Made in College.”

If we had read Patrick O’Brian at St. John’s, now—we would have known to ask Messrs. Midshipmen if they were musical! USNA and St. John’s, sawing away on our violins and ‘cellos, thumos converging with dianoia. Would have been a point of commonality, growth, and friendship.

Books, PersonalRhonda OrtizMaster and Commander, Patrick O'Brian, St. John's College