Apple Peels and Snails to Snare a Husband by Diane Scott Lewis

My Canadian Brides novel turns on a betrothal gone wrong. To celebrate May, I leave Canada and travel to England, and the serious search for a mate in the eighteenth century.

Folklore abounds in the villages of England around the single girl’s search for a husband—as in the eighteenth century marriage was what most young women had to look forward to, or they’d be ridiculed and regulated to spinsters, farmed out as governesses, or forced to live on the charity of their family.

Most of these search-for-true-love customs revolved around the seasons.

At the ruined Abbey of Cerne Abbas in Dorsetshire, girls flocked around the wishing-well in all seasons. To obtain their heart’s desire, they’d pluck a leaf from a nearby laurel bush, make a cup of it, dip this in the well, then turn and face the church. The girl would then “wish” for presumably a man she already has in mind, but must keep this wish a secret or it wouldn’t come true.

Other customs included, in Somersetshire on May Day Eve or St. John’s Eve, a lass putting a snail on a pewter plate. As the snail slithered across the plate it would mark out the future husband’s initials.

On another ritual to this end, writer Daniel Defoe remarked by saying: “I hope that the next twenty-ninth of June, which is St. John the Baptist’s Day, I shall not see the pastures adjacent to the metropolis thronged as they were the last year with well-dressed young ladies crawling up and down upon their knees as if they were a parcel of weeders, when all the business is to hunt superstitiously after a coal under the root of a plantain to put under their heads that night that they may dream who should be their husbands.”

Throwing an apple peel over the left shoulder was also employed in the hopes the paring would fall into the shape of the future husband’s initials. When done on St. Simon and St. Jude’s Day, the girls would recite the following rhyme as they tossed the peel: St. Simon and St. Jude, on you I intrude, By this paring I hold to discover, without any delay please tell me this day, the first letter of him, my true lover.

 On St. John’s Eve, his flower, the St. John’s Wort, would be hung over doors and windows to keep off evil spirits, and the girls who weren’t off searching for snails in the pastures, would be preparing the dumb cake. Two girls made the cake, two baked it, and two broke it. A third person would put the cake pieces under the pillows of the other six. This entire ritual must be performed in dead silence-or it would fail. The girls would then go to bed to dream of their future husbands.

On the eve of St. Mary Magdalene’s Day, a spring of rosemary would be dipped into a mixture of wine, rum, gin, vinegar, and water. The girls, who must be under twenty-one, fastened the sprigs to their gowns, drink three sips of the concoction, then would go to sleep in silence and dream of future husbands.

At All Hallows Eve, a girl going out alone might meet her true lover. One tale has it that a young servant-maid who went out for this purpose encountered her master coming home from market instead of a single boy. She ran home to tell her mistress, who was already ill. The mistress implored the maid to be kind to her children, then this wife died. Later on, the master did marry his serving-maid.

Myths and customs were long a part of village life when it came to match-making.

In my novel, On a Stormy Primeval shore, which takes place in eighteenth-century Canada, Amelia is slated to wed one man (a match made by her father), but refuses him, and through no effort of her own, the perfect man comes along in the guise of Gilbert, an Acadian trader. A bear is involved...

A short blurb:

In 1784, Amelia sails to New Brunswick, a land overrun by Loyalists escaping the American Revolution, to marry a soldier whom she rejects. Acadian Gilbert fights to preserve his heritage and property—will they find love when events seek to destroy them?
 

To purchase On a Stormy Primeval Shore or my other novels at Amazon or All Markets: Click HERE

For further information on me and my books, please visit my website: www.dianescottlewis.org

 Diane Scott Lewis grew up in California, traveled the world with the navy, edited for magazines and an on-line publisher. She lives with her husband in Pennsylvania.

Source: English Country Life in the Eighteenth Century, by Rosamond Bayne-Powell, 1935.

Back in Time to the untidy Eighteenth Century

If I had a Time Machine, I'd travel back to the later eighteenth century, the part of history I mostly write about. I'd view the details of daily life for myself. I'd also pack a suitcase of deodorant, shampoo and conditioner. Women washed their hair with shaved soap flakes, but it left a sticky residue, so don't believe those movies that show the women of this time with silky, ravishing locks.

People didn't bathe (in full immersion in a tub) often, fearing it would destroy the natural oils of the body, leaving you open to disease. I'd miss my hot showers.

I'd travel through England and visit quant villages where the average people toil, but of course I wouldn't have the freedoms I enjoy in the modern world. Women in this era were controlled by men, fathers, brothers, then husbands, and it was seen as the norm. They had few rights of their own.

An outspoken woman could be punished, put in the pillory, or even sold in the market place by her husband. She could be beaten, but fortunately by this time, not legally killed  by a disgruntled husband.





A lucky woman found a happy marriage to sustain her, since her husband became her master. A good husband would treat his wife as an equal. A widow had more freedom to start a business, or continue her husband's. Thank goodness for something for the females.

Marriage a la Mode: The Tête à Tête by William Hogarth. The couple are already disinterested in each other.

And though I'd love to view the details of daily life to get my research right, I wouldn't care for the unsanitary conditions. Fleas in the bed, lice on the body. Though those situations do happen now, we have better ways to deal with them. Having to use a chamber pot or close stool is also a turn-off.

Clothing was another restriction of the time, especially for women. Strapped into 'stays' (corsets), encumbered with layers of clothing, they must have suffocated in hotter weather. The women who didn't have a houseful of servants suffered in hard work: hauling water, milking the cow, scrubbing floors, plus caring for a brood of children.

I'd only visit for a short time in my Time Machine, because I know with my big mouth, I'd be in the pillory in no time.

 

 

To purchase my books at Amazon or All Markets: Click HERE

 

For more information on me and my books, please visit my website: www.dianescottlewis.org

 

Diane Scott Lewis grew up in California, traveled the world with the navy, edited for magazines and an on-line publisher. She lives with her husband in Pennsylvania.

Why I love Writing Historical Fiction

I spoke to my sister-in-law the other day and she couldn't understand how I could write novels that required so much research. I said "I love the research." Digging out those little gems of history and daily life, how people dressed, what they ate. Did women really not wear underpants in the eighteenth century (my preferred time period)? They didn't! Apparently this made it easier for the women to use the necessary (toilet) with all those stiff layers of clothing.
A fact that shocked me: the English washed their clothing in urine. They used urine for its acidic properties. I learned that on a visit to Shakespeare's parents' farm in Stratford-upon-Avon.

When I wrote my first novel, now titled Escape the Revolution, I wrote the story before my research and had to change so much, but found I enjoyed ferreting out the details. In my tavern I had a bar. I discovered there weren't yet drinking bars in 1790, so I had to change it. Pot-boys scooped out ale or beer from barrels in the kitchen and poured the drink into tankards to be served directly to the table. I triple checked these facts.
I still find many famous authors who put bars in their stories long before they appeared in history (the Victorian age).
I love the challenge of getting my details right. Of putting my heroines in a situation where they can't whip out a Smartphone to call for help. They must use their wits. Nothing is simple without modern conveniences.

In the days before the Internet (Yes, young people, there were those days) I utilized the library system for my research. I lived near Washington DC and traveled there to the Library of Congress Reading Room, an excellent resource. I was fortunate to be able to use their comprehensive library.

How fast does a horse travel in one day? (about fifty miles). Marriage rules and restrictions, the calling of the banns. All these things you must take into consideration when writing historical fiction. There were odd customs/fashions for women, such as mouse-fur eyebrows, and when they lost their teeth, a cork ball was stuffed in the cheek to fill out the face. Early in the 18th c. men wore rouge on their lips and cheeks, huge wigs--as did women--and high heeled shoes.

In one novel, Rose's Precarious Quest, I had a character who was a doctor in 1796. I had to request rare books by a Dr. Hunter to gain knowledge from that era. I also came across a fantastic website put out by Colonial Williamsburg on eighteenth century medicine. Domestic Medicine. I learned about the humors of the body (black bile, yellow bile, phlegm, and blood) and how they must be regulated to keep one well. The strange, often deadly remedies (as in mercury and white lead) used to heal the sick. However, the poisonous Foxglove plant was turned into Digitalis to successfully treat heart disease.

For my Canadian Historical Brides story, On a Stormy Primeval Shore, I had to research the province of New Brunswick. I must applaud my wonderful research assistant, Nancy Bell, who found me reproductions of historical documents on the internet.
 I learned so much about who settled this territory, who the native tribes were, the Acadians, Germans, Scots, English and the Loyalist Americans who fled the American Revolution. The struggles these people went through in a harsh climate.

It's a good thing I love all these details, the thrill of research. However, it makes me a picky reader when I catch the historical mistakes made by other authors.

To purchase this book and my previous novels  Amazon and All Markets

For more information on me and my books, please visit my website: www.dianescottlewis.org

 

Diane Scott Lewis grew up in California, traveled the world with the navy, edited for magazines and an on-line publisher. She lives with her husband in Pennsylvania.

California Springs

As a child in California, spring came early to the East Bay, thirty miles east of San Francisco. The fogs and rains of winter, where the temperature dipped down to nearly below fifty degrees (burr), had passed and the warmth of spring brought out the sun, birds, and insects.

Author, 1956?, Easter in California

School was soon over, and we ran through the fresh grass. The ice cream/snow cone truck would play its jingle and we'd ask for a dime to buy and fill our mouths with that sweet sugar. The neighborhood kids would gather to play Freeze Tag, or Hide and Seek.

Before we had a dryer, my mother hung out the laundry as soon as spring came, putting away the drying rack that sat before our heater in our home's narrow hallway. My most vivid memory is the dragonflies that landed on the clothes line, their orange and green wings sparkling like jewels when the sunlight hit them.

My mom would soon plant her garden and we've have fresh, tangy tomatoes and crunchy cucumbers. Her gardenia plant would bloom and we'd smell the flowers' heady, perfumed scent.

My towering father, who commuted into a city for his job at a radio station, would change his long-sleeved shirts for short sleeves, and barbeque on the patio he'd built.

After marriage, when I lived on tropical islands, Puerto Rico and Guam, every day was the same as far as weather (sweltering); unless the occasional hurricane or typhoon blew through.

Now I live in Western PA to be closer to my granddaughters. I took this picture on April 3rd, and there is snow on the ground. It's snowed twice more, and snow is predicted for next week.

 

When I think of spring, it's those California days of warmth, no humidity, the laughter of my friends and the jingle of the ice-cream truck. Playing cowboys with my brother (now deceased) and other kids on my street, climbing trees, catching crawdads in the creek, my parents young and healthy, the innocent times of children.

 

In New Brunswick, Canada, where my Brides book is set, spring comes even later. I read that when the ice in the rivers break up it's like an earthquake. For a California girl, I understand that experience.

 

 

 

Night Owl Reviews gave my historical novel a Reviewer Top Pick:
'Historical romance readers will fall in love with both Amelia and Gilbert. "On A Stormy Primeval Shore" was a fabulous tale of life and hardship in historical Canada.'

Blurb: In 1784, Englishwoman Amelia Latimer sails to New Brunswick to marry a man chosen by her father. Amelia is repulsed and refuses the marriage. She is attracted to a handsome Acadian, Gilbert, a man beneath her. Gilbert fights the incursion of Loyalists from the American war to hold onto his heritage. Will they find love when events seek to destroy them?

 

E-book and paperback are available at Amazon and All Markets

For more information on me and my books, please visit my website: www.dianescottlewis.org

 

Diane Scott Lewis grew up in California, traveled the world with the navy, edited for magazines and an on-line publisher. She lives with her husband in Pennsylvania.



What I Would Change was Beyond My Control, by Diane Scott Lewis

When I was a little girl, more decades ago than I care to count, I was skinny as a string bean. If I were a child in school today they'd probably worry I was Anorexic. But I ate like a field-hand, as my mother would say. I loved all sorts of foods, exotic and otherwise, salads, tempura shrimp, desserts, pizza, anything.

The boys teased me relentlessly, one calling me Bird Legs every time he saw me on the recess yard. (maybe he had a crush on me...?) Back then girls had to wear dresses to school, so my stick legs were always on display. I grew up in California, where fifty degrees meant winter, so no hiding my limbs under thick tights and tons of sweaters.

Then if that wasn't enough, at age twelve I had a huge growth spurt. Not out, as I wished for, but up. Other girl's were developing into shapely teens, I was becoming a narrow tower. "How's the weather up there?" I'd hear.

My best friend's mother, who stood maybe four-foot ten said I needed to stop growing and she was going to have my mother tie a brick to my head. (if only that worked)

 

When I entered high school I was five-foot-nine, (3/4 inches was yet to add itself on), and still skinny as a needle. I longed to be 'willowy' but 'gangly' applied. I wasn't the tallest girl in school, but all the others had meat on their bones. Where were my hips and other womanly shapes? I resembled my dad who was six-foot-four. Two bricks please! I still gobbled down plenty of food, but to no avail.

 

I planned to join the navy at nineteen, I loved to travel, but I didn't weigh enough for their height/weight ratio. For weeks I had to stuff myself and barely slid by.

 

I met my husband when I was stationed in Greece, and while most of my friends went through unhappy marriages and divorces--and ours wasn't always a piece of cake (yum, did anyone say cake?)--we've been together for over forty years, and that's one thing I wouldn't change.

We have two sons and two beautiful granddaughters.

 

I came to terms with my gangly body and in my mature years accept things far better than I used to. I've shrunk a half inch, and I finally got the fat I wanted. Unfortunately, it's only around my middle.

 

My experiences made me stronger and resilient. I rarely back down (but I do wish I could go back in time and have a long "talk" with Robbie-who labeled me Bird Legs).

 

I also love writing, starting in kindergarten. My pens and pencils never cared how boney I was. Well, those implements are long and skinny, too. The way I prefer historicals, I should be using a quill pen.

 

My latest novel, On a Stormy Primeval Shore, part of the Canadian Historical Brides Series, is available for pre-order, (link below) release date: January 1, 2018.

 

Blurb: In 1784, Amelia sails to New Brunswick, a land overrun by Loyalists escaping the American Revolution, to marry a soldier whom she rejects. Acadian Gilbert fights to preserve his heritage and property—will they find love when events seek to destroy them?

 

 

 

Pre-order HERE

 

Diane Scott Lewis grew up in California, traveled the word with the navy, edited for magazines and an on-line publisher. She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband.

 

Movie Rights! Who would play my characters, by Diane Scott Lewis

Who would play my characters if the lucky chance came and my book, On a Stormy Primeval Shore, was made into a movie? My aunt says all my books would make wonderful PBS shows, but then she might be slightly prejudiced.

My novel involves an Englishwoman to travels to the remote colony of New Brunswick in 1784 to marry a man her soldier father has chosen. Repulsed by the officer, she refuses to marry him. Then she meets a handsome Acadian trader.

For my cast, I'll start with actors from the TV series Turn, which takes place during the American Revolution, which happened directly before the time-period of my novel.



Australian actor, Daniel Henshall, if he could speak in a French accent, would make  a credible Gilbert.

http://www.amc.com/shows/turn/cast-crew

Or maybe I'd choose the French-Canadian actor, François Arnaud.

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm2957696/

Burn Gorman, born in California, but brought up in London, would be perfect as Amelia's English father, Captain Latimer.

http://www.amc.com/shows/turn/cast-crew

Meegan Warner studied acting in Australia, but I could not find her nationality. She would play Englishwoman Amelia.

http://www.amc.com/shows/turn/cast-crew

For Gilbert's mother, the indomitable Marie-Cateline, I must look elsewhere. I had a difficult time homing in on actresses over forty, no big surprise, but I chose this French-Canadian actress, born in Quebec, as Marie-Cateline. They could 'make' her look older with cosmetics. I thought she had the right look: Emmanuelle Chriqui.

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0004825/

I learned later that she's forty-two. Perfect! I'd like to know her skin-care regime


Finally, for the feisty English maid, Louise, I'd pick the teenaged British actress, Georgie Henley (if she'd dye her hair blonde):

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/526076800205229145/

For more on my novels, please visit my BWL author page
And my website: dianescottlewis.org

The Arc of the Story as I see it, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

I adore history and telling stories. I was born in California and published short-stories and poems in school magazines. I wanted to travel the world, so I joined the navy at nineteen, married my navy husband in Greece-and explored the ancient ruins-then had two sons. We traveled to exotic locales, giving me the urge to weave tales involving the past. My first novel was published in 2010, and many historical novels followed. I now live with my husband in Western Pennsylvania.

My current work in progress is in honor of Canada's 150th birthday: On a Stormy Primeval Shore
In 1784, Englishwoman Amelia Latimer sails to the new colony of New Brunswick in faraway Canada. She’s to marry a man chosen by her soldier father. Amelia is repulsed by her betrothed, and refuses to marry him. She is attracted to a handsome Acadian trader, Gilbert, a man beneath her in status. Gilbert must fight the incursion of English Loyalists from the American war to hold onto his land and heritage. Will he and Amelia find peace when events seek to destroy their love and lives.



Available in 2018

What is a story arc? An agent once asked me if my story followed the three-arc format? I had no idea what she was talking about. Then I took a writing class, which helped—sort of—to explain this issue. I was under the impression I could write my novel any way I wanted to, rambling on and on, throwing in info dumps, but no, you must have an arc, a frame work, highs and lows and a wrapping up at the end.

Since I’m a ‘pantzer’ i. e., I write by the ‘seat of my pants’, I just start writing with a slight idea of who my characters are and what the setting will be. It’s after I’ve written several chapters that I figure out where the story will go.

For this novel, I read up on the history of New Brunswick, decided to start with the ‘break’ of the colony from Nova Scotia in 1784, and tossed my female character, Amelia, a young Englishwoman, into those events. My male character is Acadian. Gilbert grew up with the ebb and flow of changing events, the expulsion of his people when the British came, and so forth. This way I could show the colony from the POV of two different cultures.

As for story arcs, I’m not sure if I follow the framework as I should. I try to intermix action, with gentler scenes, have a big action scene near the end, then wrap up the story. My characters often tell me which way to go once their personalities flesh out and they take over the novel. I try to work in the history in ways that make sense and don’t overwhelm the reader. But I still like those info dumps, darn it!



French flintlock pistol, 1790

I suppose for this type of novel a story arc is boy meets girl, boy loses girl, people shoot at each other, further difficulties arise that I won’t reveal, then, hopefully, everything comes out all right in the end.

 

To find out more about Diane Scott Lewis and her novels, visit her BWL Author page

Or her website: dianescottlewis.org

A Day in the Glamorous Life of a Writer by Diane Scott Lewis

 

 

Due out in 2018

Here's my typical day. I wake up around seven in the morning, crawl out, stretch and grumble, then hurry to my computer while my personal Barista (a.k.a. my husband) brings me my first cup of coffee. Nirvana!

I go through my millions of emails, most trying to sell me something because I might have purchased an item in the slight ballpark of this item. Especially, it’s books that are pushed in my direction, usually from famous authors already making too much money, so they don't need my help.

 

I critique in my stellar critique groups, (and I appreciate them dearly) and add their critiques to my current WIP. Many give me contradictory suggestions, leaving me so confused—I need another cup of coffee.

 My husband pokes in his head and discusses whether I’m ever going to get out of my pajamas.

 I write on, rush through breakfast, just a protein bar sometimes, since I’m deep in New Brunswick history and don’t wish to leave. I also need to exercise before eating anything, but that’s another story.

 Heading to the kitchen for coffee number three (how dare my Barista have a life of his own) I disparage the dust on my furniture and wish I could afford a maid. When will they invent a self-cleaning house?

 

The dog stares up at me with pleading eyes, and I call to someone-anyone-to take him out.

Back at my computer I surf the web for info on the many cultures that make up New Brunswick. How do I pack these details in without overwhelming the reader? I love my research!

I email with friends, (some I've actually met face-to-face) fellow writers, discussing POV, history, the state of the world. On Facebook I write about how cute my granddaughters are.

It’s afternoon by now and I should eat lunch…and get dressed. On a good day, I manage to do both.

I also write blogs. While trying to add graphics to this one, my computer tells me I don't have the authority to copy the graphics, and to ask the administrator. Clue to computer, I AM the administrator. And I've done this many times before. I Google how to fix the problem; sounds way too complicated and something mechanical might blow up. I'll call the Geeks in the morning. If you see no other graphics: computer won, Diane still scratching her head.

Update: Geeks can't remotely fix the problem. I have to drop my computer off at the far faraway store where they will hoard it for days. How will I survive?

 

The later afternoons are reserved for reading, either research or books for review. Okay, I admit to watching my DVR’d episodes of Law and Order SVU, or anything on PBS.

 If no one is around, I really have to let out the dog.

 Now, mind you, this is a perfect day. On non-perfect days I have to go to doctors’ appointments, renew my driver’s license, pick up drugs at CVS, take the beleaguered dog to the vet, and so on.

 Oh, yes, and give my wonderful husband attention. I’ll make sure he reads this.

I find out from the Geeks that I have to download a new graphics program, mine is too ancient. We'll see if that works on future blogs.

 My chef (who also looks suspiciously like my Husband) serves dinner. He's retired and loves to cook.
 

As night closes in, with a glass of wine, or two, on my dust-covered side table, I think of all the things I need to add to my story the next morning. I'll never get to sleep. The writer’s mind never rests.

For more information on Diane Scott Lewis' books, visit her BWL Author Page.
Or her website: http://www.dianescottlewis.org