Early on I resolved not to review another author’s work. Before you ask, I do rate the work—three to five stars tend to be my range. Ratings, though, tend to be a bit more confined and less critical if not thoroughly explanatory. I tend to rate based on content quality, plot believability, and character development. Structural questions also do come to play in boiling down a novel, novella, or story into a “star” rating.
However, I do not review.
The reason, of course, grows from the theme of the previous newsletter: Voice. Simply, another author’s voice can never be mine, and vice-versa. I find that a review forces me to go deeper into authorial motivations than might be helpful. I cannot build a wall in my mind between what the author wrote and how I would have written it.
I believe that it would be a cardinal sin to insert my authorial voice atop another’s in a full-blown review. I am an author and not a literary critic who approaches the process in a more systematic manner. I write from my own emotional center, and I am not able to bifurcate myself in such a way as to offer a more analytic review. Ratings allow me to move through a simpler model of assessing the quality of a work. Even then, I find that I must take care not to rate on the “I really hated the story” scheme.
So, do not expect to see public reviews from me. I just get uncomfortable because I am sure that I am imposing my voice atop another’s.
HOWEVER: reader reviews come from a different place. When I am saying I will not write a review, I am NOT suggesting that readers should adopt the practice. A considered review of any book is welcome, although I must admit that a 1-star “This book did not have enough Darcy and Elizabeth” review can be frustrating. At least for me, if Darcy and Elizabeth reside in the background, I have done that intentionally because the story rests on other characters’ shoulders. The book description in Amazon offers that depth of detail. The information is there to give a reader a foretaste.
Please consider the “blurb” for The Maid and the Footman:
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There are two sides to every great story. The tale of how General Sir Richard Fitzwilliam, Baron St. Jean, fell in love with a governess, Kitty Bennet, after she was terribly injured while protecting the Cecil heiress is well known. Now discover how an unbreakable bond between a footman and a maid grew in the face of that same tragedy and a developing international intrigue.
The Maid and The Footman explores the increasing affection between a young lady’s maid and a retired Army sergeant which was as great as any love written about by the immortals. In the Jane Austen universe, the celebrated novels are written from the point-of-view of the landed gentry. Servants are rarely seen except to open doors, serve dinner or fetch smelling salts.
The Maid and The Footman asserts that class is an imaginary distinction conferring no better manners on the “haves” and no lesser nobility on the “have-nots” and that the deepest human emotions are universal. The novella also reveals how Annie Reynolds and Henry Wilson teamed up with General Fitzwilliam to fight the nefarious plot that had penetrated the heart of the British government after Napoleon’s fall. The hidden motive driving the attack on Kitty Bennet in Hyde Park is gradually revealed. Throughout it all, Annie and Henry circle around one another finding remarkable depths of love in spite of the great forces tossing them about.
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All authors look at reviews and ratings. We, too, are human and desire feedback. However, feedback that does not impose a different authorial voice atop mine (or others) is the most valuable. I will continue to cherish that as I write. Please scroll below for an excerpt of my latest WIP: The Sailor’s Rest.
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'Tis the season and all that! Starting today (December 15) through the 30th, enter to win books/audiobooks from your favorite authors! Along with the work of 10 other #Austenesque authors, my book "In Plain Sight" is featured (audiobook). The Grand prize is all eleven! Eleven other lucky winners will receive an individual copy! The link below takes you to this great (no charge) giveaway opportunity!
https://authoramandakai.wixsite.com/home/post/holiday-giveaway-2022
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Please enjoy this excerpt from my current Work In Progress: The Sailor’s Rest ©2022 by Donald P. Jacobson. Reproduction is prohibited except when sharing this article.
Chapter 37
Early in the afternoon as he and Price conferred on the quarterdeck, a zephyr blew from the bow. Nutmeg’s sharpness surrounded Wentworth. ’Twas not the hint of spice that pervaded the unharvested Dutch East Indies forests. No, this was the sirens song of the powder rubbed between one’s palms and its essence inhaled: unforgettable and thoroughly captivating.
For seven long years, that blessed aroma haunted me. Unlike a grim specter, though, this was nothing sinister. Rather, it bumped against my lowered spirits like a dolphin playfully reminding me that my life existed beyond the far horizon.
’Tis singular and unmistakable.
’Tis Anne: her aura is hers alone, like a freshly baked tart reaching its tendrils through an open kitchen window into the garden. There it finds you and rings bells toward which you, befogged mortal that you are, point your bowsprit.
She is the eternal scent of Home, that safe harbor your soul craves.
Duty flew from his thoughts to be replaced by the undeniable urge to seek her out, to bask in her smile, to crush her in his arms, and reaffirm to himself—and her—of his everlasting love.
He had to find a graceful way to take his leave of his companion who looked at him with an eyebrow raised, intrigued by the sudden death of their conversation.
Frederick shook his head but did not turn toward the surge’s origin. “Battle weariness, Mr. Price: you are yet too young in your career to understand how quickly gunpowder’s stink saps your strength. I fear I was not attending to you.
“However, if I am not mistaken, you will have to get your feet planted beneath you and quickly. My brother Croft will be looking for a man to take charge of Persephone. As Mr. Rochet discovered—or so I have been told—not more than six weeks ago, war makes for rapid promotion.
“I would not be surprised if the admiral gives you your step to Master and Commander and names you temporary captain of the frigate. Making you post won’t stick, but I wager there’s a sloop in Malta with one of the port captain’s favorites itching for a fifth rate. Shift your dunnage, and you will have your own quarterdeck! The Admiralty will not gainsay the judgment of one of the Thirty!”
Wentworth well knew the fireworks he had just ignited in the youngster’s mind. “I will not joggle your elbow any longer. You have a ship to set to rights.
“Oh, there is a mid I want from this berth: Mr. Twombley. He impressed me this morning, and I will want at least one good squeaker. Politics will out: I will have to oblige my betters by taking some of their surplus young gentlemen.
“As for crewing Melpomène: I would lighten your complement by stealing most of the old Laconias. One last man, although I will not poach him until we are half a day out of Valletta, would be Bosun Tommy. What your permanent replacement won’t know will bother neither you nor me.
“Do not regret losing Persephone. She wasn’t yours to begin with, but she will be the making of you!”
His speech finished, Wentworth nodded at Price and ghosted away.
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Where before the geography of a frigate—well, any ship—had been foreign to Anne, a month aboard had taught her about the basics and a few of the more hidden treasures. Although she had only heard of the cable tier where the great foot-thick anchor lines dripped their mire into the bilges, the companionway leading from the sick berth past the magazine and forepeak up through a hatch ahead of the foremast had become her secret path. Using it, she could avoid the questioning eyes of Alfred and Sophie. They were exercising their justified concern as in loco parentis about her mental health, worried that the longer they did not encounter Persephone, the greater the chance she would slip back into her seven-year malaise.
In mid-March, Anne would have been turned around making the short walk from her swinging bunk to the quarter gallery. Now in April, as she settled herself on the combing around Persephone’s foremast, Anne recalled what Elizabeth had said about learning the ground upon which you stood and making it your own.[i]
‘Using my mother’s words, I would scamper out of Longbourn and into the oak forest on Oakham Mount’s slopes. That prominence, like the brows above your Kellynch I imagine, was my refuge because none of my sisters—well, I could cajole Jane to clamber up the hill from time-to-time—would ever seek to bother me. Thus, I was insulated from Mama’s lamentations or my younger siblings’ squabblings.
‘Naiad is the same in many ways, albeit vastly smaller and with 200 men aboard! Yet, Anne, there are places where a woman can just sit and think without anyone imposing themselves.’
Elizabeth did have the most unique sort of blindness: only seeing that which would bring her pleasure. Her solitude was insured by any of three shadows trailing her even in broad daylight: Henry, Annie, or Michael. As for herself, she knew that Sarah had adopted Mrs. Sergeant’s armaments—a sheathed fileting knife in her girdle—to remind randy sailors that her lady was not one with whom to trifle.
In the middle of this soliloquy, Anne realized that the past two months had deepened the changes in the woman she was. She no longer thought of the others by anything but their Christian names.
Seated on the combing around the mast’s foot, Anne gazed out at the Mediterranean. She knew that the raft of frigates was drifting slowly with the Spanish wind, slowly pushing them toward Africa. The breeze lifted her spirits as it washed away the tension from tending to the broken bodies of those who had fought and died.
Then there was Frederick. He stood only fathoms away from her bower before the mast.
She would not impose for he had greater calls upon him than her. Anne knew her lot; a sailor’s wife always was the second lady after his ship. As was, it would always be. She, however, had never once in seven years taken up against Asp or Laconia. Hers was not to repine when her man was sublimely happy with his feet planted on a pitching quarterdeck. Only a foolish woman, vain and self-indulgent, would be jealous of the living creation that was one of His Majesty’s frigates. A man like Frederick Wentworth would be heartbroken, but he would follow the path of duty.
She turned and spied his broad shoulders defining a captain upon his quarterdeck. Then she quickly looked away, back over the prow, the foremast’s bulk insulating him from her eyes’ pressure. No, she could not impose herself. He would come to her when his heart could make itself heard over his demands as captain. Until then, she would feed off the thrumming life to draw solace and limn her world with love’s light.
Then, she stole another glance. He was gone!
Her eyes closed, Anne cast about her for he who had been lost.
There…the scent of him, missing until Naiad raised Persephone
Not beyond a blue horizon. But here.
Pitch’s gummy dark.
Hemp’s browned grass.
Saltpeter’s acrid tang.
A calmness bloomed in her center as she basked in the unique pool that described her Frederick much as the sound of her father’s footsteps signaled his and nobody else’s arrival. On land she would have added the crispness of a gust skimming above rock-tossed surf, but those three told her he was near.
The wind plucked at her curls, short now since shorn from their maidenly length.
Then a finger captured one and twirled it to wrap itself around the seam which if crooked would summon her from any distance. She tipped her head into his cupped palm, nuzzling her cheek into the horny skin, hard against the downy softness of her face. She felt the flush begin where his touch awakened her being, exploding outward to envelop her with a surge of incontestable need.
Am I being wanton to allow myself to succumb to that the existence of which I have refused to countenance to avoid desire’s longing pain? This desire, I am convinced, is God’s way of telling me that Frederick is my only. There never was one before him for I surely never have been transported as I am at this very moment.
I am not a particularly religious woman, but if a whisper in my ear said that this was a foretaste of Heaven, I would surely believe that I had been visited by an angel.
Her journey through the wilderness since the Year Nine had been a test, torment broken into two parts with a high meadow between. The first ordeal had withered when exposed to love’s uncompromising glare. Then she had been subjected to six months of wonderful happiness, glorious with first impressions and discoveries. Her ancient self, so calcified from disuse, fractured and flaked away as she steeled herself against doubt both from without—and within.
Anne’s bliss, that honied cup, was snatched away as her world collapsed into this most recent, agonizingly brief, but remarkably deep, chasm. The old Anne would have vanished into her comfortable warren like a plump coney seeking shelter from an eternal winter. Heart-death had brushed its stygian cloak against her. But for the companionship of Lizzy, Sarah, Annie, and Sophie, Anne ought to have fitted out her chambers at the Great House at Uppercross where she would poorly manage Mary’s children.
The old images, long clutched, but never cherished, crumbled like a drying sandcastle, proving their weakness against the glory that was Wentworth’s love for her.
His calluses dragged against her cheek as she turned her face into the fondling cushion, there to bestow a soft lingering kiss.
[i] Quarter gallery is where the Great Cabin’s private head was hidden. This was the captain’s toilet or, in the case of the restructured Naiad, the ladies retiring room.