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I celebrated a birthday this weekend (no, I’m not saying which one!) and have to squee over some of my presents.

My husband knows books are my favorite gift and as usual didn’t disappoint.

Among the haul is CLANDESTINE, by Julia Ross, which I have been dying to read but couldn’t because I’m not allowed to buy books on my wish list between October and my birthday.

Another treasure is LIFE IN WELLINGTON’S ARMY, by Antony Brett-James. Just looking at the table of contents is tantalizing. Chapters with titles like “Bivouac Life”, “Come Dancing” and “Army Wives” promise to answer so many questions I have about what my soldier and ex-soldier heroes would have experienced.

Lastly, I also got HOW TO AVOID MAKING ART (Or Anything Else You Enjoy) by Julia Cameron. It’s a collection of cartoons of “creative wannabes doing everything except actually getting down to work.” Some of the cartoons cut so close to the truth it is painful. Here’s an example of a hangup I used to struggle with on a regular basis, though I’m more sensible about it now.

A nice dinner, chocolate cake with raspberry sauce and afterwards, a date to see AMAZING GRACE (we had to drive 45 minutes to see it, but it was well worth the trip!) and my day was pretty near perfect.

What sorts of books are on your wish lists? What is your fantasy birthday?

Elena
www.elenagreene.com

No one who had ever seen James T. Kirk in his infancy, or his childhood in Iowa, would have supposed him born to be a hero.

He had a thin awkward figure, a sallow skin without much colour, hair which was thinning by the age of twelve, and ordinary features;–so much for his person;–and not less unpropitious for heroism seemed his mind. Although he was fond enough of all boys’ plays, he excelled at none, except perhaps when it was his turn to keep score.

Instead, he greatly preferred the company of girls, and whether teazing their dolls, nursing a baby gorn, feeding a tribble, or watering his quadro-triticale, he always managed to make the girls laugh while looking into a soft-focus lens.

Such were his propensities–his abilities were quite as extraordinary. He could never learn or understand any thing before he was taught; and sometimes not even then, for he was often inattentive, and occasionally stupid, and therefore believed for his entire life that “one to the fourth power” was a very large number indeed.

His father wished him to learn physics; and James Kirk was sure he should like it, for he was very fond of using his grand father’s fertilizer to build small bombs, and knew that if he could only split atoms, his explosions would increase remarkably in size, without a similar increase in work on his part. Kirk studied physics for a year, and could not bear it;–and his father, who did not insist on his sons being educated in spite of distaste or extreme incapacity, allowed him to leave off.

Such was James T. Kirk at ten. At fifteen, appearances were mending; he began to comb his hair over and long for green-skinned women; his complexion improved, his features were softened by make-up artists, his eyes gained more animation (especially in the 1970’s), and his figure more consequence. His love of dirt gave way to an inclination for yellow shirts, and he grew clean (if not precisely smart). He had the pleasure of sometimes hearing his father and mother remark on his personal improvement. “Jim grows quite a good-looking boy,–he is almost intelligent today,” were words which caught his ears now and then; and how welcome were the sounds! To be almost intelligent, is an acquisition of higher delight to a boy who thinks one to the fourth power is a giant number, than Mr. Spock from his cradle (if he had one) can ever receive.

There you have it! My newest installment of Austen Trek. (To see earlier ones, click on the “Austen Trek” link at the bottom of this post!)

Now do please vote in the comments section: Do you want new installments of Austen Trek often? Or just occasionally? Or not at all? Or are you tempted to set fire to your computer just to make the pain stop?

Cara
Cara King, author of MY LADY GAMESTER and fan of both Austen and Trek

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Short post today and I don’t have great excuses, just TAXES. I procastinated. Again. And I as I sorted through the myriad of boxes where I put the records, not in anything like organized folders, I swore that next year will be better. Again.

Anyway, I have a 10:30 am appointment with the accountant so I gotta rush.

As I was searching for all the receipts of books I’ve purchased in the last year, a goodly number of those being research books, I recalled that I’m supposed to write an article for next month’s Wet Noodle Posse Ezine
called “Ten Tips on Feeding Your Muse.”

I have a few ideas about this, like getting a good night’s sleep (something taxes do not fascilitate) or going to see Washinton DC’s Cherry Blossoms in the Tidal Basin (they peaked yesterday!) I’m not sure I have ten of them, and if I do they are probably in a dozen different boxes upstairs.

So Risky Regencies readers, what are your favorite ways of feeding your muse, that creature who goes on a hunger strike once in a while and leaves you staring blankly at the computer monitor, hands unmoving on the keyboard?

Gotta go. (Yipes, I’ll probably be late!) When I get back, I’ll be looking for at least ten tips on how you feed your muse. I promise to give Risky Regencies credit!

Cheers!, Diane

What’s one of the main reasons I’m obsessed with Dancing With the Stars (go, Apolo!)? The clothes, of course! So sparkly and fringe-y and fun. I’ve always loved playing dress-up, and subscribe to way more fashion magazines than is probably healthy. The truth is, I can never actually afford Prada or Marni, and I would never try to squeeze myself into those Edyta-style get-ups from DWTS. But I can always dream! And buy spiffy dance shoes.
One of the earliest of the high-fashion, brand-name modistes was Rose Bertin, favorite designer to Marie Antoinette. Born in Abbeville in 1747, Rose Bertin set up shop as a marchande de modes (female fashion merchant) in 1773, in a luxurious boutique on the rue Saint-Honore. In 1774, she expanded her offerings to include what came to be known as the ‘pouf,’ wild headresses to go with the enormous dresses. These were made in conjunction with Marie Antoinette’s equally snooty and extravagent hairdresser, Leonard, and were built on a scaffolding of wire, cloth, gauze, horsehair, fake hair, and the woman’s own hair, teased up off the forehead. After being doused with powder, the coiffure could become the canvas for all sorts of still-lifes and props (ships, windmills, babies, you name it).
Through her rich clients the duchesse de Chartres and the princesse de Lamballe, Bertin came to the notice of Marie Antoinette, who had just become queen and was feeling her fashion wings (or wild oats). A style was born. One of their earliest collaborations was a pouf titled ‘coiffure a l’Iphigenie’ (to pay tribute to Gluck’s opera), quickly followed by the ‘pouf a l’inoculation,’ to celebrate her husband’s successeful smallpox innoculation. Bertin also designed the queen’s coronation gown, an elaborate affair heavily embroidered with gold thread and sapphires, which almost had to make the trip to Rheims on a special stretcher (until the lady-in-waiting balked at carrying it).
Bertin’s creations (which cost roughly twenty times what a skilled artisan would earn in a year) helped establish France as the center of the fashion industry, which has persisted to this day. But Bertin, reportedly an abrasive woman, was deeply resented, both by the aristocracy (who felt the queen treated her, a mere tradeswoman, with too much favor and distinction), and by the middle and lower classes. She was snooty to would-be customers (for example, refusing to outfit the ‘wife of a mere prosecutor from Bordeaux!’), and the wild extravagence of her creations was derided in the midst of depressions and famines. As a woman, Bertin inspired particular resentment for taking precedence over her male colleagues, and was sneeringly called Marie Antoinette’s ‘Minister of Fashion’ and ‘Minister of Trinkets.’
During the Revolution, Bertin eventually moved her business to London, returning to Paris in 1795, where Josephine was one of her main customers. But fashions had changed, and she soon retired to her house in the town of Epinay sur Seine, where she died in 1813.
A great source for info on this period is Caroline Weber’s Queen of Fashion: What Marie Antoinette Wore to the Revolution.
What are some of your favorite fashion eras or designers? Anyone watching Dancing With the Stars???


This morning, I am heading to New England for the NEC-RWA Conference. And since this week has been chock-a-block full of everything (sick kid, real estate, insomnia) but writing, I don’t have a lot to say. At least not anything that’s not profanity-laced.

BUT the weather has finally turned warmer, and I’ve seen crocuses all over the little front yards of Brooklyn, so I am hopeful that Spring will bring a fresh breeze of creative inspiration.

So a few easy questions: What’s your favorite flower? What inspires you the most? When you feel like throwing in the metaphorical towel, what drags you back from the ‘I’m giving up’ brink?

Megan
www.meganframpton.com

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