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Author Commentary: Trudy's Sight >
I'll be honest: Trudy's sight was a total pain. My editor must have said a dozen times, "But I don't understand how she can...," and every time, I'd stare at the text and realize that deep down, I had no idea what I was talking about. So if you find Trudy's whole sight thing a bit confusing, comfort yourself that you're not alone.
As I mention elsewhere, Wisdom's Kiss began with the concept of a girl sensing the approach of something bad. I didn't even know what the bad thing was, but I loved the notion that the girl's clairvoyance would produce an intense and uncontrollable reaction. In fact, Trudy doesn't see the future so much as feel it, so it probably shouldn't be called sight at all (I'm just realizing this now by the way; oops).
Trudy, it should be explained, is not a prophet predicting such and such will happen, but rather an anticipator: "If this event does happen, I will feel_." When, in Bacio, she gags at her vision of the approaching carriage, she's anticipating her physical reaction to the grisly spectacle of other people vomiting. Yum. But because the future has not yet occurred, when she feels what's coming—that is, when she senses how she will react to that which has not yet transpired—she can work to make the upcoming event transpire favorably, in this case readying the inn for the arrival of retching invalids.
The bigger problem, as my editor kept pointing out, is why Trudy doesn't sense the future more often, particularly before something awful transpires. Why even talk to those boasting soldiers if she could sense it would end so badly? Why would her sight lead her through the palace to that miserable old lawyer?...Um, good point. I hadn't thought about that. So I had to add clarifications explaining that Trudy's sight is imperfect at best, that it sometimes functions days in advance, and that it can operate quite obliquely: her sight leads her to the legal scholar whose information, when Trudy repeats it to Ben, triggers Dizzy's escape to Montagne, which gets Trudy to Montagne via the Globe d'Or and thus to Queen Temperance, to her position as counselor to the throne, and to Count Rudolph of Piccolo. So her sight revealed her eventual but not her immediate happiness. See? >
On a more prosaic level, Trudy's sight prods her along, for she is otherwise rather passive and timid, and without it would never travel to Froglock or enter Chateau de Montagne or befriend Temperance. (This magical prodding moves the story along as well; descending a creepy staircase "because it's safe" saves us half a page of dialogue and dithering.)
It's worth noting that magic exists beyond Trudy as well. It's not coincidence that Trudy's scarf falls off as she's fleeing the Farina soldiers, her hair billowing "like a signal fire" for Tips, who is sailing above the road in the Globe d'Or, desperately searching her out. Nor is it surprising that Trudy's sight intensifies once she arrives in Montagne, for that kingdom has power vaster and older than human understanding. >
Given how unpopular (to put it mildly) magic is within the Empire of Lax, however, it struck me as rather foolhardy of Trudy to write a memoir describing her supernatural gifts; who knows the censure it'd attract. Thus the caveat that A Life Unforeseen is privately printed and circulated: Trudy gives copies only to people she trusts and never releases it to the public at large, certainly not the compilers of The Imperial Encyclopedia of Lax. >
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Author Commentary: The Globe d'Or >
Globe d'Or in French means "Sphere of Gold" and is pronounced, ridiculously, "globe door," which means the audio version of Wisdom's Kiss will make no sense at all. But the term still sounds very posh and antiquated, and I picture an enormous shimmering hot-air balloon festooned with scarlet cord and cobalt swags even if this isn't detailed in the book.
Wisdom's Kiss was inspired in part from a dream I had about a circus troupe performing inside a hot-air balloon. Sometimes inspiration comes fully formed, and sometimes it requires a lot of birthing. This one needed a NICU. I loved the plunging, soaring imagery and early on realized that the balloon could also be used for escape, but beyond this I was stumped. Simply from the point of view of logistics, how did the performers get inside? And where, during said performance, did the observers sit? And what happened once everyone finished plunging? Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
It took me far too long to figure out the performers could be, you know, outside the balloon, but not long at all to realize that the Elemental Spells might be of singular advantage when operating this thing. (I recently read Richard Holmes's Age of Wonder, which is about the first men to fly hot-air balloons, and couldn't help but note that those poor souls really needed Elemental Fire and Elemental Wind.)
The Sultan's Throne, an awkward offspring of the magic + engineering conundrum, arrived much later to Wisdom's Kiss. (I speak elsewhere on magical conundrums >.) The basket of a real hot-air balloon, if you can picture it, hangs far below the balloon proper, at the nadir of that reverse-teardrop shape. The Globe d'Or, however, is a sphere that the magician/sorcerer/witch operates by placing their hands against the orb's skin and heating the interior air with Elemental Fire, then driving the Globe d'Or forward via Elemental Air.
The problem, you see, is how the magician actually connects with the Globe d'Or. If they stand in the basket, this would mean the basket could hang no more than five or six feet below this enormous sphere, which would be very uncomfortable for the other passengers and also look really stupid. (If you're offended by my pairing of the singular "magician" with the plural "they," read my commentary on feminine nouns.) I suppose the magician could stand on top of the balloon, but that would look stupid too, not to mention that it would thwart the dialogue. The magician optimally needs to be close enough to touch the golden skin and converse with passengers, but also—as the balloon's nominal engine—ride astern of the basket proper in order to power it forward.
Thus the Sultan's Throne, which is very hard to describe and also very hard to draw and very, very hard to build out of paperclips and cheese wax (I tried). The main basket of the Globe d'Or is boat shaped, with a prow and a wide aft seat—think tasseled silk pillows, a lot of gilt, maybe a figurehead. Mounted to the stern of this basket is a lightweight framework, rather akin to the sulkies used in harness racing, that culminates in a lightweight stool upon which the magician sits. From this locus the magician, employing ropes and pulleys, raises the throne up to the Globe d'Or or lowers it for a view forward. (Doubtless this viewing could have been accomplished magically, but I had more important things to figure out. Next time.) The term "Sultan's Throne" is a bit of a red herring; were it called a Magician's Throne or—more apropos to a sultan—Magus or Djinni Throne, our suspicions would be immediately aroused. Also Sultan's Throne sounds très debonair.
Given that the sultan presented the Globe d'Or without instructions (he couldn't have, given magic's verboten status within Lax), the Circus Primus staff jerry-rigged a solution involving a brazier, that is a big brass pan filled with hot coals, attached below the Globe d'Or to heat and lift it. Again, not the easiest detail to explain, particularly since the brazier exists only to be replaced by Dizzy's secret magic. I am once again in Felis's debt: in blithely dismissing Dizzy's talent, he inadvertently explains how she for decades performed sorcery before crowds of thousands without notice or censure.
See also the Gazetteer, "Ahmb"
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Author Commentary: Cuthbert of Montagne > >
Without a doubt, "Cuthbert of Montagne" is my favorite entry of Wisdom's Kiss. In a perfect world I would have used it as the jacket-flap copy (thus alienating pretty much every potential reader ... Hmm. Maybe it's perfecter this way). But I love the details: Silviculture? Mycology? "Cuthbert it"? Sublime! Plus the fabricated mushroom genus Cuthbertii allows me to flaunt my wee but enthusiastic knowledge of taxonomy—the "ii" suffix I discovered while researching condor nomenclature for a screenplay that was otherwise a complete steaming waste of ink. Everything you learn, people, goes in the pot, and you never know when you'll pull it
back out...
Take dessert ices. When I was in grad school investigating American foodways, I read a ton of cookbooks from the late 1800s, and they all specified that formal dinners should have ices—what we'd call sorbet—as a palate cleanser. Needless to say, I myself have never served ices except in what we call cocktails, nor do I ever intend to do so. Nonetheless, it was a great thrill to put this otherwise ridiculously useless tidbit of knowledge to work here, and moreover to embellish it with the ghastliness of mushroom flavoring.
The discussion within "Cuthbert of Montagne" on royal succession and queens regnant is so nuanced and complicated that I needed to create a separate entry on it. I find the subject fascinating. You probably won't, but feel free to use the entry as a soporific. ("Soporific" = the Latin sopor, "sleep," + -ific, "producing.")
On the other hand, you may very much enjoy the recipe for Cuthbert en croûte, which is absolutely scrumptious if you like mushrooms or know someone else who does. It makes a fantastic vegetarian Thanksgiving entrée. I'm not vegetarian but I'd serve this with pride and not even miss the turkey.
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Author Commentary: Styles of Address >
When people these days talk about style, they're usually referring to appearance: Uncle Eddie's great style; a church in the English Gothic style. But the word "style"—derived from the Latin stilus, a writing instrument—originally meant one's descriptor or title; in other words, how one was written about. "Mary styles herself a doctor" means not only that Mary dresses in a white coat and makes up diagnoses, but also that she prefaces her name with the written title "Dr." This is to what Ben is referring when she asks Roger about the terms of his style—she's asking how he, once married, intends to be addressed. As Dizzy notes, "Duke and Princess of Farina" is rather belittling to Roger; it must be even more irritating to Wilhelmina.
While Americans don't much dwell on this kind of style, even we egalitarians know enough to sometimes pay attention. It's important how you introduce a president or a bishop or a judge, how you speak to them, how you correspond. When stopped for speeding, you'd be wise to address the policeman as "Officer" instead of, say, "Four Eyes."
For obvious reasons, styles of address mattered—and continue to matter—far more in monarchies, and whole libraries have been written on what to call a queen versus a queen mother versus a Scottish baron versus a sovereign prince; Trudy is not the first person to fret over the proper styles for nobility. At the conclusion of Wisdom's Kiss, Emperor Rüdiger IV, having wrested from Wilhelmina enormous financial and territorial concessions, then deals the ultimate blow by styling her simply "Your Grace" rather than the more eminent "Your Most Noble Grace" that she heretofore demanded. Ha! (I admit that no one will ever pick up on this detail, but I still love it.)
Investigating styles of address, I ended up making a ginormous spreadsheet of different titles in different lands, though sadly never got to use baronesa, a Spanish baroness styled either "The Right Honourable" or "Ladyship." In part to justify the hours I spent on that thing and in part because I find it absolutely freaking fascinating, I'll include here some of what I learned. (Warning: while freaking fascinating, this information may not be correct. See my comments elsewhere on potential inaccuracies.) Should you find yourself en route to an encounter with actual European nobility, you'd best snag yourself some style backup. (Also note that these are all in English; addressing a German baron in German is your problem.)
Emperor: styled "Imperial Majesty" as in "We asked His Imperial Majesty" or "Would you like a canapé, Your Imperial Majesty?" though after the first round the "Imperial" is dropped. Note how Tips in his letters doesn't capitalize Majesty, and Dizzy, bless her, in her diary simply calls him "His Maj."
King/Queen: styled "Royal Majesty," though in person it's simply "Your Majesty," thereafter "Sir" or "Ma'am."
Prince/Princess: junior members (that is, less likely to ascend to the throne) are "Highness" but the higher-ups are "Royal Highness"—when the royal carriage first arrives at Phraugheloch, Wilhelmina snubs Dizzy dreadfully by addressing her merely as "Your Highness."
Duke/Duchess: "Grace"; Wilhelmina's "Most Noble Grace" is a ridiculous though admissible affectation.
...And so it goes from there, with barons and counts usually called "My Lord" and ladies-in-waiting styled "lady" though I probably missed some critical detail ... Count your blessings that these days it's mostly just keeping track of whether a woman is Mrs. or Ms.
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Author Commentary: Feminine Nouns >
As anyone who's studied a foreign language knows, English generally doesn't do gender—a convenience that almost makes up for our ridiculous spelling (there's a special pit in hell for the genius who came up with cough, though, and through). But English does occasionally employ sex-specific nouns. As a kid, I always found them insulting: "lion" is a male lion, but "lion" also refers to all lions; a female lion is specifically a "lioness." So if "lion" is the norm, does that mean that a "lioness," being not the norm, is thus abnormal? Yeah, kinda. Ditto for "tigress," "vixen" (female fox), "she-wolf" and "bitch" (female dog, and it's an actual term, very much still in use by breeders). The cartoon Smurfs are all universal, male Smurfs except for one token Smurfette with long eyelashes and blond hair. There are many reasons to hate Smurfs, but in my opinion that's the prime one.
The most notable exception to this "male = norm" English-language rule is cows. "Cow" means "a big grass-eating farm animal" but also refers to the female version that makes milk and calves. If you're referring to a cow that happens to be male, you need a different (i.e., not normal!) word: "bull." Scratching my head, I also come up with "goose" and "duck," which are intrinsically female unless noted as "gander" and "drake." I might even add to this list "cat" versus "tomcat," although thanks to neutering one doesn't encounter tomcats much these days. (Nor, granted, do we hang much with ganders and drakes.) Other farm animals have separate names for female, male and universal: mare, stallion, horse; ewe, ram, sheep; hen, rooster, chicken; sow, boar, pig; nanny/doe, billy/ buck, goat; jenny, jack, donkey. Given how central all domesticated creatures have been to human existence, it shouldn't be surprising that we've developed so many terms, not only for their two sexes but also their offspring (foal, lamb, chick, kid) and sometimes even their teenagers (filly, heifer), neutered males (gelding, ox, steer, capon) and sterile hybrids (mule, hinny).
Not sure how I got off on that tangent ... The point is that, farmyards aside, most animals are male unless otherwise specified, and the same rule holds for people: "man" doesn't just mean "male," it means mankind or humanity; woman means that person who's not male, by implication different/not normal." Modern English has moved beyond the "men means people" rule, pretty much—were the Declaration of Independence penned today, most of us would find uncomfortable the words "all men are created equal," poetic as this phrase is. As the Wisdom's Kiss glossary explores, language has similarly evolved away from feminine nouns. Yet Wisdom's Kiss makes liberal use of feminine nouns: benefactress, foundress, seeress, demoness, sorceress, villainess, seamstress, prophetess, murderess, ogress ... not to mention peeress, princess, duchess, countess, empress, queen, and my personal favorite,victrix. It's not coincidence that all these terms are old-fashioned if not obsolete (note the glossary's use of "obsolescent," which means "becoming obsolete"—a delicious and sadly underutilized word). Their fustiness helps give Wisdom's Kiss a patina of antique charm.
In fact, my youthful critique of feminine nouns has evolved from irritation into amused fondness: heiress, directrix, hostess, even heroine, now strike me as endearing, like white gloves or French cuffs. When driving my daughter to play dates, I encourage her to be a good guestess (she rolls her eyes). It is critical, of course, that you have a keen understanding of your listeners before employing such words. Were I to refer to myself as an authoress, some audiences might laugh; others (like my daughter) would respond with icy silence.
My perso
nal fondness aside, I very much support transforming the male norm into a gender-neutral universal: it's both appropriate and useful to call women who perform for pay "actors"; instead of the knottiness of "chairman/chairwoman," simply use plain old "chair" (most of us can tell the difference between people and furniture, I think); "flight attendant" spares everyone the baggage associated with "stewardess."
While we're on the subject, I'm also a huge fan of applying "them/their" to third-person singular. Most people do it already verbally: "Someone called but they didn't leave a message." In traditional English, this sentence should read "Someone called but he didn't leave a message"—"he" being the traditional, now-sexist English word for a single person. You could say "Someone called but he or she didn't leave a message," but do I need to explain how incredibly stupid that sounds? Or one can, with effort, circumvent the issue: "People called but they didn't leave a message" (?), or "The phone rang but no one left a message." Such circumlocution usually works in formal writing, but only if you have the time, space, and versatility to puzzle out a solution. English is a living language: when's the last time you heard someone use "thee" and "thou" outside of Shakespeare or church? "You" used to be only second-person plural; now it's singular, too. "They" can do the same. 'Nuff said.
On feminine nouns in German
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Author Commentary: Ladies in Waiting >
The whole lady-in-waiting business merits serious discussion. As the glossary makes clear, ladies-in-waiting have been an integral part of queendom. And yet how many stories feature them? I can only come up with Shannon Hale's The Goose Girl. L-in-w, if included at all, are most likely to be depicted as silly and mean—certainly that's what I did in my novel Princess Ben. In my defense, I needed young Ben—and later Trudy in Wisdom's Kiss —to be a hapless outsider. Outsiders are so easy to root for; most people, I think, secretly believe they're outsiders too, and want reassurance that they'll be okay. We want heroes who disregard fashion and forge their own destinies, optimally while learning how to fight, with swords. >