historical romance

- kathleen Leave a comment

WHO WAS THAT FIERY SPANISH DANCER?

lola-montez.3While writing Celine, book one in my When Hearts Dare series, I had a scene where the hero and heroine clashed over another woman. The woman couldn’t be anyone they knew. I wanted someone who stood out above all others and thought nothing of brazenly making a play for the hero. The name Lola Montez popped into my mind. I vaguely recalled the name and thought she was some kind of famous Spanish dancer (I was right). I had no idea if she’d ever been to America, let alone New Orleans, or if she’d even lived during the time period of my story (1853). Since I was writing a first draft, I figured I would do the research later and find the right woman to fit my story. To my utter surprise, not only had Lola Montez toured America, she’d passed through New Orleans one time only—the very month and year I had written her into my story!

Lola Montez.1So who was this mysterious lady that caused so much trouble between my hero, heroine, and the hero’s cousin? It didn’t take long into research to learn that this Spanish dancer was no more Spanish than was the Queen of England.

Lola Montez was a stage name for Maria Eliza Gilbert, the Countess of Landsfeld!

How did this woman, born in Ireland in 1821, become an exotic dancer and courtesan? And titled?

Lola, or Eliza, as they called her in her youth, was barely two-years-old when her father, an army ensign, was dispatched to India and took his family along. He died of cholera shortly thereafter. Lola’s mother quickly remarried. Lola’s stepfather adored her, spoiled her, and let her run wild in the streets of India. She became such a handful, she was sent to her stepfather’s family in Scotland, but they couldn’t control the wild little girl from India, so they sent her to an Aunt in England. Hot tempered, uninhibited Lola was soon sent to a private boarding school.

At sixteen, Lola eloped and ended up in back in India, where, five years later, the couple separated. That’s when Mrs. Eliza James changed her name to Lola Montez and became a popular Spanish dancer. Unfortunately, she was recognized and a scandal ensued which prevented her from returning to England.Franz Liszt

Scandal wasn’t about to stop this feisty woman now known for her beauty and quick temper. She departed Calcutta for the Continent where she became a courtesan. In Paris, she met and had an affair with the famous Hungarian composer, Franz Liszt, who introduced her to not only a Bohemian life but to other men, one of which was Alexandre Dumas with whom she carried on a torrid affair while still the mistress of a high-profile newspaper man. When he died, Lola left Paris for Munich.Alexandre Dumas

Not long after, Lola became the mistress of King Ludwig I of Bavaria. He was so smitten with her that he gave her the title Countess of Landsfeld, and granted her a large annuity, much to the chagrin of the King’s people. From 1846 to 1848, Lola seemed to be the power behind the throne until the King abdicated and Lola fled Bavaria for England.King Ludwig I

Once again, she married, but the terms of her divorce from her first husband did not allow remarriage so the newlyweds left England for Spain where her husband allegedly drowned. Alone, Lola sailed to the U.S. where she became popular as a dancer and actress from 1851 to 1853, exactly when I needed her for my story! That year, Lola Montez left the U.S. to perform in Australia, where she married yet again, only to be divorced yet again. Finally, she returned to the U.S. where she passed away at age thirty-nine in Brooklyn, New York in 1861.

If you’re a writer of historical romance reading this account of a scandalous Lola Montez, don’t let anyone tell you that ladies of that era would not do or act in certain ways. Throughout history there were always those who defied society’s rules and danced to their own tune. Lola Montez, Countess Landsfeld was one of those women.

 

 

- kathleen 1 Comment

WHY I WRITE ROMANCE

lovers in blue Society rewards us for practiced thinking by handing us diplomas to tack on our walls. But what of our important feeling nature?

Thinking is what brings about clarity and objectivity in our lives, but only feeling can bring a sense of value and worth to a person. Our self-esteem comes not from what we think of ourselves, but how we “feel” about ourselves. Feeling is the sublime aspect of a man or woman that brings warmth, gentleness, relatedness and perception to a relationship. Feeling is the sublime art of having a value structure and a sense of meaning and belonging. It is the magnetic part of us that attracts love.

knightWe’ve paid a high price for the precise, scientific world we live in where romance novels are often scorned as unrealistic fluff (yet murder mysteries where people are hacked to death or buried alive are considered acceptable, thrilling reading). We’ve ended up with nations of wounded beings where men and women suffer their wounds differently. Typically, men drink or overwork. Women eat and overwork. Men war and abuse. Women retreat and isolate. Research indicates that scientifically-oriented countries are more likely to break out in ecstatic disorientation if the people do not balance their lives with ecstasy through their feeling natures via such endeavors as poetry, music, creativity and romance.

Oops, did I just use that nebulous word romance again?

The first romantic notions of love in western society originated in 12th century France when a new religious movement anointed a female as a religious godhead. The religious observance of the goddess was suppressed and forced underground. Eventually, the movement resurfaced in the courts of kings and queens, where evidence of it could be found in the chivalric reverence for women. Those chivalrous knights of old often fell in love with their queen or princesses, but this romantic love was never consummated because it was considered the myth of love.

Romance had its purpose—it became the first step of the evolution of the spirit of man to truly understand the energy of divine love. Romance in relationships allows us to touch the face of God. Romance and ecstasy mixed, allows us to touch the face of God in stereo!

lovers.moon.silhouette

What mentally healthy person isn’t attracted to love? It is the grand intangible. Romance, ecstasy and love, are so powerful a human drive that they have kindled wars, created works of art, consoled the dying, driven kings mad and bankrupted nations. Love is the vital, pulse-beating feeling nature within us that gives us creativity and a sense of joy. Ultimately, love is the most important aspect of our lives.

My late husband held a double PhD in political science and economics. He spoke six languages. He was quite the intellectual, but he was also an artist and thus, more open to his feeling nature than a lot of men. I asked him to read a romance novel (Joanna Bourne’s The Forbidden Rose). He thought it well written. He said that if men would include these kinds of novels in their reading material, they would understand what women want and how to please them. Yes!

One of the greatest joys a man can experience is honoring a woman by escorting her out of her head, her thinking nature, and into her body, her feeling nature, so that he can pleasure her. One of the many differences between men and women is that a woman needs to feel good to do good while a man needs to do good to feel good (think about that for a while).

Years ago, I founded a successful wellbeing center where I created seminars and retreats to help people live more satisfying, self-empowered lives. I thought that when I finally got around to transferring my works onto the written page that they would take the shape of tutorial-style textbooks, hopefully spiced with a bit of humor. What a surprise when I was finally able to focus on writing, only to dream an entire historical novel one night. What an incredible experience! I realized then that what I really wanted to do was write humorous, sad, sensuous, romantic, ecstatic stories (The Seduction of Sarah Marks, the book I dreamed in its entirety, became my first published novel).

When I began to write historical romance, I discovered that I had unknowingly laid out all that I had been teaching in my wellbeing center about heightened senses, the purpose of our lives, destiny, self-empowerment, and the act of loving ourselves and others. Writing romance gives me the perfect venue for expressing the full spectrum of the human condition.

richard armitage.kiss

- kathleen 28 Comments

Living in Post-Communist Budapest

For however long I am meant to reside here in Budapest, Hungary, a post-Communist city with an incredible history, I feel compelled to explore both its past and present. I’d like to share some of my experiences with you, if you care to follow along. But first, I’ll start with a trip outside the city—my journey to the Auschwitz-Birkenau death camp near Krakow, Poland:

A few days after my friend Bette arrived from Texas for a three week visit, we boarded a train to Krakow from the Keleti Train Station in Budapest. The station, built in 1881, and considered the most lavish station in Europe at the time, is still beautiful today. How novel, I thought—a slumber party aboard a sleeper train, and we’ll arrive first thing in the morning, fresh and ready to explore the city and its surroundings.

I should have known the train’s compartments would be less than anticipated when I spied small Cyrillic lettering on the corners of the cars indicating they were Russian made—aha, Communist era. I was right. Not those lovely beds across from one another you see in the movies, but narrow bunks stacked in a cramped compartment barely large enough for one.

I got the top bunk.

Near dusk, and about an hour outside of Budapest, a sweet scent of roses enveloped us. Bushes laden with lush, powdery-pink blooms appeared for miles beside the tracks, so thick it seemed as though delicate, tinted clouds had fallen from the sky. I have never seen such a sight. We closed our eyes and breathed in the intoxicating perfume that swept through the train, feeling as though we floated on a fragrance created exclusively for us.

Then a jarring thought gripped me: My God, we’re riding the very rails that carried Jews, Gypsies, and political prisoners to Auschwitz and Birkenau! Hundreds of thousands of innocents on their way to their deaths. Hundreds of people packed in each car—women, men and children cramped so tightly together they were forced to stand the entire trip with no food, water or toilets. Even the dead and dying could not fall in the crush. Suddenly, the small compartment we occupied didn’t seem so cramped.

And what of the roses? Had these fragrant flowers lined the tracks back then? After all, wild roses can regenerate for decades. I choked back tears, and turned to Bette whose countenance told me she held similar thoughts.

“Do we really want to visit Auschwitz?” I asked her.

We grew silent for a long while as we gazed at the blur of pink, and breathed a scent no longer light and sweet, but suddenly heavy and funereal. Then, strange as it may seem, we came to the conclusion that we wanted to honor those who traveled these tracks before us by remaining focused on their plight during our train ride, and commit to visiting the camps upon our arrival. What would our decision produce? Would it heal any lost souls? Would it heal us? We didn’t know, but we felt fractured, scarred by the past, and compelled to see our journey through to the end.

Eventually, we left the roses behind and we traveled for a long while beside a lovely river. We didn’t know which river, but the countryside was beautiful, bucolic. I wondered: The farmers who lived alongside this lazy river back then, the people in these tiny villages, did they know what horrors the trains carried?

Had anyone realized they were death trains?

Had anyone ever wandered close enough to the tracks to hear any wailings?

Had there been any cries to even be heard by that stage of the journey? After all, the trains were nothing more than windowless cattle cars, their doors nailed shut once the people were packed inside, and the only light to be had was what seeped through cracks in the boards.

Dear God, how could this have happened?

While Bette did fairly well with sleeping in her little bunk, I slept fitfully. I awoke once feeling disoriented. For a moment, as the clickety-clack of wheels against rails filled my ears, I didn’t know if I was on a train some sixty six years ago or now. I felt like a dark-haired teenager, confused and wondering where we were going, and what and why everything was happening. It was almost as though I had inculcated a miasmic memory that still hovered above the tracks. I came fully awake feeling desolate. I could barely breathe. I curled up on the other end of the bed, next to the window, and gulped in fresh air until my racing heart found some semblance of normalcy.

But my mind refused to wander elsewhere.

Hundreds of thousands of people rode these very rails to their deaths. What were they thinking? How were they feeling? A great sob welled up in my chest, one that wouldn’t release—at least not yet.

Had the guards and engineers aboard those trains known what was happening? Had they known these people were to be worked until they dropped or gassed within hours of arrival if they were too old, too young or infirm? Did they know that any twins or ‘little people’ aboard would be used for hideous experiments by the death camp’s macabre Dr. Josef Mengele, ironically known as The Angel of Death? Or were these people kept naive, only informed of their job and saw nothing beyond where the train stopped? I would tend to think so, since it would have compromised the Nazi program of creating an Aryan society of healthy blue-eyed blonds had word leaked out of what they were up to (I find it interesting that Hitler intended to create a blue-eyed, blond-haired Aryan society when he himself had brown hair and brown eyes and his mother was part Jewish).

Suddenly, I had a deep sense that for whatever reason, I was meant to ride this train, and I was meant to have these experiences. That I was meant to know and understand what the Hungarians have suffered through (Hungarian Jews comprised the greatest number sent to Auschwitz, but don’t forget the Gypsies and political prisoners—nuns, priests, businessmen, housewives—any Hungarian labeled a spy became a political prisoner to be gotten rid of). Somehow, I knew all of this was tied to my healing process with regard to the loss of my big-hearted German husband.

 

(Tomorrow: My visit to Auschwitz and the Terror Museum in Budapest)

 

What about you? Have you had any similar experiences or awakenings?

 

- kathleen 35 Comments

BACK AT LAST

I’ve been absent from blogging for awhile, so this is going to be a bit lengthy while I explain my whereabouts this past year. Some of you know why I have been missing in action, and some don’t. For those who are aware, please bear with me, and then we’ll get on with life.

Last summer (2010), I had been living along the beautiful Adriatic Sea and enjoying the heck out of my life. In June, I returned to the U.S. to visit friends and relatives, and to conduct seminars. Topping off my trip was attending the RWA National Conference in Orlando, Florida.

I flew back home via Frankfurt, where my German husband was to meet me, driving up from Croatia. A long trip, but we planned to stay overnight in Stuttgart where his family lived.

When I landed in Frankfurt, there was no sign of Hans. Here was a man who was never late for anything. When his sister and her husband rushed into the airport, I knew something was terribly wrong. They made me sit down before they told me that Hans was in the hospital in Salzburg, Austria following a car accident on the autobahn. I could sense there was more, but at that point, I couldn’t even speak. They went on to tell me that a CT scan had been performed to determine the extent of my husband’s injuries, and the doctors found advanced stage four cancer throughout Hans’s body. What? This strapping 6’4” athletic, tanned and toned Adonis who swam two kilometers a day and walked five was near death? He was too young.

This couldn’t be.

It was.

Two months later, he was gone, and I was left alone in Hungary, an unfamiliar country, while I faced a corrupt Croatian government who promptly declared that we hadn’t filled out three invoices properly so they would seize my property (I kid you not…this for later). That’s how I found myself alone in Budapest where Hans was treated at the famous Semmelweis Hospital and spent his last days in a hospice in the Buda hills. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Semmelweis_University

Numb, I went about the incredibly difficult task of preparing a funeral in a country that still operates business using the old and awkward Communist era methods (I now have Hans’ death certificate in five languages). Compounding the problem is the language barrier. The Hungarian language is considered the second most difficult language in the world (next to the many layers of Japanese), and 74.5% of the citizens do not speak English. During this awful time, I remembered others who’d lost loved ones and how they were given professional advice to refrain from making any changes for a year. Odd as it sounds, my instincts told me that I had to commit to spending a year in Budapest.  Wow!

Here I was in a strange country, unable to speak the language, and without direction. But little miracles have occurred in my life, and the year has passed amazingly fast. I don’t know how long I will remain here—at least until the Croatian legalities are cleared up—but if I had to be stuck in any city, lovely Budapest, with its remarkable history, is the one to be caught in.

What beauty.

What history.

What ease of mobility (the best public transportation facilities in the world).

What lovely people who have come forward to help me along my difficult journey. (Thank you Elemer for scrambling to obtain a five year visa for me!)

Budapest is the most romantic city I have ever lived in. Heck, right at the end of my street is the city park, complete with a lake, zoo, a lovely fairy tale castle (pictured), and the famous Szechenyi Baths that I dip into every chance I get: http://www.budapestgyogyfurdoi.hu/hu/szechenyi/virtualis_seta

I’ve made friends here, cried and laughed here. I am not through grieving, and I cannot yet bring myself to change the “About Me” page on this website because it is the last vestige of a lovely life that once was (I have set a goal to change it on October 5th, the one year mark of my husband’s passing).

From the beginning of this unexpected journey, I knew that I would hold onto the idea that happiness and joy are mine to be had, but it is entirely up to me to allow these passions to exist in my life.

And so I keep on.

I journaled my way through Hans’ illness and passing, and in January, I began to write fiction again. It wasn’t easy, but on August third, I completed a Victorian romance. At eleven PM, I wrote, “The End.” I sighed and looked up to the ceiling, as if to the heavens, and with tears running down my cheeks said, “There you go, Hans. I did it. You’d be so proud.”

 Then, I happened to glance at the date. OMG! August 3rd, exactly one year to the day that I stepped off the plane in Frankfurt—the day my life turned upside down. I don’t think it was any accident that I finished writing my story on that particular date. No matter how hard I pushed toward my earlier goal of completion, it wasn’t happening, but that morning, it was like a fire was lit under me and there I was…at the end.

Shortly thereafter, I had to travel back to Croatia on legal business—my fourth harrowing trip. I find it difficult to be there any more, where every step I take is a reminder of Hans and of our fifteen-year ‘honeymoon’ existence. I caught a ride down, but took to the rails on the way back. The trip is lovely by train, the countryside peaceful, with small villages appearing every now and then that seem lost in time. I had a private compartment to myself most of the way—the kind you see in the movies. As I traveled along, I suddenly realized that I was returning exactly one year to the day that I drove Hans to Budapest, never to return. I don’t think that was any accident, either. A lot of tears fell after my realization.

Hans’ sister died eleven days after he passed, both from the same illness. In less than eighteen months from losing them, I lost a total of five family members on both sides. I’ll never be the same again, but I say this with hope and with something burning deep inside of me: I’ll have a good life…a life as I choose to make it.

Thank heavens, I don’t feel sorry for myself. On the contrary. I feel blessed to have had the time I did with Hans, and that our time together was as good as it was. But now, without choosing this path, I find myself in another chapter of my life. I have opened my arms to healing in whatever way I was meant to, and as I walk around this city, I am often amazed that I, a little girl from Staples, Minnesota, grew up to one day be plunked down in Budapest, Hungary, a place filled with so much beauty, but also filled with so much tragic history it is mind boggling that the Hungarians managed to survive.

I used to teach in my seminars that if you wanted to shake up your ego, move some place where you don’t know anyone. But if you really want to give the old ego a complete twist, try moving to where you don’t even speak the language. Ha! How about that? Two post-Communist countries under my belt, and with two entirely different languages. I guess I was talking to myself all those years.

Let’s see, I met Hans, a German, in a riding stable in Texas (riding English saddle, not western), got married in a castle in Scotland, moved to New York where I ran a well-being center; moved on to Croatia where we played in the sea, and ended up in Hungary, alone and with my roots still in Texas. Is there any hint of a memoir in here? She laughs. I have titled it “Living and Dying in Budapest.”

Despite what I have been through, I look for joy in simple, everyday occurrences, including feeding the little ducks that swim about in the water surrounding the castle in the park. I swear they recognize me because they don’t swim to other people crossing the little footbridge behind the castle, but when I walk up, here they come! Makes my heart sing. I have immersed myself in this city, in the people, culture, even the incredible architecture (there is something very healing and soothing about buildings to me).

So, there you have it, a mini tour of my world this past year. I hope you’ll check in with me as I share my Budapest experiences and my writer’s life (I just found out there is an American writer moving into the apartment next door. He’s due to arrive in less than a month, can hardly wait to chat).

I have lots to share with you if you care to revisit.

What about you? Can you name a single defining moment when your life suddenly changed? I would dearly love to hear from you. In the meantime, enjoy my favorite musical tour of Budapest:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RqwFvU5vBrA