Maps of Central Europe, 1789-1815: The Effects of French Revolution & Napoleon's Ambition

Maps of central Europe, showing France's annexation of territory during the French Revolutionary Wars and the Napoleonic Wars.

Map of France before the Revolution. (Double click on any image to enlarge.)

The countries of central Europe in 1789, prior to the Revolution, had the borders shown below.

From 1789-1799, the borders of France expanded, as shown below. The map shows territory "acquired" during Napoleon's Italian campaigns of 1798 and 1799 (prior to his becoming First Consul).

In 1811, the French empire had expanded, as shown below.

A comparison of the boundaries of France in 1810 and in 1815, after Napoleon's abdication and the treaty.

Short Story

The final week's assignment was to write a short story between 750 and 1,000 words. To my mind, that's barely enough words to set up a story and describe a character, but that was the requirement.

Here's my story. The first part bears a marked similarity to the character sketch found here because it's the same character, just better developed than in the earlier, shorter sketch.

***Warning: there are two strong curse words in the first part in the story.***

I started life all over again when I was forty-seven years old.

I know what you’re thinking—and you’re right. It is a strange thing for a responsible adult to do, but at the time, it seemed like the only thing to do.

The events leading to my rebirth were unexpected. I was relatively happily married, gainfully employed as a computer programmer, successful and respected. But after a seriously bad day at work, I came home and found my husband, an attorney, packing a suitcase. A large suitcase.

“Unexpected trip?” I asked.

“No. I’m leaving you, Charlotte.”

“Leaving me?”

“Yes. I’m leaving you and filing for divorce.”

My knees gave out and I sank onto the bed, staring at him. We’d made love just the night before—for the first time in a long time. “But…why?”

“Because I’ve fallen in love with someone else. Someone who makes me happy.”

“I thought we were happy, Jack.”  I thought I made him happy is what I meant.

“For a long time we were. And I haven’t been unhappy, Charlotte. But I want…something more.”

“You want to marry your mistress.” It was a shot in the dark—I wasn’t absolutely certain he had a mistress, but in the past year or so I’d begun to suspect he did. There had been a few too many “business dinners,” although seemingly no more overnight trips than usual. But what else could “something more” mean?

“Yes and no. I do plan to marry the woman I’ve fallen in love with, but technically, she isn’t my mistress.”

I didn’t care about technicalities. All I could think of was the previous night. “You sorry bastard! If you don’t love me anymore, what was last night? A farewell fuck?” I’d never said that word in my life, but nothing else fit.

To his credit, he seemed chagrined. “Of course not. I do care for you, Charlotte—”

“You have a strange way of showing it.” Anger suddenly deserted me. Tears quickly followed in its wake, but I was determined not to cry in front of him. “You also don’t have grounds for divorce.”

“Grounds haven’t been required for…” He waved a hand. Jack was a corporate defense attorney, not a divorce attorney. “For years. Now divorce is just a mutual decision to end a marriage.”

I could have pointed out that we hadn’t decided anything—he had—but I had no desire to be married to a man who didn’t want to be married to me.

“You can have the house, and I’ll be generous with the alimony. You’ll need an attorney to handle the divorce. Jim Shallcross, Charlie Becker, and Mo Solomon are all good. So are Maggie Crutcher and Liz Kielewski.”

I didn’t say anything—couldn’t say anything—and he resumed packing. Five minutes later, he closed his suitcase. “I’ll arrange to have the rest of my things moved later this week. Get a good attorney to handle the divorce for you.” He paused long enough to kiss the top of my head on his way out. “I’m sorry, Charlotte.”

And that marked the end of our marriage. Twenty-two years together, and the rotten man had ended it with five minutes of conversation and an apology.


Two months later, I was no longer Mrs. Jackson Alexander Morris, III. I’d been Charlotte Morris for twenty-two years, Charlotte Emily Pratt for twenty-five years before that, but now I wasn’t certain who I was. Now that Jack was gone, I didn’t feel like Charlotte Morris any more, but I no longer felt like Charlotte Pratt, either.

I thought about that at night, alone in the house we’d shared for the past fifteen years. Jack had chosen the house shortly after he’d made partner, and I’d decorated it. It was a big house, in a prestigious neighborhood surrounding a golf course. I’d liked it well enough when we’d been married, but now it didn’t feel right. Too many memories, perhaps. Or maybe the fact that it wasn’t the house I would have chosen, then or now.
Two weeks later, before I had decided who I was, or whether I should sell the house and buy another, the second event leading to my rebirth occurred. I was fired.

It was as much of a shock as Jack’s announcement had been. I’d had a glowing yearly evaluation only a month before, and my boss, Tim Chen, had hinted that a promotion was in the works. Now he informed me that the company was “downsizing” and my position as Manager of Development was being eliminated. Like Jack, Tim promised a generous severance package. And like my reprehensible ex-husband, Tim ended the interview with “I’m sorry, Charlotte.”

In the space of two and a half months, I’d gone from being married, employed, and successful to being an unemployed divorcée who, apparently, was not a success at anything.

That night, I sat in the house that didn’t feel like mine and thought about what to do with my life. About who I had been, who I wanted to be, and what I wanted to do. Thought about where I was, and where I wanted to go. I made a list of things I was good at and things I didn’t do well. I wasn’t sure where marriage belonged on the list. I’d been good at it for a number of years, but in the end, I hadn’t been good enough.

The result of all that thinking—it took the better part of a month—was my resurrection. Charlotte Emily Pratt Morris, a formerly married and employed computer game designer living in Kansas City, became Eleanor Elizabeth Newly, a divorced, self-employed website designer who lived in a pretty little cottage on Oval Lake near the town of Littleton, in Clinch County, Georgia.

Character Portrait

This task was to create a 250-300-word self-portrait of one of your characters, or to describe them through the eyes of another character (a narrator). I chose the latter method.

I chose to elaborate on the character of Will Masterson, who was developed here. He's described by an older rancher who lives nearby.

Will Masterson is a good man. His life hasn’t been easy, losing his mother when he was not much more than a toddler and his paternal grandmother a decade later, but his granny brought him up properly and instilled in him a respect for family and a love of the land. His father, Hank, and his older brother, Charlie, didn’t have either, and did their best to gamble away everything. Will’s father and brother mortgaged the Rocking M to get a stake for a big poker game, then lost their shirts and would have lost the ranch, if Will and me hadn’t barged in and told the other participants that Hank and Charlie did not own the ranch they’d staked on the final hand. Hank and Charlie didn’t learn their lesson: they continued gambling with money they didn’t have and eventually were killed in a dark alley. Will has worked hard to pay off that damned mortgage since before he was old enough to shave.

Will’s wife, Shelby, was a bitch, plain and simple. She could look a person in the face and lie to them; she repeatedly broke her marriage vows, and when she left, she stole a bundle of money from Will. He’s never said how much, but it must’ve been nearly all the ranch’s reserves. The past few years, he’s worked harder than ever, his determination to keep the ranch his great-great-great-grandfather and great-great-great-uncle homesteaded driving him like a locomotive.

My wife says Will needs a helpmeet, but she tends to think people belong in pairs. In Will’s case, she might be right. An understanding, supportive wife could make a world of difference in his life—and if she had a little money to help with the mortgage payment each month, so much the better. 

Creating Characters

This task was to create a character using a method you don't normally use. (The four methods for creating characters are imaginary, autobiographical, biographical, and mixed.) I usually create my characters from my imagination, but this one is biographical---based on a partially overheard conversation in a restaurant last week when I was at a conference.

My inclination was to write in first person, which would be a total departure from my usual method, but the instructions were to write 300-500 word character sketch in third person. So that's what I did.

Here's my character sketch. If this becomes the start of a novel, I'll call it Starting Over.

Charlotte Morris started life all over again when she was forty-seven years old.

The events leading to her rebirth were unexpected. She was relatively happily married, gainfully employed as a computer programmer, successful and respected. But after a seriously bad day at work, she came home and found her husband, an attorney, packing a suitcase. A large suitcase.

“Unexpected trip?” she asked.

“No. I’m leaving you, Charlotte.”

“Leaving me?” Surely he couldn’t mean…

“Yes. I’m leaving you and filing for divorce.”

Her knees gave out, and she sank onto the bed, staring at him. They’d made love just the night before—for the first time in a very long time. “But…why?”

“Because I’ve fallen in love with someone else. Someone who makes me happy.”

“I thought we were happy, Jack.”

“For a long time we were. And I haven’t been unhappy, Charlotte. But I want…something more.”

“You want to marry your mistress.” It was a shot in the dark—she wasn’t absolutely certain he had a mistress, but in the past year or so she’d begun to suspect he did. There had been a few too many “business dinners,” although no more overnight trips than usual.

“Yes and no. I do plan to marry the woman I’ve fallen in love with, but technically, she isn’t my mistress.”

She didn’t care about technicalities and legal mumbo-jumbo. All she could think of was the previous night. “You sorry bastard! If you don’t love me anymore, what was last night? A farewell fuck?” She’d never said that word in her life, but nothing else fit.

To his credit, he seemed chagrined. “Of course not. I do care for you, Charlotte—”

“You have a strange way of showing it.” Anger suddenly deserted her. Tears quickly followed in its wake, but she was determined not to cry in front of him. “You also don’t have grounds for divorce.”

“Grounds haven’t been required for…for years.“ Jack was a corporate defense attorney, not a divorce attorney. “Now divorce is just a mutual decision to end a marriage.”

She could have pointed out that they hadn’t decided anything—he had—but she had no desire to be married to a man who didn’t want to be married to her.

“You can have the house, and I’ll be generous with the alimony. You’ll need an attorney to handle the divorce. Jim Shallcross, Charlie Becker, and Mo Solomon are all good. So are Maggie Crutcher and Liz Kielewski.”

She didn’t say anything—couldn’t say anything—and he resumed packing. Five minutes later, he closed his suitcase. “I’ll arrange to have the rest of my things moved later this week. Get a good attorney to handle the divorce for you.” He paused long enough to kiss the top of her head on his way out. “I’m sorry, Charlotte.”

And that marked the end of their marriage. Twenty-two years together, and the sorry bastard had ended it with five minutes of conversation and an apology.

New Character Development

This task was to look at story ideas you'd written in your notebook and choose one, then develop one character for it.

My character, Duncan Tremaine, is a former professional basketball player. After the deaths of his brother and sister-in-law five months ago left him to raise their four-year-old daughter, Duncan retired and moved from Boston to a small Georgia town that needed a high school basketball coach and history teacher. There, he is raising his niece, who is more interested in art and ballet than sports.

Here's the opening scene.

Duncan Tremaine was out of his league, out of his depth, and so far out of his comfort zone that he wasn’t even on the same continent. A confirmed jock who was also a confirmed bachelor should not be standing in the middle of the little girls’ department at the city’s largest department store. Or even its smallest one.

But Duncan was.

He was also, in addition to all the other outs, going out of his mind. His four-year-old niece, Lizzie, had been in the dressing room for more than fifteen minutes trying on a dress—a fancy, frilly dress—and the sales clerks, knowing a clueless male when they saw one, had scattered to the four winds. Or, at least, to the far reaches of the store.

Duncan was trying to decide whether it was less of a social infraction to invade the dressing room area, stand at the entrance and bellow for Lizzie to come out, or accost some poor, unsuspecting female and ask her to check on the little girl. The latter seemed the best choice, except that—natch—there were no females, unsuspecting or otherwise, in sight.

He checked his watch. Checked the dressing room doorway—no Lizzie. Looked around, just in case a sales clerk had wandered into view.

At the sound of a woman’s voice saying, “Come on, Droopy, just pick a pair. They’re gym shoes, not the crown jewels,” his head whipped around in time to see a slender blonde across the aisle in the shoe department yank up her son’s baggy, drooping jeans, despite the fact the boy towered over her.

Duncan muffled a laugh. In the three months he’d been a high school history teacher and basketball coach, he couldn’t count the number of times he’d wanted to do the same thing to the kids at school.

“Not gym shoes, Aunt Jul, basketball shoes.” The boy mimed a jump shot, and even just goofing around, the height of his jump was remarkable.

“They’re shoes, you wear them to run around the gym. That makes them gym shoes in my book.”

Hallelujah! Duncan thought, walking toward the pair. And wondering if the City Fathers had declared today Take Your Niece or Nephew Shopping Day. For him, however, for the past five months—and the next twelve or so years—every time he needed to go to the store was Take Your Niece Shopping Day.

“Aunt Jul, that’s like saying Freeds and Capezios are the same.”

“Bite your tongue, Charlie. You know better. Or you should.”

“I’m just sayin'. It’s a…whatchamacallit. A simile—I mean, an analogy.”

Duncan didn’t know what Freeds or Capezios were—some kind of fancy, high-priced ladies’ shoes, no doubt—but the kid had made his point.

The woman reached up and cupped the kid’s cheek. “I’m really proud of you for making the varsity team.”

The boy bent over until he was eye level with her. “But…?”

Oh, yeah. There was definitely a but—a big but—at the end of that sentence. Duncan glanced back toward the dressing rooms to see if Lizzie had finally emerged.

The woman hesitated, as if debating whether to answer. “But I almost wish you hadn’t because unless the games are on Mondays or Tuesdays, I won’t be able to watch you play until after the first of the year.”

Duncan wondered what the woman did that she only had two free evenings a week. And what was going to change the first of the year. A nurse on the three-to-midnight shift at the hospital, perhaps. Or maybe she worked the dinner shift at a restaurant.

“See me warm the bench, more like,” the teen said with a grin as he straightened. “But”—he pointed back and forth between himself and the woman—“the same goes, Twinkletoes.”

“It’s not the same thing, honey.”

“Yeah, it is. And some of the games are on Tuesdays.”

Now that he was closer, Duncan recognized the boy as the freshman with the incredible jump shot who’d made the varsity team. Charlie Marsden or Casden or Something-den. Tryouts ended yesterday, practice didn’t start until Monday, and learning the boys’ names was still on Duncan’s to-do list.

He looked over his shoulder to see if Lizzie had reappeared, but she hadn’t, so he interrupted, opting for an error-free greeting. “Well, if it isn’t the newest player on Dunrath High’s basketball team.”

Charlie jumped like he’d been poked with a cattle prod, then grinned. “Hey, Coach!”

The boy’s manners were better than most. Instead of launching into a conversation about basketball, he made introductions. “Aunt Jul, this is Coach Tremaine. Duncan Tremaine. Coach, this is my aunt, Julia Willoughby.”

Up close, the woman was smaller than she’d appeared. Maybe five-four and slim as a willow, she had the most regally erect posture Duncan had ever seen. With a smile, she extended a slender hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tremaine. I’ve heard a great deal about you this week.”

“I imagine you have.” Duncan gently clasped her hand and shook it. She looked like she’d blow away in a stiff breeze, but her grip was firm. “You’ll probably hear more in the coming months.” She obviously had a good—and close—relationship with her nephew, and Duncan wanted that kind of relationship with his players and their parents, or other significant relatives.

“I imagine so.”

Without further ado he made his request. “Miss Willoughby, I wonder if I might ask a favor. My niece, Lizzie, has been in the dressing room for about twenty minutes, and I’m worried about her. The sales clerks have all disappeared. Would you go in there and check on her?”

“Yes, of course. How old is Lizzie?”

“She’s four.”

“Oh my. I’d be worried, too, in your shoes.” To the boy, she said, “Stay right here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

As she turned to leave, she inquired, “Do you and Lizzie have a secret word or phrase? So she’ll know it’s okay to talk to me.”

“Yes. It’s ‘Purple popsicles and lima beans are icky.’”

“I quite agree. Especially together.” She made a face, and the boy laughed. After a moment’s hesitation, she suggested, “Perhaps you can help Charlie find basketball shoes while I’m gone.”

Although he’d planned to go with her, Duncan stayed where he was. Basketball shoes he knew; frilly dresses were as alien as Martians.

Developing Plot

Today's assignment to develop your plot by asking yourself questions about why the character was in a particular place, why s/he looked the way s/he did, where s/he was going, etc. This assignment had no length restrictions, so no excessive cutting was required (as it was in the last assignment).

I chose to continue the story with the rancher, linking him with the little girl I created last week. I chose to develop the plot through the eyes of another person, who will be one of the main characters in the story.


Jenna Dunlevy had admired the view when Mr. Tall, Dark, and Gorgeous climbed out of the fire engine red subcompact and settled his hat just so. But now that he was inside and wearing that horror-stricken expression, he didn’t look quite as handsome. Still sexy enough to stop traffic with those long legs clad in form-fitting blue jeans—and it was a form well worth a second look, or a sixth—but definitely shell-shocked, his wild-eyed gaze pinging from Frank Quiggley to her to little Maggie.

Maggie, who was holding Jenna’s hand like her life depended on it, skootched so close she might as well’ve been plastered to Jenna’s side, and asked again, “Wh-who are you?”

Cowboy Bob swiped off his hat, hunkered down in front of Maggie, and attempted a smile. “I’m Will Masterson. Who are you?”

Maggie’s gaze ponged from him to her to Frank Quiggley and back. “Margaret Elizabeth,” she whispered, then buried her face against Jenna’s side.

Will Masterson extended a hand, which Maggie didn’t see because she was busy trying to tunnel through Jenna’s ribs, then sorta sighed and pulled it back. “Pleased to meet you, Margaret Elizabeth.”

Jenna was impressed, but Maggie wasn’t buying. The poor kid wasn’t even window shopping, which was more—a lot more—than Jenna could say. She was definitely looking, and the display was…very fine indeed. Eye-catching. And sexy as hell, among other things, none of which she should be thinking about with a seven-year-old try to burrow under her skin. But since looking and admiring were all she could do—she’d sworn off men several years ago—Jenna intended to enjoy the view. Strangers, handsome or otherwise, were rare in Noblesville. Who is this guy?

Then he leveled those gorgeous but still slightly shell-shocked violet-blue eyes at her, and a little voice inside her shouted, Sexy as hell doesn’t begin to cover it, girlfriend! Not unless hell is the size of North and South America, with China—or maybe Africa—thrown in to balance things out.

“Ma'am.” Still hunkered down in front of her and Maggie, he nodded, but apparently didn't expect an introduction—which was a good thing because Jenna wasn’t sure she could speak without panting or squeaking or sumthin’ equally embarrassing. “Did you and Margaret Elizabeth also receive bequests from Shelby?”

Frank, who had been avidly watching the proceedings while pretending to sort through some papers, leaned back against his desk. “Maggie is your legacy, Mr. Masterson. Your daughter.”

Cowboy Bob—or rather Cowboy Will—fell on his very fine ass. Maggie burst into tears. And Jenna had to grip the lumpy leather sofa with the hand that wasn’t cuddling Maggie to keep from leaping like a hurdler over the downed cowboy and strangling Frank Quiggley.

Generate Something New

Task: Generate something new. Limit of 350 words.

I created a character to pair with the little girl I wrote last week. I have an idea for a novel in which they will be two of the three main characters. I had to edit down what I originally wrote because it exceeded the word limit by about 50 words, but I think the man's character is still apparent.


Will Masterson was an expert in the art of making commitments.

He made commitments to himself. To his family. To the people he worked with.

He’d commit his time, his money, and his energy to worthy projects.

But he did not make commitments to women. No sir, no way, no how.

He’d been there, done that, and had the scars to prove it, and he would never return.

Which begged the question of why he’d traveled halfway across the country to receive, in person as demanded, whatever the heck his ex-wife had bequeathed him.

Since she couldn’t lie to him, or cheat on him, or steal from him again, he figured she couldn’t hurt him again, so he’d agreed to come. But unless she left him a letter of abject apology and a check, he intended to throw the bequest back in Franklin J. Quiggley the Third’s face. The attorney could do whatever he damn well pleased with whatever the hell it was.

Spotting Quiggley's office, Will pulled over and parked. As he uncoiled his lanky frame from the rental car and clapped on his Stetson, he reminded himself that Shelby and all her problems were behind him now. Seven years, eleven months, and thirteen days behind him.

And yeah, he’d been counting.

A wise man learned from his mistakes and held fast to his principles. Will had been slow to wise up, but he’d nailed the learn-from-your-mistakes part on the first attempt. But since it was better to be safe than sorry, he mentally girded his loins as he yanked open the door of Quiggley’s office.

Dead silence greeted his entrance. Then he heard a little girl say, “Wh-who are you?”

Even as he wondered what a kid was doing in a lawyer’s office on a Thursday afternoon, Will’s gaze snagged on a pair of tear-drenched blue eyes—the same navy-rimmed violet-blue eyes he saw in the mirror every morning.

Will’s rule about commitment reared up and bit him in the ass. And he swore he could hear Shelby laughing.

Ideas for a Story

Task: Turn on the radio and take note of the first thing that is mentioned. Use it as the basis for either the start of a story or an entire story---whichever, it should be no more than 500 words.

(The first thing I heard, on the radio in a hotel room with the station chosen by a previous guest, was three curse words in the middle of a rap song.)

Maggie glanced up when the man said three bad words. He didn’t say ’em real loud and he hadn’t perxactly said three of them, just one. But he’d said it three times. Funny thing was, though, Miss Jenna and Mr. Quiggley—who was stupid, even if he was an adult—didn’t yell at him for sayin’ a bad word, like the teachers at school always did when kids said words like that on the playground, or threaten to wash his mouth out with soap if he said it again, like Jimmy Albertson’s mother was forever doin’. But you could bet that if she’d said that word, Miss Jenna and Mr. Quiggley would’ve had plenty to say to her.

That just didn’t seem fair, but Maggie was learning that sometimes life wasn’t fair.

Maybe Miss Jenna and Mr. Quiggley didn’t fuss at the man—Will Somethin’-or-Other—because he was so big. He was as big as the giant in Jack and the Beanstalk, but he didn’t look mean. He didn’t look very happy, either, and since Maggie was pretty unhappy herself, she wondered if maybe they could feel bad together. She had to do sumthin’ while they waited for her dad—which was whole ’nuther dose of unfair, ’cuz her mom’d said he was mean and hated her, and dads weren’t s’posed to hate their kids. But since there was nuthin’ else to do, and since Miss Jenna had been telling her all week that things didn’t seem as bad if you talked about ’em, Maggie pushed off the couch and walked over and stood in front of the man. But not too close. He was a stranger, and kids had to be careful around strangers.

She couldn’t ask him why he was unhappy—that would be pryin’ and pryin’ was rude—so instead she said, “Are you a cowboy?” She thought he might be; he kinda looked like the ones on TV.

Will Whatever-His-Name-Was stopped shoving his fingers through his hair, which was really mussed up now, with little curls sproinging up all over the place, long enough to look at her and smile. “Not exactly. I’m a rancher and a horse breeder, but I do have a lot of cows.”

He had a nice smile. Smiling put little crinkles at the corner of his eyes—which were purplish-blue, just like hers—but it was kinda hard to see the crinkles unless you were looking close ’cuz his skin was real suntanned, like he’d just gotten back from vacation in Florida or sumplace like that.

Maggie wondered if there were ranches in Florida, but before she could ask, his smile disappeared like it’d never been there. He looked over at Mr. Quiggley and asked, “What next?”

Writing Venues & Original Descriptions

Task: Imagine two different venues for writing – one that seems most suited to you, and one that you would find bizarre or too difficult. Write a paragraph describing two writers at work, one in each of the venues.

Writer A works at home, the moment she wakes up. As she walks past the kitchen, she pours a glass of iced tea, then sits in her favorite armchair, props her feet on an ottoman, picks up her laptop, and starts typing. Dressed in a nightgown, her hair curling wildly, her glasses sliding down her nose, she spills words onto the page for an hour or three, until the words stop flowing. Writer B wakes up, dresses for the day, tucks her notebooks into her bag, and walks to the coffee shop. Once settled into her chosen seat (which may or may not be in her preferred corner), she pulls out her notebook and her current favorite pen, sips her coffee, and begins writing. Some mornings, she writes frantically in her right-slanted script with its occasional calligraphic letters; other mornings the words come slowly, reluctantly, but they do come.


Task: Try describing something familiar with one or two ordinary words that you wouldn’t normally use in that context.

Hank Jones had not been known for using his head for anything but a hat rack.

On yet another hand—assuming that she’d suddenly sprouted one, which she hadn’t, but an octopus had nothing on Jenna Dunnley when she was wrestling with a thorny problem. On this third hand, how deep was his preternatural acceptance? Was it something that would wear off in a few days or weeks, like a cheap veneer? Or was it bred-in-the-bone, time-tested, forged by fires hotter than hell, and absolutely unshakeable?

More About the Girl in the Striped Knit Cap

Ellen Wilder’s hair was the bane of her existence. She didn’t count bad hair days, she counted good ones. And she was lucky to get two, maybe three, of those a month. She’d tried every product her friends recommended to tame her wildly curly mop, but nothing seemed to work. Her aunt’s often-voiced opinion was that Ellie was too impatient, that she didn’t that she didn’t take the time necessary to make the most of her hair. But since Aunt Catherine spent a good ninety minutes preparing herself to leave the house—time Ellie didn’t have to spare, and wouldn’t use primping even if she did—Ellie gave that particular bit of advice the same attention she gave the rest of her aunt’s admonitions: She ignored it.

From time to time, Ellie had given serious thought to cutting her hair, but she’d never succumbed to the impulse. In the South, the length of a woman’s hair was sometimes viewed as an indicator of her femininity, and with her beanpole figure, Ellie figured she needed any advantage her dusky shoulder-length curls, wild or not, gave her.

Thinking longingly of short, wash-and-wear hairstyles, she glanced at her watch, yelped, then gave up on her hair and grabbed her toothbrush. Her boss had been at his desk at 6:50 a.m. yesterday, and she wanted to get there before he did. At the rate he was going, though, soon she’d have to start sleeping at the office if she wanted to win the get-there-first battle.

For her, it was a matter of pride. He, however, didn’t have a clue that they were engaged in an ongoing war.

It was probably the few things Ethan Montague didn’t know.

Today, she thought, straightening the cuffs of her coral blouse, he would discover another.

Yesterday her diagnosis of an extremely aggressive cancer had been confirmed by a second doctor. Monday she started chemotherapy and radiation. This morning, she had to tell her boss, then her mother and Aunt Catherine tonight. Ellie strongly suspected that the corporate mogul was going to take the news better than the two former beauty queens, despite the fact that he was likely to lose his administrative assistant and translator for the duration.

After a final look in the mirror, Ellie buttoned her grey suit jacket, then turned off the light. In a week or so, she would not have hair to worry about.

It was a daunting, and rather frightening, realization.

The Girl in the Striped Knit Cap

This vignette was inspired by a video in which one had a brief glimpse of a young woman wearing a white knit cap with stripes of varying shades of red. The description could not exceed 200 words.

Ellen Wilder’s hair was the bane of her existence. She didn’t count bad hair days, she counted good ones. And she was lucky to get two, maybe three, of those a month. She’d tried every product her friends recommended to tame her wildly curly mop, but nothing seemed to work.

From time to time, Ellie had given serious thought to cutting her hair, but she’d never succumbed to the impulse. In the South, the length of a woman’s hair was sometimes viewed as an indicator of her femininity, and with her beanpole figure, Ellie figured she needed any advantage her shoulder-length curls, wild or not, gave her.

But yesterday the diagnosis of cancer had been confirmed by a second doctor. Monday she started chemotherapy and radiation. Today, she had to tell her boss, then her mother and aunt. Ellie strongly suspected that the corporate mogul for whom she worked as administrative assistant and translator was going to take the news better than the two former beauty queens.

With a final look in the mirror, Ellie straightened the cuffs of her coral blouse, tugged at the hem of her grey suit jacket, and walked out the door.

Fact and Fiction

This assignment required writing a paragraph that contained one fact and three fictions, then to write a paragraph that contained one fiction and three facts.

One fact, three fictions:

A medical examiner is an objective presenter of evidence. While not a law enforcement officer, Paul Hindemith was as much of an investigator as any detective, but his deductions were intellectual, his witnesses dead. His work area often stank, and he had not seen the burled maple writing surface of his desk in years. But his grandfather’s words of wisdom (memorialized in the sampler lovingly stitched by his grandmother) had proven true time and again: “When you hear hoofbeats, look for horses, not unicorns.”

Three facts, one fiction:

Waterloo was a ferocious battle: the defeat of an empire, inflicted on a Sunday afternoon on a field of battle a mere two miles long and two-thirds of a mile across. After the fighting, Napoleon blamed his marshals for the disaster, while officers of rival regiments on both sides bickered over which was the most heroic. Much has been written about the commanders and their strategies and tactics, but little about the men and their reasons for being there.

Neglect and Resurrection

After ignoring this blog for more than two years (due to a string of family- and work-related events that required nearly all of my time and effort), I am resurrecting it to post assignments for an online class I'm taking that requires me to write various things. 

Most of these assignments are likely to be contemporary, not Regency era.

The next four posts are for assignments already completed.