Blog Dis
Wasting away in the Tower of London
2024-03-28
If it were 15th Century England, and my Crimson Fantasies of six novels had been produced in some dank and dingy cellar, working late at night with only a candle for light, printed on flimsy paper, then released to the general public... well, I don't have to tell you what would happen to me. Not a pretty fate. I'd be arrested, tried by a jury of God-fearing Protestants and closeted Catholics, with red, bulbous noses from drinking poison wine, and thrown into jail in the Tower of London for corrupting the public with lascivious and rude prose, the likes of which have resulted in me personally being judged by readers or being told that I need psychological counseling.
I live for good drama. Before it's content had become altered to the point of being ridiculous, I used to watch the History channel regularly because it's healthy to stretch the brain. When you focus on writing in one particular genre, it's difficult to read similar material as it has a tendency to bleed into your own work. So I look for inspiration in other places. Through the older version of the history channel, I could go back in time and imagine what my life might have been like, if I had lived in such a dreary age as 15th century England. For starters, I wouldn't have been permitted to attend a school of higher education or hold down a real professional job, other than being an abused servant such as a scullery maid, or a wet nurse. Nope. A true female artist of this age put their life on the line for their art. They risked being ostracized by the public and their peers, perhaps not the same degree as a man - think Shakespeare and his stage players, all of whom were men, dressed in drag. If I lived back in the 15th century, I'd probably have had to sell my body to pay for the black ink, and then go down on my knees in Kings Cross to be able to afford the paper, then offer my body again to several other older individuals, just to gain access to an upper crust family that was in possession of the rare printing press (invented in 1440) in order to be able to produce such a booklet of wanton and wicked words.
The notion excites me, quite frankly, doing the very thing you're not supposed to be doing. That is in essence what erotica is all about, in the case of my first two novels (more cliterature than literature), giving yourself permission to squeeze out of your head all the crude thoughts that have been swilling inside since first discovering erogenous zones. If my novels landed me in prison, I'd miss my freedom terribly. Liberty is the key ingredient you see for writing freely. I would also miss good food. Just thinking about spending time in prison, before being beheaded, makes me think about my last great meal, what I'd like to eat and what would I be able to read before having my head lobbed off.
There are many foods, so many from which to choose. But back in the 15th Century, my options were limited. For one thing, beer only came into existence in the latter part of that century. There would be blood pudding, of course, or porridge, stewed broth, salted beef, and maybe a meat pie, if I was lucky. Forget about getting a salad, my favourite food to eat. There might be hard bread, hard enough that two hands would be needed just to tear it apart. No oranges. No bottled jams. The wine wasn't very fine in those days nor was the whiskey. In fact, food in England hasn't improved much in the last five centuries (sorry England), notwithstanding the cuisine of India, as an example, following their emigration into England. So, realistically, I'd have to sell my body again, this time to the Tower guards, begging that they ride to France for decent pastries to eat, while reading a Christian bible, all before having my head lobbed off.
The sores in my sagging skin from lack of proper nutrition would also mean that my brain had stopped functioning at its optimum level years ago. Generally the King kept prisoners in the Tower for years before deciding their fate. If you were lucky and the Throne changed hands, you might be granted a pardon. I visited The Tower of London in 1990, truly an historic complex, particularly because of its colourful past. Sir Thomas More (English lawyer, judge, philosopher and who was venerated by the Catholic church) was sent to the Tower, prior to being executed, having refused to support King Henry VIII and his bid to legitimize his marriage to Ann Boleyn by divorcing his Catholic Spanish wife at that time. The King was such a menace, and so totally corrupted by his authority, that there's even a rhyme to help you remember the fate of his wives: 'divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived'. Throughout his reign, King Henry VIII had some 57,000 persons beheaded, tho' I can't attest to the number that had spent time in Tower. All to say, those who lost favour with the King had lost a great deal. But in the Tower, there were no creature comforts, just rats and rampant disease and ornery guards who cared diddly squat for your personage.
The question remains: Would I give up liberty and life to release my prose? Why yes of course I would, could, should and hell... I'd even eat the Tower's ravens, if it meant surviving long enough to pen a whole novel.
So the superstition goes, that if the ravens fly away the Tower is doomed. But nobody said nothing 'bout roasting black birds for one last meal, before having my head lobbed off.
I live for good drama. Before it's content had become altered to the point of being ridiculous, I used to watch the History channel regularly because it's healthy to stretch the brain. When you focus on writing in one particular genre, it's difficult to read similar material as it has a tendency to bleed into your own work. So I look for inspiration in other places. Through the older version of the history channel, I could go back in time and imagine what my life might have been like, if I had lived in such a dreary age as 15th century England. For starters, I wouldn't have been permitted to attend a school of higher education or hold down a real professional job, other than being an abused servant such as a scullery maid, or a wet nurse. Nope. A true female artist of this age put their life on the line for their art. They risked being ostracized by the public and their peers, perhaps not the same degree as a man - think Shakespeare and his stage players, all of whom were men, dressed in drag. If I lived back in the 15th century, I'd probably have had to sell my body to pay for the black ink, and then go down on my knees in Kings Cross to be able to afford the paper, then offer my body again to several other older individuals, just to gain access to an upper crust family that was in possession of the rare printing press (invented in 1440) in order to be able to produce such a booklet of wanton and wicked words.
The notion excites me, quite frankly, doing the very thing you're not supposed to be doing. That is in essence what erotica is all about, in the case of my first two novels (more cliterature than literature), giving yourself permission to squeeze out of your head all the crude thoughts that have been swilling inside since first discovering erogenous zones. If my novels landed me in prison, I'd miss my freedom terribly. Liberty is the key ingredient you see for writing freely. I would also miss good food. Just thinking about spending time in prison, before being beheaded, makes me think about my last great meal, what I'd like to eat and what would I be able to read before having my head lobbed off.
There are many foods, so many from which to choose. But back in the 15th Century, my options were limited. For one thing, beer only came into existence in the latter part of that century. There would be blood pudding, of course, or porridge, stewed broth, salted beef, and maybe a meat pie, if I was lucky. Forget about getting a salad, my favourite food to eat. There might be hard bread, hard enough that two hands would be needed just to tear it apart. No oranges. No bottled jams. The wine wasn't very fine in those days nor was the whiskey. In fact, food in England hasn't improved much in the last five centuries (sorry England), notwithstanding the cuisine of India, as an example, following their emigration into England. So, realistically, I'd have to sell my body again, this time to the Tower guards, begging that they ride to France for decent pastries to eat, while reading a Christian bible, all before having my head lobbed off.
The sores in my sagging skin from lack of proper nutrition would also mean that my brain had stopped functioning at its optimum level years ago. Generally the King kept prisoners in the Tower for years before deciding their fate. If you were lucky and the Throne changed hands, you might be granted a pardon. I visited The Tower of London in 1990, truly an historic complex, particularly because of its colourful past. Sir Thomas More (English lawyer, judge, philosopher and who was venerated by the Catholic church) was sent to the Tower, prior to being executed, having refused to support King Henry VIII and his bid to legitimize his marriage to Ann Boleyn by divorcing his Catholic Spanish wife at that time. The King was such a menace, and so totally corrupted by his authority, that there's even a rhyme to help you remember the fate of his wives: 'divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived'. Throughout his reign, King Henry VIII had some 57,000 persons beheaded, tho' I can't attest to the number that had spent time in Tower. All to say, those who lost favour with the King had lost a great deal. But in the Tower, there were no creature comforts, just rats and rampant disease and ornery guards who cared diddly squat for your personage.
The question remains: Would I give up liberty and life to release my prose? Why yes of course I would, could, should and hell... I'd even eat the Tower's ravens, if it meant surviving long enough to pen a whole novel.
So the superstition goes, that if the ravens fly away the Tower is doomed. But nobody said nothing 'bout roasting black birds for one last meal, before having my head lobbed off.
