Victoriana redux

There’s no denying that I am a snob. As such, I like my Historical Romance to be damn well historical. Attempting to live by my own standards, I mostly muddle about in the Victorian Era, despite all the press about its repressive culture. Michel Foucault has said some things on this, but I’ll save that for my dissertation (and this heavy-duty post of mine from last year.)

Intellectual wanking aside, writing fiction in the idiom of the Victorian age is a lot of fun. I like the diction and writing style, the license to be poetic and to drench my dialogue in innuendo and double entendre. I like as well the scenarios the Victorian era offers. Despite its reputation as an era of repression, it was in fact a time of broad social upheaval and technological advancement with many parallels to our time, including the struggle to implement socially beneficial infrastructure as the epidemic and chronic illnesses of increasingly urban lifestyles were battled with public health measures like sewers and indoor plumbing. 

Deep diving into Victoriana feels a little like visiting Japan. It provides a sweet spot of a lifestyle much like mine, yet with an utterly foreign aesthetic and social imaginary. Britain under Queen Victoria and Japan in general are both cultures built on very precisely managed social facades, behind which can rage stunning perversities. We observe the gentility of a tea ceremony, but flip over the painted scroll hanging on the paper wall and you will find a geisha ‘entertaining’ several octopuses. The Marylebone gentleman speaks in Parliament, dines with his wife, kisses his nanny-educated children goodnight, then goes to the bawdy house and gets his arse resoundingly ‘birched’ like the good old days away at school.

While the Regency is a very popular period for Historical Romance (from Austen to Heyer to Quinn to Hall) it was not a very long time period. Many of its charms linger into the Victorian age. Well-spoken politeness still wins the day, and one’s past can define one’s whole future. Yet by the end of the 19th Century, class structures have notably shifted, introducing new types of people to each other. The middle class has begun to emerge, challenging the nobility’s power through sheer force of numbers. And technology had already begun to change the way everyone lived, at a pace unmatched in prior ages.

Not to mention it’s after Britain’s abolition of slavery, which suits me very well. I certainly can’t erase the wealth acquired through the Transatlantic slave trade, but statistically any titled person i.e. English Duke in the Regency was likely benefitting from the Slave Trade. Yes, that wealth carries over even to our times, but let’s say I prefer to play with the fiction-writing kit that doesn’t include that particular component. My titled 19th Century snobs can still be cruel, remorseless, indifferent to oppression. Today we might call them Tories, and there’s a wealth of contemporary fiction about this same kind of ultra-rich white cis-het culture. I don’t need to write about duels at sword-point for my stories to contain entitled men who feel they have the right to be violent, and who need putting in their place, which is really more where my interest lies.

And then there’s the aesthetic. I like dark suits and slim waistcoats and pocket watches and canes that turn out to be shivs. I like tailcoats and tight white shirts and black hansom cabs slipping through the streets to indecent assignations. Cockneys with knives. Can-can and Burlesque. Laudanum and Absinthe, Impressionism, subways, suffrage, Sarah Bernhardt and steam power, Charcot’s gynecological exhibitions and Aubrey Beardsley’s priapic prints, masturbation both as a symptom of insanity and the means by which one prevented it, and all the while corsets get tighter and tighter. The British Experiment reached its giddy apex, and for a few bold years the sun never did set on its Empire, while quietly it was being said that perhaps its former colony across the Atlantic was about to steal its gilded crown.

Change by the bucketful: unavoidable, terrifying, fascinating.

What I read on vacation

against the backdrop of a bright blue ocean, someone lays on the pale sandy beach reading a paperback bookbeach

I went on a trip the end of April with the serious intent of reading some light fiction. I write it, so keeping up with what other writers are doing is kind of a job requirement, but I sometimes just don’t read at all.   Unfortunate but you know how it goes, *insert modern life* and all your plans are suddenly negotiable.  Regardless, I did do a fair bit of reading while away.  I’m not including buy links, just look ‘em up yourself. You got the internet on that thing, right?


When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi

A nice book about how to die well.  I contemplate own mortality with more frequency than most people (don’t applaud, it’s maybe a bad thing) so nothing in here stunned me, but its gentle solace is a perfect fit for these grieving times.


Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens

Did Not Finish at 40%.  I might have finished it if it was the only book at a beach cottage when the weather was bad.  I’m not big on murder mysteries and we’ll leave it at that, because I have Many Feelings about this book, its plot, its characters, and other books like it which I don’t want to voice. Inevitably, there’s a movie now.


The Fault in Our Stars by John Green

A brave little novel that tries really hard to not be a Cancer Story by being a book about books, yet is still inescapably a Cancer Story. But good, though I found the dialogue a bit forced. Yes, the characters are well-read for their age, but my own 19th Century aristocrats barely talk that high falutin’.  The author character was a nice touch, but again, another book I only read because it was on the shelf at the vacation rental.


Glitterland by Alexis Hall

I have no logical response to Alexis Hall ‘s romance novels. They’re all amazing IF you like his style, which is exuberant and passionate and unapologetically queer and very “head-space” with lots of ruminations by the main character. I will resist the urge to discourse on the historical antecedents of this sort of novel, but rest assured Hall does it on purpose.

What we end up with is a scorching POV of a man with serious mental illness and his star-crossed lover from Essex which is evidently the UK equivalent of the Jersey Shore. I told Hall himself that I hadn’t read a finer regional accent in prose since Irvine Welsh, and I now call everyone a ‘donut’ when they mess up but adorably. Ten million stars. It’s about to get reissued with (ahhh!!!!) bonus content and for the first time ever I am going to buy a book I already own.


His Lordship’s Secret by Samantha SoRelle

Born in poverty, ascended to wealth, Alfie hires his long lost friend Domenic to protect him from whomever is trying to kill him.  Events Ensue in a twisty and quite macabre Regency-era plot with interesting class commentary and solid period detail. I love a “dress you up” trope, which I didn’t expect to encounter but which aligned perfectly with our historical fashion-themed vacation. All in all, a nifty self-published novel in the growing canon of Queer Historical Romance


The Middle of Somewhere by Roan Parrish

Barely news (there’s a pun in there) to anyone who reads MM Contemporary Romance, but I am a decade behind thanks to an extended reading drought. Aaaaaaaanyway, I don’t typically like present tense in novels, but I grit my teeth and kept on with this one, because what else do you do on the plane? I was rewarded with good, gritty characters and a strong love story that hits a lot of comforting tropes without being too stereotypical. And the sex scenes are lit.


Ten Thousand Stitches by Olivia Atwater

An author who is finally getting the acclaim she deserves. Like her prior Regency fairy tale Half A Soul, this was a joy to read, with wonderful, complex female leads and a heart-breaking yet ultimately redeeming love story driven by genuine personal growth on everyone’s part. I adore her rendering of the realm of Faerie, 10/10 would visit but very cautiously. This story also aligned with our fashion-themed vacation, being mainly to do with magical embroidery e.g. the ten thousand stitches of the title.  Bravo Ms Atwater!

The Commuters

Paris, 1903

When is the next train due?

Seven  minutes.

Will we have enough time?

Yes, only hurry. This way, behind here.

Is this safe?

Of course not. Do you care?

Have I ever cared?

I’ve missed you so.

A kiss first, quickly.

Mmm…you changed tobacco.

Actually I did. Your brand.

You’re even more delicious. Come, further from the light. Over here.

Kiss me more. I never get enough kisses from you.

We never have time. If I could only have you for a night. An hour even, alone.

To get undressed.

Yes. To kiss you everywhere. To touch you properly, feel your skin against mine.

Time for you to do everything to me you’ve ever wanted. 

This is madness.

It’s enough.

Hush, footsteps…alright, they’ve gone. Andre, we can’t keep doing this.

But how else can I see you?

I’ll rent a room. Somewhere that people won’t care who comes and goes. You know I have money. It’s not impossible.

It’s not safe.

This is worse. This is scandals and inquiries and your whole life and mine gone to ruin. For seven minutes of scrabbling in the dark, like a pair of blind—

Hush…they’ve gone.

Andre, please, let me find us somewhere. One night. Somewhere in the north end. Or right out of town. Rent a cottage, arrive separately. Take guns and dogs and say we’re hunting.

We’ll talk about it later.

There is no later. There’s this, and this again, and never anything else.

Don’t leave. Michel, I’m sorry. I’m frightened and I’m sorry that I’ve got nothing more to give you. I’m sorry that it will never be enough.

Stop. If that’s all you’ve got to say, let’s stop talking.

Kiss me again.

Mmm…come farther now. Hurry.

I can barely see you.

You don’t need to see. Just touch me.

Oh my…is that…all you?

Don’t you know how I ache for you every moment we’re not together?

I want you in my mouth.

We can’t. Not here.

I must. Just this once. 

Agree you’ll see me elsewhere. Tell me you’ll be with me, if only for a night. Or I don’t know that I can ever do this again.

Don’t lie.

I mean it. Promise me one night together. Or I’ll walk away right now—

Don’t. Don’t ever say that again.

Well then?

I promise. We will be together. Not just like this but truly together. Whatever you desire. Only say you’ll never refuse me.

How could I refuse my heart?

One more kiss. Then let me have you.

Yes. Only hurry…             

I’ve wanted to do this for so long. Every time we meet.

You’d better start or you’ll be waiting again…oh…Andre…oh, love…what is that you’re …how can it feel so…oh yes, touch me there. I’ll spread my legs for you to reach…yes…yes…yes, take me right down…oh, I’m going to…oh yes, suck it down. Yes, take it.

Well…I never knew you had such talk in you.

You wait. Wait till we’re alone. When there’s no one to hear us, judge us. I’ll tell you all the things I’ve ever wanted to do to you, love. And then we’ll do them.

Yes. Find us a room. I promise, I’ll be there.

Do you still love me?

More than ever. I’ll be tasting you all night.

I hear the train.

What about tomorrow?

What about it? You know I’ll be here. Quick, kiss me one last time…now go. Carry on with the crowd. I’ll leave after.

I miss you already, darling.

Tomorrow, love. I promise.