TRAVEL AND THE ART OF WRITING........................
Blair McDowell's blog includes in-depth travel articles, details about her writing, backgrounds for her romantic suspense novels, and reviews of novels she has read. The places she visits often provide inspiration and motivation for her novels, so as you read through her travel blogs you may recognize the locales for some of her past novels, or understand where she gets ideas for her future stories.
As writers we’re frequently reminded that we must pay attention to PACING in our stories. That we must “keep the story moving”. I like a fast-paced tale as well as the next reader, and as a writer, I know I should be getting on with the story. But I like to stop and smell the roses. I love setting a scene. I like painting verbal pictures. In The Memory of Rosesmy setting is the Greek Island of Corfu. How could I not describe the color of the sea, the dark lush groves of olive trees, the picturesque hill villages? This book is almost as much about my on-going love affair with Greece as it is about the lives and loves of my characters.
As a reader, I enjoy the stories of Donna Leon, set in Venice, exuding the atmosphere of that incredibly lovely city, and of Andrea Camillieri, whose Sicilian settings leave one feeling dry and dusty, yet immersed in the stark beauty of that remote part of Italy. I often find myself rereading their descriptive passages just for the sheer joy I take in reading any really good writing.
When engaged in my own writing, description and settingareas important to me as pacing. Setting the sceneis something I think I’m reasonably good at. I love to travel, and for years I’ve kept detailed journals. I refer to these frequently as I write.When I find myself in an intriguing or particularly beautiful or historic place, somehow characters suggest themselves. And once they have, my story unfolds, often very completely, in my mind. In a sense, the setting and the characters tell me the story.
In The Memory of Roses, it was the view from my balcony at a little inn perched high on a hill on the Greek island of Corfu. I looked out over masses of olive trees with their clusters of ripe fruit, a sea of dark green, and thought “What if…”
Then later, on the island of Crete, wandering though the ruins of Knossos, a Bronze Age society predating Christianity by a thousand years, again I thought, “What if...?”
So my hero, a gorgeous free spirited young Greek archaeologist, and my heroine, a tense unhappy young woman whose archaeologist father left her a villa on Corfu and a deep family mystery to solve, were born.
In the following scene, Brit McQuaid and her lover, Andreas Leandros, are on Santorini, one of the most beautiful of all Greek Islands.
They stayed in a beautiful little Inn, the Keti, halfway down a steep cliff. Brit counted ninety-four steps from the street level to their flat. The street itself had no cars, only pedestrians and the occasional donkey. This early in the spring there were few tourists about and many of the shops and restaurants weren’t yet open. This was not particularly a problem since their accommodation in a high ceilinged cave carved deep into the cliff, included a small kitchen and a living-dining area. The owner told them that the dwelling in which they were staying had been in his family for some four hundred years, and had been an inn for only the last few of those. That it had been built centuries before, at the same time as the blue domed church beside it.
Brit fell in love with the small island with its blindingly whitewashed houses and its stunning views of the Caldera, the volcanic rim that had filled with the sea during some ancient eruption. She and Andreas wandered the narrow streets and alleyways. Every turn offered another breathtaking perspective.
This is the 8th in a series of articles on the craft of writing. To see them all choose 'Writing' in the list of 'Labels' at the bottom of any post.
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I suppose all writers have favorites among their
characters. It’s only natural that some of our inventions should resonate more
in our minds and emotions than others. So it is that I fell in love with an
older man. Ian McQuaid in The Memoryof Roses is a man I’d
like to meet outside the pages of fiction.
Ian is an American archaeologist who works in
Greece. He always wanted to be an
archaeologist even when he was a boy. His father wanted him to be an engineer
but Ian persisted against all odds and went on to become world-renown in his
Even as a young man Ian has a brilliant mind but, like
many highly intelligent men, he isn’t very bright about women. And so, as often
happens, Ian ends up married to the wrong woman. It takes him years to realize
that his marriage is a sham.
Ian is forty-two and recuperating from a serious
illness on the Greek Island of Corfu, wondering what to do about his
dysfunctional marriage, when a young Italian artist, Maria Calbrese, walks into
his life and shatters his complacency. Their love affair rocks him to the
depths of his soul.
I suppose what I love most about Ian is his
vulnerability. That, and his sense of what is right and moral. He is at heart a
totally decent man.
In the scene below, Ian
meets Maria for the first time.
It was on June eleventh that he met her. He had gone to
Adriatika for his evening meal. It was a week night and he had lingered over
his late afternoon swim. By the time he arrived, the few other diners were well
into their meals.
“What have you for me tonight, my friend?” he asked.
“Ah! You are in luck. We have Rabbit Steffado and I have kept
a portion back for you.”
Ian settled into his chair at his regular table and opened
his book. He had long had the habit of reading in restaurants until his food
arrived. It kept him from feeling lonely.
He heard a commotion at the door and glanced up from his book
to see a stunning young woman in conversation with Yiannis.
“Of course you are not too late, signorina,” Yiannis was
saying as he showed her to a table. “We always look forward to your return in
June. Did you have a pleasant journey from Venice?”
“Pleasant enough, Yiannis. I hope you have some of your
Rabbit Steffado for me tonight. I’ve been looking forward to it for months.”
“Alas, I am afraid the last portion has just been ordered by
someone else,” he said, nodding in the general direction of Ian’s table. “But I
have a very nice fish if you’re interested.”
“Hmm. I’ll think about it. Meanwhile, if you could bring me a
pitcher of your good house wine…”
Ian went back to reading his book. Suddenly he sensed that he
was not alone. He looked up to see the woman who had just entered the
restaurant standing at his table, a brimming pitcher of wine in her hand. She
was tall and full breasted, her long ebony hair swung loosely to her shoulders
and her eyes were dark and lively. Her face could have come from a Botticelli
painting, beautifully oval, classically Italian. She wore a low necked blouse
that seemed to fall off one shoulder and a full skirt that emphasized her small
He realized, with a shock, that she was speaking to him in
English and that he had not heard a word she’d said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said I assume you speak English since you are reading a
book in that language. If you’d rather, we could speak in Italian. My Greek is
a bit primitive.”
Confused, Ian managed to stutter, “English will be fine.”
“Good. I have a proposition for you.” She smiled.
Ian thought, whatever it is, the answer is yes. He merely
“You,” she resumed accusingly, “you have ordered the last
portion of Rabbit Steffado. I have been looking forward to Rabbit Steffado for
months. I propose that we should sit together and enjoy that rabbit together.
There is always enough for two in Yiannis’ portions. Meanwhile we can order
some of Catarina’s eggplant and a salad to start, and,” here she held up the
pitcher, “I already have the wine.” She waited expectantly.
Ian threw back his head and laughed for the first time in
months. “Please,” he said, getting up quickly and pulling out a chair for her,
“Be my guest. I am Ian McQuaid.”
Over the eggplant she told him she was from Venice and that
her name was Maria. “I always spend six weeks here at this time of the year.
And this is my favorite restaurant on Corfu. I always came here on my first
They worked their way through the appetizers, laughing and
chatting about their experiences on Corfu as if they were old friends.
The rabbit arrived at
the table, steaming and aromatic in its rich sauce. Maria ladled it on to their
plates. “So what brings you to Corfu?”
Ian somehow didn’t
want to admit his recent illness to this young woman who was the picture of
health and vitality. “I was working on Crete and I just decided to take some
time off. A friend suggested Corfu.”
“What do you do on
“I’m an archaeologist. My special area is Bronze-Age
societies, the Minoans in particular. Knossos, on Crete, is one of the best
preserved Minoan sites in the world. I’ve been working there, off and on, for
“You’re an American, aren’t you? Your accent isn’t British.”
“Yes. I’m a professor at Stanford University in California.
But I spend half of every year in Greece.”
They continued to chat and laugh their way through the rest
of meal. Ian could hardly take his eyes off of her. She was so utterly alive.
Her mobile face telegraphed her every thought and mood. When she laughed at his
stories her whole face lit up. When she was serious, her eyes held the
reflective calm of a mountain lake. He found her utterly entrancing. By the
time they had finished dessert he was wondering how he could prolong the
evening, how he could arrange to see her again.
Then he reminded himself that he was still married, that he
had no right to become involved with this young, vibrant creature sitting at
his table. And that surely she would have no interest in him, a middle-aged
man, graying at the temples and many years her senior. Regretfully, when
Catarina began closing the shutters, he moved to pay the bill. “Please allow
me,” he said. “You have given me so much pleasure tonight.”
She nodded and rose to leave.
Outside the restaurant, she paused, confused, and looked
around. “Where is your car?”
“Actually, I don’t have one. I haven’t found much need for
one here. I walk everyplace. The house I’m renting is just up the hill a mile
“Please let me drive you home,” she said. “I insist. It is
small payment for that lovely dinner.”
Ten minutes longer with her, Ian thought. Ten minutes more of
her lovely voice and beautiful face. “Of course,” he responded.
She drove efficiently and competently. He watched the shadows
and light fall on her face as she navigated the curves of the narrow, winding
“Turn here,” he instructed as they reached the open gates to
the property. She came to a stop at the circle in front of the villa. The
fountain was splashing, its dolphins alive in the moonlight.
“What a beautiful spot.” She said. They sat in silence for a
moment, neither quite willing to end the evening.
“You could come in for a brandy,” he suggested.
They got as far as the front door. Later, they could neither
of them remember who moved first. They were in each other’s arms, tearing at
their clothing, stumbling up the steps toward the bedroom. Frustrated with
their slow progress Ian swept her up into his arms and carried her to his bed,
covering her with his body. They made love wordlessly, frantically, as if their
very lives depended on their being together in this way at this moment.
When the storm had passed, Ian tried to speak. “I had no
right to do this,” he said. “I’m married.”
“Of course you are,” she replied. “No man as attractive as
you could be single. Not at your age. I came to you willingly. I asked for no
commitment. We have here and now. We have tonight. Let’s not ask for more.”