The season is changing and it's time to soon upload the historical novel. In about five days, it will be on kindle (hoorah!) and I keep chaning my mind on what name to publish it under. The traditional marketing ideal is that for each genre of book, there should be a different name. My historical fiction name would be Elizabeth Drake, which I love (old family name too), but as I'm not publishing traditionally, I think I'll stick to my nearly established name of Holly Stacey. If (emphasis on if rather than when) I ever get a traditional publishing deal, then I may branch out a bit and use a pen name. But not now. The pen name didn't do terribly well for Raven Wyrstone (The Howling Moon - http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Howling-Moon-Raven-Wyrstone/dp/0956036341/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1347304373&sr=8-1) although I love the book.
Okay, it's written in my blog, so I've got to stick to it. No waking up at 2am and deciding to change again (the 2am waking is thanks to my lawyer troubles... still that one bit of paper is awaiting a signature). Truly. Sticking to the one name. Except for the non-fiction on Victorian asylums. That will be under H.E. Stacey...
Ah, and here is my kindle link for my YA urban fantasy - http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Faerie-Conspiracies-ebook/dp/B00955JPCK/ref=sr_1_1_title_1_kin?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1347304405&sr=1-1
Monday, 10 September 2012
Thursday, 6 September 2012
We were supposed to exchange on Monday. Our solicitor has been a dream. However, all solicitors in the chain are meant to be in the office at the same time. I’m sure someone is on holiday without having told anybody else. Not only that, but they were all talking to each other two weeks ago and now… silence. Number X in the chain is not available to anybody, solicitor or not. All house moves are on hold.
Its crazy, isn’t it? How so many people can have their lives on hold just for one phone call? And what happens when one of them is hit by a car? Has a family accident? Gets a real flu? The world shouldn’t have to come to a grinding halt. The system is terribly flawed. We are chain free – we don’t even have to wait for our house to sell and with a good solicitor, it’s taken eight weeks (and counting) for all the house checks to come through (that’s checks, not cheques, which they’ve been having no problems accepting).
So where does this leave us? Boxes are strewn everywhere. Poor Claudia has to eat in front of the TV (tough, isn’t it?) because the dining table is covered with boxes (and the cat… she loves boxes). My projects are all on hold and I’m going absolutely stir crazy. Still, we went out to Chappel Beer Festival last night and that was good. A date night with beer (although I ended up on a rather nice medium-sweet perry) and chocolate – there was a chocolate stall!
Fingers crossed we get a phone call today… Fingers crossed that nothing is mortally wrong with that solicitor!
Saturday, 1 September 2012
Despite having put all projects on hold for a few weeks, I thought it might be good to post the introdution to my Three Women in Asylum book. In fairness, it was written while waiting for my train home.
Also, as the book will be dedicated to Isabella, a girl from the late Victorian Era who helped guide me back to Borthwick, I've posted the photo of 'The Dreamers' who I'm writing about for the fiction anthology.
As an archaeologist and children’s author, it may seem strange that I’ve decided to write a book on women in asylum in the Victorian Era. Stranger still when my archaeological focus has always been early Medieval. Having excavated with several rescue archaeology teams, I had occasionally come across Victorian archaeology – it couldn’t be missed although it was almost always taken for granted and discarded. The answer is very simple. When I was a MA student in York, my class was led to the Bothwick Institute to look at medieval city plans. They were truly amazing, but what caught my eye the most and what lodged deep into my psyche, were the photographs on the wall. At the time, Borthwick was located on the premises of what used to be
– the North
Riding Mental Asylum. The photos were on
inmates, women who were deemed to be insane.
I knew a little of what Victorian asylums were like – they had a reputation, along with prisons, as being places of unrest. Suicides were common and recovery rare (or so I thought at the time). Women who were postnatal depressive, who were mourning the loss of a young child, who may have miscarried, were almost always sent to an asylum. Not a very healthy way to grieve. Not only this, but these women were lumped in with maniacal and suicidal dangerous women; those with lunacy in the family. Melancholia seemed to be the number one problem with women in asylum, followed closely by ‘mania’. With so many mental illnesses clumped together, it was hardly a recipe for recovery.
I wondered then, and for over a decade afterwards, what had happened to these women; what was their confinement in an asylum like, and were they ever released? It wasn’t until I was writing for a fiction anthology based on a Victorian portrait of a young woman who looked pregnant that I was finally tempted to research the
records. Writing for the anthology
brought back those eyes, staring at me through their protective glass. Young unwed women of pauper backgrounds like
the one in the photograph I was writing about were often sent to the asylum and
the babies whisked away to orphanage or workhouse. Clifton Hospital
And so, halfway finished with a fictional short story, I ended up booking a train to
. The Borthwick Institute had relocated since
I’d been. At the time of writing, it was
located at the main university’s campus library. The photos I’d seen before, now
packed away; only one lonely image of a York
patient remained, pinned to the notice board, watching me research. I enjoyed the moral support. Clifton Hospital
I started with the female photograph album and then moved onto Female Patient Admissions, then to Female Case Studies. Each tome offered thousands of names, their origins, their history and family, sometimes their address. One thing was certain, by the time I’d read through their case, I felt like I knew them. On my first day of research, I kept reading entries of women who’d spent a lifetime in asylum. Their reports went much the same, about four entries per year from Dr Nicolson, who I also felt an affinity for (I was saddened to learn that he’d spent years in the same role, only to become an alcoholic and dismissed from service because it was discovered he’d married and had a family outside the hospital; something that was against the rules). When I’d read the final entry, ‘patient died in the presence of the ward nurse,’ I’d often feel like crying. My second day of research yielded much happier results as most of the women I’d read about ended up ‘cured’ and discharged. There were so many women, youngest having been 16 and many up to their 60’s. One woman was so bereaved when her doctor husband died, she was suicidal and distraught. She’d constantly told Dr Nicolson how she and her husband ‘were ruined’ and how she was ‘lost’. Finally, two of her good friends wrote to the commission and requested her release. There were no more notes, but I hoped that they were looking after her well. Of her adult children, there was no mention.
So how did I get to just three case studies? As I said above, there were thousands of entries in the handful of years I wanted to focus on. 1889 was the date I was primarily after, as the photo book with the patients’ images was set to that date. I first looked through the photos, picked out about five and then started hunting for their records. Of those, three had such telltale signs of postnatal depression, broken heart and bereavement that I felt those were the women I should focus on. It was difficult not to be swept up in every story and I would strongly urge anyone interested to spend just a day reading up on these women at Borthwick.