Where do I start?

~~~March, 1906~~~

The world is always telling me to write what I know, and by the world I mean Miss Allen my teacher who is the only one who encourages me to write. And while I want to be a great novelist like Austen, or a Bronte, even Edith Wharton would be nice. I fear I know very little outside novels and the made up worlds and made up people that exist in them. All I know is Norland Park has been my home for the last seven years since my father's death. I live here with my two sisters Amelia, who is three years older than me and thinks she knows everything, and my younger sister Mathilda who seems determined to know everything about everything and go off to college when she is old enough. She is right now thirteen and I think she is so determined she will do it. I also know they look exactly like mother, Fiona, who has deep saphire eyes with golden auburn hair. Where as I have soft gray eyes and common brown hair that my mother calls chestnut. The only thing I like about my looks is that I look exactly like my father, or so my mother said, I can barely remember what he looked like. And mother doesn't talk much about him so it seems hardly right to badger her with questions.

So where to begin my story?

At my father's funeral seems to tragic and all I remember is every one wearing black with somber looks. My mother wore a black veil to block the stern cold look she had on her face. She would not cry in public. She waited till we got home then locked herself in her room for two weeks. I can not think think that father would want us to remember his life in such a sad way, But I never said a word, even at ten years of age I know not to question mother's decission.

I still remember the dress I wore, it was starched so hard I could hardly move, and it scratched me around the neck. Once the funreal was over I ran down to the creek and found my spot. A spot I could hide and find comfort in. It was an elm tree that had to be to be a hundred years old with a sturdy trunk that dipped almost into the creek, it was easy to climb and up the tree I felt comforted and protected from the world below. I named the tree Miss Taylor, it was the one name I could think of that seemed peaceful and gentle.

Amelia thought it was silly the way I name things as if they were humans or even pets. But I didn't think it was silly I could tell almost instantly moving to Norland Park I would have little in common with other girls my age. They had perfect ringlets, and smiles that made them look as if they had no pain in their lives. Even at a young age I loved to read and write ans Miss Allen took a special interest in me, and that made me different. Miss Taylor, was the perfect person to talk to and she would never think I was odd.

But where to begin?

Most novels begin with some one coming into town or the main character moving away. We had left Boston seven years ago and I hardly remember it, except the rose color wall paper in my room, the victrola playing in father's study but loud enough the whole house could hear. I also remember smoke in the air from the smoke stacks of industry, This is what most people call progress.

I would rather be here, where there was no smoke in the sky and on a day like today the valley smelled of fresh pine and molasses. It was a cold breeze that carried this smell down off the hills and into our parts of the woods.

I can't begin my story with us coming to Norland Park because most of that time I have chosen to forget. I also can't write about some one coming into town because besides our cousins we get very little visitors. They usually came during the summer and it is March now, a cold March too. A March that hardly felt like Spring was around the corner but winter would last forever.

It is too cold to go to the creek, and so I stuck indoors only to look further into the valley where Norland Creek runs through or look up in the hills where a bit of snow sits on the top of them. The gray clouds hang so low it looks as if the sky could touch the top of the trees.

So far the day has been peaceful which is usually nice but a story needs action, conflict, something to make it great.

Usually I wait for stories to come to me but Miss Allen wants me to submit a story for a young readers magazine. I write a lot of stories, so many I can't keep track of all the composition books I have filled and all the ones mother makes me throw away because all they do is collect dust and clutter my room. So she says. The problem is I have never finished a story, because life doesn't just end it keeps going. I will also admit its hard for me to concentrate long enough on one story to finish it, my head soon leaps to another idea that inspires me. But now I must finish this story, I must so I can get my story published and be a real author.

What to write about?

I can not write about love for in all my seventeen years I have never been in love. And the only time I have been kissed was by Buddy Parker who then pushed me into the creek. Its not quite what I imagined when I think of Mr. Darcy trying to woo Elizabeth Bennett. Of course I am not blind I have always had a crush on a boy but boys never pay attention to me. I say I am too plain to notice but Amelia says its because I read too much.

"A boy doesn't like a girl who is smarter than them," Amelia said to me once.

Of course Amelia has never read a book and didn't have a love so maybe she didn't know about boys either. All she did was read trivial magazines that were to help girls become women. I hardly doubt they did any good except to make women more silly. There were enough silly girls in the world and I was determined not to be one.

That was the one thing I did know, I did not want to be silly. I wanted to see the world and read all the great works of literature. That is what I knew I wanted to escape. Though right then it seemed impossible.

Where to begin?

I ask myself again.

Perhaps my name would be good.

My name is Emmy Cromwell.

I am sitting in the breakfast parlor because mother thinks its the best room for our afternoon tea. She likes the view of the drive. My mother always pretending we are unexpectedly have callers. We stopped having callers when Grandma Danford became too ill to receive them that was about two years ago.

When we first arrived at Norland Park, some of mother's old friends came to pay their respects. No one could believe how young a widow she was and felt sorry she was left with three girls to raise entirely on her own. Mother took their respects with gratitude and grace in a way I could never do. The town gossipers also came to see if it was true that Cromwells were let in Norland Park. Mother also recieved them with kindness. But once the newness of our arrival wore off guest only trickled in by obligation to Grandma Danford. She never made any one forget the respect she deserved with her position in life. I think the town was grateful of Grandma Danford being ill because they no longer had to trudge their way to Norland Park to make the oh so tedious calls to Norland.

Tedious they were indeed. Why mother still longed for them I will never know.

Besides the nice view of the drive and the lawn beyond that, the room always gets the best sun. It had a cream color wall paper that when the sun hit just right showed a flower pattern to it. It had a nice size table to seat six, a bench seat in the window and two over size wing back chairs in the corners on the opposite wall of the window. Two portraits hung on the wall by the door both of my grandparents the year they married, and one large painting of an English haunting party. The scenes were all so dark in palette it made the room a little more grim to sit in.

I sit by the window seeking inspiration from the view. Amelia sits in one of the wing back chairs because she hates the chill from the draft of the window. She is reading one of her magazines as we sit and wait for Mattie to come home from school. With out Mattie there I admit we all sit in quiet loneliness. Every once in awhile Amelia will read something from her magazine and mother will either respond with "that's nice" or "that's interesting." Never being too concerned with what Amelia or I are doing. But at least mother responds I take no interest in what she is saying. I must keep my mind focused on this story if I ever hope to begin.

Maybe I will be lucky and Mattie will have some town news that will spark my interest. She must be caught up in something. The clock in the hall has just chimed in the four o'clock hour and Mattie is still not home.

I am always waiting for a story, I note to myself.

How do real authors write? Do they just sit around hoping for a story to come to them. Or maybe they are so talented they don't need to wait, they always have a story.

I usually have a story but most of the time they are foolish I know they are not any good and nothing compared to a great work of literature. Having read some great works and trying to copy them makes my stories seem even more unimportant. Miss Allen says all of us have a voice inside of us. She says embracing that voice makes each one of us unique. I will admit in this moment I don't know my voice. But I know if I don't write I will burst. It is my one way to truly escape even if I never leave Norland Park.

Maybe the best way to start off is with the truth.

My name is Emmy Jillian Cromwell, I am seventeen years old, and for the last seven years maybe more my life has been a fraud.


Up coming...
How Fiona Danford and Jonathan Cromwell meet.
The truth about Emmy Cromwell's life and why its a fraud.