Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume by Kit Brennan

Author:Kit Brennan [Brennan, Kit]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-938231-71-1
Publisher: Astor + Blue Editions
Published: 2013-12-03T19:56:00+00:00

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Forces were gathering, inexorably. Meanwhile—oh, to think of it now!—I went along on my merry way, making plans and trying them out. Wishing to surprise Henri with my diligence and talent. Unsuspecting, distracted, excited with possibility… And maybe already (in hindsight, I wonder?) experiencing the strange effects…

Henri and I would lie curled together, naked beneath our duvet, all night long, waking to cuddle and make love when the spirit moved us (which was blissfully often). Seeing him off to work every morning, I would then go through the connecting door into my lovely adjoining apartment and seat myself at a desk. And I’d start. Nibs, pots of ink, sheafs of paper. Doodling and creating elaborate, inky curlicues round the edges, simply to soften the curse of the big, white blank which awaited me. I wrote my name over and over again, for the pleasure of seeing it. Occasionally I would write ‘Lola Dujarier’—just trying it out—before crumpling the paper into a ball and throwing it on the fire, thrilled but superstitious. This would be followed by a leap to my feet, several arabesques and a bit of spider stamping, perhaps ending by flinging myself into the splits on the Persian carpet with an enthusiastic “¡Hola!”—just to keep myself mobile. The thing was, I couldn’t believe the immense tedium of trying to stay put in a chair at a desk, minutes turning into hours, then into whole afternoons! I tried so hard!—heavy head propped on my hand, chewing the quill—then suddenly I’d leap up, race around, remembering things I simply had to do first in bedroom or study or our other apartment, finally returning to the desk, to stand, just looking at it. At the paper. At my doodles, and curlicues. Then I’d rush off again on some other urgent errand. Diablo! That bastardo paper!

January came and went—a new year, a new beginning. I trusted that 1845 would be wonderful, replete with every fortunate thing—if only I could make a good start! One morning I had the happy thought of writing ‘Lorenzo Milagros’ at the top of a fresh sheet, followed by ‘The Adventures of…’ And then I couldn’t decide what my heroine’s name should be. Dammit. The problem was, I just knew that if Henri could give me a firm deadline, by which date my story would commence in La Presse, everything would begin to flow. But he kept hemming and hawing and would promise me nothing.

Some afternoons, staring out the window, wrestling with myself to sit again at the desk, I’d daydream of writing one thrilling chapter after another, longing for the time when I would be rewarded with the publisher’s formula, ‘To Be Continued’, perched jauntily at the end of each day’s installment. ‘To Be Continued’ meant that it would go on and on—and so would my pay cheques! One morning I penned a dense little paragraph about everything that would happen in my story, and felt very proud and ready to begin! When I reread it later, it lay there on the page like a limp, dead thing, so I crumpled it up and flung it into the fire.

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