ike Tessa, my heroine is nineteen. And like Mary, I think that there’s a certain amount of cowardice inherent in my choice. I don’t know yet how my choices now will change my view of the world. I’m not even sure what my current world view is. And so it might be hard to write about.

But the book I intended to write is not the book I am writing. I wanted to write about an issue that was much on my mind when I was nineteen or twenty: the choice between comfort and stability without great joy, and joy without stability. There are a couple of major life decisions I’ve made where a number of people have told me I was crazy. They said, “Oh, but look what you’re throwing away–why would you want to do that when you already have this? Isn’t this good enough?” But I have never regretted not accepting “good enough.” Not once. And not even remotely; those decisions have been uniformly wonderful.

More after the jump.

And so that’s what this book was going to be about: pushing past good enough, and refusing to settle for it. There’s still an echo of that in here, still; after all, pushing past good enough is the hero’s version of the story. (And in the original conception of the thing, ultimately it was his story.)

I never intended to write a book about family, but that’s what I’m writing about. The problem is that although I remember those years all too well, the issues of nineteen through twenty-five lack currency for me, and I can’t put my whole heart into writing them. I stopped writing to the old plan when I hit scene one of chapter two, the first time my heroine spends time with her family. Family drives so much of who you are and where you want to go, although in unpredictable ways. (You’ve heard the phrase “He’s an alcoholic because his father is an alcoholic.” You may also have heard the phrase “He’s a teetotaller because his father is an alcoholic.” And everything, I’m sure, in between.)

Despite my best efforts, this is turning into a book about love. Not a book about romance; a book about love. In the romance novel, the phrase “I love you” has almost mystical significance. The “I love you” signals the end, or at least the beginning of the end. Once the “I love yous” are exchanged, very little if anything remains to be wrapped up.

And yet real love is much more complex. I don’t fully understand what I’m writing about, either, and I surprise myself every day. There are scenes that I once thought would be important which . . . well, they’re not any more. And a side-character who I thought would be the Cressida Cowper of my little novel simply refused, and although she was everything I wanted her to be — silly, materialistic, and flighty — Laura also ended up being something more:

“I thought I had friends, my first season. But then I called Princess Esterhazy a cow.”"Why did you do it?”

“Oh,” Laura said airily, “I was sick of ratafia, and my mother would insist on attending Almack’s at every opportunity.”

“No,” Claire said, “be serious. Why did you do it?”

Laura put the ribbons down abruptly. “Because she told Miranda she needed to reduce.”

“Miranda?”

“My sister.”

“The one who read your diary?”

“Yes. That one.”

Claire frowned. “I don’t understand. Last night, you said you despised her.”

Laura waved her hand. “Of course I do. She’s my sister. You can’t help but hate your sisters.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sisters steal your clothing. They tell embarrassing stories about you, most of which bear only the vaguest resemblance to the truth. They’ll fight you, tooth and nail, for any little thing you want, and they remember every slight, real or imagined, for years to come.”

“That sounds dreadful.”

“It is,” Laura agreed. “But they’re also the only ones who know what it’s like to grow up in your household. You’ve read all the same books. You’ve seen all the same plays. Everybody else in the world, no matter how much you like them, will never be able to understand what you mean so quickly. With your sisters, you can communicate whole thoughts in words. Thoughts nobody else will ever understand. And your sister will just know what you mean while everyone else scratches their head in confusion and says, ‘Pardon me, what did you say?’”

“I don’t have any sisters,” Claire said in confusion. “I always wanted one, though. I thought she’d be an instant playmate.”

“She would have been. Except she’d be a playmate who wanted to play a different game. And only if she could break your tea cups and read your diary.”

Claire shut her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “If you hate her so much, then why did you insult Princess Esterhazy?”

“Love,” Laura said, “is composed mostly of hate. Anyone who claims otherwise is either stupid or immoral.”

Claire peeked out from behind her hand. Laura didn’t bat an eyelash–although that hardly meant a thing. “You can’t really mean that.”

“I’m deadly serious. Think of one person that you love.”

“My father.” Odd, that such a prickly truth would take so little effort.
“Now look me in the eyes and tell me that you don’t hate him. Not in the slightest.”

Claire smiled and looked Laura in the eyes. She thought of her father, and thought how much she loved him. Then she thought of Morping. She thought of the day her mother died. Her angry rage on that day had been doused by her father’s cool words and colder demeanor. She thought of the three years she’d spent, trying to win back his regard. She thought of her brother, obliviously gambling Claire’s future away. And then her thoughts flitted back to her father again, because he was letting Ned do it. She wondered, briefly, what her life could be like if she didn’t need to sacrifice it for her father. Claire felt the smile slide off her face. She desperately tried to paste it back in place, but it was gone.
“My god,” she whispered. “I do hate him.”