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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 5 years

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Baby You Were My Picket Fence [Chapter 3: Light My Fire]

You are a first grade teacher in sunny Los Angeles, California. Ben Hardy is the father of your most challenging student. Things quickly get complicated in this unconventional love story.

Song inspiration: Miss Missing You by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter warnings: Language.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing) HERE

Taglist: @blushingwueen @queen-turtle-boiii @everybodyplaythegame @onceuponadetectivedemigod @luvborhap @sincereleygmg @stormtrprinstilettos @loveandbeloved29 @ohtheseboysilove @jennyggggrrr @vanitysfairr @bramblesforbreakfast @radiob-l-a-hblah @xox-talia-xox @killer-queen-xo

You open the front door and there he is: black button-up shirt, navy jeans, chic but not overdressed. His hair is neatly gelled back from his forehead. In his arms are a lug wrench, a car jack, and a brand new tire wrapped in an oversized, floppy red bow like a Christmas present.

“I think normal guys bring flowers,” you comment.

“I figured...since you’re automotively illiterate and all...you probably hadn’t gotten around to replacing the spare yet.” He shoots a glance at your Elantra, then announces victoriously: “I was right!”

“Mr. Hardy...Ben...I really can’t allow you to perform any more free labor.”

“Five minutes,” he calls over his shoulder as he trots to your car. He has trouble with one of the lug nuts, so it takes him six and a half.

“You can come inside,” you tell him once he’s finished. “I won’t be long, I just have to water my plants.”

Ben raises an eyebrow. It’s dark and rather undomesticated, yet endearing. “I feel like there must be better stalling tactics than that. If you’ve got cold feet, I can handle rejection.” But what he can’t do is disguise the way his shoulders slump, the way he bites the corner of his lower lip apprehensively.

“No, really, it’s totally stupid, but I’m really trying not to kill this batch and if I don’t water them now I’m going to be stressing about it until I get home, and I don’t want to be thinking about houseplants all night, I want to be thinking about...” You wave your hand towards Ben inarticulately. “You know. You.”

He smiles, showing his teeth, his eyes lit up like embers, flickering and radiant and warm. “Take your time, Martha Stewart.”

“My parents give me so much hell for this,” you call back to him as you flutter around the living room, standing on your tiptoes and reaching around furniture to water your peace lilies and spider plants and devil’s ivy and one wilting ponytail palm. “They’re farmers. They’re professional life-givers. I’m lucky if I can keep the cactuses alive.”

You hear Ben rambling around the kitchen. “I hope your nurturing skills are at least marginally better with first graders.”

You laugh, nodding even though he can’t see you. “I’m alright with those. I’m just more of a rock person than a plant person. Gems and minerals and volcanic glass...fossils and bones and teeth...that’s where the magic is for me.”

“I can see that. Dinosaurs are well-represented in your extensive fridge magnet collection.” There are clicks and scrapes as he rearranges them: prehistoric animals and tiny planets, peace signs and alphabet letters and cross-sections of agate. “These are so cool!” he exclaims.

You bustle back into the kitchen, place your watering can in the sink, and wipe your hands with a dishtowel patterned with cartoon brontosauruses. “Ready?” Your eyes flick to the refrigerator. He’s organized your magnets into a giant smiley face. It’s ridiculous, it’s juvenile; but you feel this liberatingly simple joy flooding through you like early autumn air. And the way Ben’s grinning at you—a little mischievous, a little proud—reminds you so much of Eli that your breath catches in your throat. You have no idea who Eli’s mother was, but her genetics were omnipotent; it’s almost impossible to find any of Ben in him at all. But every once in a while there’s an unconscious gesture, an off-kilter smile, and suddenly you can see the common threads that wove them into being like spiders’ webs.

“Ready,” Ben agrees.

You smooth your dress as you slip into the passenger’s seat of his Lexus, placing your purse between your feet, checking your hair and makeup in the sun visor mirror. Ben glances over at you as he shifts the car into reverse and roars out of your driveway. Your hands aren’t shaking, your heartbeat is hushed, there’s no hot rushing blood in your cheeks or ears; this shocks you. It’s eerie how inexplicably at ease you are.

“Find something good,” he says, pointing to the radio.

You seize the dial. “Uh oh. My first test?”

He smiles, his eyes on the road now. “Choose something lame and I abandon you at the nearest sketchy-looking gas station.”

You flip through stations until you find Somebody To Love. “I work hard, every day of my life, I work ‘til I ache in my bones...” “Okay, how I’d do?”

Ben steals a suspicious peek over at you. “Are you fucking with me?”

“What?” you ask, bewildered. “No, why?”

He shakes his head. “Never mind. You definitely pass. You’re a Queen person?”

“Oh yeah, absolutely, I adore Queen. Most classic rock, actually.”

“So have you, uh...” He touches his chin thoughtfully, what you’re quickly realizing is a little nervous tic. It’s cute as hell. Goddammit, daddy demon, stop being so fucking perfect. “Did you ever see Bohemian Rhapsody?” But something gives you the impression he already knows you haven’t.

“Not yet,” you confess.

“Not interested?”

“It’s not that, I just...” You hesitate, trying to put it into words. “I know it did well and all. But I guess I’m skeptical of anyone trying to play Freddie Mercury. He was a legend, he was one of a kind. So are the rest of them. Those are massive shoes to fill. It seems like setting the actors up to pale in comparison.”

“I’ve heard it was pretty good,” Ben presses, almost teases.

“Yeah, maybe...”

“And Rami won the Oscar. So his portrayal must have been satisfactory.”

“Okay, oh my god, I’ll see it, are you happy now? Were you on the marketing team or what?”

You’re only half-serious, but Ben chuckles evasively. “So you like old rocks and old music,” he pivots. “But not old not-boyfriends. Except Jeff Goldblum.”

“This is news to me. I sincerely thought you were sixty.”

He laughs, a full gutsy laugh this time, a laugh that says he’s caught-off guard and thrilled about it. “That’s okay. I’m into old stuff too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Old music, classic rock, just like you. But old books too.”

“Gatsby?”

His eyebrows leap up; you’re watching his face as streetlamps illuminate the car in reiterating flashes like a spinning pulsar. God, he’s beautiful. “How’d you guess that?”

“Eli’s middle name is Fitzgerald. That’s not a common one.”

“Ah,” Ben says, and his full lips turn up at the edges into a smile, proudly, fondly.

“I really like it.” That’s the truth; Eli’s a handful and that’s a titanic understatement—though he has been better the last few days, the only blip on the upward trend being his attempt to convince Brayden to eat a live cricket by paying him in Oreos—but his name is classic and elegant and a few literary references here and there never hurt anyone.

“Yeah, that was me,” Ben reveals. “His mother insisted on choosing his first name, I think she heard Eli somewhere and just liked the sound of it. But she let me pick the middle name. And The Great Gatsby was always my favorite book...and The Beautiful and the Damned, and This Side of Paradise?! Freaking incredible. In my humble opinion F. Scott Fitzgerald is a certifiable genius. So...Eli Fitzgerald.” There’s a color in his voice you can’t quite read: the golden yellow of reminiscence, the murky blue of loss, the grey nothingness of depression, the bloody maroon of deep pain or resentment. Who was she, Ben? How did she hurt you? And could I ever fill those hollow places you’re carrying around like pocket change?

He asks how Eli is doing in class, and you tell him; you ask about his favorite classic rock bands, and he answers: Boston and AC/DC and The Stones and Queen. His Lexus cruises by your go-to dinner spots—the affordable chains like Noodles and Co. and Panera and Chipotle—then past the mid-level raw vegan and farm-to-table joints, and finally into the neighborhood reserved for fine dining establishments with three-figure price tags and reservations booked up months in advance.

“Uh...” you begin. “I don’t think we’re going to get a spot at a place down here.”

“Think again.” He parallel parks with absurd ease in front of an Italian-Japanese fusion restaurant called Nejire. There’s a line of people in suits and evening gowns waiting at the door. You feel like a minnow in a shark tank.

“Ben...”

He comes around to your side of the car, opens the door, and holds out his hand. “You trust me?”

Do I? You take his hand in yours like a life raft. “Don’t let me down, Mr. Hardy.”

Unpredictably, fantastically, he brings your knuckles to his lips. “You got it.”

He spirits you inside, past the line of waiting customers, past the hostess and waitresses; they glimpse up and nod at Ben as he draws you through the main dining room and back to a VIP table in a dimly-lit, quiet corner of the restaurant. Oh, you realize with awe and trepidation. He’s an important guy.

You take your seat and open a menu as waitresses array full glasses of water and wine across the table. There’s nothing under fifty dollars. You flip to the salad page, searching desperately.

“What are you doing?” Ben asks gently.

“Um, nothing, just browsing...”

“You’re not paying for any of this,” he says point-blankly.

“That’s not very feminist of you,” you quip, but on the inside you’re sinking. This is too much, this is way too much. I can’t let him do this for me.

“I’ll explain later. Trust me, we’re good. Order something expensive or I’ll do it for you.”

“I’m a teacher, Ben. My idea of luxury is Olive Garden.”

He grins at you boldly, almost roguishly. “Oh we are going to have so much fun together, Miss Y/L/N.”

Orders are placed, wine is sipped, appetizers are ferried to the table. As you nibble on ahi tuna tartare and caprese sushi, you find yourself lost in how Ben motions wildly with his hands as he tells stories, how his large emerald-or-jade-or-malachite eyes gleam when he’s animated, how his voice is so rich and deep and yet mild, how it suddenly feels like you’ve known him your entire life. Oh no. Oh no, I like this guy a LOT.

Ben abruptly stops eating and cracks his knuckles. “So there’s something I need to tell you. Since we’re...” Air quotes. “Not dating.”

Oh fuck. He’s married or something. “Okay. I’m listening.”

“It’s about my job.”

Whew. “Ah yes, your elusive profession. You can tell me the truth if you’re a dogwalker or a circus clown or something. It’s always nice to out-earn someone. Actually, dogwalkers in L.A. probably make more than me...”

“I’m an actor.”

“Oh,” you reply cautiously. “Like, for tv shows or independent films?”

“No,” he says, amused. “For major films.”

I knew he was too fucking gorgeous to be a normal person. What am I doing here? “Like what?”

“Well, recently, Bohemian Rhapsody.”

You choke on the white wine you’re drinking and cough and gasp into your cloth napkin.

“You okay?” Ben asks. “Don’t die. You can’t die yet. You haven’t tried their tempura crème brûlée.”

“You...” You cough once more. “You were in the movie that made $900 million dollars...?”

He grins toothily. “So you were keeping up with it!”

“It was hard to miss that tidbit. It was all over the news. BoRhap won the Golden Globe.” Your head is spinning. “You’re an actor,” you repeat.

“I played Roger Taylor.” The brilliant, obscenely good-looking drummer, the man who wrote Radio Ga Ga and These Are The Days Of Our Lives and A Kind Of Magic.

“Oh my god, Ben!”

“I mean, I’ve been in other things too—”

“Ben!”

“Look, relax, we’re cool. I’m not telling you this to freak you out, I’m just explaining that you don’t have to worry about dropping a few hundred bucks at dinner. You have a right to know who I am if we’re going to be...involved. And there’s something else.” He wrings his hands. “I have to be...discrete about my personal life. Try to stay under the radar.” But now that effortless comfort is strained somehow, weighted, ominous; Ben averts his eyes. There’s a presence in the room like a storm cloud, trapped pulsing lightening igniting the opacity from within.

“Sure,” you say, thinking that a life in the spotlight can’t always be easy. “Lowkey. I got it.”

“Awesome.” He’s relieved.

“I have to keep it on the down-low too. I’m a pretty important person myself. A bunch of six-year-olds would lose their minds if they knew about my extracurricular activities. They would color such scandalous pictures in art class. Premarital dinner dates, maybe even handholding. Yikes.”

That makes Ben chuckle; the shadow is nearly lifted. “Keep drinking, Miss Y/L/N. I’m loving this.”

And it should feel weird or frightening or wrong that he’s using the word love this soon, this casually; but it doesn’t at all. It feels anything but wrong.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your feet are on your kitchen floor, your palms empty. Ben’s fidgeting around, his hands in and out of his jean pockets; it seems like he’s trying to say goodbye, but maybe he’s not.

“So...” he ventures.

You wonder if he’ll touch you, if he’ll kiss you. You try to catch his eyes, but they’re everywhere except meeting yours. “Hold that thought.”

You dash down the hall to your bathroom to smooth your hair, touch up your makeup, swish some Listerine. On the way back to the kitchen, you stop in the living room to check on your plants. If it’s possible, they look a little perkier than they did when you left a few hours ago. You run your fingertips over the broad leaves of your peace lilies, smiling faintly to yourself. “Maybe we’re going to make it after all,” you whisper.

You hear the distinct clicking sound of iPhone texting. “Oh shit,” Ben mutters from the kitchen. “I’m sorry, I gotta go, Y/N, okay? I gotta run. But I’ll call you. I’ll see you soon.”

“Okay, just a sec...” But by the time you rush into the kitchen to say goodbye, Ben is gone, the screen door swinging forlornly. Puzzled, you lock the door behind him as headlights flare to life in the driveway and swiftly retreat into the night. Then you turn around.

Your fridge magnets are rearranged again, this time in the shape of a heart.

#ben hardy #ben hardy x reader #ben hardy fic #borhap fic #borhap #baby you were my picket fence #bywmpf

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svucarisiaddict · 5 years

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Healing hearts-a Heartfelt Passages fic

“So which one do you like best?” you asked Isaac. Cora was holding your hand, twirling around and around.

Isaac’s little brow furrowed as he tried to decide. “I don’t know Mama.” He shrugged his shoulders. You examined the store for a sales associate but the store was chaotic. They were all with other customers at the moment.

“Go with the Mizuno,” a voice from behind you recommended.

Turning you saw Peter standing behind you. “Peter. It’s you. Thank you.” Cora waved at Peter from where she was now clinging to your leg. He grinned and waved back. Taking the glove from the shelf, you tucked it under your arm.

“No problem. Did you get cleats and a bat yet?” Peter inquired.

You raised a brow and your nose crinkled. “He needs all that?”

“C’mon. I can help pick the right weight bat.” Peter offered. “I did play professional baseball after all.”

“I’m sure you’re busy. I can ask William or-”

“Mama?” Isaac tugged on your hand to get your attention. “I want him to help.”

After leaving the sporting goods store, you asked Peter to join you and the kids for lunch as a thank you. Peter gestured to a bench at the park while the kids played. “So New York or Chicago hot dogs?” you asked Peter before biting into your spicy mustard, onion-laden hot dog.

Peter chuckled. “Good question. As a hot dog connoisseur, I have to say Chicago. Better casings, higher quality meats.”

“Me too. I haven’t had a Chicago hot dog since Mike and I moved to NYC.”

“You have some mustard just-” Peter pointed to the corner of your mouth.

“I get it?” you asked running your tongue over your lips.

Peter swiped his thumb over the corner of your mouth. “Got it.”

Gently you bit your bottom lip, looking up at Peter through your lashes. “Thanks.” Suddenly you needed something to do. Luckily the kids ran up to you asking to be pushed on the swings. The kids grabbed your hand pulling you toward the swings. “It’s easier with two people ya know.”

Peter smiled. “Right behind you.”

A couple months later

“Are we there yet?” Isaac asked from the backseat.

“Almost buddy,” you answered. He loved baseball and was always excited for practice and games. Looking in the rearview Isaac already had his glove on, his hat was on backward. He saw pictures of Mike and insisted on wearing his hat like Daddy. Cora had fallen asleep in her car seat just minutes after leaving the house.

There were several cars already at the field when you arrived. You pulled into a parking spot. Isaac was out of his booster seat and opening the car door before you had barely shut the car off. “Wait right there.”

You took a sleeping Cora from her car seat then made your way around to Isaac’s side of the bed. “Mr. Peter!” Isaac called out excitedly.

Peter found out he would be coaching Isaac’s team about a month ago. Isaac thought it was so cool a real baseball player would be his coach. “Isaac. My man!” He greeted Isaac with a high five.

“I think you may be his hero,” you said to Peter.

Peter leaned down to kiss your cheek. “How was your week? I’ve missed you.”

“Ugh. Crazy. I’ve missed you too. Happy tomorrow is Friday. How about you?”

“Same for me. But knowing I get to spend the weekend with my favorite people makes the days go by a little quicker.”

Cora started waking up. She rubbed her eyes. When she saw Peter she held her arms out to him. “Petey hold me.”

Peter took her into his arms without hesitation. “She’s the only one that can call me that and get away with it.”

Your memory flashed back to the first time you called Mike, Mikey. He had said the same thing to you. It was the first time in a long time that thinking about Mike made you sad. You gave him a tight smile. “I’ll be right back. I left something in the car.” Once you got to the car you sat inside for a few minutes trying to compose yourself. Taking a few cleansing breaths and dabbing your eyes, you exited the vehicle and watched the practice.

It took a few times of the phone ringing and buzzing beside you before you were awake. “How bad is it? Okay. I’ll be there in 10.” You hit end call and groaned.

“Everything okay?” Peter asked in a raspy voice.

“10 car pile up. They need everyone they get,” you replied. “I’ll call Martha to come over.”

Peter sat up a little in bed. “I can watch them.”

“I can’t ask you to babysit, Peter.” Getting out of bed, you went to the closet to get a set of scrubs.

“You didn’t ask, I offered.” He turned over to where you were sitting on the side of the bed.

Looking over your shoulder at Peter you contemplated what to do. “Only if you’re sure. I mean Cora gets up really early. It’s 3:00, so she’ll probably be up at like-”

“5:30, unless she sleeps in then 6:00. Likes apple juice and hits the ground running. Isaac won’t be up til 8am. Not a morning person, like someone else I know.” Peter gave you a small smile.

You had to smile back. He knew the kids' routines and habits as well as you did. “Okay. Call if you need anything.”

“We’ll be fine. You’ve been to my place. I’ve kept all my plants alive,” he said with a wry smile.

When you came back home Peter met you at the door. The look on his face told you something was wrong. “What is it? What’s wrong? Is it the kids?”

He grasped your shoulders. “They’re fine. It’s Denny. I had to carry him inside. He can’t get up.”

You stroked Denny’s head as he lay in your lap. Isaac sat beside you petting Denny as well. Cora had fallen asleep on the way to the vet, Peter was currently holding her.

“Mrs. Dodds. You’re doing the right thing,” the vet said as he sat on the floor beside you.

You nodded quickly, wiping your nose on the back of your hand. “I know. Just hard to let him go.” You hugged Denny around the neck and kissed his fur.

“I’ll give you a few minutes,” he said softly as he stood to leave.

“Oh, Denny. You have always been such a good boy.” Peter knelt down beside you. “He, uh, we wondered how he would do with the kids. He loved them, watched over them. And then when Mike died-died he never left my side,” you sobbed. Peter placed a hand on your shoulder and squeezed gently. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Peter kissed your head.

Peter insisted you eat, shower then lie down when you got home and you didn’t argue. You padded out to the kitchen a couple hours later for a bottle of water. Peter and the kids were sitting at the table. “What are you guys up to?”

“I’m showing Peter pictures of when I was in your belly,” Isaac explained.

“You were a beautiful bride,” Peter complimented you.

“Not bad for seven months pregnant.” It has been one of the happiest days of your life.

Peter’s phone buzzed beside him on the table. Brinkhaven Psychiatric Hospital showed up on the screen. “Sorry I have to take this.” He answered the phone but didn’t leave the room. “Okay. No. I understand. I’ll be there first thing in the morning. Thank you.” He ended the call.

“Is your sister okay?” you asked with concern.

“She’s having side effects from her medications. Tardive dys-dys…”

“Tardive dyskinesia. Her medications are affecting her nervous system. Has she been on her current medication regimen for a long time?”

“Honestly I have no idea. My Dad took care of things. It’s just been since his passing that I’ve become involved in her care. It’s not easy to navigate,” he confessed.

“I can come with you if you want.”

Peter’s eyes darted to yours. “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course. I’ll see if Anne and William can watch the kids.” Picking up your phone you tapped out a quick text to Anne. She responded almost immediately. She and William were in the neighborhood and asked if the kids could just stay the night. “Who wants to stay at Memaw and Pappy’s?”

“Me!”

You laughed. “That’s what I thought. Let’s go get some clothes.”

After the kids were picked up, it left you and Peter alone. A rare occurrence. “I forgot how quiet it is when they aren’t here,” Peter commented.

“I know it’s weird.”

“I can think of a way to make it less quiet,” Peter said suggestively. He leaned over, grasping your thighs picking you up, carrying you to the bedroom.

The next several weeks went by without incident. Pam was improving. She remembered Peter and was getting to know you and the kids. Everything was going so well you were just waiting for the other shoe to drop. And when it did drop it cracked the very foundation you were standing on.

“Nick. Hey. Wasn’t-”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at home. Why what’s up?”

“Are the kids with you?”

“They’re here. Nick. What’s going on? You’re starting to scare me.”

“Peter’s been threatened which means you and the kids are at risk,” he explained. “Lock the doors. Get some clothes together. I’m on my way there.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Okay.” As soon as you hung up with Nick you dialed Peter. No answer. You left him a message, then a text. When Nick arrived 15 minutes later you had bags packed for you and the kids.

“Nick I haven’t heard from Peter. I tried to call.”

“He’s safe at the precinct. I’m taking you there right now. TARU has his phone.” Nick’s voice was clipped.

“Is something bothering you, Nick?”

“Nope.” He jaw was clenching and he had a death grip on the steering wheel.

Shaking your head you didn’t say anything the rest of the way to the precinct.

Peter was pacing when you and the kids entered the precinct. He crossed the room in a few short strides. He picked up Isaac then wrapped you and Cora in a tight embrace. “I’m so sorry this is happening.”

“It’s not your fault-”

“Peter. We found ‘em,” Sonny interrupted. “We’re movin’ out now.”

“I need to go.” He kissed you then placed Isaac back on his feet. “I love you.”

You were too shocked to say it back. Those three words scared you, although you knew you felt the same way. “I love you too,” you said into the empty room.

#peter stone #peter stone x reader #to be continued #alternate universe

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thebookrat · 4 years

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Disclaimer: a review copy of this book was provided by the editor for review purposes. Affiliate links are not used in this post, but are used on this site. All thoughts and opinions are honest and my own. Edited to add: as you can see in the banner below, this post was supposed to be up yesterday, but I apparently don't know how to 'days of the week'... That is entirely MY BAD, sorry about that, internet!

You may have already seen me talking about this book online, as I listened to it while I was decorating for Christmas, but today -- before we dive into a guest post from one of the book's authors, Amy D'Orazio -- I'm going to dig a little deeper into why I loved Yuletide, an anthology of Christmas-oriented Jane Austen stories. And love it, I did! Generally when I read short story anthologies, I skip around to whichever story is calling my name most, with little care for the flow of one into the next. I also tend to only read them in bits and pieces, fits and starts, and never cover to cover. But because I was listening to Yuletide on audiobook*, and because I was flitting around the house, clipping evergreens that were politely pilfered from my neighborhood (ahem) and working them into wreaths and such, I just hit play and went along for whatever was in store. *it is still possible to skip around to stories in an audio anthology, btw. Chapters still exist. And man, I enjoyed this. The first story in the book actually gave me butterflies, but even when stories hit a flat note (which was rare), the immersive experience of listening to someone tell me Christmas stories about characters I love (who at this point feel almost like family, I've sent so much time with them), while working on Christmas myself? SWOON, it was so enjoyable. Harry Frost's narration was excellent, as well, even if I did occasionally chuckle at his "American" accent. ;) I'm not going to give you my whole spiel about how short story anthologies are great for discovering new authors, or as palate cleansers between books, our any of that (except I kinda just did), but as Austen anthologies go, this is one of the stronger ones. Each story felt entirely unique from the others, while still cohesive in context of the theme, and the different approaches mean that there's likely to be a story here to suit most Janeites. The book feels tightly and thoughtfully curated, and I did, in fact, discover some authors whose JAFF I now want to look into! And the best part of all? Proceeds from sales of the e-book and paperback go to benefit Chawton House! This mini review was turned out to be less mini and more review, but basically, I recommend this book, and I especially recommend reading it in the wintertime, when there's snow on the ground and the days are short, when your brain has turned towards Christmas but you're out of new Hallmark movies to watch... 10/10 experience, would recommend. And now, a piece from our special guest, Amy D'Orazio!

Eight Reasons Why Writing Modern JAFF Adaptations is so Much Harder than Writing Regencies

by Amy D’Orazio (contributing author to YULETIDE “The Wishing Ball”)

The Yuletide anthology [collection of five Regency era and two modern holiday stories] explored some new ground for me — it is the first time I have published a modern adaptation rather than the regency-based stories I typically write. Part of that was because this story was originally part of a Christmas challenge at A Happy Assembly. The idea for it came from fellow author Pamela Lynne who challenged me to write something to do with Christmas ornaments.

I know many people believe writing a modern adaptation is easier than a Regency. Both have their challenges but of the two…? Writing moderns is harder, in my opinion, and here are my reasons why:

1. Prejudice. Okay so this is a big one and often one I find takes a good modern and makes it shaky. Heaven knows there are plenty of things people are prejudiced about in this day and age but translating that into a feasible Darcy & Elizabeth-type situation isn’t easy. Elizabeth Bennet wasn’t poor—yet— in P&P. She was part of the upper echelon of wealth in England, but Darcy was, by comparison, stratospheric. So, a story about someone wealthy marrying someone else who is uber-wealthy? —not really anything notable today

2. Location, location, location. The first challenge any modern author faces is where to put their main characters. Jane Austen put hers in various spots around England, and when I am writing a Regency, I feel comfortable enough with my research to do likewise. But modern day? I’ve been to London a few times but that’s about it—I would have to do a LOT of research to find the exact restaurant on the exact street or the specific house with the certain features I need for my characters. The chances of getting it wrong are so much higher! In my story in this anthology I placed Darcy and Elizabeth in New York City (gasp… they’re American!)

3. Show of hands—who has had a family member voice an expectation that you should marry your cousin? But it was an important custom then and had super important implications for bloodlines and fortunes and etc. So, it’s sort of a hard issue to translate into a modern circumstance even though it was an important part of many of Austen’s books.

4. Or for that matter —who has really allowed their family members to have much say into their marriage at all? I mean, sure, I wanted my family to like my husband but if Aunt Martha didn’t…well…I guess we’d have just cut her off the Christmas card list.

5. The whole Lydia-Wickham and Georgiana-Wickham thing. Let’s be honest, in modern times, the only proper place for the likes of George Wickham (age 26/27) is jail for being a sex predator on teenagers. Would the military even take him? Let’s hope no one would force one of his victims to marry him! It’s storyline that is very tricky to translate to the modern era!

6. Modern life changes fast which brings with it another pitfall of books set in modern eras (not just for JAFF but any modern story)—when you have your hero check email on his Blackberry, or your heroine snap her Razor phone closed, you automatically dated your story. If you mention a song, a book, a news event, or a particular celebrity, five or ten years from now someone reading your book might not get what it is you’re talking about. Horse technology, on the other hand, rarely changed throughout the Regency period and the main forms of communication—writing a letter or walking to your neighbors house to talk about it—were the same. 7. By far, I think the most difficult thing about modern translations is how the characteristics of the our main characters are when placed into a modern setting. I’ve seen some intriguing takes on this — Elizabeth’s wit becomes almost supernatural intelligence, Mrs Bennet’s illiberality becomes racism or homophobia, Emma’s tendency to matchmake turns into a wedding planning business. To me, this is where writing moderns can really be tricky—in a Regency you don’t have to decide all of this but in a modern, you need to decide how you’ll bring it all into a modern era. 8. Marriage. By far the trickiest part of creating a modern is the aspects of marriage. In modern times, there are dates, there are non-monogamous relationships, there are engagements that end with no dreadful outcome to either party—in short there are many complexities to modern relationships that didn’t exist back then (for better or worse). If you’re writing a Regency and your hero and heroine dance twice, have a whispered conversation behind a potted plant and then decide to marry— sure! True love! But a modern couple? I think most of your readers would think it was a bit unrealistic! So, there you have it! It should be noted of course that all the opinions expressed herein are solely those of me, the author! Love to hear your thoughts on the subject below! AMY D’ORAZIO is a former scientist and current stay-at-home mom who is addicted to Austen and Starbucks in equal measure. While she adores Mr. Darcy, she is married to Mr. Bingley, and their Pemberley is in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She has two daughters devoted to sports with long practices and began writing stories as a way to pass the time spent at their various gyms and studios. She firmly believes that all stories should have long looks, stolen kisses, and happily-ever-afters. Like her favorite heroine, she dearly loves a laugh and considers herself an excellent walker. She is the author of The Best Part of Love, A Short Period of Exquisite Felicity, A Lady’s Reputation and various anthologies. Below you'll find an except of Amy's story in Yuletide; find samples from the rest of the anthology here! ABOUT THE BOOK:

Yuletide: A Jane Austen-inspired Collection Of Stories, edited by Christina Boyd 190 pages / audio 5 hrs and 50 mins Published November 26th 2018 by The Quill Ink, LLC BUY HERE: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZPBZSFB ttps://www.audible.com/pd/B07ZP9R3QW?

“I went up to the Great House between three and four, and dawdled away an hour very comfortably...” –Jane Austen A holiday short story anthology with some favorite Austenesque authors, YULETIDE is inspired by Jane Austen, PRIDE & PREJUDICE, and the spirit of the season. Regency and contemporary alike, each romance was dreamt to spark love, humor, and wonder while you dawdle over a hot cup of tea this Christmas. Stories by: Elizabeth Adams * J. Marie Croft * Amy D’Orazio * Lona Manning * Anngela Schroeder * Joana Starnes * Caitlin Williams Edited by: Christina Boyd All proceeds from e-book and paperback sales to benefit Chawton Great House in Hampshire, former manor of Jane Austen’s brother Edward Austen Knight and now the Centre for the Study of Early Women’s Writing, 1600-1830.

via The Book Rat

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