The say that clothes make the man, or the woman in this case. Well, at this
moment clothes are making my life a misery.
When I became a full time writer, one of the attractive features of my lifestyle
was that I didn’t have to get dressed in the morning. I could work in my sweats
or my pjs. I even remember, during my TV days, having a conference call with the
head of NBC drama and the set in the Caribbean with me wearing baby doll pajamas
and a flannel robe. Thank God the video phone hadn’t been invented.
But when I became a mystery writer I discovered that I was no longer going to be
allowed to live like a slob. I was expected to visit bookstores and libraries
and go to conventions and look like a writer. In short, I had to create a
persona for myself. So the question arose, who am I? I wasn’t quite sure. For
years I had been a mom and a person who wrote in her sweats and pjs. Except for
a few days each year when I put on my good black suit and went to visit my agent
and editor.
At my first mystery conventions I noticed that many of the male writers had
their persona down pat. You could spot them at the bar, with their beards and
their black leather jackets or rugged-looking sweaters and they might as well
have had the words “Hardboiled writer” tattooed across their brows. But it
wasn’t quite as easy for me. I guess I want to look elegant—not to mention
royal.
Ah, and here’s the problem. Rhys Bowen and her current sleuth, the penniless
royal Lady Georgie, have a lot in common. And one of the things is that clothes
are our enemies. They let us down when we most need them. I try to breeze
through a revolving door, looking like a successful writer and my scarf or my
skirt get trapped in said door, needing a doorman, two bellhops and various
guests to extricate me. I once crossed the foyer of an expensive hotel, trying
look as if I stayed there every day, and got my heel stuck in the cork flooring.
And I really did have Georgie’s brief and disastrous modeling career in my
youth, when I was given a garment to put on and put both legs into half a pair
of culottes. I only realized this when I tried to totter down the runway,
thinking how tight the skirt was, and noticed something flapping beside
me.
So now I’m setting out for a book tour of Southern California and Arizona,
during which I’ll be signing Heirs and Graces, hosting royal soirees, and I’m
anxious. What can I wear that looks royal and won’t let me down? No scarves to
trail, no heels to get caught, that’s for sure. I’ll be in Scottsdale in
August. What won’t look like a crumpled rag in seconds? I have to wear skirts,
of the royal-looking summery variety. The kind that need ironing, and I don’t
iron, at least not well. My mother was a champion ironer. She even ironed my
father’s underpants. I didn’t inherit that talent.
And I have to carry a hat for those royal tea parties. How does one carry a hat
unsquashed? Those real royals have a lady in waiting in attendance with
emergency supplies. I could use one, for the times I am about to sip my airline
coffee and we hit turbulence or spill ketchup down my white skirt. Any
volunteers?
I guess I’ll stick to water on planes and look fashionably crumpled.
As thirty–fifth in line for the throne, Lady Georgiana Rannoch may not be the
most sophisticated young woman, but she knows her table manners. It's forks on
the left, knives on the right—not in His Majesty's back?
Here I am thinking the education I received at my posh Swiss finishing school
would never come in handy. And while it hasn't landed me a job, or a husband, it
has convinced Her Majesty the Queen and the Dowager Duchess to enlist my help. I
have been entrusted with grooming Jack Altringham—the Duke's newly discovered
heir fresh from the Outback of Australia—for high society.
The upside is I am to live in luxury at one of England's most gorgeous stately
homes. But upon arrival at Kingsdowne Place, my dearest Darcy has been sent to
fetch Jack, leaving me stuck in a manor full of miscreants?none of whom are too
pleased with the discovery of my new ward.
And no sooner has the lad been retrieved than the Duke announces he wants to
choose his own heir. With the house in a hubbub over the news, Jack's hunting
knife somehow finds its way into the Duke's back. Eyes fall, backs turn, and
fingers point to the young heir. As if the rascal wasn't enough of a handful,
now he's suspected of murder. Jack may be wild, but I'd bet the crown jewels it
wasn't he who killed the Duke?
5 comments posted.
Have you ever considered wearing a simple dress with a blazer on top?? That would solve the skirt/blouse dilemma and also cut down on the amount you would have to pack. It's just a thought. I must confess that I haven't had a chance to read any of your books yet, due to things going on in my private life at the moment, but this Fall I will be starting my reading regimen, and you are on it. I love books which are set in England, and you definately foot the bill!! The story line for this book sounds really good, and I'm really anxious to start it!! I might read a couple of your earlier books to get more of a flavor of your writing. Good luck with your road trip!!
(Peggy Roberson 8:01am September 16, 2013)
I'm a huge clothes fail myself... the only hat suggestion I would have would be a beret!
(Cate Sparks 8:02am September 16, 2013)
Rhys, love your column and I am hereby offering to be "your lady in waiting" on your next trip. I can carry your hat!
I would pack a white long skirt and some colorful tops..stay cool and be cool.
Keep writing!
(Patricia (Pat) Pascale 9:01am September 16, 2013)
Ah Rhys, not only are you a super author...I started with Molly Murphy & then you hooked me with Lady Georgiana..but your blog was a pip! How many writers can tell us of their trials & tribulations with their wardrobe, make us sympathize & laugh at your sense of humor. Can hardly wait to get my gloved hands on a cup of tea & Heirs & Graces.
(Jean Merriott 1:47am September 18, 2013)