Rosamunde Portsmouth

Storyboarding, Old-timey War, Legacy

Hmm. I hope I haven’t been confusing having strong opinions with saying everything I’m thinking, because according to “friends” I do a lot of the second thing. I do have some extremely strong opinions for a housewife, so after a month or so of reflection, meditation, and storyboarding Rosamunde Portsmouth—when you know you have a franchise on your hands you need to have a solid understanding of a character’s trajectory before you begin—I’ve decided to start writing down my thoughts again. And because it’s not the 70’s anymore, except in women’s denim, I’m doing it publicly.

I don’t want to say I’m a loose cannon, because I don’t want my mom to text me to correct my grammar and admonish me not to use the language of (old-timey) war. Funny I get so much advice from her now, because when I was trying to grow up, most of the guidance I got from my parents was probably too subtle. Certainly, there was plenty of theatrical gesturing across the dinner table whenever I slurped or slumped or used an index finger to push aspic onto my runcible spoon. And I think my bedtime stories were often parables, but there were so many names to keep track of that it could be hard to follow the subtext. I feel like I could have used a really practical directive now and then—something like “don’t shave your eyebrows” or “cutting bangs isn’t going to help.”

Is worldliness a good thing, or is that Weltschmerz? Anyway, I know I have those things now, but I still don’t feel the need to go advising everyone I meet, except when it comes to oven drying un-flavorful (or overripe) tomatoes, because there’s almost no tomato that can’t be rescued by seasoning it and putting it in a low oven with a little olive oil. I guess I also say things to my children that might come off as advice, but I think that’s because I want to be sure they will be able to form an outline of me in their memories after they have moved 5 hours away by car and our only communication is Words With Friends. I want to be sure they will be able to tell their spouses or live-in pets what their mom always used to say–for instance: “you realize that doesn’t match.”

Actually, kids—if you ever read this—and you ever read The Great Santini, I can only hope you’ll think of me as part Bull Meechum and part Maria Von Trapp, since I also taught you to sing in harmony.

Misspent Youth, Pour-a-Quiche, Introducing Rosamunde Portsmouth

When I was busy misspending my youth–by which I mean everything from the day I quit piano lessons, through the summer I lived in the “International House” in Freiburg learning [card games] instead of German, up until I realized all my options had become limited–I often heard myself telling people I thought maybe I would write a book one day. I can’t imagine now when I supposed I’d accomplish it–while my children were playing out of doors or building dioramas out of found objects? It turns out what I tend to do, after I have finished doing their chores, while they are definitely not watching Austin and Ally, is an elaborate cooking project. Recently, however, like all responsible husbands, mine has set some limits for me—among them, a three-hour time limit for preparing dinner. “Not every meal is Thanksgiving,” adds a cheeky eleven year-old.

In the plus column, now that I’m limited to potted meats and Pour-a-Quiche, I’ll have plenty of time for Rosamunde Portsmouth, the heroine of my forthcoming series of novels. I haven’t decided what she does, besides a lot of unapologetic staying out late and then working in an office, where she often arrives rumpled. Very glam. She does NOT like to be called Roz!