White Flag
Olivia Snow on Writing, Outlining, and the (he)Art of War
Howdy Folks,
This week we sat down with author, children’s choir director, and theater performer Olivia Snow to chat about all things writing. From her unique origin story—she started writing after having a child, because that child wouldn’t sleep— to her penchant for genre-hopping.
Perhaps most interesting on the craft side of things, we chatted about how characters can come to life in our minds in the sort of inconvenient way that’s too good to ignore but means we have to rewrite thirty thousand words. But my oh my, once you know that character, writing her is like slipping a hand into a glove.
We also talked about Olivia’s instagram account. “I didn’t have social media forever — I kind of fought against it. But if you’re an indie author, you do need to go to social media and start promoting your work. Then I quickly learned I hated doing that. So I started making silly videos that are hopefully relatable to authors.” And boy, are they silly, and the perfect remedy for a late-night-I-should-be-writing-but-I’m-doom-scrolling-instead session. You’ll laugh, you’ll feel seen as a writer, and—hopefully— you’ll get back to work.
Listen here, or wherever fine podcasts are sold.
The White Flag
Olivia Snow
Most prisoners faced the gallows in chains and rags. But I was about to face them in pearls and Brussels lace—for today, unfortunately, was my wedding day.
I pulled at a button on my silk gloves and stared out at the barren trees lining the country road. The lifeless scene reminded me of a gothic novel. Quite fitting, really, for I was currently playing the part of the tragic heroine. The carriage holding me hostage bounced mercilessly over the gravel, which did terribly unladylike things to my stomach.
“Do you suppose, Martha, that if I were to be sick all over this dress, they would cancel the wedding?”
My maid gave me a patient look. She had drawn the unlucky card of accompanying me to the parish church, a task that was, apparently, so repulsive that not even my mother was willing to undertake it.
Martha plucked at her needlework, not bothering to look up. “Not even the Second Coming could cancel this wedding, miss.”
I slouched on the carriage bench, crinkling the French silk of my skirt. She was right, of course. Ever since Papa announced he had made arrangements with the duke, I had devoted myself to increasingly desperate efforts to preserve my freedom. I had tried everything from protests over the breakfast table to locking myself in my room and refusing to eat. But every scheme ended with my father’s same eight words: “You’ll marry the duke, or you’ll die trying.”
Little did he know both were equal in my mind.
“What if I pretend to have a fever?” I mused, pressing my cheek against the cold carriage window. “Or a fainting spell? Does one have to be (con-shuhs) to get married nowadays?”
“They’d likely just wait until you were revived.”
“You’re right. Perhaps if I go missing! They can’t marry me off if I never show up.”
Martha set her needlework on her lap. “If I may ask, miss… what’s so bad about marrying a duke? I thought that’s what young ladies like yourself always dreamed of.”
I raised my eyebrow at her. “Have you ever met a duke, Martha?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“They’re a crusty lot—often wider than they are tall. A brood of old, bitter men who care for nothing but their money and their title. Their wives only have two jobs. First, to produce an heir.”
“And the second?”
“To produce a back-up heir.”
Martha let out a long-suffering sigh. “But surely there are other benefits to such an advantageous marriage. Maybe you’ll end up liking it.”
I sniffed. “You don’t have to coddle me, Martha. I am perfectly capable of facing the enemy on my own. That is, after all, why I chose this dress in particular.”
Martha studied my outfit with pursed lips. “What do you mean, miss?”
“I’m wearing white, of course. And you know what that symbolizes.”
“Purity?” she guessed.
“Surrender,” I corrected. “The minute I walk into the parish, I will be stepping behind enemy lines. And this,” I smoothed my skirt, “is my white flag, announcing to all that I have given up the fight. But don’t you worry, Martha. I shall keep my head held high. There is, after all, a certain grace in yielding with dignity.”
The carriage bumped to a stop, and the stays of my corset suddenly felt far too tight. The church bells were already ringing, reminiscent of the drums of war. The footman opened the carriage door, sending a flood of cold air in. I looked up at the old church and shivered—and not just from the cold breeze of late autumn.
“Miss?” the footman said, holding out his arm for me to take.
But I couldn’t move. My eyes were fixed on the two ancient wooden doors that led to my demise. There was no way to tell who—or what—waited for me on the other side. I had never met the duke in person. There were only rumors, and unsettling ones at that. He was a private man, who kept himself holed up in his northern estate except when summoned for Parliament. Even then, he reportedly never spoke a word. Worst of all, he was supposed to marry my sister. I was the consolation prize, nothing more to him than an asset, one he could easily tuck away into his ledger and forget about.
And I had already had quite enough of that for a lifetime.
Martha placed a gentle hand on my arm. I startled and blinked up at her, and she gave me a reassuring pat.
“Just breath, miss,” she said.
I drew in a bolstering breath. “Right, then. Once more unto the breach.”
I accepted the footman’s hand and stepped out of the carriage. My legs betrayed me, however, wobbling as I made my final march.
Two servants opened the church doors, and a wave of stale air folded itself around me like an omen. There were no sprigs of flowers decorating the parish, no garlands twined around the altar. In his haste to secure the deal, Father had apparently also forgotten to invite any guests. Neither had the duke, for the church was bare save for the priest, my parents, my mother’s ancient aunt who snored loudly in front pew, and two whispering ladies from the literary society who were likely only here to collect gossip for their next meeting.
But I hardly noticed any of it, for my focus was entirely on the man standing in front of the priest. He was decidedly not crusty, and neither wide nor old. Quite the opposite, really. He was tall and classically handsome, with dark hair and a strong jaw. He stood with such exact posture I feared he might be a statue instead of a man. As soon as his eyes met mine, I froze. For instead of offering a smile, or even the courtesy of a nod, he merely looked me over, brief and assessing, before checking his pocketwatch and muttering something to the priest about hurrying things along.
A disbelieving breath escaped my lips, not only at his blatant rudeness, but because I knew that man.
He was the man who was riding his horse at night in the forest two years ago—the night I had run away from home, tears spilling down my cheeks as I sprinted barefoot through the old oaks. The same night that my sister—
I swallowed the unwanted memory down. For clearly this man—who, apparently, was a duke—did not remember me at all.
“Martha,” I whispered to the maid who had shuffled in quietly behind me, “forget everything I said about surrender. I should have worn red, not white.”
The maid’s brow furrowed. “Why’s that, miss?”
I kept my gaze trained on the man at the altar, who had now turned his back to me. “Because, this isn’t the end of the war. It’s only the beginning.”
From the Archives
Inspired by Olivia’s story, check out episode #50: False Bride, for an all-you-can-eat buffet-style offering of nefarious nuptials.
Pen to Paper
Write this week’s story using the framework of a character you’ve created and know well.
White Flag
An all-white flag is universally recognized as a signal of surrender or a desire to parley, and its bearer is, by international custom, immune from harm.