Wednesday, January 18, 2012

The Diary of Lady Eve Marlowe comes to Italy

Texting...emails...smart phones...with all the digital footprints taking up our time these days,does anyone keep a handwritten diary?

I've always enjoyed novels where diaries take centerstage and the reader has the opportunity to read over the heroine's shoulder and sneak a peek into her private thoughts.

These days it's called "twittering."

I find it interesting that Harlequin Italy is reissuing my diary novel, Cleopatra's Perfume, in a "3-in-1" novel package this month called ISTINTO DI PIACERE (Instinct of Pleasure). 

Cleopatra's Perfume features a diary written by a titled Englishwoman and how she became a spy for British Intelligence during World War II.

She also has a secret--she's not British after all, but...oh I can't give it away! I couldn't peek into my heroine's diary and spill the hill of beans...never, dahling.

But I will give you a sexy excerpt from Cleopatra's Perfume:

This diary belongs to: Lady Eve Marlowe
London, Mayfair
March 31, 1941

            My life is in danger, but that won't stop me.  I must go to Berlin.  Yes, I know it's dangerous, considering the country is run by a monster marching against the world order and devouring innocents like a dragon spewing fire. He's destroying everything in his path with flames of hatred and prejudice and he may destroy me, but I have no choice. If I fail at my mission I will die, as will others, but I've made preparations for a way out should death come too close to me. One so unbelievable I must write it down, for if I do not, no one will ever know what happened to me and the extraordinary journey I've taken.  No one but you, dear reader. 

          It all began in 1939 when I refused to slip on the somber elegance of a widow's veil, an act I undertook with the same rebelliousness that had ruled my young life. Unwilling, un-virginal, and undaunted by an empty bed I was determined would soon be filled, I set out to find adventure. I was lonely, though at twenty-nine I'd traveled the world and seen its wonders as well as its weaknesses. I'd met my late husband, Lord Marlowe, who was thirty years my senior, years earlier when I was stranded in Cairo after what The London Times society page called "an unfortunate incident with renowned archaeologist Lord Wordley's expedition into the Valley of the Kings," insinuating I'd been on a dig with the famed explorer and his group of posh thrill-seekers. Nothing could be farther from the truth, but I will leave the reality of what happened to later telling. All you need to know is I have a history with Egypt far removed from my peerage as Lady Marlowe.

          I had arrived in the Near East as a girl of twenty in a time when rebellious girls dressed in red satin trunks and short tops and sat at tables in seedy caf├ęs, sipping highballs in squatty glasses with men seated around them, their hungry mouths drawn back in drunken smiles while someone struck the same chords over and over again on an upright piano. I'm not ashamed of what I did during that those wild days of my youth, but nor do I wish to recall them here. So, dear reader, whoever you are, be assured I knew what to expect when the liner stopped for stevedoring in Port Said and I disembarked from the ship.  Known as a city of sin, rice and women are its main commodities.  Port Said harbors a white slave trade flourishing in its hidden places, bars, and houses where young girls languish and perish under the thumbs of men.

          I also discovered another secret in this city at the entrance to the Suez Canal, how a woman can forget her loneliness and indulge in the most delicious sexual adventures, so decadent I bring myself close to orgasm thinking about it, my pen shaking as I lay it down and unbutton my white silk, wide-leg trousers and insert my fingers inside me and stroked myself… panting, hanging in anticipation of what I know will come if I continue rubbing the hard ridge inside me, my body gyrating in time with the movements of my fingers as I circle my clitoris.  I open my legs wider to allow my fingers easier access…




Which brings me back to my original question: Diaries. Does anyone here keep a handwritten diary? Did you in high school or college?

Better yet, do you still have it? Willing to share? We want details, juicy details...

4 comments:

Callie Croix said...

Well, that naughty minx :)

I kept a diary back in my teens, but stopped when my sister found and read it. I felt totally violated, lol.

Jina Bacarr said...

Thanks, Callie. It's interesting how when we write down our innermost thoughts and call it a "diary," we're horrified if anyone reads it.

Yet when we write down our innermost thoughts and call it "fiction," we thrilled when they do read it!

Wynter Daniels said...

Nice! I kept a diary in high school but I must admit - it was pretty boring! Now when I got to college, then things got interesting but I didn't have time to keep the diary anymore. Wish I knew what happened to it.

Jina Bacarr said...

Wynter, so true about when "things get interesting" we don't have the time to keep that diary, esp. a handwritten one.

We're all so used to keyboards it makes me wonder why we don't keep "digital diaries."