ELIZABETH MUELLER interviewed at MEILORI'S by OSCAR WILDE!

http://elizabethmueller.blogspot.com/

It was the witching hour at Meilori’s. The shadows flirted with the dim shapes of the customers at their tables as if the Night were somehow trying to seduce them.

Elizabeth Mueller sat erect and watchful, her author’s eyes studying every facial expression and social interaction for future use. “This is quite a place.”

To my right, Samuel McCord smiled. “No harm will come to you at my table, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Just Elizabeth,” she smiled, then jerked in shock as a tall man in Victorian evening clothes sat down beside her to elegantly kiss her hand.

“Oscar Wilde at your service,” he beamed.

“Hey, Oscar, this is my interview,” I began.

He carelessly waved at me, then turned to Elizabeth. “Do not mind Roland. He is really not so ugly after all, provided, of course, that one shuts one's eyes, and does not look at him.”

Sam sighed, “This is an interview with Miss Mueller about HER book.”

Oscar nodded, “Of course that is why I came … to do it correctly.”

He smiled at Elizabeth. “Be not alarmed. We are but the zanies of sorrow. We are clowns whose hearts are broken.”

Oscar sighed, “When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens, there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul?”

His blue eyes fixed on Elizabeth. “Growing up, my dear, what were your hobbies? And why on Earth did you include writing?”

“Ah, as a young child, I spent a lot of my time roller-skating around my neighborhood with my friends. We did tons of dramatic pretending that carried over a timeframe of weeks!”

“Really? I am somewhat of a playwright myself. What else?”

“I also enjoyed telling stories with paper puppets I made, with Barbie or My Little Pony, or through daydreaming. Most of all, I loved drawing—still do. I drew stories on 24X18 inch sheets of paper until the pile grew into an inch thick.”

Oscar looked into the shadows. “Art finds her own perfection within, and not outside of herself. She is not to be judged by any external standard of resemblance. She is a veil, rather than a mirror.”

Elizabeth patted his hand gently, and he smiled down on her. “Do you remember your own writing process? Did you ever get discouraged like I so often do?”

Elizabeth said, “My process consisted of letting loose my muse. She led me into every which direction that gave me the freedom to do anything I wanted on paper. The only time I became discouraged was when I wrote my first short story and showed it to my sister. I was devastated because, rather than share her enthusiasm for such a fantastic story, she put on her editor’s cap and scribbled away—I was only 11!”

Oscar nodded. “The most destructive critics are those closest to you. Still, how have you changed over the years from the first time you wrote a book? How have you stayed the same?”

“My plot development has deepened as well as my characters, and of course, my grammatical skills have matured, too. My first full-length novel is poetic prose because that was what I got into in high school. I’ve stayed the same as in that the magic for writing has never died for me!”

Oscar studied her closely. “Art is a symbol because Man is a symbol. In a strange twilight, man is seeking for himself, and when he has found his own image, he cannot understand it. In what genre are you seeking yours?”

Elizabeth paused a moment then said, “In what they call Young Adult. I didn’t start paying attention to YA until 6 years ago when a good friend of mine explained her reasons:

YA was a whole lot cleaner in a comparative view to adult books. This piqued my interest because it was then that I was tiring of all the explicitness. I kept running into it in adult romance—and I love romance. I want to keep my books clean and worthy for everyone, especially young people.”

Oscar sighed, “Ah, yes, I fear my most scandalous work would prove quite tame these days.”

He laughed. “Speaking of which, I am often compared to my Dorian Gray. Who would you be in your DARKSPELL?”

“Winter Sky would be the character I’d love to live her story through. She faces so many obstacles and incidences that shake her conviction, but she holds tight to her true self and comes out the heroine. I truly admire people who face many awful hardships and still remain strong and faithful.”

Oscar’s sad eyes lit up as he spotted the pages in Elizabeth’s hands. “Oh, your book! May I read a passage aloud?”

“I- I would be honored.”

In his rich Irish baritone, Oscar read :

“Alex reached out and took my hands. A spark of magic passed between us. I didn’t resist, and his gaze deepened. Another wave tore through me, and I felt his powerful drive to protect me and the desire to share the rest of his life with me. I could see forever. Eternity was wide and deep.

I would never be alone again.

Having tasted Alex so strongly, so close, so dear, left me empty; a starving sensation that could only be filled by him. I had no idea he felt so intensely for me. His love washed away all doubt from me.

I leaned into Alex as my world spun fast on a crooked axis. I breathed him in. I was intoxicated with his burning hold. I was so alive. Every sound was louder; the wind richer as it flowed through me. I was so free, so alive, so untainted by any wicked thing. I closed my eyes, shivering with desire, and imagined the breeze encircling us; bringing us to our feet and drawing us closer like a child’s ribbon.”

Oscar suddenly sprang up, the typed pages clutched against his chest.

“What are you doing?,” cried Elizabeth.

“Why, I’m stealing your delightful words. Shaw did it to me all the time.”

“You can’t do this!,” she shouted at his retreating figure.

She turned to me. “C-Can he?”

A flurry of stardust settled on the table, forming into a book entitled, DARKSPELL by Oscar Wilde.

As Elizabeth let out a sharp “Yeep,” Samuel chuckled, “Oscar’s just funning with you, ma’am.”

Elizabeth poked a forefinger into the book. “This is not funning. This is criminal!”

She shot to her feet. “This has been the most infuriating interview I have ever had!”

Father Renfield appeared at her side. “I will personally see that not one of those purloined volumes leaves Meilori’s.”

Elizabeth relaxed. “I feel better hearing that, Father.”

Renfield smiled wide, exposing his long, sharp canines. “Call me Padre.”

Elizabeth hushed, “A vampire priest? I am so out of here!”

Victor Standish, settling into her empty chair as Elizabeth fled Meilori’s, flashed his gypsy smile. “Another satisfied customer.”

Samuel cocked an eyebrow. “You think?”

Victor laughed, “No.”

I groaned. Life with my creations was going to be the death of me. I rose to catch up to Elizabeth and apologize.