ebookCustom_How to be a writer with cover -

Dr. Lant Passed Away April 16, 2023

How to be a writer who makes money, flies high, and dazzles the folks back home. O yeah!

Contents
Preface / Introduction 3
Chapter 1 Of scribblers. Our obsessions and our unending need for you. 5
Chapter 2 ‘I’ve been workin’ on my rewrite, that’s right.’ An open letter to a young friend who wants to be a scribbler. 8
Chapter 3 An appreciation of Holly Hickler, master teacher, poet, her love affair with words, dead at 88. 11
Resource 13
About the Author 13
SPECIAL WRITERS SECRETS CATALOG 14

Preface / Introduction
From the scribblers at www.writerssecrets.com
‘How to be a writer who makes money, flies high, and dazzles the folks back home. Oh, yeah!” By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s Program Note.
Welcome! Fellow Scribbler!
You are about to join the hundreds of thousands of smart folks worldwide who have read these chapters, and upon such reading jumped up and down shouting, “Eureka!” (You speak Ancient Greek of course).
Well, you’ve found the folks who can help you write your way up and out … and if that doesn’t call for a dram or two I don’t know what does.
So, bottoms up, skol, here’s mud in your eye, baby, you are in the right place… now don’t blow it. Your ship has come in… Don’t miss t.
Wow! It’s FREE!
We’re giving you this incredibly valuable e-book for FREE because we’re seriously looking for really smart, talented, kick a–s people of any age, station, nationality or salsa preference; people, let’s be honest, who will make us laugh and carry on in the most appalling, irritating manner imaginable; perfected over a lifetime; taken to the stratosphere right here.
Pookie, could that be yawl?
This masterpiece is divided into three parts, each one focusing on a particular aspect of the writer’s weird and wonderful life, understandable only to writers and artists of each and every kind, for writers are a nuclear explosion of words, more words, the most words of all, the right words, the may-a-bird- of-paradise-fly-up-your-nose words that confuse, confound, and complicate for no other reason that we are fundamentally anti-social and infrequently bathed and love talking over the heads of people born to worship and venerate us. That is always a hoot.
But before we go on, I’ve chosen some hot dog butt-waggling music for this inimitable e-book. It’s called “L’Edition Speciale”, and it’s a mixture of Nashville honky tonk and Parisian, get out mah face, and that always satisfying put-down’ “you just don’t get it, sweet cheeks.”
It was composed by Francis Cadrel (born 1953) and appeared in “Broadcast News.” (1987); the film which ended in such banal fashion, it was brilliant. “L’Edition Speciale.” It’s packed with at-ti-tude. Write to it! Soar to it! Summon the words to it and dazzle with it!
As you hear the wicked cool francais filling this screen you just know that Cabrel drinks cheap vino, chases bad news girls who use too many blush strokes. Oh, yeah, and has a dumb amigo named Buck, who will salivate on you if you’re not careful. I like him tres bien. I tres bien them all. Now let’s dig into the serious words I’m giving you FREE! FREE! FREE! “You’ll thank me, dude, and that’s a fact.
The Countess of Longford

Chapter 1 takes you inside the book conglomerate of the aristocratic Longfords
where virtually every member is a bestselling author. I wanted to know how they
did it. And so I asked for the privilege of dropping by for a chat. When I
called, the Earl of Longford picked up the phone. “Elizabeth’s in the loo,”
and in an hour I was sitting in the London drawing room of this most charming
and shrewd of women, who gave me the best advice on writing and
becoming a “scribbler”, the highest award. Now I’m passing this advice
on to you.

Chapter 2 “I’m working on my re-write.”

Face this fact squarely and at once. You are not going to sit down and
write word-perfect copy. It ain’t gonna happen. What will happen is that
you will write, re-write, re-write, then write some more and re-write,
re-write. That’s why Paul Simon’s trenchant description of the
re-writer’s life is so timely. Serious writers will read this chapter and
bite the bullet of absolute necessity. They’re on the right track.
And as for those who don’t read this chapter carefully and implement it
at once, then Simon’s acidic lyrics are for you. Listen carefully. They
were written for you.

Chapter 3. The sad lesson of Holly Hickler.

Read this chapter and get enraged, because this is a chapter
about how one writer got terrible advice about writing, and so spent
a long lifetime wanting to write, but never writing. To ensure this
doesn’t happen to you, read this, read, and then start writing. Poor
Holly didn’t have the benefit of my expertise, but you do! And this
chapter will connect us and get you going, making sure that Holly’s
barren example stays before you at all times.

Now get started.

“Allez, salud bonsoir.” We are holding the presses for your Special Edition…
but not for long.

How to be a writer who makes money, flies high, and dazzles the folks back home. Oh, yeah!”
Chapter 1 Of scribblers. Our obsessions and our unending need for you.
By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note. This is an article about writers, our idiosyncrasies and distinct peculiarities, our need for empathy…; for your ear… and, always, for your eye and deft delivered honesty.

I have been a published author now for nearly 60 years, and I know the labor pains that stop you in your tracks and force you to pay heed to the miracle of creation. It is often inconvenient, frustrating even humiliating, frequently maddening but, oh, on the days when all the myriad of necessary elements arise to bring forth just the right words, the moving words you live for, there is nothing more glorious… those are the days we “scribblers” live for…

… and this article is designed to help you get more… and more… of them.

The scribbling countess.

Countesses are thin on the ground in Midwestern America. In fact, I saw nary a single one in my formative years in Eisenhower’s Illinois. But thanks to the wonder of books I knew everything a curious boy needs to know about such exotics… and therefore I was not abashed when Elizabeth, Countess of Longford, wife of the 7th Earl, received me at her London pied a terre.

I had written to her, internationally known author that she was, because I was then working on my first book, on the Court of Queen Victoria, and the staff at Windsor Castle had rather indiscreetly disclosed Lady Longford had, whilst working on her best-selling biography of Queen Victoria, seen a particular box of the queen’s papers I found so valuable (all unpublished) but had not opened the box, leaving it she later laughed, for me…

… charming of course… though the real reason was because she was at the end of her research and wanted no more documents… and besides was dressed to the nines for some evening soiree; the box was dirty, dusty, a distinct challenge for the lady’s white gloves. And so historical fact gave way to the necessities of perfect presentation. I liked her at once… especially when she called her renowned family of writers, with skill and craft abundant in each succeeding generation, the “scribblers.” I knew when she said it that I wanted to spend my life scribbling, too, in the grand tradition, of course… literate countesses with high-sounding names and smiles that promised wicked revelations always welcome…

Young people, enthusiastic teacher, late passerby.

What made me think of Lady Longford and all the other portions of this article was a scene caught out of the corner of my eye on election day, November 8, 2011. I was en route to my yearly eye examination, a necessity for every card-carrying diabetic who, like me, must closely calibrate the creep of age by the waning of visual clarity. Such visits are not negotiable, for you cannot negotiate with aging. My driver Mr. Joseph pulled into his usual spot in front of the Agassiz School on Sacramento Street in Cambridge, where I leapt out. I told him I needed just 6 minutes since there were no pressing issues amongst the sleepy electorate and therefore no turn-out.

But when one is as clear as I was about the time required, fate was duty-bound to trip me up… and so it did.

The school uses election days to hold cash-raising bake sales… and I had never stopped before to look. This day I did. An enthusiastic teacher was half minding the “shop’ which had no other customers than me while telling the 15 students, all about 14, how to describe the tree pictured in a poster on the wall. He was teaching them to perceive… and to write not just what their eyes saw but what their imagination saw, a very different thing.

Having voted, I returned as I had never done, not to purchase (though I did) but to listen for an instant to their teacher, fully engaged with his important subject, and eliciting a barrage of the bright chatter that characterizes early adolescents hereabouts. (every one, parents would aver, Ivy material)… and in a minute, as I moved slowly up the stairs in a school landscape that could have been anywhere America, I began to teach that class and share with them as her ladyship had shared with me.

Don’t just look, see. Don’t just tell, imagine.

I set up shop, the teacher having been transformed into helper. My tools included a podium, a copy of Joyce Kilmer’s signature poem “Trees”, and Paul Robson’s stirring rendition of the poem with music by Oscar Rasbach (1888-1975). It was first released in 1922, just 4 years after the poet was killed in World War I, aged just 31. Robson’s moving version followed in 1939…

I asked my class to listen carefully to Robson’s take (one of many fine renditions), and so I am now asking you to go to any search engine and listen carefully. You are about to go on a journey into another age of simpler values and where these venerated words would force an involuntary sob… man or woman… Everyone understood why and was glad to see, relieved they could show their fond hearts, too.

“Trees”, published 1914.

“I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree….

A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray….

Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.”

Before writing, read.

One of the most important things for writers of any age is to both read your own words aloud, then have others read them aloud to you.

Thus, in my imaginary class, students would be encouraged to read aloud to their families, teacher, peers… and to ignore the taunts and gibes of the less enlightened for whom a special cycle of Dante’s hell exists.

And then, having written, to let others read from their works. Both exercises mandatory, not a luxury but an essential aspect of your craft.

All writers must develop a sense of rhythm, of cadence, of how to manipulate and train the human voice to draw forth from readers the precise degree of response required. Writers are magicians and the apt mixing of words their special alchemy, the more master of your skill, the more potent the results.

Understanding, refining, scrutinizing, impacting.

All writers must read more than they write. And they must learn the art of intelligent discernment, of how to find and use words to maximum advantage. They must learn this necessary skill by reviewing the words and works of other writers… and, always, by reviewing their own.

They must learn, for instance, to look beyond the surface and received reputation of a work like “Trees”… to see what is clumsy and doesn’t work, and what is sublime and piercing. That can only be done by careful study… and time… and by being the teacher every writer must become; a teacher of himself and a teacher of others.

And so, I should set as my assignment to the eager students of my imagining the task of writing — and then reading to us all — their own poem or essay under the title “Trees” inspired by Kilmer and Rasbach but the result owing everything to the writer, no fool at all, but the very voice of man and God.

Chapter 2 ‘I’ve been workin’ on my rewrite, that’s right.’ An open letter to a young friend who wants to be a scribbler.
By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note. I saw the way you looked at that photo of me on the back of my first book. I looked so young, well-scrubbed, brushed and combed, so smart with a dollop of profound sensitivity about the mouth, supposing I was ready for anything, not even knowing the questions needing to be answered, much less the answers themselves. ‘ While your father, who is the best friend you’ll ever have in this world (just help him show you) uttered the expected pleasantries to ascertain how I was faring on Spaceship Earth and what mischief I was bringing to the world these days, I really looked at you in that disconcerting way I have. Your eyes, that fleeting look offered nothing less than the first real confession of your young life. And it was nothing less than a revelation and best kept under cerebral lock and key for infrequent reminding.

You saw that picture of me and understood, if only for a minute, that I had once been as young as you are today, as young and determined, fortified by ardor and bold audacity. You saw me… and thought about yourself, as one does. It was no longer my photo on that cover… it was yours and the magic of the photographer’s craft mixed with the total fire power you packed into that glance made for an image to make the indolent world sit up and take notice. You had arrived… you were ready to astonish and awe… you had something to say and the words to say it… and were determined the world should hear it.

And then you heard your so decent, ever practical father say, “Look at the electrical outlets, son. Dr. Lant was just telling me they’re solid gold.”, and he gave one of them a good smart tap reiterating the words to ensure you understood what he’d said. Words per se might mean nothing to your dad, but words that produced the dazzling ostentation of gold electrical outlets were well worth the understanding. The man who could throw away good money on self-indulgent lavishness was a man worth knowing, and that’s a fact. And so I was…

…and so I did what folks blessed with the riches of knowledge must do to justify their existence… they must share, and not just insipid platitudes either, but as much naked, undeniable truth as their youthful auditor can stand, and even more.

For in such a conversation we elders transfer our civilization and learned achievements to the only people who matter at such a time, our successors; the people we must instruct or lose the best of who we are. And so I, notoriously brusque and impatient. resolve to speak to you slowly, with care and thoughtful consideration, but mostly and above all else with the unvarnished truth, so help me, God.

A curriculum for young scribblers, things no one but a successful writer can tell you.

Every word in this intimate and necessary epistle between the present and the future which will, and all too soon, be the present some day, is vital. Every word is honest and such may disconcert and even affront you and your painfully young and ill-informed ideas. We must both understand that I know far more than you do; a thought you might not like or even acknowledge…

… this could be construed as arrogance and crippling conceit… on your part. It is certainly insensitive. Still we must both recognize that there is an urgency about our need to understand each other and a deep fear almost palpable, that I (or any writer of my generation) shall forget to tell you something of significance or, worse, that having told you something of such significance, you will not heed it, to the detriment of each generation’s master plan for keeping the whole thing rolling along and of constantly increasing utility and knowledge. I now take this opportunity to introduce you to another writer, brilliant lyricist, heart touching songster, a master poet, hence meticulous word handler. His name is Paul Simon (born 1947), and if you are round about my age (67 this year) you would have grown up with his shibboleths, whimsies, condescensions, cleverness, never convenient truths, admonitions, larks and bombastic, hummable moralistic rages all just a radio dial away, always master of the searing truth so difficult for so many to see and acknowledge, but critical if we are ever to inhabit the Promised Land, or even find the direction to it, staying thereafter on the adamant and always challenging path.

Simon’s song “Rewrite” (from the 2011 album “So Beautiful Or So What”) should be required reading (and immediately accessible posting) by every writer, aspiring or otherwise. It is about a young writer who confides in the auditor just what his version of the writer’s craft is all about. “Every minute after midnight, all the time I’m spending/ Is just for workin’ on my rewrite, that’s right/ I’m gonna turn it into cash.”

But Simon knows, and we elder states people of the writer’s craft know, that Simon’s writer is delusional. He’s not a writer, he is a seeker after big bucks. If he can’t conjure what he needs from “where the father has a breakdown”, he’ll do it by substituting “a car chase and a race across the rooftops/ Where the father saves the children and he holds them in his arms. “This isn’t writing.” master stylist and writing pioneer Truman Capote once sniffed. “It’s typewriting,” that is to say bogus, facile, insincere and superficial.

If you’re destined to be a writer, you must do better, lots better, and I am doing you the favor to tell you what that is.

Memorize the dictionary.

Your writing is laboriously assembled and crafted from the words you know. The more words you know and use, the better and more completely you can render human reality… and, make no mistake about it, that is what all writers do, good, bad, or indifferent. We tell what happens to humans… everything that happens; their struggles, their dreams, their aspirations, their love affairs that end in misery, the ones that end in tears and tribulation, the ones that start in love and end in sublimity and awe.

Every word we master and use enables us to tell the more complete and accurate truth about the reality we know and can, in nuanced measure, describe more accurately once we have the words at our command, when we finally understand what love really is and can do.

We can, we must work to do this because it is only when we have the words that we can even attempt to write the whole truth and nothing but the truth…and, it is only when we have truth that writing transcends the mundane and allows us to approach God who is the embodiment of truth and the ultimate destination of every writer whatever story he tells.

On your dawning love affair with words… and the truth they reveal and convey.

How many words do you know today? To the extent to which you mean to write, the correct answer is “too few, far too few.” This is not merely a fact; it is a declaration of immediate commitment and lifelong purpose. If you mean to write, you must here and now pledge yourself to words, for only then can you succeed in achieving your objective.

Thus, pledge yourself to learning just three new words every day. “Just that?”, you say Yes, just that, which means just this.

Open the dictionary (whether online or off; I use both).

Take a 3″x5″ card and write the word you have decided to embrace.

Put it on your tongue, taste it, savor it with the understanding that if you can incorporate it into your very essence you will be a better person, a smarter person, a person with yet another puissant tool, the better to achieve your objective, and ultimately your grand goal. This is how you craft yourself. This is what you must do to be the world-changing eminence you can become… leaving the rest behind, those who might have been but without such effort they will never be.

Now use the word in a sentence or two. Do not just have the word, employ the word. The actual word and its part of speech should go on one side of the card; its definition on the reverse. These are now your flash cards. Treat them with the importance they deserve.

You have now taken the first step. You have told yourself what you mean to do… and you have begun to do it. Now continue. If this is your avocation, your mission, then do it, and it must become your destiny.

Envoi.

Too often Paul Simon has come across as sanctimonious, condescending, hectoring, superior, aloof and dismissive, but not in this song or this album, to which I listened with the felicity of an open mind and ear. Now in his late sixties, he sounds like an engaging and completely charming adolescent, and for that I say, ” ‘Thank you/ I’d no idea that you were there’ pleased to meet you’ “. Go to any search engine and listen to him all over again.

Chapter 3 An appreciation of Holly Hickler, master teacher, poet, her love affair with words, dead at 88.

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note. This is a story about words and a woman who understood the power of words properly used to motivate adolescents, some of the toughest customers on earth. It is the story of Holly Hickler, proud to be a teacher, exhilarated by the challenges of her profession, a model to the less committed, who are legion.

Words, words, and ocean of words.

If you are a word person (as I confess I am) you will be sad upon reading this article that you never knew Holly Hickler. The minute I read her obituary in The Boston Globe (July 31, 2011), I was so saddened… I wanted to know her… and I wanted the world to know her, too. Words, you see, even words in an obituary, can make you feel so; words can do anything, convey anything, rouse anything, exult anything, change anything, remove anything, love anything, revolt anything…

… but you must know the words, have them not just in your head, but in your fingertips; words must be your constant companions. They must intrigue you, mystify you, bring you to your knees with grief, carry your prayers to God, and then, doubling back, conjure love from indifference… then ask your too late mate when she will be home for dinner.

Holly Hickler loved words, every word; she loved the sound of them, the textures, the complicated words and the simple words which proved upon reflection to be the most complicated of all: heaven, love, death, God, forever.

Mischievous, this mother could with laughter and purpose confound her children by reciting at any time or place a sprig of Frost on an autumn day:

“”Summer was past and the day was past. Sombre clouds in the west were massed. Out on the porch’s sagging floor Leaves got up in a coil and hissed….”

(from “Bereft” by Robert Frost, 1874-1963)

Or this written by Gerard Manly Hopkins (1844-1889) in 1877, but not published until 1918.

“GLORY be to God for dappled things — For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow: For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings:…”

(from the poem “Pied Beauty”).

Poems like these, even simple seeming Frost, are hard to read… harder to understand… and that would have suited Mrs. Hickler just fine. Such words, in such order, forced the surly, withdrawn, moody, often aggravating adolescents (either school delivered or borne by her) to stop, read the words clearly, sharply, for words must be heard; then look up the definitions… recite them again with greater clarity both of recitation and of meaning… then again and again, transforming brain cells into repositories of words, to be yours forever, shared only when you wish to touch a human heart or uplift, if only for a minute, some weary passerby in need of the comfort of the right word right delivered.

Her life.

Born Helen, in Philadelphia, her mother, Jean Miller Schloss, was fashion coordinator for Gimbels Department Store, and her father Edwin Schloss, a cellist who played chamber music with members of the Philadelphia Orchestra. It was a home of culture, the arts, and of sensitivities to music… literature… and, always, to words.

After graduating from the University of Pennsylvania in 1945 with a major in English, she worked on women’s magazines and publishing for a time and interviewed authors on television in New York City. Unfortunately (and tellingly) her greatest achievement in these years was not the stunning prose she wrote and published (for she did neither), but rather the fact she survived the crash of a B-25 aircraft which plunged into the Empire State Building in July, 1945 while she was working. But she survived…

In 1946, she married Courtland Yardley White III, her former writing professor. They had twins, Peter and Kate. Mr. White died of tuberculosis in January, 1950. That September she married Frederick Dunlap Hickler, an architect. They had three children. When their oldest child left for college, Mrs. Hickler started teaching at the progressive Cambridge School of Weston, Massachusetts. Here her vocation for teaching became evident to all.

Sympathetic, loving, strict standards.

Unwary students often misread Mrs. Hickler’s educational approach, to their peril. She was kind, empathetic, even loving towards her students, but this did not mean any diminution of the high standards she expected students to meet. As Bonny Musinsky, a fellow teacher at the school for 17 years, said, “when it comes to grading, she was no push-over. If they didn’t measure up — with all her love and caring — she would give them a C.”

The writer’s eye.

Writers are a probing, observant, perceptive, invasive kind of people. They never merely glance and are the masters of minute detail and of actually seeing a thing. No one can write effective prose without these skills. Mrs. Hickler made it a point to foster this ability which she used to good effect in her 1981 book co-authored with Cambridge psychiatrist John Mack. It was titled “Vivienne: The Life and Suicide of an Adolescent Girl”, and focused on the impersonal attitude of teachers in meeting the needs of teen-agers. No one ever accused Mrs. Hickler of such misunderstanding and dereliction and that is why she was such an effective, impacting, and always memorable instructor.

Writer’s block.

I can guess, but cannot confirm, that one of the great sadnesses of this productive life was her own difficulties with writing words and slender published oeuvre. It must have been maddening, discouraging, irritating at the very least. So much so, that at age 75 she took a class to overcome writer’s block. In due course, she wrote again. It was prose remembers Deborah Carr of Wellesley, a member of the group, about her “youth in an artsy, intellectual family in Philadelphia which she told in a voice that sounded as young as Holly was at heart.” Unfortunately, it was not published… but this article, which will be read by thousands, will help keep green the memory of Holly Hickler, and her message that words matter, good writing matters, and that both are essential in the complicated business of human communication.

Infuriatingly, this is something far too many school districts have not grasped, which is one reason SAT reading scores have sunk to a record low with the class of 2011. In this connection, Wayne Camara, College Board vice president of research, mused, “We’re looking and wondering if more efforts in English and reading and writing would benefit students.”

Having read this article, just what do you think Holly Hickler’s resounding response would have been? Or what yours should be, now that she has gone?

Then go to any search engine to find the recording by the Chamber Orchestra of Philadelphia of Tshaikovsky’s Variations on a Roccoco Theme. Holly would have loved it…. and so will you.

Resource
About the Author

Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Multi-award winner Dr. Jeffrey Lant is now approaching his 69th birthday. He is, he likes to say, in the prime of his prime. Thus does the “scribbling” life he commenced at age 5 continue. Twenty books. Thousands of articles. Untold radio and television programs; worldwide recognition and enthusiasm, all of which culminated in the publication of his autobiography, “A Connoisseur’s Journey, being the artful memoirs of a man of wit, discernment, pluck and joy”. It was a book that screamed “classic!”, and he has delighted in the many awards that followed.

To get your copy go to www.drjeffreylant.com. You will also want to join his Future guaranteed Millionaires Club and learn from this master communicator and educator just how you master the art of writing and profit. www.drjeffreylant.com.
Patrice Porter
Site Manager
Phone 1(306)469-5741 Central Standard Time

SPECIAL WRITERS SECRETS CATALOG
“A Connoisseur’s Journey: Being the artful memoirs of a man of wit, discernment, pluck, and joy”
A multi-awards winning, gloriously written and unique memoir by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.
Awarded FIRST in Class at Southern California Book Festival.
FIRST in Class Great Southwest Book Festival
FIRST in Class Great Southeast Book Festival
SECOND in Class at the Great Midwest Book Festival.
SECOND in Class Great Northwest Book Festival
THIRD in Class at the London (England) Book Festival.
THIRD in Class at the New England Book Fare.
THIRD in Class at the Paris France Book Festival

Dr. Lant also was awarded a Lifetime Achievement Award with a focus on “A Connoisseur’s Journey” with this citation.
“Dr. Jeffrey Lant. On behalf of the citizens of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, I congratulate you on the release of your Memoir, ‘A Connoisseur’s Journey’. Your work is a groundbreaking experiment into the use of musical citations in literature, adding depth and nuance to the reading experience.”
(signed) Charles D. Baker, Governor and Karyn E.Polito, Lieutenant Governor
“A Connoisseur’s Journey” available at: http://writerssecrets.co/products/a-connoisseurs-journey-being-the-artful-memoirs-of-a-man-of-wit-discernment-pluck-and-joy

Treasures From The Lant Collection Series
– One of the most personal book ever written on art, artifacts,
auctions, conservators, and the great yarns that constitute the better part of provenance.
– Written by a man who has been privileged to visit many of the world’s great museums.
– A man who has had an interested in arts, its attributions, conservations, and sheer beauties since he was a young boy.
– What was written here is the result of constant exploration, research, gut hunches, and downright blind luck.
Dr. Lant can honestly say he has enjoyed every
moment in his quest to find not just objects of beauty, but objects of history, often fleshed out by himself, who is, after all, a history Ph.D. from Harvard.

What follows will sure to delight you.
Found in the Kindle Store at Amazon.com

Insubstantial Pageant: Ceremony and Confusion at Queen Victoria’s Court by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
269 pages
Both Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Charles read and liked “Insubstantial Pageant” and found it to be a very interesting book indeed especially since it was written by an American.
The author Dr. Jeffrey Lant was given unique access to the Royal Archive at Windsor Castle for his research of the material contained in this book.
A book that has always been and remains to be the most detailed book about the British Royal Events.
Throughout the reign of Queen Victoria, confusion and uncertainty marked the great ceremonials of the English Court. The young sovereign was, at her Coronation, recalled from refreshments to complete the service because a significant part of the ritual had been left out.
During her wedding, her bridegroom, Prince Albert, was wracked by nervous embarrassment about what he was supposed to do, while at the marriage of sir son the Prince of Wales troopers with drawn sabres charged into milling crowds and titled guests elbowed each other for a place.
As the Court’s at first limited ceremonies grew during the nineteenth century into great national pageants matters did not improve, exacerbating the situation after the Prince consort’s death was the Queen’s rooted position to display and royal pomp which gave her officials no chance to gain efficiency in organizing ceremonial. Matters came to a head in 1887, at the greatest royal pageant since the Coronation: the Queen’s Golden Jubilee had to be pulled together from scratch, in circumstances of the utmost dedication.
The next great royal event, the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee ten years later, had precedents to draw on and things went so much better that optimists thought the additional muddle had been laid to rest forever. Their expectations were confounded at the arrangement of Queen Victoria’s funeral, an event which in many respects converted to the traditional disorder.
In this remarkable book, Jeffrey L. Lant sees behind the scenes to set out in rich detail how great Victorian royal events developed. Drawn from a wide range of previously unpublished sources, the final result is a perceptive and rollicking piece of crucial history, which many of those involved might have hoped would go unrecorded, authoritative and thorough, this book will fascinate all who have ever marveled at the impressive discretion of Court officials.
Available at: http://writerssecrets.co/products/insubstantial-pageant-ceremony-confusion-at-queen-victorias-court

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