Well, it’s March 6th. This is my anniversary—not of marriage—but of beginning to write a book. I knew from the age of eight that I was supposed to write books; I just didn’t know how.
I have had people ask me whether I regret not getting an English degree and starting writing sooner, instead of <ahem> wasting time on all those science degrees. (Really, people will say anything to someone they see as a Public Figure…) I actually never thought about that for a moment, and in retrospect, the answer is a solid “No”. I use every single thing I know or have learned when I write novels.
And with all due respect to people who do get English degrees, take writing courses, etc… if it helped you write, it was the right thing to do. Speaking personally—I actually have a more or less accidental minor degree in English (I have three: English, Chemistry and Music — you had to have one minor to graduate), and the only two classes in that minor that taught me anything at all useful were the two that required you to actually write something on a regular basis.
( A minor required 26 hours, and as I played in the University Band (where I met Doug, so definitely worthwhile <g>), the Orchestra and the occasional small group (French horns are kind of in demand, because not that many people want to play them), I pretty much had that minor in the bag without doing anything extra. I was planning to go to grad school, though (in Marine Biology) and figured that a Music minor wouldn’t impress anybody—and taking just the required English courses (actually, I tested out of most of them—I mean, what was the point of taking English 101? I learned grammar and how to diagram sentences in the fifth grade (well, frankly, I learned grammar from reading books, but they don’t let you test out of anything in the fifth grade…) gave me an easy second minor, and I did Chemistry for the sake of my resume.)
Then there’s life, of course (cf Doug (and one previous fiance), jobs (the most memorable was a post-doc appointment where my main job was to dissect gannets (HUGE seabirds, with a nearly six-foot wing-span. They eat squid. This means the gannet’s body fat (which stores the various compounds from the food they eat) smells like concentrated essence of Dead Squid, especially when you put it in a drying oven for several days)), marriage, kids, houses, aging parents, births, deaths, and a number of Good Dogs (to say nothing of four horses, twenty-seven rats (don’t ask…) and a turtle who lived in the bathtub for several years.)
So basically, that’s how I prepared to write a book. <g>
Oh—and I started writing OUTLANDER when I turned 35, because Mozart was dead at 36. (On the other hand, he started at three. RIP, Wolfie.)
So—an excerpt from Book Ten (no, I’m not telling you the title just yet), in honor of my anniversary as a novelist:
Excerpt from Book Ten (Untitled), Copyright © 2025 Diana Gabaldon
[This is early in the book, with William conversing with Jamie during their preparations for setting out, expressing some surprise at Jamie’s choosing Roger to manage and defend the Ridge in such controversial times (he’s heard about the incident of Lodge Night, from Ian.)]
“But—I can’t say I know the Reverend MacKenzie well, but he is clearly a—a man of God. You’re sure he’s capable of handling…” William waved a hand toward the narrow window above the bookshelves, indicating the Ridge and all its tenants, crops, servants, animals….
Jamie gave him a faintly amused look.
“Aye, well. At least most o’ the tenants willna think he’s likely to collect a few men and come along by night to set their house ablaze or hang them in their own dooryard.”
“And they think you would?” William blurted.
“They’re no sure I wouldna,” Jamie said bluntly. “Ken this is a new-built house?” He lifted his chin, indicating the massive ceiling beams overhead, the wood raw and yellow, with small fragrant beads of oozing, half-dried sap along the edges. William stared at him.
“Mind, it wasna the tenants who set fire to the last one. It was the neighbors—from Brownsville—who dragged me and my wife out of our home and tried to hang her and deport me to Scotland. But it was some o’ my own tenants who tried to kill me later—in Lodge, no less—” He stopped abruptly, looked at William, then tapped his fingers on the desk; casually, but in a noticeable pattern.
“No,” William said in answer. Papa had explained Freemasonry to him, but had never suggested that he join a Lodge.
Fraser nodded, and went on.
“This was nay more than three years ago [ck dates], ken. I dealt wi’ the matter and there’s been nay bother since. I let some o’ them come back, for the sake of their wives and families—and because Harriett McIlhenny blackmailed me, the conniving auld besom—but those that left are likely still alive, and bear me a black grudge if they are.”
“Why the devil did they want to kill you?” William asked, because it was the only straightforward question he could think of. His head wasn’t exactly spinning, but he could hear the blood beating in his ears.
Fraser looked at him thoughtfully, and his fingers drummed softly on the table—though obviously as an aid to thought, rather than a Masonic identification.
“Lad,” he said finally, “I’m a Highlander and a Papist. And a rebel, twice over. I ken ye know that, but ye maybe dinna ken that there are folk—and not only Englishmen—to whom my existence is a mortal offense.”
“Jesus. And—Mother Claire may be in danger, too—because of you?”
That, strangely enough, made Fraser laugh.
“No, lad,” he said, shaking his head. “She can manage that on her own account. She’s known through all this neck o’ the woods—and a far piece beyond—as a conjure-woman. And to some folk, a healer who can cast folk into a deep sleep, or reach inside them to cure their ailments, is plainly a witch, and ye ken what the Bible says about that.”
“What… you mean ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’?”
“Aye, that.” Fraser raised a thick red eyebrow. “Were ye taught your Bible? I ken neither Lord John nor his brother are what ye’d call godly men.”
“They’re soldiers,” William said shortly.
“So am I, lad,” Fraser said mildly. He stopped, though, and leaned back a little, regarding William thoughtfully.
“Ye dinna like it when I call ye ‘lad,’ do ye? Shall I call ye William? Or Mr. Ransom?” His lips twitched, but the knot between William’s shoulder blades relaxed fractionally.
“William will do.” He was—had been, for weeks—all too conscious of the last time he’d been obliged to ask James Fraser for help. Furious with his own helplessness when Fraser betrayed—he thought—hesitance at his request, he’d snapped, “Don’t bother—I’ll do it myself!”
To which outburst Fraser had replied levelly, “If ye thought ye could, lad, ye’d never have come to me.”
That objective assessment had burned at the time—it burned now, too. But Fraser had been right, then, and he was right now, though sufficiently courteous as not to mention the fact.
William could only hope that things would end better, this time.
[End Section]
Click to visit my Book Ten webpage for information on this book, and to read more excerpts from it.
This excerpt was also posted on my official Facebook page on Friday, Marcj 6, 2025.
An earlier version of this excerpt was posted under the temporary title, “William Will Do,” on September 4, 2023.
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