How long does a book

How long does a book have to be these days? My understanding when I began this game a decade ago was that the standard Regency romance would be around 70k words but those I have read recently seem to be getting shorter. Is that true or not true? One I read in the last year, by a very famous author, had pages and pages of sex and very little actual story. A little is sort of expected these days but extended pages scream (to me) that the author couldn't think of more story. 

Deadline approaching on latest book but I have no cover for it yet. Tried Shutterstock a couple of times but nothing that suits and since I paid for a set of 5 and still have 2 to take, I won't be looking anywhere else unless I become truly desperate. (Can't break the habits of a lifetime!) Must keep checking!

The pic is of the entry to Prudhoe Castle but this time, looking out. English Heritage held an open day ay on 2nd May and hopefully, this means the castle, which has been closed for several months, has begun a programme of events and open days. 

Book writing work

It's head-down time, no more excuses.
The snow has gone, and though its perishing cold
outside, we're comfortable inside. Sam has gone home, so no distractions there. (Though it is astonishing how many times I catch myself listening for the sound of his paws thumping about the house...)
So, its down to work. Though I may allow housework to distract me for a short while. The carpets are hoovered, the windows (well, one of them) cleaned because a pigeon flew into it trying to dodge a sparrowhawk and in doing so left a football sized mark on the glass.
But really, I must work. Though I should do a little PR for my latest title. Met friends for coffee yesterday and heard how pro-active one of them had been over her latest title. I felt ashamed that I'd done virtually nothing. So I'm thinking of visits to local bookshops and doing a little gentle promoting around the e-groups...and then there's the weekly grocery shop to do this avo or else we starve for the rest of the week.
See how easy it is to avoid doing any actual, bookwriting WORK? I'm a pro at it when I think about it.

Sex sells!

The vanishing snow revealed a dead pigeon, chest-down, wings half folded, in one of our ground cover plants. It has been given a hasty burial. No signs of attack, though we occasionally see a sparrowhawk in the garden.

Watched Rafa's first match in the Australian Open this morning - thank the Lord for red button viewing - and he seems to be almost back to form. I think he has changed his way of moving around the court, and certainly his serve has improved. It may be my imagination, but I see a lot more of the graceful side-steps we associate with Federer in Rafa's approach now.

Splendid party at the weekend to celebrate a neighbour's birthday. Another neighbour reports my book Far After Gold shocked her 82-year-old mother, so now all the other female neighbours are threatening to read it too. As one of the men pointed out, their desire to do so has nothing to do with literary merit, or a beautiful setting, but purely because its "sexy." Howls of derision greeted that remark. I confessed I was glad my mother wasn't alive to read it, for she would undoubtedly have had something to say on the subject.

Dh and I celebrated my being signed off from the Freeman, too. I can do whatever I want now, according to the wonderful Mr Hamilton. Though I have to say it is a strange feeling to sit opposite a man knowing he has had his hands inside my chest and stitched odd bits of me together again. He feels something of a stranger, yet also a good friend.

Now for some work on the wip. Decisions must be made. Am I going to complete the chapter with 1000 words of Meg's encounter with the Dowager, or make everyone wait and follow for that outcome and concentrate instead on Harry's story? I'll ponder that as I pop downstairs and make a lunchtime sandwich.

Both pics are of Prudhoe Castle in winter, just as the snow was arriving.