Too busy!

Too much, I cry; too much! There's fabulous weather

begging me to go for walks, my garden to enjoy, people to see, Wimbledon (and if you are of the football persuasion, World Cup) to watch.

I signed a contract last week with Sapphire Blue publishing for my book Shadows, so e-mails are whizzing back and forth on that topic. Shadows has changed since it's brief exposure with the now defunct Triskelion. I've rewritten it from beginning to end and added 20,000 to improve the characterisation and motivation of the story. It's definitely a much better book than it was.

At the same time I'm making new contacts through the electronic world, receiving reviews for my last book and joining new blog groups. If you haven't discovered it yet, do have a peek at Historical Belles and Beaus. (The longer I look at that last word, the more I am tempted to write it as Beaux. And if you hurry, my post on Anne Boleyn is the most recent).

As for my poor old wip, editing has stalled at around Chapter 16.

This is the third day in a row that I've not got to it and I'm feeling so guilty. I also know that I have only a certain number of days before I go on holiday and I'd hoped to have it finished before then so that I could settle down and write - ha! ha! - wait for it! a romance for the Mills & Boon competition that kicks off around September.

Mills and Boon and I do not gell. I am continually told in rejection letters that (though my writing is fine etc) I don't have enough internal conflict.

I think because my Matho story is at an end (except for the editing, which OK, demands a lot of layering and thought) my subconcious is sort of freewheeling, if I can put it like that. It noted the M&B competition, and has been offering me tantalising bits of plot that I could use if I was willing to put in the time and energy - and if I think I have a better understanding of what they want when they talk about internal conflict. To be frank, initially I used to think of it as whingeing. Heroine wrings hands and wonders what to do in difficult situation. Now I have learned it is far more than that, and I think I could actually manage it now. It also seemed an ideal new venture to think about while I'm relaxing in France.

The pic shows Hexham market place on a brilliant sunny day. The close up is one of the more intriguing memorials around Hexham. No explanation. But why would someone go to the expense of having a memorial stone carved that says only Blood and Fire?

Must go - the Queen is arriving at Wimbledon! Must watch!

Caithness, Culloden and friends

We stayed in the hotel but my sister-in-law and family stayed in Scrabster - perhaps I should say above Scrabster - a lovely house perched on the highest, windiest cliff overlooking the harbour and out across Dunnet Bay. As we drove in and out of Scrabster we looked across the fields towards the Orkneys. It was fascinating because every time we passed by, the quality of the light was different. Sometimes the islands were invisible behind a wall of mist, sometimes they were sharp and clear.

The picture shows a medium clear day.

The day we drove south towards home was brilliant sunshine, too. We stopped off at Culloden. On the right is a picture of the battlefield, with a view across the Moray Firth to Ben Wyvis with patches of snow still clinging to the slopes. People tell me that the battlefield is a dour, atmospheric place, but on this day, in bright, breezy sunshine it was hard to conjure up any idea of a battle. There were more people in the Visitor Centre buying, eating, viewing the exhibits than doing the battlefield walk. We walked through the Centre and ate a scone and drank coffee on the back terrace, looking south. A farmer was busy ploughing. Seagulls scavened behind him.

On a rainy winter's day it may very well look and feel different.

Or it may be that people's imagination provides the emtional response - or the emotional response provides the atmosphere.

What do I remember of my first visit to Caithness? The flatness, the stone fences, and the wind. Gorse in bloom. Warm, friendly people who claim to be Wickers, ie from Wick, and have no truck with Gaelic and Jacobite woes. These people claim their heritage from the Norsemen, and are proud not to be of any clan.

Touring the delightful Castle of Mey and hearing stories of life as lived by The Queen Mother. Dinner parties that went on so late that she earned the nickname Midnight Moll. Her menu reminders, handwritten in French, propped up at her place at the dinner table, a kitsch Nessie touring around the top of the sixteenth century tapestry in the drawing room. Yes, I'd love the castle to be mine - but could I afford the central heating? Probably not.

Will I return to Caithness? Yes, I think so. We made some friends, have an invitation to go back and the place itself grew on me. So much still to see and explore.