Requiem

My publisher, Quaestor2000, is closing. Copies in stock will be sold for another month but after that, it’s over. So if anyone wants copies of Far After Gold or Till the Day Go Down, get them now, otherwise they’ll be pulped.

My sympathies lie with Roger Bennett, who began the Quaestor venture. Publishing is harder than people think. Or rather, to make a success, a profit-paying venture, is harder than it might seem. Getting a book printed is easy enough today, but the trick is in selling it. Faced with 500 copies of a title, where do you off-load them?

The big chain booksellers go through their chosen hubs, and select only what they think will sell in multiples. Persuading them to accept a novel from an unknown author is like trying to push a snowball uphill, in my view. Or, they accept politely, and eventually it dawns that nothing is really going to happen. The precious book never appears on their shelves. Or if it does, it's there for one week and then vanishes.

Some people are built for the task of selling their own work and enjoy it, but the mere thought of filling the car boot with copies and touring the countryside as a salesperson fills me with dread.

So, my brief time with paperbacks published and available is soon to be over. I’m sad about it, but console myself with the thought that I still have two e-books available – Banners of Alba and Dark Pool.

And soon I’ll have a contemporary ghost story, Shadows, coming from Sapphire Blue. As with everything else, its Onwards and Upwards and Don't Look Back.

(The pic? Prudhoe Castle in the snow.)

Reviews come in twos

A friend on my critique group told me of another review for Till the Day Go Down in HNR Reviews Issue 52, May 2010.


Mary Seeley concludes "Jen Black writes with great verve and gives us a vivid sense of time and place, with a hero and heroine to cheer for and a grand cast of supporting characters, especially the loyal village lad Matho, Alina's childhood friend."



I cannot give you a link to read the whole thing, as the May issue is not online as yet, but I will.



I'm especially glad Ms Seeley liked Matho, as I've made him the protagonist of my current wip. He gets caught up in the politics of the Scottish court of Mary of Guise in Stirling and only just escapes with his life - he's a much wiser man at the end of his adventures. I'm half-way through a third edit, and soon it will be done, completed, finito, edited and finished. Then it will be on to the next project, which will probably coincide with my holiday in France this year. We missed our holiday last year, except for skiing in January (Yes, I know! 10,000 thousand feet, extreme cold, extreme exertion - it's a wonder I'm still here!) because of my surgery, so I'm really looking forward to it. And being away from my history books and without an internet connection, I can write happily without stopping to check facts.

I do it elsewhere, so I thought it was time I promoted on my own blog for a change. So here are the links to buy my book Till the Day Go Down, and below is a short excerpt for your enjoyment.

Amazon.com
Amazon.co.,uk

Blurb
A rip-roaring adventure set in the Borders between England and Scotland in 1543 when theft, arson and kidnapping were a way of life. Alina has two men claiming her hand at the altar rail, and neither will give way…

Excerpt
"Ah, Alina," he murmured. "Would that we had no iron bars between us."
His flesh hardened. If this was his last night on earth, he wanted some pleasure to beguile his thoughts. He reached both hands through the grill. Obeying some deep instinct he drew her close against the iron bars and in truth she was not reluctant, even when his hand roamed beneath her cloak, caught a ribbon and her nightgown gaped from neck to waist. His palm found the firm weight and curve of her breast and nestled around it.

Warm, silky flesh and the sound of her gasp in his ear as his fingers closed on her.
Alina choked, pulled back and met the firm resistance of his palm on her spine. Murmuring her name, he continued to caress the miracle of smooth naked flesh. Elation flashed through him as the hard stub of desire unfurled and grew beneath his fingertips. She turned easily under his hand and her breath came faster.
"Oh, Harry! I cannot bear it…"

His fingers stopped instantly.
"Not that," she said. Her gaze raked the air above them both. Perhaps the invisible Matho lurked on the wall-walk above.

Without conscious thought, his fingers moved once more. She quivered in his hands, and her head went back, rolling from side to side. Her eyes were closed. Moonlight silvered the tear that rolled down her cheek. Something closed hard and painful in Harry. He let go her spine, moved his hand up and caught the back of her head in his palm. "Alina, kiss me," he whispered.
Her eyes opened. She released him and caught hold of the bars in both hands, pulled her body hard against the iron and angled her face to meet his. Harry licked the salty tear from her skin.

Well? Does it want to make you read more? Answers on a comment box, please!

Hexham Courant review

Click here to read the first review of Till the Day Go Down.

I handed a copy in to the Hexham Courant a week or two before Christmas and today was delighted to hear from friends that the review had been printed in yesterday's newspaper. I'm not sure that the reference to Catherine Cookson does any favours to either her or me, but since we are both local writers who write about our own locality, there is, I suppose, a certain resonance.

The reviewer mentions instant sexual chemistry between the hero/heroine, nicely drawn characters and praises it as told with relish and a fine read. He gives away one of the surprises of the story, but perhaps that will persuade readers to read the entire tale. I hope so!

It reminds me that I really ought to set about obtaining more reviews. It is a pity that Dear Author and the like don't do much for UK writers, tending only to go for known names. However, I could do more than I am currently doing - which is nix, nada, nothing!

Till the Day Go Down - first lines

Harry Wharton strolled across the cobbles of the square and smiled at the farm girls who eyed him speculatively across the market stalls. Flirtatious matrons offered tempting morsels of honeycomb along with bawdy suggestions and Harry, grinning at their good-humoured audacity, shook his head at them all and kept his eyes open for a local man who could tell him the secret ways through the Border. The quicker he got to Edinburgh, the sooner he could accomplish the business, return and claim his reward.
How hard could it be?
First, he must find a guide. Getting lost in the boggy, trackless wastes was not the way he wished to start his mission.
The minty green scent of recently pulled cabbages and peas fresh in the pod fought the more earthy smells of livestock penned since early morning. From somewhere close at hand drifted the mouth-watering aroma of hot eel pie. Harry’s nostrils flared, his stomach rumbled and he fumbled for the purse at his belt.
“But Mama, we need more ale. There’s little left. Buy a keg or two, do!”
The clear feminine voice wavered between wheedle and command and did not belong to a farm girl. Harry turned, uttered a soundless whistle and forgot about eel pie.
A black velvet bonnet tilted rakishly to one side of her head. High cheekbones, a neat nose and open brown eyes in a clear complexion. Wisps and strands of chestnut hair tangled about her ears, and as she turned he glimpsed a thick, lustrous brown plait between her shoulder blades. The square-necked green gown hugged her waist, flared over the curve of her hip and a frill of white showed at the tight cuff of her plain, practical sleeves. The long tasselled tabs of an embroidered girdle hung from her waist.
She radiated energy and purpose. Something shifted under Harry’s diaphragm, which was odd because he considered himself well used to ladies of quality. Less than three weeks ago he had flirted with court beauties on a daily basis, even bedded one or two during his service in the duke’s household.
“Please, Mama. Why do you hesitate?” Pleasant toned and with a fluency lacking in the rough accents around him, her voice held Harry’s attention as she turned to the servant beside her. “Joseph will take it to the cart, won’t you, Joseph?”
Joseph, a stalwart man in his fifties, hastily nodded agreement. The young woman swung back to her parent. Joseph kept his gaze on the cobbles and looked as if he struggled to maintain a respectful expression.
Harry smiled. She stood out among the ill-dressed crowds in the market square as if a shaft of sunshine followed her every movement and he was willing to bet that life would never be dull with that young lady around.
“Very well, dear.” The older woman sighed and gave up the struggle. “Two kegs, Joseph, if you please.”
Joseph bowed his head and turned away to make the transaction.
Dark lashes shadowed fine eyes. Harry traced the swooping line of her brows, so clear against her pale skin. An unexpected tightness in his throat caused him swallow hard and look away.
“Now, Mama, what about needles and yarn for those quilts we are to make this winter?”
He turned back in time to see the young woman gesture towards the stall at his side, which offered hanks of wool, yarns and silk threads in an array of colours. His first inclination was to move out of the away. Nay, he thought, stay. An hour’s banter before riding on to Edinburgh may prove an entertainment to beguile a boring day.
The familiar pleasure of the chase surged through his veins. He pretended to study the goods on offer, allowed a frown to cloud his brow and stared at the display in what he hoped was an artful show of great perplexity. A flash of green fabric swirled against his booted leg and his senses, already sharp, tightened another notch as the scent of roses reached him.
“Why, sir, do you hesitate over needles?” The soft gurgle of laughter at his elbow made him lift his head. Her smile was like quicksilver. “Mama and I could help you make a selection if you find it beyond you.”
“Alina! Hold your tongue!” The sharp words drew Harry’s gaze to the girl’s mother, who frowned at him.
He bowed to them both, and kept his head down for several respectful moments. Alina. Alina. Harry savoured the name and decided he liked it.
“The gentleman obviously needs assistance, Mama.”
“The stall owner is present, daughter, and will offer all the assistance he needs.”
At the snapped rejoinder, Harry stood straight and tall once more, and noticed Alina tilted her head to meet his gaze. Her smile took his breath away.
“I, er…I thought to take a small gift home for my sister, but…”
Jesu! He could not frame the simplest sentence, and her laughing brown eyes mocked his efforts. He shook his head, defeated. “I know nothing of needles.”
“See, Mama.” The young woman half-turned to her annoyed parent. “He does need our help. I thought he might.” The sun sparkled on the vagabond curls tangled like gold wires about her ears.
Harry rallied his scattered wits. What was the matter with him? He cleared his throat to give himself time to think.
But she was too swift for him. “You still look puzzled, sir. They are only needles and pins, not something the Good Lord has dropped from the sky.”
Ye Gods! She spoke as if he were a simpleton. The skin of Harry’s face prickled and burned. It was years since he had blushed at something a woman said to him. He inhaled through his nose, ignored her and turned his attention to the older woman. “I would be most grateful for your help, ma’am. I must admit pins and spindles have not figured overmuch in my education.”
The mother had been a beauty in her time. The square-necked black velvet gown did nothing to lighten the sallow hue of her complexion and the severe gable hood, still popular among those who once supported Queen Catherine, did nothing to brighten her countenance. Still, Harry saw a likeness to her daughter in the eloquent brown eyes and the line of her jaw even though the good woman’s expression remained stern.
She turned a quelling glance on Alina, as if warning her daughter to remain silent. “I suggest, sir, a package of needles such as—” she indicated a small silk-wrapped bundle with a gloved hand—“would be welcome to most young ladies.”
Harry offered a second casual yet elegant bow. “Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate your advice.”
She inclined her head. A jewel at her throat caught the light and the gauzy stuff of the hood hid her neck as she turned to the stallholder.
“Use a ribbon, Mary, since it is to be a gift.” She cast a calculating eye over Harry’s dark woollen doublet and rakish cap. “I am sure the young man has coin enough.”
Harry bristled under her sharp scrutiny. His brows lifted, and a retort sprang to his lips, but he caught sight of Alina’s commiserating smile behind her mother’s shoulder and forgot what he had been about to say.
The stallholder, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, beamed and bobbed a small curtsy.
Alina’s mother continued to regard Harry with condescension, and then glanced towards the stallholder once more. “We shall return to make our selection later, Mary.” She directed a regal nod to Harry. “Good day, young man.”
She shepherded her daughter away. It was obvious she intended to return when he was out of the way. Harry gritted his teeth, offered his most elegant bow and watched them go. He received a swift glance over her shoulder from the younger lady before the crowd took her away.
He turned to the stallholder. “Who was that?”
Shrewd blue eyes regarded him. “Fancy ye chances, lad? That was the lady of Aydon Hall. Margery Carnaby and her daughter Alina. They’re a-carin’ for Sir Reynold, him that’s ill and like to die soon.”
“Aydon? Just north of here?”
“Aye. Right by the Ay Burn. Ye’ll be a stranger to these parts yourself, sir?”
Harry saw no need to deny it. “Travelling north to Edinburgh.”
“Oh, aye. And ye’d be from Lonnun, then, sir?”
Harry practised his famous smile. There was no harm in letting everyone think he was from the south. In fact, it was to his advantage. “How’d ye guess?”
The woman relaxed, as they all did when he concentrated on them. The heavy wool shawl draping her shoulders moved as she shrugged. “Ye don’t sound as if ye come from these parts. Ye sound more like gentry. I thought o’ Lonnun, that’s all.”
“It is quieter hereabouts than London.”
Mary handed him a neatly wrapped package and named her price. He counted out coins into her palm, aware she eyed him up and down. “Quiet, d’ye think, lad? It’s but a hundred miles to Edinburgh, and ye’ll travel some o’ the most dangerous land in the country to get there.”
Harry’s hands stopped moving, and his gaze rose from the coins to the woman’s rosy, thread-veined face and dark curls.
“Dangerous for everyone, or just for me?”
Mary choked back a laugh. “There’s outlaws and broken men up in’t hills, my bonny lad, and they’ll shake loose the Border whenever they take a fancy to dee it. They’ll not stop to ask ye name, never mind ye destination, before they slit ye throat and ride off wi’ ye purse.” She looked him up and down. “They’ll no’ forget ye sword nor ye dagger, either, nor that bonny jewel in your cap. Nekkid as a babe ye’ll be, when those limmers leave ye.”
He resumed counting out coins into her plump hand. “I’d best take care how I ride then,” he said. “For ride I will.”
Her blue eyes twinkled. “Luck be wi’ye, sir.”

The opening lines of Till the Day Go Down, available now from bookshops and online.

About Aydon

Aydon Castle, not far from Corbridge, features in my new book Till the Day Go Down released this month, so I thought I'd show you a couple of pics to whet your appetite.

Built early in the 13th century as a farmhouse, it swiftly gained permission to crenellate when the Scots started roaming over the Border with less than friendly intentions. This shot was taken in the outer courtyard looking towards the entrance to the inner courtyard and the house. The defensive wall runs along two sides of the inner courtyard, and in the book the boys Lance and Cuddy watch their father from the wall walk, or allure, as he prepared to go off on a Hot Trod. Alina hung onto Cuddy's shirt tails in case he tumbled over the edge.

The second pic is at the other side of the house, the southern side that looks out over the infamous ravine with which Alina's father threatened Harry Wharton.

Aydon is still very much as it was. Few alterations have been made, and families lived and used it as a working farmhouse until the 1960's. If you like a good walk, you can wander up through the woods from Corbridge to Aydon, amble around the place and imagine life as it was all those years ago.

That what started me off with this particular story.

Publication of Till the Day Go Down

Author copies arrived this morning, so I presume it is safe to announce my new book!

I'm really pleased with the cover, which I left entirely to the publisher this time.

Here's the blurb - "Alina Carnaby lives a quiet life in the Tyne valley until Harry Scott saves her life, and reivers steal the family’s cattle. She discovers a body, her brothers blurt out a secret and her father orders Harry’s death. The name Scott is an alias. Why would Harry die rather than reveal the truth? Can she evade the marriage her father planned for her?

Standing at the altar rail, she has two men claiming her hand and neither will give way…

It's an exciting tale set in 1543, when theft, kidnapping and arson were a way of life on the borders between England and Scotland."

The title comes from a chilling little poem of the times:

But will ye stay till the day go down

Until night comes o'er the ground,

And I'll be a guide worth any twa

That may in Liddesdale be found.

The book is published by Quaestor2000, ISBN 978-1-906836-17-7 and available via Amazon, the Book Depository and all good bookshops.

Recuperation report

I must get back to taking pics again, though it is hardly the weather for it. Gales and rain do not tempt me out for walks at the moment. Yesterday we drove to IKEA and walked around the ground floor half of the store, and that was my exercise for the day.

Tired me out, too! What a weak and feeble creature I am right now. But I have to report that my scar is fading very well, and won't be at all obtrusive in a vee necked blouse. I lost a stone, but have already regained half of it back again, so it seems unlikely that I will retain that sylphlike 9 stone weight.

I give thanks every day for my writing. Without it I don't know what I'd do all day. Go mad, I expect. There are only so many re-runs of Monarch of the Glen I can watch in one day!

I expected to be able to report a new book out by now, but Till the Day Go Down is still up on Amazon only as a pre-order entry. Tomorrow I'll dig out the cover pic and announce it properly, regardless of its status. Call me impatient!

The nose of the beholder

Sometime this month my new book should appear on the shelves.

Till the Day Go Down by Jen Black. Since I don't have my publisher's permission to put the cover up yet, I've amused myself by playing with a painting of the heroine I did when I began the story, and a photograph of a castle that features in it.

I like to visualise my characters and painting is often a good way of getting a likeness - if a bit styalised and impossibly wasp-waisted - my husband's comment! But who cares? Heroines are never stodgy, are they? They don't have pimples or a sudden outbreak of zits at a crucial moment in life. Even in the most desperate of situations, their clear skin and beautiful eyes never let them down. Me, I get bags under the eyes from sleepness nights, and I get a lot of those when I'm worried.

Come to think of it, heroes never have bad breath or stink of horse manure. They always smell of male musk or some such enticing odour. I don't know about you, ladies, but a man who has been doing something active and energetic often smells sweaty and many times it is not a turn-on. Especially if it is more than a day old. But then perception is all. When I worked for a living my staff came to me with a complaint about a client in the library. His smell, they complained, made them feel sick, and the other students were leaving in droves. Upon investigation, their complaint was justified, so I had the unpleasant task of warning him that he must leave and not return until....all was well for a few days and then gradually the smell got worse again...I asked a senior member of staff to intervene. (ie get rid of him!) She came in, spoke to him, and told me she did not find his odour reprehensible at all. What can you say to something like that?

Revelation and AT

I have discovered C J Sansom, and I'm loving his work. Somehow I assume the writer is male, though I have not checked.

I grabbed Revelation because it is set in 1543, the exact year in which I am working in my (as yet titleless) wip, and would have read it for that alone but it has become a fascinating read. A hunchback lawyer on the trail of a serial killer and a background of religious fanaticism. I am aware three or four titles from this author have been on the bookshop shelves for some time now, but the covers gave me the impression that they would be heavy, slow and slanted towards religion - not my usual fare!

However, my expectations were so very wrong. The story is lightly conveyed in modern dialogue so easy to read that it slides by without effort. The detail comes in the workings of the court and officials, the backgrounds, the lives lived by those who suffered under the dissolution of the monasteries - detail, yes, but in a way that fascinates rather than bores. 600 plus pages are whizzing by.

It makes me realise all over again how important covers are in attracting a reader to a book. I've seen a rough copy of my cover for TILL THE DAY GO DOWN and I like it ~ a sumptously gowned lady of the correct period, if a tad more richly attired than the heroine's status would have allowed. So difficult to get it exactly right without spending a fortune with graphic artists and design studios.

My latest work is going well, if slowly. I tend to write dialogue and then go back and build up the scene around it. Seems to work for me. I think I may have got some happenings out of sequence by a day or two, but then - it may well have happened like that.

Today we live in such a world of immediate and global announcements that we don't think how confusing it must have been back in the days of handwritten letters delivered by a man on a horse or a man on foot and then relayed by mouth to those who could not read for themselves. News would have taken days to filter down except in case of war, when it would be announced from the market cross or similar. I wonder if the gossip was more accurate then, or did the Chinese whispers effect have a hand in things then, too?

Mark Knopfler and the Border Reivers

I've been listening to the sounds of Mark Knopfler and his new song The Border Reivers with some puzzlement. I'm a Knopfler fan, loved the music but could not make sense of the words. About seven hearings in, I mentioned this to my dh. He rolled over (we're still in bed at this point), listened and said "It's about Albion trucks called Border Reivers. Made in Glasgow. Nothing to do with your Border Reivers."

Aha. Various snatches of song became clear: "heading south from Glasgow...paperwork's all clear...my sleep times good...she's a navvy...in 1969..." Yes, it all fit.

"If you want to know more about Albion trucks," dh says chirpily, "I'll introduce you to Jim Wilkinson. He knows everything there is to know about the Border Reivers. He's got one in his garage."

Groan. My Border Reivers were some of the toughest desperadoes ever to live through history. Living both sides of the border between Scotland and England 1400-1700 they reived (stole) cattle, horses, wives, money from their own nation and from the residents of the opposing one without fear or quarter. They feature in my book TILL THE DAY GO DOWN, about to be published in November.

EDITS have arrived

I have the edits for TILL THE DAY GO DOWN

We were already programmed to running errands this morning, so we made the quick trip to the coast to buy dh's beer kit and a new barrel (so he can make more beer!) and came home. I got out of the car about a mile and a half from home and walked back so I got my exercise for the day (10,000 steps a day, remember), had lunch and began work.

It is a strange exercise, going over something you wrote several months ago. Already I have found two places where I use the same word in consecutive sentences, a sort of echo effect. I wonder how many more I'll find before I get to the end?

I love playing around with Adobe photoshop and late last night when I couldn't sleep I superimposed my painting of my heroine on a pic I took of Aydon castle. The result is not displeasing, but not very professional!

I have about another 150 pages to check over before I'm done. It won't take too long if I abandon my critiquing and writing till I'm through. I'm waiting for a book on Stirling Castle to arrive (paid 1 penny for it on Amazon!) before I can progress the current wip anyway, and I've been checking my favourite published writers to see how they handle POV and description of the hero.

In case you are wondering what I mean, here's the scene: My (male) hero and male friend open the story. Following the current trend for selecting one POV and sticking with it for a scene, I find it well nigh impossible to get any description of the POV hero on the page. He can describe his friend, but he can't describe himself. Well, he wouldn't would he? There are no mirrors in the border moors for him to glance into, and he doesn't think of his own looks/clothes as a heroine might do. Short of having him fall in a brook doing a Narcissus thing, I am going to have to break all the rules and retreat into omnisicent author to get him described on the page and please my critiquers - and later, my readers. A wide overview to open a scene, narrowing down when I need it, and opening out when I need it. Rules be damned. Far too restrictive.

Following on...

Anita asks “Is this an ethical dilemma? Does fiction need policing in case it misleads the reader? Or is it simply the literary mafia telling us not to watch or read anything which may be slightly historically inaccurate? And what about the premise that history is written by the victors - so how true is true?”

Whether it is the literary mafia or someone who has been hurt by a fictional slur on an ancestor and has decided to rush into defensive print, the discussion has raised a topic I had never previously considered. I simply accepted that it was OK for authors to invent the thoughts of real characters in history. Yes, fiction sometimes casts a character in a bad light, but it can also do the opposite, and redeem a character who has hitherto received a bad press at the hands of writers. Jarman’s We Speak No Treason did it for Richard III.
We are all individuals, and will always have our own prejudices and favourites. One woman’s blameless character can be another woman’s vicious thug. But it does seem suddenly dangerous to write about characters within living memory of people alive today.

My own taste in history has mostly been pre-1600, but the Victorian period has always been popular. Now that 1900-1950 is suddenly accepted as “history,” stories set between those dates are going to involve events and sometimes people who may be alive today. They will certainly have sons and daughters to fight their corner if they feel the written character in any way defames or discredits their ancestor.

The chance of someone complaining that Anne Boleyn’s character has been defamed is unlikely, since relatives are likely to be few and the connection obscure. The further back in history the character lived, the less likely it is the author will stir a reaction, however much they blacken the character. Most authors feel a certain responsibility in this regard, however, and deal carefully with real characters.

Stories set pre 1600 seem to suffer more from the attitude that “accuracy doesn’t matter anyway – it’s all fiction.” Certainly there is less written evidence pre-1600, it is difficult to consult and what facts there are may be awkward, contradictory or downright inconvenient. Faced with a fact that doesn’t fit, many authors simply ignore it and write what suits their story. Some people live happily with this, and others find it outrageous. Respect for history and scholarship far beyond my own will probably make me stick to the facts. I’m only too glad that scholars have taken the time and the trouble to record the facts that we do have from the distant past.

As for what real characters thought…that is difficult. Reading between and around the facts and making my own deductions about the character’s decisions and thought processes may be claiming a perceptivity I do not have. I don’t often write about real characters, but I have included Sir Thomas Wharton in TILL THE DAY GO DOWN and he is reappearing in my newly begun story along with some other historical characters. I’ll use what facts I can find about his/their personality, try not to invent too much and deal with them as fairly as I can.

Giving them speech and actions seems better than giving them thoughts, perhaps.

Me, at Cragside

Me, the other day at Cragside. Splendid day out

and the National Trust would be pleased that so many people wanted to visit the house - there was a queue!

Not just for a little while, either, but all the time we were there. The estate is big enough to absorb an awful lot of people so we didn't feel crowded out.

I'm at that tricky time writing wise. I need to start something new, but can't decide among several ideas. Which one do I want to work with for the next three months? Or six months? FAR AFTER GOLD is out and TILL THE DAY GO DOWN is scheduled for November as long as the sky doesn't fall down. I'm waiting on an agent's response to RELUCTANCE and not getting too hopeful, but I need to start on something else. How does anyone decide?

Tudor time period, perhaps? A follow up to FAG? M'mmm, I'll sleep on it. Again.

Eventually I suppose I'll make a decision. Maybe I should try roughing out an outline for several storylines and see which comes easiest? I think it is always easier to start with an outline. I know some authors sit down and say Goody, what shall I write today? and then they just go with the flow and see what comes. They must have very good subconcious minds to get it all to fit together when they don't know what the the next chapter will bring, and I'm not sure I could do that. I'll try the outline method. I suppose if I wrote a historical character's life I'd know what the ending would be - that would make it easier, and if the personage is well known, then there's no hiding it. Start the first page with Mary Stuart's beheading, because we all know that's where she ended; the question is How Did She Get There?

Halton church mouse

I love this place and not just because of the church mouse!

The walk on Wednesday paused here at Halton Church while we sat and enjoyed the view across the valley. Records say there was a church of some kind here in Roman times, and certainly the arch inside has a Roman feel to it. But I would say it is mostly medieval in style, and early medieval if I consider the battlements. A memory of the reiving days, perhaps, when not even a church was safe from the maruaders. The Moot Hall in Hexham is built in a similar style, and the Vicar's Pele Tower in Corbridge.

Halton Tower is a stone's throw away away to the west, and it is certainly noted as a fourteenth century tower built during the Border warfare. The house on the side is seventeenth century and there are said to be remnants of an older building to the north of the tower, but the house is in private hands so I can't go in and rummage around like I can at Aydon Castle, a mile and half to the south.

This is the area where I've chosen to set my Tudor romance TILL THE DAY GO DOWN, hopefully to be published sometimes this summer. The title comes from an old snatch of verse by Hobbie Noble, full of both threat and promise. I thought it gave the flavour of the men who lived then.

But will ye stay till the day go down

Until nght comes o'er the ground,

And I'll be a guide worth any twa

That may in Liddesdale be found.

Switching and pitching

The cold weather is back again, and this cold grey pic of the Tyne estuary says it all, I think. My toes are cold while I sit here in our smallest bedroom (easiest to keep warm, and my study) and type this because we are trying not to use the central heating overmuch. It is expensive now to run it like we used to. I am trying to ignore the fact that I have to visit the dentist this morning. I can safely say I am not looking forward to that.

So, I concentrate on working. I have three completed stories and I'm working on them all.
It's not exactly revision, except for Shadows. An e-publisher in the States has asked if I can escalate the internal conflict between H/h, so I'm going through and giving the pair of them a tougher time. Keep Trust lacks plainly stated goals/motivation on the page, according to my critique group, and I think they're right, so I'm going through and doing that before (I hope!) I get any bites from the partials out on the story.
Happily I finished my final revisions on Till The Day Go Down yesterday and it is with my publisher awaiting his comments. So now I'm working on two stories instead of three. It works quite well, for switching, I find, prevents boredom.

I read an interesting comment yesterday about the difference between marketing and publicity. The former is mostly selling what you don't have and teasing peoples' interest in it. The latter is selling something you do have. So once a book is published, Marketing becomes Publicity.

Marketing is the interesting bit. We're told to Pitch to Editors - should we ever see these rare creatures. If I lived in London it might be a possibility, but here in Tyne & Wear I doubt there's two to meet together. There is a poetry publisher - Bloodaxe Books - and I remember the man who runs it was at uni when I was there. There's also Myrmidon and Ed Handysides, but I hear little of them and he is not into publishing romances.

Back to the main point. Pitch to Editors. Boil our story down to a couple of sentences we can tell others and get them interested. Invent a catchy slogan or a tight logline that hints at the beginning, middle, and end of our hero’s adventure, and this will give a better chance of selling the project. They say the discipline of doing this makes the writing of the story so much better as well, but since I haven't come up with a good logline yet for any of the three books I've written, I can see that disaster looms on the horizon.
So, life was never so easy as to cross a field.

I'm bloggin' and TILL THE DAY GO DOWN

The snow has gone. Started disappearing the very next morning,
leaving us with a slippery, slidey mess and all those little red sledges are tucked away in the back of the garage once more. The forecasters are promising more on Thursday. I bet the kids are praying they're right.


I'm blogging over at Historical Novel Review this week, so make sure you pop by and leave a comment. I'll feel lonely if you don't.


Some good news - my publisher is keen to take on my Tudor story TILL THE DAY GO DOWN, so I'm very pleased about that.



I promised pictures of characters in
FAR AFTER GOLD, and you saw Flane leaning against the tree.
A tease, right?
Far too far away to really see him.
I might remedy that soon. Stick with me...

Over to the right is a picture of Emer, as she exists in my imagination.
You might have a different idea of her!

I started out doing another video trailer to put on Youtube, and then thought it would be far simpler and much quicker to post the pics on here. I don't suppose anyone will miss the video!

Another one gone and now the long wait...

Sent off my Tudor story today to Roger at Quaestor to see what he thinks of it. I'm sure he'll tell me if it's not up to scratch.

I now have two reviews for Far After Gold. I was particularly pleased by this chunk about my hero:

"Flane is an attractive character, cheerful and humorous. He comes over as just a little bit immature at the start of the novel, wanting to have his cake and eat it, acting on impulse without much regard for the consequences, and unwilling to make a difficult decision until he is forced into it. He seems genuinely baffled that Emer doesn’t fall into his bed at the first opportunity, and his willingness to wait for her to do so rather than force her seems to be due in about equal parts to a belief in his own irresistible attractiveness and a desire for a quiet life."

I couldn't have put it better myself! Has the reviewer been reading my character notes? I will post the link to the full review when I know it has been"properly published" but I was so pleased by this excellent appraisal of Flane that I couldn't resist a taster. (Heh, heh - and just for the record, darling Flane has little idea that his easy going world is about to disintegrate!)

The other surprising thing is that the book is up and available on Amazon.co.uk* already - for orders. The release date is 30th January. I must check and see if it's up on .com tomorrow but right now I'm off to bed to finish the Geras story. More on that later.

*One click will take you to amazon and my book. Go on, have a peek!

PS The picture is the corner of Wallington Hall and the ancient yew tree against the winter sunshine. Interesting shapes, I thought...

Two down, one to go

A couple of pics taken as we drove through Buttertubs. Evidently it is so called because near the summit, just off the road, are a series of fluted limstone potholes. Click here to see them - next time I'll have to go find them!

As for writing, I've finished my re-draft of Warden's Bride and decided to name it Till the Day Go Down. It's a quote: the quiet, ominous words of English reiver Hobbie Noble planning his last foray.

"But will ye stay till the day go down

Until the night comes o'er the ground,

And I'll be a guide worth any twa

That may in Liddesdale be found."

(Dramatic cloudscapes arriving at the top of the Pass)

So now I can concentrate on the third story I've been struggling to re-draft. This one needs a spine so it can't be criticised as a series of nice episodes....and I think I have the spine. I just need to work it in so that it all hangs neatly and believably together. Easier said than done, I think!