A fun weekend

 I've been out and about again - this time to the Romance Writing Festival in Bournemouth. I had a very good time and caught up with many old friends who I have not see for a long time. 

Bournemouth is quite a long way from Wales - and I have to say that I had the train journey from hell to get there. Delayed trains, cancelled trains, trains that terminated before the intended end of their journey. It seem like the rail networks and their passengers were having a bit of a collective melt down. The result was that I arrived two hours late, in the dark. Not a good idea for a place I have not visited for maybe fifty odd years? My Premier Inn was only across the road from the festival venue though - the large and impressive Royal Bath Hotel - so even without the chance to explore, I could not get lost. 

On Saturday the day began early and moved fast - panels on crossing genres, a sense of place, and finding your audience tumbled over each other, I attended the panel on writing about sadness - what I would call a tear jerker - out of curiosity. I know they are very popular - readers apparently love a good cry - but I could never write one. I am happy to murder any number of people in the course of a book, but that is not my genre. It was fascinating to hear from Lola Jaye, Emma Claire Wilson and Sarra Manning on how they approached it, and the effect it had as part of a romance - or romantic writing. 

The event I was most looking forward to - and it did not disappoint - was the Slay the Slush Pile panel when  Emily Ruston, Ellah Mwale and Sara-Jade Virtue as agents and editors, reacted to unpublished manuscripts, under the watchful eye of Janet Gover. Thirty five brave souls submitted 500 words of a manuscript to be read aloud anonymously to the panel, who then indicated how far into the reading they would go, before making a decision to reject or read on. They got through seventeen and none got as far as the whole 500 words. Some were rejected almost straight away - because the topic was considered too hard a sell or because there was some flaw in the presentation. Alternatively some were accepted for a further read almost straight away. Opinions differed - although there was one script set in WWII that everyone liked - it appears that WWII is 'hot' right now.  It was an illuminating event. The take-aways were that opinions did differ, so your manuscript has to cross the right desk at the right time, and that the first few lines of your MS are hyper important. So - polish, polish, polish and do research to find out who might be the best fit for what you write. 

In the evening there was a reception where the Mayor of Bournemouth presented achievement awards to Katie Forde who could not be there, and Milly Johnson who could and was visibly thrilled and touched by the acknowledgement. I spent some happy time catching up with friends. It was a fabulous day.

Next day - Sunday - it rained torrentially. As I had forgotten my umbrella exploring the town and the sea front was out, but I spent a happy day immersed in the delights of the Russel Cotes Museum and Gallery. But that is a story for another post.  

Visiting Royalty

 That's me visiting them, not them visiting me. King John of Magna Carta fame  to be precise - and Henry VIII's older brother, Prince Arthur. 

Those in the know will have deduced that I spent a day last week in Worcester. My first time in the city. As well a coffee, lunch and lots of gossip with long standing friend Mary, I visited Worcester Cathedral - last resting place of John and Arthur - or bits of them, as there was a habit of burying body parts, usually the heart, in different places. King John's reign was not one I have ever studied - most of my knowledge of him comes from Shakespeare - and Arthur was overshadowed by the exploits of his little brother, who married his widow, Katherine of Aragon. And we all know how that ended,

I was very impressed with the cathedral, even without its royal inhabitants. It was a magnificent building, with an amazing ceiling, lots of lovely stained glass, including a window memorializing Sir Edward Elgar, who was local to the area,  and a number of other memorials and painted tombs. I was particularly drawn to an intriguing one where the lady of the partnership was resting her head on a black swan. Apparently she is thought to be Joan Beauchamp, buried next to Sir John, her husband, although this is not 100% certain.  Her tomb was certainly interesting enough to attract my attention. The ashes of former Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin, along with those of his wife, are also interred in the cathedral but in a part that was roped off - so I did not get close enough to inspect the plaque. 

I was so fascinated by wandering and reading that I did not remember to take any pictures, which is very remiss of me. There were cloisters, a cafe, which we did not patronize, although I have to say the smell of what they were serving for lunch was very enticing. The visit was completed by a mooch in a small but very well stocked gift shop, and I started my festive preparations by buying Xmas cards! 

I don't think any of the people or things I saw will be making it into a book any time soon, but it was a lovely day out, and I recommend the cathedral as a fascinating site for a lengthy prowl. If you like history, it is one for you. 

It's not just the writing.

 Writing a book requires application - time and effort. It's not easy to get 80,000 odd words on a paper (And yes, some of them are odd. Stop sniggering at the back). But writing is actually a lot more than this. It's editing, proof checking, fact checking - of course - but there is also the need for 'headspace' . This is the nebulous bit, and often the one that causes the most problems. Scribbling in a notebook, sitting at a keyboard, revising a manuscript - all these are visible. You are doing something, and seen to be doing something.  But none of this will happen unless you know what you are doing before you start doing it. Even those who only do minimal plotting have to have an idea of where they are going, of the nature of their characters, of the setting, of timescale and relationships, even if these do tend to work themselves out on the page. 

All this needs thinking time - and often this is the most difficult thing to manage. If you are diverted by the day job, stressed by health concerns, distracted by family issues - even if you just have workpersons in the house  - your head does not have room for the world building that needs to go on, consciously or unconsciously. I can't count the times fellow authors have told me that they have not been able to move forward with the current manuscript not because they don't want to, but simply because they don't have the space to think. 

There are ways around it. Some people use music. A well known channel is the 'plot walk' - a walk during which you think about plot. Easy. Jobs and chores that don't require a lot of thought can free your mind to wander. I did a shedload of ironing over the weekend and spent the time while flattening the pyjamas and tea towels  trying to work out a complex network of family connections in my head. If she was his cousin, instead of his sister ... All in relation to a will and an inheritance, of course. 

I'm definitely being pulled along by those cosy crime stories I have said keep bubbling up. 

The bigger the bubbles, the greater the attraction ...

But it's a very good box ...

 Am I exhibiting advanced adulting - or turning into a cat? 

You've all seen the memes about the adult debate over keeping a box because it is a very good box. And the ones of the cat ignoring the expensive toy/cat tree in favour of the box it came in. Even lions like them. I have occasionally wondered if there is something about the smell of the cardboard? 

I say this, because I am currently surrounded by cardboard boxes. Yes, I have been indulging in some internet shopping - a set of shelves for the bathroom. two large plant pots for the bulbs I have ordered that have not yet arrived, a new door mat ...

So why am I keeping the boxes? We won't go into the fun of wrestling with recalcitrant acres of card, attempting to chop it into pieces acceptable to the recycling collectors - these days it all has to fit into the orange sack or it doesn't get taken away. Oh for the days of simply propping your Ikea boxes up beside the bin bags ... Although I did manage to break my wrist doing that when I fell down the front steps manhandling them into position.  These days I am wary of severing an artery while wielding a knife ...

But we digress. I'm saving them because I am currently decluttering, and they are going to be filled with donations for the charity collectors. That is my story, and I am sticking to it. 

Of course, I might just be turning into a cat ...

Into the dark

 My annual complaint at the Equinox - Mabon, if you are in touch with your Pagan roots - which took place on Monday. Now it will just keep getting darker until the winter solstice, the shortest day, on 21 December. 

I know that I write the darker side of romance, and I have a professed ambition to one day write a gothic novel,  but I really don't like the dark, short days - and the cold too. I know that celebrating Autumn, or Fall, is a bit of a thing at the moment - harvest festivals, making preserves from excess fruit and vegetables, foraging, drinking pumpkin spice latte, curling up on sofas with cushions and throws and fluffy blankets, watching re-runs of The Gilmore Girls (yes, that is apparently a thing) but it is not me. I'm all for the sunshine and the daylight. If there is such a thing as re-incarnation then coming back as something that hibernates sounds attractive. A bear maybe. Eat as much as you can, then sleep for five months or so. I just looked that up and apparently snails can hibernate for up to three years. Not in my garden they don't - the pesky things are always on the prowl. But who would want to be a snail anyway? 

Putting the garden to bed, painting the outdoor furniture, hunting out the fleece bags to wrap my baby olive and bay trees, before it gets really cold are my autumn rituals, and I wouldn't really call them a celebration. One thing I do like is planting bulbs. I'm waiting for the box I have ordered to arrive - I already have some posh new pots to put them in - but that too is looking forward to warmer sunnier days of spring! 

I'm just not built for this time of year. 

You can't stop at one ...

 corpses, that is. 

I was pondering this when reading an American romantic suspense/thriller and considering our obsession - as readers - with serial killers. IRL serial killers are quite rare - but you wouldn't know it from the number of novels there are that feature one. It is a sad fact that victims of violence in the real world are very likely to know the person responsible - a family member, friend, co-worker ... But, of course, that's not dramatic. And it's not just thrillers that have a superfluity of bodies - even a cosy crime is obliged to have more than one, traditionally the second being the person who was shaping up to be the chief suspect. And we've spoken before about the victim who lets it be known that they have some sort of information/clue and is, of course, killed before they can reveal it.  And don't let's get started on Shakespeare, or Jacobean drama in general. Of course, they knew what they were doing. Events and situations that would be horrific IRL are simply thrilling on the stage, or between the covers. 

More than one corpse is understandable on one level - it ramps up the tension, but the other thing I was thinking, when reading that thriller, was that it allows the plot to develop as a puzzle. It doesn't matter if it is a cosy or a thriller a major part of the enjoyment is watching the sleuth unravel what is going on. OK, that can be done with one murder, but a series of deaths allows the mystery to develop as the investigator learns more and more about their adversary.  

Apart from the thoughts brought out by my reading matter, the topic has been on my mind lately as I'm currently still toying with the idea of having a dabble in cosy crime, as several fellow romance authors have done lately. I have characters nudging me, and what might be a love triangle floating around.  I'd never do that in a romantic suspense because I'm firmly of the belief that there has to be a couple that you can root for all through the book. The growth of the romance is an essential ingredient, so I wouldn't mess with it by introducing doubt, but in a book that would be slewed towards crime, not romance ... Well, maybe. There would still have to be some romance - that's a given in my writing - but the chance to walk on the wilder side? Again maybe. It's all maybe at the moment - but when something settles, I promise you'll be the first to know.    

A Writer's Tropes?

 Tropes are a thing at the moment - grumpy/sunshine, only one bed, fake fiance - you know the list. Writers do their best to fulfil readers' expectations in respect of these themes - but it occurred to me the other day that there are a few things that you might call writer's tropes - ideas that form a backbone or scaffolding for creating a story. I've started a list;

Who's the Daddy? 

Paternity issues often loom large - the mystery of an absent unknown father; children who are not the actual offspring of the person they though they were, opening all sorts of cans of worms, and catnip for an author; late discovery of paternal responsibility - I rather like that one, when the hapless unwitting dad find himself suddenly in charge of a child if something has happened to the mother.  

Return to Sender

Letters. We've spoken about these before. One of the big backbones. Everyone knows my dislike of the letter that is read but it's contents not disclosed to the reader - that one gets the book aimed straight at the wall. I'm uneasy too of the letter that is put away that would have ended the book right there if it had been opened. There had better  be a good reason for that, but I am OK if there is a good reason. And, as we know, a letter is often the only way the past can 'talk'  to the present. And that bundle of old love notes, tied with ribbon and scented with lavender ...

Fish out of water

This one sometimes features as a reader trope too. moving a character out of their comfort zone - from city to small town. to a new country, from rags to riches, or the other way around - a good start point for a novel working with the character to cope with a whole new world - and one that the reader might well identify with.

Violence  

The shock factor. A requirement for most crime and thriller stories, presented in different ways of course, but also an element of other kinds of story - a romance can begin with a violent act or event that has tragic consequences that kick start the story. Not just the body in the Library, although that is more or less a given for cosy crime. A fatal plane, car or train crash, a suicide, an unexpected death, even if a natural one, all with life changing implications for other people surrounding the person who dies.

There are probably many more, and I'll add them if I think of them. The big thing is that they are a pivot  - an agent for change - a place where a story starts or moves to a new track.

 And that's where it gets interesting ...