Publication days - what I've learned

 So, today is publication day for Home on Folly Farm (it's all right, you can go and look, I'll wait)....

 

... so I thought I'd take this opportunity to let you in to some Secrets From My Brain about being published, publishing and the whole Becoming A Published Author thing.

 

I used to think that all I ever wanted was to be published. Once would do. One book, out there in the world with my name on, that would make me happy. But it's suprising how that goes. I got one book out. Then I discovered the world of reviews and my view of being published changed. I didn't just want one book out there, I wanted one book that had great reviews. Then I wanted a book that had lots of reviews, never mind how great they were. Then I wanted to be in bookshops (remember those?). It never stops, the always wanting the next thing, always thinking 'oh, yes, they might only have give this book four stars, but they are going to LOVE the next one', always trying to outdo the book you wrote before.

 

You can never stop. Each book pulls along a string of your previously published books (known as your 'backlist') and inspires confidence for your next one. So, for example, Folly Farm has just been published but, to me, it's already an 'old' book. My editor has the next book, which she's working on now, and I am 40k into the new new book, provisionally titled Backstory. My mind, however, is currently working on the new new new book about an exploding house. You don't just publish one book and then lie back eating grapes and name dropping Margaret Atwood. You send one book out into the ether and then you get on with the next one. And the next one. To the extent that, when people ask you questions about your just-published novel, you have to go away and look up the storyline, just to remember who's in it and what they do. 

Publication day is what you make it. This took me a long time to learn. Somehow I believed that, like with my birthday, everyone would magically know it was a special day for me and would work away behind the scenes to surprise me with hand-crafted items, calls, cards and even, in some cases, balloons. This does not happen. Just as with birthdays, publication day is just a normal day for everyone else. I know some people have trained their family into treating them with all the deference that is due every author on the day their book comes out in the world, but here it's only me and the dog and she's not impressed at all. So I try to make publication day special for me. See above re grapes and Margaret Atwood. Plus I try to take the day off work and flop about in front of the computer, 'liking' Tweets and regularly putting BUY MY BOOK on Facebook.

Gratitude. I am so, so grateful to everyone who has struggled to get my book out there - from my agent (who has always wanted me to write a book about sheep. I worry about her) to my publishers who made it happen; the book bloggers who take part in the blog tour that raises the profile (and who do a lot of sterling work behind the scenes), right through to you, the reading public, who buy my books. Unless you are a relation of mine reading this, in which case, get off the computer and go and do something useful. Like buying my book. Every time someone says 'ooh, I read one of your books!' my first reaction is not 'which one?' or 'did you enjoy it?' but sheer gratefulness that someone has seen fit to part with money in order to buy one of my books. And gratitude that I am here, able to enjoy that sensation of having books out there in the world. And reviewers. All authors are pathetically grateful to reviewers. Even people who leave one star reviews and poorly spelled, grammatically incorrect write-ups. It's still a review.

Right, now if you will excuse me, I am off to wallow about drinking tea, eating cake and celebrating my latest release. I might even get dressed later.

Another New Book!

 I know, I know, you don't hear from me for months and then, there I am on every available social media outlet with yet another book!

Sorry. It's happening again. This time it's a book called Home on Folly Farm, set up on the Yorkshire Moors (which, please note is NOT THE SAME PLACE as the Yorkshire Dales, as many people seem to think. And neither is it where Heathcliffe pratted about while Cathy did her droopy 'he'th juth tho handthome' rubbish. No. Those places are over the other side of the county and every time someone mentions the Brontes in connection with the Yorkshire Moors, they collectively rotate in their graves).

It features sheep. Lots of sheep. Too many, according to one reviewer, I'm not quite sure what she thought the book was about when it's got sheep on the cover and it's about a farm, Maybe some people don't want to read about the piles of poo and being up all night end of farming. I know those who live in cities often have a view of farming that is all picturesque and lots of gambolling through daisy-strewn fields in pretty dresses, but that's not farming, that's a perfume advert. Farming is far more grubby than that. And tiring and hard. Animals die. Things leak. People shout. Sometimes people leak and animals shout and things die.And that's the kind of farming I write about, so beware if you just want pretty buildings and sunshine.

Anyway.

This is it. You can pre-order it here, and it releases on 16 March, which is very very soon and I ought to go and buy a cake or something to celebrate. Maybe I'll buy a sheep-shaped one...

New Stuff!

 Well, it's been a while, hasn't it? And here I am, older and wi...well, older anyway. And with two new books under my belt!

Firstly, A Seagull Summer was released at the beginning of August, which was lovely. 

And then, with much fanfare and general fanning of various types, The Country Escape was released on Tuesday of this very week. It's currently off on its blog tour, being escorted around various lovely bloggers' sites, being trotted up and showing off its not-inconsiderable paces. I understand it is behaving itself impeccably and hardly biting anyone. Which is nice. 

 

Now, as you are loyal (and even, in some cases, besotted) followers of my writings, I thought you may like some 'original content' and insider secrets about The Country Escape and writing thereof. So this is the perfect place to let you in on said secrets.

 

1) Harvest Cottage was very much based on my living accommodation whilst I was writing the book. It wasn't so much a cottage as a house, and in deepest, darkest Yorkshire rather than Dorset. But it had all the other attributes - damp down the walls, plants growing behind the furniture, no heating and woodlice in just about every orifice. Not everywhere in the country has double glazing and central heating... I wore a lot of jumpers.

 

2) Patrick is based on an amalgam of ponies through the ages. Now, I am a reasonably heighted person, at around 5 foot 6 inches, but due to a peculiarity of biology, I have short wee legs. This means that whilst most persons of my height ride elegant horses, I was doomed to the world of pony, to avoid looking like a paperclip on a sofaback. All my life I've ridden the Patricks of this world - stocky, hairy and frequently outdistanced by, well, woodlice. 

 

3) I have raised three daughters through the 'Poppy' stage. Mostly they were a little less abrasive, but they all had their moments. And no, none of them got a Versace handbag, never mind two.

 

4) The original cover of The Country Escape didn't have a pony on. It had a ginger cat. I'm not entirely sure why, since cats only get a passing mention in the book. I suppose the countryside is full of cats, so the chances are that one or two would frequent the garden of Harvest Cottage, but not on my watch. The very lovely people at Boldwood changed it for me.

 

5) I have a friend who sews exquisite patchwork quilts. Honestly, the work that goes into making one, with all the cutting of templates and the fitting together and the sewing - well, I don't even have the patience to describe all the stages, let alone to actually do them. I am to sewing what Andy Murray is to...well, sewing, I suppose. Unless he has a whole alternate career in embroidery, which I doubt.

 

6) This is the fourth book to be set in or around the fictional Dorset village of Christmas Steepleton. I had to draw a MAP! I kept forgetting which way round the bays went and where the harbour was in relation to the shops. I do not think I will be causing Ordnance Survey any sleepless nights, since the resulting map looks as though it was drawn by a nine year old 

Please don't laugh. Please. I know I can't draw. And I couldn't find any plain paper. I don't know how to explain the stains, but that's pretty nearly the story of my life.

Anyway. There you go. The Country Escape.

Now, off you pop and buy it...

Not being possessed by a demon

Ooh it's been a while since I had anything to report, hasn't it? It's been a quiet time on the publishing front, although, rest assured, I have been scribbling away like a person possessed. Actually only possessed of a very literary demon though, I mean, if I were possessed by something else it would be pointless, as I'd have pages and pages of

ASGGHAIRONGAON   GAOSEBNONTED ONWEDDS

which I haven't. Or, if I have, my editors have been too polite to point out.

Anyway.

There is news!

I have signed a four book deal with the lovely Boldwood Books and the first of the four will be coming out in September.

In August, 'Seagull Summer' will be published by Farrago. 
It's a book about a seagull. And summer, obviously. I mean, there's other things, a book about a seagull wouldn't be that gripping, I wouldn't have thought. Lots of 'fly fly fly fly, steal chips, fly fly' going on.

And, with all this lockdown thingie, I am hoping I shall squeeze in the time to finish my Otherworlders trilogy of books, that started with Vampire State of Mind then went on to Falling Apart. These follow the adventures of Jessica Grant, who works in the underfunded Otherworld Liason office at York City Council, trying to keep the vampires under control. The third book is tentatively entitled Even Demons, but don't quote me on that.

So. There's that.

In other news, I've moved house. Not very far, but I am now ensconced (can you be ensconced if you aren't a candle? I am choosing to be ensconced because I like the word. And am also waxy with a tendency to drip) in my lovely little cottage with your actual heating and double glazing and the world's most annoying dog. With whom I shall leave you a picture. With.I shall leave you of a picture with whom...

Look, here's a picture of the dog.

The Creativity Demons

You know that kind of misplaced creative feeling you get? Like when you're supposed to be making a macrame plant hanger but it's not going totally smoothly so you decide to go and put a flower border in the front garden instead?

Okay, maybe this is a little bit specific. But anyway, it's a real thing, a sort of 'creation fatigue'. Your mind wants to create something and you're all inspired and fired up with ideas and then... it's like the original inspiration dies away and you still want to make something, but the original something you started just looks all limp and sad and not something you'd want to hang a spider plant in. Or something.

This is fine, but you couldn't hang it in your window, could you?

That. Only with books.

Writing away, everything going smoothly. Then the first gritty little bits start to get into the works. The wheels start making clunking noises and, in some extreme cases, fall off. Your characters behave badly or have 'creative differences' with the other characters and go off to start their own book. Outside the sun is shining, and you are incarcerated in the dark, damp depths of your living room trying to squeeze the last ounce of creative spark out of your tired and limp brain.

And then the 'creativity demons' creep in.

'Look...' they whisper, while you suck the end of your pencil and stare at your computer with decreasing levels of hope. 'You want to make something? Why not go into the kitchen? You can be creative with cookery instead...'

So you lay down your manuscript and wander into the kitchen, thinking possibly no further than a cheese and avocado sandwich with Marmite (because that's as creative as you can get at the moment), and then there is a sudden CLICK and you find you are melting chocolate and grating lemon rind and becoming a kind of cheap version of Nigella only without the clothes sense and the overt sexuality.

So. Yes. Still haven't finished the book, but the cake was AMAZING...

Imposter Syndrome. A bad case.

Yep, it's true. It's mine and it's sitting on top of a cupboard right now, looking at me with its little pointy edges. Fantasy Romantic Novel Winner it says. I won it for this one...

...which, should you wish not to miss out, is available to purchase right now from Amazon.

Go on, it's fine, I'll wait.

And I am still pinching myself. Still saying 'but how can I have won an award? I'm me...' almost as though the panels of readers and Those Who Know who arrange these things are not allowed to like my books because I am a person who mostly wears wellingtons and works in the Co Op.

It's Imposter Syndrome of course. The fear that, actually, we have no idea what we are doing, are just muddling through, desperately flinging words at a page and hoping against hope that nobody will sit up one day and say 'hang on, none of these words make any sense at all! Plus this book smells slightly of mud and is clearly written by someone whose main task in life is to make sure that the confectionary shelf in the local shop is really really tidy.'

Apparently lots of writers have it. Imposter syndrome I mean, not the urge to keep the Dairy Milk from invading the world. Many of us believe that we don't deserve any success, that we are really rubbish at what we do and it's simply some kind of magical glamour field that is keeping everyone else from realising this. I think I might be unique in also suffering from Imposter Syndrome in my day job, where I am convinced that I am operating a till simply by pressing random buttons and it's only through the goodness of the heart of those higher up in the Co Op network that I am still employed at all. But why? This is my fourth award, for goodness' sake! People somewhere are enjoying what I write enough to shove the books to the top of the voting list (unless they are purely giving me awards out of sympathy, which I hope isn't the case). A shelf full of similiarly pointy stars testifies to this, and also, incidentally, means that I have some fairly life-threatening dusting to do whenever I have visitors. So why, on earth, do I daily feel that I am no good at this 'writing' thing and should spend my downtime doing something more profitable and that I am better at, although at this point my mind realises that I am not any good at anything else and I go and stand and stare at the pond for an hour or so.

Is it a female thing? Is it to do with 'not showing off'? Not wanting to boast?

Or are all humans basically fumbling their way through life pretending to know what they are doing, and in a minute-by-minute state of fear that someone is going to say 'Hang on a minute...'

Shortlisting and short legs

Well, I've only gone and been shortlisted in the Romantic Novel of the Year awards again.

Sorry, that sounds a bit downbeat, doesn't it? I am actually beyond delighted. I'm up for the Fantasy Award this time round, against a trio of very lovely authors and two wonderful books, so I feel madly inadequate as usual, and am again wondering what the hell I should wear.

This is the book. Not what I am going to wear...

I am cursed with short hair and short legs. In fact, I look not unlike a bowling ball with a pair of feet. So, in desperation, I messaged my friend Lynda Stacey (who always looks lovely and is my own personal style guru), who very kindly sent along some items of clothing which may make me look a little less - well, rotund. I am currently in that stage of further desperation where I try on clothes, think I look acceptable in them, walk about a bit feeling quite swish, catch a glimpse of my back view in a mirror and realise that I look like a hippo in mourning, take off clothes, go and drink gin and then come back to repeat the performance with different clothes.

I am also in training to run a 10k race in May. The training takes the form of flailing my way up and down local hills in the company of a terrier who spends the whole run yelling 'lookrabbits!Runfaster, cancatchrabbits!' and is, quite frankly, exhausting. You would think that this training would mitigate the whole 'bowling ball' look, wouldn't you? Nope. I now look like a fuschia bowling ball.

This is even the same expression as I wear.

Well, it will make me stand out at the awards, if nothing else...

I've recently rediscovered Buffy. Well, that's not quite true, I never actually FORGOT about Buffy because someone around me is always either watching it or talking about it, or mentioning Spike in some context or another, so it's not like it went away. But I just hadn't watched it for a while, despite being the proud owner of absolutely every episode ever made on DVD and the CD recording of 'Once More With Feeling'.

But somehow Buffy had dropped off my radar. However, a couple of my children had been talking about it and how it's now on Amazon Prime (or Netflix, I forget which). And, hey, haven't I just been given a Firestick for Christmas, so I only have to shout at it that I want to watch Buffy and .....whoooomph....there it is!

(I say that as though it's easy. It isn't. Alexa and I have had a few 'fallings out' over what she thinks I say and what I ACTUALLY say, trying to persuade her to show me Time Team provokes all kinds of things to flash up on my screen, none of which feature the Fabulous Tony, to the extent that I am beginning to think that Lord Robinson (or my future husband, as I prefer to think of him)..

...has infiltrated my devices and wiped himself from their vocabulary.)

So, anyway. After I'd shouted 'BUFFY! I SAID BUFFY!!' a few times, Alexa got the message. So did most of the village, incidentally, and they now give my house an even wider berth than they used to, which has necessitated several of them actually having to use ladders, but that's by the by.

And yes, some of Buffy is a bit...old fashioned now; a wee bit dated. But the dialogue remains absolutely brilliant, the character arcs are heart-breaking and all in all it's a wonderful lesson in story telling. At least, that's what I'm telling myself to justify sitting in front of the fire with a blanket round my knees and a large amount of chocolate to hand, watching Series Four. It's work. Sort of. I'm studying story structure, all right?

Leave me alone, or I'll sing the entire soundtrack at you.

Being like a dog

I've just read (in a Christmas magazine, don't judge me, it takes time to get round to these things) an article about a book that tells you how to be more like your dog in order to be happy.

Don't get me wrong, I love my dog. I've recently changed my Twitter profile picture for one which shows my three dogs (two sadly no longer with us), because I love dogs. Christmas Secrets By The Sea (my most recent novel, go and follow the link, I'll wait) revolves largely around two dogs, a whippet and...well, Brian. But I've never thought for one moment that being more dog-like would bring me any happiness or delight other than that occasioned by growling over biscuits (I do that already, seriously, don't walk too close when I'm eating a HobNob, you could lose a finger).

But, having had a look at that article, and then looking at my dog...

Approach with caution...

... I think that there may be a few things I can learn from her for inward happiness.

1 Bark at the Hoover.

Honestly, this livens up housework no end. You don't have to actually bark, but yelling abuse at the general household mess, dust, bits on the carpet or life in general, whilst the sound of your shouting is drowned out by the drone of the vacuum (and occasional whine when you suck up bits of rug/sofa cover/dog's bed) is very therapeutic. Singing also works, but I prefer shouting.

2  Don't Pay Bills.

Well, it's very easy to be happy when you're a dog and you don't have to worry about the overdue Council Tax or the electricity usage, isn't it? So, while I'm not advocating never paying your bills, because that's a short step toward total stress and hiding behind the sofa when there's a knock on the door, paying bills by Direct Debit, so you never need to see them, helps a lot.

3. Chase People You Don't Like.

My dog is very good at this. In fact, sometimes she chases people she does like. Also cats, balls, rabbits, pheasants, all other birds, deer...anyway. She's a terrier, it's what she's meant for. She's moderately obedient (terrier, so that's not very) and always comes back, and rarely disembowels that which she chases (which is reassuring for the postman). But she doesn't like people in her personal space, which, unfortunately extends to somewhere just short of the moon, but anyway. She's not polite about it, there's no 'oh you we must go for a drink sometime' mealy-mouthed sociability, it's just teeth-first across a field. I think there's a lesson there for all of us - don't waste time on people you don't really want to be with. Just don't bite them.

4. Know How to Snuggle.

In fact, learn how to relax in general. If you haven't yet discovered the delights of wrapping yourself in a fleece, lighting the fire and settling back with a large plate of cake to watch TV or read a good book, then you should. Forget all those other things you are meant to be doing (like writing a book or unblocking the toilet) because dogs don't sit at the window constantly waiting for a cat to bark at. They have perfected the art of appearing to be completely and deeply asleep, wrapped in a blanket in front of the fire. They can sense a cat in the garden, and will leap up from their apparent coma in full 'bark mode' causing you to spill your tea. Don't do this. Just do the 'lying down in front of the fire wrapped in a blanket' bit.

3. Sit On The Table Waiting For Something To Happen.

This one is a little bit harder. You don't have to actually sit on the table, of course, unless you want to, have pants on, and the table is both sturdy and covered in washable fabric. But that quivering excitement that a dog cultivates when it knows that either someone is coming to visit (see number 3, above) or it's nearly time for a walk is something that humans should also cultivate. Get yourself excited about things! Have some sense of anticipation! If you don't, then find something to get excited about (possibly not a walk or the postman, but, you know, whatever floats your boat). Looking forward to things gives you a lovely little tingle, and I should think it's the same for dogs.

So go. Be more like a dog. Just don't come back with a pheasant in your mouth and don't fight that dog at Number Nine...

Tiggy, Dylan and Teal. Be More Dog.

NB - the book the article in Prima was from is 100 Ways to be as happy as your dog, by Celia Haddon. Just in the interests of fairness.

New Year, same old me.

I'm not a competitive runner. I'm so uncompetitive that I hate running with other people. In fact, if anyone even sees me running I tend to stop and look at the hedge, or pretend I'm just out for a slightly brisk walk and I just wear running clothes because they are comfortable and keep the wind out. The red face and sweat are merely details.

But I've signed up to do a 10k run in May. I may have to insist that all the other runners do so with their eyes shut, in order not to inadvertently catch a glimpse of me running with them. Not that it matters really, I shall be so far at the back that only the person who comes along behind to pick up the litter and the fallen runners would be in any danger of seeing me actually doing it, and it may well take me all day to get round the course, but I am going to do it.

Everyone needs new challenges, and the New Year is a time we are supposed to set ourselves these challenges. Last year I thought I'd set the sort of challenge that sounds doable, but apparently eating a cake a day doesn't count as a challenge and merely results in not being able to wear your usual trousers, hence this year being the year of the 10k run, in order to undo the damage of last year's challenge. Next year I am probably going to have to challenge myself to do everything from a sitting position with my legs raised for the same reason.

When you've got stumpy little legs like mine, running isn't fun. All right, it's a nice way to see the countryside, but when even the cows are laughing at you, you come to realise that all your games teachers were right, you might as well take up chess or jigsaws or any other nice sedentary hobby. Flailing is an unattractive method of locomotion at the best of times, when it's accompanied by a red, sweaty face dragging a sturdily-built body, is it any wonder I don't run in company?

 So I begin my 'training schedule', which is really just me making 'run as far as I can get without falling down and praying for death' sound technical.

The dog seems to enjoy it, though...

Ahappy..new. Yes, thingie..that thing

I'm raising a glass to the new year. Hic. Yes. This is glass, fairly sure, can see through it. Might be window. Yes, let's open window, it smells a bit in here.

So. Raising a window to the new year. 2019. What a year that might be.. What? Oh, yes, my new year message...

Happy New Year!

What? You expected more? Can't you see glass-thingie in my hand? Am toasting. Can't toast and talk, apparently, keep missing mouth. Also in danger of dropping glass, because world is shaking or possibly I am falling over. We'll wait and see...ah, hello nice solid comforting floor. You is lovely floor. Hic. Lovely. Always liked you.

Just remains to say...remains to say...what does it remain to say? I usually just remain to say sorry for stains and send me dry cleaning bill, but not that I don't think. Floor is nice.  Ah yes, I remember. It just remains for me to say "Thank You" to all my lovely readers and reviewers and people who say nice things about my books. Have a wonderful 2019.

And a glass of this stuff. It's fine. No, there's plenty, honestly... I think we made it in the bath.

Here we are again...

It probably hasn't escaped your notice, perceptive little thing that you are, that my whole website has had a bit of a makeover. And so, to launch its whole 'new lookishness', I feel obliged to post about my new book:

This, in fact, is it. There are links all over the place. In fact my website is so all-encompassing, that you probably only have to think 'oh, that's a nice cover', and my website will arrange for Richard Armitage (or whoever you currently have pictures of in that 'hidden' folder on your computer) to come round to your front door with a copy, which he will read to you whilst he simultaneously makes you a cup of tea.

Websites can do that, apparently.

WORKSHOP ALERT 08 SEPTEMBER 0930-1200

On Saturday 08 September, it will be the RNA York Afternoon Tea (1-5, Merchant Taylors' Hall, get your tickets now), and before that the delightful Rhoda Baxter and I will be holding a 'Plot Your Novel' workshop in Miller's Yard York. It will run from 9.30 to 12 (to give anyone wishing to time to dash across in time for the Afternoon Tea), and costs £30 per person.

Anyone who's been to one of our workshops before will know what to expect - tea, biscuits, a lot of laughs, and enough facts, charts and handouts to help you plan your next novel. We will cover character arcs, plot arcs, building your character, writing an eye-catching beginning - and basically anything else we are asked to cover!

This will all take place in the gorgeous, quiet little studio that is Miller's Yard, just off Gillygate in the middle(ish) of York. If you want to come but won't be attending the Afternoon Tea, there are lots of little cafes to explore afterwards. Plus, I think there are shops too, but I'm mostly interested in cafes, so.

People who've been to our workshops before and survived have found these helpful and generally quite amusing. Sometimes we even bake our own biscuits! Before the workshop, I mean, not during, because that would be odd.

So whether you are just setting out on your writing journey and want a few pointers, or are established and want a quick refresher to keep you on course, or are just ligging about in York at a loose end and fancy a giggle instead of hanging round the Marks and Spencer underwear department - do come along and join us!

You can email for further details through this website or find me on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/jane.lovering or DM me on Twitter @JaneLovering, or even just shout very loudly through my letterbox.

In the meantime, here's a picture of a puppy.

Christmas. Cold, storms...my imagination only goes so far

This is torture and it happens to me every year.

I am writing a Christmas book. Now, I think the people of Britain should employ me to write Christmas books (although, I suppose, in a roundabout way, they actually are, because if they buy my book it's a bit like being employed by them. Just as long as they don't ask me to clean their windows or cook dinner or anything) because it seems that as soon as I start writing about Christmas the temperature climbs into the twenties and the sun is relentless.

Although I do have to admit I started this book (currently called The Discovery of Christmas, but that will no doubt change) it was November. It was cold.

It felt proper Christmassy. Although on Christmas day it was actually sunny and dry but we won't talk about that.

Now I am getting towards the end of the book. It's still Christmas in book world. Only a few weeks have passed booktimewise. However, here in the real world it's July, the sun is beaming down, even the dog won't go out in the garden and my butter has melted.

If you look closely, you can see my butter melting

So here I am, trying hard to conjure the image of storm lashed coastline, a bare house with sleet pelting the windows as two people huddle up against the cooker to keep warm. With all my windows open and the dog belly-up on my feet.

It's unfair. I spent the last seven months absolutely frozen and now I need to imagine 'absolutely frozen' it's bikini weather. I bet if I suddenly send my leading couple to a desert island, the rain will cascade down and not stop for a fortnight. So, if any farmers would like to sponsor my writing, I will gladly adjust my book settings in order to bring forth whatever weather they desire.

My next book is set back in Yorkshire in a damp spring. So, be prepared for next spring to be the driest on record, will you?

Building yourself a hero

Do you have a constant procession of imaginary people walking through your life?

Annoying, isn't it? When you start to feel that they are better than your real friends (well, of course they are, they do everything they are told!), more amenable, probably richer and better looking too, unless your real friends are - I dunno - the Beckhams or something. Because imaginary people have to be like real people, only more so.

Now I'm here to talk about heroes in books, particularly in romantic fiction (because those are the books wot I write, and therefore I have a vague idea what goes into them).

The men can't just be normal men; ok most of the time, bit crap at helping with the housework, fairly clueless when you are upset but basically decent. No. They have to have hair of ebony, eyes like liquid chocolate, muscles that fill their clothes out and generally they smell of something luscious and exotic, like lemons and cold air. They are always empathic, touchy-feely, as full of hugs as a HobNob is full of crunch. They are, not to put too fine a point on it, sickening. If they have a flaw it will be one that makes them that little bit more attractive - they will be devoted to the memory of their dead wife, or single-minded in their pursuit of the life that they want (and the heroine).

Like this. Only with a puppy in one hand, a bunch of flowers for his mum in the other, and a tea towel over his shoulder.

If they have a physical flaw, like a scar or a missing limb, it will have been sustained rescuing orphans from a housefire, being caught in crossfire whilst serving in a military unit somewhere troubled or saving a puppy from a runaway vehicle. It won't, for example, have been sustained falling downstairs while catastrophically drunk. Because your average hero doesn't get drunk, unless he's drinking to forget his (equally picturesque) sorrows. He doesn't overdo it at a party, walk into a lampost, sustaining a nasty cut to the forehead which scars in an unpleasantly puckered way, and then spend the rest of his night with his head down the toilet. No! For he is a Romance Hero...

So. When you come to Build Yourself a Man (can I recommend putting the eyeballs in last?) consider not just the muscles, they way his thighs bulge in his jeans, his sparkling eyes, the way he loves his mother, his dog and his job and how fabulous he is at everything he does. Consider, instead, making sure that he feels REAL to your reader. Even readers who are reading for the pure escapism and want their heroes to be billionaire sex-gods with biceps of iron, designer suits and an orphaned niece who needs bringing up, want a hint of believability in this man. They want to think that they just might run into him (or his poorer, slightly less muscly and dressed in Top Man younger brother) down their High Street on a Saturday night. They need a thread of believability running through their general Weave of Perfection.

Give him something he's bad at. Whilst a man being good at something is ineffably sexy, a man who isn't afraid to admit his imperfections is just as sexy. Show him making mistakes (and putting them right). Yes, he can be attractive, but he has to feel attainable. 

Okay, maybe not THAT attainable.

 

Quick, Quick, Slow...

I've had several reviews lately, describing the beginnings of my books as 'slow'. I don't have any problem with this, especially as the rest of the review has been stellar, but it did make me think.

Why do they say my books are slow, and is there anything I can do about it?

This is my actual face as I asked the question

And then I sat down and though again, and I thought 'no. I understand why they say the beginnings of my books are 'slow'. And I'm not going to do anything about it...' This is why...

You know that girl? The one you briefly met on a train once? Well, she's just madly in love with a bloke. Oh, I don't know which bloke, just a bloke. Anyway, she's madly in love with him, but there's a problem, because his sister hates the girl, you know, the first, girl, the one you met once on that train.

Do you care? Thought not. Okay, try this...

Your best friend, the one you've known since you were five, the one you've had loads of in-depth conversation with, whose hopes and fears you understand, the one you know inside out? Well, she's just met a man. And, you'll never guess, but he's that chap that you got friendly with over a coffee, the one who told you all about how afraid he is that he'll never find anyone to love him because of his background? It's him! And they are in love!

I bet you care a lot more about those two. About whether they get together, and the story of their relationship, because you know them. You know about the struggles they've faced and how much they both deserve their happy ending. The girl on the train, I mean, obviously, you hope she's happy too, but you can't get too invested in her romance, because you don't know anything about her. All you know is that she's pretty and she seems nice.

Now, there's a place for the first type of story, of course there is. And there are people who want to read it. People who want their couple to meet quickly, for there to be loads of intial attraction, but something that prevents the couple from getting together.

But that's not what I write. I write about the second kind of relationship. About characters you already know by the time they fall in love. Characters you are cheering on, because you know how hard their lives have been and how much they deserve their happy ending.

And that is why my stories have 'slow beginnings'. Because I think readers need to know the characters before they fall in love. Otherwise, why should they care?

Because sloths are adorable, that's why...

Working with an editor. Or, not actively against one.

So, you've signed your contract, sent back the mermaid, and it's all gone quiet.

Make the most of it. Because soon it is going to get really REAL. Because the first thing your publisher is going to do is get an editor to go over your work.

How editors look while they are reading your book

Now, do you remember all those things I told you about dealing with rejection? Go and practice them. Because you are about to get something called an Editorial Report on your manuscript, and it will cause you to experience Going Full Tea Towel all over again. Also stock up on biscuits (it's hard to swear with a mouthful of HobNobs, at least, it isn't hard but nobody can tell what you are saying, so you get away with more), wine and clean pyjamas, because nothing much is going to get done for the foreseeable future, and as long as you have wine, HobNobs and clean pyjamas you are going to be fine. Or, maybe not fine, as such, but you will be fed, drunk and not smell, so that's all good.

Oddly enough, because the publishers have bought your book (remember, you signed the contract whilst extracting tights from the dog?) the first thing they want to do is change it. Okay, they aren't changing it because it's not good, or they had a quick whim that they wanted a book that was almost exactly like yours only completely different, but they are changing it because they think it will be better done a different way. Or with more characters. Or less. Or located in Dorset. Enid Blyton's 'Five Go To Smuggler's Top' was originally called 'Four Go To Hayling Island' before the editors got their hands on it, you know.

Except none of the editors knew where Hayling Island was, so it had to go...

 And you will look upon your editor's words, ye mighty author, and you will despair. Oh boy will you despair. This is where the swearing comes in, by the way. Because you will find yourself looking at lots of comments like 'I love this bit, but why does she say.........?' You remember writing that bit and laughing like a drain at your heroine's witty comeback, but you are now forced to realise that nobody else understands why it's witty. Just because the phrase 'no, you're a banana!' makes you roll around slapping your thigh and giggling, doesn't mean that anyone else is going to find it amusing. Remember - if you have to explain a joke, it isn't funny.

In essence, your editor is going to make you rework your book. It's going to be like doing the ironing. Hopefully it won't be more than smoothing out a few creases and getting the corners to lie flat, but it might be the literary equivalent of putting the pleats in a kilt and 101 Ways with a Lace Collar.

I've never ironed anything, but I understand this is a suitable analogy.

 Don't be afraid to stand up and tell your editor that you can't pleat that way because it will affect the way your sporran hangs later in the story, but do be guided by them when it comes to the book version of the Fitted Sheet. They know what works. Take their advice.

Oh, and don't turn your editing iron up too hot. Nobody wants a melted plot device.

Your first moments as a writer, probably mermaid-free.

Now that you are about to become a fully fledged author (or are thinking about it, or even if you aren't you are reading this, so you must be mildly interested), you may think that signing that first contract for publication will be the high point of your career.

Well, it might. But, on the other hand, it is almost certain that the contract will arrive by email, you will have to print it out and then sign and post it back. It will not - contrary to what you may imagine -  be hand delivered by mermaids on unicorns. Actually, a mermaid probably wouldn't be able to ride a unicorn, when you think about it, she'd just keep sliding off. Even sidesaddle wouldn't help, because you have to sort of cock one leg over the top of the other, and a mermaid hasn't got any legs to cock.

I think we can all see that this isn't going to work, can't we?

So, whilst it might be a nice idea that just results in a faceful of pavement for your mermaid and a unicorn galloping unrestrained around your local streets, you are probably not going to have this problem.

Almost positively, the day your contract comes by email will be the day the dog swallows a pair of tights, a child comes down with an illness you are sure is chicken pox, there will be Marmite all over the kitchen and a strange smell behind the fridge. You won't have seen the cat for three days, the TV remote will have vanished and there will be a letter from the bank that has a tint of red around the edges.

You will print out the contract with one hand whilst on the phone to the vet with the other. With your third hand you will take the temperature of the ill child. When you finally sign and return the contract, you will be so distracted that it will hardly even register. And your pen will probably run out half way through, so part of your signature will be done in green pen, because it will be the only one you can find that works, but will make you look as though you forgot your own name part way through.

You will have had a lovely pen all ready for this momentous..errr...moment, but you'll forget all about it when the time comes. You'll probably be so distracted that you will post the contract back without a stamp.

Don't worry. The rest of your writing career will consist of moments like this all joined together, so you might as well start as you mean to go on.

The publishing equivalent of Those Men on Facebook

It's a Bank Holiday Monday, the sun is shining and I can't wait to get outside and run for a few miles...

...no, sorry, I can't even type it with a straight face. It is a Bank Holiday Monday, and one on which I am not at work, but far from being consumed with a desire to go for a run, I'm sitting indoors, in my pyjamas, wondering whether I can legitimately start eating chocolate at not-quite-ten in the morning. I will go for a run later but...yes, later...

So, here I am to talk to you about the next stage in your writing journey. I'm calling it 'When To Say No', but it's not some long tale about Dubious Consent (which is a whole other topic in the romance writing fraternity, regarding sexual consent - yes, cream cakes are nice, but you don't necessarily want to have one forced down your throat when you are trying to watch NCIS, and associated imagery), it's about not jumping on the first publishing offer that is sent your way.

I KNOW that when you get that e-mail (or letter, if you are old-school), your first instinct is to punch the air and leap about all demented yelling "Somebody wants to publish me!!" Of course it is! You've worked long and hard to get here! All those biscuits! All that sobbing over the keyboard while the cat stares at you!

But, just sometimes, The Offer is not all it appears to be.

You know those men on Facebook? The ones that want to Friend you, and have a picture that makes them look like a cross between Keanu Reeves and Mark Harmon (go and Google them both, if you must, quite frankly I despair of you!) in a uniform? Well, there's a publishing equivalent.

If a publisher emails you (or, as previously mentioned and old-school, writes you a letter), and it goes along the lines of 'hello lovely Lady, you have such a pretty smile I can't help myself but write to you and want to be your friend,' BEWARE.

Although the letter will more likely go 'Dear 'AUTHOR' (sometimes they will spell your name wrongly, but this is merely a courtesy detail).

'We, here at Boggin Books, have read your submission' (which will carefully not be named here) 'and are delighted to say that we would love to publish it.'

This is the point at which you whoop, punch the air and, usually, stop reading. Sometimes you break out the gin or champagne. Someone loves your book! They want to publish it! You have practically made your first million, and you start planning your poster campaign and what you will wear to your first book launch party.

But hold hard.

Dubious people out there know how desperate authors are to be published. They will leap on your hope. Beware of ANY letter (or email) from a publisher that doesn't mention your novel by name, and also doesn't mention any kind of contract, because the follow up letter to the one I mention above, once you have confirmed your interest, will often go...

'Dear AUTHOR

We are delighted you have expressed an interest in using Boggin Publishing Services. We would ask for a small contribution towards the cost of publishing YOUR TITLE HERE, in order to maximise your reach.'

or some such.

AUTHORS NEVER PAY TO PUBLISH. Except self- published authors, of course, and they know that they are self-publishing. Don't EVER get duped into paying any money to produce your book, not for 'cover design rights' or 'for a top notch editor to work with you' or 'to have your book listed on Amazon'. Publishers, proper publishers, pay these costs for their authors. It's why they get first grabs at the money and your royalties are what's left - because they've taken the risk of publishing your book and put money into it.

I know, but it's fair when you think about it. So, if you get an offer that you think might be too good to be true...

think of those widowed single dads in the US military who inexplicably want to be your friend.

Those three little words...

So you've submitted your first three chapters, and you've heard those magic three words for the first time..

No, not 'I love you'. It would be odd to be hearing someone say I love you in response to submitting your novel, unless you have submitted it to your Significant Other, which would be, largely, pointless unless you are dating the head of Random Penguin or whatever they call themselves today. Plus, if you are dating the head of a random penguin, your problems may well be further reaching than I can deal with in this blog.

The three words to which I refer are 'Send. More. Please.' There is a caveat about making sure that these words refer to your words, and not, say sandwiches or cake or biscuits - it's always wise to double check, but in the event that you've heard a publisher or agent say them, and you have therefore Sent. More. Words (those words being further words of your novel, not just stray words you happened to have lying around the place), now you need to fill your time until you hear back about the satisfactory nature of those words.

This can be a hard time. You will obsess. You will have the e mail button open on your laptop at all times, and every time a new mail pings in you will open it with your heart thumping. Unless you are expecting your credit card statement, of course, in which case you will close down all means of communication and probably move to the moon. You will make bargains with Fate, wandering around muttering 'if they promise to buy the book I will never again eat four Walnut Whips in succession' and suchlike. Usually with at least one Walnut Whip in your hand.

Unless, as previously stated, you are talking to a random penguin head.

You will read books published by the publisher (or represented by the agent) and try to work out whether your work is in any way comparable. You will also eat a lot of chocolate and sleep standing up.

What you should be doing:
 Apart from pledging yourself to diet off those biscuits and chocolate at the first opportunity, this is what you should do: Get Yourself On Social Media. If you haven't already got one, get a Facebook profile, get on Twitter and make yourself a blog. (What? You didn't think I was doing this for FUN did you?). Because the first thing that publisher or agent will do, on receiving your treasured manuscript is Google you. And it's all very well keeping a low profile and being all mysterious and unavailable and everything, particularly if you have either recently robbed a bank or have more injunctions taken out against you by a certain Sir Tony Robinson, but what a publisher or agent wants is someone who knows how to sell themselves.

I tried to sell myself to Sir Tony, but he returned me with the receipt and asked for his money back. I was, apparently 'not fit for purpose'. Sigh.