Novel idea

My last post was a woeful long time ago, but since it announced my becoming a mummy*, you'll probably understand the long absence. 

Since then, I've been doing a lot of reading on my Kindle app on my phone, with the brightness turned down as low as it can go, held at a funny angle so as not to be apparent to the two-year old trying NOT to go to sleep in the toddler bed behind me.

My other reading time is courtesy of audio books on the cd player in the kitchen. Northanger Abbey has recently been making me laugh out loud, and I have always loved Jane Austen's defence of the novel in it.  This time, when I stood in the kitchen burning the toast, I ended up giving the section below an ovation.  How apt, how clever, how unashamed is this defence?  Given the criticism that women's fiction and romance still attracts (*yawn*  Really, critics?  Are you still playing that same tune?  Get over it already.) I love this quote even more....

"... and if a rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments, they were still resolute in meeting in defiance of wet and dirt, and shut themselves up, to read novels together. Yes, novels; for I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with novel–writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding — joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages with disgust.   Alas! If the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? I cannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. Let us not desert one another; we are an injured body.   Although our productions have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has been so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers. And while the abilities of the nine–hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the man who collects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior, with a paper from the Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are eulogized by a thousand pens — there seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them.    “I am no novel–reader — I seldom look into novels — Do not imagine that I often read novels — It is really very well for a novel.” Such is the common cant. “And what are you reading, Miss — ?” “Oh! It is only a novel!” replies the young lady, while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. “It is only Cecilia, or Camilla, or Belinda”; or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best–chosen language."   Well said, Jane!   *If you're wondering, there are no words in the English Language to describe how perfectly miraculous, breath-stealingly joyful, inventively mischievous and utterly tireless he is.  He has two speeds: 100 miles and hour and unconscious.  We are bewitched, dizzy in love, and enslaved!

An Easter Excerpt from The Firebird

Russian Easter Eggs © Christian Delbert | Dreamstime.com

 This just seemed like the perfect thing to post, today—a little sneak peek from my latest book, The Firebird (and one of my own favourite scenes, as it happens). I hope you enjoy it. 

* * *

     “And,” said Anna, “when the people greet each other, there will be the giving of the painted eggs, which is great fun. Do you give eggs to one another in Livonia, at Easter?”

     Katie, being little, could not say with any certainty.

     “Well, here in Russia, there are painted eggs—some red, and some with all the colors of your mother’s jewels, in clever patterns, and most beautiful to see.”

     “And do you eat them?”

     “Yes, eventually. First though, people give them to each other, and receive an Easter kiss. Like this.” She held up an imaginary egg, and said to Katie, “First I tell you, ‘Christ is risen,’ and your answer should be, ‘Truly He is risen.’”

     Katie parroted the words.

     “Good. Then you take the egg from me, that’s right, and kiss me three times, starting here.” She put a guiding finger to her left cheek, leaning close down to the bed to let the little girl perform the triple kiss: the left cheek, then the right, and then the left again.

     “Must you kiss everyone?” asked Katie.

     “Yes, it is the custom. If you’re greeted in this way, then you cannot refuse the kiss,” said Anna. “Nor the egg.”

     “I wish I had a real egg.”

     From the open doorway just behind, a man’s voice said, “Will this one do?”

     The light in Katie’s face, all on its own, would have told Anna who it was that stood there, had she not already recognized his voice.

     And as she always did in Edmund’s presence now, she put on mental battle dress, composed her features carefully to be polite but only just, and straightened without haste to turn and face him.

     He had leaned one shoulder jauntily against the door frame, with his black wool coat left open to reveal the yellow waistcoat worn beneath, all edged with braid. She’d never seen him in a color, only in the plain black coat, or in the plain white of his shirtsleeves; never with this vibrant dash of light that made him seem a bit more human.

     In his hand he held an egg that had indeed been painted with a rainbow’s colors, red and blue and gold and green. “My landlady did give this to me earlier this morning, with instructions that, as soon as mass had ended, I should give this to the princess, and exchange it for a kiss. And I could think of but one princess in all Petersburg,” he said to Katie, “so now, Princess Katie, will you—”

     Katie cut him off, blond curls dancing as her face mingled delight and firm denial. “I’m no princess, Ned.”

     He paused, and feigned confusion. “Are you not?”

     She was decided. “No. Your landlady meant the imperial princesses. They’re at the palace.”

     “I see. Are you sure about that? Well, they’ll have so many eggs by now,” he said, “they’ll not miss mine. Here, you can have it.”

     “No,” she put him off again, but for a different cause. “You have to do it properly.”

     “How’s that?”

     “Like Mistress Jamieson was showing me. You have to tell me, ‘Christ is risen,’ then I answer you, and then you give the egg to me, and then I kiss you.”

     Edmund schooled his face. “It seems a lot of effort,” he told Katie, “for a kiss.”

     “It is the custom,” Katie told him, very solemnly, in a near-perfect imitation of the way that Anna had just said those very words, and Edmund’s mouth twitched faintly.

     With a shrug he came away from the door jamb and crossed to the little girl’s bedside, and Anna moved out of their way, standing back several paces to watch while the Irishman bowed very gallantly low to the child and announced, “Christ is risen. Now, take the damn’d egg.”

     “Not yet. First I must tell you, ‘Truly He is risen,’” said Katie, and looking to Anna, asked, “Is that right?”

     Any notion Anna might have had of telling Edmund not to curse in Katie’s presence fell away then, for she saw the child herself was not at all affected by it. Innocence, she thought, was often blind to other’s wickedness. And Edmund did not look so very wicked at the moment.

     He looked much as he had looked when she had watched him with the children in the yard, nearly two weeks ago: a gentle man, a stranger to her eyes, without a trace of the sardonic, cutting wit he liked to turn on her when they were in a room together.

     Seemingly mindful that Katie was still weak from illness, he leaned lower still for his kiss and received it at last, saying, “Three kisses! Sure, that’s a generous reward.”

     “Mistress Jamieson says every egg gets three kisses.”

     “Indeed? Well, I’ve no doubt she’d tell you the truth.” He was standing again at his full height and looking at Anna, as though he were trying to guess at her thoughts. “Mistress Jamieson, you appear troubled.”

     She said, “Hardly that. I was only admiring the egg.”

     “Oh, yes? I’ve another just like it.” Drawing a second egg out of his coat pocket, he held it up in full view as he leveled his gaze on her own, and the glint in his eyes told her she was a fool to have ever believed him not wicked. He said, “Christ is risen.”

* * * 

I hope you're enjoying this holiday weekend. Come back and read Julie's post, Thursday.

Courageous Heroines

We’ve discussed leading ladies before on this blog, and I think we agreed that we all put a lot of ourselves into our heroines. In fact, most of the time we ARE the heroine, just in disguise. This means, of course, that they take on a lot of our own likes, dislikes and idiosyncracies.

This is certainly true for me. For example, I hate the colours beige and brown, so would never make my heroines wear it. I don’t like sausages, therefore my heroines don’t either. I love long hair – whenever possible I let my heroines have abundant tresses. I love animals, so my heroines do too. And so on and so forth.

There is one way in which we differ fundamentally, however – I’m a chicken, they’re not. In real life I’d probably rather run away than get involved in a fight, would faint in horror if I saw a ghost or was confronted with anything paranormal, and I doubt I could save anyone’s life except if they were drowning (I love swimming). But my heroines can’t be like that – they have to be feisty, capable and stand up for themselves. They have to be courageous and self-sacrificing, ready to take risks in order to get what they want. That’s definitely not me.

But on the other hand, it’s the “me” I’d like to be.

I’m sure we all dream of doing things we’ve never dared to – whether it’s skydiving, bungee jumping or just travelling the world. I do wish I’d been born braver, but because I’m not, it’s even more satisfying to be able to make my alter ego courageous. I know some authors do go out and try all the things they write about, but I content myself with living vicariously, through my imagination. Perhaps it’s not as satisfying as doing something yourself, but I think it’s enough for me. Or is it?

I recently read a novel where the heroine drew up a list of ten things she’d like to do before she died and then acted on it (Swimming with Dolphins by Deborah Wright). This made me wonder what I’d put on mine and whether I’d be able to tick any of them off. The list was supposed to be secret and some of the items on it may not be at all feasible, but it’s quite a fun exercise. Mine isn’t complete yet, so I’ll have to keep working on it. I definitely know I want to go to Pompei and Herculaneum, so that’s item no.1 (and I don’t think I need to keep that a secret), and I would love to swim with dolphins, even if that’s a bit clichéd, but I’m not sure what else.

How about you – what would you definitely want to do before it’s too late? Or how far would you go in the name of research?

Please come back on Thursday to hear from Liz!

Favourite Things

I don't know if Julie knows that I sometimes have a hard time thinking up something to blog about (probably because I'm usually posting on a Sunday, when I'm all wound-down and empty-brained) or if she just thinks of me whenever she makes a cake. Which is by no means unreasonable.

Either way, she's quite right, I do have a Fine Appreciation of Cake. It's been dented in recent years by my wheat-free status, but that's okay - it's just reinforced my pavlova obsession.

And believe it or not, thinking about cake did actually bring me to a topic for this blog about characters and making them real.

Via cake stands and aprons.

Yes, cake stands and aprons. I have, at the most recent count, seven cake stands and nine aprons. I like them. I like to look at them, and I like to use them. They are pretty, practical and two of my very favourite things.

So, what are my heroines' favourite things? Those things that make them double-take on the high street, go ooooooh at a picture in a magazine, and beg on their birthday?

Thinking about heroines in my published and unpublished manuscripts, I mostly drew a blank. Countryside Ranger Jenny has a thing for trees, it's true, but it's subtle, and not of the common or garden birthday-present variety. Mari, growing up as sole carer for her ailing father, hasn't had much opportunity to even KNOW what she likes, a fact she acknowledges herself. Shiftless thief Lisa's two favourite things are pretty much her only possessions - her boat and an item of her mother's jewelry. And she abandons them both the instant she realises owning the boat has made her an unwilling accessory to murder. Another heroine has everything money can buy, but nobody's ever asked her what she actually wants. Another has been busy being a Mum since she was sixteen, and is only ten years later starting to think about what she wants out of life - even her three children have their favourite things, but she doesn't.

Now, I THINK this is because I tend to write heroines who are out of their depth and suffering, for whom favourite things are just not important. I HOPE this isn't because I write shallow characters, because I actually think little details like cake stands and aprons give a character depth. Especially when the character who covets them also has, say, chainsaw certification and dirt under their fingernails.

But I'll be thinking about this again when I'm editing the current WIP.

How about your (and your characters') favourite things? What springs to mind?

(And for the curious, the cake stand pictured is one I received from my lovely in-laws for my birthday last month, and the apron is a red version of the green one Biddy (who has impeccable taste) gave me some years back. Mmmmmm.....)

Pop back on Thursday for Christina's next post!

Who's That Girl?

As Liz said in the previous post we spent a few wonderful hours/days discussing who we would cast in our books. She nabbed talking about the Heroes but a hero needs a strong heroine. And with a blog called 'The Heroine Addicts' we need to look at them.

Now what makes a great heroine for you? Is it her looks? Is it her sparkiness? Is she who we want to be? And when you see the heroine in your head does she look like a famous person?

One of my first heroines is a girl called Allie, in 'The One Before The One' (and yes I know there is now a book of that name but I started mine 6 years ago!). In my head she was a feisty and stubborn (and had to go head to head with a hero played by Jamie Bamber). Allie is the bridesmaid at her ex's wedding and is the prime suspect when he is found dead in the Orangery on his wedding night.


I chose the singer songwriter Allison Moorer. I loved her music and in this picture she said Allie to me.

The next heroine that I wrote about was Zoe. Her hero was Jack (Hugh Jackman) and she was a singer songwriter. Zoe and Jack's story was 'Dream Date' and was the first book I ever finished and it was requested by Mills & Boon but sadly got no further. Zoe wanted to follow her dream of going to Nashville and I wanted someone who looked quirky and determined.




I chose Lori McKenna who is a singer songwriter who followed her dream. Her songs have been recorded by Faith Hill.




Once I had brushed myself down after my rejection I started on another M&B.

My heroine was called Jo, she is the younger curvier sister of a top model. She works as a project manager in the construction industry and she wants to prove to her family that she is successful. She is someone who lives in her head. Her hero Lucas (Gerard Butler) is a reclusive artist with a penchant for picking up waifs and strays. He also hasn't painted in years. Until he takes one look at Jo and her curves. In my head there was only one woman with the fierceness and softness for this job.

Step forward Super Nanny, Jo Frost.

That story didn't last long and I moved onto 'Bah Humbug!' also known as 'The Wedding Carol'. Now I struggled with casting Edie Dickens. The story is based on 'A Christmas Carol' but is based around weddings. Edie is a divorce lawyer and she is visited by Ghosts of Weddings Past, Present and Future. I needed someone who could do uptight and end up soft and in the arms of ex-rugby international, Jack Twist.

I cast Emily Deschanel.


But as we all know I have moved on to the world of YA. Casting for 'The Stone Voice' (also known as 'Henges & Hormones') was easy when it came to the men. Quin is somewhat like RPattz and Lord Eden is Sam West. But Alexa was difficult.

Alexa is almost sixteen. And pretty bloody annoyed with life. At the beginning she is overly concerned with appearances. I struggled for ages to work out who she was. In fact I realise I don't give much of a description of her until well into the book. But then I realised who she was. Someone familiar. Ok so the person she is based on is well over twice her age (physically, not mentally) but really there was only one person it could be.....

ME!

Who are your heroines?

Don't forget to come back on Sunday to hear from Susanna