The Flowers of Time: Deleted Scene

Look what I found! I’ve been trying to organise my documents folder a bit–don’t laugh, I bet you’ve all been there–and I found this deleted scene from the the first draft of The Flowers of Time.

The Flowers of Time. A determined lady botanist and a non-binary explorer. Mystery, suspense, monsters and romance in England and the Himalayas in 1780.

My first draft was a mess, honestly. I wrote it over a long period, some of which was during the three weeks I spent in a specialist hospital unit trying to get my seizures sorted–and there were quite a few repeated scenes and double-ups that eventually got chopped out.

Sometimes taking things out is fine, I can see the story will run more smoothly and effectively and I have no emotional attachment to the words I’m deleting. And sometimes I can see that things need to come out and it still really hurts to pull them. This was one of the latter.

Here Edie, our plucky botanical-artist heroine is well on the way to becoming a seasoned traveller. I wanted the physical journeys the characters made (to England for Jones and to India for Edie and then on over the mountains together) to reflect their character growth. There were a lot of strands to plait together and I said quite a few things more than once and had a lot of scenes in there that didn’t move the story forward. This really slowed things down–it’s basically an info-dump about Edie’s initial experience of India, which is interesting if you’re a history nerd (raises hand) and in love with Edie (raises other hand) but less useful to a reader who wants to find out what’s going on for goodness sake! rather than read a history book.

So here we have a deleted scene…part of Edie’s journey.

Despite their father’s occupation as a navy captain and two of her brothers following the same profession, and despite her mother’s early married years taking place on the oceans on board her father’s ship, Edie had never left dry land before this adventure. It had been a terrifying and amazing journey. The cramped quarters and frankly noxious living conditions had been a revelation. She had much more sympathy with her father and brothers now she had lived for a few months in the way they did their whole lives. It had taken seven months from leaving Portsmouth on the Athena to their arrival in Bombay. She had spent the time sewing rough hessian and linen in to bags that would hopefully help to keep alive the plant specimens she planned to send home by retaining moisture round the roots.

When they finally arrived at Bombay it had been a feast to her sense-starved self. The sea-voyage had been magnificent, but the ship was so confining. She wanted to be off seeing the countryside, drinking in all the new experiences she could.
She had left the practical travel arrangements to Bennett and Henry since they seemed to wish to be busy and were dismissive of her assistance. They had procured good quality square tents, one for each of them, a folding camp bed each, some stools and chairs that also folded and the various bedding and cooking accoutrements that were necessary. There were conical tents for the servants and Carruthers’ assistants to sleep in and some mules and camels to carry everything. All in all there were a couple of dozen in their party, which included a handful of Company Lieutenants that were both to assist Carruthers in his geographical and astronomical measurements and serve to protect them.

She had refused to travel in a litter around the city or on their journey like the few other British ladies. Most of them thought her peculiar. Why take up the time of four men though, when she could just as well ride her own horse? She found the handful of ladies married to the East India Company men a little tedious, if she was honest with herself. The whole of the John Company, really. They were very concerned with keeping up standards as though they were in London and had seized on her the moment she had crossed the pounding surf in the small boats that ferried passengers and goods from ship to shore, wanting to know the latest gossip and fashions.
More interesting were the ladies who were not quite ladies, married to some of the soldiers and lesser Company employees.

There had been a pair of sisters on the ship who had been going out to join their cousin. Because Edie had left her maid at home, she had engaged both of them to help her with her toilette aboard ship. Their cousin was married to a soldier and ran a millinery shop. Both sisters were hoping to find husbands. One was a seamstress who would to join her cousin’s business and the other was a baker who was hoping to open her own patisserie near the Company accommodations. There were a number of women in equivalent trades in the small British community and to Edie, their way of life seemed much more sensibly geared to the foreign heat and customs than that of the greater ladies who strove to maintain British manners.
That aside, Bombay was fascinating. A swirl of heat and noise and color and dust and smells that turned her head inside out and round again . They had stayed in the city for three weeks preparing for their onward journey to meet Miss Jones and her party at Srinegar in late May in order to travel over the Himalaya to Leh before the monsoon came in July
.

You can find The Flowers of Time at all the usual ebook retailers (yadda yadda yadda!) and it’s available in paperback and audio too.

The Flowers of Time

The Flowers of Time

:: A determined lady botanist : a non-binary explorer : mystery, suspense, monsters and romance : England and the Himalayas in 1780 ::

A determined lady botanist and a non-binary explorer make the long journey over the high Himalayan mountain passes from Kashmir to Little Tibet, collecting flowers and exploring ruins on the way. Will Jones discover the root of the mysterious deaths of her parents? Will she confide in Edie and allow her to help in the quest?

It’s a trip fraught with perils for both of them, not least those of the heart.

“…an enjoyable escapist story, with magic, romance and adventure. The characters were eminently likeable, and I wanted to spend time with them”- The Lesbian Review

Amazon : Audible : Everywhere Else

Interview: C. H. Clepitt on what began their writing, and their sapphic retelling of Red Ridinghood

Today C. H. Clepitt has popped in to chat about what started their writing, answer intrusive questions and tell us about their sapphic 1980s FBI retelling of Red Ridinghood! Welcome, Claire!

To begin with, what’s your reason for popping in today?

I don’t get out much…

What started you writing?

I’ve always written, as demonstrated by this beaut my parents dug out of the attic!  They say lots of writers start with fan fiction…

Where do you write?

Well, funny you should ask. Recently I have had a bed related mishap (wasn’t doing anything exciting, sadly) and my bed collapsed from under me. Offending bed frame disposed of in the tip, there is currently a mattress strewn across the bedroom floor (I tried standing it up against the wall and the cat took umbridge) – so, I really have no access to sit in the bedroom (what’s that you say? Why not sit on the mattress?)

Well, I will tell you. Cass found it so upsetting that there was a mattress up against the wall that he flung it forcefully to the ground decapitating a lamp and trapping the vacuum. For some reason the mattress (bought from the same place as the amazing collapsible bed, so no surprises) has no handles and cannot be moved alone, so for now it remains strewn. Fortunately I have a sofa bed, so I have somewhere to sleep until they can deliver me a new one (it takes 6 weeks apparently). So, in short (maybe you’ll want to edit this answer) at present I am writing on the sofa bed as I can’t access anywhere else to sit…

What do you like to read?

I’m quite eclectic, as long as it’s well written I’ll give it a crack, but I will not read animal cruelty. That makes me put a book down and never come back to it. I’m looking at you Stephen King.

What are the three books you’d take to a desert island? Why would you choose them?

Good question. I think I’d take The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes. I started Sherlock Holmes over lockdown and I love it! Lady Molly of the Yard – I’ve just bought it and a desert island seems like a great opportunity to read something new – wait, am I stuck on the desert island? I’d better bring how to escape a desert island – is that a book?

Writing is an intrinsically solo occupation. Do you belong to any groups or associations, either online or in the ‘real’ world? How does that work for you?

I used to but since lockdown I’ve become more isolated and struggled to interact, even interacting online is more difficult, I don’t know why. I’m in your author group and I occasionally prod you!

What do you like to do when you’re not writing?

I work really long hours trying to keep a small local charity afloat after lockdown. I’ve recently started playing netball again which has dramatically improved my mental health, and obviously I have Cass, my wonky cat. Follow me on Twitter to be bombarded with photos of him.

Tell me a little bit about your most recent release. What gave you the idea for it? How long did it take to write? What did you enjoy about writing it? What did you hate?

My most recent release is book 3 in my Magic Mirror collection and it’s a queer retelling of Red Riding Hood set in 1980s USA. I’ve really enjoyed mixing historical fiction with changing up fairy tales (the series is set in different periods of the 20th Century). I liked researching it (watching lots of ’80s shows and films to get a feel for the period) and building the relationship between Clara and Red. I didn’t really hate anything. I wouldn’t write if I didn’t enjoy it!

Wolf Killer

“Honey, it’s the ’80s. You need to find yourself a woman who can hold your hand in public, not one who calls you her ‘friend’ and keeps you away from her boss. You don’t need that kinda heartache. You think it’ll be OK, but it won’t, trust me. It starts to eat away at you.”

FBI Agent Clara Hunter might not be girlfriend material, but as Red soon discovers, if you have a serial killer on your heels she is just the woman you want in your life!

Book 3 of the Magic Mirror collection takes Red Riding Hood, and tells it in a way only C H Clepitt can!

Find C. H. Clepitt

My website is currently dead, Jim! But I have a makeshift landing page to sign up for my newsletter here.

You can find me on Facebook and on Twitter and if you join my author group on Facebook you get a free book! Exciting!

Ellie Thomas: Spice of Life

Today Ellie is dropping in to talk about some of the research behind her new historical romance. She’s a regular visitor and you can catch up with her always-interesting past posts here!

Thank you so much again, Ally, for having me as your guest today! (Ally: You’re welcome, Ellie!) I’m Ellie Thomas, and I write Gay Historical Romance. In this blog, I’m chatting about The Spice of Life which is my story for a Valentine’s Sugar or Spice submissions call for JMS Books.

After lurking around the 18th century for a few stories, I thought it timely to return to the reign of Elizabeth I. My other Tudor tale, Stage Struck, is set in the world of Elizabethan theatre in 1590’s London. This is a topic for which I have a lasting passion and have read around and taught about for many years.

So I decided to set myself a challenge and get out of my comfort zone and place The Spice of Life a couple of decades earlier in the 1570s amongst the merchant classes and gentry of London. Then I promptly panicked and convinced myself I knew nothing!

That was the cue to reach for my overstuffed bookshelves and my go-to author about all things Tudor, Ruth Goodman. What makes this author so special is that she is a living historian. For television programmes and her independent research, she has spent much of her career living as someone would in the past, with Tudor times being her speciality. Her books are crammed full of detailed observations about how ordinary people lived. As well as giving the reader a wealth of knowledge, Ruth Goodman’s writing is always entertaining and often very humorous, so a fun read.

The two books I dipped into for my research were How to be a Tudor and the splendidly titled How to Behave Badly in Renaissance Britain. Fortunately, I had read them both before, otherwise, I would have got horribly sidetracked, and my story would never have been written!

Having chosen my main character Gregory to be a serving man, I was reminded about the Tudor custom of such employment. Unlike later eras, where being a servant was a job for life, this was a transitional role for young people, as working in a household was regarded as training for an independent future. The same goes for Gregory’s love interest, Jehan. As an apprentice, he would have expected to learn how to become a spice merchant in his own right. So when Jehan gets into trouble through no fault of his own, he has a great deal to lose!

I also learnt details about the pomander, an object which is pivotal to my plot. These canisters contained perfume to ward off noxious smells of the city streets and ranged from something as simple as a lavender bag to costly containers filled with expensive resin, like the one that causes all the mayhem in my story. My imagination was caught by Ruth Goodman’s gorgeous description of a pomander, when worn by a lady, releasing its perfume every time it knocked against her skirts with each step.

Also, her detailed description of Tudor underwear (or lack of it) and the ins and outs of the workings of codpieces were vital for the love scene between Gregory and Jehan. Essential knowledge!

As the story played out in my mind, I could picture Gregory scurrying around London, trying his best to help his beloved Jehan escape danger. It was a boon to have such a reliable source to check those little details of Tudor life to help my story come alive.

The Spice of Life

Ellie Thomas, The Spice of Life

At twenty years of age, Gregory Fletcher is content with his life, biding his time as a serving lad for kindly, wealthy relatives in Elizabethan London. Sometimes, he wishes for a spark of excitement in his staid existence. The occasional glimpse of Jehan Zanini, the handsome apprentice of a local merchant, adds spice to his dreams.

Out of the blue, Jehan is accused of stealing from an aristocratic customer. Gregory fears he may never see him again and is concerned for Jehan’s liberty and even his life. When Gregory gets the chance to help Jehan escape his fate, he grasps the opportunity without hesitation.

Can Gregory engineer Jehan’s flight from London and the authorities? Might he even clear Jehan’s name? And will their adventure draw them closer or fling them apart forever?

Buy The Spice of Life

Extract:

“Do you have anywhere to go?”Gregory asked.
“Other than trying to reach my uncle in Southwark, no,” Jehan replied.
“Right, then. I can find you a place to rest up for the day, and we’ll make a plan from there,” Gregory said decisively. He attached the leads to the patiently waiting dogs, and with an encouraging smile at Jehan, he said, “This way,” and the ill-assorted foursome left the field.
The dogs had expended their spare energy racing around the field and were content to trot at Jehan’s slower speed, since his limbs were stiff after a chilly night lying on the hard ground. “Where are we going?” he asked tentatively as they walked into the city.
“My family home, at least that of my master, off Bishopsgate,” Gregory said briefly as they turned onto that thoroughfare and passed St. Helen’s church. 
“Wait here,” he said as they arrived at the side gate he had unbolted for his morning walk with the dogs. He pushed it open and peered into the yard, which was still quiet and empty.
“Follow me,” he said to Jehan, and the men and hounds crossed the yard towards a cluster of outbuildings, some of which were much older than the house itself. At the back of these was a small barn, sometimes used as an apple store, but currently unoccupied. While mulling over the problem of where to hide Jehan, this seemed the perfect spot. 
Gregory opened the door and was pleased that the shed was dry and sound. He jerked his head towards the half-loft. “You get yourself up there, and I’ll find you some blankets.”
Jess and Roamer were content to explore this new place quietly, snuffling around as Gregory went into the stables as stealthily as he could and found some old horse rugs that wouldn’t be missed.
He let himself back into the barn and climbed the makeshift ladder to the loft, where Jehan was waiting, looking slightly lost. “Here you are,” he said, spreading a blanket over the covering of old straw on the planked floor. Jehan lay down obediently as Gregory knelt, heaping the rest of the blankets over him. “I should be able to get some food for you at dinner time,” he said.
Jehan’s eyes looked heavy already, “All I need to do right now is to get some sleep.” Then he hesitated and asked, “Why are you helping me?”
Looking down at that drawn, vulnerable face, Gregory thought, because you’re handsome and charming, and I have a liking for you, so it pains me to see you brought so low. But instead of voicing his thoughts, he said stolidly, “Such a charge could be brought against any of us. But for the grace of God, it could be me.”
“Thank you,” Jehan said, seemingly satisfied with that explanation, his eyelids closing. Gregory was so close to him that he could see the sweep of those long, dark eyelashes over Jehan’s pale cheek. Gregory imagined he could still perceive a hint of intoxicating spices from Jehan’s body as it warmed under the blankets. He ached to run his finger down the elegant cheekbone or even steal a kiss. But he contented himself to put a comforting hand on Jehan’s shoulder instead. 
“You get some rest,” he said gruffly.

Buy The Spice of Life

About Ellie

Ellie Thomas lives by the sea. She comes from a teaching background and goes for long seaside walks where she daydreams about history. She is a voracious reader especially about anything historical. She mainly writes historical gay romance.

Ellie also writes historical erotic romance as L. E. Thomas.

Website : Facebook

#TheWeekThatWas

Right then…it’s been a while and this is a bit of a rambling personal post to get myself back in to the swing of things.

patio table and chair set on a garden
Photo by Deeana Arts on Pexels.com

I stopped blogging over Christmas because I thought I’d have a break—things were a bit tough with the kids and my mental health wasn’t great. And then…my mental health still wasn’t great and there we were in January. And then I got a bit anxious about not having posted…so here we are in February!

I pushed back the release of the third Bradfield village novel to try to take some weight off; instead my March release (on the 26th) will be Out of Focus, a twenty-thousand word contemporary novella set in a theatre community in Wales. I think I might revisit some of the secondary characters at some point, I enjoyed writing it so much.

At the moment I’m working on a project for May with Ofelia Grand, Nell Iris, K. L. Noone and Amy Spector. We are all writing short stories/novellas for World Naked Gardening Day.

The Wingman, Holly Day

It began as a bit of a joke…Ofelia’s other pen name is Holly Day, and she writes stories to celebrate different days all through the year. (Her latest release is The Wingman, a 11,000 word short story to mark National Wingman Day on 13th February!)

She and Nell and I were laughing about there being a day for everything in our early-morning writing session one morning and eventually we decided it would be fun to write something together. We are all writing stories of between fifteen and twenty thousand words that will be released on 7th May. Each one features…you guessed it…naked gardening in some way. I’m about half way through and hope to be finished in the next week or so.

I may revisit Bradfield then; or I may write something else first. I needed a palate-cleanser I think. It all felt very heavy and difficult and once I made the decision to put it down for a while I felt quite a bit better.

This is a something-and-nothing blog post in a way, just to get back on the horse. Those of you who follow my newsletter or facebook group will know that Littlest has had a mild dose of covid this week. It’s been a bit stressful because she’s clinically extremely vulnerable and we panicked when she got the two lines last Friday. We spent last weekend trying to sort out antibodies for her—we had a letter saying she was eligible for the treatment when it became available a few months ago. However, it turns out that you need to be over forty kilos and she is only thirty four, so we needn’t have wasted our time and everyone else’s. She’s okay now though, a week on. Asymptomatic, just very, very tired.

The rest of us have been testing consistently negative, but both Mr AL and I have had what could be mild symptoms. It’s only the last couple of days that I’ve felt like a human again.

So…to round off! I’ll be blogging regularly from now on (they said, very firmly). AND finally…JMS Books has a 40% Valentine’s Day Sale on ebooks, Friday through to Monday!

Valentine's Day Sale, 40% off all ebooks at JMS Books.

Secrets on a Train – Nell Iris

Hi everyone, hi Ally and thanks for inviting me over. You’re always so kind and generous. ❤️ (Ally: BLUSHES)

Today, I’m here to talk about my newest release, Secrets on a Train.

A few months ago, JM Snyder of JMS Books was writing with Ofelia Gränd, Ally, and me in the morning office, and she told us about an idea she had for upcoming submission calls. One of them, “Sugar or spice,” caught my attention. The idea was to write a short story (between 6000 and 12000 long) and incorporate either sugar or spice as a theme.

That submission call idea burrowed itself into my brain and refused to let go, and even though there was another project that should have gotten my attention, I pushed that particular story back and threw myself into sugar or spice.

And I’m sure it’ll come as a surprise to no one familiar with my writing, that I gravitated towards sugar since my stories don’t tend to be hot and sizzling, but sweet and emotional. My sugar story, Secrets on a Train, is no different. In fact, I’ve repeatedly told Ally and Ofelia that I’ll probably be roasted for Secrets on a Train because there’s not even an on-page kiss.

Gasp.

I know, I know! That’s a bit extreme, even for me. I usually get at least one review with every book I release lamenting the lack of heat, and now my characters don’t even kiss? What were you thinking, Nell?

But let me assure you there’s plenty of flirting and heated glances and pin-striped crotches in this story. Okay, only one pin-striped crotch, but what I’m trying to say is that the lack of a kiss doesn’t mean a lack of chemistry because the sweetness of this story is of the literal kind. Sugar. It’s two strangers in the silent car on a train connecting when one of them pours not one, not two, but three packets of sugar in his to-go coffee. And who can resist the allure of so much sweetness? Not Runar, that’s for sure.

Secrets on a Train

Nell Iris, Secrets on a Train, cover

It’s the fountain pens that capture Valentin’s attention on the morning commute, not the perfectly imperfect man who spends his train rides using them. Not his pinstriped suits, his chin-length hair, or his perpetually raised eyebrow. But one morning when the man strikes up a written conversation, Valentin gives up all pretense. It’s not just the pens. It’s the man. Runar.

The conversations continue, and the men get to know each other better, sharing secrets they’ve never told another soul. The connection is powerful, growing stronger with every encounter, every scribbled conversation, every scorching look. But can secrets shared on a train be enough to build a forever?

M/M Contemporary / 9889 words

Buy links: JMS Books:: Amazon :: Books2Read

About Nell

Nell Iris is a romantic at heart who believes everyone deserves a happy ending. She’s a bonafide bookworm (learned to read long before she started school), wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without something to read (not even the ladies room), loves music (and singing along at the top of her voice but she’s no Celine Dion), and is a real Star Trek nerd (Make it so). She loves words, bullet journals, poetry, wine, coffee-flavored kisses, and fika (a Swedish cultural thing involving coffee and pastry!)

Nell believes passionately in equality for all regardless of race, gender or sexuality, and wants to make the world a better, less hateful, place.

Nell is a bisexual Swedish woman married to the love of her life, a proud mama of a grown daughter, and is approaching 50 faster than she’d like. She lives in the south of Sweden where she spends her days thinking up stories about people falling in love. After dreaming about being a writer for most of her life, she finally was in a place where she could pursue her dream and released her first book in 2017.

Nell Iris writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angsty, short over long, and quirky characters over alpha males.

Find Nell on social media:

Newsletter :: Webpage/blog :: Twitter :: Instagram :: Facebook Page :: Facebook Profile :: Goodreads :: Bookbub

Excerpt from Secrets on a Train

He taps the espresso cup with a quirked eyebrow, and I shake my head. No, I didn’t put sugar in his coffee. He tears off the lid and tosses back the coffee, as though it was a shot of whiskey, making me shudder. 
“Bleurgh!” My exclaimation makes the old lady—who’s also traveling on this train every morning and has appointed herself the security guard of the silent car—shoots me a poisonous glare, and I mouth I’m sorry to her.
Laughter dances in Runar’s features and I make an exaggerated wince, my silent way of saying either “ouch” or “oops” or a combination of both.
Runar has written something in his notebook. 
Thanks for the coffee. It was great. But why?
I point at the window and fake a shudder, and he nods as though he not only understood what I was trying to say but agreed, too. He underlines the word thanks and I smile and give him a thumbs-up without taking my eyes off what he’s written. 
That purple ink. I can’t get over it. So far, he’s only used black or blue ink, serious colors to go with a serious-looking man, making his handwriting almost ominous. But the purple ink softens the sharp edges of his writing—turning the angry-looking slashes into swoops and swirls—and of the man himself. 
I grab my phone off the table and tap out a question. What’s up with the purple ink? 
He draws a big question mark on the paper, but his quirked eyebrow already asked the question. 
It seems so…bubbly. You don’t give me a bubbly impression, so it surprised me.
Bubbly?
I nod.
Ink can be bubbly? The corners of his mouth twitch, as though he’s holding back a smile. 
Today’s pen is as sleek as a samurai sword. Your usual black slashes would be more in style.
His eyes crinkle. You’re keeping track of my pens? 
I nod. You haven’t used the same one twice since I started sitting across from you. 
My admission—revealing that I’ve watched him every day for weeks—could’ve, should’ve, made him wary of me. Scared him even. But nothing in his demeanor suggests that’s the case. Instead, he relaxes back into his seat, crossing his legs over the knees, brushing out invisible wrinkles of his already immaculate suit, smirking as he catches my gaze following his every movement. He wiggles his foot, smirk widening as he gets the desired effect of my complete attention. 
I tear my gaze away to ask him another question. How many fountain pens do you own? 
He slides his calf down his shin, slowly. When his foot hits the floor, he lets his knees fall open and his hands land on his thighs. He might as well have drawn a huge arrow pointing at his junk and written LOOK THIS WAY! with his irresistible purple ink.
So I oblige him. I look at his long legs, his powerful thighs that not even the fabric of his pants can hide. And I look at his bulge, embraced and emboldened by pinstripes. Tantalizing, promising hidden wonders, making me want to fall on my knees and bury my face in the V of his legs and inhale him. Ingest him. 
I run a trembling hand through my hair and let my eyes wander up his body and meet his gaze.
He leans forward to pick up the pen, his eyes never leaving me. More than fifty, he writes without looking, his words veering off the lines. I have to read it three times before understanding.
Oh right. Fountain pens. 

Buy links: JMS Books:: Amazon :: Books2Read