As you’re probably aware, #RAtR is a blogging project I am doing with a few friends who also write LGBTQIA romance. You can find everyone by clicking here or on the image to the right.
This month, we’re all blogging about writing advice we take with a grain of salt… and…I’m not sure about this one! Do I say I rigidly follow all the rules? And have people think I’m a formulaic work-to-rule sort of writer? Or do I say I pick and choose what received advice I follow, and have people think I’m arrogant and self-important and not a proper writer?
It’s a dilemma! Probably the first advice I should actually listen to is to ignore imposter syndrome 😊.
In all honesty though, there’s so much completely conflicting advice out there for people who write, whether they’re published or not:
Write every day. It doesn’t matter if you write every day. Attend a writing group. Write alone. Self-edit. Always have an editor. Have lots of social media. Don’t bother with social media. Write different genres under different pen-names. Put everything under one pen name. Hone your skills in fanfiction. Take a course. Self-publish. Look for a publisher. Get an agent. Don’t bother with an agent.
And Oxford commas…well. That’s how decades long feuds begin.
I think the only thing you can say for certain is that what suits one person won’t suit another and the less you get hung up on all the dos and don’ts, the happier and more confident you’ll be.
I’m definitely not confident enough to self-edit for example. But I know several people who do, very competently. The writing every day thing…well. My life is very, very fragmented right now and that’s impossible for me. But it doesn’t make me any less of a writer. Everything is still ticking away inside my head and when I do sit down with my laptop I often find it springs more fully formed onto the page than it does if I’ve been writing every day. Not always! But sometimes.
So, I’d have to say that the only thing I’d take with a grain of salt is to follow all the advice you’re given. Pick what works for you and have the confidence to say ‘I tried that and it was rubbish for me, it didn’t work’.
It’s not a competition, there are no rules that dictate conformity or success. If you’re happy as you’re actually writing and happy with what you’re creating, then…that’s working. You’re a successful writer.
Here’s everyone else who wrote this month. Click through to read what they have to say!
This month’s topic for Read Around the Rainbow is the brainchild of Addison Albright—and I’m really looking forward to her post revealing whatever prompted this suggestion! As some of you already know, #RAtR is a blogging project I am doing with a few friends who also write LGBTQIA romance. You can find everyone by clicking here or on the image to the right, and I will link to everyone’s post on this month’s topic at the bottom of this page.
So. My weirdest internet search? For this question, I usually talk about researching butter lamps for The Flowers of Time and making my own butter from scratch and then rendering it to ghee and making a lamp in a jam-jar with a bit of string. I got a bit obsessed. I’ve downgraded that particular search to ‘only mildly obsessive’ over the last few years though, as things have moved on!
I’m pretty sure that everyone who writes about murder or death has a disturbing search history story; and for The Quid Pro Quo I joined the team. I researched what a body would look like after being submerged for twenty four hours. I don’t recommend googling this for fun—I can still see some of the images in the articles I read and it was deeply unpleasant and upsetting.
When I’m researching things I know nothing about I find it very easy to get sucked into a rabbit-hole where I spend an unnecessary amount of time on subjects that are only going to be mentioned in passing in the story. I need to get the background straight in my head in order to be able to drop a couple of colourful details in there. If it’s something I know a bit about already, even if that’s only incidental knowledge, it’s much easier to know what it is I don’t know, if that makes sense?
For example, Out of Focus is set in the world of contemporary theatre. I know quite a bit about how the technical side of that works and I knew what I didn’t know…I went off and found out about scissor lifts and health and safety regulations and it took me a couple of hours. In contrast I spent two days searching and reading up on how eighteenth century women dealt with menstruation for The Flowers of Time—not because it featured in the story particularly, but just because I felt as if it was something that would impact my characters even if I never mentioned it.
I think that’s partly why I’ve set seven books in the post-WW1 period now. I’ve done my research and I feel confident with the background colour of the era. Yes, okay, I have to toddle off and read up on what treatment you’d use for migraine, or whether medicals were required by then to join the army. But I’ve got all the building bricks in place, I know where to find the resources and I’m comfortable.
It’s a very nice feeling, being able to hunker down in a setting you’re reasonably knowledgeable in and just get on with the narrative. I think that’s why I’m enjoying writing my short contemporary stories so much—the only searching I did for Surfacing Again for example, was to use Google Earth to walk the old pilgrim route to Lindisfarne.
When I have the time and inclination I try to gather my research sources together for particular books and time-periods. You can find them under the menu Interesting History Stuff at the top of the page. It’s a bit of a work in progress and it’s not comprehensive, but it also serves to remind me what I looked at 😊.
So what am I going to leave next in my browser history? Honestly, I don’t know. This year I have crashed and burned a bit as far as longer projects are concerned, but I had planned to write the final book in the Bradfield trilogy, so if that happens I’ll be going back to the 1920s. And perhaps a companion book to The Flowers of Time, which is going to take a bit of a jump-start as I’ve forgotten quite a lot about the 1780s. I feel as if I want to get those done, interspersed with contemporary Celtic myths and the Theatre Fach world, before I begin a completely fresh project. However, it might be that I just stick with the contemporaries for now rather than forcing myself to concentrate on anything longer.
Fiona Glass is here today with a post about archaeology and her new release Trench Warfare. It’s a subject particularly close to my heart because in a previous incarnation I was an archaeologist. And I also remember doing work-experience with a County Archaeologist called Steve; and Mick Aston from the Time-Team was very kind to me when I was writing my dissertation. Take it away, Fiona!
Thanks so much to Ally for letting me waffle on about my latest book. I’ll start by saying that one of my favourite TV shows of all time has to be the Channel 4 archaeology series Time Team, which ran for the best part of 20 years from 1994 to 2014. Each episode featured a new site for the team to investigate, and they were always given “just three days” to answer a series of questions, typically ‛how old is it?’, ‛how big was it?’ and ‛is there anything unusual about it?’. The sites ranged from Prehistoric caves to Victorian industrial sites, and pretty much everything in between, and almost all the programmes were both informative and absolutely fascinating.
One episode stood out amongst all the rest for being unique, and even a little odd. I can’t remember every detail now, but I do remember that there was a magnificent discovery (which may well have been the sword referred to in this post’s title). The only trouble was, the team’s experts were thoroughly unconvinced the discovery was genuine: it was the wrong artefact in the wrong stratigraphy at the wrong time. They couldn’t openly say so, though, without accusing the land owners of fraud, so it was left very open-ended – and very intriguing.
Straight away this suggested all sorts of plot bunnies, and I used one of them to write a short story called ‛Trench Warfare’- but substituting a gold cross for the sword. The story also featured a sweet m/m romance between an archaeologist and his assistant, and was published in the gay romance magazine Forbidden Fruit. And then I sort of forgot about it.
Recently I re-discovered it lurking in a file, dug it out, dusted it off, and realised it would work just as well as a book. I’ve added a lot of extra material, including a whole sub-plot about a ghost and lots more back-story about the characters, including County Archaeologist Steve, right-hand-man Jon, and devious businessman Paul. It fought back every inch of the way (I swear I’m never using the word ‛warfare’ in a book title again!) but I finally finished it to my own satisfaction, and published it at the end of May.
The result is an ultra-sweet, no-sex, plot-heavy romance involving a rescue dig to find a town’s missing priory before the local developers build a swanky apartment block. There’s also a set of mysterious stairs, something nasty lurking in the undercroft, and of course, that out-of-place gold cross. You’ll have to read the book to see just how that contributes to the overall story – but I’m hoping you’ll have a riotous time finding out!
‛This one?’ Jon tapped it with his trowel. Before I could reply the stone tapped back. Or at least, that’s what it sounded like. Three more taps, fainter and more muffled, coming from underground. I looked at Jon and Jon looked at me; a kind of unspoken question-and-answer passed between us and with a lift of his eyebrow he tapped again. One-two-three. A pause. Then fainter, more muffled, one-two-three. ‛An echo?’ Jon’s voice was rough; what I could see of his face under all the hair was pale. ‛Must be. It could be a well-shaft. They’d have needed water, and we haven’t found one yet.’ ‛True, although there’s the stream…’ He didn’t even finish the sentence. The tapping had sounded again. This time Jon hadn’t tapped first. And there were more than three. Tap-tap-tap; tap-tap-tap. Tap. It sounded, weirdly, like Morse code. But that was ridiculous. There could hardly be a transmitter down there, let alone anyone to operate it. It must be the well. We’d probably disturbed some smaller stones, and they were falling down the shaft and echoing. That was all. Except that it wasn’t all. Not by a long way. The tapping started again, and this time it wasn’t Morse, or any kind of code, but a frenzied jag of sound like someone beating, pounding, to be let out. And then the stone began to move. ‛What the fuck?’ Jon leaped back as though someone had poured scalding water on his legs. I wasn’t far behind. We stared at each other; my heart was pounding and I could feel sweat prickling on my brow. Fight or flight, they call it, and I’d have given a lot to fly right out of that trench. Or to grab Jon and hang on. But my feet seemed locked to the ground. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t get out, and the stone was working itself loose. And whatever was underneath it would overwhelm me and drag me back down to— ‛Steve? Steve! Come quickly!’ Concrete feet or not, I jumped at that. But this was no ghostly presence; it was coming from the other side of site. And it sounded hoarse. Jon took my elbow and hoisted me out of the trench, and then I reached a hand down and hauled him out. We stood for a moment, eyeing each other. I still wanted that hug, but couldn’t ask. It wouldn’t be fair on him when he wasn’t that way inclined. I laughed nervously instead, trying to work out if what I’d seen was a normal, natural force or something else. ‛Steve!’ Ben, the shorter of the Flowerpots, appeared round the corner of the site hut, panting as though he’d been running and waving his arms around. ‛Are you there? You have to come.’ Whatever was under that moving stone would have to wait. My first thought was that there’d been yet another disaster. We’d had burglary, fire, stones that moved by themselves and threats; what was next? And was this what Paul had meant by accidents? I dropped my trowel and ran, aware of Jon at my heels. Ben had already turned back. By the time I caught up he was standing near the garderobe trench, staring at a heap of soil. Next to him stood Bill, a spade still in one hand. He too was looking down. My heart rate hitched up a notch again. Please God, don’t be a dead body. That would be the worst. The delays, the police involved, the paperwork, even for something that was hundreds of years old. But then I saw Ben’s face. His eyes gleamed with excitement, but it was happy excitement, not dread. I breathed again. ‛What’s with all the shouting? What’s going on?’ ‛Oh, you know, just your average chance discovery.’ Bill indicated with one corner of his spade. ‛And it’s only fucking gold.’
Today we welcome Fiona Glass, to talk about our shared love of Mary Stewart and of course, her release!
When Ally first invited me on here I had the usual panic about what to write about. Then, during an online chat, we discovered a shared love of Mary Stewart’s books, and things started to fall into place.
For anyone who doesn’t know her, Stewart was a British writer specialising in romance in the mid twentieth century. She wrote three main types of novel: historicals, ‛holiday’ romances set in (then) exotic locations like Greece and the south of France, and quieter, darker, home-grown romances which often featured an element of fantasy or the supernatural.
I’ve loved her books, and particular those fantasy-tinged romances, most of my life and it was lovely to find someone who shared that interest. I can see shades of Stewart’s writing in Ally’s own books – the slightly old-fashioned romance, the strong hint of fantasy and even full-on magic – and I wondered if the same applied to me.
Well, with my latest book December Roses, the answer is almost certainly yes. This m/m paranormal romance involves Nat, a British soldier wounded in a Belfast bombing in the mid-1990s, who’s sent to a remote army rehab unit to recuperate. At first he’s lonely and depressed, but then he discovers a once-beautiful garden, and the enigmatic man who appears in it, and falls in love, only to question his own sanity when nothing seems to be what he thought it was.
Ms Stewart is sometimes dismissed as ‛fluffy’ but in my experience her books are anything but. Even the gentler home-grown romances are full of the darker corners of human nature: jealousy, greed, controlling guardians, family fallings-out, and even murder. In my own favourite, Thornyhold, there’s an unhappy childhood and hints of the temptation offered by dark magic. But there’s also hope, through the strength of love and the healing power of nature.
I’d like to think the same message appears in my books. My work is often described as ‛dark’ and December Roses has its share of murder, depression, and grief. However, those aspects are leavened by pages of wonder at Nat’s discovery of the garden, support from unexpected sources, and his growing attraction to the mysterious Richie. In the end, those bring him healing in ways he couldn’t begin to expect. And the book’s strongest message, I think, is the triumph of hope and second chances.
If you’d like to find out more about Nat, Richie and December Roses then pop along to my website where there’s a blurb, some quotes and an excerpt involving the garden. And thanks to Ally for letting me loose on here!
December Roses
Recovering from a bombing in 1990s Belfast, British soldier Nat Brook is sent to remote army rehab unit Frogmorton Towers to recuperate. At first he’s lonely and depressed, but then he finds the remnants of a once-beautiful garden, meets the enigmatic Richie, and begins to fall in love.
Gradually, though, he realises there’s something odd about Frogmorton. He can rarely find the same place twice, and Richie proves every bit as elusive as the Chinese pagoda or the Scottish glen. Nat begins to question his own sanity, because if the garden is imaginary, what does that make the man he loves?
Faced with the shocking truth, Nat must decide whether to stay with the army – even though that means hiding his sexuality – or find acceptance elsewhere.
This poignant ghost story was originally published as ‘Roses in December’ by Torquere Press but has now been extensively rewritten and republished on Kindle and Kindle Unlimited.
The air smelt of good rich earth and green growing things, inviting him to linger and enjoy the last of the sun. Oddly, in a garden attached to a hospital, there were no seats. The only thing resembling a bench was the raised stone coping around the pool, so he limped over and lowered himself onto that. Stretching his leg, he shuffled around until he was comfortable and drew in a deep lungful of air. He felt drowsy suddenly, his eyes heavy and the beginnings of a headache tautening across his brow. Exhaustion from his earlier grief, perhaps, or just the warmth and the unaccustomed peace and quiet. It was hard to believe the house was no more than a few yards away, beyond the hedge of shrubs. Surely such a large and busy building would give its presence away. Doors opening and closing, voices and footsteps and trolleys wheeling about, the blare of a radio, the insistent ringing of a phone. But there was nothing. Only the steady trickle of falling water and an occasional buzzing fly…
He hadn’t meant to doze off, especially in such a precarious place. Jolting awake a few minutes later he found he was slumping towards the water and only just managed to right himself. He wondered what had woken him. A sound, he thought. Something sharp enough to have broken into his dreams, but too quiet to have disturbed anything else. He listened but there was nothing, until… There! Faint but unmistakable—the scrunch of footsteps on the gravel path. So someone else had managed to find this place too. He wondered who. Someone who already knew it was here, or someone who’d stumbled on it, like him, by chance? A gardener, perhaps, or one of the other patients who’d slipped out for a fag. The scrape of a match and a sudden flare of flame bore out the latter theory. Twilight had crept in while he was asleep; he couldn’t tell if it was anyone he recognised. All he could see was the glow of the freshly-lighted cigarette, and less clearly, the lips of the person smoking it. A man’s lips, wide and slightly full, that turned up naturally at the corners into a permanent, impish smile. Tolkien’s elf, made flesh and blood after all.
