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!

playing games

© Renamarie | Dreamstime.com Used by Permission

I'm on holiday with my family right now (which is why my post is a day late). We're on the Isle of Wight, which is a lovely place to be, except for this April, when it's blowing freezing cold winds and scattering snow everywhere.

All of this means that we're staying indoors a lot, playing games. My six-year-old son and my husband have a tournament going on with a car racing game on the iPad; they spend hours talking about it, what cars they've earned, which ones they want, how they're going to improve them. I get motion sickness just from doing one lap, so I'm exempt from this particular game, but my son has devised this other game in which he gives me ten toy cars, keeping about thirty for himself, and I have to choose which ones are best for particular tasks and races. Then he does the races himself, and he always wins. My job is to complain about this.

Every night since we've been here, we've retired to the pub in the evening for food and for the latest bouts in our long-running Uno game, which my son is currently winning. We don't let him win—that would be unheard of in our family, we're all far too competitive for that—he's just very good at Uno.

This afternoon we went ten-pin bowling (I won, twice, naturally, because I'm American) and then we tried to have a walk on the seafront but it was so cold we found another pub, which had Monopoly, and played that for a couple of hours, over crisps and a pint.

Aside from the 'what if' game I play with myself all the time, I don't often play proper games. It's something I tend to save for holidays or for the rare evening when we have time between dinner, homework and bedtime. My parents play bridge socially; I used to play Dungeons and Dragons socially, but I haven't done that for years. Sometimes I feel that I should make more time for playing games.

At the lake where we spend our summers, there's a weekly cribbage tournament up at the general store, and that's something that sums up what I like about playing games: it brings people together. Even if you spend the whole evening talking about nothing except the cards, you still feel as if you know these people better afterwards.

What are your favourite games? What do you like about them?

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.

Sexy zombies?

I have to admit I’m not really into paranormal stories in a big way, but I do enjoy the occasional one and I fully appreciate how sexy a vampire or fallen angel can be ... well, they seem like the ultimate 'bad boy' heroes and I can't resist that!  The same goes for some of the shapeshifters and robots like the lovely blue one in Electra Shepherd's Love Machine, but I'm afraid werewolves don’t really do it for me – way too hairy!

Photo from www.imdb.com

However, one thing I definitely never thought I’d find even remotely attractive was a zombie.  I mean, just looking at them is usually pretty gross – vacant stares, waxy complexions, body parts missing or hanging at strange angles, eating human flesh and brains ... yuck, right?  Plus the whole grunting thing, rather than being articulate, doesn’t really make for scintillating conversation.

Well, I’ve been proved wrong.

My younger daughter and I went to see the film Warm Bodies the other day, and OMG, I totally fell in love with the zombie lead character!  Yes, he had all the defects I listed above, but it didn’t matter at all.  Because whoever wrote the story (and I think it was based on a novel by Isaac Marion) did a very clever thing – he gave us the zombie’s point of view for a change.  Instead of panicking humans, seeing the zombie as something horrible and evil, we had his thoughts, his feelings, his utter frustration with the situation he found himself in.  And best of all, he had a sense of humour!

All that combined to make the viewer empathise with him, rather than those who saw him only as a disgusting “corpse”.

This has had me racking my brain to see if I can come up with any clever angles like that for my own stories.  Because a really simple thing like that – showing the opposite point of view to the one we normally expect – changes everything and gives a much more interesting story.  Brilliant!

Now if only I can think of one, maybe Hollywood will come knocking on my door as well!  Yeah, I can dream ...

Party Time—The Gilded Fan

We Heroine Addicts are all about partying and today we are celebrating the publication of Christina's new book, The Gilded Fan. This is a sequel to her book The Scarlet Kimono and it sounds absolutely breathtaking.

Because it's partly set in Japan, we're having a Japanese theme to our party today, and before we get on with it, can I just say that having attended Susanna's recent Russian-themed party, and now this one, that I am asking myself why I keep on setting my books in Reading, where the most exotic thing is the bald wrinkly tattooed guy who hangs out round the corner from my house smoking a fag and saying sexist remarks to every passing female.

Anyway. On with the party, and an escape to a life that is beautiful and serene, and also full of raw fish!

All of the Heroine Addicts are wearing gorgeous kimonos; here's Biddy's. Biddy's also in charge of the sake...whooooo!

Christina has sorted out some entertainment for us in the form of a rather luscious sumo wrestler. I think the idea is that each of the Addicts get a turn with him. Nice!

Personally though, I'm all about the food. Here are some pictures from our sumptuous buffet:

Now that we're suitably clothed, fed, sake'ed, and...er...wrestled, here's more about Christina's new book, The Gilded Fan...

How do you start a new life, leaving behind all you love?
It’s 1641, and when Midori Kumashiro, the orphaned daughter of a warlord, is told she has to leave Japan or die, she has no choice but to flee to England. Midori is trained in the arts of war, but is that enough to help her survive a journey, with a lecherous crew and an attractive captain she doesn’t trust?

Having come to Nagasaki to trade, the last thing Captain Nico Noordholt wants is a female passenger, especially a beautiful one. How can he protect her from his crew when he can’t keep his own eyes off her?

During their journey, Nico and Midori form a tentative bond, but they both have secrets that can change everything. When they arrive in England, a civil war is brewing, and only by standing together can they hope to survive…

Congratulations Christina! All together everyone...raise your sake...and toast: KANPAI!

Huggable Heroes

Zachary Quinto as Spock & Zoe Saldana as Uhura in 2009's Star Trek © Paramount Pictures

Children, I've learned, have a way of reducing most things to their absolute essence.

For instance, my eldest and I were discussing, a while ago, why certain characters in books and movies appeal to us. Specifically, heroes.

"Well," he said, in trying to explain why he was predisposed to like a certain character, "he needs a hug."

And it occurred to me that many of my own heroic preferences could probably be easily reduced to that one common, plain denominator: Most of them could really use a hug.

Take Spock, for instance. I've always found the character of Spock, whether played by Leonard Nimoy or Zachary Quinto, to be incredibly attractive, and that archetype continues to attract me—strong and silent, self-contained, and self-protective, forced by circumstance or nature to remain calm on the surface while suppressing their true feelings, though we sometimes get a tantalizing glimpse of inner turmoil... I adore that kind of character. Hotch, on TV's Criminal Minds, is a Spock, as is Cho on The Mentalist, and there are others who fit the same mould, and who all seem to need a good hug.

Gregory Peck as Atticus & Mary Badham as Scout © Universal Pictures

And in books, I'm attracted to heroes like Atticus Finch in Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird, who at times is so strong and so silent and lonely in standing for justice that needing a hug hardly covers it, but I have always been glad he had Jem and Scout with him, to give him the comfort he needed.

It can be a fine line, for me, between heroes who need to be comforted and those who need to be carried; between a strong man who's a little repressed and a man who's so damaged he'll drain all the heroine's energy. But here, again, I've discovered that using my eldest's "he needs a hug" yardstick is pretty effective in measuring heroes to find those I think are attractive.

Michael Fassbender as Rochester & Mia Wasikowska as Jane Eyre © Focus Features

In Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights, for example, both heroes are dark, brooding Yorkshiremen, but I have never liked Heathcliff, or found him attractive (not even when played by Tom Hardy) (which strikes me as Odd, because, really...TOM HARDY). But after my talk with my eldest, I understand why: it's because, the way I see it, it's only Rochester—lonely and bitter from having the hopes of his younger self ruined, yet otherwise able to function and care for, not only the heroine, but his insane wife—who needs to be hugged. Heathcliff needs to be smacked up the side of the head with a large heavy object.

I know other women would argue that Heathcliff's in need of a hug, too (well, maybe a hug and a WHOLE lot of therapy), but that's my personal take on those characters.

Who's your most huggable hero?

(And come back on Thursday, for Julie's next post)

Building Your Writing Muscle

Building your writing muscle

I sometimes have those moments that I just can’t face writing. It almost like a phobia. I desperately want to write because I know once it I will feel better but the dread of opening a manuscript and being faced by blank space.

I had it bad at the beginning of the year, I have a part started YA novel which I love but I have no idea where it is going. Added to this was a lack of space in my head to hold a whole new world in it to work out what to do with it.  Every time I opened the file I panicked and started gradually to lose my confidence.

I was telling Liz about this, about how I knew I needed to write for my own sanity but that the book was just making me more insane. She came up with a brilliant suggestion. For January I should use a story prompt every day and try and write something. It didn’t matter what it was, a story, a piece of description I just needed to write.

Now this sounded good, I would be working my writing muscles but there was no pressure of trying to create a novel. So I started slowly first with a suggestion from Liz and then with suggestions from my blog and Facebook.

I found myself writing in bed at night and looking forward to what prompt I had and where it would take me.

The freedom was amazing, I created characters and stories and places. The pieces ranged from sexy short stories to dystopian futures; from the heart breaking to the silly. And weirdly most were adult rather than YA.

Now it is February I have completed two of the short stories and they need some polishing before I send them out into the world. I am working on a novella set in Colorado and I have the start of a dystopian novel. Hopefully by the time my non-writing life calms down I’ll be ready and in shape to carry on my YA novel.

How do you keep your writing muscle strong?

Come back on Sunday and hear from Susanna