INDIA GREY

Rich Rewards

2012-01-20T12:10:00.001Z

I don't need to tell you, dear blog readers, how long I've been ~~stalking~~ an active appreciator of James D'Arcy. So, let's just say that the plentiful PR coverage his new film is attracting is doing an excellent job of staving off the January blues. Here's the trailer.

Work Avoidance

2012-01-10T12:40:00.001Z

I'm something of a master in the art of work-avoidance, but even by my standards re-designing my blog was a stroke of genius. It felt pleasantly businesslike, but involved little in the way of Thinking or Coming Up With Words and has yielded tangible and rather satisfying results. I'm not sure about the birds up there, but I'm pleased with the old-fashioned typewritery font. What do you think?

What's next I wonder? Might look out some receipts for my tax return. Or research something.

Sad.

2012-01-03T12:06:00.003Z

By now I’m sure that many of you will have heard of the death of Penny Jordan. She slipped quietly away in the last few hours of the old year, enveloped in the love of her family, knowing – thanks to her wonderful sister, who kept in touch with her friends throughout – how very much she was adored and admired and I’m very glad about that. But I’m still utterly devastated that she’s gone.

Quite simply she’s the reason I’m here, doing what I’m doing. Without her I’d still be messing up people’s furniture orders in Laura Ashley, failing to work the till, feeling unfulfilled and frustrated and taking it out on my family. I'd still believe that the only skills I had (daydreaming and putting words together) were utterly unmarketable. Penny didn't give me a career exactly, but she gave me something far more valuable - the confidence to strive for one myself, and the self-belief that I could achieve things I'd always written off as being far beyond my reach. She made my world bigger and brighter, and she made me able to lift my head up and look at it properly.

I've often referred to her as my Fairy Godmother, such was the transformative effect she had on my life. She called herself my 'writing mum', which doesn't do justice to her shimmering glamour but is equally fitting. She was the first person I told when I got 'the call'. She was the person I talked to when I needed advice on anything from contracts to career direction, the one I shared champagne and chocolates with (at my kitchen table at 10 in the morning) when I won the RNA Romance Prize, the person to whom I dedicated my first book. It was Penny who inspired, instructed and informed my writing more than anyone else, who made me feel shy and awe-struck by her effortless elegance, her humour, humility and capacity for sheer hard work, and who gave endlessly without ever taking anything in return.

I will miss her more than I can begin to say.

You can't have everything...

2011-12-23T22:41:00.004Z

I've been a terrible blogger, and an even worse writer lately, but I'm sure you'll all be thrilled to know that this Christmas there has been no last-minute present panic (yet) or waking up in a cold sweat at 3am with the desperate realisation that tomorrow is daughter #3's Christmas play and I haven't yet started assembling bits of costume. This year, beds are already made up - with actual clean sheets - in preparation for the arrival of my brother and his adorable family and not only are presents bought, but also wrapped, hopefully meaning I'll be able to go to bed before the sky starts to lighten on Christmas morning. This year the fridge has been calmly stocked by a timely Sainsbury's delivery rather than a last-minute raid on the Spar shop in the late-night garage, and the chocolate-and-pizza-encrusted sofa covers have been washed. In other words, this year I am In Control of Christmas.

It's all something of a displacement activity, of course. It's the season of angels and lighting candles and counting blessings and I am doing both of the latter, for reasons that will become clear in time. In the meantime I'm wishing you all the happiest and most peaceful of Christmases and the best and brightest of New Years. xxxx

And the winners are...

2011-12-06T19:16:00.003Z

The Oscars may have gold envelopes and perma-tanned celebrities dripping with diamonds, but on this blog we have to make do with an empty Rice Krispies packet and me in my pyjamas for the purposes of winner-selection. It's not pretty, so at this point you might like to imagine James Franco standing onstage holding my Rice Krispie box and reading out the following list of people who'll soon* be receiving copies of In Bed with a Stranger. Ok, so... The winners are...

(suspenseful silence)

Jacqueline, Jo, Carol, Amanda, Jane and Amit.

(thunderous applause. Kisses to the winners from JF.)

Thank you hugely to everyone who emailed an entry - the cereal box was fuller than ever this time and I'm so sorry I don't have enough books to send one to everyone whose name was in there. I really need to get my study tidied up so it can revert to its alternative incarnation as a spare room when my brother's family come at Christmas, so if there are extra books looking for homes I'll post them to the next names out of the box. (It's an indication of just how chaotic this place is that I don't have a clue how many books I have under the landslide of Christmas shopping, roll-wrap and miles of brown paper Amazon stuff into their boxes.) (Why do they even do that? It's not like books can get broken.)

On the upside, the absence of a pressing deadline this year has meant that for the first time ever I'm all over the Christmas thing. Oh yes. Only December 6th and I've actually bought more than four presents, though I must confess I haven't quite got round to handcrafting individual place-card holders from pomegranates, making my own Christmas Morning Clementine Marmalade or witty freeze-ahead canapés, proving that it's not lack of time that prevents me from being a domestic goddess à la Kirstie or Nigella, but congenital slovenliness. Gosh - who knew? Anyway, my seasonal enthusiasm has been given a boost by sneakily deleting 'Now That's What I Call Xmas Volume 487' and all similar festive-pop-trash from every ipod in the house and replacing it with my new top Christmas album by Emmy The Great. Sadly my favourite track isn't on youtube for convenient sharing (apart from sort-of here) so you'll just have to take my word for how fab it is and download it, but this one's also excellent. Poor Mrs Christmas - like the Military Wives she does deserve some sisterly sympathy.

In the midst of all this Organisation I'm not writing much, but I am thinking. A lot. And mentally girding myself to get this book written in a great big reclusive rush once Christmas is out of the way. (Because that always goes well, doesn't it?)

*'Soon' being a relative concept, given the December postal service. Sooner, say, than it would take to travel to that new planet whose name I can't remember but which is 9 millionty light years away. Or something.

Back to Books...

2011-11-21T11:48:00.006Z

In the same way that the UK is out of step with the rest of the world in terms of Downton Developments (sounds like a construction company) we're also a bit ahead in book scheduling, so I've been delaying posting about Part 2 of my duo until it was a bit closer to its US release date. It's still another month until In Bed With A Stranger hits the shelves on the other side of the Atlantic, but at least the first part of the story is out now, so it doesn't feel too premature to be talking about its follow up. I'll try not to give away too many spoilers!

In the post I did on Craving the Forbidden I mentioned the minor panic I had when nearing the end about writing a sequel. At that stage, deeply immersed in taking Kit and Sophie to their grand Happy Ever After, the thought of anything jeopardising or undermining it was unbearable. And I hadn't really thought about what would happen in the second book either, or what could possibly come along to rock Kit and Sophie's love for each other. When it comes to writing I'm really not a natural planner, but the prospect of having no roadmap at all felt slightly insane, even by my standards.

But then I realised that real life is like that all the time, and that if Sophie and Kit themselves had no idea of what storms that lay ahead there was no reason why I should. I also decided it wasn't a case of drawing out the conflict that had already kept them apart (any couple that keep going round in circles with the same old arguments without resolving them probably won't be getting a telegram from the Queen on their Diamond wedding anniversary) but at looking at aspects of their characters and their history that had the potential to develop into new issues entirely. The ingredients for the second story were all there in the first. Kit's (*ahem* - trying to avoid spoilers) family background, along with his unwillingness to show emotions were two areas that raised red flags for future peace and harmony, along with the chip Sophie has on her shoulder about her own upbringing, and a minor health problem that had been put into the first book for fun (and for the sake of realism!) From there, and with a desperate urge to get them out of Alnburgh and somewhere a bit warmer and more exotic, the story kind of fitted itself together .

It wasn't without its traumas though - mostly when I heard back from my editor that the ending I'd masterfully orchestrated needed completely rethinking. I love my editor and after five years of working with her I trust her completely, so once I'd finished sobbing my way through a whole box of tissues and eaten all the biscuits in the tin I thought about it and realised she was absolutely right. In my eagerness to tie up both books I'd brought back the alluringly red wine-and-Gitanes-infused Jean-Claude from the opening of book 1 to throw a spanner in the works, without pausing to notice that in doing so I'd made the conflict completely external. Duh! Schoolgirl error! Once I'd banished him back to his loft in Paris or wherever, Kit and Sophie were left to thrash it out alone.

I'm always going boringly on about writing to music, and the book started to flow much more easily once its soundtrack came together. It all began with this song, which really suited the happy/sad mood of the beginning when Kit comes home but communication between them stalls...

I also had to throw in a bit of Sting when the action moved to Marrakech (thank goodness Kit's mother hadn't decided to live in Margate) and this wonderful song, by Loreena McKennitt, which could have been written specially for one of the scenes in the book.

Other songs in the constant loop on my ipod included this one from new discovery Maria Mena, and this one, which inspired the scene on the beach. I also listened to this song a lot - mainly on youtube so I could enjoy the MV too (I thought I was hard on my heroes but it seems I have a long way to go before I'm playing with the big girls.) Finally - there's a tune that gets a mention right at the end, at Kit and Sophie's wedding. Knowing Sophie wouldn't walk down the aisle to anything traditional I thought for ages about what she would choose, and eventually decided that as she moved forward into her future with Kit, she'd want to embrace her past. So she comes into church to this tune.

I have copies of both UK and US releases cluttering up the floor of my study here and since I can't write in an untidy study I could do with getting rid of some. If you'd like one just send an email via my website contact page, containing your postal address, and I'll pick out 3 Modern winners and 3 Presents winners. I'll put all the people who entered the last giveaway and weren't lucky back into the draw too (whether they like it or not. I'm bossy that way.)

My Favourite Remembrance Day Poem

2011-11-11T10:35:00.005Z

LAST POST by Carol Ann Duffy

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If poetry could tell it backwards, true, begin
that moment shrapnel scythed you to the stinking mud…
but you get up, amazed, watch bled bad blood
run upwards from the slime into its wounds;
see lines and lines of British boys rewind
back to their trenches, kiss the photographs from home-
mothers, sweethearts, sisters, younger brothers
not entering the story now
to die and die and die.
Dulce- No- Decorum- No- Pro patria mori.
You walk away.

You walk away; drop your gun (fixed bayonet)
like all your mates do too-
Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert-
and light a cigarette.
There's coffee in the square,
warm French bread
and all those thousands dead
are shaking dried mud from their hair
and queuing up for home. Freshly alive,
a lad plays Tipperary to the crowd, released
from History; the glistening, healthy horses fit for heroes, kings.

You lean against a wall,
your several million lives still possible
and crammed with love, work, children, talent, English beer, good food.
You see the poet tuck away his pocket-book and smile.
If poetry could truly tell it backwards,
then it would.

Downton: It's all over bar the Christmas episode

2011-11-07T10:08:00.004Z

**Warning - contains SPOILERS and a little bit of SNEERING**

The first morning of winter here today; frost on the cobwebs, mist over the fields and a feeling of deep sorrow in my heart as I contemplate Sunday nights devoid of Downton. OK, so this series really failed to live up to expectations on a serious drama level, but blimey it's been fun. Even in parts when 'fun' might not have been entirely appropriate - like last night when half the cast went down with Spanish Flu at the exact same moment over dinner, leaving everyone else to rush around, bursting into rooms and saying 'you'd better come quickly!' Notably the only people not rushing and bursting were Matthew and Lord G, who foolishly saw the incapacitation of their partners as a convenient moment to indulge in a swift bit of almost-philandering, little realising they were setting themselves up for a dose of guilt and self-loathing that's going to last well into Series Three.

The plot devices have been about as subtle as Matthew's graveside makeup and the time-frame frankly bewildering; galloping at a cracking pace through historical events while the characters and their relationships remain curiously static. Branson the Upstart Chauffeur first exchanged meaningful glances with Lady Sybil in 1912, declared his feelings for her in 1916, touched her waist at some point in 1918 and kissed her for the first time in 1919. If Mary and Matthew's on-off romance has frustrated us viewers over eight weeks, imagine how it must feel to them to be still unresolved after almost eight years. At least Mary's character has developed, although it's a shame she's gone from feisty and fabulous to martyred and moany. The reason I want her to get it on with Matthew in the Christmas episode is simply because they deserve each other; wicked Sir Richard might not be as posh as her but he's certainly far more charismatic and interesting these days. He'd be well advised not to set a date for the wedding just yet and wait for a Bright Young Thing to come along in the next season.

Anyway, I loved every minute, which perhaps shows that 'worldbuilding' (I might just have made that word up) is one of the most important things in creating any kind of fiction. Because the house and the characters and the historical period are brought to life so richly (if not always entirely authentically) it carries you along and makes you willing to ignore the cynical voice inside your head sneering 'that would never happen'. The only really awful jarring note for me this series was Matthew's miraculous recovery, which stretched credibility about a million miles too far. No doubt there are useful lessons to be learnt from it all. Don't put plaster dust in your wedding cake, for example, and go easy on the make-up at funerals, chaps, if you don't want to find yourself shunted over to the cast of The Vampire Diaries. I'll probably have to watch all the episodes again to work out what it has to teach us in writing terms though.

(In the meantime, I'd probably better just get on with doing some...)

Thank you!

2011-10-13T12:47:00.003+01:00

I should have included a bit about the dedication in Craving the Forbidden in the post I did about the book, but completely forgot until Ros reminded me. After all the lovely, kind comments on the previous post now would seem a good time to mention it!

You should've seen the other guy

2011-10-10T13:05:00.006+01:00

Apologies for not having returned to say thank you to everyone who's emailed me in response to the previous post and shared their happiest holiday memories and favourite destinations. Reading them has been a real pleasure, and yesterday I finally got round to picking out the names of five people to receive books. Well done Alison, Sue, Katie, Denise and Holly, and *thank you* for your lovely emails. Florence was the most mentioned holiday destination and also one of the most evocatively described, so going there now feels like a matter of urgency, especially as Autumn has arrived with a vengeance here, hurling leaves against my window and making it necessary to wear thick jumpers and have the lights on all day.

Not that I'm going anywhere if I can help it until I look a bit more respectable. Last week I went down to London with daughter #1 and a friend as she'd been commended in the Foyle Young Poets of the Year competition and was invited to attend an award ceremony followed by a day of exciting poetry stuff at the Southbank Centre. Of course, maternal pride aside, I was thrilled because it was an excuse to meet up with London girls Natalie Rivers and Heidi Rice for lunch and gossip.

It was a glorious sunny day and we sat in the cafe at Tate Modern and looked out across the river as we had a lovely long, leisurely lunch. After we'd reluctantly said goodbye to Heidi and sent her back to her glamorous Southbank office Natalie and I wandered in the sunshine in the direction of St Pauls, where we had a cup of tea in the crypt and listened to a school choir singing in the cathedral above. So far so fabulous. After that we were heading back in the direction of the Southbank centre to meet the daughter when it all went a bit pear shaped. The traffic, being central London, was dire and I walked in front of a bus that was stationary - but couldn't see the courier cyclist hurtling along on its pavement side.

Oops. The rest is a bit hazy, but let's just say lots of blood and an ambulance were involved. Luckily the cyclist wasn't hurt and was extremely nice, picking me up (from which we can deduce he was extremely strong too) and insisting on giving us his name and phone number. Not that I was in much state to take it, but thank goodness for Natalie who was calm, competent and utterly magnificent in a way I just know I would have failed to manage had the roles been reversed (which in itself would be unlikely as she's far too sensible to throw herself into the path of an oncoming bike in the first place.) She kept me calm, fed me chocolate, waited while I was being stitched up, made lots of contingency plans with Heidi for collection of children, then escorted us all right to the platform at Euston station when it was time for our train home. I'm thinking of taking her everywhere with me in future, just to be on the safe side. She's an absolute goddess.

Here's what I looked like yesterday. Shame Halloween isn't for a few weeks...

Craving the Forbidden - the lowdown

2011-09-30T09:48:00.008+01:00

My husband is away on a work trip at the moment, so I was up with the lark (or the fat pigeon who lives, noisily,in the apple tree outside my bedroom window) this morning, determined to get on top of the pre-school routine. All went gratifyingly smoothly; scrambled eggs served up to the two daughters who wanted them, #3's packed lunch made (by herself, admittedly) dinner money found for the others, and I was feeling pretty smug as I drove home from the school run. Then I discovered that the guinea pigs were still shut in and sweltering in their eglu and I'd forgotten to brush my teeth. Oh well, almost there.

Anyway, moving swiftly on. The first I heard about the project that was to result in Craving the Forbidden and its sequel (In Bed with A Stranger, out in November) was when I went out for tea with my editor back in 2009. Over scones, champagne and a pot of Russian Caravan (we both agree that it's a crime to have to choose between champagne and tea so usually manage to squeeze in both) she asked if I'd be willing to be one of three of authors doing double-length stories. Given my tendency to write double the wordcount on every book, I'd agreed before she'd even finished the sentence - or told me that Lynne Graham and Penny Jordan were the other authors involved.

My excitement was tempered slightly by the fact that I was in the midst of my struggle to write The Book That Would Not Die (published eventually under the alternative title Her Last Night Of Innocence) but my subconscious decided to take matters into its own hands, and the morning after I got back from London I woke up with an extremely vivid scene in my head. It was set on a train leaving London and heading North (no prizes for guessing where you got that from, Subconscious) and was compelling enough to make me get out of bed and head straight for my computer to write it down. That was the starting point for the book, and over the following months as I wrestled with Cristiano and Kate, Kit and Sophie's story pieced itself together, bit by bit, in my mind. By the time I actually came to write it I had a notebook full of bits of dialogue and notes on scene ideas. Some of them never made it into the finished book, largely because I couldn't remember what they meant. What kind of scenes did I have in mind when I wrote 'beetroot' and 'doormat'??

The one thing that I hadn't quite got to grips with in my head when I started writing the book was the hero's character. I knew what he looked like...

...and I knew what kind of person he was ('distant' and 'disapproving' were the words written on the post-it notes on my computer screen) but I didn't really know why. At first I had him down as being an architect; precise and controlled, governed by rules and order. That was fine as far as it went, but there were still things that didn't fit and loose ends that wouldn't tie up, no matter how hard I yanked them. And then I realised that he wasn't an architect at all but a soldier and everything fell into place. Well, once I'd completely rewritten the first four chapters, anyway.

The course of the story changed dramatically after that, and took me down research routes that were fascinating, eye-opening and humbling, which is why I'm so thrilled to be involved in the Help for Heroes fundraising anthology. Kit Fitzroy is an EOD operative (that's Explosive Ordnance Disposal to the previously uninitiated, like myself) It's an extraordinary job, done by utterly extraordinary people - but there's more of that in the second book, so I'll talk about that next month.

Craving The Forbidden is almost entirely set in a hulking great castle on the Northumberland coast, based on an amalgam of Bamburgh and Alnwick and consequently imaginatively named Alnburgh. Usually I seem to set books in locations I can only dream of visiting but we'd had a great holiday in Northumberland the year before so this time all the research was conveniently done well in advance. Most uncharacteristically organised of me.

On the surface I suppose the conflict is staggeringly simple - always the best kind to work with, I find - and as old as the hills. The story is about the attraction of opposites - the spark between two people who come from different worlds and embody different values. Kit Fitzroy comes from a family whose name goes back to the Norman conquest and whose home has stood strong for four hundred years. Sophie Greenham has grown up on a painted London bus and has never stayed anywhere for more than a few months at a time. She's a bit-part actress and reinvents herself with every job that comes along, whereas Kit's identity seems set in the stone that forms Alnburgh's foundations. The idea of permanence makes Sophie shudder, but it's what keeps Kit going. All of that formed the background to the interaction between their characters and made it easy to write.

What was more difficult was managing the pace and splitting the story into two parts with a genuine, convincing absolute Happy Ever After promise at the end of the first one, and there were times at the beginning when I really did think I might have been far too hasty in saying yes to the project before thinking it through! But as I got further into the story, and into Kit and Sophie's heads, I forgot all about that and just let the story unfold until it reached its natural conclusion. Like Kit and Sophie, all I cared about was that moment and the future (ie book 2!) was a long way from my mind.

So, after that quick introduction to the book and its characters, I have some copies to give away. If you'd like to be in with a chance of getting one, email me via the website and tell me the name of your favourite holiday place. I'll pick five favourite holiday places out next week (and probably end up with a few more places on my Must Visit list...)

Now, I'd better go and clear up the mess from breakfast and apologise properly to the guinea pigs. Have a nice weekend everyone!

Back to Books

2011-09-29T10:40:00.008+01:00

Ages ago I mentioned that I'd got a box of author copies of my latest release Craving the Forbidden and promised to blog about it, which - true to form - I've so far failed to do. But as the book is now available on Amazon (and the Mills & Boon website - check out the clever link thing I managed to put over there on the sidebar <-- ) and is about to hit the shelves of bookshops here in the UK it's about time I got my act together, so come back tomorrow for some background information on Kit and Sophie's story, and a chance to win a copy.

In other book news, I also got some copies of an anthology in which I'm honoured to be included, along with fabulous authors Jessica Hart and Amy Andrews. The book that I have in it is Mistress: Hired for the Billionaire's Pleasure (featuring Orlando Winterton, my all-time favourite hero.) It's called Loving our Heroes, is coming out at the end of October and £1 from every sale goes to Help for Heroes. I feel particularly proud to be involved in supporting this charity for reasons I'll explain tomorrow when I talk about Kit and Sophie's story. In the meantime, here's the cover - isn't it fabulous?

Downton Debrief (WARNING: may contain massive spoilers)

2011-09-26T09:43:00.003+01:00

My, things are moving fast in downtown Downton aren't they? April 1917 already (the war definitely will be over by Christmas at this rate...) Thomas is back in Yorkshire and back at work, though the wound in his hand still looks alarmingly fresh. Matthew is still in one piece (no surprises there, having seen his battle-dodging last week) and heading back off to the trenches, where the sniping will be far less fierce than in the Dining Room at Downton. Edith finally gets a snogging scene, while Bates is missing in action, Maggie Smith's Jennifer Saunders impression gets better and better and Carson finds it all a bit much.

I really like the way the seemingly irredeemable O'Brien is oh-so-gradually revealing her human side, and I loved the set-up for future heartache in the storyline between Daisy and William. (Relationship Dilemma 1917-style: you don't want to finish with your boyfriend just before he heads off to the trenches incase he dies. But what if he just gets horribly injured...?)

So what did everyone else think of Episode two ?

It's been a while since I mentioned it...

2011-09-22T11:04:00.004+01:00

...but James D'Arcy's looking mighty fine these days isn't he?

*happy sigh* Hero inspiration in every finely-shaped feature. Since the book I'm currently working on is set in a different time-period (and also features a pilot hero) I think it wouldn't be disloyal to Orlando to use him again...

Who are you finding inspiring at the moment? Do share!

This Sunday...

2011-09-16T10:27:00.008+01:00

Lay in supplies of red wine, firewood and Kit Kats. Put the kids to bed early and take the phone off the hook. Downton's Back!

I'm desperately excited about the new series, but also a teeny bit apprehensive too. It's set in the same period as the book I'm writing now, and have had in my head for the last 6 years or so - what if it turns out to be freakily similar to the central story in my book? (and annoyingly better?) So much has been written about this time period already and there's no limit to the number of stories still to be told and unique ways to tell them, so I suppose it's unlikely that I'm going to see my particular take on it spookily played out before a TV audience of millions. But let's just say if any of the men have enlisted in the Royal Flying Corps I'll be watching from behind the sofa...

Better stock up on extra wine and Kit Kats, just incase.

A week of contrasts

2011-09-12T13:22:00.019+01:00

It was probably a bit daft to squeeze in one last camping trip before school started again: certainly the wise people at the Met Office suggested as much, as did the (very tiny) Voice Of Reason inside my own head, whispering stuff about the need to organise school shoes and PE shorts and track down a whole raft of 6th form text books. But one of my greatest skills is ignoring the voice of reason, so the last Friday of the holidays saw us heading off in the direction of the Peak District, in a car stuffed with waterproofs, hot water bottles, thick socks and wellies - because (*nervous laugh*) we're not completely without sense.

When we got there, the campsite looked like this. At a weekend. In the summer holidays. (*more nervous laughing.*)

Of course, it rained. Quite a lot, as it happened - mostly on the morning we were trying to pack the tent up; a task which took on an interesting 'It's a Knockout' aspect with the addition of gallons of water pouring over the whole proceedings. But in between downpours it was almost freakishly hot and sunny. Well, for Derbyshire anyway, which, happily, is a county generously endowed with pubs in which to dry off. We shopped for new term supplies in beautiful Buxton, and sampled water from the famous spring. It was warm...

Let's just say I was a bit more enthusiastic about the Bakewell puddings in Bakewell. Unsurprisingly, perhaps.

In line with this summer's 'misery tourism' theme we had to make a trip to the Plague Village of Eyam, where we spent an afternoon utterly engrossed in the tragic events of 1665-66 and looking at yet more graves. Honestly, what kind of childhood am I giving my poor daughters?

Before we headed home again on Tuesday, Chatsworth was on the itinerary. Of course, we couldn't have foreseen the torrentialness (if that's not a word, it should be) of the deluge in which we took down the tent, nor the extent of our bedragglement as we trudged - in wellies, gently steaming as we dried out - around the most magnificent house in England. Given time, Daughter #1 might possibly forgive me for making her spend her summer holidays visiting the dead, but showing up at Mr Darcy's house looking like refugees from Glastonbury may take therapy. The house guides were very kind, possibly because we looked like people who weren't really used to being Indoors, and the wallpaper was lovely, but a bottle of water cost £1.50, which made me think rather more kindly about the warm, free water in Buxton. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of a large fortune probably got it by fleecing tourists.

Back at home it was all hands to the laundry pile as the countdown to school ticked into the final hours. (Actually, that's just wishful thinking. I tackled the laundry pile heroically and alone.) Once all three daughters had been pushed out of the door, more or less clean and ironed on Wednesday morning, I had just one day to transform myself from weather-beaten tent-dweller to the kind of person who wouldn't be thrown out of a smart restaurant in Charlotte Street.

With the dirt mostly removed from beneath my fingernails, headed excitedly down to London to meet up with a group of fellow Presents authors. Lunch was in honour of visiting Australian writers Annie West and Trish Morey and was champagne-fuelled, delicious and an absolute riot of non-stop conversation. It was heaven to be in heels rather than wellies, eating perfect food cooked by someone else, in the company of wonderful, inspiring women. More efficient people than I took photos (or charmed passing businessmen into taking them, Presents-heroine style.) As the day gave way to evening and the time of my train home approached, neither the flow of conversation nor champagne showed any sign of abating and I dearly wished I could have stayed. Luckily it's a mere seven weeks to the annual Mills and Boon Author lunch... Better get some writing done before then.

What's everyone else been doing over the summer, and how are we all feeling about the onset of Autumn? And is anyone all fired up to get their entry off to New Voices? Let me know if you are so I can cheer you on!

Fly-by post

2011-09-01T10:33:00.004+01:00

Because I'm crazily trying to catch up on washing from last weekend's camping trip* and simultaneously packing for another one tomorrow, I haven't really got time to muse on the bizarre fact that it's suddenly September. So, here's David Sylvian to ease you gently into autumn. He sounds slightly puzzled about it all too, but I love this song and always dig it out for a nostalgia-wallow at this time of year.

Back next week, when the house is empty, I'm looking for excuses to avoid opening my neglected book file, and can start getting excited about New Voices and my upcoming Modern release Craving the Forbidden. I have books to give away...

* the family reunion one, which also involves the team games, all-day drinking and fancy dress - in my case this year no corset, but a rather dashing highwayman's cloak and hat as Adam Ant. Surprisingly warm and practical. Am thinking of packing them for weekend in Peak District too.

So, where was I?

2011-08-17T08:02:00.008+01:00

'France' is the short answer to that, although I have to confess that was only for the last ten days or so and doesn't quite justify my absence from the blog for almost a month. I always struggle to keep up during the school holidays (with the blog as well as much else, like ironing and getting dressed before 3pm) but this year I've been slacker than ever. (Hmm. Am tempted to pretend I've been languishing in a wi-fi-less house on the other side of the Channel all summer, rather than merely for the last week.)

Cleverly I put myself ICO venue-finding this year, hoping that no-one would detect my cunningly hidden agenda of combining family holiday with sneaky research trip for the book I'm trying to write, which is partly set in WW1. The house I found (or rather, two houses as we forced the same friends as last year to come with us again) was a couple of miles outside Montreuil, which is where Field Marshal Haig was based during the war but (rather tellingly) a pretty long way from the front line, which ensured my obsession wasn't allowed to dominate too much. It was also gorgeous. Last year we holidayed boy-scout style, in tents which, despite my best efforts with bunting and solar-powered fairy lights remained more Slumdog Millionaire than Out of Africa. This year I was determined to aim higher in the Gracious Living stakes - to the extent of a proper bed at least - and achieve a week of proper relaxation.

The research part of the week involved a day around Arras, the scene of much action in April 1917, and a trip to Vimy Ridge. There you can walk along reconstructed Canadian and German trenches only 25 metres apart and see the grassed-over scars of old trenches and craters and shell holes, as well as the magnificent monument to the 11000 Canadian missing...

We were pretty close to Étaples, site of the enormous British transit camp and field hospital during the war, but there's little there to see now. Bearing in mind the 'summer holiday' aspect of the trip I'd made a resolution not to drag everyone round endless cemeteries and cast a pall of solemnity over the whole week, but we could hardly drive past the Military Cemetery, with its crazy-beautiful Lutyens arches and steps, now could we? It was just after lunchtime when we stopped, but the sun was casting long shadows behind each headstone by the time we reluctantly left.

The rest of the week was spent lazing about in or beside the bathwater-warm swimming pool, eating bread, playing the odd, incompetent game of tennis (me, not the athletic-ace kids), drinking insanely cheap Muscadet and eating more bread. We did manage trips to Agincourt and the beach, but the wind was fierce at the coast and the sea considerably colder than the pool back at base-camp, where swimming could go on late into the night...

All in all a fabulous week, right up until the moment when Daughter #3 woke me up with the words 'I feel sick' and reality came crashing back in. On the upside, it was very clever of her to leave it until the last day of the holiday, and there's no doubt that a poorly child is a whole lot easier to look after in a house stuffed with comfortable beds, sofas and en suite bathrooms than a tent, but there was no putting off the journey home the following day. We stopped for one last time in Montreuil to buy a bucket and raced up to Calais. Probably best to draw a veil over the rest of the trip home. We were, however, so relieved to get back that it distracted us from the contrast with the immaculate and stylish house we'd left in France and the one we returned to, with the overgrown, jungly garden strewn with windfall apples and the rancid yogurt in the fridge.

Later, with Poorly Daughter safe and sleeping in her own bed and the washing machine on, we collapsed on the sofa and turned on the TV. Pictures of riots and looting - news that had escaped us in our technology-free French idyll - filled the screen. Switched it off quickly, dug bottle of Muscadet out of its swaddling in a bag of washing and retreated gratefully into twilit apple-scented jungle garden to talk wistfully about ditching TV and internet permanently, and moving to France.

A Wonderful Weekend

2011-07-11T07:13:00.011+01:00

I don't get out much. Most weekends see me catching up on laundry, cleaning bathrooms and assisting with homework rather than slinging a smart little suitcase in the back of the car and whizzing off for a couple of days of fun/heavy drinking/inspiration - however, that's exactly what I did this weekend when I went to the RNA conference at Caerleon. (Except for the 'smart little suitcase' bit, but more of that later.)

For reasons mostly to do with deadlines and looming summer holidays this was my first conference, so I wasn't entirely sure what to expect beyond beautiful shoes and lots of wine consumption. Having been the kind of person who always had ten good reasons to go to the union bar instead of a lecture when I was at university I certainly wasn't anticipating wanting to go to every single session, but that's pretty much what happened. From Lizzie Kremer's opening talk on contracts to lovely Sara Craven's summing-up speech I only missed one, when tiredness and the need for tea got the better of us and Natalie Rivers and I sloped back to our flat. (Very good thing indeed that the conference goody bags had been visted by the Green & Blacks fairy - my bar of fruit and nut was practically medicinal by that stage.)

Aside from being monumentally motivating, it was just fabulous to get together with people I don't see nearly often enough and meet lots of new friends, including new medical author Scarlet Wilson. Am sure her books will be as funny and smart and fantastic as she is, so we're all in for a treat. She's also incredibly glamorous, but you'll just have to take my word for that as this is the moment when I have to admit that I have returned home without a single photo. (Again. *sheepish look*) I'm going to say this was due to chucking all my stuff into a bigger suitcase five minutes before I had to leave for the station on Friday, having broken the zip on the small one trying to close it, and forgetting to retrieve my camera from the little pocket, but in all honesty I didn't even notice I hadn't taken it until I got home. Too busy talking to do photos, obviously.

Amongst the many highlights of the weekend were the dinner on Saturday night, when we were lucky enough to share a table with all four gorgeous M&B editors (and were the last to leave the hall at sometime after 1 am...) Fiona Harper's utterly brilliant talk on Getting Emotion on the Page, finally coming up with a pretty satisfactory 'elevator pitch' sentence for the book I'm trying to write in Jane Wenham-Jones' excellent session (with help from Fiona) and - now I come to think of it - just thinking about books and writing for a whole weekend, without having to apply my mind to the contents of the fridge and what to do with them. (The mini-fridge in my room contained a pint of milk and the aforementioned bar of Green and Blacks. No probs thinking what to do with either of those. Maybe should recreate this at home.)

The strangest part was seeing so many faces that were half-familiar from twitter profile pics, and being too shy to approach most of them. It's a funny old thing - like falling into a book and where you know all the characters, but suspecting that you'll come across as a total scary weirdo-stalker if you behave as such. Wonder if this is an age thing? Suspect the yoof of today are much better at making the transition between cyber and real world. Will try to be braver next time.

The train home was ancient, filthy and vastly overcrowded but I had plenty to think about, and I'm not just talking about the salacious details of the conversation the women opposite me were having. Back at home He seemed to have managed fine without me, which was a little impolite, I felt. However, online shop arrived last night and it transpired he had forgotten to order biscuits. *smug face* I would never do that. Nice to know I am needed after all.

Now. Must write book.

Still no laptop...

2011-06-30T13:04:00.006+01:00

...but after a happy afternoon at the Pick your Own farm (or the Pick and Mix farm, as Daughter #3 wistfully calls it) we have STRAWBERRY ~~SOUP~~ JAM.

OK, so you do have to be a tiny bit careful that it doesn't drip off your toast, but it tastes divine. However, the children, having seen it oozing and bubbling blackly for hours in the pan, refuse to believe this and will not be persuaded to try it. Result!

Last night was Daughter #1's High School Prom, which meant the day was given over to preparatory pampering and glamour. Felt like a very proud but utterly knackered Fairy Godmother by the time she and her friends pulled away in the hideously vulgar (but apparently de rigeur) limo. Next time will someone remind me not to have my photo taken with a radiant 16 year old who has spent 4 hours getting ready, when I haven't had time to wash my hair or put on mascara? Today am barricaded in my office and writing hard, as a distraction from the urge to loiter in front of the mirror counting wrinkles and wondering where the years went.

In Search of the Good Life

2011-06-17T11:22:00.005+01:00

My laptop net-booky thing died. In laptop years it was probably about 247, and had admittedly had a pretty hard life, but its demise - from a hideous virus caught from some horrid instant-messenger thing downloaded by a daughter - was still a blow. I had such high hopes when I first got it... and although not all of them may have quite been realised, it's been a very faithful companion for the last 3 years.

And yet, a month on and I haven't really begun to look into replacing it. As someone who spends quite a large proportion of their energy ranting at the junior members of the household about the time they spend online and the fact that they 'chat' incessantly to cyberfriends but have a tendency to monosyllabic grunting over the dinner table, the removal of one instrument of addiction has made life a whole lot simpler. It's also forced me to confront the extent of my own internet habit. I wasn't quite at the 'grunting at the dinner table' stage, but I will own up to keeping my netbook open in a corner of the kitchen and checking emails/twitter 25 times every ten minutes, indulging in the odd happy half ~~day~~ hour of ~~James D’Arcy cyberstalking~~ hanging out in my favourite shopping haunts, only half-listening to the children and generally letting large slices of life pass me by. I do of course still have my work computer, but that's up two flights of stairs and is too serious and scary to be used for loafing.

Since the demise of the netbook I have - amongst other things - taught Daughter #3 to sew,watched an entire series of Improving Educational TV on DVD with daughters 2 and 3, not updated my blog, traipsed around the byways of Cheshire collecting elderflower heads and turned them into elderflower cordial, spent an inordinate amount of cash in real shops and had an inordinate amount of fun doing so with Daughter #1 (who is in a state of post-GCSE euphoria and pre-prom excitement), made progress on the new book, not updated my website, assisted in the completion of a 1000 piece jigsaw depicting 1970s toys, made bread, all but disappeared from twitter, cooked stuff from actual recipes involving more than five ingredients, gone to bed before 11pm, got past base camp on Laundry Mountain, been an even more erratic emailer than ever and missed my online friends.

So - to buy or not to buy? that is the question. Feel like I've inadvertently stumbled upon the sunshiny Good Life in the gap where my twilit cyber-existence used to be, but every now and again I think about the all the interesting, inspiring, stimulating stuff going on online and feel my fingers twitch in the direction of my credit card. I think I'll probably give in eventually, but I don't think I'm quite ready yet. Does anybody have a good recipe for strawberry jam?

The dog ate my homework?

2011-05-18T10:21:00.006+01:00

I know I'm guilty of severe Blog Neglect when I have to remind blogger who I am (and remember passwords.) Ironically, my excuse for not blogging last month was that I was saving up every typed word and every writing moment for my ms, but since I submitted that just before the Royal Wedding and haven't yet had instructions from my editor to re-write it, I can't exactly use extreme busyness as an excuse.

However, although my fingers aren't flying over the keyboard, my head is pretty taken up, sorting out the threads of a story that has been weaving itself in my mind for years now. I remember thinking through it as I lay in the bath at the old house (the one that we left in 2005) and, magpie-like, I've been collecting bits of information to go into it ever since and waiting for the right time to write it. Or at least, waiting until I couldn't put off writing it any longer. That's kind of how it feels at the moment, although I'm doing a pretty good job of putting it off by losing myself in endless absorbing research involving early photography, the Royal Flying Corps and Victorian asylums, amongst other things.

In other news, GCSEs have started and daughter #1 (who I swear was only setting off with her Little Mermaid rucksack for her first day at Nursery a couple of weeks ago) is in exam mode - alternating between exhilaration and despair and showing up my ignorance at every turn by firing questions about Titration Equations and Covalent Bonding at me, none of which I can understand, never mind answer. This makes a slight mockery of my selfless decision not to go to the RNA Summer Party tonight so I could be on hand to dispense wisdom and support, although I like to think that I really couldn't be spared from my Scrambled-Egg-Making post in the morning. A humble role, but vital.

Last night I did take the evening off thinking about the new book and having my ignorance exposed, and went to the cinema with my very naughty friend Liz to see Water for Elephants. It was utterly fabulous. Pure escapism (except for the part during the very, very quiet love scene when Liz said loudly 'What are they doing? I don't understand.') I fell wildly in love with Rosie the elephant, and with Robert Pattinson (predictably) who looks even better with a bit of colour in his cheeks. Christopher Waltz was also brilliant. Here's a trailer - go and see it!

This season's Must-Have accessory

2011-05-02T14:24:00.011+01:00

The blissful, extended Bank Holiday weekend is stretching on forever here in sun-baked Britain, and in our house we're slowly getting buried in drifts of newspaper featuring a photographic record of just about every imaginable aspect of Friday's Royal Wedding. Usually I don't have time to do more than scan the headlines and snatch a wistful glance at the Travel section of the weekend papers, but with The Book off my desk (for the time being at least) and nothing more pressing to do than laze around in the sun I seem to have inadvertently become a bit of an expert on the whole occasion. If you want to know what Wills really whispered to Kate's father when they arrived at the altar, or the history of the blue Aston Martin in which they left the reception, I'm probably your woman.

I now feel pretty well qualified to give my own little fashion round-up of the event, and have concluded that while hats (apparently fixed with a drawing pin to the centre of the forehead) may be enjoying a bit of a moment, the thing to be seen in this year is cheap, easily available outside of Bond Street, and transforms any outfit. It is, ladies, The Smile. Let's see who was in on fashion's hottest secret...

And who wasn't...

Oh dear. Who's going to break it to Mrs B that the bored, pouty look is so last year?

Tomorrow it's finally back to school and normality. This will be a bit of a shock, since today everyone here was still in bed at the time when daughter #3 would usually be having morning playtime, but, in the light of my research, am planning to finish off my usual school-run look (consisting of whatever's been left draped over the end of the bed in the last few days and wild-woman hair) with a dazzling smile, a la Middleton ladies. Potential to look slightly deranged is definitely there, but am going to give it a go. It's been that kind of week.

This calls for a celebration

2011-04-28T12:23:00.003+01:00

So, revisions are in (thank goodness for easter chocolate) the bunting is up and the children have been put to work making Union Jack paperchains. Royal Wedding excitement is mounting here by the second.

Call me shallow, but I'm so not interested in the political arguments about elitism and shameless extravagance. It's the wanton romance and emotion of the whole event that I'm excited about. And the outfits... and the excuse to drink champagne in the morning and eat cake all day*. In fact, it's a bit like being at your own wedding without the crushing feeling that you should have started dieting sooner.

So, are you in the mood to celebrate too or are you just going to take advantage of the day off and the fact that she shops will be empty and avoid it all?

(*I'm also a surprisingly excited about the opportunity to gawp at Harry all day. Am I the only one who's finding him oddly inspiring at the moment, in all sorts of ways?)

Getting Away With It

2011-04-12T10:33:00.003+01:00

Thanks to everyone who emailed for my spare copy of Julie Cohen's wonderful book. The winner is Catherine J, so as soon as I can bear to tear myself away from revisions and get down to the post office it'll be on its way to her. (That'll be this afternoon then.)

Actually, following a long phonecall with my editor yesterday, I'm feeling much more positive about the revisions and the book in general. It's been a very different experience writing this one as it's the second book in a two-part continuity, featuring the same hero and heroine, so the usual challenges of building a story have been complicated a little by the need to link the books, but make each one stand alone. I loved doing it, but writing the end of the second book has been really difficult. Probably twice as difficult as normal in fact, as it had to provide a sense of resolution to two stories. It's requiring an awful lot of Toblerone - so much, in fact that I even felt I needed to mention it in the book. Hope it gets past the copy-editor.

Better get on with it. (The book, not the Toblerone.)

(Although...)

Crisis Management

2011-04-06T13:10:00.011+01:00

So, in the interests of promoting healthy living (always a priority of mine, see the 'Snacks' section for proof) I thought I'd better follow up my last post with some slightly more wholesome coping strategies for times of crisis. Even I have to admit that there's only so much cake, chocolate and Bakewell tart you can use to get you through tough times before it leads to a whole new set of problems, like not being able to go out in public as none of your clothes fit anymore. So, I've been busily trialling some calorie-free alternatives. That don't involve wine either.

I know the lovely (and now envy-makingly svelte) Michelle Styles would say that exercise is the way to go to boost endorphins and clear your mind. She's right, of course, but I've shamefully let my morning run slide this year as I really did find ~~the half-hour recovery period spent gossiping with my running partner afterwards~~ it cut into my working day too much. I guess we could re-schedule it for the evening, but by then my energy-levels have hit the floor and the only running I want to do is a hot bath.

Which brings me neatly onto my rigorously road-tested, calorie-free stress-relief method of choice: reading in the bath.

I do love my kindle, but its one huge downfalls is that it can't really be used in water (as my husband, chief screen-police officer in our house, regularly reminds me) which means I'm still buying paperbacks like a woman with a problem. Reading in the bath has been the thing that got me through the Deadline Weeks (and is my best hope for surviving the subsequent Revisiongate) and going straight to the top of my Book of the Year list is Julie Cohen's Getting Away With It.

Although perfect for bathtime escapism, it's the kind of book you have to keep near you at all times so you can top up your fix at regular intervals during the day, when reality gets a bit much. The thing is, it's so perfectly written that it actually feels like it could be reality, and given that I am about as far removed from the kick-boxing, smart-talking, independent twin heroine as it's probably possible to be, that is quite a feat of clever writing. I identified with Liza all the way. I understood her dilemma perfectly. And I bloody loved her man.

I ordered a copy of the book from Amazon on the day it came out, but before it arrived I spotted it in the book aisle of our brand-new, Wembley Stadium-sized Sainsburys. I'm such an instant-gratification girl I couldn't quite stop myself from slipping it into my basket, which means that I now find myself with a spare copy in need of a good home. So, if you feel a bit like you're swimming against the tide at the moment for whatever reason, and could do with escaping into a fabulous story, drop me a line via the website and leave your address. I'll pick a name out over the weekend.

It's funny too, did I mention that? You know when books are described in the back blurb as being 'laugh-out-loud funny' and you don't laugh once and feel a bit cheated? Well, this one isn't doesn't say that on the back, but I still did A LOT of inelegant snorting. I suppose that would make it a dangerous book to read on the bus, but still more perfect for solitary bathtime devouring. I'd better slip something fragrant and bath-y in with it, so you don't forget.

What's everyone else been reading and loving lately? In the bath or elsewhere...

Three reasons why today is not the day to start that diet...

2011-04-04T10:34:00.003+01:00

1. The chocolates and cake that were part of the fabulous haul of goodies the daughters bought me for Mothers Day. (sniff.)

2. The remains of the most outrageously delicious and calorific Bakewell tart in the history of baking, made by my own lovely mother and given to us to bring home after lunch at her house yesterday.

3. The monster revisions I received on my latest ms late on Friday afternoon.

'Nuff said?

Conspiracy

2011-03-21T08:58:00.003Z

With exactly one week to go until Deadline Day, I'd really like to be totally immersed in the book and only emerging into real life occasionally, reluctantly and for as short a time as possible. However, since last Tuesday when Daughter #3 started throwing up, right through the weekend when Mr G absented himself from domestic duty and went to Edinburgh for a weekend of rugby, beer and debauchery with my brothers, to the middle of last night when Daughters 2 and 3 started with the Virulent Vomiting Virus, events have been conspiring against me somewhat.

My head is still there. Just need to find time for my fingers to keep up.

Days Like These

2011-03-07T09:28:00.005Z

How inconsiderate of daughter #2 to be born on the same day, 13 years ago, as the RNA Pure Passion Awards. This evening, instead of putting on high heels and teetering along to Whitehall Place to drink champagne and hold Abby Green's hand as she waits for the winner of Love Story of the Year to be announced, I will be lighting birthday candles and retreating to a safe distance from the shrieking of teenage girls (possibly with a bottle of Prosecco.)

Before that, when I would have been catching the train down to London (if daughter#2 had made her appearance on the right day 13 years ago) I am going to be sitting in the doctors (for probably about the same amount of time as it would take to get to London) waiting for a Tetanus injection, after Muffin the rabbit took a chunk out of my finger on Saturday.

*sniffs bravely and assumes a pious expression* A lesser person would probably be very bitter.

On Books and Writing, Films and Filming

2011-02-25T09:45:00.010Z

A big thank you to Rachel for coming in and livening the blog up this week, and to everyone who dropped by to visit, especially if it was for the first time. It’s been really nice to have so many people here ~~making me feel more popular~~ congratulating Rachel on the release of a really fabulous debut, available here now and coming soon in paperback, just incase you'd forgotten!

Here, while I've been shut away in my office, half-term has passed a little in the style of the First World War, with long periods of boredom followed by short, intense bursts of activity. Thankfully the fighting has been confined mainly to verbal skirmishes over Nutella allowance (a holiday treat) and who has 'borrowed' ipod headphones from whom, but even so by yesterday we were all ready to get out of the house for a little while. Prompted by a phonecall from my brother who is also juggling bored children with being self-employed from the other side of the Pennines, and the fact that daughter #3 is doing Jane Eyre for GCSE, we headed up to Haworth for the day.

I suffered pangs of angst at leaving my book, and daughter #1 felt the same about being prised away from revision (she’s come to the idea pretty late in the day, but like many converts is pretty evangelical about it now) but turned out to be a Very Good Idea. Apart from the pleasure of an impromptu meet up with the Yorkshire cousins, it was an absolute gem of a day – blue-skied and gentle, with enough sun to warm even Haworth’s old grey stones. The cousins brought their puppy, and after we’d loitered in the pub (in homage to Branwell Bronte) we headed out to walk across the moors in the manner of Charlotte, Ann and Emily. Or, more pertinently to daughter #3 who, at the age of 4 sobbed for hours after watching The Railway Children, in the manner of Bobbie, Peter and Phyllis. We walked past the house that was their home in the film, and through the field seen here.

(Are you sobbing yet? I've watched this 3 times in the course of loading this post and welled up every one of them!)

It was while we were there that I got a phonecall from the TV company about a piece I did with them on Lady Chatterley’s Lover a month or so ago. It was part of a series the very charming Gyles Brandreth has been doing on BBC’s The One Show this week on the subject of taste and decency, and I went down to Bristol to meet him in an old courtroom where the temperature was probably several degrees below freezing, to talk about the book and the trial. It had originally been scheduled to go out tonight (Friday) but they’d brought it forward to Thursday, meaning I was spared the dread of waiting for it to come on at 7pm as we were stuck in a traffic jam on the M60 then. There’s something far less intimidating about watching after the event, although I still couldn’t think about attempting it until after the second glass of wine. (You can see it here for the next few days. The piece is about 14 minutes in.) My poor children. On the one hand there’s the excitement of having your mum on TV. On the other, there’s the fact that the first sentence she says involves the words ‘visceral’ and ‘sex.’

Anyway, today I'm back at they keyboard and trying to remember all the huge insights I had into my ms when we were striding across the moors yesterday, and recapture the enthusiasm I felt for it. I'm sure another cup of tea will help. And toast. (Wonder if there's any Nutella left?)

Handing over to Rachel Lyndhurst...

2011-02-23T07:10:00.013Z

... because it's half-term, and I have 3 children and a 3ooo words a day habit to feed. And, unlike some lucky people, no gorgeous new book to celebrate. Hope everyone's having a nice half-term (especially if you don't have kids - that would be ideal, really) - here's Rachel!

Friendship and Inspiration - How a Book was Born

Please allow me to introduce myself. The name’s Lyndhurst, Rachel Lyndhurst, debut author of Storm’s Heart, an Embrace Books launch title.

I owe India Grey so many favours I’ve lost count, but I just never seem to get round to cleaning her oven and fridge like I say I’m going to. So, as a down payment on my debts of gratitude, I’ve given India the day off and leant her Rufus Sewell to rub her feet all day and feed her a box of Hotel Chocolat. I‘m still working on Jeremy Clarkson for the school run ...

So what’s the deal with India, I hear you say? Well, the eternally youthful goddess of romance has had a great influence on me as a writer. It all began in 2007 with her debut novel, The Italian’s Defiant Mistress.

I was starting to learn, scribbling my first ever effort at a category romance, and took a pile of new Mills & Boon Moderns on holiday with me to ‘study’ (hard work, honest!). I couldn’t put The Italian’s Defiant Mistress down, it simply sparkled and India’s ‘voice’ rang so true. Inspired, I nervously emailed her on my return and that, as they say, was the start of a beautiful friendship.

And now down to specifics, the inspiration. Here’s a picture of Spanish Aristocrat, Forced Bride luxuriating in thehot sand of Lindos, Rhodes, the main location of Storm’s Heart.

With double inspiration of this calibre, how could a romance novel not be born? Sun, sea, romance, it was perfect.

Then India introduced me to the music of Dashboard Confessional when she put Vindicated on her playlist for Mistress: Hired for the Billionaire's Pleasure. The song struck a chord (bad pun, toyed with changing it – didn’t), and I bought a few of their albums. Their song Rooftops and Invitations blew me away and formed the next layer of inspiration – there’s a lot of rooftop living in Lindos and the book opens with an explosive invitation … You can listen to it and read the lyrics here

And then do you know what India Grey did next? The gorgeous creature read Storm’s Heart and endorsed it!

“As refreshing and sharp as a G&T on a summer’s day, Rachel Lyndhurst is a sparkling new voice in romantic fiction.”

—INDIA GREY

So, in a way, I feel that Storm’s Heart is almost as much India’s as it is mine, and I will love her forever for her support and encouragement.

India Grey also makes a cracking pot of tea.

Thanks for having me, India! And, er, you’d better add ‘tidy cupboard under the stairs’ to the list.

Storm’s Heart is available as an eBook or paperback from:

Amazon.UK

Amazon.com

Salt

You can also find out more about Rachel and Storm’s Heart here:

(Thanks for babysitting the poor, neglected blog, Rach! Any chance you could take the children off my hands for a couple of days too? xx)

Time for a mini-celebration

2011-02-11T09:43:00.002Z

The RNA shortlists have been announced. Lots of fabulous books, by lots of fabulous authors (and thanks to my lovely kindle I now have three new titles at my fingertips for weekend reading) including a certain Modern/Presents writer called Abby Green with her lush book Bride in a Gilded Cage. Now, if we were blokes, this is how we'd react to this news...

...As we're polite lady romance writers and readers, I think something like this is much more appropriate...

Cheers Abby darling!! So well deserved!

Delusions of Celebrity

2011-02-09T09:56:00.003Z

Oooh look - I'm going to be on lovely Heather Stott's show on Radio Manchester this morning, and I've got a name check on the website alongside Neil Morrissey! I know it's radio, but I'm going to wear lipstick and perfume. Please bear that in mind if you're listening at 11.10 am.

Chinese Year of the Rabbit

2011-02-08T09:50:00.001Z

Huh.

Muffin is going to be insufferable.

It's that day again...

2011-02-02T09:51:00.003Z

Uh-oh. Wednesday. However, after last week's mini-meltdown, am determined to break the cycle and forge ahead in huge, sweeping strides today. Am wearing my lucky bra and have lit some of my current favourite scented candles (though in looking for a link I've just seen this one and feel a purchase coming on. Library! Our local library smells a bit like wet tweed and schoolboys, but I definitely like the sound of wood and amber. Most conducive to serious work.)

Anyway, having discovered you can fit a croissant (if you squash it slightly first) into the new toaster we bought at the weekend, I have also taken the precaution of carb-loading in anticipation of today's huge output of creative energy. Committed, that's me. Wish me luck.

Midweek Crisis

2011-01-26T13:23:00.004Z

It started when I was writing Her Last Night of Innocence, and the Midweek Crisis has become a bit of a phenomenon with me now. This is how the first half of my week goes.

Monday - get home from school run, look around for work avoidance excuses, clean floor, make toast, sort laundry, trail upstairs and put music on. Open ms document. Turn music up. Write.

Tuesday - come home from school run, ignore kitchen squalor and ironing pile. Race upstairs. Open document. Write.

Wednesday - Wake up thinking about book. Snap at children at drop of a towel in pre-school run madness. Come home feeling guilty and bad-tempered. Go upstairs. Try to write. Fail spectacularly. Read back over Tuesday's enthusiastic outpouring and feel jaw drop with horror at how wrong it all is. Open up new document, entitled 'Real, Proper Actual Book This Time, Not False Start no 572' or something similar and write 4 sentences on it. Stop writing. Panic. Open up another new document entitled 'Outline no.48' and begin yet another summing up of Facts, this time adding in the mini-epiphany which will alter the course of the plot completely. Or not. Hyperventilate. Practise stress-managment in the form of internet 'research'. Make tea. Search house for chocolate. Re-read everything and realise Tuesday's version was, in fact, better. Apart from wrongness. Open up new document... Repeat in a loop until school pick up time.

Why? What is it about Wednesdays? If this goes on much longer I'm going to lobby my MP to get them abolished.

The Society Wife

2011-01-14T11:40:00.002Z

I thought that, while I'm busy emptying out the contents of my brain and conducting a fingertip search on them to find the missing link in my current book, I'd do a little mini-post about the book I have out in the US this month. It's called The Society Wife, but if the people on the cover look oddly familiar it's because this is The Book Formerly Known As Spanish Aristocrat, Forced Bride, which came out in the UK in September 2009. Ages ago! So, if you're reading this on the other side of the Atlantic and have only just come across the story, you can read a bit about how it came to be written here.

I've mentioned lots of times before about how I always write to music (sorry, neighbours) and I think part of the issue I'm having with my current winmp (that's 'work in not much progress') is that I just can't seem to find songs that create the right mood. I didn't have that problem with Tristan and Lily. I loved the music I listened to when I wrote that book, and it seemed to work its way right into the story. This was the first song on my ipod soundtrack, which really influenced the mood of the first chapter.

This song was also on my playlist, and by some happy coincidence, when I watched the video on youtube I discovered it had been shot in the Barcelona square outside the church where Tristan and Lily get married, and the hotel where they stay on their wedding night. The children in the video made their way into the book.

Other songs on the list included Enigma's Gravity of Love (which mentions both towers and doves - both of which are significant in the story - and has a very saucy video) Remember when it Rained, which made me think of Lily remembering her night with Tristan, This Woman's Work by Kate fabulous Bush, which so beautifully summed up Tristan's regrets when Lily is in hospital. I have to say at this point, it's not the most cheery book, and that's definitely reflected in songs like Sia's Breathe Me, which I listened to a lot, and 9 Crimes by Damian Rice. I love this song, and when I listen to it now it always makes me think of Tristan and Lily.

Now, if only I could find similar magical musical inspiration for what I'm writing right now. The way it's going at the moment perhaps Dead in the Water by David Gray might be a good place to start. Does anyone else find music is an essential part of the writing process? And (slightly pleading voice) have you got any top song tips?

Staving off the January blues

2011-01-10T06:47:00.004Z

Recently I was reading somewhere (needless to say my goldfish brain can’t remember where) about the psychological benefits of keeping a ‘gratitude journal’. Apparently the small act of writing down three small, specific things daily for which you are thankful boosts feelings of positivity and contentment and can significantly reduce stress. Now, I have slight issues with the ‘daily’ part (as regular followers of this blog might not be surprised to hear) but I’m all in favour of the stress relief thing and the increased positivity, especially when everything outside is the colour of sludge, there’s a big, Christmas-tree shaped space in my sitting room, I have a book due far too soon and all of my clothes seem to have shrunk by two sizes. Here’s my specially-extended-to-cover-all-of-January gratitude list...

We escaped all the horrible viruses going around over Christmas. The school car park is full of stories of turkey and Prosecco being replaced by Neurofen MaxPlus and Lemsip, and children too poorly to take much interest in whether Father Christmas had been. (Have noticed though that none of the people relating these tales have the same problem doing their jeans up as I do. So if you were afflicted with Festive Flu perhaps that might be worth noting in your gratitude journal…??)

I’m thankful for my sisters-in-law. I have three brothers who are married to three warm, funny, kind, talented (and beautiful, but I’m prepared to forgive them that) women who I’d absolutely want as my friends if my thoughtful brothers hadn’t gone one better and made them into family. So I guess that means I can also say I’m thankful for my brothers too.

On a similar note, I’m thankful for and to all the readers who email from all over the world and invariably say things that make me glow inside. (V important when on the outside skin has taken on the colour and texture of ancient parchment and only glows after two glasses of wine drunk while sitting too close to the fire.)

...And leading on from that… I’m insanely grateful to all you lovely American ladies who bought The Society Wife and put it at no 2 on Borders last week and no 82 on the USA Today list. Inside positively incandescent when I discovered that!

Being horribly shallow, I was thankful for/excited about the bottle of Cristal Champagne He brought home from work just before Christmas. I’ve read about it, mentioned it in my own books (though can’t remember if the mentions stayed in through copy-edits, actually) and admired its pretty packaging in the posh wine shop window in town. I’m also thankful that, being a complete philistine, I couldn’t tell the difference between that and Sainsbury’s finest. I'm calling that a saving of £200 every celebratory occasion.

Just Dance/ Just Dance 2 on the Wii, both of which appeared under our tree this Christmas. Much hilarity, although trying to keep up with Teen Dancing Queen daughters is a sobering reminder of my age. Although, who would have thought He would turn out to be such a hot MC Hammer impersonator, or that after 20 years I'd still be finding stuff out that I didn't know about my husband?

I’m thankful that, due to my utter flakiness in seeing through my new year resolutions for 2010 I am saved from having to think up more for 2011. And that the house and the fridge are both empty now and, positive energy duly recharged, I can finally get down to some proper work.

So, does anyone actually keep a gratitude journal? If you did what would you put down for today?

Cold Turkey

2011-01-05T10:15:00.004Z

I am trying very hard to adjust to life without chocolate for breakfast, all day drinking, mornings spent in bed, afternoons spent on the sofa watching films, and foraging for leftover-based meals requiring no planning or cooking at all. Frankly, it’s not going well. Might have to go back to bed with the box of Hotel Chocolat Caramel Angels sent to me by the gorgeous Kate Hardy until school pick up time.

I'll leave you with a picture of the gingerbread house the daughters and I spent all of Christmas Eve painstakingly constructing. (If you look carefully you can see where the jelly tots have been removed from around the window. Honestly, did my children learn nothing from the story of Hansel and Gretel?)

Happy 2011 everyone. How was the holiday for you?

Office Party

2010-12-17T11:16:00.002Z

Just a few hours left until daughter #3 breaks up for Christmas, which means it’s my last proper working day of the year. If I had a real job I figure this would probably be the day of the Office Party, so in order not to miss out this year I have decided to host my own. In honour of the occasion I have put on an extra squirt of perfume and a jumper with a minimal amount of bobbling, and am preparing to crack open a tub of Marks and Spencers’ Christmas Soup. I shall then give a short speech, thanking myself for all my effort this year (glossing over the horribly missed deadline in April. Or was it originally meant to be February?) and inciting myself to further endeavour in 2011. I might even drain the last inch of red wine left in the bottle by the cooker and make a toast to all of you lot, who buy my books, say nice things about them, continue to visit this blog even though I'm rubbish at keeping it updated, and make me laugh.

I wonder if Ruby the cat will pull a cracker with me?

Cold.

2010-12-09T06:53:00.003Z

As in, a) it is - very - and b)I have one. Have been feeling extremely sorry for myself, although was temporarily roused from my slough of self-pity by the drama of this morning's school run. Here in Cheshire we have escaped the worst of the snow (although the frost the last two mornings has been very Lion, Witch and Wardrobe-esqe) but rain early this morning had frozen fast, coating the roads and pavements with an inch of glassy ice and making the journey to school a cross between an extreme sport and a comedy sketch. I don't suppose the three cars we passed half-buried in the hedge were laughing much though.

Anyway, The Cold (both kinds) has just added another challenge in the annual game we call 'Getting Ready for Christmas'. Every year as I struggle to fit in work, basic I domestic duties, shopping and queueing in the post office around attending nativity plays, carol concerts and making cheese and pineapple cubes for 50 children for the class party it strikes me that this does have real potential as an actual board game and I resolve to make up a prototype and send it off to industry insiders the moment I have time. It'll be marketed at women, obviously, and will include things like 'Make your own mince pies - go forward 3 spaces' and 'Fail to find anything remotely flattering to wear for husband's office Christmas party - miss a turn'. 'Come down with revolting cold and bore everyone with your moaning' will also warrant a missed turn while 'Get your children to eat sprouts' and 'Post all presents before last possible dates and avoid paying three hundred pounds in special delivery rates' will earn you an extra turn and a champagne cocktail token. I'd really want Lauren Child to illustrate it. Anything else I should include?

I'll leave you to ponder that and retreat gratefully into Fictionland where my hero and heroine are at a wedding in sunny Italy. Let me know your ideas and we'll share the profits, OK?

It's beginning to look a lot like...

2010-11-30T22:34:00.009Z

...(dare I say it?) Christmas.

Oh yes. Not only is it snowing, in a charming, fluffy, Pinewood studios way but, dear blog readers, I can smugly reveal that I have survived my first assault on the shops, and even have a stash of carrier bags under the bed to show for it. Yesterday* saw the annual concert of the Young Voices Choir (not to be confused with New Voices, which I have constantly done over the past couple of months, much to the irritation of my daughters and no doubt editors and other writers to whom I've conversed on the subject of the recent M&B contest) at the MEN arena in Manchester in which the daughters’ primary school always take part. Over the years this event has become a sort of seasonal starter’s whistle in my mind; the children are whisked away to warm up their vocal chords and us mums are deposited in the centre of Manchester with an entire day and a whole lot of extremely yummy shops at our disposal. As a campaign veteran (the t-shirt worn by daughter #3 yesterday says Young Voices 2003 on it and has been worn by both sisters) I now know that it’s a mistake to slip into Harvey Nichols champagne bar too early, so held off until we had more bags than we could comfortably carry and had spent more money than we could comfortably afford (and had tried on more perfume in Selfridges than was perhaps quite sociable. But at least it meant we could spread all our shopping out nicely.)

After the shopping and champagne comes the squeezing carrier bags into the narrow tiered seats of the arena and watching 6000 children sing their socks off. I have actually used the little circling device on my computer to show you where daughter #3 was, but you can't even see the circle. She's in the last section lit by white light, next to the blue-lit one. See her? Yes, there! Isn't she gorgeous?

There's always a moment when the children start to sing and the hairs on the back of your neck rise. This year it was their version of Cyndi Lauper's True Colours that set me off. Sniff. I knew that second glass of wine was a mistake.

(I was too busy reaching for the tissues to record that bit, but did remember to whip my phone out and find the camcorder function a little later. Here's one minute of World in Union. In the corner of the screen you can see the fabulous light up balloons we took so the children could spot us!)

Anyway, after getting back at midnight last night and waking up to thick snow this morning, today has had a funny kind of suspended-reality feeling that has been most un-conducive to getting stuck into the next book, and most conducive to getting stuck into the stash of posh Harvey Nicks mince pies I bought as presents. Oh dear. (Am clearly very closely in touch with my inner cavewoman and compelled by a primitive instinct to lay down winter fat to keep out savage cold. However, since cavewomen were not burdened with the task of buying three thousand Christmas presents or fitting into jeans, I probably should pay more attention to my outer 21st century writer-with-a-deadline-and-half-a-stone-to-lose and step away from the HN foodhall bags.)

On a positive note, I have managed to do a bit of light packaging up, so books will be on their way to Kristy, Ruth, Joanne, Denise, Janette, Kelly, Joanna, Mary, Amanda and Amanda. I don’t have as many copies of Her Last Night of Innocence as I’d thought, since on closer examination the box that I thought was filled with them contained a number of translation copies too Japanese Spanish Aristocrat anyone? Or Greek Powerful Italian? If you'd like a book in any other language let me know and I'd be delighted to send you one if I have it.

Right, had better pile on a few more layers and brave Siberian conditions to go to the post office. Am already looking like a cross between a teletubby and an extra in Dr Zhivago, however. Hope I don't meet anyone I know. How's the weather with you?

*was, in fact, Monday, but since I have the kind of goldfish brain that can't retain information like how to upload stuff from phone to blog this didn't get posted yesterday. Sorry!

Why Blogging isn't Remotely Like Riding a Bike

2010-11-22T11:35:00.009Z

It’s funny, but when you don’t blog for a while you kind of forget how to. Lying in bed this morning, mentally running over the things I had to do today (buy hay for guinea pigs to insulate them against forecasted arctic weather, buy Galaxy Cookie Crumble chocolate for me for same purpose, work on outline for next book, hunt down missing mugs in daughters bedrooms) I realized with a tiny jolt of shock that I hadn’t blogged for ages - so long I'd kind of forgotten how to.

Usually the silence in the aftermath of a deadline means my brain has left the building along with the book and I've done nothing interesting enough to report to my own husband, never mind the blogosphere at large. However, on this occasion I don't even have that excuse, since last week I went down to London and spent a lovely afternoon drinking tea with my editor and talking books, projects, possibilities and Kiera Knightley (not sure how we got onto that subject) before going to gorgeous RNA Winter Party. Abby Green had found us a gem of a hotel in the shadow of Big Ben, a stone's throw away from the luscious library of the Institute of Mechanical Engineers where the party was held and Heidi Rice joined us for a drink and a plate of fish and chips (literally - one plate, 3 forks. Classy girls, us.) in the bar downstairs before we sashayed round there. Met up with Natalie Rivers, Fiona Harper, Sharon Kendrick as well as a handful of lovely M&B editors and numerous fantastically cool people (Hello Rachael! Hello Jude!) I had a long-awaited chance to catch up with Margaret James, whose delicious book The Silver Locket was responsible for making me so unsociable on holiday at half term. All in all it was a really good evening. (I'm choosing to blank out the painful five minutes when naughty Abby and I were completely incapacitated with giggles over some of the titles on the library shelves. Honestly. I'm 40 not 14. She is a Very Bad Influence. I'm going to get my mum to write a note saying I'm not allowed to be her partner again.)

Moving swiftly on (and assuming a serious, professional expression) I also have book news. Tristan and Lily’s story – Spanish Aristocrat, Forced Bride is coming out in the US in January 2011 under the far nicer title The Society Wife, and the other day the UPS man brought me a big box of author copies. So, if you’re in a part of the world where Tristan and Lily haven’t previously ventured drop me a line (including your postal address) via the website sometime this week and I’ll put your name into a draw for one of five books.

I should also mention that Her Last Night Of Innocence, which is a December release, is now available in the UK. You might recognize this as the work formerly known as The Book That Would Not Die, and if you’re a regular reader of this blog (or as regular as you can be when I only update it once every Preston Guild) you might remember how much fun I had writing it (clue: a bit less than being tied to a chair and forced to watch wall-to-wall Hollyoaks for seven months) By the time it was finished I’d lost all perspective on it and thought I might just quietly ignore its release date. However, I’m not sure that’s either very mature or, as a professional strategy, very impressive, so – heartened by the fact that it’s been in the no 1. Spot on the M&B website for the last couple of weeks I’m going to crack open the box of copies that’s lurking under the sofa in my office and a send few of those out too. Email me with your address if you’d like one.
(*Warning: Please don't be fooled by the cover. At no point do Cristiano and Kate while away the evening with a hand of cards, nor is Cristiano in the fourth form at school, despite appearing in his uniform on the front. )

My final piece of exciting news is that I have finally summoned the confidence to end a miserable two-year relationship with my last vacuum cleaner, and yesterday, after prolonged lobbying from the daughters, replaced it with one of these.

The theory was that even they might be moved to take an interest in dust-removal with a machine that’s pink and has eyelashes, but actually it’s so lovely I want to play with it all by myself. The guinea pigs will just have to shiver a while longer. I’m off to hoover under my bed.

Where was I?

2010-11-08T13:54:00.003Z

Book is in. House is a mess. Outside it appears to be Autumn-on-the-cusp-of-Winter. Have no idea how or when this happened, but it's all most upsetting. In the manner of a confused elderly person I shall turn up the heating and retreat back to the world of fiction, where there are no dinner money reminders or toothpaste-encrusted basins to clean.

(Am often struck by the irony of longing and longing for a book to be finished, counting down days/nights/words to The End. And then feeling totally desolate. Ho hum. Some people are never happy.)

Hello Goodbye*

2010-10-22T11:57:00.008+01:00

It’s been a whole month, a lot of words, a few extremely late nights, a complete career change for my hero but quite a lot of writing pleasure since I last blogged. Sorry for the long silence – this has been one of those books that has really absorbed me and made me feel like I’m living a parallel life - in a hulking great castle on the Northumberland coast, which is no bad thing (except for where real life is concerned, where it's resulted in a distinct falling off of domestic efficiency. Oops)

I haven’t exactly finished and sent the book off yet. It’s due in in the first week in November, but the daughters break up for half term today and we’re going away tomorrow, so I needed to get to a place where the end was not just in sight, but in touching distance. I always want finishing a book to be like the scene at the beginning of Romancing the Stone when Kathleen Turner sits at her desk, tears streaming down her face as she types faster and faster until she gets to The End. There have been a couple of books when it has been a bit like that for me, but mostly the way I work is a lot more messy and less organized. I write in a big surge of energy and focus, faster and faster without reading back over anything, until I get to the last chapter. And then I grind to a complete halt because I can’t go on to the grand finale until I know everything else is all in place, so I have to go right back to the start to do a thorough revision job before I write the ending. That’s the stage I’m at now – the reading-back, tidying-up, weeping-with-horror-at-the-holes-and-glaring-inconsistencies and wondering-if-there's-time-to-write-a-completely-new-book-in-a-week stage. Lovely.

Anyway, I can do all that on my printed-out ms while we’re away at the Cottage in the Middle Of Nowhere again this half term. I am so ready for a week without screens (apart from the TV variety, albeit with only 4 channels and a slightly grainy picture) and as I’ve been stuck inside for weeks, haven’t got round to getting the chimney swept and haven’t cooked anything decent for the last month – I'm also ready for lots of walking, open fires and proper food. And reading. And getting up in the morning (not with an alarm and not at a time that begins with 5, obv) to a house that doesn’t look like the ‘before’ sequence in ‘Grimefighters’. I shall try very hard to ignore the fact that I’m only going to come back to all that at the end of the week and hope that by then I will be so much restored in body and spirit by all the wholesome fresh air, exercise, ~~red wine,~~ time with my family that I will be able to face it with serenity. It is just my process. I must learn to love it. (Though if it was anything else I'd be taking it back to the shop and asking for an exchange to a more efficient model.)

So, before I go what I need to know is, what’s your process and have you learned to accept it?

* (To rather appropriately quote The Beatles, who have had a couple of random mentions in the book. Who knows why?)

I know, I know...

2010-09-22T11:14:00.014+01:00

I said I’d come back and blog about London and this year's AMBA lunch and so far I’ve notably failed to deliver, which I think we'd all agree is totally unlike me. (No snorting at the back, thank you) The reason for this is that I’ve returned home feeling quite spookily full of creative energy - as well as wine, chocolate and lovely pudding - and am desperate to throw myself wholeheartedly back into the book. Think this is probably the result of hanging out with fabulous writers and talking process, heroes, conflict and romance, and also because for a long time I’ve had a lot of other stuff cluttering up my head and stealing my writing time. Now, suddenly, my calendar is clear and my brain is working overtime. (If it could start having fascinating ground-breaking epiphanies about parts of the story I haven't already written, that would be great.)

Anyway, in lieu of a proper report I'll leave you with some of the pitifully few photos I remembered to take...

Sharon Kendrick, Lynn Raye Harris, Karin Stoecker and Lucy King at the AMBA lunch (Just look at the glasses of water - aren't we all good? ~~Or is it just that the wine has been knocked back already?~~)

Abby Green, pretending to be a paparazzo

My new favourite place to work.

If I don't post much in the next week or two, it's either a) an excellent sign that I'm fully immersed in the world of the book and am incapable of sensible comment. Or b) that I'm not, and am buried under the duvet with the biscuit tin. (Occasional clues as to which is applicable might possibly be available on Twitter.)

In the meantime - I'm definitely sparing a thought and a biscuit for those of you anxiously awaiting New Voices announcements and feedback. So many entries, so much talent - and so much courage for putting it out there. There might only be one winner, but for many people this is the first step on a great journey. My advice is don't be too worried about getting there quickly - just enjoy the scenery and the people you meet on the way.

On the go

2010-09-15T10:11:00.004+01:00

I'm sure there must be some kind of mathematical-type equation for the phenomenon that occurs when you're desperate to write, when the characters are holding lively, witty, heartfelt conversations in your head and dramatic scenes are presenting themselves vividly every five minutes, and the rest of your life is so busy and full of stuff (workshops, admin, getting your grey roots obliterated in readiness for presenting yourself in public at the annual Mills & Boon author lunch and Toast, sorting out the Home Front in advance of a three day absence etc) that it's virtually impossible. I think it might involve the concept that creativity + inspiration is inversely proportional to opportunity. Or something. (Help me out here, maths genius Ros...)

Anyway, I'm off to London tomorrow, and I will be taking my laptop to write on the train. Last time I did that I was writing a sex scene in a hot tub on the balcony of an alpine chalet. It all got a bit embarrassing as I was wedged in beside one of those aftershave-scented, iphone-dependent commuter boys, and I KNOW he was reading what was on my screen rather than his spreadsheet of sales figures. This time, to avoid embarrassment all round I have extravagantly invested fifteen of your finest English pounds upgrading to first class, on the basis that the increased space might mean that anyone sitting nearby is out of reading-range, and will probably be far too busy and important and high-powered to be interested anyway. (But just incase, I'm thinking of taking a copy of one of my books. 'Here,' I can say kindly. 'You can read a proper printed version, if you like.')

Back next week with headlines and photos. If I remember to a) pack my camera and b) take it out of my bag at all. Am v v looking forward to being enveloped in M&B sisterhood and talking/drinking/laughing/eating* enough to sustain me through long deadline weeks ahead...

* (admittedly, eating not usually a problem during deadline weeks. But can't argue with primitive instinct to lay down fat for survival in hard times. Ho hum.)

Eeek! Exciting!

2010-09-06T12:58:00.006+01:00

At last the day has come when the New Voices competition is up and running, with a very glamorous and gorgeous website, just waiting to be filled with glamorous and gorgeous first chapters. If you have one tucked away inside your computer, now's the time to expose it to daylight, print it out (because mistakes are always a million times more noticeable on paper for some reason), give it a polish and then get it posted. What have you got to lose?

On the same subject, this Thursday sees my contribution to the search for Mills & Boon’s next signing with a special library event in which you can (hopefully) find out the highs, lows, facts, figures, dos and don’ts you need to know about writing for the world’s best-loved romance publisher. The cupcakes are ordered, the library ladies are prepared, and there are even a couple of spaces left (At least there were on Friday – you can check by phoning Nantwich library 01270 375361. But don’t put it off, in the manner of uber-procrastinator me, because they were down to the last few tickets!)

If you’re coming to the event from out of the area and don’t know your way around do drop me an email (via website mailbox) and I’ll get back to you with Useful Info. (How hard it can be to find your way around a town the size of the average B&Q superstore I don't know. But email me anyway!)

All Good Things Come To An End...

2010-09-03T09:27:00.004+01:00

...including the summer holidays and my Balfour Competition. After our final trip (involving much excitement, planes, trains, an A-List celebrity, Abby Green, unflattering clothes, Natalie Rivers, a shopping centre and Heidi Rice, amongst other things - more details at some point in the future) all girls are back at school today and the house is quiet. So messy it looks like hundreds of teenagers broke in and held a rave here while we were away, but quiet. You can't have everything.

Last night, in between searching for pens that work, hockey socks, Jane Eyre and ties, the daughters picked out the names of ten people who will be receiving copies of Emily's Innocence. Thanks to everyone who contacted me - wish I could send out copies to you all, but well done Caroline, Kelly, Kristy, Amanda G, Amanda C, Peggy, Jane, Denise, Jayne and Jacqueline. If you left your address I'll get your book in the post today, if you didn't I'll be emailing!

And at some point, I'm going to get my (mysteriously wider) ass into the White Chair of Creativity and write. And write and write and write...

Gah!

2010-08-29T22:37:00.003+01:00

Nipping off to squeeze the last bit of fun out of the summer holidays at an indecent hour tomorrow morning - did intend to pick out names and get books sent off before we went, but got a bit sidetracked by the Great Washing and Packing Challenge. Which means there's still a couple more days to drop me an email with the number of Balfour girls and your address. I'll choose ten winners when I get back!

Balfour Legacy, part 2.

2010-08-26T09:00:00.008+01:00

It’s only August and there’s still a week left of the summer holidays, but today is one of those crisp, blue-sky apple scented mornings that leaves you in no doubt that autumn is sneaking up on you. Going outside before the daughters emerge from their beds I was so captivated by the dewy lushness of the garden that I felt sorry for Muffin, banged up in his hutch, and opened the door so he could lollop around. An hour later, realizing that he’s breakfasted extravagantly on the lettuces my husband planted out at the weekend I’m not sure that this was such a good idea. Muffin however, has tasted freedom as well as twenty one romaine lettuces and has no intention of giving himself up. Oh dear. Garden will look a good deal less lush tomorrow morning.

Anyway, moving away from Muffin’s Guilt and back to Emily’s Innocence - a big thank you to everyone who’s mailed so far with the answer to the question. It took a while to get my author copies, but when I did I got quite a few so I’m going to pick out ten names to send books to. If you are leaving an answer on the website, perhaps you could also leave your postal address too, to save time if yours is one of the names picked out (If you’ve already left your answer without an address don’t worry!)

It might seem a bit odd that I’m blogging about the background to this book when the plot and the characters came from an outline rather than from my own head. However, although the process of writing a book for a continuity series is very different from writing one in the ordinary run of things, it requires a HUGE amount of creative thinking to bring the characters to life and make them move naturally along the path carved out for them. I’ve said elsewhere that it feels like writing backwards. Usually I start with characters and flesh them out enough so that they themselves dictate the course of the action through their responses and choices, however, in a continuity you already know (broadly) what’s going to happen. You just have to make it work, and this means doing an awful lot of reading between the lines and thinking in the bath.

This was the first time I’ve ever created a fictional kingdom in one of my books, and it was huge fun. The only information I was given about Santosa was that it was ‘a small island principality off the coast of Brazil’, so the rest was up to me. A lovely couple of hours of cyber-tourism led me to the island of Fernando de Noronha and this became the inspiration for Santosa.

The view from exclusive Santosan restaurant,
The Purple Parrot...

...And the scene upon which Luis looks down

as he flies Emily home from the ballet on the mainland

And the beach where Luciana's birthday party was held, with 'Rico's monument'...

I’ve blogged before (over at Nalini Singh’s blog *shameless namedrop*) about the way fairy tales have a habit of working their way into my books, and the story that echoed through this one was Red Riding Hood. It appeared from nowhere on the first page of the prologue, then dissolved into thin air again, only to resurface as the sexual tension mounted. I was a bit surprised by this, as it’s not a story in which I’d ever identified any strong romantic elements (unlike Beauty and the Beast, or Cinderella – both of which have influenced previous books) but I when I came to think about it, it was the darker aspects – fears of being powerless, preyed upon, devoured – which were relevant here. I had an image in my head while I was writing – a very precisely remembered illustration from a fairy tale book I had as a child, of endless tall black trees and a slender figure in a billowing scarlet cloak running through them (I wish I could find it now), and this totally informed the build up to the love scene between Luis and Emily. I love it when that kind of random-thought thing happens and guides the writing.

The other thing that forms the backdrop of a book is the music I listen to while I'm writing. Breakaway by Kelly Clarkson (pinched from daughter #2's itunes account) was Emily's theme song, while the mighty King's of Leon's Use Somebody was Luis's. Other songs on the playlist included All Saints Pure Shores (for its beachy Santosan vibe) Tiny Dancer (for obvious reasons) and a couple of songs by a band called Dexter Freebish Kate Hardy drew my attention to a couple of years ago now. And assorted other odd things that must have made sense at the time, at a particular stage of the book but haven't been given much of an ipod airing since (Stronger anyone? Didn't think so... It's a strange business, writing.)

I think the only other thing to say about writing this book was how fab it was to be working alongside other authors - both from a fangirl point of view, but also because of the support we gave each other. I was in regular, hand-holding contact with Kate Hewitt and Carole Mortimer and Sharon Kendrick and it really did make the whole thing seem like quite an adventure. The best bit of which is now, when I get to actually read the books I got such tantalising glimpses into back then! (Am currently LOVING Sharon's book, Kat's Pride. Kat is a fantastic heroine. And as for Carlos... *fans self* Off to read more...)

Keep those competition answers coming and I'll pick out names at the weekend!

The Balfour Legacy: Emily's Innocence

2010-08-23T21:52:00.006+01:00

Okaaaay... Have done the arduous ‘back to school’ shopping trip for uniform and shoes and am beginning to make headway with the washing landslide, which means that there’s nothing to stop me finally getting around to doing the long-postponed post about my contribution to the Balfour series. Well, nothing apart from three daughters lounging untidily and noisily around the house and a book that’s demanding to be written, but the pile of author copies currently cluttering up my desk is ruining the otherwise zen-like minimalism of my workspace (ha!) and I really need to re-home them before I can apply myself properly to Kit and Sophie. So, I'm hiding out in my bedroom with tea, toast and my laptop to bring you the lowdown on writing Emily's Innocence. Listen carefully, there'll be questions at the end!

When my editor first mentioned the idea of the Balfour series to me I was a pathetically easy-sell. ‘Big English country house… wealthy patriarch… wives, mistresses… eight daughters…’ ‘I’ll do it.’

I knew straight away that this was going to be exactly my kind of book, and I was even more excited when I got ‘the bible’ – a booklet detailing all the background, characters and story outlines for each of the sisters – through the post. Flicking through, finding the story that had my name on it and starting to read about Emily and Luis was a real heart-racing, hand-trembling moment because, in spite of my eagerness to be involved in the series there was a worry lurking in the dark recesses of my mind that I just wouldn’t connect with the story or characters I’d been given.

But the moment I read the phrase ‘incorrigible playboy bachelor’ I knew everything was going to be alright. As someone who has veered helplessly towards serious, tormented heroes in the past it felt like an absolute gift to be presented with the task of creating a shameless playboy and I started writing with great enthusiasm. Luis quickly sprang to life on the page with his sarcastic asides and wisecracking one-liners and I adored writing the bits with him in it. OK, let’s be honest – I just adored him. Here’s the face I based him on…

However, it was when I got to about the halfway mark in the book that I suddenly hit a wall and realized that, much as I was having a ball creating a wicked, unapologetically shallow hero with his mind permanently below his waist (or that of any passing beauty) I’d actually pretty much neglected to the ‘hero’ part of his job description. I’d always aimed to develop depth to him through the action of the book, but the way I’d written him that journey was simply going to be too long to accomplish in 250 pages! So, after a long and increasingly excited conversation with my editor one day I put down the phone and went back to the start, introducing a darker edge to Luis’s character and a more powerful motivating force behind his behaviour. The original story outline in 'the bible' specified that his older brother had died, leaving Luis as the reluctant heir to the Santosan throne. By taking that a step further and making Luis indirectly responsible (or so he sees it) for Rico’s death it opened up a whole goldmine of emotion for me to romp about in. (India Grey's Obvious Tip for Aspiring Writers – give yourself enough material to work with and it makes the whole business of getting words on the page a great deal easier!)

As for Emily, the outline specified that she was the adored baby of the family, ‘however, the indulgence of her father and her sisters has not ruined her character – she remains down-to-earth, beautiful and good, a stronger version of her graceful, kind-hearted mother.’ I have to admit when I read that my heart sank a little as it can be a challenge to create a heroine who is virtuous and sweet without making her come across like the annoying class swot. However, I decided Luis was my secret weapon here. He's exactly the kind of person who would address this head-on and voice all those issues directly, forcing Emily to confront the possiblity that her irreproachable values and high moral standards are just hypocrisy and naivite in disguise. Introducing this alternative perspective on Emily’s character early on made her feel more human to me, and from that point on I really bonded with her. Here’s how I pictured her…

It was in email conversations with Natalie Rivers and Michelle Styles that I explored the importance of ballet in relation to Emily's character, and it threw up some interesting points. Emily is regarded as a brilliant dancer, which implies a certain ease with her own body and openness to physical expression, yet these were the very things that her uptight character struggled with most. Call me sadistic, but I like to see a character struggle, and so it was this discrepancy which formed the core of Emily's conflict and the basis for her journey. Who better than louche, sexy Luis to help her overcome her inhibition?

So, that's a little introduction to the characters... come back on Thursday when I'll be talking about the background, setting and inspiration behind the story. In the meantime I'd like to make some inroads into this pile of author copies and send out the neat postcards I've had made. For a chance to get one email me via the website (there's a link somewhere over there <--- but it's got a bit lost amongst all the other stuff) and answer this simple question: How many Balfour sisters are there? (You can find the answer in the above ramble if you look closely enough!)

All Camped Out

2010-08-17T23:08:00.031+01:00

Back home for good now after nomadic couple of weeks camping in France, and then in my stepmother’s field for our annual family get-together (aka the Olympics). However, joy of waking up this morning between clean sheets in a proper bed is somewhat mitigated by feelings of utter despair at the overwhelming amount of washing, sorting out and putting away of kit required, so have retreated up to my office to comfort-eat pistachio nuts and catch up on emails and computer stuff. Alas, now feel completely overwhelmed by that too.

France was lovely. We went with friends and, unwilling to squander precious holiday driving long distances, decided to go no further than Normandy where we set up camp on a site in the grounds of a fabulous, crumbling chateau. We were right on the shore of a huge lake, where the children could canoe and fish for the giant carp we glimpsed in its olive green depths (and which would occasionally leap up, as if laughing at their efforts.)

We were in the lush heart of Calvados country, and it was absolutely beautiful…

This was the setting I chose for Taken For Revenge, Bedded for Pleasure and it was every bit as luscious as I'd pictured it. In many ways, with its fields of cows and orchards and timbered buildings it was a lot like Cheshire, but distinctively French and ergo more stylish. I repeatedly got us lost by failing to read the map because I was so busy gazing out at the glorious countryside and shrieking with excitement as I caught glimpses of fairy-tale castles behind ornate wrought iron gates, and farmhouses, looking like film-sets and displaying the kind of effortless distressed elegance that I constantly fail to achieve at home, which appeared through boughs of ripening apples.

In the evenings in our lakeside camp the seven children turned our tent into a gambling den, obsessively playing Black Jack for mini Mars Bars while we sat outside conducting comprehensive taste-tests on the local cider and wine and spotting shooting stars. One day we went to Honfleur and took refuge from a torrential downpour in a pavement restaurant for a long, boozy and memorable lunch (which sparked off lots of inspiration) and another we drove up and along the coast to Arromanches, soaking up the D-Day history with avid fascination. Faded, fabulous Deauville was another place where inspiration was everywhere (although sadly tall, dark, handsome James Bond actors were nowhere to be found...)

I don't think we would have managed to drag ourselves home at all if it hadn't been for the lure of the Family Olympics a few days later, and the necessity of putting together fancy dress costumes. This year each team was given a letter of the alphabet to base their theme around: as Team G, my nephew (pictured below - how cool?) came up with the idea of Goths, which gave me the perfect excuse to give my corset another outing. (Had to let the laces out at least an inch from last year though. Oops. I blame Cristiano.)

The weekend flew by in a warm blur of wine, nostalgia and laughs interspersed with the odd game of Swimming pool Egg and Spoon and Lawn Darts. I enjoyed an unprecedented level of success in the games this year (demonstrating particular finesse in the Spud Tossing event, though I say so myself) however, I have to admit that the fact that the Goths brought home bronze medals was largely down to my competitive, competent alpha-male team-mates (Thanks boys!) No room to bask in glory though as Gold went to Daughter #3 in Team C (Circus) and Silver went to Daughter #1 and my sister-in-law in Team M (Military - showing that you can be killer competitors while also looking like Cheryl Cole in the Fight for this Love video. How is that fair?)

Anyway, now we're home and they've returned to languishing in their bedrooms like consumptive Victorians while I trail around sorting out the aftermath of two camping trips like a below-stairs skivvy, I'm wondering if introducing some kind of competitive element into household chores will induce them to help? Speed Ironing, perhaps. Or Hoover Relay. Or how about The 'Pick up all your Stuff from the Floor before I take it to the Charity Shop' Challenge? Think this might be my only chance of getting back to my poor neglected book...

So, what's been happening while I've been away? Fill me in on all the news!

Some things I would blog about if I had time to blog...

2010-07-26T09:44:00.004+01:00

Books I’ve read recently
Particularly Abby Green’s Breaking the Sheikh's Rules, which has gone right into my top ten Modern/Presents books somewhere around the number one slot thanks to a combination of a really sexy hero, the most appealing and adorable heroine and the kind of setting that makes me sigh with nostalgic satisfaction. I’m not usually a huge fan of sheikh books for all sorts of reasons, but this one hooked me in on page one with its lush Irish backdrop and the horses – there was something about it that whizzed me right back to the first Mills & Boon books I ever read as a teenager and reminded me exactly why I fell in love with them. I’ve also just finished Michelle Reid’s Balfour book – Mia’s Scandal, which features another really fabulous, memorable heroine. It was - predictably - gorgeously written, pacy, sexy and satisfying, as well as being really interesting to see bits of the wider Balfour puzzle slotting into place, and find characters I’d got to know pretty well pop up in a different setting. Made me want to go back and re-visit my Balfour book, so it’s pretty convenient that…

My author copies finally arrived!
Emily and Luis are in the building. I, however, will not be for much longer as we are about to go on holiday, making it extremely bad timing to blog in detail about the book and do a contest. Gah! Will get to it when we get home again, but in the meantime, talking of contests…
Mills & Boon’s New Voices Contest has just been launched.
If you have ever harboured any ambition to write for the world’s biggest and best-loved romance publisher this is a fab chance to give it a go. My take on it is that it’s not so much about winning an i-pad or an editor – though one lucky, talented person is going to wake up with an almighty champagne hangover at the end of it all – but about being given that crucial little push to start putting your dreams in motion. I often wonder how long it would have taken me to stop faffing around and finding excuses if Penny Jordan hadn’t told me to go away and write a chapter and send it to her within two weeks, so if you’re an uber-procrastinator like me you can look on this as your call to action. Start writing over the summer, ready to put something up on the website in September (under a pseudonym if you’re shy) and take advantage of a whole lot of free and honest critiquing. (Which might hurt, but will be a taste of things to come if you get accepted!) And tied into the contest is...

The event I’m doing at Nantwich Library on September 9th.
I’m doing away with the workshop thing and am going for a much more relaxed, informal discussion on Everything You Need to Know About Writing a Mills & Boon Romance (And Possibly Several Things That You Don’t) so Nantwich Library is the place to be if you have burning questions about lines, love scenes, layering conflict, or anything else – even if it doesn’t begin with ‘L’. I'd really love to see you, if you're remotely thinking of coming. (I think you need to phone the library to book places - details are here on the romance is not dead website.) I’m fully intending to max up the girly afternoon tea opportunity, and am really looking forward to doing my first M&B event on home turf, in the library where I used to spend Saturday mornings sitting on the mustard-coloured scratchy carpet reading The Wild Swans (my absolute favourite book for years – I borrowed it so many times I don’t know why my mum didn’t just buy me a copy for Christmas. Sniff.) Anyway, on the subject of home turf, daughters 1 and 2 came with me last week to the launch of…

An exhibition in our local (gem of a) museum entitled Nantwich People Past and Present. Penny Jordan and I are both included, along with a surprising amount of interesting and inspiring people for such a tiny rural market town. I am in a corner, nose to nose with Isabella Blow. And not many people can say that.

So girls, here's the plan...

2010-07-20T14:33:00.005+01:00

The summer holidays are upon us. You can tell that because the sun has suddenly disappeared and the sky is all leaden clouds and weird yellow light, and my kitchen is liberally smeared with jam and filled with the sound of CITV warring with Jason Derulo. In spite of all that it feels great to be freed from the tyranny of the school run and the need to iron uniform, although this year the 'end of term' feeling of relief is tempered by the fact that, for the first time, I’m embarking on the summer holidays with an unfinished book all spread out messily in my head. Back in May, in a moment of optimistic delusion after I’d submitted the last book, I pledged to have this one finished by the time the kids broke up from school, to a) make up some lost time, and b) allow me to morph into Doris Day Mummy for the summer. Back in reality, where it takes me an average of 5 months to write a book, I’m a woman in need of a Strategy.

Luckily, thanks to my writing guru Michelle Styles I have one...

Generally I’m an all or nothing person – a ‘shut myself away and turn into a hero-obsessed, sleep-deprived, what-day-is-it?’ type person, or someone who thinks “oh well, only three more hours until I need to make a start on dinner, so there’s no point in switching the computer on today" so writing during the holidays was always going to be tricky. A while ago Michelle blogged about a method she was experimenting with, of writing in word-chunks. She’d found that 750 words at a time worked for her, but suggested I try a smaller number, like 250. And because she is wise and wonderful and I was prepared to give anything a go, I did.

And ladies, so far I have to report that it’s working like a charm. I wake up, write 250 words (which takes about twenty minutes) Go get breakfast, while my mind ticks over the book not the squalor in the kitchen, then go write another 250. Have a shower, while dialogue and details go round in my head, and write another 250, and so on whenever I can through the day. I’m hardly breaking any writing speed records, but I’m not completely neglecting the little darlings either and am keeping the book fresh in my head and moving on the page. Of course, we’re only on Day 4, and I still have the challenge of keeping it up while packing for a week’s camping in France, dealing with the washing when we get back, getting ready for the next trip (which involves both camping and fancy dress costumes) and simultaneously providing amusement (well, providing food and clean clothes anyway) for the children. (Deep yogic breathing and smile of forced serenity....) But I think it might just keep me sane.

Is anyone else juggling the roles of writer and Person I.C.O Junior Entertainment this summer? How are you managing, and do you fancy giving the 250 word challenge a go? Let me know!

I think we'll call this Irony

2010-07-14T09:55:00.002+01:00

Yesterday was Sports Day at both Big and Little schools. Daughters 1&3 were both taking part - at Big school it’s optional and since Daughter #2 shares my deep apathy when it comes to competitive physical exertion she certainly wasn't going to be putting herself forward for the house long jump.

So how come she was the one I ended up sitting with in A&E for FIVE HOURS yesterday? And is she the only person to manage to break her arm watching sports day?

Incredibly...

2010-07-13T09:46:00.002+01:00

...and at long last my website has been updated.

It’s been such a long time coming because my web-slave is a very good friend who has been going through the mill with family issues, so any time we have spent together in the last six or seven months has been more about wine and sympathy than brisk professionalism (always a stretch for me.) Anyway, after a couple of evenings, a Thai takeaway, several tubes of Pringles and several more cans of whatever lager it was that the supermarket were trying to get rid of after England's dismal exit from the World Cup… my husband and he have nailed it. (I think. I'll send chocolate to anyone who spots any mistakes!) Watch out for info on the Balfour book coming soon…

(Although I’m beginning to think I imagined ever writing the Balfour book. Still no sign of author copies yet, and no word on their whereabouts. Will keep sleuthing…)

And Now... Not Writing

2010-07-07T11:32:00.004+01:00

Another reason why I don’t like to post about writing is because the moment I do you can guarantee that something will happen to disrupt it. In this case, it’s been daughter #2 coming down with a really horrible, full-on dose of flu. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what it is now, though for the first 24 hours I was on high-alert, checking her over for rashes and asking her to put her chin on her chest every five minutes (in the last book I had a child with meningitis and did far too much research into symptoms than is wise for a hypochondriac, over-anxious mother.) Anyway, she seems a little bit better this morning and is sitting up and watching In the Night Garden, half with a cynical, almost-teenage eye and half with the eye of a poorly girl who just needs comfort.

So, some of the things that occured to me as I lay on the fold-out bed in daughter #2’s room and didn't sleep last night were…

1. That I really should clean the children's rooms more often. Particularly the skirting board behind the dressing table.

2. That my hero probably should discover the truth about his father earlier in the book. I originally assumed he would find this out at the end, but maybe it might be better if he knew all along?

3. That I need to make a vet's appointment for Muffin the rabbit and the guinea pigs to have their nails clipped. Because I am NOT doing it myself with the nail clippers, ever again. (Who would have thought such a tiny foot would bleed so much?)

3. That there are only eight more writing days until the summer holidays. And that's not including Sports Day, Leaver's Assembly, daughter #3's End-of-Term Play, Sick-Child days or Small Animal Care appointments.

4. That my Balfour book (see gorgeous cover, below) is out in a couple of weeks and I haven't had any author copies yet. Which is a shame because I haven’t done a contest and giveaways for ages and I'm definitely going to with this one.

So, all in all not a wasted night then. I just wish I had the energy to put any of the above into action...

Writing

2010-06-30T10:14:00.004+01:00

I haven’t been writing about writing much lately, have I? It’s not because I haven’t been doing it – I have, honest – but I used to blog a lot about the book I was working on, and the characters (some more than others, admittedly) and now I don’t seem to do that so much. I’m not sure why this is – it certainly isn’t a conscious decision. I think perhaps it might be something to do with the fact that these days I find I’m writing less and less to a plan, so I really don’t know where the book is going, what’s going to end up in the final version and what will hit the cutting room floor.

With this story I feel like I’m walking in thick fog, but I’m not worried because I know the characters very well and I trust them to steer a good path through it. I love the heroine particularly much. She’s called Sophie and she reminds me a little of Sarah in Powerful Italian, Penniless Housekeeper but with lots more confidence and a much naughtier sense of humour. The hero is a little more elusive – but deliberately so, which is OK. The key words for his character are ‘distant’ and ‘disapproving’, and the closest I can find to a physical representation of the man in my head is this one…(partly for his upright English looks, and partly for the qualities of the character he plays here!)

The theme tune for the book is this one (the key line being ‘Living alone is all I’ve ever done well…’)

I’m enjoying writing this one. Just have to focus on the voices of the characters in my head and not the tick tock of the deadline clock. So what about everyone else? Is it fog or bright sunshine in your writing world?

Capturing the moment. Or not.

2010-06-25T07:02:00.005+01:00

Like me, Glastonbury is celebrating a milestone birthday this year. Well, not Glastonbury itself – as one of the most ancient inhabited sites in Britain that’s reassuringly older than me – but the music festival, which is held every year on Pilton fields. Here’s me as a chubby-cheeked, shiny-faced (hungover to the back teeth) student there, half a lifetime ago in 1990.

Sadly, this is about the only picture I have of that weekend - no exciting shots of bands onstage (there were some great ones), mud (there was lots), or strange people dressed up as trees (a significant number), which got me thinking. These days my daughters can't feed the cat or make a cup of tea without getting photographic evidence for their Facebook pages, but back then I think photography was more the preserve of proud parents and middle-aged tourists than the average Glasto-goer. I guess I like the fact that we were all too taken up with the moment to think about the photo-opportunities, but I do rather regret it now. (Although since I clearly failed to pack either make-up or a mirror perhaps I shouldn't)

So, can anyone make me feel better? What exciting events have you attended and totally failed to record properly?

The Colours of Summer

2010-06-21T06:55:00.003+01:00

Pink bowl + pale green beans (+ glass of rosé) = happy me

It's not the destination, but the journey...

2010-06-17T06:54:00.011+01:00

On Tuesday* I went on the Orient Express with my mother. For her it’s been a bit of an ambition for a long time, although I think that she probably originally envisaged the train sliding through exotic-sounding stations in the warm dusk as it sped on its way to Venice, rather than past smoke-blackened northern mill towns between Crewe and York. But anyway, she’d been looking forward to it hugely; me, if I'm honest, not so much, due to the fact that my current book is calling to me in increasingly desperate tones. When she told me that the journey was going to take 3 1/2 hours each way my first thought was ‘but I could drive it in 2 1/2!’ and my second was ‘Can I take my laptop?’ I didn’t actually get around to saying either to her as that was the moment she dropped the bombshell that we had to be at the station by 7.15 am.

But it was fabulous. I mean, really fabulous. I shall never be able to stagger onto an overcrowded, grimy Virgin Pendolino to Euston again without remembering getting on board the Northern Belle, sitting down at a table laid with damask and crystal and being handed a bellini. Here’s a few pictures of our beautiful carriage (which we had to ourselves, so could giggle like schoolgirls without being overheard)

Stepped off the train at York, buoyed up by champagne and smoked salmon and slightly disorientated - it was like a kind of top notch restaurant you might find in a Harry Potter novel, where you enter from one place and find yourself in entirely another when you come out. My brother lives in York and we spent the day shopping and hanging out with him, so actually the destination was pretty cool, (specially as I got to pick up my delicious niece and nephew from school and have an hour with them before we had to head back to the Train of Indulgence) but that's beside the point. Having spent a lovely couple of hours in the company of a group of interesting, wise and wonderful women at the National Trust writing workshop I did on Sunday, and talking about the road to publication, the idea of enjoying the journey in its own right was definitely uppermost in my mind.

One of the several squillion differences between the Orient Express and the 17.09 Virgin Express service from Euston to Crewe (aside from the slightly sticky seats and the commuter with his thigh pressed right up against yours in the tightly packed carriage) is the much slower speed at which it travels, and the way that allows you to notice so much more - like the lupins growing wild at the side of the track, and the shadows of clouds moving across the big green fields of unripe wheat. All of which is a roundabout way of saying that getting somewhere quickly (ie to publication, for the purposes of this clumsy analogy, which is directed at the ladies I met who are waiting for editor feedback / trying to muster the strength and energy to start again and submit / facing the prospect of beginning a new writing project in a new genre) is not necessarily the best way. Travel slowly, indulgently, and notice stuff on the way. And don't just save the champagne for when you get there either. Celebrate the journey.

* I would have put this post up yesterday, but spent most of the day (without exaggeration) trying to work out how to get the photos I took on my phone onto my computer. Only when my husband had spent the entire evening trying to do the same did we conclude that the installation disk that came with my phone is faulty. 'Dear Samsung, you owe me 9 hours of my life back and a stress-reducing hot stones massage in a technology-free spa in the Himalayas. Could you also explain to my editor that another writing day lost was your fault, not mine. Thank you. Yours in extreme frustration and techno-loathing, India Grey.'

Weekend, and Workshop

2010-06-08T11:46:00.014+01:00

Post birthday depression has descended, along with grey clouds and rain, after weekend of blazing sun, champagne and celebrating here in the green heart of Shropshire. Oh to wake up to this view every morning…

(...although having to drive across two fields to reach the road and getting out of the car twice to open and close gates would make the school run unbearably complicated. Would have to home educate, or better still - send the children out to work on the land while I wrote lyrical poetry based heavily on A.E. Housman.)

Anyway, back to the weekend. Some friends came down on Saturday evening and we ate outside as the sun slipped behind the hill and the fields gradually dissolved into velvety darkness. The daughters had decided on a formal dress code and had raided the dressing up box for my old University ball dresses and hand-me-down outfits from weddings past, while the men dusted off their dinner jackets. I wore a dress from years ago that had to be held together with safety pins and high heels that kept sinking into the lawn.

Later, when the cheap candles we'd bought from The Co-Op had all burned down into waxy puddles we set off sky lanterns...

Sunday morning was so glorious and green and golden that it would have been a criminal waste not to celebrate it with champagne and breakfast outside, after which we set off to explore. Acton Scott recently featured in a BBC TV series here in the UK called Victorian Farm and the children wanted to spot the celebrity animals who'd made an appearance. (The actual cottage in which the programme was made – authentically minus electricity, running water and an indoor bathroom – is also available to rent. Am charmed by the idea in theory, but as the absence of a hairdryer in the otherwise five-star appointed house we stayed in caused a minor crisis I don’t think we’ll be making a booking anytime soon)

All teenage cynicism and ennui dissolved in the face of newborn chicks and piglets and the competitive task of crushing grain in some kind of huge, clanking iron contraption that was much harder than the junior members of our group made it look. (Must look out for one on ebay – the perfect way to keep children gainfully employed and away from screen-based entertainment, as well as providing excellent personal work-out opportunity. Was reading somewhere recently about a diet that allows cakes and biscuits as long as they’re home-made, on the basis that the calories expended in the cooking makes up for the ones ingested in the eating. Feel that if you’d made your own flour first you’d definitely be allowed second helpings too.)

Yesterday, in a continuation of the weekend's impromptu Victorian theme, on the way home we stopped off at Blists Hill near Ironbridge and wandered around the shops with the stash of farthings and thre’pences exchanged in the bank there. Daughter #1 has a Home Economics GCSE module today and we bought a perfect enamel pie dish for her chicken and ham pie and ate cones of chips fried in beef dripping while looking, urchin-like, into shop windows. By now I was so thoroughly immersed in the whole Victorian vibe that I had to fight the urge to go into the drapers shop (just like the one in Cranford!) and squander our remaining ha'pennies on a bonnet trimmed with silk flowers and lace. Remembered just in time that it might cause the daughters some playground embarrassment and look a little incongruous in the harshly lit aisles of Sainsburys.

However, on reflection it would have been a justifiable purchase after all, since I’m giving a workshop on writing romance this coming Sunday at the National Trust’s Quarry Bank Mill, which is a place so steeped in Victorian ambience that it makes you want to take up sewing samplers and swigging laudanum. I'm not sure if there are any places left, but if you're in the area and would like to come along you can find out the details, and the number to call, here. (I might not have bought the bonnet, but I can't promise I won't turn up in my corset...)

Countdown

2010-06-01T14:10:00.002+01:00

Less than 12 hours to go of my thirties. Am torn between the urge to raid my daughter's wardrobe, book myself some botox, put the Bacardi Breezers on ice and go out and grab a toyboy, or go shopping for sensible shoes and supportive undergarments and join a Bridge club.

Will probably just finish sorting out the cupboard under the stairs instead. Denial always such a comfort at times like this.

Why did I just do that?

2010-05-28T12:41:00.003+01:00

Sign up to twitter. I don't even know how to use it, and since the only two questions I can answer in sentences of less than 140 characters are 'Do you want a cup of tea? and 'Do you want a glass of wine?' I really don't think that I'll ever be able to use it for meaningful communication, even if I can fathom how it works.

When you sign up the first thing it asks you, in what is no doubt meant to be an encouragingly matey way is 'What's happening?' The only response I can think of to that is 'I haven't got a clue.'

Beautiful Blogger!

2010-05-26T06:41:00.007+01:00

Ages ago, during the dark period of The Book That Would Not Die, Francine nominated me for a Beautiful Blogger award. Well, now I’ve been to the hairdressers and had my grey roots touched up and have slapped some lovely peony pink nail varnish on my toes (mostly on the nails, but a bit on my actual toes as well) I’m ready to accept it. Here are the five questions I have to answer to qualify. (And my answers, of course.)

1. Where were you five years ago?

In May 2005 we were still - just - living in our old house and I was feeling nostalgic and wistful about packing up to move here in mid-June. Daughter #3 was about to start Big School, so the packing inevitably involved getting rid of vast quantities of small pink items of clothing and baby toys.
Hovering around the computer (ancient hunk of beige space junk that was finally consigned to the skip in the council tip in January) to check emails 58 times a day and see if an editor at Richmond had got back to me about my partial submission (the one that grew up to become The Italian’s Defiant Mistress a year later)
Working, on a very part-time and reluctant basis, at Laura Ashley.Camping out in the new house while we ripped out the kitchen and knocked down walls.
Writing in bed on a laptop with Ruby the Airhead Cat while builders trooped in and out downstairs.

2. What is/was on your things to do list?

Back then my things to do list would have looked something like this…

Finish packing
Finish unpacking
Finish decorating (just one room would be an achievement, but I don’t think I’ve ever managed it. When I decorate there’s always a length of skirting board or a bit of doorframe that retains its yellowing gloss paint as I always lose interest before the end.)
Finish working at Laura Ashley
Finish book

3. What 5 snacks do you enjoy?

Toast and honey
Tunnocks Tea cakes – not just because they’re utterly delicious and surely that marshmallowy stuff inside consists mainly of air and is therefore virtually calorie-free, but because their retro red and silver striped wrappers add a jaunty air to any teatime table. Although mainly I scoff them straight from the biscuit tin.

Dark chocolate ginger biscuits.
Chocolate-covered salted pretzels (Trenda, I love you)
Carrot sticks*

(*one of these may not be strictly true, but has been added in the interests of promoting a healthy balanced diet to the readers of this blog.)

4. What 5 places have you lived?

This house
The big Victorian house with the Minton tiled hallway and the collection of traffic cones in the front garden, at University in Manchester
The studio flat He and I shared when we first got together that was so small you could make a cup of tea in the ‘kitchen’ without getting out of bed
The 1930s house we bought because we loved its original period features, and could afford it because the estate agent called them ‘scope for modernization.’
This house again.

5. What 5 things would you do if you were a billionaire?

Ah. Let me just state from the outset that I would make the world’s worst billionaire. Too much choice and too many important decisions utterly messes with my head, so the first thing I would have to do was offload the vast bulk of my fortune to prevent myself spending it all on Tunnocks tea cakes and dying prematurely of a condition related to excessive marshmallow consumption. Obviously, I’d offload the cash by donating it to friends, family and lots of Very Worthwhile Causes rather than buying hideous coffin-sized designer handbags and status transport (cars, yachts, jets and all that), but I’d have to hire someone to choose the causes from my longlist or I’d go completely mad, lying awake haunted by thoughts of the people I had neglected to help. I’d also…
Get one of these...

I’d really love a little cottage in the middle of nowhere (as someone who is incapable of thinking far enough ahead to shop for an entire week I’m not cut out for life too far from civilization long term so a permanent move would be off the cards) but would find it impossible to choose between the wilds of Scotland, the Northumberland coast, or lush green Herefordshire cider-country, so this would be the ideal solution.

Pay for Ruby the Airhead Cat to go into an expensive Rehabilitation Facility for Serial Bird Killers.
Only ever wear cashmere socks.
Still probably become an obsessive, paranoid recluse who would be convinced all my friends only like me for my money and would alienate everyone by forcing embarrassingly large amounts of cash on them all the time. My children would probably turn into despotic divas with unhealthy addictions to plastic surgery and online gambling and I’d end up living alone in my caravan with Ruby the Reformed Serial Bird Killer Cat and my collection of cashmere socks.

And that’s why I don’t bother with the lottery.

If anyone else fancies doing this let me know because I'd love to read your answers. (The Three Kates? Michelle? You Minxes? Go on!)

New beginnings

2010-05-18T14:24:00.003+01:00

Am able to show my face on the blog again, having just written the first page of my new book.

I had intended to get stuck in long before now, but the past week has been entirely swallowed up in catching up with things on the very neglected home front. It’s been absolute heaven to wake up in the morning (in clean sheets) and to have nothing more urgent to contemplate than sweeping up fallen apple blossom and wisteria petals, painting the mirror I bought for the daughters’ bathroom six months ago and lounge around on the sofa reading Michelle Styles’ fabulous latest – Compromising Miss Milton. (I suppose that wasn’t strictly catching up on stuff on the home front, but whilst doing it I did notice that there was a pre-sucked chupa chups lolly cemented down the back of the cushions so it was a useful domestic exercise, as well as being one in gorgeous writing and delicious characterization – wry, witty Adam Ravensworth is surely one of Michelle’s sexiest creations.)

I also spent a larger than usual proportion of time watching TV, where the whole ‘who’s going to be Prime Minister’ game was unfolding. I can’t help thinking that for several days Gordon Brown must have just been willing the other two to agree on something so he could hand over the keys to number 10 and throw his vast collection of red ties onto the woodburning stove in some lovely little cottage by the sea somewhere. And poor Sam Cam… I’m sure it says more about me than it does about her, but from my vantage point on the sofa with the biscuit tin I’m sure I saw the glint of resignation and despair in her eyes as she stepped through that black front door into a life where ‘family downtime’ is going to be an abstract concept. Incidentally, daughters 2 and 3 are passingly gratified to have had a close encounter with the new Prime Minister (who visited their school the day after that first TV debate) although they’re both a bit nonplussed about why he got the job and not Gary Barlow, since he had the distinct charisma edge.

But anyway, the new government is in and the new book has been started. Now begins a period of tough decisions and hard work for both me and them. And spending cuts too. (Deliberately not using the 'tightening the belt' metaphor for this, as thanks to the stone I've put on recently this is a physical impossibility. Ho hum.)

Now, where was I?

2010-05-06T14:06:00.008+01:00

The honest answer to that is 'asleep on the sofa' for most of the day, although in the light of my recent working routine and the news that lack of sleep can kill you I think that definitely comes under the heading of Sensible Precautions rather than Outrageous Laziness. Am in a sort of post-book haze, which is a very nice place to be anyway, but which is further enhanced by slight champagne hangover from celebrating and a sort of cloud of soft-focus happiness brought on by a lovely weekend at my cousin's wedding.

Little did I suspect last October when my lovely cousin announced that she was marrying her gorgeous boyfriend on a beach on the West coast of Scotland (not just any beach, but more of that later...) in May that I'd still be writing The Book That Would Not Die. If I had I would have given some thought to my outfit well in advance instead of leaving it until the day before we left, when I'd been up for four nights in a row until 3am. This is not a good start to any shopping trip, much less one which involves searching for an outfit that combines wedding chic (silk, high heels) with Scottish beachwear practicality (goretex, polar fleece, wellies) In the end - having caught sight of my haggard reflection in the fitting room mirror in Jigsaw - I rushed to Boots to spend silly money on Chanel foundation before heading home to peer despondently into the depths of my wardrobe for something to go with my wellies and goretex.

Because of an unfortunate combination of school exams, Very Important Meetings at work and the grimness of an eight hour drive with children we'd decided a while ago that it was best to leave them and spouses at home, and for the brothers and I to do the trip Old Skool, squabbling on the back seat of my stepmother's car all the way up to Arisaig. This is where, every summer of my childhood, we met up with my cousins to go feral, sleep in a mildewed 1930s showman's caravan and wear the same clothes every day for two weeks. (Clothes which subsequently appeared on the next child down in the photographs the following year.) The beach my cousin walked along to marry her man was the one on which we used to dune surf, find exquisite shells brought in on the gulf stream and build sand boats, and even though it's been nearly 30 years since I was last there it's as beautiful as ever. And as empty. Apart from the farmer who used to drive his cows across the beach, I can't remember ever coming across another living soul for the entire time we were there, which is odd because I've since read that Ewan McGregor used to spend his summers there too. Humph. I never saw him. (Probably just as well, given the wearing-the-same-clothes-for-two-weeks thing.)

Anyway, after the past few frantic weeks it was pretty much the perfect place to be (total perfection would have been achieved with the addition of a couple of degrees on the temperature, and maybe Ewan McGregor striding over the dunes...) My cousin made a ravishing bride, wrapped in plaid with sprigs of gorse in her hair, and there was something timeless and deeply moving about the ceremony on the shore - Walter Scott meets Richard Curtis. Luckily there was a brisk wind, which meant that I could pretend that the tears streaming down my cheeks (the Chanel spray-paint durable foundation was a wise investment after all) were a result of extreme weather rather than extreme soppiness. Expect a wedding on a beach to appear in a book sometime soon.

I'd taken a print out of the book with me to read through while I was away, but needless to say it stayed in its envelope. However, I did do some significant Thinking about it, and finished it properly when I got back, amid much weeping and loud music. I've been writing this one for so long that the playlist has grown and grown, but the song I was playing most at the end was this one. Sniff.

I'm now looking forward to getting to know my children well enough to pick them out in a crowd again, and making inroads into the ironing pile while thinking about the next book. It's been in my head for most of the time I've been working on this one, and it's quite a departure from anything I've done before. Can't wait to get started. I'm sure it'll flow from my fingers and be finished in a month

(What??)

OK, would you now please...

2010-05-05T13:59:00.003+01:00

... kiss the person nearest to you, in celebration of the fact that the book is finished.

Thank you.

Sorry for being so elusive these past couple of weeks. Back tomorrow - with photos - to tell you what else I've been up to, around the all-night, chocolate and caffeine fuelled sessions at the keyboard, and to catch up on everything else. (Including the lovely news that I'm a Beautiful Blogger! Thanks so much, Francine, but do you want to take it back now in view of my pitiful no-show recently?!)

Coming down gradually

2010-04-08T09:29:00.002+01:00

Yesterday I managed to stop eating Easter chocolate long enough to talk to Matt White at BBC Radio Manchester for a full seven minutes. (starting at 1.04)

(Today I’m hoping to go for a whole ten, although without lovely Matt to distract me it's going to be hard. But needs must. Supplies are beginning to run low and the book isn't finished yet...)

April Already

2010-04-01T10:39:00.002+01:00

I was going to come on and post that I’d finished my book as a hilarious April Fool joke, but then realized it wasn’t actually that funny.

The Easter holidays are in full swing and I’m trying to organize the daughters into cleaning the house for me in preparation for the arrival of family tomorrow while I shut myself away and write. Realistically, this is likely to end up in a) arguments, and b) extravagant use of cleaning products for little discernible result, but it is an excellent way of getting them away from screen-based entertainment while also cunningly diverting attention from my own glaring domestic inadequacies. All I need to do is to proudly announce soon after everyone arrives that the children have been in charge of the cleaning and tidying, and suddenly I don’t look so much like a revolting, neglectful slattern but one of those wholesome, creative people who prizes effort above results.

Hope everyone has a lovely Easter, with lots of chocolate and not so much snow. (Although both are a very good reason to lie on the sofa and watch Casablanca...)

Enjoy the silence

2010-03-22T07:19:00.003Z

Not only is the Depeche Mode classic, circa 199o (revamped by Tori Amos) on my playlist for this book, but it’s also what I’m trying to do this week (ha ha -see what I'm doing with my clever post title here?). The daughters break up for Easter on Friday and while I love their company, I’m going to miss the chance to be alone with my characters.

Finally it’s coming together. I’m writing, and I’m loving what I’m writing (although that could be because I haven't got time to do much re-reading). The one remaining question, of course, is WHY THE HELL DID IT HAVE TO TAKE SO FLAMING LONG? Answers on a postcard please.

Accentuating the Positive

2010-03-11T07:08:00.003Z

Oh dear, I really should have come back much sooner to knock the knicker-confessional post off its prominent position at the top of this respectable blog and hide it in the archives. Not sure why I've been absent for so long, apart from the fact that there's been a lot of boring head down over the keyboard stuff going on here (which doesn't make exciting reporting) and not too much hanging out on the red carpet or jetting off to the Caribbean (which almost certainly would).

However, by a huge stroke of good luck and kindness Sally Clements nominated me for a Happy Cupcake Award, and not only is this right up my street (cupcakes being a diet staple of mine, if 'diet' is the right word in this context) but it also saves me having to stretch my poor, tired brain to come up with something to blog about. Hurrah! So, here are ten things that make me happy...

1. Hot bath. Cold wine. Good book

2. The daughters. Even though they leave the lid off the butter dish, towels on the bathroom floor, mugs in unlikely places and apple cores decomposing in the back of the car. It's most illogical.

3. Going to bed in clean, line-dried sheets.

4. Watching the children of friends grow up. So cool to see the tiny tots who used to spread chocolatey fingerprints on your sofa shoot up and blossom into people who teach you how to windsurf and borrow your shoes when they come to stay.

5. The change of seasons.

6. Dancing. Of the late-night, hands-in-the-air, hazy and elated kind in nightclubs with the Mum Mafia, or the Friday evening, in-the-kitchen kind with the daughters and Van Morrison.

7. Gorgeous packaging: cellophane, ribbon and those shiny carrier bags with silken rope handles.

8. Champagne in the daytime. Happy, happy, happy.

9. Thursday nights on the sofa in front of Secret Diary of a Call Girl. (Last one tonight - what will I do without my weekly James D'Arcy fix?)

10. Stories in my head. (They're always really excellent in there. It's getting them onto the page that causes the anguish.)

Thanks Sally - that was excellent therapy. If there's anyone hasn't yet done it (I've been AWOL for so long I'm probably the last) I can thoroughly recommend it as an exercise in positive thinking. I reckon it means you deserve a cupcake too, but since baking isn't top of my list of priorities at the moment I'm going to have to substitute something else. Jaffa cake perhaps?

Once Upon A Time...

2010-02-22T23:42:00.003Z

... one of the daughters (I shall refrain from saying which one) was invited to a friend's house for tea, and was so excited about going that she forgot to put knickers on.

That's how I feel about being invited over to Nalini Singh's blog as a guest author. Come over and say hello! (I will be properly dressed, I promise.)

It's all a matter of taste

2010-02-19T15:30:00.009Z

Usually for me these days London means champagne, Abby Green, Natalie Rivers, posh frocks and late nights. That last little bit of the journey, when the train slows down and you can look into the bedroom windows of the black-bricked houses that back onto the line, I’m always excitedly texting either or both of the above to find out their whereabouts and putting away my laptop; but yesterday, as we passed the huge sign that says ‘Euston station 1 mile’ I was frantically collecting up coats and putting away the Travel Chess set.

As it’s half term we went down just for the day to Be Tourists. We’ve done the sights before, but I thought it was high time the daughters - who have lived all their lives in a small market town in the heart of dairy farming Cheshire where everything closes for half a day on Wednesdays - were taken to the temple of overpriced metropolitan tourist consumerism that is Harrods. It was just supposed to be a starting point and a place to meet up with friends: Daughter #1 – who was 15 this week (! How can that be right?) – gets shopping, but the other two are a bit bewildered by too much choice so I wasn’t sure they’d like it.

However, one glimpse of the giant gold Tutankhamen statue in the designer handbag department and they were hooked. We spent the next few hours travelling up and down the Egyptian escalators, wandering around the foodhalls, necks craned upwards to look at the carved and painted ceilings, sniggering at the kids’ frou-frou designer clothes (and squealing over the price tags) sighing wistfully over a pen of Siamese kittens (£900 each) in Pet Kingdom, and wondering whether Ruby the Airhead Cat would prefer a pink Swarovski-encrusted collar or a tiny cashmere poncho and set of matching legwarmers.

As we walked around I realized that nothing much has changed since my mum used to take me there when I was little. Back in those days Harrods seemed like the height of sophistication and exquisite taste and we used to have lunch in the uber-refined Georgian restaurant, with its tinkly piano music and peach-upholstered chairs (both still in evidence, of course.) These days – and maybe it’s as much to do with passports and conspiracy theories as uniformed doormen and No Shorts Allowed rules – Selfridges and Harvey Nicks have become much more synonymous with posh shopping (posh, cool shopping, anyway). Yesterday we weren’t looking to shop. We wanted entertainment and theatre and eccentricity, and Harrods provided them all in spades.

Favourite find for me was the Laduree department, tucked away in a corner of the food hall and accessed through a narrow doorway like Narnia...

I’d wanted to go to Laduree when we were in Paris, but what with daughter #1’s tonsillitis and Daughter #3’s aversion to the metro we didn’t quite get there. Made up for it yesterday, and went round for the rest of the day clutching a pistachio-green bag far prettier than most of the lurid offerings in the handbag department next door, and at £9.50, including macaroons, definitely better value for money.

(Feel this attitude may encapsulate some of the many and varied reasons why I'd make the world's least successful WAG.)

What's everyone else been up to this half term?

The Times they are a-changing. (But luckily The Independent's still on my side...)

2010-02-15T06:55:00.006Z

So, it was Valentine's Day yesterday. I like Valentine's day - obviously, since I'm a romantic novelist with three daughters who have always appreciated any excuse for a bit of heart-themed baking and table decoration. In previous years that's the way it's gone: we all make the heart-shaped chocolate cake/creme-brulee/strawberry shortcake, they lick the bowl and I bribe them to go to bed early so He and I can light the fire and open the champagne.

This year however, with daughters burgeoning all over into luscious boy-magnets with legions of adoring admirers and romantic plans of their own, it was all a bit different. He and I found ourselves sidelined by the demands of young love, lurking out of sight with a sneaky bottle of fizz and Gordon Brown on television. (Gordon Brown! Not even Robert Pattinson or Ben Barnes!)

This glimpse into middle age and Valentine's Days Yet To Come might have been a bit depressing had it not been for a lovely article in The Independent by charming Peter Stanford, who rang me a couple of weeks ago and caught me at a moment of sheer panic about my book; and whose grave, intelligent voice on the other end of the phone was an infinitely soothing lifeline from the world of sanity. He could have written what he liked after that and I'd still have adored him, but... (ahem) 'early thirties'...

That's got to be better than red roses and chocolates.

If only...

2010-02-09T06:52:00.006Z

...I was as well-travelled as my books, because just look where Orlando and Rachel have got to! This is my first Japanese translation, so we were all pretty excited when the postman delivered a couple of copies yesterday. The children were utterly confused by the fact that, to us, it's written backwards. ('That means people will know the ending first' commented Daughter #3 in deep bewilderment.)

In other news, had a lovely time at a workshop in Stoke on Trent library on Saturday. I say 'workshop' as that’s what it was billed as, but not a lot of work went on because we were way too busy talking. It’s an unexpected perk of the job to be able to get out and meet people who share their stories and their ideas, and if anyone from the group is reading this I’d like to say a great big thank you for an inspiring afternoon (and sorry about the Lost Workshop. Hope the printed sheets make sense!)

Actually, anything at all that gets me out of the house (and away from The Book That Will Not Work) is very welcome at the moment. Was thinking wistfully about this time last year, when some sparkle was added to the iron-grey wasteland of January and February by the rugby series launch party and the RNA awards lunch. Haven’t had a proper lipstick and mascara excuse for weeks and can feel the excess Christmas poundage solidifying as the streaks of grey in my hair widen and are matched by my skin tone. At the moment the only glamorous event on the horizon for me is a glittering scene set in Monte Carlo casino in The Book That Will Not Work - if I only I can keep going long enough to get there.

So, what about everyone else? Have you been up to anything lovely that I need to know about? (And has anyone got a ticket for the Oscars or a villa in the south of France going spare?)

Excuse me, but why did no-one tell me...

2010-02-04T09:28:00.012Z

About Shahrukh Khan??

I don't usually get my hot hero alerts via the News at Ten, but that's exactly where I saw this man last night, promoting his new film My Name is Khan. I'm booking my ticket and buying my popcorn now.

And while we're on the subject of inspiring viewing, I hope all you UK viewers are remembering that tonight is Secret Diary of a James D’Arcy Fangirl. Research gold.

(Ooh, and I've also got to mention that my new mac computer is being very erratic about emailing. I think it's part of its master plan to gradually take control of my life - starting by cutting my channels of communication with the outside world. If you've been expecting to hear from me and haven't, that's why; I'm being held hostage by a despotic machine. Help!)

Cause for Celebration

2010-01-29T10:00:00.004Z

The balloons are out and the bunting is up in the kitchen, and not just because last night saw the start of a new series of Secret Diary of a Call Girl with James D’Arcy in the role of sexy editor of Belle De Jour’s sexy book. No, yesterday The Birthday Season kicked off here with Daughter #3’s 9th, and from now until early March it’s wall-to-wall cake, wrapping paper and hard negotiations about how many friends should be allowed for a sleepover.

Sounds like the perfect time to take refuge in my own book, which might just get a whole lot sexier thanks to a weekly dose of inspiration in the form of lovely James. Here's a taster of what's in store for Thursday nights , with Billie/Belle summing up at the end how I feel too... (although in my line of work the opportunity of being taken on a desk by James D'Arcy so far hasn't presented itself. In reality, anyway. Shame.)

Get thee along to The PHS...

2010-01-26T07:29:00.003Z

Where it is Book Club day!

This is where I wish I'd said yes to that naked charity skydive...

2010-01-25T06:53:00.010Z

My mammoth struggle with this book has seriously cut into my blog-browsing time (as well as several other areas of my life, like my lying-in-bed-at-the-weekend time, and my shopping-for-daughter #3's-birthday-presents time) so it took me several days to notice that lovely Kate Hardy tagged me to provide seven things that you might not know about me.

Now, the first time I did this (as part of the Scribes team) it was a challenge because I am an open book (a not very interesting open book with hardly any pages and very large font), the second time it was even harder and the third time I had to resort to cheating. However, that was ages ago now so I thought I'd give it another go in the hope that I've changed into an intriguing and mysterious person with a wealth of fascinating secrets in the last two years...

Sadly, I find that not to be the case. Here's what I came up with...

1. I’m a secret thumb-sucker. Not these days so much (although at deadline times my husband has reported nocturnal lapses) but definitely up until I was quite grown up and went to university. Healthier than smoking and cheaper than alcohol, as a method of stress reduction I’d thoroughly recommend it. (Not instead of alcohol, of course. Especially not over a romantic dinner.)

2. My chief ambition in life is to be able to put on lipstick on without a mirror – you know, in a deft, elegant flick at a restaurant table or in the back of a taxi. Penny Jordan can do it. (Wistful sigh. If I ever master the art of mirrorless lipstick application, my next ambition is to be like Penny Jordan in every other way.)

3. I absolutely hate coffee (unless it comes with added calories and sugar in the form of coffee cake). Tea, on the other hand, is essential to my ability to sustain normal function. In emergency any old teabag will do, but at home it’s always a blend of loose leaf Assam (ie. Indian) and Earl Grey. (Exactly.)

4. I wear perfume every day, even if it’s just me, Ruby the Airhead Cat and the computer and I look like Waynetta Slob. As long as I avoid mirrors it gives me a happy delusion of glamour. (This is my current favourite )

5. I am the least white-knuckle person I know. And the least competitive. Both the idea of willingly exposing myself to physical risk and the concept of trying to prove any kind of superiority over other people make me want to go and hide in a cupboard. I think Olympic downhill skiing would probably be my worst possible career choice.

6. The first romantic novel I ever read was Imogen by Jilly Cooper. I was ten years old and we were on holiday in France. One hot afternoon when the adults were sleeping off the wine from lunch I found my stepmother’s copy in the car and, having long since galloped through my own supply of Roald Dahl and the Pullein-Thompsons, started to read. Instant Road-to-Damascus type revelation of what life was supposed to be like.

7. I have a new review up at Cataromance! (I know, I know, this doesn’t really count, but it’s a good one and I was trying to find an excuse to casually mention it, OK?)

Anyway, moving swiftly on from my embarrassingly dull life, what is exciting is that tomorrow the fantastic PHS Book Club starts with a discussion about Powerful Italian Penniless Housekeeper! Come along and be brutally honest because that definitely makes the debate more interesting, so criticisms and bits that didn't work for you are very much up for an airing as well as polite comments. (In a book discussion group in our local library I once made an impassioned monologue slating everything that Charles Dickens ever wrote, so as a believer in the principle of karma, I'm ready!) Hope to see you there...

Monday morning, 6 am

2010-01-18T11:29:00.010Z

Wake up and lie in the dark, listening to the gurgle of the central heating, fighting post-weekend ennui and thinking about all the things I have to do today. Top of the list is update this blog, so I run the last week back in my mind and try to think of something exciting/interesting/profound that I could possibly say about it.

Panic. There is nothing. Heart racing I slide beneath the duvet as I come to terms with the fact that I am a mad recluse who sits hunched at the computer all day hugging hot water bottles and wearing His down-filled body warmer (green and over-large, therefore making me look remarkably like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle – or, more accurately, a thirty-something one) and only tearing myself away for raids on the biscuit tin and the school run, where I often fail to make conversation with anyone – partly because of the ninja turtle lookalike thing, but also because I am still listening to the people in my head. (You see? Virtually certifiable.)

Am at the point of wondering if anyone will notice if I fabricate a glamorous weekend in Provence or meeting Robert Pattinson at a dinner party, and then I remember that it’s now only a week until the launch of the brand new shiny PHS Book Club, where Powerful Italian Penniless Housekeeper is the first book up for discussion. The relief! Something to blog about. (I love Donna Alward even more than I love the marshmallow cupcakes daughter #2 and I made from The Hummingbird Bakery Cookbook yesterday, and that is a considerable amount of love.) A book club for category romance is such a fantastic idea that I can’t believe no-one’s done it before so I utterly can’t wait for this one and warn you that unless for example James D'Arcy arrives at my house and proposes on the doorstep (marriage or anything else) or I get spotted by a modelling scout who's just realised the Thirty-something Mutant Ninja Turtle look is the Next Big Thing and whisks me off for a life of international stardom, I'll probably mention it a few more times between now and the 26th January.

Get up feeling much lighter of heart and more positive of outlook. Happy Monday everyone.

I think it's called 'Progress'

2010-01-11T11:19:00.006Z

Up until Saturday I’ve been writing on a computer that dates back to the late Victorian period with a hulking great beige-coloured monitor that took up half my desk. We acquired it about 7 or 8 years ago (roughly about the same time we acquired daughter #3, though not by the same means) from a friend in exchange for a bottle of wine and an Indian takeaway. Over those years I wrote my very first, tentative and badly flawed attempts at opening chapters and far-fetched synopses on it, and from the days when it did have internet connection (via a long cable that used to snake across the floor at our old house and regularly trip up daughter #3 as she took her first tottering steps) it still has stored somewhere in its dusty recesses my first emails with Penny Jordan and the editor at Richmond who read my initial submission. Sadly, it couldn’t quite keep up with the advent of wireless and broadband, and although it sounded like concorde taking off and sometimes refused to switch on, it still functioned as a decent enough word processor. Decent enough for me to have written 8.3 books on anyway, but in the last week I've been getting increasingly worried about it making it to the full 9.

All of which is an elaborate way of trying to justify the fact that I found myself in the apple shop on Saturday handing over my credit card completely on a whim and walking out with a big box containing this...

It's the depth of a slim box of matches, utterly silent, very beautiful and slightly terrifying. Every time I come into my office I get the impression that it's waiting in superior disbelief for me to write something worthy of such sleek perfection on its tiny, brushed steel keyboard. It's very clever. I actually wouldn't be surprised if it summarily deleted entire pages and just sent a terse message saying 'Do better.'

Wish me luck...

The North Wind doth Blow...

2010-01-07T07:02:00.003Z

I’m over at iheartpresents at the moment, and if you’ve nipped over here from there you might be looking for this post in which I pondered the serious matter of hero material for Powerful Italian Penniless Housekeeper. (I probably should point out that in the end MPW didn’t get the job.)

Yesterday we had snow – several inches, as soft and white as angels’ feathers that meant the Big School closed and the kitchen was filled with hulking adolescents, red-cheeked and steaming gently as they drank gallons of hot chocolate between snowball fights. This morning, letting Ruby the airhead cat out, I am very relieved to see that no more has fallen in the night so school will be open for business again and I can get back to work. But blimey, is it cold. The air has a metallic sting to it that feels like it has come straight from Siberia and everything is hard and glistening in a way that is so much more sinister than yesterday’s voluptuous softness. It makes me want to make rice pudding, and other calorific comfort foods.

Take care out there, everyone.

To be... (Or not to be, which is probably the likely outcome)

2010-01-03T20:43:00.007Z

So the fireworks have faded into the (deliciously clear) night, the last sky lantern has drifted silently and serenely across the big full moon and, suddenly, it’s January again.

But it has been a lovely Christmas.

As always, the majority of the week was spent on the sofa in front of the fire in assorted variations on pyjamas, but – oh joy – as my clever and fabulous husband bought me a sumptuous cross between an oversized cardigan and a dressing gown in whisper-soft pale grey cashmere I was even more than usually unapologetic about this. It is a thing of such glamour and loveliness that it almost makes me believe I can turn into the kind of serene person who rises early to drink herbal tea and calmly dash off a couple of thousand inspired words before doing an hour of yogic meditation and facing the school run with calm competence. In fact, I may not take it off much in the next grueling month as I thrash out this book, although I do have to admit that this will test its personality-transforming capabilities to the limit.

Which brings me neatly onto Kathy's point about New Year’s resolutions. In the past I’ve been a bit casual about these for the simple reason that I’m all too aware of my dismal lack of willpower and know that by vowing to swap chocolate and wine for gym membership (shudder) and carrot juice I’d be setting myself up to fail spectacularly. However, since this is the year that I’m going to turn 40 I’ve reluctantly decided that it’s probably time to be a bit more grown-up in several areas of my life. So, in view of that and the curent Book Situation I’ve come up with the following:

To be... unafraid.
This has a pleasingly grandiloquent ring to it, but it actually means I intend to stop lying awake staring at the crack in the bedroom ceiling and worrying that it’s a sign of drastic subsidence and the entire house is going to implode any second, in the style of that building in Venice at the end of Casino Royale. It also means I'm going to try to give up obsessing over life-threatening illness, hideous freak accidents and my children becoming a statistic in the government’s figures for vicious crime, teenage binge drinking and cyber bullying because let’s face it, there are so many more appealing things to obsess about. (James D’Arcy, Daniel Craig for starters. And both together since I watched Flashbacks of a Fool the other night. Good film. Great soundtrack. Glorious first five minutes.)
To be... more efficient.
Oh yes, this is the Big One. The time has come for the High Priestess of Procrastination to embrace the concept of time management. I absolutely can’t continue to lose whole days to ‘research’ (browsing youtube) or messing about rearranging a couple of paragraphs before deciding to scrap them and start again. I need to sharpen up and force myself to focus. I need a masterclass in efficiency and self-discipline from Kate Hardy, or Kate Hewitt (both uber-romance goddesses with families and an awesome catalogue of brilliant books behind them.) And I as my hopelessly-messed-about-with and book is due terrifyingly soon, I need it NOW.
To be... more wholesome.
Must give up scoffing chocolate digestives straight from the packet and feeding the children supermarket pizza because I’ve been too busy not writing to cook something proper. Shall capitalize on last year’s success with the runner beans and lettuces and bring forth a bountiful harvest of organic goodness from the meagre soil of our garden this summer. (Though obviously have to master 2.) Time management first. And also not compromise too much on 4.) which is….)
To be... more high maintenance
Because I know it’s the depths of winter and baths are for wallowing and dreaming and drinking wine/tea/damson gin and reading, but really… would it kill me to drag a razor over my legs once in a while?

Gulp. There they are and I feel weary already. Now I’ve told you mine, you tell me yours!

Listening for the angels...

2009-12-24T08:39:00.003Z

I am done with shopping. I have totally had enough of overheated department stores, juggling bags and gloves and overpackaged purchases to get my credit card out. Again. And again. I am heartily sick of hearing endless budget karaoke versions of 'Santa Baby' and 'Fairytale of New York' and am now craving space and silence and still, frosty woodland so that I can pick up that invisible thread that connects us all down thousands of years of Christmases.

Am going out to cut holly and clear my head of vile twenty-first century commercialism and take time to be grateful for all that I have (eg. lovely family, all of you, ten thousand reasonably workable words of a book that has to be in in January) And not worry about the things I haven’t got (enough wrapping paper, a present for the bin men, the particular kind of Lancashire cheese my mother likes.)

Wishing you all peace, love, health and hope this Christmas. And a big tin of Roses chocolates, of course.

First I do Christmas and then I conquer the world....

2009-12-22T07:40:00.004Z

The one good thing about having a party on the 18th December is that it forces you to tidy away all the clutter beforehand, and give the house a thorough cleaning afterwards. Spent much of Saturday washing sofa covers and scrubbing the kitchen (don't ask) with the result that everywhere is now looking unnaturally tidy, gleaming and like the home of someone who is in control of the whole Christmas juggernaut.

Of course, this is all a complete illusion, but at least after a last frantic shopping day yesterday the daughters are roughly equal in present terms. This is an annual challenge; balancing the number of parcels to be unwrapped with both the 'wow factor' and the amount spent, and having three girls makes it particularly challenging. Choosing sparkly fripperies that are equal in charm and value and yet still distinctly original and well-suited to the daughter in question requires a range of skills that you could only possibly hope to find if you melted together the brains of a management accountant, a psychologist, Kofi Anan and one of those style journalists who do annoying London-centric shopping features in Sunday magazines.

Anyway, in the midst of all this it's been fabulous to discover that so many people took the time out of their own festive preparations to answer the competiton question for a chance to win a copy of Powerful Italian Penniless Housekeeper (and it's also been gorgeous to get your messages in the emails too.) The daughters picked two winners each from an empty Quality Street box, and the names that came out are... Peggy, Jacqueline, Kelly, Jayne H, Sri and Susan. I'll email you later to get addresses and put the books in the post (where they'll no doubt spend a quiet Christmas, but hopefully arrive soon after.)

Am now off to look for something to give the children for breakfast. This year I very cunningly booked my Sainsburys online shop well in advance and felt enormously smug and in control. However, when it was delivered on Sunday I remembered that I'd only ordered bizarre seasonal items like dill sauce, mini-sausages-wrapped-in-bacon and 300 lemons and there isn't a box of Cheerios in sight.

(I wonder what toast and brandy butter is like?)

If I ignore it, maybe it'll go away. (Oh, and a competition question)

2009-12-17T09:25:00.006Z

The only thing I’ve written this week is a poem for daughter #3 to perform in the Christmas talent show at school. As creative output goes this is undeniably rubbish. Like the poem.

PTA Christmas dinner last night, and daughter #2’s carol service in church this evening, followed by pub with fellow mums and members of the 'Victims of Christmas Support Group'. In my life this is what passes for what, in magazines they call ‘The Party Season.’

Anyway, back to Powerful Italian Penniless Housekeeper, and Tuscany where it’s warm and there are no queues in the supermarket. Looking back at the soundtrack from the book on my ipod I’m reminded of something I probably should have mentioned last time because it occupies such a central place in the story, and that’s the recurring symbol of the moon. This was there from the earliest stages of the idea, when for some reason I decided that Sarah’s five year old daughter would have a bit of a fascination with all things lunar (Long before I started writing the book I scribbled down a couple of lines of dialogue on a dinner money slip while sitting in the school car park . ‘Mummy, when I grow up I want to be an astronaut.’ ‘And I want to be a rich man’s plaything, but life doesn’t always work out how we want it to.’ This made a brief appearance in various chapters at various times but never quite fit properly and so didn’t end up in the final book, but Sarah and Lottie’s characters, and their relationship, were built around it.) When I came to thinking about the film Lorenzo had just completed it made sense to bring the astrological/lunar theme into that as well, and without really thinking too hard it seemed to weave its way into the fabric of the story.

And the music, of course. This is a song with which I became very,very familiar during The Laura Ashley years because it was on one of the compilation CDs they played in a constant loop. I still like it though, and for obvious reasons it definitely needed a place on this playlist. Other astrology/moon related songs were Sleeping Satellite by Tasmin Archer (you can see an orrery in the video, which is something I also put in the book), Moon River (REM rather than Henry Mancini) and Song to the Moon by Dvorak. I used the Katharine Jenkins version, which is in English, and the spirit of which definitely inspired the Venice-at-nighttime part of the book.

Sour Times by Portishead was the first song on the playlist. For me this summed up the bad place Sarah was in at the start of the book, with her seven-year relationship with Lottie’s philandering father at an end and her self-esteem in tatters. I also discovered this beautiful song by Natalie Merchant which I played to death but never got tired of.

The lines ‘I’ve been treated so wrong I’ve been treated so long As if I’m becoming untouchable’ seemed to be very true of Sarah, and the poignant atmosphere of resignation absolutely sums up her outlook on life and her low expectations for her own happiness.

Try a Little Tenderness, by Otis Redding was, I suppose, Lorenzo’s response to that. And it is such a GREAT song.

As the book was about an Italian film director it was a great excuse to listen endlessly to the soundtrack to Cinema Paradiso, one of the best films ever. (Here’s Josh Groban giving the love theme his treatment.) I also admit that the final scene in my book was very much inspired by the ending of the film…

(Although since getting my author copies I’ve spotted a copy-editing error which, to me, totally ruins the big emotional climax! There’s supposed to be a page break in one of the final pages, which balances the pace or something crucial like that and without it it all feels a bit rushed and tensionless. My fault for not going through my proofs carefully enough. Shall have to go into shops and hand-correct as many copies as possible.)

Talking of author copies I have some to give away. As this is a simultaneous release in the US and the UK I have both Presents and Modern editions, so I'm giving away three of each. If you'd like a copy just email me via the website (still not updated, but it's on my list of things to do, after lose a stone, climb Everest and train the daughters to work the dishwasher) with the answer to this question and I'll pick the winners in my usual random fashion:

Which sixteenth century scientist is the subject of Lorenzo's film? *

*(There's a good introduction to him here. Never let it be said this blog isn't educational.)

On that intellectual note I'm going to go drag myself around the supermarket. Did I mention that daughter #1, AKA the Teenage Drama Queen, somehow managed to persuade us to let her have a party? Tomorrow? As if Christmas wasn't stressful enough.

At last... Introducing Lorenzo and Sarah from Powerful Italian Penniless Housekeeper

2009-12-15T10:21:00.010Z

So, the cheese and pineapple cubes were oddly satisfying. Stress-levels had reached critical point by the time I finally returned home from the supermarket with my tinned pineapple chunks and rubbery mild cheddar, but the half hour it took me to spear them with cocktail sticks was fabulously therapeutic. Am not really a fan of the cheese-and-tropical-fruit combination myself, but have to admit there's something about eating bitesized bits off a cocktail stick that makes you consume stuff you wouldn't usually bother with. Am wondering if it might be a good way to get the children to eat sprouts and Christmas pudding this year.

Anyway, pineapple and cheese on sticks don't actually feature in Powerful Italian, Penniless Housekeeper so I'd better move on and get down to business. Just to re-cap, this was the book I started writing this time last year, when I was still a bit shell-shocked from the bleakness of Tristan and Lily's story and in need of some light relief.

I can't remember when or how I first came up with the idea of a book about a thirty-ish single mother enduring the ordeal of her younger, prettier, more successful sister's wedding but I do know that, with it's slightly larger cast of characters and inherently rom-com tone, I originally thought it would make a good Modern Heat. However, after Tristan and Lily this was exactly what I wanted to write, so gave the basic premise a few significant tweaks and indulgently steamed ahead.

From the outset the book had a very different atmosphere from the ones I'd written before and to reflect this I needed a hero who was a little bit unusual, a little less hard and handsome and polished than his predecessors. If you remember I was initially thinking of casting a young and brooding Marco Pierre White in the role, but unfortunately he failed to grasp that he was merely there for visual guidance and his immensely strong character and flat Yorkshire vowels kept imposing themselves onto the character of Lorenzo to an unacceptable degree. I’m afraid in the end he had to go and Keanu Reeves, in his battered, grey-streaked and world-weary forties very admirably took his place.

Lorenzo Cavalleri is an Italian film director who, from humble beginnings, has achieved huge commercial and financial success and been married to an actress widely acknowledged as the most beautiful woman in the world. The trouble is, none of this has brought him any happiness. As the book opens he is newly divorced and getting ready for the release of his latest film - a sexed-up blockbuster about the life of sixteenth century scientist Galileo, starring his ex-wife and the pretty-boy actor with whom she had an affair during filming. It is Lorenzo’s darkest hour, and he is forced to confront the creative cost of his success. In a desperate attempt to regain some glimmer of artistic integrity and self-respect he travels to Oxfordshire to check out the locations for a project he has wanted to do for years; a film of a little known, lyrical book by a dead poet called Francis Tate.

If the book has a theme I guess it would be authenticity. Lorenzo works in an industry which is all about artifice, but he is a man who prizes authenticity above all else. When he meets Sarah he is knocked sideways by her artlessness and while she might see herself as pitifully unsophisticated, to Lorenzo she is a breath of fresh air and someone who can restore his faith in life and women as well as giving him back his creative vision.

One of the things that sets this book apart from the others is that, for me, it’s very much Sarah’s story. Usually when I start planning and writing a book the hero is the most dominant presence in it, the character that dictates the mood and the action, but I felt very much when I was writing this one that it was all about Sarah. And of course, Sarah represents all of us. I think more than any other heroine I’ve written she is the most grounded in reality and embodies the most recognisable bits of myself and my friends, which made her very easy and hugely enjoyable to write. It also made me really, really want to create a strong and worthy hero for her - a man who would understand her buried sadness and appreciate her generous, curvy beauty.

(Not much to ask, is it?)

On that wistful note I'd better go and join the queue at the post office. Back on Thursday with music and a competition question.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow...

2009-12-14T11:53:00.003Z

Back from a weekend away on His home ground in South Oxfordshire, delivering presents to grandparents and godchildren. Driving through postcard-pretty villages with brick-and-flint churches, duckponds and ancient pubs I was reminded at every turn of Powerful Italian, Penniless Housekeeper (the first part of which was very specifically set there.)

Unfortunately I was also reminded of my utter failure to blog about the book and its background and characters as promised last week, and came back up the M40 full of virtuous resolutions to do it first thing this morning. (Or at least after I'd been to the supermarket, the post office and the dry cleaners.) However, a phonecall just now from the lovely and long-suffering secretary at Daughter #3's school, gently reminding me that it's the Juniors' Christmas party this afternoon and that I need to bring in party clothes and 50 cheese and pineapple cubes on cocktail sticks has turned my resolutions to ashes.

(Cheese and pineapple cubes? Does anyone eat those these days? And do I have to fashion them into a retro-style hedgehog?)

Back tomorrow. Honest.

Group Hug

2009-12-04T06:53:00.002Z

Thanks to everyone who held my hand and offered advice on my mini-crisis last week – I’m hugely grateful, and relieved to say that it’s all looking a bit more positive now (thanks to you guys, a bottle of wine and an hour long call to Abby Green’s Writers’ Helpline.) I’m not actually that much further on in terms of word count, but I now have a stupidly detailed outline. And I’m not afraid to use it.

As of today I also have a big box of paperback copies of Powerful Italian, Penniless Housekeeper, which is out in both the US and UK in January. That means that next week I can seize that as an excuse to take time out from doing battle with the book I haven’t yet written to blog about one that I have! Excellent!

(This is my Italian film director book. Do you want to see what it looks like? It has Ricky Gervaise on the cover!)

What would you do?

2009-11-25T10:16:00.002Z

I know it’s been so long since I posted about writing that many people who drop by here will have forgotten that that is ostensibly why I keep this blog—because I'm supposed to be a writer. I haven’t been mentioning it much, not because I haven’t been doing it but because of late I seem to have been doing it very badly, which is all highly frustrating and depressing. The book that I’m working on has been started no less than 3 times now, and each time I’ve trashed ten thousand words or so and gone back to the start, convinced that this time I’ve nailed the small plot/character detail that holds the key to the conflict and all is going to go smoothly from now on.

Unfortunately it’s not really working out like that.

I’ve been stuck on a particular key scene for the last week now, and no matter how I approach it I don’t seem to be able to make it work. The characters don’t seem to be able to relax and talk naturally in the situation I’ve put them in—it’s a bit like working with actors (and Abby Green would know a lot more about this than I do) who are reading the script and rolling their eyes and saying ‘but what’s my motivation?’

I’ve tried to explain their motivation endlessly, but there comes a point where endless explanation becomes a problem in itself. I’ve tried to tell them that they have to do this scene one way or another, or else there’ll be no story and we’ll all be out of a job, but it doesn’t seem to make much difference. So now I’m wondering, maybe it’s just because none of us know each other properly yet? Maybe I should pick up the story after the pivotal point and keep writing, and then go back at the end and fill in the blanks?

I find that idea logical but terrifying. Has anyone else ever done it? Does it work? Is it a direct route into another wasted week of sleepless nights and negative word count? And what would YOU do?

Today's comment on contemporary culture

2009-11-20T06:48:00.007Z

I read with interest that the Advertising Standards Authority have received complaints from several viewers this year's M&S Christmas advert (sacrilege!) Apparently gruff Philip Glenister’s line about ‘that girl prancing around in her underwear’ is considered by some to be offensive and 'demeaning to women.' Gosh. Funnily enough, I don’t feel terribly demeaned when I watch that bit. Wistful, maybe, and slightly depressed. I'm sure lovely, bad-tempered Philip wouldn't consider it a festive highlight to watch me prancing (prancing? Not sure I even know how…) in my grim, workhouse undergarments.

I hope that M&S respond, with due responsibility, by making a second installment featuring Robert Pattinson stripping off to his (100% easycare cotton) boxers. Actually, I think I might complain too, just to add weight to the argument.

(Have just realized that this is the latest in a succession of TV-related blog posts recently.Oh dear, my cultural references are pitifully limited. Come back next week when I shall be analysing the use of dramatic irony in Harry Hill's TV Burp and discussing madness and morality in the X-Factor.)

Home Truths

2009-11-17T11:22:00.002Z

Happily settled myself on the sofa last night to watch the BBC 4 docu-drama on childrens' novelist Enid Blyton. Helena Bonham Carter was fabulous (and sexy Matthew McFayden was, well… not sexy, but fabulous too) and I deeply coveted her office, her clothes and her ability to write 6 000 words a day. However, the programme was not all sunshine and lashings of ginger beer, focusing as it did on the bitter irony that Ms Blyton was so busy writing about the endless joys of childhood that she ruthlessly sidelined her own children.

Gulp. Better get back to my own book, where the hero and heroine are lying in the afterglow of hot sex on a car bonnet and try not to dwell on the fact that the most intimate thing I’ve done with my husband this week is discuss car insurance.

Catching Up

2009-11-09T12:55:00.003Z

A thick, grey fog is hanging over the garden today, like the frozen remains of the weekend’s bonfire smoke, and it’s obvious that Winter has really arrived (generously bringing with it a savage sore throat and vile cold. Thanks, Winter.) Seems like months, rather than just over a week since we were away in the Welsh Marches, having breakfast outside in the garden or walking through golden and sunlit woodland to picnic on the hill overlooking this view…

The clocks changed on the Saturday that we arrived, but instead of going back an hour we might as well have turned them back a century as mobile phones were left to languish and we all - even Facebook-fixated daughter #1 - forgot to miss screen-based entertainment. The house we were staying in was once a gamekeeper’s cottage and retained a pleasing air of Edwardian austerity (ie. there was no dishwasher) but the autumn colours of the woods surrounding it were utterly majestic. The daughters went off looking for sweet chestnuts to roast and racing around cathedral-like clearings trying to catch the leaves that spiraled down on each breath of wind. In a cupboard in what must once have been the head-keeper’s office we discovered a dreadful mud-coloured jigsaw of steam trains and they spent the evenings huddled myopically over it in companionable silence.

It’s taken me a week to ease myself back into modern life and into my current book, set in the high-octane world of Formula One and the glitter and glamour of the Monaco Grand Prix. A week, and an awful lot of comforting tea and chocolate. What's everyone else been up to?

Is it Aliens, part of the recession or just my imagination?

2009-10-23T10:02:00.005+01:00

But I have a theory that time is speeding up.

A week used to be a solid, reliable space of time in which you could fit in a trip to the supermarket, at least one conversation with your spouse, five bedtime stories to daughter #3 AND ten thousand words on the w-i-p. Now, five thousand words and half a page of Harry Potter and it's time to iron the uniforms for Monday morning again. There must be some scientific explanation for this because how else can it be half term ALREADY?

Anyway, we're going back to the Middle of Nowhere for a few days, where I shall single-handedly attempt to slow it all down again. Whatever you're doing this week, enjoy every minute!

Because You're Worth It and all that

2009-10-15T06:46:00.004+01:00

Here in the UK Tuesday evenings have become girls-on-the-sofa night, thanks to a new series of How to Look Good Naked. For the benefit of those of you elsewhere in the world, let me explain: it’s a programme where women with serious body-image issues are put through several entirely non-scientific forms of therapy to emerge at the end of an hour (TV time) with their heads held high and a smile on their faces as they parade down a catwalk without a stitch on in front of hundreds of people.

Admittedly I have to watch some of it from between my fingers—particularly the parts where they have the dismal contents of their wardrobes strung out in public, with all the sale bargain mistakes and remnants from former ages of fashion history prominently displayed for all to see. And I can’t begin to understand how someone who can’t face looking at themselves starkers in a mirror in the privacy of their own bedroom can agree to go on national television on a programme that is mostly about getting your kit off. But I’m glad they do, because it makes for the kind of viewing that gives you a good feeling about life and cellulite, and how often can you say that?

Key to its success of course, is its presenter. Gok Wan makes the whole thing about female empowerment in a way that superior, bullying alpha-girl gang Trinny and Susannah never did. I love Gok because Gok loves women (although not in a biblical sense, obviously) and he shouts out the message that Mills & Boon has been quietly imparting to readers for years: namely, who cares if you have a big bottom/no bottom at all, a rounded tummy/flat chest, magnificent, child-bearing hips/all the voluptuosness of an ironing board? You’re beautiful. In a house with 3 daughters this makes How to Look Good Naked qualify as Educational Viewing.

In the same vein of boosting self-esteem and all round sharing the love and positivity, I have a lovely review for Spanish Aristocrat Forced Bride from Julie at Cataromance, in which she says

If it’s a gripping romance rich in drama and passion that you’re after, then look no further than India Grey’s latest: Spanish Aristocrat, Forced Bride! Her writing is poised and assured and sparkling with deep emotional resonance which will move you to tears. Her love scenes are pure poetry – sensuous, well-written and affecting – and her ability to pen an unforgettable tale that readers will remember long after the last page is turned simply stunning.

Pure poetry. I LOVED that bit. Thanks Julie-- take a glass of champagne and go and join Gok Wan in my VIP Lounge for People Who Make Life Feel Better.

Christmas has already lost its charm(s)

2009-10-09T07:01:00.003+01:00

My mother comes round, with the particular air of purpose that a lifetime of experience has taught me to fear, and announces she is going to make the Christmas Pudding this Sunday. For a moment I am so diverted by wistful thoughts of growing up into the kind of person who a) makes a Christmas pudding and b) does so in October that I fail to anticipate what is coming next. She asks me if I know where the Christmas Pudding Charms are as they’re not in the special Christmas Pudding Charms Place in her house.

I instantly have a feeling that I do know. It is not a good feeling.

Attempt to sound simultaneously vague yet reassuring and wait until she has departed before scrabbling amongst the debris of hardened paintbrushes, cat worming tablets and unidentifiable models made from clay and egg boxes on the kitchen windowsill. Heart sinks as I discover an eggcup containing a thick brownish gloop. Further investigation reveals this to consist of a rich mixture of Christmas Pudding dissolved in ancient washing up water, in which the silver Christmas Pudding Charms have been marinading since last Boxing Day.

Horror. Christmas Pudding Charms, once excavated, no longer remotely silver-looking. More a sort of blackened pewter. Help! Can I clean them? How?? Will putting them in some kind of silver-cleaning solution poison us all??? Or should I just keep it simple, leave the country and convert to Bhuddism?

I thought they were called Snickers now anyway?

2009-10-05T21:42:00.004+01:00

My brother—my older brother-- ran the Loch Ness marathon yesterday. In 3 hours 48 minutes, after many months of rigorous and disciplined training.

From this I think we can deduce that chronic laziness is not genetic.

(Either that or I was swapped at birth.)

Hell-o! I'm Back!

2009-09-22T12:36:00.002+01:00

In every sense of the word. It’s amazing what a couple of days in London can do: like add two inches to your hips, kill off a few liver cells, melt your Visa card, remind you EXACTLY why writing for Mills & Boon is the coolest and best job on the planet and make your head virtually explode with new ideas. (Or was that just the hangover? Oh no… there really are pages of excited scribble, involving the words 'rampaging', 'taut', 'catastrophic' and 'walk of shame' in my notebook.)

The summer break is over, ladies. I’m back in business.

(Ahem... This dramatic, cinema-trailer-style revelation is intended to distract you all from the fact that once again I have failed to take a single photograph of my three days in London. Mostly because I failed to remember to take a camera with me. However, as compensation here is a picture of my new hero. Now, isn't he nice?)