Claire Robyns's Blog, page 4

Endings and Beginnings

Love it when one book winds down and I can start looking ahead to the next story. My hand's in the cookie jar, there are at least 3 stories I'm desperate to start writing, and right now I have no idea which one will win first pick!

Then again, I've been known to write simultaneously (great for when one story get's a little blocked for whatever reasons) so while I let that stew, I get to catch up on a little reading, a little tv, and I suppose I should re-introduce myself to my family.

A Conversation I never imagined

having with any adult, let alone my husband.

So, we've just had a lovely, sunny week in Spain. The thing is, neither the hubby nor I are particularly good at foreign languages. Our Spanish extends to "Halo" and "Gracie"

Having decided on a barbeque at our villa, the hubby dutifully went off to the supermarket to procure lamb chops and chicken breasts (for our kebabs). He returned with chops that looked supiciously like slabs of steak

Me: You're sure this is lamb?
Him, nodding: I went "moo, moo" to the man at the meat counter
Me: Lambs go "baa, baa" (with the wavering baaaa sound) Cows go "moo, moo"
Him, frowning: I didn't want to go "moo, moo", didn't want him to think I meant pigs (we don't eat pork)
Me: Pigs go "oink, oink"

At this point, we both eye the chicken breasts suspiciously

Me: Okay, just tell me
Him: "quack,quack"
Me, shaking head: I'm sure it will taste almost the same

We had an interesting barbeque. My husband might have a Masters degree, but I think he failed nursery school

Loading up the Kindle

It's almost time for my spring holiday and that means beach and sun and lotsa reading. Which means it's time to load up the Kindle again.

It's a real mixmatch hashup, just the way I love to read

Starters by Lissa Price (YA dystopian)
Clockwork Prince by Cassandra Claire (YA steampunk)
All These Things I've Done by Gabrielle Zevin (YA)
Pandemonuim by Lauren Oliver (YA and I've been desperately waiting for this sequel)

The Passage by Justin Cronin (not really sure what genre, but I'll find out soon enough)
Timeless by Gail Carriger (Steampunk)

This year I've also grabbed some from the Rita Finalist List
The Devil in Disguise by Stefanie Sloane (best first book) historical romance
When Beauty Tamed the Beast by Eloisa James (regency historical romance)
Touch of Frost by Jennifer Estep (young adult romance)

At the Halfway Mark

On my current wip, this means about 80% done with the graft and agonizing. I don't plot meticulously and generally start writing on a whiff of direction and a breath of inspiration. I know where I'm going, and I know who I'm taking with me, but I have no idea how I'll get there or who all will surive the journey and what kind of tangled relationship they'll be in if they do.

But once I reach the half way stage, my characters have established themselves, I've learnt what makes them tick, and I'm pretty happy with the path I'm on now after a lot of circling back and rehashing and them bullying me into shape. The rest of the story simply needs to be written with, hopefully, a few surprises popping up along the way.

I guess things would go a lot more smoothly if I started off from scratch with every detail plotted, but that doesn't work for me. Once I know exactly what's going to happen, that's like reading a book after you've seen the movie. It's still enjoyable, there's still excitement to be had, but it's not that same rollercoaster ride of possibilities in the air. My favourite part of writing is making the story take new shapes along the way.

Excerpt: The Devil of Jedburgh

     There must have been a hundred of them. Black-hearted Kerrs with mud-streaked cheekbones, matted braids falling down naked chests dark from dirt and sun and hair. But the eyes. Black as night, black as their hearts, black as the devil's soul.
    Breghan ran faster, tearing through the summer-thick foliage. She could hear them rapidly closing in. The high-pitched grunt was neither human nor animal.
    Branches rustled at her left, then at her right. Stubby fingers reached for her, scratching, clawing, poking, until all that remained of her gown was shredded ruins.
    And then they went for her hair and face.
    "No," she screamed, swatting in every direction before she fell to her knees and covered her face with her arms. "Leave me be. Please, please… let me be."
    The cruel fingers fell away.
    The grunts stilled.
    Breghan swallowed her sobs, slowly lifting one arm, then the other, afraid to look and afraid not to.
    The leader of the pack stood there.
    A shudder trembled through her. The stories were all true. He stood at least seven feet tall, blocking out the sun with his width. What she could see of his face was horribly disfigured, the skin puckered and mottled red. This one's eyes were not black. No, the Kerr's eyes were blood-red and burning bright with the wild rage of a fire-spitting demon. Only one of his names was the Devil of Jedburgh.
    Breghan's eyes shot open to sunlight streaming through the densely covered branches. Her chest was so tight, she had to fight for every breath as she sat up straight, her gaze darting about in a wild frenzy. A late afternoon breeze rustled the leaves above and skittered shadows across the tangled yellow gorse and long grass. Her snowy mare, Angel, grazed contentedly at the base of the tree she was tethered to. It was a perfectly normal summer afternoon.
    But there was nothing normal about this day.
    Breghan slumped back against the tree trunk.
    How long had she been asleep?
    The long shadows indicated a couple of hours at least. She had to get home, before she was missed. Little chance, she remembered with a groan. Her mother demanded her almost constant attendance of late, plucking at sleeves and pinning up hems, embroidering necklines and sewing fresh ribbons onto old slippers. An entire wedding wardrobe was to be fashioned in under a week.
    A week that ends today. By this time tomorrow, she'd be married to the beast.
    She was no longer the infant to be threatened into obedience by tales of the Black-Hearted Kerr of Ferniehirst, but that was when he lived a mountain range away. Now she was as terrified as a small child.
    She couldn't make this sacrifice.
    Her father demanded too much.
    I could run away. That desperate thought was followed by a revelation: I already have.
    She hadn't meant to. She'd simply done what she always did when it felt as if the walls of Castle Donague were closing in on her. She'd mounted Angel and the two of them had raced the morning breeze across McAllen fields. Neither the stable master nor the gate guard had blinked an eye. They knew she never went further than the river.
    This morning, however, she couldn't stop herself. She'd veered west with the River Tiviot, onto the main road, and then she'd just kept on going and going.
    Now Breghan contemplated truly doing it. She only had to stay away until the Kerr arrived to find his bride gone. His pride and her father's shame should do the rest. The Kerr would never tolerate being stood up on his wedding day and her father would never dare insist the jilted laird honour their brief betrothal.
    Running reeked of a cowardice that was abhorrent to her nature. Then again, opposing her father might be construed as a show of astounding courage. 'Twas more than her brothers had ever dared. Her father would be furious, but anything was preferable than marriage to the Beast of Roxburgh.
    The rhythmic thud of pounding hooves interrupted her thoughts. Breghan held completely still, grateful for the overgrown shrubbery protecting her position from the road. She peeked over her shoulder, reassuring herself that Angel was deep enough in the woods to not be seen either.
    "Halt," called one of the men in a heavy burr.
    Eyes squeezed shut, breath held fast, Breghan waited and listened.
    "What is it, Arran?"
    "Movement in the bushes."
    "Ah, a wee beastie for our sup."
    "Do you no think of naught but your stomach?"
    "'Twas nothing," decided that first voice. "We ride on."
    Relief weakened Breghan's limbs. In a clumsy moment, she put a hand down to steady herself. The rustle of leaves crunching beneath her palm was barely audible. Breghan froze again.
    Apparently the men and their horses were doing the same.
    She heard only the soft gurgle of the Tiviot water rushing around a nearby shallow bend.
    Into that intense silence, Angel blew her nostrils at the scent of stallion. Moments later, the brambles shook. Breghan didn't even have time to jump to her feet. Half the bush flattened and she found herself staring at a pair of fawn leather boots.
    Her mouth opened in a silent scream and her gaze travelled up slowly, afraid to look, afraid not to. Dark blonde hair covered the muscled leg between boot and plaid. She didn't recognize the green thread running through the woven red.
    Her gaze shot straight up, past the thick waist and white linen shirt. The fierce warrior stood so tall and broad, he blocked the sunlight. Her heart slammed against her chest bone and Breghan wondered crazily if she'd fallen back into her nightmare.

Available from most places where ebooks are sold, including  Carina Press  | Amazon |   Barnes and Noble |  Books on Board  

Release day for The Devil of Jedburgh

Available from most places where ebooks are sold, including  Carina Press  | Amazon |   Barnes and Noble |  Books on Board  

There must have been a hundred of them. Black-hearted Kerrs with mud-streaked cheekbones, matted braids falling down naked chests dark from dirt and sun and hair. But the eyes. Black as night, black as their hearts, black as the devil's soul.
    Breghan ran faster, tearing through the summer-thick foliage. She could hear them rapidly closing in. The high-pitched grunt was neither human nor animal.
    Branches rustled at her left, then at her right. Stubby fingers reached for her, scratching, clawing, poking, until all that remained of her gown was shredded ruins.
    And then they went for her hair and face.
    "No," she screamed, swatting in every direction before she fell to her knees and covered her face with her arms. "Leave me be. Please, please… let me be."
    The cruel fingers fell away.
    The grunts stilled.
    Breghan swallowed her sobs, slowly lifting one arm, then the other, afraid to look and afraid not to.
    The leader of the pack stood there.
    A shudder trembled through her. The stories were all true. He stood at least seven feet tall, blocking out the sun with his width. What she could see of his face was horribly disfigured, the skin puckered and mottled red. This one's eyes were not black. No, the Kerr's eyes were blood-red and burning bright with the wild rage of a fire-spitting demon. Only one of his names was the Devil of Jedburgh.


    Breghan's eyes shot open to sunlight streaming through the densely covered branches. Her chest was so tight, she had to fight for every breath as she sat up straight, her gaze darting about in a wild frenzy. A late afternoon breeze rustled the leaves above and skittered shadows across the tangled yellow gorse and long grass. Her snowy mare, Angel, grazed contentedly at the base of the tree she was tethered to. It was a perfectly normal summer afternoon.
    But there was nothing normal about this day.
    Breghan slumped back against the tree trunk.
    How long had she been asleep?
    The long shadows indicated a couple of hours at least. She had to get home, before she was missed. Little chance, she remembered with a groan. Her mother demanded her almost constant attendance of late, plucking at sleeves and pinning up hems, embroidering necklines and sewing fresh ribbons onto old slippers. An entire wedding wardrobe was to be fashioned in under a week.
    A week that ends today. By this time tomorrow, she'd be married to the beast.
    She was no longer the infant to be threatened into obedience by tales of the Black-Hearted Kerr of Ferniehirst, but that was when he lived a mountain range away. Now she was as terrified as a small child.
    She couldn't make this sacrifice.
    Her father demanded too much.
    I could run away. That desperate thought was followed by a revelation: I already have.
    She hadn't meant to. She'd simply done what she always did when it felt as if the walls of Castle Donague were closing in on her. She'd mounted Angel and the two of them had raced the morning breeze across McAllen fields. Neither the stable master nor the gate guard had blinked an eye. They knew she never went further than the river.
    This morning, however, she couldn't stop herself. She'd veered west with the River Tiviot, onto the main road, and then she'd just kept on going and going.
    Now Breghan contemplated truly doing it. She only had to stay away until the Kerr arrived to find his bride gone. His pride and her father's shame should do the rest. The Kerr would never tolerate being stood up on his wedding day and her father would never dare insist the jilted laird honour their brief betrothal.
    Running reeked of a cowardice that was abhorrent to her nature. Then again, opposing her father might be construed as a show of astounding courage. 'Twas more than her brothers had ever dared. Her father would be furious, but anything was preferable than marriage to the Beast of Roxburgh.
    The rhythmic thud of pounding hooves interrupted her thoughts. Breghan held completely still, grateful for the overgrown shrubbery protecting her position from the road. She peeked over her shoulder, reassuring herself that Angel was deep enough in the woods to not be seen either.
    "Halt," called one of the men in a heavy burr.
    Eyes squeezed shut, breath held fast, Breghan waited and listened.
    "What is it, Arran?"
    "Movement in the bushes."
    "Ah, a wee beastie for our sup."
    "Do you no think of naught but your stomach?"
    "'Twas nothing," decided that first voice. "We ride on."
    Relief weakened Breghan's limbs. In a clumsy moment, she put a hand down to steady herself. The rustle of leaves crunching beneath her palm was barely audible. Breghan froze again.
    Apparently the men and their horses were doing the same.
    She heard only the soft gurgle of the Tiviot water rushing around a nearby shallow bend.
    Into that intense silence, Angel blew her nostrils at the scent of stallion. Moments later, the brambles shook. Breghan didn't even have time to jump to her feet. Half the bush flattened and she found herself staring at a pair of fawn leather boots.
    Her mouth opened in a silent scream and her gaze travelled up slowly, afraid to look, afraid not to. Dark blonde hair covered the muscled leg between boot and plaid. She didn't recognize the green thread running through the woven red.
    Her gaze shot straight up, past the thick waist and white linen shirt. The fierce warrior stood so tall and broad, he blocked the sunlight. Her heart slammed against her chest bone and Breghan wondered crazily if she'd fallen back into her nightmare.

Read all about it

I'll be doing the odd guest post (some with giveaways) around the web on The Devil of Jedburgh over the coming weeks, so I thought I'd keep a handy list here for anyone interested in reading different aspects around the book. I'll update this post as my scheduled blogs go live.

For now...

Breaking the Rules at RomancingThePast

Read a good book lately?

Or several?

AAR's 16th Annual Reader Poll starts today if you want to have your say and vote for your favorite books of 2011 in a number of great categories.

Here's the link: http://www.likesbooks.com/ballotannualpoll2011.html

The Devil of Jedburgh has a cover!!

Raised on rumours of The Devil of Jedburgh, Breghan McAllen doesn't want an arranged marriage to the beast. The arrogant border laird is not the romantic, sophisticated husband Breghan dreams of—despite the heat he stirs within her.

In need of an heir, Arran has finally agreed to take a wife, but when he sees Breghan's fragile beauty, he's furious. He will not risk the life of another maiden by getting her with child. Lust prompts him to offer a compromise: necessary precautions, and handfasting for a year and a day, after which Breghan will be free.

For a chance to control her own future, Breghan makes a deal with the Devil. Passion quickly turns to love, but Arran still has no intention of keeping the lass, or making her a mother. He loves her too much to lose her.

But when a treasonous plot threatens queen and country, Breghan has to prove only she is woman enough to stand by his side.

Thank you, Millennium Promotions, for this stunning cover.

The Devil of Jedburgh releases 12 Feb 2012

Researching Fiction on Fiction

Our reading experience would be incredibly boring if writers only wrote what they knew. There may be the odd cop, neurosurgeon or serial killer who may be a dab hand at writing, but not enough to keep us reading on the edge of our seats on a permanent basis. Which means, most writers write what they don't know. Which means a whole lot of research.

And I've been thinking...

With my historical stories, I take research seriously. I tend to devour biographies of the period, read historical anals that have most fortunately been digitised in these times, and get my teeth into all sorts of other research material.

But with contemporaries, is it another matter? Now, it's all very well if you can go and live with the wolves for a year or have the time and clout to shadow a detective around for a year (Castle, I'm looking at you). I don't know of too many authors who have that kind of time, and I don't know of too many businesses that have a 'Bring your writer acquaintance in for the day' programs.

Which makes it kind of hard for the average writer to get real life experience. Of course, there's all kinds of serious research that can still be done, but it's just so much more fun to watch TV for research. So what if they get it wrong? Their millions of viewers don't seem to mind.

I somehow doubt any viable police force will allow a writer the kind of access to the offices, inside info and crime scenes that Richard Castle has on Castle.

I somehow doubt that many police forces rely on medical examiners to actually solve their case for them (Body of Proof) each and every time.

And I somehow doubt than many hospitals are as dysfunctional as Grey's Anatomy.

But that's just it... I somehow doubt, but I don't really, really know. And to be honest, I don't really care. Most of the shows would be boring as hell if they were realistic.

Which brings me back to the hot pickle question on my mind today. Do we want more realism in our books than we're prepared to laugh off in TV?