Billy London's Blog, page 9

Waterfalls

It will not surprise you that I had no desire to come back to London, or more likely, to work. All my zen has gone within three short hours of being at my desk. The process is, as I coached myself, in the middle of the Atlas mountains, to recall that calm, to grasp the meditation I learned (for all of eight hours) and try to remember why I had such an amazing time.

So let me tell you the story of Ouzoud. Ouzoud is Africa's second largest waterfall. I didn't even know it existed, that's how closely I paid attention to the Lonely Planet Guide. We went right down to the base of the falls, felt the mist on our faces, could almost touch the water as it thundered down over mountainous rocks. On brightly coloured boats, paddled by men in hoodies, who helpfully took our photos before the falls, we touched life. I'm feeling better just thinking about it.

And then, when we were half way down, and the falls opened up to us, in all its magnificent glory, a woman came down with her friends, and she burst into tears. It was that kind of sight, it would make anyone cry - and to be fair, several people, myself included, were deeply moved. Because I'm a walking pharmacy, I handed the lady a tissue, and returned to my boiling hot seat, underneath a moustache print scarf to protect my gradually bleaching hair (it's gone brown. It was black. It's now almost the same colour as my skin, because smarty pants here forgot her Topshop straw hat...)

While I contemplated the falls, and how it would be there, many thousands of years after I had gone, the woman approached me. She thanked me for the tissue, once more, and just as I was about to tell her it was nothing, she spoke again. She said, "My dad died three years ago." My stomach dropped for her. "And he used to come here all the time. I'm just overwhelmed to be here. Where he was. So thank you."

Gobby as I am, I didn't know what to say, except, "God bless you." She gave my hands a squeeze and went off to see the rest. I so very nearly caved to my own tears, which had been threatening since I arrived in Ouzoud. To hear how far that woman had travelled - not just physically to be at the falls, but emotionally. I wanted to find her and ask a thousand questions, and I stopped myself. It was her journey, and she allowed me to know enough. Anything more was not my business. But it's stayed with me. I think it will every time I look at the photos of the falls. How precious life is. How important it is to see the world beyond our own small borders. To not be afraid to see Africa in all its beauty, naturally, awesome, incredible beauty, wary of repercussions from small minded, Godless people. To take that leap not only for yourself, but your family, your history and your future.

I thought Morocco amazed me the first time I went. Now it has my complete and absolute awe.

Vacation!

I have not had a proper holiday in over a year. I mean a good week away from the office, no one calls me, WhatsApps me, FB messages me about things I do not care about the minute I'm in a bikini. I'm burning out. I need sleep and inspiration and food. I need sun. Doesn't matter if I sound like a plummy boarding school girl from Fulham (even if it is South West LDN...) I need vitamin D. The deficiency in this country is real.

So, I'm going back to Africa. North. I know. Danger. And yet, I live in London. I know danger. I know vigilance. I can do that while haggling with a Berber for a hand embroidered pashmina. I'm also a lot friendlier on holiday. I'll talk to randoms - old and young- or rather they talk to me, because I have that sort of face that invites you to share all your deepest darkest. I can glean notes to put into some good tales, and I can rest. I won't be tense, or on edge - mainly because I'll be having several massages, one after the other, until my bones are jelly, followed by a pomegranate bellini. They exist and they shall be mine. All mine....

I've written some of my best work during and or after a good holibob (don't tell anyone I used that word, I'll get so much grief) Windows was on the island of Kos, Greece (the first 35% of it anyway, the rest in my friend's coastal flat in Hove ) The Baby Gift in Mexico - heatstroke, I swear, A Life Sublime after the best gelato ever in Capri and Sorrento, Italy, Verde Bianco Rosso in Lucca, Italy - sitting on the wall that surrounds the city as the sun went down; and on the train back to Venice, and a lot by a canal outside a small cafe that served me a few Aperol Spritzes, a hella load of Beppe's story (30,000 words in, soooo much left to do!). All the little stories that make up Wynne's Surprise are from my time in Morocco, nearly being run over or being offered marriage....

Hot Muse Hank tends to remind me that my creativity is best channelled when I'm in neutral. I'm never more neutral than when I'm in the sun and nothing to worry about. I'm a girl with some valium and a suitcase ready to be filled with goodies.

Let's go!

Honour Him

I love Hans Zimmer. I don't even think love is a big enough word to accurately describe my feelings for him. Let's go German - allumfassende liebe. My brother thinks all his music sounds the same. I have disowned him for this pronouncement. Don't even curr.

In my youthful, hungover days at university, while everyone else was outside enjoying the summer rays, I  was within the library walls, looking on forlornly, wondering if I too would ever enjoy the summer sunshine. Hans soundtracked my dramatic educational imprisonment through the music of Gladiator. I thought it was my first introduction to him. I was wrong. I'd known him in Backdraft, in the music of the Lion King - that bit where Simba claims the pride in the rain? Hans. All Hans. Through King Arthur's battle cry, to Sherlock Holmes' Victorian intrigue, Pirates of the Caribbean's rum soaked parlay, to the magnificent and magic of space of Interstellar - Hans has conjured worlds for me to escape to. I don't see the films any more, when I listen to his music. I see my own characters running around, causing havoc, bringing tears, doing the impossible. In the last few weeks, when writing had been a struggle, I turned to The Dark Knight Rises, and boom! Bitch started writing again. That chanting rise, rise, rise! I feel the power, I feel the urgency, I feel like bloody Batman, I'll tell you!!!

And then came Batman v Superman. The only reason I looked forward to this film was because of Hans. I loved his Man of Steel score with a passion. On the extended album (which I bought without a second thought) the track Arcade conjured the weirdest dream that is now in a story. No lie. What elevated a lacklustre plot (don't @ me, I didn't like it) beyond the visuals was the music. Comic book visuals became memorably enhanced by the collaboration of Mr. Zimmer and Junkie XL.

Junkie knows a drum beat - we get this in spades. But the cello - it's an electric cello - who the hell knew??? for Wonder Woman's theme aka "Is She With You?"... I have never got up to cheer in a cinema before, but I nearly did. I nearly started a Wonder Woman riot. But I had chocolate I didn't want to overturn, so, I barely and I do mean barely kept my bum in my chair.

In the "Men Are Still Good" track, therein lies the Batman Suite. You can definitely hear the homage to Danny Elfman's 1989 Batman theme, ghosting throughout. There are also reminiscent parts of his score with James Newton Howard for Batman Begins. Powerful, dark, enraged, vengeful. Homage, echo, elevate. That solo trumpet towards the end of this track - the Dark Knight, the Caped Crusader - alone he stands for justice. Standing damn ovation.

You can't tell me that Lex Luthor's theme - throughout "The Red Capes Are Coming" -  is not reminiscent of Mozart's Requiem. Villains need to have some sort of class, and nothing is more classy than a bit of Mozart on death. Then throughout the scenes of Superman saving reams of people (making up for all the damage he caused in Man of Steel) you have echoes of the stirring and beautifully simple piano theme from his first film.

Then you get to my favourite track - Their War Here. I may be a little controversial here, but it's a little Marvel. A little Sam Rami's Spiderman (again Mr. Danny Elfman) the comic book pages flipping, and then bam! Whack! Wallop! Into the midst of the destruction of Metropolis as Superman battles Zod. It's just brilliance. Artistry at its finest. Each character has their own unique, individual theme music, and something I hope that will play out over the next films as well - even if Hans has officially retired from Superhero movies. (super sad face, I can't even!)

To Sir Zimmer (I'm just arbitrarily going to knight him) thank you. For stirring my soul, for urging me to be a hero, but really, to be a better writer. To match the levels of the music I adore. What Am I Going To Do When I'm Not Saving The World?

Write.

Older...

You know by now that most writers have more than one tale on the go. Since I finished Wynne's Surprise last week, a mature lady just drive by interrupted my self satisfaction with a, "Get me a bloke! It's like the Sahara down there!"
What do you do with that, except start writing? Carole, my darling, dearest, horniest heroine I know. Carole's in her early sixties, has three children, two grandchildren, an ex-husband, her own home and has taken early retirement. She's the embodiment of a woman I know and absolutely adore, and that means this story is me trying to give her everything she deserves, which includes watering the desert. Sorry. Had to. There's one serious, no nonsense, man's man for the job - Aneurin Agnarsson. Sixty-five and more than alive. Big, bearded, buff. I would. I mean, I think about Santa Claus these days, not for presents, but what I can give him. I need help, I know this.
We all have our age comfort zones, and either side of my own is always cause for a little apprehension. This time around I don't even care. Because Carole doesn't give a monkeys. Surgical scars, troublesome family members, not enough coconut oil to tame her hair... She ain't bothered. Hot Muse Hank's eyebrows are right at his hairline. Yesterday, I was bashing away at the laptop, and Hank tried to interrupt me. "Isn't a bit soon for all of that? That's... Yeah, that's a lot."
I told him, nah. Carole's getting laaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyd!
And she will continue to do so, on the damn regular - if everyone stays out of her business. Except Aneurin. That's all his.
Age ain't nothin' but a number! Coz these old folks, they are dirty. Dirty.

Sorry

I am firmly on the Beppe and Mimi train! It’s taken a while, and I’ve been told why. I read an article about romance tropes in TV series – and how badly they’re done. One of them was “last folks standing”. Giuseppe and Amelia said nothing while I read it, just sipped on some Marks and Spencer tea, waiting for the penny to drop. Drop it did. With a clang.
I had to convince them that I’m not just putting them together because they’re the last free people of the Italian Knights world. Mostly, I’m handing them to one another just because there’s no one else that can put up with either of them. Hold on Mimi, don’t wave that at me, I’m going to explain.
First, Beppe is strange. No two ways about it. He’s a sandwich short of a picnic. Who else would turn up at his friend’s blessing with a bandana over their face? Or sing to his friend’s ex in the parking zone of a strip club? Or drug said friend to make sure he stayed put to speak to the same ex? Normal people don’t do that. If I told you the things he comes out with in this story, now he’s talking to me... I’m scared. Hot Muse Hank is a little concerned. I need a hug.
Secondly, there’s Amelia. No one gets their name shortened to Mimi unless there’s plenty of cray running around the place.  She’s a surgeon. If you work in medicine, there’s a switch in you that’s off. It has to be, or how else do you cut up people on a daily and enjoy it? It’s her second most favourite thing in the world. Second. To what, you’ll find out.
And they have this weird as hell shared history – of family, of areas they associate with their childhood, of how science saved them both from the spiral of depression... I don’t know how it happened to be that way, but it is what it is.
All of that is definitely not because they’re the last two standing. It’s because they’re perfect for each other. In the oddest way possible, and in ways I couldn’t have imagined before now.
Weird. As. Hell.
Beppe: Should we tell her?Mimi: No-ho-ho! Let her find out for herself. It’s more fun that way.
Find out what? WHAAAAAAAAT?

Progeny

I haven't any sisters. My mother thought it was quite sad - then again, she didn't know how much I blamed my brothers for things being broken/going missing in our house. It was probably best I didn't have to compete with anyone for clothes, shoes or make up. There may well have been death. My sister's most likely. Thankfully, my father remained the voice of reason and told Lady London in no uncertain terms, there would be no more Londons!

And then, this weekend, I went to a friend's hen party. Slightly disastrous - I got my lipstick on the bridesmaid in the midst of exciting news. Got prosecco on the same bridesmaid. Then telling me more about said exciting news, she chucked yet another glass of prosecco over her bag. At dinner, we all had glo-sticks. I snapped mine. It broke. And spattered the hen's beautiful white and red dress in neon yellow. I could have cried while she laughed to tears as I scrubbed the stains away in the ladies. But by the by. The hen's party had been diligently and lovingly arranged by her younger sister. You'd think a hen party would be the source of all conflict and internalised jealousy. And it was completely the opposite. It was a celebration of sisterhood. Their closeness, how they interchangeably spoke about the same things, almost in unison. How respectful they were to each other. All of the sex questions for the Mr & Mrs the sister refused to read, because her sister does not do anything of the sort. She and her fiance hold hands. Dats it.

It warmed me, more than the several bottles of wine and prosecco and champagne we went through. More than the espresso martini shots. Even more than the huge platter of mac'n'cheese. I love cheese. So much. The point is here somewhere. Yes, there we are.

I've written some appalling siblings. Because they exist, and they do make fascinating characters. The ones I treasure, are the good ones. The supportive ones. Those who will patiently listen, advise, even step into the breach to protect their sibling from anything and everything. The best ones will let you borrow those clothes, make up and shoes, knowing they'll never see them again.

The girl you grew up with. Who taught you how to get around your parents and your grandparents. Who let you copy her essay, she did two years ahead of you. Who picked you up from that terrible party because Dad let her borrow the keys, and took you to Maccy D's for an apple pie to cheer you up. The girl who didn't complain about the sucky Christmas gift you bought her because she knew you'd just lost your job. Who didn't say a word about your evil ex, but slashed tires for you on the sly when realisation hit. The girl who went to birthing classes with you, who sewed the tear in your wedding dress in the toilets, who cried with you through Titanic and made you watch that horror film with her, just so she could scare the crap out of you during a sleepover. Who calls you, just when you need to hear her voice, and who loves you more than you know. The best friend you didn't ask for, but got anyway.

Naturally, biology does not determine sisterhood - but today, for International Women's Day - let's celebrate that connection. It's a beautiful thing to behold.

Everybody

I've had some bad reviews in my time, none more hurtful than my first one star critique. It was brutal, and I questioned every single word I'd written. Five years down the line, I'm a lot more thick skinned. I will admit when a criticism is valid and sometimes I'll even revel in it. (Sorry, about Sympathy for the Devil reader - someone was going to come off worse and it was always going to be West. That's life!)

And then came a review on An Art To It. The reviewer didn't understand British slang, they skimmed through pages of it, and they had zero interest in reading about people at college. Well, to be clear only one of them was at university, and the other was still at secondary school. And I went straight back to questioning myself - for a brief moment. Until the lovely members of my Facebook page told me "No, baby, no."

So, just in case someone missed it - I am British. London born African. My experiences are going to be decidedly different from an author who grew up in either Downtown LA or the suburbs of Paris. I cannot overstate how important education is to the people of the African continent, or how education is the gateway to all those dreams advertised on TV in the UK. How can you afford Waitrose (upscale supermarket that lists creme brulee as an 'essential') if you don't get a single A-Level?

We speak a different language. Say "peng" to a North London teenager, and they'll know what you're talking about. Tweet "canny" to a Geordie (someone from Newcastle) and to a Glaswegian and they mean two different things entirely. American English and London English are different languages - ask Word. Search A-Levels and teenagers, and just see the sheer numbers of them crying about having no sleep, wasting time watching Family Guy when they could be revising, or having a joyous night out with friends, because they've been let off the hook by their parents.

Granted, I wouldn't go through that again for love nor money. I've done more studying than God intended me to do - and I'm still sodding doing it! But I wanted to write that story. Because after university, life gets seriously responsible. If it's not holding down a job you probably hate, it's paying bills, it's putting that dress from Zara back down because you can't afford it this month, it's saving for a holiday because you've only got two weeks left, seeing as you used half your allowance on sick days, drinking cheap prosecco at your friend's wedding. It's praying you win the lottery by wishful thinking so you don't have to live with anyone else. All that stuff that honestly makes you long for the days when the worst thing you had to worry about was turning up to school on time.

These stories are first and foremost escapism. What I write in any case, I don't deign to speak for other authors. I've said it before, and I'll say it again - no one is going to like everything I write. Take time to read the blurb, to read a sample, see what you're getting. If paranormal's not for you - you're not going to enjoy Addicted to Witch or Remains. If reading about teenagers getting their parents to pay for holidays while talking in slang is not your jolly, allow An Art To It, or Sympathy for the Devil. Even @Last features younger characters, who will not assess a situation in the same way as a thirty year old would.

Look, if Shelly Laurenston wrote a factual book on The Kennedys tomorrow, I'd leave it. It's not my thing. No offence and I doubt she'd take it as such. Although, if she wrote a romantic fiction based on Leninism in 19th Century Russia, I'd be all over that. History still is one of my favourite subjects.
Don't take a chance on the premise that because it's me you'll love it. Why do that to yourself? It's not for you, and that's okay. I've written others that are.

I've got the list to the right that includes everything I've written in the right genre. But just to make sure, I'm separating things into age groups, just so you know, my sweet spot is around my own age, or a little older. But I do everyone. I don't discriminate. Besides, Hot Muse Hank wouldn't let me. He's planning a Cougar Future for me. Don't ask...


Italian Knights Series
Late 20s Early 30sWindowsOn Caristo’s Watch
30s The ClaimBest Laid PlansMurano (coming soon)
40sVerde Bianco Rosso
50sA Life Sublime
Paranormal
30sSaid the Demon to Little Miss EvaAngel’s Baby (sequel to Said the Demon)Put Out the Zombie Playing DeadShibah’s Monster Addicted To WitchRemains
Late 30s - Early 40sNights of Roshan
Contemporary
Late TeensAn Art To It
Early 20s@Last (Young Adult)Sympathy for the Devil (Young Adult)
Late 20s - Early 30sKissing the Canvas
30sAn Old Cake Tale Army of You and MeSweet Child of Mine
Late 30s - Early 40sThe Baby GiftCamera’s Gaze (coming soon)
40sComing Around Again
Flash Fiction
30sChristmas Connection At MidnightStarting OverOn Set Vintage Pleasures
Collections
Lifespan of all ages Fairytales of ChristmasSeason of Love, Vol One
Season of Love, Vol Two

Time Is On My Side

One has been lax on getting back to re-releases. Because you know I love a ginger (wait for me Prince Harry!), I’m getting back to Sweet Child of Mine. Also because I read it the other day and was a little like, "Ho-kay!" Cornwall and all that fresh sea air will do that to you..

The titles below are still out of play, but are there any that you need back asap? Any that you missed the first time around?

1.                      Said the Demon (paranormal)
2.                     Angel's Baby (paranormal)
3.                     Put Out The Zombie (paranormal)
4.                     The Baby Gift (contemporary)
5.                     Vintage Pleasures (flash BDSM)
6.                     Army of You and Me (contemporary/military)
7.                     Nights of Roshan (paranormal)
8.                     An Old Cake Tale (short contemporary)
9.                     On Set (flash erotica)

Input is much appreciated. Team effort, fam. Team effort.

My Young Man

Just under four months after I finished the story for NaNoWriMo, it's packaged in a pretty little bow with music and a sweet arse end. So two things. I somehow, incredibly curbed my swearing. And I somehow managed to not use any words associated or substituted for vagina. I didn't write a sex scene. Not an explicit one - not the one's I'm used to. I skimmed. I kept the bedroom door open at a creak, only for Patricia to get up and shut the door in my face. No lie. Fair warning is fair warning. No bang time. But I always believe that to be the mark of a good romance. If you take out the shagging, do the hero and the heroine have a connection? I can safely say that Patricia and Art do. So much so, in my tiny little mind, I am willing for them to make it. Grow old together. Go to IKEA and fight with each other. Remind their kids that they have no idea how hard A-levels are.

Root for them, Tyra Banks style...

An Art To It on Smashwords

An Art To It on Amazon

An Art To It on Allromanceebooks

Question 1: Is this the blurb for An Art To It?

Patricia Nelson has the most important interview of her life coming up. It’s a world away from the girl she used to be. Her future relies on her being accepted into university, so no distractions. That means not getting turnt up, no drinks and definitely no boys. Not even Art. Beautiful, smart, convenient Art. She ain’t got time for that. Truly. None.
Arthur McWorth has never been thought of as a distraction. A nuisance. A terrible influence. The bane of his parents’ life, yes. But to a girl like Patricia, he’ll take distraction any day. Beautiful, smart and single Patricia. Since they’re practically family, he’ll help her get through her university interview. In exchange, he’s allowed to be someone altogether different. A boyfriend.

Question 2: Where can you find an excerpt of An Art To It?

Like a bucket of ice water, the sound of the front door opening made them both spring to their feet. Patricia leapt for her clothing and placed them hurriedly in a pile next to the armchair, and she threw herself into the seat. Art sat back on the sofa, hooking his ankle onto his knee, only to look down at his crotch and grab a cushion instead. Patricia clapped a hand over her mouth, and he warned her, “Don’t you dare!”“Coo-eee!” Gwen called, stumbling into the living room. “How’s my baby! BABY!” she crowed when she caught sight of Art.“Hello, Mother.”She leaned down and cupped his cheeks, pressing kisses to his forehead. Art struggled to throw her off. “God, woman, how much have you had to drink?”“A bit too much, Mikey Mike is parting…” she hiccupped, “…parking, sorting out the car.”Finally, Art got up and pushed his mother into the sofa. “Just sit down. I’ll make you some coffee. Actually, I’ll get you some water.”Patricia leapt to her feet. “I’ll help you.” She grabbed the baby monitor and scampered off after Art. He reached for a glass, and his T-shirt lifted, exposing some crazy definition over his hips.“Mike’s clearly re-evaluating his life,” Art said ruefully, using the water dispenser to fill a glass for Gwen. “It doesn’t take that long to park a car.”Patricia leaned against the fridge, catching the hem of his shirt and pleating it with her fingers. “Maybe we shouldn’t go out.”He cradled her jaw with a warm palm, his lashes fanning over his cheeks, eyes focused on her mouth. “Why not?”“Umm,” she began, distracted by the intensity of his focus on her.“We were okay without an audience of the drunk.” When he’d moved so close, she couldn’t recall, but kissing him again was so easy, with the fridge keeping her partly upright.Gwen bellowed from the living room. “Where’s my coffee?”Art rested his head against Patricia’s, eyes closed, briefly. “Mind out.” He opened the fridge and squeezed a half lime into the water. He circled her, trailing a kiss over her cheek and she heard him say, “All right, Mike?”Patricia jumped. Had he heard something? “I’ve been better,” her uncle replied, sounding severe. He stalked into the kitchen where Patricia hadn’t moved, gripping the monitor like a talisman.He looked her up and down, somewhat more casually dressed than when he’d left. A T-shirt that just about reached her knees—and nothing else. No socks, no jumper, and had Mike and Gwen turned up a little later, probably no knickers, either. “It’s warm in here. I couldn’t figure out how to turn the heating down.”Mike stared at her as if she’d just said she didn’t realise she was a girl. “Really? That little white box I pointed to before we left?”Patricia shrugged. “I was thinking about my interview.”He didn’t look convinced, but changed the subject anyway. “Brian okay?”Patricia waved the monitor at him, the screen glowing in black and white where Brian snored away in content. “He’s been perfect.”“I’ll go look in on him, and then I can drive you home.”The protest came thick and fast. “Oh, no, don’t worry about that. Um, Arthur said he’d give me a lift, and besides, Gwen is toasted. You can’t leave Brian with her in that state. Yes, he’s sleeping, but what if he wakes up?”Mike made a huff of irritation and lowered his voice. “That boy has a world full of problems, Patricia. Don’t let him get back at his mother through you.”“How would he do that?” she flashed, furious that her uncle would only see her as some sort of mother-bait. “Gwen actually likes me.”He touched her shoulder. “Just be careful. I know boys like that. I used to be a boy like that.”“I don’t think that’s true. Art isn’t breaking up any relationships now, is he?” Before her uncle could reply, she stepped around him and into the living room. Gwen was cradling her water and clutching Art’s hand in her free palm.“You’re such a good boy,” she slurred. “You know how much I love you, don’t you?”“In vino veritas, I suppose,” he retorted. His eyes lit up when he saw Patricia. “Are you ready to go?”“I just need to put on my things, and then sure. Yeah.”She gathered her pile of clothes and went into the downstairs W.C. to tug on her boots and leggings and jumper, her heart pounding in her chest. Words with her uncle couldn’t be good. Her mother would be on at her for starting trouble, just when they’d calmed things down. But he asked for it. Closing the door behind her, she walked into the living room, the raised voices tuning to her brain.“What makes you think you can come in anywhere you like and take what you want?”Art scratched his head. “My mum?”“That champagne was a gift from people who cared to come to our wedding.”“Actually, that champagne was a gift from my christening. I know because it was on the list of assets they split from the divorce. I guarantee it’s more to do with me than you, considering you weren’t shagging my mother when I was born. Or were you?” Art pretended to look thoughtful. “We never got a fixed date as to when you two became such close friends.”Mike leaned in, saying under his breath. “If you weren’t Gwen’s son, I’d rip you into pieces, you little shit.”Art didn’t even blink. “Not much I can do about that. Get out of my face, Mikey Mike. She gave up a wedding for you and I didn’t even ask.”He left the remaining words unsaid, and Mike regained his senses. “Just go away. And leave Patricia alone.”“I can speak for myself,” she intervened, coming to stand beside Art and slipping her hand into his. She felt him trembling and it could only be from anger. “If my mum doesn’t interfere with my choices, then you shouldn’t, either.”“If they knew…”“There’s nothing to know!” Patricia and Art snapped. They looked at each other and pointed. “Jinx. Jinx again!” She flapped at his finger and turned back to her uncle. “Just back off. You’re not doing anyone any favours by getting mad.”Understanding finally crossed his face, and he left them in the corridor. “Where’s your coat?” Art asked into the uncomfortable silence.“Closet,” she said on a whisper. He carefully released her and took her duffle coat with its fur-lined hood from the cupboard and draped it over her shoulders. Bending to her height, he pressed a kiss to her lips.“Thank you.”“You’re welcome.”He loped back into the living room to gather her books, then he hustled her out of the house. Once seated in the car, Art said, “Maybe I should take you home?”“Oh.” The disappointment in her voice had to be palpable.He shifted slightly to face her, earnest in his protest. “Not that I don’t want to go out, it’s just…”“It’s gone a bit Pete Tong,” she finished.“Listen,” he caught her gaze, and sincerity blazed from those dark blue eyes. “I’ll think of something. ’Cause at the moment, we can just about get a burger van and a can of Old Jamaica ginger beer.”She looked at the clock dial on the car dashboard. She hadn’t realised it was going eleven. They’d just spent all that time on the sofa getting a little too intimate for people sort of related to each other. “Yeah. Okay.”Art stroked a hand over her hair, and brushed his thumb over her jaw line. “New day, yeah?”She nodded, turning to fasten her seatbelt. As practical as separating Mike’s threat from their rather lovely evening together seemed to be, Patricia couldn’t help her worry that in the morning, Art would see it differently.By the time they reached her house, silence had ruled. Whether thoughts of their miniature rendezvous turned to the path of an error, or the beginning of something sweet and new, remained unclear.
Patricia had nothing to say that wouldn’t sound—to her mind, at least, —immature and whining. She didn’t want to whinge. She wanted everything, especially her feelings, to stay low damn key.

Teenage Dream

For the grace of yan kapon, we had a little bump in the road, and Bree and I with the help of the amazing Janet Eckford (I owe you chocolates) revised the cover for An Art To It, and here we are. Mi amigos, it was not fun. I didn't sleep all of Monday night - or maybe because I was having nightmares about Tommy Lee Royce - worried about the cover and getting it done before my release date. Sometimes things go tits up, and all we can do, is send a little prayer to the gods of stock photos to yield something fresh and loving so one can get on with one's life.

Translation? Yan kapon is only used when my parents call to God in the most desperate way. The chocolates I'll send Janet and Bree actually, are my favourites Charbonnel Et Walker. I use mi amigos because I send Patricia and Art to Spain for a post exam holiday. Tommy Lee Royce is the antagonist of Happy Valley. It is not a Happy Valley. James Norton does not give me the fuzzies in this role. He scares the living daylights out of me. Don't want to sleep? Watch it. Let go of any good feels you have about Yorkshire. It is not a safe place. Not.

Anyways! New cover, new path, good times. Let's roll.