Ros Clarke's Blog, page 22

Christmas is a-coming

It’s November.

But the Christmas lights in my town were switched on this weekend. There’s Christmas music everywhere and people are shopping like it’s going out of fashion.

So, if by some chance you are getting into the Christmas spirit already, you might like to take half an hour to settle down with All I Want For Christmas. It’s a sweet story, in every sense of the word, and I hope it will leave you with a happy smile as you think about your own family this Christmas.

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I do have another Christmas short story coming out this year. No release date yet but hopefully soon. Will let you know more when I can.

There are links to buy All I Want For Christmas in the side bar, but here’s a little excerpt to whet your appetite.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Anna was never, ever going to the office Christmas party again.

With her head still thumping like a herd of elephants, she’d dragged herself into work. Now she had to face the knowing glances and smothered grins of her colleagues as she walked past them on the way to her office. Grateful for some privacy, she slumped into the cushioned leather chair behind her sleek glass-topped desk and checked her watch. Half an hour late. Half an hour wasn’t too bad after the night she’d had.

A quiet knock, and then her assistant slipped in, closing the door behind her.

“Coffee,” Jennifer said. She set a large paper cup on Anna’s desk, together with a blister pack of pills. “And painkillers.”

Anna raised her head and grimaced. “Is it that obvious?”

Jennifer cocked an all-too-perky eyebrow. “I went up to the second floor.”

The second-floor machine dispensed double-strength brew. Usually Anna stuck with a normal level of caffeine, but today she was grateful Jen had made the effort to go upstairs. She nodded her thanks.

Mistake. Bad mistake.

Anna closed her eyes and waited for the hammering in her head to subside. Within a few minutes, the sweet black coffee and the painkillers blessedly began to work their magic. She looked back at her assistant, who still waited patiently.

“It’s not good news, is it?” Anna asked.

Jen grinned. “Well, that depends how you look at it. I saw Mr. Munro while I was up there.”

Anna exhaled slowly. Hugh Munro was the shining star of the company’s creative firmament—and the star of all Anna’s most embarrassing memories.

“He said he was taking you to lunch,” Jennifer added.

Any other day, that would be good news. But not the morning after the office Christmas party. Anna groaned. “Please tell me you said I had a meeting.”

“I told him your diary was clear all day.”

Terrific.

“You’d better fill me in on what happened last night,” Anna muttered. “I remember there was karaoke.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“How badly did I embarrass myself?”

“You had everyone going,” Jen said with a smirk. “They all joined in on the choruses. ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day,’ ‘Rocking Around the Christmas Tree.’ All the classics. And then you did your solo.”

Anna shut her eyes. She couldn’t have. Not again. Please say she hadn’t sung—

“‘All I Want for Christmas Is You.’”

“What did they put in that punch?”

Jennifer shrugged. It was all very well for her—she hadn’t made a fool of herself singing out of tune in front of the entire staff. And after the singing…

“I kissed him, didn’t I?”

“I think he kissed you, really. It was sweet.”

Sweet.

Anna laid her head on her desk. “I don’t want to see anyone today, Jen. If someone asks, tell them I’ve got something urgent to catch up on before the Christmas break and I can’t be disturbed.”

“Shall I bring you another coffee?”

“Please.”

No amount of caffeine would make this better. She’d drank too much and kissed Hugh Munro at the office Christmas party.

Again.

Last time she’d been so mortified, she’d managed to avoid him entirely until the New Year. Hugh had eventually tracked her down and asked her out for a drink after work, but when she’d refused, he hadn’t bothered to try again.

Bastard.

Still, his polite indifference meant she hadn’t needed to keep coming up with excuses. After a while, they’d settled back into a comfortable routine of occasional chats in the lift or by the coffee machine and semiregular lunches at the Italian restaurant around the corner from the office. As far as Anna was concerned, the kiss had been all but forgotten, and she was grateful for his friendship.

But after two glasses of punch, friendship just hadn’t been enough.

Next year she was definitely sticking to the apple juice. She shook her head. Next year she wasn’t going to the party at all.

Excellent plan.

This year, she would just have to hide again. Down here in finance, there was no reason to spend time with the advertising agency’s creative directors. No professional reason, anyway, and she always had work as an excuse to avoid anything else.

Anna picked up her phone and dialed Hugh’s extension. “Look, about lunch…,” she began.

“Good morning to you, too.” He was smiling. She could hear it.

Bastard.

“I can’t make it. I’m very busy today.”

“Doing what?”

“Well…” Anna cast around for a plausible excuse. “I’ve got to finish the end-of-year budgets.”

“You did them last week.”

Damn. “Yes, well, there are some, er, amendments. Urgent ones.”

He laughed. “Anna, I’m taking you to lunch. I already booked a table at Giovanni’s.”

“Oh.”

“The tiramisu is on me.”

She could never resist Giovanni’s lusciously rich, creamy tiramisu, and he knew it. “Hugh, I’m not sure—”

“I’ll pick you up at twelve.”

“But—”

“I’ve got a client on the other line. I’ll see you later, Anna. We’ll talk then.”

***

At five to twelve, Anna picked up her bag and coat and hid in the ladies’ loos.

Three minutes later, Jennifer followed her in. She grinned and said, “He says you’ve got two minutes, and then he’s coming in to get you.”

“He can’t!”

Jennifer glanced at the flimsy swing door. “He can, you know.”

“Ninety seconds!” Hugh’s voice echoed with amusement but did nothing to disguise his determination.

Anna whipped out her comb and tidied her hair. If she were going down, she’d do it with all guns blazing.

“Thirty seconds!”

She dashed on a streak of dark pink lipstick and pinched some color into her cheeks. Nothing could disguise her faintly bloodshot eyes. Resigned, she slipped her arms into her coat and picked up her handbag.

“Coming, ready or no—” Hugh cut off as she emerged into the foyer. “Good decision.” He winked.

Anna glared at him. How did he manage to look so good the day after the office party, anyway? “I’m not talking to you.”

He laughed. “Fine. You can eat spaghetti alla vongole and sip a delicious Montepulciano, and I’ll do all the talking.”

She shot him a dark glance, then turned away. “We’re not talking about last night.”

“No.”

Anna looked back, surprised by the stern tone of his voice. He had folded his arms and narrowed his eyes.

“Not again. This time we’re going to talk about it openly and honestly. Like adults, not teenagers.”

Ouch. That was below the belt.

“Couldn’t we just ignore it and move on like adults?” she muttered.

Hugh raised an eyebrow. “We should get going if we don’t want to lose our table.”

Outside, the pavement was slippery with frozen slush. Three days earlier, the freshly fallen snow had been pretty. Now, melted and refrozen several times, it was just ugly gray ice. Anna walked gingerly, careful to keep her balance. The last thing she wanted was to slip and give Hugh an excuse to catch her.

They paused, waiting for a chance to cross the busy road. Anna’s hand bumped against Hugh’s.

“You’re cold,” he said.

“It’s winter.”

“You need a pair of gloves,” he remarked as they crossed the street to the restaurant.

“I lose them.”

“Here. Get inside, where it’s warm.” Hugh held open the door for her.

Giovanni greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks. “Bellissima signorina!”

“Hello, Giovanni.” Anna couldn’t help but smile. Giovanni’s outrageous compliments were one of the reasons she loved coming here.

“Today I have a special for you,” he told Hugh. “Beautiful oxtail, cooked since yesterday so it will melt in your mouth.”

Hugh’s lips twitched into a smile. “I think I’ll take a look at the menu.”

Giovanni sighed dramatically and shook his head. “No soul. That is the problem with English men.”

“No heart, either,” Anna agreed, with a pointed look in Hugh’s direction.

“Come, then. I have your table here.” Giovanni handed them each a menu. “A bottle of wine?”

“Anna?” Hugh asked.

“I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

He laughed. Bastard.

“We’ll have a bottle of sparkling mineral water, thanks.” Hugh raised a knowing eyebrow at Anna. “Still feeling it from last night, huh?”

“I thought we were forgetting last night.” She was not blushing. The heat in her cheeks was perfectly normal after the cold outside.

“No.” Hugh’s eyes twinkled. “You were forgetting. I was going to have an adult conversation about it.”

Anna hid behind the large leather-bound menu. “The penne sounds good. Or maybe I’ll try the chicken with dolcelatte and spinach.”

“Or maybe you’ll have the same thing you have every single time.” Hugh whipped the menu out of her hands.

Anna glared at him. “Maybe I’ve decided to start taking some risks.”

He let out a bark of laughter. “Risks like last night?”

She sighed. “Last night was a mistake. I’m sorry. Can we please move on from it now?”

“No.” Hugh shook his head decisively. “We can’t.”

Giovanni returned with the water. Hugh ordered the lasagna for himself and the spaghetti for Anna. She frowned.

“Sorry, did you want something different?” Hugh raised an eyebrow.

“For the signorina, it is always the spaghetti alla vongole,” Giovanni said with a cheerful nod. “The best spaghetti inLondon, no?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “And yes, I’ll have the spaghetti.”

Hugh poured them each a glass of water, then leaned back in his plush red chair, watching her. Anna glanced around the restaurant. Deep burgundy gilded ribbons had been twisted into classic bows and elegant festoons. Golden candles lit the windows, and fresh greenery scented the air. It was lovely.

And Hugh was still watching her.

One of them would have to break the silence. She didn’t see why it should be her. He was the one who wanted to talk. She shifted in her chair, then took a sip of water.

Fine. If he wasn’t going to say anything, he could listen to her. “Look…”

“I’m looking.”

His lips twitched until he was almost laughing, but not quite. She wished he wouldn’t do that. It always made her want to lean over and kiss his lips into a proper smile. Anna tightened her grip on the water glass to stop herself from doing anything so stupid.

“I like what I see,” he said.

“I thought this was supposed to be an adult conversation.”

“Sorry.”

“So am I. It shouldn’t have happened. It was unprofessional, and I’m sorry. Next year, I just won’t come to the office party.”

“That would be a shame.”

Anna shrugged. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“You could tell me why.”

“Why what?”

“Why you can’t keep your hands off me once you’ve had one drink too many.”

She reached for a slice of Giovanni’s delicious focaccia bread and began to crumble it on her plate. “People do the strangest things when they’re drunk.”

“That’s true.” His eyes narrowed. In the candlelight, they were almost golden.

Anna ducked her head. “So, that’s all it was.”

“Hm.”

The waiter arrived with their food. Anna asked for grated Parmesan and freshly ground black pepper. If she took long enough, maybe Hugh would let her get away with changing the subject.

“Delicious,” she pronounced, tucking in hungrily.

“Good. Did you have breakfast today, by the way?”

“What?”

“Had you eaten anything this morning?”

“I had coffee.”

“That explains it. You’re always grumpy when you’re hungry.”

“I wasn’t hungry,” she replied automatically.

“Eat your lunch.”

She twirled her fork into the spaghetti. As the pasta warmed her from the inside, her irritation began to seep away. Maybe Hugh had a point.

“Better?” His voice was surprisingly tender.

“Yes. I needed that. Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Is there a reason you keep running away from me?”

He spoke softly. Anna’s cutting retort died on her lips. She closed her eyes and took a ragged breath. “I’m not running now.”

Hugh laid his hand over hers. “I’m glad.”

His hand was warm and oddly comforting. It took a considerable effort for Anna to draw hers away.

“This isn’t a good idea.”

“Why not?” He smiled. “I like you, Anna. You like me. Why isn’t this a good idea?”

“I’m not looking for a relationship. I’m happy just being friends.” She picked up her holly-patterned napkin and folded it between her fingers.

“Friends who can’t keep their hands off each other after a glass of punch?”

She shrugged, fixing her gaze on her empty plate.

Hugh leaned across the table. “I don’t believe you, Anna. I didn’t believe you last year, but you ran away so fast every time I tried to tell you how I felt. I told myself I’d read you wrong. I tried to believe it had been just a drunken mistake you didn’t want to repeat.”

His voice lowered. Anna instinctively moved closer.

“But then you did it again,” he murmured, and she shivered as if he had touched her. “Once might have been a mistake, but not twice. I know what I heard in your voice when you sang for me last night. I know what I saw in your beautiful brown eyes when you walked toward me, never taking your gaze from mine. I know whose name you whispered when you put your arms around my neck. My name, Anna,” he said savagely. “And then I kissed you. Because you wanted it, and so did I.” He leaned back in his chair, leaving her staring up at him, pulse racing wildly with desire. “So don’t tell me you’re happy being friends.”

Anna slumped in her seat. She wasn’t happy, but she couldn’t tell him why. She wasn’t ready for that. She couldn’t bear the inevitable pity. She didn’t want to hear his excuses. Neither of them needed that embarrassment. Much better to let him down gently.

“Fine,” she said in a bright voice that sounded false even to her ears. “I won’t tell you that. But we can’t be anything else. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry,” he repeated slowly. “For what, exactly? For kissing me like I was the only man in the world? For running away from me? Or for lying to me again?”

“I’m sorry for ever making you think we had a chance.”

Hugh gave her a long, measuring look, then called for the bill. She took her purse out of her pocket, but he dismissed it with an impatient gesture and handed his credit card to Giovanni.

“No tiramisu for the signorina?” Giovanni asked as he processed Hugh’s payment.

Anna mustered a smile. “Not today.”

He gave her a knowing look. “It is good for the heart, the tiramisu.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my heart,” she said sharply, then shook her head. “Sorry. I’m a bit on edge today.”

Hugh jabbed his number into the card machine and handed it back.

“She needs dessert,” Giovanni said with a nod toward Anna.

Hugh looked her up and down coldly. “So she does.”

Anna gritted her teeth. “Actually, I need to get back to the office. Maybe next time,” she added politely, for Giovanni’s benefit.

Hugh merely helped her into her coat and nodded farewell to the restaurateur.

They headed back toward the office, Anna half a step behind Hugh. At the corner he turned left instead of right and Anna, focused on the treacherous pavement, walked right into him. Hugh grabbed her arm before she hit the ground. He hauled her upright and grasped her shoulders.

When they were both steady on their feet, she said, “The office is the other way.”

“Jennifer said your diary was clear. I thought we might take a walk.”

“Because it’s such a nice day?” she said dryly. “And we’re enjoying each other’s company so much?”

He let her go and resumed walking.

“Next time, you could try asking me,” she shouted after him.

Anna paused on the street corner. She didn’t want to be back at the office all that much. She wouldn’t get any useful work done.

“Are you coming, then?” Hugh grunted over his shoulder.

She smothered her giggle at his bad temper. “Fine. Wait while I catch up.”

A few minutes later, they turned into a small square with a number of brightly lit shops and open market stalls, all strung with Christmas lights.

“We need to get you some gloves. Here.” Hugh walked over to a nearby stand. Patterned scarves in vivid jewel tones waved like banners in the chilly breeze. Chunky hand-knitted hats and gloves were piled high on the table: bright reds and greens in Christmas patterns for kids on one side and subtle, sophisticated shades in adult sizes on the other. Hugh picked up a pair of thick gloves and held Anna’s hand against them to check the size.

“Green or blue?” The soft cashmere gloves were warm against her skin, but it was Hugh’s casual grip that set her pulse racing.

“Blue. I mean, you shouldn’t be buying me gloves. I’ll lose them.”

“Tie them on a string.”

She looked up into his laughing eyes, and her heart skipped. She wanted to say yes to him. To everything. She nodded slowly. “Maybe I will.”

“Here, try this on.” Hugh handed her a matching woolly hat. “That should keep you warm.”

Anna pulled it on, but it wouldn’t fit over her neatly pinned knot of hair. Hugh raised a challenging eyebrow. She shrugged and took out the pins, letting her hair spill down below her shoulders.

He smiled. “Beautiful.”

“The hat?”

“You.”

She caught her breath. “Hugh,” she warned.

“It’s my New Year’s resolution.”

“What is?”

“To be completely honest.”

“But it’s not the New Year.”

“No, but I need to start practicing now.”

“Idiot,” she said mildly. She couldn’t be angry with him for a compliment like that.

It was hard to be angry with him at all. If only things were different. Anna couldn’t ask for a better man than Hugh. He was kind, he was thoughtful, and he knew how to make her laugh even on the worst days.

When he kissed her, he made her feel like the most precious, most cherished woman in the world. When he smiled at her, as he did now, it was as though he lit up the world just for her.

“Put your gloves on,” he said.

She did, and then held up her hands to show him.

Hugh grinned and took hold of them. “Warmer now?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Good. Let’s walk along the river for a bit.”

A fine mist diffused the afternoon light, giving the city a soft-focus glow. As they wandered along the Embankment, Anna and Hugh passed street vendors selling roasted chestnuts and others with piles of sweet-scented pine trees. A choir of wide-eyed children sang carols outside the National Theatre, their pure, clear voices full of innocent wonder. Anna stopped to listen, caught by her own childhood memories. The awe she used to feel at a world transformed by tinsel and sparkling lights. The hope that anything was possible in a world where reindeer pulled sleighs full of presents through the sky.

Hugh led her to a nearby bench, where they sat and listened together for a long time. Anna watched the river slumber past, all the lights reflected in its dark water, like an impressionist painting brought to life.

She sighed.

“Are you okay?” Hugh asked.

“Yes.” She leaned forward, gazing into the dark water of theThames. “I just wish every day could be like this.”

“Cold and damp?”

She elbowed him.

“Isn’t it enough just to enjoy the moment?” Hugh asked.

She shook her head firmly. “No. It’s lovely while it lasts, but it doesn’t make anything else better.”

“Anything else being?”

Anna bit her lip. “Work.”

“But you like work.”

“Sometimes I do.”

“So what else?”

“Karaoke?” she offered.

“Your karaoke is excellent,” Hugh replied solemnly. “Especially that last song.”

“‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’?”

“Exactly.” He took her hand in his and leaned down. “Anna?” he murmured.

He smelled so good. So warm. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to know what it felt like when she wasn’t drunk. Would it stop her heart the way it had before?

Could she just enjoy this moment?

Am I doing this right?

In the past 15 months, I have published 3 category length books and two short stories. I have another category book contracted, a short story that I’ve had an offer and am waiting for the contract on, and a couple of other works in progress. This is beginning to produce an income stream which is growing, but by no means spectacular. If you’re a regular here, you’ll know that. What I’m playing for is the long game. A steady output (which ought to increase next year, once the PhD is done) and a steadily growing income. Everyone says that the best way to increase the sales of your existing books is to write more books, and that is what I’ve been trying to do.

But every so often, I look around and see other people hitting the heights with books that make me go ‘Huh? Really? THAT?’

And then I wonder if I’m doing this wrong.

I see authors engaging in marketing practices that feel decidedly underhand (competitions where you have to write a review of the book to enter, for instance).

I see authors stirring up online controversy, getting their name known for all the wrong reasons, but then seeing their sales rocket.

I see authors not bothering with the most basic copyediting/proofreading and millions of readers who don’t seem to care.

I see books with covers that are illegible, badly put together or just plain ugly, and yet they seem to catch the eye of thousands of readers.

I see people getting ahead because of who they know – established authors promoting the work of their buddies, or big review sites picking out titles of their friends to review.

And I wonder if I’m doing this wrong.

My books are not great literature, I know that. I’m not wondering why I haven’t sold millions and hit bestseller lists and so on. But I do think that they are pretty well-produced, reasonably well-written, fun stories that other people seem to enjoy. I know that they have taken time and care to write, edit and publish – both my self-published and my Entangled titles. They are not perfect, but I’m proud of them.

I can’t bear the idea of selling by controversy, or dodgy deals. I’m not prepared to put my name to a shoddy product. I’m hopeless at networking – I have lots of friends but my stomach turns at the idea of leveraging them for the sake of profit.

So I guess I may be doing this wrong, but it’s the only way I know how to do it.

Book reviews: Kate Hewitt edition

The last three books by Kate Hewitt have all challenged genre conventions in ways that I’ve found fascinating.

I don’t know how to do this post without giving spoilers, sorry. If you don’t want to be spoiled, click away now! (And come back when you’ve read them…)

First, The Darkest of Secrets. I really, really, really loved this book for its themes of forgiveness and trust. Our heroine has been married before. Her marriage ended badly and she does not have custody of her child. Our hero is smitten with her and mistakenly assumes that her ex-husband was to blame for the ending of her marriage. She knows he’s got the wrong idea but doesn’t correct him. I can’t remember another romance, let alone another M&B, where the heroine has committed adultery. I’m sure they’re out there, but I know that adultery is an automatic no for many romance readers. It is the unforgiveable sin. There are other people in this book who need forgiveness too. I love the bit near the end where the heroine wants the hero to forgive his brother. He claims that has nothing to do with their relationship. But she thinks differently. If he can’t forgive his brother, how can she be sure he’ll forgive her the next time he screws up? I love that there is no pretence at being perfect. True love isn’t being blind to someone’s faults, it’s accepting those faults and continually, daily forgiving.

The Husband She Never Knew is the brother of the hero in The Darkest of Secrets. The more I learned about him, the more I realised that forgiving him is no small task. He has done some truly, truly awful things. An accident in which his father died and he nearly died is the prompt he needs to change. But change is hard. That’s the thing I liked about this book. There were no easy answers, no quick redemption. He hurt his wife very badly and he hurts her again in this book. He doesn’t know how to change, only that he needs to and wants to. He has to learn how to love someone and be loved. And again, his wife is not blind to his faults. There’s a scene where someone else tells her about some of the awful things the hero has done. When she confronts him, he admits to it all without even hearing the accusation. She knows that there are always going to be more revelations, more skeletons to confront. Her forgiveness isn’t enough to wipe away the past. They are both going to have to live with the ongoing consequences of what he’s done, but she loves him enough to do that.

Two dark, angsty, difficult books, both worth reading and re-reading, I think.

Beneath the Veil of Paradise is a different sort of book. This isn’t about forgiveness and redemption. It’s about grief, guilt, and fear. It’s about two desperate people, finding temporary solace with each other. This is a book which, if it had not been an M&B, I might have stopped reading because I was so doubtful about the possibility of a happy ending. It’s fine, there is one. So how does this book push boundaries? Bondage. Seriously. I mean, only a little bit, but that’s a lot more than I remember reading in an M&B before. It totally works, by the way. Both these two need to be pushed to give up control, to admit they need help, and the bondage pushes them just enough.

I’d love to know what you think about these romance taboos – adultery, redemption, kink. And I’d love to hear Kate’s thoughts, if she wants to join in the discussion…

Ereaders, broadcasting and the BBC

I caught a little bit of R4′s Archive Hour last night (should be available to listen again worldwide). They were talking about how the British Broadcasting Company (now Corporation) came into being as an attempt to prevent radio manufacturers from establishing a monopoly.

Clearly, Marconi and other people who made wirelesses had a vested interested in broadcasting radio content. Without good, regular radio content, no one was going to buy their machines. But (and here I may not have followed the discussion properly) there was something of a free-for-all in broadcasting, with people stealing each other’s frequencies and so on. Marconi was the first company to set up a regular schedule. There was great concern that this would lead to a manufacturing monopoly. People would buy Marconi wirelesses so that they could listen to the Marconi programmes. This was felt to be very unfair to other manufacturers and so the BBC was created with a mandate to produce broadcast radio content that was accessible from any wireless.

Thus a broadcast monopoly was created…

Admittedly, there is no longer a broadcast monopoly in the UK, but there is still a strong ethos of making most content accessible to all devices. Digital radio channels have changed that a bit. And in TV, there are now subscription services. But even so, with a basic freeview package, there are a good 40 channels or so available from a variety of companies – BBC, ITV, C4, C5, and a host of other commercial companies.

It struck me that there is a parallel with ereaders. At the moment there are several available readers: kindle, kobo, nook, iPad etc. BUT each has their own content. You can’t (legally, probably) transfer content from one to the other. I have a kindle. If it dies and I decide to switch to a nook, I won’t be able to access the content I’ve got from Amazon. What is the result of this? It seems to me that the likely result is an Amazon monopoly. They have the best content and so people buy their devices. At the moment Kindles are sold at cost. Once they are in a settled monopoly, you can bet that won’t continue.

How do you prevent Amazon from establishing that monopoly on devices? By making their content accessible from any device.

How do you make the content accessible from any device? Establish a common format. Or remove DRM. Or make it legal to strip DRM. This is not hard.

How do you prevent Amazon from then becoming a monopolistic content provider? Sell content in mobi format or without DRM. This is not hard either.

So once again, I am left baffled. Why are other ereader manufacturers and content providers acting in a way which makes it easy for Amazon to take the monopoly position?

Getting ready for NaNoWriMo

That’s National Novel Writing Month, although they are very hazy about which nation – anyone can join, wherever in the world you are. The goal is to write 50,000 words in the month of November. If you ‘win’, i.e. you hit the word count, you can get a free copy of your book printed. I first did this several years ago with a counter-factual historical novel about Jane Grey. It’s possible that this is still online somewhere if you have really good google-fu. But honestly, it’s not worth the time. Really not.

This year I’ve signed up for an Entangled NaNo Bootcamp. They’ve set up forums for each of their category imprints, with editors checking our synopses and various other tasks. I’m using it as motivation to get the historical romance that’s been in my head for ages finally out onto the page. If it works out they way I hope, I’ll submit it to the forthcoming historical line at Entangled: Scandalous.

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I’ve written my synopsis. I’ve even written an outline: the scene I plan to write each day. If I can make each scene around 2000 words long, I’ll have a full-length manuscript by the end of the month. If it’s a bit shorter, that’s okay. My first drafts are always too short, so I’ll be able to go through it again and work out where it needs more detail. In particular, I won’t have time to do all the historical research in November. I’ve done some, and it is an era that I know moderately well, but I anticipate there will be places where I’ll just need to stick in question marks and come back to it later.

I’m not abandoning Tom and Hattie (there is one update almost ready to go) but they may need to take a little break until December. We shall see.

It’s not too late to sign up for NaNoWriMo. Why not make this the year you finally write the novel you’ve always wanted to?

Self-publishing payments

It’s about time for the quarterly payment from Smashwords, where most of my self-publishing income comes from.

Here’s a little look at the 2012 figures so far:

Jan: $24.63

Apr: $15.74

July: $173.34

July was good, right?

Now look at September:

September: $423.38

I’ll just put that in bold: $423.38

Please note that I have not added any more self-published titles this year. These figures are from the same two books: The Tycoon’s Convenient Wife and Reckless Runaway at the Racecourse. I have had other books published with Entangled and I think this is what has really pushed these sales figures. Initially, I was mostly selling through Amazon. Now I sell about 10 times as many at Barnes and Noble as I do at Amazon. Those aren’t my friends – B&N basically only sell to the US. They are people who’ve read my other books, liked them, and looked to see what else I’ve written. That is AWESOME.

The payments are always made in arrears, so I already have an idea of what’s coming next quarter. In the last six weeks, Reckless Runaway has been free as a promotional experiment. I’ve sold $126.60 worth of just The Tycoon’s Convenient Wife. By the way, Reckless Runaway is no longer free, though this hasn’t yet trickled down to B&N or (I think) Amazon US. If you want to try it out, do it now!

I get quarterly payments from Smashwords and Entangled. That means that my regular income is supplemented two months out of every three with my book royalties. It’s almost getting to the level where I am not worrying about paying the bills. Almost.

Lying for the camera: chapter six

He was silent throughout the journey back to the house. Hattie slid a sideways glance at him. Mouth tight, shoulders tense, eyes cold. He wasn’t going to make this easy for her but she wasn’t going to let him off the hook. He had years of misplaced guilt to get rid of and this was as good a way as any to kickstart the process.

The car skidded to a halt in the gravel driveway. Tom slammed the car door shut and was halfway to the house while Hattie was still picking up her handbag. She slid out of the car and followed him. He pointed the remote backwards, without so much as a glance over his shoulder. But he had to pause to unlock the heavy door and Hattie caught him up as he stalked into the grand entrance hall. Since the rest of the crew had left, the house was even colder and utterly silent. She automatically stayed close to Tom as he walked towards the staircase.

“I’m going to bed,” he said, without bothering to look at her.

“Me too.” His bed, though he didn’t know it yet.

“Huh.”

She paused at the top of the stairs to let him get a headstart down the corridor towards his room. Her bedroom was in a different wing from Tom’s, so hopefully he’d think she’d given up. Not a chance. Counting to a hundred, she waited until the footsteps had died down, then trod softly after him.

She didn’t knock. She wasn’t giving him the chance to shut her out. Hattie simply turned the handle and went in. Tom was standing by the window, gazing out into the impenetrable blackness of the night. He turned at the click of the door when she pushed it shut.

“Is there something wrong? Do you need help with your shoulder?”

She smiled and shook her head. “I’m fine. Look.” She began to undo the buttons on her blouse.

“Hattie,” he said in a warning tone.

“No, it’s fine. It doesn’t hurt at all.” The front of her blouse flapped open and she slipped it off carefully. She reached behind for the fastening of her bra but pain lanced through her shoulder. Better leave that till later, then. Jeans were easier. And stripping down to her underwear would be an equally clear sign of intent.

She kicked off her shoes and pushed the denim down. If she’d been able to choose, she’d have picked sexier lingerie but she’d been limited by what was in the bag Tom had brought her in hospital. Still, at least the black bra was trimmed with pretty lace, and it almost matched the black and pink silk knickers he’d packed.

“You should go back to your bedroom.” He’d turned away again, but she could see his hands clenched into fists. He wanted this every bit as much as she did.

“Can’t. I need you to help.”

He let out an audible breath. “What sort of help?”

She grinned. “I can’t undo my bra.”

“You…” He bit off his words. “I thought you said you were fine.”

“Fine for most things.”

“Right.”

“You’ll have to come over here.” She leaned against the door and tilted her head up. Tom stalked towards her and stopped at arms length.

“Turn round,” he ordered.

She pursed her lips at him in a mock kiss, then did as he asked, giving a little shimmy as she turned. He unhooked the fastening efficiently and slid the straps down over her shoulders. Even that brief touch of his fingers sent a delicious sizzle through her. This was going to be worth all the effort.

“Done.”

Hattie let the bra fall to the floor and resumed her position against the door. She lifted her good arm slowly above her head and raised the other so that her hand just cupped one breast.

“We’re not nearly done,” she breathed.

“Of course we are. You know that. You know why.”

“I’m not your model any more. It doesn’t break any rules.”

He gave a sharp laugh. “You break every rule, Hattie.”

“I try.” She winked at him.

He stepped forward. “You’d try the patience of a saint.”

“Tom.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Just kiss me already.”

He pressed his lips together and looked her up and down. She held her breath. If he turned her down again she wasn’t sure she could push him any further.

He took another step towards her, so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her temple. He pressed his hand over hers, trapping her against the door. With his free hand, he traced the line of her jaw, tilting her face towards his.

“I should have run a mile the first time I saw you,” he muttered.

“You can’t run away from your muse.”

He laughed. “I’m rethinking that position. Muses aren’t supposed to cause so much trouble.”

“Do you have a rule about sleeping with your muse?”

“No rule.”

“Shame.” Hattie slid her arm around his waist. “I would have enjoyed breaking that rule.”

His grip tightened on her chin. “Are you sure about this?”

She rolled her eyes. “Did you not notice me seducing you? Of course I’m sure.”

He bent his forehead to touch hers. “Good point. Well, then.”

His lips were warm and soft, his kiss far too brief. Hattie whimpered.

“Shh. You’ll get plenty more kissses,” he whispered. “But if we’re going to do this, we’re damned well going to take our time about it and enjoy it.”

Her knees wobbled under the intensity of his gaze. She could feel him taking note of every tiny response on her face, while his fingers traced delicate lines down her body, around her breasts, along the top of her knickers. He’d seen her naked a dozen times before. He’d looked at her through a camera lens hundreds of times. It wasn’t as though he didn’t know how she looked. But this was different. There was no camera to hide behind now – for him or for her. He wasn’t watching her as a photographer examines his model or his muse. He was just watching her. Hattie. She bit her lip. She was not going to blush. She wasn’t the blushing sort. Only she’d never known a man who saw so much of her.

His thumb was rubbing little circles around her hip bone. Her jaw slackened, her mouth parted, her eyes lost focus, and he noticed it all, she knew he did. She couldn’t bear any more of it and then, just as she was about to beg, he moved on to discover the next unexpectedly sensitive point on her body. He skimmed the bruises at her shoulder, so gently she could feel the hairs rise to his touch.

“Does it hurt?” he whispered.

“Not there.”

“Turn round.”

His hands rested lightly on her hips while she did as he asked. He leaned forward, his breath warm against her skin. “Here?”

She shivered. “A little.”

The lightest of kisses, so brief she wondered if she had imagined it. “Here?”

“N…not now.” He had her stammering now?

He curled his hand around her arm. “What about these scratches?”

“What scratches?”

Tom laughed. “Indomitable Hattie Bell. You should have been on the Titanic.”

“The unsinkable Molly Brown?”

“You’d knock her out of the water.” He nuzzled ino her neck, on the good side. “You are the sexiest woman I have ever known.”

She grinned. “Finally he sees sense.”

He pinched her bum. “You are the least modest woman I’ve ever known.”

“I’ve never seen the point of being modest. Isn’t it just another way to make women keep their talents hidden?”

“Your talents…” His hands slid round to cup her breasts, “are wonderfully on display.”

“Tom.”

He paused. “What’s the matter?”

“I have more talents than just a pair of, admittedly fantastic, breasts.”

He dropped a kiss on her shoulder. “I know that, Hattie. You’re my muse, remember?”

That hadn’t exactly gone to plan, though. She grimaced. “Is the exhibition ruined?”

“I don’t want to talk about that now.”

Hattie turned around to face him. “Why are we talking at all?”

He smiled down at her. “Good point. Come here.”

Christ, she was glorious. He slid his hand into her fiery red hair and held her in place while he teased the corners of her luscious lips with kisses that were never designed to satisfy. There was tension in her jaw and softness in her cheeks and the juxtaposition was intoxicating. She was panting and whimpering and he was tempted to see how far he could push her. Except his own need was mounting and her mouth was just there. There was only so much temptation a man could resist. And he’d been resisting Hattie for far too long.

Her lips opened beneath his and she pulled him firmly down against her. She kissed him as urgently as if she were breathing. He kissed her back as though he could give her all the oxygen she needed. Together, they could go on forever, holding, touching, kissing, loving. With Hattie in his arms and her lips against his, there was nothing more in the world to desire.

She slid her hand down to his arse and pulled him closer. He shifted slightly so that he could touch her breast without breaking the kiss. Soft, wonderful breasts that filled his hand and spilled over. He stroked and caressed and finally brushed his thumb across her nipple. The gasp she gave was the sweetest thing he could remember. He couldn’t help but reach across to tweak the other nipple. This time Hattie moaned.

Eventually, she pulled away from him. Just a few inches, but too far. He pulled her back but she managed to hold him off long enough to speak.

“Clothes,” she panted.

“Huh?” He had his lips on her neck, licking until he found the spot that made her knees tremble.

“You’re still wearing…” She tugged at his shirt when he cut off her sentence with his kiss.

“Can’t stop.” There was no way to remove his clothes while Hattie was in his arms and he was kissing her.

She cupped his jaw with her hands. “Pause.”

She backed away then and again he stepped towards her. She shook her head and winked. “Uh uh.”

He groaned.

“Shirt. Now.” She sat on his bed and slid back to lean against the headboard. Tom gave up on struggling with buttons and simply pulled the shirt over his head.

“Jeans.” Her eyes were sparkling and she’d begun to play with her own breasts. He was going to kill her if he didn’t die first.

Finally his belt gave way. He pushed the denim down and kicked it out of the way. Socks were easily dealt with.

Her lips twitched into a smile. “And the rest.” Boxers slid to the floor. “Now get over here and make love to me.”

“Since you ask so nicely,” he growled. He dropped onto the bed and crawled towards her, pushing her legs apart. When he got near enough, he pulled her hands from her breasts. “Gorgeous.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

It was too long since he’d kissed her. Time to remedy that. But her lips were no longer enough. He needed everything she could give. He reached down to slide a finger inside her. Wet and hot and enough to send his need skyrocketing.

“Now,” she urged him. “I need…”

“I know.” Her need couldn’t be greater than his.

Only… damn. Damn, damn, damn. He rolled off her and put his arm over his forehead. “I haven’t got any condoms.”

Her breathing was audible. Then he realised that his was no quieter. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t planning to do this when I packed for the week.”

Hattie sighed. “We agreed yesterday.”

He’d agreed, but he hadn’t thought it through. Idiot.

“I don’t suppose you have any?”

“No. But I’m on the pill.”

“Right. Well.” That was something.

“I’m clean. Are you?”

“Yes.”

She turned slightly and reached out her hand. Oh. Oh, Christ.

“I won’t last,” he warned.

“Make your mind up, then. In me or on you?”

He closed his eyes. Sometimes her bluntness was overwhelming.

“Tom?”

“In you. But I think you should be on top. And be careful, Hattie. You remember what happened last time you went riding.” He helped her up, to straddle him. “Take your time,” he challenged.

“Bet I can last longer than you.”

“No bet.” He’d be lucky if he lasted another thirty seconds.

Waking up warm for the first time in a week was the best thing ever. Waking up warm and lying next to a gorgeous guy was off the scale. Hattie couldn’t help the smug grin that spread across her face as she remembered the night before. She snuggled closer to Tom. The shoot was cancelled but the house was booked for another night and she had the time off work. What better way to spend an unexpected holiday than in bed?

He rolled over and dropped his arm on her waist, holding her against him.

“Morning.”

“Morning yourself.” She winked at him and pressed her body against his to check. Oh yes, it was definitely a good morning.

“You are insatiable.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

He sighed dramatically. “I suppose I can work with it.” He pushed her onto her back.

“Ow!”

“Hattie? Is it your shoulder?”

She gritted her teeth. “Painkillers have worn off.”

He clambered carefully off her. “Where are they?”

“Handbag. Downstairs.”

“Back in a second.” He didn’t bother to pull any clothes on, she noticed. Those painkillers had better kick in quickly. Now that she’d got Tom Metcalfe in bed, she didn’t plan on letting him out of it any time soon.

Book reviews: Sherry Thomas edition

I first read Sherry Thomas two or three years ago. I loved Delicious a lot. She has a unique voice and an interesting way of looking at romance. And there was food. A lot of very delicious food. Yum. Then I read Private Arrangements which I also enjoyed, though perhaps not quite as much as Delicious.

And then I got irritated by not being able to buy her books in the UK. I’d still like to read Not Quite A Husband, but I’m not allowed to.

So I was pleased and surprised to discover that Thomas’s latest books, a trilogy, are being released in the UK. I read the short story in Midnight Scandals and then a friend suggested that I might love Ravishing the Heiress, though I would need to read Beguiling the Beauty first. So I did.

And… I was seriously disappointed. I need to go back to Delicious and see whether Thomas has changed, or I have, or both. Both Ravishing the Heiress and Beguiling the Beauty are heavily laden with backstory, infodumps and sequel bait. The timeline in both books flits around all over the place. It’s a little bit as though Thomas broke the story up into jigsaw pieces and gives you all the ones with bits of tree, then sky, then the people, without worrying too much about which piece actually comes next. I’d love her to start at the beginning of a story and go on until the end and then stop.

I didn’t love the quality of the prose this time, either. She does still have a very distinct voice, but something about it felt distancing to me. I wasn’t drawn into the characters, because I felt as though the language was always drawing my attention back to itself, showing me how clever it was. I felt the same about the plot, especially in Beguiling the Beauty. I am not someone who reads for plot, so if I can see the machine-workings of your plot, you know it’s clunky. I was completely unconvinced by the disguise plot, and the revenge plot, and, to be honest, the love at first sight plot. So, um, yeah. In Ravishing the Heiress, I do love the particular tropes she was working with and yet even there I felt like the devices she was using were blunt and crude. A dead dormouse? A wall to bash down. And so on.

I wanted to love the characters. I did love Millie and I quite liked Venetia, except when she was wearing that stupid veil. I didn’t like Christian much, and although I liked Fitz, I also wanted to give him a good slap and tell him to stop being so selfish. I wanted more of the characters and less of the plot and the pretty prose.

I really wanted less of the sequel baiting. I don’t mind linked stories being linked. I like hints of what might be coming next. I don’t want whole chapters focussing on the sequel characters. I have no interest in Helena’s story now, and even less when I was in the middle of Venetia’s story or Millie’s story.

I think I’ve fallen out of love with Sherry Thomas. But the good news is that in Midnight Scandals I read my first Carolyn Jewel and adored it. So I have a new author with a backlist to glom. Hooray!

Authors and reviewers

It’s the hot topic du jour. Again.

In the Telegraph today, an author describes how it is ‘a necessary part of the job’ to track down negative reviewers. You know what, Jon Stock, it is neither necessary nor morally acceptable. In fact, it’s both creepy and counter-productive, because many, many people who read that article today will, like me, steer well clear of all your books in future. I don’t want to run the risk of a stalkery-author coming after me to make me change my reviews. Ugh.

Here’s what I feel about reviews, as both a reader/reviewer and as an author:



1. Reviews are primarily for readers

That is, they allow readers to express their responses to a book and sometimes promote discussion about the book between readers. Further, they can help potential readers to determine whether they want to read the book.



2. Reviews are not primarily promotional tools

Sure, a great review can lead to some increased sales. That is a nice side-benefit for authors, but it is not what the review is for. A poor review might put some readers off buying your book. That is not such a great side-benefit for authors, but is a great side-benefit for readers who want to make sure they spend their book budgets wisely.



3. Negative reviews can lead to increased or ‘better’ sales

A careful negative review which identifies why the book didn’t work for one reader may actually make other readers want to read it. It’s also likely to make readers who won’t enjoy your book not buy it. This is a good thing. Either way, a negative review is not the end of the world. Get over it and write a better book next time.



4. Positive reviews can be wonderful for authors

A review where a reader really gets the book is fab. Truly fab. You will want to feel like dancing and shouting from the rooftops and squeeing all over the comments. Don’t.



5. Authors commenting on reviews inevitably make the discussion about themselves and not the book

Again and again, readers testify to the presence of an author in a discussion about her book as something which kills the discussion. Reviews are NOT the place for author comments. Not even a thank you. Not even a correction or clarification. Not even an answer to a question posed by the review. Let your readers talk about your book without consideration for your feelings.

This is actually something I’ve changed my mind about. When I first started reviewing, I enjoyed having some author interaction. I have no problem telling someone to her face what I didn’t like about her book. But I know, because I have seen it and been told about it so often, that this isn’t typical. It is more important to me that readers can discuss a book freely than that an author gets to have her say.

6. Authors can respond, carefully, in other ways

I think this is okay. I will sometimes tweet a link to a lovely review, or very occasionally post excerpts on the blog. This lets me respond to the review without intruding on the reader space. If someone wants to talk to me about the review, they can do so, but there is no obligation. If an author wants to offer up information, I’d suggest maybe contacting the reviewer privately. Not stalking them, but using a public contact form on a blog, or a twitter DM or something. I would think very, very carefully about doing this and ask yourself whether the review genuinely invites that sort of response. You do not get to tell anyone that their response to your book is wrong, but you might, for instance, want to confirm that you have a sequel in the works featuring a particular character they were wondering about.

Mostly, I think authors really, really need to calm down about reviews. It’s great that the internet provides easy ways for readers to talk to each other about the books they’re reading. The more discussion there is, the more books get bought and read. This is a GOOD THING. Not all books are equal. Not all readers will love all books. Authors cannot change that, except by writing more and better books. Charging into the discussion is merely going to stifle the discussion and leave readers with a bad taste in their mouths. It will not sell books.

Reclaiming ‘craft’

I’ve been having some more thoughts about the ongoing discussion about what’s ‘art’ and what’s ‘craft’, prompted by the Handmade Revolution programme on BBC2. I was expecting the programme to showcase slightly different kinds of things from those that it has done so far.

It seems to me that there are basically three kinds of objects you can make:

1. things that are useful

2. things that are beautiful

3. things that are meaningful

These are, clearly, overlapping categories. An object can be beautiful and useful, beautiful and meaningful, or useful and meaningful. Very rarely, an object may be all three.

For me, craft focusses on the first two categories. Art focusses on the last two categories.

When I make things, I like them to be useful and beautiful. I don’t make many purely functional, ugly things. But then, I try to buy beautiful functional things too, so far as possible. I don’t feel the need for my craftwork to be recognised as ‘art’. I am not trying for any kind of meaningful or affective experience when I put a pretty cushion on the sofa, or pin bunting over the window. I just like it to look nice. I don’t think craft is an inferior category to art. In many ways it’s more important, because it has a place in daily life, both in the making and the using of the objects.

When I visit an art gallery, I am expecting more than just a display of pretty things. I am expecting to be challenged or uplifted or intrigued or in some way to be changed by what I see. I don’t need that sort of art in my home. An art gallery would be a very uncomfortable place to live, I think. Art is very important, but it isn’t quite part of the fabric of daily life in the same way as craft can be, at least for me.

The kind of objects I don’t really have much time for are the ‘beauty without use or meaning’. To me those are ways to create extra dusting opportunities. I especially don’t like them when the ‘value’ derives from the skill and time of the making, rather than the beauty of the finished object.

The thing I was not expecting about the programme is the focus on craft careers. The makers are asked to price their pieces and talk about their future plans to sell their work. To me, this is the least important thing about craft. I am not saying that people shouldn’t sell things they make. I sell things I make. But I much prefer to make things to use myself, or to give to friends. And I much prefer to have things I’ve made or friends have made for me, than things I’ve bought, even if they happen to be handmade.

I would like to see a handmade revolution which encourages people to think about making more of the things they use in their own lives, rather than one which encourages people to think about making craft into a career.