Farewell to Kindness

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Adventures in self-publishing

journeyI’m now officially an indie publisher of historical romance. Candle’s Christmas Chair hit the e-shelves a fortnight ago today, and has since been downloaded more than 4,500 times. (I’m hoping for 5,000 by 6pm this evening, in 7 hours time, because I really like round numbers.)

And, yes, I’ve reached those figures because the book is free (or 99c to some Amazon buyers, but Amazon has been very responsive in making it free to US purchasers when I asked them to do so).

So why am I giving Candle away? In a post a couple of months ago, I commented that, to sell, I needed to write a good book and I needed to be noticed by people who wanted to buy it. By delivering a free novella three months before I release my first novel, I give readers the chance to see whether they like the way I write for the investment of a couple of hours of their time. And I make it easy for them to share their pleasure in the book (if, indeed, they like it) with other people.

In theory, this should help sales of Farewell to Kindness, which will go on pre-release at the special price of 99c on 1 March (and up to $3.49 a week after its April release date).

So, to quote the man I adore: “What have you learned from this experience?” (Not, incidentally, what you want to hear when you’ve just bumped your toe or broken your heart. But I love you, darling.)

I still have a great deal to learn, but here are my top five lessons from this first venture into the wild and wonderful world of Indie.

Lesson 1: Romance writers are a wonderfully generous and supportive community

Since joining various Facebook groups for Historical Romantic Fiction, I’ve ‘met’ many wonderful authors. My to-read list has expanded at an alarming rate, but I’ve also been privileged to share their insights, tidbits from their research, and their encouragement as I’ve dipped my toes into the indie publishing water. Without their retweeting and sharing, far fewer people would have heard of Candle’s Christmas Chair.

I particularly want to thank Helen Hollick for organising the Christmas Party blog hop at which I officially launched the novella (with a little prequel story), and the other 24 great authors who joined the blog hop and enthusiastically promoted it on Facebook and Twitter. If you haven’t read their blog hop stories and posts, please do so.

And huge thanks, too, to Mari Christie, who featured Candle on her blog. Explore her website, folks. She has some very thoughtful articles about indie publishing. And, as Mariane Gabrielle, she is the writer of Royal Regard, which is a lovely book.

Three of the people on a Facebook Group volunteered as beta readers, and gave me great feedback (and seven are beta reading Farewell to Kindness). Thank you, all.

And I’ve had some generous reviews on Goodreads, Scribd, and Amazon from some of the online community.

Lesson 2: 20 December is a terrible date to launch a new book

The 1st; maybe the 10th; maybe the 30th.

The 20th was a really, really, bad idea, and very nearly did me in. So many competing demands. We have a habit of giving the grandchildren a craft day, and this year we did two (one full Saturday for the older children, and one for the younger). I work full-time in commercial publishing, and 30 years of experience should have taught me that clients pile on the deadlines in the three weeks leading up to Christmas and the New Zealand summer holidays. And that doesn’t even begin to touch on Christmas shopping and baking.

I’m indie publishing, and this was my first book. I didn’t have money to employ specialists, so I did all my own editing, cover design, proofreading, formatting, marketing, and so on. The week leading up to 20 December was insane, and the next week, as I publicised the book, even crazier. And that week included Christmas Day.

Let’s not do that again, okay?

Lesson 3: Don’t leave the cover till the last week

I’ve done a lot of research on covers, and looked at hundreds trying to work out what I like and what I don’t. I downloaded Pixelmator for the Mac, and my PRH transferred across a heap of fonts from the ancient version of InDesign on our old publishing company’s computer. We experimented with fonts till we found some we liked. But –with final tweaks on the image — the cover I actually used wasn’t completely ready until 12 December, just a couple of days before I uploaded to Smashwords and Amazon.

Okay. Not my fault. I started working on the cover the week I started writing the novella, but I had huge troubles finding the right images. Thanks to a chance conversation on my commuter train, I met the delightful Britt Leveridge, who drew the chair for me, and delivered the day before I needed to put the book on Smashwords.

More pressure than I needed. I’m currently writing an artist’s and photographer’s brief for Farewell to Kindness (the one I have is just a place holder), and aim to have it done and ready to go by mid-February.

Lesson 4: Distribution takes time – preorder is the way to go

I uploaded on 16 December my time. The book began to be downloaded from Smashwords straight away. Somehow, I’d managed not to take that into my calculations, but hey — a download is a download, right? It took several days to filter through to the resellers from Smashwords. Apple finally started showing the book on 27 December, and didn’t really pick up speed for several days. As of today, it seems to be shifting around 100 books a day. Kobo don’t seem to have Candle yet, but I’m watching out for it.

Amazon started selling immediately, too, but didn’t really begin to move until they made it free (see Ask for what you want, next).

I didn’t have the option of preorder for Candle, since I was planning to give it away (and, in any case, it wasn’t ready till the last minute). But I’ll definitely lighten my stress load by putting Farewell to Kindness up for preorder five weeks before release. That’ll mean it is in all the stores and ready to go on release day.

Lesson 5: Ask for what you want; it’s less stressful than waiting

Ask for reviews. Ask for ratings. People can say ‘no’. But you lose nothing by asking. One thing I asked for was a free listing on Amazon. I’d been told that Amazon would price match, and that I should ask people to request price matching. So I did. And nothing happened. I read discussions on forums where authors talked about how hard it was to get price matching. But then I thought ‘why not ask’?

So I emailed Amazon, told them that the novella was free at Apple and Barnes & Noble, that my strategy was to give it away free to publicise the next few books, and that — if they price matched — we’d both benefit in the long term. Within 24 hours, it was free on Amazon to US purchasers, and they’ve since distributed over 2000 copies (at the time of writing). I’ve been either 2 or 3 on their free bestseller Historical fiction > regency list for over 48 hours.

So ask. People just might say ‘yes’.

 

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First kiss scene from Farewell to Kindness

The heroine is staying at the hero’s house. When she cannot sleep, she goes to check on the rest of her family, and meets him in the darkened hall. He invites her to sit with him in the old Minstrel’s Gallery.

bluedrink setRede set the tray down, and took the candleholder from her to light candles in a candelabra that sat with others on a shelf just inside the door.

The room was not more than eight feet from where they had entered to the opposite wall, but stretched out to her left for an indeterminable distance. The near corner of the room was lit by the candelabra Rede set on the small table where he’d set the tray. Within the circle of light was the opposite wall, only a few feet high, letting out onto a dark void.

“It looks out over the Great Hall,” Rede told her, motioning to a chair.

Anne sat. She really should not be alone with him. She was sure Ruth and Hannah would advise her to beg a candle and take herself to bed. Alone. Of course, alone.

candelabraRede broke into her thoughts. “Your sister seems very excited about the Assembly.” He passed her the drink he had poured.

She smiled, fondly. “It is a great opportunity for her.” She took a sip, and blinked rapidly.

“What is this? It is very…” She paused, trying to find words to describe how it tasted.

“Your first brandy? Don’t drink it yet. Cup the glass with your hands so that the drink warms.”

He followed his own advice, bending his head to inhale the smell from the glass as he held it in both hands.

Anne, with most of her attention on copying him, said, “It has been hard for her when the other girls are talking about coming out; knowing that she must wait.”

He tipped his head to the side and raised his brow. “You plan a come out for her, then?”

“Just in Bath. Or perhaps Cheltenham? Not this year, though. We hope for next year, but the year after is more likely.”

“She is young yet. You have time enough, surely.”

Anne shook her head. “She is already 18. But she is very lovely. I am certain that she will ‘take’.”

“Ah. You are seeking a husband for her, then.” Rede sounded as if he disapproved.

“Should I not? Someone to love her; someone she can love. And children. She would make a wonderful mother, I think.”

“Wealth and title, I suppose.” He kept his voice neutral, but she could sense the sneer. What right had he to make assumptions and then sneer?

She refused to rise to his baiting.

“A competence is a useful thing for a couple starting life together. I would not like her to be poor. Wealth, however, is not necessary to happiness, in my view.” No need to tell Rede that Kitty would bring wealth enough to any marriage. Indeed, if she could, Anne would like to keep that information from Kitty’s putative suitors.

Rede inclined his head, making no comment.

“I do not hope for a title. Quite the contrary. Those peers I have met are, on the whole, arrogant and self-centred.” She swirled her brandy, absently. The amber liquid glowed where it caught the light. “I dare say it is not their fault. They are raised to think the world owes them respect, and make no effort to be worthy of it. I cannot think such a man would make my Kitty happy.”

“Ouch,” Rede murmured.

She raised her eyes to his, suddenly realising how her diatribe sounded. “Oh, Rede. I did not mean you. You have been everything kind.” Flustered, she sought to change the subject.

“That is an unusual shawl.” In the better light, she could see it was striped, with the occasional broad red stripe and the other stripes woven blue and white, red and white, and yellow and white. The long knotted fringe swung as he moved his legs, twisting slightly as he looked down.

leg-sash“My ceinture flechée? Yes, there can’t be many of them in England. My wife’s people make them.” He ran his hand over it where it fell from the knot around his waist. “Marie Joséphe made this one for me. These are her family’s colours.”

“Marie Joséphe was your wife.”

“Hmm, yes.” He was focused on the shawl.

“What did you call it? Ceinture flechée? Arrow sash?”

“For the pattern. I think your brandy may be ready to drink.”

Anne started to lift it to her mouth.

“No. Wait,” Rede said. “Swirl, sniff, and then sip. Here; let me show you.” He leant forward and cupped his hand around the glass over hers.

“Swirl.” He moved her hand gently in a small tight circle.

“Sniff.” He held the glass several inches from her nose and again swirled it slightly, then shifted it closer.

“Now sip. Just a small amount, slowly. Let it slide over your tongue.”

Anne followed his directions, not taking her eyes off Rede. This time, the brandy seemed a lot smoother. The flavour filled her mouth, the fiery liquid warmed her throat.

Rede had not removed his hands, and now he leaned forward still further, his eyes holding her motionless.

He came closer and closer, slowly. He would stop if she protested. She should protest. She would not.

Almost_Kiss__in_Black___White_by_AshsAshsAlFalDwnThe first brush of his lips on hers was brief, and light as a feather. He drew back enough to look into her eyes, then leaned in again. This time, his lips landed and stayed, moulding to the shape of her mouth. After a moment, he began to move, cruising along her upper lip with tiny pecks and then along the lower. He settled again, this time his mouth slightly open. Was that his tongue, sliding along her lips? How odd. How… pleasant.

She opened her own lips, and was rewarded with a hum of approval before he dipped his tongue into her mouth. Tentatively she touched his tongue with her own, which sent a tingle down through her breasts to her belly.

He hummed again, this time almost a moan.

So he liked that, did he?

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Beginning to think about edit for Farewell to Kindness

A_Quiet_Read_by_William_Kay_BlacklockI asked those beta-reading my novel to come back with feedback by the end of December, but I’m already beginning to get some responses. What amazing people those beta readers are. I’m getting lots of affirmation, but also some really useful advice. Thank you so much, you wonderful people.

If I’m to have Farewell to Kindness up by 1 March for pre-orders, I have a great deal to do in January and February–and I just worked out yesterday that Encouraging Prudence will need to go to beta readers in mid-May to give the same kind of timeline. So the pressure is on, and the excellent feedback from the beta readers is going to be really useful in helping me focus my attention in the final edit.

Because I work in a writing business where everything must be peer reviewed before it goes to clients, and because my commercial writing is for people who ‘own’ the content, I’m used to accepting reviews. But serving the criticisms with a healthy dollop of praise certainly helps!

I absolutely love that each reader so far has become engaged enough with the characters to discuss their motivations. And every single one has commented on the death of one of my hero’s buddies in the final showdown.

K.M. Weillard has written a useful post for beta readers and authors. My beta readers so far have not needed any of her tips, bless them, but I’ll certainly follow her pointers for authors.

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In a bit of a jam – cooking in a cottage kitchen in 1807

IMG2242MODSThe plan was that the maid-of-all-work who cooked and cleaned for my Farewell to Kindness heroine and her sisters would be a magnificent baker, and win prizes every year at the village fair. I envisaged lovely light cakes and bread to die for. And jam. Wild strawberry jam, made from berries collected by the hero and heroine together.

Daggett House main room 2 fireplace cookingBut as soon as I began to research early 19th Century recipes, I hit a problem. Anne and her sisters lived in a workers’ cottage, on of a row of cottages built for his tenants by a former Earl of Chirbury some 200 years earlier. Yes, they had the largest dwelling in the row. Formerly two cottages, it had been knocked into one for a foreman perhaps, or some other slightly more prosperous tenant. But it was still fundamentally a 17th Century cottage, and the kitchen was very much a 17th Century kitchen.

What that meant was no oven. Not even a bread oven built into the brick of the chimney, which more modern and more substantial houses would have had at that time. Many of the villagers would have taken anything they wanted to bake to the cook shop, where it would be put into a large brick oven heated with firewood. The baker would burn exactly the right amount of wood to ash, then rake aside the ash and set the pots and pans in among them to cook in the heat radiated by the bricks.

Great houses, such as my Longford Court, would have their own brick ovens for bread built into a wall, and some might also have one of the brick stoves invented in the 18th century. Open at the front, they had a fire inside and an iron plate on top for the pots to sit on. The Rumford Stove, invented in 1795, was a huge improvement, since the heat could be regulated to give different pots heat at different times. It was not widely available just over a decade later and was, in any case too big for all but the biggest kitchen.

The efficient cast iron ovens that revolutionised cooking in the Victorian era were still at least 30 years away.

So in Anne’s little cottage – two rooms downstairs, and three up – cooking would have been done in an open fireplace.

Fireplaces were large, and set up a step from the floor. In an inn or great house, the fireplace might be so large that the cook would walk right inside, and move around the various fires that kept what was cooking at different temperatures. This was risky, especially in a long skirt, so many people would only employ male cooks for such establishments.

3209174951_9c0f2e116a_bIn Anne’s cottage, Hannah (the maid) would still have several fires, though they would be smaller and tended from the front. She would also have iron kettles and pots, spits to hold roast meat at the correct distance from the flame, and hooks that could be raised or lowered to regulate heat and swung away from the fire.

Food might also be cooked in a pot or kettle that sat on a trivet next to the fire, toasted on a fork, or baked on a skillet or griddle – a flat plate of iron that had been preheated either over the flame or by having embers piled on it.

Several times in the novel, Hannah serves drop scones that had been baked on a griddle.

But Hannah’s favourite tool was the dutch oven. An Englishman conducted a little bit of industrial espionage early in the 18th century, and brought the innovative Dutch process for making these cooking vessels back from the Netherlands. A kitchen such as Hannah’s would have had several, and would have used them all.

First, she would take embers from the fire, and sit the cast iron dutch oven directly on the embers. Then she would put into the oven whatever she wanted to cook – a stew, a cake in a tin, a loaf of bread shaped into the dumpy circle we still call a cottage loaf. After putting the lid on the oven, she would shovel more embers on top.

20090208---Dutch-OvenIf she was making a complex dinner, she might stack one oven on top of another, with different dishes in each oven.

As to that strawberry jam, into a kettle with that, and over the fire, with a careful scoop of sugar – not too much. The price was coming down in the early 19th century, but it was still a great luxury for a household living on the edge of poverty. Once the jam had boiled to setting stage, she would have carefully ladled it into earthenware pots, and sealed the tops with melted wax and waxed brown paper.

And here is what happened when Anne, her sisters, and her daughters went berry picking, and met the Earl, his sister, and his nieces:

The group sorted themselves into teams: Anna and Daisy, chattering away as they picked strawberries, feeding half to the baskets and half into their mouths; Amy, standoffish at first, thawing out as she talked books with Miss Kitty; Susan and Miss Haverstock bonding over a discussion of art and music.

That left Reede to work with Mrs Forsythe and Meg. Meg ate as most of the strawberries she picked. Reede began passing her some of his, and Mrs Forsythe scolded him, half laughing.

“But they taste so good!” To prove it, he popped one in her mouth, his fingers lingering for a moment on her lips, brushing past her cheek. Their eyes caught, his suddenly hot; hers with an expression he couldn’t quite read. Apprehension, perhaps. Some yearning, though that might have been a figment of his own desire.

Meg broke the moment, pressing a strawberry into Reede’s own mouth. “Taste so good!”

He savoured the sweet taste and the rich smell. “Yes, Miss Meg. It tastes very good.” But his eyes drifted back to Mrs Forsythe’s lips. She, he was convinced, would taste even sweeter.

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To everything there is a season

AdventWreathToday is the 1st Sunday of Advent in the liturgical calendar of the Western Christian churches. It is also the first day of the new liturgical year. This afternoon, I’ll put the Christmas tablecloth on the table, with the advent candles in the middle of it. I’ll also put up the Jesse Tree, to which I’ll add an ornament a day until Christmas Day.

I love these markers of the annual cycle of seasons, feasts, celebrations, and memorials. They speak to something in the human soul. All cultures have their own markers–even the modern business world marks the end of the tax year and annual report publishing day, and commerce seizes gleefully on traditional festivals as a reason for that very up-t0-date marker: the sale.

In earlier times, the markers were mostly linked to the rhythms of the season and the demands of a society that lived on the proceeds of agriculture. We tend to think of people in earlier times as working day-in, day-out, without 40-hour-a-week legislation to protect their rights to leisure. But the rhythms of the season and, in Christian countries, the feasts of the Church meant perhaps more leisure than any of today’s workers could imagine. Harvard economist Juliett Shor claims that medieval peasants worked as little as six hours a day and might get up to 200 days a year off.

Whatever the arguments about the detail of those claims, 700 years ago, a Church feast day meant no work beyond what was needed to keep animals fed and watered. Every Sunday was a feast day, and–depending on the particular year and the local bishop–anything from another 50 to another 150 might be added into the mix.

pieter-bruegel-maypoleMy novels, set in England’s late Georgian era, fall in a time where many people had been driven from the land. But for those who remained, some of the old ways endured. In Farewell to Kindness, the action of a third of the novel happens before the backdrop of Whitsunweek (also known as Whitsuntide).

Carl Spitzweg - Das PicknickApart from walks, fairs, picnics, horse races and other activities, the week was known for the brewing of the Whitsunale. This was a church fundraising activity–the church wardens would take subscriptions, create a brew, and sell or distribute it during the week of Whitsuntide. It has a certain appeal. It would certainly be a change from cake stalls and sausage sizzles!

Whitsunweek was the week following the Feast of Pentecost (WhitSunday), and seems to have been the only week-long medieval holiday to survive into early modern times. It usually fell after sheep shearing and before harvest, and it was a week of village festivities and celebrations.

I’ve already posted about the mob football game in my novel. In the following excerpt, my hero is visiting my heroine, who is his tenant. Will is his land steward.

Anne had nothing to add, except to comment that the chimney was the most urgent of the needed repairs.

“Very good.” The Earl smiled. “I’ll get someone onto that immediately.”

“After Whitsuntide,” Will corrected. “I doubt we’ll get anyone here before that.”

The Earl nodded acceptance. “I’ve been hearing about the Whitsuntide festival. You are on the committee, are you not?”

Anne demurred. “Not for all the festivities. I am part of a small sub-committee of the Ladies Altar Society that is organising the fête for Tuesday.”

“I remember the fête from when I was a child. Stalls, Morris Dancing, the Whitsun Ale. My cousin Susan and I won the blindfold wheelbarrow race two years in a row.”

“We’re to have all of that, my Lord. And archery, and skittles, and a tug-of-war, and other tests of skill or strength. The village band will play for dancing. The Whitsun Ale, of course. And the Squire is organising a fireworks display.”

“My cousin’s children will love it. I expect them one day this week.”

Anne nodded. “Mrs Cunningham’s grandchildren. She and her sister, Lady Redwood, are so looking forward to seeing them.”

“So what else might they enjoy next week?”

“There’s to be football on Monday, and cricket on Wednesday,” Mr Baxter contributed, “and horse racing and coursing on Friday.”

“That makes for a busy time! Will any work be done, do you think?”

“Very little!” Mr Baxter acknowledged. “But with the shearing over and the haying still to begin, this week is a welcome holiday.”

“Yes, and both village and farm will work all the better for a brief time of play,” Anne agreed.

“Is anything planned for Thursday?” the Earl asked.

Anne beamed. “Yes, indeed. There’s a singing competition in Chipping Niddwick, at their Whitsun fête. We expect our psalm singers to win!”

May you all have a peaceful and productive Advent, and a Happy New Year.

 

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Making a joyful noise to the Lord

Thomas_Webster_-_A_Village_ChoirFrom the beginning of the 18th century until the spread of the church organ in the mid 19th century, many villages had a quire (choir) of psalm singers. Often called ‘West Gallery Singers’ because they sat in the west gallery above the rear end of the nave, they sang the psalms and other selections from the Book of Common Prayer to tunes composed by local teachers and quire members.

In 1700, the nave was already ‘owned’ by the more affluent members of the congregation. Galleries to the north and south were built to seat the poorer members of the flock, and the west gallery became home to the singers and musicians.

And they took their job seriously. Here’s an extract from the Rules of a quire in Kent:

1773 Oct. 28th Ann agreement made for the Company of Psalm singers in Kenardington. We Do gree to forfitt two pence on all Sundays for not being at Church in Divine Sarvis time to joyn to sing to the praise an glory of GOD and to meet on Sunday Evening at Six o’clock and forfitt one penny and to meet on all Thursday evenings at Six o’clock or forfitt one penny for each Neglect of not being there at the time. The mony to be gathered by One Whom the Company apoint for that purpus and the forfitt mony to be Spent on January 1st 1774 at a place apointed by the Company. Agreed and aproved of by us Who have hear unto Sett our Names.

Wm Chittenden
Thos Noakes
Wm Durrant
Thos Kingsnorth
Jn Austen
Thos Tolhurst X his mark
lsaac Dadson X his mark		 Thos Leads X his mark
Wm Hills
James Backer
Thos Hampton
Henry Holit
Wm Jones X his mark
James Huld

And here’s what they might have sounded like.

They used their skills in other settings, too:

There is no doubt that the mixed groups of instrumentalists and singers which we refer to as ‘quires’ to distinguish them for the organ-driven, surpliced latter-day groups, became very important in parish life. Those who played for the singing in church would also have played a major part in parish social life on feast days, high days and holidays. They had status within parish society, the nature of their jobs often gave them a measure of independence, and they were not infrequently in conflict with the parson or the squire. Their music often travelled far and wide, and in surprising forms. For example, few people today realise that when they sing the Yorkshire anthem ‘On Ilkley Moor Bah’t ‘At’ they are actually singing a west gallery hymn called ‘Cranbrook’, composed by the Canterbury shoemaker Thomas Clark who alone wrote hundreds of such splendid tunes.

The following far more secular song (just listen to the repeated chorus) might well have been sung on the village green on the night of the Whitsunale celebration that is a central event in Farewell to Kindness. If I do a book trailer, this is the song I want in the background. I couldn’t find a version sung by a West Gallery quire, but this one is pretty and the words are clear.

________________________________________________

Much of the material for this article and all the quotes came from the West Gallery Music Association.

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When you break eggs, make omelettes

I’ve set myself a challenge in the epilogue of Farewell to Kindness. My secondary character David, who is hero of the book I plan to write next, is reported to be missing. No-one has heard from him for four months.

I don’t know where that came from. It was in the plan to send him searching for his heroine, known in Farewell to Kindness as Mist. But four months? Where did she go? Where did he go? What is holding them up and why? I have absolutely no idea. And I don’t know how the answers are going to affect the already plotted chapter outline of Encouraging Prudence.

I started Farewell to Kindness thinking I was a planner. And I am. But the bits of the book that excite me most are the ones that came out of nowhere and insisted on changing all of my carefully structured plans. My main villain turned out to be someone quite different to who I intended, the book ended a month earlier than intended and in a different locale, and several characters that weren’t even in the first draft demanded their own place in the 3rd.

I’m tentatively learning to trust my subconscious. When I find I’ve dropped a whole heap of eggs all over my plot, I’m learning to give a cheer and enjoy the ensuing omelette.

I came across this article by Juliet Marillier that talks about characters taking overeggs. What she says rings true to me:

So here I am, getting to the pointy end of this manuscript with my characters in increasing peril from external sources and at the same time beset by internal conflict (there’s a strong thread in the Shadowfell books about conscience and responsibility – can lies, deception and violence be justified if they’re the only way to achieve a greater good?) I know already that my two protagonists can’t come out of the story without significant psychological damage. And now one of those protagonists has started making choices I didn’t plan for him. Awful choices. Crazy, unwise choices. What’s going on?

I find while I’m writing the last part of a book, the part where I ratchet up the tension and present my characters with impossible choices, I sleep fitfully, dream vividly, and think about the story and characters most of the time, often to the detriment of whatever else I’m supposed to be doing. I get a lot of ‘brain churn’, a not-especially-helpful overload of story details bubbling around in my mind. I become quite disturbed when my characters have to face terrifying situations or sink into a mass of dark thoughts. Perhaps that’s because their stories, though fictional and including fantasy elements, are not so different from the situations some people still face in our world, in places where tyrannical regimes use terror as a tool of control. Or perhaps it’s because my protagonists feel like real people to me, and I, the author/God of this creation, have chosen to subject them to hell on earth. Now one of them is challenging me in a way that makes me uncomfortable.Go on, push me. Push me to the edge. See how much more I can take before I jump.

Characters don’t exist independently, of course, however real they may become to us. They are indeed all in our minds. If another writer came to me for advice on the situation outlined above, I’d say keep writing, let the character have his head, finish the novel, then go back and rewrite that section if you’re not happy with it. If a character seems to be pushing or pulling hard, chances are that’s the natural direction for the story to take. If the guy is in your head all the time, urging you on, what you write may well be inspired.

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Why do I need a beta reader?

betasThe third draft of Farewell to Kindness will be finished this weekend; probably later today. Some wonderful people have volunteered to read it for me, and I’ve been fishing around for clues on what I should say when I brief them. I found a fabulous resource by Belinda Polland at Small Blue Dog Publishing. It explains what a beta reader is, and why we need one. It then goes on to link to more articles about how to find beta readers and how to brief them. Great stuff. Here’s Belinda’s list of reasons:

The fact is, we spend so much time on our own manuscripts that we can’t see them objectively — no matter how diligently we self-edit. These can be some of the outcomes (there are plenty more):

  • We create anticipation or an expectation early in the book, but forget to deliver on it.
  • We describe events in a way that is clear to us but not clear to a reader who can’t see the pictures in our head. (At least, we hope they can’t see them. Are you looking inside my head??? Eek!)
  • We leave out vital steps in an explanation and don’t realise it, because we know what we mean.
  • The characters in our books (whether fictional, or real as in a memoir or non-fiction anecdote) are not convincing, because we know them so well we don’t realise we haven’t developed them thoroughly on paper.