News
We will always remember: Anzac Day 2020
This video is about the war that began the ANZAC spirit, commemorated this morning in the middle of lockdown as, all over New Zealand, people went to their gates to show their respect for those who served and protected.
To see further episodes, go to the New Zealand onscreen website.
Work in progress on Wednesday?
I haven’t forgotten you, I promise. I have To Wed a Proper Lady nearly ready to put out to as an advance reader copy, and I expect it to publish on time on 15 April. I’m working on getting the back matter of Paradise Regained up to date, and then I’m going to make it permafree as an introduction to the Children of the Mountain King series, and I’m writing a Paradise Lost companion piece to give away in my April newsletter.
But, in other news, I’ve just got back from a family holiday in Bali, and I have two and half weeks to pack up my house for moving, and less time than that to find a place to move to.
So, apart from what I’ve just listed above, the writing is going on the back burner, and I’m not going to be much around on the blog or online. Wish me luck, folks! See you mid-April.
Spotlight on Fire & Frost: My One True Love
The second story in the Bluestocking Belles collection, Fire & Frost, is Rue Allyn’s charming My One True Love.
Major Arthur Trevor PenRhyddyrch, Earl of Trehallow, returned to Wales from war and found his best friend gone. No one would speak her name let alone tell him where she might be. Then he found her in the frosty London fog of January 1814 only to lose her in the next moment.
When Miss Mary Percival Cummins saw Trevor in the fog, she ran. She knew he would hate her once he heard what others said, and the memory of their friendship was too dear for her to survive knowing he despised her.
But fate and the Duchess of Haverford had different plans. Her Grace knew, if they did not, that these two friends deserved the happiness of finding their one true love.
An excerpt
Trevor blinked. Percy had used his given name. Without any hesitation or prompting. Nor was she subdued and reluctant as she had been when the evening started. What had changed? He doubted anything in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice had inspired his love to drop her unnecessary shame. He did agree, however, that Kean’s performance was inspiring. Perhaps she was simply transported out of the personal darkness that suppressed her naturally buoyant and intrepid spirit.
Regardless of the cause, he was pleased and happy to see again the inner fire that had always shown bright and strong in his best friend. Pray heaven they encounter no one rude enough to cause his love to sink back into unwarranted guilt. He helped her rise and escorted her from the box. Jessica had been correct. It seemed the entire audience had come for refreshments and to discuss the performance thus far. Everywhere he turned he heard Kean, Kean, Kean as well as stellar, immortal, truly gifted, and many other accolades. No one spoke Percy’s name. No one noticed her enough to turn aside and give the cut direct.
Her Grace had been right to insist that Percy attend tonight’s performance.
Meet the heroine.
She did not want him knowing where she lived. She shook her head and dropped her gaze to her fingers clenched in her lap.. She dared not look at him. One glance at the concern in his deep brown eyes, might have her betraying all good sense and throwing herself into his arms to weep out her troubles. He would feel honor bound to solve all her problems. She could not allow that.
“For the coachman,” he continued.
“Haverford House,” she blurted. She did not have to go inside, and if Trevor insisted on seeing her as far as the foyer, she would let him. The footmen were all familiar with her comings and goings. No one would question her if she left through the kitchen the minute Trevor left through the front door.
But Robert Burns had been right in his poetic address To a Mouse,. “The best laid schemes o’ mice and men, gang aft agley.” Her plans went awry the moment she crossed the threshold. There, in the midst of the foyer, stood Jessica and the duchess herself.
“Trehallow, my lad,” the duchess said. Jessica followed, crossing to where Trevor and Percy stood just inside the now closed front door. “What a pleasant surprise, and you’ve brought our Miss Cummins back home with you. We had begun to worry about you, dear.” The duchess—who did not prevaricate–lied through her teeth. “Go on up and change. We shall wait dinner until you come down.”
Jess took Percy by the arm and compelled her to walk to the stairs. There she spoke a few quiet words to a nearby footman. Percy was being whisked away up the stairs before she could blink. What was Her Grace thinking?
“You will join us for dinner, Trehallow. I insist,” Her Grace decreed.
And her determined hero.
He and Percy walked in silence nearly half the length of the promenade, the only sounds coming from the crunch of straw on the frozen ground beneath their feet and the low murmur of the other couple’s voices.
He wanted to ask her what happened. Why she had become this silent almost shy person, when that was so alien to the lively, curious, intrepid Percy he remembered. But he could not find the words.
“How have you been, Percy?” was all he could manage.
“Well enough with the duchess’s patronage.”
Was she completely dependent on the duchess? That would not sit well with the Percy he had known. “I was sorry to hear of your parents’ passings. That must have been a very difficult time for you.”
She shrugged. “I prefer not to speak of it.”
So she would not talk about her family. “How did you come to know the Duchess of Haverford?”
“Jessica and I were at school together. She insisted I come to her and the Duchess after… after my father died. Mother was too ill to travel, so I came by myself. Her Grace has been all that is kind and helpful. Mother remained at Cummins house under the care of my cousin Donald. I hoped she was well cared for, since I could not be there to see to her comfort myself.”
Which implied that, without the Haverford’s help, Percy might not have been able to provide for her mother at all.
“I am very sorry I was not there to help, Percy. But surely your cousin gave you and your mother a home?”
Percy looked at him, her expression hard, her lips pressed together. “As I said earlier, it is not a time I care to discuss.”
Absence makes the heart grow fonder
Is it ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’? Or ‘out of sight, out of mind’?
You may have noticed I haven’t been around much. We’re selling our house and buying a new one, and my life is teetering on the edge of out of control. I’ve been proofing the Bluestocking Belles’ next anthology, Fire & Frost so we can get the ARC out. Add to that, I’ve other books to finish, grandchildren to cherish, and a day job.
Furthermore, we’re off on a road trip (organised months ago) a week today, so things are unlikely to improve for a while.
Received wisdom in the writer community is that we need to be constantly engaged on social media to keep people thinking about us, and buying the books we’ve written so we can afford to pay our bills for the books we want to write. If that’s true, I’m in trouble!
However, I won’t disappear entirely. I’m still promoting the Bluestocking Belles’ next anthology, Fire & Frost. I’ve written a short story for my newsletter, and will get that out before I go away. I’m about to put up the publication date for my novel The Darkness Within. (I’ll do a preorder on Smashwords which will feed back to the retailers it serves, but leave Amazon till I’m confident, because their punishment for getting it wrong is a year without preorder, and my life could spiral completely out of control at any moment.)
I also need to decide whether I’m going to publish something on 15 December. I’ve done so every year since Candle’s Christmas Chair came out in 2014, and I hate to miss a year. Options are a version of Chasing the Tale, my collection of newsletter subscriber short stories, and Paradise Regained, the prequel to the series I’m publishing next year, Children of the Mountain King. Let me know what you think!
Meanwhile, here’s an excerpt from the next newsletter subscriber story, which may (or may not) be called The Delinquency of Lord Clairmont. My heroine has waited years for her husband to return to England. When she learns from the gossip columns that he has done so, but is remaining in the south instead of coming home, she decides to retrieve him.
She would not apologise for making sure he came home to lands and investments that were more profitable and in better heart than when she took them over. Surely, even the most selfish of men must see that she had a vested interest in securing the future of her children.
Which brought Seffie to the reason why she, Anna, and the servants were about to descend from their coach at a manor owned by one of Clairmont’s dissolute friends. Children. She would be twenty-four in a few days, and she was not waiting another twelve years for her errant husband to at least make the attempt to get her with child. Not another year, nor a month.
Given what she’d heard about the nature of the parties held in this rather pleasant-looking country manor house, Clairmont may have one or more other entertainments already at hand, but Seffie was prepared to do whatever she needed to oust them and take their place. Surely a man whose name had been linked with women all round the world would not refuse to bed his lawfully-wedded wife?
Seffie nodded to her footman, giving him the signal to rap the door knocker. Let battle commence.
The footman knocked twice more before the door opened a cautious crack to allow an elderly maid to poke her beaked nose around the edge of it.
Seffie stepped forward, and footman pushed the door fully open, overcoming the maid’s brief resistance. Not a maid. The bundle of keys at the woman’s waist indicated the housekeeper. She stepped backward at the aristocratic advance and curtseyed.
“I am Lady Clairmont,” Seffie said. “Announce me to your master.”
The housekeeper shook her head, cringing as if she expected a blow. “’is lordship be asleep,” she whined. “Them all be asleep. Even Mr. Barton, who be the butler. All night they was up, and be as much as my life to wake ’uns.”
Seffie gave a short nod. She should have expected this. “Show my cousin and my maid to a parlour where they can wait, and send someone to conduct me to Lord Clairmont’s room,” she commanded. She added instructions for refreshments to be brought to her and her cousin, and told William to stay with the other two women. They might need a stout defender in this house, though perhaps they could all retreat to a nearby inn before the other denizens woke up.
“Should you be alone, ma’am?” Polly ventured, and Anna agreed. “We could send for another of the men to go with you.”
What Seffie had to say to her husband was best said in private. “I shall be safe in Clairmont’s room,” she insisted, and followed another servant, this one still straightening her cap and tying her apron, up the long curve of the stairs.
It wasn’t until the housekeeper put a hand up to knock on the door that it occured to Seffie that her husband might not be alone.
“Don’t knock,” she said, hastily. Should she enter, or not? She had come this far, and she did not like to retreat.
She tried the handle. Locked. “Open it,” she insisted.
The housekeeper frowned but obeyed.
“That will be all, Mrs… ?”
“Barton, my lady. I’ll bring thy tea.”
“Do that.”
Seffie waited until Mrs. Barton retreated back towards the stairs before opening the door enough to slip silently into the bedchamber. A large four-poster bed dominated the room. To Seffie’s relief, the man sleeping in it was alone. She was less comfortable with his attire—or lack thereof. He lay sprawled on his front, his face turned away from her, the sheet pushed down to show his bare back from his broad shoulders to his narrow waist.
Seffie froze in the doorway. He was no longer pudgy; nor was the glorious expanse of skin marred by pimples or any other blemish. She gave herself a shake, stepped inside, and closed the door. She might be a virgin, but she hadn’t lived in a box for all the past years. Being married didn’t stop her from admiring a male form, and she knew desire when she felt it. She had never acted on it, and she could ignore it now. She wasn’t here to lust after her husband. Actually, that wasn’t quite accurate—if they could resolve the distance between what she wanted and what he apparently wanted, lust would be appropriate and useful in gaining her the children she yearned for. Provided he felt the same about her.
For a wild moment, she was tempted to undress and climb under the sheets with him, but she resisted the impulse. The maid would return with the tea. Besides, they should talk first; negotiate a way forward. In truth, despite her unexpected physical response, she was a little afraid. He was a stranger, and she had only the most general of ideas about what to expect of the marital act. It sounded like something better done with a friend, or at least a more than casual acquaintance.
She took a seat in the window bay, and pulled the book she had been reading from her reticule. From here, she could see his face. She would have walked past him in the street, except that she was very familiar with certain elements of his face. That square cleft chin appeared in a number of paintings at Clairhaven; that strong nose and those arched eyebrows in others. The boy of fifteen was still there, too, when she examined him closely, pared down, toughened, more square and decidedly formidable. In repose, he was not classically handsome, but he was attractive.
Her husband. She whispered it, to see if it felt more real when voiced aloud. “My husband.”
Is it news if not much is happening?
I’ve not been doing much writing. Instead, I’ve been doing a heap of reading, quite a few tasks around the place, a modicum of socialising, and thinking. Mountains of thinking.
The thinking is partly about plot and character. Unkept Promises needs more work before it is ready for someone else to edit and proofread. I’m rewriting large chunks of To Wed a Proper Lady to tighten the story and introduce plot elements that will work themselves out over the series (the Duke of Haverford and his slow demise, for one). I keep seeing scenes from the next two books in the Mountain King series. I’ve worked out plot motivations for the next Redepenning book. And I’m about to set down and do a Hero’s Journey for Maximum Force, the contract killer, and his heroine, Serenity Christian.
It’s also partly about my own motivations. Somewhere in all the discussion about how hard it is to be seen in the bazillion book marketplace, with its pirates and its scammers and all the barriers put up by the retailers and social-media companies in their bid for world-domination, I’d lost track of the fact I don’t care.
It isn’t that I don’t want my books to be read. I do. I really, really do, and I humbly thank all of you who have followed me and supported me. But that isn’t why I write.
I write, and I publish what I write, because telling stories is a huge part of what I am, and a story isn’t real until a reader or listener recreates it in their own imagination. To put it in religious terms, this is my vocation. I need to tell the stories that are in my head to tell, and to do so with all the skill and imagination at my command. I need to slave and fret over them till they’re the best they can be. That’s my calling. That needs to be my focus.
I’m not going to ignore marketing, because to do so would be stupid. I’m not going to worry about it, either. My job is to write.
Historical? Romance? Or Thriller? If the genre fits, wear it!
I’ve always had trouble categorising my fiction, which in one sense isn’t a problem. After all, genre is a device for shelving books.
In another sense, it doesn’t help. Booksellers — including Amazon — use genre for sorting books and showing them to readers. If I’m not clear what I’m writing, my books are likely to go to readers who don’t want them!
My weekend at the first New Zealand crime and thrillers convention, RotoruaNoir, has helped me clarify my thinking. Especially my preparation for the panel discussion on Genre Blending. I represented historical romance on the panel. Other members represented horror, young adult, and contemporary romance.
So here’s where I’ve got to. So far, what I’ve written represents any two and up to all three of historical fiction, romance, and crime/mystery.
I write historical fiction
Historical fiction is fiction that is is set in the past and pays attention to the manners, social conditions and other details of the story’s setting in time and place. Such stories may focus on major historical events and characters, but even if they don’t, they should at least recognise such events when they’ve recently happened, or are happening, during the time period of the story.
All but three of my stories (so far) are set in the past, most in the Regency era. I love historical detail, and do a lot of research to get it right. I try to create characters that could only have existed in that time and place, and the events and activities that are natural for people like that in a time like that. Some readers find my women too stroppy and independent for their times. I disagree. History is full of women who defied the current norms to forge their own path. Also, many people judge the whole of society by the pampered debutantes in their gilded cages. To take one example, people have commented on my character Minerva Bradford, who ran a workshop that made invalid chairs. She would not have been unusual for her time. Women of crafter families had always been crafters themselves. Indeed, part of the story is that Minerva’s family is upwardly mobile, and her father wants Minerva to give up the work and become a social ornament, like her betters.
(Not all historical romances are also historical fiction. Some are stories that could happen anywhere or anytime, but the gowns and cravats are a nice added touch. I don’t write those, but I’ve enjoyed quite a few.)
I write romance
Romance is fiction about two people (except at the menage edges of the genre) who fall in love, face challenges, and finish the story with a strong possibility of happiness together. Romance is a subset of the love story category. What sets it apart is the happy ending. I’ve always taken ‘happy ever after’ as meaning ‘having resolved conflicts in a way that gives us hope they will resolve the conflicts that are yet to come as they live their lives together’. Romance is a broad category that includes historical, contemporary, paranormal, science fiction, and suspense. It can also be categorised by the gender, species, and number of the participants, and by the ‘heat’ level — that is, by the emphasis on and level of specific detail in the sex scenes.
I believe in happy endings. I’m living one myself, and so have all my siblings and my husband’s siblings. True love isn’t magic and it isn’t easy, but it is possible and worthwhile. The ending of the written story is the beginning of a life together, which will have its ups and downs, but empathy and commitment will see the couple through. Those are my kind of romances. I’m not one to add a sex scene for the sake of it, but I don’t shy away from leaving the door open in the plot or character development require. Heat level is anything from ‘sweet’ to ‘moderate’.
I’ve written across a number of romance subgenres. Contemporary suspense. Historical suspense. Paranormal suspense. Straight historical. At the heart of it are two people in the crucible of initial attraction, learning about one another and growing to be more than they could have been alone.
I write suspense
The last category I write in is crime/mystery. This is another huge genre with blurred edges. People seem to use the term mystery for stories about solving a crime. Crime is a bit broader, including the effects of the crime. RotoruaNoir had writers from across the spectrum of the genre (most of the following can be contemporary, historical, paranormal, or sf): cosy/traditional, noir (gritty and pessimistic), hard-boiled private investigator, police procedural, spy/espionage, suspense, and thriller.
I’m struggling to fit mine in there. They’re not cosy, since they don’t shy away from gritty detail, but they’re certainly not pessimistic. I do have a private investigator, but he isn’t hard-boiled. Not police procedural. Espionage can be an element. Thriller is about high stakes and swift actions, which might be close to some of my plots. Suspense is probably closest — characters confronting evil and overcoming danger.
I knew I had romance in all my suspense stories. But I went through my titles and listed all the plot lines. With rare exceptions, they all involve solving crimes, from fraud and intimidation to blackmail, people trafficking, and murder. Turns out I have suspense in almost all of my romance stories. Certainly, all three of my contemporary romances are also suspense.
So this leaves me needed a new strapline
Okay. So far so good. The first step to fixing a marketing problem is to diagnose the problem. If I didn’t know what I did myself, I can hardly expect to attract readers who like it.
I’m okay with Jude Knight Storyteller as an overall brand. It covers the fact that I don’t stick to one genre but write in the overlap between them. I tell stories. But the visual imagery and the strapline (Stories to thrill, intrigue and delight) could do with some work. Watch this space.
My writing life or It’s all a plot!
Here’s what I’m working on at the moment:
Marketing last year’s holiday anthologies. I have two novellas: Paradise Regained, historical fiction, in the Bluestocking Belles’ Follow Your Star Home, and Abbie’s Wish, a contemporary romantic suspense, in Christmas Wishes on Main Street.
Doing the final check of and marketing the next Belles’ box set, Valentines From Bath, which includes my Regency novella The Beast Next Door.
Writing the next novel in the Regency series The Golden Redepennings. Unkept Promises is around one third written. Earlier this week, I mapped the scenes to the darkest point, where all hope is lost.
Writing the made-to-order I gave away as a party prize at the Follow Your Star Home launch. The winner asked for a laird, a distant castle, and the enemies to lovers plot type. It turned out to be a medieval and begins with a nun sitting beside the bed of the knight who was wounded saving her life.
Writing, with Mariana Gabrielle (Mari Christie) the final chapters of Never Kiss a Toad, a Victorian saga about the children of her rake and mine from our Regency books. Their fathers catch the son of one in bed with the daughter of the other, and they are forcibly separated. At long last, after 76 chapters, they are back in England together. We’re posting a chapter at a time in Wattpad, and are currently posting chapter 68.
Rewriting The Bluestocking and the Barbarian, a Regency novella from the Belles’ Holly and Hopeful Hearts box set. I’m going to turn it into a novel, the first in a series about the children of a Duke who has been king in a remote central Asian kingdom.
Beginning the planning for the next two books in this series. (Hint: book three is about Aldridge.)
Planning a Regency novella for the next Belles’ box set. All the novellas will be about people who return to England for the reading of a will. There may be ghosts.
Planning a novel for a series by different authors with common elements. My hero is a veteran of the Napoleonic Wars. He was trained as an assassin and is now a contract killer. The heroine is either a Quaker or a Wesleyan, and a pacifist.
All of these are for publication this year, which I can manage if I get off the internet and write 2,000 words a day.
Good riddance 2018 and hello 2019
To be fair, heaps of good things happened in 2018. For one thing, I finally began to recover from the polymyalgia rheumatica, and I discovered a few food allergies that restricted my diet still further, but got rid of my sinusitis, my hives, and my migraines.
For another, I published stuff: novellas in three multi-author box sets plus two novels. I wrote another novella that will be published next month, at least six newsletter subscriber short stories, most of the rest of the co-authored book Mari Christie and I are publishing on Wattpad, and a third of another novel.
My personal romantic hero and I had an absolutely fabulous holiday with Carol Roddy (aka Caroline Warfield) and her beloved, and built some wonderful memories.
And I spent another year with my best friend, culminating in our 47th wedding anniversary just after Christmas.
On the other hand, for most of the year I was just hanging in there.
Family crises, the busiest year at work ever, illness, and all sorts of other hiccups meant I finished the year with less done than I’d planned, and a good case of exhaustion.
I’m back at work on Monday 7th, after two and a half weeks off. For the first nine days, I slept ten hours a night, and then had a two hour nap each day. It’s nice not to be tired, and I’ve come back to a three-day week at the day job.
I’ve upped my expectations for writing in 2019 to allow for two things.
First, I have that extra two days a week — counting travelling time, that adds up to an extra 18 hours for stuff that isn’t the day job.
Second, my personal romantic hero gave me Dragon, the dictation software, for Christmas. I’ve been using it less than a week, and I’m already achieving a slightly higher word count dictating stories than typing them. As I get more skilled, I hope to at least double my writing speed.
So here’s the publishing plan for 2019. Two long and at least four short novels; at least two novellas; six subscriber-only short stories; a collection of my published New-Zealand-based stories.
Given the extra time, it’s feasible, but of course it could change on a dime, since family and friends come first.
Still, if I want the mountain top, I need to aim at the stars. Roll on 2019.
On the move
No time to sit still at the moment. We’re preparing the house for sale, and this weekend I stained more than 100 square meters of deck (over a thousand square feet for those of you who haven’t gone metric). One more weekend of hard push, and we’re ready to go.
In addition, I finished writing an application for the Katherine Mansfield Menton Fellowship, which provides a grant for New Zealand writers to live in Menton, France, for a few months, and work in a room in the villa where our famous writer Katherine Mansfield lived in 1920, Villa Isola Bella. Who knows how that will go? But gathering all the material together has been a useful exercise, and the letters of support I received from those I asked were very good for my ego.
