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Rough drafts on WIP Wednesday

My writing has speeded up marvellously since I learned a simple trick. If there’s something I don’t know, or a sequence I can’t quite visualise, I make a note and move on.

Below, I’ve included an excerpt from Unkept Promises, the next Redepenning novel, full of notes to myself

How about you? What do you do in your rough drafts, and are you game to post an example in the comments?

Fortune and Hannah met them at the dock gates with the break, a large open carriage capable of taking the entire family along the coast to eat the picnic that was undoubtedly in the covered baskets Jules could see tucked under the seats.

[check where a picnic might take place. During drive, Jules abstracted, thinking about what the girls and Mia have told him. Dan pointing out all the different types of ship in the harbour, where they might have come from and be going, and what they were good for. Girls asking questions until he gets to one he can’t answer and askes Jules who shakes off his mood and attends.]

Hannah and Mia set the picnic up in the shade of a tree [rock?? Pavilion they brought with them???] and soon they were all enjoying [etc. Not sure what I want to do with this part of the scene. Girls need to ask politely to be allowed to leave the …. blanket? ]

[Hannah produces a ball, suggests a game. Girls against boys. Dan scathing about the girls’ likely ability.]

“Could we sit this one out?” Jules asked Mia. “I’d like for us to talk, if you do not mind.”

“Of course,” Mia said. “Hannah, you and the others go ahead.”

In moments, the game was underway, Hannah and the girls against Fortune and Dan. Dan’s confidence took a swift knock when Fortune failed to catch the ball Dan had thrown and Marsha raced in front of him and kicked it to Hannah, who in her turn kicked it between the rocks they had marked as the girl’s goal.

He rallied, though, and the next round of play saw him sneaking the ball from under Marsha’s nose and kicking his own goal.

“This will do the girls a world of good,” Mia decided. “I have not wanted to venture beyond the boundaries of town without an escort, and there is no where there they can run and romp like this without censure from the biddies.”

“You are determined to turn them into English gentlewomen.” Jules tried to keep the censure from his voice. He would allow his unaccountable wife her chance to make her case, but what the hell was she thinking?

“I am determined to make sure they know Society’s expectations,” Mia corrected. “I know how it feels to be at sea, knowing that something you have done has drawn disapprobation, but having no idea what it is or how to correct it. I will not leave them as ill prepared as I was.”

What had happened to Mia to fuel the vehemence of her tone? He supposed he understood. The child he’d met in the smuggler’s cave had been raised by a reclusive scholar — or had raised herself while ignored by her father.

“I thought my father and Susan would look out for you,” he said. They should have. He had trusted them to do so.

“It was not their fault, Captain.” Mia smiled, and reached out as if to pat his hand where it rested be-side hers on the blanket. If that was her intent, she thought better of it and instead folded it in her lap with its counterpart. “They are part of Society. They grew up knowing all the habits of courtesy your kind take for granted, and all your silly little rituals. It never occurred to them that I was as ignorant of what to them seemed natural behaviour. They were always there to tell me what I had done wrong, and they tried to predict my next mistake and prevent it — but I made so many!” The last was said with a laugh, but Jules could sense pain beneath it, and his heart ached for the little girl he had abandoned.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I had no idea.”

“I will not have that happen to Marshanda and Adarinta.

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Tea with Charis

Charis Fishingham was curled up on a window seat in the library, half hidden behind the drapes. With luck, her mother and sisters would be too busy to come looking for her. They enjoyed nothing more than a good house party.

On this fine day, the hostess had organised a number of activities. Some of the guests had gone riding, others walking, still others played Pall Mall, or sat in the shade of the trees gossiping.

For once, her mother didn’t insist on all doing things together, so Charis had taken her opportunity to slip away to the library that she had seen on the first night, when there hostess had given them a tour of the public rooms of the house.

She was so immersed in the novel she had found on the shelves that she didn’t realise she was no longer alone, until she heard someone speaking. She looked around the corner of the curtain. An elegant lady had taken a seat by the fireplace and was speaking to a maid, telling her to place a tea tray on a nearby table.

Charis drew back. Should she announce herself? Certainly, she should not lurk here, hidden. Perhaps the lady was expecting company. Perhaps she had been here for a while, and it was already too late for Charis to pop out from behind the drapes like a bad surprise in a farce.

As she worried away at the problem, the lady provided the solution. “Will you not come and join me, young lady on the window seat?”

Charis could feel herself blush from head to toe as she crept out. She felt even worse when she could see the lady clearly. It was the Duchess of Haverford, a grande dame of Society as high above the Fishingham’s touch as the stars were above the sky.

“Miss Fishingham, is it not? I apologise for disturbing your reading, Miss Fishingham, but I beg you to take pity on an old woman and keep me company.” The Duchess waved Charis to a seat. She was anything but old; in fact, she looked a lot younger than Charis’s mother, though her son — who was also at the house party — was in his thirties, so she must be fifty, at least.

Charis realised she was standing like a stick and gaping like a fish. She shut her mouth, and took the offered seat. What on earth did one say to a Duchess? Matilda and Eugenie would know, but Charis knew little about Society, and what little she knew she did not like.

The Duchess surprised her again. “Now, Miss Fishingham, I understand from your sisters that you and I share an interest. I am passionately devoted to the education of women, and I am told that you hold classes for your maids and the girls of the village. Please, tell me more, and tell me if there is anything I can do to help.”

Charis is the heroine of my story The Beast Next Door. You can read it in Valentines from Bath, now on preorder. Click on the link for buy links and blurbs.


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Climbing the Marketing Mountain

The first month of 2019 is trundling by at a great rate of knots, and I’ve only just started my to-do list.

In theory, taking my day job to part time is going to give me heaps more time for writing and marketing books. So how is that working out for me?

Write more and better

My personal romantic hero gave me Dragon dictation software for Christmas. In theory, that should speed up the writing. I’m using it at the moment, and certainly this blog post is appearing on the screen far faster than if I typed it.

To meet my self-set deadlines, I need to average around 15 to 18,000 words a week in the first draft. Typing, that’s around 18 hours work, and I can do that if I don’t do much else. In theory, once Dragon and I get up to speed, I should more than double my writing speed.

I can spend the extra time on all the other stages. Editing, proofreading, commissioning or making covers — and above all marketing.

Market more effectively

One of my top jobs for January is to finish the marketing plan I’ve been talking about for at least two years. I’m still using the trailing elements of the one I created when I first started, adapted and extended as I learned more about the bazzillion book marketplace, but still demonstrably inadequate.

Readers have downloaded more than 90,000 copies of my books (most as ebooks, but a few as print) from the major retailers. It sound like a lot, but the margin is so small that I’m just treading water. I make enough so that my writing mostly pays for itself. I pay for subscriptions to web hosts and research sites, cover design, proofreading, and all the other stuff I need from my author account, though I occasionally have to pay for a workshop or accommodation for a conference out of the money from my day job.

Must do better. To really fly, I need to reach more readers.

The product counts

Top task, of course, is to write and produce the best books I can, and to do it often. What with one thing and another, I’m way behind on my publishing plans. Everyone tells me that, to sell books, you need to be seen in the marketplace with a new book. Around this time last year, I’d had a book out every month for four months, and was beginning to see some results. Then I got sick again.

Another is to have complete series to sell. I keep getting distracted, and I need to focus and finish the two series that I’ve started. One major goal for this year is to get Unkept Promises out and at least write the next Redepenning. Another is to publish the first four in the series that begins with The Bluestocking and the Barbarian (which I’m rewriting as a novel).

This way, I can finish both series in 2020.

But so does visibility

But it’s still only a hobby to amuse myself and a few other people such as yourself if the rest of the reading public doesn’t know I exist.

I’m working on it. First step, write the Marketing Plan.

You can help

Meanwhile, if you’d like to help, please recommend my books to your friends, and ask for them at your library. I’d also love more reviews. If you had time to leave a couple of sentences of honest review wherever you buy my books or on BookBub, that it be a great help.

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Annoying Napoleon

For my latest novella, The Beast Next Door, I researched hospitals that might have performed the surgery I needed. It had to be offshore, because the hero came home after ten years away. And not all places in Europe that might have accomplished surgeons were available — the return happens in 1814, at the end of the Napoleonic wars.

I started looking at Italy, because surgery was an important branch of medicine in Italy as early as the 16th century, unlike England, where gentleman became physicians who never touched their patients, and surgery had a recent history as a job for barbers.

Northern Italy was out. No English aristocrat would send even an unwonted child into territory controlled by Napoleon. The kingdom of Naples and Sicily, however, did not fall into Napoleon’s hands until 1806.

So my Eric was sent to one of the first and best-known of Italy’s hospitals. Santa Maria del Popolo degli Incurabli, now known as Ospedae degli Incurabili, still stands today as a modern medical facility.

It began in the late 15th century when Charles of France invaded Naples leaving a small gift behind. To this day Neapolitan’s call it the French disease. The French call it the Neapolitan disease. It has various other names but the best known as syphilis.

When it first arose the disease was deadly and many hospitals were opened for the incurable.

The Incurabili in Naples was built in 1521. A Catalonian woman, wife of the Spanish viceroy, was stricken with paralysis and miraculously cured. She founded a church and hospital comprising a group of small monastic communities where she devoted the rest of her life to caring for the sick.

Ancient camphor tree in the hospital’s medicinal garden.

Over the centuries the hospital became a medical school where the breadth of studies far surpassed the English model. Pharmacy, surgery, both medical and palliative care, all were both taught and practised.

An interesting touch for Christmas, the hospital is associated with the Naples tradition of crib scenes. According to historical records, some of the early cribs were built in an oratory at the hospital.

Locating Eric, my hero, in the Kingdom of Naples gave me further ideas for my story. When Napoleon invaded the kingdom of Naples in 1806, he was 14. Trapped behind enemy lines, he and his tutor disguised themselves as Neapolitans and took to the mountains, where they joined a band of insurgents, harassing the troops of of Napoleon’s puppet kings, first as brother and later his brother-in-law.

I love the way that works.

The Beast Next Door is a novella in Valentines from Bath, a Bluestocking Belles collection on preorder, to be published on 9 February.

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Scars on WIP Wednesday

My next story to be released has a hero with a scarred face, and I’ve been contemplating the number of my books that include a character with a physical deformity. I have quite a few scarred heroes — echoes of the Beauty and the Beast trope.

In every story where such a character appears, I have to consider the scars as part of what drives the story. How is my character affected by their scars, the cause of their scars, and the impact on others of their scars?

So that’s my theme for today. The scar might be internal or external, and belong to any person in the story. Give me an excerpt, in the comments, that describes your character or one of those effects.

My excerpt is from The Beast Next Door, my Valentines from Bath story. Valentines of Bath is the next Belles’ box set, due out on 9 February.

How beautiful she had grown. The men of Bath must all be married or blind. Her wide blue eyes narrowed, and then she smiled and held her hands up as if she would fetch him down through the window. “Eric? Eric, is it really you?”
Ugo gave an amiable bark and wagged his tail, then collapsed onto the grass at Charis’s feet. She frowned again, looking from the dog to its master. “He is yours? Oh, but he has been here for weeks. Eric, have you been hiding from me?”
“I did not want to scare you, Charis. I never thought you would know me right away. But wait, I will come down.” No flinch. No fixing her eyes and then turning them away. It was as if the disfigured side of his face was no different than the side that bore a single long scar from a knife cut.
“Of course, I knew you,” she greeted him when he rounded the folly and approached the bench. “No one has eyes like yours, Eric. And no one calls me Charis except you. Here!” She backed to sit again on the bench, sweeping her gown to one side and patting the place beside her. “Come and sit with me and tell me everything you’ve done since last we could write. Oh, Eric, when Nanny died, I felt as if I had lost you both, and I can only imagine how you must have felt so far away from home! I am so sorry.”
Eric hesitated. Given a choice, he’d have sat on the other side, so she didn’t have to look at the mess the surgeons had made. Charis put her head to one side, her smile slipping a little, and he sat quickly before he made her uncertain of her welcome.
“I thought it was worse for you,” he told her, “stuck here and no one knowing or caring how important she was to us both.”

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Tea with Eric

Eric Parteger followed the footman through the house, up flights of stairs, along halls, down more stairs, through successive rooms to further halls, and up again until at last they crossed a large formal parlour and exited the house through a set of double doors.

They were on a terrace that spread along this face of the Haverford’s London townhouse. Townhouse! In any other country, it would be called a palace. Miles of halls, acres of rooms, great towering cliffs of facade. All designed to impress, and all of it insignificant in its impact compared to the elegant lady who awaited him.

She was seated at a table near the balustrade between the terrace and the formal garden that spread out below them. Tea makings and plates of dainty cakes sat at her elbow, awaiting his arrival. She smiled a welcome as the footman faded back from his side to reenter the house.

“My dear boy, how good of you to come,” she said, looking unflinchingly into his eyes as if completely unaware of the ruin of his face.

Stunned at her warmth — Eric had never met the lady before — he took refuge in formality, presenting his best court bow. “Your Grace.”

“Come and sit down,” she insisted. “May I fix you a tea? Please, do try one of these little cakes. I have them delivered from Fournier’s, and they are as tasty as they are beautiful.”

Eric sat, and took the plate she offered him, and the cup of tea prepared to his preferences without any consultation. One corner of his mouth kicked up and he spoke without thinking.

“Gren always said you had better intelligence agents than Napoleon, Your Grace.”

She grinned back. She was dark where his old friend was fair and had blue eyes where Gren’s were hazel, but her son had the exact same grin, and Eric’s usual wariness with women, mothers, and aristocrats melted away.

“Your preference for strong tea with no cream, milk, or sugar has been noted by all the hopeful maidens of London, and their mothers. I had purposed to help you because my son speaks well of you, Eric. I may call you ‘Eric’?” She paused for his nod. “Good. But I like a man who speaks his mind, and shall be pleased to support you for your own sake.”

Support him to do what? “I am grateful, Your Grace.” What else could he say?

Again, she surprised him with shades of omniscience. “You wonder what I am to help you with, and how I can possibly be of help. I am the Duchess of Haverford, and one of the great ladies of Society, Eric. I can help you take your rightful position, of course. I can also advise you that the silly ninnies Lady Wayford has been parading before you will not do.”

Gren had the same sharp intelligence; the same unnerving ability to see behind Eric’s bland face to the busy thoughts beneath. Eric addressed the last remark. “None of them will be required to do so, ma’am. I have no intention of allowing Lady Wayford any part of selecting a bride for me.”

She nodded sharply, once. “My son said you were clever. We will talk more on this matter, but first I would love to know more about the time Jon — Gren, as you call him — spent with you in the mountains of Southern Italy, fighting Napoleon.”

***

Eric is the hero of The Beast Next Door, my novella in Valentines From Bath, which is on preorder and due to be published on 9 February. See the book page for the blurb and blurbs of all five novellas in the box set.

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Good riddance 2018 and hello 2019

Fond Farewell, by Edmund Blair Leighton
DM16545 The Fond Farewell by Leighton, Edmund Blair (1853-1922) Messum’s, London, UK English, out of copyright

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.

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Announcing Valentines from Bath

It’s nearly here. Valentines from Bath, the new box set from the Bluestocking Belles, is available for order, and will be released on 9 February.

What do you think of the cover? Isn’t it gorgeous?

Valentines from Bath

The Master of Ceremonies announces a great ball to be held on Valentine’s Day in the Upper Assembly Rooms of Bath. 

Ladies of the highest rank—and some who wish they were—scheme, prepare, and compete to make best use of the opportunity. 

Dukes, earls, tradesmen, and the occasional charlatan are alert to the possibilities as the event draws nigh. 

But anything can happen in the magic of music and candlelight as couples dance, flirt, and open themselves to romantic possibilities. Problems and conflict may just fade away at a Valentine’s Day Ball.

See https://bluestockingbelles.net/belles-joint-projects/valentines-from-bath/ for the blurbs of the individual stories, and buy links.

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Wounds on WIP Wednesday

Characters without character flaws and scars tend to be boring — the Mary Sues of literature, there not to drive the action but to be acted upon. I try not to write them, but that means I do spend a lot of time thinking about the emotional and psychological wounds that make my characters more than two-dimensional.

 In this week’s WIP Wednesday, I’m inviting you to post excerpts from your current work-in-progress that talk about a character’s wounds: physical, emotional, psychological or spiritual; obvious or hidden.

My piece is from The Beast Next Door, my novella for the Bluestocking Belles’ Valentine box set. My hero bears both internal and internal scars.

How beautiful she had grown. The men of Bath must all be married or blind. Her wide blue eyes narrowed, and then she smiled and held her hands up as if she would fetch him down through the window.“Eric? Eric, is it really you?”

Ugo gave an amiable bark and wagged his tail, then collapsed onto the grass at Charis’s feet. She frowned again,looking from the dog to its master. “He is yours? Oh, but he has been here for weeks. Eric, have you been hiding from me?”

“I did not want to scare you, Charis. I never thought you would know me right away. But wait, I will come down.” No flinch. No fixing her eyes and then turning them away. It was as if the disfigured side of his face was no different than the side that bore a single long scar from a knife cut.

“Of course, I knew you,” she greeted him when he rounded the folly and approached the bench. “No one has eyes like yours, Eric. And no one calls me Charis except you. Here!” She backed to sit again on the bench, sweeping her gown to one side and patting the place beside her. “Come and sit with me and tell me everything you’ve done since last we could write. Oh, Eric, when Nanny died, I felt as if I had lost you both, and I can only imagine how you must have felt so far away from home! I am so sorry.”

Eric hesitated. Given a choice, he’d have sat on the other side, so she didn’t have to look at the mess the surgeons had made. Charis put her head to one side, her smile slipping a little, and he sat quickly before he made her uncertain of her welcome.

“I thought it was worse for you,” he told her, “stuck here and no one knowing or caring how important she was to us both.”

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Spotlight on Lara’s Story

Lara’s Story 

Shattered by heartbreak…

“When a heart breaks, it does not break evenly, cleaving in half exactly down the middle.” 

Surrounded by her large, boisterous family in 1840s Ireland, Lara Flannigan has never known anything but love and belonging—until the day tragedy strikes, leaving her abandoned and forced into indentured servitude.

Remade in a new world.

Just when all hope seems lost, Lara is discovered by a childless American couple, visiting Ireland to aid in the famine-relief effort. With barely a chance to look back, she’s swept away to a bustling new continent—and a dizzying new reality. One of petticoats, opulent townhouses, and the cold reaches of Philadelphia high society. Desperate for a future, Lara works tirelessly to fit into her new life… while still haunted by a past that won’t let her go.

Set in a fascinating historical period, Lara’s Story is a gripping young adult novel that explores the strength of the human spirit and the power of forgiveness to heal a broken heart.

Lara’s Story Pre-Order on Amazon https://www.amazon.com/Laras-Story-Diane-Merrill-Wigginton-ebook/dp/B07J31ZK55

Lara’s Story Pre-Order on Barnes & Noble https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/laras-story-diane-merrill-merrill-wigginton/1128939577?ean=9781946146908

Lara’s Story Readers’ Favorite Reviewhttps://readersfavorite.com/book-review/laras-story

IWIC Review of Lara’s Story-https://writersinspiringchange.wordpress.com/2018/07/03/book-review-laras-story-by-diane-merrill-wigginton/

Lara’s Story Review by Elaine Ouster, Author and Blogger of On Writing https://elaineoustonauthor.com/2018/10/13/laras-story/