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Nell Peters: End of the Month Blog. Caretaking for Jenny in July

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On July 31, 2017

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, crime, Fiction

Hello! It’s just us this month as Jenny has been foolish enough to go on holiday and leave me in charge for a day – so come on in; the world is our bucket of jellied eels. Urgh. Talking about eels, I recently had a slightly bizarre conversation with someone who told me that eels really mess up fishing tackle if they are caught on a rod and line – their slime gloops all over the place as they struggle to get free and it royally gums up the works. With that unsavoury image lurking, let’s move on, shall we?

July is the seventh month of the year (Wiki very helpfully qualifies this as falling between June and August for the benefit of any Martians who happen to be swotting up on earth months) in both the Julian and Gregorian calendars, and the fourth month to have thirty-one days. The Roman Senate renamed Quintilis as July in honour of their general, Gaius Julius Caesar, it being his birth month. I wonder if that was before or after the unfortunate ‘Et tu, Brute?’ incident on the Ides of March, when JC should have worn his Kevlar toga? But all you really need to know is that the most important day in July falls on the thirteenth, when Jenny and I celebrate our birthdays. You forgot again, didn’t you? Tsk.

This is on average the warmest month in most of the northern hemisphere (coldest in the south), kicking off the second half of the year after the longest day in June. ‘Dog Days’, or the hottest, most uncomfortable part of summer, begin early on when the hot, sultry weather starts – in theory, at least. Spring lambs, born in late winter or early spring, are usually sold before July 1st.

July is also traditionally known as ‘fence month’ or the closed season for deer in England. Trinity Term (sitting of the English High Court of Justice), ends on the 31st, and the elections of the Japanese House of Councillors, replacing half its seats, are held every three years – the latest in 2016. In Ancient Rome the festival of Poplifugia was celebrated on July 5th, and Ludi Apollinares began on July 13th, lasting for several days, although these dates do not correspond to the modern Gregorian calendar. Don’t really know why I mentioned them then…

I mentioned the High Court a few lines back; last July – Friday 9th, I believe – #3 son and I went to the funeral of an old neighbour in Chiswick, a brilliant man called Dr John Anthony Roberts CBE QC DCL FCI.Arb, a High Court Judge, whose biography is quite fascinating.

We met one Sunday morning when I was teaching #3 son (it’s always him, isn’t it?) – aged about two – to ride his tricycle down the pavement of our quiet road, because the gardens were tiny and he kept riding into walls. I’m pleased to report his spatial awareness has improved with age and (to my knowledge) he’s never driven any of the flash cars he’s so fond of into a wall, or anything else.

Unfortunately, that day the little chap got a bit carried away with his peddling and crashed into the wheel of Dr Roberts’ parked Rolls Royce, which he was cleaning – trees lining the road bore huge purple berries which the birds gobbled greedily, and when nature took its course, all the cars got covered with toxic purple poo, which was the devil to get off without destroying the paint job. No damage was done to the Roller *breathes huge sigh of relief and cancels remortgage application* and there began an unusual friendship between the two of them that lasted more than a quarter of a century.

John’s great grandfather, Joseph Jenkins Roberts, was born in Norfolk, Virginia, and became the first President of Liberia. His grandfather, John Anthony Roberts (Snr.), born in Liberia, was a cable engineer who worked in Brazil, America and England, between 1891 and 1892. John was born in Sierra Leone in May 1928 to John Anthony Roberts (Jnr. – this is starting to get confusing)), a Brazilian – his mother (whose name I can’t find) was born in Sierra Leone, a descendant of liberated Africans who chose to return after the Slave Trade was abolished. That’s some heritage.

He came to the law relatively late – he was a civil servant in Sierra Leone before coming to the UK to join the RAF, where he qualified as an accountant before joining aircrew, and then returned to Sierra Leone to work in Air Traffic Control (at the invitation of the PM!) Back to the UK with a wife (Eulette, a midwife at Queen Charlotte’s Hospital, where #3 was born) and son (Anthony John Roberts, thank goodness!) in tow. It was while he was again working as a Civil Servant here between 1964 and 1969 that he studied law part-time and got his degree. But if you want to practice as a barrister you need to join Chambers as a pupil for a year as general dogsbody earning a pittance to earn your wig, so to speak. After an unsuccessful search for a place, he was told he stood no chance whatsoever, because he was a) black and b) almost twice as old as the average pupil – so what did he do when he hit one of #3’s brick walls? He set up his own Chambers and over the years took on barristers and pupils of all colours and creeds. Oh, and women, who at that time would have found it even harder to gain a place than an older black man.

#3 did his work experience at those Chambers as a mini-Pupil and rather liked the life – especially when two of the younger barristers took him to the West Country for a day trip in an E-type Jag to collect some court papers. Have they never heard of the post or couriers? In the end, he didn’t read law, even though he had a place waiting for him post degree in Chambers. His choice and he now leads a rather enviable life flying around the world.

Before I move on, let me list just a few of Dr John Anthony Roberts’ achievements:

  • The first known person of African ancestry to be the Head of his Chambers in England and Wales.
  • The first person of African ancestry to be made a QC in England and Wales.
  • The first person of African ancestry to be made a Recorder of the Crown Court in England and Wales.
  • The first person of African ancestry to be appointed by the British Government to dependent territories as a High Court Judge of the Supreme Courts of the British Virgin Islands, and Anguilla, British West Indies.
  • The first Head of Chambers to accept seven female barristers at one time in 1975. A record during that era.

Phew! Lovely man with a huge personality and a huge laugh.

This was as far as I got with Jenny’s July blog before my father died unexpectedly.

Normal service will be resumed in August. Allegedly.

Toodles.

NP

www.Author.to/nellpeters

 

 

 

 

Sarah Dahl: The Awakening

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On July 21, 2017

In Blog, Fiction, Historical fiction, Jenny Kane, Romance

Today I’m delighted to welcome Sarah Dahl to my blog to help celebrate the launch of her latest book, The Awakening.

OUT TODAY, The Awakening is a passionate romance inspired by our Viking past.

Over to you Sarah…

Inspiration for my book:

“The Awakening – Embrace beyond Passion” is a story I wrote some time ago and now had to considerably edit to make it more like my current ‘voice’ and in keeping with the other stories in my Tales of Freya collection. Therefore it was hard to recall the exact inspiration for this story – I get inspiration from many things and then let my mind play with it. For my characters, I’m often very visual and discover someone on Pinterest or TV. Then I imagine them as a person from the early medieval – what if I made them a ‘Viking’ character. I have an inspirational mood board on my wall right opposite my desk that I look at to let my mind wander. Most stories just start with the idea of an interesting character or an event, or both. From there I let it all flow and try different directions for a theme. In “The Awakening” the theme is “liberation begins in the mind” and “follow your passions”. As the Tales of Freya stories are short, I don’t have to plot much but can just write from the heart and then edit. Which brings me to:

Plot or flow:

I’m a pantser as they say, and find plotting a long story from beginning to end very hard to pull off. Naturally, I’d just write from scene to scene and develop as I go, often not knowing the ending myself. For the stories in the Tales of Freya collection it was easier, as for short stories the plot and character arcs can be more straightforward. I always just start with an idea, something I want to happen, and then write with the flow until I’m happy.

The research for “The Awakening”:

Of course, as a historical fiction writer I have to be firm and confident in the Viking environment and era. I read all the books and see as many sites as I can. My fave non-fiction is “Vikings at War” by Hjardar/Vike; it has brilliant detail and is the most extensive and visual book on the era I have seen. Also, every year I go to at least Haithabu/Hedeby here in Germany for a few days, to this once huge, Danish Viking trading town that is now a museum and open-air site by the Slien. The atmosphere of the reconstructed houses and pier just sparks creativity and a sense of the time. Soaking it all up, I just let my feet and mind wander, focussing on the big picture and then the details, imagining what stories could have happened in those narrow streets and houses. This year I became aware of the harsh winds, the never-ending gusts that penetrate the streets and houses, so much so that roofs don’t need smoke holes … the smoke from the fires just disappears through the walls and roof of the Viking town houses. So I tried to incorporate the harsh elements and their effects more in my story “The Awakening”, too.

I take great pride in being authentic and never use the era as mere stage props. I did several blog posts about authenticity: how every author should do their thorough homework and really know what they are writing about, especially if using a historical time period. Read it all until you don’t have to look stuff up anymore (ideally, but there’s always something …) Once my first draft is written and I checked details myself, I let my Viking reenactor-friends read it for authenticity and plausibility, and also discuss with beta-readers. “The Awakening” is set in a rural village by the fjord, so in smaller Viking houses, not the huge rural longhouses readers might first depict. More the kind you find in villages and towns like Hedeby. So naturally, when I went there this year, I focussed on the layouts of houses and daily tasks my characters would need to do in the story, because something secret and daring is hidden in Ingrid’s little farmhouse. Most things I don’t have to research anymore, but what about details such as how someone undresses? In which order would they do it and would the jewellery clang? How loudly? These are the things my reenactors then have to discuss with me, and go through step by step as I see it happening before my inner eye 😉

Preferred POV:

That’s a good question … I can do both; it all depends on the story and which character should tell the story, through whose eyes we should see and feel things. It doesn’t matter if it’s a man or woman, and I use both first person POV or deep third depending on what works best. In the Tales of Freya stories, I mostly use deep third. The view points can be that of men or/and women. For some reason I can work really well from a male POV. “The Current – A Battle of Seduction” is told from the warrior’s perspective on this seductive shield maiden, and I found it easy to slip into his skin. Whereas “The Awakening” is Ingrid’s story, and the next one, “Monk”, will even be told from three different POVs … I guess it’s all about gut feeling. With experience and craft comes a gut feeling for whose story I want to tell and how.

Most exciting about book for me:

For “The Awakening” the most exciting has to be that a story that I’ve worked on for so long finally gets to see the light – I get it ‘off my desk’ and out to people – and it starts its own life now, can be read by everyone, like a child that grows up and after tender care leaves the house. Which is frightening, of course, because one grows so attached to the story-baby over time. After the great success and many positive reviews of “The Current” I’m very excited and anxious to see what people will make of this very different story. “Awakening” really can’t be compared to the first one, “Current”, in the collection. The first spans several weeks whereas the latter covers only a few hours. The whole plotline and tone are different and the themes of course … so, yeah, we will see. Deep breath and fingers crossed 🙂

Blurb – “The Awakening – Embrace beyond Passion”

 The second in the collection of sensual short stories set in the Viking age, the Tales of Freya:

In a world of crackling fires and rough landscapes, long winters and bloody raids, the immediacy of life and death ignites undeniable passions. Warriors and monks, healers and housewives – all follow the call of their hearts and bodies to indulge in pleasures that may forever change their lives …

Ingrid leads a quiet, joyless life with a husband who is oblivious to her needs. Every time the dragon boats carry him away, she resigns herself to the solitude of her modest hilltop farm by the fjord. But her uneventful world is shaken to the core when the shadows of her house reveal a secret that sets her passions afire.

***

Release date: July 21, 2017, by Pronoun

Buy links:

https://books.pronoun.com/the-awakening3/

http://amzn.to/2tyak9p

Author homepage: sarah-dahl.com

Mailing list for Book Alert: https://mailing.sarah-dahl.com/?p=subscribe&id=2

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/sarahdahl13/

Twitter: @sarahdahl13

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Bio

Sarah Dahl lives on the edge of the rural German Eifel and writes historical fiction primarily set in the Viking age. She also works as an editor, translates, and coaches new writers in German and English. She is interested in everyday life in bygone centuries and the human stories that may have occurred behind the hard, historical facts. Her author page is: sarah-dahl.com

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Many thanks Sarah – and congratulations on your brand new book!

Happy reading,

Jenny xx

Interview with Bethany Askew: Poppy’s Seed

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On July 19, 2017

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, Fiction, Interview, Jenny Kane

I’m delighted to welcome Bethany Askew to my site today to talk about her latest novel, Poppy’s Seed. I was lucky enough to meet Bethany while we were both being interviewed by the lovely Suzie Grogan on 10 Radio last week. I had no hesitation in asking Bethany if she’d mind sharing information about her excellent novel with us today.

Over to you Bethany…

What inspired you to write your latest novel Poppy’s Seed?

This book was based on a dream I had. It was very vivid. I remembered every detail. The moment I woke I up I scribbled it down so I wouldn’t forget it.

It was about a couple who moved to Lyme Regis and met someone who changed their lives, and whilst causing havoc in their relationship, she also showed them things about themselves and each other that they never knew before. Only the ending was left uncertain.

Initially the girl they met ran a shop in Lyme Regis. It was only when the storyline became clearer to me that I made her into an artist and jewellery maker. I had a very definite idea of where in Lyme Regis her shop was and what type of shop it had to be.

I didn’t really know why the couple had moved to Lyme Regis, but when my husband and I retired and moved house it became clear to me that I could write with experience of this difficult time.

The main protagonists were very real in my dream, particularly the girl who had to be unique: a free-thinking, free-spirited girl, living by no rules and knowing no boundaries.

The character of Poppy is inspired by reading biographies of artists and writers such as Vita Sackville-West and Vanessa Bell, women who lived outside the social norms of society in their time. I have always been fascinated by the Bloomsbury set and their contemporaries and Poppy’s untidy habits and messy house are based on the artist Augustus John and his family, who put their creativity above mundane things like tidiness and cleanliness.

Poppy’s Seed is a contemporary novel that deals with the problems of many modern families, including the effect of children and stepchildren on a couple; the balance of power between two people; and the compromises made to keep a relationship going.

I like to write about women’s lives and relationships and am particularly interested in a woman’s role as wife and mother and the effect of marriage and divorce on family dynamics.

Do you model any of your characters after people you know? If so, do these people see themselves in your characters?

My main female protagonists tend to be versions of me, with some of my characteristics exaggerated. I’m certainly not as house proud or as sexually adventurous as Emily in Poppy’s Seed but we share the same practical and optimistic view of life. And there is a lot of myself in Charlotte in my novel Out of Step:  Charlotte’s experiences of divorce, access, and custody battles are based on my own.

The World Within is my most auto-biographical story. Set in the 1970’s, when it was still socially unacceptable to be an unmarried mother, it tells the story of Jemma, who has to give up her plans for further education when she becomes pregnant. Set in my home town of Taunton, this book is inspired by my own teenage years, with an alternative version of Jemma’s life played out simultaneously, the reader left at the end to decide which Jemma has the more fulfilled life, the one who went to university as planned or the one who married and had a baby and stayed behind in Taunton.

The only one of my novels that has nothing of me in it is Counting the Days , which is a true story, based on my parents-in-law’s letters written during World War Two. A bit of a departure for me, this was written mainly for the family, but it has sold well at the presentations my husband and I give to local interested societies, where we show the photographs my father-in-law took on active service overseas and read extracts from the letters.

My website www.onactiveservice.co.uk is a valuable resource to anyone interested in World War Two: it reproduces the letters and war diary entries verbatim, seventy three years ago to the day they were written, together with wartime photographs of England and Egypt and India.

Do you prefer to plot your story or go with the flow?

I’m not one of those writers who plans their books chapter by chapter. My stories evolve as I go along. My ideas for characters change and even when the characters  are fixed I find they sometimes do things I don’t expect and I have to re-think everything.  Originally Poppy’s Seed was going to be far more about relationships and family dynamics but as I wrote it Poppy took over more and more and I found she had a secret agenda that I could weave through the story. The character of the step-daughter also changed: at first she was far more bohemian and artistic but I couldn’t have two characters like Poppy so I toned her down a bit. I like to include step-children in my novels as it is something I can write about with experience.  I feel it is a reflection on modern society and a situation many people nowadays can relate to.

Which point of view do you prefer to write in and why?

I like my readers to be involved in what my characters are thinking, to hear the characters thoughts and feelings and experience their lives. I have experimented with different perspectives. I have found that if I write as “I” then it is hard to describe how “I” look or sound or even what “I” may be wearing.

Writing as a man is also hard, though I seem to have done it successfully in Poppy’s Seed. One male reader said, “It was as though you had read my mind. Reading your book made me realise how difficult I must have been to live with I when I first retired.”

In this book the reader hears Emily’s and Peter’s perspectives on the same situation. She thinks she’s trying to help him find ways to enjoy his retirement; he thinks she’s trying to boss him around. This way I can also describe each character as seen by the other.

The only one of my novels that has varied from this approach is Counting the Days, which is written from an objective point of view because, although it is a novel, it is based on fact and apart from the few intimate thoughts expressed in the letters I was using, it was hard for me to know the exact feelings of my main protagonists. It was more a case of charting their joint story.

What is your writing regime?

 I don’t have one. I just write when the mood takes me. Certainly not every day. And I rarely write for hours.

Although I don’t write every day the book I am working on is constantly on my mind and I am usually jotting down notes or words or phrases that come to mind.

I try to keep these logically in a notebook but they often end up on endless scraps of odd paper as ideas strike me suddenly.

I write on my laptop in my armchair if I am writing a fair bit, or at my desk in my study if it’s only a few odd sentences or ideas.

When I have an idea for a story I live with it for a while, even up to a year, getting the characters clear in my mind and letting myself feel how the story will progress, what the characters look like, where they will live etc.

Each part I write is like a scene in a film or play. I “see” the  characters in my mind acting it out for me and just write down what they do. I like to take a break between chapters for my actors to re-group before they act out the next scene. Sometimes I’ll come back to the previous scene and add a bit or re-write it. My writing for the day might just consist of a few sentences, but every little bit matters. I start my stories without any structure at all and see what happens. Then, as I progress and the story becomes clearer I plan what will happen in future chapters. Characters and events often change!

I am completely self-taught. I have never been on a creative writing course or any workshops and have never liaised with other writers. I have always known I wanted to write and when I had fewer family commitments I just sat down at my PC one day and started to write a novel. This first novel, The Time Before will never be published. It is very much a first attempt. I didn’t plan it or structure it. I just had an idea and off I went! But I learnt a lot about writing just by doing it. Now I have written five novels and a short story as well as a modest amount of poetry. I couldn’t imagine life without a novel to work on and I have just started writing my sixth! I like to have something to channel mu energies into, something completely my own that I have accomplished. I miss my characters once I have finished though. Maybe that’s why I’m always ready to write another one!

***

Links

Poppy’s Seed

https://www.amazon.co.uk/d/Books/Poppys-Seed-Bethany-Askew/1785899198/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1500110671&sr=1-3&keywords=bethany+askew

The World Within

https://www.amazon.co.uk/World-Within-Bethany-Askew-ebook/dp/B00C3L8LL4

Out of Step

https://www.amazon.com/Out-Step-Bethany-Askew-ebook/dp/B00BIJ0GRY

Counting the Days

https://www.amazon.com/Counting-Days-Bethany-Askew-ebook/dp/B00J2VOTQY

The Night of the Storm

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Night-Storm-Bethany-Askew-ebook/dp/B00CDL6CBU

Bethany Askew Amazon Author Page (all titles)

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Bethany-Askew/e/B00BJ61C56

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Bio

Bethany Askew is the author of five novels: The Time Before, The World Within, Out of Step, Counting the Days and Poppy’s Seed.

She has also written a short story, The Night of the Storm, and she writes poetry.

Her work is published on Amazon and available in major retailers.

Future projects include a new short story, this one for the young adult market, and another full-length novel.

www.bethanyaskew.co.uk

www.onactiveservice.co.uk 

***

Thanks again for such a great interview Bethany.

Happy reading everyone,

Jenny xx

Birthday Perks

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On July 13, 2017

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, Contemporary Romantic Fiction, crime, Fiction, Imagine

There are many advantages to having (yet another) birthday…This is what I’m telling myself as I wake up on my 45th birthday in a state of bewilderment that I’ve got this far through my life without anyone telling me I’m doing it wrong.

I will be honest- the idea of being 45 does not fill my with joy. On the other hand, not reaching 45 would have one hell of a lot worse, and so I’ll go with it- although it had better be a damn site better to me than 44 was!

A lot went wrong when I was 44 –  book deal promises died, publishers dissolved into the ether, writing promises were broken, and so on….On the other hand (again)…out of these professional ashes came Imagine… The creative writing business I am co-managing with the lovely Alison Knight.

It has already been so much fun- and we’ve had some fantastic adventures sourcing potential retreat venues, appearing on BBC Radio Wiltshire, teaching from Penzance to Chippenham, and lots of places in between. My highlight so far…

Carefully easing out the memories of a class of dementia sufferers who all want to get their life stories on paper before it’s too late. Humbling.

This last year has seen me embark upon my first literary tour, taking Abi’s Neighbour on a trip around the South West, ending up in Cornwall, where it is set, amongst the rocks of Penzance, and the yellow sands of Sennen.

Outside of my working life- my eldest daughter left compulsory education, has recently won a prize at the Royal Institution of Science for outstanding work in biology, and is about to head off to university. Meanwhile by youngest daughter has just won a scholarship to Maths school over the Summer, as well as an award for academic excellence in Statistics – not to mention a 2nd Dan Black Belt in mixed martial arts (Don’t mess with daughter number 2!!) I think you can say I’m a proud Mum.

***

As if to offset the extra wrinkles and gradual general in-toning, a birthday does bring with it some perks.

I get to stay in bed and write this rather than go to the café to write this! I’m going to take part of the day off so that I can explore a little of the beautiful Exmoor countryside, and- it my nostrils don’t deceive me, and I’m not hallucinating the aroma coming from the kitchen, later there will be cake…

If you like a bit of a saucy read, I can also offer you a little pressie- in the shape of my Kay Jaybee novella, Wednesday on Thursday– which is FREE on Amazon this week (over 18’s ONLY)

So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to see if the postman has been, and to pull on my walking shoes. If I’m a good girl they might just walk me in the direction of a scone or two…

Happy reading,

Jenny x

 

 

 

End of the month blog: June bustin’ out all over

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On June 30, 2017

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, crime, Fiction, Jenny Kane, News

It’s that time again! Let’s buckle up for another dip into Nell Peter’s end of the month reminisces… 

Hi Jen – and everyone else!

As the month totters to a close, was it a case of June bustin’ out all over? What does that even mean? When I was weeny, hearing the Rogers and Hammerstein song from Carousel on the radio, my lurid imagination pictured a rather buxom woman wearing a too-small blouse that strained at the seams to cover her modesty. Think Donald McGill postcards, or Beryl Cook-type painted ladies. In reality, of course, the lyrics refer to an exploding renewal of life for flowers and trees, plus all other things summery. Because I’m so easily amused, I’ll stick with my childish version.

June 2017 was not exactly a fun-filled thirty days. There was the General Election, rocking up on the 8th – as someone who typically shies away from making political comment, thereafter for me it came as a huge relief not to be bombarded with so many posts from others, championing their own particular favourite in the most blinkered, patronising and dogmatic fashion. Did they really think no one else capable of cogent reasoning, to weigh up pros and cons and sensibly make up their minds how best to vote? How very dare they? I’ll have them know I’m (thankfully) not as stupid as I look.

And the spats on social media if someone had the nerve to disagree! Some exchanges were simply amusing to those munching popcorn whilst indulging in a spot of spectator sport, others downright nasty. My lovely late brother-in-law used to vote Monster Raving Loony, because he couldn’t be doing with any of the other parties – he may have had a point. And at the end of the day, it’s probably fair to say nobody got the result they wanted, except perhaps the DUP, who must have thought all their birthdays came at once. That Arlene Foster looks a bit scary!

Before all the carnage at the Polls, #3 son made a brief, last minute trip home on June 1st to attend a friend’s wedding. Sadly, the date had to be massively brought forward because the bride’s father was given a short time to live. Son landed at Heathrow from Bangkok around 6 pm, got through customs and picked up a hire car to drive to Norfolk, stopping off at #4’s en route. To repay his brother’s hospitality, he broke the toilet seat in the downstairs loo before heading on here, arriving at gone midnight – the day of the wedding.

Up bright and early (well early, anyway) he sped off for a haircut and to buy a suit, shirt, tie and shoes to wear to the nuptials (he lives rather well on expenses and has grown out of the suits hanging in his wardrobe, playing hide and seek with the moths) – oh and a new toilet seat. As ever falling on his feet, Next had clobber packages on offer so he got himself sorted in record time, then back here, 2nd shower (can tell he’s been living in a hot climate), dressed, paraded for ‘does my bum look big in this?’ scrutiny, scribbled in a card and shoved in some money – all the friends did that to fund a honeymoon. Then he was gone, to pick up mate Charlie (also home for the occasion, but only from London – amateur!), leaving detritus and much dirty washing in his wake. Oh, and the huge open suitcase obstacle in the hall, guaranteed to cripple anyone entering the front door. By ten the next day he had returned from the venue, grabbed his stuff (including clean clothes) and left for Heathrow, to fly to Bangkok-Mumbai-Jaipur – rather him than me.

The first leg was a thirteen hour flight and #3 would have been roughly halfway through when Richard, a colleague of the OH, started walking across London Bridge with his brother-in-law (his wife being abroad on business.) They were minding their own business after dinner and drinks when a white van crashed and Richard ran toward it to help – I imagine when three men wielding very serious weapons leapt out he realised he was in the wrong place at the wrong time and decided to make himself scarce. He can’t remember; possibly not a bad thing.

He does vaguely recall sitting on the pavement, thinking he’d been punched and wondering where all the blood that was pooling underneath him was coming from – and why he couldn’t breathe. When he heard shots, he thought his end had come, but a soldier on leave had other ideas, pushed him down and lay on top of him to stop profuse bleeding from stab wounds that had penetrated spleen, diaphragm and lung; interesting but effective technique that they don’t actually teach at med school. And because of that soldier’s quick thinking, and the fact that he is super-fit, Richard will make a full recovery – physically at least.

Two days after that, I heard that my long-ago American friend James (Jim) Angel had died from Lewy Body dementia, a multisystem disease which, like all forms of dementia, cruelly turns the sufferer into an empty shell, a shadow of their former self. I knew that he had been diagnosed and was receiving treatment in a specialist care facility in Portland, Oregon – last Christmas a mutual friend sent me a photo of a frail, grey-haired old man looking blankly at Santa. He wasn’t much older than me. But let me tell you about the Jim I knew and adored (in a purely platonic way!):

He was a peace-loving draft dodger (Vietnam – can’t argue with him there), living in London with his first wife (also American and a trainee nurse), working at BA Heathrow as an aeronautical scientist.

About my height (5’ 9”), he wasn’t much less around his girth and had a Brian Blessed-type voice and laugh, though cuter because of the accent – especially when he called everyone ‘shit bag’ as a term of affection. Bearded with a mass of dark, curly long hair and always dressed like a scruffy hippy, his larger than life personality belied a pretty grim childhood; his father was an alcoholic and aged eleven, Jim discovered his mum’s body in the garage of their home after she’d shot herself. One can only imagine …

We didn’t share a taste in music – he Captain Beefheart, me far more prosaic stuff, but we did go to a lot of gigs, including Pink Floyd and Elton John, which he cringed all the way through. After his wife left him, he returned to the US and while I was living in Montreal, I flew to California and spent most of one summer there. It was a brilliant time – he bought a rust bucket car for touring and we camped in forests and on beaches (so cold, even in CA!), watching seals in the Pacific Ocean and collecting beautiful driftwood, which he thought he might turn into ‘something real neat’ when he got time. We also went skinny-dipping in creeks – my first and last time, as it’s me that creeks now!

The Chinese Exhibition was on in San Francisco and we queued for hours from dawn to see it – passing the time shivering and watching the mist roll from the hills to engulf the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz, listening to eerie foghorns. When the time came for my return flight, I didn’t know I’d never see him in the flesh again, although we did communicate in other ways, but not for some years now. Fly high, Jim Angel – you are free.

After living with it at close-ish quarters for more than a decade, dementia has touched me (actually, more like hit me over the head with an iron bar!) more than usual during June, after my mother was taken to hospital following an early morning fall – although couldn’t remember what happened because she, like my father, suffers from the vascular form. So, off I went to sit on trains for four hours in order to imitate Florrie Nightingale on her less impressive days. Neither of my parents have any short term memory whatsoever and refuse to leave the house – they have a team of visiting carers to ensure they are fed, watered, clean and safe, most of whom are very good, a few not so much. Lately, my father spends all his time in bed and when he’s not sleeping, he’s barking orders through the house – he seems to have regressed to childhood, when the household retained several servants. Fortunately, the OH was able to base himself in Twickenham for the nine, very long, days that I spent chez folks, disappearing to Starbucks or the library to use the internet when required. Don’t tell him, but without his company and the very late dinners we shared in the garden when all was quiet, I would have quickly overtaken certifiably insane. My ears are worn out from conversations with medics and bods from all manner of agencies, many of whom contradict the others. Mum is home and all is quiet on the western front again – for how long, your guess is as good as mine.

In 2012, along with over three thousand other hopefuls, I submitted a radio drama script to the BBC Writers’ Room hoping to have it accepted for production.

My masterpiece made it through three weedings and made the final thirty, before it fell flat on its face at the final hurdle. I’ll leave you with an excerpt – Jack and Joyce are an elderly couple with dementia, and Glenda their long-suffering daughter.

Toodles

NP

***

SCENE ONE:

INT: EARLY MORNING. KITCHEN. A WOMAN (JOYCE) IS HUMMING TUNELESSLY, WAITING FOR A KETTLE TO BOIL.

SFX: KETTLE. DISTANT TAPPING ON GLASS.

MALE (JACK) CALLING JOYCE’S NAME THROUGH GLASS.

JOYCE:                                           (REGISTERING) What on earth…? (LOUDER)

What are you doing out there, Jack? I’m making tea.

JACK:                                                   (OFF, MUFFLED THROUGH GLASS) I seem to have locked myself out, Majesty.

JOYCE:                                                You old fool. (HUFFING) Well where are the keys?

JACK:                                                   (OFF) I don’t know.

JOYCE:                                                Have you tried your dressing gown pocket?

JACK:                                                   (OFF) Erm…I’m not sure, I don’t remember.

JOYCE:                                                Well, have a look!

                                                                SFX: KEYS RATTLING THROUGH GLASS. THEN A KEY TURNING IN THE LOCK AND A DOOR OPENING.

JACK:                                                   I found them (LAUGHS) they were in my pocket all the time.

JOYCE:                                                What were you doing out in the garden anyway – you’ll catch a cold.

JACK:                                                   I went out to do something, but now I can’t remember what. Can I have a naughty, to warm me up? I don’t feel very well.

JOYCE:                                                I think I put the kettle on to make tea.

JACK:                                                   (LITTLE BOY SNIGGER) I’d rather have a naughty.

JOYCE:                                                Or did I make a pot of tea?

JACK:                                                   Is it Thursday today, Joyce?

JOYCE:                                                I don’t know – have a look at the paper.

JACK:                                                   Where is it?

JOYCE:                                                I don’t know. Shall I make tea?

JACK:                                                   Good idea, Majesty.

                                                                SFX: JOYCE OPENS THE FRIDGE. GLASS MILK BOTTLES CHINK.

JOYCE:                                                Oh dear; we do seem to have a lot of milk. Perhaps I should write a note for the milkman.

JACK:                                                   Why?

JOYCE:                                                No, you’re right – we’ll use it up, I expect. Or I’ll end up throwing it away…maybe I’ll put a note out next week.

JACK:                                                   What day is it today, Majesty?

JOYCE:                                                I don’t know – is it Friday? I’m not sure… No, it can’t be Friday because the dustmen haven’t been. Or at least I didn’t hear them.

JACK:                                                   Do the dustmen usually come on Friday?

JOYCE:                                                Yes, except over Christmas and Easter – then you never know when they’ll turn up. (TUTS) Disgraceful, when we pay so much in rates, or whatever they call them now.

JACK:                                                   Did we put the rubbish out?

JOYCE:                                                Oh yes, I expect so. That doesn’t mean to say they’ll collect it though. They don’t always – probably because you didn’t give them a big tip at Christmas.

JACK:                                                   Is it time for a naughty yet? It’s for medicinal purposes; I don’t feel very well at all. I think maybe I should have stayed in bed.

JOYCE:                                                I wonder if the dustmen have been…or if we’ll have to wait until next week…

                                                                PAUSE FOR A MOMENT.

JACK:                                                   Do you remember my friend Ralph Windsor?

JOYCE:                                                Of course I do, Jack – he was your Best Man… and he had that nice wife from Scotland.

JACK:                                                   Scotland? I don’t remember that. Have we had breakfast yet?

JOYCE:                                                I’m not sure. Would you like some toast? I think we’ve got some bread left.

JACK:                                                   I fancy fish and chips…could we have fish and chips? Do you fancy fish and chips, Majesty?

JOYCE:                                                Someone has to go out and buy fish and chips and we’re not dressed. Anyway, I’m not sure if they’re open yet; shall I do some toast?

JACK:                                                   Okay, yes please. With marmalade…no, make it honey. I like honey, don’t you? And if I could have a naughty with it, that would be very nice.

JOYCE:                                                Now, did I make the tea? Or have we drunk it already?

                                                                PAUSE FOR A MOMENT.

JACK:                                                   My friend Ralph Windsor was a jolly nice chap…very clever. Is he dead, Joyce?

JOYCE:                                                I think so. Shall I put the kettle on?

JACK:                                                   Why did he die?

JOYCE:                                                I don’t know.

JACK:                                                   Very clever boy, old Ralphie. I met him when we were seven – he’d dug a hole in the woods and when he went home for lunch I played in it. He came back and we started fighting over whose hole it was. (LAUGHS) Is he dead, now?

JOYCE:                                                Probably – I don’t think we’ve seen him for quite a while. Wasn’t his wife from Scotland?

JACK:                                                   Was she? Is she dead now? Do you know, I must be getting old because I can’t remember.

JOYCE:                                                I think she went back to Scotland…his wife. I forget her name.

                                                                SFX: TELEPHONE RINGS OFF IN THE HALLWAY, CONTINUING.

JACK:                                                   Is that someone at the door, Joyce?

JOYCE:                                                No, of course not – it’s the phone.

JACK:                                                   Who is it?

JOYCE:                                                How do I know?

PAUSE FOR A MOMENT

JACK:                                                   Aren’t you going to answer it, Joyce – I don’t feel at all well. I may have to go back to bed.

JOYCE:                                                (SIGHS) Looks like I’ll have to – I wonder who it is.

JACK:                                                   Poor old Ralphie…such a nice chap – and clever with it too. He had a very important job in the war – I remember he was on several convoys that were attacked by U-boats… (BEAT) Ralph’s father was a Regimental Sergeant Major, then a Yeoman of the Guard at the Tower – he looked magnificent when he was all dressed up in his uniform. A real gentleman…

                                                                THE PHONE STOPS RINGING.

JOYCE:                                                They’ve hung up! They didn’t wait very long…no patience at all some people…Never mind – if it’s important they’ll ring back next week.

JACK:                                                   That’s what my dear old mum used to say. I think it was her, anyway.

JOYCE:                                                There was nothing ‘dear’ about your mother – she didn’t think I was good enough to marry into her precious family…Huh! Would you like a cup of tea? I could put the kettle on.

JACK:                                                   Yes please, Majesty – unless I could have a naughty instead? I feel a bit rough – I think I should go back to bed.

JOYCE:                                                Well go back to bed, if you really think you should. I’ll make tea.

JACK:                                                   I remember meeting Ralph’s dad on the station once – he was all dressed up in his regalia. Magnificent – I felt I should salute him. Pucker gentleman, he was.

JOYCE:                                                What did you have for breakfast?

JACK:                                                   Damned if I can remember. (BEAT) Is it Monday today?

JOYCE:                                                I expect so. (BEAT) What do you fancy for lunch? (BEAT) I really must get my hair cut – I’ll make an appointment next week. (BEAT) I think I’ll get a shower now.

SCENE TWO:

INT: MID-MORNING. JOYCE HAS GONE TO ANSWER THE FRONT DOOR.

JOYCE:                                                (FROSTILY) Oh hello; it’s you, Glenda. I wasn’t expecting you – is it Saturday today?

GLENDA:                                            Yes, it’s Saturday. I tried ringing earlier – but there was no reply.

JOYCE:                                                Oh, I was probably out shopping.

GLENDA:                                            (VO) Pull the other one – you haven’t been out shopping since Elvis was breathing. (TO JOYCE) Never mind, I’m here now – shall I put the kettle on?

JOYCE:                                                What a good idea, I fancy a cup of tea. So, how are the girls? We haven’t seen them for a very long while.

GLENDA:                                            (TO JOYCE) Chloe was here in the week, Mum. She made you a nice chicken casserole. (VO) Stop wasting your breath. (TO JOYCE) They are all fine, thanks, except Claire’s a bit worried about these ‘A’ level exams she’s got coming up. If she doesn’t get the grades, she won’t get into her first choice of university so she’s panicking a bit.

JOYCE:                                                That’s nice dear – just hang your jacket on the banister and we’ll go on through to the kitchen.

SFX: COAT BEING FLUNG OVER WOOD, CARRIER BAGS RUSTLING.

JOYCE:                                                Ooh – is that something for me?

GLENDA:                                            I picked up a few bits and pieces on my way here – we’ll make up a proper shopping list in a minute, while we’re having tea. Where’s Dad?

JOYCE:                                                Oh…um…he’s around somewhere. Or maybe he went shopping.

JACK:                                                   (OFF) Is that you Glennie? I’m just up here getting dressed. I haven’t been feeling too well…

***

Another corking blog. Thanks Nell- especially for taking the time to write this wonderful piece when you’ve had such a testing month!

Great script!! You should resubmit it.

Happy reading everyone,

Jenny xx

Blog Tour: Exclusive extract from Skin Deep

By

On June 17, 2017

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, Contemporary Romantic Fiction, Fiction, Jenny Kane

I’m delighted to welcome talented author, and my lovely friend, Laura Wilkinson, to my site today as part of her blog tour.

Laura is here today with an exclusive extract from her brand new novel, Skin Deep.

Skin Deep Blurb:

It’s what’s inside that counts…

Art student and former model Diana has always been admired for her beauty but what use are good looks when you want to shine for your talent? Insecure and desperate for inspiration, Diana needs a muse.

Facially disfigured four-year-old Cal lives a life largely hidden from the world. But he was born to be looked at and he needs love too. A chance encounter changes everything; Cal becomes Diana’s muse. But as Diana’s reputation develops and Cal grows up, their relationship implodes.

Both struggle to be accepted for what lies within. Is it possible to find acceptance in a society where what’s on the outside counts for so much?

Taken from Part One of Skin Deep, set in Manchester in the mid-1980s

We walked about the Hulme estate and Alan took photo after photo.

‘Funny that estate also means a stately home, isn’t it? You couldn’t get much further from ornamental gardens, gilded mirrors and roaming stags. Though this place has its own kind of beauty,’ I said.

‘You think so?’ He shook his head. ‘Think I’m more traditional than you on that front.’

He took pictures of the syringes and Kit Kat foils on the stairwells – the detritus of the addict’s life – the boarded up shops, the dogs tied to bollards with string outside The Spinners pub, the old PSV club, the girls in the line for the cash point with their turned-out toes and gently curved arms, dancers-in-waiting from The Northern Ballet School, trying to be regal and graceful in the middle of all this gorgeous, vital ugliness. We stretched towards the edges of the community, noting the distinct change in character once normal society was within reach. The blocks of flats were lower, the disaffection and alienation less marked; this was a better class of slum, and the inhabitants considered themselves lucky to be outside the crescents. The sun was setting as we crossed the bridge spanning the motorway and made our way back into the bowels of the estate. In the distance, the warehouses lining the river Medlock were backlit by the dying sun.

Alan stopped and lifted the camera, then dropped it down again. ‘The whole area was built on swampland, below the water level. They never bothered to drain it when the first lot of slums went up. In Victorian Manchester, Irish immigrants would regularly wake up to a dwelling ankle-deep in polluted river water. And when they tore those slums down they still didn’t bother to drain. Built right on top again. It’s as if the rich and powerful hope that the earth itself will swallow up the human waste dumped here.’

‘Rotten foundations?’

‘The foundations for anything need to be right, don’t they?’

I nodded. I’d not heard Alan so serious. He was angry and sad, and he moved me.

The child; human waste.

‘I found something at that party.’

He turned away from the view to look at me.

I continued. ‘I was somewhere I wasn’t meant to be.’ I told him everything I knew, or guessed, or imagined.

He shrugged. ‘It’s no secret they have a boy.’

How does Alan know this? Off-kilter Alan, who doesn’t have any friends other than me and Linda, and doesn’t seem to work, or sign on, or be connected to anyone worth knowing, let alone Mr and Mrs Super Cool of Hulme.

As it transpired Alan was not the loser I’d assumed he was. People talked to Alan; he gained their trust. When Cardie Girl had deserted him, he’d got into a conversation with the scarlet-lipped punk who’d spilt all sorts about Pru and Michael. They were junkies, rich kids from Chelsea who’d stayed on after they dropped out of university in the late seventies, later ‘working’ as artists and rebelling against the Thatcherite regime. Purportedly, they ran a small printing press and published a Marxist magazine that was distributed on campus – I’d never seen it – organised parties and marches and generally made a nuisance of themselves. I wondered how a couple of junkies managed to squeeze all this in between fixes.

‘So everyone knows they’ve got a kid. Do they know they lock him up?’

‘Not everyone. And they might not always lock him up. It might have been a one-off, you know, ’cos of the party.’

I saw the boy’s hand in my mind’s eye, dredged up the hazy image of his body. He’d been rounded, fleshy, not starved. They fed him. ‘Anyone seen him?’

‘Not many people have.’

‘No bloody wonder if they keep him locked up. It’s not right.’

‘He’s a spastic. People make fun. They keep him out of the way for protection.’

‘That does not make it right.’ I was shouting. ‘It’s wrong to trap a kid. Force them to do things they don’t want to.’ My voice cracked and I heard how strange and overblown I sounded.

‘Force them to do things they don’t want to? We don’t know that Pru and Michael do that. Diana? You OK?’

I was crying. Alan couldn’t have understood where my tears came from, but he pulled me to his chest, and I didn’t object to the stink of his armpits or smelly old jacket. At least not at the time; I complained bitterly later. Bunny made me do things I didn’t want to. She’d locked me in a wardrobe and told me she’d let me out only when I was ready to be beautiful. Having inherited my mother’s stubborn gene I’d stayed there for hours, belly griping with hunger, bladder aching. In the end I’d pissed on her shoes and I got a beating for that too.

Alan pulled a tissue from his pocket and I noticed the ring on the little finger of his left hand. It was made of white gold, I was sure, and had an expensive, handcrafted look about it. I shook my head, refusing the tissue, wondering where and how Alan had acquired such a lovely piece of jewellery. I dug a tissue from my own pocket and sniffled into it. ‘Don’t tell Linda. They’re Jim’s friends.’

‘I won’t. Look, if they lock him up, then it is definitely not right, but it might have been a one-off and even if it wasn’t I’m not sure what we can do about it,’ he said. ‘They’re the parents, we don’t even know them. It’s none of our business. You’ve got to try and forget about it.’

‘I’m not sure I can.’ I wiped my eyes and smiled weakly at him, and he pointed the camera at me.

‘You look lovely when you’re upset. Different, vulnerable. Let me take your picture.’

‘I HATE my picture being taken!’ I grimaced and turned my back on him.

‘But you were a model, a beauty queen…’ I started walking towards the crescents, his footsteps echoing on the paving slabs as he lurched after me. ‘That’s why I hate it,’ I said. ‘I spent my childhood smiling so hard my cheeks ached, my eyes watering from the glare of the flashbulbs. I’m surprised I didn’t develop epilepsy or something.’

‘I’d have thought most girls would have loved it, the attention. Linda made it sound like it was amazing.’

‘The attention wears thin after a while, and it couldn’t make up for the hours spent getting my hair and nails done when all I wanted to do was hang out with my friends, play with my Barbie dolls and other normal stuff.’ I couldn’t look at him.

‘You didn’t tell your mum you weren’t happy?’

It was so rude to keep my back to him, he deserved better. I turned. ‘I tried to, but she never listened. And the winning the competitions and getting jobs was nice, when I did, which wasn’t always…’

He raised his eyebrows and opened his eyes so wide I could see white all around his irises. He said, ‘You didn’t always win? No way!’

It took me a while to realise he was teasing. I smiled at my arrogance and wondered if I was losing my appeal. First Jim, now Alan. ‘Hey, we need to keep moving if we want to keep hold of your camera. It’s getting dark,’ I said, linking my arm in his, ‘muggers’ll be out soon.’

‘Today’s been great. Thanks for coming with me.’

‘My pleasure. Sorry about the outburst.’

We strode along, our long legs and broad steps carrying us home faster than most. Alan talked about using his bathroom as a dark room, and asked if I’d like to watch him develop the shots he’d taken. As we marched along the curve of the crescent I saw a figure outside number fifty: Jim. Linda would be pleased. And a lightbulb came on in my head.

Jim! He’s the way into Pru and Michael’s world, the way to the boy. Today has indeed been good.

 *** 

Buy links

Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B06XWKT5HM/ref=s9_acsd_simh_hd_bw_b17GB_c_x_1_w?pf_rd_m=A3P5ROKL5A1OLE&pf_rd_s=merchandised-search-4&pf_rd_r=D9ENXMEBEPB0150BR1BM&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_p=fd347e45-37c2-5ef7-938e-e2348b8d0a86&pf_rd_i=266239

Waterstones:

https://www.waterstones.com/book/skin-deep/laura-wilkinson/9781783758678

WHSmith: https://www.whsmith.co.uk/search/go?af=cat1%3Abooks&w=Skin+Deep+by+Laura+Wilkinson

About Laura:

Liverpool born, Laura is a taff at heart. She has published six novels for adults (two under a pseudonym) and numerous short stories, some of which have made the short lists of international competitions. Public Battles, Private Wars, was a Welsh Books Council Book of the month; Redemption Song was a Kindle top twenty. The Family Line is a family drama set in the near future, looking at identity and parenting. Her latest is Skin Deep. Alongside writing, Laura works as an editor & mentor for literary consultancies and runs workshops on aspects of craft. She’s spoken at festivals and events nationwide, including the Frome Festival, Gladfest, University of Kingston, The Women’s Library and Museum in Docklands. She lives in Brighton with her husband and sons.

www.laura-wilkinson.co.uk   Twitter @ScorpioScribble Facebook: Laura Wilkinson Author Instagram: laura_wilkinsonwriter Pinterest: laura1765 Goodreads: Laura_ Wilkinson

***

Thank you for sharing such a fantastic extract Laura. Good luck with the rest of your tour,- and with the gorgeous Skin Deep!

Happy reading everyone,

Jenny x

Sshhh- Don’t tell anyone…but it’s okay to write erotica

By

On June 13, 2017

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, Contemporary Romantic Fiction, Fiction, Romance

Three years ago I wrote an article for the Romance Matters magazine (the Romantic Novelist Association’s magazine), entitled I Want to Write Erotica; Sshhh- Don’t Tell Anyone…

Now, three years on, and not much has changed attitude wise. That some people don’t want to read or write erotica is perfectly normal – I wouldn’t want to read or write horror. However, I’d never give someone a hard time if they did want to read or write horror.

Sadly, the same isn’t always be said for erotica. It’s OK to be relaxed about being able to write about scaring someone to death, but not OK to be relaxed about fictional people enjoying an imaginative sex life. (Obviously erotica that crosses legal boundaries is NOT welcome- and that is another story).

It never ceases to amaze me, when I’m at conferences or writer meetings, how often I’m sidled up to by other romance or contemporary fiction writers and asked in hushed tones, ‘Um, I’d um…, like to write erotica. Could you give me a few tips? You won’t tell anyone will you?’

Erotica is frequently seen as either ‘the easy option,’ ‘the poor woman’s romance’, or worse still, as seedy. The only way to combat these three misconceptions is to write the best erotica possible, and to remind ourselves that writing it is not only great fun, but nothing to be ashamed of.

Lovers of erotica have similar expectations to romance readers; a strong storyline that includes attraction, a plot twist with obstacles to overcome before the leading characters ultimately get together. In erotica however, you have the freedom to delve further into the emotions involved; moving from the feelings of the heart, to our basest desires.

The sexual content of any erotic story must be integral to the plot from the beginning. In recent months there has been a temptation to take previously written romances and add sex scenes at will.  This “erotica sells so let’s shove in some kink” policy rarely makes for a satisfying read.

No erotic story should include a sex scene that doesn’t move the story forward. Gratuitous sex rarely enhances the reading experience; nor does it add weight to the plot. If you want sex for the sake of sex then read porn. (Which, I’m pleased to say is of a slightly higher quality than it used to be.)

Erotica done well is far from the easy option. Having said that, it is easy to write erotica badly. Amazon is littered with low grade Fifty Shades copyists and authors who have had one successful erotic story, and then have rewritten it over and over again; changing only the characters names and location each time. That policy might make you money- but at the cost of quality and professional pride.

The beauty of writing romance is that you can leave what goes on in your characters private moments behind closed doors. Conversely, the joy of erotica is that you can open those doors, and create stories that push both your own and your reader’s boundaries, by writing words you’d probably never say, about things you’d probably never do.

Erotica is nothing to be afraid of or ashamed of. But, like any other genre, it is only something you should write it if you want to- not because you think it’ll help sell your books. Trust me- it wont.

Above all, the golden rule of writing erotica is that it’s your audience’s imagination you need to turn on- anything else you turn on is merely a bonus!

Happy writing,

Jenny  (a.k.a Kay Jaybee – over 18’s only)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happy First Birthday: Another Glass of Champagne

By

On June 9, 2017

In Audio, Blog, Contemporary fiction, Contemporary Romantic Fiction, Fiction, Jenny Kane, Romance

I can’t quite believe that a year has gone by since Another Glass of Champagne– the last part of my Another Cup of…series – was published! Since then I’ve had my first Jennifer Ash novella published (The Outlaw’s Ransom), and my second Cornish novel, Abi’s Neighbour released, and I’ve written the novel, The Winter Outlaw, for Jennifer Ash. (Out in the winter)

AGOC

The original novel, Another Cup of Coffee novel was intended to be a one. Based in and around the Pickwick’s Coffee Shop, it revolved around the adventures of waitress Amy and erotica writer Kit. To my amazement, three Christmas novellas followed. The first two mini-novels (Another Cup of Christmas and Christmas in the Cotswolds) told former art student, Megan’s story, while the final seasonal outing took Kit up to a literary festival in Aberdeenshire. (Christmas in the Castle)

While Another Cup of Coffee very much involved the figure of bad-boy Jack alongside Kit and Amy, he had never had a novel that focused on him more than the other characters – until  Another Glass of Champagne.

The novel opens with, after an absence of a few years from his friend’s lives, Jack is heading back to London, with new opportunities, a new skill set, a determination to avoid romance at all costs, and fresh adventures well within his grasp- all of which could be celebrated with a glass of champagne.

The trouble is, knowing Jack, he might well mess it all up…

Blurb

A warm-hearted, contemporary tale about a group of friends living in a small corner of busy London, by bestselling author Jenny Kane.

Fortysomething Amy is shocked and delighted to discover she s expecting a baby not to mention terrified! Amy wants best friend Jack to be godfather, but he hasn’t been heard from in months. When Jack finally reappears, he s full of good intentions but his new business plan could spell disaster for the beloved Pickwicks Coffee Shop, and ruin a number of old friendships…

Meanwhile his love life is as complicated as ever and yet when he swears off men for good, Jack meets someone who makes him rethink his priorities…but is it too late for a fresh start?

 Author Kit has problems of her own: just when her career has started to take off, she finds herself unable to write and there s a deadline looming, plus two headstrong kids to see through their difficult teenage years…will she be able to cope?

 

Jack washes away another disaster!

Jack washes away another disaster!

Extract

Staring out of the train window, Jack exhaled a long, slow breath. Was this how Amy had felt when she had first come to Richmond after her years of self-imposed exile in Scotland? Sort of excited, but absolutely terrified at the same time? 

Jack wondered if, once he’d worked up the courage to go and see her, Amy would notice the parallels between their situations. A smile crossed his face. However she reacted, she would forgive him for not being in touch over the past few years. Amy always forgave him. For everything.

In his mind, he’d left Richmond for a good reason. Although he knew Amy accepted he’d needed to leave, he was less sure she understood why – which was why he’d decided to break off even phone and email contact with her. It was also why he hadn’t told any of his friends where he was; just to see if that helped.

It wasn’t that Jack wasn’t happy for Amy and Paul to be living the fairytale, but the fact that they were together, while he was still alone, was sometimes hard to take – especially when he knew Amy’s love could have been his if only he’d been prepared to risk it all those years ago. This nagging thought – one he accepted was utterly ridiculous, as he knew that he’d never have been able to ignore his sexuality, even for Amy – made him a rather less kind human being than he would have liked. He knew that until he could get past feeling he was missing out on something that all his friends took for granted, they were better off without him and the chip on his shoulder. Amy would understand, he was sure. Kit, on the other hand, might not be as understanding…

Jack’s smile disappeared. Years ago, back when they were dating, Kit would have forgiven him anything – but since Amy had come back into his life, and both women had become good friends in their own right, Kit had become much stronger. Jack had learnt that Kit had always hated how he could make her doubt her strength and resilience. These days she was so much more equipped to deal with him and his bullshit – and he knew it.

Perhaps he shouldn’t be coming back. After all, he knew he was as emotionally messed-up as ever – but he had to go somewhere, and anyway, whether he wanted to admit it or not, he’d been getting homesick.  Plus he’d had to get away from Kent…

Opening his eyes, Jack sighed as the train’s sudden slowing announced that they were arriving at St Pancras. Here he was again. Back in London, fleeing from yet another cock-up in his love life, and with nowhere to call home. He wished he hadn’t so rashly sold his place in Mortlake – he’d got far less than it was worth, too, in his haste to make a clean break.  

There were several Tube connections to Richmond Jack could have chosen to see his old friends straight away, but as he stood in the bustling station, he found himself unable to move a step further.  It wasn’t like him to be assailed by doubt, but this time it was different. Whatever he did, he always managed to upset people. He never meant to; usually he never even saw his offences coming.

On this occasion however, he knew that if he was going to go ahead with his latest plan and really make it work, he was going to cause trouble for some of his friends…

***

If you’d like to find out if Jack finally finds the man of his dreams, and how his latest escapade impacts on the lives of the Pickwicks crew, then you can buy Another Glass of Champagne from all good bookshops and from online retailers including-

http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Another+Glass+of+Champagne+Jenny+Kane

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss/188-7813436-7626710?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Another+Glass+of+Champagne+Jenny+Kane 

***

I never dreamed that I’d end up writing five stories about the comings and goings of the folk who frequented the Pickwicks Coffee Shop in Richmond, London. I’m so glad I did though. I loved every second of writing that series. The characters became my friends- I still miss them!

So, from my own café corner in distant Devon, I’m raising a cuppa to Another Glass of Champagne! Happy birthday happy book!

Happy reading,

Jenny x

The Story So Far: Maggie Cammiss

By

On June 1, 2017

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, Contemporary Romantic Fiction, Fiction, Jenny Kane, Romance

I’m delighted to welcome fellow author, Maggie Cammiss to my site today! Why not grab a glass of something and a slab of cake, and settle down for a read.

Over to you Maggie…

Hi Jenny,

Thank you for having me on your blog again – the first time was just after my debut novel was published in 2014. A lot has happened since then, but my writing story began a long time ago.

It sounds like a cliché these days, but the old advice to write about what you know certainly worked for me. I was lucky in my working life; first in public libraries, which I absolutely loved, then into film archives. I spent seventeen years with Sky News, managing a team responsible for accumulating, cataloguing and maintaining a news footage archive. I’m not a journalist, and my background in libraries and archives presented an unconventional route into television.

It was a great job, really interesting. Working in rolling news was like being in a revolving door – there was always something going on, day and night – and it provided me with all the inspiration I needed for my first two novels, No News is Good News and Breaking News. There’s a romance at the heart of both novels, with the overheated environment of a television newsroom providing the setting. These novels aren’t specifically autobiographical but they probably reflect aspects of my younger self. The characters and storylines are entirely fictitious but that doesn’t stop old colleagues asking if they feature in them – I tell them I’ve changed the names to protect the guilty!

No News is Good News was released in 2014 but the publisher had closed its list by the time Breaking News was ready. I tried assisted publishing, but this was a very disheartening experience, so eventually I decided to go it alone. I recently relaunched both titles independently, with brand new covers, and they are available on Amazon. I think they look fabulous and I’m very proud of my efforts.

After writing two novels set in a working environment and featuring younger women, I needed a change of scenery and I also wanted to write about the experiences of women my own age. The current novel, working title, Serendipity, explores the relationships between four women, the secrets they keep from each other and the consequences of their silence. My new characters are older and hopefully wiser, and have their individual ways of dealing with some universal problems. There’s conflict and drama, a hint of romance and some wry comedy in the mix.

I write a lot of short stories, too, mostly as homework for my writing group, and I’m often asked where I get my ideas from. I have to admit to being an inveterate people-watcher and eavesdropper – I suspect many writers are. I tell everyone who comes to my house to be careful what they say – it might end up in a novel. Snippets of conversation I’ve accidently overheard are like gold dust. One of my best ones was in a shop. Two people came round the shelves towards me, one of them saying to the other, ‘Oh no, it’s not for me, it’s for the private detective.’ I couldn’t wait to get out of the shop and write it down.

As far as the writing itself goes, I’m more of a planner than a pantser – I like to know where I’m going. But when I have the basic outline I give my characters their head and follow where they lead. I’ve written myself into plenty of dead ends! The characters always know their own minds and often create problems I haven’t envisaged, but I’ve learned to wait; the solution will reveal itself in its own time – usually in the dead of night. Which is why I keep a notebook by the bed: to jot down those elusive thoughts that would otherwise vanish with the dawn. It helps me believe that I’m in control.

I love making stuff up – constructing scenarios, fitting imaginary characters into them and engineering all their relationships. It’s like playing God. I don’t always like the isolation, or the detrimental effect that writing has on my bottom, but overall, it’s my dream job.

***

Here’s the blurb for BREAKING NEWS:

Television producer Sara Cassidy has her life all mapped out. She loves her job making weekly feature programmes for TV news channel UK24, and is looking forward to furthering her ambitions in the media. She is devastated when her fiancé makes a shattering confession but she hardly has time to come to terms with the betrayal when her closest friend is involved in a freak accident and Sara’s world is turned upside down once again.

As Sara struggles to maintain a professional perspective she finds solace in a new interest and a blossoming romance. But she has to be careful who she trusts in the cut-throat world of television news. Just as she is finding her feet again the career that means so much reveals its murkier side.

When she suddenly finds herself at the other end of the camera lens, Sara discovers that in the struggle for ratings, loyalty is in short supply.

Blog:  https://maggiecammiss.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/maggiecammisswriter/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/maggiecammiss

Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Breaking-News-Maggie-Cammiss-ebook/dp/B071KY3BXG/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1493908719&sr=8-1&keywords=news+maggie+cammiss

 ***

Thanks Maggie!

Happy reading everyone,

Jenny xx

 

End of the Month Round Up: May Madness

By

On May 31, 2017

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, crime, Fiction, Jenny Kane

YEAH!!! A whole year of end of month blogs from the brilliant Nell Peters – and she hasn’t run away to hide yet!

Go grab a cuppa and come and see what Nell has found out for us this month.

Over to you Nell…

Hello! Thanks Jenny, and Happy First Anniversary! That’s paper in marriage terms, so appropriate-ish I guess.

A whole year ago, I wrote my inaugural last-day-of-the-month guest blog for Jenny and so I thought I’d better take a look to check what I was waffling on about, so as not to repeat myself and betray creeping senility. This was my opening paragraph:

‘Hi everyone; I’m thrilled that Jenny has asked me to do a regular (monthly) spot on her illustrious blog – though I can’t help thinking she has me confused with someone else … Case of mistaken identity notwithstanding, this is my opening shot and I will try my best not to get the sack on my first day.’ Guess what? Jen still hasn’t sussed and I’m still here! *Sniggers like over-acting pantomime baddie into sweaty palm*

My subject matter for May ’16 was almost exclusively Pavlova the chicken – aah, dear Pavlova. I still miss her and her antics, when I’m wandering round the garden. That was, of course, before Svetlana arrived on the scene in July, courtesy #4 son. Funnily enough, Svetlana Alexievich, who won the Nobel Prize for literature in 2015 (the year before … erm … Bob Dylan), and after whom my second chicken was named, was born on this day in 1948.

Svet the fowl was totally different to Pav (not nearly so bossy and a very friendly chook) but was with us just two weeks before they were both killed – we think by Killer Kat. I still have chickens in the garden, but Vladimir (OK, he’s a cockerel – well spotted) and Raisa, given to me by various sons, are sculpted in metal and as such are impervious to feline (or any other) attack.

OK, let’s get this show on the road. Today, the oldest GS is eight, bringing to an end a month bursting with both family and friends’ birthdays. Phew! To wildly paraphrase the song lyrics written by George Harrison, my bank balance not-so-gently weeps – it’s gone through two dozen boxes of tissues during the last few weeks.

George Harrison

Sharing celebrations on the 151st day of the year (only 214 to go, folks – did I mention I’m a mathematical genius?) are a large number of sports personalities, most of whom I don’t know from Adam or Eve. They are Gemini, ruled by Uranus, which provides these folk with intelligence and a vivid imagination. They like to give the impression that they have a badass streak, but this is mostly an act and generally they follow a conventional lifestyle.

May 31st-ers live life in the present, giving little thought to the past or future – they will make life-altering decisions without considering the consequences, but are fortunately adaptable and will easily work through any problems encountered. Not quite sure how that fits with a sporting lifestyle, but #2 son’s birthday was two days ago and that profile sums him up pretty accurately. #3 was born on 14th May so he’s Taurus, and shares his actual date of birth with an American football player, Rob Gronkowski and Belarusian hurdler, Alina Talay – seems May generally spawns sporty folk.

Who else have we got? There’s actor Clint Eastwood, who was mentioned here a couple of months ago for getting married on 31st March (needs the publicity, poor lamb) – he was born 31st May 1930 and other actors followed his lead (!); Colin Farrell (1976), Brooke Shields (1965), Israeli, Yael Grobglas (1984) and German, Sebastian Koch (1962).

Brooke Shields

Sharing a date of birth with aforementioned Svetlana Alexievich, was John Bonham, drummer in the Led Zeppelin rock band, who died in 1980 aged thirty-two and (hopefully) climbed his own Stairway to Heaven. So sorry! Bonham reportedly imbibed forty (yes, four-zero) shots of vodka, vomited and asphyxiated whilst asleep. Thereafter, surviving band members Jimmy Page, John Paul Jones and Robert Plant pulled the plug on the group, although they have since collaborated sporadically in reunion performances – in 2007, Jason Bonham took his father’s place, wielding the drum sticks. Coincidentally, on this day in 1915, there was an air raid on London by an LZ-38 Zeppelin.

Sticking with the musical theme for a bit longer, in 1969, Stevie (no longer little) Wonder released My Cherie Amour on the same day that John Lennon and Yoko (Japanese for Ocean Child) Ono recorded Give Peace a Chance, a couple of months after they married in Gibraltar. Lennon was either her third or fourth husband, depending how you look at it – she married her second, American film producer and art promoter Anthony Cox, in 1962 and the marriage was annulled in 1963. However, they remarried the same year – the annulment was necessary because she had neglected to finalise her divorce from husband number one, as you do – and remained so until she and Lennon got hitched. Ono’s profile gives her occupation as peace activist, singer, feminist (that’s an occupation?), songwriter and conceptual artist – Ono (sorry again!), there isn’t another phrase in the English language that can send icy shivers roller skating down my spine quite so quickly as ‘conceptual art/artist’! Any emperors out there need new clothes?

Other historic events on this day include Sir Francis Bacon being locked up in the Tower of London for one night (1621) – he probably decamped for a Holiday Inn, hoping the beds would be more comfy; Samuel Pepys hung up his quill pen after making the final entry in his eponymous diary, because his eyesight was failing (1669) – I’m going to refrain from making a bad joke about his peepers. In 1879, Madison Square Gardens in New York opened, named after 4th President, James Madison; British troops occupied Johannesburg (1900) and exactly two years later the Boer War ended. In Belfast, 1911, RMS Titanic was launched and hailed as unsinkable – try telling that to the passengers on her maiden voyage less than a year later, when the ship argued with an iceberg and lost.

Think the public transport system is grim now? In 1955, Great Britain declared a state of emergency due to a national rail strike. I’m guessing car ownership wasn’t universal then and people were left without many alternatives (only so many passengers can board a number 99 bus at one time, after all), unless they emulated Norman Tebbit’s dad and got on their bikes.

Six years later, the Union of South Africa became a republic and left the ever-depleting Commonwealth – this was a little over a year before Nelson Mandela was imprisoned. I wonder what scary Winnie is doing now … One of the best placards I’ve ever seen read, ‘Free Nelson Mandela! Jail Winnie!’ Amused me, anyway.

Nelson and Winnie Mandela

Talking about prisoners (howzat!), the film of JK Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban was released to a cinema near you in 2004, four years before Usain Bolt, erm, bolted for all he was worth and claimed the world record for the 100m sprint. This was prior to his supplementary career, popping up all over our TV screens advertising the likes of Virgin and Quorn. Finally, who remembers that loony Psy’s Gangnam Style? It became the first video to clock up two billion views on YouTube in 2014 and was replicated countless times – my favourite being a gang (get it?) of Eton pupils and their tutors, who did an excellent job, if a little tongue-in-cheek.

I had a (completely mad) lecturer who used to award an extra mark if you could include a certain word in essay assignments – once it was ‘birthday’, the due date being his birthday, and worst of all, ‘trombone’. As I recall, I included the spurious information that Karl Marx shared a birthday (May 5th) with philosopher Soren Kierkegaard, and for trombone I gave a presentation on Women and Crime, based on the hypothesis that Jack the Ripper was in fact a woman – and when she was a young girl, the family were so impoverished they couldn’t afford her trombone lessons. Seriously! I got away with it and was awarded the extra mark, but goodness knows what the second markers at Cambridge thought! ‘Beagle’ was another challenge and I managed that by somehow mentioning Charles Darwin sailing off into the wide blue yonder on the ship of that name, completely out of context. Which brings us nicely (if by a slightly convoluted route) to the fact that way back in 1836, HMS Beagle anchored in Simons Bay, Cape of Good Hope on May 31st.

Naturalist Charles survival-of-the-fittest Darwin was born in 1809, in Shrewsbury, the second youngest of six children. The family were wealthy – his father a medical doctor, his grandfather a renowned botanist. In 1825, he enrolled at Edinburgh University and two years later, became a student at Christ’s College, Cambridge. It was expected that Charles would follow his father into medicine but an inconvenient aversion to the sight of blood rather put paid to that idea. As an alternative, his father suggested he study to become a parson (irony lives!), but Darwin was more inclined toward natural history.

Whilst he was at Christ’s, botany professor John Stevens Henslow became Darwin’s mentor and folloing graduation in 1831, he recommended his protégé for a naturalist’s post aboard HMS Beagle on a five year survey trip around the world. That’s a long time to suffer from seasickness – which he did. The voyage was the opportunity of a lifetime for a keen young environmentalist to study the principles of botany, geology and zoology and collect natural specimens, including birds, plants and fossils. The Pacific Islands, Galapagos Archipelago and South America were of particular interest to Darwin. Through experimentation and observation he concluded that species survived through a process of natural selection, where those that successfully adapted to meet the changing environment of their natural habitat thrived, whereas those that failed to evolve and reproduce died off.

In 1858, after years of further scientific investigation, Darwin publically introduced his revolutionary theory of evolution in a letter read at a meeting of the Linnean Society, dedicated to the study and dissemination of information concerning natural history and taxonomy (classification). The following year he published a detailed explanation of his beliefs in his best-known work, On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection.

Keeping it in the family, in 1883 Sir Francis Galton (although then still plain Mr), a respected British scholar and cousin of Darwin, first used the term eugenics, meaning well-born. Galton felt the human race could help direct its future by selectively breeding individuals who had ‘desired’ traits, based on his study of upper class Britain (I’m guessing he missed out on meeting members of the Bullingdon Club?) Galton posited that an elite position in society was due to a good genetic makeup – all immensely scary stuff and very much open to sickening abuse, as more recent history demonstrates.

Francis Galton

Surprisingly for someone so heavily into genetics, Darwin himself married another cousin, Emma Wedgwood (at least they would never be short of plates) after deducing from the pros-cons of marriage list he made, that a wife would be ‘better than a dog’ – what a silver-tongued smoothie! Nevertheless, they had ten children, only seven of whom survived to adulthood.

Emma Wedgewood

I wonder what Darwin and Galton would have made of the likes of Lily Savage and Danny la Rue? Whilst Lily looks a whole lot more like Paul O’Grady nowadays presenting animal programmes, Daniel Patrick Carroll swapped his diamante frocks for a pair of wings, when he died on this day in 2009, aged eighty-one.

Danny la Rue

Just one last piece of trivia (groan!) In 2010, Chris Haney – Canadian journo (worked on the Montreal Gazette; dreadful rag) and co-creator (with Scott Abbott) of the board game, Trivial Pursuit, followed suit (groan again) and died, aged fifty-nine. The photo I saw of him reminded me quite a lot of singer-turned-politician, husband-of-four-including-Cher, Sonny Bono – also deceased after a skiing accident at the appropriately-named Heavenly Ski Resort in 1998. Bono’s epitaph reads, And The Beat Goes On. Not sure if I’d have been able to resist the mega bad-taste alternative, I Got Yew, Babe, since he collided with a tree.

Right – I’m done! Don’t all cheer at once!

Toodles.

NP

Author.to/NellPeters

 ***

Many thanks once again Nell. I can’t believe a whole year has passed. Seems only yesterday you were introducing us to the star struck Pavlova.

Roll on next month.

Jenny x

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