Learning curve #329 – know the floorplan before you write the book  

#8 in the series has only 8 days to launch, and wow the days are flying. It’s been over a year since the last Lawns book  was released, for lots of reasons, one being that it was the book I have looked forward the most to writing so you’d KNOW it was going to be the hardest, right?

When I first thought of using the nursery rhyme for the series some names suggested themes, and some  presented obvious problems. Seven Eight, lay what straight? Corpses, seeing the books are whodunits? Nah.  I ended up cheating and making that one Seven Eight Play It Straight and setting it in the Edinburgh Festival and since this is August and we are once again enjoying the Festival, I’m going to put that on promo at the same time as I release the new one. Make a note in your diary. One for nothing and one at launch price? BARGAIN.

I’ve only just worked out how to handle Seventeen Eighteen so now I can get on and write it (Ladies Waiting, unless it changes again) but from very early on two were always going to be easy.  Three Four Knock On My Door, that was a GIFT.  And Fifteen Sixteen Maids In The Kitchen? A little pilot light went on. I would have Vivian and Edge in the kitchen of a country house doing the catering!

There were times I battled with the others when I consoled myself with the prospect of Fifteen Sixteen, because I knew with that conventional setting, that country house, that body in the library, it would write ITSELF. Ha. I am a prolific and speedy writer, and the books are novellas, and the book was written nearly a year ago but – not quite right. It didn’t work. I put it aside and wrote something else (as Joanna Lamprey). Went back to it. Still couldn’t get it right. Wrote something else (as Clarissa Rodgers-Briskleigh). Went through a bit of writers block as well, which is the equivalent of a runner getting a stress fracture and not being able to run for a while, and is horrible.

Finally the book relented, turned smooth, the rewrite was a success and all was well with the world, it was, finally, as much fun as I had always thought it would be.  The alpha readers liked it. The beta readers liked it. I sent it off to the editor and turned my attention to one thing both the alpha and beta readers had requested – a floor plan. This is a houseparty of thirteen, after all, and they all said a floor plan would be invaluable.

As it happens, Robertson Manor is (very) loosely based on a real Edwardian estate (Kinloch Castle) so obviously I looked at their architectural plans first. Hmmm, no. I simplified. And simplified. And simplified again, until I had exactly what I needed, the main hall, the library, the other rooms, and the ten bedrooms.

My floorplan still looked like something drawn by a writer with no architectural training whatsoever. Almost in tears I turned to a friend who is a professional mapmaker, who in an hour or two turned my tatty sketch into something I could fiddle with and mess up again. Excellent!  Here’s the upstairs plan, with guests who are mainly writers. (My four main characters, Edge, Vivian, William and Donald, are downstairs)

15 16 upstairs floor plan

Except . . . some of the action in the book happens in passageways. All that simplifying, I had removed nearly all the passageways downstairs.  I was left with the open-arch walkway around the hall, and that was IT.

This is what that walkway looks like at Kinloch Castle, by the way, which was originally a shooting lodge, hence all the deer. So was Robertson Manor, which I promise does not have exotic metalwork or a baboon-eating eagle statue, although it does have a very elderly stuffed eagle. And, since it was also once a shooting lodge, deer.  There are living ones, too, which are relevant and play a role and don’t get shot.

kinloch hall lacey pic

 

So there had to be some fairly agitated rewriting. I think the book is actually the better for it. I hope so, anyway. The countdown and link to pre-ordering will be in the next blog, which in theory (gulp) is tomorrow. Or the next day.

Help.

I just became a suicide blonde, dyed by my own hand. Okay, medium-blonde-copper-pearl.

I have a friend, Edge Cameron, who is slim, attractive, talented, funny, financially comfortable, and in a relationship with a man she adores, who loves her. Well, I call her a friend. Sometimes I resent her a bit. Even though I invented her.

There are times I find myself, almost to my own indignation, copying her.  She joined a singles website, so did I. She has shoulder-long thick red-blonde hair, I grew mine and if anyone can tell me how to thicken it, that would be lovely, ta. And because we’re both autumn roses, the colour isn’t as robust as it once was. She has hers expertly streaked by an expensive hairdresser (see financially comfortable, above).  Mine is streaked with, well, I called them blonde threads.

Very, very blonde.

Okay! silver.

And the streaks, from being occasional threads, have been a bit invasive lately. In direct sunshine, I’m rather less strawberry and rather more blonde. Fortunately there’s not been much direct sunshine in Scotland this year (sigh) but still. See for yourself –

thoughtful cropped

So I ordered that colouring stuff which is personalised for your exact hair colour (medium blonde copper pearl, said the expert) and it arrived during the week and I just used it and it has gently returned to where it should be.  Not a flat colour, still naturally varied, less silver, YAY!

Oh, I know I will be silver soon enough and I’m genuinely okay with that but there’s two more books in the series still to write,  and I am damned if I am going to slave over a hot keyboard with silvering hair letting Edge look younger than me while I do it.

Ever researching on your behalf

Elegsabiff

 

BTW, that marketing thing I’m rubbish at, I should probably mention that Fifteen Sixteen Maids In The Kitchen is imminent. In a week. I should be working on that rather than playing with my hair.

Now that I’m rejuvenated, I’ll get straight onto it.

 

Drop dead, darling

Want to know how to kill someone? Ask a single person who has been let down with a bump. Hell hath no fury like any single person scorned, it seems.

I’ve now written eight whodunits (the eighth currently out with beta readers) and although the bodycount isn’t high per book, I’m running out of ideas – I’ve strangled, knifed, shot, bludgeoned, and poisoned my characters, dropped them out of sight to starve, hired hitmen, and set deaths up to look like suicides, what next?  I idly put the question to my singles website, which has a very interactive blogging section, and uncovered an unexpected vein of serious bloodthirstiness. Seems quite a few mature singles have brooded on opportunities missed and the sweet taste of revenge.

Not sure if I can use any of the surprisingly inventive options offered, because they’d be either too easy or too hard to solve, but I know one thing, I won’t be quite so quick to rush off to the next meet-up. Yikes.

One or two wrote to me privately rather than publicly chatting on the blog about their activities. Bit difficult to say socially you buried your own mum-in-law in the garden and built a rockery over her, even if the writer swore she died of natural causes and oh yes was definitely dead, don’t need a doctor to confirm these things. His wife of the time had reckoned she could continue to collect her mum’s pension if mum just dropped out of sight . . .

Funny old world we live in. Truth really will always be stranger than fiction, and I begin to wonder if I have enough imagination for this line of work. A whole bunch of amateurs throwing themselves into the problem with gusto, maybe the next book should be a DIY manual!

It’s that holiday time of year – go to the Canaries, by plane or by book #free (7th in the #whodunit series)

There are reasons why Thirteen Fourteen Maids A-Courting is not listed in the column of my books, but I shan’t bore you with those now. It’s the most recent in the series,  although Fifteen Sixteen is almost ready to start its countdown, and hasn’t many reviews and I’d really like to redress that. Tell you what, take a quick and only slightly murderous break in the Canaries this weekend,  my treat, and let us know what you think?  Can’t say fairer than that.

Click on the cover and by the miracle of modern technology you should be whisked to the Amazon closest to you. It’s a little like magic –

Most people know by now you can download an Amazon reading app for free, even if you don’t have a Kindle, but if I’m the first person to tell you, that’s two bits of good news for you today. Click on the free book, download the free app, and off to the sun with you!

thirteen fourteen kindle

Don’t forget that review. Good, bad or indifferent, you know, they all help the reading public and are appreciated by writers and readers alike.

Ta, enjoy, and don’t be a stranger

 

 

 

Past it?     YOU?     Not now.    Maybe not ever.  Sometimes, though, it is up to you. (Steam up your specs, go on)

I’m taking a few books off the Select  program on Amazon – they’ll still be selling there, but I want to sell them elsewhere as well. And because this is my last chance to promote them for free, I am.  About half the series will be on promotion over the next weeks.

It just happens the two liveliest books I’ve written fell due at the same time so steam up your specs and warm up your weekend with these two. Just click on the covers below, or in the margin, and help yourself. Enjoy!  By the way – if you’re a Lawns fan, be warned, Rainbow is not a Lawns book. It’s even released under a different pen-name to avoid misunderstanding.  Nine Ten is not the usual sort of Lawns book, but Rainbow is really across the rainbow and into a whole new world of mature singles. Just saying. Brace yourself.

 


nine ten kindle

 

A second rainbow (4)

 

A comment about the heading of this blog, and a bit of back-story on these two books …

I was soooo past it when I started writing a whodunit about predators stalking the mature singles websites. Date? Me? I’m in my fifties, you’re having a laugh – but I did join a mature singles website to do some of the research. I even went on dates, clumping along in low-heeled shoes (because men always lie about their height and I’m quite tall), was a jolly good sort, had a few laughs, heard some very good stories, and turned down second dates because what was the point? I was well past it.

Then a whole bunch of coincidences changed all that:  a buddy ‘met’ through the site found his perfect match. Both in their late sixties, there they were gadding off on weekends and holidays together, and having a wonderful time. Hey, you’re both ten years older than me! WHAT?  (They still are, by the way. One of the success stories.)  Another factor, my daughter was getting married, and I had to lose a bit of weight and generally brush up a bit. Yet another factor, Five Six, the book about the website murderer, turned out to be my most popular so far, maybe I should look at another . . .  well, long story short, I joined another website around the time I was writing Nine Ten, and this time I was asking the sort of questions you just can’t ask a social acquaintance, not without getting some extremely odd reactions. It is, in its way, quite a raunchy book, the sort of book that makes you (well, me) think maybe I should go out and find a man. So I did.  That was a couple of years ago and, um, there’s been more than one. Huge fun.

Past it? Hell no!

Nine Ten is no more autobiographical than any of the books but it is decidedly livelier than the books previously.

As for Rainbow – when I started writing Fifteen Sixteen it kept trying to veer off towards the shenanigans of mature singles, which was infuriating. Finally I put it to one side and wrote a novella based on a singles website, and a woman’s complete metamorphosis after her husband of many years puts her back on the shelf and walks away. Again, not autobiographical, I’m no more Dorothy than I am Edge or any other of my characters, but it isn’t wishful thinking, either.

The pair of them scupper my whodunit series a bit, because they zoom off in a decidedly more raucous direction, but putting them out at the same time, although it just happened that way,  should work out either very well or very badly indeed. Guess I’ll know soon enough . . .

We should just appreciate ‘heart-breakers’ differently –

I’ve met one or two men in my life who should be made national treasures,  because they make a woman feel so good about herself.  We do perhaps need to change our thinking, make an exception in their cases?  We know we don’t get to keep them but we should instead appreciate the time we get, rather than resentful when they move on.

I’m not even talking about affairs here, I hope every woman reading this has spent at least one evening with a man who was admiring, charming, and fascinated by her. You should bounce away walking on air … but the average woman either eyes him with deepest distrust or, worse, instantly thinks WANT! MINE! and tries to corner him, chain him down, until he bolts for cover and then she’s devastated and we say oh you poor thing, what a swine.

So when I rule the world (which I hope will be fairly soon) I will make it a rule that we identify the true charmers, re-educate women to enjoy them for what they can offer, and not resent them for what they can’t offer  … because they are LOVELY.

Any solid gold charmer wanting to be pre-approved, feel free to get in touch.  grin

 

teddybear

Keeping a keeper. Easy, really.

Nice guys are actually very straightforward. They say so, in a bewildered way, usually when they can’t understand why the last relationship went wrong. They’re so easy, so ready to settle down. When they’re pressing fifty or accelerating towards sixty-something, you have to know things have gone wrong before. Why? He’s such a nice guy. Ask Clarissa. She wrote the book, literally (there, see it, in the margin?)

Actually I don’t want to mislead you. The men she meets aren’t keepers. Interesting, but not keepers. In fact we’re slipping off the topic a bit, which is nice guys, aka keepers, and how to keep them. They are easy. They are looking for nice women who will gently but firmly move in, take control, run their lives and keep them happy. It really couldn’t be much simpler.

Ha Ha Clip Art_thumb[1]

So, all a woman has to know, to get the lovely man of her dreams and her happy ever after, is

A – when to turn up. He has to be over the last one, and just wondering when the next one is going to arrive

B – what to look like. He might want you to gain just a little weight, or lose a little. Grow your hair, or cut it. Wear skirts at all times, or occasionally wear jeans. Always be immaculate, or always look as if you wouldn’t mind being a little mussed-up. The tricky part is sussing that out, because he will inevitably say he doesn’t mind, until you go too far the wrong way and he does.

C – Good food should happen effortlessly, so have a core list of recipes you can cook from memory from stuff that hangs around most pantries. Time enough to get exotic when he’s addicted enough to your repertoire to run your shopping errands. Do housework and cleaning while he sleeps. If he believes tidy happens just because you’re there, you’re in.

D – get the sex just right. I’m not saying Clarissa’s book could help here, but it couldn’t hurt. At least you’ll be braced for all sorts, especially if you’re a bit on the naive and inexperienced side yourself. Sometimes he’s in a quickie mood, and sometimes he wants to be adored and seduced, and sometimes he wants to do the seducing and coaxing himself. Sometimes he doesn’t want sex at all, just a quick cuddle. You need to know instinctively know which mood he’s in.

E – last point, or maybe the first point – some men want to hunt, some men want to be hunted, and some men just want you to turn up at the door (see A), looking right (see B)  and be easy to live with (see C and D).

See? Couldn’t be simpler.

Go find one.  Let us know how you got on.

wrinklie love

Aging overnight, hey, don’t I get any warning at all?

Remember playing Statues as a kid? You crept up on the person who was it but couldn’t move if they glanced at you. Ah, the games of children, first introduction to stress.

Age can be a bit like that. Glance away for a second and kapow, another chunk added into the mix. I still remember the nasty moment I glanced in the mirror and realized I’d inherited my father’s jowls.  I was barely forty at the time, and I’d turned into Deputy Dawg overnight.

Anyway a couple weeks ago I went on holiday and caught a chill on the beach – as only I can – and for a couple of weeks I’ve been resentfully thinking damnit, one long weekend, and the switch flipped and I got OLD. A bit stiff in the mornings, aching in numerous joints, even a little bit deaf after that hellish double flight back.  I finally went sighing to the doctor after a fortnight to see if anything could be done at least about the ears, because I’m now missing out on half the office gossip, and tell you what, I’m nominating that woman for sainthood. She’s a fresh-cheeked thirty-something, she could have glanced at my chart, recoiled, said yes you’re old, what do you expect at your age? And I’d have crawled out of there and ordered a zimmer.

Nonsense, she said instead. You have eustachian tubes dysfunction. You flew with a head-cold, you’re paying the price, and you should be as good as new in a couple more weeks. It will take as long as it takes.

So then I mentioned the stiffness and aching and she pushed and pulled at my legs and tied them into some pretty fancy knots and said nope, no problems whatsoever, you’re very fit and flexible, you just overdid things. Do a bit more exercise and the aches and stiffness will go away.

More? I hadn’t done any since getting back because I was feeling so ollllllllllllllllllllllllllld. So I started again and let me tell you, if you really want to feel ancient and decrepit, do your usual full exercise routine after a few weeks break. But I do feel better, already. Well, stiff and aching in different places, but I remember those places, they do stop whinging if you keep going.

I hope I’ve learned a lesson from this and won’t automatically hit the pause button when the next symptom, real or false, pokes its head up. I could kick myself. I blether on and on about the benefits of exercise and (fairly) healthy diet and forget everything the minute I feel briefly under the weather.

What are you doing, reading this? Get out there and dance!

Here we go again – travel meltdown

I’m off again. Portugal, for a long weekend. Never been there. And, as usual a few days before any trip I ever take, I am convinced I will never get there, and should just cancel now and hide under the bed.

It isn’t fear of flying. It isn’t fear of the holiday itself, even though this particular one is a bit weighted on the expectations front, because I have absolutely no idea what will come of it or even – wait for this, from your mature singles guru – what I hope will come of it. It isn’t that I am set in my ways and a little twitchy when taken out of my rut, because frankly my life has been a roller-coaster for three years now and I can’t remember what a rut looks like. They sound peaceful, though.

Just general meltdown. Here we go again. I may be getting too old for this. Never too old! But yup, I could be getting too neurotic.

meltdown

I’m bracing myself for two, count them, two, impossible connections between flights, and I thought it would soothe me to chat about it a bit. The first, I have just over an hour to make the connecting flights but they are in the same terminal at Gatwick.  It’s a big terminal, I shall probably land at gate 1 and have to get to gate 3 zillion and 20, but surely do-able at a sprightly canter, spots flashing in front of my eyes, cabin luggage bouncing on my hip, as I set a personal best for the half-mile-through-holiday-crowds-sprint.

The second, an hour and a half between flights – piece of cake – until the incoming flight decided to go to the other terminal instead. I tried to book a peace-of-mind second, later, flight to Edinburgh. Turns out, the only affordable flight of the day is the one I’m on, the next one is a breezy three hundred quid more. There are cheaper, later flights, all at least double the price.

Breathe. Ommmmmmm.

Oh, there’s no point to this blog. Did you think there would be?  Just trying to talk myself down. Hasn’t really helped.

On the bright side, I haven’t any panic to spare re the actual holiday bit. I’ll worry about that if I make that first connection. Okay, it’ll be too late by then to worry. So that’s a bit of a silver lining.

Ommmmmmmm.

 

Men on understanding women

Well, men don’t. Even mature single men who have known many women over many years have a formula they cling to, and they duck and run when that stops working because they’ve given up trying to understand women. Women don’t always understand women. You’d think as we all got older we’d mellow but it doesn’t seem to work that way, we get a little bit weirder. Or, as we all, men and women, like to think, more interesting.

I like men, some of my best friends are men, and I sometimes envy them their confidence. But every now and then they ask me, usually sounding a bit bewildered, why their woman, (or the woman they would like to make their woman) acts irrationally.

(Okay that sounded like that old joke, “my girlfriend thinks I’m a stalker. Well, she isn’t really my girlfriend yet”)

The thing is, half the time I can only take a wild guess. Women can be bonkers. So can men, but that’s another blog.

I wrote a book about second-time-round (mature) singles which is mainly for women – lots of advice and warnings wrapped up in a story with sexy bits – and you know what, men could do worse than read it for a sneak peak into how women think.

Oh, and if you got here too late for the special in the next blog, click on the cover in the margin – see it? A Second Rainbow? that’ll whisk you off to your closest friendly Amazon. Read the sexy bits, sure, but then re-read the bits about how women think. You’ll thank me. Tell your friends. Don’t tell your rivals.

Ever researching on your behalf.

Elegsabiff.