This one goes out to...

...two talented writers whose hard work is paying off and to whom this post is dedicated. They are:

• Bronwyn Storm: Bronwyn has recently sold yet another short story to The Wild Rose Press, on the heels of her first, very well received Miniature Rose I Love You a Latte, which has enjoyed pride of place on the publisher's Bestseller list for weeks. Her full-length novel, Ethan's Chase, is due to be released in coming months. Here is a teaser:

  From downed networks to binary coding Chase Logan can handle just about anything, except her sexy new client, Ethan Phillips. His sculpted looks have Chase’s libido spinning faster than a Pentium Four processor, but his aloof attitude freezes her in an instant. Five years after charging his ex-fiancée with fraud and sending her to jail, advertising executive Ethan Phillips’s emotions remain in the ‘off’ position. But Chase’s laugh, her candor and delicious figure, are booting up his feelings and turning on his heart. Though both Chase and Ethan believe their emotions are safe behind their respective firewalls, their mutual attraction renders their logical programming inactive, and they're about to find out that when it comes to love, there are no defences that can protect the heart.

• India Grey: India has just this week sold her fourth novel to Harlequin Mills & Boon Modern. Her first novel, The Italian's Defiant Mistress, recently won a CataRomance 2007 Reviewers' Choice Award, and her second, The Italian's Captive Virgin, is out in England this month. For those of us over here in North America who must wait until October for release here, see the teaser at right and visit her website for an excerpt. Do you have any promotional literature on the third, India, and any idea when it will be released?

Congratulations, Brown and India! Keep up the good work.

India sweeps North America!!

For all those North American fans eagerly awaiting the release of India Grey's The Italian’s Defiant Mistress, the wait is over. Hallelujah!

India is a featured author over at Harlequin Presents, and her book is available from the usual shops, newstands, and online bookshops, including Amazon, chapters.indigo.ca, Barnes & Noble, etc.

You've no excuses. And, believe me, you won't be disappointed!

Galleys, cover art, plus new releases

It's official. Bronwyn Storm's short story I Love You a Latte, a Last Rose Of Summer Miniature, will soon be available from Wild Rose Press. Rumour has it that the galleys are sitting with the author. Check out the cover art below.

Here is a teaser:

If love was coffee, then for Annie Langdon, it would be thick, black, leave a bitter taste in her mouth, and acid in her stomach. For the past year, though, Devon McMaster has used a smile that packs more punch than a triple-shot espresso, and a personality tastier than coffee-cream chocolate to persuade Annie's heart to percolate for him. This Christmas, Annie will learn men, like coffee, can come in decadent varieties.

Watch for I Love You a Latte coming in December.

Currently available are two other books you absolutely must have on your bedside tables (if they aren't there already):

1. India Grey's The Italian's Defiant Mistress, currently available in the UK (those of us in North America must wait a few more agonizing months).

Be sure to visit India's website, as she's running a competition from now until September 1.




2. Amanda Ashby's You Had Me at Halo, released just yesterday here in Canada as well as in the US. It's a novel about a woman who dies with unresolved issues and comes back in the body of her geeky co-worker in order to sort them out.

Watch for a review just as soon as I get my grubby little hands on a copy.

Rush to the shops

Hey, folks, India's novel has hit the newstands (in the UK). Head directly to your nearest bookshop before there are no more copies left.

To read a review of The Italian's Defiant Mistress, visit Romance Reader at Heart.

Success... of sorts

The website still isn't functioning. But today I had a flash of total genius and realised I could set up the blog independently.

(bangs head against desk and weeps quietly)

It's here.

(whispers brokenly) Please come and see me and bring chocolate.

Wonderful Weekend... and then Monday.

The trouble with having a really, really fab weekend is that it makes Monday morning come as an even greater shock to the system. Returned home from Kate Walker's wonderful 50th book celebrations in Lincoln feeling tired but still totally on a high from good food, great conversation, lots and lots of laughs and much hugging... It was a really, really special event, and I'm going to write a proper in-depth report (including, especially for Amanda Ashby, an exclusive photo of Kate's gorgeous shoes...) on the blog at my very own website, so please come over and visit me there just as soon as it's up and running-- which should be in the next day or so....

(Did anyone hear the echo of hollow, malevolent laughter then? Unfortunately web design is one of the many things I am dismally bad at. Like tennis. And algebra. And reading Homer's Iliad in the original. Which brings me back to Monday morning, and work....)

Felt staggeringly untogether as a result of bunking off maternal duties for the weekend, and gulitily waved the children off to school while trying not to notice that their dresses were unironed and one of them was wearing odd socks. Luckily, did not have to dwell on this for too long as diversion came in the form of a lunch date with Annie and a large glass of wine, after which trauma of web design had subsided a little and some of the weekend's glow had returned...

Euphoria was shortlived, however. Daughter #3 arrived home laden down with additional baggage, signalling that the Class 1 mascot-- Poppy Bear-- has come to stay. This is very bad news. Rather like Queen Elizabeth 1's royal progress around the stately homes of hapless sixteenth century nobility, Poppy Bear's residence is demanding in the extreme. Every detail of her stay, along with photographic evidence, must be recorded in 'Poppy Bear's Diary', a task which Daughter #3 always undertakes with painful honesty, ruthlessly exposing all my parental shortcomings. Prospect of a week spent catching up on book (desperately neglected of late) and constructing website while children slouch in front of television, surviving on various toast-based meals, instantly evaporates as Poppy emerges from her backpack and is installed by the fruit bowl (empty apart from two blackened bananas) gazing at me beadily.

She has been left on my desk today so I can keep an eye on her while daughters are at school.


However, have the very unnerving feeling that she is keeping an eye on me, so have given her some reading to do while I get on with website.

Wish me luck.

A short film for the interlude...

Am lost in book world at the moment, so find myself completely unable to provide intelligent comment on anything. Instead I thought I'd provide this lovely assortment of good-looking men in breeches. And let's face it, wouldn't we all take a good looking man in breeches over intelligent comment every time?

(Or is that just me being very, very shallow?)

This is mainly for Eva, who writes a damn fine Regency hero. Of course, the James D'arcy bits are for me.


(I love youtube. Thank you to the person who put this together so I can waste my working day watching it.)

ITALIAN'S DEFIANT MISTRESS NOW RELEASED IN HARDBACK

As if it's not enough that I've already written one blog in the last month, I now find myself having to write a second and I should actually be eating my breakfast and heading off to work.

Still, some things are more important.

I just found out from Amanda Ashby's blog - who found out from Amazon - that yesterday was the official release date for the hardback version of India's book: The Italian's Defiant Mistress.
Yes folks! You can now actually buy this much-talked about book and get to read it at last!

And India, might I suggest you dust off your old trumpet and practise blowing it now and again!

Glamour Hangover

As a Presents author I spend a huge proportion of my time thinking about glamour (to be honest, I did this way before I was a Presents author, only in then it was called 'daydreaming' and now it is called 'research') and a pitiful amount of time actually experiencing it. Friday was a very pleasant break from the norm.

Savoy experience gets off to an unpromising start when the doorman reaches into the taxi (where I am enjoying a very in-depth discussion with the driver on Turkish poetry, female midlife crisis, and OK magazine) pulls out my bags and bears them off into the plush, marble-colonnaded lobby of the hotel. Hideously embarrassing, as bags consist of an awful raffia shopping basket, befitting an elderly matron buying jam and knitted tea cosies from the WI, and a vile bright blue nylon suit carrier emblazoned with the words 'Johnsons Priority Service' containing my Sainsbury's dress, both of which look utterly incongruous in the gloved hands of the top-hatted doorman. Snatch them away from him swiftly and rush into the Ladies Cloakroom to change. Emerging two minutes later I meet lovely, lovely Susan Stephens ( when I say it like this it sounds like I casually bump into her, and have not been exchanging panicky text messages with her since before getting on the train at Crewe) looking cool and elegant and exactly like everything I want to be when I grow up. She introduces me to the wonderful, glamorous Sharon Kendrick and we go downstairs to get a drink.

Am delighted to discover that I am sharing a table not only with Susan and Sharon, but also with Kate Walker (who is wearing the most exquisite chinese ebroidered cream silk jacket, which I covet very deeply) and the wonderful BM, so go into lunch feeling hugely lucky and v excited. Lancaster ballroom glorious-- like sitting in the middle of a large, ornate wedding cake-- all delicate spun-sugar plasterwork and ravishing gilded swirls and curlicues, softly lit by candles and mirrors. Find myself seated between John Jenkins, charming and entertaining editor of Writers' Forum magazine, and Heidi Rice, newly signed ModX author, whose call story I'd read on the PHS only last week. Heidi was signed at pretty much the same time as I was, so both of us bombard Kate with constant questions, which she answers with her usual good humour, wisdom and grace. Heidi's first book is out this month, and in between courses someone comes over from another table and says she has just finished reading it and thought it was wonderful. Totally cool thing to happen, and a fab tribute to Heidi's debut novel. It's called 'Bedded by a Bad Boy' and is going right to the top of my TBR list.

I nip out in the lull following pudding (oh yes... treacle tart and raspberries. Lovely Mr Jenkins beside me is so amused by the enthusisasm with which I clear my plate he offers to ask for another helping for me) In the ladies' I spot Michelle Styles and can't resist going over to say hello. With the awards imminent, she must be terribly nervous, but still manages to be warm, welcoming and ever so, ever so nice when faced with total unkown person accosting her in the queue for the loo. (She has the most beautiful, clear, forget-me-not blue eyes and is with her teenage daughter who looks so fresh and lovely I instantly feel a little like my raffia bag must have felt in the hands of the doorman; ie. old and battered.)

Back in the glorious opulence of the Lancaster Ballroom the speeches and awards are soon underway. I love Jenny Haddon's tribute to Lucilla Andrews (her boigraphy-- 'No Time for Romance' being re-released this year and another one for the TBR pile.) Dame Tanni Grey Thompson's speech is funny and warm and insanely humble, and I hope that her retirement from athletics in two weeks time will give her lots more time for public speaking as she clearly has a talent for hitting just the right note. Find myself feeling ridiculously nervous for all the nominees for the romance prize, and absurdly tearful for Nell Dixon as she goes up to claim her award. Unsurprisingly, for if there's one thing I've learned over the past year or so it's that romance writers are wonderful, generous people, there is a huge sense of collective joy for her from everyone in the room. Well done Nell!

After that people get up, drift around, chat and hug. I am lucky enough to meet HMB editors Jenny Hutton and Joanne Carr (both of whom are so gorgeous they could very well have just stepped from between the covers of one of the novels they edit), the astonishingly talented and lovely Fiona Harper, whom I adopted last year (without telling her) as my all time Best Friend, thanks to her v useful Plot Board, and the fabulous, awe-inspiring Sara Craven. After this, full of lovely wine, treacle tart and an excess of star-struck excitement Susan, Sharon and I make our way upstairs to find tea and quiet in the perfect, refined grandeur of the Savoy's riverside lounge. For a moment it looks horribly like they aren't going to be able to find a table for us, until Sharon, with a breathtakingly admirable and utterly deadly flirtation-assertiveness combo, asks the waiter to reconsider. He doesn't stand a chance, and a moment later we are being shown to one of the best tables in the room, and sinking down onto the kind of perfect little sofa I picture romantic novelists sitting on to take tea. My delight is further compounded when we pick up our menus (roughly the same length as my novel) and peruse the selection of teas available. Eventually, dazed by possibility, I plump for one that sounds pretty.

When it arrives in a huge cream porcelain pot, my Hummingbird Vanilla tea proves to be as far removed from the tea I am used to as is possible to imagine. Delicate, scented, wonderful, it tastes of distilled cream cakes and is as delicious as it is exotic. I find myself wishing I could drink it all the time but know this is impossible-- it's rarity and glamour belong solely to the Savoy and would not translate well to home.

Reluctantly set my cup down, say grateful, affectionate goodbyes and go to retrieve the raffia shopping bag from the cloakroom. In the taxi I slip off my skyscraper heels and replace them with flat ballet pumps, but drifting down the platform at Euston I feel ridiculously happy, and am tempted to start twirling around pillars and tap dancing in the manner of Gene Kelly in 'Singin' In The Rain'. This could be a result of lunchtime drinking, but I rather suspect it is due to a combination of glamour, good company and Hummingbird Vanilla.

Sainsburys. Savoy. Surreal.

Tomorrow is RNA lunch at Savoy. Am spending today in a frenzy of disorganised last-minute preparation, which should involve lovely things like painting nails in elegant, springlike pink, having split-ends snipped off and selecting uplifting reading material for train. However, am way behind, so shall be mainly tearing around trying to beg/bribe someone to take daughters 1 and 2 to swimming lessons and work out exactly how I'm going to get to Crewe station for 8.34 and also get children to school.

Preoccupation with these issues is preventing me dwelling too long on the event itself, which is a good thing, as when I do think about it the thoughts tend to be of the Doom-Laden Panic variety. Feel utterly unsuited to London on every level, coming as I do from a Small Town, filled mainly with people I have at some time been at school with/shared breastfeeding nightmares with at toddler groups/sold cushions to during the Laura Ashley years. The very word 'Savoy' sends out messages my wardrobe is unable to interpret. Hence, in a gesture of passive fashion-avoidance, I shall be wearing a dress purchased from Sainsbury's last week while buying milk and catfood. Oh dear.

However, on the other hand, lunch at the Savoy will certainly compare very favourably to cheese on toast in front of the computer, and how fantastic will it be to meet people whose names I have seen on the covers of beloved books, and whose characters are as familiar as old friends? Am also secretly delighted by the prospect of two hours suspended from reality on the train, with nothing to do but read and pretend to be ultra-efficient business person on the way to glamorous power-lunch.

Which, in effect, I will be.

Weird.

Greed, sloth... and lust.

Ooops, I did it again. Forgot it was my turn to post. This is because I'm still in a state of extreme lethargy brought on by an extended (Thursday to Tuesday) Easter weekend of over-indulgence and laziness. Here are the stats.

Calories ingested in the form of chocolate and hot cross buns:
5 678 392 (approx)

Units of alcohol: Similar to above figure

Words added to wip: 0

Days left until RNA lunch at Savoy when all effects of chocolate and wine must be erased: 15

In this situation I always find denial and distraction are excellent coping strategies. So while I go and finish up the last half bar of Green & Black's butterscotch chocolate for breakfast, here is a lovely picture of James d'Arcy for us all to enjoy.

Mmmm....

New Hero

I'm not the most experienced writer in the world (nominations for 'Understatement of the Week' to be in no later than Friday, please) but with a grand total of...er... 2 books under my belt I can just about confidently say that writing the last bit is the easiest, the best, the most exhilarating part of the whole process. I love it. By that stage I feel like I'm there, that I am the heroine; passionately in love with my man, full of despair and desperation at the thought of not having him, so haunted by his face, his voice, his hands (especially his hands...) that the words just pour out onto the screen. (And, best of all, I start genuinely feeling like I'm fifteen years younger and two stone lighter.)

The bad thing about finishing a book is that once the champagne bottle is empty, the cake is finished and the exhilaration has worn off, there remains the small issue of starting another one. (Book, alas, not cake.) Now, call me old fashioned but I'm a bit of a one-man woman, and once I've bonded with my hero I'm really reluctant to leave him and move on-- so far (that would be both times, then) I've been certain that I'm not going to find another man I can love half as much as the one I've just left.

And in that situation, what's needed is a lot of tireless, painstaking research.

Fortunately this time my selfless labours have been amply rewarded in the shape of lovely actor James D'Arcy. Oh yes. He's been around a while, appearing in quite a lot of weird, scary-type things that even I, an ardent disciple of his melancholy beauty, couldn't be persuaded to sit through (The Exorcist: The Beginning is one) but the pictures below are taken from the TV series P.O.W. in which he starred as a shot-down WW2 airman and had lots of opportunity to look gloriously brooding and dark. Sometimes in uniform.

The series went out a couple of years ago and was pretty much panned by critics for its historical inaccuracies.

Luckily my hormones have no respect whatsover for historical fact. I'm just looking forward about spending the next couple of months gazing at him, and thinking up new ways to make him suffer, because in this book the hero is going to have it reeeally tough. This is good news because torment is a look that I think James D'Arcy does very nicely indeed.

In other news: with just two weeks to go before Amanda Ashby leaves for New Zealand, she, Annie, Penny Jordan and I got together this weekend for final farewell. Aside from a difficult moment when Amanda said she 'didn't get' James D'Arcy's sex appeal, we had a wonderful time, and I like to think that by the time she left I'd won her round (the witholding of profiteroles and champagne until she'd kissed his photograph may have helped focus her thoughts on this) As it was our last chance to change her mind about going, Annie went for the old 'bribery by chocolate pudding' trick, supplying not one but two of the most incredibly dark and calorific indulgences ever, while my daughters attempted to hide Amanda's children up trees in the garden just as she was about to leave. But sadly, it seems her mind is made up.

I'm going to miss her.

(She'll probably be coming back for the kids quite soon, though... )

Hot off the presses...

...or at least hot off Amanda's scanner bed. Thanks a million, Amanda! You've put so many of us out of our misery.

And doesn't it look fab?!!!

Oooh, the loveliness.

Ooops, I forgot it was my turn to post. Sorry! And the bad news is that an overdose of joy and excitement at the weekend has left me far too excited to frame a coherent sentence. Here is a brief summary of the headlines.

• I have a title for book 2. The story of Angelo and Anna is going to be released in January 2008 and will be called 'The Italian's Captive Virgin'. Oh yes. I have ten months to get used to saying the word 'virgin' to elderly relatives and teachers at school without blushing.
• I have a book. A real book, with a hard, shiny cover (I think these are library copies) with a verrrrry glamorous couple welded together on the front and MY NAME right there beneath the bit where it says 'The Italian's Defiant Mistress'. Apparently this means that people other than Eva and my lovely editor in Richmond are soon going to be able to read the stuff I've written. This is very exciting, but it also makes me feel a bit like I've swallowed a porcupine.
• As if that wasn't enough, I spent a fabulous Sunday afternoon at the very beautiful home of Susan Stephens (Presents author, Modern-xtra author, extreme glamour goddess, top hostess and all round exceptionally Nice Person) as she gave a party to say goodbye to Amanda Ashby (writing guru, soon-to-be-published literary genius, like-minded domestic slattern and total gem). The saying goodbye bit was all a bit too sad to dwell on, so for the most part we didn't and we got on with what writers do best; we talked about writing (At least, I think that's what I do best. I always find writing so easy to talk about and yet so oddly difficult to do.) Annie was supposed to be there too, but was struck down en route with The Head and couldn't make it, so it fell to me to eat, drink and talk enough for two scribes. This wasn't too onerous a task as the party included Amanda Grange-- the beauty and the brains behind Darcy's Diary and Mr Knightley's Diary, and Pat one of Amanda's famed 'witches' who was every bit as lovely and entertaining as I'd expected from reading Amanda's blog! But as a novice in the Presents stable it was particularly thrilling for me to meet another longstanding Presents heroine of mine-- Kate Walker. Eeeeek!!!!! Thanks to the fact that she is as generous as she is warm, wise and wonderful I was spared the humiliation of asking for her autograph on the back of a Sainsbury's receipt or something when she gave me one of her books and signed it too. Double Eeeeekkk!!!
• So, not only am I currently reading and nearly finished Susan Stephens 'One Night Baby' (gorgeous cover, contents even more gorgeous, plot twist that made me gasp), I now also have on my tbr pile a Kate Walker 'At the Sheikh's Command' (signed-- with my pen!) and hot off the press, Sue's new Modern Xtra 'Dirty Weekend'. And herein lies the cloud behind the lovely, shimmery silver lining of my weekend-- what should I pick first? I'm thinking I might have to employ a similar technique to the one I used on Sunday when faced with the pavlova and the chocolate pudding. Both at once...

World Book Day

...was yesterday, and in honour of the occasion my daughters had to dress up as a character from a book. I would have so, so liked to have dressed one up in a lovely pistachio-green vintage cocktail dress and sent her along as Eve from The Italian's Defiant Mistress. Mainly because it would have saved me the 5 hours of sewing and one small mental meltdown that went into the Little Red Riding Hood cloak.

I also heard yesterday that book 2 has been accepted, and celebrated in the same manner as last time-- with cake. I fully intend to establish the cake thing as a tradition. In fact, I think that when I've done researching heroes on youtube and printed out some pictures of the hottest to pin above my desk, I'll start searching bakery websites and pin up a picture of the cake I'm going to have when I'm finished.

(Or is that a bit sad?)

Could Do Better

Most of the time being a writer is the ideal career to fit around having children (especially if, from a very early age, you foster in them a deep love of television. I count myself very lucky that my children are utterly indiscriminate viewers and from about 6 months would have happily sat through three hours of Japanese Art-house cinema, if provided with a jammy dodger and a box of raisins). However, last week was half term in our house and very quickly everything went the shape of the pear.

In theory it should have all dovetailed nicely. The deadline for the book was Monday morning, and by the time school finished on Friday it was all pretty much ready to go. Of course, that was only because, apart from the odd midnight trolley-dash around Sainsbury's, I hadn't been out of the house for the previous three weeks. I rather like that feeling though-- I remember the huge satisfaction last time of looking up from the last page of the book and noticing that the kitchen was in danger of being closed down by environmental health, the bath was striped with a month's worth of grime and the ironing pile was positively Alpine in its dimensions, but feeling totally ready to throw myself back into the domestic fray and restore order. (Or my own version of it. My standards are really very low.)

This time matters were complicated by the advent of Daughter no. 1's birthday, at the end of half-term week. Thanks to my self-imposed exile from the rest of civilisation while I finished the book I'd failed to buy her a single present, or arrange even the smallest celebratory treat. Had this been Daughters no. 2 or 3, this wouldn't have been such an issue, but Daughter no. 1 is gloriously, extravagantly ambitious in her birthday expectations. Every year she begins planning the festivities the moment Christmas is over, and usually mid-way through January we embark on the annual process of negotiation and bargaining (you can keep the triple layered chocolate cake with musical candles if you'll give up the twenty-one gun salute, fire-eaters and peacocks roaming the lawns...) until we arrive at something mutually agreeable. (Or until she breaks me with her devastating combination of charm and logic.)

So, by an exhausting and elaborate process of deception and distraction I managed to do the birthday present shopping with the children in tow, issued very last-minute invitations to the necessary friends (some of whom were even available!) and stayed up to burn the midnight oil making a cake (the midnight oil wasn't the only thing I burned, actually, but an extra batch of butter icing covered up the worst of the damage) . It was all going to be OK, I thought in a rush of relief on Wednesday morning. Excellent. Deadline met. Maternal duties satisfied. Mouldy stuff removed from fridge. So what if my legs hadn't seen the attention of a razor for weeks and my hair was desperately in need of a wash (and a cut and a colourist, come to think of it...) That hardly mattered.

Until the door opened on Wednesday evening and an enormous bunch of flowers appeared, and behind it, my husband.

'Happy Valentine's day, darling.'

Damn. Damn, damn damn.

Deadline...

...So called because when you're on one every line you write seems about as sparkling as roadkill.

Shall be spending the day trying to find suitable words to replace 3472 'thingies.'

Shall NOT spend 2 hours on Youtube researching my next hero.

Martyr to the Craft

Thankfully, have now reached the point where the book is pretty much writing itself, and the end is in sight. (Still quite a long way off-- in fact little more than a speck in the distance, but just about discernible on a clear day if you have extremely good eyesight. And binoculars.) The fact that I'm not still stuck in endless revision of the first 3 chapters is, I'm delighted to say, entirely thanks to Amanda and is absolute proof that meeting up with friends and indulging heavily in champagne and chocolate trifle is an essential aid to the writer's craft. You see, it was on the occasion of our thrusting literary power-lunch before Christmas that she let me into the secret of the 'fast draft' tecnique.

Basically (according to my personal writing guru and soon-to-be bestselling author Amanda-- 'You Had Me At Halo' coming out in August 2007) you just start writing and don't stop. Don't edit. Don't spend 45 minutes poring over Roget's Theasaurus for just the right word (she recommends the use of thingy where you can't think of the word you want. In some cases I actually found that, once I'd written it, thingy did indeed turn out to be just the right word...) Don't torment yourself over a scene that isn't flowing-- just break and fill in some brief notes then move on. And what made the biggest difference to me-- don't ever read yesterday's work. Halleluijah. And in that small sentence I was released from my 3 month cycle of spending one day writing, and the next day deleting and re-writing.

So, it's on its way, and I'm totally loving my new hero-- to the extent that I'm actually considering changing the heroine's name to India and making her a statuesque (I think artistic license would make that an acceptable alternative to 'matronly'?) 36 year old mother of three whose talents include nit control and hoovering up Polly Pocket accessories. Of course, there's always the very real risk that when I do go back and allow myself to read over what I've written I'm going to discover that a) the whole book is utter rubbish and b) I've subconsciously already substituted myself for the heroine, and will have to go through changing the I to she and the me to her on every page.

It was, incidentally, in the same selfless spirit of dedication to our art that drove Annie and I to meet up for lunch on Friday, drink lovely wine, giggle inordinately and gorge ourselves on tapas. Research, you see. Who knows when one might have a tricky Peking Duck-eating scene to handle?

Yay!! It's official!

Getting the call from Richmond to say they wanted to buy my book was fantastic, but two minutes after I put the phone down I was certain I'd dreamt it. Receiving a contract, and then a little while later an advance cheque made it seem a little more real.... But appearing in the New Author slot of the Pink Heart Society's brilliant site.... well, that really makes me feel like it's all happening!

Mills&Boon definitely can't change their minds now, can they?

The bit before 'The End'...

Like the rest of the romance-reading world I followed Julie Cohen's first page challenge with great interest-- and, given that book number 2 is progressing at roughly the same place as an arthritic snail, not a little envy too. The contributions from authors right across the fictional board were enlightening and entertaining, and many of them are such good examples of best practise that they sent me scuttling back to completely re-write the opening chapter of book 2 (about 3,287 times, actually, but that's a whole different post. And not a happy one. It involves loud music, half a box of tissues, copious post-it notes and seventeen squillion calories worth of chocolate-covered Brazil nuts.)

I don't recall having nearly so much trouble with the opening chapter of book 1 (did I mention that it's called The Italian's Defiant Mistress and is coming out in July 2007? No? Oh, well, it's called The Italian's Defiant Mistress and it's coming out in July 2007...). I do, however, remember very distinctly the struggle I had coming up with a suitable finish. Obviously I had a clear vision of how the book would end in plot terms, but I'd spent so long living with the characters and following them on every step of their journey that actually choosing the right words with which to leave them was impossible.

I didn't want something too sudden, too final, as I wanted to give the impression of a beginning within an ending. It also had to have an air of authority about it, to make the reader feel satisfied that a natural conclusion had been reached, and above all it had to convey the new relationship that had blossomed between the hero and heroine, while still remaining absolutely in line with both of their characters. (In other words there was no way I was going to be able to have the hero say anything remotely sentimental. He's spent the whole book struggling to be open about his feelings-- even to himself-- and although he's come a long way and overcome lots of those demons he's nowhere near the stage of being able to use the word 'soul'. Or at least not without sounding sarcastic.)

I wrote the final version of the last chapter and epilogue at the last possible moment before submitting the ms, which meant that by the time I received the proofs to check I couldn't actually remember exactly how it had finished. I was dead keen to read through to the end straight away and refresh my memory, but as I turned the last page I do believe I made the kind of outraged, disbelieving squeal that my children utter when they open the biscuit tin and find it empty.

I'd failed. That indefinably conclusive air that I'd striven so hard to achieve was so lacking. I could have cried-- which isn't usually a bad response at the end of a romance, but in this case was definitely not for the right reasons.

And then I found the last page, which, in the general squalor and chaos of Grey Towers, had become separated from the rest (and slightly besmirched with jam in the process). I breathed a huge sigh of relief. On it was typed...

And he did.

Twice.

... and those four words made a world of difference to my perception of the whole, entire book.

So, what are your favourite final lines from a book, and how did you solve the finishing dilemma in your own writing? From where I am (ie still marooned in the fog of the first 3 chapters) it's a problem I'm longing to be in a position to tackle!