Back on the merry-go-round

I still have a book to polish up for publication by Del Rey UK, and I'm very grateful for that. But those books are written and I need to look forward to a new deal somewhere. I feel as if I'm back where I started but with a bit more to put in my writing CV. 

So a book I wrote several years ago will (hopefully) be landing in editors' inboxes at some point, courtesy of my new agent Jane. It only takes one of them to like it, I suppose, but the closer I get to a draft the less confident I become. I'm so familiar with the characters now they seem commonplace and ordinary. So I've spent some time looking through A Baby's Bones again and falling in love with my two principal characters again. 

It's also helped me with the sequel, because I am crawling through the contemporary strand incredibly slowly, barely making 3000 to 4000 words a week. (Note to self - check which box I packed my writing mojo in). It's growing, but I think I'm too distracted with other stuff (losing my mother-in-law, illness, settling into the house) to come up with story. As soon as a moment of plot suggests itself I'm off for a chapter or two - then stagnation again. It will all come together, it always does. Meanwhile I'm still playing with my ghost story. 

Meanwhile, one of my sons is studying archaeology at the University of Southampton, and I am JEALOUS. The more I read, the more fascinating the subject becomes. I'm looking forward to him coming home for Easter to see what his course has shown him - something will spark for the book, I'm sure. He was a fan of ABB and that's a good reason to get on with ABB 2. Love you, Isaac!

The merest suggestion of Spring

I have just realised I write books and set them in the present season. Books get written in spring or autumn because that tends to be when I start a new book. But just to make life difficult, I have set the contemporary strand of A Baby's Bones 2 in the autumn, but unconsciously I am filling the story with daffodils and late snow showers which I can see from the window. Not as obviously as that, of course, but somehow it's creeping in. Reading it back it stands out, and worse than that, I set the historical strand in the spring too, so it would be confusing to switch backwards and forwards. But I did the same for ABB 1, setting the contemporary story in March and April, and the historical strand from August to Christmas. I seemed to get away with that, and I enjoyed writing it, swapping from one to the other. This time it just doesn't seem to work, I'm getting confused. I'm getting my March and October mixed up.

In other news, I'm about to start rewriting and tidying up book 3. I think it's the best of the three Secrets books, I'm learning as I go. But in many ways it's the biggest of the three with the biggest breadth. I suspect it will need a lot more work, and I still don't have a title for it! ARGH! I'm rubbish at titles.

Having been a bit under the weather for the last few months it's nice to be feeling better, almost as the spring unfolds. Maybe that's why it's sneaking into ABB 2. There's a bit of me in all my characters so I suppose it's natural to identify with the characters, but I really do feel closest to Sage, my archaeologist character. Writing her conflict between being a wife and mother and being a professional archaeologist reflects some conflicts in me. I've been the mother of at least one child since 1984, that's officially forever, and today our youngest turned 16. I no longer have a 'child', even if she's still dependant on us she's already looking out at the world. Five years ago I would have said that was a painful thing, but after a lot of grieving as they all moved on or out, I've started to speculate what life on the other side is like. Will I have to take up golf and/or flower arranging? Because all I want to do is catch up on some of the things I missed having my children young. I think it's time to misbehave and shock the 'children'. Maybe Sage can let her hair down too.

Finding the right locations

Last week was all about finding the right location. If I've been somewhere, I write with more conviction and somehow that makes the book seem better. So we drove down to Dartmoor to find a village, a church and a house that could work together for A Baby's Bones 2. We didn't expect the coincidences to lead us all over East Dartmoor like a treasure hunt.

Let me explain. I had to come up with a name on the fly so chose Gould (first 'G' name in the phone book). I had to invent an arrangement of big standing stones on Dartmoor (so I called them Gabriell's Gate - no reason) and I had the fragments of a ghost story about a tiny place on Dartmoor called Lustleigh.

We went to Lustleigh first (because it's on the way to Moretonhampstead which has a tea shop which serves gluten-free cakes, to be honest). The village, which is very picturesque, has an old church - exactly what I was looking for. Thirteen hundreds. added to and extended, tiny. 

Inside, there was a war memorial panel. On it was the name Gould, prominently displayed. The church had some lovely details, including some early memorial carvings moved and set into the walls, and sixteen hundreds memorial stones set into the floor. 

I then went off to look for churches near the fictitious 'Gabriell's Gate'. We had narrowed it down to the Postbridge area - where the local church is called: 

Walking back to the car I was a bit frustrated that no Tudor buildings were nearby, although a glimpse of a house through the trees did catch my eye: Hartyland.

Underneath the 1930's exterior is a thirteenth century farm house, and as luck would have it, it was recently put up for sale, some of the interior photographs were available on Rightmove. Perfect size, perfect location, stone construction, and once you look at the house up close its tall, granite chimneys give its earlier origins away. It's the house. 

Now I can roam about the house - past and present - to my heart's content. It makes you want to rush home and write, which I sort of did. I even missed my gluten-free cakes.  

Sequels, sequels

It's been months since I wrote a blog post but for good reason (or very bad reasons). I've been distracted by various disasters and stresses, and a bit of a wobbly health moment, and the writing just stalled. I could edit, review, organise, but I couldn't find the concentration to find story enough to sit and write new stuff. That seems over because I have rewritten the historical strand the sequel to A Baby's Bones, snappily named ABB 2.

The first book is about an archaeologist (Sage) investigating why a baby's bones are found in a sixteenth century well. I followed Sage's adventures while also writing what happened back in 1580, when a fourteen year old girl (Viola) was embroiled in the story of an illegitimate birth, overwhelming jealousy and loss. I always wanted to know what happened to Viola next. She was such a great character, so I'm sending her off on a journey that a lot of well-born girls made - to stay with a female relative to learn how to be a married woman. I may not have been writing but I have been reading - the life of a Tudor housewife was as a manager of team of male servants. Wives, even noblewomen, had to be the expert cooks, apothecaries and house managers of essentially largish hotels, where a constant stream of visitors and their servants had to be housed, fed and entertained. If anything happened to that female figure and her senior staff the place would fall into chaos quite quickly. The other thing I found strange was how close the relationship between family and servants was. There was a culture of seeing servants as dependants, there was a great sense of responsibility. With men doing almost all of the inside work bar very personal care, women were surrounded by male servants all with their own areas of responsibility. So different from later centuries where there was a great divide between the ruling classes and the ruled! One commentator described being 'scolded' by her hall steward for leaving sewing out and forgetting to oversee the laundry maids. I need a hall steward, he can keep track of all the papers and books presently filling up the study.  

In the absence of servants, I'm waiting for notes about the Secrets book 3, presently without a title. I've been reading Venetian Navigators: The Voyages of the Zen Brothers to the Far North by Andrea di Robilant, the (possibly true) story of Nicolò and Antonio Zen as they travelled from Venice across the North Atlantic - possibly reaching the New World. In the 1380's, way before Columbus. The Venetians were amazing explorers and it's been great brushing up my maritime knowledge before I travel again with Kelley down the Mediterranean, in an open boat, through corsair infested waters.

Life imitating art

I seem to write about my life. Not in a self-conscious 'look at me' way (possibly an unconscious 'look at me' way, though) but it just sneaks in. Life has been very, very busy and I have no energy left at all. Writing is reduced to a hundred words here and there - slow progress really doesn't cover it. In the last two months we have (big breath) emptied two shipping containers into our family car and moved it in (one still to go), painted two large rooms and started on a third, installed half my books and all of Russell's music equipment, reorganised the kitchen by moving units around and putting a washing machine in, reorganised the whole garden, Russell has built me a huge shelf unit in the dining room, he's been to Arvon, I've finished the historical strand of a book and started another and have organised two new chimneys and wood-burners. Phew. All of that has sneaked into the books I'm writing.

My characters are tired out, stressed out and away from the familiarity of home. They are trying to find their way in a  new world, too, and perhaps other people don't understand the difficulties they are having.  I wonder how much of us is woven into each book, how much of our experience and personality is woven so tightly in our words that we can't take it out - or maybe even recognise most of it.

My present book (the dreadfully titled 'B&B' book) has a character who just wants to be left alone by the Aga and never bothered again. Get me an Aga, stat. On the plus side, it's crept up to 16k words in a  few days, so she obviously wants me to tell the story. 

Our anti-depressant kittens are definitely working even though they have both had surgery in the last few weeks (Jasper is sick of having his bottom examined, thank you, let alone stitches, but his castrate went wrong). To our amusement, they have started watching TV, from about three inches away, so we have to find programmes they will like. Autumnwatch, that worked, as did a programme about meerkats, but they also chase the clouds on the weather forecast. This was a cat programme...

It’s out – The Secrets of Blood and Bone

It’s publication day – on Super Thursday no less. This pretty little thing is out at bookshops and online.

I loved writing this one, it flew off the page and wrote itself. I think it’s hard to write the middle book of a trilogy, I’ve tried before, but I never thought of this as a middle book until the last few chapters when it needed to connect with a future book. I wrote a book, a found a sequel, and late in the process, a third book suggested itself more and more strongly. So don’t blame me for the last few pages, they do (I promise) lead onto book 3, which will come out next year.

Before I got a book deal I imagined publication day was a big thing, but in some ways it’s a quiet celebration, the full stop at the end of a really long sentence, and a bit of a relief. It comes out in paperback next year, I’m looking forward to the cover, always a pleasure to see what they are going to do with it!

Writing here is a bit subdued. We’ve moved house (Yay!!) but now boxes are invading every room, and demand things like new bookcases or plate racks or shelves. I’ve reached a natural break halfway through my new book, and need to stop and catch my breath with that before I move on. I’d like to start a new book completely now, just to be moving over new territory, but as I’m a ‘pantser’ not a plotter, that’s always a bit terrifying. I have a main character, and a location (based at least loosely on my old house) and am just wondering where it will go. It could go anywhere. Really. 

Publication in America!

In a few hours, The Secrets of Life and Death comes out in America. This feels like an astonishing gift, a real surprise. I was so much more connected to the UK release, it seemed there was so much to do, so much to think about. It wasn't that long since I had been making changes, responding to edits, thinking about publicity and marketing, it wasn't that long since I had signed the deal, in fact! But a year later I haven't had to do anything but let the team at Broadway package and look after the book, which they have done beautifully. I have marvelled at the different covers a few times - one of my sons is at university with a number of US students - who universally approved the US cover. The English students preferred the UK cover (I wanted him to canvas the university's student body to see if there was a Finnish student lurking there somewhere). The publishers really do know their business! I hope it sells, as much for Broadway Books as for me, I'm still carrying a copy of the paperback around with me to make it seem real. There's a little article written by me about Elizabeth Bathory ahead of the launch.

Two days later, The Secrets of Blood and Bone comes out here. I felt more confident to take Edward Kelley to Venice, and explore a whole new culture. Writing the past is like writing science fiction in some ways, we can't put ourselves back so far, everything was so different, the smells, the textures of linens and the connection to temperature were so different. There were no waterproof, lightweight fabrics, no softness against your skin, no elastic. Things got damp, clothes were rarely washed and so you carried a history of your recent life in your clothes alone. In the contemporary strand I had fun putting my characters in a similarly medieval environment of an old house that isn't welcoming, just like the one I had once lived in. 

Some years ago I fled to the Isle of Wight, still battered by the recent death of my daughter and husband, and viewed a number of houses in my price range. The one we bought was hemmed in by a spectacular block of ten foot high brambles the estate agent called 'the garden'. He took me upstairs to see it, pointing out the trees in each corner that bounded it. Downstairs it was like being underwater, the leaves were plastered onto the windows, as if it was trying to get in...