She found a corner table, one where she had the wall at her back, and the whole cafe there before her eyes, the entrance to the left, the service counter to the right.
Nearby, two people chatted over their cappuccinos at one table, whilst a middle-aged gentleman tapped away on his laptop at another, his headphones blocking out the world.
She got out her notebook, her pen, and stirring the foam on the top of her cappuccino in a meditative otherwhere manner, she began to plot the next chapter of her book.
She already had it settled in her mind where the story would end up. The murderer was one of two people, and she was still trying to decide which of these would work best: which one had the necessary–not motive, not yet–more like, a necessary ‘something’ in their character that made murder seem like the best, the only, solution to their personal situation.
She stirred the cappuccino one last time, took a sip, then, the first words of the first paragraph springing to her lips, to her mind, she took up her pen and began to write…
The cafe, its gentle hubbub of frothing machine and coffee filters, the chatter, the stirring of cups, the scraping of chairs, melted into one warm, comforting back-drop, like the curtain on a stage, and the characters stepped forward.
With hindsight, as she lay dying on the hard floor of the dining-room, Katherine Henshawe realised she should have expected this to happen. She should have been on her guard. She’d been a fool, she saw that now. She had allowed herself to be taken in. She’d believed every word of what had been a cleverly devised story. And now, if she’d had any doubts about the severity of her situation, the gently spreading pool of blood on the floor in front of her gave her a good indication. She tried to call for help, but of course it was pointless. No one came.
‘Save your last few breaths,’ her killer—for she knew now that was who this smiling person really was—told her with a wink. ‘Not that it’ll do you much good. Not long now, as I expect you can see for yourself. And with you out of the way, I shall be very rich. Very rich indeed. I hope you enjoyed your holiday; I certainly did!’
At the door, there was a slight pause, a quick backward glance, a merry chuckle, then the door closed again.
No one would find her in time now. She knew too that she would never see her home in Berkshire again. From the corner of her eye, she could just make out the crucifix on the wall. Katherine Henshawe spent her final moments praying.
Not for a miracle. Not for the prolongation of her life, not even for forgiveness and the chance for an eternal life in Heaven.
With her last breath, she prayed that her killer would suffer horribly for what they had done to her.
***
As you might be aware, I’m putting the final touches to my book 
But which one? Something totally new, like my roughly planned out 
‘This is not what I was expecting.’ Dottie Hardy gazed mournfully up at the small steamship moored a little ahead of them. The nameplate attached to the bow claimed this ship to be the SS Icarus. Dottie felt this did not bode well.
In the front of my wife’s old diaries, there’s always some romantic, sweet dedication, full of love and promises of devotion. I did one for her, years ago, but her first husband Thomas, did loads of them, and they were all flowery and romantic, the kind of thing posh blokes always do, and in really expensive diaries, too, you know the sort of thing, designer stationery. She still keeps them in a drawer of her bedside table and she gets them out now and again and sits there all emotional and lost in the past, and… It makes me wonder if she loved Thomas (she never ever called him Tom) more than me. I get a bit jealous when I think of him. Which isn’t fair, I know, but I can’t help it, I just do…
Most of us had to get back to work this week, and that includes writers! I’m at the creative stage, ideas flowing, crazy ones or a bit more sensible, I’m making a huge amount of notes, then just as likely, crossing them out the next day, only to come back a day after that and think, ‘Yes, actually, I like that idea, it could work really well.’
So this happened…
From time to time, I share a deleted scene from one of my books. And as I was a bit stumped for something interesting to say, I thought I’d share this one, a deleted scene from the most recent 
A couple of weeks ago, I blogged about routine and how I think it’s essential to productive creativity. But what do you do if your routine goes to pot and everything is unsettled and out of sync?
I usually start strong, like most writers. I have a good idea of where the story is going, I know what it’s about. But for me, again like many writers, the problems arise about halfway or so into the story when suddenly I realise a) I’m useless at writing, b) my story sucks, and c) it’s never going to be ready in time.
I recently read somewhere that routine hinders the creative process. To really be creative, we need to let go of organisation, routine and any kind of rigid preconceptions or framework, to allow ourselves freedom to explore in any direction and form that appeals to us.
As I’ve said already, routine planned writing leads to increased output and measurable results, you see the word count piling up and you see that you are moving towards your deadline or goal. This gives you the impetus you need to write through the tough sections of your book, those tricky little scenes and the mid-book blues.
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