independent writer

Deleted scene from Rose Petals and White Lace: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 7

/ Caron Allan / 2 Comments

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 Dottie Manderson mysteries, which was book 7: Rose Petals and White Lace. I suppose I could call it an internet exclusive 😀

In this extract, Dottie is on her way somewhere with William’s Uncle Joe and she bumps into William’s ex, Moira Hansom… I hope you enjoy it.

As they made their way back towards the house, a woman coming from the opposite direction stopped in Dottie’s path. It was Moira Hansom. She was clearly as astonished to see Dottie as Dottie was to see her, but Moira recovered her poise rather more quickly. Seeing that Dottie was going to talk to the woman, Joe continued a little further along the road, waiting for her just out of earshot.

Dottie was taking in the other woman’s plumper form, along with the loosely fitting dress and matching coat. A frightened, jealous sensation went through Dottie as she looked at her.

As if guessing Dottie’s thoughts, Moira laughed her smart sarcastic laugh.

‘Oh, you needn’t worry. It’s not William’s,’ she assured Dottie, patting her stomach.

Dottie was scandalised that she should speak so openly about it right there in the middle of the street. But her mind seized on the words and her nerves began to settle back to normal. Dottie nodded but said nothing. What on earth could she say to that?

‘That’s why Gervase’s parents are taking such good care of me,’ Moira said, the smart attitude dropping away with the lowering of her voice. ‘And thank God, I say. I told them we were about to announce our engagement, but that he wanted to wait for the end of the enquiry before making it official. Actually, he didn’t even know, I hadn’t told him. You won’t say anything, will you? Without them I’d really be in a fix.’

She held out her hand to show its only ornament: the old hideous, clumsy ring Gervase had given Dottie, or more correctly, had shoved across the table at her, she amended silently.

Dottie nodded again. She found her voice. ‘You’ve had it altered and cleaned.’

‘Yes. Well, it certainly needed it, we both know that. Though it’s not what I would have chosen for myself, of course, had the opportunity arisen. Still, as they say, beggars can’t be choosers.’ Her voice wobbled at the end of this little speech.

Dottie felt a wave of sorrow. ‘I hope things work out all right. And that everything goes well with the baby.’

‘Thanks. That’s decent of you. The Parfitts, well, they’ve been very good, actually. Gave me a cottage near them, it’s very pleasant and comfortable. And they give me a generous allowance. Promised to put him—or her—through school and college. Of course I have to toe the line, go to all their social functions, that sort of thing. Though not for much longer, of course. I’ll soon be shut away until after the arrival. In any case, it’s the least I could do.’

Dottie nodded, once again unable to think of anything to say.

Moira added, ‘I’m thinking that in a few years I might be lucky enough to meet a suitable chap amongst their acquaintance, it’d obviously have to be someone they’d approve of. But a girl needs to think about these things, and make the best of a bad job, I always say.’ She glanced at Dottie assessingly. ‘I suppose you and William are back together?’

Dottie was on the point of nodding yet again but stopped herself. ‘Yes, we are. He’s up here, there’s been another enquiry, this time into… about Gervase… and everything.’

Moira nodded, biting her lip. ‘Yes, I did hear about it. That was Evangeline, Gervase’s mother. She pressured Edwin to do that. It’s not really as personal as it seems. They just wanted to lash out, I think. What with losing his brother shortly before Gervase himself.’

‘It must be a terrible time for them. I imagine that your… news… has helped them a great deal. You’ve given them hope for the future.’

‘I think so.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Well, look, they’re coming. We’re on our way to visit some friends of theirs. I imagine you won’t want to see them.’

‘Not particularly.’ Dottie hesitated. ‘Well goodbye.’ She held out her hand.

Moira surprised her with a sudden brief hug and a cool kiss on the cheek. ‘You’ve got by far the best man,’ she said. ‘Good luck.’

She hurried away. Dottie, lost in thought, caught up with Joe.

***

In the Neolithic Village

/ Caron Allan

If you’ve been following this blog for a while, you will have seen this one before… I do quite often repeat myself. Mainly because I know anyone who has already seen it will either have forgotten it by now, or will be happy to gloss over it once more, but there will be many people who (hopefully) won’t have seen it yet.

Recently I’ve been digging out photos and other pictures for posting on Pinterest – it’s one of my favourite platforms, as I’m a very visual person, I am inspired by what I see. And during this digging out process I found some more photos I took years ago when we went to Skara Brae, in Orkney, an island group off the north coast of Scotland.

Seeing those houses had been a goal of mine since I watched that iconic Simon Schama documentary A History of Britain, and I had to see it for myself. It’s not often something inspires me to that extent, but that really did. And because I a) love people and b) love history, I wanted to see a place where those two things met. And where so gloriously stunning as the neolithic village Skara Brae, unearthed during a violent storm in 1850, it was last inhabited four thousand years before that. This glorious place set my imagination on fire, and I concocted this short story…

The corridors linking the houses are dark, black-dark, and yet the children run back and forth giggling and jostling as children have always done. They barely pause in their running as the corridors narrow or curve. They laugh in and out of the houses, running amongst the groups, tribes, families. Outside, beyond the house, the sea and the wind roar, and strange creatures prowl the earth. But not in here.

In the houses themselves, the central hearth is the main light and although bright enough to prepare the food by, the illumination doesn’t reach to the farthest parts of the room where the animals are safely housed against thick stone walls. But their soft noises and comfortable smells lull the elders who sit by the fire and prod the embers or stir the cooking-pot by turns.

Soon the eye becomes accustomed to the dimness and it is possible to see not just vague shapes but the shapes of the bodies of the cattle in their pens, or the shapes of the drawings in the sand of the fireside floor, the simple outlines that accompany the story that is being told. A half-grown child, listening to the stories with wide eyes is given instructions and items of interest, are brought from the dresser to the one who speaks, who holds each thing up for all to see and recounts all that is known, the history of the item, the way it happened to be found or created, all that makes it special is told now to those who are gathered. They’ve heard it before. Even last night but still they all look and a discussion takes place, even the child speaks. He will be a fine man one day soon. They look on him with pride. One day, he will be the teller of stories.

The food is passed round, grain and meat and fish and coarse bread, flat and hot from the stones by the fire. Everyone eats and there is a strange hush over those in the house for a time. There is a ritual about eating. There is a ritual about being in the safety of a warm and solid home with the cattle and the fire. This is what it means to be at home.

It is evening, the day draws to a close and everyone is gathered in the safe warmth of the roundhouse, and nearby, there are other houses, with other people gathered, and the children are the running link between them. More stories are told, more conversation and discussion over the nature of the stars and their brightness, of the tides of the sea, of the path of the moon who guides the hunters and blesses the crops.

And over the way, along the dark tunnel then out into the air, in another similar house, the ancestors listen and smile as the brightness of the moon creeps in.

*

Embracing the mess

/ Caron Allan

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?

Just go with it.

I’m thinking of that song by Scott Walker about a million years ago, ‘Make It Easy On Yourself.’ That’s just what you should do.

If you allow the stress of being disorganised to get to you, you will become depressed, anxious, feel guilty, and become increasingly non-productive, then get even more deeply depressed. So it’s important to allow yourself the room to just do what you can manage, and don’t sweat it. Do what you can and don’t beat yourself up if you feel you’re not achieving as much as you should, or planned to achieve.

Do what you can, and gradually normality will reassert itself. Even if you only write a small amount, remind yourself it’s a step forward from yesterday, and any progress, no matter how small, is good. You may even find, as I am beginning to realise, that it’s a normal part of your creative process.

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.

The first couple of times this happened, I gave up on the story. That was a long time ago when I was a young writer. Then I realised I could work through the doubt and fear and finish a book. And for a long time, that’s what I did. But the last couple of years have been exceptionally stressful in my life, and pressures have taken their toll. And now, my old anxieties have resurfaced and this time it’s so much harder to push them away and carry on. But that’s what I’m going to do. Because what choice do I have? Do I want to give up writing? NO!

So now, I’m embracing the mess, and working with it, secure in the knowledge that, regardless of my feelings and the muddle that is my so-called WIP, I can do this. It might take a while, and it might be baby steps, but I will get there, and finish this book.

‘Mesdames et messieurs, allow me to reveal at last, the identity of the criminal’, said Birdcule Poirot

***

Routine – the nemesis of creativity?

/ Caron Allan

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.

I couldn’t disagree more strongly. If you think that routine is a hindrance and obstacle to being truly creative, I’d like to invite you to reconsider.

I suggest that it is routine that brings freedom and that freedom is often to be found within boundaries, not outside of them. Because parameters do one great thing for us, yes, even us creative types. They give security. And if you feel secure, worries and fears are left behind, and you have the freedom to be creative.

All art is created within boundaries. Or a framework of conventions, if you prefer to call it that. Mozart created wonderful music. Yes, undeniably, he was incredibly creative and had a flair for genius. But… Musical composition is, in many ways, one of the most rigidly ‘controlled’ art forms in that very deeply-held conventions dictate the agreed (not necessarily explicitly agreed) common elements that must be adhered to, in order to create any form of music. Sonatas have a specific set of rules, if you like. All sonatas have common elements that make them what they are. Similarly, concertos, arias, opuses and symphonies all have elements which dictate how they are created and underpin the very stylistic identity of a given piece of music.

Now I am tempted to take a long detour at this point and show that this is exactly the same as the genre conventions in writing, but I won’t, as I’ve already waffled quite a bit, and I want to keep this blog fairly to-the-point (wow, who’d have thought it?).

Yes, true, occasionally, I just go with the flow, letting words pour onto the page. There’s nothing actually wrong with that, but it doesn’t make for good reading, it rarely fits neatly into a novel, and I am a novelist, so that is what I need to write. Unfocussed, meandering writing is great fun, very cathartic and can help you to improve your writing overall. It’s great for journals too. But for ‘everyday’ working writing, you need focus, not indulgence.

Within a framework, we have the freedom to be creative. Routine can be just such a framework. I’m actually not a very organised person with regard to my writing. But I have discovered that an established routine is my friend when it comes to cracking on with my WIP and meeting deadlines.

Why?

If you are organised, you can relax and focus on the job in hand. You make the most of your time, and have something concrete to show for it, so productivity is improved and you feel good about what you’ve achieved. Which makes it more likely you’ll do it again tomorrow. In addition, good output leads to increased confidence and positivity, and as many writers know, these are commodities that can be hard to come by.

Planned routine is anticipated, your subconscious inner writer is actually hard at work long before you sit down at your desk. You know what is expected, and what your intentions are. This means you ‘hit the ground running’ and are ready to go straight away with no need for warming up or getting yourself in the mood.

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.

For me, one of the main advantages to this type of organised approach to work is that I remain ‘current’ with my WIP. I literally don’t lose the plot. By that I mean I don’t lose track of characters and plot strands the way I do when I’m here and there and all over the place writing whatever takes my fancy. The resulting draft is more seamless, the scenes transition more smoothly, and small details are less likely to be overlooked.

They say it takes six weeks to develop a new routine: three weeks to break old habits, and another three to establish new ones. Give yourself six weeks, starting today. Who knows, by the time we reach the end of April, you may be firmly in the Routine is my Friend camp.

***

Ask not what 2025 has in store for you, but what you have in store for it!

/ Caron Allan / 3 Comments

It’s traditional to devise an action plan or a list of resolutions at the start of a new year.

Maybe we plan to fix things we think are wrong in our lives – get more exercise, eat well, lose weight. Or we feel ready for a change such as a new job or new home.

I’m pretty bad for making resolutions then giving up on them, so this year, I’m keeping my aims modest:

I hope to lose a little more weight. I’ll try to get a wee bit more exercise. I’ll keep up my reading (got loads of books on my TBR pile now, almost entirely mysteries).

And I’ll write, of course.

I’m planning/hoping/intending to finish my first draft of Dottie Manderson mysteries book 8: Midnight, the Stars, and You. It’s currently standing at a total of 60,000 words, so about three quarters or so done.

Here’s a short extract from that book:

His mother wittered on. Henry yawned and looked around him. The place was looking pretty good, he had to admit. Hopefully it wouldn’t take too much longer… he glanced down at her, seeing for the first time how thin her grey hair had become. He remembered when he was a small boy and she’d had lustrous dark locks, curling all over her head and down to her shoulders. His father had adored her hair.

Her skin too seemed aged even since he’d seen her – what, just two weeks ago? She looked pale, her complexion having a slightly transparent tissue-paper look about it. She looked all of her age and more. It warmed his heart to think that soon she would be gone, and all this lovely property, and the money too, would be his. He came out of this delicious reverie when she said,

‘And by the way, Henry, dearest, it was so considerate of you to send that dear girl to collect my jewellery to put into your safe. She told me that there have been so many dreadful robberies reported in the newspapers. Such a good idea of yours. I feel so much happier now you have them, such a weight off my mind.’

‘What?’ he demanded.

She paused in her sniffing of a particularly lovely Souvenir de la Malmaison and gazed at his reddening face with a vague sort of bewilderment.

‘Henry…’

‘What did you say? You gave your jewellery to some girl? What are you talking about?’

‘She said she was your new maid, and that her name was Eliza. I must say, I was very glad to hear that you’d…’

He cut her off with a terse, ‘You actually handed over your jewels to a complete stranger?’ He could hardly believe what he was hearing. Surely she hadn’t actually…

She gaped up at him in that frightened kitten manner. He felt like shaking her hard, or strangling her, his hands itched to be about that scraggy throat. He stared at her, shoving his hands into his pockets.

‘Not a stranger, dear, not really, after all she is part of your household,’ the Dowager Duchess protested mildly. She’d always had a soft spot for the servants, he recalled.

‘Mother, dear,’ he added, smiling in spite of his rage. ‘I do not have any new staff. I most definitely did not send anyone to you for your jewellery. Please tell me you didn’t actually…’

But he could see from her expression that it was only too true.

‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh my dear goodness me, oh my…’ Lord Dalbury’s mother began to cry.

And I also plan to finish book 3 of the Miss Gascoigne 1960s murder mysteries. That one is called Through Dancing Poppies, and the word count is a smidge under 40,000 words, so more or less half done.

Here’s a bit from that:

Dee was on the point of asking in her best schoolmarm voice, if there was something the matter, but the girl turned back to glance in their direction. Dee realised it was none other than the school’s former pupil and new media sweetheart, Poppy Bell.

‘Poppy?’ Dee said, and the girl fixed a look on Dee and Rob, wide-eyed, fearful. ‘Whatever is the matter, dear?’ Dee asked, falling into her role of responsible teacher.

Dee was aware of Rob looking in surprise at first Dee then at the young woman Dee addressed, but Dee fixed her attention on Poppy and the man with her.

‘Didn’t I meet you recently?’ Poppy asked, a frown creasing her brow as she tried to recall.

‘That’s right. I was coming out of the Holly Tree restaurant with Miss Evans last week just as you were going in. Is everything all right?’

‘I don’t know…’ Poppy glanced at her companion, who turned to look at Dee and Rob. Dee realised he was angry. He said,

‘Some bloody fool just tried to run me down as I got out of my car. Luckily, I leapt back smartly enough, or I’d have been done for. The bastard—excuse my language—the devil wasn’t even looking where he was going. Probably drunk. Had to have been doing fifty, and in a car park too! Anyway, it shook me up a bit, that’s all. No harm done.’

Dee’s hand went to her mouth in dismay. Instinctively she glanced around her, as did her brother.

‘Rotter’s already gone. Scared of getting into trouble, I don’t doubt. Anyway… Excuse me, where are my manners. I’m Teddy Reynolds. Poppy and I are—well, we’ve just got engaged to be married as a matter of fact.’

He put a proprietary arm about the girl’s waist, pulling her close to his side. Poppy smiled adoringly up at him, leaning into the crook of his arm.

Dee, calculating that he was old enough—easily old enough—to be the girl’s father, nevertheless managed to smile, and said,

‘Oh my! Congratulations! How exciting.’

‘Is this your old teacher, lovely?’ Teddy Reynolds asked Poppy.

Dee didn’t care for the old part, especially from him. She said,

‘I used to teach here, though I never had Poppy in any of my classes. I taught modern languages: German and French, basically. Now I’m just a visitor like everyone else.’

‘And this is your husband, I assume?’ Reynolds said, turning to hold out a hand to Rob. Rob shook the hand, and added,

‘No, no, just her brother. Just come along for the fun of it.’

‘Nice to meet you both. Look here, Poppy my lovely, we need to get a move on, or you’ll be late.’

‘Right,’ said the girl, once again back to the usual bored tones of a teenager. ‘See you,’ she added, to Dee and Rob, then turned on her heel and walked away.

Reynolds had a little more grace. ‘Yes well, sorry to take it all out on you. Bit of a shock, as I said. Still no harm done. Yes, yes, must get on. Might see you again later, perhaps. Coming Poppy, my lovely,’ he called.

Not that Poppy had given him so much as a backward glance. He hurried off with a final apologetic glance at Dee and Rob.

There are so many others that I want to write.

I’m really excited about one particular book, I have even plotted it out, which I never do, as I am what we call a ‘pantser’ – I don’t plan ahead, I just dive and and start. The book doesn’t have a tile, it doesn’t have cover, both of which I usually have done years ahead of the actual writing. All I can tell you is it’s one of those stories where the heroes are the baddies, and they are going to get away with SO MUCH. I suppose you could call it a ‘caper’ novel.

Sadly I doubt I’ll have that finished this year, though I’m really hoping to make a start.

I also have written about a third of a new Criss Cross spin off. I’m planning that as a trilogy. Instead of Friendship Can Be Murder, the series title will be Families Can Be Murder, and the first part of that is called Dirty Work. I hope to put that out at the end of 2025 or the beginning of 2026. Criss Cross and the other two parts of the first trilogy are written in the first person in the form of diary entries, and the story is told from the point of view of Cressida. The new series will be told from the point of view of her husband, Matt, writing his own diary, but with many intrusions from Cressida herself.

And lastly, I have a standalone novel that only needs a final read-through and slight tweak before that is ready to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world. That is called The Cousins. It’s a slight variation on my usual theme in that it’s not a murder mystery as such, it’s more of a family saga with some secrets to be discovered.

If you fancy reading a bit of that, you can find it here.

Now I think about it, seeing all this written out like this, it does seem like a lot, and quite a tall order. I only hope I can get it all done. I felt disappointed in my lack of ‘progress’ in 2024, but as many of you know, I have been having treatment for breast cancer since October 2023, so 2024 was a very difficult year for me, and for my lovely family and friends who were such a huge support. I’m still not out of the woods yet as my treatment is continuing for at least another six months, and possibly longer. At least I have my eyelashes back!

I hope 2025 is good to you all, and want to say again how much I appreciate the support and enthusiasm of all my friends, dear and values readers and fellow writers.

***

Looking back at old work

/ Caron Allan

I saw this quote by Dean Koontz recently and it made me reflect on all the other stories that haven’t made it as far as publication. I’m talking about my stories here, not other peoples’.

I have written many, many more books than I have published. and I think that is often the case for other authors.

As authors, we have to serve an apprenticeship of writing. We have to learn our craft, just like a teacher learns to teach, a surgeon learns how to operate, or a dinner lady learns where the kids have to line up to come into the dining hall at school.

No one ‘just knows’. Okay, you might have a facility with words, you might be brimming over with fantastic ideas, but that doesn’t guarantee that what you write will be readable or marketable. and you need to be able to repeat the performance again and again.

Another (very) early work, written on the back of Weetabix packets… circa 1970

So it doesn’t surprise me that even an eminent author like Dean Koontz may have dry times when nothing seems to work sales-wise. Or that he seems to feel it took him a while to get started.

When I look back on some of my early stories, I cringe at the crass ideas, the overused plots, the terrible, stilted dialogue. Or the lack of knowledge. In one story I had a crocodile chasing a woman for miles up a steep hill. (Hint, that wouldn’t happen in real life. Like me, crocodiles are not fans of long steep walks uphill.)

In a way it can be discouraging to look back and think, I had zero talent, this is awful. (And, quite often people still think this about my writing, even though I’ve come on in leaps and bounds over the last thirty years!) On the other hand, every so often you can come across a paragraph, or even just a phrase, where the sun seems to shine through and you think, now that, is most definitely, a good bit.

So in no particular order, here are some of the stories that didn’t (yet, though who knows) make it:

I still mainly write my first drafts by hand – that gives me the excuse of buying more notebooks…

Jobshare: the idea was, a famous author hires a stand-in to take his place so he can disappear for a while to concentrate on writing not just a new book but a whole new genre he has not tried before. The lookalike was murdered, but who was the intended victim – the author or the lookalike. I think we’ll probably never know. This one had more holes than a fishing net.

The Soft Impeachment: even worse than it sounds, this was a cringe-fest of a romance. Luckily for you, I haven’t published it. But it was the first full length novel I ever completed, back in the early 1980s, and it was this that showed me I could do it, no matter what anyone said.

Dolly: I changed the working title of this to Babygirl once I started work on the Dottie Manderson mysteries, but it’s still never made it out of the filing cabinet. The idea is that a famous actress has just buried her adoptive mother and goes in search of her birth mother, only for her birth mother to be murdered. Who was the villain, the actress’s boyfriend, her unknown father, the dodgy care home owner, or someone else. Hint: I have no idea.

These were the only really early ones I actually finished, though there are a number of others that stalled around the third to halfway mark.

Even a bad book needs a bit of planning!

These are the almost-rans, written within the last twenty years and still in line for revision and maybe even, one day, publication:

Humanity: this was my vampire novel, written in 2002-3 after we returned from Australia after five years away, and I wanted to do something new. Sadly, I lost faith in the project when the TV series Being Human came out. It’s the same idea really – can a vampire hold on to their human qualities and carve out a life for themselves in the real world? Here’s a teeny extract:

  He moved along the road.  Cautious.  Keeping to the darkest shadows.  Nothing coming from either direction.  Middle of the night.  Not a single light on in any of the houses.

  He wiggled the fingers clutched to his side.  Sticky.  Very Sticky.  (Q: What’s brown and sticky, Uncle Neal?  A: A stick!  Nephews and nieces laughing.  God, kids tell such corny jokes.  Seems like some things never change.)

  As he crossed a pool of lamplight, he didn’t need to look down at himself to know that he was still bleeding.  The blood had soaked one side of his shirt and now it alternately flapped heavily or stuck to him, cold, and filled his whole body with a nauseating chill that had become frighteningly familiar.  It felt like every heartbeat pumped more blood out of the tear in his body.  The wound felt massive, like a huge rip in the side of an ocean liner, yet he knew it wasn’t as bad as that.  But he needed to rest.  Had to get himself inside somewhere. 

I have a soft spot for this book, so maybe one day, it will see the light of day…

The Refuge: another book that I can’t quite let go of, and have been thinking of reworking and releasing for several years now. It’s about ‘found family’ I suppose, though I didn’t know that term then. It’s about people surviving the destruction of their town and fleeing to a refuge in the mountains, and their attempts to survive, and like Humanity, it’s about whether we can hold on to ourselves in a time of crisis, and rebuild a life. If you like, you can read more about it here:

The Silent Woman: is a ghost story with a bunch of people who are ghost hunters, but it’s more to do with solving mysteries than just investigating the paranormal. There are a couple of chapters and a bit more information about this book here: 

Like many authors, I often feel I am made up of things I have written. A bit like, I don’t know, baggage maybe, or more like photographs of loved ones, we writers carry these stories with us everywhere we go, no matter what we do, and I believe that every new story we write is built upon the shoulders of these story-memories. It’s part of who I am, and I love it.

***

Writing a believable character

/ Caron Allan / 5 Comments

I think we all know that a work of fiction could not exist without its characters. They act out the plot, control the information given to the reader, and they are the people we would like to be if we ourselves were the centre of the work. They are our representatives in the story world in many respects. I think that is especially true in the kind of books I write – fairly traditional, solve-along-at-home mysteries.

One of the things I love about characters is their ability to be brave, cowardly, wicked or audacious, righteous, and definitely unlike me, astute and quick-thinking! They are able to be either in the right or the wrong place at the right or the wrong time. Always in the thick of the action, the excitement, leading the way to discovery. I love that my characters can do all the things I can’t – lead exciting lives in glamorous, or not so glamorous places, rub shoulders with criminals and celebrities, solve mysteries, dancing until the early hours of the morning, and of course, go to nice places! They rarely have to worry about shoving things in the washing machine, getting the groceries sorted, puzzling over a newly appeared patch of damp on a ceiling, or a lost roof tile. They don’t have to clear up after pets or puzzle over the right home insurance.

Hopefully this will be out in 2025. I’ve written it, I promise.

In many ways, a minor character can be fairly cardboard – not every character needs to be – or indeed can possibly be – unique. They are like the stock characters of a theatrical production. There are only so many human traits, qualities and physical looks that can be applied to characters. In a lot of cases, I just suggest an appearance or a type of person and let the imagination of my readers furnish the rest of the details. If you’re anything like me, too much description to read slows down the action and is the bit you have a tendency to skip.

But the main characters – oh they have to be fully realised and to become completely real, fully-rounded and believable for the reader, or else there is no empathy, no immersion in the story. If you can’t lose yourself completely in a murder mystery, then there is nothing to be gained with the final revelation, the answer to the riddle of the story. It just won’t matter. I love it when I close a book at the end, and look around me, almost surprised to see the world is still turning. I had forgotten the real world, and part of my imagination, part of my self is still lost in story land. That is a job well done by the novelist. It’s what I try to aim for, though I often worry I don’t succeed.

For me, a main character has to be imaginable. I need to be able to picture that person, as if they were real, moving and inhabiting some invented space in my head. I like to think I might recognise them if I met them in real life. I want to know how they think, how they feel, what they like, what they hate. I want to know who their friends are, how they fill their spare time, what they do to pay the bills, all the real life stuff that applies to ‘us’, the readers.

Honest this one is going to be finished one day too…

If they don’t engage with the world around them in the book they are set in, they won’t feel real to me. They need to act like real people. They must be impacted by social issues, by world events, by the art and popular culture of their time. I want to see them dancing, singing, talking, crying, laughing, eating, drinking, catching a bus or train, driving somewhere, getting caught in the rain, falling in love, or visiting their mother. They have to have a life that extends beyond merely the demands of the mystery. They can’t just be clue finders.

That said, I try to add what I think of as timeless values to my characters. I don’t want them to exhibit the tendencies and faults of their time. I don’t want my main characters to be racist, sexist, homophobic, or bigoted. I want them to transcend what might have been widely-held attitudes of their day, because those are things which are important to me. I don’t want them to appear too sanctimonious or holier-than-thou either, so it’s a fine line between Dottie, Dee and so forth being a decent person and being way too prim and proper.

But hopefully it’s keeping them on the right side of believable, and relatable, and making the story the stronger for it. I try to make my books character-driven rather than event or plot-driven, as for me, a story is all about its players.

So what’s happening with me now?

Just a quick catch up for you. I had hoped to have at least two if not three more bosk out this year, but it just hasn’t happened. It’s been a tough year. diagnosis of breast cancer, followed by chemo, two surgeries, radiotherapy and now, I’m about to start yet more chemo mean that I’ve been utterly exhausted and not able to write very much at all. I’ve done perhaps half of Dottie Manderson mystery book 8 Midnight, the Stars and You. and I’ve written about half of a new Friendship Can Be Murder mystery, to be called Dirty Work, and… *sigh* I’ve just started book 3 of the Miss Gascoigne mysteries, Through Dancing Poppies. I wrote a stand-alone novel The Cousins last year but haven’t had the oomph to do anything with that yet, so it’s all in the pipeline. Hopefully 2025 will be a n easier year.  On the upside, a new German translation of the first Miss Gascoigne mysteries Eine Begegnung mit Mord will be out on the 11th October, so that’s something, I suppose.

Onward and upward. 

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Looking ahead to Autumn and new things…

/ Caron Allan / 2 Comments

Our maple is already wearing its Autumn hues

It’s still the height of summer (not that you’d know it from the 19⁰C and wet weather we’ve had this week, in contrast to last week’s high 20s and even low 30s) yet already I’m turning my face towards Autumn.

I know I say this every year, but for me, it is not Spring, but Autumn and Winter that form my season of creativity. I have no idea why this is. I don’t know why, but for me, autumn is not the season for rest and consolidation, but of flights of imagination taking wings. I get quite excited about the approach of autumn and winter. Maybe it’s the cuddly jumpers, I don’t know.

It seems as though the rest of the world is full of new life in the Spring. Is it because I’m an October baby, my lifecycle naturally starts from Autumn onwards? Or because when we lived in Brisbane what seems like a lifetime ago, October was in the Spring? But how can five years there undo the habits of the other fifty-nine years I’ve lived in the Northern Hemisphere? Or maybe it’s because for parents everywhere in the UK, Autumn is when the children go back to school and you at last get two minutes to sit in silence and just enjoy hearing – nothing. Ah, bliss!

Started a new notebook today too – a cause for celebration in itself!

As I’ve mentioned a few times, in our house things have been tough since last October but now, today, I feel something stirring again. It’s a feeling, a bit like being pregnant, a sense of something wonderful happening in the hidden depths, a private joy that no one else is able to share or even aware of. It’s the buzzing of new ideas, of fresh creative energy, a sense of gentle excitement that says, ‘Hmm, I think something is coming…’ I love it, it’s such a special feeling, and it can only mean one thing.

I think I feel a new story coming on…

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The world of the murder mystery

/ Caron Allan / 4 Comments

Not sure this guy is really a detective, or just a businessman who is late for a meeting.

As you may know, I love traditional detective fiction aka murder mysteries. You can get mysteries where there’s no murder, but if the stakes aren’t high, my attention isn’t grabbed. And if you’re here, reading this, the chances are, you probably like them too!

In the old Golden Age of detective fiction, there is generally a Countess clutching her pearls, casting disapproving looks at the corpse leaking blood onto her Aubusson carpet, and declaring that surely the perpetrator is some stranger, some tramp or wandering vagabond. ‘It can’t possibly be one of us.’

For me, the thrill of these books is the certain knowledge that, yes, it is most definitely one of ‘us’. One of these characters, outwardly so genteel, so polite, offering around the drinks decanter, or standing when a lady comes into the room, or smiling pleasantly and asking after the vicar’s marrows, it’s one of them. Most of them have known each other for years and see each other almost every day out walking the dog or playing tennis, or at drinks parties or dinner parties, at bridge evenings and coffee mornings. (Because this is the life of villagers of that era, we feel.)

An old lady with glasses can be the rich countess, or the village spinster/busybody. She doesn’t mind whose role she plays so long as she’s busy and well paid in scones and tea.

Like the suspects now before us, we too would like to believe that those around us are just like us, and thereby comes the assumption that no one ‘like us’ could possibly do something so sordid as to kill another person. Because such an action implies loss of self-control, unacceptable levels of emotion, and of course, a denial of the never-say-die attitude that instils us with hope for a better tomorrow. Or if not better, then at least no worse.

So when someone—let’s call him Major Wainwright—is found underneath the billiard table with his head bashed in or a hat pin piercing his eye to skewer his brain, we automatically think, no one I know could possibly commit such an act. Therefore, it could only have been done by someone ‘not from here’. Here endeth the first act of our little fiction.

Sorry about that graphic image, by the way, that fictional situation got really bad, really fast, didn’t it? I’ve been reading Agatha Christie this week, in case you’re wondering. And while I’ve got you here, I’ve no idea why it’s always a major. I can only assume that a warrant officer or a corporal just doesn’t have the same ring?

But when we look at those cast members or story characters around us, we suddenly think, how well do we really know them? This is what writers sometimes call the second act world of the ‘unknown’ or the ‘new world’, where we suddenly see everyone as different and unknowable.

Let’s look at this bunch of weirdos and oddballs.

Take the major’s wife, for example. She’s known for her knitting circles and good works. As is the vicar’s wife, busily visiting the elderly and infirm, taking care of the vulnerable.

The major enjoys civil war reenactments, often heard to say ‘That’s not how I would have done it.’

Then there’s the vicar himself. Does he really need to spend so much time shut away in his office muttering scriptures or Latin phrases to himself? What’s he really doing in there?

What about Miss Simmons, the village busybody, who knows everyone and everyone’s history. They say she has a heart of gold, but is she really over that old romance? After all, she’s never married, does she still carry a torch for that certain someone? These country villages seem to always have a nosy old woman. (Often that’s me.)

What about the village doctor—I bet he knows a secret or two.

Then there are the rest who can change from story to story, as required: there might be a visiting artist, or an aunt from another village, or perhaps a daughter just returned from university to care for an elderly father who once threatened the organist with his walking stick. And of course we have the organist himself. But don’t stop there, there’s the butler, the maid, a hotel owner, the owner of the knitting wool shop… oh all sorts of people. Maybe a weekending couple, he is ‘something in the city’ and she is a famous model, renowned for her torrid affairs before she settled down to marry a man twenty years older than herself. There might even be a gay couple, known locally as ‘artistic’, (that was euphemism my mum used for a couple of gay men we knew when I was a child in the early 60s, when same-sex relationships between men were illegal) in those unenlightened days, they may have been viewed with suspicion.

But in spite of all these people with their secret backgrounds, their secrets thoughts, ideas and attitudes, we still keep coming back to the same thing: surely no one I know would commit such a vicious crime?

But how well do I really know these people? As I watch them gathered around the corpse, their various emotions—triumph, relief, satisfaction, fear, horror, dismay, anger, sorrow—fleetingly appearing on their faces, I’m forced to admit it feels as though I am in a room filled with strangers.

It’s the job of acts 2 and 3 to follow the clues, not be tricked by the red herrings, and to unmask all their carefully concealed plans and desires and arrive at the truth. Any one of them could be the killer…

And for readers of mysteries, that’s the beauty of it!

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Job vacancy: armchair sleuth required (readvertised)

/ Caron Allan / 3 Comments

 

We at LaughingAtLife.org (not a real company!) have a new part-time vacancy for the role of armchair sleuth.

About this role:

You must be ready, willing and able to deliver timely advice to all suspects and potential victims. (But not too timely. Whilst we agree that forewarned is forearmed, if you’re too good at your job, you may find the number of victims drops alarmingly and you are left with no one to investigate/suspect which will lead to everyone at LaughingAtLife.org moving into the genre of romance. Or maybe Fantasy. No one at LaughingAtLife.org wants that to happen.)

You should be highly experienced in delivering comments such as ‘I knew that was going to happen’ or ‘You could write this (insert offensive vocabulary here) stuff yourself!’

If you have fancied taking part in shows such as Gogglebox, this job could be for you!

Essential qualifications:

Eagle-eyed attention to detail.

Nerves of steel.

Ability to pick locks with a hair pin or safety pin. Or a lock-pick.

Suspicious of everyone and everything. Make remarks such as ‘Oh really?’ and ‘Feel free to be open and honest with me, I will discover the truth in the end.’

Be liable to take all alibis with a pinch of salt. Or snuff.

Able to sniff out spurious motives and supply educated guesswork.

Must possess own monocle or pince-nez or (misplaced) reading glasses (on colour-coded ribbons or fine cord – not too long though, you don’t want someone to strangle you with said reading  glasses cord, do you?).

Should be able to demonstrate a long-established habit of putting your fingertips together in a thoughtful manner before speaking.

You must have a luxurious moustache which you continually fondle or trim or dye a suspiciously dark colour. This role is open to all genders in our commitment to non-discrimination.

Or, failing the moustache, you may have a knitting fetish, and take knitting everywhere with you so that you are ready at a moment’s notice to disarm suspects with your apparent inoffensiveness and the sense of calm rationality that you radiate.

Must be able to recall a long series of villagey anecdotes you can crowbar into any conversation.

Must know the difference between a colonel and a major. Must equally be conversant with the differences between life-peers and the other sort, whatever they are. And of course, ministers of religion and local politicians. Must know how to address a Dowager without causing universal embarrassment at the knitting circle or Ladies’ Bright Hour.

Must be able to shake your head sorrowfully from time to time and say, ‘The world is a very wicked place’ or make some quote about the universal fallibility of mankind.

Additional desirable qualifications:

Knowledge of Shakespeare, Milton and the Bible useful. Possibly also Tennyson. (but we at LaughingAtLife.org do not insist on Tennyson.)

Must not be liable to scream or faint when confronted with a gory scene. Must know exactly where to place fingers on the neck to discover the non-existent pulse of a victim.

Encyclopaedic knowledge of deadly fungi and herbs could come in handy. Ditto household chemicals. Or medicines.

Must be able to dip fingertip in any powdery drug and taste it without dying, and also must be able to identify said drug.

Salary:

There is no salary, just the reward of knowing you did your best, and served your country. Or, failing that, completed at least one matinee jacket for the new baby of a friend of a friend of a friend.

Perks:

Sadly, neither are there any perks. There is no holiday allowance, as every time you go on holiday, someone will do something stupid and you will find yourself ‘embroiled’ in a new murder case. Even if you have a staycation, the grumpy colonel in the Old Manor House will upset someone who will then disguise themselves as a vicar and whack the colonel over the head 47 times with a fire-iron. You will of course realise that this was almost inevitable given the colonel’s generally offensive manner, and also it will be just what happened with Mrs Castle’s little boy in Northampton when he skived off school that day in 1948.

There is no sick pay, apart from the satisfaction that your last days will be repackaged and sold as Mr X’s or Ms Y’s Final Cases with a picture of the actor who plays your role on the front cover.

How to Apply:

Seriously?

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