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.
***
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.’
I’m always a little bit surprised when I meet a deadline. Not quite sure why, maybe it’s because a book seems such a huge thing to undertake, until, bit by bit, it’s done. I imagine it’s the same with any project – you break it down into small chunks and that makes it easier to handle. It’s also easier to measure progress, and you don’t (sometimes!) get overwhelmed by the enormity of the thing.
Writing.
About ‘An Imposter in Shetland’:
This one is still in the planning stages – and will not be out for quite some time – I won’t begin writing it until next year! But I’m soooo excited about this story, I’m hoping it will be fun and fairly light-hearted. It’s all about con-artists getting away with it – or will they?
So this happened…
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.
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.
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