self published

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. 

***

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…

***

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!

***

The Postcard: a short story

/ Caron Allan

Here’s a short story I wrote a LONG time ago…

‘Have you finished that contract yet?’

My manager’s voice cut into my little lonely bubble and made me jump half out of my skin. He glowered a bit, angry with me for being startled, but he was somewhat mollified when I told him I only had two more pages to go out of the original thirty-two.

‘By lunchtime, yeah?’ he reminded me as he moved away to pester someone else.

I can’t stand it here. I’ve been here a month, but it feels like a life-sentence. A weekend is just not enough parole time after the working week that precedes it.

I stared at the postcard my predecessor left pinned to the hessian wall of the cubicle. It shows a ramshackle cottage on a beach, an empty beach, with palm trees and golden sand that seems to stretch on for miles, lapped by blue, blue water. And nothing else. No one else.

The cottage wasn’t really a cottage, it was more like a shed or a hut. The roof looks like it would blow away in a hurricane. And this looks like the kind of place where they actually have hurricanes, somewhere hot, tropical. And the walls don’t exactly look sound. There are cracks between the boards—I can imagine all kinds of creepy crawlies getting in through those. There’s only one small window, partially boarded over. There’s a wonky railing around what appears to be a microscopic veranda.

But all the same… it calls to me. Wish you were here? Oh yes, I most certainly do.

With each passing day I’ve looked at it more and more. My eyes are drawn to it.

On Monday, after a tense weekend of knowing what awaits me once Sunday is over, I return to my cell, turn on my computer, and take my first look of the week at the card.

Then work begins: a constant stream of emails, calls, online meetings, in-person meetings, assessments, reassessments, and always those annoying little, ‘I wonder if you could just pop this on your to-do list’ or, ‘Sorry Jan/Lynne/Suzie from accounts/Jeff/Steve haven’t quite been able to get to this, so if you could just help a chap out and…’

I get my head down and get on with things. Lunch breaks are a myth in this place, as is their reputed work-life balance. Most of the time, I hardly look up from my desk until half an hour after I should have gone home. There’s always more still to do, and I usually find I’ve two or three hours after Jan, Lynne or Suzie and the rest of them. That’s Monday madness.

Tuesday is not a lot better, though I quite often get a lunch break and I usually leave more or less on time, maybe an hour at most of overtime. I glance at the picture several times on a Tuesday.

Wednesday is easier—the lull before the end-of-the-week storm. Usually I catch up with my workload from the week before, which keeps me busy—so much so that I often forget all about the little hut.

Thursday things start to get crazy again—contracts to complete, information to chase, people to call, emails, meetings, and yet more calls followed by more meetings. It’s manic but still only a dress rehearsal for Frantic Friday. It’s a bit like grocery shopping the last weekend before Christmas—total chaos with everyone grabbing haphazardly at things just in case they never get any food again.

Friday. So close to the weekend but such a horror to live through week after week. That’s when I seek refuge the most often, gazing at the picture, really drinking in that impossibly blue sky, reflected in the improbably blue water, the wide expanse of deserted beach. As if by the sheer force of my concentration I could transport myself there. I can almost hear the soft sound of the water washing up onto the shore.

Our office is huge. And we are all tucked away in our little cells—our cubicles which accommodate our desk, chairs, computer, phone and trays upon trays of paperwork. I remember once years ago people used to say that using computer systems would make most administration processes redundant, and that there would be a huge reduction in paperwork. The strange, alluring legend of the paperless office. There are eighty-six of us on this floor. Eighty-six computers all warming the heavy recycled air with their hot little components. Eighty-six chairs on rollers that don’t quite roll. Eighty-six miserable people kept in little squares like veal calves or stray dogs waiting to be adopted, euthanised or housed temporarily until either retirement or death claims us—either one is good at the moment.

They play the radio over the PA system—to ‘keep up morale’. The problem is, there is only one radio, and eighty-six tastes in music. I find it so stressful to listen to boy bands and rock chicks and divas all day long. It’s mentally exhausting. But it’s not as bad as Talk Radio. That’s the worst. People ringing in to talk about the tragedies in their life, breaking your heart as you reply to the fourteenth email about the same—still unresolved—issue.

Then there’s the constant toing and froing of the workers—like being perpetually on some crowded stairs—figures bustling back and forth, not friends, not visitors, just milling about, clattering by in noisy heels on the wood-effect flooring. Dropping stuff right behind you. Laughing loudly or sobbing quietly into their coffee.

I bet none of that happens on that little beach. I bet it’s quiet all the time. If I sat on that little veranda, I bet all I would hear, if I closed my eyes would be the soft rustling of the palm trees, the sound of the occasional bird overhead, the sound of the waves and my own calm breath, moving in and out and washing away my tension.

I bet no one ever yells out ‘What the hell has happened to the accounting software updates?’ Or, ‘Does anyone know how to unjam printer seven?’

I bet if people ever came to that hut they would bring a small gift—some fruit, perhaps or maybe some flowers. And I’d make tea, and we could sit on that veranda and look at the water. We could talk if we wanted to, but I wouldn’t mind if we didn’t.

‘What happened to that blue folder marked ‘urgent’?’ my manager barks in my ear suddenly, and I accidentally type half a dozen letter Ys on the screen as I jerk round to look at him. He glares at me again. ‘Daydreaming again? For God’s sake, keep you mind on your work. Then maybe folders wouldn’t keep disappearing.’

He’s gone again and I’m fighting back tears. It seems so unfair that I’m here in this place when there are places like the one on the postcard on the wall. I know people say we all have bad days, you’ll feel better tomorrow. But this dread, this slow, cold death has been going on for decades. What if it’s not how I feel in a passing moment of self-pity but it’s the length and breadth of my whole existence?

This is all I’ve ever known. All I’m likely to know until I retire. It’s no good telling me that when I retire I can do all the things I’ve dreamed of, like travelling. Why do I have to wait until my life is almost over to begin enjoying it? I don’t just need a holiday, I need a whole change of life.

I’m hardly thinking. I reach out and grab the postcard off the wall. Do I dare? Am I crazy? I lean down under the desk to pull out my bag. Before I even know what I’m going to do, I’ve thrust the postcard inside and put my bag under my arm. I turn and look around me. I see nothing here that is mine. I get up. I walk away down the aisle to the lift, hardly daring to breathe.

At the lift door, I wait impatiently. When it arrives and the door opens, I feel a sense of excitement, of doing something terribly naughty yet wonderful. I step inside before anyone tries to stop me. As the doors close, I realise no one has even noticed me leave, and as the lift doors close, I wonder how long it will be before they realise I’ve gone.

No one even sees me walk out of the big double front doors. No one. I’m nothing to them. As I hurry down the hill towards the railway station, so aware of the precious cargo in my bag, I feel a slight pang of guilt.

Perhaps I should have left the postcard to brighten the day of the next poor sap that occupies my cubicle.

*

Criss Cross: Friendship Can Be Murder: book1

/ Caron Allan / 1 Comment

My cozy mysteries set in the 1930s, along my two books from the 1960s mystery series, tend to outsell my original series, the Friendship Can Be Murder series to a considerable degree, and so I often go months without mentioning or even really thinking about my first few books.

They aren’t ‘literary’ – none of my books are. And as they are written in the form of diary entries, in the first person, I realise that they are not a popular choice point-of-view-wise.

But nevertheless, I have a great affection for them. I mean, often I look at these books, and think, ‘What was I thinking, I must have been mad!’ and other times, I’m just really grateful that I took the plunge and published them, and I learned so much that was invaluable when I came to publish my later books.

Book 1 – Criss Cross – was published in February 2013 – eons ago! And so I thought I would share a snippet from that book. It might pique your interest, or it might not, but I’m just showing it some love for the first time in a long while.

To set the stage, Cressida, a very wealthy lady who is married to Thomas, has been pondering the practicalities of killing her mother-in-law. Needless to say, they don’t get on, and Cressida has decided the world would be a much nicer place without her mother-in-law in it. So she’s mulling this over in her diary.

I mean, the vast majority of normal people, people like you and I, we just instinctively know the correct way to behave. We apologise when someone else bumps into us, we begin every complaint with ‘terribly sorry to be a nuisance, but…’ We’re nice. Pleasant. We have a kind of in-built mechanism, straight as a line in damp sand, an invisible barrier which prevents us stepping beyond the realm of reasonable and acceptable behaviour.

Some people do not.

Some people never read the signs, they ignore all warnings and plough doggedly on, intent only on saying what they want to say and doing what they want to do. They don’t care about your feelings. They turn up unannounced and uninvited, they change your plans without considering your wishes. They don’t notice the look on your face, the halting of your phrase, they are oblivious to the cooling of the atmosphere around them. They never notice that infinitesimal pause before you continue to hand around the petit-fours, a fixed smile plastered on your face, inane pleasantries tripping off your tongue. Some people remain completely and utterly ignorant of all the signs.

Everyone else, metaphorically speaking, has grabbed their handbags and jackets, collected their madeleine-tins from your kitchen, tossed the keys to the Range Rover to their husbands, dashed out of the door leaving kisses still hanging in the air, and are already on the slip road to the motorway whilst That Person is still looking vaguely around as a few motes of dust drift gently down to the Axminster. They are wearing that idiotic expression that says, ‘Who? Me? What could I have possibly said?’ or even worse, ‘Well I only said what everyone else was thinking’.

And they are always, always, always completely unaware when they have outstayed their welcome.

There’s only one way to deal with people like that.

One way and only one way.

You have to kill them.

They never take the hint, you see. They fail to detect the slight frost in your demeanour as they witter on, insulting your loved ones, criticising your friends, your home, your life. Such people cannot be taught, changed or reasoned with. In the end, it’s just easier for all concerned if you get rid of them before they truly become a Nuisance and make everyone with whom they come into contact completely and utterly miserable.

And if that seems a little harsh, just think for a moment about what these people do to your self-esteem, to your inner calm, to your peace of mind. When the phone rings, these are the people whose voice one dreads to hear. One begins to dread all family occasions and holidays because of That Person. Frankly, it’s just not worth the emotional and psychological trauma of putting up with them. Life is quite challenging enough. And that is the stage I’ve now reached with Clarice.

So.

That said, it’s one thing to say to oneself, Monday, water plants, collect dry-cleaning, go to library, bake fairy cakes for the One-to-One day-centre fundraiser, and quite another thing to just sort of slip onto the bottom of your to-do list, ‘Oh and kill mother-in-law and get everything tidied up because dinner will be on the table at seven o’clock sharp due to drinks at eight-thirty at the Pearson-Jones’.

Things—unfortunately—just aren’t quite that simple.

The Grandes Dames of the murder mystery genre, practising their art in the early and middle parts of the twentieth century—what one might term the ‘Golden Age’ of detective fiction—espoused the pleasures of poisoning. Fly-papers were meticulously soaked to extract their lethal properties, berries and toadstools were carefully gathered and sliced and diced and surreptitiously introduced into steaming casseroles and tempting omelettes. On every domestic shelf such things as sleeping draughts and rat poison and eye drops sat unnoticed and unremarked, and a home was not a home without at least a few jars of cyanide or arsenic sulking forgotten in garden sheds and garages.

But, sadly, these items are notoriously tricky to come by nowadays in our ‘Nanny state’.

Of course, one watches these TV programmes that explain all about the forensic process, so that one is pre-armed with useful information. Knives wielded by the left-handed protagonist cut quite differently to those employed by a right-handed person. Equally so the short protagonist and the weak slash feeble protagonist.

In addition the actual wound inflicted by a classic blunt weapon can yield so much information about not just the weapon itself but also the attacker—the approximate height, stance, and even weight and probable gender, for example, and the ferocity of attack is sometimes a gauge as to motive and psychology. Firing a gun leaves residue on one’s clothes, gloves, and skin, and, contrary to popular belief, it can be quite a job laying one’s hands on a firearm.

According to the Daily Tabloid, a gun may readily be obtained at certain pubs in our larger cities for as little as £30, usually from a gentleman going by the name of Baz or Tel, but the problem is, these tend to be the kind of establishments one would hesitate to enter in broad daylight, let alone late in the evening.

Remember, it’s very difficult to get a decent glass of Merlot in this kind of hostelry, and one can’t just go in and hang about without making a purchase of some kind. If you do just go into the bar and stand or sit in a corner, the other patrons are likely to stare and nudge one another. They may even whisper to one another, ‘Wot jer fink er game is then?’ or possibly, ‘Oi Tel, woss up wiv er, she too good fer us or summink?’

This is especially the case when one gentleman approaches and states that he and his friend, Gaz or Stevo or even ‘Arrison would like to buy you a beverage of some description, usually a Mojito or similar, and you are forced to politely but firmly decline. They are apt to be offended.

And if you do order a nice glass of Merlot, there’s always a momentary look of confusion on the face of the Landlord as he tries to recollect whether he has a corkscrew within easy reach, or how long ago he opened the half-empty bottle on the back counter—was it recently enough to avoid the expense of opening a brand new bottle?

Then he’ll ask if you’d like ice and lemon. Might as well add a cherry-on-a-stick and a little umbrella! And there’s no point in trying to charge it to your Diamond Visa or Titanium Amex—they much prefer to deal with cash. It’s altogether a rather unpleasant experience.

In any case, Baz or Tel are always surprisingly suspicious when one asks them if it would be possible to purchase a small Eastern-European revolver, something with a fairly hefty slug but small enough to slip into a small Louis Vuitton clutch-purse, or at a pinch into a Mulberry shoulder bag, or even, and here I may be straying into the realms of fantasy or James Bond (same thing, I suppose), even into the top of one’s stocking.

The gentleman invariably looks a bit puzzled and says something along the lines of, ‘‘ere that sounds a bit dodgy Darlin’. I don’t do nuffin like that.’ Well, of course it’s a bit dodgy, one points out, one is illegally attempting to buy a gun in a corner of the car park of a fleabag pub at eleven o’clock at night, and paying cash into the bargain. How could one possibly see it in any other light than dodgy? It doesn’t matter if you offer them £100, £200 or even £500 at this point, they just walk away shaking their heads and saying, ‘screw that, I don’t wanna get cort up in nuffin dodgy.’

I ask you.

The criminal classes aren’t what they once were. But what other choices does one have?

A pillow over the face in the dead of night is liable to leave a filament of goose-down in the lungs of your chosen recipient. This will immediately be detected by any half-decent forensic examiner and blabbed all over the Car-Crash Telly channel in a late-night special called Toffs Who Kill or something of the kind.

A bit of a bump with the car in a quiet part of town on a wet Wednesday afternoon may lead to eyewitnesses or CCTV footage recording your number plate for posterity. For goodness sake, tiny fragments of paint from the wing of your vehicle may embed themselves in the depths of the wound you inflict, and these same may be delicately reclaimed by a steady-handed science-nerd in a lab coat wielding a pair of sterile tweezers.

Murder is a difficult road to travel. But one must bear in mind the old maxim that nothing worthwhile is ever attained without a struggle. Therefore it is imperative to be utterly committed, to be dedicated in one’s approach, to persevere in the face of adversity and to make copious notes so that one may learn from one’s mistakes. And of course, it goes almost without saying, each stage must be planned in intricate, even tedious, detail.

Today I went to my local stationer’s—It’s so vital, I feel, that one supports local businesses wherever possible—and bought two notebooks, a small index card box, a set of ruled index cards, and a rather nice fountain pen. My husband seems to be under the impression that I require these items to catalogue my shoe collection. Sweet! And not a bad idea… but first things first.

Now, I’ve worked out I have approximately six weeks in which to plan and carry out my little project, and still have time for a decent mourning period before we have to be in Scotland for the ‘glorious twelfth’, my Thomas’s cousin Jessica (lovely woman!) always has a house party. Actually this year it’s the ‘glorious thirteenth’ as the twelfth falls on the Sabbath, and one never shoots in Scotland on the Sabbath. Der! Thomas loves his shooting, so although I’m not a lover of messy pastimes, I always like to encourage him to relax and have a bit of fun. Stockbrokers work so hard, don’t they, and such high stress levels, one obviously doesn’t want them to crack up under the pressure!

***

Rewriting a novel – a nuts and bolts approach

/ Caron Allan / 4 Comments

(This post first appeared in 2017 when I was invited to do a guest spot on Pink Glitter Publishing for my dear friend and author Emma Baird.) And sorry, it’s another really long post this week…

I love rewriting. There, I’ve said it. I think I could be the only person in the history of the world who actually enjoys rewriting. In fact, I like it a lot more than writing the first draft. I hate that bit. Okay, maybe not hate. I love the thrill of writing the first 50 pages or so, when it’s all fresh and exciting, and it begins to unfold on the page. Love that. But…sooner or later I always hit the first-draft wall. I know it’s because I don’t plot. I’m a pantser. So sue me, I hate to plot. If I plan out my book, on some level I feel I’ve already told the story already and it loses it’s allure.

But that makes the initial experience of writing a draft rather an emotional, rivers-deep-mountains-high kind of affair. But… rewriting, oh that is a whole new thing. I LOVE rewriting. You are free from the ‘burden’ of creating and, taking a distancing step back from your work, you can begin to rethink, polish and tidy. I love to tidy. Sometimes I can only do this by laying all the pages out on the floor and wracking my brains over which order this mess is supposed to go in.

Hemingway famously said, ‘Write drunk, edit sober.’ I haven’t tried it, but it might work for you. I have to say, editing sometimes makes me feel like I need a little help…

Don’t revise as you go. I know there are always a few people for whom that system works, but trust me, it’s not for most people. You get so bogged down in the detail that you never progress. I know people who have spent literally years rewriting the same first three chapters and have never finished the book. It makes me so sad. Write the whole book, from beginning to end, always looking forwards, pressing on till you reach ‘The End’. If you can’t remember the names and places mentioned earlier in the story, just do what I do and put a massive X, or XX, or Mr Thingy, or What Was Her Name, The One With The Long Blonde Hair, in its place. Or refer to a list of names and places you create as you go along.

It’s so much easier to revise a whole book. Like creating a sculpture, you’ve got that solid block to chip away at. You’ve got the overall shape and idea to work on. Your book is your outline. (You can thank Mary Wibberley for that bit of advice in her book from decades ago, To Writers With Love.)

After finishing your first draft, don’t immediately start revisions. Unless you are on the clock and the deadline is almost on you (we’ve all done it), put the book away for as long as you can. This is the perfect time to write another book. Yes, really. Leave your first draft for at least a few weeks, ideally a few months, or even a year. You will need to approach it next time around with a good degree of detachment to get out of writer mode and into rewriter mode. Then, when you’ve finished the next book, while that is ‘maturing’, you can go back to the previous one. Or, if you’ve a) got all the time in the world, or b) you’ve decided to write a series and publish fairly close together, now could be the perfect time to write book three!

Gary Cooper pondering that tricky scene just before the end of chapter six.

So you’re ready to start. Read it. Don’t write, don’t type, don’t tweak, fiddle, twiddle or jiggle. Just read the whole story through from beginning to end. You are trying to get an overview, to reacquaint yourself with your story. Afterwards, make notes on how you felt about the book. Does the story hang together? Does the plot progress logically (unless an illogical plot is essential to your story)? Do you have that sensation of tripping up as you read—a bit like when you miss a stair and think you’re falling—that’s when there’s a problem, usually a plot problem. Try to pinpoint what it was that made you feel like that. Put a sticky note on the page, or if a computer file, highlight the section, or bookmark it, or make a note in the Track Changes feature if using Word.

If you’re frustrated by not being able to make changes as you spot them, or worried you might forget, again, as already suggested, make notes in the Track Changes feature of Word, or pencil notes in the margin, or use sticky notes if working with a paper copy, just don’t change the body of the book yet. Hopefully after rereading the whole book, you will be able to see the strengths and weaknesses of your draft. You will see what needs to go. If not, give it to a trusted friend or writing pal to read. Ask them to be honest and not just pat you on the back. Rewriting can feel very much like ‘fixing problems’ or putting right things that are wrong, and with this mind-set, this can be quite demoralising. Don’t get into this trap. Remember, you’re polishing, refining. Putting flesh on a flexible framework. It’s all good.

Save your original draft, and make a copy with a new version name, just in case in the end, you’re not happy with what you’ve done and need to revert and give it another go. Again, we’ve all done that, I think. Give yourself a fall back position.

Start tinkering. Start with the easy stuff like consistency of character description and behaviour, check the names, spellings, and personal details of all characters, check place-names are correct and consistent throughout. Then move on to point of view. With POV, consistency is everything. If you’re writing anything other than an omniscient third person viewpoint, then there will be things your main characters cannot know until it is revealed to them. Make sure you’ve nailed that.

Next, check for all those words you overuse. For me, that’s words like So, And and Also. A friend of mine uses Thus in almost every paragraph… it’s really annoying. If you use unusual words to describe something, don’t repeat them more than once (if that) as unusual words stick in the reader’s mind and break the wonderful spell you’ve created of suspending disbelief: the worst possible offence you can commit as a writer of fiction. Don’t rip your reader from the story and plunge them back into the real world. Make less use of unusual words such as coterie or Schadenfreude, these are words that stand out from the page, and stick in your reader’s mind. If you use clichés—please don’t—but if you absolutely must, do it just once, don’t repeat them. You also don’t need to show off all the big words you know. Nine times out of ten, the simple, direct phrase will work better than anything flowery, waffly or too complicated. Keep it simple.

And if like me you write books set in the 1930s or 1960s – check for anachronistic things – things that weren’t invented then, hadn’t been discovered, developed or couldn’t be done, differences of etiquette, speech patterns, all the stuff that has furious readers turning to Goodreads or Amazon and saying, ‘1*, couldn’t possibly get past the comment about using a zip! In 1920? Hardly!’ Because believe me, those little things make a big difference to a reader and can ruin the whole reading experience. If in doubt, ask someone, or ask Mr Google.

Brain boggle is a normal part of revising your book. Don’t worry about it. Have a nice soothing cuppa and relax for a bit.

Check hyphenation, apostrophe use, adverbs and speech tags. I don’t agree with the ‘don’t use adverbs, they’re evil’ approach, but use them sparingly. (See what I did there?) Keep metaphors and especially similes to a minimum, unless you’re writing poetry; they are also irritating. Don’t use fussy speech tags: he responded, she retorted, he espoused, she countered, etc. Once in a while is fine, but you don’t need to tag every speech, just enough so the reader knows who said what. The word ‘said’, 90% of the time, is the best speech tag there is, it’s invisible, the reader will pass on, aware of who is speaking but not bothered about how – that should be clear from the context and what they say. Again, keep it simple.

Tidy your grammar, get rid of typos and unnecessary repetition. Check your tense scenes or action scenes for long, meandering sentences that slow the reader down and take forever to read so that the reader can’t remember what you were talking about, and they have to go back to the beginning to reread, trying to figure out the meaning (like that, for example – four lines for one sentence??? Too much, unless you’re writing War and Peace). Check slow, reflective, emotional or romantic scenes for accidentally humorous clangers, (my often quoted, ‘and then he opened the door in his pyjamas’), or break-neck short sentences that rush the reader too quickly through the text.

Read it again. And again. Tweak as you go, now, but remember some changes will have a knock-on effect and need to be addressed multiple times throughout the book. Now pass the draft to your close friends/beta-readers/book group, for your first round of major feedback. You can’t, sadly, trust yourself entirely to write, polish, edit, proofread, proofread, edit and polish then proofread. you’ll need help. If affordable, get professional help, go with a recommended person or business, not someone you pluck from nowhere unless they have incredible feedback. Otherwise keep to a small trusted group of serious writers and readers who have excellent language skills and a kind, tactful way of letting you know when something’s not quite right. If you use more than one beta-reader, you might find they contradict one another – then all you can do is go with the majority and trust your gut.

Then—I hate to say it—you need to do it all again. I read somewhere that if you don’t hate your book by the time it is published, you haven’t done enough work on it, and believe me I’ve come so close to hating a couple of my books. Your book is not ready for your editor or proofreader until you are absolutely convinced that it’s perfect. Trust me, it won’t be. But it’ll be pretty close. Make sure you are not the only one to do the ‘extra final final proofread’ – you’ll definitely miss something.

As an editor, I’d say there’s nothing worse than getting a script that should be as close to release-ready as an author can make it, but turns out to be little more than a first draft. It’s like seeing a neglected child. And when you make your first sale or get a really wonderful review, it will feel like it was worth every minute.

***

 

Author interview: historical fiction author Heike Wolf

/ Caron Allan

It’s been forever since I managed to nab someone unlucky enough to be interviewed by me, but what could be better than a chat with a writer of historical fiction? Heike Wolf is the author of a number of books that tell the story of people living through different eras of German history, and she has a real flair for bringing the past to life and making the characters so real and relatable. How does she do that? And what is her inspiration? Let’s find out!

Hi Heike, and welcome. It’s great to have you here.

You and I have got to know one another through the amazing work you’ve done in editing the German translations (translated by the brilliant Stef Mills) of my Dottie Manderson mysteries. And although we’ve chatted in the past, I almost forgot that you had an actual life with other interests – and a day job as an author.

What kind of books do you write? And what is it about them that fires your inspiration?

I write historical fiction. I have been a history buff for as long as I can remember and when I read or hear about historic events, I’m immediately involved emotionally: trying to picture, to actually feel, how people experienced these events, how they felt, what they thought, what the world looked, sounded like, smelled like at that point. It’s the people behind the history that fascinate me.

When I plan a new book I first read about the historic background – and by that I mean reading everything I can get my hands on, immersing myself in that time period. Then, the ideas come automatically, the historic events fuel and shape the story.

The two books about the Schönau family were also inspired by my own family history. I grew up with the many life stories I heard from grandparents, my great-aunt and others, most of them tragic, and they not only made me realize how lucky I am for my sheltered life but also inspired me to weave some of them into this two-part novel about a German family.

I love history too – it was studying texts from the past that made me realise that, in simple terms, the people of the past were real, and living, and ‘just like us’ – once I grasped that, I found history deeply absorbing. But as individuals we also have a past.

So what were your earliest influences? What did you read as a child?

My mother read to me for hours before I could read myself, authors like Astrid Lindgren and some of the most popular authors of German children’s books. My English grandmother gave me Enid Blyton books as soon as I could read, and I devoured them. Of course I then wanted to go to boarding school and solve mysteries …

Actually I read so much that my parents were on a perpetual book hunt for me. They asked friends, relatives and neighbours if they had children’s books I could borrow. They scoured flea markets, my mother walked to the library bus with me when it was in town and of course I had a long wish list that consisted exclusively of books. I remained faithful to Enid Blyton for most of my earlier childhood. When I was eleven, I saw “Gone with the Wind” on television and wanted to read that book quite urgently. That started my historical fiction infatuation. It consisted mainly of books about American history, with a bit of Tolstoi and other Russians sprinkled in. In my later teens I discovered Dickens, Poe and the marvellous Goethe. Yes, I was a nerdy child, I admit it.

I wanted to go to boarding school and solve mysteries too! Though I was less interested in studying…

What are you working on at the moment?

I’m researching Prussia during the Napoleonic era for the third book in my series about a village in Prussia (in German) and I’m currently translating the second book about the Schönau family into English. This will accompany the family from 1934 to 1957 – through dictatorship, war and a divided Germany.

Speaking of the Schönau family, I know that this week, you’ve just released your first English translation of the first book of the two, A Citizen of All Times which I highly recommend for an insightful, absorbing read, and so what can we look forward to in the future from you?

In German, I want to write some more books for my Prussian series – it covers a fictional village near Berlin throughout the most eventful periods of Prussia between 1685 and 1945.

I also have plans to write a novel or series about Germans moving to the United States, so I’m gathering ideas for that.

As for English versions: After the translation of the second book about the Schönau family, I might translate my trilogy about an American family between 1832 and 1932 at some point.

Like most authors, you’re also an avid reader, who are your favourite authors?

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe – a masterful way with words and a fascinating character in itself.

Charles Dickens – he created the most unique characters and had a talent to combine humour and tragedy in his very own way.

Erich Maria Remarque – such elegant prose. Never a word too much, wonderful mastery of language and one of the most important chroniclers of the 20th century in Germany.

Edgar Allan Poe – a dark mind, which he put to thrilling literary use.

And what do you do when you’re not reading?

Hiking through the forests and being enslaved by my two cats. Reading. Doing puzzles while listening to historical or true crime documentaries. Doing volunteer work for our local castle.

Lol I’m glad I’m not the only cat-servant around! Do you have a writing process as such, and if so, what is it?

I research the history first and see what story ideas result from that. Then I mull these ideas over – preferably while hiking – until I have a beginning and a broad idea of where the story goes. I start writing and see where it takes me. I rarely develop characters thoroughly in advance because I noticed that they develop on their own while I write. I see where they take me and usually it makes sense to follow that path.

Then I see how the story develops and plot step by step – preferably while hiking even more.

I have no set writing times, I noticed it doesn’t work if I force myself to write. So I write when I feel like it (which fortunately is often).

What single piece of advice do you wish someone had given you 15 years ago?

Most of the time things turn out much better than you fear.

That’s very true. And fear can stop us from achieving so much.

Coming back to books, do you regularly reread certain books?

I read Goethe’s Faust about once every two years. Then, there are some novels that touched or / and impressed me for various reasons, so I occasionally read them again. Several of them from the authors I mentioned above as my favourite ones but also many others.

And lastly, where can readers find you?

I’m not very active on social media, but I do occasionally post on Instagram: www.instagram.com/heike_wolf_historischeromane

My own website is mainly in German (but these days it’s so easy to have websites translated right in the browser) and contains information about my books and articles relating to some of the historic topics I covered in my books: www.menschenlebengeschichte.com

Thank you so much, Heike, it’s been fascinating talking with you, and I wish you great success with all your ventures.

Brief bio of Heike Wolf:

Heike Wolf studied to be a lawyer, but she has been fascinated by books and writing ever since she can remember. She started to write fiction as soon as she knew how to write at all (the quality of her works has improved by then). The passion for history came a few years later and so the ground was set for writing historic fiction after she had first focused on non-fiction books for expats to Germany (“Coming to and Living in Germany”, “Cross-cultural musings about Germany”).

Her family history extends across many countries, and she has also lived in various countries herself, so it’s not surprising that her family history and the countries she loves play a role in many of her books. Her two books about the German family Schönau were in large parts inspired by her great-aunt’s life. As Heike Wolf, who grew up with an English mother and a German father, also does literary translations, she translated the first Schönau book into English and is currently working on the translation of the second.

Her novels are characterized by careful research and the skillful interweaving of the historical background with the lives of her characters ­– “people live history”.

Carry on reading below to find out a bit more about Heike’s new book A Citizen of All Times out this week in English:

The story of a German family in the most turbulent time of the last century.

Volume 1:

While Charlotte plans her eightieth birthday and follows the demonstrations and upheavals in the East Germany, she thinks back to her childhood and youth in Leipzig, where she was born in 1909 and grew up with two siblings. Their sheltered childhood is shaken by World War I, revolution and a completely changed world. During the turbulent years of the Weimar Republic, in a politically unstable time, the three Schönau children take their first steps into adult life. While Charlotte’s sister Dorchen enjoys the liberal cultural life in Berlin, her brother Heinrich is drawn to the wrong circles. Charlotte herself experiences the versatility of being a university student and suffers the first painful loss of her life.

In the second volume, the darkest period of German history has descended upon the country. Each of the Schönau siblings has a different way of getting through the Nazi dictatorship and World War II. Dorothea gets to know the ugly face of the new regime, has to make sacrifices and undergo fundamental life changes. Heinrich has found his place and is leaving behind those who have accompanied him. Charlotte focuses on her family and tries to ignore unpleasant truths. The war brings unimaginable losses and forces almost everybody to make difficult decisions. At the end of the war, the family finds itself facing new trials.
Charlotte’s eightieth birthday on November 9, 1989 ends in a way she would never have thought possible.

You can find both eBook and paperback versions here:

Amazon USA

Amazon UK

Amazon Germany

***

So… how did we get here? A few ideas about being a writer.

/ Caron Allan / 5 Comments

Now also available in a German language edition

This week, I thought I’d burble on a bit about some of the milestones of my writing life.

Writing courses, conferences and videos/newsletters: There are so many out there, and I’ve tried quite a few.

spoiler alert:

*sigh* they’re not as much fun as you’d think, sometimes. And sometimes they’re not too helpful, either.

As part of my degree in literature and history, I did a writing module – just a bit of extra fun for me, to pat myself on the back for all the hard work, and to finish off my credits and collect the ‘with honours’ portion of the diploma. One of the first things the tutor told us, and this was around only around 2010, was that we would need to resign ourselves to being hobby-writers only. She said, as if it was good news, that we had a greater chance of being part of the next team to travel into space than to be picked up by a publishing company. I know, from talking to some of the other students, that I was not the only one to go home from that session feeling like I wanted to throw myself off a cliff. I was in my fifties, so going into space was the unlikeliest thing I could imagine… I had hoped that getting a book published would be a little easier.

But actually, not long after that, I began to hear about this thing called self-publishing, and the more I looked into it, the more I liked what I saw. So, at the end of 2012, with  sideways smirk at my diploma, I uploaded my first novel onto Mr Zon, and the rest, as they say is… well not history, but cozy mysteries that sort of sell. (Thank you, you lovely reading people.)

My mother said, ‘That’s not real publishing, it’s not a real book.’ Nothing could shift her from that, and of course, that was what all the newspapers and the books and nay-sayers were saying at the time. They still do. But all I can say is, I’ve read plenty of rubbish trad-pubbed books, and many wonderful self-pubbed.

Years earlier, when we lived in Brisbane, Australia, I attended some workshops for crime writers who were starting out. Sadly, I don’t remember anything the tutor taught us, other than this advice: If we wanted write crime fiction and bring authenticity into our work, she suggested we practice following people. Yes, actually FOLLOWING total strangers we did not know. Pick them up at the mall, trail them, see where they go, what they do, who they meet, she said. It would bring realism to our writing, she said, and help us to understand the criminal mind and all about the complexities of being a private investigator etc. All I could think was, I will definitely get run over, punched in the face or kidnapped, maybe all three. This sounded like a terrible idea, and again, I was pleased to discover I was not the only one who thought so. I didn’t go back. Nor did I take her advice. But I would dearly love to know if any of the class thought, ‘you know what, that sounds like a really good idea’. I hope the library of the prison they are likely to be incarcerated in have a better range of ideas in their ‘How to Write’ books section.

So what did help me to get started on the long and winding road to your bookshelves? 

A very old book by Dorothea Brande: Becoming A Writer. It showed me myself and taught me that writers are created not born, to a certain extent. It showed me how to get started and how to teach myself to write.

Stephen King’s On Writing. For similar reasons to Dorothea’s book from the 1930s, plus the voice of experience and not to mention, success.

And I talked to lots of writers, beginners and well-established. I still do.

And I read, and read, and read. Not just to learn, but for the sheer love of it. I read all sorts, not just within the genre I write.

And on top of that I wrote. And when I had finished writing a book, I set it aside and wrote another. Because in the end, the only way to learn how to do something, is to actually make yourself do it. At first you’re terrible. You can’t play the piano when you are five and have never touched a key before. Writing is the same. It’s a process that requires dedication and above all else, perseverance.

My first book, using the back of a Weetabix packet for the covers, written when I was around 10.

***

Is the 11th too late for goalsetting?

/ Caron Allan / 5 Comments

For various reasons I’m a bit late to the What I Will Accomplish This Year 2024 party.

I have goals – quite lofty ones really, but who knows what I will have the time and energy to achieve? But if I decided, you know what, I’ll take a year out, the danger is I won’t achieve anything, and what’s the point of that?

So here we go – this is 2024 as I see it, part of the way through the second week of January. this is what i would want to do, in an ideal world, if the sky was the limit and i didn’t have cancer treatment to deal with.

  1. Finish and publish Dottie Manderson mysteries book 8: Midnight, the Stars And You. This has to be this year’s main priority in terms of writing, because people keep saying things like, you know, when is it out? There’s only so many times you can nod and smile and say, it’s coming, honest. There’s a teaser for it on here somewhere. If you fancy taunting yourself with something that is still four or five months away, here it is. I promise it’ll arrive eventually.
  2. Because I felt pretty down about the whole ‘by the way, you’ve got breast cancer’ thing, apart from working on the 2nd book of the Miss Gascoigne 1960s mystery series (which came out on Dec 8th) I started playing around with a book I wrote over ten years ago, purely for fun, and it’s actually almost ‘there’ – almost ready for publication, and so although it’s not part of any of my three series, I will very likely publish that in February, just for fun. It’ll just be a one-off, stand alone novel like Easy Living. This book is called The Cousins, and again, there’s a teaser and a bit of info here.
  3. Now I know last year, in a fit of optimism I started banging on about a new story in the Friendship Can Be Murder series, which has been out for over ten years and I kind of thought was finished at three books. And I have written quite a lot for that new book, but it’s nowhere near ready, and so, let’s be honest, it’s not likely to make an appearance in 2024, or if it does it’ll sneak out at the very last minute. I tentatively called that book Dirty Work, and I do hope to finish it and publish it over the next year or two, but there’s no date as yet.
  4. And then, my second main priority will be to get to work and finish and publish book 3 of the Miss Gascoigne mysteries. This will be Through Dancing Poppies, and I hope/plan/rashly promise it will be out in November of December of this year. You can bang on my door and demand it if I don’t deliver.
  5. My next German translation of a Dottie book is due out at the end of this month. If you love to read a novel in German, this could be perfekt for you! Keep your eyes peeled for Rosenblüten und weiße Spitze: ein Dottie Manderson Fall: Buch 7. Zitat aus Rosenblüten und weiße Spitze: Ein Dottie Manderson Fall: Buch 7

And by the way, if I seem flippant about the cancer, I’m not. But I am open to talking about it – as they say, fear of the name increases fear of the thing itself, and I refuse to live in fear. I trust the medical team at the hospital where I’m having treatment, in fact they’ve been blooming amazing, and I believe them when they say that ‘eventually’ I will be okay. And so many lovely people are praying for me… And if only we could get proper funding for the NHS I’d be a happy bunny. I believe passionately in a national health service – good health is not something that should be the preserve of the wealthy.

So that’s how my 2024 is looking right now. What are you doing with yours? Got any plans for world domination or maybe a nice holiday?

***