writers in Derbyshire

Summer news – 2 things!

/ Caron Allan / 6 Comments

I hope you’re all having a fabulous summer–you parents are probably already counting the days to when the kids go back to school, though, right? I remember the first day back when I used to sit and just listen to all that silence… bliss!

Welcome to all the new subscribers–there have been quite a number of you just lately – thank you so much, and I really hope you enjoy your free book. And a warm welcome back to you stalwarts who have been with me for a few years now, thank you so much for your continued support and interest.

I just have two quick things to tell you this month–I’m keeping it short (about time, I hear you say…)

1. Guess what? I’m now ‘officially’ cancer free!!!!!!!!!!! Woo!!!!!!!!! After almost two years of really tough times, we finally got the good news from my oncologist a couple of weeks ago. I can’t take it in, it still seems unbelievable. Hopefully I will start to enjoy my new freedom from hospital appointments, treatment, endless tests and checks, and just… well, get on with my life. Trips to the hospital comprised 75% of my social life–I have no idea what I’m going to do with all that free time now. Here’s a pic of the top of my head – I’m ecstatic to have hair again, it’s soft like a baby’s and a bit curly – though rather greyer than I remembered! (Yeah but my skin’s still awful!)

2. My new Dottie Manderson mystery is out on the 6th September. It should have been two weeks earlier than that, but a few things have  prevented me from meeting that deadline. And it seemed better to put the date back by two weeks than a few days. So that’s Midnight, the Stars and You – book 8 of the Dottie Manderson mysteries coming out on the 6th September 2025. If you’re desperate for something to do, you could head to this page on my blog and find out more about the book, and if you’ve got a few dollars/pounds/euros burning a hole in your pocket, preorders for eBooks are available here. Pre-orders are not available for paperback, hardback or large print paperback but I promise you they will be available on release day in September.

Thanks for reading. Thanks for the encouraging/uplifting messages you’ve sent me in the past, helping me to get through the dreaded Big C. I really appreciated it.

 

Ain’t Misbehavin’ – a 1930s caper story

/ Caron Allan

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?

Did I say planning? Yes, that’s exactly what I said. And that is odd – because I am notoriously resistant to planning – I’m a pantser, or… I was a pantser. I’ve carefully planned this book well in advance, which is very unusual for me. I can’t wait to see what happens!

 

The title is from a Fats Waller song that was very popular around that time, and I am grateful to author Jane Tulloch for the suggestion when I was struggling for a title! Thanks Jane!

Meanwhile here’s a couple of cover ideas I’m considering. I always make my cover first before writing a book – it helps me to get an idea of what the book looks like, gives it an identity in my mind and gets my thoughts going in the right direction. I’ve gone for the current trend of cream background with a border, and text ‘on the wonk’. Who knows, that might be out of vogue by the time this book sees the light of day, but we all need a starting point, don’t we?

Let’s hope this is a caper that will work out well for all concerned!

Six Legs Too Many: a story for children

/ Caron Allan / 4 Comments

A few centuries ago, I tried my hand at writing stories for children. This was one of the results.  It was only when we moved to Australia and I realised that not all spiders were user-friendly, that I saw that I couldn’t publish a book about kids and spiders, where a spider might (not necessarily deliberately) kill someone. So this is the first time this story has seen the light of day!

(note: if you live somewhere with dodgy/power-hungry poisonous spiders, please give them a wide berth!)

(also… this is copyrighted material)

SIX LEGS TOO MANY

Jack and his family lived in a big old house. None of them liked the house very much. The roof leaked, and the plumbing made loud clanking noises whenever anyone flushed the toilet or turned on a tap. Worse than that, at night when Jack lay under the bedcovers, the whole house seemed to creak and groan. It was scary.

There was something else Jack and his family hated about the old house. It was full of spiders.

In the kitchen there was a spider that lived on the lampshade. Sometimes in the evening it dangled down and when the light was on, there were shadows of huge dancing legs—eight of them—on the walls.

There was another spider living under the fridge. Jack was always scared it would rush out and bite his toes when he was getting out the milk for his breakfast cereal.

One spider often ran across the worktop and hid behind the kettle. And there was a really huge one hiding behind the cereal packets in the cupboard that Jack could only reach by standing on a chair.

Every single room in the house was the same. It seemed as though spiders lurked in every corner.

No one in the family liked spiders. But they all had different reasons for disliking them.

Mum hated their bright shiny eyes.

Dad hated the messy webs they left all over the place.

Jack’s big sister Emily hated the way they scurried along really quickly.

Jack’s big brother Brad didn’t like that their legs were hairy.

And there was something about their legs that Jack hated too. It was the quantity. They had eight legs, and as far as Jack was concerned, that was six legs too many!

Now Jack would never hurt a spider. He wasn’t one of those mean people who pulled spiders’ legs off, or who whacked them with a newspaper to kill them or flushed them down the toilet or slurped them up with the vacuum cleaner. He hated to be mean to anything or anyone.

But he still didn’t like spiders one little bit.

There was one that lived in the corner of his bedroom, up by the ceiling, above the wardrobe. But this was not the spider that was to blame for what happened next.

There was another one that lived under the china cabinet by the front door in the hall. But this was not the spider that was to blame for what happened next.

There was another one that lived in the cupboard under the stairs, and whenever anyone needed a broom, or a rag, or an old newspaper, or a new bag for the vacuum cleaner, there it was, watching them with its little shiny eyes from the top of the fuse cupboard.

But even this one was not the spider that was to blame for what happened next.

One Sunday evening, Emily was having a bath. The next day was Monday and a school day, so the children were all getting ready for bed earlier than on a Friday or Saturday night.

Emily was splashing about, having a great time blowing piles of bubbles off her hand and wondering if Mum would let her friends Kali and Kylie come for tea. Suddenly, as she was about to take a huge breath to swoosh another heap of bubbles off her hand, she realised the bubbles weren’t very white and bubbly. They were rather brown and leggy and …spidery.

Emily screamed! She scrambled out of the bath and pulled on her pyjamas and bathrobe even though she was still wet and bubbly. Then she charged out of the bathroom still screaming as loud as she could. She bumped into the rest of her family on the landing outside the bathroom. They had all rushed to see what was going on.

It took Mum half an hour to calm everyone down and get Emily dried off and into a dry pair of pyjamas. It took Dad ten minutes to search the bathroom for a ‘gigantic’ spider as big as Emily’s head. He was armed with a broom, but he couldn’t find a spider of any shape or size.

It took Mum and Dad another ten seconds to decide it was time to move to a new house.

It took a long time, but eventually the great day came when Jack and his family moved into their brand new house.

The house had only just been built. The walls were clean and freshly painted. The carpets were soft and absolutely spotless. The windows were double-glazed and so were the front and back doors. Nothing small with far too many legs could get in through any tiny gap or crevice because there were no gaps or crevices.

When Jack and his family stepped inside the house the day they moved in, it felt as though they were the first people ever to go inside.

Jack ran off excitedly to investigate his new bedroom.

There was a wide windowsill. It was clean and white. Nothing walked along any of the gleaming surfaces. Nothing dangled from the curtains or curtain rails. As he looked about him, he saw that there were no little hairy bodies hanging from the ceiling in the room’s corners. Nothing trotted about on the lampshade. The whole room was completely uninhabited.

All that was left to be examined was the big built-in cupboard in the corner.

Jack tiptoed up to the door. He put out his hand and bit by bit he stretched his fingers closer to the handle. Closer. Closer. Eventually he felt his fingertips touch the cool metal of the handle. Carefully he opened the door. Wider. Wider. Until it was wide, wide open. Jack peeked in and could immediately see that hiding inside the cupboard was…

…Nothing!

Jack’s mouth opened in surprise. The cupboard was empty! Never in his whole life had Jack seen a completely empty cupboard!

He ran downstairs to tell everyone, but they were already talking just as excitedly about their own empty cupboards.

Soon they had moved in their furniture. Soon the books and toys, CDs and DVDs, kitchen utensils and all their clothes were unpacked and put into their new places, and in a very short time, the family got used to being in the New House.

But sometimes Jack thought about the old house. And sometimes he would look behind the cereal packets and feel surprised that there was nothing scurrying about behind there. And sometimes he would hear people talking about spiders and he would think, we used to have lots of those at our old house. But not at the New House.

One day Jack was telling his friend that there wasn’t a single spider in the whole house. They almost had an argument because his friend said every house had at least one spider. Jack said, no, not this house. They got very cross with one another.

‘Prove it!’ Jack’s friend said,

‘All right,’ said Jack. ‘Let’s go on a spider hunt!’

They borrowed a torch from Jack’s dad. They searched the whole house from top to bottom. It took them the whole morning. All they found was a lost sock.

So Jack’s friend had to agree that there was not a single spider to be found in the whole place. He said it was probably the only house in the whole world with no spiders at all inside.

After his friend had gone home, Jack sat looking out of his bedroom window. The sky was cloudy and grey. The trees in the garden were bare. A few old leaves blew about on the ground, and it was too cold for flowers. Soon it would be Christmas.

Jack felt sad. He didn’t know why. He and his friend weren’t cross with each other anymore, and Jack would see him the next day at school. So that wasn’t why he was sad.

Outside he could see the wide door of the garage. Next to it was a big bush. The leaves trembled a little in the chilly breeze. Something tiny caught Jack’s eye.

He ran downstairs. He put on an old jacket and his trainers, squashing his feet into them without undoing the laces. He ran to the back door, opening it and looking out. It was cold out there. It wouldn’t be very nice to be out there without a warm jacket.

He jumped down the step and walked over to the garage door. It took him one minute to find what he was looking for. Then he saw it.

He ran back inside and went into the kitchen to get a big plastic jug from the cupboard. Luckily Mum and Dad were busy in the sitting-room, or they would have asked lots of questions.

Jack went back outside with the jug. He looked up at the twig sticking out by the garage door. He stood on tiptoes, holding the jug up high with one hand and with the other he shook the twig a few times.

He brought the jug back down and held it in front of him. He looked inside.

Sure enough there was a small body in there, lying on the plastic floor of the jug, not moving. Jack watched it anxiously for a few minutes, afraid the spider might be dead. He wondered if he should get Mum or Dad to take it to the vet. Perhaps it had frozen to death.

But then one of the legs twitched slightly and began to move, then another one began to move too.

Checking that no one was around, Jack went back into the house, carefully carrying the jug.

He carried the jug upstairs then stood on the landing wondering where would be the best place to put a rather cold spider. He didn’t really want it in his bedroom, and he didn’t think the bathroom was a good idea, just in case it popped up in the bubbles again.

In the end, Jack decided to tip the spider out onto the landing windowsill. He thought that because there was a plant and there were curtains, there would be lots of places for a spider to hide, and it was much, much warmer than living outside in the wintertime.

Jack didn’t tell anyone about the spider: spiders were not a favourite topic of conversation for his family. Every so often he would look for it by the landing window. Sometimes he saw it, and sometimes he didn’t.

When he didn’t see it, he worried a little bit about where it might turn up. But nothing bad ever happened, so that meant everything was all right. And somehow Jack liked knowing that the New House had another creature living in it.

But one day, Jack was going past the bathroom and he noticed something rather strange.

His dad was leaning over the side of the bath and he appeared to be talking to himself.

Jack wondered what was going on and went over to stand next to Dad and look into the bath.

What Jack saw made him gasp.

He looked at Dad with huge anxious eyes. Dad looked just as worried.

It was a spider. It was trying to climb up the steep sides of the bath.

Dad didn’t seem cross, so Jack watched the spider. Dad watched it too.

‘It’s quite clever really,’ said Dad.

‘The sides are so slippery. How does it do that?’ Jack asked. ‘If we were that small, I bet we wouldn’t be able to climb an inch up the side.’

They watched as the spider kept climbing up the side of the bath but just as it got near the top it would slide back down to the bottom and have to start all over again.

‘Can it get out?’ Jack asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Dad.

‘I’m worried,’ said Jack. ‘What if it can’t get out and it starves to death?’

‘Or it might drown if someone doesn’t see it and fills the bath up,’ said Dad, looking even more worried.

‘Or boil if the water is too hot!’ Now Jack was really anxious. Dad patted him on the shoulder. Then he picked up the sponge and holding it carefully beneath the spider, managed to get it onto the sponge.

Jack and Dad looked closely at the spider. It was quite a nice shade of browny-grey, and even if it did have far too many legs, and hairy ones at that, it was strangely beautiful.

As Dad and Jack sat on the bathroom floor looking at their rescued spider, the rest of the family suddenly appeared in the doorway.

Oh no, thought Jack, there’ll be a big fuss now. And there was, though not the kind he’d expected.

Mum said, ‘So that’s where Chloe got to!’

They all looked at her in surprise.

‘That’s not Chloe, that’s my Taylor!’ said Emily. But Brad laughed.

‘No way! That’s my Ronaldo. I’d know those hairy legs anywhere!’

Dad held up his free hand. ‘That, my friends, is not Chloe, Taylor or Ronaldo. That’s definitely my Black Widow.’

A little voice spoke from behind Dad.

‘You’re all wrong, that’s my Sully. And I should know, I brought him indoors!’ Jack announced.

They all looked at each other and then began to laugh. Then they all watched as Dad set the spider on the floor behind the bathroom door where it could look for insects or have a nap to recover from its ordeal.

So now, none of Jack’s family hates spiders. And one by one, spiders began to appear in the New House in all sorts of places.

And now they never put spiders outside, especially if it’s cold. Or wet. Or foggy. Or too hot. Or cloudy. Or if it’s a day ending in Y.

***

 

 

 

Midnight, the Stars, and You: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 8 – coming September 2025

/ Caron Allan

So this happened…

Like an eejit I decided to go ahead and put my next Dottie book on Amazon for pre-order. It will be released on Saturday 6th September 2025.

It’s eBook only at the moment, I’m afraid.  Paperback, large print paperback and hardback will follow around the same time, but are not available to pre-order, sorry. The paperback version will also (eventually) be available from other online bookshops.

This is book eight in the Dottie Manderson mystery series. I’ve mentioned it a few times before, but here’s a bit more detail:

Book 8 of the Dottie Manderson mysteries finds Dottie fed up with waiting and all the fuss, and just wanting to get on with being Mrs Detective Inspector William Hardy.

An unexpected invitation could be just what she needs. How wonderful it will be to get away to a weekend house party and forget all the worries of organising the wedding! Unfortunately it’s a house party that will never be forgotten: squabbles, cliques and even unexpected death.

Of course, William, like all husbands-to-be everywhere, has no interest whatsoever in the problems of the right kind of lace or the perfect place setting. In any case, he’s got a special kind of investigation going on, one that means bringing a good friend to justice, stretching his loyalty to his profession almost to breaking point.

Interested? If you are, you might like to read an extract here!

If you would like to pre-order the eBook, you can click on these links below, or search on your local Amazon platform.

Amazon.com

Amazon.co.uk

Amazon.de

Amazon.au

Thanks for reading!

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.

***

Five Good Things

/ Caron Allan / 2 Comments

I can’t remember what this is called, but it looks cute and smells heavenly – a winter blossomer!

On some of the social media platforms I use and visit, there is a hashtag or thread for ‘3 Good Things’. (esp Mastodon social…) These posts enable people to share about positive experiences, often quite small, that cheered them up, gave them some happiness or boosted their mental health.

Things have been tough lately, haven’t they? Politics – don’t get me started – the economy, just – everything.  For many of us, winter is a grey, cold place, we don’t always get to see people or do the things that we love and make us feel a sense of fulfillment.

So I thought I’d share five good things that have given me a lift over the last couple of weeks.

  1. New whiteboard! It is truly colossal. I grossly overestimated the size I needed. (Maths is not my strong subject…there’s a reason I’m a writer!) So although I need a stepladder to reach the top, it’s a thing of beauty and wonder to behold, already covered in my illegible scrawl.
  2. I’ve got snowdrops – and grape hyacinths! Yay, spring is coming! Soon my garden – and yours too, if you have one – will be full of lovely blooms to fill us with happiness. If you don’t have a garden, maybe just a pot with a small but glorious riot of colour? Or take a walk to the nearest park and get a lungful of fresh air and check to see if anything is putting forth buds yet. it will give you a huge boost.
  3. I’m getting on with my (many) WIPs. That feels good to me – I feel productive, ideas are flowing, that makes me feel positive and like I’m achieving something with my life.
  4. Although we no longer have cats, (cue sad face) I love to see the cats of my neighbours pottering back and forth, sniffing the bare stalks of our catnip plants hopefully, or staring at the birds on our bird feeders. it’s like Cat TV for them! Fortunately casualties are very low.
  5. I’m enjoying reading. I’ve only read two new books this year so far, but I am enjoying having my Kindle. I always used to favour ‘actual’ paperback books, but these days I find them too heavy to hold, so I’m getting used to eBooks. Like the world of nature, books help me to leave myself behind for a short while and ‘escape’ into another world.

So that’s it – my five good things. Modest but uplifting small things in my life. I hope yours is going well too!

Even my rosemary cuttings are thriving – and flowering all through the winter like brave little soldiers! The colour gives me such a lift!

***

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.

***