I’m delighted to announce that Rose Petals and White Lace: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 7 is being released on 9th December on Amazon (eBook, paperback and large print paperback), and 11th/12th December on other platforms (regular print paperback only).
Here’s a little bit to tell you about the book:
Dottie Manderson’s relationship with Inspector William Hardy has recently taken on a whole new dimension, and that means getting to know his family. Whilst William is away clearing up the paperwork and red-tape following his recent case against the Assistant Chief Constable of Derbyshire, Dottie attempts to help William’s younger sister and her fiancé put a stop to the malicious occurrences that threaten both their livelihood and their relationship.
Meanwhile, Inspector Hardy has two problems to tackle:
Firstly, the unexpected, rather hostile official enquiry into the recent events in Ripley and, secondly – though from William’s point of view, far more importantly – will he ever find the perfect romantic moment to take the next big step in his love life?
Recently released: A Meeting With Murder: Miss Gascoigne mysteries book 1 and coming soon – 9th December 2022 – Rose Petals and White Lace: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 7
Well, well, well…
Looking back over the year, now that the dust has (almost) settled, I realise it was quite a productive year after all, though sometimes I wondered if I’d achieved anything in 2022.
I am filled with gratitude at the moment. It’s partly displayed as relief at finally finishing another book, one that’s been in the offing for two to three years now (Rose Petals and White Lace) and partly surprise that I’ve finally done it. So I want to say a big thank you today to some wonderful people. Love you all and thank you so much xxx
Today in the USA it’s Thanksgiving. That’s not something we ‘do’ in the UK, but there’s always a reason to be grateful, isn’t there? Oh yes, we have Harvest Festival in September which is a similar kind of thing, though it’s largely only observed by schoolchildren – a thanks to God for the safe gathering in of the harvest, guaranteeing another year of enough food. I think that’s pretty much the same idea.
Thank you to my dear family. Especially my poor husband who is constantly told, ‘I can’t do XXX, I’ve got writing/editing/rewriting/polishing/editing/rewriting/proofreading to do.’ He thought when he retired we’d have more time to spend together. Sorry, darling. On the other hand, it does mean he has more time to pursue his hobbies!
Thank you to my dear friends, especiallyEmma Baird, Angy Lloyd, Debaleena Mukherjee for the alternate pat on the back and kick up the bum to keep me moving on.
A huge thank you to Lila Dawes, contemporary romance author, daughter, best bud, and betareader supremo – you’ve been brill, sweetheart. Thank you!
And grateful thanks to two wonderful ladies, it’s been a privilege to work with you both for the last couple of years. Thanks to you, we now have FIVE books out in the German language, with plans for more (spoiler alert!)
So thank you, Stef Mills and Heike Wolf, expert translators, proverb-wranglers, vernacular-interpreters, morale-boosters and editors extraordinaire. It is thanks to you both and all your hard work that I have been able to release Der letzte perfekte Sommer von Richard Dawlish (Dottie Manderson: Buch 4) and coming on 16th December, Der Diebstahl von St Martins (Dottie Manderson Buch 5)
For a few reasons, I have been working on the same two books for about three years. As you may know if you’ve followed my ramblings on this blog before, I recently published my new murder mystery A Meeting With Murder: Miss Gascoigne mysteries book 1.
And at the moment I am still putting the finishing touches to Rose Petals and White Lace: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 7, which is due out on 9th December this year – only just over a month to go.
(Eek!!!!! What am I doing writing this?)
But… and you’ll think I’m mad. Okay, if you know me you probably already think that.
…I’ve started writing another book this week.
I won’t tell you what it is yet, I think that’s best kept quiet for now. It’s all far too early to start penciling in publication deadlines. It’s so new I haven’t even got a cover for it yet.
Not long now!
What I wanted to share with you is the sheer joy of working on a new NEW project after having a dodgy couple of years working with the same books and feeling like they were never going to happen.
It’s so invigorating, refreshing, inspiring. I feel like singing. Or dancing. Or just telling the world. It’s weird, I feel an urge to go up to actual strangers and–okay not hug them, I’m not a monster–but at least smile pleasantly. It’s just sooooo good to be creating not editing, feeling my way forward, laughing at my own jokes, mulling over all the myriad possibilities of a brand new story.
It feels as though anything is possible, anything can happen, and most probably will. I feel in control, I feel fulfilled. I even got up early to write!!!! New fresh ideas are buzzing, and I am writing feverishly, it’s like being in love.
My natural pessimism/caution requires me to just briefly add that by next week it could all be over, and I might be drowning my sorrows in a vat of hot chocolate, or I’ll be deeply mired in the slush that forms the slough of despond known as the soggy middle.
But right now, I’m just so ecstatically happy to be writing something new that I just had to tell someone!
Me, about a hundred years ago, but already books had the power to take over my life.
Saw this recently at a Mill near us that is now a wedding venue. I’d love one of these!
I’ve got a guilty secret. Are you ready? Don’t tell anyone…
I love to collect old stuff. Whether it’s clothing, or jewellery, old books or magazines, accessories or postcards or new stuff recreated using old images or styles, I just love to sit and stare/gloat over it.
Birthday postcard, with 1920 postmark.
Part of the reason I write mysteries set in the 1930s and 1960s is because I love history and especially social and cultural history. As one of my characters inA Meeting With Murder says, my interest and pleasure is to be found in… ‘…Not the kings-and-queens type of history, no. What I liked was how ordinary people lived. What everyday life was like for normal people hundreds of years ago. I loved seeing the old kitchens, the bathrooms and even the servants’ quarters…’ And because of that, I’ve gradually accumulated a few vintage items.
1920s cloche hat made of navy felt with a beige cloth ribbon.
Happy shoppers in Jeannie’s store, getting ready for the 1940s weekend in Sheringham, Norfolk, Sept 2022
When we were on holiday in Norfolk last month, I found a shop called Colour Me Vintage in Sheringham, quite by chance, and I spent ages browsing and chatting with the owner, a lovely lady named Jeannie Read. I reluctantly resisted the urge to go really crazy and buy myself a WRENs uniform or a ballgown, but I did manage to nab this cute little 1920s cloche hat when my other half was looking the other way.
For me the most fascinating thing was that Jeannie sells ‘new’ vintage clothes. She is in touch with a fashion design student, a lady named Holly, who makes clothes from vintage patterns and sells them in the shop. I am thrilled that ‘vintage’ is so popular that people are buying these items to wear at parties or even for everyday wear. Unfortunately there wasn’t anything in my size, but still, my imagination was captured. It’s amazing to think that so many people are in love with styles that were old long before they were born.
Coty compact with powder puff design by Rene Lalique. (Yes, THAT Lalique, the glass bloke…)
You can get vintage bags, shoes, hats, other accessories such as jewellery and of course, make-up. Vintage-style new make-up is also quite the thing these days. I think designers and packagers realise that if we are going to spend our hard-earned cash, then we want something that is more than just functional, we want something that looks beautiful too, ‘eye-appeal’ so very important these days. We see something, we love it, we want it, it’s that simple. Bland and functional is OUT.
It’s not only older people who enjoy vintage styles!
As William Morris, designer, social activist and founder of the British Arts and Crafts Movement so famously said:
Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.
It’s not enough for ‘things’ to be efficient, fit for purpose or utilitarian. We want glamour, we want gorgeous colours and lovely styles. We want to surround ourselves with items that please the eye and make the soul glad.
A Meeting With Murder: Miss Gascoigne mysteries book 1 came out 10 days ago, and so I thought I’d share a deleted scene from the book. It ended up being quite a long story, and I waffled horribly as I tend to do, which meant there were a number of scenes that didn’t really offer much to the overall plot apart from a pleasant read for a few minutes over a cuppa. So they had to go.
Dee Gascoigne, the title character, is on a train heading for the coast. She’s left her husband, and as a result, she’s lost her job (It’s the 1960s, divorce and marital separation were a big no-no, especially for the woman). She’s also been ill, and has been sent somewhere on the coast to recover. Recently she ahs been wondering about work and what to do with her life. Here’s the train scene, I hope you like it.
The train was very full, and Dee was forced to squeeze into a half-seat next to a very large gentleman sporting the largest moustache she had ever seen. She quelled a childish desire to point and laugh, merely smiling politely as she sat down. She quelled a further childish desire to ask him if his name was Monsieur Poirot or if he was simply a walrus. Instead she sat neatly with her feet together and her hands folded in her lap, keeping her eyes down so as not to allow them to accidentally stray to the right to gawp at the glorious growth on her neighbour’s upper lip.
An elderly lady sat opposite. She was engaged in looking through her handbag in a distracted manner. She was growing increasingly upset. Next to the elderly lady sat a young man in a very smart suit whose face was hidden behind the business pages of a broadsheet newspaper. Dee mentally characterised him as pompous and snobbish as he did not deign to notice the distress of the lady next to him. Dee leaned forward.
‘Have you lost something?’ she asked, thinking she might know what it was.
When the old lady looked up, Dee saw her eyes were brimming with tears, and her heart felt for her. Impulsively she reached out her hand.
‘Don’t upset yourself, perhaps I can help?’
‘It’s my ticket. The man will be coming along in a minute and if I can’t find my ticket, he might make me get off, because I shan’t be able to pay for another. I’m old, you see, and my income is sadly restricted. I’m afraid I’m rather forgetful. And I mustn’t be late getting to my sister’s for she is sending her son to meet me and he’s terribly busy.’
Her choice of phrases reminded Dee forcefully of her old nanny, Miss Minter, not that Miss Minter would ever have lost her rail ticket. But this was exactly how Miss Minter used to speak. Even the antique outfit this old lady wore made her a sister in taste to Miss Minter.
‘Where have you looked?’ asked Dee and immediately felt stupid. She had seen the lady looking through her bag. And on a train, there weren’t so very many places to look. However the old lady held out her bag.
‘I’ve checked in here, but if you wouldn’t mind, could you just check again for me?’
How trusting she was, Dee thought with dismay. Anyone could just help themselves to the meagre possessions if they were so inclined. As discreetly as possible in the cramped conditions, Dee peered into the battered handbag. With great embarrassment she opened the tattered coin purse then looked into the bag’s little zipped side-pocket, but no ticket lurked in these recesses. There was so little in the bag it would have been impossible to miss the small rectangle of pink card.
Next she helped the old lady pat her coat pockets. They looked at each other in consternation as the door at the end of the carriage opened and the guard proceeded to call ‘Tickets, please,’ as he made his way slowly towards them, clipping and nodding to left and right as he went.
If necessary, Dee thought, I can pay her fare for her although she will no doubt insist on paying me back once she gets home. Just as the train jolted over some points, Dee helped the lady to get to her feet and together they checked the ticket hadn’t caught in the folds of her coat, or fallen onto the floor or down the side of the seat. The young man tsked loudly behind his newspaper and shook the pages loudly. The man with the walrus moustache watched with interest but offered no help.
‘Oh dear me, oh dear me,’ murmured the old lady, and her tears threatened to spill over and run down her cheeks. Dee patted the lady’s hand and was concerned to find it icy cold. And then inspiration struck.
‘Have you got your gloves?’ she asked. Miss Minter had never travelled without gloves, even in the height of summer. In her day it was something a lady simply did not do. They would be black or navy wool in the winter, and white or tan cotton in the summer. The old lady cast about her in confusion.
‘Well they were here a moment ago.’
The guard was almost upon them. Dee checked the floor, but no gloves were there.
The large man next to Dee elbowed her sharply. His moustache jiggled satisfyingly as he said, ‘I believe he is sitting upon the lady’s gloves.’ And he nodded in the direction of the smart young man behind his paper.
All three of them turned their eyes upon the smart young man. Finally he felt the force of their gaze, and dropped his paper.
‘What?’ he demanded in the rudest manner possible.
Dee recollected Miss Minter saying very frequently that money could buy a lot of things but it couldn’t buy good manners. She treated him to a frown of distaste then asked whether he was sitting on the lady’s gloves.
‘Tickets, please!’ the guard said at Dee’s side, making her almost jump out of her skin. The suited man, with an air of great annoyance, stood to his feet, and on the seat beneath him, there were the missing gloves. Dee snatched them up and immediately felt something hard inside one of the pair. She took it out and with an air of triumph, handed it to the guard then quickly found her own ticket.
The guard looked, clipped and moved on. The suited man, without apology, retreated once more behind his newspaper. The large man squeezed past Dee to get off at the next station, and the elderly lady moved across to sit beside Dee, thanking her profusely for her help:
‘You ought to be a detective, my dear. It was so very clever of you to think of my gloves and then find them like that. I can’t tell you how relieved… Oh dear!’
Dee smiled and said she was glad to have been of help. Then the elderly lady was telling her all about the planned family party she was travelling to, until Dee felt rather sad that she would never meet any of them, she had them so well fixed in her mind.
Flowers. They are always mentioned in books, right? Whether they are a metaphor for the transient nature of life, or for resilience, or else portrayed in a more traditional way as indicating someone’s feelings or emotions, they are the writer’s favourite motif.
In one of my books, they represent something sinister–a kind of veiled threat, when Cressida received dead flowers from an unknown source. But flowers have been written about for centuries by some of the world’s greatest authors.
Do you recognise all of these quotations? There’s no prize, but you can feel very proud of yourself if you do! Hopefully after reading a few of these, you’ll feel as though you’ve had tea in the garden on a sunny afternoon.
“If a kiss could be seen I think it would look like a violet.”
L. M. Montgomery: Anne Of Avonlea
″‘Really, there’s nothing to see.’ Nothing… only this: a great lawn where flowerbeds bloomed…”
Philippa Pearce: Tom’s Midnight Garden
“How extraordinary flowers are… People from a planet without flowers would think we must be mad with joy the whole time to have such things about us.”
Iris Murdoch: A Fairly Honourable Defeat
“A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.”
Walt Whitman: Leaves of Grass
“In joy or sadness, flowers are our constant friends.”
Okakura Kakuzo: The Book of Tea
“Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.”
William Wordsworth: Lines Written in Early Spring
“Nobody sees a flower – really – it is so small it takes time – we haven’t time – and to see takes time, like to have a friend takes time.”
“All day in grey rain
hollyhocks follow the sun’s
Basho (translated by Harry Behn)
“Have you blossoms and books, those solaces of sorrow?”
Emily Dickinson: Letters
“All the men send you orchids because they’re expensive and they know that you know they are. But I always kind of think they’re cheap, don’t you, just because they’re expensive. Like telling someone how much you paid for something to show off.”
Winifred Watson: Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day
“You can see the goldenrod, that most tenacious and pernicious and beauteous of all New England flora, bowing away from the wind like a great and silent congregation.”
Stephen King: Salem’s Lot
“And over walls and earth and trees and swinging sprays and tendrils the fair green veil of tender little leaves had crept, and in the grass under the trees and the gray urns in the alcoves and here and there everywhere were touches or splashes of gold and purple and white and the trees were showing pink and snow above his head and there were fluttering of wings and faint sweet pipes and humming and scents and scents.”
Okay so I know I’ve kept promising and promising, but really soon, I promise, cross my heart and so on, there will be an actual newDottie book this year and of course, the Miss Gascoigne mysteries new series will also be starting, which is a spin-off from the Dottie Manderson series.
(Sorry if I’m repeating myself, I know you know this stuff really, this is just for the occasional accidental tourist to this site!)
So without further ado here it is:
A Meeting With Murder: Miss Gascoigne mysteries book 1 :
A 1960s-era traditional mystery series set in Britain and featuring Dee Gascoigne, a newly separated woman who has just lost her job and is wondering what to do with her life. Dee has a family who love her, and a rather massive crush on her not-quite cousin, Inspector Bill Hardy, who struggles to keep the women of his family out of police investigations.
The eBook will be out on 7th October 2022, with the paperback and large print paperback coming out probably a day or two earlier.
And here’s a teeny snippet from the book just to whet your appetite: It’s May 1965, and something bad has happened to Dee’s neighbour…
The stairs were right ahead of her as she entered the house. The interior was dim; only the first three or four stairs were illuminated by light coming in at the open front door. With a pause to allow her eyes to adjust, as well as to try to get her nerves under control, Dee placed her hand on the panelled wood of the enclosed staircase and began to ascend. The steps were steep and shallow, and with no rail on either side, it was a precarious climb in the near darkness. How on earth did Mrs Hunter manage, she wondered. Perhaps the old lady had a bedroom downstairs? At the top, she paused and took a calming breath. She turned to the left and as instructed walked along the gloomy corridor to the end, where a door stood open, spilling a little pool of yellowish light into the hallway.
She felt a deep reluctance to enter the room. Already she knew this was no ordinary moment. There was a musty stale smell, and something else besides. The metallic scent of blood on the air. She was still puzzling over the idea of there being blood as she went into the room. After all, no one had said anything about…
She stopped dead. Staring at the scene, her brain scrambled to make sense of the picture in front of her. A person—Sheila, yet not Sheila anymore—was seated in an armchair beside a small circular table. On the table was a wine bottle and a single glass with a small amount of wine left in it.
Unwillingly, yet knowing it could not be avoided, Dee turned to look at Sheila Fenniston. She had fallen slightly to the side, leaning against the edge of the table, and her head lolled back, her eyes half-open, her gaze fixed upon something Dee couldn’t see. Sheila was wearing a nightdress of a surprisingly demure variety, and all over the front of the white cotton was a dark reddish-brown stain. Sheila held her hands in her lap, and all down the forearms and on the lap of her nightdress was the brown sticky mess of blood. It had run down on either side of her and formed two puddles on the thin aged carpet. And there by her right foot, glistening softly in the half-light was the razor, dirty with blood.
Dee put her fingers to Sheila’s neck, knowing it was pointless. The skin was cold. There was no pulse. Dee backed out of the room, groping her way down the stairs. She closed the front door behind her and said, her voice faint, ‘No one can go in. Sheila’s dead. We must get the police immediately.’
Meanwhile, back in 1935, Dottie is ready for another outing as Rose Petals and White Lace: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 7 is now available to pre-order prior to release on 9th December 2022.
Once again, the eBook version of Rose Petals and White Lace will be out on 9th December 2022, with the paperback and large print paperback coming out probably a day or two earlier.
Here’s a sneak preview from Rose Petals and White Lace to get you in the mood:
It’s 1935, and Dottie Manderson is helping out Inspector William Hardy’s sister, Ellie, who has a problem in her tearoom:
Lunch was, if anything, busier. Every table was occupied both inside and out, and the spare chairs at Dottie’s table had been borrowed to be set around the other tables where there were more than four people in the party.
Everything was going beautifully when two tables away, suddenly a man exclaimed loudly and in a disgusted tone, ‘Good God! What on earth is this doing here?’
There was no time to see what ‘this’ was, for he immediately dropped it onto the floor and stepped on it. Very rudely, he shouted, ‘Girl!’ to Ellie or Ruth who were already both making their way over. Ellie looked as though she felt ill, whilst Ruth looking angry. Dottie got up for a better look at what was going on, thinking Ellie might need her help.
Looking down at his plate, now the man said, ‘What? I can’t believe it! There’s another one!’ His annoyance rose and he looked about him angrily. ‘Where’s the manager?’
Ellie reached his side, clasping her hands and saying, ‘Excuse me, sir, may I help?’
He rounded on her in his fury, and she took a nervous step back. Red-faced, and with his voice reaching everyone in the building, he shouted, ‘Get the manager, you stupid girl. This is an utter disgrace! In all good faith I came in here with my family and ordered some food, only to find not one but two maggots on my plate!’ He was on his feet, towering over her, and Ellie was patently alarmed. Dottie glanced back towards the bakery counter and noticed that Andrew was ignoring the situation, calming greasing loaf tins, his back to the tearoom. For a brief moment Dottie wondered if he was actually deaf.
‘Darling, I’ve found another one!’ the woman with the angry man declared, leaping to her feet in revulsion and taking two steps back. She had a napkin to her mouth as if for protection, or to prevent herself from being sick. Around the tearoom, there was a deathly hush; everyone had turned to watch and listen.
‘Don’t gawk, you idiot, get me the manager! Now!’ the man yelled in Ellie’s face, a tiny spray of spittle flying from his mouth to her cheek.
Ellie began to stammer an apology, adding, ‘I am the m-manager.’
The man directed a scornful look up and down her frame. ‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in all my life.’
I hope that has got you in the mood. This book will be chock full of creepy-crawlies and bugs of all kinds, so if they make you itchy and uncomfortable, make sure you have some nice soothing tea and biscuits on hand when you start reading. I always do!
I wrote my first draft of the new book A Meeting With Murder: Miss Gascoigne mysteries book 1 in the first half of the year. In fact I started it towards the end of last year, but well, life, I guess, got in the way, and so here we are, eight weeks to release date and I’m still rewriting.
I’m not too worried at the moment, I know I have plenty of time. But it’s a weird experience reading your own work and shaking your head, alternately in despair or pride, thinking, ‘Did I really write that?’ Sometimes my word surprise me – I didn’t know I knew that word – other times I think ‘Ugh, this is awful, it makes no sense at all.’
One of the useful things ot pick up is the consistency, or otherwise, of language. I want the characters to sound as natural as possible and not too stiff and cardboardy. I’ve also realised I need to create a bit more tension and a sense of mystery. And I’ve spotted a biggish plot hole – it’s a relief to have spotted that now and not six weeks after the book is published!
I’ve got notes all over the place reminding myself about a range of things from character names to remarks along the lines of ‘need to bring him into it a bit more’. I love a sticky note. Unfortunately they don’t always stay in place and tend to gravitate towards one another. So now I have a jumble of sticky notes pertaining to several different books. I tell myself I will remember which is which, but I think I’m probably just kidding myself on that score.
I’m wrestling with what to leave in and what to take out. As this is the first book of a new series, there’s a certain amount of telling not showing (the opposite of what is usually recommended), of scene-setting and introduction. I will need to revisit the opening chapters a few times to see if I really need all that background info.
Then there are my old bugbears: repetition and too many qualifiers. I repeat so many words and phrases. Sometimes it’s a really good one:
Mrs H had been virtually drooling over the news, her gummy mouth open in a wide grin, her large loose lips wet with bubbles of saliva in the corners of her mouth.
I really like this phrase, but unfortunately I’ve used it about six times in this book and it’s lost its power. So I need to decide which is the best place to use this, and the most ‘eww-inspiring’. So five of those have got to go!
I also realised (from the read-through) that I use some words much too often. I found that I’d described everything as little – the little village, the little house, the little street, the little sitting-room. it was all too little. So the red pen had to deal with those.
Other words I use far too often:
He felt that/She felt that
He thought that/She thought that
The next morning…
And it’s not just words – I use far too many ellipses, dashes and emdashes. The writer in me loves to qualify, over-explain and enhance everything, the editor in me says ‘Ok, I’ll let you keep three of each…’ Out comes the red pen again.
I’m still only halfway through. Here’s hoping I can keep to my deadline and somehow bring this book to completion in time for releasing on an unsuspecting world.
‘That new striker for United is here for the interview,’ came the message. Geena sighed and dragged herself to the reception area. Another inarticulate footballer with a repertoire that entirely consisted of the usual three phrases: ‘The lads done good’, ‘We’re training hard’, and ‘It’s a game of two halves’. It wasn’t exactly the hard-hitting journalism she’d dreamed of as a student.
In reception he looked up from FHM as she approached. He unfolded himself from the seat. He was tall, he was blond, he sported a diamond stud in one ear. He wore an expensive suit as if it were a cardboard box and he was the gift inside. Wow, he’s gorgeous, Geena thought, and she slapped a smile on her face as she stepped forward, her hand outstretched.
‘Hi, Justin, so lovely to meet you, sorry to keep you waiting,’ she said.
Her hand was grasped firmly and released. No sweaty palm, no prolonged contact, he didn’t even stare at her boobs. That was a huge surprise. A good start, she was forced to acknowledge.
‘I’m so grateful to you for sparing me some time today,’ he began in a smooth, public-school voice. ‘I realise you have a somewhat hectic schedule and I was fully prepared to have to wait a few days but as I’m sure you’re aware, the publicity is always very welcome.’
She blinked at him. ‘Oh – er – well, it’s – er…’
He smiled again. Sexily. Gorgeously. White even teeth. Good skin, not as orange as celebs usually were, and he didn’t appear to be hungover. She led him into her office, invited him to sit. And he sat. Not lolling, but actually sitting, ninety per cent upright at least. Amazing.
She positioned her dictating machine and with a smile, indicated they were beginning. ‘Well, Justin, perhaps you can tell me a little more about your move to United.’
He smiled again. It suddenly struck her he was here alone: no entourage, no agent, no coach, no WAG. Just Him. Wow. Again.
‘Well Geena–I hope you don’t mind me calling you Geena? I saw this as an excellent opportunity to further my career by playing for a high profile, high status club, but at the same time I really believe it is good for the club too, because I’m confident I can bring an element to the team’s game which has been a little lacking in the last season or two.’
‘And have you met your new teammates yet?’
‘Yes, we’ve had two practice sessions together, and of course, I’m researching the footage available. I have great faith in my colleagues–they’re all keen and talented athletes, and I feel that this move will be mutually advantageous. I intend to work very hard to justify the manager’s faith in me and the huge transfer fee they have invested.’
She caught a whiff of his designer cologne as he leaned forward to take a sip of his designer water. ‘Tell me about team tactics,’ she suggested.
‘One thing I really believe is that the game can be won or lost in the mind as well as on the pitch. I think it’s a wise man who comes out of the dressing-room after half-time and views the second half as a new game, a fresh opportunity to test himself.’
Quite so, Geena thought. It was two hours before she realised he’d said what they all say: ‘We’re training hard’, ‘It’s a game of two halves’ and ‘The lads done good’. He’d just said it in a posh voice with big words and a nice smile.
I self-published my first book in January 2013, so nine and a half years ago.
(note to self, you should have waited until January 2023 so you could do a 10-year anniversary post.)
(note back to self from self: I might still do that, no one will remember that it was only six months earlier that I did this post, will they?)
The book was Criss Cross, and it was the first book of a trilogy called initially the Posh Hits Murders then I changed that rather clunky title a few years ago to the Friendship Can Be Murder mysteries.
Why did I self-publish?
I finished the book in 2012, (congrats, self, it’s been ten years…) and finding that people were still rather scornful of self-pubbed books – and still are today, btw – I tried to persuade around thirty publishers and agents to take it. The responses varied from dusty silence for months on end with tumbleweed rolling by, to responses two or three weeks later of ‘Sorry it’s just not for us, so sorry, but no,’ to responses by return of mail, saying, in effect, ‘Hell no!’
Some people said, ‘We enjoyed it but it won’t sell, it’s not commercial enough. It doesn’t fit into a genre.’ (True)
Lots of them said, ‘Good luck with that.’
And so that was why I thought I would ‘give it a go’ as a self-published author. Whilst waiting for replies from the latest victim, I had read quite a lot about self-publishing and thought it sounded like something even I, technologically challenged as I was, could do. So I did.
It was a long and difficult process as I had never done anything like that before. I knew very little about editing, or formatting of manuscripts. I was still working full time, so I had very little time to do anything ‘extra’, and I had no spare cash to pay anyone to do anything for me. In those days I didn’t know any other writers either so I had no one to ask. I learned it all from a book. and from research on the Interweb.
And then apart from the technology, I had another issue: I was really really scared!
What if people didn’t like it?
What if I discovered that I was genuinely a terrible writer?
What if the publishers and agents had been right and it was a huge failure? Well that one at least wasn’t too much of a problem – if it flopped, who would know or be worried apart from me?
It took a while to overcome my fears and just go for it. But eventually I got tired of wondering ‘what if’ and just – did it.
And yeah, it’s not made me a millionaire. I sell something like 100 of my Dottie Manderson mysteries to every one of the Criss Cross books I sell. But every month I sell a few, a nice little handful of eBooks and paperbacks and even large print paperbacks.
And yeah, not everyone likes it. One of my earliest reviews – which could have stopped my writing career right there if it wasn’t that I am super stubborn and contrary, was a one star review that said ‘This is the worst book I have ever read.’
Quite honestly they did me a favour. Because that was exactly what I had been dreading all that time, so once it came, everything else seemed okay. And by that time book 2 was out, followed by book 3 and book 1 of the Dottie Manderson mysteries.
I think most writers dream of getting an offer from a publisher to publish their works. That’s never happened to me and I don’t know how I would feel or what I would say if it did. I kind of just kept on with the self-publishing as it seemed pointless to waste time trying to place my books when they could be ‘out there’ within a day or two. I make a nice living now from my books. Currently I have ten books published and two more about to come out later this year. I’m not a millionaire. To be honest I’m okay with that. I love the creative control of my books and I enjoy working with other authors to edit or proofread their works or to offer ideas or support.
And I have received so much help from many lovely authors. Now, I quite often get emails or message from readers telling me they like my books. I usually apologise first. then thank them.
Readers, you have no idea how amazing it is when someone tells you that something you came up with out of thin air has given them pleasure. Thank you, wonderful readers, for your kindness and support too.
What’s the book about?
So what’s Criss Cross about?
Loosely speaking, it’s a murder mystery. But it’s written in the form of diary entries by the protagonist, Cressida, and is from a limited-ish first person point of view.
(And those are some of the aspects of it that were not commercially viable for a publishing house.)
She’s terribly posh and entitled, and has a plan to kill off her mother-in-law who is making her life a misery.
I can’t really say it’s a mystery as quite a lot of what happens is told to the reader directly by Cressida. But of course, she herself doesn’t always know what’s going on, so there is that element of mystery. But there is a strong chick-lit vibe, and there’s romance.
(More reasons why it’s not a good choice for a publishing house.)
As the story moves on, the body count piles up, because stuff just happens, as Cressida quickly discovers. Outwardly self-sufficient and uncaring, she is really a fairly lonely person who builds herself a family, and it is these relationships that she wants to protect at all costs.
It’s humorous, a bit snarky, but warm and occasionally poignant. Each story leads on from the previous one, these don’t quite work as stand-alones, I’m afraid.