Weather Blogfest!

Weather Blogfest kindly hosted by Nick.
To see more entries to the funtime blogfest go to  Nick.

The following is snippet taken from previously published novel (mine), the female protagonist is about to post a Dear John Letter to long-standing lover: any mistakes bear with me - I copy-typed it from book. You will be reading the opening to the book - now out of print!



It was absolutely foul weather but it had to be done. The letter had to be posted before the four o’clock afternoon collection, and the post box was only a couple of hundred yards from the cottage.

Mercedes stepped under the porch and closed the door, the wind so strong she had to literally tug at the handle to secure it on its latch.

Was it just her imagination or had the temperature plunged a degree or two?

She turned up the collar of her raincoat, umbrella out of the equation due to unrelenting gale force wind. She shivered a little, driving rain penetrating the porch, the wind whipping at loose titian-coloured pre-Raphaelite curls already turning to bedraggled dripping coils. She loved Cornwall, loved her cliff-top cottage. But oh, how she hated rain.

Stepping out from the porch took courage; needles a better description to that which the gods had seen fit to throw down today of all days, the day she’d written the letter. The letter in her pocket that she wanted winging its way to London ASAP.

It wouldn’t have been fair to leave a voicemail message on his cell-phone saying, sorry darling, have decided I’m cutting loose. Goodbye. In any case he would have picked up the call if not in some blasted meeting, and would have promptly laughed and told her to stay put. That he’d come down to the cottage and they’d talk things through. No, she couldn’t let that happen because he’d talk her round, and then nothing would change.

She delved her hands in her pockets, her fingers already turning blue. Only several paces from the cottage, she sensed iced water trickling down the inside of her collar, but needs must when the devil rides. She was feeling more rat-devil than devil woman in telling Guy she couldn’t go on as they were.

She didn’t want marriage for the moment, was that so wrong?

In his mind they were married as good as, his argument being; so why not slot the rings, say I do, and do the marriage bed as man and wife.

He’d suddenly become all protective and possessive, and a downright pain at social gatherings. She annoyed to extent in wary of his arm constantly about her waist or that of her hand firmly clasped in his. It felt like he didn’t trust her in the company of other men, that flirting with other women was perfectly acceptable for him but similar for her utterly taboo.

Oh hell, she was right, the barometer must have dived by now because the rain had turned to iced beads of hail hammering at her head and pinging off her shoulders. She was soaked and freezing cold, but she could just make out the scarlet red glow of the post box nestling in its ivy-clad wall ahead of her.

A few more paces and the deed would be done, the wind having suddenly eased.

Upon reaching the post box she stood staring at it, the letter brushing against her fingers in pocket. All the while iced water tumbled drom her hair and over her face and trickled down neck. It was a now or never situation. Post the letter and be done, or turn around, retreat to the cottage and fling letter and envelope on the fire.

She drew a deep breath steeling her self as she plucked the envelope from her pocket and placed it in the gaping mouth of the red box. At that very instant lightning streaked through the gunmetal clouds as though a message from the gods: don’t do it, you’ll regret it.

Oh hell, she felt in two-minds. In one she was breaking free, in the other she would miss him terribly.

A loud clap of thunder overhead shook the ground beneath her feet and startled she let slip the envelope. It was irretrievable, swallowed whole. It was done now, no going back and burning the letter and carrying on as if everything was all right. The words were written. It was in black and white: I don’t love you any more. Or at least, she’d as good as said that by wanting out of the relationship, yet in reality still in love with him.

She would be cut adrift within a day: once he'd read the letter.

After all, what man would ignore what she'd written and not take it as gospel?

Icy coldness gripped her from within. The hail had ceased, beams of sunlight casting over the sea and cliffs.

Which of the two weather systems heralded her fate?

She glanced toward Bodmin Moor.

It as always towering majestic, today menacing dark beneath the blue-black thunderous mass rolling on relentless over heath and bog much like waves over massive rocks.

A light breeze picked up, the warmth from the sun stark in contrast to the freezing conditions moments beforehand. She turned about and strolled away from the post box, appreciative of sun on her back. She stripped off her raincoat and slung it over her arm, the sun bearing hot the breeze warm as she tossed her hair over one shoulder and leaned forward. She rung water from her tresses and shook it free feeling akin to wet dog though much sweeter smelling thank goodness.

At least she was hundreds of miles from London. And, thankfuly Guy hated the four-hour plus drive to the cottage so probably enough to deter any thoughts of his tipping the letter on its head by turning up unannounced and declaring he hadn’t received it. Which was more than possible if he was in one of those damned insufferably arrogant moods of his, when nothing and nobody could put him off something he wanted and wanted now.

He hadn’t as yet rung on the house phone or via her cell phone, not since her arrival twenty-four hours earlier, and he must have returned from his business trip to Manchester by now.

It was, to say the least, ominously quiet on the Guy front.

Half way back to the cottage and negotiating a sharp bend she heard the sound of a powerful motor car approaching from her rear. It was travelling far too fast along the single-track narrow country lane. As it careered around the bend she threw herself at the steep grassy bank head plunged into the hedge and received deluge of water from huge puddle. Car brakes squealed and tyres skidded as the vehicle came to an abrupt emergency halt not too far distant from where she stood trembling from the shock of it all.

Why had the gods saved her?

And, who was this idiot in a brand spanking new BMW?

High Drama Blogfest!

Well, here it is, the awaited blogfest kindly hosted by D.L. Hammons.

Due to three sword fights in the last Blogfest I abandoned original snippet destined for this page -as taken from historical novel set period of English Civil War 1642-1649.

Instead I've selected a rather more emotional and dramatic scene in which item of clothing implies betrayal and intrigue afoot, the heroine (bride to be) in dire trouble . . .

Please note the family has been torn apart by the Civil War. Lord William is a Cavalier (Royalist)officer, his son a Parliamentarian officer. His lordship's ward and betrothed is a lady of rank albeit orphaned when a child and no relative of his lordship - she at one time madly in love with his lordship's son! 

As Anna returned to Axebury Hall she felt spots of rain on face and set Megan to a fair trot along the driveway; her thoughts hanging heavy upon breakfast taken in her room. The unruly behaviour heard below stairs throughout wholly indicative of men playing card games and laying bets upon the outcome.

Fed up with their raucous laughter and drunken giggles she’d taken to horse and countryside, and now nearing the end of her ride she rounded the corner of the mews to see horses saddled ready to leave.

A groom stepped forward to take Megan's reins, and Anna slid from saddle to mounting block and asked, ‘Who pray will be taking leave of the house?’

‘The prince ‘n’ all,’ replied the groom.

Anna rushed into the hallway, quite wondering why the gentlemen were leaving when the wedding was on the morrow. As she made her way to the library Prince Rupert stepped forth, his face rigid unsmiling, his tone matter of fact.

‘I bid you farewell.’ With that he brushed past her, the men assembled around the table at breakfast following in his path, until one of their number paused and most formal declared, ‘Lord William awaits your presence in the library.’

She walked into the library suspecting something amiss, but when her eyes fell upon her blooded gown on the floor she feared the worst. His lordship was sitting in a chair near vast mirror smoking pipe in hand. Something in his look as he spied her enter caused her to turn and attempt to flee, but he was on his feet in an instant the pipe cast to the floor.

Lord William caught her arm, her flight halted mid-step. ‘I’ll have you a Royalist whore before I’ll have you a Parliamentarian’s piece.’

His timbre of voice most threatening, Anna winced, his grip on her arm painful yet nothing compared to the evil glint in his eyes.

‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ she said, defiant as ever, ‘and Morton’s your son.’

‘Son,’ railed William Gantry, dragging her across the room, ‘son? He’s no son of mine.’

‘If not yours, whose?’ she challenged, not for one minute believing Arabella, his late wife, would have had another man. ‘He has his mother’s eyes, and your hair, your body, your looks.’

Oh god, Lord Gantry was Morton as he would be in years to come. Why had she not seen that before?

‘Morton was wounded and needed help, that’s all.’

Her benefactor ignored her, swinging the door wide and bundling her through and into the grand hall. Its panelled walls seemed as though closing in about her, his lordship’s grip upon her unrelenting and painful. She very nearly tripped, her midnight blue velvet and brocade gown catching beneath her feet.

‘You don’t have to haul me around like an animal, I’ll do your bidding, whatever that may be,’ she said, trying to keep abreast of him.

‘Do my bidding eh?’ He chuckled, a look on his face the like she’d never seen before. It was distasteful touching treacherous intent. ‘I’ve loved you, provided for you, and you whore yourself to Morton.’

‘That’s not true. I’ve loved you always, and respected you for taking me in and providing me with a caring and loving home. I am your betrothed, why would I betray you?’

She seriously feared his intentions, and his sudden desire to drag her up the staircase. How he’d found out about her gown in the trunk was mortifying, and he was right about one thing, she did love Morton, had always loved him as she loved his lordship but had never told anyone not even Morton himself. If Morton had declared the same interest in her as his father she would have run away to the Lady Georgina’s and stayed there, waiting on Morton’s return.

Anna sensed danger in Lord Gantry’s anger. Dreadful thoughts came to mind and caused her to lash out at her lord. She pummelled his arm trying to force him to let go his fearsome grip.

He resisted her every strike whilst ascending the staircase, his superior strength keeping her firmly within his grasp. At the top she again attempted to break free: to no avail.

Dragged to the late Lady Arabella’s room, a sumptuous four-poster bed before them, he threw her at it, onto it, and still keeping hold of her arm he pinned her wrists together and held her down.

‘You fancy yourself a Parliamentarian whore,’ he said, as the sound of horses leaving the mews echoed through the window, ‘then I’ll show you what a Parliamentarian whore does for a Cavalier.’

Anna writhed with every intention of escaping his clutches, but he held her fast and straddled her thighs, her skirts undisturbed.

Helpless and unable to escape, she realised his intention, and said, ‘But my lord. I swear, swear Morton was injured, needing attention to his wound. That is all.’

It was as though his rage was all consuming, her words falling upon deaf ears as he fumbled in the crotch of his silk breeches.

‘My lord, I will not be treated like a whore.’ she said, fearing the worst. ‘I love you, and want you, and I have not betrayed you.’ Tears welled, flowed, and she felt it imperative to defend her honour. ‘I have not bedded down with Morton.’

He released his grip upon her wrists. ‘Prove me wrong in my assumptions of your betraying me as Arabella did before you.’

‘I would not, could not betray you my lord.’

Even now despite his anger and her fear of consequences unknown she felt compelled to prove her love for him. Strange as it was to feel pressured into proving herself, lips quivering and mind in state of flux, she could not bring herself to do his bidding. She was not a Parliamentarian’s piece, would not be treated as a whore and would have him apologise or she would leave Axebury Hall and go to Morton at Knoll House as soon as able.

Ps: For those of you that I haven't gotten to yet, (half) I'll be with you tomorrow. Promise!

I've been Blog-tagged to reveal my worst asset - handwriting!

Unfortunately, as L'Aussie said: there's always rules!

Here is what I and everyone else ' who've participated in the fun (and you if I tag you) have had to hand write:

1. Your name/Blog's name

2. Are you right-handed or left-handed?

3. What are your favorite letters to write?

4. What are your least favourite letters to write?

5. Write: "The quick, brown fox jumps over the lazy dog."

6. In CAPS, write: "BABOON, SPLENDOR, ONOMATOPOEIA, FLIP-FLOPS, HUZZAH!"

7. Your favorite song lyrics are?

8. Make sure you tag 7 people to join in on the fun. =)

9. Tickle your fancy and add a special quip for us to enjoy. =)

Quip: 

Lead me not into temptation . . . I can find my own way there. ;)

The last 5 people I tagged for a blogger award only three took up the award!

Hence I'm reluctant to tag seven for a handwriting challenge, so cheating here: if you're reading this and game to play along go for it and spread joy with a quip at least!  

Many thanks to Donna for this blogfest! To see other entrants visit Donna's website

Donnna's Milestone blogfest drew my attention, and of course prompt signing-up. All sorts of ideas leapt to the fore but none seeming to fit the criteria of a milestone of any significance. At least, not one that I could write about with deep insight and knowledge other than that of psychology or horses.  So, this is definitely an account of a personal milestone and how I set out to reach it, then sat upon it in fog of despair until the right characters finally came my way!

For so long this elusive milestone kept appearing much like a mirage in a desert, and although I knew it existed I could not yet see it for real. I never gave up hope of setting off along a road that would bring me to that milestone!

On my journey it occurred to me how others' milestones have helped numerous novelists' throughout history. After all, historians owe much to the first diarists', and I guess my personal quest to reach a particular Milestone in my writing is dedicated to one diarist and a painting, which will come later! But before galloping off to my milestone, let's applaud the Ancient Chinese and Egyptian scribes who revealed snippets of life and social structure throughout various ruling dynasties from around 2000 B.C.

Plato too, the Greek philosopher (real name Aristocles) who gave insight to life in his time: believed to have been born around 427 B.C.

And later, Samuel Pepys' Diaries (1660 he began recording times and events in London) and few people around the globe are not unfamilar with his writings: the great fire of London.

However, a man before his time Richard Symonds (Diary of the Marches and Royal Army during the English Civil War) is less known beyond the shores of the British Isles. Which does beg the question: why did Pepys' Diaries become famed and Symonds' not? Well that's another story entirely!

Whatever the reason behind Symonds' lesser recognition as a diarist, is of little consequence but he did provide a few vital dates and times regarding movement of Royalist troops. My abiding passion for history since childhood - in particular the Period of English Civil War - always such that I swore I would one day write a romantic novel set within that time period of history.

Unlike most romantic writers who create characters and then plot and plan out a sequence of events to take those characters on a journey of love and strife and eventual happiness, I am perhaps a strange individual who allows characters from another dimension to walk into my life. Sometimes a house, sometimes places (woodland/river walk/castle) the catalyst to their presence!

I cannot simply conjur characters sit and then write without previous inspiration and, inspiration sorely failed for years in providing the wherewithall for reaching that damned elusive "milestone".

Then, one day I spied a wonderful painting depicting Parliamentarian trooper and a Cavalier officer in close-combat on horseback. Something about the two men stirred my interest and my imagination and the image lodged in the subconscious. The subconscious then played devil's advocate with the conscious mind and produced a dreamlike movie overnight. The two people in the painting had effectively revealed who they were and why I'd thought them related yet engaged in mortal combat. That dream then became a novel.

I'd finally reached that damned illusive milestone with "The Lord, The Lady, And Her Scandalous Seduction!" - presently in the hands of a publisher. And, I think it will not be the last of such projects and probably just the first in a line of sequential novels. Hence, peripheral character from that same period setting has already revealed his and that of his lady love's story by way of dream movie!

So trumpet blown!!!!!!!! Fingers crossed publisher bites, but if not at least I've reached that milestone and it means more to me than accolade of seeing it in print! I'm well-chuffed!

I will be posting a scene from this novel for the High Drama Blogfest!

Getting Down and Dirty with Blogfesting!

OK, so there's a lot of people out there convinced blogfests are a bad thing for aspiring writers!

At one point I sort of sympathised with that assumption until I read an article on a lit agent's web site, in which it was stated that if an excerpt of writing or first chapter is placed on the Internet (blogoland/wherever) many newbie writers fear it might be stolen or the idea/plot stolen.

The lit agent pointed out that the author of original content retains full copyright (date/time stamp of posted content proof positive or submission of content to any central deposit agency) and, should that then appear verbatim in a published novel written by another author a charge of plagiarism will stand up in court of law!

Personally, if some saddo writer out there can't think or plot for themselves then I'll take it as a compliment that they were desperate enough to steal a piece of my action, because that would mean I'm better at writing than they are!

So, let's analyse a few reasons why people won't or are merely reluctant to publish snippets of their work on the Internet, and thereby unable to participate in blogfests!

As the lit agent said "fear" is a huge motivator for excuses to everything and anything that might imply one to be less than perfect in chosen field of writing. Perfected manuscripts are a rare commodity, hence one sees and hears tales all the time on bestselling author blogs about rewrites, how editors wanted more of something, sometimes less of something else, and many authors and lit agents alike despairing editors' sanity in some of the requests/demands made of writers.

So, according to professional opinion, your baby may be your baby and you may think it's perfect, but just wait until an editor starts hacking it to pieces - think you're a perfected writer now, think again!

OUCH! Tough words, but thought-provoking all the same.  I've been there done that, and again out in the wilderness like all newbie writers and wannabe' , not because I chose to be out in the cold but because circumstances beyond my control (riding accident) took me out of the writing circuit. So I know where most of you are coming from, and how hard it can be to motivate oneself at times. When I eventually came to (bouts of unconsciousness) I was given books to read and suddenly realised I couldn't read, that I'd lost that faculty, which took literally months to recover and I felt ashamed because I couldn't read and couldn't write. Luckily it was a temporary thing, and I'm back on form. I think - judge for yourselves by reading my material!  

Now to issue of why blogfesting is a good marketing ploy - according to lit agent!

Lit agent was quick to note blogfests as "marketing tool" = extend friend base extend fan base extend sales of book when your name finally hits the shelves whether in cyber bookstore as e-book or conventional bookstores. People you've met via blogging will go buy your book if nothing more than to critique it, bash it to shreds, envy it and swear they could have written better, or they'll genuinely love it and praise you for job well done!

Lit agent's advice was look at your blog closely, not just your bestest group buddies who post on yours and you post on theirs; so on and so forth (same old same old - limited market potential) look out for new faces (even the silent ones) and go blogging = go marketing.

Lit agent advice: stick with your own kind until you've hit the publishing wheel, hanging out on published author blogs comes across as desperate to belong and shades of willing them to help you gain entry to their inner realm. Hanging out on lit agent blogs worse still, though he did put a big smiley at this point. :)

Oh whoops, hee hee, shall have to cut back on posting to queens of romance then.

This is an add on to above: How much should one bare on blogs, snippets of WIPs that is.

I noticed on a blog (somewhere) in comments:  re posting snippets from novels is not a good idea, as some publishers may consider it be already published!!!

Well, according to quite a few publishers including Carina Press (e-book publisher Harlequin) and Avon Romance & Harper Collins (authonomy.com) actively look to see if authors are already promoting themselves and their work! Good news, or what?

So, what's your opinion on blogfesting?