Omnibus plus

 

 A money-saving omnibus edition of the first three Bridie and Sean books with the extra, hitherto unpublished in this format earlier tale of how Jenna copes with a three month old baby and an adulterous husband 

Now available from

http://www.lulu.com/shop/sandra-davies/make-and-mend/paperback/product-20949179.html

and if you buy before March 31st, quoting coupon code VERNUM you pay 20% less

Cast in stone - always and ever?

I am the keeper of a large number of photos and documents relating to my Sutcliffe family, from Warley (the one near Halifax in Calderdale) and this afternoon received an email asking whether or not I knew the grave number my great-grandfather was buried in.  I did, and was able to furnish written proof in the form of a receipt giving details of the burial of his 5 year-old son in 1888

Soon after  Edwin's death, when the cemetery was still fairly new they must have had a photograph taken of the headstone, which has Tom and Sarah Sutcliffe as 'of Tuel Lane, Sowerby Bridge' carved upon it.

At a later date this inscription must have been erased and another one carved because by the time I photographed it, ninety-nine years later in 1987, the inscription clearly read of 'Little Moor Warley'

Levelling and loyalty

Jack was in the upper-middle echelons of criminal aristocracy within the City, Tao’s status similar but, because more country-wide, marginally less notable.
The manse owned by the holder of Tao’s Lisbon-stolen letters placed him far higher, as did the sovereign-price he’d offered against Jack’s head, whereas that on Tao’s had been raised by his yeoman brother and was of small account, save for the added influence of the eldritch witch.
She, giddily-overconfident, was still too much the novice, badly underestimated cell-mate loyalty, failed to prevent them getting drunk together and misunderstood the head-clearing effects of a syzgy of high-class whores.

This is part 23 of Tao's tale, inspired by prompts from  The Prediction, for which the less-than-sympatheric words this week were : eldritch, manse, aristocracy + syzgy (optional) 

TW3 (remember that?)

TW3 - Friday night, allowed to stay up late despite not entirely understanding the satire of Willie Rushton, not sure whether or not David Frost was a pain and loving the husky break in Millicent Martin's voice, but knowing that this was something new and shocking.

But I'm more referring to the past week - a scratchy week of grey cold, lots of reading (a Good Thing mostly) and bloody editing.  Sometimes editing feels good, improvements flow and you know things can only get better, but last week that 'are you sure you're not overwriting, losing the freshness?' question kept asking itself.   Over both novels, which are at the same stage, despite having been begun six months or so apart.

The reading has been mixed:  three fast-paced, violent, noir, damaged hero crime novels (Ken Bruen, Declan Hughes, Ray Banks), all superbly written but a factor in my mild dissatisfaction with what I've written (and no I do not want to emulate but in admiring one can't help but measure).  Frances Fyfield, more thriller than crime but much more 'English', and Tessa Hadley were equally enjoyable. 
[N.B. do click on the top five book covers in  montage in the right hand column for more information]

But yesterday I joined a group called WriteWords which promises much, provided I make the effort to participate.
This week's Prediction prompts are eldritch, manse and aristocracy, with the addition of syzgy if I fancy it.   Not sure how Tao and Carrion Jack, or John Pettinger and Raptor are going to manage those (The story so far can be read on Pages, above.)

Coming to terms

"Do you need a.... drink or anything ... a cup of tea? Was it bad news?" 
The voice tailed away, could have been speaking from the moon, from another planet for all she heard what it was saying, she was at the limit of her ability to concentrate on anyone else, to be polite. One hand still clutched the telegram, the other fiddled with the buttons at her throat, they’d never felt this tight before, she thought she might choke. 
Turning her back, with as much determination as she could muster, not caring whether or not she was seeming to be rude, she continued to walk down the overgrown path, away from the house, trying not to see the faintly printed capitals, on paper tape, stuck to the pale cream official Post Office form, trying not to read the words which were, nevertheless, etched on her retina. MISSED BOAT STOP NOT GOING TO MAKE THIRTEENTH STOP REARRANGE WEDDING FOR TWENTYNINTH.
 The baby would be here by then, for sure. 

 .oOo.

Sometimes you win and other times someone else does. 
This was one of the latter, and been for the past three occasions if he was honest. If he was counting. Which he hadn’t meant to be at least. But in truth he’d begun to wonder if it wasn’t just that he was a mug, falling for all those sob stories about dying mothers, weddings and funerals to go to and letting them take his place on the boat. After all, he had a wedding to go to, didn’t he?
 His own. 
Or was that the problem? Was he secretly – so secret even he didn’t know – trying to get out of marrying Emily? 
Not that Emily was the problem, not at all, he loved Emily. Obviously he did, and she loved him otherwise she’d never have let him ... 
But she did, had seen how important it was. He’d been so desperate, so sure that if he didn’t then, with her, he never would, and given that the life expectancy once they got to France was, so some smartarse n the pub had told him, no more than fourteen days, he’d die without ever having ... so maybe he had been a bit over-persuasive. 
Maybe that was why it had been such a ... let down. 

 .oOo.

Skin of his teeth, and that fact that he’d made it in time must mean that God had intended it all along. He had arrived. And on the twenty-ninth as he had said. Had told his brother to get in touch with the registrar and rearrange it. 
The same brother picked him up from the port, handed him a bag with a suit and a shirt – neither the right size but they’d do – and drove to the registry office like a madman, assuring him he had the ring and everyone knew today was the day and though he’d not seen Emily herself, just her mother, she’d said it would all be OK, Emily would be there. 
And she was. 
But the baby that Emily carried inside had been there for nigh on nine months. His ship overseas had sailed on Easter Sunday. Today was the end of September.

[Three prompted pieces from Thinking Ten] 

IIIA, IIIAlpha, III Aleph, and beta readers

The first year classes at the grammar school I went to were streamed into III A, III Alpha, III Aleph, second year was IV B, IV Beta, IV Beth and so on.   I was always middle stream so was either Alpha or Beta.

But I'd never heard of the term 'beta reader' until the year before last, when someone commenting, I think, on one of my Friday Book Blurbs (alas no more) that she would volunteer if ever I wrote the book I'd so enticingly blurbed.   It was a reasonably self-explanatory term, however, and I thought no more of it.   Until last week when I thought I could do with a few folk to read my current novel and tell me whether or not it works - for them - and if not why not. 
So I Googled the term and discovered, at a quick sprint through random posts (couldn't justify the term 'research') that such creatures are rare, temperamental, likely to be either upsetting in their tactless candour or lying in their fulsome praise, mightinsist on payment and will likely want you to reciprocate.
The latter - reciprocation - I would willingly do in theory, but it would ten be necessary to choose readers who write in a similar genre.   Which educes choice even further.   Always assuming there is choice in the first place.

Anyone any experience they can offer so's I know more before making an attempt to find me some beta readers?

When the going gets tough ...

... or even just because I want to ... And it isn't even procrastination really, just a minor diversion, but this is the (current) version of the cover for the book to follow 'Not wanted on voyage'.   Only a third of it written so far, but I'm wanting to get on with it, which is why I've been head down trying to finish final drafts of both NWOV and 'Making good', the fourth (and possibly, last) in the Bridie and Sean series.

Darn it! - a plot hole discovered

"Although it's likely Walpole will have cleared it up" Madigan, one of my characters says, speaking of possible blood and gore.

But there's been no mention by her, or any of her three companions, that Walpole has been involved in anything.

I know it - it's my story.
The reader knows it - the scene appeared earlier.
These folks, in discussion in the bar, do not know of it.
Damn.
I have to tell them, before page 193.

A change of focus

Decanting truth from a flagon – a vat – of  lies, lies long-distilled from fear-straddled infancy, had become second nature for John Pettinger. 
Childhood fear had been triple-dealt.  Siblings, father, his mother’s brother Raptor:  least physical but most frightening, because of tearing  notches in his mind.
Was that why today’s interrogation had brought recognition? Understanding?  Sense of like-mindedness?
Why he’d let him go, arresting his brother in Raptor’s place, to placate his boss and provide a perpetrator for the crimes committed by his uncle?
Did that stem from his oh-so-superior understanding of the truth?
Or had Raptor cynically brainwashed him once again?

‘I could lose my job for this...’ Pettinger, behind the wheel.
‘Could come and work for me.  Could do so anyway, straddle both worlds...’
‘Good and evil?’
‘Here, and there.’
‘Tell me about Sally-Ann.’
‘She’s the first I decanted your way...’
‘Why?’
‘Why first?  Your brothers had become ungrateful...’
‘You regularly supply them?’
‘Having tried and tested, yes.  Hopgood had brains, though...’
‘They don’t?’
Grunted affirmation. ‘Had ambition too...’
‘So it wasn’t you who killed her?’
‘I don’t kill women...’
Raised eyebrow ‘There’s notches enough say you lie.’
‘Not since...’
‘Not since my mother?’
‘Yanno, it had to be done.’

[episodes 26 and 27 in John Pettinger's tale, this week's prompts from  The Prediction being 'decant', 'notch' and 'straddle'   The tale in its entirety can be read by clicking the page tab above]

Counting drafts

And no, not the sort that currently waft through even the double glazing today, swirling the polystyrene snow (and yes, I do know they're spelt differently)

Today I finished reading the revisions I'd made after three read-throughs of  'Holding steady', the second full-length novel in the Bridie and Sean series (strictly speaking, the first three were novellas) and have now put it aside to prove for a bit, while I get on with doing much the same for 2011's NaNoWriMo, 'Not wanted on voyage', which started with the intention of being a sort of detective novel but I fear has a hefty dose of romance within it.

So much so that when a friend thought the cover 'very masculine' I knew it had to be tweaked.

I also finished reading, lunchtime, Jane Rusbridge's 'The devil's music' - recommended (I think) in a Spectator review and bought in Wells nine days ago.  Certainly merited the five stars I awarded in on Goodreads.   Certainly makes me aware of the overly-explained nature of some of my writing.

Definition - a favourite drabble

Over at John Xero's 101 Fiction today, one of my favourite Prediction pieces