HEARTS OF GOLD has attracted a trade paperback edition, so will be available to purchase at the RRP of £10.99 in January 2010. I’m very pleased because - although my books usually make it into large print and audio versions - this will be my first paperback edition with Severn House. So despite the post Christmas release slot, I hope the novel sells as well as it has reviewed so far.
This sort of breakthrough can often be attributed to reader demand. I’ve always encouraged readers comments. I receive letters through my PO Box and via email from readers of all ages and places. The youngest, and latest is a 15 year old from the middle east, the oldest, a lady in her late 80s from England.
A fair number of my readers come from my home town in Dorset, where I was born and grew up, and which I often, but not always, use as a setting. Quite often I’ll get a reminiscence, or a confidence, and I’m touched by this.
My agent, who is a talented author, writing as Kate Allen, suggested that I publish one or two of the letters on my blog. I have thought about this in the past and came to the conclusion then that as some of the letters are lavish in their praise, to publish them would be too braggy. Others contain too much personal information for me to feel easy publishing them. However, now and again a letter comes along that is neither. So the following is a good example of one of the truly delightful letters I receive. I’ve edited it slightly to shorten it and omitted the name
“Hello Janet,
I live on the Sunshine Coast.
I was born in the North East of England and moved to Dorset when I was 17. Dorset is a beautiful part of the World and I always recommend it to anyone visiting Britain. I lived there until I emigrated to Australia almost two years ago at the age of 39.
I discovered your books in the local library and was hooked instantly. I now scour the local libraries in search of my next read. Not only do I love your novels and find them hard to put down but I also love the nostalgic trip back to Dorset. Your stories are heart-warming and a pleasure to read. I will be recommending your books to my mum and sisters who still live in Dorset. I think they will not only enjoy your stories but also find comfort in the connection between Dorset and Australia.
Thank you for brightening my day.”
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Ask any Author
Ask any author.
I’ve just finished writing STRAW IN THE WIND. It was one of those books that was difficult to write. Despite the straightforward plot I lost my way somewhere in the middle and lost track of seasons - one moment it was winter, the next moment the heroine was plucking a bouquet of spring flowers from the meadow.
It took me three fairly detailed edits before I got this book right. I dislike editing, especially when it’s my own work. On the first edit I usually get a little tired of the story line. On the second edit I’m appalled by the amount of mistakes still left in my work. They are usually the sort of grammar mistakes you should learn in kindergarten. Was instead of were, their instead of there, or visa versa. I’m hot on putting questions marks in the wrong place too, or not putting them in when I should...ask one of the members of my critique group. Anyway, I gave the manuscript a good rest, then decided to give it a third edit, just in case. Yeah Gods! By the time I’d finished doing it every word felt flat, I hated the characters and was ready to throw the beast into the wheelie bin. Needless to say this book is now so thoroughly edited it’s practically wearing a straight jacket!.
Am I confident it has no mistakes in it? No, of course not. All can only do is try to send a manuscript out as well-written and edited as I can make it. It will now go through a copy editor who will cast an independent and critical eye over it. Then it will have to be proof edited. I’ve never done a proof edit that has been totally mistake free! And even after all that, one or two mistakes have sneaked through into a book and has been read by the reader, who, if they happen to be an ultra pedantic type, will then write to me in righteous indignation: ‘Why don’t you learn to spell moron?’
Huh? I know how to spell that. It’s M O R O N isn’t it? Okay, okay, don’t get your knickers in a twist. What about the 99.99 percent of spellings that were correct...what about them, eh?
I have to say that editing another’s writing is much easier than editing my own. Authors can always find mistakes in another author’s work and rewrite it for the better! Ask any author!
I’ve just finished writing STRAW IN THE WIND. It was one of those books that was difficult to write. Despite the straightforward plot I lost my way somewhere in the middle and lost track of seasons - one moment it was winter, the next moment the heroine was plucking a bouquet of spring flowers from the meadow.
It took me three fairly detailed edits before I got this book right. I dislike editing, especially when it’s my own work. On the first edit I usually get a little tired of the story line. On the second edit I’m appalled by the amount of mistakes still left in my work. They are usually the sort of grammar mistakes you should learn in kindergarten. Was instead of were, their instead of there, or visa versa. I’m hot on putting questions marks in the wrong place too, or not putting them in when I should...ask one of the members of my critique group. Anyway, I gave the manuscript a good rest, then decided to give it a third edit, just in case. Yeah Gods! By the time I’d finished doing it every word felt flat, I hated the characters and was ready to throw the beast into the wheelie bin. Needless to say this book is now so thoroughly edited it’s practically wearing a straight jacket!.
Am I confident it has no mistakes in it? No, of course not. All can only do is try to send a manuscript out as well-written and edited as I can make it. It will now go through a copy editor who will cast an independent and critical eye over it. Then it will have to be proof edited. I’ve never done a proof edit that has been totally mistake free! And even after all that, one or two mistakes have sneaked through into a book and has been read by the reader, who, if they happen to be an ultra pedantic type, will then write to me in righteous indignation: ‘Why don’t you learn to spell moron?’
Huh? I know how to spell that. It’s M O R O N isn’t it? Okay, okay, don’t get your knickers in a twist. What about the 99.99 percent of spellings that were correct...what about them, eh?
I have to say that editing another’s writing is much easier than editing my own. Authors can always find mistakes in another author’s work and rewrite it for the better! Ask any author!
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Books review Hearts of Gold
Reviews for HEARTS OF GOLD - Janet Woods
A month after receiving a top pick review from the Romance Reader at Heart site, my current release, “Hearts of Gold” has just received a 4/5 star review from Julie Bonello at http://singletitles.com The whole review can be read at the website, but I’ll just post the comments part.
****
Fast-paced, suspenseful, intriguing and wonderfully romantic, in Hearts of Gold Janet Woods has once again written a captivating tale imbued with plenty of drama and emotion which will keep readers enthralled from start to finish! Set in Victorian Australia and England, Hearts of Gold is another winner from this most talented of storytellers!
Severn House UK
ISBN: 9780727867612
Reviewer: Julie Bonello
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Readers letters
I doubt if any author would deny that writing is hard work. It drains the energy both physically and mentally. However, the pleasure of writing usually outstrips the pain of frozen shoulders, carpal tunnel syndrome, dry eyes and mental exhaustion that comes with life in front of a computer. The author creates a plot and the characters, and as they take their designated journey, a struggle takes place to bring them alive in a believable way. The characters themselves sometimes put up a fight. It’s as though - once you’ve given them life - they’ve decided that they’re going to live it their way, just like real people do. This independence of character is surprising when it happens, even though it’s not entirely unexpected. Sometimes, their meddling will take the plot in a different direction altogether, so everything has to be adjusted.
I didn’t know how much work went into a book until I actually started writing one. As a reader I had my favourite writers, of course, and usually, I either liked a book or I didn’t. Either way, I never thought to contact the author. Writing is subjective, but most published books will please some of the people some of the time. Rarely will they please all of the people though.
If I didn’t like a book I wouldn’t write and tell the author. And having been hurt once by a rotten and totally unfair review I would rather not review a book at all than badly review one. But praise is always acceptable, and it surprises me now to realize that in my days as a reader only, I never wrote to an author with a word of praise, telling them how much I enjoyed their work. Rather, I took them for granted.
I do receive a steady amount of letters from readers of my books. I always answer the letters and thank them, and when I can I try and help them out with any queries they may have .A little while ago I exchanged a letter with Kath who lives in Rayburn, a farming community near Bendigo in Victoria. She borrows her books from the mobile library. Today, I received an unexpected gift of two coffee cups and a tea strainer dish in Bendigo pottery, to thank me for writing books that she enjoys reading.
I was very touched by this gesture, and it brought home to me how lovely it is to receive thank-you letters and praise from readers. On the bad days when nothing seems to go to plan and writing becomes tough, it warms me to look through the letter files and through them, get in touch with my creative self again. So thank you Kath, I’ll think of your kindness every time I have a cup of coffee. And thank you to all the readers who buy, borrow and read my books.
I didn’t know how much work went into a book until I actually started writing one. As a reader I had my favourite writers, of course, and usually, I either liked a book or I didn’t. Either way, I never thought to contact the author. Writing is subjective, but most published books will please some of the people some of the time. Rarely will they please all of the people though.
If I didn’t like a book I wouldn’t write and tell the author. And having been hurt once by a rotten and totally unfair review I would rather not review a book at all than badly review one. But praise is always acceptable, and it surprises me now to realize that in my days as a reader only, I never wrote to an author with a word of praise, telling them how much I enjoyed their work. Rather, I took them for granted.
I do receive a steady amount of letters from readers of my books. I always answer the letters and thank them, and when I can I try and help them out with any queries they may have .A little while ago I exchanged a letter with Kath who lives in Rayburn, a farming community near Bendigo in Victoria. She borrows her books from the mobile library. Today, I received an unexpected gift of two coffee cups and a tea strainer dish in Bendigo pottery, to thank me for writing books that she enjoys reading.
I was very touched by this gesture, and it brought home to me how lovely it is to receive thank-you letters and praise from readers. On the bad days when nothing seems to go to plan and writing becomes tough, it warms me to look through the letter files and through them, get in touch with my creative self again. So thank you Kath, I’ll think of your kindness every time I have a cup of coffee. And thank you to all the readers who buy, borrow and read my books.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Salting The Wound (excerpt)
Kate reminded me that I hadn't posted an excerpt from my October 1st release, "Salting The Wound" so here it is. I hope you enjoy it.
Salting The Wound by Janet Woods
Severn House - Oct. 1st £19.99
ISBN; 978-0727868299
Poole, Dorset 1850
Nicholas Thornton stepped ashore and took a deep breath of his native English air. His hand closed around the pistol under his coat, his glance sought out any danger that might be lying in wait in the shadows. Under his arm was a length of rare exotic silk safely packaged in a satchel made from sail cloth. The silk was a gift for Charlotte Honeyman, from which she could fashion herself a wedding gown.
It was a fairly quiet night for the quayside town of Poole, except for the faint hum of voices coming from the taverns, the occasional spill of light and noise when a door opened and spat out a drunk or two. A pair of cats exchanged insults in an alley.
The summer air was as cool and soft as a whisper of satin against his face, the dewed stillness of it broken only by the impatient slap of the rigging against the masts, the creak and squeak of timber against timber and the lap and splash of water against the hull of the Samarand.
Square rigged, and with a sharp rake to her stern Samarand averaged sixteen knots in the right conditions. She'd been built eight years previously but would be lucky if she lasted till she was fifteen, when she was due to be sold for scrap. Already she was full of worm. Nick hoped he wasn't on board when the bottom dropped out of her.
He jumped when the cats' argument became a full-blooded skirmish and the pair exploded out of an ally into the circle of light left by a gas lamp. Ears flattened, they spit and slashed at each other with ferocious cries and shrill growls. He chuckled when one broke off and ran back into the ally, the other one in hot pursuit.
Much as he liked life at sea, and much as his uncle wanted him to, Nick had no intention of sailing the world's oceans forever. There were easier, less dangerous ways of earning a living. He'd also like a bed that didn't pitch and toss, unless he happened to have a woman under him and the pitching and tossing was of his own creation. If he stayed in the career he'd grown up with he'd end up like his great uncle. No woman wanted a husband who was rarely home.
In vain he'd argued with his uncle some three months ago, which had been the last time he'd tied up at the company berth in Poole.
'We could warehouse the goods we import, open a shop and sell them ourselves.'
Erasmus Thornton had scoffed with some disgust at his suggestion. 'You want to become a shopkeeper? I suppose you intend to settle down with the eldest Honeyman girl, as well? After a few weeks with her you'll be glad to get to sea again. You're thinking with your balls.'
He grinned. Didn't most men? 'Being a shopkeeper is nothing to sneer at; I know some damned wealthy ones. Neither is having a wife and children. If Charlotte will have me, and there's no reason why she shouldn't, I'll marry her. I've known her all my life.'
'You'll come to regret it if you do. She hasn't shown any inclination to wed you so far, though she's good at keeping you on the hook. You'll be damned if she agrees, and she'll be cursed if she doesn't. Still, if you want to marry and produce a family I'm not against that. God knows, the Thornton family is thin on the ground now and you might as well choose a woman with some looks and backbone to her. But Charlotte Honeyman is as bad-tempered and as stubborn as they come. It will take a special kind of man to handle her. She'll probably need a stick around her backside now and again to point out to her who's the boss. But mark my words - it damned well won't be you!'
Nick had roared with laughter at the thought of Charlotte marrying anyone else but himself.
Erasmus smiled at him. 'The younger one is more your style. She has the looks and softness of her mother.'
'More your style, Uncle, since it was your liaison with their mother that caused the split between the families.'
Nick couldn't recall the younger girl's name, or even what she looked like come to that. She'd usually been out on the heath when he'd visited, or helping the maid around the house. Besides, when set against Charlotte, everyone else paled into insignificance for Nick. He'd wanted Charlotte ever since he'd been old enough to introduce lust into his life. Her refusal to cooperate had only added fuel to his fire.
Erasmus had sighed and passed a hand across his forehead then. 'It's a great pity that their mother died. Take my advice, lad. Never fall in love with a married woman, like I did. I'll be taking possession of the Daisy Jane soon, so you won't get me working in a warehouse or shop. We'll work both clippers for a while, and you can have command of the Samarand. She's still got some life in her. I daresay you'll enjoy life better without having me breathing down your neck.'
That fact had improved both his life and his temper. Nick had now completed his first voyage with Samarand under his command. His uncle has been right. He'd enjoyed being out from under his critical gaze, and was proud that his seamanship skills had brought his ship safely back to harbour.
He took another perfunctory look around. The shadows were still, except for a seaman rolling back to his ship. He respectfully touched his cap as he passed, grunting, 'Evenin' Cap'n. She's a fair one.'
'Indeed she is.' Nick gazed around. There had been no sight of the Daisy Jane as he'd entered harbour and docked, though his uncle was due in at any time now. Erasmus had named the ship after his sister, who kept house for them.
'It might sweeten her up a bit,' he'd said. 'Though anyone who looks less like a daisy I've yet to meet.'
Looking over her glasses at her brother, Daisy had then snorted.
Nick had been raised by his uncle and aunt from the age of three. He couldn't remember his parents, but his father had been Dickon Thornton, who'd been an adventurer. His mother was a Greek woman. According to Erasmus, she'd been encouraged by her new husband’s stepsons to lose interest in her bastard child.
It had been a strict upbringing. Blood was thicker than water with both of them. Aunt Daisy had been fond of using the stick to keep him under control when he misbehaved, but he loved her. Erasmus had always treated him as though he was his own son, instead of the son of his much older half-brother, whom he'd never got along with. Nick had been left in no doubt that Erasmus was proud of him, though. As expected of him, he'd set sail with Erasmus at the age of twelve to learn his trade.
'I imagine the Honeyman girl will have you eventually. She has nobody else to turn to and no money with which to attract a man,' his uncle had pointed out the last time they'd been in port together, and after Charlotte had turned Nick down once again. 'I'll give her an ultimatum. If she doesn't stop prevaricating I'll have her out of that house on the next tide. I don't want the upkeep of it any longer. I'm a seafarer not a builder, and the place is falling down.'
Nick smiled to himself as he stepped confidently forward. It had been a long time between ports and there was time to find a willing woman for himself before the morning. And he'd visit Charlotte in the morning and propose marriage. If Erasmus had delivered his ultimatum to her, this time she'd agree.
His smile faded as he remembered the last time he'd proposed to her. She'd been in a fine fizz of a temper and had stamped her foot. 'I've told you that I don't love you and I'll never marry you. Don't you listen?'
'My uncle has promised to give us the house if you wed me,' he'd said, then in a fit of generosity, 'I intend to put it in your name so you don't have to worry about not having a roof over your head any more.'
'I loath Erasmus Thornton. I'd rather die than take anything from him, even the house I grew up in. He ruined my mother and impoverished my father.'
'Your mother loved him. As for your father, he was a drunken gambler. Nobody made him wager the house. It was his own idea. Erasmus doesn't want the upkeep of Harbour House. At the moment he's of a mind to sell it out from under you. Agree to marry me and it will always be yours.'
'If he attempts to turn me out I'll burn the place down. As for becoming your wife, you'd make a terrible husband. You're always away . . . though that would prove to be a plus rather than a minus. You have no manners and you probably have a girl in every port.'
He'd grinned at the truth in that. 'I can learn some manners, and I intend to remain ashore in a year or so and open my own emporium.'
'Hah!' she'd thrown at him. 'You're too arrogant to learn any manners now. I want to love and respect the man I marry. And I want him to love and respect me. You're incapable of either.'
Anger had risen in him then, because he'd done both and for several years now. 'You don't know me if you think I've got no feelings, Charlotte. But if you want pretty words and gifts to prove that I care for you, then you won't get them. To my mind, love is a damned fool notion that weakens a man. But I'll be faithful to the woman I marry. I'll be back, and I won't take no for an answer. Make up your mind to it.'
She heaved a sigh and told him again, talking slowly, as though he was an idiot. 'It won't make any difference, Nick. I won't marry you.'
'Charlotte, you promised yourself to me in childhood and I'm going to hold you to that.'
'That was before I discovered who caused the death of my mother.'
He sighed then. 'You can't blame me for what somebody else did. Besides, it was only a rumour.
He watched her eyes begin to despise him when she quietly said, 'One you believe yourself. I don't want you and I won't marry you. Come here again and I'll shoot you dead.'
He'd retreated to lick his wounds, confident she'd come round eventually. Two days later he'd taken the Samarand to Shanghai, but now he was back with a cargo of tea and exotic silk, which he intended to sell at a huge profit. Despite his vow that he wouldn't prove his regard for her with gifts, he'd set a length of the precious silk aside for Charlotte's wedding gown and intended to take it to her as a peace offering. By now she would have come to her senses.
It was the middle of the night. Even if his Aunt Daisy had seen the ship coming into harbour, Nick decided not to rouse her from her bed by going home and letting himself in. Instead, he paid a professional woman for the night, for he had a raging need on him.
As it turned out, if he'd gone straight home he might have saved himself from a wasted journey.
Salting The Wound by Janet Woods
Severn House - Oct. 1st £19.99
ISBN; 978-0727868299
Poole, Dorset 1850
Nicholas Thornton stepped ashore and took a deep breath of his native English air. His hand closed around the pistol under his coat, his glance sought out any danger that might be lying in wait in the shadows. Under his arm was a length of rare exotic silk safely packaged in a satchel made from sail cloth. The silk was a gift for Charlotte Honeyman, from which she could fashion herself a wedding gown.
It was a fairly quiet night for the quayside town of Poole, except for the faint hum of voices coming from the taverns, the occasional spill of light and noise when a door opened and spat out a drunk or two. A pair of cats exchanged insults in an alley.
The summer air was as cool and soft as a whisper of satin against his face, the dewed stillness of it broken only by the impatient slap of the rigging against the masts, the creak and squeak of timber against timber and the lap and splash of water against the hull of the Samarand.
Square rigged, and with a sharp rake to her stern Samarand averaged sixteen knots in the right conditions. She'd been built eight years previously but would be lucky if she lasted till she was fifteen, when she was due to be sold for scrap. Already she was full of worm. Nick hoped he wasn't on board when the bottom dropped out of her.
He jumped when the cats' argument became a full-blooded skirmish and the pair exploded out of an ally into the circle of light left by a gas lamp. Ears flattened, they spit and slashed at each other with ferocious cries and shrill growls. He chuckled when one broke off and ran back into the ally, the other one in hot pursuit.
Much as he liked life at sea, and much as his uncle wanted him to, Nick had no intention of sailing the world's oceans forever. There were easier, less dangerous ways of earning a living. He'd also like a bed that didn't pitch and toss, unless he happened to have a woman under him and the pitching and tossing was of his own creation. If he stayed in the career he'd grown up with he'd end up like his great uncle. No woman wanted a husband who was rarely home.
In vain he'd argued with his uncle some three months ago, which had been the last time he'd tied up at the company berth in Poole.
'We could warehouse the goods we import, open a shop and sell them ourselves.'
Erasmus Thornton had scoffed with some disgust at his suggestion. 'You want to become a shopkeeper? I suppose you intend to settle down with the eldest Honeyman girl, as well? After a few weeks with her you'll be glad to get to sea again. You're thinking with your balls.'
He grinned. Didn't most men? 'Being a shopkeeper is nothing to sneer at; I know some damned wealthy ones. Neither is having a wife and children. If Charlotte will have me, and there's no reason why she shouldn't, I'll marry her. I've known her all my life.'
'You'll come to regret it if you do. She hasn't shown any inclination to wed you so far, though she's good at keeping you on the hook. You'll be damned if she agrees, and she'll be cursed if she doesn't. Still, if you want to marry and produce a family I'm not against that. God knows, the Thornton family is thin on the ground now and you might as well choose a woman with some looks and backbone to her. But Charlotte Honeyman is as bad-tempered and as stubborn as they come. It will take a special kind of man to handle her. She'll probably need a stick around her backside now and again to point out to her who's the boss. But mark my words - it damned well won't be you!'
Nick had roared with laughter at the thought of Charlotte marrying anyone else but himself.
Erasmus smiled at him. 'The younger one is more your style. She has the looks and softness of her mother.'
'More your style, Uncle, since it was your liaison with their mother that caused the split between the families.'
Nick couldn't recall the younger girl's name, or even what she looked like come to that. She'd usually been out on the heath when he'd visited, or helping the maid around the house. Besides, when set against Charlotte, everyone else paled into insignificance for Nick. He'd wanted Charlotte ever since he'd been old enough to introduce lust into his life. Her refusal to cooperate had only added fuel to his fire.
Erasmus had sighed and passed a hand across his forehead then. 'It's a great pity that their mother died. Take my advice, lad. Never fall in love with a married woman, like I did. I'll be taking possession of the Daisy Jane soon, so you won't get me working in a warehouse or shop. We'll work both clippers for a while, and you can have command of the Samarand. She's still got some life in her. I daresay you'll enjoy life better without having me breathing down your neck.'
That fact had improved both his life and his temper. Nick had now completed his first voyage with Samarand under his command. His uncle has been right. He'd enjoyed being out from under his critical gaze, and was proud that his seamanship skills had brought his ship safely back to harbour.
He took another perfunctory look around. The shadows were still, except for a seaman rolling back to his ship. He respectfully touched his cap as he passed, grunting, 'Evenin' Cap'n. She's a fair one.'
'Indeed she is.' Nick gazed around. There had been no sight of the Daisy Jane as he'd entered harbour and docked, though his uncle was due in at any time now. Erasmus had named the ship after his sister, who kept house for them.
'It might sweeten her up a bit,' he'd said. 'Though anyone who looks less like a daisy I've yet to meet.'
Looking over her glasses at her brother, Daisy had then snorted.
Nick had been raised by his uncle and aunt from the age of three. He couldn't remember his parents, but his father had been Dickon Thornton, who'd been an adventurer. His mother was a Greek woman. According to Erasmus, she'd been encouraged by her new husband’s stepsons to lose interest in her bastard child.
It had been a strict upbringing. Blood was thicker than water with both of them. Aunt Daisy had been fond of using the stick to keep him under control when he misbehaved, but he loved her. Erasmus had always treated him as though he was his own son, instead of the son of his much older half-brother, whom he'd never got along with. Nick had been left in no doubt that Erasmus was proud of him, though. As expected of him, he'd set sail with Erasmus at the age of twelve to learn his trade.
'I imagine the Honeyman girl will have you eventually. She has nobody else to turn to and no money with which to attract a man,' his uncle had pointed out the last time they'd been in port together, and after Charlotte had turned Nick down once again. 'I'll give her an ultimatum. If she doesn't stop prevaricating I'll have her out of that house on the next tide. I don't want the upkeep of it any longer. I'm a seafarer not a builder, and the place is falling down.'
Nick smiled to himself as he stepped confidently forward. It had been a long time between ports and there was time to find a willing woman for himself before the morning. And he'd visit Charlotte in the morning and propose marriage. If Erasmus had delivered his ultimatum to her, this time she'd agree.
His smile faded as he remembered the last time he'd proposed to her. She'd been in a fine fizz of a temper and had stamped her foot. 'I've told you that I don't love you and I'll never marry you. Don't you listen?'
'My uncle has promised to give us the house if you wed me,' he'd said, then in a fit of generosity, 'I intend to put it in your name so you don't have to worry about not having a roof over your head any more.'
'I loath Erasmus Thornton. I'd rather die than take anything from him, even the house I grew up in. He ruined my mother and impoverished my father.'
'Your mother loved him. As for your father, he was a drunken gambler. Nobody made him wager the house. It was his own idea. Erasmus doesn't want the upkeep of Harbour House. At the moment he's of a mind to sell it out from under you. Agree to marry me and it will always be yours.'
'If he attempts to turn me out I'll burn the place down. As for becoming your wife, you'd make a terrible husband. You're always away . . . though that would prove to be a plus rather than a minus. You have no manners and you probably have a girl in every port.'
He'd grinned at the truth in that. 'I can learn some manners, and I intend to remain ashore in a year or so and open my own emporium.'
'Hah!' she'd thrown at him. 'You're too arrogant to learn any manners now. I want to love and respect the man I marry. And I want him to love and respect me. You're incapable of either.'
Anger had risen in him then, because he'd done both and for several years now. 'You don't know me if you think I've got no feelings, Charlotte. But if you want pretty words and gifts to prove that I care for you, then you won't get them. To my mind, love is a damned fool notion that weakens a man. But I'll be faithful to the woman I marry. I'll be back, and I won't take no for an answer. Make up your mind to it.'
She heaved a sigh and told him again, talking slowly, as though he was an idiot. 'It won't make any difference, Nick. I won't marry you.'
'Charlotte, you promised yourself to me in childhood and I'm going to hold you to that.'
'That was before I discovered who caused the death of my mother.'
He sighed then. 'You can't blame me for what somebody else did. Besides, it was only a rumour.
He watched her eyes begin to despise him when she quietly said, 'One you believe yourself. I don't want you and I won't marry you. Come here again and I'll shoot you dead.'
He'd retreated to lick his wounds, confident she'd come round eventually. Two days later he'd taken the Samarand to Shanghai, but now he was back with a cargo of tea and exotic silk, which he intended to sell at a huge profit. Despite his vow that he wouldn't prove his regard for her with gifts, he'd set a length of the precious silk aside for Charlotte's wedding gown and intended to take it to her as a peace offering. By now she would have come to her senses.
It was the middle of the night. Even if his Aunt Daisy had seen the ship coming into harbour, Nick decided not to rouse her from her bed by going home and letting himself in. Instead, he paid a professional woman for the night, for he had a raging need on him.
As it turned out, if he'd gone straight home he might have saved himself from a wasted journey.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Salting The Wound
Salting The Wound by Janet Woods
Severn House - Oct. 1st £18.99
ISBN; 978-0727868299
When Charlotte jilts sea captain Nick Thornton he exacts his revenge by setting sail with her younger sister, Marianne. But Nicholas hadn't counted on falling in love with Marianne, and their marriage widens the existing rift between the two families.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Writing Tip Critiquing groups.
It seems ages since I blogged anything - long enough for the last small article I wrote on getting an agent to be picked up by two other organisations for their newsletters.
Over the weekend I enjoyed a meeting with my critique group. One of those is a talented regency author whose third book ARIELLA’S LEGACY comes in electronic form, but has just been released in paperback. Sharon Milburn writes traditional regencies for Cerridwen Cotillion. For anyone who enjoys reading well-researched and beautifully crafted regency romances with a strong story line and a ring of authenticity about them, I can highly recommend Sharon Milburn’s books.
A word or two about critiquing groups. Their function is in the description, so anyone who joins such a group should expect their writing to be critiqued, and not always favourably. I’ve belonged to a group for a couple of decades, and have seen many people come and go in that time. Some people don’t want their work critiqued, they don’t want to work to improve it, they just want reassurance or praise. Critiquing can work both ways, but generally a group that critiques is troubleshooting each member’s work, and if you join such a group you should expect to receive some honest negative feedback or criticism along with the praise. Accept criticism gracefully. In my assessors’ hat, I’m not picking holes in anyone’s work for sport, but rather to point out mistakes that can be edited out. If you disagree, fine, ignore my suggestions. Just don’t accuse me of being deliberately cruel to you, as someone once did. I’ve got better things to do with my time. Honest! Critiquing the work of other writers help me to edit your own work. I’ve had about thirty books published. I still make writing mistakes, and don’t consider myself above the critiquing process. In fact, I appreciate my group pointing mistakes out because I like to have as many bugs as I can removed before I send the finished work to my publisher, and a more objective pair of eyes is extremely helpful.
Last, but not least, yesterday I received a lovely and unexpected email from a library worker from the other side of Australia - the Sunshine Coast in Queensland. The writer told me that she’s started recommending my books through their monthly “Great Reads” publication. Thanks Faye...that little gift of an email put a smile on my face.
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