Gisborne Press Release…

‘The storytelling talent is sharp, pulling the reader on the journey and bringing on the unpredictable as the story twists and turns with neither a bore nor a snore.’ John Hudspith

Available as an e-book first week of March – a debut historical fiction by Australian fantasy author

Prue Batten.

Guy of Gisborne: Robin Hood’s nemesis.

A re-written history.

No Robin, no Sheriff of Nottingham, no Marian.

Gisborne’s journey to status and power follows another road entirely, perhaps even more treacherous than the original.

Gisborne: Book of Pawns.

 

 

LoLo Productions, trucks and fashion?

The thing I like about Christine’s story is the unadulterated simplicity of an idea that happened in the blink of an eye … or more particularly, over the course of a telephone call. That and the name Lolo Productions. And of course both are linked closely. Christine iss also inventive in other ways, re-writing the fashion industry in a dark, dark way and running a magic blog that seeks to cloth the main characters in many novels. Brilliant. Simple. But then the best ideas always are.

Read this Indie Chicks story and see if you agree.

HOW A BIG YELLOW TRUCK CHANGED MY LIFE

(for the better)

Christine de Maio Rice

 

An orange peel grapple is a big machine. Excavator on the bottom. Long arm in the middle. And a metal grapple on the end that looks like a horror movie claw. The base spins. The arm moves up and down. The grapple grabs stuff like SUVs and big piles of metal.

You may come across one while driving, and if you have a little boy in the car, you may have to pull over to watch the thing move cars into a tractor trailer. Otherwise, nothing about this machine will rock your world.

But an orange peel grapple changed my life.

My life was a complete disaster at the time. Though I had a beautiful baby boy and a good husband, I had a job in an industry I swore I would never return to, at a company that wanted nothing more than to suck the blood directly from my heart with a curly straw. This, after I had already sold all the blood in my heart to the film industry, which after a few meetings and screenwriting awards, looked like it might want to take a sip from that straw.

A sip, because as good as things were looking, I saw a long road in front of me. My work was not “commercial enough,” and my manager had made it clear that years would pass before I would be able to convince anyone that this lack of commerciality was a quality that was, well, commercial.

But no. My husband lost his job, and I found work in the fashion industry soon after. What I rapidly discovered was that, though out-of-towners could schedule meetings back-to-back all over town, Angelenos were expected to take a meeting at the last minute, or blithely accept a rescheduling. My boss, on the other hand, had no interest in moving around my personal days, and my sick days dwindled in my first three months on the job. It took only a few months for the meetings to dry up and for me to start writing a Santa Claus script out of desperation.

So, the blood-sucking fashion job with the inflexible hours was right next to a scrap yard, which apparently opened at the crack of dawn because when I got there at seven thirty every morning, the orange peel grapple was already grabbing away. If I had a minute, I watched it go up and down as I clutched my coffee, and I thought, one day I should get a video camera and film this because my son would love it. Really love it.

My son was about eighteen months old and just learning to talk. I missed him while I was at work, adored him when he was awake and with me, and the rest of the time, I found room to resent him for taking me away from writing. He was then, and has remained, a fireball of energy. His teacher alternated between calling him a Jack Russell terrier and a buzz saw. He is also obsessive. Right now, he has a room full of Legos. Before that, it was Thomas the Tank Engine, and before that, it was trucks. Big yellow trucks. He wouldn’t fall asleep unless he gripped a toy truck in each fist. When he received a Tonka loader for Christmas, it was love at first sight. He called it “lolo.”

One morning, with the vision of that big ‘lolo’ that I would later know as an orange peel grapple dancing in my head, I dialed a friend’s number. I’d known this man from Brooklyn, and he’d come to Los Angeles a few years earlier to attend the American Film Institute. Most importantly, he had a camera. When I got his answering machine, instead of asking him for the camera, I said something else entirely, something like, “Hey, wanna produce a kid’s video together? Here’s the pitch. Trucks. Okay, bye.”

That moment may not seem pivotal, but most turning points don’t when they happen. That moment, I took control of my creative life. My friend called me back the minute he got up, and we began the journey toward becoming business owners. We did not pitch the idea around town, and we did not ask permission to bring the work to the public. We put the DVDs on Createspace, and eventually had to hold inventory to meet the demand.

Lolo Productions and the Totally Trucks series have had ups and downs, but the process taught me two things. One, my concepts need to be simple. If I can’t pitch it in five words, it’s not a concept I should develop. My second lesson is that I can be in control of my product and my creative life. If I think something is worthwhile, I can bring it to my customers. Becoming the producer and publisher of my work means I understand now what agents and studio executives meant when they said “commercial.”

Without my son, I never would have taken the life-sucking job. And without that job, there would have been no orange peel grapple. And without that scrapyard, there would have been no Totally Trucks. No eye for the commercial and no control of self-publishing. Who knows what I would have made without all the things that pissed me off for interrupting my work.

website: http://fashionismurder.com

amazon link:

Dead Is the New Black (Fashion Avenue Mysteries)

Nook:

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/dead-is-the-new-black-christine-demaio-rice/1105858865

Word and image 2 …

Being published is tremendous, talking with one’s readers even more so. I count myself fortunate to have been able to correspond with so many readers since 2008 owing to this amazing technological world we inhabit. But one of the most exciting developments in my writing life has been establishing the informal partnership with Pat Sweet.

There’s a simple reason.

I write in text.

Yes, I try to write visually but in essence I’m merely providing stimulants for a reader’s imagination. So that when Pat takes my words and becomes eyes or a window on my world … it is the most astonishing feeling. The same feeling occurs when my cover designer passes over her concepts for my books. In a moment a tangible view lies before me.

Take for example the stumpwork robe.

I knew what I wanted it to look like in my own head and that’s how I wrote it. Pat Sweet went one better and began to design it. She went to old masters’ images and found the portrait of a woman she felt looked like Ana for whom the robe is made in the first instance. Then she began to build a robe around the girl until we ended up with the finished product. Pat has now released gift cards of Ana in the robe and cards that show a more conceptual idea of the robe and both are just how I conceived it to be.

Already I’ve purchased some cards and sent them to people who have bought the books and written to me about them.  I especially sent one to Jane Nicholas who is my stumpwork embroidery teacher and on whose wonderful work the robe and its fictional history was based. And perhaps I’m biased but I had a look at cards in the shops and these are so much nicer!

It’s frightening really … sometimes I wonder if Pat inhabits whatever part of my brain is creative.

Postscript: I’m a lover of silks. Being an embroiderer it’s a given. I have a collection in the cupboard … swathes that I can use as a background for embroideries: black, taupe, cream, white, brown, oyster and softest pewter. I could happily wander the shelves of fabric shops (before they all closed down) looking at bolts of silk, running my finger across the slub, listening to the hiss as one fold fell against another.

But I love other fabric as well. I love the names … http://phrontistery.info/fabric.html

Or if you prefer, the names of fabrics used in medieval times … http://rosaliegilbert.com/fabricnames.html

 Pat found an historic catalogue of beautiful fabrics and promptly created a miniature version and it became another book ‘I needed’ for my miniature collection. I leave you with images of it. It covers fabric from the 1500’s to the 1900’s!!!

 

If you want to window shop go to www.bopressminiaturebooks.com and I guarantee you will come away in awe!

World-building … in words and images.

I’m a miniature book collector, but I’m sure those of you who know Mesmered’s blog are quite aware of that. Quite aware also that I have an occasional  creative partnership with a highly respected miniature bookmaker from the USA. Pat Sweet of Bo Press Miniature Books

Pat is responsible in large part for the mapping of my fantasy world which is slowly taking place on Mesmered on the page titled The Chronicles of Eirie  A couple of weeks ago, a cryptic email arrived from Pat asking me to write a few words on the mapping of Eirie, not too much… maybe 200 words? And because I love fiction and long ago had conceived one of the Chronicles being about a cartographer, I drafted a quick 200 words from the mouth of a character called Gervais. Not sure about the name, but these are the words:

‘My name is Gervais. I am a cartographer, an explorer…

My world is strange and prior to me sitting down with my knowledge and my journals, no one had mapped Eirie. They were afraid… afraid of Others, what doors might be opened, what repercussions might ensue. 

Travel in my world was carried out by worn paths, by word of mouth. No one would ever draw a map or write the  name of a place for fear of offending those who live around us but whom we don’t see unless they wish it.

I am different. The edge of this world enticed me and so I travelled and as I journeyed, I drew lines and wrote names and the maps you see are the result. 

It was not without danger I can tell you. It turned my hair silver and I lost the love of my life. It is a story that will told before I die… if only because the Others demanded it be told and I am under oath to say so.

Signed

Gervais, son of Giovanni Poli. 

Isle of Marino. Veniche.’

In addition, Pat asked me to send her some scans of where each of the places were within their provinces. That done, I promptly moved back to continued efforts to prepare the historical fiction for publication.

Then last week, I went to the mailbox and found a tiny parcel… tiny parcels are Pat’s forte…

I opened it to find a longish square of card wrapped in crackling tissue, inside which was a series of minikin bookplates I had to sign as Pat planned to issue limited editions of a cartographer’s folio.

But how does one sign tiny plates in the finest writing?

I did my best… with embroidery and magnifying glasses in place.

In that same tiny parcel was another little packet, another exciting piece for my collection. It was in fact, exactly what she was intending to release: number 1 of the limited editions … for me.

This is what makes writing so wonderful … that you never how the world you created will be perceived by your readers. I put the thoughts to Pat (remember she was a theatre costumier) and this is what she said:

“Imagining an author’s work was my trade all my working life. And I had a lot less to go on: imagine writing a novel, but only in dialogue and with a few sparse stage directions. I think it must be very strange for a writer to compare what she thought she wrote with what comes out of someone else’s imagination. It must be a little like reading your own work in another language. I’m sure what seemed very specific to the writer turns out to have had a broad interpretation. When you think of the number of imaginings and translations that a work of fiction goes through:

1. what the author imagines

2. what the author actually writes

3. what the designer reads

4. what the designer decides to draw

5. what the designer actually draws.

6. what the viewer sees

(To which I would add one more thing, Pat)

7. what the editor suggests.

And for a script, add on what the director imagines and what the actors contribute. All very creative people adding their minds and ideas. And if they do their jobs, it’s still unmistakably yours.”

More about creative ideas in the next post when I will continue to illustrate Pat’s interpretation of the world of Eirie.

A shattered mirror… an Indie Chicks view.

When I first read Cheryl Bradshaw’s revelatory piece in the Indie Chicks’ Anthology, it was these words that drew my attention:

‘There were times when I felt like my life was like a shattered mirror, and I was on my hands and knees desperately searching for all the pieces of myself so I could glue them back together and feel whole again.  During those times I wondered how many other women out there in the world felt the same exact way. ‘

Powerful words and a beautiful analogy. Read what Cheryl has to say…

Just Me and James Dean…by Cheryl Bradshaw

When I was a little girl I used to make up stories at bedtime for my younger sister, Michelle.  The most vivid centered on a boy and a girl who received a piece of gum for Halloween in their trick-or-treat bag, and when they chewed it, they were transported to a magical land where they were granted unlimited wishes.  Even at such a young age, the process of concocting stories was effortless.  My mind revolved like the reel of a movie spinning inside my head.

I spent many hours daydreaming as a child.  Back then everything was as beautiful and white as a freshly painted fence.  I fantasized about the day I would get married, the children I would have, the house I would own, and the life I would live when I was all grown up.

When I was a teenager, my mind still swirled with girlish hopes and dreams.  I remember lying on my bed in my room staring at a poster on my wall of James Dean.  He was hunkered down on the seat of a motorcycle, and Marilyn Monroe was perched behind him with her arms wrapped around his waist, and her head resting on his shoulder.  I wanted to jump into the poster like the girl in A-Ha’s Take on Me video and ride off into life’s highway, just me and James.  Together, forever.

When I became an adult and moved out on my own to attend college at the tender age of eighteen, I thought I had my whole world figured out.  I’d developed a slight obsession with Agatha Christie and knew mysteries and thrillers were the perfect genre for me as a writer.  All kinds of ideas flowed for the first novel, and I thought I was on my way.  There was just one problem: I never started writing.

Why?

I wasn’t prepared for the events that were about to take place in my life or how they would affect my journey.  Life didn’t turn out to be the dream I thought it would be, and I struggled—a lot, and faced challenges and trials that at times seemed more than I could bear.  My relationships didn’t always work out, and all the babies I hoped to have didn’t come like I’d planned.   I

Time went on and I struggled, but eventually I picked myself back up and I healed.  With a new lease on life and a positive attitude about what I’d overcome, I thought about writing again.  In 2009 I wrote Black Diamond Death, the first novel in my Sloane Monroe series.  Sinnerman followed six months later and now I’m hard at work on the third, I Have a Secret.

As I sit here and write this, I’m shocked that I am being so candid.  Normally, I safeguard my feelings.  To say I’m a private person is an understatement, but I feel compelled to get this out.  My message in all of this is to never lose sight of your hopes and dreams.  Never forget who you are, where you came from, and what you are capable of accomplishing in your life.  And if you have a passion, foster it with everything you have inside you.  Let it shine.  Let it breathe.  Let it be.

When I pondered about the dedication I would use for Sinnerman, my direction was clear and I wrote the following:

This book is dedicated to anyone who’s ever had a dream. We have but one life, and one opportunity to live it.  Make it last, make it count, and make it the best it can be.  Live your dreams, I know I am.

Today, I’m no longer waiting for James Dean to ride up on his shiny black motorcycle.  I’ve fallen for a different kind of boy now, one who dreams of wide open spaces and a simple life.  One who wants to be a cowboy when he grows up.  Now the poster I see in my visions is one of man hoisting me up on the back of his trusty steed while we ride away together into the Wyoming sunset.

If you asked me ten years ago if this was the life I thought I wanted, my answer might have been no, but if you asked me today I would say I’m right where I’m supposed to be.  My life isn’t perfect, the challenges are still there, and I still have a lot to learn about myself.  But no matter what the future holds for me, I know one thing for sure: I’ll never stop writing.

*******

This is one story from Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. To read all of the stories, buy your copy today.

*******

Cheryl’s book’s on Amazon:

Black Diamond Death (Sloane Monroe Series—Book One)

Sinnerman (Sloane Monroe Series—Book Two)

Whispers of Murder (A Novella)

To learn more about Cheryl, visit her here:

Blog for Readers

Website

Twitter

Facebook

Gisborne: Book of Pawns

Guy of Gisborne (Tiger Aspect Productions/BBC)

Twelfth century England – a time when status means power.

Guy of Gisborne – a man of disturbing secrets and subtle skills.

Ysabel of Moncrieff – a woman of status whose life changes with the receipt of a letter.

Two people drawn together by loyalty, lust, and a lost inheritance and whose existence depends on whom they trust, on how they move between Church and State…

and on how they play the game.

The covers for my first historical fiction have just arrived. I’m delighted with them.

They illustrate the entire feeling of the novel. The story is a journey, both physical and emotional for the two protagonists: Guy of Gisborne and Ysabel of Moncrieff. The green strip along the bottom is part of a medieval painting… a bird’s eye view of a rural scene showing the country through which the two characters passed.

The documents overlaying the whole piece are twelfth century documents.

The chessboard and pawn are the designer’s own.

In this instance, armed with the briefest of briefs and on the understanding that I believe my designer has great empathy, she went to work and I’m content with what she has created. To me it is the essence of the story.

For a writer like me, receiving the cover is like a surprise birthday present, maybe that Gucci scarf you may have coveted all your life… it’s the wrapping, the ribbon, the perfectly inscribed card. In the final outcome, it’s what helps me make it over the line when that last stretch looks longer than a marathon.

Only a few yards to go now and I am done!

The full cover for the print version.

E-book cover.

Pup grows up…

Dear Great Aunt J,

Mum says I should write and tell you ALL about what I’ve been doing lately. Well, if I told you ALL, we’d be here forever, ‘cos I’m so busy having adventures. So I’ll keep it short, cos I know you’re old and likely to fall asleep.

I am sooo excited about every day! I go for looong walks with Grandmother T and Mum and Dad and we always go to the beach and it’s so cool, cos I get to swim and chase birds and bark at Grandmother T. She’s pretty cool too for an old dude as she swims better n’ me… but I’m trying, honest! Dad says very trying. What does he mean, great Aunt J?

Me n' Grandmother T in her wading pool.

Me watching TV!

Grandmother T was a bit cranky for awhile until she got medicine for her hips and now she ‘s great and we run everywhere.

Do you know what?

I’ve moved out of home! It’s so triffic! I live with Grandmother T in the boat shed at the end of the garden and I’ve got my own apartment that Dad built me cos Grandmother T won’t let me in her bed. I’ve got a room that Dad made like a tent and it’s dark and I love crawling in at night. We watch TV with Dad and Mum in the big house till they go to bed and then Grandmother T and I go over to the boatshed and we get dogchocs on our pillows.

I swam in rockpools last week! It was FANTASTIC. The water was warm and I swam from one side to the other. Mum says I’m a legend . Dad says I am too, but he says I’m only a legend in my own lunchbox. What do you think he means, Great Aunt J? Cos’ I eat three big meals a day so my lunchbox is BIG for a Jack Russell pup.

Anyway, I gotta go. More adventures, more legends. Tell Aunt H (you know she’s my doctor) I’ll see her in the hospital on Thursday. Dad says it’ll be fun and that my testimonials will change for the better then. What does he mean, Great Aunt J?  Cos I think my testimonials are pretty good as they are!

Love and licks,

Pup.

PS: I wrote this song but you can’t tell Mum, cos she’ll think I’m rude and I won’t get any doc chocs.  I wrote it on a windy day.

I got wind in my ears,

Me n' Mum n' Grandmother T after swimming in the rockpools.

I got wind in my tum and 

when it comes out, 

it comes out my bum,

cooooooosss I’m a legend.

In my lunchbox.

I reckon it’s a cool song!

An Indie Chick and a sack of flour…

It’s a great saying: ‘a well made flour sack stands on its own.‘ And the most perfect way to describe any good narrative. Dani More is a thriller/crime writer and here’s her take on the whole indie writing journey.

WRITING FROM A FLOUR SACK

by

Dani Amore

Fact:  I was born on a bathroom floor.  Literally.  My arrival into this world was followed seconds later by an unceremonious drop onto the cold tile of St. John’s Hospital in Detroit, Michigan. You see, I was the fifth out of six children.  My mother knew my delivery would be fast, but the nurse at the hospital insisted she go to the bathroom before the doctor arrived.

Later, after the drama and I was pronounced healthy, my mother told the doctor that the nurse should have listened to her, that she had warned the nurse that the baby (me) was going to arrive any second.  That, having already delivered four children, she knew her body pretty well.

The doctor said, “Five kids, huh?  Maybe you should tell your husband to keep it in his pants.”

 True story.

 ***

 Both of my parents were born in Italy.  They emigrated to the U.S. in the 1950s.  My father always said the biggest difference between Italy and America at that time was that you could work your ass off in Italy and have nothing to show for it.  If you worked hard in America, you could eventually become wealthy.  He started a construction company and worked 6 days a week, from dawn to dusk.  Eventually, he was successful.

My mother raised six children.

She is a strong woman.

Both she and my father share a love of aphorisms.

The one I remember most?  “A well-made flour sack stands on its own.” It was almost like a mantra with her.

At a key point in my writing life, that phrase came in handy.

 ***

 So there I am.  I’ve got a full-time job in advertising.  I’m writing about products that suck, working for people I can’t stand, and with two good friends, drinking every night after work.  At a little bar not far from the office.  I’m averaging about five or six drinks a night.  Every weeknight.  More on the weekends.

But on those weekend mornings, I’m writing fiction.  Just short stories that I try to picture in The Paris Review.

Everything gets rejected with remarkable efficiency.

One night, probably half in the bag, I come across THE DAY OF THE JACKAL on television.  The original movie is pretty campy and the remake with Bruce Willis is a pure load of crap.  But the book.  The novel by Frederick Forsyth is one of my all-time favorites.  The scene on television is the best part of the movie:  It’s where the Jackal is sighting in his rifle.  He paints a little face on a small melon, then blows it apart from 500 yards away.

There’s no epiphany.  I go to bed.  But as I toss and turn, vodka fumes in a cloud around my pillow, I think about the narrative structure of the story.  I’ve read the book several times.  Even have a collector’s edition.  The chase.  The tension.  The violence.

When I wake up the next morning, I make an especially strong pot of coffee.  I push aside my short literary fiction, and start a new story.

It’s about a hitman and a female escort.

Later that day, during some interminable meeting where everyone is throwing out insidious phrases like “let’s get on the same page,” and “think outside the box,” I realized what I was doing.

I was writing to please others, instead of focusing on the kind of stories and books I like.

Crime fiction.  Thrillers.  Suspense.

I had forgotten one of my mother’s cardinal rules.

A well-made flour sack stands on its own.

 ***

 I know it sounds melodramatic.  But the truth is, everything changed after that night.  I still despised the advertising industry, but I no longer let it bother me so much.  I begged off going to the bar with my friends, instead choosing to work out and then get some writing done in the evenings.

Eventually, I finished several crime novels.  Even landed a big New York literary agent.

But a funny thing happened.  My agent, and publishers, seemed to have endless debates about how to market me.  Should I be a hardboiled crime novelist?  A thriller writer?  A traditional mystery author?

There were suggestions to change this book and change that one.  Then change it back.  Then change it to something else.

But now I had learned.  I was smarter.

I told them thanks, but no thanks.

It was time to stand up and be the writer I wanted to be.

So I became an indie author.

And when my first book became a Top 10 Mystery on Amazon, I knew I had made the right decision.

 Never underestimate the power of an Italian mother armed with an aphorism.

Dani More’s books:

Death By Sarcasm

Dead Wood

The Killing League

To Find A Mountain

To learn more about Dani, visit her at http://www.daniamore.com

Anglophilia bites Indie Chick on neck…

When I began Sherwood Ltd. I had no idea that Anne R. Allen’s inimitable fiction was based on fact. In fact, more fact than fiction. It’s hard to believe that any one could have had such an out-of -body experience in their writing life, but Anne did and lived to tell… and sell… the story!

Read on!

A KINKY ADVENTURE IN ANGLOPHILIA

 By Anne R. Allen

When I started writing funny women’s fiction fifteen years ago, if anybody had given me a realistic idea of my chances for publication, I’d have chosen a less stressful hobby, like do-it-yourself brain surgery, professional frog herding, or maybe staging an all-Ayatollah drag revue in downtown Tehran.

As a California actress with years of experience of cattle-drive auditions, greenroom catfights and vitriolic reviewers, I thought I had built up enough soul-calluses to go the distance. But nothing had prepared me for the glacial waiting periods; the bogus, indifferent and/or suddenly-out-of-business agents; and the heartbreaking, close-but-no-cigar reads from big-time editors—all the rejection horrors that make the American publishing industry the impenetrable fortress it has become.

But some of us are too writing-crazed to stop ourselves. I was then, as now, sick in love with the English language.

I had three novels completed. A fourth had run as a serial in a California entertainment weekly. One of my stories had been short-listed for an international prize, and a play had been produced to good reviews. I was bringing in a few bucks—mostly with short pieces for local magazines and freelance editing.

But meantime, my savings had evaporated along with my abandoned acting career; my boyfriend had ridden his Harley into the Big Sur sunset; my agent was hammering me to write formula romance; and I was contemplating a move to one of the less fashionable neighborhoods of the rust belt.

Even acceptances turned into rejections: a UK zine that had accepted one of my stories folded. But when the editor sent the bad news, he mentioned he’d taken a job with a small UK book publisher—and did I have any novels?

I sent him one my agent had rejected as “too over the top.” Within weeks, I was offered a contract by my new editor—a former BBC comedy writer—for FOOD OF LOVE. Included was an invitation to come over the pond to do some promotion. 

So I rented out my beach house, packed my bags and bought a ticket to Gainsborough, Lincolnshire, where my new publishers had recently moved into a 19th century former textile mill on the banks of the river Trent—the river George Eliot fictionalized as “the Floss.”

George Eliot. I was going to be working and living only a few hundred yards from the ruins of the house where she wrote her classic novel about the 19th century folk who lived and died by the power of Lincolnshire’s great tidal river. Maybe some of that greatness would rub off on me.

At the age of… well, I’m not telling…I was about to have the adventure of my life.

I knew the company published mostly erotica, but was branching into mainstream and literary fiction. They had already published the first novel of a distinguished poet, and a famous Chicago newspaper columnist was in residence, awaiting the launch of his new book.

But when I arrived, I found the great Chicagoan had left in a mysterious fit of pique, the “erotica” was seriously hard core kink, and the old building on the Trent was more of the William Blake Dark Satanic variety than George Elliot’s bucolic “Mill on the Floss.”

Some of my fears subsided when I was greeted by a friendly group of unwashed, fiercely intellectual young men who presented me with generous quantities of warm beer, cold meat pies and galleys to proof. After a beer or two, I found myself almost comprehending their northern accents.

I held it together until I saw my new digs: a grimy futon and an old metal desk, hidden behind stacks of book pallets in the corner of an unheated warehouse, about a half a block from the nearest loo. My only modern convenience was an ancient radio abandoned by a long-ago factory girl.

I have to admit to admit to some tears of despair.

Until, from the radio, Big Ben chimed six o’clock.

That’s six pm, GMT.

Greenwich Mean Time. The words hit me with all the sonorous power of Big Ben itself. I had arrived at the mean, the middle, the center that still holds—no matter what rough beasts might slouch through the cultural deserts of the former empire. This was where my language, my instrument, was born.
I clutched my galley-proof to my heart. I might still be a rejected nobody in the land of my birth—but I’d landed on the home planet: England. And there, I was a published novelist. Just like George Eliot.

Three years later, I returned to California, older, fatter (the English may not have the best food, but their BEER is another story) and a lot wiser. That Chicagoan’s fit of pique turned out to be more than justified. The company was swamped in debt. They never managed to get me US distribution. Shortly before my second book THE BEST REVENGE was to launch, the managing partner withdrew his capital, sailed away and mysteriously disappeared off his yacht—his body never found. The company sputtered and died.

And I was back in the slush pile again.

But I had a great plot for my next novel.

Unfortunately, nobody wanted it. I was now tainted with the “published-to-low-sales-numbers label and my chances were even worse than before.

So I wrote two more novels. Nobody wanted them either.

Then I started a blog. I figured I could at least let other writers benefit from my mistakes. My blog followers grew. And grew. The blog won some awards. My Alexa and Klout ratings got better and better. Finally, publishers started approaching ME. (There’s a moral for writers here—social networking works.)

And finally, six years later, another publisher, Popcorn Press, fell in love with FOOD OF LOVE and sent me a contract. Soon after, they contracted to publish THE BEST REVENGE, too.

And this September, a brand new indie ebook publisher called Mark Williams International Digital Publishing asked if I had anything else ready to publish.

Just happen to have a few unpubbed titles handy, said I.

He liked them.

So in October and November of 2011, those three new comic mysteries will appear as ebooks: THE GATSBY GAME, GHOSTWRITERS IN THE SKY, and SHERWOOD, LTD (that’s the novel inspired by my English adventures.) Popcorn Press will publish paper versions in 2012. THE BEST REVENGE debuted as an ebook in December, with the paper book to follow in February.

A fifteen-year journey finally seems to be paying off.

Did I make some mistakes? Oh yeah—a full set of them. But would I wish away my English adventures?

Not a chance.

*******

 Blog http://annerallen.blogspot.com

Twitter @annerallen

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SHERWOOD LTD;

(Romantic comedy/mystery: MWiDP) A penniless socialite becomes a 21^st century Maid Marian, but is “Robin” planning to kill her?  Buy at amazon.co.uk , amazon.com, or Barnes and Noble

THE BEST REVENGE:

(Romantic comedy/mystery: Popcorn Press) A suddenly-broke 1980s celebutante runs off to California with nothing but her Delorean and her designer furs, looking for her long-lost gay best friend—and finds herself accused of murder. Buy at amazon.co.uk or amazon.com and in paper at Popcorn Press or in paper at Amazon.com .

Joanna Lumley…

Last week, I watched the first part of a documentary about one person’s journey to the source of the Nile.  It’s been done before by many different presenters but none captured my interest the way Joanna Lumley has.

What is it about her? 

Is it that we are of an age?

Or that various roles she played have created markers in my own life?

My first encounter with blonde Ms. Lumley was not long after my husband and I married, when she became the striking, afraid-of-nothing Purdey from The Avengers.

I’d always been an Avengers fan but Purdey captured my twenty-something’s imagination so much, not only did I have my hair cut in the Purdey style (no images of self  will be shown!), but we named our first Jack Russell after her.

Then of course there was Ab Fab – and no, nothing about Pats captured me enough to make me a drug addict or name my dog after her. But she made me laugh till my sides split and I sooo admired Saffi’s patience. (But I have been known to occasionally put the hair in a French roll although not as much air or hair as Pats.)

There have been the Miss Marples where Lumley plays Miss Marple’s best friend – a wonderfully portrayed eccentric. And there have been many roles I haven’t been fortunate enough to see… roles she describes with fresh honesty in her book, Absolutely.

There’ve been other documentaries. Her Girl Friday documentary was impressive. Filmed off the coast of Madagascar it was laced with truth, no artifice, no makeup, no smart clothes – telling it like was – difficult. She did what I could never do! Survivor without the glitz and prizes.

Then the Search for the Northern Lights – enthusiasm, delight… such delight that it’s impossible not to share in the thrill. Each time, she peels away the layers allowing one woman’s view of a particular event.

Her successful effort waging war on Parliament for the Gurkhas was covered internationally… she became an outspoken heroine.

And now the Nile.

So what is it about her?

For both my husband and myself it is, as mentioned, unbounded enthusiasm, sometimes the most delicious but miniscule naivety. She uses the wonderfully English word ‘thrilling’ to describe so much and one is quite capable of being ‘thrilled’ by her. She displays superb etiquette and respect for the cultures in which she finds herself and just occasionally a little bit of naughtiness – that tiny seductive glint – timeless flirting in action and men in every culture and of any age adoring her for it.

It’s so refreshing to watch television and see natural enjoyment of life displayed spontaneously, and especially by someone from my own generation.

Today, so much has the capacity to make one feel tired, disillusioned and bored.

Thankfully life through Joanna’s eyes is the complete reverse.