Talking to myself.

This might sound like a very odd thing to do, but interviewing your characters before you put pen to paper was an idea given to me by the lovely Claire Walker whom I met on a writing retreat at Weetwood Hall in Leeds. 

Claire's idea to try to get to the nitty-gritty of your characters by asking them a set of questions is great. These can be anything you like, and the process is more or less along the same lines of an interview you might find in a magazine.  Here's a small part of my latest endeavour for my latest, as yet untitled story:

Just as I’m beginning to think he isn’t going to show, the door opens.  My head whips round and I’m greeted by JC, hotelier and billionaire.

Wow, he’s so tall, of Spanish descent I’m told, with over-long dark, curly hair and brown eyes.  Incredibly handsome, in a rugged sort of way, he has broad, muscular shoulders and well-developed arms and chest. He works out for sure. My mouth drops open. His presence is mesmerising. He holds himself incredibly well, and immediately comes across as quietly confident, dominant, and proud of what and who he is. And why not? JC is filthy rich, with more money than he knows what to do with. 

The next thing I notice when he walks into the room is the jagged scar on the right hand side of his temple. This, I’ve been told, is a result of the car accident that almost cost him his life. Luckily, he walked away to live another day, but I wonder how this has affected him deep down? Is he still the same man? I certainly intend to ask him.

I’ve seen him in photographs but these haven’t prepared me for the utter size of him. He’s at least six feet three, with shoulders in proportion to his stature.  It’s a warm day and he’s carrying his jacket over one muscular arm.  I can’t take my eyes off the width of his shoulders, outlined beautifully in the crisp, white shirt he’s wearing. His legs are incased in trousers that even to my inexperienced eye are quite obviously bespoke. The fabric is first class, top quality.  He looks long, lean and lithe, and I shiver involuntarily.  I rise to my feet on trembling legs.

He reaches over and shakes my hand. His grip is firm, and for some reason it sends a tingle through my flesh.

  

“Thanks for agreeing to see me, Mr C.”

“I can spare you an hour. That should suffice, shouldn’t it?”

“I don’t know. My readers are voracious and interested in everything about you. Can we reschedule if we don’t get through it all?”

“I talk fast,” he says. “We won’t need to reschedule.”

His reply doesn’t faze me. I've been doing this job long enough to realise that not all interviews are likely to run smoothly. His eyes meet mine and I’m memorised by how dark they are, or is it because we’re indoors in artificial light?

“Um… are we doing the interview here in the foyer?”

“I thought my office had made that plain?”

So - he values his privacy, but I can’t blame him for that, especially after what’s happened to him recently. I sink back down onto the leather sofa.  For some stupid reason my legs feel like jelly and I don’t know why.  

I take a deep breath. “Okay, shall we make a start? Can I just say, first of all, how sorry I was to hear about your recent car accident.”

“Thanks.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

He sits down in an adjoining chair and raises a dark eyebrow.  “I don’t remember.”

“What - nothing?”

He rubs his temple near to his scar. “No. I hit my head, and my brain - or so the doctors tell me - has blocked it out.”

“What other injuries did you sustain?”

“I was trapped by my left leg which has been left slightly weaker. With time it should recover.  Fortunately, intensive physiotherapy is helping with that.”

I speak bluntly. “Does the fact that you now have a scar on your face bother you?”

“I would rather it wasn’t there, obviously.”

“But, does it affect your day-to-day life? I mean, what about your relationships with the opposite sex?

His gaze is even. “It doesn’t hold me back in the slightest. I can assure you of that.”

I flush. “Do you remember anything previous to the accident?”

“Some.”

“Like what?”

“Most of my business dealings - boardroom stuff, mainly. Fortunately, I lost very little of those details. Some things are still a little scratchy, but coming back bit by bit.”

“Getting clearer, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything that you’re still finding hard to remember?”

“I still don’t know why I was in the car that night, and where I was going. Whilst I was in the hospital for the two months after the accident, I had a regular visitor who swore she knew me intimately.  She insisted she’d been a passenger in the car with me.”

My ears prick up.  “Really? Can’t you check it out? I mean, are there no witnesses who can corroborate her story?”

He lets out his breath. “Unfortunately not. There was no mention of anyone else being in the vehicle with me.  I’ve also had all the medical records checked out too.  Nothing.”

“So, she wasn’t injured? Maybe she’s lying.”

“She’s an opportunist.”

“You mean you think she’s seen it all in the press, and decided to try her luck?”

“Yes.”

“Honestly, some people. Do you feel any connection with this woman?”

He swallows harshly. “Yes, unfortunately there is a connection. I can feel it. So, that just makes things worse.”

“Really?”

“She’s stunning. I’m drawn to her, like I’ve never been drawn to anyone before. Physically, I’m very attracted to her. She also tells me I got her pregnant.”

“Oh, my God, really?”

So there you go. I think talking to yourself can sometimes work.

Hope you all have a wonderful Christmas.

Until next time

Kim x

Such a liberated girl

So, what have I been up to in November?

Well, at the beginning of the month, I took the train to Edinburgh with two of my sisters, where in-between visiting the sights, we shopped until we dropped - literally. A third visit (for me) to the spectacular Royal Yacht Britannia was, of course, obligatory, and eating a delicious lunch afterwards in the lovely tea room finished the day off nicely.

I’ve also been writing some short stories. Having been rejected from Harlequin Mills & Boon for the second time, and in-between licking my wounds, I thought I’d try something different for a while.  And, guess what? - I like it. I really do. I’m just about to submit my second attempt to People’s Friend, so keep your fingers crossed.

On a completely different matter, I've removed myself from Facebook, and I never thought I'd say this, but I feel strangely liberated.  

Even though I loved interacting with my friends on there, Facebook, as a social media platform, was taking over my existence. It was the first thing I looked at when I awoke, and the last thing I looked at before I closed my eyes at night. 

So - it’s gone. No more. If I ever get published, then I'll maybe think again, but for the moment it is total bliss. And of course, all that spare time I now have means I get more writing done!

I’ve not completely disappeared though.You can still find me on Twitter @kim_lain 

Until next time. 

Kim x

Oh, Ross Poldark, what are you trying to do to me?

It’s Wednesday - only three days have passed - but we’re all still talking about Poldark Series 2 - episode 8 - which aired on Sunday 23 October 2016. 

As a huge fan of this wonderful series, this episode shocked me greatly. And as someone who has recently been diagnosed with high blood pressure, this episode did not help! I mean - come on - only the week before hadn’t we seen Ross present Delmelza with a beautiful pair of silk stockings which he then proceeded to roll up her legs in a very seductive and sensual way?

So, why did Ross betray her? Okay, so he’d had a terrible day after losing two more men in the mine, and because of that, took the decision to close Wheal Grace for ever. Was being blinded by passionate rage after opening the letter from Elizabeth in which she told him she had agreed to marry George an excuse to do what he did?  

In fact, what exactly was going through his mind that night when he did the dirty on his wife? And correct me if I’m wrong, but after staying the night with Elizabeth, didn’t he return the following morning, with his tail between his legs, to tell Delmelza - to her face - that ‘he had no choice’?

So, what does that mean? Why did he have no choice?

• Ross, of course, is extremely fond of Delmelza. She's the mother of his son - but he can’t help but still love Elizabeth. She was, after all, his very first love, and he’s always held a torch for her.
• Francis is now dead (tragically drowned in the mine) so now, once again, Elizabeth is temptingly free. Could Ross not resist her?
• Secretly, and this is what I think, did Ross think that by having sex with Elizabeth, George would then consider her soiled goods and refuse to marry her? Revenge would be his, and Elizabeth would still be around for him to call on as and when he pleased. But, looking at this from George’s POV, stealing Elizabeth from under the nose of Ross would destroy him for sure. And that is exactly what George would want.

Many of you know that my ambition is to write for Harlequin M&B, and before this episode I imagined Ross as the idea hero - dominant, good-looking, commanding and proud. Ross always had a strong (if sometimes deeply buried!) moral code, but now I'm not so sure. This is definitely a new side to him. He's certainly gone down in my estimation. I'm not sure how he and Delmelza can recover from this. 

What do you all think?

Until next time 

Kim x

Obligatory October observations!

Okay, I'll admit it. I do love to people-watch. And now we're in the Balearics for a couple of weeks, I've been indulging in my favourite past-time.

I don't know if this happens to anybody else, but when we're on holiday DH and I always think we see people we know, or people who appear to look like people we know. For instance, the head waiter in our hotel could be the twin brother of the lady who works in our local chemist back home. We've also seen an actor from a TV soap and Captain Bird's Eye swimming in our pool.

This has been happening off and on all week, and especially with one particular lady who I believed was someone I used to work with.  It all came to a head last night when she gesticulated to me wildly and shouted me over with a huge grin.  There you go, I said to DH, with a rather smug look on my face, it is her.  So - I trotted over and said hello, and asked her if she'd now retired from the secondary school in Blackburn? Um - er - she replied, I actually work at a bank in Manchester.  To cut a long story short, she wasn't who I thought she was, and it was all very embarrassing, and the only reason she'd waved at me was because she'd noticed me staring at her.  Several times. Oh, dear.  DH always says my nosiness will be the death of me, and he's probably right.

Take for instance, the poor old guy I noticed in the dining room, armed with a walking stick, and obviously struggling to carry his food. I felt so sorry for him. I even thought of offering to help him but then, after watching him for a while, I realised he actually eats more than anyone else I know. I can't tell you how many times this seemingly feeble man returns to his table laden down with piles of food balanced on his plate, some of which he slips deftly into his wind cheater pocket to eat later. This clever little dodge happens at both breakfast and dinner so instead of the two meals a day he's paid for, he's getting four. I mean, how crafty is that? I've also discovered on the grapevine (DH) that this same guy borrows the hotel luggage trolley on a daily basis to carry huge quantities of water back from the local supermarket. Now, I know we're all being encouraged to drink more fluids, but ten litres a day? What's he doing? Washing in it?

But, to finish - and this is the worse one of all - I got the shock of my life today.  It was early - around nine o'clock - and DH and I were strolling along the path that overlooks the sea. Now, Santo Tomas has a bit of a reputation for nudity but usually those who wish to indulge - I'm told - congregate further around the headland and not near the main body of hotels. Not so this morning.  I just happened to glance up and - yes, you've guessed it - I spotted a man on his balcony, and, unfortunately for him, the front of his balcony disguised very little, if you know what I mean. There was nothing hidden. Everything was visible. Ahem! And yes, he should have been wearing some clothes before deciding to take in the morning air.

At the same time as I spotted him, a young Spanish teenager who was walking past shouted something up to him - clearly some sort of obscenity - which caused the naked man to scuttle back into his apartment quicker than a scalded cat. 

All this was before breakfast. We definitely had to have a quick glass of cava to put us right.

Until next time.

Kim X

Like the slither of a snake

It’s September already. Oh, my word, where has this year gone? The nights are drawing in. There is a definite nip in the air. Yesterday was the first time I felt the need to wear a cardigan indoors. The subtle change in the weather has crept up upon us slowly. Fortunately, at the end of this month DH and I will be jetting off to Minorca for a couple of weeks to celebrate our 36th wedding anniversary, but before I left on my travels, I did want to try and submit my latest story to Mills and Boon.

So, I’m pleased to report I've done that.  Originally, I was going to wait for my reader’s report from the NWS, but since I’ve now edited the first three chapters to within an inch of their life, I’ve taken the plunge.

A Bombshell for the Barrister is the same manuscript that came up against the lovely ladies from Harlequin at my one-to-one at the RNA Conference in Lancaster back in July.  My heroine was a woman priest, and although that’s not too controversial these days, they did tell me that none of M&B lines in the UK would acquire a story that featured such a heroine.

Instead, they advised me to submit the first three chapters to Love Inspired. Love Inspired is another Harlequin line that covers a large part of America and actively acquires stories like mine. At first, I was excited, and had every intention of doing that, but then the doubts set in. Did I really want to write stories that feature a strong religious theme? Although my story involves a heroine whose occupation is that of a cleric, the faith theme is not overly strong, and her occupation is not necessarily vital to the plot and characters.

Mmm, so what to do for the best? I turned to Kate Walker, who was also at the conference, and as I’m one of her students in the group she refers to as her stalkers, I hope she didn’t mind me doing that. 

Kate - having written 65 wonderful books for Mills and Boon so far (see her latest book - Indebted to Moreno) knows exactly what she is talking about, so I asked her to be frank. Actually, I asked more of her than that. I asked her what I should do, and her very kind advice was this:

Had it been my intention to write a inspirational Christian romance? Did I want to carry on writing stories like that? Er … um …

Or was my ambition still to write for Harlequin Presents (Mills and Boon Modern) - my favourite line of all time? Absolutely!

Okay, so I should probably scrap the heroine’s profession and give her a fresh occupation. 

So, I’ve gone and done it. My story now differs quite a bit from the one submitted to the NWS, which is why I’ve decided not to wait for the report.

I might regret it. I probably will. Have I been reckless? Yes, possibly. But, sometimes, you just have to take a chance. And, when I get my reader’s report back, I can then use the advice given to me to try and revise the rest of the manuscript.

By the way, just in case you were wondering - like the slither of a snake is the first sentence of my second scene.  

Panic - like the slither of a snake, it shot down her spine. 

She’d seen him. Seen the way he’d pushed open the door and stared around with distaste on his face. And now? Now she felt him. Felt every single part of him as he strode across the sticky, drink-stained carpet towards her. For a split second she froze, unable to move. Unable to believe he was actually here, living and breathing the same air as everyone else. 

Wish me luck.

Until next time 

Kim x

Feeling, hot, hot, hot.

I've come to the conclusion that trying to write on a beach is a bit like pulling teeth. 

The azure blue sky, the delightfully warm Mediterranean Sea, the gleam and glint of the yachts on the water, the sun-beds, the colourfully striped parasols - they stretch before me in the distance, as far as the eye can see. It's a beautiful sight, but how the heck am I supposed to concentrate when all around me life is happening before my very eyes?

I can probably say, with the utmost certainty, that I will never see any of these people again, but that doesn't matter, as we're enjoying ourselves here and now. As I look around, I'm surrounded by a rich tapestry of nationalities. And, just for a while - for a brief moment in time - without us all ever realising - our lives have coincided. We've come together.   We're rubbing shoulders.

There's every shape and size. There's the young and beautiful with their skinny, lithe figures. People with a few more years under their belt whose bodies are a little more lived in (like me), and, of course, many different skin tones.  I've heard American, Spanish, French and German accents today but strangely enough, very few English.

Mostly, people are here to relax, eat, drink and take in the sun, but that just doesn't happen without an awful lot of organisation. In some cases, huge bags filled with beach paraphernalia are carried down to the shore, almost like a military operation. The Spanish are especially good at this.  For them, a day out on the beach is planned down to the last detail. From dawn to dusk they'll sit there, with their stall set out, and boy, do they enjoy theirselves. Every single member of their extended family is invited too - well, that's what it seems like - and I really like the thought of that.

I've seen men, women and children fussing, fighting, arguing and laughing.  Babies sleeping, crying, and screaming. And - at this time of year, of course, the sun can be a demon, so the regular slapping on of suncream is a necessary evil, but that - in itself - can lead to tantrums. Children - especially - don't want to know.  They want to be free - to be let loose, to jump, to skip and run. And, boy, can they run! DH and I have chased my youngest son many a time on the flat, wet beaches of Anglesey.  Always like quicksilver, he used to set off at a gallop. He adored the freedom to just let rip with the wind in his hair and on his face. Thank goodness I don't have to do that anymore. Chasing after children is for the young and nimble, and I am no longer either of those things.

And, just to finish, here's a coincidence for you.  A few years ago Quicksilver Boy saw Jeremy Clarkson in London and had the audacity to ask for a selfie.  The television presenter obliged, but this week in Deià, Mallorca, my eldest son also came across Mr Clarkson, who very kindly said hello, but then just strolled away and got on with his day.

No selfie this time. Perhaps he was on his way to the beach?

Until next time.

Kim X

My very first conference!

I'm back!

Back from the delights of the #RNAConf16 which this year was held in Lancashire - my home county.

And, thirty minutes up the motorway - waiting to wrap its arms around us for almost three whole days - was Lancaster University. What a super campus; green and leafy (probably from all the rain we get) and exceptionally well-kept. It's vast and spread out, so we did have to walk a bit, and one day we got soaked - but well done to all the staff at Lancaster for looking after us all so wonderfully. It was a chance to meet up with the good friends I've made on my writing courses with Kate Walker and to connect with other folk I've only previously met on social media, which I did. In bucket-loads. And it was fabulous.

My one-to-one industry appointment with the lovely Flo Nicoll and TildaMcDonald from Harlequin Mills&Boon pointed me in the right direction with my manuscript.  The same manuscript that I’d submitted the day before to the RNA NWS.

But now, with all the preparation for the conference, and all the excitement leading up to it, I'm back down to earth with a bump. With only three weeks left until I fly off on holiday, I need to crack on with the revisions. I've come away from the conference seriously inspired, and by the time I fly off on that jet-plane I would like to have made some headway with those.

So, what do I need to do?

Well, for a start - I need to stop faffing around on social media - that's what I need to do. My dream of getting published is not going to happen unless I knuckle down and write.

And that word - write - was exactly what Kate Walker said to us as we left her at the conference.

Wise words indeed.

Until next time

Kim x