For Writers’ Wednesday (#ww), a post about writing fiction. This post first appeared on the Authors Electric blog, for which I’m now a regular monthly contributor. (I write a new post on the 30th of each month).
If you go down to the woods today…
If you go down to the woods today…
When I started writing my new series, the Sophie Sayers Village Mysteries, and set myself the ambitious target of publishing a cycle of seven novels over two years, I had no idea how much I would come to enjoy escaping into its fictitious Cotswold village of Wendlebury Barrow.
Set in Wendlebury Barrow – my second (and entirely fictitious) home
Having now drafted the first three in the series – Best Murder in Showwas published in April,Trick or Murder?will launch in August, and Murder in the Manger will be my 2017 Christmas special (no surprises there) – I feel as if the characters are old friends. I feel entirely at home with them.
That shouldn’t really come as a surprise, because in real life, I’ve resided in the small Cotswold village of Hawkesbury Upton for over a quarter of a century.
The long and winding road to Wendlebury Barrow – I mean, Hawkesbury Upton
Both the fictitious and the real village are safe, fun but eccentric places to live. (Well, safe apart from the odd murder – only in Wendlebury Barrow, ouf course.) Frequently heard in response to Hawkesbury Upton events is the phrase “You couldn’t make that up!” There are probably more implausible events happening in the actual village than in the pretend one.
I love living in Hawkesbury Upton, and although I’ve been careful to make all my characters and events fictitious, I write about Wendlebury Barrow in celebration of the kind of village life that surrounds me.
I’ve only once so far caught myself writing “Wendlebury Upton.”
Of Darker Places
Which leads me to wonder whether authors who write much grittier crime books than mine feel the same about the grimmer worlds that they have conjured up. Do they live in places like that? Do they want to visit them? I don’t think so. Yes, I do know about catharsis, but the closest I get to enjoying it in fiction is in the likes of Alice in Wonderland, with its classic “oh thank goodness it was only a dream” moment.
As for me, I’d rather feel safe all the time, whether weaving stories in my fictional world or walking the streets of my home village.
Not for me the more violent books, films or television programmes that my husband enjoys. You probably know the sort of thing I mean: where the soundtrack consists almost entirely of the physical impact of violence (fists on flesh breaking bones, bullets sinking into fleshy targets) and the dialogue would be half the length if all the swear words were omitted.
Or maybe that’s why he watches them – precisely because they make me swiftly leave the room. Perhaps straight afterwads, he channel-hops to “Strictly”.
Incitement to Murder
However, I must admit that writing the Sophie Sayers Village Mysteries is also in part a response to his previous complaint that “nothing happened” in my three volumes of short stories – well, nothing violent, anyway.
My pre-planned series of titles commits me to at least one murder per book. My only problem now is that I’m getting so attached to the characters that I don’t want to kill any of them off.
Which my neighbours in Hawkesbury Upton will probably be very glad to know…
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Available to pre-order now
The first Sophie Sayers Village Mystery, Best Murder in Show, is set in the summer months, at the time of the traditional village show, so it makes the perfect summer read. It’s now available to order Amazon in paperback or ebook here, or from your local neighbourhood bookshop by quoting ISBN 978-1911223139.
The second in the series, Trick or Murder?, an autumnal story set around Halloween and Guy Fawkes’ Night, will be launched at the Hawkesbury Upton Village Show on Saturday 26th August).No wonder I’m getting the real world mixed up with my fictional one!) Meanwhile you can pre-order the ebook on Amazon here. Find out what readers are saying about Sophie Sayers here
A quick newsflash about a new regular event that I’ve added to my busy schedule: I’ve joined the collective of authors who blog together as Authors Electric.
Yes, I know, the last thing I need is something else on my to-do list. After all, I’ve somehow managed not to write a single post for my own blog so far this month, and the month is running out fast.
Switched On
I’ve been watching the Authors Electric blog for a while, and found it an interesting concept with lots of good posts worth reading. 30 authors belong, each committing to posting on a specific date each month, and the 31st is kept for occasional guests. I have known, liked and respected a few of the authors for a while.
Plugged In
I’d always thought that if a vacancy arose, I’d be glad of the opportunity to join their throng, I am very grateful to Electric Author Ali Bacon for nominating me and to the group for accepting me as a member.
Keeping the Current Flowing
I find writing monthly columns for the Tetbury Advertiser and the Hawkesbury Parish News a useful discipline, as well as a subtle way to publicise my books. As both of those are very local outlets, and have mid-month deadlines, I thought the much wider audience of Authors Electric and the end-of-month deadline would be a good fit. As I do with the TA and HPN columns, I’ll flag each new post up here too. The only difference is that those first two go out in printed magazines rather than blogs, so I reproduce the columns in full here as that doesn’t detract from their audience. As Authors Electric is online, I’ll just flag up the flavour of it here with a link to the post so you can hop over and read it there if you’d like to.
Initial Surge
So here we go with a link to the first post, which is about the joys of series of books, rather than one-off novels. Always Leave Them Wanting More celebrates series of books from a writer’s perspective, and recommends other series that I enjoy as a reader. (Honorable mentions there for Lucienne Boyce, Celia Boyd, Anita Davison, David Ebsworth, JJ Marsh, Rosalind Minett, Alison Morton, David Penny, and David Ebsworth – as well as Dorothy L Sayers, M C Beaton and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, of course!) Comments, including sharing your own favourite series, are welcome!
My column for the April edition of the Tetbury Advertiser, published under the shorter title of “Of Books and Babies” to save space!
This month, as I prepare to launch my first novel, Best Murder in Show, I’ve been spotting the many similarities between producing a book and giving birth to a baby.
For me, the gestation time for my daughter and my novel have been about the same. There have been so many pre-publication checks by advance readers, editors and proofreaders, that I feel as if BMiS should have its own “orange book” of antenatal records that the NHS thrusts upon expectant mothers.
When you announce to friends that you’re pregnant, their response varies according to whether or not they have borne children themselves. So too with a novel:
“Ah yes, I’ve always thought I might do that, once I’ve got my career/house/travel bucket list sorted” versus “Oh my goodness, it’s SUCH hard work, but worth it in the end. I think.”
Regarding the title, I knew what I’d call my novel all along. No working titles for me. The same happened with my daughter. “But what if she doesn’t look like a Laura when she’s born?” a family friend enquired. Fortunately, she did.
When you write a book, you have plans, hopes and dreams for it, just as you do for your child. But when delivery day dawns, all you really want is for your baby to arrive intact and trouble-free.
The first time I saw my new-born daughter’s face, it was so screwed up that in my heavily drugged state I thought she didn’t have any eyes. “Never mind, we’ll get round it,” I thought to myself, ever the optimist. Two days later, when she finally deigned to open them, her eyes proved to be beautiful and perfect. Even so, I will be surprised if I don’t have at least one nightmare between now and my book’s official launch in which the letter “I” is omitted from my beautiful new book: Best Murder n Show, coming soon to a bookshop near you.
For medical reasons, Laura was born by planned Caesarean section. This meant I knew for weeks beforehand when her 0th birthday would be. So too with my book: it will enter the world shortly after 10am on Saturday 22nd April at the Hawkesbury Upton Literature Festival. (Laura was born at 10.22am.)
But here’s the biggest difference between my baby and my book:
I am and will only ever be the mother of just one child, having embarked on motherhood too late for younger siblings to be naturally possible. Yet Best Murder in Show is the first in a planned series of seven Sophie Sayers Village Mysteries. In fact, I’m already expecting the second, Trick or Murder, due to appear later this year.
From now on, I plan to keep producing novels well into my old age.
I just hope no medical intervention will be required.
And now with a cover endorsement by the lovely Katie Fforde – I wonder whether I should ask her to be godmother?
Best Murder in Show is currently available from Amazon at the special launch price of £4.99 for the paperback, around the world, via Amazon – and from our village shop!
From 1st May 2017, it will revert to its usual RRP of £7.99, and will then also be available to buy from bookstores worldwide. Support your local bookshop, folks! Just give your friendly local bookseller ISBN 978-1911223139 and he or she will be able to order it via their usual trade supplier.
The ebook, currently available exclusively for Kindle, costs £2.99.
In my column for the April issue of the Hawkesbury Parish News, I wrote about this old adage for writers.
Common advice to authors is that when writing fiction, it’s best to write what you know. This is to add authenticity and to avoid errors. The only trouble with that advice comes when an author’s friends and relations assume that certain characters are based on themselves.
That’s why smart fiction publishers always print a disclaimer (“any semblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental”), although the author’s friends and relations may easily retort “Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?”
So I’d like to take this opportunity to assure you all that no-one in Wendlebury Barrow, the fictitious village in which my new novel Best Murder in Show is set, is based on any real person, living or dead, in Hawkesbury Upton (or elsewhere, for that matter).
And although the two villages have plenty of features in common – annual show, shop, pub, school, drama group, writers’ group, WI – only one of them has a resident murderer.
Fortunately, that’s Wendlebury Barrow, not Hawkesbury Upton. Phew.
Best Murder in Show is now available from Amazon as an ebook and a paperback, although its official launch will be at the Hawkesbury Upton Literature Festival on Saturday 22nd April at 10am in the Bethesda Chapel, to which you are all invited.
After that, copies will also be available from the Hawkesbury Stores. That is, if the staff still want to stock it after they’ve read Chapter 4 about the eccentric village shopkeeper…
The special Festival price for the paperback is £4.99, rising to the RRP of £7.99 from 1st May – so get in quick to save yourself £3!
How I named the leading man in Best Murder in Show
Last week I explained how I chose the name for the heroine of Best Murder in Show, the first of my new Sophie Sayers Village Mysteries series, and this week, just three days before the ebook launches (paperback to follow three weeks later), I’m going to reveal how the leading man, Hector Munro, got his name.
Why Hector…
My husband’s well-worn guide to hillwalking in the Munros
Hector Munro is the proprietor of the village bookshop, Hector’s House. Those of a certain age will recognise the name Hector’s House, which was a 1970s children’s television puppet show, featuring a dog called Hector whose catchphrase was variations on this theme: “I’m a great big lovable old Hector”. It was the kind of show that warmed the heart of adults and children alike in the tea-time slot in my childhood, when the Magic Roundabout was taking a break. (You can sample it on YouTube here.)
The name for the bookshop has been forced onto Hector by the benefactor who co-financed its launch, but the name Hector is well and truly his own, chosen by his antique dealer parents who have a passion for the classics.
Though of course it was actually chosen by me, because I wanted something unusual. I don’t know any real-life Hectors, although I’ve since heard of an acquaintance coincidentally christening her baby with that name. My Hector is a creative, unconventional type, who thinks outside the box and is not afraid to do what he wants to do.
…and Why Munro
The name Munro came to me in a flash as a comfortable surname, partly because my Scottish husband is what’s known as a Munro bagger. Munro baggers are hillwalkers who set themselves the challenge of climbing all the Munros – 280+ Scottish mountains over 3,000 feet – which means Scotland’s highest mountains.
How did the mountains get their name? They were named in honour of the first man to map them all, a certain Hugo Munro.
Ever since I’ve known my husband, resident in England throughout his adult life, and so very far from the nearest Munro, he has been pursuing his goal of bagging them all. We spend many summer holidays touring Scotland in our camper van, seeking out the next mountain on his list. My daughter and I drop him at his starting point, then go off to do touristy things before picking him up post-conquest. This year it looks as if he’s going to complete the final Munro.
Therefore in my mind the name Munro is a symbol of challenge, determination and achievement, and also a certain rugged, wiry manliness, without being too obvious. The word Munro is like a code, as any Munro bagger will understand.
Putting Them Both Together
Equally battered is my copy of Saki’s short stories (real name: Hector Hugh Munro)
Putting the two together, I liked the way that Hector Munro tripped off the tongue. I also thought it memorable. But so much for my memory, because I didn’t realise until long after I’d established my character why I’d taken to the name so much. Picking up a copy of a book by one of my favourite short story writers, I was reminded that Saki‘s real name was Hector Hugh Munro.
As if that wasn’t enough, I also realised a little while later that the surname of the proprietor of my nearest independent bookshop is also associated with mountains, or at least large hills: The Corbetts are the next highest hills in Scotland after the Munros. Hereward Corbett, is proprietor of the Yellow-Lighted Bookshop (branches in Tetbury and Nailsworth). Whether Hereward’s parents had anything to with mountaineering, I do not know.
Next in the Scottish mountain pecking order are the Grahams and the Donalds. By chance, the landlord of the local pub in the Sophie Sayers series is called Donald, but I haven’t introduced a Graham yet. I think he’d better come into one of the sequels – I don’t want the Grahams feeling left out.
Hector Munro: His Own Person
But let’s be clear about this: Hector Munro is not based on any of his namesakes in any way. All the characters, settings and situtations are entirely fictional, as in any novel. My Hector Munro is a man unto himself, one not easily tamed or fathomed, as you will see when you read the series and follow how his character develops. To whet your appetite for what’s to come, here’s the scene where Sophie first meets him in Chapter 5 of Best Murder in Show, when she’s seeking a job in his bookshop…
Extract of BEST MURDER IN SHOW
“Hello, can you tell me where Hector is, please? Carol in the village shop told me that he needs help.”
“You can say that again,” came a familiar voice from the back corner. Arranged around three circular tin tables were a dozen old-fashioned folding garden chairs, one of them occupied by Billy, the non-cerebral stout-drinker from the day before. Despite the aspersions he’d cast on Hector’s tea, he was enthusiastically working his way through a large pot of the stuff.
A lean olive-skinned man in his early thirties was leaning on the main shop counter with his arms folded, longish dark curls flopping forward to cover his high forehead.
“I can. But should I?”
Confused, I glanced across at Billy for a clue. That was a mistake.
“She’ll be asking to see your buns next, Hector.”
“Thank you, Billy, if I need your advice, I’ll ask for it.”
The man at the counter unfolded his arms and pointed one finger at his chest. “He’s here. I’m Hector. Thank you for brightening my bookshop with your presence. I don’t believe we’ve met before?”
Despite Hector’s parents having only recently retired, I’d been picturing someone only marginally less aged than himself. After all, when you’re eighty-six, most people qualify as younger. Perhaps it was the archaic name that threw me. Hectors should be wrinkly grey-haired curmudgeons in cardigans, not gorgeous, enigmatic Greek gods.
Hector held out a warm, soft hand for me to shake, before coming out from behind the counter to stand alongside me. “But the more pressing question for me is, how can I help you? No, don’t tell me, I’ve got just the book for you.”
He strode over to the fiction section, plucked a paperback from among the Gs and presented it to me, deadpan.
“Here we are: Travels with my Aunt, by Graham Greene.”
Billy guffawed. “Point to you, young Hector!”
I gasped. “How did you know who I was? Did you recognise her skirt?”
I’d put on a long mulberry velvet one from my aunt’s wardrobe to try to look cultured.
“Have you looked in the mirror lately?” replied Hector. “You are obviously related to May Sayers. Billy tells me that you’re living in May’s cottage.”
“Actually, my name’s on the deeds now. My great aunt left the cottage to me.”
“You’ll have to wait about twenty years before people round here call it your cottage. Your name being…?”
“Sophie. Sophie Sayers. Sayers, same as my aunt.”
“Yes, you certainly are,” put in Billy, who clearly considered himself part of our conversation. “Don’t let old Joshua see you looking like that, whatever you do. It’ll be too much for him. We’ll be carrying him off to the graveyard to lie alongside her, if you’re not careful.”
Hector shot him a withering look. “Billy, really! Drink your tea or I’ll take it away.”
That shut him up. He must have needed the tea to sober him up after his early start on the stout the previous afternoon.
In the ensuing silence, I noticed for the first time the music that was playing softly in the background: Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells. Great Auntie May had long ago taught me to love this classic album from the 70s. It’s not something you hear much in public these days.
“You’re playing—”
Hector’s smile had a hint of smugness about it. “Your tune? Your Auntie May always loved it, so I thought you might too.”
“What? Did you see me coming and put it on specially?”
“Spot on.”
We both listened appreciatively for a moment to the music’s gentle meanderings, while he set the Graham Greene book on the counter, facing me, presumably as a hint. But I wasn’t so easily hoodwinked by his charm into buying a book I neither wanted nor needed. May’s house was stuffed with books.
I pulled myself together, remembering the serious and pressing intent of my visit. If I wasn’t able to get a job here, I’d have to look further afield, and soon.
“So, as I was saying, Carol Barker said you were looking for an assistant. And Joshua Hampton, next door to me, encouraged me to apply. So please may I have an application form?”
Hector patted his pockets as if searching. “Sorry, I seem to be fresh out of them. Bit of a run on applications this morning. How about an application cup of tea instead?”
He gestured to the tearoom. I chose the table furthest from Billy.
“So, tea?” offered Hector, sitting down opposite me. “Not you, Billy, you’ve had enough for one morning.”
Behind me, Billy drained his cup noisily, and scraped his chair across the old oak floorboards. “No matter, I’ll be heading off to The Bluebird for my dinner soon.”
“But it’s only eleven o’clock.” I wondered what scenic route he’d be taking to the village pub, a few hundred yards away, to make his journey last till evening.
“That’s The Bluebird’s opening time. I has a ploughman’s lunch up there for my dinner midday every Tuesday. Washed down with a nice pint of old Donald’s special. Good luck with your interview, girlie.”
He rolled the word interview around his mouth like a euphemism for some lascivious delight.
The shop door jangled to allow Billy’s exit as Hector set down a loaded tea tray on the table between us. The crockery was decorated with the titles of classic novels in old-fashioned typewriter fonts. He’d given me Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations and himself Somerset Maugham’s Cakes and Ale. The teapot was branded Love in a Cold Climate, by Nancy Mitford.
Will Sophie get the job? Will she discover the secret that enables Hector’s House to keep his business solvent? (A bookshop in a tiny Cotswold village – really?) You’ll have to read the book to find out!
Ta-da! Now available to order as an ebook for Kindle (paperback to launch on 22nd April)
