I did this on twitter for my current project. Now that’s over, I thought I’d collate responses to the same questions for Happily Ever After. The event was created by the lovely@simmeringmind CX4bzZRUMAEfSWC

1 – Hmm, I don’t have a good answer for this.

2- Why do I love Lavie? She’s a broken hero, and I adore that archetype. She’s spent the last three years of her life fighting for what she believes is right. And now the fight has stopped, she gets to find out just how the experience has damaged her. She’s also a wonderfully, viscerally angry young woman, which was great fun to write.

3- Harry. Everyone loves Harry. He’s a born optimist, whose ideal evening would involve good food, plenty of drink, and then going home and snuggling with the man he loves. He’s also very fond of innuendo, which I noticed affecting me when I was writing. Not that I haven’t always found the word knob funny…

4- The Usurper has the best dialogue, I think. He’s cruel and manipulative, but he only ever speaks the truth, something that makes his jibes even harder for Lavie to deal with.

5- That it made them laugh and cry and if I ever meet the author I’m going to hug and punch her. (If you’re going to provoke emotions in people, you might as well go the whole hog!)

6-I’d definitely be friends with Harry. Everyone needs that friend who always knows how to pick them up when they’re down.

7-The first idea or inspiration came from watching the film, Mama. I was left at the end of it wondering how on earth the characters were ever going to go back to their lives. And then I got to thinking you never find out what happens in fantasy epics after the big bad has been defeated.

8-“Harry would wear a title like I wear a dress,” I tell him with a grin. “Grudgingly, and with the intention of spoiling it at the first possible opportunity.

9- The short, scrubby vegetation around us clings for life while occasional larger rocks push through like breaching whales.

10-I enjoy most of the interchanges between Lavie and Harry, but this one is probably one of my favourites:

A blush spreads across his cheek like sunrise. “I am sweet, aren’t I?”

“You’re a hopeless romantic, Harry. You’re also still half-drunk and smell like a midden heap.”


11-Bit more than I line, but this speech always gets me when I read it:

“Of course I love him. Do you have any idea what this is like for me, Lavinia? Do you have an idea what I am going through? I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. It feels like there is a hand around my heart, slowly crushing it. I must hurt the person I care for most in the world and I must pretend I don’t feel a thing.”

12-I love this scene, but it didn’t really fit in anywhere. Deleting was done with great sadness:

“Your Highness? Harry?” I call as I approach and there comes a sharp ‘shh’ in response. As I walk round, I can see Harry sat at the head of the chair, while Brendan is stretched out. The prince’s head rests on Harry’s shoulder and his hand clutches Harry’s shirt. His eyes are closed and his chest rises and falls in the steady rhythm of sleep.

“Pass my drink,” Harry says, gesturing to a tankard on the table. “I’m stuck.”

I grin and hand it to him. “Have you been trapped for long?”

“No, I can still feel my fingers. This is the first time he’s been able to stop all day.”  He drinks deeply and then gives it back to me. “It’s been like this all week, and it’s not going to stop, is it?”

“I expect so. There’s a lot to be done before and after the coronation.”

He sighs. “As long as the days end like this.”

“What, with a dead arm and drool on your shirt?”

He glares at me, but cannot move to retaliate without waking Brendan and there’s nothing in reach to throw.

I think about the conversation with Lord Vayne, all his talk of marriage and duty. But how can I bring up with Harry the suggestion of my marrying the man he loves? Besides, this is not the right moment. Better to let them have their peace while it lasts. Deep down, Harry knows things won’t always be like this.

And a wedding won’t be needed immediately. Things like that take time, and negotiations. And who knows, maybe Brendan and whoever is chosen will end up like Stefan and I, putting on a face for court and then ignoring each other.

Brendan mutters something in his sleep, his lip twitching in a grimace. Harry runs his hand over the prince’s hair gently and kisses the top of his head.

“Long live the king,” he murmurs.

13-The feedback that makes me smile most is that addressed to the characters – “You tell him, Lavie,” or “I don’t think that’s the important thing, Harry.” I did laugh when I got a comment saying is this a sexual reference to a Harry saying he’s plenty good at bending the knee to the king (spoiler, yes, yes it is!)

14-I want them to bond with the characters. I want them to laugh, to cry, to ache, and to heal with them.

15- Has to be Buttercup, the only creature Lavie is scared of:

Harry’s horse is a monster, over seventeen hands with a coat of pale gold. It has the temperament of a hung-over dragon and I swear when it looks at me, it’s sizing me up. Harry, of course, dotes on it.

16-The main sight is Tallman’s Keep, the imposing castle situated on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea.

17-If you follow Lavie around, you’ll hear insults (at Harry), cursing (at the Usurper), and frustrated outbursts (usually directed at Prince Brendan)

18-Down in the kitchens the smell of fresh bread, roasting meat. Brendan wears orange oil in his hair, and Lavie can never quite get the smell of blood out of her clothes.

19-Cinnamon, honey, apple, and walnut are popular ingredients used in the kitchen products.

20-The rough granite stone of the keep contrasts with the smooth silk of the ceremonial uniforms of the king’s personal guard.

21-I’d love it be a movie, and get to see how actors would interpret my characters.

22-Most epic thing was the size of it. It’s the longest thing I’ve written by a long way, even after editing cut it down by 20k.

23- Cut the filter words, draw back the introspection, change the start point to later, show more of the emotions

24- Start earlier and show the war. This isn’t what the story is about, so I didn’t want to draw out the events before the war is won.

25- Shout out to @Ianbarnes, @Leighstanfield, @MichaelMammay, @KamerheLane, and ml_keller for the CP support. There are lots of others who have been very supportive as well with beta reading and encouraging comments.

26- Fantasy is a way of exploring ideas and themes without being caught up in the how and why of the real world. It’s a way of testing with what if and applying it to the human aspect.

27- I don’t know where this image came from, but it definitely reminds me of Lavie.


28- Lavie and Harry. They have a completely platonic relationship, but each of them can read the other perfectly. They constantly insult each other, but know the other always has their back.

29- I want people to get to know the characters. When you’ve spent that long in people’s heads, they become real and you want people to meet them. I also think it’s important to have more representation in fantasy of other sexualities and also mental illness.

30- Lavie shares a lot of my frustrations and flaws. Her feeling of trying to turn back tides of pettiness, and trying to protect people she cares about against snowballing situations are ones I understand. Also having suffered depression myself, having characters who experience the same symptoms is important to me.

31-I’ve learned about the effectiveness of armor against projectile weapons, about palfreys, and a number of techniques for improving my writing.

Red Velvet

For Laura Heffernan. Hope you’re feeling better!



6.00: I awaken. New. Fresh. Warm. Steaming slightly as the baker busies herself at the sink. Her name is Janice, I know instructively. Six others of my kind sit in a line beside me, and there are more on another counter: sponge, fruit, coffee and walnut, and one quite ugly lemon drizzle.

7:00: Janice smothers my surfaces with a mixture of cream-cheese and icing sugar. Pride spreads through me as I catch a glimpse of myself in her metal bowl. I’m perfect. She finishes off the others, doing what she can for the lemon drizzle, then packs us into boxes.

8:00: The door bell rings almost immediately, signalling the start of morning rush. It doesn’t take long for the cozy shop to fill with calls of ‘Morning and ‘How are you?’ punctuated by the sharp ding of the till. Janice sells two sponges, but most people are after bread. It’s not my time yet.

9:00: The rush dies away. Janice sweeps the floor, humming to herself. She’s flat, but it doesn’t matter. You don’t have to be in tune when you’re happy; a smile carries the melody just fine. I’ll make someone happy today.

11:00: A trio of mothers come in and buy a selection of cakes for their coffee morning. One of them casts her eye over me, but her friend shakes her head.

“It’ll go straight to your thighs,” she warns. “The icing must be an inch thick.”

I can’t explain how little this matters and they walk out without me.

12:00: Lunchtime. I’m hopeful again. The queue stretches out the door for most of the hour. A policeman orders a ham sandwich with extra mayonnaise and looks at me hungrily, but holds up his hands when Janice offers me to him.

“I can’t. I need to watch my weight,” he says, patting his stomach with a grin.

15:00 Most of this morning’s batch are gone now. It’s just me, one of the coffee and walnuts, and the ugly lemon drizzle. Five minutes later, the coffee and walnut leaves, headed to cheer up an old man in hospital after a fall. What’s wrong with me? All I want is to bring happiness to someone. Why won’t anyone see that?

16:00 The bell rings. I try not to get my hopes up, but they soar when the diminutive old woman tells Janice she wants a celebration cake.

“Of course. Red velvet or lemon?” she asks.

“Oh, lemon please. I’m not fond of overly sweet things.” She goes on to tell Janice that she’s a great-grandmother now, and her whole family will be coming round. I imagine them, cooing at the new baby, reminiscing about when the older ones were young. Together. Smiling. Happy.

17:00: I’ve failed. Janice wipes down the counter and heads over to flip the sign. Perhaps she’ll take me home. Perhaps it’s Janice who I’ll make happy. Then I remember her talking to one of her customers about her husband’s diabetes and realise it’s unlikely.

The bell jangles as the door flies open, making Janice slide-step out the way. A woman stumbles in, breathing quickly.

“Are you closed? I…I need a-”

Her last word is cut off as the door opens again with a clang.

“I need a cake,” says a man. His words come out in a rush, mixed together like batter. He notices Janice and the woman for the first time and adds a muffled, “please.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman says. She’s short, a little dumpy, with curls of brown hair around her face. I’m sure I could make her happy. She doesn’t look the sort who worries about her thighs or dislikes overly sweet things.  “I was here first and I need that cake.”

I can barely believe what I hear. Overlooked all day, and now there are two people who want me.  The man frowns. “Seriously? There’s only one?”

“We’re closing,” Janice apologies. “If you would like to come back tomorrow, you can have your pick.”

“I’d prefer it today,” the woman says, wrapping her arms around herself. Despite the warm shop, she shivers. “Please.”

“Lady, it’s my birthday. It’s been a long day in a string of long, shitty days, and I want a birthday cake.” His voice rises as he speaks, like the high-pitched whine of something about to break. “I’m going to eat it, get drunk, and find a train to throw myself in front of.”

Her hand flies to her mouth and the man’s face turns red.

“I.. I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to… I… I’m sorry.”

They’re quiet. None of them moves; they don’t even look at each other. Then the woman looks at me.

“Perhaps,” she says. “Perhaps we could share it.”

“I’d like that,” the man replies.

Janice closes the lid on my box


17:30 The woman sets me down on a sideboard, over-looking a faded blue velveteen sofa. There’s a photograph of a young boy on a tricycle next to me. He smiles at the camera, the grin affecting every inch of his round face.

“I’m Kate,” the woman says, holding out her hand.

“Jacob.” He takes it cautiously, as afraid she might slap him, or he might hurt her.

“Take a seat.” Kate points to the couch. “Do you want tea or coffee?”

He doesn’t move. “Maybe I should go.”

“Nonsense. No one should be alone on their birthday.” She pauses in the doorway. “Did you mean that, about killing yourself?”

“I don’t know,” he says to his shoes. “I don’t think so. But sometimes I wonder what’s the point, you know? I’m thirty-seven. I have no friends, a job I hate, and my mother loves my ex-wife more than she ever loved me. So what’s the point?”

“I don’t think there is a point,” Kate says. Her voice is muffled by the sound of the kettle boiling. “Not to life. We just are, that’s all.”

“Maybe.” Jacob looks at the front door, then the kitchen door. He sighs and sits down on the sofa, his hands clasped together. A few moments later, Kate comes back with two cups of tea on a tray. She sets them down and sits on the other end of the couch.  Jacob picks up a cup and stares into it. There are no knives and plates, I notice with disappointment.

“I don’t know how it got to this,” he says suddenly. “Threatening suicide and drinking tea in a stranger’s house. I know I haven’t been happy since Rebecca, though.”

Kate takes a sip of tea.

“Rebecca was my wife,” Jacob continues. “I don’t think I ever loved her. Loved the idea of her, maybe. Lusted after her, definitely. She did her best to make me miserable, make me doubt myself. She was a cold-hearted manipulative bitch, but I didn’t see it until we were married.”

“How did you get out?”

He blushes, colour creeping up his neck and settling in his ears. “I fell in love with a man. For a while, it was great. Sneaking around was exciting. Then we got careless and we got caught. Turns out he was more in love with the thrill than he was with me. Rebecca dragged me through divorce court. Took me for everything I had. I never had many friends and those who were mutual all took her side. So did my mother.”  He sniffs and Kate hands him a pack of tissues from her handbag. “Mum’s the sort of person who thinks gay is something you catch from dirty public bathrooms, and I’ve never even bothered to try and explain bi to her. I might as well have leprosy.”

“I’m sorry,” Kate says.  It’s a small phrase, but Jacob sits up straight, as if a weight has been lifted.

“No, thank you. You never told me why you wanted that cake so badly,” he says, looking over at me.

“It’s my son’s birthday, too,” she says, and her voice trembles slightly.

Jacob blushes harder. “Oh, shit, sorry. I didn’t realise I was taking cake away from a kid.”

She smiles, but her eyes are wet. “It’s okay. He won’t be needing any. He died, when he was two. Every year, I buy a cake, light two candles, and go through my photographs.”

He reaches for her hand. “I’d like to see them.”


18:00 The photograph albums lie discarded on the table, by the now cold cups of tea. Kate has finished crying, those loud, painful, yet cathartic sobs. They’ve moved from opposite ends of the couch to the centre, and Jacob has his arms around her.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and blows her nose.

“Don’t be. I feel like I’ve done something good for the first time in years.”

She smiles and it reaches her eyes this time. “I’m glad you wanted to buy that cake. I’ve missed human contact so much. It’s funny, how you never notice something missing until you find it again.”

They continue talking, about unimportant things now. Things on TV, the weather, their favourite foods. They don’t go back to opposite ends of the couch.


21:00 I’ve been forgotten again, left on the sideboard by the photograph of the smiling toddler. But I don’t mind this time. Kate cooked dinner. Jacob did the washing up. Now they’re sitting in the middle of the couch together, not watching some nature documentary. Kate’s fingers entwine with Jacob’s, her head against his shoulder. Things might be different in another hour, another day, another year. But at this moment in time, thanks to me, they’re happy.



7x7x7 Challenge Again

Nominated by the lovely @madeleine_deste (give her a follow or check out her blog: this time. I’ve already done this for my current WIP, so here are seven lines from page seven of Happily Ever After.

The Usurper stands, King Reynald’s crown perched on his head at a disrespectfully jaunty angle. My hatred seethes like boiling oil. I signal for the others with me to stop. This is my moment. This is what I have been waiting for. His jet-black armour clanks and creaks as he steps down towards me, and I examine it, looking for weaknesses.

He sweeps me a low bow.

“Welcome. I have been waiting for you,” he says in a soft voice that carries through the carnage of the throne room.

Don’t Be This Guy

I don’t claim to be any kind of expert on agents and querying. But there are some basic things that will prevent your manuscript being rejected unnecessarily. So, unless you enjoy rejections, here are some dos and don’ts.

  • Do make sure the agent reps your genre.
  • Don’t forget to put things like word count, age range and genre in your query.
  • Do follow the submission guides.
  • Don’t use a generic form of address like Dear Agent or Dear Sir.
  • Do try and spell their name correctly.
  • Don’t react badly to a rejection. Especially with poetry.
  • Do be patient. Don’t chase agents about queries.
  • Don’t send a power-point presentation with your query. Let’s face it, no one likes power-point even when it’s necessary.

I highly recommend following agents on Twitter, and paying attention to hashtags like #tenqueries, #querylunch #500queries to get an idea what querying is like from the other side.

Twitter, the Unexpected Tool for Writing

I had a personal Twitter account, (still do, I guess), but I never really got it. Things flew past too quickly, I couldn’t follow conversations and lots of it made no sense to me. When I was getting ready to put Apple out, I started collecting various social media accounts to make sure I had the set and to see how useful they were. I wasn’t expecting Twitter to be much use to me. After all, I can be verbose at times and it didn’t seem like you could do much with 140 characters.

Then I got involved in a Twitter pitch party and things started to change. It was strange: while pinging out my tweets for Mortician’s Boy, I started to feel like I was a part of something. It was like being at a party and being pulled onto the dance floor suddenly. I still didn’t know anyone, I didn’t recognise the tune, but I could hold the beat at least and I was enjoying myself. Seeing people retweet my pitches felt great, and getting them favourited felt even better. But it wasn’t as if it was a competition with a single grand prize. If someone else got favourited, then the worst thing to happen would be another cool pitch took a step closer to becoming a book. And that’s not a bad thing by any standard.

And after the party, there were agents and publishers and other writers to follow in a way that didn’t feel quite so inhuman and distant. And they each knew other interesting people who in turn knew more people. I got a glimpse into the agent side of publishing. A snappy, 140 character glimpse, but those small looks added up. I got to chat with other writers, to learn things like I’m not the only one who has trouble spelling twelth ….twelvth… 12th, and that caffeine is a universal language.

It’s surprising how much information there can be in those 140 characters. I’m constantly coming across links to great articles, useful sites, new books. I can see what agents and publishers are looking for with the #mswl (manuscript wishlist) hashtag. Or find out how agents view pitches with things like #500queries.

Twitter does still feel somewhere between attending a stranger’s party and finding myself in a secret society. (What on earth does that hashtag mean? Why is that person following me? Why am I in a tweet with a load of other handles I don’t know?) I haven’t used it much for publicity because I’m terrified of being that person. But I’m starting to spend more and more time here, and interact with more people and there are agents with my manuscript who wouldn’t have necessarily had it otherwise. Right now I’m circling the edge of the dance floor, but I’m making my way to the bar. Hopefully I’ll know the secret handshake for a pint of cider by the time I get there.