Getting Down With the Kids – World Book Day
I’d been thinking about doing something for World Book Day as it drew closer, remembering that last year it came upon me suddenly and being my first World Book Day as an author, I felt obliged to play some small part. I’d planned a busy ‘three centre’ day, which included collecting train tickets from Market Harborough, a business meeting in Birmingham and a nip to Lutterworth for emergency supplies. So having recently published my debut novel, I did no more than throw a few copies in a bag, vaguely hoping an opportunity would present itself.
I quickly realised dragging a bagful of hefty tomes around with me was folly, so made a swift decision to dole them out to the mismatched selection of females I was to encounter that day. This included the woman behind the glass at the station, a marketing director in a smart city hotel, a Waitrose check-out lady and finally a pretty dark-haired girl in the post office. The surprise, bemusement and delight each gift bestowed was thanks enough, and I considered my personal contribution to last year’s World Book Day a small success.
Having established this ‘new ‘ tradition – I was thrilled when a cousin – of whom I have many, being Irish – seconded me as ‘Author in Residence’ for World Book Day at the primary school where she works. Everyone, and I mean everyone, was dressed as their favourite fictional character. I hugged a beautiful Cat in the Hat (my cousin); bumped into any amount of Harry Potters and Hermiones; waved to Snow White; chatted studiously with the Lion from the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, and was brought biscuits by War Horse.
After the most colourful assembly I’ve ever encountered, I was introduced to my Writer Stars – five shining examples of all that is good about the education system – and we got straight down to our Workshop. We were a publishing ‘house’; each student decided their genre, what their latest novel was to be called, then wrote a synopsis, a blurb, a dedication and most importantly came up with a pen name.
I then morphed into a Hollywood movie producer and they each pitched their book to me, with the rest of the team acting as a panel, X Factor style. To say I was impressed with their creative talent, grasp of language and vocabulary is an understatement, I was blown away. But it was their imagination that really shone; we encountered Russian princesses, broken families, war and fantasy heroes, horror, unrequited love and some very funny writing indeed. We had the greatest fun and I had the best of times, it was a privilege to be with these awesome and delightful young people. As I left, I gave books that had inspired me to the children, and my novels to the teachers, because you know, there’s nothing like the gift of a book, it comes with a free smile!
Adrienne
Branding or Breaking the Mould?
Here at the New Romantics 4 we follow our hearts when it comes to writing our novels. But our readers are never forgotten, or left behind.
Branding – we all know how important it is. It establishes a product clearly in your mind. In terms of novel writing, it ensures a reader who enjoyed your first book will know what they’re getting when they buy your second book too – a different story perhaps but one rooted firmly in the same genre, be that romance, crime, horror or historical. There’s a lot of competition out there and branding, well, it helps to get you noticed. So, bearing that in mind, what have I done? I’ll tell you what I’ve done. I’ve laughed in the face of branding and here’s the book covers to prove it….
The book on the left (my debut) – The Runaway Year – is a romance set in North Cornwall, it’s sassy, it’s sexy, it’s packed to the rafters with feisty heroines, but it’s romance – no doubt about it. The book…
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Letter B on the A to Z April Challenge
My turn on Rosie Amber’s blog today. June will appear later in the month.
Letter B on the A to Z April Challenge
Letter B on the A to Z April Challenge.
Today is the letter B on Rosie’s A-Z Challenge. Read about me and my second rom com BOOT CAMP BRIDE.
Lizzie xx
A New Book from Georgina Troy
Today we’d like to welcome Georgina Troy to the NR4 blog.
Georgina has a new book out on 2nd April and we are thrilled to share a sneak peak of A Jersey Affair. Georgina lives in Jersey near the sea – well, most people do in an island only 9 miles x 5 miles in size. She’s always wanted to write and being an impossible romantic is always falling in love with heroes both real (hopefully), in fiction (definitely) and those of her own creation (absolutely).
A Jersey Affair is the second in a series of stand-alone romances based in Jersey, which Georgina hopes you’ll read, enjoy and maybe tell your friends about. The first book, A Jersey Kiss is out now.
Jilted by the man she was expecting to marry, Paige Bingham, a shoe designer from the tiny island of Jersey, decides to enjoy her honeymoon-for-one in Sorrento. What she doesn’t expect is to meet a mysterious entrepreneur, Sebastian Fielding, when she gets to Italy. Sebastian helps soothe her faith in men and gradually the pain recedes from her battered heart as he introduces her to the beautiful sites he knows and loves.
Unfortunately, not long after Paige returns to her small island home off the coast of France, she discovers that not only is this charismatic man’s company taking over the struggling store where her business is based, but that her concession is probably going to be surplus to his requirements.
How can Paige stop her fledgling shoe design business from falling apart? And what can she do to restore her reputation now that the paparazzi have published their untruths about her romance with Sebastian, as well as the unwanted publicity they’ve generated about, A Jersey Affair?
If you’d like a taste of Georgina’s writing, read on!
Chapter One – A Dizzy Height
“I hope you’re phoning to tell me you’ve arrived safely?” Olly asked, his tone willing her to confirm that she had.
“Yes.” She blew her nose once again, wondering why she always felt the need to phone him every time she became too miserable. “Nothing awful has happened since you dropped me off at the airport this morning and I haven’t changed my mind about being here, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Good. Now stop snivelling and go and search for an Italian bloke to take your mind off Jeremy.”
“Surely you don’t seriously expect me to be interested in anyone after everything that’s happened?” She slumped down on the balcony chair conveniently placed under the ivy covered pergola, grateful for its shade from the midday Italian heat.
“Don’t be such a drip,” he said. “Anyone would think your ex-fiancé was worth keeping. Now get off your bum, put on a pair of your more colourful sandals then go and explore Sorrento.
“Fine, but if I can’t find something to wear that doesn’t make my bottom look the size of a small Shetland pony, I’m not going.” Paige glanced at the yellow shift dress she’d just dropped onto the bed and wished she hadn’t bothered packing it.
“You’ll be back in Jersey soon enough, moaning about wasting your trip. If nothing else, you can get inspiration for your next set of designs.”
“You’ve been talking to my sister, haven’t you?”
“How can you tell?”
“You don’t know anything about women’s shoes and I’ve never heard you say the word sandal before,” she laughed.
“Clem’s worried about you. I had to stop her from racing round to Jeremy’s house and giving him hell for jilting you.”
Paige chewed her lip guiltily. She should turn to Clem before Olly, but worried about upsetting her sister further. Her one-person honeymoon had been the only good thing to come out of this mess. She still couldn’t believe she’d had the nerve to come alone to Sorrento. “I need time to think.”
“A break up is always hard and it’s only been a week since everything happened. You’ll be fine though, I just know it. Once you’ve had time to recover from the shock I bet you’ll come back here and be ready to focus on your shop again.”
He was probably right, but it was still a little difficult accepting that Jeremy had changed his mind about their marriage and she hadn’t seen it coming. Then again, at least now she understood why he’d been acting so strangely recently, so much for pre-wedding nerves.
“Paige, are you still there?”
Had Jeremy turned to Gretchen because she’d spent all her time thinking about future designs for her shoes like he’d said?
“Stop dwelling on that jerk,” Olly shouted, interrupting her thoughts.
“Ol, you’re the perfect best friend and always ready to listen to me.” She couldn’t help smiling, he knew her so well and she hated the thought that her situation was causing upset with those closest to her.
“Probably because you don’t often moan about things,” he laughed, his voice sounding tinny down her antiquated phone. “When you get back we can spend time working on the new website designs. I’ve had a few new ideas that should perk it up a bit.”
“Good, I know the one I have now isn’t nearly stylish enough for the image I want to project.” She brushed a fly off her ankle.
“Never mind that now. You go and make the most of that incredible place and I’ll speak to you soon.”
“I thought I’d have a look at the shoe shops here and see how their designs compare with mine.”
“You see?” Olly laughed. “You must be feeling a little better because you’re thinking about your shoes. Right, I’ll put some ideas together while you go and mooch around Sorrento.”
“Thanks Ol,” she said glancing towards the window and staring at the rays of white gold light filtering through the metal shutters.
“Good, now get out and I don’t want you back in that room of yours until it’s time for you to go to bed.”
“Okay, I’m going, but I won’t enjoy myself,” she teased before replacing the receiver onto the eighties-style phone.
Paige picked up her red clutch bag, slipped on the matching shoes she had designed to complement it, and set off toward the confines of the old town. Treading carefully along one of the narrow roads, she breathed in the scent of oregano from the spice-filled air. This was more like it. She walked down the steps from the back garden of the hotel, at times holding on to the handrail especially where they tilted away from the cliff face. She stopped and concentrating on not looking down, gazed across at the spectacular view across the sea to the other side of the Bay of Naples.
She gripped on tightly watching every step and breathed a sigh of relief as she reached the small supermarket at the beginning of the main thoroughfare. She was a little surprised to see so many designer shops dotted along on both sides of the road. Forgetting her nerve-wracking walk down there, she paid particular interest in the shoe shops and thought about the rumours her father had shared with her before her fateful meal with Jeremy.
What if her dad was right about De Greys? If the store goes bankrupt then she would have to start up her business elsewhere. It had cost most of her business loan just setting up her concession in De Greys, she didn’t think she would be able to afford to set up in another shop so soon after moving to King Street.
She stepped into the road, tripping over the pavement in her panic to avoid an oncoming car that almost hit her. Hands seemed to come from nowhere, catching her under her arms before her bottom smacked down onto the tarmac. She didn’t understand what her rescuer was saying to her in the confusion, but managed to regain her footing with his help.
“Grazie,” she said smoothing down her skirt and taking her bag when he picked it up and handed it to her.
She went to say something else, but the immaculate hero smiled briefly, said something and pointed to indicate that he had somewhere to go. Then he was gone among the crowd of pedestrians passing her by. Paige didn’t want to know if anyone else had seen her reckless attempt to cross the road, so stopped to gaze at the closest window display while she gathered her senses. It dawned on her that none of the shoes in this particular shop had designs as quirky as her own. She could see the prices were similar to those that she charged and the shoes were beautifully made. Paige walked in.
Many thanks for sharing your first chapter with us, Georgina.
If you’d like to connect with Georgina, you may do so via her website, blog, Twitter, and Facebook. You can find our about her blog tour and buy her new book on Amazon UK and US.
What Every Reader Wants
What do readers really want – a reader’s point of view
I am delighted to welcome Sarah Houldcroft to my Blog today. Sarah, a Goodreads Librarian and Virtual Assistant for authors, tells us what she thinks our readers want from us.
‘You are so lucky – I would love to write a book’
How many times you, as authors, have heard that phrase, I wonder. Perhaps you smile and think to yourself: ‘God, if she only knew the hours and hours of stress, torment and sheer hard work I have had to go through…’ But we, as readers, don’t know. We simply cannot comprehend, it is not important to us. All we see is the end result and the author becomes a special gifted individual who can reach down into her soul and haul out people and feelings, emotions, happenings, and create a whole new world for us.
For the booklover…
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What Every Reader Wants
Today I am interviewing Sarah Houldcroft, a Goodreads librarian, and asking her for some pointers from a readers’s persoective. Read what she has to say.
WHEN I FALL IN LOVE . . .
The New Romantics 4 write romance in its many forms . . . romantic adventure/suspense, romantic comedy, historical romance and dark romance with a soft centre. It being Valentine’s Day, we thought we’d share the moment when our hero and heroines experience the coup de foudre which will change their lives . . . forever.
Read our extracts and let tell us . . . when did you know that you’d met the love of your life?
June Kearns
‘Take care of my heart, I’ve left it with you.’ Edward Cullen
True Love? Romance? Ha! Rare as hen’s teeth in England after the First World War. After a trip to Texas, (The 20’s Girl), Gerardina Chiledexter is sure she’s had her one and only glimpse of both.
Back home, she confides in her friend, Prim:
Minutes ticked by.
Then, a slow, slow shake of Prim’s head. ‘Oh … my … Lord.’ She folded arms across her chest.
‘What?’
‘You admire him, don’t you?’
‘No! No, not in that sort of …’
‘You do. You’ve fallen for him.’
Silence.
‘Well …’ Gerry sighed ‘… what if I have? Nothing happened.’ A few lovely moments of closeness and understanding, a frisson of pleasure. Nothing more. ‘It’s the land that Coop loves, the Circle-O.’
‘I knew it. Oh, Gerry …’
Fallen? Gerry was thinking. Is that like casting yourself over a cliff? Out of control, tumbling, floating through air? How do you get back, then? Can a person ever recover?
If only he hadn’t kissed her.
She could have stayed as she was, a frustrated spinster, in her narrow monk’s bed. Like Prim and most other women here. All those slowly breaking hearts, under buttoned-up layers of woolly cardigans.
Must stop thinking about it, must, must. Such a bad idea. But thoughts kept running away, out of control. She’d forget, eventually, of course she would.
‘Mmmn, yes,’ she imagined herself saying, eons later, ‘of course. I remember it now. There was someone once. That man, the man with no last name. Wrong time, wrong person.’
How long would it take to reach that stage, that blessed blur of not remembering? Until then, whenever the urge to think of him came over her – his touch, his mouth, that kiss – she’d have to lie down and wait, until it passed.
Whatever it was, it was over. The end.
‘Anyway …’ she said brightly, to Prim. ‘I’m here now, aren’t I. I’m home.’
Home. With rain pecking at the windows and the entire rest of her life stretching out emptily, in front of her.
Never again, she said to herself. Never again.
Adrienne Vaughan
Movie star, Ryan O’Gorman arrives unannounced on the island of Innishmahon, hoping to rebuild the relationship with the love of his life Marianne Coltrane. Marianne can’t believe he’s turned up, assuming their troubles are in the past, and though she’s never been happier to see anyone in life, she doesn’t want him to know that …just yet.
“You mean you don’t want me here,” his voice was harsh in his throat. He laid a hand gently on her shoulder. It branded like an iron. She swallowed. She could smell him. He moved closer, his musky sea-scent filled her nostrils. She could not breathe. She ducked under his arm and found sanctuary by the kitchen door. She opened the top half, letting the breeze cool her. He came to stand beside her, following her gaze out past the little windblown garden, the gate to the lane and the sliver of sea beyond. Grey clouds broiled above the Atlantic.
“Marie,” he whispered, “tell me you want me back.” She did not answer. He stayed there, looking out to sea. She stole a glance at him as he watched the horizon, the breeze lifting his hair, thumb prints of tiredness stamped beneath his eyes. He caught her looking at him, and moved to block her view, lifting her chin with a finger, eyes burning into her.
“Well?” he lowered his mouth to hover over hers, she tasted his breath. She stepped back, slamming the top of the door closed.
“You’re wet. Go and shower, we’ll talk later,” she dismissed him.
“Did I do the wrong thing?” he asked again.
“Yes, Ryan you did,” she replied.
“Don’t you love me then?” he spoke quietly.
“Yes, Ryan I do,” she told him, avoiding his eyes.
“Gotcha!” he shouted, making them all jump. “Knew I was still in with a chance, can’t resist me, mad about me, that’s obvious.”
She picked a cushion up and threw it at him.
“Don’t get carried away, boyo, we’ve a lot to discuss, things we should have agreed before now, before this.” She made a gesture encompassing them all.
He gave an involuntary shudder.
“Shower!” She pointed at the door.
He left, attempting a sort of squishy samba, she rolled her eyes as he sashayed up the stairs.
“God loves a trier,” she told Monty, who was waiting patiently for his soup.
Margaret Cullingford
August 1973, Monica Sommers, eighteen years old, and Will Ackroyd, twenty one, are on their way to Florence, Italy on Will’s motorbike stopping off to spend a week on the French Riviera:
At last Cap d’Antibes, unerring, Will found their quaint little hotel . . .
‘Monsieur, comme vous voulez, un chambre avec un grand lit.’ . . .
‘You specifically asked for a double-bed?’ Monica said
‘Ah, bliss.’ Sitting on the side of what looked like a comfortable modern divan, Will undid his boots and kicked them off, then flung himself backwards, bouncing as he landed flat on his back. He closed his yes. ‘No road winding in front of me.’ A few seconds and he sat up looking concerned. ‘I’ll see if we can swop for singles, shall I?’
She turned away to pull open wider the tall window, push back shutters, lean over the wrought iron balustrade, breath in warm Mediterranean scents, wormwood, rosemary and pine. There room overlooked a secluded garden vibrant with scarlet geraniums, magenta bougainvillea, and white jasmine. To her left, an awning shaded a terrace where the hotel guests could sit and eat. Swivelling round, she inspected their room, white walls, white linen, white-matt painted armoire, dressing table, except the white wasn’t white. In early evening the room shimmered shades of pale apricot, its shadows tinged amber.
She looked across at Will. He was watching her, wary. Wet with sweat his curls clung tightly to his head, his face flushed with heat, beads of perspiration glistened on his upper lip. He was beautiful.
‘There’s a small hotel . . . Softly, she sang the opening lines of a song she remembered from one of her father’s old 78’s.
Will’s smile of relief only made him more beautiful. She rushed over, and pushing him backwards, threw herself onto him. He responded to her kiss with such hunger, she was taken by surprise.
Lizzie Lamb
There was a certain something about him; an air, a manner of just being that set him apart from the other men in their Paul Smith suits and two-hundred-pound shoes. It was almost as if, like her, he was here under false pretences. Then she assured herself that it was his clothes – battleship grey linen and silk mix trousers, loose-fitting jacket and white Sea Island cotton shirt – that made him stand out. Nothing more. Except – perhaps – his Byronic good looks. Charlee grimaced. If she was beginning to think in clichés, it was time for her to put down the empty glass and head for the cloakroom.
She was intrigued by him, by his mood switches and sudden change of tack. There was a story here, one the journo in her wanted to investigate. Why, for example, did he have a long, grey cashmere scarf wound loosely around his neck in this overheated room. Affectation? How come his eyes were dark-circled beneath his tropical tan – as though he was recovering from a long illness? Why, despite his obvious youth and vigour did he look world-weary – as though he’d been there, seen it, done it – and had worn out the tee shirt?
‘You walked off without giving me a chance of a rematch,’ he said smoothly, looking over Charlee’s shoulder at the photographs of the exhibition. His warm breath stirred the tendrils of hair on the nape of her neck and a tiny shiver of reaction travelled the length of her body. Charlee put the frisson, and the goose bumps in its wake, down to the fact that the gallery was cooling now that the evening was almost over and the big doors were wide open.
Oh, My Giddy Aunt!
‘I have always maintained the importance of aunts.’
Jane Austen
‘Aunts are not bad but they are inclined to be soppy and call you darling chiz chiz chiz.’
Nigel Molesworth
‘Aunts,’ someone said recently, ‘seem to have starring roles in all of your stories.’
Do they? Well yes, I suppose that they do.
I think the stiff-as-sticks Beatrice and Eugenie, from An Englishwoman’s Guide, were probably summoned-up by Lady Bracknell – Algy Moncrief’s awful aunt in The Importance of Being Earnest.
Lovely Leonie, from The 20’s Girl – who taught her niece to dance the hoochie coochie and the turkey trot, while wearing ostrich feathers and waving an Egyptian cigarette in a long ebony holder – is possibly more like Auntie Mame, who sent her nephew to a school where all classes were held in the nude, under ultra-violet ray!
I adored my own aunts. I was the first girl in my mum’s family, and her sisters completely spoiled me – sitting me on their knees, twirling my curls around their fingers. Sigh.
PG Wodehouse seemed to have a thing about aunts, too. As a schoolboy, he was passed around between quite a few of them, apparently.
In his stories, they keep being blamed for all ills and failures.
‘Behind every poor innocent blighter who is going down for the third time in the soup,’ Bertie Wooster moans, ‘you will find, if you look carefully enough, the aunt who shoved him into it.’
Then, there are Agatha and Dahlia – sister’s to Bertie’s father in The Mating Season. Agatha, according to Bertie, ‘is the one who chews broken bottles and kills rats with her teeth.’ She has ‘an eye like a man-eating fish and wears barbed wire next to the skin.’
Who could resist characters like that?
This picture of my mum and her sisters, Nell and Kath was taken in Somerset, when they were all in their late eighties. We were spending a few days together at a hotel in Somerset. I have never got through so much brandy in my life. ‘Ooh, just another nip, ducky! Helps you to sleep, y’know.’ All three lived well into their nineties.
I think of them every day.
Eccentric, exotic, mad, bad or dotty – for me, aunts do seem to offer a new angle on the world and on my writing. Does anyone else feel the same attraction?!
So . . . How was it for you?
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