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The Bookstop Cafe, Steep Hill, Lincoln.
To paraphrase President Obama, if you can’t get in through the front door, go round the back. If you can’t get in through the back – climb over the wall. This ideal has driven the New Romantics 4 forward in their quest to become published authors. And as a result, their novels became available on Amazon as kindle download and paperbacks last autumn.
They took this ideal a step further on Saturday 4th May when June and Lizzie drove over to Lincoln for the grand opening of Joff Gainey and Becky Lindley’s Bookstop Café, 47b Steep Hill, Lincoln. An indie author himself, Joff has opened the BookStop Café to provide an environment where book lovers can browse the wonderful selection of books written by indie authors and rest awhile, drink coffee and eat home made cake. Hopefully they will feel moved to purchase one of the excellent indie novels on display after reading the ‘shop copy’ as a taster.
The grand opening ceremony took place amidst loud cheers and applause, while inside the café a jazz band added to the carnival atmosphere. For the first three hours of the café’s opening, tea, coffee and cake were complimentary and the customers poured in.
Whilst writers rubbed shoulders with potential readers, Lizzie and June were happy to stand back and admire copies of Tall, Dark and Kilted, An Englishwoman’s Guide to the Cowboy, The Hollow Heart and Last Bite of the Cherry displayed on the back lit bookshelves next to Joff’s novel Sleeping on a Cloud.
To paraphrase Obama again – the front door was barred, we knocked loudly on the back door but nobody answered – so we’ve climbed over the wall and into Joff and Becky’s Bookstop Cafe. Indie authors and proud of it, the New Romantics 4 will be adding new titles to the bookshelves in autumn 2013.
Follow the Bookstop Cafe on TWITTER.
Please click on the links below to purchase one of our books:
Last Bite Of The Cherry The Hollow Heart
Tall, Dark and Kilted An Englishwoman’s Guide to the Cowboy
In Dublin’s Fair City…
…diary of a virgin book clubber!
As a fledgling novelist, I daydream about what it would be like to have readers not only enjoy my book but to overhear them discussing it; talking about characters, themes, the cover – that would make me feel like a real author, I sigh!
Imagine how I felt when the call came through?
February 23: Leicestershire, at my desk researching (ie daydreaming).
“Hi Adrienne, Deirdre here,” says a blast from the past.
“Dee! Haven’t seen you in an age,” says I.
“The thing is, I’m in a couple of book clubs here in Dublin and we want to feature your novel. When we’ve read it, would come and talk to us about it?” says she.
“Would I what?!” says I, booking my flight before we’ve finished talking.
But what had I agreed to? Not only have the Irish produced some of the best examples of English literature in the world, the Irish are very well read. Yikes!
April 11: Getting ready in my childhood bedroom, Inchicore, Dublin 8.
To say I am nervous is a heart-stopping understatement, I’m petrified. Much of The Hollow Heart is set in Ireland; I haven’t lived here for over thirty years. What if these educated, intelligent and opinionated women think my voice is unauthentic, my characters unrealistic, my story…well, hollow? The Irish are lovely, warm and welcoming people, but don’t imagine they won’t tell you what they think, especially if you’re ‘one of our own’.
Deirdre, trying to put me at my ease, chatted away, giving me a profile of my waiting audience, as we drove across the city to a well heeled coastal suburb, where I was welcomed into a stunningly beautiful home by a charming lady called Barbara. Barbara greeted me warmly and I was shown to a chair in the centre of an elegant lounge; eager faces nodded and smiled as we made our introductions – I could barely sip the delicious glass of wine our hostess placed before me. I need not have feared.
An animated discussion ensued. How do I write? Where do I write? Who are my characters based on? Then debates about themes – motherhood, forgiveness and romance as a genre; these ladies take their literature seriously, I was honoured they had taken the trouble to read my book. I left elated and glowing, if I had given them a fraction of what they had given me, the evening had been a success.
April 12: Fidelma winds down the window so I can hear the bells of Christ Church Cathedral as we drive by. My mother Marion and Deirdre’s mother Edna are in the car – it’s Friday night, it already feels like a party.
We arrive as Deirdre opens the doors to her stylish home filled with candles, white roses and laughter. I was introduced and handed a drink as we crowded into the room. Deirdre started the questions and in no time the girls were firing all sorts at me, from how a book is produced, to how to write good sex – Loose Women had nothing on us!
I’d made up a quiz based on the novel, which some of the girls took so seriously they even tried to look up the answers. Sheena, however was a clear winner, and I was delighted to present her with her own Hollow Heart pendant – she knew more about the story than I did!
Saying goodbye, I signed the Harte sisters’ copies, including a comment on Nuala’s favourite page 245 – you’ll need to read it to find out why it’s her favourite – and we headed happily home, ending my very first encounter with book clubs; two different but equally wonderful experiences, so special just recounting them makes me want to cry with joy!
These gorgeous, intelligent women made me feel like a real author, they took me into their homes and my novel into their hearts. If my writing has done anything, it has rekindled old friendships and made new ones – without doubt the best thing about this whole experience.
I’ll certainly be back when the sequel A Change of Heart is published later this year…that’s if they’ll have me.
NEVER LET ME GO
We all have books we simply can’t bear to part with because, like the old friends they are, they’ve stuck with us through thick and thin.
The oldest book in my collection is Clarendon’s History of the Great Rebellion (1858) followed by The Wild Bird – Margaret Stuart Lane, (1933) The Scarlet Pimpernel (1927), The Prisoner of Zenda and its sequel, Rupert of Henzua (1930).
My other ‘keepers’ are the books which saw me through from girlhood to womanhood: Greengage Summer, I Capture the Castle, Bonjour Tristesse and The Dud Avocado.
With the fickleness of youth I abandoned these when I discovered Jilly Cooper’s novels (1976). My love of rom coms developing within their pages before coming full circle with Bridget Jones in 1996.
I can’t let go any of my penguin classics or historical romances by the likes of Georgette Heyer, Daphne Du Maurier, Jean Plaidy, Margaret Irwin, and Anya Seaton. My particular favourite – Lady of Hay by Barbara Erskine.
When I want to remind myself how to write humorously, I re-visit Wodehouse, Terry Pratchet, Tom Sharpe – and the anarchic Catch 22.
I also treasure my poetry books . . . John Donne, W.B.Yeats, The War Poets, T.S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas, Ted Hughes and Philip Larkin.
And in particular, The Mersey Sound – Adrien Henri, Roger McGough and Brian Patten which reminds me of when I was recovering after an appendectomy in Grantham General (1970). I was reading poems to the other patients in my ward and causing such hilarity that it was confiscated by the ward sister until I was discharged. Honestly . . .
I have two comfort reads Tristan and Isuelt by Rosemary Sutcliffe, (so beautifully written) and Hons and Rebels by Jessica Mitford which is great fun. I want to spend the afternoon with the Mitford gels in the Hons Cupboard discussing topics considered unfit for young ladies.
Want to come with me?
So come on, trade – what’s your favourite book?
THE ONE YOU’LL NEVER LET GO.
IT BEGAN WITH A BOY CALLED TOM
My first blog ever and I’m following Lizzie Lamb, Adrienne Vaughan and June Kearns!
Before I learnt to read, my youngest aunt loved to read to me, except when I asked to hear more of The Water Babies. Aunt Ede preferred fairy tales or any Beatrix Potter. I loved those too but I wanted to know what happened to Tom. All her life Aunt read only romance so what she probably hated most in The Water Babies was the ending:
“And of course Tom married Ellie!” My dear child, what a silly notion!
Despite most of it going over my head, I believe The Water Babies sowed the seeds of my yen to write fiction. As you can see I still have that book.
I’ve loved books forever, couldn’t wait to learn to read, and I wrote, letters, a sort of diary to my absent mother. As an only and adopted child, inherent loner and compulsive reader, I spent hours curled in a cavernous armchair, like most of my generation, immersed in Enid Blyton, Richmal Compton, the classics – Alice in Wonderland, Treasure Island, Three Musketeers, Little Women – how those March girls got on my wick. I thought, one day I would like to write a book.
What sort of book?
As you can see from the picture of my recent paperback reads, I don’t favour any particular genre. On Kindle, since Christmas I’ve also read, Up Close by Henriette Gyland, Terry Tyler’s Dream On and the first two volumes of Peter May’s Lewis trilogy. None of these diverse books, in my opinion, are worthy of less than 5 stars, and I have just finished The Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenides. Set in the early 1980s, Eugenides shows not tells how, despite ‘deconstruction’, the novel today remains essentially the same as Austen’s. Like any of Jane’s, and many other ‘literary’ works, it’s about the nature of human love.
So what sort of book, when I finally came to write it, is Last Bite of the Cherry?
Dark romance, Lizzie says. My heroine, Monica says, “I don’t want to get married. Not ever. I want to live”. Also a quote from one of my Amazon reviewers – “The three interwoven love stories keep up a fast pace which made it very hard to put down.” And thanks to New Romantics 4 it’s out there being read.
And why the thistle, pleasant to look at yet prickly? Symbolic of Last Bite of the Cherry and my next novel, Twins of a Gazelle.
Are You Sitting Com-fort-ably?
One of my earliest memories, is sitting on my grandad’s knee in a thick cloud of pipe smoke, (aromatic, home-grown, probably illegal now!), listening to some mystical words on the Home Service: Forties, Cromarty, Forth, Tyne and Dogger; easterly, veering south-easterly. Becoming cyclonic?
What was all that about? What did it mean? Didn’t matter.
Then, the wonderfully warm voice of Daphne Oxenford, who died last year: ‘Are you sitting comfortably? Then, I’ll begin.’
Ah, lovely. Listen with Mother. Or, grandfather, in my case.
More fond memories, of sitting under the kitchen table, hidden by fringing on the chenille tablecloth and listening to my mum, her sisters, my grandma – the rise and fall of their voices, the buzz of gossip. Knitting needles clicked, teaspoons clinked. A lot of laughter, some sniffing and tutting.
Even then, that ritual – the music and rhythm of words and voices – seemed so seductive.
At seven, an only child and living in my head, I became an avid reader, anything and everything – copying out pages and pages of Enid Blyton to see how she did it. (How did she do it!)
The habit of plucking out words from texts, started around then.
This is a small part of my ‘office’ at home. It’s a bit like a mouse’s nest – a mess of fluff and feathers, paper, pens, post-its. (My mind’s probably much the same.) On every wall, bits and bobs – phrases, poems, hints, tips, pics – from Ovid to Spike Milligan. They spur me on, slow me down, lift me up. I’m still collecting, just can’t stop it.
Who else remembers Shannon, Rockall, Viking, German Bight? Light icing! In South Utsirra? Magical, seductive. Don’t you think ?
And what was that song? Faraway places with strange-sounding names, calling, calling me. It’s why I wrote An Englishwoman’s Guide to the Cowboy!
ARE YOU MY SECRET AGENT?
Fantasising about my heart’s desire, you know gazing doe-eyed at people on trains, in restaurants, in fact everywhere, was becoming a habit. No, not searching for the love of my life you understand but for the other thing I so desperately needed…a literary agent!
It manifested itself in earnest at the airport. I was idly scanning rows of world-weary passengers, fiddling with clear plastic bags, when I noticed an attractive woman and found myself staring at her, and doing it again, wondering, just wondering. Read the rest of this entry
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