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Book Bub Special — The Summer Bride

There’s a Book Bub special for The Summer Bride – $1.99 until the 17th September.  North Americans only (sorry — I know many readers live elsewhere, but it’s my publisher’s policy.)

The Summer Bride is Daisy and Flynn’s story. Here’s a snippet, showing what Daisy wants out of life…

     Daisy had no illusions about herself. She was a little Cockney guttersnipe with a gimpy leg and a foul mouth—though she was working on the swearing, and her grammar. But she loved beautiful clothes and—praise be!— she was good at making them.
     She was going to be somebody, and she was going to do it all herself; Daisy Chance, Dressmaker to the Toffs, with a shop and a business all her own. That was her dream, and she was so hungry for it she could almost taste it.

And here’s a taste of Flynn, in conversation with outrageous elderly dowager, Lady Beatrice. She wants to find out what his plans are, he’s avoiding telling her, and she’s not happy about it.

       She fixed him with a gimlet stare. “Don’t try to butter me up, you rogue! That atrocious tale could have caused me to have palpitations! Palpitations, I say!”
       Flynn smiled. “Palpitations? Never say so m’lad—”
       She thumped her cane on the floor. “I am a frail old woman and not to be lied to!”
       “Ah, you’re as strong as an—”
       “If you say ‘ox’ Mr Flynn, I shall—I shall hit you!” She gripped her cane meaningfully.
       He chuckled. “No need for violence, ma’am. I was goin’ to say as strong as an er, an elf—yes, that’s it, strong as an elf—a delicate, elegant, canny, ageless wee elf.”
        Lady Beatrice snorted. “You’re a silver-tongued rogue and a shameless rascal, Mr Flynn.” 
       “If you say so, m’lady.”
        “I do. I can’t imagine why I ever imagined that I liked you.” She gave him a long baleful stare that did its best to look stern.
        He gave her a slow grin. “Well, milady, that would no doubt be me irresistible Irish charm.”
        Her lips twitched. She pursed them ruthlessly back into an appearance of severity. “Irresistible Irish blarney, more like. Kissing that wretched stone or whatever it is that you Irish do.”
       “Now why would I bother to kiss the Blarney Stone when there are so much more enticin’ things to kiss, milady?”
       A reluctant chuckle escaped her. “You are quite, quite shameless.” Then a cunning expression came into her eyes. She wagged a bony finger at him. “You’re in need of a lesson, Mr Flynn.”

And he gets one.

A little puzzle

Doing a quick internet search for a board game my heroine might play, I got distracted (my perennial problem) and found this site where I can make a puzzle:  To play, click here.

It took me longer than I thought — it’s tricky —and they didn’t even have jigsaw puzzles in her time so there’s no excuse for the time I spent playing around with it. But be warned, some pieces are hidden under others and also at first I thought the two separate groups of pieces were duplicates or some techie thing I didn’t get. But they all count.
Have fun.

Writing No-no's

There’s a lot of writing advice around that is bad — well-intentioned, but misleading. It usually results from people simply repeating what they’ve heard, and turning it into “a rule” that they then share with (or impose on) other new writers.

For instance how often have I seen new writers warned off this kind of thing:

Her eyes dropped to the floor.

No, no, the ‘expert’ instructs  gleefully. If you write this your reader will imagine eyeballs popping out of someone’s head and landing on the floor. You should write:

She lowered her gaze to the floor.

Nonsense, say I. It’s a metaphor. No reader with half a brain is going to think her eyes dropped out of her skull and landed on the floor — because clearly this happens all the time in real life! 

It’s just like saying “She flew to the window” or “He froze” or “He approached the door with leaden footsteps.”

They’re all metaphors! She didn’t literally fly — she hurried; he didn’t literally freeze, he went abruptly still; and his feet weren’t made of lead, it’s a metaphor to show how reluctant he was to approach the door.

So when you’re given writing advice — mine included— think about it, and decide for yourself whether to adopt it or not.