Tag Archives: novel

Happy Endings and Great Beginnings

Happy Endings

Some of 2011 pubs. Still waitning for copies of some.

I’ve finished 2011 with good news and happy endings. I wrote two novellas and got them out the door since the beginning of October. My dance card is already full of new projects for 2012, even before the year begins, and both The Pet Shop and Body Temperature and Rising are getting great reviews. That would have been happy ending enough for 2011. But there were double cherries on top of all the lovely whipped cream goodness of the year.

Honourable Mention

My novel, Body Temperature and Rising, made honourable mention on Violet Blue’s much coveted list of Top 12 Best Sex Books of 2011. That’s one huge cherry! Here’s what she had to say:

I am a huge fan of K.D. Grace’s explicit, well-crafted writing (I’ve selected and published her work in multi-author “Best” collections), and this novel did not disappoint me. It’s the first of a hardcore paranormal trilogy, and many readers think it is her best work to date.

Thank you, Violet, for the happy ending!

 

Xcite Awards Finalist

I’ve always been able to count on Xcite Books for cherries and whipped cream, and they didn’t disappoint! The second gigantic cherry topping off 2011 came in the form of a nomination as one of the finalists of the Xcite Awards in the Best Blog or Author’s Page category! I’m over the moon about this, especially since a year and a half ago I was the one dragging my feet about even having a blog. I know now that it was my fearful technophobia rearing its ugly head. I played around with a blog for awhile, then, enter Lucy Felthouse (also nominated, BTW. Talk about stiff competition!) who created my fabulous site and endured my ignorance with calming encouragement, teaching me what I need to know and giving me the occasional virtual pat on the back and pep talk to keep me from panicking when I was in over my head. Thanks Lucy! You rock!

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t very proud of my site now, but I’d also be lying if I took all the credit. What I’ve loved, what’s been the best part of this blog, is having so many fabulous people as guests. We’ve talked about wonderful books, we’ve talked about major problems, we’ve celebrated sexuality, we’ve groused and laughed and played on my site in the past year. My life is so much richer because of all of the great guests who have shared their time and creativity here. And I’ve had loads of fun promoting my books, whether walking the Coast to Coast Path with The Initiation of Ms Holly, or climbing down in derelict slate mines in the Lake District while researching Body Temperature and Rising. We’ve talked sex and books and fun ad launches and inspiration, we’ve learned the story behind some of the fabulous novels and works that came out this year, and all in all just had a great time. So, if I can take credit for anything, it’s for having way more fun with my blog than I would have ever imagined, thanks to all the people and all the great experiences that made A Hopeful Romantic the blog it is.

Thanks, Xcite, for this fabulous honour. And best of luck to all the amazing women I’m up against! If I could, I’d vote for all of them because they’re all terrific women with wonderful sites!

Here’s the link for voting: https://www.surveymonkey.com/s/XciteAwards
 

Great Beginnings

Fun in 2012 has already begun. Riding the Ether, book two of the Lakeland Heatwave Trilogy, is on its way! There’ll be more research trips to the Lake Districts. You see how I suffer for my art. I’m already training hard for our next long distance walk, which will be shared on this blog, and closely associated with Riding the Ether. There’ll be more garden porn, more launches, more readings and more sneak peeks of the latest works of some of your favourite sexy writers. There’ll also be some exciting new writers as well. And there’ll be some amazing interviews with fascinating people. Of course, there’ll be plenty of surprises along the way. So, Happy 2012, everyone! Enjoy the ride. It’s gonna be a good one!

The Crowded Room

I feel really privileged to put the cherry on the top of the First Annual RomFan Reviews Holiday Blog Hop, especially when the last few days of the year have a very special place in my heart. It’s been great to share this fabulous time of year with so many wonderful writers and bloggers, and to make some new friends in the process. You all rock! Annette Stone, a special thanks to you for making it all happen. And now, I’d like to tell everyone just why the last few days of the year, the last week, to be exact.

It’s that time of year again. It’s time to wax slightly nostalgic and do a little navel gazing and reflecting. The last week of the year has always fascinated me. It’s not like the rest of the year. It’s almost like there are really only fifty-one weeks in the year, then there’s the crowded room of a space tacked on to the end, a place not unlike my grandmother’s living room was, all crowded full of the bits and pieces and memorabilia of eighty-three years of living.

The last week of the year is a mini version of that living room that happens anew every year, a mental version, a room that everyone has in their head. It doesn’t matter how expansive or how crazy the previous fifty-one weeks have been, this final week is the tiny space into which we crowd everything that has happened, and for those last seven days of the year, we reflect and remember.

At the front of that crowded room is a big picture window looking back onto all of the past years of experiences. During this last week of 2011, we’ll go inside that room, shut the door behind us, knowing we’ll never go back through that door again. There we’ll settle in to the one comfy chair, the only space that isn’t avalanching with memories and emotions and experiences, and we’ll reflect. Occasionally we’ll stop for a long stare out the window into the years past to try and make out how it all fits together. I often write a massive journal entry at the year’s end. I settle in with wine and chocolate and good coffee and all my favourite things and write. The entry is always full of reflections and memories and plans for the future, all done during the time spent in that crowded room that’s the last week of the year. I wager I’m in good company in that endeavor.

I used to ask my grandmother who was in this old photo or that, or where she got this porcelain doll or that china figurine. Every item in her living room had a story. It was a gift from someone, or a souvenir from some marked event in her life, or something someone had made for her or she had made for herself. My grandmother’s living room was a book full of stories I only ever experienced through her eyes, stories that were lost in the mist to anyone but her and the few of her older friends who still remained, all with story book living rooms of their own.

This time of year, in this last week, we all sit in our mental story book living rooms and tell ourselves one last time the stories that have been our life for the past fifty-one weeks. We laugh at our joys, we mourn our losses, thankful that they’re now passed and we nod our heads in satisfaction at our successes, promising they’ll be even bigger next year.

My grandmother lived to be eighty-three. There was a finality about her over-crowded living room. That last-week-of-the-year room we all occupy right now has its own finality. After midnight tomorrow, we can crowd no more into that room. We leave it as it is, papers strewn, boxes open, bed unmade, cup of tea half finished. Mind you, some of us spend our last hours in that room frantically trying to crowd just a little more into it. That’s me, sitting in the recliner madly tapping away at the laptop trying to get another chapter written, another short story out before I have to leave this room and lock the door behind me.

And it’s been a good year, a wild rambunctious year crowded with laughter and tears and the celebration of two new novels, a challenging Coast to Coast walk across England, conferences, readings, vegetables planted and eaten. I have lots of pictures in my year’s mental photo album, I have lots of triumphs and losses, and lots of time spent with wonderful friends and loved ones. Hold it! I’ll stop right now because once I get going, I’ll give you the whole inventory, and you, no doubt have your own crowded room to inventory.

It doesn’t matter though, if we’re sitting reflecting on all that fills this room, or if we’re frantically trying to fill it fuller before the clock strikes. At midnight tomorrow night, we’ll all take a deep breath, open the door and walk out into the empty room waiting for us, the empty room that’s 2012. All we’ll take with us is our memories of the room we left and our hopes and plans for how we’ll fill this bright new room that stretches promisingly before us. Some of us make New Years resolutions, some of us just plow in without a plan of action, but one thing is for certain, this time next year, if we live that long, we’ll be sitting in the full room again reflecting on how the experiences of 2012 have shaped us, anticipating how we’ll take the experiences into the next empty room. And that’s all we’ll be allowed to take with us, our experiences, our memories,

My wish for you all is that your reflections in your crowded room will be good ones, satisfying ones. And at the stroke of midnight, that you’ll enter that bright new empty room of 2012 with hope and joy and anticipation of how wonderfully you’ll fill it up.

I’d like to help you heat up your empty room by offering a choice of either of a PDF version of either of my novels, The Initiation of Ms Holly or The Pet Shop. Winner’s choice. Leave a comment to be included in the drawing for the giveaway. All the best in the New Year!

 

Best Gifts of the Year and the Yearly Navel Gaze

I would like to celebrate the season by being thankful for all the gifts that didn’t fit under the tree, and all the early gifts, the ones I got way before Christmas, the ones that make anything under the tree seem, well sort of anti-climactic.

The Gift of Writing

Holly at the Piccadilly Waterstones in London. We have arrived!

Like you didn’t see that one coming! I’ve loved it since I could hold a pencil and do more than scribble. Every year I love it more and more. This year I loved it through two novels, two novella’s, a slew of short stories, and blog posts too numerous to count. And all the while I was frantically writing, I was watching how well The Initiation of Ms Hollywas selling with a very broad, very silly smile on my face. The only thing better than loving writing is having

Pets in Soho, next door to Madame JoJo's, where the Kitten Club performes. Where else would they want to be?

other people love my writing!

Oh yes! The writing gift was particularly good this year! And, I’m already rattling and shaking the package of next year’s writing gifts, which promise to be just as exciting, if not more so.

 

The Gift of Outside

I know, I know; you saw that one coming too, didn’t you? But being outside makes me a better writer, and it’s been a great year for being outside. Most of you who are my friends on Facebook have suffered through endless photos of our vegetable garden and the lovely harvest. Some of you were even green with envy when the raspberries and strawberries came on. I didn’t include even one photo of the slugs or snails or the abundant weeds, though that might be a promising photo op for next year. With any luck, an allotment will be in our near future and then you can expect lots more garden porn.

Many of you know that I walk my stories, and I’ve had some fantastically inspirational walks this year. I’ve been

Me on the beach at Lincoln City, Oregon

enthralled by the fabulous fungi in the local woodlands in the autumn walks, I’ve walked the Oregon Coast and the lava flows in the Cascades with my sister. I’ve walked on the Strip in Las Vegas with writing friends.  I’ve walked amid the incredible blossoms in spring and the lovely sunsets in high summer and everything in between, all the while working out plots and characters and settings. Being outside always balances me and centres me again, which is a good thing, since I tend to be a bit obsessive.

The Gift of Adventure

The very stylish 'drowned rat' look walking the Coast to Coast Path

The biggest adventure of all this year was the fourteen days in August when Raymond and I walked the Wainwright Coast to Coast Path across England. Yes, you heard me right, across England. I like to repeat that phrase a lot because it’s still amazing to me. Oh, by the way, did I mention that it was all the way across England!

Not only did we walk it, but I blogged about it, and those of you who followed the posts definitely caught glimpses of me at … well not exactly my best. It was one of the toughest, most amazing experiences I’ve had, and I had to dig deep to finish it. That’s another package I’m rattling for next year. Oh yes! There’ll be another Bad Ass walk! And I’m scheming to get Raymond to blog it with me this time.

Then there was Vegas! Yes, I packed my bags and went to Las Vegas for the first annual Erotic Authors Association

At the Erotic Heritage Museum in Las Vegas during the Erotic Literary Salon reading

Conference. There aren’t enough wows for that fantastic experience. Though Vegas wouldn’t have been my first choice of cities to visit in the States, I couldn’t have chosen a more fabulous group of people to spend a hot and action-packed weekend with. The very best part of the Vegas gift was finally putting faces to names of some of the American erotica writers, who had long been my friends online. And they were every bit as wonderful in person! With amazing people, panels, workshops and two readings, one at the Erotic Heritage Museum standing between a plethora of eight-foot white marble penises, oh yes, it was good!

Justine Elyot, Janine Ashbless, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Kay Jaybee, Me, Jacqueline Applebee at Sh! Hoxton in July

There were numerous readings in London, as well, which are always a gift. One was with my dear friend, Kay Jaybee. One was with one of my heroes in the world of erotica, Rachel Kramer Bussel. Then there was the huge, blow-out launch party for my second novel, The Pet Shop, in October at my favourite place, Sh! Hoxton, with so many of my favourite people. And now Pets are happily misbehaving not only all over London, but all over the UK. In January they’ll be misbehaving in the States too!

Of course, I've been naughty, Santa! And THIS Santa just happens to be Peter Birch, who's not exactly angelic either;)

Definitely one of the best gifts of the year was Erotica, 2011 — three days of fabulous, delicious naughtiness at the Olympia Convention Centre in London. And Raymond and I were there for all three! We had the pleasure of working with the terrific folks from Xcite Books, doing readings, panels and selling and signing LOTS of books written by yours

The lovely ladies from the House of Burlesque have fabulous tastes in literature!

truly. In the midst of all the thongs and corsets and whips and nosebleed stilettos, I was the one with the ear-to-ear smile.

Friends

Hazel Cushion, Matt Peterson, Peter Newsom at the Xcite stand

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, at the end of the day, it’s the gift of people that matters more than anything else, and I’ve had so many fabulous people surround me this year that it’s impossible to come close to expressing how they’ve enriched my life. This was the year that I got to know the folks at Xcite Books a little better. Hazel Cushion, Matt Peterson, Peter Newsom, and the lovely Miranda Forbes. You all are totally amazing. Thanks for all you do.

This was the year I got involved with Fannying Around, Sarah Berry’s fantastic brainchild, and the source of a lot more new friends. Through a year of laughing and chatting and learning to appreciate our bodies, I’ve come to love and respect Sarah even more than I already did. Amazing hardly begins to describe this lovely lady.

The lovely Sarah Berry

For two years now, Sh! Women’s Erotic Emporium has played a major role in my life by helping with research, supporting my work, and just being fabulous. It was love at first sight for me when I met these amazing Ladiez. They truly are modern-day heroines. Plus, they have great taste in eroticaJ I admire them more than I can ever say.

Brian and Von Spencer opened up the great outdoors for me, showed me how to use a compass and a map, and turned me lose in the Lake District to fall utterly and totally in love with the place. They have shown Raymond and me breath taking parts of the Lake District we might never have known to look for without them. They have inspired the Lakeland Heatwave Trilogy, and have

Lucy Felthouse, Lexie Bay, Rebecca Bond, Victoria Blisse, me, Kay Jaybee at Erotica

helped all along the way with the research. I admire them deeply, and I hope when I grow up I can be just like them!

There are two lovely women who have inspired me and encouraged me and been there for me through all the writing adventures of the past year. Lucy Felthouse, the fearless EP, is not only a promising young writer, but a PR and marketing person extraordinaire. She designed my fabulous website and has staved off many a panic attack for me as I venture into the

Lucy Felthous and Kay Jaybee at Sh! Hoxton

scary realms of PR and marketing. Lucy has taught me how to promote my brand, and bless her, that couldn’t have been an easy task. Don’t know how I would have managed without her.

The second lovely lady is the fabulous writer and even more fabulous person Kay Jaybee. Again it was love at first sight. Hon, the journey wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun without you. Your encouragement and fabulous sense of humour, and your loving spirit have been one of the best gifts of this year. Thanks for being you.

There are others, lots of others. My life is rich because of the people in it, and they are, as always, the very best gifts. They are what give all the other gifts meaning.

Me and Kay Jaybee with my delicious 'test subject.' Notice the smile he's sporting.

The Gift of Love

And of course, you saw this coming, too, didn’t you? The best gift of all, the best gift for all our years together, is the gift of love. The one closest to my heart, the one who encourages me, stand by me, loves me, and keeps his head down when I’m not very loveable and the sh*t is hitting the fan, my lover and best friend, my husband, Raymond, the man who brings out the best in me and loves me through the worst. He is the man who is proud of me, the man who tells his friends that I use him for research. And he’s the man who is willing to don a pair of walking boots and walk across England with me. I’m a very lucky woman indeed.

The man of my heart!

Happy Navel Gazing!

I promised when Lucy and I began this website almost a year ago that I wouldn’t navel gaze, that I would do my best to make this blog a place worth visiting, and I’ve done my best to do that. But it’s that time of year, and navel gazing is as much a part of the season as mistletoe and cheesy Christmas music, so I figured you might, with the holiday spirit and all, be willing to forgive me just this one.

Having said that, I wish you good navel gazing as the year grows to a close. May 2012 be filled with love and laughter and challenges and adventure and many, many causes for celebration.

Happy Navel Gazing, wherever you are!

Jeremy Edwards Shares the Story behind The Pleasure Dial

The Pleasure Dial: An Erotocomedic Novel of Old-Time Radio

by Jeremy Edwards

It began with a city: Los Angeles.

I’ve set stories in Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and San Francisco; in Hartford, Cleveland, Chicago, Providence, and Miami; in Florence, in London, in Ottawa, and in Brussels.

And, on a couple of occasions, I’ve set them in Los Angeles: specifically, in Hollywood—or rather within “Hollywood,” the several areas of greater Los Angeles in which big-budget motion pictures are made.

Despite these earlier excursions into Los Angeles, there came a time when I was contemplating a new Los Angeles story. And it didn’t take much contemplation to determine that my new LA story would be an old LA story. I would be returning to “Hollywood,” but the Hollywood of an earlier epoch.

Eventually I decided to write, not a short story, but a full-length book set in that world.

You see, I’m a fan of classic radio comedy (the sillier the better), and I also love the risqué deliciousness seen in some of the early talkies. The combination of alluring sexuality and inspired silliness that was sometimes produced before the movie studios became prudish and zany humor went out of fashion lines up very well with my own sensibilities; and so although I usually work with contemporary settings, I realized that the Hollywood of the early 1930s would be a perfect environment for a Jeremy Edwards erotocomedic novel.

I’d been doing a lot of reading about what it was like to be a staff writer for radio and television comedy programs in the mid-twentieth century (just for my own interest—I didn’t realize at the time it was “research”!)—and I fell in love with the idea of putting witty radio writers at the center of my next sexy adventure. Not only could these people be the ideal protagonists for the cocktail of sensuality and repartee I was planning, but I could play at being an old-time radio writer myself, as I fleshed out the bits of “show within the show” programming that would be found here and there in my book. And, when sitting in my writing room and taking my characters into their writing room, I could orchestrate discussions such as this one:

“Look at this: first page,” said Mariel. “Heffy says he’s brewing some tea. There is absolutely nothing funny about brewing tea, Mickey.”

“It’s only an incidental line,” said a writer named Howard.

Nothing is incidental in good comedy,” Mariel retorted. “Heffy should say he’s boiling an egg. Now that’s amusing—though offhand I couldn’t say why.”

Choosing the precise year in which my novel is set—though as it happens it’s mentioned only in the blurb, not the book proper—took some care. On the one hand, I wanted radio comedy and talking pictures to be well established by the point at which we enter my version of Old Hollywood. Likewise, I wanted to make sure we were clear of Prohibition (repealed at the end of 1933), so that I wouldn’t have to sneak my characters drinks instead of letting them enjoy their scotch, champagne, and Bloody Marys free of logistical complications.

On the other hand, I wanted to keep my story within the era prior to the motion-picture industry’s serious compliance with the so-called Hays Code—the studios’ puritanical self-censorship agreement that, according to my reference source, had been created in 1930 but did not have an important influence until the second half of 1934. I wanted the entertainment world inhabited by my characters to be the “pre-Hays” world of sexy scenes and madcap comedy. (As noted above, it seems to me that comedy, for whatever reason and sex aside, became less whimsical in the Hays era, generally speaking. Even the Marx Brothers became a little stodgier.)

And so my book is set in the spring of 1934. As you can see, I wasn’t left with much of a window!

Let’s take a look through that window … into the home of screen idol Lila Lowell, where a group of my characters have congregated.

EXCERPT

“The show Friday night was fabulous,” Nanette continued. “I don’t mind telling you we listened to it in bed.” She stroked Lila’s thigh through her kimono.

Artie watched Elyse’s eyes light up, as they did so frequently, with sexual interest. “I’m very glad you told me that. Damn, to think of two such beautiful women in bed, enjoying … me. *Lila Lowell* and her woman,” she continued, as if telling herself an erotic bedtime story, “in bed—after a fashion—with me. Oh, my my my.”

She shivered erogenously while she spoke. For his part, Artie found that he had his hand in his pocket, and that he was discreetly tickling his cock to the rhythm of Elyse’s voice.

She turned to him now. “Can’t you just see them, Artie? Undressed and exquisite in bed, touching each other and listening to me—perhaps visualizing me there with them?”

Artie figured Elyse was about the only person in the world who could say something like that without sounding remotely egotistical. Remarks like this were all in a day’s work for a sex goddess.

Nanette made eye contact with Lila, who nodded again. “Would you like to see that, Elyse?” Nanette asked.

“You bet,” Artie blurted.

Mariel gently elbowed him, snickering. “The question was not addressed to you.”

“Sorry.” He blushed. “It’s … er … a side effect of writing her dialogue.”

Lila smiled tolerantly.

“Well, Mariel, we’re all good friends here,” said Nanette.

Elyse was already squirming in her checkers chair, with a palm situated suggestively at the apex of her legs. “You would let me be there while you loved?”

“You’ll just have to bring a chair into the bedroom,” said Nanette. She looked inquisitively at Lila, who grinned shyly, and then at Artie. “Okay—three chairs.”

“I told you Lila would quickly become comfortable with you,” Mariel said to Artie as they carried the furniture down the hall.

When the two women reclined naked on their bed, their appearances were thrown into an aesthetic contrast. Lila, as every moviegoer knew, was tall, black-haired, and thin, with breasts like small scrumptious pastries and a round little bubble of an ass. Nanette, in turn, was blonde, compact, and on the voluptuous side. And although, by her own account, Nanette had left the tub long before Miss Lowell, Artie noticed that she still looked positively ripe from her bath, lusciously warm and rosy, while Lila looked stunningly sepulchral as always.

Their bodies faced each other; their heads, framed by deep purple pillows, faced Elyse, who had stripped to her underwear before posing on a chair at the foot of the bed.

“Isn’t it clever,” Mariel said to Artie, “how the best entertainment in Hollywood occurs behind closed doors?”

BLURB

The year is 1934, and amiable New York gag writer Artie Plask has taken the West Coast plunge. His first day on staff with a top radio show introduces him to the irresistible Mariel Fenton, a wit among wits who immediately takes an interest in all aspects of Artie’s life—especially his private life. As Artie finds his feet in a world of blustering comedians, pansexual sex goddesses, timid screen legends, exhibitionistic scriptwriters, and self-infatuated geniuses, Mariel leads him on a zany journey up and down the pleasure dial—a giddy romp through Hollywood that’s chock-full of airwaves showdowns, writing-room counterplots, devious impersonations, naked meetings, and a sensuality-drenched assortment of erotic escapades.

BUY LINK:

http://oceroticbooks.com/ebooks/the-pleasure-dial-an-erotocomedic-novel-of-old-time-radio

BIO

Jeremy Edwards is the author of the erotocomedic novel Rock My Socks Off (Xcite Books, 2010), the erotic story collection Spark My Moment (Xcite Books, 2010), and most recently The Pleasure Dial: An Erotocomedic Novel of Old-Time Radio (OC Press, 2011). His quirky, libidinous tales have appeared in over fifty anthologies, including three volumes in the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica series, and he has read his work live at New York’s In the Flesh and Philadelphia’s Erotic Literary Salon. Jeremy’s greatest goal in life is to be sexy and witty at the same moment—ideally in lighting that flatters his profile. Readers can drop in on him unannounced (and thereby catch him in his underwear) at www.jeremyedwardserotica.com.

Body Temperature and Rising, the Long Way Around

Body Temperature and Rising, volume one of my Lakeland Heatwave Trilogy, is now available in all ebook formats with most major distributors. It will be available in print in February. After a very strange, circuitous journey to completion, I’m very excited to be able to share my first ever paranormal erotic romance with the world.

Body Temperature and Rising didn’t start out to be a trilogy. In fact, it started out, three Novembers ago, as my first effort to write a novel in a month for National Novel Writing Month. (NaNoWriMo). During November, National Novel Writing Month, people everywhere of all ages from all walks of life attempt to write a novel in one month. For me, not only was it my first attempt to write a novel in a month, but it was my first ever attempt to write an erotic novel.

Considering the way it all began, Body Temperature and Rising could hardly have been anything BUT paranormal. My good friend Helen Callaghan and I decided to get the first day of our NaNoWriMo experience off to a good start by driving to Avebury to write at the pub there.

Avebury is a village set in the middle of the biggest Neolithic stone circle in Europe, a stone circle 500 years older than the Pyramids.

The Red Lion Inn. Taken on a much nicer, much less haunted day.

Because the stones are much easier than Stonehenge to access, and there is no charge, Avebury has become a gathering place for modern Pagans and other New Age folks. And our timing was perfect, as it was the day after the old Celtic holiday of Samhain and even in spite of the torrential downpour that we arrived in, we found ourselves surrounded by druids, witches, wiccans and all manner of Pagans celebrating what is essentially Celtic New Year. The people watching was fabulous, even with the drowned-rat effect.

Never mind that, Helen and I were there to write, so after a scuppered attempt at an inspiring walk in the wind and rain, we settled in at the Red Lion Inn, right in the centre of the stone circle. This 16th Century pub proudly boasts the reputation of being ‘the most haunted pub in England.’

It didn’t take us long to get pulled into the writing, so after lunch we wrote our way through numerous coffees and pots of tea, watching the super-saturated Pagans come and go in the pouring rains. There was a fire in the fireplace, and we were both in the zone.

By late afternoon, sharing leftover Halloween candy across the table while the Muse whispered in our ears the pub was nearly. Suddenly there was an enormous banging sound, like doors slamming. It seemed to be coming from the hall that led to the restroom behind us. The space that had felt toasty warm all at once felt chilled, and we were both shivering. Seconds later, one of the wait staff came running back to the restrooms looking very panicked and very pale. From behind the bar to the kitchen we heard murmurs and nervous laughter. We overheard mentions of the ghost, followed by more murmurs and mentions of supernatural phenomena when the volunteer returned unscathed to join the rest of the staff cowering behind the bar. And then the room was warm again. Helen and I ate more sweets, ordered another pot of tea and discussed our near-brush with the supernatural. Then we kept writing.

One of the Avebury stones on a nice day.

It was only as dark settled and the rain hadn’t let up even a little bit that we remembered two things. We weren’t parked in the pub car park, but in the National Trust car park on the other side of the village, a car park that closed at dark.

We quickly gathered our belongings and made a run for it, trying to hold umbrellas to protect us from horizontal rain, and struggling to see our way on the tiny, unlit path back to the car park, illuminated only by the pale green light of Helen’s mobile phone. With boots full of water and a banged knee from the metal fence post I ran into, we finally arrived at the Car Park to find it deserted except for Helen’s car, and thankfully for the National Trust Land Rover parked by the gate with a lovely NT employee waiting patiently to let us out.

Oh, and that intsy-weentsy little second thing we’d forgotten about… We’d been so busy talking on the way over to Avebury that we’d forgotten to get petrol for the car, and we were running on fumes. Avebury has a pub, several tourist shops and a post office. No garage. The next town of any size up the deserted highway was Marlborough. Everyone with any common sense was long since inside out of the horrid weather. It felt like we were the only people on the planet. We were only fifteen miles from Marlborough, but we weren’t sure we were even going to get to when we realized the Kennet River, which usually runs under the road was now running OVER the road. Thinking only of the fumes quickly dissipating in the petrol tank, we ploughed through the raging waters of the Kennet and continued on our way, a thought which still gives me a chill when I think what might have happened crossing a flooded river as we did. But only a few miles up the road, looking like the gates to paradise was a small Murco station. And it was open! We were saved! Thus began Lakeland Heatwave: Body Temperature and Rising, which at that time was called ‘Love Spell.’

During the month that I wrote BTR, a time when I already had a very full writing plate on top of the novel-in-a-month plan, the paranormal experience continued as I was magically transformed into The Bitch

Research is hard work

from Hell, a creature so unpredictable, so terrifying, so vile that only my husband, Raymond the Brave, could successfully handle being in her presence for long periods of time. The man has permanent psychological scars from that infamous November, I have no doubt.

In the meantime, I got trapped in the Eurostar Tunnel and The Initiation of Ms Holly was born, followed by The Pet Shop while BTR languished tucked away in my computer as a Word file. I just wasn’t confident enough to attempt anything paranormal. Then, maybe it was the influence of the Avebury Ghost, but I decided to propose Body Temperature and Rising to Xcite, knowing that it would need a lot of reworking because I had grown a lot as a writer. Once Xcite accepted my proposal, I found myself totally unable to continue with the rewrite. Every attempt felt like a false start, every effort felt like it wasn’t right somehow.

Just when I was about to lose heart, I took a long walk and realized that if it were going work as I envisioned it, Lakeland Heatwave would have to be a trilogy. Xcite went for the proposal and from that point on, the ghosts and witches practically wrote the story for me.

Of course with the action set in the Lake District and the first chapters set in a bad storm on the fells and in a slate mine shaft, I was forced to make several research trips to the Lakes. How I suffer for my art! I have no doubt I’ll need to do much such suffering as the Lakeland Heatwave Trilogy unfolds.

Body Temperature and Rising will be available in print in February 2012, and as is the happy tradition, will be celebrated with wild partying and raunchy reading at Sh! Hoxton.

Blurb:

American transplant to the Lake District, MARIE WARREN, didn’t know she could unleash demons and enflesh ghosts until a voyeuristic encounter on the fells ends in sex with the charming ghost, ANDERSON and night visits from a demon. To help her cope with her embarrassing and dangerous new abilities, Anderson brings her to the ELEMENTALS, a coven of witches who practice rare sex magic that temporarily allowsghosts access to the pleasures of the flesh.

DEACON, the demon Marie has unleashed, holds an ancient grudge against TARA STONE, coven high priestess, and will stop at nothing to destroy all she holds dear. Marie and her landlord, the reluctant young farmer, TIM MERIWETHER, are at the top of his list. Marie and Tim must learn to wield coven magic and the numinous power of their lust to stop Deacon’s bloody rampage before the coven is torn apart and more innocent people die.

Dale Head. The sight Marie would have seen without the mist.

Excerpt:

‘First you treat me like I don’t exist, then you go all big brother on me like I’m too delicate and soft-brained to take care of myself. Well I have news for you, Tim Meriwether, I was taking care of myself for a long time before you decided I needed looking after.’ She shoved again, and this time he grabbed her with such force that she felt the bones in her neck pop.

With her forward momentum, he stumbled over an uneven paving stone, lost his footing and went over backward into a manger full of fresh hay, pulling her on top of him.

Before she could shove and claw her way to her feet, He grabbed her around the waist and rolled, pinning her beneath the weight of his body. He gave her no time to think about it, but pulled her into a bruising kiss, forcing her lips apart, probing her hard pallet with his dexterous tongue, biting her lower lip before he came up fighting for the breath to speak. ‘I think about you a lot, Marie,’ His chest rose and fell in hungry gasps. ‘But I promise you, none of those thoughts were even remotely brotherly.’

She bucked underneath him and clawed at his shirt. ‘Then do something about it, damn it, and stop toying with me.’ Several buttons popped and flew across the stable floor. He forced her legs apart with his knee, moving it up to rub against the crotch of her jeans. She shoved his shirt open and arched up to him as he pushed her t-shirt up and manoeuvred and tugged, forcing her breasts free from her bra into his spayed hands and hungry lips.

She fumbles with the fly of his jeans, sliding an anxious hand into his boxers. He huffed a breathless grunt, and the muscles low in his stomach tense as she closed her fingers around his engorged penis and began to stroke.

He had just began the anxious efforts with her own fly when suddenly the stable door slammed shut, and the light bulb overhead exploded in a shower of fine glass plunging the two into total darkness.

Marie yelped, and Tim cursed. As they fought their way to their feet, the mare screamed, and they could hear her struggling.

Tim vaulted over the manger’s edge seconds before Marie, calling back to her. ‘Get the door. Get it open.’

Struggling to secure her jeans with one hand, Marie felt her way along the perimeter of the stable toward the door. The relief was short-lived when her fingers closed around the handle, and it wouldn’t budge.

‘It’s locked,’ she shouted above the desperate cries of the mare.

‘What do you mean, it’s locked,’ Tim shouted back. ‘It doesn’t have a lock. It’ can’t be locked.’

‘I’m telling you it won’t open,’ she yelled back, feeling an icy chill blasting her from behind. With one final tug, the door gave and she tumbled backward on her ass. The sharp knife edge of light that shot through the darkness was blinding, like a flashbulb going off, leaving a deep bruised after image dancing in front of her face, an after image of Deacon.

She cried out and crab walked backward, as he stepped toward her, unfurling his bullwhip, in what seemed like endless slow motion.