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New Years Resolutions: Sneaking Quietly Through the Back Door

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182Well what do you know? Here it is the 4th of January already! 2014 is well and truly under way. The gym is overflowing with New Years Resolutioners; all around the world new diets have been begun as soon as the New Year hangover wears off; people stop drinking, stop smoking, begin learning Spanish or French, people promise to take better care of themselves, spend more time with good friends, waste less time in front of the telly, and the list goes on. On January 4th the universal urge to be ‘better’ in the New Year is nearly palpable in the soggy English air.

It happens every year, that urge to reflect on what has been and plan how the New Year will be better. 266Hope and excitement at new beginnings is so much a part of our human nature that the end of a year and the beginning of another one can’t help but be the time when we anticipate, plan change, and dare to dream of what wonderful things we can bring about in the next year. In fact there’s a heady sense of power in the New Year. I think it’s the time when we’re most confident that we can make changes, that we really do have power over our own lives. It’s the time when we’re most proactive toward those changes, those visions of the people we want to be.

Before I actually began to sell my writing, back when I dreamed of that first publication, back when there seemed to be a lot more time for navel gazing than is now, I was a consummate journaler. I filled pages and pages, notebooks and notebooks full of my reflections, ruminations and navel gazes. And nothing took more time and energy than the end of the year entry, in which I reflected on how I did on the year’s resolutions and planned my resolutions for the next. This was a process that often began in early December with me reading back through journals, taking notes, tracing down some of what I’d been reading during that year and reflecting on it. Yeah, I know. I needed to get a life!

By the time New Years Day rolled around, I had an extensive list of resolutions, each with a detailed 191outline of action as to how I was going to achieve it. I found that some of those resolutions simply fell by the wayside almost before the year began — those things that if I’m honest with myself, I know I’m never gonna do, no matter how much I wish I would. Others I achieved in varying degrees-ish. But sadly, for the most part, a month or maybe two into the year, that hard core maniacal urge to be a better me no matter what cooled to tepid indifference as every-day life took the shine off the New Year.

It was only when there stopped being time for such ginormous navel-gazes and micro-planning that I discovered I actually had achieved a lot of those goals that were my resolutions simply by just getting on 183with it. As I began to think more about how different my approach to all things new in the New Year had become the busier I became, I realised that I had, through no planning on my part, perfected the sneak-in-through-the-back-door method of dealing with the New Year. The big, bright New Year changes I used to spend days plotting and planning no longer got written down, no longer got planned out. Instead, they sort of implemented themselves in a totally unorganised way somewhere between the middle of January and the middle of February. They were easy on me, sort of whispering and smiling unobtrusively from the corners of my life. They came upon me, not in a sneak attack so much as a passing brush with someone who would somehow become my best friend.

I’m my own harsh task master. I’m driven, I’m tunnel-visioned, I’m a pit bull when I grab on to what I want to achieve with my writing. No one is harder on me than I am – no one is even close. And yet from somewhere there’s a gentler voice that sneaks in through the back door of the New Year and through the back doors of my life and reminds me to be kinder to me, to be easier on me, to find ways to rest and recreate and feed my creative self. I’ll never stop being driven. The time I’ve been given, the time we’ve all been given, is finite. And that gentler part of ourselves must somehow be a constant reminder of comfort and gentleness, of self-betterment that comes, not from brow-beating and berating ourselves, not from forced regimentation, but from easing into it, making ourselves comfortable with it. We, all of us, live inP1010083 a time when life is snatched away from us one sound-bite, one reality TV show, one advert at a time. Often our time, our precious time is bargained away from us by harsher forces, by ideals and scripts that aren’t our own, and the less time we have to dwell on the still small voice, the deeper the loss.

So my resolution, my only resolution every year is to listen more carefully to that gentler, quieter part of me, to forgive myself for not being able to be the super-human I think I should be, to settle into the arms of and be comfortable with the quieter me, the wiser me who knows how far I’ve really come, who knows that the shaping of a human being goes way deeper than what’s achieved in the outer world, and every heart that beats needs to find its own refuge in the value of just being who we are, of living in the present and coming quietly and gently and hopefully into the New Year.

A Very Crowded Room

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writing image 2It’s crowded room time again, and my room that is 2013 is unusually crowded, surprisingly crowded, in fact. I’m sure I’m not alone in my fascination with the last week of the year. It’s completely different from the rest of the year. It feels more like there are actually just fifty-one weeks in the year, then there is a week that’s really the crowded room at the end, a place not unlike my grandmother’s living room was, jam-packed with the bits and pieces and memorabilia of eighty-three years of living.

The last week of the year is a mental version of that living room, a room that we all have in our head. No matter how expansive the previous fifty-one weeks have been, this final week is the tiny space into which we crowd everything that has happened in the year. Then we mentally pour ourselves a glass of our favourite, settle in to the one comfy chair that’s not avalanching with memories and emotions, and we reflect.

Every item in my grandmother’s living room had a story — a gift from someone, a souvenir from some marked event in her life, 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.

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 and we nod our heads in satisfaction at our successes, promising they’ll be even bigger next year.

There was a finality about her over-crowded living room. It spoke of endings, of past events, of P1000885treasured moments. That last week of the year room we all occupy right now has its own finality. After midnight tonight, 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 computer trying to get another chapter written, another short story out before I have to leave this room and lock the door behind me.

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, at midnight tonight, we’ll all take a deep breath, open the door and walk out into the empty room waiting for us that is 2014. All we’ll take with us is our memories of the room we left and our hopes 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 2014 have shaped us, anticipating how we will take the experiences into the next empty room. With that in mind, here is a very brief tour of my 2013 Room.

Empty Room New Year postMore Books in My Crowded Room:

This has been the year I had three novels published, finishing two trilogies in the process, along with a collection of my short stories.

Elemental Fire, the final novel of the Lakeland Witches paranormal trilogy came out early in the year.

Identity Crisis, book two of Grace Marshall’s Executive Decisions came out about the same time.

The Exhibition, the final book in the Executive Decisions trilogy came out in November.

Gracefully Aroused: The Best of K D Grace  a collection of my short stories, came out in the middle of the year.

First Drafts and Works in Progress:

medusa_bernini2013 was the year I collaborated with the fabulous Moorita Encantada on a burlesque play, Eye of the Beholder, a kinky, quirky twisting and retelling of the Greek myth of Medusa and Perseus. There’s more work to be done on that, and I’m looking forward to the rewrite and the next steps with Moorita in 2014.

With two days left in 2013, I finished the final read-through of the proofs for Fulfilling the Contract, the sequel to The Initiation of Ms Holly, which will be out in February 2014.

I’ve written two short stories I’m very excited about, that will be coming out in 2014. I’ll be crowing about those when they happen, and I’ve written numerous blog posts. I’m not even going to mention the pages of new ideas for future novels!

Did I Do Anything other than Write in 2013?

Yes! I did! I made two major trips abroad for research as well as for fun. I spent five days in Las Vegas in March, along with ten days in Oregon. Both Vegas and Oregon figure strongly into novels I’ve written and ones still to come.

I just got back from a fantastic week in Rome, where book three of The Mount series, To Rome with Lust, will be set. I came home truly inspired.

This was the year of the allotment. I spent many long hours spent digging and planting and harvesting some of the most delicious veg ever grown. My back still aches and my mouth still waters at the thought.

This was the year I temporarily gave up long walks for time spent at the gym with a personal trainer. What started out as rehab for a gimpy knee ended up to be a different kind of challenge for me and one that I’ve truly enjoyed. As for the knee – it’s very much improved and I look forward to taking on some long crow-country walks in 2014.

555019_495828133815487_910474558_nThere were lots of readings this year, several at Sh! Women’s Store, including two Reading and Poetry Slams. Sh! is always a delight.

This was the first year of Smut by the Sea, a fabulous gathering of writers and readers organized by two of my heroes, Victoria and Kev Blisse. I’m elated to say that we’ll all be returning to Scarborough for year two of Smut by the Sea in 2014! If you get a chance to attend, please do. I’d love to meet you there!

This was year two for Eroticon – held in London in 2013, and expanded to two full days this year! Once again, Ruby Kiddell organized a totally stunning event. I was very lucky to have the opportunity to lead a workshop for the event – my first ever. Thought my knees were knocking and my hands were shaking, it was a wonderful experience. I can’t recommend Eroticon enough, and in 2014 it’ll bet returning to Bristol. I hope to see you there!

The Birth of the Brit Babes:britbabes_sidebar

One of the most exciting things that happened at Eroticon this year was the birth of the Brit Babes. In 2012 at Eroticon, we put our heads together and schemed the fab Seven Deadly Sins anthology. In 2013 all that creativity became the creative force behind the Brit Babes, a group of eight British erotica authors dedicated to promoting quality and varied erotica and helping readers find just exactly the erotica that works for them. To learn more about The Brit Babes and their plans for world domination which very well could include you, please check out the Brit Babes Site

After a year’s hiatus, this was the year Erotica came back to London and Smutters organized a wonderful table selling books and promoting authors. I was very proud to be a part of the event, even for one day, and I’m still in awe of Victoria Blisse and Lucy Felthouse who organized the Smutter table and readings. You two rock!

This was the year I got nominated, along with the fabulous Kay Jaybee, for ETO’s Best Erotic Author of 2013. Kay and I went and celebrated at the event in Birmingham. We lost out to some chick named E.L. James. Can you believe it? But we still had a fantastic time catching up with old friends and making new ones. We came away winners anyway.

Writers spend so much time living in our heads, in the worlds we create and, at least for me, that forces me to live in the moment most of the time when I’m not writing. I never think much ahead of the next scene to be written, the next chapter to be finished, the next blog post to be put up. As a result, the room that is 2013 has, like the ones before it, filled up without me paying too much attention to what’s around me. And then I reach this day, this last day of the year and I look around me. I’m stunned at all P1000814that’s happened. As I think back, reflecting on the stories, the experiences, the laughter, the sharing and camaraderie, the joy of seeing my stories in print, it seems hard to imagine that I could possibly fit so much into only 365 days. And all the neurotic struggles and self-doubts and fears, well they take up such a tiny space in the room of 2013 that I wonder now why I let them take up so much of my energy.

Once again I come to the end of the year, pick up the key, and stand with heart racing, head full of ideas and plans, with hand resting on the door knob to enter that new room, the one that is bright and shiny and labeled in spangles and glitter, 2014. I am moved by all that has been, by all that is crowded into the space of one single year and by how it has changed me. And I anticipate newness, challenges, more neurotic episodes, adventures, times with friends, and writing – LOTS of writing. That’s the part I anticipate the most. How could it be otherwise?

My wish for you is that your reflections in your full room of 2013 be good ones, satisfying ones, and encouraging ones. And at the stroke of midnight, may you enter that bright empty room of 2014 with hope and joy and anticipation of how wonderfully you’ll fill it up.

 

Niagara Falls and Writing on Non-Demand by Emerald

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It’s absolutely my pleasure to welcome one of my favourite sparkling jewels, Emerald, back to A Hopeful Romantic. Emerald and I met at the Erotic Authors Association Conference in Las Vegas two years ago and, for me, it was love, respect and admire at first sight. Welcome back, Emerald!

Deadlines guide me. They structure me, help me, seem sometimes like they are the very foundation of any productivity from me. I appreciate them greatly, and I don’t feel it’s an exaggeration to say that they are the reason I’ve written a number of the stories I have.

In order to have a deadline, however, I have to have someone demanding it (self-imposed deadlines have not seemed to hold the same sway for me, sadly). That means that if ever I want to write something just because I want to write it, rather than for a specific submission call, deadlines become suddenly absent.

Emerald_NiagaraFallsThere are a lot of historical patterns in my psyche that make productivity without a perceived external obligation challenging for me, but the point, when it comes to writing, is that sometimes writing that doesn’t have this external demand doesn’t get done. Writing that is “only for me,” as it may seem, is something a part of me has been known to say is a waste of time, an indulgence, not something I should be allowing myself to do (even though philosophically, I truly find that nonsense).

For some time, I had been noting this internal phenomenon as I recognized that there were specific stories I wanted to write that weren’t for an editor or a publication or a deadline. The very strict patterning in my psyche seemed determined to bombard me with messages that there was invariably something else on which I should be working (these “something elses” need not necessarily be fiction or even related to writing at all) whenever I contemplated working on them. Thus, the long and short of it was–they weren’t getting written.

At the same time, Niagara Falls had been calling to me for a few years, ever since I read a particular novel that was set there. I had been there once, many years ago, and didn’t really remember it very well. It had become unquestionable that I wanted to go back.

So I researched, and budgeted, and yearned, and stalled, and got distracted, and researched more, and yearned more, and wrote other stories, and did other things.

And eventually, I put the two together.

I planned my trip for February. The off-season definitely has advantages, the first being price. The room where I stayed was $435 a night in July and August. (I probably won’t be planning a trip to Niagara Falls in the summer any time soon.) While I was there, it was considerably less than half that. My criteria were that I wanted a room that viewed both the American and the Canadian Falls, and I preferred that it have a refrigerator so I could more easily keep food in my room and not have to leave every time I got hungry. Literally the only plans I had besides eating and sleeping were to be in my room virtually the entire time–three days and three nights–and write. (I will admit I took small trips down to the pool to sit in the hot tub periodically when I wanted a break.)

Emerald_NFroomMy room was breathtaking—even without the even more breathtaking view out the wall-sized window. I got upgraded to a whirlpool room when I arrived, and I was put on the 34th floor. It was everything I had wanted and more.

Still, even I was surprised by how well this plan worked. It still surprises me now as I recall it. The effectiveness of removing obligations and external demands and, perhaps more importantly, giving myself internal permission to work on nothing but the specific fiction I was there to write was staggering.

There was a story for which I had had the idea for about a year and a half or maybe two years. Despite that, I had not gotten around to beginning it. In Niagara Falls, I wrote a draft of that story, start to finish, in four hours on my second morning there. It is that time comparison that most starkly outlines both my procrastination tendencies and the effectiveness of giving myself permission: Something I had had on the back burner of my consciousness for a year and a half emerged from it in four hours when I allowed myself to truly focus on it.

When I look at it this way, I wonder how I have ever managed to get anything written! But one more thing this trip was for, and which I would do well to recall, was to remind myself of what I could do. To remind myself that what I love to do is write, and when I clear the rest of the shit that fires off “shoulds” and “don’ts” and “buts” with dubious frequency from my consciousness, writing is what has been known to emerge.

One of the stories I worked on there, a version of which was written years ago and which has been given an update to incorporate an erotic focus (I first wrote it before I wrote erotica), takes place partially in Niagara Falls. In addition to the aforementioned reasons I wanted to be there, having the opportunity to see what my characters saw firsthand as I was writing the story was an inspirational bonus. This story, “Shattered Angels,” has not been published, but here is an excerpt of it that takes place before the characters have embarked on their impending anniversary trip to Niagara Falls. Our heroine, Shelley, has both joyful and challenging associations with the Falls, and she is struggling with this as their departure time draws nearer.

Excerpt from “Shattered Angels”:

Kenny held her gaze a beat longer than usual, and she knew he sensed her discomfort.

“You still want to go, right?” His voice was non-confrontational, and she understood why he asked. She nodded as she draped her coat over a kitchen chair.

“Of course.”

Her eyes were downcast as Kenny approached and gently slipped his arms around her. His fingers skimmed over her back, and she leaned into him with a sigh as his hands moved up to her neck, massaging lightly. She was surprised to find that his gentleness, into which she usually melted, seemed to increase her edginess. Her husband’s fingers progressed to her scalp, drifting slowly through her hair.

Shelley caught her breath as she realized she wanted him to pull. Desperately.

She didn’t realize she’d murmured the sentiment out loud until he paused and said, “What?” While hair-pulling wasn’t something they’d never incorporated into their sex life, Shelley could understand his surprise that she wanted it at that moment.

She did, though. More than almost anything she could think of.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Shelley started to twist away, not knowing how to explain herself. But Kenny held on. She struggled for another second before dropping her head against his shoulder, suddenly at risk of falling if her husband hadn’t held her up. His breath was in her ear, and Shelley couldn’t keep from squirming a little. She didn’t have the energy to try to articulate what she wanted, though, and soon she stood still, waiting for him to let her go.

Instead Kenny stilled, and she sensed the moment when he understood. All the breath left her body as she felt surprised and not surprised at the same time–of course Kenny knew. He almost always knew.

Silently he slid one hand back up to her hair. Gathering a mass in is fist, he gave the slightest pull. Shelley’s breath scurried out of reach, staying suspended until he re-grasped a fistful and pulled for real–a sharp, quick tug accompanied by a short exhale into her ear. Shelley’s breath shot out as her attention was pulled to her body.

And it was such a relief. Shelley clutched at her husband, pushing herself against him as tears rose in her throat. He lowered her to the floor, and she felt as though she were sinking into the carpet as he covered her body with his. Kenny tangled a hand in her hair and pulled again as he kissed her relentlessly, reaching to undo his pants with the other hand. She felt his erection against her thigh as he pulled her skirt up and wrested her panties off.

Despite the firmness of his actions, which Shelley knew he knew she needed right now, she could feel the tenderness in every move he made. She pressed her eyes shut against the tears that pushed out of them, gratitude that her husband knew what to do almost overwhelming her.

“Kenny pushed into her, his fingers wrapped in her hair as he kissed her neck, her cheek, her mouth. Her body tingled, coming out of lockdown as tension woke up and dissipated throughout her. The relief brought a sob to the surface, and she wrapped her arms around Kenny’s back, squeezing him with arms and legs and cunt as though she could compress the tension out of herself like juice from an orange. Kenny pushed into her harder, his body solid against hers as she willed him to thrust deeper, deeper, to where he could shove all the fear and dread and grief right out of her.

Instead he did what he’d always done–met her where she was, without flinching, and helped her be there too. Shelley held onto him tighter still, burying her face in his neck as she let herself be swept by the sensation in her body.”

***

Niagara Falls still calls to me. I find myself wanting to go back at least every other week or so, and now that it is the off-season again, that may happen in the near future. Or maybe not. But what seems to me one of the most valuable offerings I could embrace from that magical trip is the essential reminder that this is what I do. And I can do it whether a pristine view of world-class magnificence is right out my window or I am sitting in my chair in my office. Whatever is outside me, the inside is the same.

Thanks so much to KD for inviting me here today, and to you, lovely reader, for reading of my adventures in sitting in beautiful hotel rooms! Speaking of extraordinary places that I adore, before I go, I’d like to mention that on Friday night of this week, I will be in Las Vegas for the first ever Hot Mojave Knights romance reader event! If you’re in the area (or feel like booking an impromptu flight to Sin City!), it’s not too late to join us—you can register here, and you can also find a couple of my posts detailing my participation here and here. Naturally, we would love to see you there!

EmeraldAbout Emerald:

Emerald is an erotic fiction author and general advocate for human sexuality as informed by her deep appreciation of the beauty, value, and intrinsic nature of sexuality and its holistic relation to life. Her work has been featured in anthologies published by Cleis Press, Mischief, and Logical-Lust, and she serves as an assistant newsletter editor for Marketing for Romance Writers (MFRW). The latest release containing her work is The Big Book of Orgasms; find an excerpt of “Payback,” her story within it, as well as buy links for the anthology here.

Website: http://www.thegreenlightdistrict.org
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Emerald_theGLD
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/EmeraldAuthor

End of Novel Syndrome: Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid!

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Hi everyone! Yes, it’s true. I’m still here. *Blinks wide-eyed and a bit dazed* Some of you already know why I’ve been off the radar for a while, and for those of you who don’t, a quick look around at the undone ironing, the multiple coffee cups, the floor that hasn’t seen a hoover in … well never mind, and you would be able to accurately diagnose my disease. Yup! I’ve been suffering from End of Novel Syndrome. I’m sure every writer reading this is nodding in empathy.

End of Novel Syndrome is that overpowering neurosis that hits a author somewhere around the last fifteen thousand words of writing a novel, in those last few critical weeks when the end is oh so close but so far away. A novelist gets a bit crazy around that time, Though my husband insists that, for me, ENS begins six months before and ends six months after, I’m sure he’s exaggerating just a little.

The symptoms of ENS are fairly easy to identify. A writer will suddenly become scarce on their usual social mediawriting image 2 haunts. Their responses to attempts at communications will be terse, distracted and often nothing more than a series of grunts, animal noises, and nods or head shakes, which of course don’t translate very well over gmail.

Another symptom indicative of ENS is a sudden change in eating and drinking habits. For me, my meals suddenly consist of anything I can eat with one hand and keep working laced with LOTS of extra coffee and tea.

Memory usually goes right out the door, at least memory that involves anything beyond what’s going on with the plot and characters in those last crucial chapters of the novel. I know it’s gross and disgusting, and if people look at me askance, well, I’ll deny it, but sometimes that involves actually forgetting things like bathing. For some writers it involves forgetting to eat, but that has never been my problem, though forgetting to sleep happens. And even when it doesn’t it’s nearly impossible to get a decent night’s sleep with my characters running rough shod through my head  and doing the Hokey Pokey in my dreams. Which results in another indicative symptom of ENS – red rimmed eyes sporting lovely dark circles beneath.  Oh yes, I have the look down in spades. Not a good fashion statement.

All housework and cooking is forgotten, all social events cancelled, and any time taken away from those last elusive chapters is given grudgingly and with much grumping. And then there are the physical symptoms; stomach knots, neck cricks, back aches from sitting too long in one position, eye strain, caffeine jitters and the queen of them all, interrupted sleep. Symptoms vary from author to author.

I drink less alcohol when I’m suffering from ENS because I’m afraid it’ll take away my edge. But there’s always a special bottle of wine waiting for the celebration when I come out on the other side.

And coming out on the other side is why I do it. There’s something that still seems a bit magical to me that I can take a seed of an idea and shape it and mull it about and, after some blood sweat tears and other stressful things that may or may not involve body fluids, that seed actually evolves into a novel, and a novel I’m proud to have my name on.

TE new coverKay Jaybee and I were discussing ENO a few days ago and I actually stole her idea to do a post about it, so thanks Kay! At the time I was in the end stretch of Grace Marshall’s third novel of the Executive Decisions trilogy The Exhibition, and I’ll have to admit, Stacie and Harris were having me for lunch on a regular basis. Fortunately for my poor husband, he was called away on business to South Africa that final week of the struggle with The Exhibition. (Wise advice to significant others of writers in the throes of ENS; run away if you can! Farther is better. Did I forget to mention the one symptom of ENS that endemic – Mega-Bitch-Moods!)

Hubby came home to Ms Sweetness and Light with the novel out the door to Xcite and happy dancing in full swing. However he remains cautious. He knows, as any significant other of a writer knows, that the only thing worse than End of Novel Syndrome, is what happens when the novel the author has lived with for months and months is suddenly out the door –Empty Nest Syndrome! Hubs lucked out this time, I’m already on to the next novel.

The Exhibition

Successful NYC gallery owner, Stacie Emerson, is ex-fiancée to one Thorne brother and ex-wife to the other. Though the three have made peace, Ellison Thorne’s friend, wildlife photographer, Harris Walker, still doesn’t like her. When Stacie convinces Harris to exhibit his work for the opening of her new gallery she never intended to include him in her other more hazardous plans. But when those plans draw the attention of dangerous business tycoon, Terrance Jamison, Harris comes to her aid. In the shadow of a threat only Stacie understands, can she dare let Harris into her life and make room for love?

(Coming Soon!)

 

 

 

 

 

 

London by Accident, or the Long Way to Get to the Sexy Summer Reading at Sh!

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shoreditch2Friday night we ended up in London by accident. That’s right, by accident. Oh we knew where we were going and we had a plan. We were going to hear Justine Elyot and Kristina Lloyd read at Sh! I was so excited. I love it when I get to sit in the audience and listen to my favourite authors read from their works. I’d been looking forward to this event for weeks. Now as you might imagine, I can find my way to Sh! from my house with my eyes closed, I’ve been there so often. It’s the place I love to go for a good time and a friendly natter and a cuppa. That meant, we hopped the train without checking for directions, times. Or DATES!

I had it in my head that I would work on the train both coming and going to London. Oh, I was going to enjoy listening to the readings and being at Sh! and having some catch-up time with some of my favourite people, but I’ve got a short story that I need to write and another novel that needs to be mapped out. I quite often work on my BlackBerry and email the results back home. I was confident I could accomplish a lot and then get back to work on the final rewrite of The Exhibition after we got back home. All business-like — that would be me. Anything to eke out a few more minutes writing or PR time. A writer’s work is never done.

We were nearly to Clapham Junction, enjoying a relaxed ride on an uncrowded train when an email exchange with Kay Jaybee in which I mentioned what we were doing resulted in her email equivalent of clearing her throat and saying, ‘Sweetie, I don’t want to alarm you, but the Sexy Summer Reading event at Sh! is tomorrow night.’

Shoreditch 1imagesEeep! Noooo! Surely I couldn’t have made such a stupid mistake, not super-anal me! But oh yes! I f*cked up majorly! My long suffering husband only offered me a lazy smile and said, ‘Well it’s a good thing you didn’t decide to get a hotel room for the night.’

The Shadow is responsibe! I have no doubt. Anyone who knows a tidbit about Jungian psychology knows that the shadow is the part of our personality that bites us in the butt when we’re taking ourselves too seriously. Well, all I can say is that I have huge bite marks all over my backside!

We were almost there, so the question became what to do when you find yourself accidentally in London on a Friday night? We tubed it up to Leicester Square to check the half-price ticket booths and found nothing that really jumped out at us, nor was there anything at the cinema that we really were dying to see, so we tubed it on over to Shoreditch in spite of the definite lack of a reading at Sh! that night. There’s a kebab place just around the corner and up the street a bit from Sh! that serves the best kebabs this side of Turkey, and I have to admit it, I love a good kebab. We’ve been there often enough the owners always recognize us and greet us with a smile and yummy food. A chicken donner kabab, baklava to die for and a double espresso later and I’m not feeling quite so stupid.

Sh!We decided to drop by Sh! anyway and say hi to the lovely Renee and the delish Jo, who were very busy with the Friday night rush and very sympathetic and kind to the crazy woman who showed up a day early. They were sorry they couldn’t offer us accommodation for the night in the yummy Sh! basement, a place we both agreed would be great fun to be shut up in overnight.

With no real plan in the works and an exquisite warm night ahead of us, we decided to wander about Shoreditch for a little while, especially since I have plans to set another novel there. Then we’d find a nice pub for a pint. If you’ve read my novella, Kinky Boots, then you’ve got a flavour for Shoreditch on a Friday night. Vibrant is the single word I’d used to describe it. Here’s a bit of description from Kinky Boots.

Still, she was in Shorditch on a Friday night. If she were going to end up alone, she couldn’t think of any placeKinky_Boots she’d rather be. It was easy to get caught up in the excitement along the streets lined with bars and clubs and interesting shops. She loved the higgledy-piggledy architecture that often involved glass and steel in the personal space of very accommodating Victorian brick and stone which had already gone through who knew how many marriages of convenience before. All around the concrete ugliness of the sixties groped and nuzzled solicitously at streets that could have come straight from a Sherlock Holms novel. It was a great patchwork of a place, heaving with frenetic humanity all bound and determined to enjoy the hell out of every last drunken, chaotic, celebratory second of the weekend. She was jostled by the enthusiastic spill-over of people with drinks and fags in front of Juno. A hen party pushed past into an off-license. People on the busy pavements crowded onto the narrow side streets impeding the odd taxi or limo.

We spent a little time exploring Shoreditch Box Park – the world’s first popup mall, which was heaving with after-work revellers enjoying the warm night, the gorgeous summer sky and myriad alcoholic beverages. Then we wandered past the intriguing mix of old and new buildings to end up in the Water Poet Pub with a bazillion other Londoners who were enjoying the summer night. We actually found a table and had a pint of Truman’s wonderfully hoppy ale while watching people come and go. People-watching in London is the best, especially in a pub in Shoreditch on Friday night.

box parkimagesFrom there we wandered down the Crown and Shuttle Pub, ending up enjoying a pint of Best Bitter out in the heaving beer garden that was surrounded by a vertical history of Shoreditch in brick and stone. We both decided we needed Kay Jaybee to give us a little industrial archaeological tour of what we were looking at in the mish-mash of bricked up windows and replastered stone walls and the spaghetti bowl of wrought iron stair cases and balconies hanging above us. It was standing room only, and we found a place next the foosball table, leaning against an aging brick wall with a strange blue door that was locked and bolted. It conjured all kinds of speculation on just what might be hidden behind. We watched people and listened to the music and laughter and clinking of glasses as everyone celebrated the beginning of the weekend. Not the night we’d planned, but as we crawled onto our train back home, sleepy and smiling we both decided maybe this was a situation in which the Shadow’s nip in the hiney was well worth it.

If you’re worried that I missed a fabulous evening with Justine and Kristina last night, don’t be! Last night, reassured of dates times, travel cards, venues, and shoe size, we made it to Sh! just in time to celebrate with Justine, Kristina, and the amazing new talent, S. M. Taylor. You may remember a short story competition Black Lace ran last year with The Daily Mail, well it was S.M. Taylor’s wonderful short story, Forbidden, which won the competition. Portia Da Costa, Kristina, and Gillian Green were judges in that competition and S.M.’s story is now published at the end of Kristina’s new novel, Thrill Seeker.

Sh! was fabuouls, as always, and last night was even better because not only were Renee and Jo there but so was the totally awesome Shelly. It was almost like a Sh! family reunion, complete with the indomitable Renee thwarting a shoplifting attempt during one of the readings. Seiously, the Sh! women are a stunning combination of goddesses and super heroes. Move over Wonder Woman!

The evening started with a special guest appearance from Primula Bond, who read from her new novel, The Silver Chain, then romped on with Kristina reading some fabulously evocative and sexy scenes from Thrill Seeker. Then Justine made the room warmer still with two very fun, naughty readings from her collection, Seven Scarlet Tales, spanking stories extraordinaire.

Oh yes! It was SO worth another trip to London! And what have I learned from this adventurous weekend? 1) If one trip to London is good, two is better! 2) Always double-check dates of events. 3) Some things are worth coming back for. 4) Life is short. Take time to play.

Hope you’re all having a playful weekend!