My Writing Journey: Peter Perrin

Tags

authors, older_readers, romance, writing

My guest on the Quirky Genre this week is Peter Perrin who tells us how he found himself writing romances about people ‘not in the first flush of youth’.

Until just under five years ago all I had ever written was a few poems and some short stories for my children. Unlike most fiction authors I hadn’t always want to write, let alone be an author. Nor did I read avidly, let alone read romance. Indeed, until I started to write Grace’s Turmoil I had never even read a single novel in my chosen genre, Romance.

So, what started me down this path you might ask? Well, what started me writing a novel was when my then fourteen-year-old granddaughter self-published two novels on Amazon. I was very impressed and thought ‘If she isn’t too young to write a novel maybe I’m not too old.’ I was sixty-nine at the time.

What genre to write in was the first quandry I faced. Then I was inspired. I wanted to write something that would show older people in a positive light, so what better genre than romance. I wanted to depict characters as being capable of falling in love and having emotional and physical relationships. The last thing I wanted was to show them with one foot in the grave, waiting for the grim reaper to claim them.

I initially tried setting the novel in a Care Home but was soon advised this was impracticable, due to problems of security and restrictions on the movement of elderly residents. So, I looked around at alternatives and came up with the idea of setting the book in a retirement village. And that’s how,The Grange Retirement Village came into existence.

I didn’t want to go the traditional publishing route as I felt I was too old to spend years trying to get an agent and then a publisher, especially as an unknown author. Although there are many great books that have been self-published I didn’t want to go that route. I wanted to know that my work was of an acceptable professional standard.

So, that left me having to find an independent publisher who would take me on. Through a fellow writer in a Yahoo group I found Devine Destinies and sent them a sample to see if it was the sort of work they published. They quickly said it was right for them but needed a lot of work including reducing the length of each chapter. So I set to work and submitted the full manuscript almost a year later. To my surprise and delight they gave me a contract and the book began its journey through their editing and proofing process. Ten months later the book had been revamped, edited, proofed, rewritten and was ready for publication, with a brilliant cover.

Devine Destinies only produce e-books but once the book was with third-parties as well it became available from Amazon in paperback form. The thrill of holding a copy in my hand was only beaten by being asked for the first time to sign a copy for a fan.

*

 

Peter Perrin writes sweet, seasoned romances involving larger-than-life mature characters who will make you rethink your views on older people in a positive way. His characters are mature in age but not necessarily in their behaviour. They may not be in the first flush of youth but that doesn’t stop some of them acting like hormonal teenagers.

Peter was born in Romford, in the county of Essex, near London, England. For nearly twenty years he has lived with his wife of almost forty years in a quiet suburb of Swindon, in the county of Wiltshire, in England. He is a father and grandfather. Now retired Peter’s interests are Writing, Carp Fishing, and (despite being in his early seventies) PlayStation games.

His favourite quote is “Youth passes, but with luck, immaturity can last a lifetime.”

 

Grace’s Turmoil is available here 

For more about Peter see his blog https://peterperrin.blog/

Advertisement

Rags and Tatters

Tags

flash_fiction, flowers

Inspired by Malva sylvestris var. mauritiana

Just what was it about Mr Mauritius that made him seem so dapper? It was difficult to pin it down. His clothes were worn. Very worn. His shirt showed through the thinning elbows of his jacket, the ends of his trousers badly frayed – enough to make any gent look unkempt. And yet he did not.

The suit fitted him perfectly. His hair was neatly trimmed and combed into a fashionable style. His battered boots polished. He made an effort, people said, when others would simply have given up. See him there – a jaunty mauve mallow-flower in his buttonhole, picked from the roadside on his way to the market, and contrasting elegantly with his dark grey attire. He was simply a naturally stylish person. And at no time would you catch him looking sorry for himself. Sprightly was the word for Mr Mauritius, ragged clothing or no.

He was scrupulously polite, too, raising his hat and wishing a good day to everyone he met, of whatever station in life, and being particularly careful to pay the most dashing compliments to all the ladies.

The aggregated result of this appearance and behaviour was that everybody felt at ease with him. Everyone agreed he was ‘one of us’; he was ragged, yet he was a gent; he was a friendly fella, yet he had an elegant turn of phrase. Mr Mauritius fitted in with everyone, changing like a chameleon to suit the company.

And for that reason everyone seemed to have forgotten that he had only been in the district for a few weeks. In that short span of time he had become part of the town’s furniture.

So it came as something of a shock when he disappeared. Overnight, without a word. Good grief, people said, he owes me money! It appeared Mr Mauritius had run up debts, small debts, all over the town. Debts of the ‘I will gladly repay you on Tuesday’ variety. And now, on Wednesday, he was gone.

But when they looked into it, compared notes, they found that all the borrowed money had gone back into the town. He had used small loans to buy people a drink at the inn; or to buy food for the town’s beggars; modest bunches of flowers had been thoughtfully given to spinster ladies, and little gifts to children. Almost every penny was thus accounted for, and almost everyone in the town had benefited in a small way. He had arrived with nothing, and had left with nothing more.

“Well, well,” said the innkeeper, not a man known for his generosity of spirit, “I suppose, all round, the fellow did no real harm. The money is still in the town – just redistributed a little. I shall miss him. He made life happier for us all while he was here.”

In such strange guises, in rags and tatters, are angels sometimes sent to earth.

 

This story was first published in my short fiction collection Mr Muggington’s Discovery and Other Stories. Paperback copies are available from Amazon at £4.95, but the e-book is free. If you’d like one, leave me a message on the Contact page of this site and I’ll email a copy to you.

My Writing Journey – Linda MacDonald

Tags

authors, psychology, writing

My guest this week, Linda MacDonald, tells us the remarkable true-life story behind her book Meeting Lydia.

When Lucy found Lydia

Fifty years ago, on the evening of 25th March 1968, a significant event took place at a Cumbrian prep school for boys. It was a performance of Sheridan’s The Rivals, undertaken by a small group of eleven to thirteen year olds. Of the four female characters, only one, Lucy, was played by a girl. Me! Lucy was the scheming maid to a beautiful young heiress, Lydia Languish, and the two of them shared the opening scene.

In the normal day to day life of the school, and despite being in the same class, I rarely spoke to the boy who was Lydia. It wasn’t the done thing. But I always admired his intellect and was grateful that he was never horrible to me. In my younger years, and as one of very few girls in the school, my life had been blighted by bullying. The play was one of the best things I had ever done and a great boost to my confidence.

In summer, Lydia left the school and it was unlikely we would ever meet again. However, thirty-three years later in 2001, Friends Reunited appeared as the first major networking site where people searched for others from the past.  Nowadays, we take it for granted but at that time, it was exciting. By chance I spotted Lydia when I was looking for someone else who had gone to the same school. Curious to discover what had happened to the boy with the amazing mind, I sent a message. There began an exchange of emails and memories that was to lay to rest the ghosts from my past and to be the inspiration for my first novel, Meeting Lydia.

I thought if I spiced up the reality and created a schoolgirl crush situation, then finding the object of that crush in later life would give much scope for fiction. I had always wanted to write a novel with school bullying in the background and at last I had a plot. I also wanted to explore the psychology of internet relationships as these were often making headlines for breaking up marriages. The two ideas worked perfectly together.

While the childhood situation and the meeting via the internet were inspired by real life events, I created largely fictional adults leading fictional lives. It was only ever supposed to be one book, but by the time I arrived at the end, I was already planning the sequel. There were unanswered questions that I knew readers would want resolved and A Meeting of a Different Kind came into being.

Since then, yet two more books have continued the series, each with different perspectives and themes but all rooted in relationship psychology with a focus on midlife issues. The characters don’t yet want to say goodbye and already I’m planning number five.

The real Lydia and I are still in touch but I’ve always shied away from revealing his true identity. Of course, there are others who know; there was always the potential it might get out, but I said it wouldn’t be from me. However, much time has passed since the beginning. I’ve retired from teaching and ‘Lydia’ is in a different place of work. He’s told me he doesn’t mind being exposed and with the release of a new second edition Meeting Lydia in May, it could be that soon the time may come for a revelation.

Here is the Link to Linda MacDonald’s Amazon author page

L is for Lily

Inspired by the beautiful (but dusty – you can see the scattered pollen) Lilium regale

Lost Lily

It was a very fine piece of artwork indeed, everyone agreed. Well, everyone except Mrs Martagon. And it was gone, too. Everyone agreed about that, Mrs Martagon included.

The entire household was in uproar. The squire himself was running up and down the hall wearing nothing but his underwear, wringing his hands in distress.

“I know it’s early morning, but he might have got himself dressed,” observed the housekeeper, sniffily.

“Not for us to say, Mrs Martagon,” said the butler. “But there’s no denying it’s unseemly.”

As to the missing painting, there was no trace of it beyond a grubby rectangular mark on the wall above the fireplace.

“Just how,” said the butler, “could anybody get a thing that size out of the house? It’d take several felons, and a set of ladders just to get it off the wall. And however did they get in downstairs?”

He peered out of the window, half expecting to see a painting-sized dent in the lawn outside. The lawn remained pristine, as always.

Mrs Martagon shrugged. “Who knows? It’s valuable, they say. Hideous great lump of a thing, in my opinion. Glad to see the back of it, myself. Fiddly to dust, that frame.”

The constable, when he arrived, made a great show of looking at the vacant space on the wall, and asking whether anything else had been taken. Mrs Martagon merely agreed with the butler that the painting had been in place the previous night and that all doors had been secured.

“And can you please describe the missing item, sir?”

“It is portrait of my wife’s great aunt Lily, in a most elegant gold frame,” said the squire. “My wife insists it be cleaned daily.”

Mrs Martagon nodded grimly, and glared at the housemaids when they tittered.

When the constable had given his assurances that everything would be done to recover the painting, and departed, the butler lined up the staff once again, and stood with them. “May I say, sir,” he said to the squire, “on behalf of us all, how very much we regret this loss?”

Mrs Martagon exchanged a brief, conspiratorial and otherwise unnoticed glance with the maids. The truth was, of course, that the detested painting, and its even more detested undustable frame had been painstakingly chopped into tiny fragments overnight and was at this very moment powering the furnace in the cellar. She was unable to resist a smirk of satisfaction.

 

For plant and garden fans I’ve started a new blog, The Garden Visitor. Pop in and join me as I visit some gorgeous gardens. https://gardenvisitor106455000.wordpress.com

Homework for Would-be Authors

Tags

advice, authors, publishing, writing

After my recent blog posts on my reversion to the status of amateur writer, you might very reasonably ask what I learned from my sojourn in the more-or-less professional writing world. I have tried to be truthful about my experience – but, yes, I did learn quite a lot, and I’d like to pass some of that on to other would-be authors dreaming of landing a publishing deal.

It was never my intention to put anyone off seeking a publisher, but for the uninitiated here are my thoughts:

Early Days. Start thinking of your book as a product as early as possible in the writing process. I know it goes against the grain for many of us – I hated it – but if you want to be published you’ll be doing yourself a favour. You might not want to think about how your book will fit on the genre list and who is going to buy it, but it will be a publisher’s first thought. Bear in mind, too, that what you actually enjoy writing might not be saleable. You need to think of this as a professional undertaking.

Finding the right publisher. Take the time to research possible publishers properly before you apply to them. Make sure they deal in your genre, or you are wasting your time. Understand that an e-publisher, or a publisher that uses Print on Demand (POD), is unlikely to get your book into bookshops for you. If that’s what you dream of, you need to read the small print with care. Investigate publishers’ websites and check out their books’ rankings on Amazon to see how well they’re selling.

Promotion. If you do find a publisher willing to take on your book, don’t fall over yourself to sign the contract without asking some questions. The most important (I think) is what arrangements the publisher has for promoting your book. Ask if they have a staff member dedicated to promotional work, what sort of marketing plan they have for your book, and whether there is a budget allocated to advertising it. If the response is an echoing silence they probably have none of these things, and once the book is published you’ll be attending to them yourself. If you have marketing experience, are willing to learn (big undertaking!) or already have a substantial social media following, then that’s fine. But do please make sure you understand what’s expected of you and how much time, and perhaps money, you will need to invest to make it work. If you’re wondering what you would need to spend money on, ask the publisher if they provide promotional materials such as bookmarks and leaflets, whether they pay for blog tours or social media ads, and whether they cover the expenses for book launches. Some do, many don’t, so do ask.

You might have guessed from this rather cagey list that I neglected, in both carelessness and ignorance, to do any of the above. I was hopelessly unprepared. Some people certainly do succeed, even from such an unpropitious start – but it usually takes a great deal of time, energy and dedication to do so. As I said at the beginning of this post, I wouldn’t want to put people off their dream of being published – but you do need to be realistic about what you are letting yourself in for when you step into the commercial world.

I only wish someone had told me all this when I was starting out. Would I have done things differently? It’s hard to say. But I would at least have been a little more clued-up, a little less naïve, and a little more prepared for the demands of the cut-throat, fast-changing world of modern publishing than I was. I might even have decided commercial publishing wasn’t right for me.

Careful forethought, as they say, prevents anxious afterthought – so please do your homework before you plunge in. It might just prevent your publishing dream becoming a nightmare.

 

My other blog is a dream come true. If you like gardens do join me on The Garden Visitor https://gardenvisitor106455000.wordpress.com/

K is for Kniphofia

Tags

flash_fiction, flowers, writing

Inspired by Kniphofia ‘Percy’s Pride’, a lovely variety of red-hot poker.

The name was always going to be a problem, of course. Percy Kniphof was all too aware of it. All his life other people had struggled with the pronunciation. Was the K silent, as in ‘knife’? Was the first syllable ‘neef’ or ‘nip’ or ‘neep’? Percy hated it, especially ‘neep’. Made him sound like some sort of turnip. People were being polite, trying to get it right, but it was still a great annoyance to him. Percy simply couldn’t bear to see the puzzled looks on their faces. Mr Knife-Oaf? Nip-hoof? K-neap-off? He had heard every possible combination, and, in all truth, he wasn’t sure himself what was strictly correct.

The name was of foreign extraction, his great-great-grandfather having been a continental gentleman. That was as much as he knew. Generations of Hampshire Kniphofs had tried to make it sound a little more British. And failed. A distant cousin had changed his name to Smith in desperation, but this was frowned upon. Kniphof was the family name and it should be born with pride.

The name was a particular problem for Percy since he had political ambitions. You really couldn’t expect supporters, however enthusiastic, to be shouting ‘Vote for Kniphof!’, when no two of them could agree upon how to say it – when Percy’s own family all chose to pronounce it differently. Very confusing for the voters.

So Percy, with great sadness, accepted advice to change his name. He considered his mother’s maiden name, Ramsbottom. But, he was told, there might be a risk of unfortunate defacings of his election posters. He was about to repeat that Kniphof was his name and he was proud of it, when he realised he had solved the problem. Pride, indeed. He would adopt the name of Percy Kniphof Pride. Vote for Pride had a very good sound to it indeed.

 

For plant and garden fans I’ve started a new blog, The Garden Visitor. Pop in and join me as I visit some gorgeous gardens. https://gardenvisitor106455000.wordpress.com

My Writing Journey: Judi Moore

My guest this week is the talented Judi Moore, who tells us about life as a professional writer:

When my brother and I were clearing out my parents’ effects in the Nineties, I came across a short story I had written at primary school. It was about getting a grey cocker spaniel for my birthday. A couple of things immediately became clear to me. I got myself a dog (I’m now on my third canine) and started writing in earnest. I’ve been a professional writer since 1997. I find now that my life is completely suffused with writing, thinking about writing, thinking about the writing of others, and reading. I am lucky. Although, I do take credit for being single-minded enough to make the choices which got me here.

So, I’ve been living on bowls of steam for more than 20 years! And I’ve enjoyed every day of it. The most important room in my home is my office. It is black and red, lined with research books, has a fine bay window through which I watch the weather, a monstrous Monstera deliciosa and other greenery, cupboards containing boxes of interesting bits and pieces and ideas for this and that (I used to be afraid that I would never have another creative idea and I still horde them all like Smaug), the unavoidable computer, a radio, and some of my most treasured pictures. (It is also home to various tottering piles of filing which have been hissing ‘put me away or I will make your life a misery’ since the Christmas holiday. Sigh.) I have nothing but sympathy for people who have to write on the kitchen table, in the interstices of life. That would drive me homicidal with frustration.

I write long fiction, short fiction and poetry. (I also write reviews.) With everything except the reviews I get some kind of bee in my bonnet and then assign it to a length: a single bee = a poem; half a dozen bees or so = a short story; lots of bees buzzing = a novel. For example, the first bee of my first novel started to buzz when I watched a documentary about a celebrity on the telly in the Nineties. Her life was a train wreck. There was a moment in the programme when she looked at herself in a mirror. In her face was such weariness, such woe, that I wondered how she could possibly face another day. At once

I wanted to explore how someone might get to such a place in their life and what being there felt like. What was the family of such a protagonist like? Was being immensely wealthy a help or a

hindrance? What was the way back from such a precipice? And the bees started to swarm, picking up stuff about the demise of petrol-based transport, climate change and sea level rise (which meant I needed to set the book in the future); multidrug resistant TB got in there, so did an old shop shingle in the form of a wooden leg I saw once down in Edinburgh’s Cowgate; I used my cousin’s quirky garden flat in North London and contrasted it with a futuristic sort of flat in Milton Keynes, where I was living at that time. And so on and so on. I finally self-published it in 2009 as Is death really necessary?.

Since then I’ve completed and self-published three other books: Little Mouse is a novella about an earlier generation of the same family – the Goldsteins – as take centre stage in Is death really necessary?; Ice Cold Passion is a collection of my short fiction; and new out at the end of last year is my novel Wonders will never cease. It is set in 1985 in a fictional university like the one in which I used to work, making it an historical novel about Thatcher’s Britain. I believe it works rather well.

My next big project is a ‘history and mystery’ searching for the lost burial place of Genghis Khan. It has never been found and I genuinely think I have a good idea why, and where it is.

That book had to be put on hold last year while I wrote a long poem about Milton Keynes (where I lived between 1980 and 2016) commissioned by The Open University Choir (with whom I used to sing) as lyrics for a piece of choral music. The commission was to celebrate MK50 (the first plans for Milton Keynes were drawn up in 1967). Liz Lane (https://www.lizlane.co.uk/), a composer also with strong links to the Open University, wrote the music. It was premiered in November last year in Milton Keynes. It was a lovely day, full of song and celebration.

My academic expertise is in history and literature. Thus I lean towards creating historical fiction, although no single period enthrals me. I also like to write science fiction, (Is death really necessary? is set in 2038 for example) for which a good grounding in history is helpful. If it interests me, I write about it. And the world is stuffed full of interesting things: like those boxes of mine – so many ideas, so little time.

I go regularly to a couple of local writing workshops (in Dorset) – Off The Cuff and Writing Matters –  where we generate work from prompts we wouldn’t have chosen ourselves, so as to keep the mind plotting and the output fresh.

 

You can find out more about Judi’s books on her Amazon author page here

My other blog is for plant lovers – check out my latest posts on the Garden Visitor here

J is for Japanese Maple

Tags

flash_fiction, flowers, writing

The tenth in my A to Z of plant-inspired quirky tales:

Inspired by the graceful Japanese maple. This is Acer palmatum ‘O-kagami’

A Sticky End

“One doesn’t expect that sort of thing, does one, from somebody with hands like that?”

“Is there something wrong with his hands, Matilda?”

“On the contrary, my dear Edith. He has beautiful hands. Elegant, much like the leaves of the Japanese maple.”

“Japanese? I didn’t know he was Japanese.”

“Do try to adjust your ear trumpet, dear. I didn’t say he was Japanese, I said… Oh, never mind. He’s not Japanese. But his hands are the first thing one notices about him. Everyone remarks upon it. So smooth – must be all the syrup, I suppose.”

“Stirrups?”

“No, Edith, syrup. He is the proprietor of a syrup factory – the very rich proprietor. That’s the whole point. Do try to pay attention, dear.”

“I don’t understand at all. What has happened?”

“Murder, my dear Edith, that is what has happened. The whole town is abuzz with it. How can you not have heard?”

“I rarely hear anything. So this Japanese gentleman with the hands has been murdered?”

“No, no, Edith. He is the murderer, not the victim. And not Japanese, as I said, if you’d been paying attention. He murdered his young cousin. The one who disputed his right to inherit the factory. Drowned him in a vat of syrup. Nasty business, indeed.”

“That is most disturbing, Matilda. A most unpleasant way to depart this life.”

“Indeed. Quite spoiled the syrup, too, apparently.”

“Oh! I shall require my smelling salts! Whatever happened next?”

“Well, dear, he might have got away with it, had he not slipped and fallen into the vat himself. Managed to crawl out, though. His poor sister found him the next morning, stuck fast to his office chair. Quite unable to move.”

“Well, I never… And the body still in the syrup vat, I suppose.”

“Just so, my dear Edith, it was. He is on trial for the murder this very moment, and likely to be condemned, too.”

“Shocking. But tell me, Matilda, how is his sister bearing up?”

“I cannot help but remark upon the improvement in your hearing, dear, since I began imparting this juicy gossip! The sister is bearing up well, I understand. She never got on with her brother. And, after all, she does stand to inherit the whole syrup empire should he be condemned.”

“She must be thrilled. No, mortified. But thrilled, too. It does seem a little, ah, convenient for her to have both claimants to the business out of the way at a stroke, does it not, Matilda.”

“It does indeed, my dear Edith. Let us hope the judge thinks so, too, or I fear there may be a miscarriage of justice.”

 

For plant and garden fans I’ve started a new blog, The Garden Visitor. Pop in and join me as I visit some gorgeous gardens. https://gardenvisitor106455000.wordpress.com