Whip the WIPs

You may notice I've added some of those word meter doohickies to the sidebar.

Dangerous Lies (aka Danglies) is the book I'm working on editing now, albeit slowly around the demands of work and the MA. This is the one that got a blinding critique, and will be submitted on my behalf by the Romantic Noveslists Association.

Taken (aka Frenchman) Involves a terrified heroine and her delectable French missing persons expert hero. They hide out in the Pyrenees until she conquers her fear and forces him to take her back into danger. The final confrontation with the villain takes place among the battlements and towers of the medieval fortified city of Carcassonne, and it's breathtaking, if I do say so myself.

Danger - Deep Water (aka Going Down) has the heroine I got aquainted with yesterday. I do so love my tortured heroes, and this one's a doozy. He crops up in Danglies as a largely benevolent if silent figure, an ex-military diver who makes his home on his own yacht. After Danglies, he finally plucks up the courage to admit his long-term love for the fiance of a colleague who died in his care - and is promptly arrested when she accuses him of her deceased fiance's murder. Poor lad. Thankfully, the heroine is on hand (or rather, in the sea) to rescue him from his self-imposed exile on his yacht after he's cleared of all charges.

In the 'it's darkest before the dawn' tradition, things get a lot worse for him before they get better, but he finds his way in the end.

Changes to those little word meters will be slow, but I'm hoping to make steady progress on Danglies, and then work down the list. It helps that I've now got a reasonable idea of what I want to do in 2006, writing wise.

The long and winding road

Some of you will know already that I have a habit of taking circuitous routes home, instead of the direct, boring, motorway-to-motorway option.

I like to explore new areas, and I like a demanding drive.

Like this one:-


North of Grassington, in the Yorkshire Dales 

That was today's offering, up hill and down dale (literally) passing from glorious sunshine into drifting mist, with each blade of grass on the moorland outlined in frost. Walls and barns, lichen on the pale stone, highlighted in the setting sun. Dormant trees and shivering bushes, water in a rush to be somewhere else.

The perfect blissful wind-down to a hectic but fabulous weekend. I can't tell you how much it choked me up to see my brother in his scarlet mess dress. He was absolutely magnificent.

And I wasn't half bad, either.

Add to all that a revelation about one of my heroines-in-waiting that made me itch to start to get that story down. Up to that point I wasn't sure I was ever going to write that one, as I could see the hero clearly, but couldn't get a handle on the heroine. But I was listening to some music, and one line grabbed my throat. And then other elements joined in and made me pay attention.

You turn every head but you don't see me.

That was the one that grabbed my attention. It seems to be more the line that a man would sing, thinking of a woman, but I heard it in my heroine's voice, a little plaintive, and a little resigned, and I discovered her character on the thought.

Other words from the song conjured up a really pivotal scene:

You'll fall asleep and I'll put a spell on you. And when I wake you, I'll be the first thing you see. And you'll realise that you love me. *

Suddenly I know what she's like and what shaped her, and I can 'see' several scenes in her POV. Wonderful.

Don't you just love being a writer?

* Strange and Beautiful. Aqualung.

Wish me no pumpkins

Did the fairy godmother wave her magic wand and wax Cinderella's bikini line? Was there an enchanted pedicure attached to that conjured dress? Were the mice turned into hardressers before footmen?

Who knows. I only know only magical assistance could get me ready for an, "ankle length evening dress" dress-code event in less than about, oh, forty-eight hours.

And the outfit planning's been going on for weeks.

But now I'm smoothed, painted, plucked and pampered, all by my own hand (ball on a budget, do with no dosh?) and shall shortly depart for the know-less lands south of Cumbria. (There's a line somewhere around Junciton 20 of the M6. I swear it. No-one south of there has heard of Cumbria. "Is that near Scotland, then?" Nine hundred years ago, it WAS Scotland, you ignorant child.)

My brother is in the Territorial Army. Yes, for most people that means a jolly camping trip on a moor somewhere a few times a year. To him it means finding a flexible dayjob so he can devote most weekends and many weekdays to instructing signallers, improving his skills, and supporting his Squadron in various events. It also means lengthy tours in Kosovo and Iraq. He's dedicated.

He's also invited me to a Regimental Dinner this weekend. I'm so proud!

And in order to not let him down, his sister has been attempting the steps towards a Cinderella-like transformation.

Anyone got a magic wand?

(Be back Sunday)

Heart of Stone

Tourist chiefs in the Lake District are going to carve the best Valentine's Day message on a hunk of rock called The Love Stone.

I don't know if this is more absurd than sweet, but I do know that surely romance writers have got the best shot at immortalising their words in Lakeland green slate.

Click on the link for details on how to enter. Go on. I dare you.

Oh, and for Julie? More about Jean-Christophe and Cumbria here.

Stalking the Postman

Ah, that traditional pursuit of unpubbed writers everywhere. I haven't done any good postman stalking for a very, very long time.

Today, when I heard the diesel engined-van, the step on the path, the rustle and fwap of post coming through the door, I held my breath.

Husband rolled his eyes.

Got the postcard back today. So the partial has arrived, and has been opened.

This is not so much of a fait accompli as you might think.

I've had several publishers not return them, and one, memorably, return the postcard some six months after I sent the full MS, leading me to the unavoidable conclusion that they didn't open the packet for six months. That was a packet with "requested material" written across it.

But then, it took me about six months to get the book finished and out to them, so I can't complain.

Karma, dude.

Blog Notables.

Jo Leigh's done a fabulous piece on fear at RTB.
It's Michelle's birthday.
Julie's sent off her book, and week early. Woot!
Beth's giving us one of her trademark inspirational posts.

Chinese insomnia

What was chinese about it?

MSG.

I love chinese takeaway. But, Lord, the combination of salt and MSG leaves me with an overactive a)thirst and b)mind at 3am. So I'm awake.

Very, very awake. Thinking about tomorrow's dinner, three seperate dayjob problems and fantasising about selling a book at the same time awake.

There are also four cats on the bed. Husband has already given up and is nowhere to be seen. Minnie is attempting to compress my ribcage, Pippi is ejecting me from my own pillow* and Cleo and Chrissy have curled up in a little kitty ying and yang thing, their sleeping, smiling heads pillowed on each other's flanks. Between my knees.

So I extricate myself from the kitty bed (and to think, I used to think it was ours), go and get a drink (Hooray! No mice and/or slugs in kitchen!**) and return to bed with Fangs because I've finished the Christmas anthology. Amnesiac vampires. What more could you ask for.

Apart from sleep.


*Yes, yes, yes, I know I let her get away with murder. But sitting up all night with her in a room that stank of blood, while she whimpered and struggled for breath, while she tried to knead my lap with crushed paws and purr through a shattered jaw.... well, she's earned special status since her car accident, you know? I stand by my cosseting. (And she's fine now. Blind in one eye, minus a toe and some claws, and EXTREMELY aware of her special status, the manipulator!)

** Yes, we have four cats. Yes, we have mice. Because they're LAZY cats. Or cunning mice. We're not sure which. Although we daily expect the kitchen mouse to leave a gourmet cheeseboard selection and a calling card with a black silhouette of a mouse on it, and the words, And all becase the lady loves... Daa DAAAA da-da-daaaa-daaaaaaaaa!

Miscellaneous Updates

Red Shoes

Today I am wearing brown boots. I apologise. But since I dug a glass splinter out of the ball of my foot (insert sympathetic wince here) last night, I'm thinking you'll excuse me. I would say my red-shoes-to-ordinary-footwear rate of success is running at about 40%.

I can do better.


Reading
I'm loving The Night Before Christmas. So far the stars of note are Jill Shalvis and Kathy Love - their stories really shone. Jill surprised me, but Kathy delivered just what I was counting on.

I'm a forgiving reader, not prone to bemoaning the 'state of the the romance novel industry', but for me, romance reads fall into two categories. The ones where you enjoy the fantasy, but when you leave the story you sigh to rejoin reality, and the ones that remind you that you're right to believe in love, dammit. Kathy's stories remind you that love is out there, it's real and it's wonderful.

I've surprised myself by enjoying a short story anthology so much. Perhaps it's really what suits my current existence.... Must try some more, and see.

Any recommendations? (Yes, Sela, I'm asking you.)


Durham
I'm posting this from Durham, Tuesdays being my MA day. And how I love Tuesdays. I'm going to have to muse on this some more, and blog about it properly.

Today the sun is shining on the Castle and the Cathedral, the air is cold, and the students are smiling.

And the river is full of rowers with exceptionally defined musculature.

I'm married, I'm thirty-one, and I'm ogling undergraduate rowers.

I'm going to hell.

Or maybe I just appreciate the beauty in life.

Yes, that's it. Not lech: artist.


Submissions
In case you haven't already worked it out, blogging is currently my displacement activity of choice, to distract myself from the fact that I sent a partial to a mainstream UK pub yesterday. I would be entirely unsurprised by a "romantic suspense - are you mad?" rejection (mental note:- must restock my emergency supply of Haagen Dazs Pralines and Cream icecream in case of rejection), but I can't be the only thirty-something woman who still shivers at the thought of Mary Stewart's heroes, and longs for more Brit-bred RS on the shelves.

Here's hoping.

Born to Shop (and read)

Ah, what a day yesterday was. I could give you the long version, but suffice it to say that it supported the old adage that a woman can never have too many kitchen knick-knacks* or Christmas decorations.

Okay, so it's not an old adage precisely, but it's my adage.

I topped off a visit to a sublime kitchen store with a pit stop at a huge garden centre to sneakily buy house plants for the bathroom. (Because a woman can never have too many plants in her bathroom, either. When asked what theme they're fitting out their bathroom to, most people say something like, "shells," "glass and chrome," or "roman bathhouse." I say, "jungle." I also refuse to have a smaller bathroom unit up against the wall because, "where would the kangaroo vine go?")

While weighing up the house-plant-to-guilt ratio, an announcement was made that customers could go to the Christmas department and fill a carrier bag for £2.

Witness the Anna-shaped blur.

When I got home, I counted the value of my purchases. I took home £150 worth of Christmas decorations, candles, candle holders and gifts... for £5. Do I know how to shop, or what?

AND I felt less guilty about the maidenhair fern.


In reading, I've moved on from TLTWaTW to an short story anthology from Brava, The Night Before Christmas. I bought this one because it's got one of Kathy Love's stories, and she's been an auto-buy for me since her first book. (Yes, Kathy, you have more pulling power than Lori Foster for me.... ;-) ) I'm not usually a big short story fan - I like depth but they suit my life at the moment - a chance to get to a resolution in a lunch break.

Or while on the toilet.

And yes, I do know it's January. Christmas comes but once a year, my arse.


Today:- Work in the morning, defying the laws of the space-time continuum by fitting seven hours' work in three hours. Then to Allendale, deep in the North Pennines (Mmmmm threatening isolation in bleak surroundings...) and from there to Durham. Life is sweet.

Busy, but sweet.


* Heart-shaped pastry presses. I mean, what life is complete without little heart-shaped pies for Valentine's Day? The way to Husband's heart is through his Beef Wellington.

What's in a name...

Husband and I went shopping for vinyl floor for our new bathroom today. Either we've got very bad taste, or very good taste, because we couldn't find anything we liked. But to while away the time while driving, we sorted out our cats' full names...

We have:-

Pipsky "Pippi" Cormikov Scamans
Minnie-Moo Minnie Scamans
CleoCatra "Cleo" Ginger-tip Scamans
Chrissy Meeper Scamans

So, do any of you have completely nonsensical conversations with people? Or is it just us?

At last! Reading decision...

So I've found what to read for a bit.

The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe!

We went to see the film recently, and loved it, but I fell to trying to work out what was faithful, and what was new. Particularly for the battle scene.

And then of course I have to decide why they changed it, and how that strengthened the film, and why it worked for their target audience...

But mostly I'm sniffing and snivelling my way through it, because these are the books that were read to us as children on holiday. Such a host of blissful memories.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you for the scents comments! I left that one up a day or two longer than I intended to, because I was enjoying the contributions. I do so love playing with the senses in a story....

Scratch n Sniff

Cats have smells.

I'm not just talking about flatulence, humming cat food and muddy paws. They have distinctive, unique scents that are theirs alone, irrespective of what substance they've recently been rolling in. They're very faint, and you have to bury your face in their flank and inhale several times to catch it. It also helps if you zero in on their neck and shoulders, where the scent appears to be strongest, and if you're a woman, since women have much more developed senses of smell.

Kittens don't have smells - they just have kitten-smell... but I am happy to report that last night we established that Cleo and Chrissy have grown into their proper grown-up Cat Smells.

Cleo - burnt toffee. Chrissy - warm newspaper.

This is not as odd as it sounds. We're quite pleased to have a cat with a toffee-smell, cats personal scents aren't always as sweet or appealing.

Merlin, for instance, always smelled faintly of sun-warmed concrete. Even if he'd been indoors for weeks. Piggy, God bless her murderous little soul, hunting shrews in kitty heaven, always smelled quite strongly of fresh air and new mown hay. So refreshing and distinctive was this aroma, we had been known to pluck her to our faces, breathe deeply, and cry, "Piggy Outdoor Smell!" She's only one of our cats that ever actually had a scent so recognisable, we named it.

After much discussion with Husband, we distressingly found we couldn't remember what Geri smelled of. We have a memory of something warm and faintly spicy, and if smells have colours, I'm getting an amber warmth.... Minnie smells, oddly, of freshly laundered cotton, while poor Pippi has the embarassment of smelling like Old Woman's Talcum Powder. She is so ashamed.

So, to recap: Cleo - Toffee. Chrissy - warmed newspaper. Minnie- Cotton. Pippi - Old woman's talcum powder. Piggy - Piggy Outdoor Smell. Merlin - sunwarmed concrete. Geri - Amber.

Dredging the depths of my memory, my childhood cat, Smokie, smelled of... silk? Odd.

All amusements aside, cats aren't alone. Humans have distinctive scents, too. Although the Five Senses rule has attached itself to most authors output, now, I'm finding that many slap on a scent like ticking a box for eye colour. This heroine is brunette, green eyes, smells of strawberries. Or the scent becomes a symbol of what occupies their time. Cowboy smelling of horses, medic smelling of antiseptic, millionaire smelling of.... what, printer ink? Money?

All romance heroes and heroines seem to be fragranced from the same, limited pool. Raspberry lotion; roses; honey; chocolate; leather; horses; coffee, sweat.

Where is that distinctive, personal scent?

Once I cut out his after-shave-du-jour, shampoo and deodorant, Husband has a very slight builder's-rubble-and-fresh-ash-timber smell.

Odd, seeing as he isn't in construction. He works in retail, trek and travel clothing - stricly speaking he should smell of Gore-tex and uncrushable suiting.

My point is that people don't just smell of what they slap on, or what they work with. Everyone has a scent that is as unique as their personality.

What do your characters smell of?

When TBR piles attack....

Everyone in writer/reader-blogland talks about their huge To Be Read piles, and as TBR piles go, mines not disgustingly humongous.

But I don't read any of the books in it. There are ranks of blemish-free, uncracked spines staring at me from their disordered ranks of romantic suspense, sweet romance, historical romance, thrillers, comedies... Periodically I go and look at them... then pick up a book I've read six times already.

I'm actually starting to be intimidated by a pile of books.

Why?

Is it because I bought a load of them and then felt guilty for not reading them? Is it because they represent a height of success I haven't yet achieved? Am I bored with romance? Am I scared of finding too many in the pile that disappoint me? Have they been recommended too many times, so that my stubborn circuits are cutting in?

I suspect I could answer a little, "yes" to all of those questions.

What, apart from lack of time, stops you reading a book?

That was the week that...

... flew by without my noticing. Okay, so it's only Wednesday, but HOW did it get to be WEDNESDAY without my noticing?

The last few days flew by in a blur of essay writing (3,000 words on 'Will the Green Paper Youth Matters lead to radical and significant change in the practice and structure of youth work agencies?'), work and driving across the Pennines in gale force winds.

When I left Durham on Tuesday night, I was only mildly weary after three days of working/essay writing from dusk till dawn. Two hours' driving later I was so tired I was shaky with it. Sheesh.

I'm contrary and odd enough, though, that I enjoyed it, too. I like driving challenges.

So today I need to get some shopping, do some work, and stay awake.

I might manage the first one of those...

Packing Paradise

I love to pack.

I've inherited that love from my father. We're obsessive packers. We are blessed (or cursed?) with the rare gift to see the space to be packed, and the stuff that needs packing into that space, in terms of three-dimensional tessellating shapes....

We SEE how it fits.

I once re-packed a freind's suitcase that wouldn't close and two carrier bags into one closed, rectangularly suitcase-shaped, perfectly packed suitcase. Bliss. My father has been known to draw a scale diagram of how best to pack the roof rack.

But then he was, at the height of his powers, able to pack four people, an eight-man frame tent, a 12 foot off-shore inflatable, a four hp outboard engine, a camp kitchen the size of a large travelling trunk and all assorted food, clothes and camping paraphenalia into one estate car and roof rack. At that stage he was packing tins of curry into the spaces around the car's engine. I can only aspire to such genius.

He once packed my moth-eaten riding helmet purely because he had a riding-helmet-shaped hole in the boot space. We had no intention of going horse riding. Towards the later stages of packing, he'd be apt to turn around, the light of cramming ferver in his eyes and demand something, "about so big by so big with a bend there and a bump there that you don't mind getting squashed." I had a gift for finding the objects to satisfy his packing requirements.

Although we did once go a whole holiday without a j-cloth because I couldn't remember where I'd packed it. Inside the kitchen roll middle, of course. We only found it when we got home.

Then there's the unfortunate tendency to find sachets of boil-in-the-bag-rice in your footwear, small portions of salt in your socks, and a puncture repair kit in the kettle.

Tip: Find it before you boil it.

Ten years after I last went on holiday with my parents, I still find myself classifying clothes as crushable, stuffable or crammable.

Imagine my delight, therefore, when one of the Christmas presents Husband bought me turned out to be a selection of Eagle Creek packing cubes from Rohan. Oh, bliss. I get a little over-excited when I consider the quarter cube for underwear, the half cube for tops and t-shirts, and the whole cube for larger items. Oh my.

Tomorrow night I'm doing one of my overnighters in Durham for the MA. In just a little while I need to go and pack my overnight bag. The prospect gives me a little thrill of illicit pleasure. Rolling the undies, stuffing the stuffables, finding the stuff that fits the space.

If I'm careful, there'll probably be room for the riding helmet, too.

Childhood dreams

When I was a child, Dad would read the Narnia stories to my brother and me during the summer holidays. It was a magical experience, with Dad doing all the voices, and all of us laughing and crying together. Since most of the time we were holidaying in the Lake District, if felt like we were already in Narnia, and we only had to believe for the trees to walk again...

The Narnia stories are so interwoven with my feelings and beliefs about childhood, parenting, faith and relationships, magic and myth and stories that I'm always anxious about any new adaptation of C S Lewis's books.

We went to see The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe today.

It was wonderful. I'm so happy.

The Night of the Cats (A Short Play)

CAST
Venerable Pippi, a dignified and resourceful black cat.
Mini Minnie, a mindless tortoishell kitten-cat
Cute Cleo, a very cute tortoishell kitten
Sqeauky Chrissy, a vocal ginger kitten

Scene:- Bottom of the bed. The human known as Anna is drifting off to sleep.

Cute Cleo: Can we play yet? Canwe?Canwe?Canwe?Canwe?
Venerable Pippi: Not yet! Wait till she's properly asleep. When you two have the benefit of my considerably years of catty experience, you'll be able to tell the right moment to spring into action. See - she's still tugging the duvet under her chin. A few more moments.
Squeaky Chrissy: Pleeeeaaaaaaaase can we play?
Venerable Pippi: *sigh* Go and play under the bed.
The Kittens bounce off.
Venerable Pippi: And choose the most rustly box!
Rustling
Mini Minnie: I have WHITE paws! Mummy says so!
Venerable Pippi: *rolling eyes* Yes, dear. *To the kittens* Pay attention! Now, see, she's asleep. You can tell by the drool. Now watch and learn. She is currently in possession of the pillow, which is where I want to sleep tonight. So what do I do?
Cute Cleo: Play! Play!
Mini Minnie: I have a POINTY MOUTH! Mummy says so!
Venerable Pippi: *with great patience* Yes, Minnie. No, Cleo. I simply insinuate my bottom - so, watch! - onto the corner of the pillow. See, immediately she shifts a little to one side.
Squeaky Chrissy: Is that when we eat her hair?
Venerable Pippi: No, keep that as a last resort. It's better if you just fart gently into her face so she - see, she's doing it! - turns over. *Smugly* Now I just curl up, push slightly and eeaaaase her off the pillow.
Squeaky Chrissy: Wow!
Cute Cleo: Cool!
Mini Minnie: MICE UNDER THE FLOOOOOORBOOOOOOOARDS!!!
Venerably Pippi: Yes, dear, of course there are.
Cute Cleo: So what do we do now?
Squeaky Chrssy: I want to eat the blanket!
Venerable Pippi: Well there are many options open to you. You could tear down the curtains, excavate the box under the dresser, continue to rustle under the bed, or, my own recommendation, you could play tag over her feet all night long.
Cute Cleo: Tag! Tag!
Squeaky Chrissy: Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Venerable Pippi: Run along children.
Mini Minnie: I'm the KING OF THE CASTLE
Venerable Pippi: Except you're not a King. Despite their evil surgical interventions, you're still a Queen. And it's not a castle, is it, Minnie? It's her bottom.
Mini Minnie: Bottom! BOTTOM!
Venerable Pippi: *aside* My talents are wasted here. *To others* Excellent work Cleo, Chrissy. Chew her ankles a bit, that's it. Remember, kittens! The less sleep she has, the more likely she is to respond to basic mind-control techniques. And what is our ultimate aim?
Kittens: WORLD DOMINATION!
Venerable Pippi: *smiling warmly* Excellent.
Mini Minnie: BOTTOMS!!!

ILoveMyCats

Cleo just tried to eat the mouse cursor on the monitor, stood on my keyboard until it squealed and then sneezed into my water glass.

(ILoveMyCatsILoveMyCatsILoveMyCatsILoveMyCats)

Moi? Organised? It can't be!

I came into the New Year knowing I had to finish revising Dangerous Lies. This was the MS that received that blinding NWS report, and the one I wrote the revision plan for in November.

So I dug out the MS, cleared my computer desk, cracked my knuckles, reached for the plan.... and couldn't find it. Panic! Was it lost in the Grand Pre-Christmas Tidy? Had I thrown it away when getting rid of the rubbish in my work files?

I struggled to remember what notebook or scrap of paper I'd scrawled the plan on in that pizza restaurant that night. What had I done with it?

I finally found it when Michelle Styles suggested I investigate "one of the boxes" in the boot of my car. She knows me so well. The boot of my car is this universal dump and store for almost any piece of paper, important or otherwise, in my life. Of course, I'd already looked in the car, but the reason I hadn't found the plan was I was looking for a scrappy piece of handwritten paper. I found the Revisions Plan typed up and double-spaced on crease-free A4 copier paper, and put in a clear file with the NWS report.

I clearly don't give myself enough credit.

Dangerous Lies, aka Danglies.

It was just a holiday romance. Marianne Forster, deciding it was high time she had a romantic life, love life, any life, was just spending time with a gorgeous man in the hot sun. It wasn’t anything more than that, until she was kidnapped at the airport on the way home.

Alan Waring was happy to pretend he was just enjoying a vacation, just spending time with a beautiful young woman. He was happy to forget his secret alter ego, just for a few days. But then the world intruded and he had to make a decision that would inadvertently put Marianne in danger. And send him halfway across North Africa to rescue her.

I do so love this story. Let's hope I can do it justice in the revising of it.

Of Cats and Characters

Four cats need a lot of attention. But more importantly, they need to right kind of attention. They've each got unique characters and distinct desires.

Minnie doesn't like to be hugged, but is ecstatic for five minutes of throwing a paper ball over the bed for her to catch. Cleo wants nothing more than the chance to use parts of our anatomy as a human pincushion, kneading us with her enormous kitten-paws. Chrissy, we're just discovering, wants conversation even more than strokes. We're thinking of re-naming her Squeaker. Pippi's world begins and ends with the chance to sit on my lap and stare into my eyes while I'm... on the loo.

(It's a very long story.)

I've always been preoccupied by what makes characters unique and real. How do they know they're in love? Why do they fall for that one other person?

What kind of attention do they need?

Jenny needed to be let inside Kier's mind, to participate in making decisions, making plans. Kier came into his own under the influence of Jenny's belief. Tristan needs to have permission to let go of someone he can save, and let them risk their own life on their own terms. Emily needs to be loved, in spite of - and accepting - her fears.

I've been thinking about this post for a few days, and, frankly, I needed the thinking time for some of those characters. It's been a good exercise.

What sort of attention is good attention for your current characters?

Frivolous Resolutions Update

I just stripped down in the kitchen so Husband could tuck £20 notes into my underwear while I worked my booty.

I wasn't wearing red shoes, though.