#amwriting – Page 3 – Sam Russell

Early awakenings and oh, what a beautiful morning

October 9, 2015January 29, 2016by Sam RussellLeave a Comment

I’m so blessed to live in the country-side, with a 360 degree view of the sky. A blessing which it’s easy to be thankful for because nature reminds you so often. I confess I’m not always grateful when the wind is hurling rain horizontally across the farm, or snow drifts cover the drive. It’s a rare winter when we don’t lose electricity, telephone, internet, and satellite (occasionally all at once). But I figure that’s a small price to pay for the everyday glories we get to enjoy (she says valiantly, while the October sun is shining).

Today the terriers got me up early (they’re playing innocent in this shot but don’t be fooled. And yes she is sitting on him).

Terriers can be the cruellest of alarm clocks. A bark sharp enough to rouse you from sleep with instant palpitations. A sense of smell so keen it can sniff out varmint from three fields away, and a dogged (sic) determination to tell you all about it. I say varmint, but often I haven’t got a clue what has set them off. A fox, pheasant, or deer? More likely devilish spirits which drive them to wake me at an hour when all of God’s creatures should be tucked up in bed (apart from the nocturnal ones of course). Credit where credit is due though, this morning the moon was worthy of howling at.

A crescent so perfect it’s a cliché. I was out there, in my nightshirt, with the dogs, taking pictures which would never do the view justice. Nature does beauty on an epic scale which scoffs at my camera and photography skills. All the same, pretty eh?

An over-blanket of mist rolling across the fields…

And then the sun came up…

Sometimes I’m thankful for yappy dogs.

Self-publishing, Writing Romance

Improper use of the English language

October 6, 2015January 29, 2016by Sam RussellLeave a Comment

Too long since my last post here, because my head is firmly wedged into editing which I find can be even more all consuming than the actual writing is. Third pass on the draft manuscript and I may be changing the same words backwards and forwards but I’m also still finding typos. How do they hide so craftily? I changed the font style and size for this read through, and found five obvious errors in the first couple of paragraphs. Incredible given the number of times I have already read it, and scary to think how many more I might (will) be missing.

The error rate decreased as I moved on through the manuscript, but this could simply be the result of my anticipatory brain adjusting to the new font. Should I change the font every two paragraphs? Phew! I ought to read it on an e-reader next, but I’ve already forgotten the formatting skills which would allow me to covert the Word document. I do remember that it took me a bloody long time to learn those skills the first time around.

Of course I wrote the words, so I know what they’re going to say. And that provides the eye to brain translator with a very efficient ‘ignore and correct’ reflex which is nigh on impossible to override. That’s my psuedo-science excuse anyway. Unfortunately the reflex doesn’t work on the reader who doesn’t know what’s coming next. I know this because as a reader myself typos and errors in other’s books are glaringly obvious (although I don’t scoff at them quite as much now as I once might have done, nervous empathy stops me.)

Note to self; first draft may be a brain dump, but next time at least try to brain dump with grammar.

It will actually be a huge relief to pass the manuscript on the professionals. The editors, beta readers and proofreaders who know what they’re doing. Me, I really just like telling stories. Having said that I know that I will be protective of my work, and overly defensive about any suggested changes. Foolish, because I loved how the editing shaped and sharpened A Bed of Barley Straw, taking my jumbles of impassioned phrases and tightening them up to form a proper (or should that be improper) novel.

I’m really excited about the cover design for the new book, which is looking gorgeous. (Reveal shortly!) Having a cover makes me believe that the book is actually going to happen (in a way that writing 100k words strangely didn’t.)

Oh the vagaries of the human mind. If there are any typos or grammatical errors in this post, kindly forgive them. I am all edited out (and I know that’s not proper use of the English language.)

Self-publishing, Writing Romance

Crazy September and Blurb Take Two

September 25, 2015January 29, 2016by Sam Russell2 Comments

Harvest is over, the kids are back at school, and the world gets back from their holidays ready to hit autumn with refreshed vim and vigour.

September has been a crazy month for me so far. Ending the year’s farming accounts, FINISHING THE FIRST DRAFT OF MY MANUSCRIPT FOR BOOK TWO, and moving on to the hard miles; edits, rewrites, loose ends. Covers to be designed (two of them because A Bed of Barley Straw is also getting a makeover), ISBNs to be purchased and allocated. Tag lines, blurbs, synopsis (the latter of which I think should have been written before the novel, but hey I’m still a rookie accidental rebel). Formatting, uploads and tracked changes lurk ominously in my future, with the threat of highlighting all the skills I have forgotten since writing book one.

Today I’m working on the blurbs for both of my books, and I would love to hear your thoughts.

Do the words catch your interest and draw you in? Do they leave you wanting to know more? Leave a comment or email me – writersamrussell@gmail.com (You can also drop me a line there if you would like to be added to my email list for updates on the release).

Here’s where I’m at…all critiques welcome (steady GG)

A BED OF BARLEY STRAW

You can bury the past, but can you ever forget it? Hettie Redfern has no time for men, other than for the most basic of needs. She has learnt from experience that her career is more rewarding, that horses are more trustworthy and her are dogs easier to love.

So when Alexander Melton returns to Draymere Hall, where Hettie manages the stables, she quickly works out that despite his drop-dead good looks, his arrogance and manners leave a lot to be desired. Unfortunately, that isn’t enough to stop Hettie desiring him.

Proud, judgemental, downright rude at times, Alexander uses women for his own careless pleasure and rarely gives them a second thought. So how has Hettie Redfern got under his skin? A dangerous and idiotic obsession, given her reputation.

A clash of characters, a physical attraction too strong to resist. History unravelling in a perfect storm of frustrated passion.

THE SEQUEL

(There is a working title but you’re not getting it yet. I do learn from some of my mistakes)

Hettie and Alexander are back at Draymere Hall, and it was never going to be a conventional love story, no hearts and flowers here.

Proud, passionate, wilful; they are alike in so many ways. That has to be a good thing doesn’t it? Or it could be very bad…they both carry scars, and old wounds have a habit of bringing new pain.

Their bodies know what they want, and that attraction pulls them together. Hearts and minds can be thorny, less easy to satisfy. One thing is certain, together or apart their lives will move on. Alexander and Hettie’s clashes of passion and spirit will only be part of the story.

New beginnings which give you the chance to make things right. Or the chance to make the same mistakes all over again.

Thank you for reading.

Farm and Family Life, Inspiration

A Very British Seaside Tradition – deck-chairs, ice-cream and sandy bottoms

September 14, 2015January 29, 2016by Sam Russell2 Comments

There were seven of us on that first beach hut adventure. Six adults and one tiny-eight-week old baby. My nephew. We lounged in deck-chairs as we read our books, and brewed cups of tea. Strolled along the coast and swam in the sea. Twelve arms to share one precious bundle.

Within ten years, the adults were outnumbered. Rumbustious kids, adventurous toddlers and sandy-bottomed babies. Buggys, pottys and sun-cream. We hauled a hand cart up and down the steep and winding path, heavy with picnics, towelling jackets, swimming suits. Buckets and spades. Saucepans, nappies and home-made cakes. Lounging became a dream of the past, forsaken to the glorious chaos of toddler pursuit, life-guard duties and feeding a hungry swarm. We cooked up fish fingers and baked beans on the gas stove in the hut, strung a mosquito net to fend off angry wasps. Embraced the weariness as we settled our gaggle of salty-haired offspring onto child-sized plastic chairs. As the beach cleared and the sun dropped, we sipped mugs of tea and smiled as they ate with an appetite born of a well lived day. Babies slept on impromptu beds spread on the beach hut floor. A weary-legged tramp took us back up to the top of the cliff. The sleep of the rosy-cheeked, sated child. Heads lolling in car seats, drunk on fresh air.

Tots grew into children. Bikinis and body boards, chips and arcades. Windy days brought waves to ride and kites to fly. Even when it rained the beach never failed to work its magic. Sandcastles became more adventurous. Shells gathered for bracelets, plaits beaded in hair. Granddad’s faithful frisbee, beach-boules and cricket. Suntan lotion glistened on youthful bodies which had evolved between our visits.

The whistle on the kettle changed its tune and more mugs were needed. We spread, our chairs spilling across the promenade. We took more than our share. Behind dark glasses teenage eyes watched passing talent. Youth swooped from angsty adolescent to playful child and back again with dizzying speed. Fireworks, air shows and smart phones. They might not want to come next year. Can they bring their girlfriend/boyfriend? But go without them, and oh they are pissed off.

We must buy our fish and chips from the very same place. Park at the cliff-top to take in the view of our beach. Ice cream cones, mugs of tea and rock cakes are compulsory. Change is good, but who can argue with those traditions. We number sixteen now, there is a new tot on the beach. My great nephew – sandy-bottomed, salty-haired and very precious.

Farm and Family Life, Inspiration

Swallows, migration and ploughing serendipities, all on a Saturday morning

September 5, 2015January 29, 2016by Sam RussellLeave a Comment

Swallows circling the tractor and plough – dozens of them. We wonder, are they playing, or harvesting the flying insects which are put up from the stubble.

There’s a lot more like that, but my editing skills are worse than my filming skills and I had my finger over much of it.

It looks like a game, they swoop dangerously close to the tractor, as if surfing the thermals rising off of the engine, and dive across the plough to come around again. Maybe this is fitness training for the arduous journey ahead of them. Migrating birds, with hundreds of dangerous miles to cover. Topical at the moment. I wish all who embark on such fearful travels could be offered Godspeed and safe arrivals.

Here’s what the RSPB says about their journey:

By early September, most swallows are preparing to migrate. They flutter about restlessly, and often gather on telegraph wires. Most leave the UK during September, with early broods of youngsters being the first to go. But a few stragglers may hang around into October.

The return journey to Africa takes about six weeks. Swallows from different parts of Europe fly to different destinations. Ours end up in the very south. They travel down through western France and eastern Spain into Morocco, before crossing the Sahara Desert and the Congo rainforest – finally reaching South Africa and Namibia.

Swallows migrate during daylight, flying quite low and covering about 320 km (200 miles) each day. At night they roost in huge flocks in reed-beds at traditional stopover spots. Since swallows feed entirely on flying insects, they don’t need to fatten up before leaving, but can snap up their food along the way. Nonetheless, many die of starvation. If they survive, they can live for up to sixteen years.

Hard to believe that a small bird can conquer such an endeavour.

We unearthed a horseshoe too.

Every year the plough turns up interesting treasures, but this one intrigued us because it is round. Remedial shoeing for a horse which once pulled a plough? Or possibly more recent, it looks small for a heavy horse (5 1/4 inches across). Like many of our finds, it throws up more questions than answers.

It must be autumn.

Inspiration

August 15, 2015February 5, 2017by Sam RussellLeave a Comment

A Bed of Barley Straw by Sam Russell
The inspiration for A Bed of Barley Straw was multi-layered, but there were three things in particular which stirred my creative juices and got me writing.
The characters were my initial motivation. I saw Hettie, my heroine, as strong-willed and captivating, but far from perfect. Someone who hadn’t always got it right and still makes mistakes. I knew that Hettie would be no shrinking violet and that her history with men would be chequered. Complicated to the point that she had abandoned romance, Hettie would find it easier to love the quirky dogs and horses that she shares her life with.
My hero, Alexander Melton, is more darkly flawed. I enjoy a challenging character, but there had to be morality at the core. Finding the damaged decency buried in his heart was the crux for Alexander, a test of character development. To take a man with too much pride but create him worthy of love. Events which occur through the story were intended to shake both Alexander’s and the readers’ preconceptions. Leading him through his journey of discovery was deliciously infuriating.
The clash came next. I love a glorious mismatch. A freefall into lust with absolutely the wrong person; the gritty struggle which ensues between chemistry and reason. My idea was to delve into the minds of two people who are struggling against formidable attraction, and to find out if the wrong person can ever become the right one.
I had a lot of fun exploring that dilemma. The sparring, the spats, the stand-offs and the battles of will. The moments of physical and emotional connection. The stimulation to write became boundless!
And finally to the setting. My passion for the countryside and my background in horses and farming dropped the tale in rural England. I could clearly envisage the picturesque Cotswold village and the grandeur of Draymere Hall. Villages can be a wonderful stimulus, spurning a wealth of colourful characters, intrigue and gossip. Add to that the joys of a cosy local pub in which to play out the antics and my scene was ready to tempt the characters in.

Giveaways Events and Special Offers

I’m virtually in Scotland this week

August 10, 2015January 29, 2016by Sam RussellLeave a Comment

I’ve popped over to Mac Logan’s blog this week. I met Mac on twitter, he writes poetry and thrillers (Angels’ Cut & Dark Art).

We struck up a cross-genre relationship, and being the generous bloke he is, Mac offered to host a guest post from me.

Mac is a crafter of words and there is some great stuff on his site if you shoot over there and take a look. His most recent post ‘Cafe on the Edge‘ is a good place to start.

p.s. That isn’t Mac in the image, just a nice pic of a cow.

Farm and Family Life, Inspiration

Gallivanting Granny takes a ride on the combine

August 7, 2015January 29, 2016by Sam RussellLeave a Comment

Happy days.

Writing Romance

Sequential absorption – If you’re looking for me I’m in Draymere

July 22, 2015January 29, 2016by Sam Russell1 Comment

I can’t deny that when I started the sequel to my debut novel I was full of trepidation. A Bed of Barley Straw just happened, all by itself. The story ran from my subconscious straight onto the page. It was an experiment, if you like, a challenge to my psyche: “you keep saying you’ve got a book in you” (that’s my psyche talking, I didn’t say it out loud) “about time you bloody well proved it.”

So I did. And I won (yay, one-nil to me!)

But now I’ve got to make it two-nil, although I’m not sure my psyche ever said “actually, you’ve got two.” What if I didn’t have? What if my debut was also my finale? So many excited requests for the next book…thrilling, wonderful feedback, but can I perform twice?

The start of a sequel is problematic and frustrating. I found that as a reader, and I am finding the same as a writer. It isn’t enough to assume that everyone has read the first book (and unlike a series, A Bed of Barley Straw is a stand-alone book). Book two picks up the story where book one ended. Saga-esque (but over too short a time frame to justify calling it the Draymere Saga, much as I like the ring of that).

Inevitably, readers must be re-introduced to the characters and settings. If you haven’t read the first book or if you read it a long time ago (apologies feedbackers – I’m going as fast as I can), I can’t bombard you with character names and places without, at the very least, a hint to their history as contained in book one. Perversely, when I am reading a sequel (especially if I am reading it soon after the preceding book) I find my mind frequently shouting “I know all that!” Don’t waste my time with flashback and re-introduction. I want the nitty gritty.

So, a conundrum and a balance to be struck. A gentle reminder here and there, a drop of reminiscence. Ideally cleared up in the first few chapters so we can all get down to the nitty gritty. And a good editor please, to tell me if I have succeeded.

I’m delighted to say I am now in the thick of the gritty in book two. Happily the psyche, when it eventually stopped sulking, willingly poured forth a brand new story, complete with plot-twists and turns. Some of the events have even surprised me. And I thought I knew my characters better than that.

Maybe I know them too well. Like an addictive alter-ego computer game, the characters and settings threaten to become more real than my actual life. I am not ‘in the present’, I am in Draymere.

Spirited discussions with The Farmer have erupted from that old cherry – ‘who said what’. You know the bugger:

“I told you…”, “we agreed…”, “we talked about this only yesterday…”

The most recent spirited discussion ended when The Farmer announced heatedly that he was going to start recording our conversations. Now I am not saying that he is right and I am wrong, but shortly after that encounter I called his brother Alexander. Close, both names begin with A.

I have hidden all recording devices in our house and I’m heading off to Draymere. To find out what exactly Alexander is up to now.

Writing Romance

Reaping the rewards

July 15, 2015January 29, 2016by Sam RussellLeave a Comment

I am writing like a demon. Smug as a skunk. I should point out that my reaping of rewards lies in the satisfaction of a story coming together…a novel forming. Monetary rewards, not so much but right now I couldn’t give a hoot. I #amwriting – and loving every minute of it.

I accept that this nirvana may be temporary. I recently latched on to an interesting forum discussion based on the question ‘How many words should you write each day?’ Various frightening word counts littered said forum outrageously. I selected the lowest target (500 words) and set to with evangelist gusto. It almost worked, for a day or so, then I had a weekend away and wrote not a single word. Panic at falling behind my target perversely blocked me from getting back to the writing at all. With every day that I failed to write I mentally upped the daily word count which I would achieve when I started writing again. The days stretched on, to a point where the daily word count I was planning to achieve became, well, unachievable. I finally acknowledged my frailty and gave up altogether. The mysteries of the human mind are anathema to me (or maybe only my mind functions this way) but within an instant of concluding that I couldn’t write any more, I was off like the proverbial steamy-train (note: deliberate typo).

Contrary, but I’m not knocking it. Not this week anyway, while I’m writing like a demon. My *k words are climbing. It is easy to get caught up in the numbers (stroke-impossible-not-to). When I wrote the first book I am embarrassed to admit that I reached my final word count without a clue how long the book was. No idea if my number was paltry, sufficient or awesome (it was somewhere in the middle). That lack of number pressure was a guilt-free blessing. I just kept writing until the story was written.

In the smugness of my current flow (and the block which preceded it) I have arrived at my own answer to the conundrum ‘how many words should you write in a day?’ That answer is simply ‘as many as you bloody well can’. That might be two (I have experienced this, the words were ‘Chapter Twelve’) it might be 20k (I haven’t experienced this yet). When the fug strikes, hammer out five. When the floodgates are open – CLEAR THE DECKS AND DO NOTHING ELSE (as best you are able, this may prove counter-productive if you expire at your desktop from starvation. Take that as a health warning.)

Facebook won’t miss me, tweets are an endangered species, blog posts will be scant. Marketing is tedious anyway (as are ironing and housework). No escaping the day job which is growing my daily bread. If I keep this up maybe harvest and the manuscript will collide in a glorious eruption of reaping.

Uh-oh, that sounds like a target, and you know what targets bring. I really hope I haven’t jinxed my fortune, by writing about my writing here (if you get what I mean). Thank heavens I am not traditionally published, imagine the pressure of advance payment!

*Shudders dramatically* like the tortured indie she is.