Tag Archives: workinprogress

TBR Pile: March 2018

My TBR pile has expanded (again) but I’m actually off on holiday in about a week, so – time to read! *happy dance*

My physical pile is about the same as always – Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell has lost a few chapters, but everything else has mostly been waiting on a point that I’m taking a phsyical book someplace! If I have my laptop handy, I tend to be reading for work…

TBR pile March 2018

And my Kindle pile has gained a few. I’m halfway through No So Stories and The Djinn Falls In Love, along with the anthology Lost Lore. Also on the pile are Jen Williams’ The Ninth Rain, Lucy Hounsom’s Starborn, Peter Grimbert’s The Secrets of Ji, Guy Haley’s Champion of Mars, Cassandra Khaw’s Food of the Gods, Jasmine Gower’s Moonshine, Fran Wilde’s Updraft, Keene and the Last Guardian from Robert Harkess, Redemption Blade by Adrian Tchaikovsky, The Memory of Water by Emma Itaranta, and Yoon Ha Lee’s Machineries of Empire series. Add in Full Moon Dragon Gate from Joyce Ch’ng and the ARC of The Underwater Ballroom Society that I’ve just been offered, and I’ve definitely still got a pile!

But then I do have lots of airport waiting time in which to work through them. *more happy reader dancing*

Random musings on “no new stories” and writing new stories

I’ve been plotting a series of cozy murder mysteries (which may or may not have resulted in me wandering around the house muttering to myself, occasionally absently chatting to my mother about the best way to sneakily kill someone, and maniacally laughing) but I’m struggling to write them, and I still can’t get the damn voice for Necromancer’s Charm right. I’ve been feeling grey and annoyed; writer’s block at its finest, when there doesn’t seem to be anything stopping me writing, but I just can’t get it right.

So I trundled over to see Adrian last night for a kick up the butt and some advice (and a few board games).

“Well, it’s yer ego.” (He’s actually insufferable if you ever meet him in person. Half of my job is a beta reader and half is his ego-flattener, because he needs both :-D). “You’re trying to write something popular, not what you want to write. You’re a good writer but you aren’t writing something you’ll enjoy.”

I promptly argued back that No Man’s Land was what I wanted to write, and that’s not what anyone wants right now. I do need to at least have one eye on what agents/publishers/readers want…so we had a discussion, and I threw some ideas at him. And then he threw one back at me.

Now, there’s no new ideas. Every story boils down to a few things, and as Desire says in Gaiman’s Sandman, every story boils down to the same thing; someone wants something. Sometimes they get it, sometimes they don’t.

But one of the problems of being a writer is that you have far more ideas than you could ever write. I have a folder stuffed with them! But because I can’t ever write them all, I’m happy to give them away: after all, if someone can write that story, then best of luck to them! And I’m lucky that Adrian thinks the same.

Besides, as I spotted the other day someplace on Twitter; every story has already been told. It just hasn’t been told by you.

So I have a base idea from Adrian, fitting in with the general time period and theme that I wanted to use. How I tell it is going to be my story; I’ll add twists, tell it in my own way, give it my own spin. It doesn’t stop him using it; if he ever did want to, he’d put enough of his own spin on it that it wouldn’t be the same story, even though it might have come from the same root. Maybe we could start a new genre…

Anyway. I’m not going to tell you anything about it, beyond that it’s a cross between Moist Von Lipwig, Agatha Christie and Only Fools And Horses – and may involve a parrot. Watch this space and we’ll see if this works!

Random Writing: snarky Ghost stories

Stories about a character named Ghost, that is. I probably should change her name, although it’s already confusing, so…meh.

I went to the Salisbury Writer’s Circle this week, just to see a) what it was like, and b) if I met anyone. It was ok – I’m never sure I’m the right candidate for writer’s groups, as I don’t often have work to share, write fantasy, and do not get on at all with language analysis. So the meeting was ok: it was busy (they had a lot of new people) but they had a fun interview with Barney Norris, and we also got given some writing prompts – so I thought I’d share the snippets!

The first was the prompt of a mobile phone not working, with a focus on the phone itself. This is straight from my scrappy notes!

I step out of the gateway, fish my phone out of my pocket, and thumb the button. In true helpful fashion, nothing happens. I swear – quietly – and push the power button. Two…three…there.

Still nothing.

I’m mindful of the commuters rushing past me, and manage the next virulent swear under my breath. Press and hold. Two…three…four…

I want to slam the damn thing into the ground, and manage to turn it into a snarl of frustration. Of all the days for my phone to break, it has to be now?

And the second prompt was “mist”.

I’m being followed.

In most cases, this wouldn’t be a problem. I’d slip on my invisibility, walk lightly, and hightail it out of there. In this case, though, I have two problems. One, it’s misty – so thick that I can pretty much walk on it. Being invisible ain’t going to help me if whatever is following me can follow through this cloud of misty, white cold.

And two, I have a strong suspicion that what’s following me is something rather nasty. Like…a hag. Skeletal, bent, and with a taste for human flesh.

This isn’t good.

Even having typed them out, I can feel my fingers itching for tweaks and amendments! I have no idea where either of these would go, but they definitely could be story starters.

Back on the Madcap Trolley!


I’m redoing Madcap Library, my series of fantastical stories set in an imaginary library, featuring a sloth with a speed addiction, book hunters, a library pirate, ninjas, book owls and whatever other madness crossed my mind…

The wonderful Hannah Botma did images for me, and I’d honestly forgotten how much I loved these stories and characters! I’m just formatting books 1 and 2, and then I have book 3 to finish – which is going to be ridiculous amounts of fun.

I’m doing a short story, too, so keep an eye out over the next week or two for all of the madness!


Playing with Voice

So, this came about thanks to a suggestion from Adrian on his blog. I am struggling for voice in my 1920’s necromancy – I just can’t get it to sound right, to feel right; it won’t flow. So he suggested playing around…


“Dash it all, sister,” the young man standing by the door said, perusing the invitation he’d been handed by the postman. “What the devil do you think she wants?”

“It’s a social invite,” a light voice said scornfully. The speaker didn’t appear to be in the room, but the voice came from the young man’s vicinity. “Afternoon tea is a suitably nice affair that you could be invited.”

“Why has she invited me?” The young man ambled over towards the table that filled most of the room and dropped the embossed square onto it. “Afternoon tea! Lord. It sounds a bore.”

“Or she’s just unwisely disposed of someone,” the light voice suggested, “and she wants you to speak to them?”

“Sister!” The young man stood up straighter, his dark brows knitting. “Dash it all, watch your tongue!”

“You have to admit it’s likely. Why else would she invite a necromancer to afternoon tea?”

“I hope you won’t speak that unwisely if I do accept the invite…”

“And you are going to accept,” the light voice said decisively. “It would not do to decline.”

“These teas are such a bore.” The young man flung himself into the nearby chair and kicked one toe at the carpet, which was starting to become threadbare. “I can’t eat, you do all the talking…”

“Well, you can’t decline. It’s an invite from Lady [X].”

The young man stretched out a hand and picked up the invite again. “Tomorrow. Well, I suppose I’d better write back and accept. But it’s going to be a rotten bore.”


There is no good way to get a summons from the mafia, even if it is an invitation to afternoon tea.

The young man stands in the centre of the dusky room, scowling at the square of embossed card he holds in one hand. His dark hair is cropped to his ears, his jacket missing a button, and one sock is in danger of sliding down his calf. The room around suggests that he takes more care with housekeeping than he does with his appearance, but it also bears signs of regular use; worn floorboards around the large table in the centre, a locked cupboard against one wall with inlaid sigils of protection, and an entire wall of bookshelves containing well-thumbed books. In short, the rather worn young man matches his surroundings – although the scowl on his hawk-nosed face does not sit there lightly, and suggests that it is not as well-used as the rest of the man’s features.

“Well.” The light voice drifts into the room. “At least they were polite.”

“They are sending a car for me.” The young man’s lips shape the words almost absently. “They want to make sure I attend.”

“And you’re going to, of course,” the lighter voice says sharply as the young man sighs. “What did you do to come to their notice?”

“Nothing!” The young man casts the parchment at the table and watches as it drifts aimlessly onto the floor instead. “I have never even met Lady [X] or any of her family.” He bends to pick up the sheet. “Do you think she wants my services?”

“It’s a social call,” the lighter voice says thoughtfully.

The young man straightens and drops the invite on the table, catching the corner with one finger as it drifts again. “An invitation to afternoon tea does not exclude her talking business.”

“Then she has disposed of someone, and requires you to speak with them.”

“Sister!” The young man frowned. “I beg you, do not speak in such terms.”


I will be one of the first to admit that my brother is useless in most matters except necromancy, in which he fortunately displays a talent that surpassed – and surpasses – my own. However, in matters of society, etiquette, and – dare I say – the heart, he is something of a fool. The matter of the invitation from Lady [X] was no exception.

He failed to open the invite when handed the envelope from the postman, and instead stood, staring with a most gormless expression on his face, as if the parchment itself would tell him what was contained within.

“Are you not going to open it?” I asked, with some acidity.

He did so, thankfully without further chiding, and we perused the contents. An invitation, by Lady [X], to afternoon tea no less!

“Well, you must attend,” I prompted after a minute of silence.

“What do you think she wants?”

“It is a social invitation,” I snapped at him. My brother’s fancies often take the wildest turns, and I consider it part of my duty to ensure he refrains from daydreaming at inopportune moments. However, on this occasion, I considered that he may have accidentally hit upon a salient point. “She may wish to discuss a matter of business with you while you are there, however.”

“Then why on earth invite me to tea?” My brother sat down gracelessly in one of the chairs surrounding the large table, throwing the invite onto its surface.

“So that she should not be subject to the gossip that would come if she were to invite a mage to the house, and so that she may discuss her affairs with some discretion!” At times I despair of my brother, for he has no sense of social niceties at all, and indeed seems to take pleasure in embarrassing me at every turn with his uncouth behavior.

“So she has had someone killed, and needs me to talk to them.”

“Brother!” I snapped, horrified. “Even if Lady [X] were to consider such a matter, I highly doubt that she would sully her hands with such business!”

“Oh, come off it, sister. You know that she married well, and his money has gone to her ends. Even if you are in ignorance of her business affairs, I am not.”

“I am certainly not,” I snapped, wishing my cheeks would flame to burn out some of the mortification I felt, “but it certainly does not do to discuss it! She is a social paragon and if she heard you speak of such things-”

“I wouldn’t get invitations to afternoon tea,” my brother finished with a certain air of glee. “All right, all right. I just don’t see the point of sugar-coating it, sister. You must be practical. You’re going to be the one doing the talking, anyway.”

“And I consider that a great relief!” I snapped, still mortified. My brother’s silence during public events, and the necessity for me to speak for him, is possibly the only redeeming feature of the whole affair – and, I suspect, the only thing that has saved my brother from social ignominy thus far.


I think the last one is my favourite, although it screams more Regency to me than 1920’s, which is unfortunate as I do feel Regency has rather been done to death. Anyway! I’m going to keep playing, and see where I end up…