Novel writing: hints and tips

Like every writer, I have several stories on the go at any one time. Some sit around for years until I feel inspired to take them up again, others live with me either from day to day or week to week.

In my writing group we have a novel sub-group which meets every other week in a local pub where we read out our latest chapter or part-chapter to our peers. One of the group is transferring her novel into a radio play, so we all get a chance to play with the characters and interact with the story. It’s great fun and gets us all laughing.

I’ve been very fortunate in that I’ve already had two of my novels published by Loveyoudivine. You can see all the covers here with accompanying blurbs. I’m now exposing “Gofannon” to the Pub Clubbers and they’ve raised a lot of useful pointers showing how to improve it. My biggest problem is making the time to do the revisions!

This weekend I’ve been putting together my various stories about my shapeshifting cat people just to see how many words I’ve already written and how much more I’d need to write before revising and submitting. I’ve posted a single story on Literotica if you’d like to see what the characters are like. It’s a stand alone story, not central to the plot, but don’t read it if you’re averse to adult content! I’m waiting to see if they upload another story about the cats submitted yesterday which is part of the main book. (You can find it here.)

Trying to shape a novel brought me back to the novel writing workshop Sue Johnson put on for Solihull Writers Workshop at the beginning of May. Sue is a lovely person and a gentle and inspiring speaker. The advice she gave was sensible and sounded achievable, although she had us all gasping when she told us she had forty pieces of work out seeking placement at any one time.

I guess the difference is that she’s a full time writer, with a long track record of successful article writing and poetry publications and has just landed her first romance novel contract called Indigo Dreams with Samhain Publishing. She attributed her success to knowing her characters inside out, so she could describe the leading male as a “Rum truffle” (apparently the publisher use this as a test for all aspiring authors!) and was clear about her marketing potential through Facebook, blogging, twitter and workshops.

Sue said there were five main reasons why novels fail.
1. Insufficient conflict – conflict needs to be in place right at the beginning.
2. The characters are not gripping or convincing e.g. a TSTL heroine (too stupid to live!)
3. Settings are unbelievable – this can be rectified by having pictures or recordings of the place you have in mind and you must engage all the reader’s senses to take them to that setting and keep them there!
4. Unconvincing dialogue – all dialogue must be gripping and must move the action on. Don’t include every word, summarise and remove slower scenes.
5. Insufficient use of senses – must include colours and smells within the action.

A plot emerges from the motivation of the characters but must have enough conflicts within the story. A friend of mine likened a plot to a journey, but there must be threats and points of learning along the way.

My problem has always been that I don’t plot a novel before I start. I usually play with the characters – often with a writing partner online and let the characters decided their own stories by their interactions together. This is really good for understanding your characters, but can make deciding on the beginning, purpose and ending of the story really complex. One of these days I shall be disciplined and plot my story first!

I can understand what Sue means about conflict. I have a very gentle story I’ve played with on my own for a couple of years but apart from the characters heading towards a significant argument, they spend most of their time preparing food and looking after animals which really doesn’t help the story along!

Sue recommended conflicts should be included on three levels. Most stories are actually based on fairy tales and myths. She cited that twelve novels in the top two hundred best sellers are built on the fairy tale structure. James Bond is an example of a mythic plot.

If these structures are followed, you can see that conflicts come in threes.
1. The character’s battle with one aspect of themselves
2. The character’s battle with someone else
3. The character’s battle with some aspect of the environment e.g. weather/disease – something which causes a problem thereby isolating them.

If you are working with things happening in threes, foreshadow, but don’t let things happen immediately. If you have two false alarms, it heightens the tension.

The numbers three and seven are the most popular numbers in all cultures. If you are engaged in persuasive writing, emphasise the point three times.

Sue told us that Jane Austen included a plot twist every six or seven pages, which keeps her readers surprised and wanting to know what happens next. She said you need to have background information available about each character to ensure you keep everything consistent.

There is nothing more disconcerting in a story if you have decided to change the name of a character half way through but forget to make sure all the changes have been made in your word processor.

We had this problem in The Strongest Magick. The hero’s name originally was Agravaine, but his nickname used throughout the book just didn’t fit, so my collaborator came up with an older form of the name, Agryffan, so the nickname , Gryff , made more sense. I cannot tell you the hassle it was to go through the entire text and ensure everything had been changed correctly. You cannot trust a word substitution programme!

When you’re plotting a novel, Sue suggested you should decide the opening and the ending and twenty key scenes. These can be developed into chapters on a postcard. Chapter lengths should be varied. Cliff-hangers are good because they keep the pages turning. You need to have enough happening, possibly with events set in threes.

Prologues should be not too long and punchy. Use them to give an overview. The purpose is to give an idea of what has happened before providing any foreshadowing needed.

Similarly, an epilogue should sort everything out, but to achieve all this, the reader must care about the characters.

If you are writing heterosexual stories, Sue said the male and female parts of the novel should be developed equally. The same could be said if you’re writing about same sex couples – i.e. each partner has to be developed to the same extent. You can’t be captivated by Lavonia and have Count Leverhulme remain a cardboard cut-out.

What does he like for breakfast? How did he get the scar on his little finger? Why does he always groan when he hears Beethoven’s 5th Symphony played yet cannot stop drumming the opening sequence on any surface with which he comes into contact?
Sue suggested writers should not plot too tightly. It was more important to get to the end of your novel before tinkering. Don’t worry about perfection; get the bones of ideas down.

An interesting point Sue brought up which publishers are requiring to a much greater extent than before is what is the author prepared to do to promote their book? Sue recommended such things as building websites, offering promotional material, writing competitions, offering workshops, reading in libraries and all the social networking sites. To those can be added giving readings, attending conferences and book fairs.

All these examples are possibly less trouble if you are living and writing in a niche market. It would be much easier for me to write books on herbs or healing because I know where the gaps are and who might be interested and the subject matter is one which can be discussed over the dinner table with friends. It’s more challenging if you write for “adult” markets and can’t publicise your work perhaps as much as you’d like for fear of alienating family, friends or even losing your job!

Sue told us that most publishing contracts for novels often include the need for another novel within twelve months. If you follow her advice to have a minimum of forty pieces of work submitted at any one time, this can be made up of short and long versions of the same short story, articles, poetry, flash fiction, competitions etc. She advised us to have a database tracking system so we knew what was happening to any one piece of work at all times.

When submitting a novel, Sue advised getting the synopsis as good as you can get it, making sure you look at the publisher’s website as well as the Writers and Artist’s Yearbook. It is also advisable to ensure the first two pages have NO mistakes on them. If they do, no-one will read any further.

A one page synopsis can almost be considered as a blurb (the writing on the cover back page). You must make sure the synopsis includes the ending – a publisher does not appreciate surprises!

Publishers will often have blogs giving their pet hates. It is worth reading these so you don’t fall foul of such formatting issues as not having the first paragraph indented but making sure you indent all subsequent paragraphs. Sometimes publishers have enquiry forms and these should be downloaded and completed.

The workshop left me with lots of ideas and hopefully some new skills. Sue told us there is a market for everything. We should go for what inspires us and keep going until we get a result, at the same time looking for every opportunity you can find to promote yourself.

Now I have to follow her advice and push myself into action!

Jessica and the Bear

At Solihull Writers Workshop next Wednesday, the theme of the evening is a piece of science fiction writing. I'm not very interested in space ships and aliens, so I'm taking a piece of fantasy along with me in the hope it will provide a small diversion.

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“Grandpa, how long have you had a bear living in the garden?”

Jack Robbins put down the runner beans he was planting in large pots in the greenhouse and regarded his granddaughter, Jessica, carefully. The fair-haired nine year old was not given to telling fairy stories.

“I didn’t know we had a bear living in the garden. “

“I saw him last night when I was getting a drink of water from the kitchen. I looked out of the window towards Stow church and saw him in between the plum tree blossom and the apple tree.”

“What was he doing?”

“Nothing at first. He was just a large, black shape until he rose up on his hind legs. It was definitely a bear. He was covered in long, black fur apart from his belly, which was cream. He must have seen me because I heard him growl. It was very frightening, so I put the light off and went to bed.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“You were out in the barn. I knew if I told someone, they’d just say I was making it up, but I’m not. I’ve found his tracks. Come and look.”

Jessica led him to the flattened grass at the base of the Victoria plum tree, then walked slowly across the lawn to the flower border.

“Can you see his prints? He must be very big. He left me a bunch of violets.” She held the fragrant bundle up to her face and breathed in the scent.

Jack shook his head. He had to admit there was something in the grass, but his brain could not accept there were bear tracks leading out of his garden. Bears didn’t live in the Cotswolds; wolves, maybe, when the hills were wooded before the Bronze Age, but not now in the 21st century and no animal left a bunch of violets as a gift.

“I shouldn’t worry about him, Jess,” he said gruffly. “Let me know if you see him again.” And he went back to finish planting beans.

Jessica did see him again, but not until she was a young woman, busy with her life in the city.

“Do you think I dreamed him?” Jess asked her friend, Mark, one day when they were sitting outside one of the small cafes they liked to frequent after work. She trusted Mark. He didn’t make fun of her when she talked about the strange things she’d seen and done as a child. The bear was not the only creature to enter her world. There was also the black unicorn she saw regularly in the bottom field when she was growing up.

Mark shrugged, “It doesn’t really matter whether you were awake or asleep, he came to you and you remember him.” He took another swallow of his drink. “They say bears help you to know yourself and give you strength to trust your intuition. Maybe he came to show you how to be wild and free?”

Suddenly the wind got up and Jess shivered, pulling her cardigan around her shoulders.

“There is maybe one more thing.” He paused, pointing to black clouds travelling across the sky, a brilliant window of sunlight streaming through their midst. “You said the bear had two colours, black and cream?”

Jess nodded.

“Maybe there is also balance to be considered. Male and female, tamed and free; there are so many things your bear could bring you.”

“Shall I see him again?”

Mark grew still, as if listening for the answer in the wind rustling leaves and stray paper along the pavement.

“I think he will come to you again. If you have courage, go with him and learn more.”

A few weeks later, Jess drove to the farm to visit her grandparents, travelling through fading, evening light. As she turned into the village, roads were wet, the sky lit by lightning rods and echoes of thunder.

“Shut the hens up for me, will you?” said her grandfather as she opened the car door. “I meant to do it earlier, but it was raining too hard and I shrink if I get wet these days.”

Jess found her boots out of the back of the car and with the ancient straw egg basket on her arm; she went up to the rickyard to fasten the henhouse door.

It was dark, the only light coming from an ancient railway lamp at the top of the drive. She could smell moisture left by the departing storm. All around her the sky crackled with electricity before being broken apart by the thunder cracks rolling overhead. Diligently, she opened the slats into the nesting boxes, searching through warm hay for fresh eggs, placing her bounty in the curved base of the basket.

When she could find no more, she made her way back to the gate, stopping for a moment to rest the basket on the sharp stone commers on the wall. She looked over to the horizon, watching another burst of lightning cross the clouds. Just as the brilliance faded, she thought she saw the familiar shape of a bear standing in the field across the road.

When she looked again, a man stood on the roadside near a young ash tree just on the edge of the lamplight. He was tall with soft, black hair framing an aquiline face. His nose was long and his lips, thick and sensuous. It was hard to judge his age. His large frame and broad shoulders spoke of maturity and strength. He smiled, his eyes crinkling as if amused by Jess’ considered gaze.

“Do you always rob your hens so late in the evening?” His voice was deep, yet soft, as if carried on the disappearing storm. Despite his sudden appearance, Jess did not feel threatened. She had the uncanny feeling she had seen him before.

“Not usually, my grandmother collects them when she feeds the hens at lunchtime, but she’s not been well.”

“Would you bring me a dozen tomorrow when you come to tea?”

“You’re Arthur Britton?” Jess held out her hand in greeting. Her grandfather mentioned they were invited to visit the next door neighbour over the weekend. “Glad to meet you.”

She felt warm, rough leather grip her palm and when she looked down; she could have sworn her hand was covered by a bear’s paw.

“We’ve met before, Jessica,” he said, his grip firm as he looked deep into her blue eyes. “You were only a child then, but I knew you would remember me."

As his hand fall back to his side, Jess saw a bunch of violets left on her palm. Without thinking, she brought the fragrant blossoms to her nose, savouring the subtle scent.

When she looked up again, he was gone, with no sound of departing footsteps along the road.

A story for Beltane

"I'm going to be Queen of the May, Queen of the May!" Merilla crowed, dancing around the kitchen holding the special white dress high above her head.

"You're just angling for a roll in the hay with young Rob Jenkins," her older sister retorted as she tried to clear the table for lunch before her father returned.

"You're just jealous, because I was chosen to lead the procession and you weren't, even though you're the oldest girl of the Wise Woman and the Blacksmith." Merilla stuck out her tongue. "The Elders must feel that that the Goddess smiles on me more than she does on you, Nessa!"

Nessa said nothing and went to fetch the butter from the dairy. Privately she thought that the Elder's choice had far more to do with the fact that Merilla fitted the dress lovingly created two years ago by Libby Proudfoot's mother than any affinity she might have with the Goddess, but she recognised that such a spiteful thought probably was tinged with jealousy and sighed. She stopped on her way to smell the blossom on the cherry tree and almost lost her balance as the heady sweetness drew her senses deep within the tree and the promise of the summer fruit to come. She put out her arm to steady herself on the tree trunk and caught her father's apprentice, Tobyn, a resounding blow to his chest as he walked past her.

"Hey, what was that for, Nessa? I ain't done nothing to you!"

Nessa felt her face turn scarlet and her throat seize up as it always did when any of the young men of the village addressed her. With wild eyes she picked up her skirts and ran to the dairy, glad of the coolness to try and regain her composure.

What was happening to her? Normally this was her favourite time of year, with all the plants growing and the leaves coming upon the trees and the new born calves in the fields with their mothers. This year she felt so strange - as if the sap rising in the trees was rising in her too, bringing a unity with all growing things. When she turned over the earth to plant the seedlings she had grown so carefully during the Spring months, she wanted to plunge her hand deep into the soil and feel the earthworms moving around her fingers. When she listened to the birdsong at dusk, she could almost hear each separate note and without thinking whistled a response as if she were another of their kind, marking out her territory.

"What's the matter, Nessa?" the soft voice of her father's oldest journeyman broke in upon her thoughts. "Tobyn said you just hit him!" Jeran stood in the doorway, his solid bulk blotting out the light and casting deep shadows upon the bowls set out for the cream to rise.

"None of your business!" Nessa shouted, "If you come here asking questions, you'll get no answers from me!" and she picked up the pat of butter wrapped in leaves and pushed past him, diving out into the sunshine and running as fast as she could back to the house. The entire household seemed to look at her with a disapproving air as they sat around the huge kitchen table while her mother ladled stew into bowls.

"It's not my fault!" she wanted to scream, but the words stuck in her throat once more and all she could do was drop the butter on the table and run.

"Nessa?" her mother called out, but the errant daughter was soon out of earshot, heading out of the village, across the green where the maypole stood with its virgin ribbons flapping in the breeze and on towards the sacred grove and its stream.

Her mother exchanged worried glances with her father, but when he rose to go after her, Jeran stopped him.

"I'll go," he said. "I know the paths of the grove and it's me she must answer to now."

The blacksmith nodded and his wife put her hand on Jeran's arm. "Go gently with her, Jeran, she's not felt the calling before and it's always hard on those who feel the earth."

Jeran bent and kissed the Wise Woman's cheek, "Don't worry, little Mother, I'll not hurt her. I've loved her far too long to harm her now. It will be as the Lord and Lady wills, if we are chosen!"

"But I'm the chosen one!" Merilla protested. "The Elders said so! I'm Queen of the May!"

"Yes, dear, " her mother soothed her ruffled feelings, " and a very beautiful Queen you'll be for the whole village! But sometimes the Goddess choses someone else to light the need fire on Beltane night and jump the flames to ensure the crops will flourish. The Lord has spoken to Jeran and we can only wait and see what happens." and with that Merilla had to be content. She grumbled into her stew but everyone else was too full of excitement for the morrow's celebration she could not stay cross for long. She was the one who would wear the crown of blossoms in her hair and lead the ribbon dancing and everyone would look at her and glory in her gift to the Maiden.

Nessa didn't look where she was going. until she came across the maypole on the village green. She wished she were going to be one of the ribbon dancers the next day, but she was too old now. Things had been so simple when she was a child, but now - she didn't understand the bands of energy coursing through her, making each part of her body feel more alive than she had ever felt and the only thing she could do was to run, run, run away. Away from the looks of her family, away from the idle chatter of her sister and the footsteps she heard running after her.

The trees! The trees would hide her, no-one would find her in the glade. She stopped for a moment and whispered words of petition to the Elder mother guarding the entrance. When her leaves shivered in the still air, she ventured further towards the Oak father, placing her hands on his trunk and feeling the energy rising towards her, leaving patches of warmth on the bark where her hands had been.

Again she heard the footsteps and recognised Jeran's shadow on the grass. He would not take her back! Quickly she glanced around and darted towards the maze, deep in the heart of the glade, seeking to lose him in the twists and turns of the hedgerows.

Once inside, she slowed to a walk, the still air warm on her face. She noticed how the hedges were grown from different trees, the bright green of the hazel, the white blossom of the blackthorn and the glossy evergreen holly that pricked her hand as she leant against it.

Then, as she turned a corner, there was Jeran, standing in front of her, the branches of the willow rising up behind him like the antlers of a young stag!

"Why have you followed me here?" she challenged him.

"Because I love you, " his voice was young and deep in the still air.

"How can you love me? " she teased him, "when you can't even catch me!" and she ran off again, darting along the paths as if she had always known their secrets.

"No matter how long you run, I will always find you!" Jeran's voice rang in her ears. "Though the moon shall wax and wane o'er the ocean and the sun rise and set amongst the mountains, still I will follow you, for my love is endless and together we shall encompass the earth!"

The blood pounded in her ears as still she ran, twisting and turning until she came to the centre of the maze, the sacred place, the grass covered mound from whose depths a tiny spring rose. A place honoured by the ancients with a single monolith, cup marks gouged from its side, and there, leaning against it stood Jeran.

He stood quite still as if a living part of the stone. She went towards him, as if drawn by the stone's power, her chest rising and falling from the chase, but the need to run in her finally sated.

He held out his hand and when she took it, his palm was cool and dry but so large that it engulfed her tiny hand. They looked at each other for long moments.

"I have come to thee, my love, because the Lord has bid me find thee, his Lady. Will you have me to join you, now and for enternity as the wheel of the year and of life itself, turns?"

"Yes, beloved, for the Earth has called me to her, to be kissed by the sun and washed by the rain and infused by the sweet air we breathe. I am your Lady, now and for all time as the wheel turns."

Then he took her in his arms and laid her upon the sweet grass and together they honoured the earth and the air and the sun and the stream, that all things might prosper in the time ahead.

When they awoke, the sky was dark and a million stars twinkled above them. They heard the sounds of the villagers coming towards the grove to set up the need fire, that every household could light their torch and so rekindle their hearths.

Jeran led his love from the maze and they stood before the people.

"Is it done?" the blacksmith asked, his voice echoing off the trees.

"It is done," Jeran replied, "The Lord has found his Lady and together they have ensured the land will prosper!

A huge roar went up from the crowd, marking their approval.

"It is your place then to light the needfire, " the blacksmith said, handing him the flint and box of tinder. Jeran knelt and struck the flint until sparks began to rain upon the tinder. Then Nessa blew upon the sparks as the tinder began to curl and flame and they pushed the tiny fire under the need fire, watching it catch the fronds of dried bracken and then the twigs and then the kindling until the fire was strong and bright.

One by one the women of the village brought their cauldrons to take the flame back to their hearth and then the men lit their torches and when everyone had what they needed, they went back to the village singing and rejoicing that summer had come!

"I shall still be Queen of the May tomorrow, " Merilla objected when Nessa brushed out her long black hair that night before she slept.

"Of course you will, dearest, " Nessa assured her, "You are the Maiden and it is Her we honour."

"Can I still honour the Maiden," Jeran asked as Nessa slipped into bed beside him.

"As many times as you like, my love, " she replied. "How else will I pass from Maiden to Mother if you don't?" and she laughed as she blew out the light.

Dolores : Writing from a given sentence

Without pausing in her stride, Dolores eased her jacket off her shoulders, dropped it into a skip as she passed and headed for the station. It was never one of her favourites and the blood stains on the cuffs refused to budge, no matter what she did with them. It was better off in the skip. She wouldn’t have to concern herself with it any more.

The warm, summer wind blew along the platform as she waited for her train. She felt the subtle caress against her skin through her thin, cotton blouse. She smiled, remembering the rough feel of the towel underneath her back earlier when she lay sunbathing by Mr Robinson’s pool.

He preferred her to sunbathe topless. He said it gave him pleasure to watch her pale skin turn pink in the gentle heat. Who was she to deny an old man a simple pleasure? It wasn’t as if he had many pleasures these days, confined to his wheelchair since the end of the war.

He was a sweet old man and he paid her well for visiting him twice a week to take down his memoirs. They would spend an hour or so “working” in the morning. He would tell stories and she would record them in her shorthand notebook.

Then Mrs Martin, the housekeeper, would bring in their coffee served in Royal Albert china coffee cups. Crisp, brown sugar lumps nestled in their bowl, while silver tongs waited for her touch, her gentle squeeze as she picked them up, one by one and held them on the side of the cup until they slid silently into the smooth brown liquid.

“Will you be mother, Dolores?” Mr Robinson asked hopefully each morning.

“One lump or two?”

His eyes twinkled, “You know I need three to keep up with a sweet thing like you, my dear.”

It was his little joke and she didn’t mind pleasing him with her smile as she handed him the cup and saucer, watching to make sure he didn’t spill anything as he negotiated the space between his wheelchair and the small table by his side.

He would doze after his coffee, lulled into slumber by the rhythmic clatter of the typewriter keys as she transferred his stories onto the printed page. She read them through when she was checking for mistakes, inspired by the strength of the pictures he painted with his words.

She knew he wanted to publish them one day. It was sad he wouldn’t live long enough to see his dream come true.

As the grandfather clock in the corner struck one, Mrs Martin would enter and lay the table for their lunch. She was an excellent cook, always surprising them with imaginative dainties and fresh, seasonal produce.

Nothing fancy, mind you, Mr Robinson didn’t approve of anything “fancy”, but somehow Mrs Martin managed to indulge her love of Italy and France, disguising it with vegetables and herbs grown in the garden and meat from young Mr Robinson’s farm. If it were home grown, it couldn’t possibly be anything “foreign”!

If the weather was nice, they would eat outside, lingering over their coffee to “aid digestion”. Sometimes Mr Robinson would persuade her to sunbathe for him, finishing off with a short dip in his magnificent pool.

The afternoon would take the same pattern as the morning - stories until 3.30pm when Mrs Martin would serve afternoon tea, more typing and then she would collect her things together and bid him farewell.

“Don’t speak to any strange men, Dolores,” he would tell her, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “It’s a dangerous world out there and I’m not as young as I was to be able to protect you.”

“Don’t worry, Mr Robinson,” she would reassure him, planting a single kiss on the top of his bald patch as she made her farewells. “No-one is going to trouble me – not when I tell them I have a black belt in karate.”

He would smile and let her go, patting her hand as she said goodbye.




“Dolores! Dolores!”

A young man rushed up the platform towards her waving her jacket.

“I saw your jacket in the skip and thought you must have dropped it by mistake.”

She shook her head.

“I’m not Dolores, Mr Robinson, my name is Sophie. Your father insisted on calling me Dolores and I didn’t like to make a fuss. I’m afraid you’re mistaken about the jacket. I don’t need it any more. Classic Fifties Haute Couture isn’t really necessary in modern offices. It helped your father to remember, which is why I wore them.”

“Oh.” The young man was at a loss for words. “You’re not coming back any more?”

“What would I do, now your father’s not there?”

“Tuesdays and Thursdays won’t be the same without you.” His strong hands scrunched the collar of her jacket as he twisted them together.

She smiled sadly. He looked so like his father, she wanted to take him in her arms and tell him everything would be alright.

“Look, how about if I wanted a secretary to type up my stories?”

“How much would you pay me?”

“How much do you charge?”

“£30,000 a year plus three paid holidays to Europe and the Far East for two people.”

“Two people?”

“You don’t think I want to go on my own, do you?”

“Oh err no, I suppose you don’t.” He blushed.

“When would you like me to start?”

“Would next Tuesday be acceptable?”

“Very,” she said, smiling at him.

Just then her train pulled into the station and she got in, jostling against other evening commuters. She saw him standing on the platform, still holding her jacket. She waved and saw him straighten to wave back.

She would enjoy working for young Mr Robinson. It was all part of his father’s plan. His youngest son needed someone sensible to look after him and she’d agreed, just before the final heart attack took him, the light slowly fading from his eyes as she screamed for help. He’d fallen against the glass table, cutting his head, his blood spattering the arm of her jacket.

She’d never really liked that jacket and now she would never have to wear it ever again.

Coals to Newcastle

The past few months have been filled with herbs and needlecraft - both knitting and sewing - leaving little time or inspiration for writing. Here is a little tale composed last Monday for Solihull Writers Workshop on Wednesday evening. - enjoy!

I love my mother-in-law. Really, I do. She produced my husband thirty six years ago and brought him up to be the wonderful human being I adore. She is good with the kids, although sometimes she seems perplexed by them. It doesn’t help we live half way across the country so she doesn’t get to see them as often as everyone would like.

She is scrupulously fair when it comes to Christmas and birthday presents.

I appreciate that, having suffered as a child from being the recipient of second class presents compared with my more popular cousins. I’ll never forget the Christmas when we both were given a dolls cradle. My cousin’s was new with a beautiful canopy made from rose-covered material which draped down over the crib.

Mine was just a plain crib, obviously second hand with scuffed wooden legs and no covers. I couldn’t help but be disappointed, but there was nothing I could do about it except wistfully yearn for something I couldn’t have.

“I know you don’t have time to make jam, so I bought you some from Asda.” Janet fished around in the bottom of her carrier bag and brought out a huge jar of strawberry jam.

“That’s very kind of you, Mum,” I mumbled, but she wasn’t finished.

“Reg and I had a glut of strawberries this year and I was going to make jam but somehow we ate them all and when I thought about it, all the Pick Your Own strawberries were finished. I was so disappointed. I know how much Martin likes his home made strawberry jam. He went through a phase when he was eight when he wouldn’t eat anything else for his tea except my home made strawberry jam.

“It didn’t matter what other jam I made – gooseberry, raspberry, damson, plum, apricot, he wouldn’t touch them. He only liked strawberry.” She smiled fondly at the memory. “You know, I have a picture of him eating strawberry jam at the Sunday School tea party. He wouldn’t have eaten anything if I hadn’t sent a jar of my jam along with him. I must remember to show it to you next time you come down.”

“Cup of tea?” I smiled weakly, holding up the teapot.

“Yes please, dear. Nothing like a cup of tea after a long journey.” She searched in the bag again. “I’ve brought you some scones too. I know you’re too busy to bake now you’ve got this little job.”

I poured the tea and went to find a plate for the scones. Janet pulled out her apron from the bag and sat at the kitchen table happily halving scones and buttering them, before smothering them with shop bought strawberry jam - the superior kind with at least thirty per cent fruit and only half the sugar.

Martin came into the kitchen with his Dad. He’d been showing him the new car. My new car. Part of the deal when I started work as Chief Executive for a small commercial company. True, it was a job share, because I wanted to be at home when the kids returned from school, but it was still a sizable salary and a considerable responsibility. I’d tried to tell Janet about my new job during their previous visit, but she fell asleep half way through my explanation. No matter what either of us said to her, she was convinced I was working part time in one of the local shops.

“Scones for tea?” Martin’s face lit up.

“Yes,” I said quickly, “Your mum very kindly brought us some scones and strawberry jam from Asda. She said it was the only jam you liked.”

Martin frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but I shook my head at him. He knew as well as I did the larder was packed with home made jams and jellies I’d been making throughout the year. He’d helped devise a system for hanging the jelly bag when I’d made crabapple jelly the previous week and he had picked the huge yellow quinces which lay in a basket in the scullery waiting to be turned into jelly and cheese.

Martin loved all my preserves and boasted to his friends we never bought anything that wasn’t home made.

He bent down and kissed his mother on her soft cheek.

“Thanks, Mum.”