More on that another time, but in case anyone is wondering why Musa Publishing is called…well, ‘Musa’, there’s a good explanation here at BRITTANICA. It’s all to do with mythology, which I love, in this case Greek, and the muses. I’m pleased to say that at Musa ‘The Story Comes First’, which deserves special emphasis. If this works out, and I’ve every hope that it will, I very much see it as a market where I can concentrate on story and incorporate sex only if the plot calls for it. I admit Acting Out calls for it, but it’s nice to come across a market where the story is all important. Anyone who knows my work knows no matter the genre I always try to incorporate a story. Needless to say, I couldn’t be more delighted.

In other news I’m working on the draft of my story for Space 1889. This is the first time I’ve contracted for a story prior to writing it, and it has to take priority. My priorities are quite easy to list for the start of the year:

1. Write for Space 1889
2. Turn in any edits that come my way
3. Come up with a new story for Changeling
4. Finish Calm and Chaos 2

That’s more than enough to be going on with. Pity all my other plans and ideas won’t listen to reason and persist in biting at my ankles.

I also simply must draw attention to an absolutely brilliant rant on the often abused word ‘was’ and the mistaken disuse of so-called passive voice. Incidentally, the ‘rule’ on passive in the UK is not to overuse, but no one EVER tells a writer to eliminate it here precisely for these reasons: http://pcwrede.com/blog/misunderstanding-grammar/

I’m mostly quiet right now because I’m writing — I’ve been finishing one romance project, which I hope will have a companion book, and now I’m into my steampunk project with a vengeance, meaning I’m not only writing but doing much research including reading articles and books, and listening to some audio files. On the home front I’m also tidying and trying to have a bit of a ruthless sort out, which has resulted in one nasty papercut from quite a thick piece of card. Hardly the injury of the year to write home about but a cut on the end of an index finger does make typing rather less fun than usual. That’s not to say I mind the typing part of writing, but there comes a moment when one wishes it were possible to project thoughts to the page. Even more so when each tap of R, T, F, G, V and B makes one go, “Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!,” and eventually, “@&%*$&@.”

Of course, these days these two definitions are too limiting. There’s P***; there’s Erotica; there’s also Erotic Romance and simply Romance. Even some works listed in the most innocent category of this genre: romance, aren’t what they used to be. Gone are the days when romance publishers stop at a closed bedroom door. Those that do tend to have labels such as ‘sweet’ romance, possibly aimed at the faint of heart.

The simplest definition that most will give out is that Erotica, Erotic Romance and Romance has a story — that ‘other stuff’ does not. Others will argue that a sex scene is there to titillate and therefore arrive at the same conclusion, and that there is no difference at all. My definition is simply whether the sex in a story serves a purpose. Something has to be happening ‘to’ the characters during the sex that the reader needs to be privilege to, even if it is something as simple as an emotional letting go that fuels the plot in some way.

During the AMP debacle something occurred to which at the time I made no reference. A newspaper in the publisher’s hometown labelled the authors as ‘local p*** writers’. Not only were the writers NOT local, but international, it also came as something of a shock to those who had written sci-fi or thrillers, some containing no sex scenes or reference to sex at all. Yep, folks — AMP published much more than erotic romance, but naturally those were the titles the newspaper jumped on with delight. When defending their controversial headline, which they said the reporter in question ‘did not’ write, among the titles they threw up as evidence was my ‘Virgin Special’.

While said ‘news’ paper admitted not having read these titles cover to cover, their argument was that such titles were “designed to appeal to readers looking for graphic and prolific sexual content.” They then suggested their report could have been more complete had ‘sources’ agreed to comment and not been hesitant for fear of reprisal from the publisher.

Another error on their part: the reason the writers did not wish to comment was to protect the family of said publisher in the local area where they live, and precisely because this is what happens when one talks to some members of the media. One only has to look at what is happening in the British news and the current investigation into behaviour of certain newspapers to see perfect examples of sleazy reporting at its best.

The true irony was that the headline put in place by this Colorado newspaper was designed to do exactly what they were accusing the writers of doing with the titles of their books — catch readers attention. Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but isn’t that what any title is intended to do? There are examples of sexy sounding books in mainstream publishing that are far removed from the subject, and I don’t see anyone accusing those authors of being something they’re not.

As for my book, does it contain sex? Yes, for which I make no apologies. But sex does not equal ‘P***’ and I’m tired of those ignorant enough to think that it does. The book also deals with grief — maybe not to the extent I could have taken it, but as it’s now open to a rewrite maybe I can fledge it out beyond the restrictions for the series I was writing it for. The title — and idea — came from the name of a cocktail. It was part of a series where all the titles were based on the names of cocktails.

My ‘virgin’ is a man who never got to sleep with his beloved because they had decided to wait, and she died before they married. His attempt to commit suicide is thwarted by some rather supernatural means where he encounters a couple who happen to be vampires, who have also lost someone they loved. The question of the book is whether they can heal together or face death together — two walking into the sun, one into the sea. Readers always contacted me to say how they ached for their grief. Reviewers stated how they would have been happy with either outcome. A romance that ends in death? To have even one reader say they would be happy with that is some feat. To my knowledge not one reader or reviewer said anything about how ‘titillated’ they were. They wrote to me mentioning how I had affected their emotions.

This is part of one of the reviews:

…and so begins the psychological drama that is … Virgin Special. Hannah and Seth take over James’ care and try to tempt him back to the land of the living. Some readers might be non-plussed by the manner in which they do so, but Hannah and Seth are vampires fighting for the will to survive and James is their only hope. How do you convince someone who’s lost the very meaning of his life to live again? Through thoughtful conversations, simple board games and shared pain, Hannah and Seth attempt to do just that, but James doesn’t make it easy for them. He resists their overtures at every turn and is determined to hold on to his grief at any cost. Bidwell deserves kudos for elevating an erotic, menage vampire tale to such a cerebral level that I wasn’t sure how the story would end. The characterizations are particularly strong in Virgin Special. Bidwell gives the reader a lot of background on each person, with plenty of vivid flashbacks so that their motivations are crystal clear. This is a good thing because the heart-stopping ending pays off handsomely. I would have been okay with either outcome.

Sounds terribly ‘p***like’ doesn’t it! Things are not always what they seem. Even many of the romance writers who edge into or write outright BDSM are truly writing about psychology. Read a BDSM book where the writer hasn’t got the psychology of the relationship right and it doesn’t matter how good the sex is, the book will feel ‘off’ even if one can’t quite figure out why.

Once I stopped laughing, I realised the true paradox — two companion m/m romances I’m working on feature an unscrupulous reporter. Making readers sympathetic to him is precisely why this particularly book is somewhat difficult. Now I truly understand why I’m struggling.

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In the meantime I’ve one idea for Changeling and want to come up with another for one of their author series, but as they only put out shorter works, I’m hoping once the ideas are fledged out, the writing won’t take me too long.

In the meantime, I had a m/m romance novel idea pop into my head. Not the sort of thing I would usually write and I even considered abandoning it, but then I started to understand the characters and their motivation. At the moment, I’m mostly using it to exercise the writing part of my brain — whether I do anything with it eventually I don’t know, but that’s kind of freeing to write for oneself.

I also want to work on some fairy tales, but again I need some reading time first. I’m not too far off the schedule I would have liked to have set, though, and with the acceptances I’ve had (more news on those ASAP), I’m feeling pretty content and much freer to write than I have for a while.

In the meantime, I am writing, although not just in the romance genre. I’ve neglected the other genres I love too long and have decided I simply have to find a way to balance both. Incidentally, I don’t tend to talk about things I’m working on, or ‘waiting’ on, because I am always convinced I will jinx the process. That leaves me often longing to squeal about some possible good news, but I just cannot get the words past my lips, or from my fingers to the page. No matter how I’m bubbling away inside, dying to tell someone, I just can’t do that. I wouldn’t have called myself superstitious, but I think it’s more a case of just being a writer. I don’t even tell my best friends so please don’t feel I’m discriminating; when I say I tell no one, I mean no one.

Another nice surprise came just this morning in the form of another good review for ‘A Swithin Spin 3: A Princely Passion’ at deviantdivaseroticbookreview. Good news for me as I wasn’t sure I knew what I was doing with this one. Often when I’m ‘nervous’ I do better than expected. You’ll have to flick down the page a bit to find it, but apparently, the book is ‘worthy’.

My grandparents on my mother’s side lived at an address that for my purpose we’ll call S–Rd, NHG, London. S–Rd no longer exists. My grandparents were found alternative housing when plans to knock down the entire street went ahead in the 70s. I was very young at the time, but I do have vague memories of the house. The door opened on a long, narrow corridor, with a room to the right. At the end of the house you could go up the stairs on the left, or further down the corridor to the right. The stairs were dark and steep, and I remember them distinctly because I once fell down them. They led to a first floor where my grandparents had their living room/kitchen and their bedroom. Another flight of stairs took you to another level where there were two more bedrooms. There was no bathroom. The only room to have heating was the living room/kitchen where a fire burned in the stove for heat and for cooking.

The corridor at the bottom of the house led directly into the scullery. I recall that the house had some sort of furnace here that provided a hot water supply, but the house definitely had no central heating. Not many houses did. A large tin bath hung on a hook in the scullery and when people wanted a bath, this would be taken up to the living room, placed in front of the fire, and filled with hot water. Owing to the difficulties of having a bath, many people didn’t bother to have a full wash on a nightly basis. We knew some families where a bath was a weekly ritual, but I do recall my grandmother always makes sure I was as clean as could be (I can feel her scrubbing behind my ears to this day), and that she wouldn’t go to bed without using a bowl of water for herself.

The scullery also contained a sink, and it was here that my grandmother would do the family’s laundry. I can still picture her green glass scrubbing board and the old wooden mangle. People didn’t have washing machines and were lucky if there were a local Laundromat or could afford to use them regularly if one was available. Washing meant hard graft — soaping up clothes and scrubbing them against the ridges of the glass board, then setting all the washed clothes aside to rinse. Once rinsed they were passed through the mangle, then hung in the yard to dry. Once dry they were ironed, not with an electric iron, but a hot plate iron that was set on the fire. There was no temperature control, and one had to be careful not to burn the clothing.

The door from the scullery led out into the small yard — half concrete, half soil. The soil half was fenced off and used by my grandfather to grow vegetables. Not because he enjoyed gardening as a hobby, but because they needed to supplement their food supply. He would also grow tomatoes up on the roof, but that’s a whole other story.

My grandfather would play football with me in this yard, which was surrounded by brick walls. There was one other door out in the yard and this led to the outside toilet. I only remember visiting and cannot recall using it, but I do recall stories my grandfather would tell me of going out there late at night in the midst of winter and having to chip the ice off the seat before you dared to sit down on it, and even then he told me one sat there hoping their skin didn’t stick.

This is making me sound as if I’m 90, but this isn’t so long ago. We’re talking late 60s and even into the 70s. I never had central heating until I left home at age 21. My parents never had central heating until two years later.

Did we moan? Yes. Sometimes we did. Winters were more like those we’ve seen recently. I can recall going to school in snow up to my knees and we were still expected to try to get there. Very occasionally we were turned away at the gate and had to trudge back home again. There were times we complained about being cold. We washed one limb at a time, quickly covering it. We got dressed under the covers while still in bed in the morning, and we weren’t the only ones doing it. I can talk to my mother-in-law who had a completely different upbringing in a different area of the country, and yes, I admit she’s much older than I, still she can remember similar stories. She never had central heating until the late 1980s. She remembers coping because that’s just what people did. She tells me that people seldom got sick out in the country, although I can’t say the same for people I knew living in London, where some places were ill-looked after and sometimes damp. My parents didn’t even have a real fire — they had to make do with electric heaters, which were costly.

So whenever I’m snug indoors and think it feels a bit chilly, I’m reminded it could be much worse. I remember hard times that people didn’t even know were hard, but simply accepted as the way things were. I remember slipping and sliding trying to walk to school, and I remember it feeling as cold inside as it was out even while there was snow on the ground. Mostly, though, I recall with a nostalgic smile my grandfather drawing a jagged shape in the ice on his bedroom window, and telling me, “Look, Jack Frost is here.”

I’ve also started using my subsidiary blog to write a random alphabet on the writing process and getting published. This truly will be quite random, depending what questions I’ve been asked or how subjects come to me, or problems I encounter. At present, there’s a couple of introductions up, with some precautionary comments that will doubtless be the first of many. If you’re a wannabe writer, or a curious reader, I hope in time you’ll find a subject of interest there.

I’m currently awaiting edits on one work only, and have other in progress, some in the romance genre, some in completely different categories. As much as I love writing, it’s nice to set some time aside for other pursuits, which include trying to catch up on a towering, insurmountable To-Be-Read pile, but right now I am trying my best to return to my average of one book per week — something I’ve done since a child, but have struggled to achieve since I had my first full-length work accepted. Fact is, there’s never a day off for writers, but I’m doing my best to change that.

Guy, or “Guido” Fawkes is famous for his participation in the notorious Gunpowder Plot of 1605 by English Roman Catholic revolutionaries. Their hope was to blow up the Houses of Parliament. Alas for Fawkes, a poor choice of garb was his downfall; soldiers grew suspicious, and arrested him red-handed guarding the gunpowder. The likely reason he was in that position is that he was placed in charge of the plot due to his military background and experience with explosives. Pity for him someone didn’t tell him to hide his coat and boots so as not to make his hope for a quick escape so obvious.

Born on 13 April 1570 to parents, Edward Fawkes and Edith Blake, Fawkes died a traitor on 31st of January 1606, by the grotesque method of being hanged, drawn, and quartered. Prior to this, he was tortured but gave only the names of his co-conspirators already dead or already known to the authorities.

The rhyme that begins, “Remember, remember the Fifth of November” carries on to lines that talk of burning: “Burn him in a tub of tar, Burn him like a blazing star.”

Yes, all very merciful, and I have to say I’m glad times have changed. Still, not so long ago it was the custom for British children to stand out on the street with an effigy of Fawkes — a ‘guy’ — and beg for pennies (a penny in old English money being entirely different to the value of the penny we have today, so woe betide you if you actually gave nothing more than a penny).

The intended use for the money was for children to buy fireworks but as it’s illegal to sell fireworks to anyone under the age of 18, asking for money in this fashion is now against the law. In reality, children most certainly did not use most of the money for fireworks (and in any case, if it’s illegal to sell them isn’t it the shopkeepers at fault?) and most likely bought sweets or, I hate to admit, cigarettes (again, immoral shopkeepers). Alas, in recent years, many adults complained that they were being approached with ‘menace’ and I’ve even seen children dangerously weaving in and out of traffic, knocking on car windows trying to obtain money. Whatever the true reason, you won’t hear “Penny for the Guy” cried out from any London street corners any more.

These ‘Guys’ were traditionally burned on the bonfire during firework night. This continues, although sometimes these effigies take on the appearance of someone infamous and more relevant to the current time. The whole celebration focuses on bonfires and fireworks. Sometimes you’ll find a firework display set up with a fairground so you can go on rides. Whether people are out at a public display or celebrating at home, there will likely be some kind of food. The celebration calls for hotdogs, baked potatoes, toffee apples, candy floss, and roasted chestnuts, although those at home for the night may well fire up the barbecue despite it being cold outside. You have the bonfire to keep you warm, of course.

So, apart from the fact that we’re technically cheering over someone’s death why might some people be disillusioned? Well, for a long while as a child I honestly held the mistaken belief that we were celebrating the fact that someone ‘tried’ to blow up the Houses of Parliament. Not that I felt it right that innocent people should die (although some would argue whether there’s any such thing in Parliament), but when adults joked, I believed them.

Of course, we’re supposed to be celebrating the failure. However, this error has probably lasted because Fawkes’s image is often used as a symbol of freedom. The V for Vendetta mask was based on his features and people have worn similar masks at protests. The public often vote controversially for Fawkes as a British ‘great’ or hero, and a famous poster once announced him as “The only man ever to enter Parliament with honest intentions.”

Although Guy Fawkes Night is celebrated in some other parts of the world, the tradition has altered according to the region. In Britain, I suspect many people don’t even care or have forgotten why we have firework night. They just like the company, the food, the entertainment…and all the pretty lights.

Personally, of course, I feel the release of my book is the only excuse you need. Have a safe Bonfire night!