I promised you some fresh voices on the blog this year, and I’m delighted to introduce the first of my guests, Elizabeth Rolls.  I have to admit that I’m very envious of Elizabeth.  Not only does she write historical romance, which I’ve always secretly felt that I would like to do – what else is a PhD in medieval history for??? - but she also lives in the beautiful Adelaide Hills.  As a closet South Australian, I spent a lot of time sighing gustily over the photos of her home on her website, complete with gum trees and an assortment of livestock.  It’s all a long way from York, where Mungo, Douglas and the still-feral Archie are the closest I get to livestock, and my little courtyard garden will never boast anything remotely resembling a ghost gum. 

I’m always fascinated how other authors tackle the business of writing, so it was great to read Elizabeth’s account of where she finds her inspiration (so different from my own patented bottle of wine and hot bath method!) Read on to find out how Elizabeth’s idea that had niggled in London and Australia finally burst into life in New Zealand.  Elizabeth has generously offered a signed copy of her latest book, A Compromised Lady to the winner of the contest at the end of her blog – and there’s a bonus book on offer too if you can answer her second question!

Over to you, Elizabeth!

Where research books meet collage

I don’t blog very often, only for special occasions and I think Jessica’s 50th book counts as a very special occasion.  So I’ll start by saying congratulations to Jessica.  That would be a fabulous achievement even without a RITA under her belt.  It’s a huge privilege to be here celebrating with her, especially since she’s an honorary Australian having lived and worked here.

Anyway, if I get this blogging stuff all wrong you’ll just have to cope.  So here we go, my subject;  research books and collage.
And what, I can hear people saying, is that all about?  Is Elizabeth planning to glue her reseach library to a piece of cardboard?

No.  She isn’t.  Elizabeth has a proper respect for her books that borders on maniacal and no gluepot or scissors will ever get within feet of her darlings.  Because what I have discovered is that my research books tend to inspire my plots.  I had some inkling of this already; the entire plot of His Lady Mistress was sparked off by reading about how suicides were buried at a crossroads with a stake through the heart and all their property sequestered.

Last winter – remember I’m Australian; that’s southern hemisphere winter – I went a-conferencing.  First to Sydney, and then on to New Zealand for RWNZ’s conference.  Both fabulous conferences, and as usual I came away worrying about how my suitcase would make the weight limit with all the books I bought.

My haul included a book on antique toys and one on antique nursery furniture.  At which point several people may run screaming at the realisation that an up and coming Elizabeth Rolls is likely to have a child or two in it.

For quite some time, like two or three years, I have had a niggle in the back of my mind telling me to find out about antique toys.  It stems from an antique fair I went to where there was a totally-to-die-for-gorgeous rocking horse.  But when I was in London two years ago I just didn’t have time to make it down to Bethnal Green where the Museum of Childhood is.  And this niggle kept on, well, niggling.  Niggles do that.

So there I was in gorgeous Auckland between conferences last July, with Silhouette Desire author Tessa Radley who had offered to have me to stay.  Tessa had driven me up for a morning with HQN author Helen Kirkman – Helen does seriously sexy Vikings, Saxons who all wield very large swords - to fine tune our workshop on making historical characters live and breathe.  And bleed – if you think about Helen’s swords.  Afterwards we went out to lunch with another Harlequin author (must be something about Auckland!) Frances Housden, in harbourside Devonport.  So far, so safe.  Until Tessa, temptation incarnate, took me to a bookshop called Evergreen.

And there, right there flaunting themselves on the shelves, were these two books on antique toys and nursery furniture.  Saying, “Here we are, darling.  What kept you?’  My credit card uttered a despairing moan as I grabbed them.  And a few  more wails as I zeroed in on another one on the Great Bath Road, and there was a defeated sort of whimper over the one on alternative utopian communities in 19th century Britain.

It screamed loudly enough for me to flinch at the section on military history and I made my escape, telling Tessa she was likely to have me back as a permanent guest when my husband found out.

The bizarre thing was that I’d been having a little bit of trouble working out exactly how the book I’m writing should finish up.  Nothing bizarre about that of course – I always have that problem.  What had me walking down the main street of Devonport with my eyes glazed over and bumping into people was that by the time I reached the souvenir shop to buy my eldest son a Kiwi with a Squeak, the final scenes of that book had formed in my head.  Completely.  I knew why I needed the books on toys and nursery furniture, that the toys were part of the hero’s final surrender to love and his realisation that a child is a child, whatever her background and ancestry.  I’d barely opened the book, except for a quick skim to make sure it wasn’t all on Victorian and Edwardian toys.

Okay, okay, so what about the collage?

Right.  The collage.  Well, Jenny Crusie came to both those conferences, along with Anne Stuart, aka Sister Chrissie.  Their workshops were funny, inspiring and just plain brilliant.  Jenny gave one on collaging in Auckland.  I’d never before managed to get to a workshop on collaging, and I’ll admit I was a sceptic.  But by then Jenny Crusie could have been giving a workshop on reading tea leaves and I’d have signed up, so along I went.  She explained how she collects pictures, words and objects that remind her of the book she is going to write.  She starts this process when she starts thinking about the book and puts all the stuff in a box.  Even if it doesn’t make sense at the time.  Later, when the book is starting to come together, she does the collage and works out where everything fits.  Or not.  The thing is that at the beginning when she starts putting things in that box, she may not have any idea of what it means.

Like me not knowing why I wanted a book on antique toys.  That was the point where someone turned the lights on and I realised, right there in the workshop, that for me, research books are in some way like collage items.  I’d had that book in my head for about the same period of time that I’d had the toy book niggle. No idea why, although I did know my hero had much younger half siblings.  They were there because people just don’t live in a vacuum with no family.  I was so not planning a trip up to the nursery.  But there it is.  Where research books meet collage.  Having had a blinding insight into how it works, I’m thinking that I might give collaging a go.  This book is nearly done, but I could do the collage afterwards.  It might help when my editor asks for revisions if I know what I’m doing . . .

So I’ve learnt something interesting about my own creative process.  And I have a really good excuse for buying research books even when I don’t know why I need them.  There might be a message waiting for me in that book on medieval falconry after all.  My husband’s still a little sniffy over that one.  He could see the point in the ones on Napoleonic military uniforms, but not the falconry. 

Meanwhile the uses of a book on the Great Bath Road are fairly obvious (Road Romance, anyone?), but I need to figure out what’s with the book on alternative utopian communities before my husband spots it.

My next release is A Compromised Lady, available in the UK in February. 

Excerpt from A Compromised Lady

The only sound within the parlour was the scratching of Thea’s pen as she concentrated on manufacturing neat, ladylike sentences for Aunt Mary.
A light tap at the door disturbed her.
‘Yes?’
The door opened and Myles came in.  ‘A note for you, Miss.’
‘Oh.  Thank you, Myles.’
She took it from him.
‘Will that be all, Miss?’
‘Yes, thank you.  I’ll ring if I need to send a reply.’
As the door closed behind the butler, Thea looked at the note.  A single sheet folded once and sealed with a plain seal.  It was directed to Miss Winslow, Arnsworth House in clumsy, ill-formed capitals.  Thea frowned, broke the seal and opened the note.
Time stood still and her veins congealed as the single word slashed her hard-won peace to shreds:
SLUT
Who?  Who?
How long she sat staring at the note, she had no idea, but a deep voice wrenched her out of the nightmare with a shock like icy water.
‘What the deuce have you got here?’
The writing box hit the floor accompanied by the crash of splintering glass and china as the inkpot and tea cup broke.  Thea found herself on her feet, every sense at full stretch, one fist clenched.  Ready to fight.
Richard’s shocked face steadied her.  ‘It’s only me, Thea.’  Then;  ‘Damn!  Stay still!’
He strode towards her, his expression fiercely intent.
Despite herself, she flinched, stepping back.
‘Damn it, woman!  I said to stay still!’ he roared.
She froze in sheer outrage, and he was beside her, his booted feet crunching on the ruins of the inkpot and tea cup.
And gasped as she was lifted bodily with ease and dumped back on the sofa with a marked lack of ceremony.
‘And stay there!’  he growled, ‘while I send for someone to clear this up.  Those slippers won’t protect you from a shard of glass!’
She looked down.  Broken glass and china sat in the lake of spilled ink and tea soaking into the Turkey carpet.  And with them the anonymous note.
Sanity flooded back in some measure, but the violence of her reaction still shook her.  ‘I . . . I didn’t hear you come in.’  She leaned forward and reached for the paper.
His mouth quirked.  ‘Obviously.’  And before she could stop him, he had bent down for the note.  ‘Here you –’  it was open, face up – ‘Good God!’  he exclaimed, staring at the note.
Then he looked up and Thea’s stomach turned over as she met his eyes.  Fury, sheer protective fury blazed there.
Oh, God!  If Richard tried to find out . . .

If you’d like to win an autographed copy just answer the following question:
What are the names of the hero and heroine of A Compromised Lady?

And for an extra book – what is the name of my black cat?

Back to Jessica...

Email your answers to me and I'll pass them onto Elizabeth. All correct answers will go into a draw at the end of February, and I’ll announce the winner here at the beginning of March.

That's it for now.  Next week I'm heading to London for a champagne reception to mark the start of Mills and Boon's centenary year!  I'll tell you all about it as soon as I'm back.