As anyone researching the Regency period knows, the rake — the real Regency rake — was dangerous, unscrupulous and sometimes even a vicious womaniser.
I am very sorry, dear reader, if I have shattered your illusions.
Many of us like the fantasy of “taming” a bad boy, but most of us know in our hearts that it is nigh on impossible. Not quite impossible, of course. There are exceptions to the rule, but these are probably as rare in real life as the number of real live dukes in existence (which may be material for another story, another time).
There is always something to research for a new book. Often it seems obvious — military history for instance, when one sets a book around the Battle of Waterloo; or costume details for the period.
We have to invent a history for each of our characters. It may not feature in the actual book, but it is very necessary. As my latest book has proved. Continue reading →
Monday 25th January is Burns Night, celebrating Scotland’s national poet, Robert Burns. Traditionally, Scots and others celebrate with a Burns Supper and many will have already taken place, over the weekend. I believe Sophie (Englishwoman of this parish) may even have been seen at one of them.
Robert Burns (1759-1796) was not only a poet, he was also an exciseman, operating on the borders with England. Hardy smugglers used to cross from England to Scotland via the Solway Firth, because the excisemen would be waiting on the land route to levy their duties. If you could nip across the Firth – by the ford – you could probably avoid duty altogether.
Of course, if you were caught in the Solway quicksands, you might not see Scotland again. Ever.
England is that grey strip across the sands & quicksands of the Solway Firth
Writers, like witches, seem to get on with cats. And not just slinky, sexy writers like Colette, of whom you might expect it, but grumpy old war-reportin’, game-fishin’, hard-drinkin’ Hemingway, of whom you certainly wouldn’t.
I’ve lived with several cats over the years. I can see that it’s not for everyone. But I find it fun. Basically, it takes negotiation.
My present feline companion, TK, arrived with a bad case of nerves and the hump. He hid behind the books in the bookcase, only emerging to throw up. Hid again. When I left the room in search of cleaning materials, he made a dive for some high ground and set up camp, prepared to repel all comers.
His little face sprouted whiskers roughly comparable to five o’ clock shadow. He looked like a bottle brush. A fierce bottle brush.