A review of Forever Dreams(The Montana Brides Book 1), by Leeanna Morgan
I was lucky enough to meet Leeanna when she was presenting at a writers’ conference a few years ago. She was bubbly and vivacious and full of good advice. She’s a Kiwi and lives in NZ but writes romances set in and around the town of Bozeman, Montana. She’s a prolific writer and has published more than fifty books in several different but interconnected series. Forever Dreams is her first novel.
It’s about a Kiwi primary school teacher called Gracie Donnelly who travels to Bozeman on a mission to find her long-lost father. Trent McKenzie is the handsome cowboy who works the ranch she’s arranged to stay at while she’s in town and as soon as he picks her up from the airport to bring her home, the sparks begin to fly.
As it turns out, Trent is also searching for someone special; a new wife. Despite her attraction to him, Gracie makes it clear that she’s not interested in filling that role. Until, that is, the couple end up in Vegas together, Gracie gets rolling drunk and they decide that the best way to ice the cake of their Vegas experience is with a spontaneous wedding.
In the cold light of the morning after, that decision doesn’t seem so clever, but rather than letting what happens in Vegas stay in Vegas, they compound the calamity by bringing it back to Bozeman. The pair forge a deal; Gracie will continue with the marriage charade so as to get Trent’s meddling matchmaker of a mother off his back in return for his help in finding her father. If that seems like an unnecessarily complicated arrangement, it gets worse. Despite their utter failure to keep their hands off each other up until this point, they instigate a no-touching rule in their shared marital bed.
It’s a preposterous setup and it’s not helped by having a hero and heroine who are somewhat clichéd — she’s a feisty, red-headed city girl who doesn’t know her ass from a donkey while he’s a strong, silent country boy who struggles to communicate his innermost feelings — but it’s an easy, breezy read with some genuinely amusing touches and a smattering of steamy moments. Besides, who doesn’t love cowboys? And descriptions of wild, Montana mountain scenery? After reading it, I know I wanted to have a holiday in Bozeman.
Have you read Forever Dreams, by Leanna Morgan, or any of her otherbooks? Let me know in the comments.
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A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
A review of The Protector (Men of the North Book 1), by Elin Peer.
I finally got around to reading this after it was recommended to me by one of my subscribers, Erica. Thank you, Erica, for your suggestion.
I enjoyed it. Not as much as Erica, I think, but it was a fun read. It’s set 400 years in the future, where some kind of apocalyptic war has resulted in a North America divided into two distinctly different countries. How’s that any different from now, you may ask? Well, in the old United States, south of the Canadian border, lives a futuristic matriarchal society, run by and populated mostly by women. North of the border (including Alaska) is a feudal patriarchal society, populated almost entirely by handsome, burly men with long hair and beards. What’s not to like about that?
Trade between the two countries is highly restricted, and the movement of people across the walled border even more so. So when the ‘Men of the Northlands’ ask for the South’s help in excavating a recently discovered archaeological site, the request comes as a surprise. The South’s decision to send Christina Sanders, a female archaeologist, is even more of a surprise for the men and results in confusion and a gladiatorial competition to find her a bodyguard to protect her from the threat of hormonal, hairy men as she goes about her work. Unbeknownst to Christina, the ceremony that crowns her ‘Protector’ is actually a wedding and the man who wins the competition will become her husband! Will the winner be Alexander Boulder (great name), the handsome, burly, bearded man that has Christina all hot under the collar? Or will it be his opponent, another musclebound yet less hirsute ogre, his villainous nature and lack of moral fibre indicated by close-cropped hair and a smoothly-shaven chin?
Sounds ridiculous? You betcha! So it’s probably no surprise that there are elements of the world-building that don’t stand up to close scrutiny (not the least of which is the fantastical ratio of men to women in the Northlands). Some might also find the implications of the gender politics disturbing, but it would be a mistake to take them too seriously. Peer certainly doesn’t. This is a story fuelled by silliness; just switch your brain off and enjoy the ride.
There’s also a healthy dose of sex. Despite all the ice and snow, Alexander really struggles to keep his shirt on. It’s all too much for the repressed Christina and her feminist sensibilities. She has a sexbot back home in the Motherlands, but it seems nothing compares to the real thing. Boulder may be a beast, but he’s a damn sexy one.
Peer is no Jane Austen and there’s no great art to her writing style. But if you like your romance steamy and you’re prepared to suspend your disbelief (like, seriously), the characters are fun and the story is an entertaining one. And, as Book 1 of the Men of the North series, there’s plenty more to follow up with.
Have you read The Protector, by Elin Peer, or any of her otherbooks? Let me know in the comments.
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A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
My upcoming novel, Staking a Claim, is the sequel to Taking the Plunge and due for publication in 2023. Here’s a taster.
Kate perched on the edge of the gantry, her legs bound, looking down. Forty-three metres below, the Kawarau River surged with spring melt, swirling around a jagged rock that burst from beneath the whitewater, black and dangerous. “You ready?” She turned her head towards the voice, stomach clenching. Both young men standing at her back flashed reassuring smiles. On the left, the pasty English one named Simon suggested, “On the count of three?” She nodded, took one last glance at the galloping waters, then closed her eyes. “One… two… three!” Wind whistled. River roared. “I did say three, didn’t I?” “Uh-huh. Loud and clear.” “And she agreed, right?” “Yep.” “Kate?” Her name came dancing on the wind, teasing. She didn’t answer, her feet rooted to the gantry as if encased in concrete rather than stretchy rope. “You didn’t jump.” She shook her head. “Why not?” “I’m enjoying the view.” “But your eyes are closed.” “They are?” As she slowly opened them, the two men came swimming into focus. “Shall we try that again?” asked Manny, brown eyes glinting from his swarthy, Chilean face. She opened her mouth to agree but nothing came out. “There’s nothing to worry about. It’s been weeks since we had an accident.” Simon cuffed his colleague on the shoulder. “Accident?” “He’s kidding,” said Simon, scowling at Manny. “We’ve never had an accident. And we’ve been going since nineteen—” “That’s right, we’ve never had an accident.” Manny’s grin was wicked. “Sometimes the people jumping have an accident, but not us. It always pays to bring some spare underpants.” Simon dug him in the ribs. He laughed, warm and hearty. “I’m sorry. Look, Kate, let’s try it again. You’ll be fine. Everyone’s scared their first time. But I guarantee, once you’ve done it, you’ll be back up here begging to go again.” Kate looked beneath her feet at the rope, swaying in the wind above the raging river. “I’m not sure about that.” “Don’t worry, you’ve got this. On the count of three again, yeah?” She swallowed. “Okay.” “Right then, here we go. One…” She bent her knees and spread her toes. “Two…” She closed her eyes. “Three!” She opened them again, only to discover that the view looked exactly the same as before. The river was no closer, and the world was definitely not upside down. Dipping her head, she noted her feet were still firmly planted on the edge of the gantry. “Umm,” said Manny, “perhaps I didn’t make myself clear, but the idea is that you jump on three. There’s people waiting, you know.” Back on the bridge, the young woman who was next in line gave her the evil eye. “I’m sorry. I really thought I had it that time.” “Kate?” Evan strolled hand in hand with Corbin towards her along the bridge, a camera hanging from a strap around his neck. “What’s going on?” She gave a theatrical groan. “I don’t know. It’s scary up here.” “You’re not wrong,” he said, chuckling. “I was scared too.” “You didn’t look scared.” “Fake it till you make it. Come on, you’ve got this. You were so keen after you saw me go.” “That all changed when I looked down.” “Then don’t look down.” “I tried that. I closed my eyes, but the picture in my head was so vivid that it didn’t make any difference. Even from behind my eyelids, those rocks look awfully sharp.” “You’re not going to hit the rocks.” “I might. What if a gust of wind blows just when I jump?” “Wishful thinking,” said Manny. “We weighed you, remember?” Kate stared daggers at him, but his cheeky grin refused to budge. “Look,” said Evan gently, “if you don’t want to go, it’s okay. We can try again some other time. Right guys?” “Yeah, of course,” said Simon. “I do want to go. It’s just…” “There’s no shame in backing out.” “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Manny gestured across the canyon to the onlookers crowded along its edge. “Look at all those people watching. I’d be ashamed if I was you.” “Manny, you’re not helping,” growled Simon. “No, he’s right,” said Kate. “I didn’t come all this way to turn around and go home without doing what I came for.” “Mummy jump?” Corbin poked his nose through the railings, peering at her. She cast her eyes around the canyon, sweeping from the bungy and cafe complex out over the raging waters to the far side of the gorge, steeling herself. “Yes,” she said, clenching her fists, “Mummy jump.” “You sure?” asked Evan. “Uh-huh.” Her tummy disagreed but she overruled it. “Let’s do this.” “On the count of three?” said Simon. She nodded, swallowing. “Good on ya, Kate.” Evan winked at her before raising the camera to his eye. “Okay then, here goes,” said Simon. “One…” This time, Evan joined in the chorus. “Two…” She rose onto the balls of her feet, knees bent, pulse pounding. “Three…” Then pushed. “You did say you wanted to be dunked, right?” said Manny. “Wait, what?” She flailed, but it was too late, her body past the point of no return, slicing an arc through the crisp canyon air, the wind whipping at her hair. The river rose up to greet her as she screamed towards it, impossibly fast, and her brain barely had time to form the words ‘you bastards’ before a plume of water leapt at her, arms open to grasp her in its icy embrace. The rope at her feet caught and stretched, the bonds tightening, her headlong plummet slowing. When the tips of her fingers touched the surface she yanked them back as if stung. The scream died in her throat and was replaced by the rush of water and a chorus of cheers from above. Hauled back up into space, she saw Evan and Corbin waving down at her. Her heart raced, the pressure in her chest so great that it crushed the coal of terror into a diamond of elation. At the apex of her bounce she screamed again, then fell, dropping with giddy joy. Her shrieks become whoops, and by the time she’d stopped bouncing she was giggling madly. Dangling over the water like a worm on a hook, she was lowered into the boat, the crew scrambling to untie her from her bonds, the indignity of it all swept away in the sheer joy of the moment. She was congratulated and helped from the boat onto the shore, where she made her way breathlessly up the steep path cut into the face of the cliff to the rim above. Into Evan’s arms. “How was that?” he asked, beaming at her. “Thrilling,” she panted. Corbin tugged at her trouser leg and she raised him up, sliding him onto her hip. Her gut did a somersault and the gas rose in her throat, making her burp. “I feel a little queasy now, though.” “Here, come sit down.” Placing a hand on her back, Evan guided her along the gravel path to a low rock wall bordering a well tended garden. She collapsed onto it, her legs tingling, then placed Corbin beside her. Her insides danced again, a bead of sweat running down her temple despite the chill wind. She brushed it away, and squeezing Corbin’s knee, said to Evan, “Thanks for inviting me.” “No problem. It’s good to see you again.” She smiled. “You too.” Two weeks had passed since she’d last seen him. Two weeks where she’d found herself thinking about him far more frequently than she expected given the circumstances of their last encounter — far more than she wanted, truth be known. As if things weren’t complicated enough. And then he’d called, asking if she was free to go bungy jumping on Friday and her answering ‘yes’ had been uttered before her brain was even aware of what her mouth was doing. She’d been nervous on the winding drive over from Cromwell, Corbin chattering away in the back seat, but now that she was here next to him it felt… good. Really good. She liked the way he looked at her with those intense blue eyes, the wind tussling his curling blonde locks, a shadowed stubble crusting his jawline. And the hug at the rim of the canyon, his arms warm and strong around her back — she especially liked that. A whoop from across the canyon made her turn in time to see evil-eyes plummeting from the bridge. “It looks so easy from here.” She lowered her gaze to the gravel at her feet. “I never thought I could be so scared.” “It’s a different story when you’re standing on the edge looking down. You did well.” “Thanks.” “So… ahh, what’ve you been up to?” Fantasising about your naked body entwined with mine? No: TMI. Eating more and exercising less than I should be? No, still TMI. She settled for, “Nothing much. You?” Evan shrugged. “I dunno. Yumiko’s gone.” Hearing the name caused another flutter in her belly. “Where?” “Back home to Canada, so Noemie says.” “What about Jamie?” “Him too, back to Oz, thank God. Licking his wounds like a dog, no doubt.” “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think? He did say he was in love with her.” Evan gave a bitter snort. “The only person Jamie loves is himself. I’m not worrying about him. He’ll be fine, believe me.” “But you worry about Yumiko?” “Yeah, but she’s gone, and I don’t blame her after the way I treated her.” Sighing heavily, he added, “Anyway, it’s all in the past now, isn’t it? Time to move on, embrace the future.” “Yes,” she said simply. But what will that future look like? They sat in silence for a while, surveying the scene on the bridge as Manny and Simon prepared the next jumpers, a couple this time, legs bound together and hugging each other at the edge of the precipice, anticipating their leap of faith. Her belly burbled again and she frowned. Surely it shouldn’t take this long to settle. “Mummy, I’m hungy,” said Corbin. Maybe that was the problem. How long had it been since she ate lunch? “Let’s get something to eat, then,” said Evan, standing. “Wanna ride?” Corbin giggled as Evan lifted him onto his shoulders. “You coming, Kate?” She nodded but the frown stayed put. “Just give me a moment, I feel a little…” The words faded as she clutched the leg of Evan’s jeans, pitched forward and threw up, splashing vomit all over his shoes.
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A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
A scintillating story of secrets, sex, and snowboarding, Taking the Plungeis the debut novel from J.B. Reynolds and the first book of the Small Town, High Country romantic comedy series. Here’s Chapter One.
Taking the Plunge
Kate shivered as a gust of wind ripped across Coronet Peak, shaking the chairlift. She looked down at the rented snowboard dangling from her feet, reaching out to dislodge a chunk of snow from the binding. It fell, dropping onto the head of a skier weaving beneath the lift, who skidded to a stop, squawking up at her with a clenched fist. “Sorry,” she shouted down, but the wind whipped her words away and she was unsure if the skier heard them. She returned her gaze to the chair in front of her, where Evan and his companion were engaged in animated conversation. The woman, from some South American country — Brazil? Argentina? Chile? — was angled towards Evan, her arms raised and extended in a gesture that suggested they were discussing the size of a fish she’d caught. Like a bunny in its winter coat, she was wrapped in a pale grey and white ski jacket, her thick black hair flowing in waves from beneath a fluffy grey beanie, so cute it made Kate sick. Even from behind, Kate could tell she wore a smile so big it was a wonder her head didn’t fall off. She’d been flirting with Evan the entire lesson and he’d lapped it up, barely giving Kate or anyone else in their group a second glance. She placed her gloved hands on the bar and rested her chin on top of them, sighing. The only reason she’d booked the lesson in the first place — the only reason she’d travelled all the way from Cromwell to Queenstown to come snowboarding — was so she could flirt with Evan. She’d met him for the first time earlier in the winter, when she’d come skiing with her bastard ex and on a whim had decided to ditch her skis and try snowboarding for the first time. She’d joined Evan’s group lesson and even then, before everything had gone tits up with Lawrence, she was smitten. The way his blonde curls fell around his forehead, framing bright blue eyes and an easy smile, the warm and friendly manner in which he delivered his instructions, the relaxed but purposeful movement of his body across the snow — all combined to send a delicious little tingle up her spine when she thought of him. She’d seen him again a week or so later, a chance encounter in the street when she’d been out shopping with a friend, a few days after she’d discovered Lawrence was cheating on her. That meeting had been brief, but the imaginary ones she’d had since were anything but. In the long nights following her decision to send Lawrence packing, feeling lonely and sorry for herself, eyes wide despite her exhaustion, she’d spent hours thinking about Evan. Her fantasies had helped to calm the buzzing in her skull, replacing it instead with a buzzing between her legs. Finally, she could stand it no longer. She’d booked a lesson, asking for Evan by name. In her head, the plan was perfect. The day would dawn bright and clear and she’d make the long drive with the stereo blasting. Evan would welcome her with a beaming smile, resting his hand on her hip as he guided her across the snow. They’d laugh and chat, have eyes only for each other, and he’d ask for her number. She’d already written it on a slip of paper, folded into the pocket of her jacket. She was nothing if not prepared, and if he asked her out for a glass of mulled wine after the lesson she could always call Lawrence and tell him he could keep Corbin a little longer — she was going to be late home. But when she’d arrived the South American skank was already there, batting eyes like chocolate icing and wrinkling her freckled nose when she giggled, which seemed to be every time Evan opened his mouth. Of course her name was Maria, with an R that rolled like a burst of machine-gun fire, and it was her hips his hands rested on, her face he looked for when he stopped halfway down the learners’ slope, beckoning the rest of the group to follow. She’d stuck to him like glue for the duration of the lesson and now they’d left the learner’s slope, graduating to the main chairlift for their final run. Approaching the terminal, Kate sucked in a breath. It would be mortifying to fall over, especially if the lift operator had to stop the chairlift to assist her. After years of skiing, she still hated that feeling — dangling in mid-air, stomach lurching — while some useless bugger was being scraped off the snow at the top of the lift. She was damned if she was going to be that useless bugger. Ahead of her, Evan and the luscious Latino had reached the terminal. As they exited, he placed his arm behind her, guiding her away from the chair to the edge of the run, easing her down onto the hard packed snow. Kate snorted in disgust. Sure, it was easy when you had someone to help you. Her stomach fluttered as the chair bounced over the rollers on the final approach. She focused, envisioning the steps in her mind, then lifted the bar, placed her left foot onto the snow, stood and dropped her right foot onto the back of the board, letting the chair push her forward and out of the way as it swung round. She pushed with her back foot and glided across the snow, smiling, hoping Evan would turn around to congratulate her on her perfect dismount, but he didn’t, having eyes only for the Brazilian bitch. She came to a slow stop, slumping down onto her bum behind them. She heard a yelp and turned to see another member of their lesson group, a slight, bespectacled man in a red ski-suit, go down in front of the chairlift, his legs sliding out from beneath him. He grabbed desperately for his wife beside him but she dodged and let him drop, skiing gracefully out of the danger zone. The liftie, a young man with dreadlocks and a scraggly beard, hit the emergency-stop button and ran to his aid, helping him up and dusting him off. No damage done, except to his dignity, and perhaps to his faith in his wife. Kate thanked God it was him and not her. If Evan and Maria had noticed, they ignored it. Kate punched her loose binding, dislodging snow so she could tighten the ratchet, and watched them both stand and begin their descent — Evan relaxed and smooth, followed by Maria who was tentative and twitchy. They hadn’t gone far, perhaps fifty metres, when he turned and skidded to a halt at the side of the run and faced back up the slope, beckoning Maria to join him. Then he caught Kate’s eye, waving her down. She didn’t move, considering her options. If she didn’t do something to get his attention it would be Maria and not her he’d be sharing a mulled wine with at the end of the day. And by the way their eyes kept sliding towards each other, whatever Kate did, it would need to be dramatic. She swung her board over so her body was facing the slope. Drama had been her favourite subject in high-school. Pushing herself up off the snow, she pointed her board downhill, beginning the descent, then leaned on her heels to cut across the run. She turned again, onto her toe-side, executing it perfectly, picking up speed. She crossed the run again, made another heel-side turn, this time adding a clumsy wave of her arms for effect. Adjusting her balance, she aimed directly for Evan and Maria, then let out a squeal. Maria’s eyes sprang wide. “Heeelp!” Kate shrieked, flailing her arms. “Turn, turn!” Evan shouted at her. “I can’t! I’m going too fast!” She saw Maria take evasive action, dropping down the slope. Evan stayed where he was, hands pushed forward and knees bent, bracing for the collision. At the last moment, she kicked her back foot out hard, spraying a wave of snow at Evan but also taking the bulk of her speed off. She hit him just after the blast of snow, arms outspread, turning her head so that their faces didn’t mash, and he caught her, softening the blow. Her momentum pushed them back to the edge of the trail, his feet catching on the small ledge formed by the snow groomer’s passing, and they collapsed into the lumpy snow beyond. Evan groaned. The brim of her beanie had slipped over her eyes and she raised it so she could see. Evan’s face was covered in a coating of white powder, like a cupcake dusted with icing sugar. “Oh, my God! Are you okay?” she asked, wiping his cheek. “Your knee’s in my crotch,” he said, his voice tight. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…” She shifted her knee, moving it down, and felt him relax, exhaling warm breath into her face. It smelled of spearmint. “Is that better?” “Yeah, thanks.” “I’m awfully sorry. I don’t quite know what happened. I thought I had it under control, but then all of a sudden… I didn’t.” “Don’t be. Happens to everyone. It’s all part of learning.” She looked into his eyes and gave him her warmest smile. “Thanks for saving me.” He cocked his head slightly, and perhaps she imagined it — maybe it was just the glare of sun on snow — but she thought she saw a flash, a little spark of chemistry there. Then he smiled too, ripe lips sliding apart, and it was all she could do in that moment, with him lying helpless beneath her, to stop herself from planting a kiss on them. “What about you? Are you okay?” asked Evan. Kate stared, searching for that spark again, considering his question. She tightened and relaxed the muscles in her legs but couldn’t feel any pain — and no surprise there, as Evan made a fantastic cushion. Not that he needed to know that. “My knee, it’s a little sore. I must’ve knocked it on something hard when we landed.” The corners of his smile crept higher. “Are you all right, Evan?” Maria’s voice was sticky and sweet, like melted chocolate. Kate sighed, shifting her weight. Maria was perched on her toes across the slope, facing uphill, her expression sour, as if she’d just sucked on a lemon. “I think so,” said Kate, waving her away. “You head back down. We’ll be fine.” “You sure?” said Maria, her frown growing. “Yeah, I’m good,” called Evan. To Kate, he said, “As much fun as this is, do you think you could roll off now?” “Oh, okay. Hold on, let me just…” She grunted, pushing herself up and back, lifting her board so her knees could slide on the snow. He rolled himself onto his knees, then stood, dusting snow off his pants and jacket. Extending a glove, he pulled Kate to her feet. She slipped forward and he leaned into her, placing his hands on her waist to stop them both from sliding. She gasped. “Does it hurt?” “A little,” she said, faking a grimace. “I might need some help getting down the mountain. You don’t mind, do you?” “Course not. It’s my job.” He turned towards Maria, who was scowling up at them. “You go ahead, Maria. Kate’s hurt her knee. I’m gonna stay with her and help her down.” Kate gave Maria her sweetest smile and waved. Maria’s scowl turned into a pout. Turning, she gave a dramatic flick of her hair and sped off down the slope. “Wow,” said Kate, “look at her go. It’s like she’s chasing a burrito.” Evan dragged his eyes away from the disappearing Maria to look at Kate, who turned to him, still smiling, and added, “She must’ve had a good teacher.” “I try,” said Evan. I’m sure you do, she thought.
A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
A scintillating story of secrets, sex, and snowboarding, Taking the Plungeis the debut novel from J.B. Reynolds and the first book of the Small Town, High Country romantic comedy series. Here’s the prologue.
Taking the Plunge
Kate tipped the plastic can so a stream of petrol flowed from the spout and splashed over the collection she had stacked in the back yard. She was careful to lean forward and extend her arm as far she could — it wouldn’t do to set herself on fire as well as her husband’s belongings. It had taken her a couple of hours to gather the items together and mounded as they were, like rugby players in a ruck, the heap was not inconsiderable. Oh well, she thought, if the neighbours call the fire brigade I’ll just have to accept it. No doubt they’d charge for the callout but Lawrence could pay for that. The assembled items included a set of golf clubs, a mountain bike, all Lawrence’s clothes from their wardrobe, two sets of skis and boots (racing and telemark), fishing rods and flies, a wetsuit and dive regulator (she’d left the oxygen tanks, worried they might explode), a pair of water skis, his collection of awful, nineties techno CDs, a large backpack, hiking boots and the sail from his windsurfer (the board itself was a large, unwieldy thing, and she’d been concerned about the flammability of its foam core and how toxic the smoke might be. The CDs alone would be bad enough — she didn’t want to poison anyone). The windsurfer was functionally useless without a sail anyway, so she’d still get her point across. Kate was under no illusion that the collected items were ideal fuel for a bonfire and so had asked for and been given three wooden pallets from the hardware store that afternoon. When she shifted Corbin’s car-seat to the front of her Santa Fe and folded the back-seats down, there was just enough room to fit them in for the drive home. It had taken an hour of toil to break them up with a hammer and an axe and add them to the pile, toil that had brought on a profuse sweat despite the chill of the winter breeze. With the sun lowering in the sky, the breeze had died, and it really was the perfect evening for a bonfire. She completed her careful circle round the heap, sloshing petrol into it as far as she could, then backed away towards the house, dribbling a short trail with her. After replacing the cap and setting the can aside, she looked through the viewfinder of the digital camera she’d set up on a wooden stool, checking her framing. Satisfied, she set it to record. Then she took a matchbox from her pocket, struck a match and dropped it at the head of her trail of gas-soaked grass. The trail leapt into flame, raced to the pile and exploded with an onomatopoeic, hot and extremely satisfying WHOOSH. Kate watched the burning heap for a few minutes, mesmerised. A seething cloud of acrid, charcoal coloured smoke billowed into the air, but no neighbours poked their heads over the fence and no sirens sounded in the distance. She wrinkled her nose, then turned to the west, noting the sun had dipped towards the mountains. She checked her watch — almost five-thirty, Lawrence would be home soon — collected the camera and returned inside. Corbin was still asleep on the couch, a happy convenience that made her wonder if God was supportive of her measures. She roused him with a gentle shake, and while he came to his senses she placed another log on the fire and closed the curtains, leaving a gap by the dining table through which she could keep an eye on the fire outside. Gathering Corbin up, she plopped him into his high-chair, strapped him in and served him dinner, a mix of rice, casseroled beef and vegetables. He smiled at her, brandishing a plastic spoon and attacking his meal with gusto, slopping brown sauce over the side of his bowl and his face. Kate poured herself another glass of wine and was pouring one for Lawrence when she heard the familiar purr of his car coming up the drive. Sipping her wine, she listened to the garage door opening and closing, the grunting and shuffling in the hallway as he removed his coat and then his muffled footsteps, the pads becoming clacks as he stepped from hall carpet to the tiles of the kitchen. She turned, and for the first time since she had discovered the incriminating photos of Lawrence and she who shall not be named, greeted him with a smile. He looked tired — eyes dark, complexion pale, his forehead rutted with wrinkles. “Hard day? Here, have a drink.” His eyebrows reared up at the bridge of his nose, like a furry black caterpillar staring at its reflection in a mirror. He cocked his head and took the glass. “Thank you.” He looked at her, questioning, but she stared blankly back, giving no answer other than the thin smile tracing her lips. “Daddy!” Corbin saluted Lawrence with an upraised spoon that sent a dollop of brown goo flying across the table. “Hello, my beautiful boy. How are you?” He moved to Corbin’s side, bent and plastered his son’s cheek with kisses, blowing a raspberry that made Corbin shriek and giggle. He looked at her again, lips parting to reveal yellowing teeth, but her smile had vanished and his withered and died. He straightened, and with a shake of his head, said, “Greg was in again this afternoon. He’s impossible, that man. It’s like he thinks tax laws should only apply to poor people.” “Don’t they?” She arched her eyebrows and took another sip of wine. Lawrence snorted. “Of course not. There’s still laws for rich people,” he said, swirling the crimson liquid in his glass. “They’re just different ones.” She leaned over the kitchen counter, elbows and wine glass sliding across the granite. “Have a drink. It’s not poisoned.” His eyes flicked to hers, springing wide for an instant. The thin smile returned. He nodded, a tiny bob of the head, returned his gaze to the glass in his hand and sniffed at it, then took a sip. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then paused, brow furrowing, and stepped towards the curtains. “What’s with the fire?” he asked, peering through the gap. She shrugged. “Oh, just thought I’d burn some rubbish I found round the place.” Another step. “You’re not supposed to have outside fires in town. Not without a permit anyway.” “It’s only a little one. And there’s no wind. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” A third. “That smoke’s pretty thick.” He parted the curtain and pressed his nose against the glass. The words that came to her then were strangely muted, as though they were being strangled in his throat. “Why are those flames green? Wait, is that my…?” He yanked the door open, a rush of cold air flooding in. His next sentence was short, but loud and clear. “What the fuck!”
A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
“The more work you put in on your outline and getting the skeleton of your story right, the easier the process is later.”
Drew Goddard
Having set myself the goal of learning how to write a love story, and deciding that the best way to learn was by doing, the next thing I needed to do was start writing. But where to begin? How do you turn an idea into a novel? Some would say to just sit down and start writing, see where it leads, but I didn’t like that advice. I guess I’m a “plotter”, not a “pantser”, because I wanted a process, a step-by-step recipe I could follow that would allow me to flesh out my idea so that I wasn’t writing blind. I did a little bit of research, and the following is the process I settled upon.
How to Write a Love Story
Write Your Premise
A premise is a single statement that conveys the underlying idea of your story—the foundation that supports your entire plot. According to Joseph Nassise, a premise must do 3 things:
Highlight the main character;
Reveals the story’s core problem;
Hint at the goal or resolution.
Following this structure, the premise for my novel became:
A recently separated mother-of-one pursues a snowboarding instructor ten years her junior, against the wishes of her friends, family, and ex-husband.
Main character – a recently separated mother-of-one;
Core problem – she wants to get it on with a young snowboarding instructor—but her friends, family, and ex-husband don’t want her to;
Goal – will she or won’t she get her man?
This premise grew from the characters and events in a short story I had already written, and at the time the idea was conceived, I was (and continue to be) a regular listener of Shawn Coyne’s and Tim Grahl’s Story Grid podcast. I can’t recommend Coyne’s Story Grid methodology highly enough—it has been fundamental in shaping my understanding of story structure, and as a consequence, the structure of my novel. Essentially, what Coyne says is that for a story to “work”, it should break down into three parts:
Beginning hook;
Middle build;
Ending payoff.
This should come as no surprise—it’s your classical three-act structure. But Coyne goes further than that, by giving what he calls the five commandments of story.
The Five Commandments
Each of your three acts should also contain a further five elements, or commandments, as follows:
Inciting Incident (an event that kicks off the action)
Complication
Crisis (a character has to make an important decision)
Climax (the consequences of that decision play out)
Resolution.
Looking at it this way, we have fifteen major “beats” a story has to hit. In determining what those beats might look like, Coyne says that you must have a deep understanding of the genre you are writing in.
Genre is Everything
Coyne believes that genre is more than just a marketing tool, it’s an absolutely fundamental consideration in shaping your story. Every genre has its own obligatory scenes and conventions. See that word “obligatory”? It means that you’re obliged to use them, that they must feature in the story for it “to work”. So it’s essential to think long and hard about what genre you are writing in so that you know what obligatory scenes and conventions you need to include in your story.
It took me a while to figure out that what I was writing was a love story. Part of the reason it took me so long is that when I thought of love stories, I had a picture of Mills & Boon romances in my head, and I knew my story wasn’t that. I didn’t see how it could be a romance because it didn’t have a happy ending. But after thinking long and hard about it, I realised that at its essence, my story was about a girl falling for a guy—in other words, a love story. I prefer the term “love story” because it doesn’t have the same connotations for me as “romance” does. It seems, broader, more inclusive. Anyway, I digress—what’s important is that in the love story genre, there are obligatory scenes and conventions that Coyne says are essential to include when telling your story.
Obligatory Scenes of The Love Story Genre
Lovers meet;
Lovers first kiss;
Confession of love;
Lovers break up;
Proof of love;
Lovers reunite.
So, in terms of structure, my first task was to figure out how these scenes would fit into the fifteen beats of my global story. They don’t have to be in this particular order, but I chose to plug these into my story as follows:
Lovers meet – inciting incident of the beginning hook;
Lovers first kiss – after the complication and before the crisis of the beginning hook, so not one of the global beats;
Confession of love and lovers break up – inciting incident of the middle build;
Proof of love – climax of the ending payoff;
Lovers reunite (but part ways) – resolution of the ending payoff.
In this way, I had my first five important scenes of the story.
Conventions of The Love Story Genre
As well as the obligatory scenes, there are also conventions of the genre to consider, which may or may not amount to scenes in and of themselves, but which do need to feature in the story.
For the love story genre, these conventions are:
Rivals;
Moral Weight (the distinction between right and wrong behaviour – at least one of the lovers needs to have a serious moral flaw that they need to contend with in order to move forward in their life);
Helpers (characters that aid the lovers);
Hinderers (characters that harm the lovers or stand in the lovers’ way);
Gender Divide (men and women want different things);
External Need (some form of external pressure on the lovers’ relationship. In Pride and Prejudice, for instance, Mrs. Bennet wants to marry off her daughters as soon as she possibly can);
Forces at Play Beyond the Lovers’ Control;
Forces at Play Within the Lovers’ Control;
Rituals (some activity that the lovers share);
Secrets—lots and lots of secrets.
So the next task was to figure out where these would fit into the story. These conventions play out across multiple scenes in my novel, but there are particular scenes where I introduce the rivals, where I introduce the helpers and hinderers, where particular secrets are exposed. Once I had figured out how I was going to fit these conventions into my global story, I had about fifteen scenes, spread over three acts, that gave me the basic framework for my story. Once I had that, I had to come up with scenes and sequences of scenes that would plug the gaps between each of those points, driving the action along—a task that was much easier now that I had fifteen points of reference. As Coyne suggests, it’s kind of like plotting a road trip and fixing the major destinations on the way. The particular roads you should take to reach each destination become more obvious once you have the stops clearly defined.
Write Your Outline
In the end, I came up with about forty scenes in total. In doing this, I found Stephen Pressfield’s clothesline methodto be really helpful (here’s the clothesline I made for my story). Then, for each scene, I wrote a brief synopsis (80 – 150 words). The beauty of the Story Grid method is that not only does your global story break down into the five commandments, but so should each individual scene. The synopsis for most of my forty scenes had an inciting incident, complication, crisis, climax, and resolution. By filling in the details of these five commandments for each of my scenes, I had a pretty comprehensive plot outline that enabled me to feel confident about embarking on my writing journey.
Now, this might seem like overkill, especially if you’re a pantser, but it worked for me. Without it, I’m not sure I could ever have started—the blank page would have been just too overwhelming. On an endnote, however, it’s important to say that just because you have an outline, it doesn’t mean you have to stick to it. I’d written several thousand words when I realised that one of the central ideas I had for my story just wasn’t going to work. It was a fantastical idea and had no place in the realistic setting of the world I was building. So I got rid of it, re-jigging my scenes and the ending payoff to suit. Thankfully, I didn’t have to rewrite any of the scenes I’d already drafted, realising early enough how stupid the idea was and moving on.
Are you a plotter or a pantser? Is creating an outline before you begin writing a useful process? Share your thoughts in the comments.
A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
“Our goals can only be reached through a vehicle of a plan, in which we must fervently believe, and upon which we must vigorously act. There is no other route to success.”
Pablo Picasso
Early in 2017, I decided I wanted to write a novel. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I’d been dreaming about writing one for twenty years, and I decided it was time to stop dreaming and start doing. As it turned out, the novel I wanted to write was a love story. I’d never written one before, so not only did I need to write a love story, I also needed to learn how to write a love story. In my twenty years of dreaming, I always believed that I would learn more by actually doing the job than I would by attending any number of creative writing courses, and now, having finished my first draft, I think that belief has been validated. I’ve learned more about the craft of storytelling in the last twelve months than I did in the previous twenty years. I wanted to share some of what I have learned in this series of blog posts. This initial post is about goal-setting, because the first, and possibly most important thing I did, was to set myself the goal. Without the goal, and the desire to achieve that goal, I would have gotten nowhere.
How to Write a Love Story
1. Set Your Goals
Saying I wanted to learn how to write a novel and actually writing one are two very different things, but without first setting that goal, I never would have started. The key to going from dreaming about writing a novel to actually doing it came by getting out of bed earlier in the morning. For twenty years, I told myself “I don’t have the time”, and for the most part, that was true. Between work and travel and friends and family and eating and sleeping and TV, my days were full. The only answer to this problem was to find the time. So I did, and the time I found was at five o’clock in the morning.
Now, you could go to the trouble of setting yourself daily word-count goals and deadlines. I didn’t do this, simply because I’d never written a novel before so I didn’t know what to expect. I just wanted to write as much as I could in the time I had (about an hour a day) for as long as it took to finish. Having set myself this goal, my progress throughout 2017 was much slower than I wanted, but it was still progress. And one thing I did do, right from the beginning, was to track my writing progress.
2. Track Your Progress
I followed Chris Fox’sadvice and recorded my daily word count in a simple spreadsheet since I began writing my novel. The purpose of doing this was to have a record of how many words-per-hour I was writing so that I could work on improving my writing speed. You can see a copy of the spreadsheet here, and if you want, feel free to make your own copy and use it as you see fit.
I’ve found it extremely valuable, but to be honest, it hasn’t helped me to improve my writing speed (at least not yet). I seem to be sitting at about 830 words-per-hour, and have done for most of the year. Sometimes, when I’m “in the zone”, this increases to well over a thousand words-per-hour. One of my goals for 2018 is to get “in the zone” on a far more regular and consistent basis.
At the beginning of December, I’d written 44,000 words, which according to my plot outline, put me about half-way through my novel. This, for seven months of work. I know I’m not the fastest writer, but even so, I wasn’t happy with my progress, so I sat down to have a closer look at my spreadsheet to see if I could figure out what was going on.
3. Analyse Your Progress
It was a revelation. When looking more closely at the numbers I discovered, much to my surprise and dismay, that I hadn’t been working on my novel anywhere near as regularly and consistently as I thought I had been. On the day I did my analysis, I had spent only 70 out of 222, or 31.5% of my mornings writing my novel. Oh, sure, I had been getting up early every morning on the vast majority of those days to work on “things” related to my writing, (and there is a long list of those) but I hadn’t actually been writing my novel. If I had guessed, I would have said it was much closer to 70%, and it was galling to realise just how far from reality my perception was, but there was the data in black and white. The data doesn’t lie. I had to turn this around.
4. Refocus When Things Go Wrong
So, as December progressed, I prioritised writing my novel. By the end of the month, I had worked on my novel for 23 out of the 31 days of the month or 74.2% of my mornings. I had my most productive writing month of the year, writing a little over 18,000 words. And I felt much more optimistic about the progress I was making on my novel, which had been turning into a real grind. I also had five days where I broke 1,000 words per hour, when through October and November there’d been none. I think that a big part of this was because I really had formed a “writing habit” and “the zone” was more readily accessible because of this.
I also added another column to my spreadsheet (I’ve labeled it “Task”) to record specifically what I do on the days I don’t write. I have a very limited time in which to write and some days I just have to use that time to work on other writing-related activities. But I want to keep these days to an absolute minimum through 2018. My author platform is mostly set-up now, so just requires a bit of regular updating and maintenance. I want to improve slightly on December’s result—writing at least 75% of the time and hitting at least 20,000 words per month, consistently, month on month, throughout 2018. My goal is to finish three books this year; two novels and a novella. If I can continue to consistently hit my monthly word-count goal, then this is well within reach.
My main point here is that if I hadn’t been consistently tracking my progress in a measurable way, I never would have known how badly off-track I had gotten. It was a valuable reminder for me that it’s not just enough to set goals, you have to track your progress on those goals as well. It’s also a reminder of the importance of being disciplined and forming a writing habit.
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A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
