Talking with Jessie Blackwood and a CONTEST

Check the contest out at the end of the post plus Jessie asks some great reader questions at the end of her interview.

To get us started can you tell us a little about what you are working on or have coming out?

 Per Ardua came out in August this year and I’m working on a sequel. First up, though, is another m/m romance I’m working on between a thriller writer and a paramedic. I also have a couple of short stories I’m working on too. I like to have more than one thing going on to work on.

What makes a book great in your eyes?

 Characters, plot and pace. It has to have strong characters, good believable plot and the pace has to be right. It doesn’t have to always be fast, just correctly paced.

Do you have any guilty pleasures?

Candy floss and Turkish delight. They’re my main ones. I love being in bed…enough said about that the better… (laughs) I do really like lazing on a Sunday morning though.  I like duvet days.

How much of the book is realistic?

My book? Hopefully most of it. I researched the 1940s, have been doing for more years than I’ve been writing. I’m an historical re-enactor and I used to work in museums so historical research isn’t strange to me.  I have a good friend who has researched gender history and she gave me all sorts of information and lent me her books on it so I have hopefully produced a reasonable tale.

What is the hardest scene you have had to write (published or not)? Why?

I always find emotional stuff hard to write, especially anything sad.  The opener for the new book involves the writer saying goodbye to his dead partner, scattering his ashes, I found that hard to write.  

If you had a reporter follow you around for the day, what would the readers get to see in your daily schedule?The poor guy would be bored witless…(laughs) I live a really ordinary life.  I’m job hunting, I haven’t got a full time job at present so I use the time to write. I get up and get the kids to school at 8.30am, then once they’ve gone I can sit down and write.  I do the domestic stuff I need to do around lunchtime because I’m trying really hard not to write all day. I just cannot sit at a computer for that length of time, it’s not good for me.  So I do try to get up and out and be active.  I try to write before the kids get home again because there’s no peace when they’re around.  I love ‘em to bits but I get no work done before they go to bed.  Evenings are a mix, I visit friends, I co-write with another friend, I visit my mum, every evening is different. 

When you begin your stories, do you go with the flow, or go with an outline?

I’m a gamer, you know, I’ve been playing role play games since the 80s, back when they needed dice. I write pretty much as I play, I go with the flow with a plot bunny in my head.  I do like to plan, but not a great deal. My biggest failing is getting ideas for the exciting bits and writing them as short scenes then I have a real problem linking those scenes together.  Per Ardua seemed to flow very well, almost one continuous block. 

Is it hard coming up with titles or characters names?

Not usually.  Again I think it’s something comes through from the gaming. I love names and the history of them too, the etymology – where they came from. If I can get the names right, I can get the rest.  Titles are a little different.  Per Ardua started life as Bomber Command but I didn’t want it to sound like an historical paper so I changed it.  Per Ardua Ad Astra is the RAF motto, through adversity to the stars. Through adversity seemed like a good title, both the characters overcome adversity to reach their stars. Sometimes though, the title doesn’t just come to me and I have to work at it.

What does your workstation look like?

Mutable.  Where ever there is quiet space in our house.  I usually work at a table, I’m fanatical about having the laptop at the right height, otherwise my back gives out. That’s what I like about a laptop, you can take it anywhere, make your workstation in any space you wish.  

Are you the type of individual who gets weepy at the end of a good movie, or a sad movie, or do you just stay neutral through it all?

See the paragraph about things I find hard to write. Since I had the kids I’ve been weepier, I think it’s a hormonal thing.  I find myself being affected by stuff I would have remained neutral over when I was younger.  Not that I mind, I like films that affect me in that way, I feel I’m sharing the emotion more.

Are there any books coming that you are itching to read (either electronic or print) from your favorite authors?

I’m in the middle of A B Gayle’s Caught, which I’m finding intriguing. I love her writing.  I’m reading one of W J Burley’s Wycliffe stories at the moment. I’m also starting Mark Kendrick’s Desert Sons, book one, an m/m romance.  Yes, I love having more than one thing on the go at once.  I haven’t got anything I’m itching to read, I think I’ve got enough to keep me going though.

If you were to replenish your cabinets with one junk food, what would it be? 

We have something like a hot dog stand, called the Hot Sausage Company.  Those sausages are to die for, especially with cheese and onion.  I guess it is junk food but I wish I had a supply of them.  I could add that to the guilty pleasures bit above.

Some Reader Questions for you all:

No1, easy, did everyone have a spooky Halloween?  Now the proper question.  What makes a good horror story for you?  What elements are 'must haves' for a good horror to work?

No2. Your favorite-of-all-time horror story character/hero and why? 

No3. Slightly different to no1, what's your favorite type of Halloween story? I prefer ghost stories and ones with a good plot twist, those that make you think.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sneak Peek into PER ARDUA

Available at Dreamspinner Press

If you go to the Dreamspinner site, you can read the prologue so I’m not going to give you that here.  I have a couple of favorite pieces. 

Per Ardua is set in Wales during WW2 and centers around a bomber pilot, Arthur ‘Jack’ Ratigan and Ifan Griffith, the butler at his ancestral home.  It addresses the initial dislike each man has for the other and the subsequent coming to terms with who they are, their losses and the aftermath of war. There are flashbacks concerning Jack’s visits to Pren Rethyn House as the war progresses.  This is one of them.

Ifan Griffith, the butler, has been rejected for call-up because of an old injury to his wrist and Jack comes home wounded.  Jack has mocked the butler’s role, a role that Ifan has been brought up to love and respect as a way of life, and thus Ifan has to this point hated Jack Ratigan’s attitude. ~

By far the most dramatic entrance, however, came in the autumn of the following year (1942). The mellow evening mist had rolled in, and fruit was ripening on the bough as Jack stumbled through the outer door into the porch, his coat loose over his broad shoulders. One arm was in a sling beneath his jacket, and he was looking gray. Ifan was shocked by his appearance and grabbed the man’s kit bag, taking it and discarding it at the stair bottom. Ratigan leaned against the doorframe and frowned.

“Sorry to land on you like this…. Sick leave….” He ground the words out through teeth gritted against the pain. Grimacing, he indicated his arm. “Hurts like the devil….”

“What happened, sir?” Ifan guided the man to a seat before he collapsed, which he looked to be on the verge of doing.

“Got shot.”

“Shot? You mean with a bullet?” Ifan was fascinated and horrified, then appalled that he had been hurt, in very quick succession.

“Yeah, I believe that’s what it means…,” came the dry reply. Then he sighed and hissed a breath through his teeth with the discomfort.

“I’m afraid that Mr. and Mrs. Powell will be out until late this evening, but I’ll tell Mrs. Redfern to prepare something for you.”

“Nothing fancy. I’m really not very hungry.”

“You should eat. You need your strength. I’ll ask her to prepare some soup,” Ifan argued.

Jack merely nodded and said, “Could I just go to bed?”

“Of course, sir. Your room is always ready for you. Here, lean on me, and we’ll get you settled first.” He offered an arm. Mildly surprised, Jack accepted the offer and leaned heavily on the younger man as they made their slow way upstairs. Ifan noticed that Jack was also walking with a slight limp. “So, were you on a mission?” Ifan dared to ask, trying to ignore the scent of the man leaning against him. Somehow Ratigan’s natural musk was attractive, warm and almost spicy.

Jack nodded at the question and sighed. “Got shot up on the way back. Lost some crew members.” His voice was listless, lacking its usual sparkle. “Landed on three engines with no navigator and a large hole in the fuselage. We lost Mike, our tail-end Charlie.”

“That’s your rear gunner, yes?” Ifan asked, and received the affirmative nod.

“The old lady was peppered, but nothing that can’t be fixed.” He sighed again. “Mike was only married last year, though, has a baby on the way.” He sounded resigned rather than sad, although Ifan was sure he detected sadness in his demeanor. Jack sounded just too tired to care.

“Shouldn’t you still be in hospital, sir?” he asked, and received a piercing look.

“Hate ’em,” he said with vehemence. “Hoped Bron would be able to look after me.”

“Mrs. Powell is a practical lady, sir, but she doesn’t like blood and injuries.”

“Oh. Guess I thought wrong, then. Look, would it be best if I just went, before they get back? No one need know I was ever here.”

“Don’t worry, Jack.” If Ratigan was surprised that the butler had used his nickname, he said nothing. “I can manage. I’ve had VAD training.”

“Voluntary Aid Detachment? You?”

“Yes sir. I joined the Home Guard last year, like my father, although I’m usually on duty at the hospital. Just seemed the right thing to do when they refused my call up.”

“That’s a piece of luck for me, then,” Jack said softly. “Bron told me about them rejecting you. Damn bad luck.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Which service missed the opportunity to make use of you, then?” Ifan was silent for a moment as he divested Jack of his coat.

“I wanted to go into the RAF, sir.” He was gratified at Jack’s surprised look as he was guided to sit on the bed.

Jack was profoundly grateful for the young man’s compassion and kindness right then. He had not been looking forward to a return journey. He was hurting, cold, and tired. He doubted he could have managed it anyway. Ifan was right. He ought still to be in hospital, but they had agreed to let him go if he went straight home where there was someone to look after him. His idea of “straight home” was probably not the same as theirs, though. He doubted they would have let him go if they had known that “home” was roughly 250 miles away by train. He had been given a fortnight to recuperate. Then he could return to a desk job until he was fit again.

“You stay sitting there,” Ifan instructed. “I’ll be back with your bag just as soon as I’ve spoken to Mrs. Redfern.” And he was out of the door and heading downstairs before Jack could reply.

IFAN returned a short while later, carrying a large tray bearing several items. He set it down on the table and picked up a stoneware hot-water bottle clad in its thick felt jacket. He carefully placed it under the covers near the foot of the bed. Ifan then placed a clean glass and a small jug of water on the bedside table. Then he disappeared again, returning minutes later with Ratigan’s kit bag. Opening the wardrobe Ifan pulled out a heavy dressing gown. Then he went to the chest of drawers and found clean pajamas.

 “Here you go, sir. Would you like me to call our doctor?”

“No, not necessary.” He sighed a little. “Just need painkillers and sleep… I hope.”

“What about your arm?”

“What about it?”

“Will it need dressing again?”

“Nope, they dug the bullet out and patched me up a few days ago. It’s healing okay. Just needs time. There’re some painkillers in my bag.” He watched as Ifan rummaged and found the small white box with its handwritten label. When he read the handwriting, Ifan recognized the tablets as being quite strong ones.

“When did you last take these?” he inquired.

“Took two just after lunch, about twelve thirty?” Ifan nodded, and Jack watched as the man consulted his pocket watch.

“You can have more now, then,” he said, taking out two small pills and handing them over, wordlessly passing Jack the glass of water and watching as he swallowed the tablets down. “You’ll feel better soon,” the young man reassured him with an authority beyond his years, putting the pill packet safely in the bedside cabinet drawer. “You need to get some rest.”

“Yes, ‘Doctor’,” Jack teased, reaching to undo his jacket, but the fingers of his right hand trembled, fumbling the buckle. “Damn…,” he whispered and looked helplessly at Ifan, who stepped smartly forward and proceeded to help unfasten his jacket, the shirt beneath, and then his trousers. He carefully eased the injured arm out of its sling to get him undressed, and Jack stoically suffered it, although Ifan was fairly sure it hurt him to move it. He tried to be quick so he could settle the sling back on again.

Jack stepped out of his clothes clad only in vest and shorts. Ifan replaced the sling carefully, then drew the dressing gown over Jack’s shoulders. Placing a secure hand under Jack’s good elbow, he guided the man into the bathroom. “I’ll be just outside the door if you need me,” he said and left Jack some privacy. While he was in there, Ifan

unpacked Jack’s kit bag, hanging his things up or placing them in the chest of drawers. He heard the toilet flush, and then his name was called.

“Yes sir?”

“Would you come in and run the water into the sink for me? It’s all I can do to stay on my feet.”

Ifan quickly opened the door to find him leaning on the sink with his good arm, his brow resting against the cool mirror in front of him. He looked defeated by his own inability and watched as the water ran warm into the basin.

“If I may, sir?” Ifan said and doused the facecloth for him, wrung it out, and soaped it, then handed it over. Jack actually smiled as he swiped it over his face, washing the strain and stains of traveling away. He automatically handed it back, and Ifan rinsed it, wrung it out again, and handed it over once more. Jack took it back and washed the soap off, gratefully accepting a towel to dry off. He came back into the bedroom to find the bedclothes folded back, ready for him.

“Do you need a hand changing?”

“No, I’ll make it easy. I’ll sleep in my shorts.” He sat down, swung his legs up, and Ifan reached to cover him, actually taking time to tuck him in, fluffing his pillows and making sure he was comfortable.

“Thanks.” He accepted the mug of warm milk and leaned back into the fluffed pillows, watching as the butler retired to the chair nearby. “You planning on staying?” One eyebrow lifted eloquently.

“Just until I know you’re settled. I would be neglecting my duty if I didn’t make sure you were all right before I left you.” He spoke as if to assume anything else were unthinkable. “Then I will resume my duties before the family comes home. Why? Would sir prefer to be left alone?” Ifan was suddenly wary.

“No, not at all. I’m grateful, believe me. Really.” Jack eyed him and smiled. “Not that you’ve got a reason to want to keep me company. I’ve teased you often enough….”

Ifan shrugged, accepting. “It’s your way.”

“Ouch.” Jack winced and frowned. “I deserved that. Look, I’m sorry. Really, I didn’t understand…. Bronwen explained to me eventually.”

Ifan nodded and watched Jack as he sipped his milk, contemplating. “What was it like?” he asked.

“What was what like?”

“Getting shot. What does it feel like?”

Jack fixed him with a look. “Like being hit by a sledgehammer. It doesn’t hurt at first. Then it burns, really, really burns. You panic a bit. The adrenaline kicks in, makes you wonder if you’re gonna… you know, die….” He sighed. “Not the best experience I’ve ever had….”

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to distress you.”

“You didn’t. Don’t worry. I don’t believe you would intentionally distress anyone.” He smiled ruefully. “I’m grateful for this. I hope you know that.”

“Thank you, sir. Mrs. Powell would wish me to help.”

When Jack had finished the drink, Ifan tugged the covers up and tucked them firmly around him. “If you need me, just tug on the bell pull.” And he indicated the cord hanging near the bed. “I’ll come up later on, though, just to see if there’s anything you need. I’ll also inform Mr. and Mrs. Powell that you’re here as soon as they get back. Now get some rest.”

“Yes sir.” Ratigan saluted weakly and flashed his trademark grin, all white teeth. It didn’t reach his eyes, though, and Ifan heard him sigh and saw his eyes sag shut as he closed the bedroom door behind him.

This is a shorter piece but illustrates the Ratigan sense of humor. When his plane crashes on landing just before the war ends Jack is invalided home and Ifan volunteers to become his carer.  Their relationship develops tentatively as the book progresses. Jack has just been notified that he has been recommended for a Distinguished Service Order and wants to celebrate. The war in Europe has ended but rationing is still in place and they go to a restaurant in Swansea…

Ifan found himself wheeling the newly promoted Group Captain Ratigan, complete with medal ribbons emblazoned above the breast pocket of his dress jacket, through the doors of the Ritz the following evening. Ifan was dressed in formal black, the starched white of his wing-collar shirt standing out in stark contrast to his suit. Evening dress was compulsory. Several people stared as Ifan helped Jack out of the taxi and into his wheelchair, but Jack ignored them. Ifan pushed him silently across the carpeted hall to the dining room door and said, “We have a table booked, in the name of Griffith?”

“Ah yes, Mr. Griffith.” The maître d’ found his name and added, “Please, follow me, gentlemen.” And the man led them through to a table near the window. One of the chairs had been removed, and Ifan skillfully maneuvered the wheelchair into the space. He took the seat opposite, ignoring the looks cast at them by their immediate neighbors.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the waiter. “Your menus. May I recommend the beef bourguignonne tonight?”

“Thank you.” Ifan surveyed the menu.

“Do you wish the wine list, sir?”

“Champagne,” Jack said quietly. “We’re celebrating.”

“Congratulations, sir. May I ask the occasion?”

Before Ifan could say anything, Jack deadpanned, “He’s agreed to marry me.”

The waiter’s eyebrows rose, and he hesitated for a fraction of a second; then Jack burst out laughing and apologized. Ifan rolled his eyes. “Wing Commander Ratigan has just been awarded a promotion and a medal for bravery,” he explained patiently.

“Congratulations, sir,” the waiter said solemnly, his face a mask.

“Jack, you are terrible!” Ifan scolded after the man had gone with their order.

Jack’s eyes were dancing. “My legs are crippled, not my sense of humor!”

“As I can see. You know, you should have asked Bronwen to take you out. It wouldn’t have caused such a stir.”

“You’re my companion, Ifan. I wanted you,” he said firmly. “Anyway, that line wouldn’t have been as funny if it was Bronwen sitting there.” He smiled. “Honestly, though, you deserve this.”

“Thank you, but I’m only doing my job.”

“Above and beyond, Ifan Griffith. Above and beyond. You ought to get the medal, not me.”

“What for? Putting up with your outrageous humor?” He smiled. “Or the looks we’re getting from everybody?”

“To hell with them.” He said the words gently, without rancor. “You’re a…. What did you say your father was, a gentleman’s gentleman?”

Ifan nodded. “A gentleman’s gentleman would never eat at the same table with his master,” he said. “It simply isn’t done. He should be serving him.”

“Hmm, well, the world is changing, Ifan, changing for the better. I didn’t fight in this war just so you couldn’t sit at the same table as me in a restaurant.”

“No, I guess you fought to keep the pubs open and the beer cold.”

“Damn right!” Jack grinned.

 CONTEST ANNOUNCEMENT

Hi everyone,

My name is Jessie Blackwood, I'm guest blogging here on the 1st November and I have a competition for you. Win a copy of my ebook, Per Ardua, from Dreamspinner Press and give me a writing challenge at the same time.  I want suggestions for elements to put into a Halloween Romance, from you, good readers.  Not the whole thing, just a small part - for instance, "include three apples, four dogs and a pumpkin", or "I'd like to see the story set in a huge hole in the ground" - you get the idea.  The more strange and unusual your idea the better, although it doesn't have to be Halloween-related, just a good idea.  We'll be picking the three (or four if I'm feeling brave and the ideas are really good) winners and I will (attempt to) write a short story over the next week to be posted, courtesy of Dawn, as a free read on this site. You can then all tell me how bad it is...! The owners of the chosen ideas will win a copy of my ebook!  Email Dawn at dawn_roberto@yahoo.com or myself at jessieblackwood@hotmail.co.uk with your ideas by November 4th, 2010.  I look forward to your company on the 1st November (I work by GMT as I live in the UK, so bear with me, I'll turn up sooner or later!) when I will be popping in for an interview and a few blogs of my own.

Jessie will be back  on November 9th with the winners and the story she made up using the winners ideas.