THE BOOK HAS LEFT THE BUILDING...

It's been tough, this one. Nose to the grindstone stuff, and it's going to be that way all year if I'm going to fit in everything I'm contracted to do. But the purple shoe book was finally delivered to the waiting arms of my editor at around four o'clock yesterday afternoon. Since when I've been curled up in a huddled gibbering mass in the corner. (I really shouldn't have taken on the eHarlequin blog -- lesson learned. The books come first!)

I have to thank Ellie and Ben for holding the fort in my absence. I've just waved them off on their long promised trip to Italy (Laura is pet-sitting while they're away). Now it's time to introduce you to Sylvie and Tom, whose story has given me such a lot of bother in the last couple of months.

They've both come through some rough times, made successes of their lives, but are lacking that special ingredient that makes the world a bright and shiny place. Someone to share it with. Tom thought it had found exactly what he was looking for. When the book opens, it's all gone pear-shaped. His bride to be has taken to the hills with the wedding planner's assistant. And the wedding planner gets the full force of his ... irritation.

I don't have a title yet, but as soon as my editor has read the book, and I've ducked the flying revisions, I'll let you know what she comes up with. I can tell you that it will have a "Spring Wedding" or maybe "Spring Bride" flash -- so somewhere out there authors are battling with "Summer", "Autumn" and "Winter" -- and it'll be in the bookshops next April or May.

I should be able to put my feet up and take the day off -- you need time to wind down from a tight deadline -- but I have a journalist from the South West Evening Post arriving just after ten to ask me about "commitment" post the HEA, so I have to race around doing all the housework that's been neglected during the last week.

Then there are my accounts. And on Monday, I have to start actually writing The Sheikh novella. Not planning -- I don't have time to plan; there is no thinking time. I have to actually writing if I'm going to make the deadline for the next one. So, short of a visit from the plot fairy, if there's anyone out there who's ever asked me where I get my ideas from -- now would be a good time to remind me what I said.

CHATTING WITH BEN

Liz has still got her head down (it's a holiday today, don't writers ever take a day off?) getting things right for Sylvie and Tom, and since Ellie is cooking up a storm (you can take that literally) for her sister's birthday, I'm been nominated to come and keep you up to date with what's going on.

Apart from the book, Liz has been talking to Leighton Jones about Ellie and me over on Swansea Sound, her local radio station. He is her new hero, apparently. No soppy music, no breathy voice overs, just a great chat -- and he mentioned the name of the book three times without prompting. Sounds like a really nice bloke.

And this week she has a journalist coming from the South West Evening Post, ditto. Except she wants to talk about "commitment" after the HEA. Liz is muttering something about being "committed", but I suspect she has a totally different meaning in mind.

Liz's main news is that she apparently has two books out in Germany this month -- the aecond one arrived in the post as a complete surprise. For those of you who remember The Temp & the Tycoon (published until the title Strictly Business), this is Talie and Jude's story -- except he's now Jason. And you'll find it here.

Oh, and Chrissie Sue and Papaya are prize winners over at her guest blog at eHarlequin.

Er ... I think I can smell something burning...

"Ellie!"

TWYLA THARP, ANNE MCALLISTER AND BOXES

I shouldn’t be here. I’m working like mad on the wip, which according to my contract is “Spring Wedding” – not so much a title as what the book is about – and doing my best to keep up a brisk pace (well, brisk for me, anyway.) But Ben is too busy giving Ellie first aid to drop in – and Ellie is too busy trying not to scream – so it’s probably a good thing is I distract you for the next few minutes.

Actually the reason I’m online is that I’m looking for a pair of silk, embroidered purple shoes that exactly fit my imagination.

Why do I need to actually see a pair of shoes when I can imagine them perfectly well? It’s all to do with the “box”.

My hugely talented colleague Anne McAllister has been blogging about Twyla Tharp’s book, The Creative Habit and I’ve been so captivated by what she’s written about it that I’ve instantly ordered my own copy. That stuff about hailing a cab struck such a chord.

And then yesterday there was the box.

According to Anne, Miss Tharp says that one of the things you need if you’re going to think “out of the box” is a box to think out of. (How brilliant is that? So logical. I can’t wait for my copy of this book to turn up…) Obviously, though, it’s not going to be an empty box. For Miss Tharp it’s a box in which she collects things on a theme, which then inspires her choreography. I suppose it’s a bit like the collages that I know lots of authors do. I did try it, but it looked untidy, which just irritated me. I’ve never been good with glue.

But a box... I get boxes. I love boxes.

They sell them in Borders, in all shapes and sizes and colours and I get so tempted. But a box needs a purpose and now I have an excuse... I mean a legitimate reason... to buy one which is going to be called “Spring Wedding”. It will be a crucible in which the worlds of Sylvie Duchamp Smith and Tom McFarlane will be collected, then heated and reformed. Which makes it a business expense. Tax deductible. (Can you tell that I’m smiling?)

So that’s why I’m hunting for an illustration of the perfect purple shoes to put into the box, because that’s where it all suddenly took off. With the shoes. I had a story before then. I’d written fifty odd pages, but when, lying awake in the middle of the night I started seeing purple shoes... (No! Not a drop had touched my lips! Honestly!)

I’m also hunting for a picture of Susan Hampshire as Fleur Forsyte on her wedding day. I can see her, sort of, but it was an awfully long time ago and a picture would help. Unfortunately the web sites seem more interested in her more recent role in Monarch of the Glen.

I’ve already got the violets, which is excellent. Now I to find some narrow green velvet ribbon. And pink satin ditto. And a photograph of Elizabeth Bennett’s house – the one they used in the Colin Firth version of Pride and Prejudice. And one of gilded youth in the summer of 1914. And a big sandalwood chest. And some glam Art Deco fashion that Sylvie’s great-grandma wore – she was very stylish. And, oh, dozens and dozens of things. I’m not sure yet what I’m going to be doing with them but once they’re in that box I’m going to be thinking out of it like mad!

THE SECRET LIFE OF LADY GABRIELLA


From Liz...

Ben, Ben, Ben....

What do you want me to say? Your sister had better things to do than worry about your house. She has a career, too. (She’s in Samoa, by the way.)

And you didn’t expect Mrs Fuller to stick around and polish your knick-knacks when she could be putting her feet up in the sun for the first time in her life, did you?

And try to forget that unfortunate accident in the library which, by the way, was as much your fault as hers. Be honest. Admit that Ellie makes the place feel like home. How long is it since you could say that, hmm?

So, the answer to your question is yes, Ben, I expect you to be grateful. Very grateful.

Now stop whining and go and buy Ellie something warm and furry -- you know it makes sense!

And leave me to get on with writing Sylvie and Tom's story!

THE SECRET LIFE OF LADY GABRIELLA

From Ben Faulkner...

Just when you think life can’t get any worse you come home and find there’s this woman living in your house.

That was not the plan.

I did not need a house-sitter. I had a sister and a cleaner and between them they were supposed to be taking care of things while I was away. Then the cleaner won a fortune on the lottery, my sister decided to go bug-hunting in Sarawak, or Senegal, or Sumatra – Gabriella March seems a little hazy on the actual continent – and I get caught up in a civil war.

And when I finally get home, hoping for a little peace and quiet to get on with my work, there she is.

A gothic-novel reading, spectacle smashing, duster wielding danger to life and limb. Sitting. In my house.

And I’m supposed to be grateful?