Everyone knows that writing a book takes time – A LOT of time, but few people realise (save for those who have experienced it first-hand, or are married to an Indie author like my long-suffering spouse) that the marketing that follows a book’s publication is a colossal tidal wave of tasks.

Now, by ‘tidal wave’, I mean a wave of tasks so plentiful, so big and so friggin’ frightening to a person who ‘just wants to write books for a living’ (like myself), that one may need to be coaxed out from under the kitchen table with glasses of red wine and 500g bars of chocolate. There’s Facebook ads, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, BookBub and so many other funkily named social media and marketing platforms that it literally makes my head spin.

You can’t do it all. Rome wasn’t built in a day… etc.

First, drink the wine, then eat the chocolate and then try something. Just one thing if that is all you can manage. Monitor how successful that one thing was then either repeat it or dump it and try something else. Before long you’ll be surfing that tidal wave like a pro (I keep telling myself). But for now… eat the chocolate. [image error]

To celebrate the launch of my new Regency Romance entitled ‘Courting Miss Colborne’ I am going to post some excerpts here on my blog for you to enjoy. The whole book will be free to download over the bank holiday weekend (19.4.19-21.4.19) just in case you want to help boost my spirits to inflate my proverbial lifevest. Click here to download it from the Amazon store.

Aunt Annabelle to Miriam Colborne before her first and only season.

 – Seven years earlier

If it wasn’t for his chores, it really would be the perfect day William Bissett thought, admiring the way the spring sunshine sparkled across the water’s surface and reflected the light as if it were adorned with fine jewels. He had always felt more comfortable being outside with nature than inside with books and expensive furnishings, and after a particularly harsh winter, the arrival of spring was most welcome. Not only did it mean that he would at last be able to shrug off the continuous feeling of damp in his bones, but it also meant that he could finally get back to spending most of his day out of doors.

Bringing down his hammer, he fixed the next plank onto the broken jetty, his efforts shattering the tranquillity of the day; disturbing the nesting birds and drowning out the distant sounds of bleating sheep. He repeated his task, nail-by-nail, until eventually he found a rhythm and allowed his mind to drift. William’s father, Peter Bissett was the steward at Barrington Hall, and William was fortunate that the current earl of the estate was happy for him to follow in his father’s footsteps. To this end, William turned his hand to everything; considering even the smallest of tasks an opportunity to learn and further his knowledge. For one day he hoped to be the one in charge – the one others would rely on for answers and leadership. Sometimes, William imagined the role being similar to that of a captain on a ship, and his mother would laugh at his romanticism – ‘It’s just a job William’, she would say, but to him it meant so much more, and as he pondered how it would feel to finally begin achieving his ambitions, he lost concentration on his task. His rhythm faltered and without thinking he watched the inevitable fall of the iron hammer onto his fingers.

“Grahh!” he called out, fisting his hand against the pain and stepping back in shock.

That was all it took.

A momentary loss of attention.

William’s foot slipped against the moss-covered panelling of the jetty and he lost his balance. Leaning back against the direction of the fall as strongly as he could, he counter-balanced too far and fell, his body toppling over the edge of the jetty into the icy water of the lake below. His heart thudded, his panic immediate as the water engulfed his limbs.

He couldn’t swim.

Terrified, William felt the reed infested water encase him as he desperately reached toward the jetty hoping to grip its edge, but the movement did nothing more than to increase the water splashing about his face. Spontaneously he squeezed his mouth and eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe heavily through his nose and thrashed to stay afloat. His movements battered the water around him and instead of air, icy liquid entered his airways and he spluttered as he fought for breath. His body took over as his mind lost itself to fear; instinct and a drive for survival moving his body to help him stay afloat. Oblivious to his efforts his own weight pulled him under – he simply could not raise himself enough to stay above the surface, and it was too deep for his feet to reach the bottom. For the first time, his head ducked entirely below the waterline, before he somehow managed to force his way back out of the water. Gulping in a lungful of precious air, William fell beneath the water again, panic pulsing through his body as he realised he was going to drown.

Holding his breath, he looked up towards the surface, horrified as it began to drift away as he sank. Rays of sunlight reached down ethereally towards him through the water’s green tinge, taunting him and his plight with their indifference. His lungs began to burn as he drifted further downwards, his legs kicking and his arms reaching up in the hope that they would somehow propel him back to safety with will alone. His movements achieved nothing and he simply sank further. Hope leaving him as his body begged for air and he felt his fate become inescapable.

Then suddenly, without warning, a dark shadow hit the surface of the water, shattering the sinister calm like a hammer on glass, a long and black apparition stretching down towards him. William instinctively reached his hands towards it, his fingers wrapping tightly around the rough edges of a plank of wood. As his consciousness began to waiver, he gripped the splintered edges with the last of his strength and was pulled upwards. Blackness spread across his vision and the last ounces of his self-control holding his breath diminished. His screaming lungs inhaled as he left the water and he was thrown spluttering across the edge of the jetty. Gulping for air, he coughed and gasped as his body greedily inhaled. With water dripping from his sodden clothes, he heaved on all fours to clear his lungs. Bleary-eyed, William turned to see who it was that had saved him. The figure stood tall and proud against the sun; the light blinding him as he tried to make out the features lost in silhouette. It was impossible, he could not see who they were. Then they spoke.

“William Bissett, you are an absolute idiot! Your mother has been telling you to learn to swim for years!” said a very irritated, very self-righteous feminine voice. “What on Earth were you doing in the lake?”

He would recognise that voice anywhere, for it was the voice that seemed to exist purely to torment him. Of all the people that could have come to his aid – why did it have to be her?

“Hello Miss Colborne,” he spluttered, inwardly rolling his eyes at fate’s wicked sense of humour. If it had been anyone else that had rescued him, he would have simply been grateful, but it was not, it was her – Miss Miriam Colborne, the earl’s younger sister and the most unladylike, annoying, self-righteous blue-stocking he’d ever met.

Suddenly drowning didn’t seem so bad.

1830 – Seven years later

“Things are not going to be fine Rogers, it’s an absolute disaster,” said Miriam Colborne, shifting her feet on the grass and inhaling slowly as she tried to instil a sense of calm within herself. She had just received a letter from her elder brother, informing her in no uncertain terms, that she would be making her debut this year. It was quite apparent from his wording that no excuses in delaying again would be acceptable. Jonathan had informed her that ‘Aunt Annabelle’ (she was not really her aunt, but was the aunt of her sister-in-law, Lady Sophie Barrington), would be arriving within the week to help her order dresses and prepare. According to the letter she was expected to leave Haverton Manor and the Colborne Estate within a fortnight. “I cannot simply up and leave Haverton within a few weeks…”

“He probably thought best to catch you unprepared Miss; you are very adept at finding reasons to put off your debut ‘until next year,’” Mr Rogers, the elderly steward of the small Colborne Estate said, looking more than a little amused. “It was wood rot last year was it not? Blight the year before that…”

“I never did decide what type of blight it was, did I,” replied Miriam, matching the older man’s amusement with her own as she ruffled the fur of her dog Rufus and threw a stick for him to fetch. Rogers was right; nonetheless, she really had employed every trick in the book to avoid going to London for her first season. At three-and-twenty she was almost now too late, but although her brother had indulged her these past few years, clearly he was not going to let another year pass without forcing the ton upon her. “Perhaps if a fever came upon me?”

“He will certainly suspect, and regardless, even you cannot make a fever last the entire season of 1830.”

“This is sadly quite true Rogers, but it really is the most awful timing,” she said leaning against the wooden framework of the gate and staring out across the field. Despite the bad news, it was a beautiful day, and Miriam revelled in the feeling of the sunshine on her skin at last. It was the first day that the sun had been shining brightly for what felt like months, and now, with spring finally making its presence felt, the sun’s light shone down vividly, casting golden rays that enhanced the colour of everything they touched; the grass appeared greener, the sky bluer and the air sweeter than she had witnessed in far too long. Thank goodness the dreariness of winter was at an end – though she certainly did not want to waste the glory of spring by being holed up in London. “Truly awful timing…”

I’ll be posting more of ‘Courting Miss Colborne’ over the next few weeks, but if you’d like to read more now and fancy downloading it (free between 19.4.19 and 21.4.19) click here to download it from the Amazon store.