Joining me in the Hot Seat today is
author, Daisy Banks
Bio:
Daisy Banks is from the
Black Country, the heartlands of the Midlands in the UK. She is proud to count
as her ancestors the people who lived in the narrow, blue-brick paved streets,
who delved for coal or worked metal. Daisy is married and now her boys are adults
she spends time writing romance. Daisy loves traditional romantic songs and
ballads, is interested in art and architecture, enjoys travel, and occasionally
cooks a meal that doesn’t stick to the pan.
Q: Can you tell our readers a little about your
writing? What genres do you enjoy writing?
I write, paranormal, fantasy and
historical. I enjoy all these genres as a reader and as a writer. I have also
experimented with other things too. I have been writing for several years and
am learning all the time. My main hope with any story I write is to give the
reader enjoyment and a little escapism from their day to day world.
Q: Do you write on a schedule or when the Muse
decides?
I write when ideas come. If I get a new
idea when I am busy doing something else I might make a note of it so I don’t
forget, that tends to be the only notes I make. I’m a pantster writer and wing
it most of the time. Historical stories slow me down though as I have to research
for accuracy. A task that is time consuming but so important as anachronisms
can ruin a historical romance.
I
write every day that I can, that means every day at present. I often have two
or three stories rolling at the same time so if I come to a halt on one I can
work on another until the Muse kicks me back to work on the original one. If I
have edits from a publisher they always take first place.
Q:
Can you tell us about your writing process, for example, do you write an
outline first?
I don’t use outlines, character arcs or
plot development charts. I have tried using them as I thought it was the right
thing and something I ought to be doing. I lovingly crafted a development chart
and a set of character arcs, but four pages into the story a different
direction dictated by the characters happened and that was it. I’ve not used
those writing aids again since. I may make another attempt with them at a later
date.
I write from the pictures in my mind. I
know it sounds a bit strange but it’s like I have a private cinema in my head.
I see the pictures, they often start the story off as they lead to questions,
who, why, what for, etc and then things begin to roll. Once or twice I have
found characters before the story emerges. William ‘Reliance’ Smith was one
such character. I could see him and I knew he needed a story to belong to, he
found his home in my story Your Heart My Soul. Likewise, Magnus Johansson
appeared long before the story he takes part in was written.
I found my characters for my latest
story A Gentleman’s Folly after a visit to the tourist attraction of the West
Wycombe Caves, but it has taken me a while to finish this story. There was a
lot of research to do and I more work to do to try to improve my writing.
I guess what I am saying is the pictures
in my mind of the characters in the stories is the most important and first
part of my writing process. I have to make sure I describe the characters well
to readers as sometimes I see the character so clearly I forget to give the
readers the detail they need. Fortunately I’ve a couple of crit partners who
wail and gnash teeth if I don’t do the best I can on description.
Q: What qualities do you instill in your heroes?
They are all different and quite
individual in many ways. I tend to write Beta hero’s rather than the Alpha
kind, but they sure can lay down the law if they wish to. It might sound very
odd to say a character can run the show in the story, when I am the writer, but
they can. If the character is not happy or comfortable with where I try to take
the story I often find they won’t cooperate and will insist on doing other
things.
I like my hero’s to be goal orientated
and of course their goal is the heroine, once they understand she is their true
desire they’ll do all they can to gain her love. I also like hero’s who are not
afraid of a strong woman and will support a woman to find and exercise her
strengths. My hero’s can be quite protective to their woman, but they don’t
stifle her.
Q.
Coffee or tea?
Coffee, mostly. I drink a lot of coffee,
yes; I know it’s not good for me. But I like it and drink it when I’m working.
I do drink tea sometimes but I prefer that to be afternoon tea, with tiny
finger sandwiches and cake, lots of cake. There is a ‘Tea with Daisy’ page on
my blog that explains about this. I think afternoon tea with a friend is a
grand way to pass an afternoon.
Q.
Beach or countryside?
Oh, I love both. The sound of the surf
pounding a pebble beach is mesmeric. Butterflies in a field of wild flowers
enchant me. The world is a very beautiful place.
Q.
Do you write about the places you know or prefer to take your readers to exotic
places?
I have written about real places I have
seen, when Magnus takes Sian to a volcanic waterfall in Timeless, that is a
place I have seen and probably one of the most romantic places I have ever
been. The water, warmed by geo thermal heat, cascades from the mountain side,
it pours into a pool surrounded by green bushes and trees, wildflowers blossom
close by. The water is soft on the skin and so relaxing. I have beautiful
memories of that place. The shop I wrote of in Your Heart My Soul is based on a
real shop I recall from my early teens, full of dusty objects that had been
there so long as to almost grow into the fabric of the building. A Gentleman’s
Folly is based on a visit to a real place though the house and villages of the
Cranley estate are entirely fictional.
Q:
Where do you get your inspiration?
Many things inspire me. I’m lucky that
where I currently live, in Shropshire, is full of magical beauties, so even a
simple walk can bring me inspiration. I find music helps me concentrate and can
help me create scenes in my stories. I like classical music but I also like other
kinds of music too. I use incense often as well. Mostly though, the ideas come
to me as they will, like gifts. My job is then to do my best to put them on the
page in the best way I can.
Q:
Would you change anything in your life to make writing easier.
I would like to buy a more comfortable
chair to use as I write. The chair I use is from the early 1930’s and its seat
needs a bit of extra padding. One day I’ll get round to buying another from one
of the antique auctions I sometimes go to. Time, which used to be such an
issue, is now available and I can spend as long as I like writing. The
frustration of having to do something else when I wanted to write was dreadful.
Q:
We have all suffered submission rejections. How do you cope? Do you have any
advice to other writers on coping with rejection?
Rejection huts in whichever way it comes
and especially with first stories, if they get kicked back it can make you
weep. The worst kind of rejections are the form ‘not for us’ with no
explanations as to why. They are utterly useless to an author. My advice with
them is rip them up or paste them to a noticeboard in the lavatory. The best
kind of rejections are those that say why the story isn’t right and perhaps
offer a little feedback, all kudos and respect to those publishing houses who
take the time to offer such help to aspiring authors. I got one of those
helpful rejections early on and I have to say, I truly felt like a writer
because the editors treated me like one.
How to cope with rejection is all very
individual, take from it what you can to improve if anything is offered and be
professional. I have known of people who wrote back nasty things to editors who
rejected their book, very foolish and the sure way to make certain nothing else
would be accepted. I’d say, don’t do that. Buy chocolate and eat it, or ice
cream or whatever lifts your mood. You can then re-sub the story somewhere else
or perhaps let it rest for a couple of weeks, reread it in the light of any
advice offered and fix what might be the issue. I did that with one story, I
was told one of my characters was ‘cruel and manipulative’. I was so tempted to
say, but I like him that way. Instead I fixed him and made him nicer and wrote
seven or eight new chapters to the story in his point of view so readers
understood his motivation. The story was accepted elsewhere.
It is hard to have faith in yourself
when you are rejected, especially at the beginning of a writing career, but to
be honest even after writing for some time I still wonder with every submission
I make, will it be rejected. The key is to do the best you possibly can. If
you’ve done that, then even if it is not right for one publisher you may well
find its right for another. The crucial thing is don’t give up! Remember lots
of writers are rejected, Stephen King, Anne Rice, JK Rowling, all those world
famous authors were rejected more than once.
Q:
Do you have times when the Muse is away on holiday?
This has happened to me and it is a bit
scary. One day everything is flowing quite well and the next day the words are
torn from me with red hot pincers, well not exactly but you get the idea. What
was a free flowing fountain becomes a laborious and painful process. If this
happens I go for a long walk, read something else, perhaps flip to another
story. I’ve never been without my Muse for too long thankfully. I have written
when they have been absent but it is never so much fun as when the Muse is on
my shoulder
Q.
What advice would you give to unpublished authors approaching an e publisher?
Read the guidelines! Obey the guidelines
they are there to help you. Be polite, professional and honest in your resume.
Write an easy to read query letter and synopsis, you can find examples of these
on the net to copy the form if you want to. Be realistic in your expectations
and most of all, although publishing and especially romance publishing deals
with hearts and dreams, publishing is a business. If you treat your submission
to a publisher as you would any other business dealing you will receive prompt
and courteous attention in return. One other thought if you are about to submit
your first story research the publisher you have chosen and find out about
them. The wrong publisher can provide the kind of learning experience you don’t
want to discover.
Q:
Is there anything you would like to share with us about upcoming releases?
I have a short story in the Lyrical
Press First Frost Anthology and am very pleased to be part of that. I am hoping
my sequel to my story Timeless will be published sometime next year.
Q:
Can
you tell us a little about your current novel?
A Gentleman’s Folly is a historical romp set in the 18th
century. A marriage of convenience brings unexpected consequences: love,
betrayal, and a hope for happiness.
Blurb: Katherine Bescell, courtesan and member of a
secret order, thinks the offer of a marriage in name only to Charles Leverret,
heir to a large fortune, will solve all her woes.
Charles Leverret believes his hired wife will ensure his
inheritance. He might even enjoy her company if she’ll let him anywhere near
her. Charmed by his bride, Charles breaks their original bargain and falls in
love. Betrayed by a trusted lawyer who withholds Katherine’s promised fee,
Charles struggles against evil chance to persuade Katherine his love is real.
Lust and love, truth and trust, each makes demands on
them both, but though Charles has captured her heart, Katherine can’t bring
herself to admit they belong together.
Masked and robed in the rites in the West Wycombe Caves
where only truth is told, Charles makes his stand to claim the woman he adores.
Excerpt:
“Katherine!”
His call faded as the pony trotted on. Sniffing, she
palmed away her tears and half her face paint. Once at the stable block, she
yanked on the reins so the little gig’s wheels sprayed gravel as they came to a
stop. She stepped out of the trap and threw the reins to a groom, who dashed
forward for them.
Their disastrous conversation hovered like a storm cloud
as she hurried into the house, swept along the corridor, up the stairs, and
into her room, where she tugged off her bonnet and splashed cool water onto her
neck. Appalled at her reflection, she dabbed at her spoiled face with a cloth
and then patted on a new layer of fine powder to cover the worst of the
blotches.
Sadly, the water did nothing to still the heat in her
blood, and fearful she’d harm the child if she continued in her bitter fury,
she lay on the bed.
The heavy door thundered open. Charles, breathing swift,
strode in. He shoved the door back, and it crashed, juddering in the frame.
She bolted up. “How dare you come in uninvited!”
He dragged her from the bed, hands heavy on her waist as
he set her on her feet. “Try such a trick again, and I swear, with child or
not, my wench, I’ll thrash you every day for a week.”
“Savage! Leave me be.”
“Be quiet. There is more at stake here than your curdled
temper.”
She couldn’t avoid his face so close to hers and couldn’t
pull back. “You’re a vile cur. Let me go.”
“For the sake of silence.” He caught the back of her head
in his palm and brought her face much closer to his. Warm and smothering, his
mouth covered hers, and all the time, her body sang in answer to his kiss.
A cascade of shivers shot through her, stalling her
doubts. Desire flooded her blood at the first contact of his lips. An instant,
heady, insistent craving for his most intimate touch blazed to heat her body.
She opened her mouth to accept the seeking warmth of his tongue, and her knees
softened like wax under a flame.
He gathered her closer, tightening his grasp, and hauled
her tight against him. Their kiss deepened until each movement of his brought
an echo of hers. A whimper of satisfaction stole from her as she twined her
tongue around his. She sucked the warmth of him deeper into her mouth so his
taste and hers swirled and mingled, and she closed her eyes.
Time ceased to be anything other than velvet, pulsing
darkness as his mouth worked on hers. He demanded more and more of her, and
never had she been so willing to give herself up. She pushed forward against
him, curled her fingers through his hair at the base of his skull, and kissed
him while trembles made her shiver in readiness for his hands to seek her skin.
Joyful, she climbed the steps of desire, until he pulled away.
He held her at arm’s length. “Christ alive, woman,” he
murmured and breathed fast. His eyes shone, an intensity of golden brown
glowing in his gaze.
She gave a tiny nod of encouragement. Surely he’d want to
bed her now. His desire, obvious from his deep breaths and the rigid swelling
she’d felt pressed against her, had woven a lustful magic. The heightened state
of her need might drive her to any passion he could wish to ask of her. Desire
beyond any hope of salvation ruled. But he made no movement to hold, touch, or
kiss her again.
Shame boiled in her breast at the understanding he didn’t
want her. She could hardly demean herself further.
“Now, have you regained your senses and will you listen?
We may not be what they think us in this house, but though savage you believe
me to be, I’d not see your mangled corpse twined in the traces. You will never
take off so again. Say it.”
Staring at the shimmer of his reflection in the polished
brass coal scuttle, she nodded.
“Say it.”
“I’ll not behave foolishly again.” Why could he not be
gone? A lump of sheer frustration had lodged in her throat. She was well used
to driving such a small gig and pony. What the hell did he care? The one thing
she wanted from him he’d not give.
A small gasp broke from her as he caught her around the
waist. Thank the gods. He’d changed his mind.
He laid her back on the bed. “Move over. I’ll have to stay
for an hour at the least. The household will expect no less.”
“What?”
“By my faith, woman, don’t you think they’d expect us to
kiss and make up after such a tempest? Half the servants saw you risk you neck
to drive here alone from the lake, more saw you storm upstairs I’ve no doubt,
and the rest will have heard, been listening spellbound to your yells. What are
they to think now? We’re supposed to be happily wed. They’ll like as not put
your tantrum down to your condition. So they’ll expect me to be a good husband
and do the same and gentle you with some well-tempered wooing.” He sat on the
bed and took off a boot.
Shivers still danced on her skin from his kiss, and the
ache in her loins remained a powerful throb of need. Was there anything she
could offer him to complete her, to give her the fulfillment her body demanded?
Humiliation spilled through her like a chill wave. Her means to change his mind
were nothing. He’d never make their marriage a reality. But she so longed for
the man. Was that the worst of it? Each moment with him her body flamed. No
other man affected her so nor, unless her memories were faulty, had any man
ever. If she were alone, she might well have wailed like a babe in her frustration.
As it was, she clung on to a shred of pride. She would not weep for the lack of
his loving.
Full of despair at the wretched prospect, she lay back and
rolled over onto her side to leave the widest gap between them she could. An
hour of him beside her, without even so much as the touch of his hand, would be
interminable. She closed her eyes and swallowed down the desire for his flesh.
His other boot fell to the floor with a thud.
He lay back, and she shuffled farther away, so close to
the edge of the bed that, if she breathed too deep, she might tumble from its
height to the floor. She’d made such a fool of herself at the lake, damn near
demanding his body. She’d let herself be beguiled by his good looks, by the
most simple of attentions given for the pretense they shared. She’d behaved
like an untried girl, nearly falling over herself in her desire for him. “Never
again,” she whispered into the late afternoon light.
“Let’s hope not.”
His words raised a new flash of wretchedness. She’d not be
wanted by any man in her present state, let alone by a scoundrel such as this
heir to a fortune. “You could at least be silent,” she snapped.
The lovers she’d taken in devotion to Venus had never made
her feel degraded. But now, as the sunlight slid down the wall and her body
still thrummed like a harp string from his kiss, she knew herself humbled by
her own flesh. She’d become a woman of less sober character than the most
lascivious tuppenny whore.
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