Virginia Taylor - Author

This past couple of weeks has been incredible. My luck started when Kensington Books got me a Bookbub promotion, using Starling as a free book.
I don't have any idea how many free copies were taken but my Amazon ranking as an author went down/up to under 10,000 from in the hundred thousands. The first thing I noticed was that I began to get ratings for Starling on Kobo. Starling also began to get lots more reviews on Amazon and Goodreads as well as Google, iBooks, and B&N. Ratings too.
Lovely Starling had for some time been praised but from so few that my sales languished. I am now the delighted author of a book that many people love.
Of course you can't get lots of love without getting a little bit of hate too. I have one review that is hilarious in the explanation why the reader hated the book. Fortunately, I quite understand. I can be irritating, as many people will tell you, but I can also see the funny side when a reviewer goes to so much trouble to explain why she hated the book. She clearly read the whole thing which is flattering. When I hate a book I don't read on, which means that I can't give a rating because that wouldn't be right.
I also had one reviewer who didn't read my book but gave me a star rating based on what her bestie said. Tch tch. Amazon agreed that should come down.
Starling is no longer free but she is ranking higher and higher each day. The people who love her have bought the whole series, which was what my publisher hoped. This is very timely for me because I was going to write one more book and if that didn't take me where I wanted to be, I was going to stop writing.
Now I'm not going to stop.
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​The set I am showing here is a box set designed for the play, Washington Square. Although the story was set in Victorian USA, the room had been designed by the mother of the main character forty years previously and was therefore a Regency room.
 
I donated my time to the XXX Theatre Company, which doesn’t don’t have an extensive budget. For this set, I needed to be able to seat eight actors at one time.
 
I used up old paints because the waste I found when I was picking around was appalling and I hand mixed each colour. I made or supplied everything on the set. Most of the furniture was mine, but I drew a design for the fainting couch, which my hero built for me. He also made the fender for the fireplace. I painted every picture hanging on the walls, some on disposable plastic plates, some on old cardboard, mostly copies of paintings I had also found in books, except the big one in the background. (Shown above with an inset of a portrait of the heroine's mother that sat in a silver frame on the mantle above the fire). I sewed the curtains and upholstered the sofa.
 
Because the director, whom I very much respect, was known for the fabulous costumes she designed, I kept the set simple. It was meant as a frame for her wonderful gowns with the blue background of the hall to set them off. A reviewer had a hissy fit about the staircase merging with the walls, but that was not only deliberate because of the fade out of the heroine standing there with a single candle for the final scene, but also perfectly in keeping with regency times.
 
Unfortunately the flats weren’t put together as well as I would have liked but that was due to a demarcation dispute, the de-mark being that the construction team was accustomed to designers who used masking tape to hide construction problems and me being used to a construction team who would construct. Stalemate.
 
Even years later I still see parts of that set used for publicity flyers.
 
You can show off a beautiful set or you can use a set to show off costumes. Actually, you can even do both at the same time. As a designer, you choose.
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Ingredients.
1. Up to thirty inquisitive, quirky, appreciative, talented actors.
2. One director with a list of wants.
3. Tailor’s drafting paper, graph paper, masking tape, scalpel, pencils, scissors, glue.
4. Paint, brushes, rags, sponges, rollers, twigs, feathers, fishing line, crayons.
5. 28 hour days.
5. A heater.
7. A tolerant spouse.

Instructions.
1. Read the play.
2. Listen to the director’s ideas, nod, and agree.
3. Go home and work out the logistics, like how many actors need to sit, stand, or walk through doorways, how many entrances you need for the numbers entering and the speed of entry, how many fly bars the theatre supplies, how many trucks, and how many trapdoors.
4. Design something incredibly beautiful that will work like a dream.
5. Make a model or draw one.
6. Present your design to the director and explain why your design works without even hinting that his would not work logistically and would be as ugly as sin.
6. Keep cool when he has a tantrum and sulks for a day because he wants what he wants and new ideas are scary.
7. Plot with the lighting designer to overthrow the director.
8. Waste another day making a model of the set the director thinks he wants. Let him work out for himself why it doesn’t work and praise him when he thinks he thought of the design and colour scheme you presented to him in the first place.
9. Assemble and your workers. Explain the concept. This helps if you have chosen your painting team because they don’t understand what you are talking about, but they like working for you and know that everything, no matter how weird it seems, will look fantastic in the end.
 
Theatre sets have to be built in sections because they need to fit through doorways, hang from fly bars or be sent onto the set by a system of devices called trucks. When assembled, everything has to fit together seamlessly. Nothing is meant to trip up an actor or fall on him/her. Doors are not supposed to get stuck, props are not meant to be health hazards, though actors are trusting souls ... I digress.
 
Final sets are built once they arrive in the theatre. This can take a day or more, depending on the complexity.

​Then, hey presto, you have designed a fantasy space to show off a group of talented people who like nothing better than living another life for a while.

While I was writing Starling, I had a problem with the hero of the story, Alasdair. He needed to appear intimidating to my heroine but not to the readers. With this in mind, I decided he had to perform a mighty deed to show that, beneath his emotionless exterior lurks a man with a heroic character.  

​In the days of the early colonial settlement of South Australia, aborigines lived in and around the site that Colonel Light, the city planner, had decided to use as the capital city, Adelaide. Because hills lined the coast, the new settlement would be constructed in a long line in front. In those days, the River Torrens (named after the man who invented the Torrens Title, used worldwide) was the only close source of fresh water.
 
Collecting this water was a problem. Justifiably annoyed by having their land invaded, the native tribesmen kept in sight of the riverbanks, finding the desperate settlers easy targets for their spears. Not about to be defeated so easily, the settlers built tunnels to the river. They also built wells close to the banks for the same reason, using guards while the water was being drawn.
 
Thirty years later, after the city of Adelaide had been developed, and the wells and tunnels disbanded, my hero in Starling, Alasdair Seymour, has to rescue a child trapped in one of these disused wells. Knowing the well was too narrow for an adult and that the child was wedged, he tunnels beneath the child and drags her out via his tunnel.
 
This story was inspired by many stories of the same sort of rescue, one in Australia about the time I was writing the book. I’m not sure who the rescuers were, but a group tunneled overnight to get a child out of a pipe. It was televised and took many hours. Like the rest of Australia, I cried when the child was pulled out alive. The strain on the faces of the men, the lack of light, and the sheer heroism of this act was inspiring and of course I want my heroes to be inspiring.

​Alasdair had made his fortune by tunneling, though for profit until he needed to help the child.

Picture - The first bridge built in South Australia in 1843 with South Terrace in the background. Artist Alexander Murray.
 

​Once upon a time when I was young, I wasn’t interested in gardening. I thought it ought to be my husband’s hobby because he didn’t have one. He also didn’t want one, so we had a garden that was lovely at the back where we mainly entertained, and awful at the front. In the front we had trees and a single viburnum.

The viburnum was a pest that produced other viburnum. Mainly we shifted these to the back where they filled in the spaces.
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Time puttered by and the front garden never got any better though the back was lush. More time passed and we subdivided. This meant more hours to spend in the now smaller garden. We added agapanthus to the front. I tried growing a few other plants but nothing ever looked right.

One day we fell in love with a holiday house on a half-acre block filled with fruit trees, vegetables, grapes, and roses. Roses, roses, roses. We made that garden a showpiece, full of life and joy. Meanwhile, our city house was dull and dry, and nothing grew.

Life and death happened, mainly death, and I had to sell the country house. To keep my memories of the best time in my life, I transplanted some of the roses from the country garden to the city. In amongst the lilly-pilly and crowds of agapanthus, the roses sulked.

The day-week-month happened when I was tired of seeing everything around me die. I dug out all the agapanthus and left myself an empty landscape, except for the tired lilly-pilly trees. They shaded too much and made the area impossible but I kept trying. Hoping to improve the look, I bought more roses. This cheered up the transplanted roses, but the garden needed a design rather than more plants. Then I had an idea.

First I had the two lillypilly removed. Then I shifted around the smaller viburnum that had taken root and had the large one trimmed severely. My first touch of luck happened when I saw on television how to stake down branches to form a hedge.
Within a year I had a viburnum hedge all around the front of the garden. I didn’t buy a single plant for this.

Then I separated out three day-lilies I had in the side garden and I divided my liriopes. Together, these formed a border. Done. I am finally happy with my front garden.
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I finished clipping the hedge yesterday. It takes a week but I think it’s worth the effort.

​In the supermarket this morning, I was standing behind a man who didn’t appear to be able to speak English. The checkout woman totalled his goods and told him how much money she wanted. He started gabbling. None of his words sounded like real words, even foreign words, but somehow he made clear to her that he wanted cigarettes. She indicated the counter behind and he walked to the end of the checkout and to the other counter with bagged goods he hadn’t yet paid for.
This was taking longer than I usually wait. He then had to get through to her the cigarettes he wanted. She offered him three or four various brands because he refused to indicate but insisted on explaining in gabble. By this time, I had decided that he presumed he was being clear of speech and she was deliberately misunderstanding.
He grew louder and louder as he became more frustrated. Finally she showed him a pack that suited him. She then wanted him to come back to the register to pay for the goods he taken there with him. No matter what she said, he refused to go back to the checkout.
By this time the line behind me was filling. People were staring and beginning to mumble. I said to her, “Indicate with your hand what you want him to do. Make a beckoning movement.”
She did so and he completely lost his temper. I thought he was possibly the victim of a stroke. People who have strokes think they are speaking normally when they’re not. He was so angry that he was scary. He was waving his arms around and yelling. One of the guys who often works at the checkout finally came over.
We were all a bit scared by this time, but the moment the customer saw a male he calmed down and spoke in a normal tone, but still not with words. Another checkout woman took his money at the cigarette counter and added it to the total on the checkout. All was calmed, but I was a little perturbed that the customer was close to violence with the female checker but wouldn’t consider the same reaction with a male.
I’ll never know what his problem was but one of the first stroke victims I nursed was very like him. He would go into violent rages with all the nurses except me. I was never mean to him like the others. I never left him uncovered or without reachable food, and I always stayed patient when he got stroppy. His impatience was understandable when everything he said was gibberish and he couldn’t do anything without the aid of someone else.
It got to be that he was always ‘my’ patient when I was on duty. Sometimes I think I saw the suspicion of a smile on his face when I talked to him, and some days I talked my head off. That was because by and large he was left on his own unless he rang his bell. I told him jokes and stories about the other patients he couldn't see. I even told him I was in love with his doctor. 
By the time he had a second stroke and died, we were firm friends. He did jokey things in a grumpy way and he made me laugh. I cried when he died. I was the only person who did. I don’t remember him having any family.
That man today – I wish I could have helped. Everyone did but we couldn’t. No one was judging him. The line was hushed with empathy. Sad, really, when people want to help but don't know how.

In the past year, I haven’t had time to do this blog and from now on I’m going to try to do one per week. This morning I had brilliant ideas what to say, but I’ve had a couple of distractions and I have now forgotten, so I’ll begin at the beginning.
I was always an avid reader of historical literature, and I seemed to have read every story available, set in every country in the world but mine. Apparently, if I wanted to read an Australian story, I would have to plough through yet another set in NSW telling a dour story of the convict settlement. By the time I was 12 I’d had enough and couldn’t read another.
My state, South Australia, is the only one colonised by free settlers, but clearly a story set in the Utopia of the south would never interest anyone else in the world. Well, other than me. The day came when I started reading romance but the problem was the same as regards to setting. Aussie stories were always set in NSW. Some three or four years after I started reading romance, I decided I would write one set in colonial South Australia.
This was my first book, now named Nell, which no longer exists, but which I plan to rewrite next year. I sent the story off to Mills and Boon, who tactfully didn’t mention it but asked if I would like to try writing medical romances for them. They sent me a box of medical romances to read, and I understood instantly why they wanted someone with a nursing background to write romances for them. Their usual writers had no sound idea of the reality of the hospital world. I cleared that up.
At that stage, nurses were still trained in hospitals. I submitted a story about a normal young woman who didn’t stand behind a doctors ten years her senior and say ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir,’ and who clearly wouldn’t be interested in someone so elderly or admire an  arrogant piggish man. I wrote three of those but all were rejected, strangely. Then I went back to writing what I wanted, adding an agent. After many rejections from other publishing houses in other countries, I decided to aim for a new line in the USA, Blaze, which wanted sexy stories.
 As a midwife, I consider myself a sex expert. This comes from needing to know answers to questions my patients put to me about orgasms, contraception, circumcision, etc. I had to research so that I didn’t lead them astray with my wild guesses.
At that stage, most romance heroines were virgins but Blaze intended to cause a ripple. 50 Shades of Grey is an adaptation of my story but I didn’t write whippings or anything like that. The story featured a virgin who would have a fairly normal deflowering, learning the ropes without being tied up. If the line wanted sex, I would give the line sex. I think I must have had more than 15 sex scenes in that book.
I never sent it off because life happened to me at that stage, or because after the million rejections in my bottom drawer I’d had enough. Then, a generation later, Random Romance started up. I was tired of submitting my historicals to competitions, doing well, and still not interesting publishers, so I rewrote Dr No Commitment. I cut 7 sex scenes, changed the heroine’s virgin status, made her a trained nurse, and sent off the story. Then I had a heart attack.
I came out of hospital and found an email from Random Romance expressing interest.
What to do?
​This was an experiment to see if I could be rejected in Australia as well as every other country in the world. I wasn’t at all sure I wanted anyone to read the story. Finally I took a deep breath and agreed to sign a contract, making myself a published author at last, with my least expected manuscript.
​Who would have guessed?
Dr No Commitment is $2.99 cents, currently.

​There’s a cute video doing the rounds on Facebook about a dog who is told that he has been given a cat by his ‘dad.’ It’s one of those dubbed things that show the dog asking about the cat and his dad raising and lowering his expectations. I find it hilarious because I completely identify with it. No, I don’t want a cat but my granddog, Shaka is fascinated by those elusive silent creatures.
Shaka is a rescued kelpie who used to run away a lot. We have endlessly speculated about where she might be going or why she didn’t think she should stay with a new mum who loves her. And then there was the night she was stolen and we were all shattered, but we have her back and now she doesn’t run away any more.
Most days she sits watching for her cat to come. That day has not yet arrived, but Shaka has never lost hope. She asks for a cat every day. She uses cracks in a doorway to watch through, hoping that the next one she sees is hers. When she passes felines on her daily run, she tries to explain how friendly she is but they scamper away before she can strike up a meaningful relationship. Until the other day.
Apparently, a cat was sitting on low fence as Shaka walked by with her mum. Shaka slowed down and the cat yawned and stretched. I have it on the highest authority that the cat said, “Hi, dog. Nice day.”
“Whaaat?”
“It’s sunny. Wanna touch noses?”
“Kidding.” Shaka walks backwards.
“Okay.” Cat shrugs.
Mum says, “Oh my dog. Shaka, look, a friendly cat.”
“I’m looking, mum. And looking. And looking. Can’t stay. Scary.”
Mum sits on low fence and pats cat, who purrs, and says, “Relax, dog. I just wanna be friendly.”
Shaka’s eyes goggle and her eyes widen. “With me?”
“Sure. I gotta lotta time for dogs. Let me pat your nose.”
“Mum, is it okay?”
“Yup.”
“Can’t. Just can’t. Let’s go find a running cat.”
Mum sighs. “We’ll come by tomorrow, Cat. Will you be here?”
“Maybe.” Cat saunters off.
Dog goes into flat position, watching. “Never met a cat like that before,” she says as the cat disappears. Within seconds, “Mum, mum, can you get me a cat to play with?”

For some reason I smile at dogs. Most smile back. During my weekend walks, the best smile I see all day comes from a golden retriever, a beautiful happy creature who races along beside his jogging female owner, Ms. Fit. Goldie's hair streams back from his face, his paws lift high, and he grins from ear to ear. He clearly loves his exercise. Dogs show this by their perky posture and their lolling tongues.

During my weekday walks, I see another  golden retriever. This sad miserable critter wanders along on an extended lead, which usually sags at full length, possibly a metre. When he can’t stretch the lead out farther, he stands watching the world go by while waiting for a slouching unshaven male to catch up. Mr. Sleazy barely lifts his head to smirk at me when I say ‘good morning.’ He is rather unnaturally interested in the picture messages on his phone.

The dog glances up at me and shrugs hopelessly. He knows as well as I do that he is not having a walk. He is having a mosey outside while a man who shouldn’t be allowed to associate with him concentrates on the trivialities of his life.

Mr. Sleazy reads the whole time during the walks. Goldie goes wherever he wishes. Whichever stop we meet at along the way, sometimes twice, there and back, Sleazy is still grinning at his phone and the dog is still waiting and sighing regretfully. It was months before I realised this was the same dog as the happy one dashing along with Ms. Fit.

One day Goldie was having a piddle in the middle a manicured garden. I gave him a look of horror which he answered with a quick evil grin. Mr. Sleazy was propped up against the fence of the neighbouring house, lost in his own world of the mobile phone. I said to him, “You must have wonderful messages on that thing,” and he had the sense to look guilty - but he still had no idea how his dog was silently embarrassing him.

Occasionally, the dog winks at me. I always smile at him. Someone has to show a bit of empathy.